22
Cesur drove me back to the hotel without saying anything. I was emotionally and physically spent, and you didn’t have to be a warrior/servant of God to have noticed.
He walked me up to my room and then went over the place like a detective, making sure no one was there. It was a tiny room, so it seemed more drama than necessity.
He asked me if I wanted to put the book in the room safe, but I indicated that I wanted to continue reading it.
“You are very tired, Miss Russo, and if anyone, God forbid, should want to break in, it becomes vulnerable.”
Forget you, it becomes vulnerable.
I got his point and put the book into the room safe, put in a good combination, and told him I wouldn’t open it until I was wide awake and on my guard.
With that he left and I double-bolted the door, rinsed off quickly in the shower, and fell on top of the bed in a heap.
The jangling of my room phone woke me. I reached for the clock—9:30!
I picked up the phone. “Miss Russo, Father Jacobi.” I sat up scratching my head as though this would somehow clear it.
“How long will it take you to get ready? We haven’t much time; the tribunal is winding down, and CNN reported that it should be done in a few days.”
“What? Why? I’ve been covering trials forever, and the big ones always last for months, sometimes years.”
“But not if there is no defense side, and our Lord refuses to defend Himself.”
No, Jacobi was not being a wiseass when he said it. He actually meant it.
“What am I supposed to do about that? From Istanbul?”
“You must get busy. Unfortunately there is no time to lose. Salvare il ragazzo, salvare il mondo,” he finished up in Italian.
“‘Save the boy, save the world’?”
He didn’t bother with a response. I still hadn’t made the connection about why he’d speak to me in Italian. Sorry, my brain was fried. Being a fugitive who hangs around with weirdo priests who claim to be present at the birth of Christ II can get to a girl.
“Let me turn on the TV. I’m still not comfortable using my tablet: I’ve had a few unnerving incidents since I arrived, and I don’t know if I’m somehow being traced through my online connections. Anyway, lemme catch up on the court proceedings first.”
“I’ll fill you in during the ride. I need for you to see something. Right now. Time is not on our side.”
Our? “Okay, okay. Give me twenty minutes.”
“Bring the book. Put it in the plastic hotel laundry bag from your room. It will look like everyday junk. Don’t let anyone in your room. Especially not the cleaning staff or room service. Don’t mingle with guests down in the breakfast room, either. In fact, don’t go to the breakfast room.”
“I need coffee.”
“You need God. Coffee can wait.”
I packed up what few things I had and put the book in a laundry bag. Precisely twenty minutes later I walked down to the tiny lobby and saw that Cesur was already waiting for me. He escorted me to the car that was blocking the only lane on the tiny street. Father Jacobi was waiting inside, impatiently looking at his watch. I got a good glance at the breakfast room as I passed. Now that’s what you call a continental breakfast! Fresh croissants, honey, jams, butter, Nutella—my favorite thing—hard-boiled eggs, breads of all sorts, sliced mystery meat with giant globs of white stuff (who eats that stuff?), Turkish coffee, cappuccino—and not one thing in a cellophane bag. Heavenly. But heaven would have to wait. I was about to enter a territory somewhere between heaven and hell.
“Where are we going?” I asked Mr. Cesur, who suddenly didn’t understand English.
Okay.
We drove out of the city and seemed to be headed back toward the airport, but in fact we passed the national airport and drove onto a small private airfield.
“Huh?”
The priest led me into a sleek Gulfstream that had been waiting.
“So the exorcist thing pays well, then?” I said, hoping to catch him off guard with how much I already knew about him, but also wanting to check how much of Maureen’s info was correct.
He didn’t blink. “Yes, but I only do it for rich families. They can afford it and refuse to believe that their idiot children are simply drug addicts.” Then he slipped out of character for once and made a comical face and waved spooky arms at me as a joke. Weirdo.
We boarded, strapped in, and took off. “Where are we going?”
“I prefer you see it for yourself without preamble.”
And I prefer not to be on a plane with a kidnapper slash child molester, but I am.
Again I held my tongue. Too bad I’d never learned that art when dealing with my editors.