He looked upward again just as Paul said, “We have many elderly people here. They dehydrate and collapse easily. So we must keep things at least moderately comfortable for them.”
Bolan nodded. Men and women lost resistance to both heat and cold as they grew older, and heatstroke or exhaustion, even hypothermia, could kill them in temperatures that younger, more able-bodied individuals barely noticed.
Paul raised the sleeve of his tunic to his mouth and coughed. Then, lowering his eyes from the ceiling to Galab’s, he said, “Did anyone see you?”
“Everyone saw us,” she replied, pointing at the gaudy green bags. “At least on the streets. But I do not believe anyone noticed our entry here.” She looked back over her shoulder at the door, then turned her eyes to Bolan for a second opinion.
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I didn’t see anyone when we came in, but that doesn’t mean someone didn’t see us. There are plenty of places up and down that alley to hide.” He turned to Paul. “Bottom line, it’s impossible to be sure.”
For the first time since Bolan and Galab had entered the building, Paul smiled. “That is the state in which we Christians constantly find ourselves. Not just here but all over Nigeria. We are never sure whether we are safe. Not since Boko Haram started its campaign of death and destruction.”
He raised his forearm to his mouth, turned his head and began coughing into his sleeve once again. But this time, instead of a single cough, a long series of choking sounds came out. When the fit finally ended, he turned back to Bolan and said, “At the very least, our Boko Haram enemies will soon know something unusual is happening in this area of town. But if we are lucky, they will not know exactly what or where.”
Fixing his attention on the Executioner, he spoke to the woman. “Tell me more about this man, Layla,” he said, changing the topic.
“As I said, his name is Matt Cooper.” She smiled up at the soldier. “At least that is the name I have been given. I do not know any more about him except that he is from the United States, he is supposed to be the best agent America has to offer and he has been sent here to help us.”
The man in the blue tunic nodded. “And you trust him?”
“Implicitly,” Galab said. “He has already proved himself in combat against the Bokos. They attacked us as we were leaving the center.” She gazed up at Bolan again, her brown eyes filled with feeling. “Without him I would be dead right now.”
Paul stared intensely at the Executioner. “Then I will trust him, too,” he said. “I will call him Matt Cooper, whether that is his real name or not.”
Bolan smiled. “And I’ll call you Paul. Although something tells me that wasn’t the name you were born with, either.”
Paul’s head moved back and forth as he returned the smile, but his expression was that of a weary man, one with too much on his mind to waste time or energy on formalities. “No,” he said. “I was born with the name Enitan. It means ‘person of the story’ in the Yoruba tongue. Paul is the name I took after Christ visited me in a dream.” He raised a fist to his mouth, coughed yet again, then said, “The dream was much like the experience the Apostle Paul had on the Damascus Road. Are you familiar with it?”
Bolan nodded, remembering the Catholic sermons of his youth. “His name was Saul up until then,” he said. “Jesus appeared to him in a waking vision rather than a dream, however. In a sudden light so bright it temporarily blinded him. Jesus asked why he was persecuting His followers.”
Paul nodded in turn, and for the first time since they had met let a real smile curl the corners of his mouth. “Exactly,” he said. “Up until my dream I had been active in Boko Haram. I had persecuted Nigerian Christians and even brother Muslims, just as the original Paul had persecuted the early Christians for the Sanhedrin.”
He stopped speaking and clenched his teeth for a moment. Pain spread across his face at the memory. “There is more to this story,” he said. “Background. But I will have to tell you the rest when we have time.” The hurt on his face seemed to disappear as quickly as it had come. “The bottom line is that Christ forgave my sins and changed my heart in that dream. And since then I have fought against the persecution meted out by Boko Haram and other Islamic terrorist groups.”
Bolan stared down at the shorter man. “That must have delighted your Boko buddies,” he said.
Paul let out a sudden laugh that sounded like gravel banging the insides of a washing machine. “At first they did not know. So I continued to pretend to be a part of them, but leaked information to the Christians.” He jerked his chin to one side, indicating that Nigerian Christians were hiding in the building, somewhere behind him. “But then my duplicity was discovered and a price was put on my head. Since that time, I have hidden here. I go out only at night, and even then I must wear a disguise.” He lifted his left arm and tapped the sleeve of his tunic. “But I will help you in any way I can. And like the original Paul, I will give my life for Christ if it comes to that.”
“It very well might,” Bolan told him.
Paul nodded again. “Then let me take you to meet some of the other Christians hiding out here,” he said. “A few are warriors and ready to assist us in our struggle. But most—as in any group of people—do not have the temperament for violence, even when it is warranted.”
“Not everyone does,” Bolan said.
Paul squinted slightly, looking as if he was taking the soldier’s measure. “But you do,” he said. “You have the capacity for violence. Wouldn’t you say you were a violent man?”
“No,” the Executioner replied. “I wouldn’t. I’m just good at it when it’s necessary.”
“I understand.” Paul looked down at the lime-green luggage Bolan and Galab had set on the floor. “Perhaps we can find some less eye-catching bags for you.”
The Executioner let out a small chuckle. “I was going to ask you to do that,” he said. “These bags have been an albatross around my neck ever since I left the airport.”
Paul turned to lead them down the hall. Overhead was more exposed wiring, plastic pipe, and long strips of insulation stapled to the ceiling. The unexplained buzzing had increased in volume threefold.
Now, the soldier recognized the sound as some sort of electric saw. It was just more of whatever construction was happening on the roof. In addition to the saw, he could still hear the sounds of electric guns spitting out nails, and other hand tools such as hammers, wrenches and pliers twisting metal.
The ancient structure’s outside belied its interior, and made a good hiding place for people who had been forced into going underground. The restoration wasn’t finished, but the place seemed livable. They passed two rooms that contained stored furniture, canned goods and other “survival” items. An armed man was stationed in each room. In the first, a dark-skinned Nigerian had a Smith & Wesson revolver stuck in his belt. The white-skinned guy in the other storage room held an Uzi in both hands.
Paul and Galab led Bolan through a confusing labyrinth of twists and turns.
“Many of these hallways lead to dead ends,” Paul told him. “We have designed it this way in order to confuse any attackers unfamiliar with the layout. Layla and I, and the people hiding here, know the place by heart.” He paused a moment and coughed several times. It was a low, grumbling, garbling sound that bespoke some serious upper respiratory problem rather than just a sore throat or allergies. When he had finished, he said, “I doubt that you will be here long enough to need to know the floor plan.”
“No, maybe not,” Bolan replied. “But it never hurts to know things like that. I’ve been memorizing these corners and turns as we’ve walked.”
The soldier found more of the same when he followed Paul and Layla around a bend to yet another doorway. The room it led to was larger,