‘That’s in the hands of God and the Son of God,’ Gavache replied scornfully.
Tears ran down Ben Isaac’s face. ‘What do you want me to say?’ he said, sobbing. ‘That I believe He was a man like me and everyone else? That every day I pray He wasn’t the Son of God? That I need that document to be true because that means that my daughter died because that’s the way life is and not because He took her from me? Is that what you want to hear? That I could lose another child, and that to keep my sanity I need to believe that it has nothing to do with divine intervention?’
Gavache looked at a point beyond Ben Isaac toward the back by the stairs. Ben Isaac looked toward the same spot and saw Myriam. He swallowed dryly, unable to react or take a step in her direction. She clenched her fists, turned her back on him, and went upstairs angrily.
Myr was the only thing he managed to say, silently, to himself.
Finally he got up and rushed to the stairs. The cell phone on top of the table began to ring, making him stop. It was his. Was it the kidnappers again? He answered reluctantly. He didn’t want any more news. He thought about little Ben and closed his eyes, wet with tears.
Gavache answered the phone without asking. He spoke some words in French and then in English, and immediately handed the phone to Ben Isaac. ‘It’s for you. Your son.’
‘What?’ Had he heard right?
‘Your son. He was freed and wants to talk to you.’
Ben Isaac was incredulous. He heard Myriam running down the stairs.
‘Ben? Is it little Ben?’ she asked.
Gavache nodded with the phone still extended toward Ben Isaac.
‘But the woman hasn’t even had time to land in Paris yet,’ Ben Isaac reasoned, grabbing the phone.
Inspector Gavache hurried toward the door to leave. ‘So long, Ben Isaac,’ he said as a farewell.
Myriam took the phone out of her husband’s hand and began to talk. It was her son. Tears of relief streamed from her eyes. The nightmare was over, even if she would be at peace only when she saw him in flesh and blood, safe and sound.
‘What’s going on, Inspector?’ Ben Isaac was unable to make sense of anything. ‘Where are Sarah and the documents?’
Gavache looked back and took another drag on his cigarette before answering. ‘Your son is safe. That’s all that matters.’
‘Sir, sir,’ Gavache’s driver called out when the car reached the corner and stopped by the curb.
‘Oui?’ said the other, leaving behind what had happened in Ben Isaac’s house.
‘We’re here, sir,’ he told him.
Gavache looked outside across the street? ‘Here?’
‘Correct, sir.’
Gavache opened the door and stepped outside. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked the driver.
‘Paul, sir.’
‘Paul, if things get violent, call for reinforcements.’
‘How will I know, sir?’
‘You’ll know, Paul. Trust me.’ Gavache left.
55
‘That threat only shows you don’t know me,’ Rafael said with a gun in his hand. He locked the door of Robin’s study and wedged the back of a chair under the knob to hold it.
Robin smiled mockingly. ‘What are you going to do? Hold me hostage?’
Rafael remembered Maurice and the coldheartedness with which he had murdered Gunter, the despair with which he had later taken his own life. ‘No, Robin. You’re like an Islamic terrorist,’ he accused, ‘capable of killing and dying for a cause, even if you don’t know what it is.’
‘Isn’t that what you do, too?’ Robin argued irritably.
‘No, Robin, don’t compare me with your insanity. I don’t kill innocent, defenseless people.’
‘Fuck you, Santini.’
‘That’s how all our conversations seem to end.’
The door handle began to turn. Someone was trying to open it from the other side.
‘He’s here,’ Robin shouted. ‘Kill him. He knows too much.’
Rafael struck him with the back of the gun, making Robin lift his hands to the wound in pain. When he looked at the palms of his hands, he saw blood. His lip had been split. He looked up with an expression of helpless fury.
‘Now shut up,’ Rafael threatened.
Somebody continued to try to force the handle before suddenly stopping. Rafael knew what the next step would be and anticipated it by firing a shot halfway up the door. A heavy weight was heard falling to the floor on the other side of the shut door.
‘Son of a bitch,’ Robin swore.
‘Aren’t we all?’ the Italian replied, more to himself than to Robin. He stepped forward. ‘It was a pleasure, Robin. Until we meet again, God willing.’
Robin was swearing at him, but Rafael didn’t hear a single word. His priority was to get out of there alive. He needed to stay alert. He shot through the door twice more just in case, and waited a couple of seconds. He heard nothing. He opened the door carefully. A young man in a black cassock was lying on the floor, eyes staring lifelessly. A Glock pistol lay a few inches away. Rafael bent down and placed his fingers on his neck to see if there was a pulse. Nothing. He closed the corpse’s eyes and sighed. Another life lost for no reason. He took the Glock and shoved it under his belt in the back.
He got up, keeping his gun pointed, and locked the door behind him, leaving Robin captive, and proceeded step by step in silence. The other doors were closed. He tried to open them, but they were locked, except for the door to the bathroom, which was empty; one less problem.
He looked through the door to the high altar. Only the table in the center could shield him from a threat. He ran and rolled over as quickly as possible until he was behind the table, and stayed there a few moments. From there he moved to a corner, from which he could see the nave.
An acolyte behind the confessional, another by a column in the back. He didn’t see anyone else, but with so many hiding places it wasn’t going to be easy. He risked looking to see if some believer had come to pray at the wrong time in the wrong place. A woman was in the second pew, kneeling, head lowered over her hands, praying for mercy, a girl by her side, seated on the pew playing a video game. The kid probably prayed every night before bed that her mother would spend some money and buy her a new PlayStation. A few rows back was a homeless man in ragged clothes.
‘Santini,’ he heard a voice call from somewhere in the nave.
‘Robin,’ Rafael replied. ‘What a talent for escaping from locked offices.’
The faithful looked around. How disrespectful. Shouting like that in a place of silence and devotion.
‘Shhh…’ said the woman in front.
‘Come out, Santini. I want to see you,’ Robin ordered, moving to the center of the nave.
‘No, I’m okay. I know when I’m not welcome,’ Rafael replied mockingly. ‘You guys don’t wish me well.’
‘Shhh…’ the woman repeated. It was too much. Not just a lack of respect for a sacred place but for common civility as well.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ Robin protested, approaching the first row of pews, next to the altar in the transept. He made an apologetic gesture to the woman, along with a forced smile. Then he took the Glock out of his cassock and held it against the head of the mother, who could not believe it. ‘Do you want this pretty girl to become an orphan?’
The little one raised her eyes from the game and noticed what was happening. Instantly her tears began to flow. This wasn’t a game for points.
Rafael got up from behind the altar table, hands in the air, and kicked his Beretta away. The acolyte behind the confessional aimed a gun at him with an angry look.
‘I knew you’d end up surrendering,’ Robin said.
‘You’re an excellent negotiator,’ Rafael said in mock praise.
‘You think you can come to my church and do what you want?’ Robin continued. ‘You’re so naive. Throw down the other gun, please.’
Rafael took the Glock out from the back of his slacks, put it on the floor, and gave it a kick away from him. ‘Let her go now.’