replied a secretary's voice.
"Who?"
"Father Tassone from Rome. He says it's a matter of urgent personal business."
"I've never heard of him," replied Thorn.
"He says he just needs a minute," responded the voice. "Something about a hospital."
"Probably wants a donation," mumbled one of Thorn's aides.
"Or a dedication," added the other.
"All right," Thorn sighed. "Send him in."
"I didn't know you were such a soft touch," remarked one of the aides.
"Public relations," muttered Thorn.
"Don't make a decision on Saudi Arabia yet. Okay? You're down today. Just let it sit."
"The decision is made," said Thorn with fatigue. "Either someone else goes or we postpone it."
"Postpone it until when?"
"Until later," responded Thorn. "Until I feel better about leaving."
The doors swung open, and in the massive archway stood a diminutive man. He was a priest; his robes were disheveled, his manner tense, his sense of urgency felt by all in the room. The aides exchanged an uneasy glance, uncertain whether it was safe to leave the room.
"Would it... be all right..." asked the priest, in a thick Italian accent, "... to speak with you alone?"
"It's about a hospital?" asked Thorn.
"Sir . .
After a moment, Thorn nodded, and his aides moved hesitantly from the room. When they were gone, the priest closed the doors behind them; then he turned, his expression filled with pain.
"Yes?" Thorn asked apprehensively.
"We have not much time."
"What?"
"You must listen to what I say."
The priest refused to move, remaining with his back touching the door.
"And what is that?" asked Thorn.
"You must accept Christ as your Saviour. You must accept him now."
And there passed a moment of silence, Thorn at a loss for words.
"Please, signor ..."
"Excuse me," interrupted Thorn. "Did I understand you to have a matter of urgent personal business?"
"You must take communion," the priest continued. "Drink the blood of Christ and eat his flesh, for only if He is within you can you defeat the child of the Devil."
The atmosphere in the room burned with tension. Thorn's hand reached for the intercom.
"He's killed once," whispered the priest, "and hell kill again. Hell kill until everything that's yours is his."
"If you'll just wait outside ..."
The priest had begun to approach now, his voice rising in intensity.
"Only through Christ can you fight him," he entreated. "Accept the Lord Jesus. Drink of His blood."
Thorn's hand found the intercom button and pushed.
"I've locked the door, Mr. Thorn," said the priest
Thorn stiffened, frightened now by the priest's tone.
"Yes?" asked the secretary's voice through the intercom.
"Send for a security guard," replied Thorn.
"What's that, sir?"
"I beg you, signor," pleaded the priest, "listen to what I say."
"Sir?" repeated the secretary.
"I was at the hospital, Mr. Thorn," said the priest, "the night your son was born." Thorn was jolted. Riveted in place.
"I... was a ... midwife," the priest said in a faltering voice. "I . . . witnessed ... the birth"
The secretary's voice came again, this time edged with concern.
"Mr. Thorn?" she said. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you."
"Nothing," responded Thorn. "Just. . . stand by."
He released the button, gazing fearfully back at the priest.
"I beg you ..." said Tassone, choking back tears.
"What do you want?"
"To save you, Mr. Thorn. So Christ will forgive me."
"What do you know about my son?"
"Everything."
"What do you know?" demanded Thorn.
The priest was trembling now, his voice thick with emotion.
"I saw its mother," he replied.
"You saw my wife?"
"I saw its mother!"
"You're referring to my wife?"
"Its mother, Mr. Thorn!"
Thorn's face hardened, and he gazed back evenly at the priest.
"Is this blackmail?" he asked quietly.
"No, sir."
"Then what do you want?"
"To tell you, sir."
"To tell me what?"
"Its mother, sir . . ."
"Go on, what about her?"
"Its mother, sir . .. was a jackall" A sob escaped the priest's throat. "He was born of a
"Who?"
"Father Tassone from Rome. He says it's a matter of urgent personal business."
"I've never heard of him," replied Thorn.
"He says he just needs a minute," responded the voice. "Something about a hospital."
"Probably wants a donation," mumbled one of Thorn's aides.
"Or a dedication," added the other.
"All right," Thorn sighed. "Send him in."
"I didn't know you were such a soft touch," remarked one of the aides.
"Public relations," muttered Thorn.
"Don't make a decision on Saudi Arabia yet. Okay? You're down today. Just let it sit."
"The decision is made," said Thorn with fatigue. "Either someone else goes or we postpone it."
"Postpone it until when?"
"Until later," responded Thorn. "Until I feel better about leaving."
The doors swung open, and in the massive archway stood a diminutive man. He was a priest; his robes were disheveled, his manner tense, his sense of urgency felt by all in the room. The aides exchanged an uneasy glance, uncertain whether it was safe to leave the room.
"Would it... be all right..." asked the priest, in a thick Italian accent, "... to speak with you alone?"
"It's about a hospital?" asked Thorn.
"Sir . .
After a moment, Thorn nodded, and his aides moved hesitantly from the room. When they were gone, the priest closed the doors behind them; then he turned, his expression filled with pain.
"Yes?" Thorn asked apprehensively.
"We have not much time."
"What?"
"You must listen to what I say."
The priest refused to move, remaining with his back touching the door.
"And what is that?" asked Thorn.
"You must accept Christ as your Saviour. You must accept him now."
And there passed a moment of silence, Thorn at a loss for words.
"Please, signor ..."
"Excuse me," interrupted Thorn. "Did I understand you to have a matter of urgent personal business?"
"You must take communion," the priest continued. "Drink the blood of Christ and eat his flesh, for only if He is within you can you defeat the child of the Devil."
The atmosphere in the room burned with tension. Thorn's hand reached for the intercom.
"He's killed once," whispered the priest, "and hell kill again. Hell kill until everything that's yours is his."
"If you'll just wait outside ..."
The priest had begun to approach now, his voice rising in intensity.
"Only through Christ can you fight him," he entreated. "Accept the Lord Jesus. Drink of His blood."
Thorn's hand found the intercom button and pushed.
"I've locked the door, Mr. Thorn," said the priest
Thorn stiffened, frightened now by the priest's tone.
"Yes?" asked the secretary's voice through the intercom.
"Send for a security guard," replied Thorn.
"What's that, sir?"
"I beg you, signor," pleaded the priest, "listen to what I say."
"Sir?" repeated the secretary.
"I was at the hospital, Mr. Thorn," said the priest, "the night your son was born." Thorn was jolted. Riveted in place.
"I... was a ... midwife," the priest said in a faltering voice. "I . . . witnessed ... the birth"
The secretary's voice came again, this time edged with concern.
"Mr. Thorn?" she said. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you."
"Nothing," responded Thorn. "Just. . . stand by."
He released the button, gazing fearfully back at the priest.
"I beg you ..." said Tassone, choking back tears.
"What do you want?"
"To save you, Mr. Thorn. So Christ will forgive me."
"What do you know about my son?"
"Everything."
"What do you know?" demanded Thorn.
The priest was trembling now, his voice thick with emotion.
"I saw its mother," he replied.
"You saw my wife?"
"I saw its mother!"
"You're referring to my wife?"
"Its mother, Mr. Thorn!"
Thorn's face hardened, and he gazed back evenly at the priest.
"Is this blackmail?" he asked quietly.
"No, sir."
"Then what do you want?"
"To tell you, sir."
"To tell me what?"
"Its mother, sir . . ."
"Go on, what about her?"
"Its mother, sir . .. was a jackall" A sob escaped the priest's throat. "He was born of a
Similar Books
