The Devil's Labyrinth

CHAPTER 49

FARROOQ AL-HARBI GENTLY clipped the thread and then inspected the little red pouch he had made. Perfect.

It measured eight inches long by three inches wide. He would fill it from the top and then sew it closed.

He needed to make five more just like it.

He cut the yardage of red fabric into identical pieces, sewed them into pouches, then turned to the three brilliant red cassocks hanging in the closet.

The seam allowances on the inside of the altar server cassocks were generous, fortunately. They were cheaply made, and not well finished, which worked to his advantage. He had plenty of room to sew, but the loaded pouches might bulk up a bit at the sides. Fortunately, the white cotton cotta that each of the children would wear over the cassock would cover any bulges.

Not that anyone would be watching the servers anyway, even in their gaudy high-mass garments.

No, every eye in the entire area would be fixed on only one figure.

The Pope.

His fingers moving swiftly, Al-Harbi pinned the six pouches into the side seams of the three cassocks, then carried the first of the cassocks from the table to the sewing machine. Though he’d failed in one task tonight, he would not fail again.

He felt the spirit of his mother next to him, encouraging his fumbling fingers, as they worked hard to feed the heavy material through the machine. His father used to glower when he watched his mother work at her own machine at home, but he had still watched, though more interested in the machine itself than the use to which his mother had put it. Though the clothes she made fit perfectly well, he’d always preferred the ones his father bought for him at the store.

But who — even Farrooq Al-Harbi himself — would have guessed what good use those hours spent watching his mother sew would come to?

When the six pouches were firmly stitched into the seam allowances of the cassocks, he unlocked the single closet in his tiny apartment and took out the pound of C-4 his brother had given him only yesterday. He held the explosive reverently in his hands, and then held it up as an offering to Allah.

“For the glory of God,” he whispered.

Then he returned to his sewing machine and unwrapped the brick of plastique. He marked it into thirds, and then sixths. Very slowly and with well-rehearsed movements, he began pinching off pieces of the gray compound, rolled them into balls that were slightly less than an inch in diameter, and dropped them down into the first pouch. When a sixth of the brick had disappeared into the pouch, Farrooq gently squeezed it to press the plastique into a single mass.

Next went the small blasting cap, along with the batteries to which it was wired, and the firing mechanism, all of which had been fitted together by someone with far more knowledge of such things than he himself possessed.

All he had to do was follow the instructions he’d been given.

Soon, all that was left to do was to feed the trigger wire through the seams to the cuff, where the detonation button would be sewn, easily accessible to the altar servers.

When all three cassocks had been completely wired, each with two sets of explosives, carefully wrapped in tissue paper and packed into their original boxes, he let out a great sigh.

It would be a very dramatic High Mass.

Something that Boston had never seen before.

And Catholics the world over would watch, and know the wrath of Allah.

For him, though, and for his brother, the fate of the Pope would be far more personal. All of the wrongs committed by the Church against his family would at last be avenged. He and his brother would at last be at peace.

Farrooq clicked off the light over his sewing machine and rotated his head to stretch some of the stiffness from his neck. He had worked through the night, but the project was nearly finished. He had yet to deliver the garments and demonstrate how they worked. When that was done, though, all would be left in the hands of Allah.

He opened the refrigerator, and squinted against the bright light in the gloom of the predawn apartment. The shelves were empty but for a shrink-wrapped case of bottled water. He pulled one free, twisted off the top and drained it in a single protracted gulp.

Farrooq stretched out on the floor to ease his aching muscles. The early light of dawn crept in around the closed blinds. He would rest — just for a few moments — before morning prayers. He closed his eyes and gloried in the satisfaction that he had done good work tonight.

He had done Allah’s work.

Now the rest was up to his brother, who would see the mission to completion.