Marwan Farhad carefully smoothed his mustache as he leaned over the table in the dark warehouse. Darkened windows high above the expansive space gave them the privacy they needed. But combined with the gathering storm clouds outside, it didn’t make for a helpful planning environment.
He adjusted one of the halogen lamps on the dual-head, tripod work lamp to give himself more light as he went over the floor plan one more time in preparation for tomorrow's mission. He traced the route to the room holding the sacred objects, plotting all the possible outcomes, making contingencies. Tulu had assured him the basilica would be empty, lying barren until the next day for the morning Mass. He hoped that the man was correct in his information, but he was ready for anything.
He moved the map to the side, making room for images of the four objects they were tasked with retrieving, encased in elaborate gold and silver reliquaries: part of a panel said to have been nailed to Christ's cross, bearing his designation as King of the Jews; two thorns taken from the crown placed on Christ's head by the Roman soldiers; one of the nails hammered into either Christ’s wrists or feet, holding him to the cross; and three small wooden fragments of the True Cross, the object upon which the Christian Savior hung, bled, died.
As a member of the Thirteen, the Council of Five had tasked him with retrieving five of the holy Passion relics for Nous. They had wanted to time their theft and later destruction to coincide with the revelation of the Ark, in order to permanently destroy the tangible objects preserving the memory of Jesus’ death, while sowing spiritual confusion and chaos with the Ark’s unveiling.
A member of his team brought him a cup of steaming chai tea thickened with milk. Farhad smiled curtly and took it. Then he stood back from the table and took a sip, his eyes transfixed on those relics, his mind’s eye transfixed on the memory they represented.
Atonement. Redemption. Salvation.
From the very first upright steps that Homo sapiens took upon the earth, salvation from death and the bliss of an afterlife paradise has been the longing of the collective consciousness. The mystery has always been the how. How can one experience such salvation? Especially once humans started behaving badly, amassing a pile of sins stretching into the heavens—while reaping untold consequences.
Genocide, rape, murder, wars of attrition, environmental destruction, slavery, child abuse. And those were just the systemic sins perpetuated from generation to generation. Farhad himself had experienced such systemic injustice in Iran, as the Islamic republic had persecuted his people for years. Then there were the personal sins of the heart: adultery, thievery, cheating, lying, gossip, rage, malice, pride, envy, jealousy, and on and on. Every one of them he himself had committed in one way or another.
Farhad knew what everyone else knew deep down in their most honest moments: we’re both brilliant and bad. Brilliant, because we’re capable of achieving great good and offering greater love. Yet rotten to the core, because of all the bad we’re capable of achieving. And, when we’re also honest with ourselves, we feel guilt and shame for sins great and small, carrying with such deep, inner feelings the sneaking suspicion that such acts have harmed not only individual people, but the Universe itself. Something or Someone high above that has set the pace for how one should act in the first place.
Farhad took another sip of tea, letting its warm, spicy heaviness sit in his mouth and stimulate his taste buds. But the question he pondered as he swallowed the liquid, continuing to stare at the photos, the one that has haunted every person from the Stone Age to the Digital Age has been how such a pile of rotten trash can be swept away. How can the gods, or the God, or the Universe or whatever be appeased?
He knew the history of atoning for such sins. It started small, with people and families and tribes offering grain or fruit, then precious metals or stones. But was that enough? Were the gods/God/Universe pleased? Was all that communal and individual badness atoned for, somehow made right?
Did the offerings work?
Since no one could be sure, such offerings morphed into blood sacrifices, starting small with birds before escalating to lambs and goats and bulls.
But again, was that enough? Were the gods/God/Universe satisfied?
Did those sacrifices work?
Such questions continued to hang over humanity, leading to an escalation of even greater sacrifices until the ultimate ones, whether from battle or communal games or slavery.
People. Adults who were unfortunate enough to lose wars.
And then the greatest of all: children who were unfortunate enough to be born.
Yet the shedding of human blood never laid to rest those pesky ultimate questions that kept people up at night. Which is why the Christians had devised the greatest scheme ever.
God himself would die.
Farhad took another sip of tea, the warmth having escaped into the coolness of the warehouse. A smile escaped his mouth as he continued contemplating the significance of those relic photos. The relics that contained the innovation of the Christian claim that in Jesus Christ, God had paid the price for all of those sins in place of humanity, doing what they had tried for 10,000 years to accomplish on their own, but were never really sure they had achieved what they knew deep down they needed.
Atonement for sins, leading to forgiveness of sins, leading to salvation from divine judgment, ending in blissful eternal life.
A noise caught his attention. It was far back in the shadows. He saw it slink away, trying not to be seen.
That’s right. The SEPIO prisoner. He’d almost forgotten about her, and Borg’s insistence on interrogation. Now was as good as time as any. Besides, there was a strong chance she had seen or overheard something that could derail his carefully laid plans.
He walked over to a bench and grabbed something. He caught the attention of one of his associates, then motioned over to the woman.
Time to appease the gods once again.
Torres had been working on her bindings, trying to slide her wrist out of the chain. She had been carefully working at them since she awoke early in the morning, keeping the door and promise of escape as her motivation.
But it wasn’t working.
In frustration she whipped the chain tethered to her arms against the concrete, filling her corner of the warehouse with a deafening clang.
Did they notice?
The man with the mustache had looked her way, then turned around.
She sighed heavily. Great. Attention was definitely not what she—
Wait. The man was walking toward her with one of the other goons. She breathed in quickly. Her heart started firing on all cylinders.
Was there something in his hand?
It was too dark to make it out as they strode across the empty space, the soles of their feet echoing with purpose.
She instinctively backed up against the wall, seeking comfort and protection among the shadows. She strained against her bindings again, trying to loosen them. It was of no use. The men were almost there.
And holding some sort of weapon.
Her breathing quickened. The dark room felt like it was swirling in a muddy palette of grays and browns, blacks and blues.
This was not what she had signed up for.
The non-mustached man was built like one of the Latin Kings she’d seen prowling around her neighborhood growing up. Thick neck, thicker arms, and an even thicker head that was useful for one thing: inflicting pain.
He suddenly grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her against the wall, raising her as high as her bindings straining against the floor beneath would allow.
“We haven’t been formally introduced,” the man with the mustache said, his voice pleasant and welcoming, friendly even, and smelling faintly of spices. “My name is Marwan Farhad. This here is Hamid. That’s it. Just Hamid. There is nothing else you need to know about him. I, however, am someone you do need to know about.”
She was standing on her toes, her jaw held firm by forearms of steel, head digging into the concrete wall. She could feel herself shaking. Rivulets of sweat were beginning to mat her long, dark hair to her forehead, winding down her face and neck.
“I am part of a multi-national organization your Order has grown to know as Nous. I am a member of the Thirteen, and next in line for the Council of Five. You know of such a hierarchy?”
She didn’t understand why he was telling her this, but she nodded quickly.
He smiled widely, the pleasant smell of spices returning. "Good. Then you also know that such members have a…how do you say? A ruthless tenacity, yes that is how you say it. A ruthless tenacity when it comes to slowly suffocating your pathetic religion, draining the life out of it until it snuffs itself out like a candle wick."
Where was this conversation going?
He stepped toward her, raising his right arm slightly. Her eyes went wide as she caught sight of the weapon. Which was actually a drill.
Light from somewhere up above glinted off the wide head of the long bit sticking out of the drill’s mouth, the kind used to carve wide-diameter holes in two-by-fours.
Her breathing quickened through her nostrils. She thought she was going to pass out.
“Let her rest on her feet,” he said sympathetically.
Hamid let her down gently. She felt weak and tried slumping against the wall, but the steel arm held her firm.
Farhad stepped close to her so that she could feel his warm breath against her cool face. Now it smelled like stale tea leaves, the original, pleasant spiciness turning acrid. She thought she was going to wretch. She wished she would, all over that smug Persian man’s face.
“We have set into motion plans that I have been waiting to reap fruit from for several years. There is no room for error. And I will not allow an operative of the Order of Thaddeus to meddle.”
He brought the drill up to her face. She flinched, closing her eyes.
“You will tell me what I want to know.”
“I don't know anything!" She said in a panic, her face scrunching up in fear. “I…I…I’m green. Brand new to the unit. I'm a nobody. There's nothing I can tell you!”
He started the drill, it's electric whine ricocheting off the walls. With a sudden, forceful motion he gritted his teeth and thrust it into the wall behind her.
She screamed, high and long, then short puffs of guttural responses. Her body started convulsing under the weight of the impending agony.
Chunks of concrete and dust flew into her hair and eyebrows, up her nose, and down to the floor.
As the sound of the drill wound down, another sound replaced its whine.
An explosion. Back from where Farhad and Hamid had emerged. Then gunfire, in rapid succession.
At once Farhad turned around. Hamid craned his neck, not knowing whether to hold on or let go.
When one of their associates dropped after more gunfire, he let go.
Torres slid to the ground, then scurried to make herself small against the wall, not understanding what was happening and wanting to get out of the range of a firefight.
The large man quickly withdrew a large weapon from his side and sent four rounds toward the gunfire, all of them going high and wide.
Farhad said something to him in Arabic, then put his hands over his head and crouched when more gunfire erupted. Six rapid rounds toward the other remaining Nous operative, sounding like they came from two separate people.
Torres could see that the main entrance had been blown open. The smoke had cleared, and two figures were near it, crouched behind a massive concrete column. One of the men was black and built like a tank. The other man was equally tall, but built more like an oversized elephant.
Gapinski!
Her heart leaped. Help had arrived.
They were driven back behind the column out of sight by more gunfire, from Hamid. Farhad joined in, laying down covering fire for their trapped comrade. The man ran for their location, spats of return fire coming from Gapinski and his backup, but not doing any damage. She hoped they would stop firing before they landed some metal her way.
Farhad and Hamid were successful. The man arrived unscathed. Farhad ran to an exit near her, then inserted a key.
Finding a window, the SEPIO operatives returned fire, all of it directed toward the door. The concrete exploded in little puffs of acquiescence.
Hamid and the other man drew close to their boss, crouching on their knees while he worked the lock. They offered a forceful response—until both guns clicked empty.
Torres sat up in hope, wondering how the next few seconds would play out. She could see one of the SEPIO agents advance forward, using the tables Farhad had been hovering over earlier for cover. Then Gapinski moved in behind him, sliding behind the granite pillar.
Was he using Jesus' scourging post as cover? What was the big beluga thinking?
Farhad clicked the lock open, then pushed through the door. Hamid and the other man had reloaded and offered a storm of metal coverage, their rounds splintering the wooden tables and pinging off the granite hiding place Gapinski had commandeered.
Within seconds her captors were out the door and into freedom. She sighed heavily and spread out on the concrete floor in exhaustion.
The air was thick with gunpowder and tension. It settled within seconds, and the two SEPIO men slowly emerged from their places of cover.
“Torres? You alive?”
She smiled. It was indeed Gapinski.
“Yeah, you big lug. I’m alive. Now would you help a sister out?”
The two men rushed over to her.
“Thank the good Lord,” the one man said, helping her up. Gapinski’s companion made quick work of her bindings and released her chain with a pair of bolt cutters he had found in a tool chest.
She massaged her wrists, then tried to stand before faltering.
“Whoa there. Take a load off. Greer, give me some of that water.”
The large man gave him a canteen. He twisted off the lid, then lowered it for Torres. She took several sips, the cool water doing quick work to revive her.
“Thanks. That feels good.” She took several breaths, then outstretched her hand and nodded for Gapinski to help her up.
He reached for her and pulled her to her feet.
Torres ran her hands over her head and face, dusting off the bits of concrete from Farhad's drilling. Then she dusted off her clothes and stretched her back.
She was free.
“You came for me.”
Gapinski scoffed. “Of course we did. Never leave a man behind. Or woman, in your case. That’s, like, basic.”
“But how? I thought you were dead after the crash.”
“What? Me? Takes more than a broadside to a crappy rental to take me out.”
She laughed quietly to herself, thankful to be reunited with her partner, as annoying as he could sometimes be. She started toward the other end of the warehouse, eager to check on the status of the scourging post and whatever intel might have been left behind. She faltered, but Gapinski steadied her. She smiled, then continued.
“So you recover, then what? Because this place doesn’t seem all that easy to find.”
“Not at all. In fact, we would have been here sooner had Greer not passed it, what…” he glanced behind to his partner, “Like three, four times?”
“It was twice, Gapinski,” the man corrected with a deep, baritone voice. “But your eagle eyes weren’t much help neither.”
Gapinski frowned, mumbling, “Whatever. Anyway, so after some little old lady revived me, and then fire and rescue hauled my ass out of that van, obviously, I called Radcliffe about what happened. Zoe got on the line and immediately started canvassing the area with her digital doodads. Took a while, but she was able to piece together a string of CCTV and satellite images to your location.”
Torres kept walking, taking the steps slowly, marveling at the sophistication of the organization she had joined. She was also thankful for the dedication they had to their people, something she hadn’t experienced in her last gig.
“Well, tell her thanks for me. And thanks to you, too. I owe you both.”
“Naw, it’s not like that. You would have done the same for me.”
She looked at him and smiled slightly. She wasn’t so sure she would have. Something she vowed to change.
They reached the other side of the warehouse. It was a disaster zone. Bits of concrete and paper and shards of wood were scattered about the floor. Torres shuffled over to the ancient relic. It had been clearly damaged from the gunfight, but was mostly fine. Probably deserved the beating considering the beating that had been dolled out on its granite surface two thousand years ago.
“Check this out,” Greer said, hunched over the floor.
Torres and Gapinski joined him.
“What is it? A map?”
“Basilica di Santa Croce in Gerusalemme,” she said.
They both turned to her, brows raised.
“The Basilica of the Holy Cross in Jerusalem. This ain’t over, gentlemen.”
“Sonofa—”
“Gapinski…” Greer interrupted standing up. “Not in front of the lady. Now, what do you mean this ain't over?”
She nodded back toward where she had been kept chained up. “Heard them planning their next moves from my prison at the other end. At least the name of the basilica. But I know what they’re up to.”
“Yeah? And what’s that?”
“That short, granite pillar over there was only a trial run for a bigger operation. They’re planning to steal four other Passion relics. Jesus’ crown of thorns, a nail that held him to the cross, the sign hanging above him describing him as the King of the Jews, and a piece of the cross itself.”
Gapinski sighed. “Always something. And when is this little pow-wow supposed to go down?”
“Sometime tonight into tomorrow morning, before the basilica opens for morning Mass.”
Greer started gathering the papers lying on the floor. “Let’s bring this back to the Order’s Rome headquarters and touch base with Radcliffe. He’s gonna wanna weigh in on our next moves.”
“Which probably means another ass-kicking in some old, musty church,” Gapinski complained.
Greer nodded toward Torres. “At least we’ve got one more on our side this time. She looks like she can handle herself.”
Torres smiled slightly and could feel herself blushing as she gathered the images of the relics Farhad had been looking at earlier, feeling a sense of purpose that was different from the important cultural and historical work from her previous life.
She was beginning to think that stopping Nous and protecting the memory of Christ’s sacrifice wasn’t such a bad gig.