God's Dog Read Free Page A

drowned out by the millions without any hope. That is how we shall hold sway over them. The strategy of the tenth parallel no longer makes any sense. It is useless to persist in defending a frontier between Christianity and Islam. That is no longer the line to be held. What we should be doing is getting out of the trenches, start fighting in the open. In Africa, our worst enemies are not the Muslims, but the Pentecostalists. So the way forward in reconquering the West is to import fresh masses of dispossessed humanity, Christian or otherwise, even the Polynesians with their pig god Kamapua’a. All that matters is that they be believers. Kamapua’a or Christ, for us it is immaterial, so long as there is faith.
    While he was writing, a postcard had slipped out of the exercise-book; an old postcard, of the kind now found only on junk-stalls. Slightly faded, with wavy edges and a blue postmark. Salazar found himself peering at the little town of Veere, in Zeeland, at the little harbour, in whose still waters the imposing outline of the Grote Kerk was reflected. It looked like an overturned ship, covered with seaweed and shells. He lifted the postcard to his lips, reread the few words with a smile and slipped it back between the blank pages.
    At that same moment, in a garage in Malagrotta, a man and a woman were getting out of a white van.
    â€˜From tomorrow onwards I’ll be at Monte Spaccato. You’ll have to deal with the explosives on your own,’ said the woman, opening the van door.
    â€˜We and the others will see to that. We’ve already made arrangements with Mirko. On Tuesday we’re seeing the Russians. We’ll be making two trips. They want to give us the components in two installments; for reasons of security, they say. They’re cautious people, but that’s no bad thing. Clearly, they know what they’re doing. The service area just before Civitavecchia, as usual. We’ll put everything together here in the basement. When will you have finished at San Filippo Neri?’ the man asked. He had turned off the engine. The light from the dashboard lit up his bearded face.
    â€˜It depends on how things go. Usually I need three or four days. I’ll be doing the next one too, at the Gemelli. Then we’ll have to stop and lie low for a bit. Until things calm down.’
    â€˜So, if all goes well, for quite some time!’ said the man with a nervous grin, locking the door of the van.
    â€˜If all goes well…’ the woman murmured into the darkness.
    Neither the black jacket, worn over a collarless grey shirt, nor the silver crucifix, sported in the buttonhole, could fool the sister on the palliative care ward. Despite his dress, she knew immediately that he was not one of those pilgrim priests who did good works for the Church in order to pay for their stay in Rome. But she proceeded as though she suspected nothing, checking the registration number he gave her on the computer. Then she nodded, and opened the door to the office. Dawn was just breaking. The neon lights in the corridors of San Filippo Neri were beginning to go out.
    â€˜Sister, how many patients have you got on this ward?’
    â€˜Twenty-seven. All stable. Nine unconscious.’
    â€˜Atheists?’
    â€˜Four. All open and above board. All paying the official atheism tax.’
    â€˜And the others?’
    â€˜Twenty Catholics. Three Muslims.’
    â€˜Do they receive visits from an imam?’
    â€˜Every Friday.’
    â€˜What time do you celebrate lauds for the Catholics?’
    â€˜At seven every morning.’
    â€˜Do their relatives attend regularly?’
    â€˜All except for three. But the chaplain is authorised to act as proxy; and they pay the fine.’
    â€˜Are their ecclesial documents up-to-date?’
    â€˜We check them every time they come. All relatives have attended the requisite number of masses. But there have been lapses in the past, and they have