The Sixth Station(96)

“And you believed these so-called threats?”

“Not until my colleague Dr. Gaspar Bar-Cohen’s only daughter was found dead. ‘Crib death,’ they said.”

“And you honestly believed that the most powerful people in the United States had a newborn baby killed?” He turned to the judges, who remained impassive.

Hussein continued: “So, yes, we lied, and we have lived to regret it, but we were frightened. I, for one, cannot allow it to continue. If you kill this man, the world will end!”

With that he nodded toward ben Yusef and began weeping, just as Reverend Bill Teddy Smythe rose up from his wheelchair, jabbing his finger toward the witness chair.

“You lie! You lied then and you lie now! God will smite you down.…” He began to shake his finger and move toward the witness.

The courtroom went wild, and at one point the minister had to be restrained by security. The spectators and journalists, unable to remain silent, broke out in shouts and murmurs. People rose from their seats.

The chief justice slammed down her gavel as security began hustling the world officials out. Within minutes of the near melee, proceedings were called to a halt for the day.

I was flabbergasted.

Pantera stood up, helped bus the table, and then walked back into the dining room. “Hussein was, of course, scared in eighty-two, yes. But he lied not just because of the tragedy that befell Bar-Cohen. Regardless, this discovery would have won them the Nobel. He lied for us as well.”

“But he said it was the coalition of world leaders who’d sent Smythe.”

“He did. And they did. But it was us too—we also asked the three men to deny the whole thing. I asked them as a personal favor—once they were inside the house and had bypassed the greatest security in the world.

“It would have served no one’s purpose for the truth to come out then. We wanted them to think the baby was dead and didn’t want people looking for a risen Christ Child, obviously. We would have had every nut hunting us down.

“Hussein, Bar-Cohen, and Pawar have all, incidentally, come aboard since then. They are silent soldiers in the revolution of souls.”

He and the other men were the ones I “saw” in the house in Turkey. Now I’m beginning to figure out.

“The ‘revolution of souls,’ right. I won’t even begin to ask what the hell that means, but I will ask you this: What did those objects and those numbers on the transfusion bags mean?”

“Blood, a priest’s stole, fourth and sixth?”

Then it hit me: “Sadowski, the blood of Jesus, I get it. But Demiel had said to me ‘six,’ not ‘four.’”

I hit my forehead with my hand so hard, it left a red mark. “Damn! Go forth—maybe it means ‘fourth,’ as in an ordinal number.”

Even he looked impressed. “Now you have one more number to figure out.”

“Aha. Damn! But who did it? Who left the transfusion bags?”

“Could be them. Could be us.”

“I’m not part of us…”

“Yes. You are.

Then Pantera, his lanky frame towering over me, called a halt to the chitchat. “Ready?”

“For what?”

“A little hiking.”

He checked out my boots. “Not good for trekking, but they’ll do in a pinch. Now, let’s get going.”

“Where are we going?” I said, pulling on my jacket as we walked out the kitchen door, while he put on a backpack, into which he’d put several bottles of water.

“Up there,” he said, pointing to Montségur, which was poking through the dense morning clouds.

“You’re kidding me,” I said, getting my first real good look at the mountain. I followed him into the welding shed, where the landlady’s son was already hard at work, sparks flying everywhere. Amidst giant modern metal sculptures of Cathar crosses and robed figures were an assortment of hand-forged hammers, carabiners, and what looked like hiking and climbing equipment.

“Tout est prêt pour vous, Yusef,” the man said.

“Merci, Pierre.”

“Petite hache, carabiners, corde…”

“Parfait, merci.”

“Bonne journée.”

The two shook hands, and Pantera took from him a rope, which he hung on his shoulder, a small ax, some webbing harnesses, and two carabiners, which he hung on a belt. He was wearing a flak jacket, jeans, and sunglasses. And what looked like two pistols this time. He handed me a walking stick.

“Do I look older than you?”

“Take it. I’m taking one, too, don’t worry.”

As we walked back out and toward the trail at the foot of the mountain, I said, “This is a paved walk. Why all the drama with the rope, and all?”