Chameleon

It was the Sisters of Mercy who interested Gillian, and so she wandered down the aisle, past the altar and to an ornately carved heavy wooden door. The door itself and the walls around depicted the story of how the Virgin Mary, or Lady of Charity, had protected the three Juans as they journeyed to the Bay of Nipe in treacherous waters to collect salt. A nun was polishing the brass work beside the door.

“May I help you, my child?” the nun asked in Irish accented English.

“I’m looking for Sister Angelica. I have an appointment. My name is Margaret Rose and I am from England,” Gillian replied.

“You have fallen far for a convent girl, Margaret Rose.”

“I am always ready to be saved, Sister,” Gillian replied as expected.

The nun used a heavy brass key to open the carved door.

“Sister Angelica is studying in her cell; it is the last door on the right.”

Gillian went inside and the door closed behind her, the brass lock clicking loudly into place and the sound reverberating around the stone walls and stone flagged floor of the dormitory section of the Basilica. The passageway was brightly lit as the expensive stained glass in the public areas had given way to heavy clear leaded glass in the sparsely decorated private areas. A marble statue of Jesus, who looked distinctly Cuban, wearing a pained expression and a crown of thorns, was the only statuary in the long hall. Gillian tried to walk quietly, but there could be no silent approached in this stone clad echo chamber.

She tapped on the end door and opened it. Sitting in a high chair, peering into a giant illustrated text, was Sister Angelica. The Sister was wearing the traditional holy habit, or tunic. Made of black serge, it had the usual two sets of sleeves, the outer sleeves being rolled back for working. Over the habit she wore a white coif which covered her neck and head. The outfit was topped off with the traditional black veil which hung around the shoulders.

Sister Angelica removed a pair of half moon glasses and smiled. Her face radiated genuine warmth.

“Sister Margaret Rose, it is good to see you again. It has been a long time.” The middle aged nun referred to Gillian by her alias. “It is almost six years since you last spent time within these hallowed walls. I can only hope that it is not as long since you entered the confessional.” With that the nun came around the elevated desk and hugged Gillian Davis, then kissed both of her cheeks in a brief blessing.

Chapter 4 2

National Shrine, El Cobre. Cuba. Six Years Ago, May 2005.

The rainy season was almost upon Cuba and the temperature had fallen to around 76 degrees Fahrenheit, whilst the humidity remained high at around eight five percent.

Sister Margaret Rose was uncomfortable in her habit. It was just too warm for the full formal dress of a Catholic nun, but rules were rules. Sister Margaret kept her eyes on the thin stream of visitors entering and exiting the shrine, offering historical asides and anecdotes as the situation demanded. A popular and young nun, she was also very pretty, and many young men had suddenly started taking church attendance seriously in the week or so since she had arrived, fresh faced, from England.

About half of the visitors were locals who crossed themselves and lit candles. The others were foreign tourists who took photos and ticked another Basilica off their bucket list.

Margaret Rose smiled at the latest arrival, whose olive skin might have suggested to a casual onlooker that he was Hispanic and, although Margaret Rose knew differently, she still addressed him in Latin American Spanish.

“Bienvenido al hermano de basilica”.

“I do not speak the language, Sister,” the handsome stranger stammered, seemingly a little embarrassed.

“In that case, welcome to the Basilica, brother,” she intoned in a more familiar English.

The man seemed more comfortable as Sister Margaret ushered him inside and began to explain the history of the shrine. She repeated the story of the three Juans who were in peril on the sea when the statue of the Virgin Mary had appeared in the water and saved them miraculously.

“It is a great story of faith,” the man responded in an accent that bore traces of North Africa, perhaps Tunisia. “I myself am a fallen Muslim, but Allah remains my God.”

“I am sure that we can all learn much from one another. We all have a share of the truth. Perhaps you would like time alone to consider your status before God. I am sure Allah will hear your heartfelt cries from a Catholic Basilica as easily as he can hear them from a Mosque.”

“Indeed, God is Great, Allahu Akbar.” The casually dressed man nodded to Sister Margaret Rose and as she parted she offered:

“If there is anything I can help you with, please let me know.”

Once she was out of hearing distance, Sister Margaret Rose raised her hand to her face and adjusted her glasses.

“Sister Angelica, he is here! He is currently in the Nave and I suspect he will be working his way to the Apse. I will position myself in the North Transept and deal with any visitors in that area.”

***

Jamal Saeed Al Munawar was on the list of the FBI’s top twenty terrorists. Born in Algeria, Jamal’s family fled to Tunisia when the French sought his father on terrorism charges. There they lived in near poverty in a camp where radical elements from Europe and the Middle East came for weapons training, and for a better understanding of their religion and the Jihad.

Jamal himself was not interested in either Islam or the Jihad, to his father’s evident distress. He spoke English with an American twang and wore Arsenal football shirts whenever he was given the chance. Jamal wanted to live the American Dream and eventually his father allowed a rich, but radical, sponsor to pay for his son’s higher education in the USA.

Jamal was a good scholar. He was personable and well liked by all of his peers. His friends were drawn from all races and religions, and he was happy. In his sophomore year he was called back home, because his father was dying. Reluctantly he left his new life, temporarily, and flew back to see his father, who was now living in Afghanistan. After a long and circuitous route home he was taken to a desert compound, where his family were caring for his ailing father.

The compound was filled with earnest young men carrying automatic weapons and guarding heavy armaments in a stone built store. The men were suspicious of Jamal, who spoke with an American accent and wore western clothes. Then, early one morning, Jamal was awoken from his uncomfortable stone bed by a huge explosion. As he exited the primitive dwelling the family called home, he saw the storage shed ablaze, the occasional shell igniting and firing into the sky. Joining the other men in dousing the flames, he did not notice the stealthy approach of foot soldiers.

In an instant, numerous black clad figures appeared form all directions, silhouetted against the burning sky, fire spitting from their gun barrels. Boys who had been fighting the fire raced for their guns but were cut down before they could raise them in anger. Realising all was lost, the Taliban recruits dropped to their knees and either cried for their mothers or prayed to Allah, dependent upon their faithfulness. One by one the rebels fell and the troops started to clear the buildings. Under the cover of darkness, Jamal managed to get back to his family, who were huddled around their father.

Jamal heard the soldiers approaching and wisely knelt down with his hands behind his head. Still wearing chinos and a Ralph Lauren Polo shirt, he looked the archetypal preppie that he was.

“Don’t shoot, I am an American!” he yelled as three young marines came in through the door. The first held up his hand to stop his men firing whilst he considered the situation. Jamal was sure he could save his mother, his teenage sister Dalal and his eight year old sister Adara.