Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,87

cute little antics? The thought caused Gabriel’s stomach to churn. What if Allah wasn’t pleased with his decision to live out his own desires and marry Ambrin? What if He wouldn’t let him into Paradise?

The taste of the fresh bread soured in Gabriel’s mouth and he gulped down the last inch of coffee, then glanced once more at the window. The brick-colored stones of the street were still silent. He carried his dishes over to the sink, where later they would be washed by someone the Khan hired to keep this place up. He dropped the margarine and cream off in the refrigerator, carefully tied up the bread in its bag with a perfect little knot. All the rooms of the huge house were absolutely silent, and the slapping of Gabriel’s bare feet across the shiny black tiles echoed loud. He pulled a cell phone out of his jean pocket and punched in the number for Manuel, holding his breath.

He’ll probably answer and say that he is just pulling up to the gate any minute. He wouldn’t be late for this, would he? Not after all the time we’ve spent.

Manuel Choque’s family lived in a one-room hut of adobe out in the mountains around Potosi His father had not been home since he was two. Somehow, while packed into a classroom of seventy kids out in the countryside, he’d been picked out as having musical talent. Manuel had been given a full scholarship to attend the Iranian-Bolivian Conservatory, founded five years back in Cochabamba. The short, swarthy seventeen-year old was now a beautiful classical violin player, as well as a devoted Muslim. When he wasn’t studying, he made a small amount of cash playing at concerts and parties. He also took occasional jobs playing at upscale restaurants, who requested musicians from the Conservatory.

Today, beginning at 12:00, Manuel was to play at a luncheon. On his way to the job, Manuel was to stop here at the house, to take care of some vital matters with Gabriel, who had prepped him for this day in several important meetings. Manuel was supposed to arrive at 9:30. As the cell phone kept ringing, Gabriel pulled the phone away from his ear to check the time.

9:42.

How could he be late, today of all days? There was so much to do.

Manuel knew what today meant. He’d said he wanted his life to mean something.

Sighing crossly, Gabriel hung up and redialed. As the ringing began again, he padded across the wide entryway into a room that lay behind a heavy wooden door. He pushed it open and strode over to a thick table, glancing for the hundredth time that morning at his creations from the past twenty-four hours of work.

In the corner of the room, boxes of explosives and electronics were scattered, like a kids’ Legos dumped out onto the tiles. The contents of Gabriel’s tool boxes were sprawled across the dusty black tile of the floor, signs that a madman/half-genius had been at work, putting together things from raw ingredients with the inspiration of an artist. But the most important item for today’s mission was laid out on a crude wooden workbench, awaiting the arrival of Manuel.

Gabriel’s violin was also resting on sapphire velvet in its case on a clean work table. He almost choked up, seeing the instrument and remembering last night, how he’d played for Ambrin and dreamed of Europe.

I’ve slept in so many strange places like this house, that are home to no one; full of generic dishes, fresh instant coffee, and beds that are always mysteriously made up with clean sheets by some unknown hand. But as long as I’m with my violin, it feels like home. Things aren’t so bad.

Gabriel pressed his lips together as the cell continued ringing, now for the fifth time. He felt a little faint as it occurred to him that Manuel was not coming.

No! How could he do this? How could he not understand how important this is? Ok, yes, it’s a little scary. But he said he was prepared! Everything depends on him!

Gabriel slammed a fist into the wooden doorframe and leaned against it, breathing heavily.

Manuel, how dare you chicken out on me!

There wasn’t much time, and he really needed to think. The only way near the targets was as the musical entertainment, sent by the Conservatory. And the Iranian-Bolivian Conservatory had lined up Manuel, per Gabriel’s instructions.

I can’t believe this! This is so important—I was so sure this is what Allah wanted! How