Thirst No. 5 (15 page)

Ralph knows of my diagnostic abilities and looks to me before examining Anton. I tell him what I know and he frowns as he pokes his patient’s nose and mouth.

“Your smile is never going to be the same,” Ralph tells him.

“Give me morphine, let me worry about it tomorrow,” Anton pleads. Ralph looks to me for my opinion.

I nod. “They beat him a long time. Let him rest. I’ll stay with him.”

Ralph reaches for a small vial and a fresh syringe. “Good, I’ll sleep easier knowing you’re near. But watch his breathing, wake me if it gets too slow.”

I stand. “I promise. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

In the kitchen I find Harrah making tea. We sit together at the small table and sip the hot chamomile. She offers me honey, which I love, and sweet shortbread cookies. She made them herself—she loves to bake. I wonder where she got the sugar but don’t ask. Probably a grateful patient.

Prior to the war, they lived only four blocks away, but it
was in a lush flat that overlooked the Seine. But the Germans took their place, they took their doctor’s office and its surgical room. Now they work out of a small neighborhood clinic during the day, while treating men and women at night who fight for the Resistance. They seldom get any rest.

Harrah’s brown hair, which was long and curly before the war, has now been cut short and has streaks of gray. Short hair is best, she told me. It makes her less conspicuous to the Gestapo. Not that anything helps with that star on her sleeve, I think.

It’s a thought I keep to myself. Despite our bond, there is much I don’t share with them. Naturally, they have both heard the stories of the camps in the east, the whispered rumors, where Jews go and never return. Yet, for such a pragmatic couple, they don’t want to talk about it. “No, it can’t be,” they tell me. “The Germans are not animals.”

God, how I wish I could ram the facts Straffer tells me down their throats. Tales of terror that haunt even the general. If I could frighten them enough, they might take me up on my offer to relocate them to Spain. But they don’t want to hear. They say they will never leave Paris, not while they are still needed.

What can I do? I’m strong, but long ago I learned the one person I can’t protect a person from is themselves.

“Tell me how you got him out,” Harrah asks, excited. She loves to hear about my exploits against the Nazis. I try to give
her a brief rundown but she insists I share every detail. Her face glowing, she claps when I get to the part about the three young men stuffed in their machine-gun nest.

“How did you know they wouldn’t shoot you in the back?” she asks.

“They had good hearts. I could see it.”

She nods. “I told you they are not all bad.”

I stop with my cup to my lips. She is talking to herself again, I know. “They trusted me, even though I threatened them,” I say. “But the Gestapo, the SS, they live in constant fear of their leaders. It drives them mad.”

“More reason to be grateful for Operation Overlord.” Like most French, Harrah has more faith in the Americans than the British, perhaps because the English have already come and gone. I find the attitude unfair but amusing. However, it pains me that she refuses to face the dark side of the invasion.

“Invading the coast will cost the Allies a lot of men,” I say. “But they know there’s no going back. I’ve told you I’ve met Eisenhower and Patton. Incredible leaders. Even if Rommel pulls all his tanks to the west, he won’t be able to keep their armies pinned down. They hit the flatlands ten miles from the coast and they’ll be in Paris in days.”

“Good,” Harrah says.

“In the long run. But when the Allies begin to storm toward Paris, the Germans will step up the pace of their Final Solution. They will begin to round up—”

“Please, Sita, you know I hate that term. It’s just something Straffer told you to impress you. I’ve never heard another German say the same two words in the same sentence.” She pauses. “It doesn’t exist.”

I speak carefully. “Do the Jews they’ve rounded up still exist?”

Harrah stands and goes to the sink, where she pours out her tea before reaching for the pot to fill a fresh cup. She won’t look at me. Staring east, out the window at the growing light, she speaks in a hurt tone.

“Help is finally coming, it’s a good thing. I have faith.”

“So do I,” I say quietly.

She glances my way. “We have Anton back. It’s been a good night. We should be celebrating.”

I stand and cross the room and hug her tightly. She is so many things to me: a friend, a counselor, most of all, perhaps, an inspiration. I admire her faith and don’t think it’s a coincidence that such a precious gift has been passed down to her.

I try to tell her these things and she lets me talk a few minutes before she puts a finger to my lips. “This isn’t like you, Sita. One moment you’re warning me and the next it’s as if you’re asking for advice.”

I stare at her. At times like this I swear I see
my
mother in her face, although I have only the faintest memory of the woman. “I’ve been having bad dreams,” I say.

“You? You hardly sleep.”

“I have them. Then, when I awaken, I feel something coming. An evil—I can’t explain it.”

Suddenly she is worried about me, when it should be the reverse. “How can I help?”

My eyes are also drawn to the window, to the glow that warms the horizon. “Ralph has given Anton a shot of morphine. I should stay with him, watch his breathing. But I was wondering . . . can I hold it?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

I hold up a hand. “You don’t have to say yes. If there are rules against me—”

She clasps my hand. “You sat with Krishna. How could there be any rule against you holding it?”

I nod, grateful, although I feel like hanging my head in shame. She would never say but I have put her on the spot. “Thank you,” I reply.

Harrah fetches the worn leather bag from the closet of her bedroom and hands it to me. With two quick kisses, she retires to sleep beside her husband. I finish my tea before entering my room. It comforts me to watch the sun rise.

Inside the bedroom Anton snores on his back. The window is open and I fix the blankets so he won’t catch cold. But I don’t lie down beside him. Not tonight, I think.

The brown bag opens with a long zipper. Inside, the veil is carefully wrapped in layers of white silk. The veil itself is made of the same material. The threads are coarse, by modern
standards, and the color has yellowed with age. Nevertheless, it’s impossible for me to imagine any other two thousand-year-old cloth that could have survived the centuries. Long ago, the veil should have disintegrated into dust and vanished from the face of the earth.

The face of . . .

The words . . . naturally the words come to me. For I cannot look at the stained outline of the face on the veil without feeling as if someone dear to me is looking back. Yet the face is not that of Krishna. When we met, he had no trace of a beard, and if there was sorrow in his expression, then it was lost in the joy that always seemed to swim below the surface in his presence.

Still, this face, the one the legends say belongs to Christ, seems familiar to me. I don’t know why. I never met the man. I have stared at the veil before, with Harrah, trying to fathom its mysterious effect on me. But it’s always left me more confused than ever.

Now, though, as I study it beneath the orange rays of the fresh sun, I see things I missed before. There’s tremendous sorrow in the image, as if the man really was burdened with the weight of so many others’ sins. Yet there is joy, yes, happiness, despite the obvious suffering. It’s in his eyes. They are enchanting. I see a fullness that is somehow empty, or a love perfectly balanced by the freedom of dispassion.

I see more, I realize, but not the complete truth.

The veil is still a paradox to me.

Perhaps it will always be that way.

I don’t care. I press it to my heart and feel fatigue overwhelm me. Sitting upright in the chair will not prevent the inevitable. Soon I’ll pass out, and I know I will dream. But tonight, or this morning, the nightmare will not touch me. The darkness won’t come. I hold the veil in my fingers and yet it is I who feel safe in his hands.

I
n the morning the others awaken before Mr. Grey, who continues to sleep deeply. We meet for breakfast at a different restaurant from the night before, but stay near the motel.

At some point during the night I must have dozed, but the sleep was not restful. Memories of the Nazis haunt me. Our pursuit of the veil has stirred them up, no surprise, and I suspect they won’t stop until we find it.

Still, my fatigue does not inhibit my hunger. Matt has bacon and eggs and coffee. Brutran and Jolie share a tall stack of pancakes. Seymour has yogurt and toast, and I eat a bowl of fruit and a blueberry muffin. We all steal pieces of Matt’s bacon, the smell is hard to resist. I end up asking our waitress for a side order, which I split with Seymour.

The main topics are, of course, Mrs. Sarah Goodwin and
Mr. Grey. I give the gang a full account of what Matt and I saw at the house. Seymour and Brutran are immediately suspicious of Mr. Grey.

“It sounds like he fed you a story,” Seymour says. “He’s outside their house, spying on them so he can protect them. Then, when they’re attacked, he rushes inside without a weapon and is immediately smacked on the head and loses consciousness. That’s pretty convenient.”

“He never said he wasn’t armed,” I reply. “He might have had a gun and lost it in the fight.”

“If he had a gun he should have used it,” Brutran says. “He should have been able to take the Goodwins’ assailants by surprise. If it was me, I would have killed them both.”

“That goes without saying,” Seymour mutters.

“We don’t know if he surprised them,” I say. “For all we know, they might have been waiting for him. They might have tortured the Goodwins after.”

“You sound like you’re protecting the guy,” Matt says.

“You were there. With his dying breath, Roger Goodwin told us how hard Mr. Grey fought to save them. That counts for something.”

“Goodwin was barely alive when you found him,” Brutran says.

“He knew what he was saying,” I reply.

Brutran is unconvinced. “For all we know this could be a setup. The people who are after us could have planted Mr. Grey there.”

“If they did, they left him in lousy shape,” I say. “If I hadn’t treated him, he’d be dead by now.”

“So they made it look convincing,” Brutran says. “The bottom line remains the same. The guy refuses to explain why he was there and who he’s working for. When someone is hiding something, there’s always a reason, and it’s seldom innocent.” She pauses. “Was it wise to leave him alone?”

“He has a cracked skull. He’s not going anywhere,” I say.

“He just has to lift the phone, Sita,” Brutran says.

I have yet to tell them about Mr. Grey’s offer to stop the manhunt. The guy said so many strange things, I don’t want to stack the deck any more against him. Except for me, no one at the table trusts him. And I’m going purely by instinct. Logically, the others are right, nothing he’s told us adds up.

“Let’s leave Mr. Grey aside for the moment and focus on Sarah,” I say. “We have to find her and fast. If they tortured her last night in her own home, think what they’ll do to her in their space.”

“But where do we look?” Seymour says. “What leads do we have?”

“We have the business card Shanti had hidden beside the Goodwins’ photograph,” Matt says. “The card belongs to Michael Larson. He works for Pointe, Wolf, & Larson. That’s a New York City law firm. The card has another number scribbled on the back. Could be his cell number. Brutran
has researched the firm. It’s small but prestigious. It represents celebrities and rich people.”

“Does the place have a specialty?” Seymour asks.

“It’s an all-purpose firm,” Brutran says. “It has defense lawyers, investment lawyers, tax lawyers. From what I’ve been able to discover, Larson seems to be what we in the business world call a closer. He brings in new clients and fixes their problems when they arise. He’s best known for putting powerful people together.”

“Has the IIC used his firm in the past?” Seymour asks.

“No. But I’ve heard about them through the grapevine.”

“What have you heard?” I ask.

Brutran shrugs. “That they’re top-notch.”

“Is the firm rich?” Matt asks.

“They’re doing extremely well,” Brutran says, her eyes flickering to her laptop. She’s never without an Internet connection.

“What is it?” I ask.

“This is pure speculation, but you all know that at IIC we mastered the art of hiding assets. From what I’m picking up on Larson’s law firm, I’m confident they’re hiding the bulk of their money.”

“How can you tell?” Seymour asks.

“I would need a day to answer that question. Trust me.”

“Anything else unusual about them?” I ask.

Brutran continues to study her laptop. “They’re funneling
a lot of their assets through Swiss banks. And they . . . this is very odd.”