“Yes,” MacDonald agreed, not at all reticent to say so. “Well and good, my boy, because no matter what their high-tech pyrotechnics and black magical parlor tricks, so are they. So are they.”
MacDonald sat back and sighed. “I need a drink,” he said. “That and a change of subject for the moment.”
“The first is easily remedied. The pitcher there has sangria and there are two glasses sitting inside each other next to your chair. As for the second—what do you think of Maria now?”
He poured one and took a good swallow. It tasted fine, and he had no idea of the power of it, although he knew that the Bishop liked his drinks strong. “I—I don’t know. It’s really sad, somehow.”
“Why? With all that paraphernalia, she feels like the woman she is inside, and she needs to be. Without it, she’s a defenseless little kid with no future, so she might as well be that kid.”
“Well, what else can she do?”
“No matter what she looks like, she’s another Angelique. She’s really a mature woman and she desperately needs to be treated like one in all respects. Most of all, she needs to be trusted again, particularly by you. She is as in love with you now as she was before all this. She needs your trust and your love, and she’ll follow you anywhere, even die for you.”
“Well, she may have to adjust otherwise. You and I know, Bishop, that if this thing is to be pulled off I’m going to have to be there. I’m going to have to be the one to keep everybody else from tripping sound alarms and getting on camera. Nobody else, except maybe Maria, has the—wait a minute! You aren’t suggesting that she go along?”
“I’m suggesting that she be told nothing or even have intimated to her anything about the bomb. Pip will be secure, and so will I. That other team, however, is valuable. I think she ought to be offered a chance to participate, to redeem herself, with the full understanding that she is going to die up there.”
“You’d put that much trust in her—after all this?”
“I would. Treat her as she wants to be treated. Give her everything she wants—and I say this as a man of God, I hope. In the end, it will come down to Maria or you. You can supervise—and survive to continue the fight if we all fail. You don’t have to go, Greg—if she does. I’ll take the responsibility.”
He sat back and sighed. Damn! “Who else are you including in your suicide pact?”
“No more than two or three others. King’s base has already got them picked, if they agree. They’ll be here drifting in, one at a time, starting tomorrow.”
“More geriatric wonders?”
“No. But each has their own reasons for wanting to do this, and they all know it’s certain death. They’ll do.”
He stared for a moment at the old man. “You’re some strange kind of priest,” he said at last.
“Yes, I know. It’s been my own cross to bear.”
MacDonald sat back and finished the drink. He didn’t care how strong it was; he needed something stronger. “Look—I never bargained for all this. If I hadn’t been handy and convenient when they polished off Sir Robert, I wouldn’t even know any of this was happening. I don’t mind risking my life, but suicide is not part of my make-up.”
“Pip intends to commit suicide and yet make his death count for something. The others—they have their reasons, I think, but they aren’t suicidal any more than I am. Not even Jesus wanted to go to the cross in the end. You’re far too young to remember the Second World War, but none of our brave lads wanted to die. Still, when you stand there and see your own capital burning, when you hear the screams of trapped women and children and can do nothing to save them from the roaring fires, when you see the horrors of the concentration camp, the ovens, the piles of bones, the gold melted from the fillings of victims, you know that if you do not face down evil, no matter what the cost to you, you deserve just what you see. You are most fortunate, my boy. God has mercifully given you a supporting role in which sacrifice is not a requirement. No one is blaming you. If this cup could be taken from my hands I would relinquish it, but it can not. Now—go. We have much to do, and the clock is ticking.”
MacDonald got up and walked slowly back into the house where Maria was waiting to be led like a lamb to the slaughter, if only he would act his part.
14. BEST LAID PLANS
Bishop Whitely introduced them as Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, but their nationalities were, respectively, Sikh, Lebanese, and Nigerian. Most surprising to MacDonald was the fact that the Lebanese was a Christian and a woman. The Nigerian was a Moslem, and Sikh’s flowing beard and turban marked not only his nationality but his faith as well.
They sat around the living room in the warm, comfortable island resort nation of Aruba and MacDonald could not think of a less likely looking group in a more incongruous place. He wished he knew why these three, particularly the darkly attractive woman, had volunteered for such a mission, knowing only that it was against some great evil and would cost them their lives. With them, too, were Whitely, Frawley, and Maria.
“We have only ten days to work this all out,” Frawley told them. “There can be only a small amount of practice, and I’m sure that they have agents here and possibly already know that we are gathered together. There’s no way to keep it secret here, I fear, but I believe they will allow us to keep going. It’s in character for them to let the enemy try, so when he fails he will know it. You should know that because there is, I believe, not the slightest chance of any of us coming out of this alive, win or lose. Still, the armies of the world are at their beck and call, not ours. Only a very small, expert force, will be able to get onto that island and do damage. I say this because this is your last chance to back out. Replacements are still possible, but not after this afternoon. After this, you will know too much. After this, anyone who backs out, or hesitates, will be killed. There is no other way around it. The enemy can hear and see far more than we can, though they lack, I hope, the details of the plan. Therefore, anyone who still wishes to back out now should do so at this time. I will ask you one at a time. Shadrach?”
“It is my moral imperative to go, for I understand the nature of the enemy you fight,” said the Sikh, in Indian-accented English. “I wish you to understand that the Indian government years ago wiped out my entire family in their pogrom, yet I did not lose my faith. It sustained me, as I sought to discover the reason for such events. It is because of this, I feel, that I was spared. I am ready to join them, but my death must have meaning. I will go.”
The Bishop and the Rook nodded absently to themselves. “Very well,” said Frawley, “you are in and welcome. We need you desperately, for you are our mountaineer. The bravery and greatness of your people’s fighting skills are well known and taken for granted. Meshach?”
This was the dark Lebanese woman. “I will go. Since they butchered my children I have been nothing but a madwoman, a killing machine, but it is endless. It will be good to have meaning, to have an end.”
“Excellent. One of your experience will be invaluable. Abednego?”
The dark Nigerian in tennis whites shrugged. “It seems we are in a confessional stage. I leave that to the others. I am a professional without ties whom Allah has called to this purpose. I will do the job. The rest is in the hands of Allah.”