The Austrian Aroma (LSD, #5)

17. Stairway To Heaven

Stairway To Heaven

The church is empty, except for an elderly lady who's cleaning the floor near the entrance. With my left index finger on my lips and then pointing it at the door, I suggest she takes a free afternoon from the mopping business. My right index finger holds the trigger of my Makarov. With a troubled face, she takes her bucket and leaves the scene.

The Chef stands in front of the altar, facing the back of the church. Sunlight falls through the colourful stained glass behind the huge cross. I've seen this film before. It was a nightmare. It was about kill or be killed. This time, I'm prepared. I'm armed. I'm in control. I run this show. There are no surprises. I know what's coming. I know what to do.

"The game is over. Put your hands in the air and turn around. Slowly. Don't try anything stupid."

The Chef puts his hands in the air, but not the way I instructed. He's mumbling in Latin to the cross in front of him, lowers his hands to raise them again, this time holding a white piece of bread, and again, now with a cup of wine like he's inviting the world for a last supper, without paying any interest at all to the gun behind him.

He's speaking Latin.

Perhaps he doesn't understand English.

I speak eight languages (seven, if 'speak' is about sound only, as language number eight is the international language of the hand and the feet), but Latin isn't one of them. I try it anyway: "Morituri te salutant". That means «those about to rock salute you». No, it means «those about to die salute you». The gladiators said it to the emperor before they fought each other to the death in the arena, to entertain the crowds of Rome. I'm the one who salutes. I'm the one who's going to die. I'm the one who turned the Ace of Spades five times in a row. I'm the one who faces the man without a face, the man with the gun and the detonator.

Slowly, The Chef turns around. He's dressed as a priest. He does have a face. He looks exactly like The Pope of the Tarot. He has something in his hands. He holds his hands together, right before his chest. I don't have a visual. The cloud that hid the sun moves away and an eye-blinding ray of sunlight hits me straight in the face. All I see is a silhouette. If it's a detonator he's holding, I can't shoot it without killing him. If it's a gun, leaving me one bullet of advantage to shoot him in his arm, I have a 50% chance to shoot the right arm, which might be the left arm, because statistics tell us that the majority are right-handed, but we also know that, in general, left-handed people are more creative and therefore should they, statistically, be better candidates to lead a worldwide conspiracy of criminals. And if I spend more milliseconds thinking, I won't have even the time to plant one bullet in him. I have to decide now. All I can do is aim at his head and pull the trigger.

Or I might be wrong.

Against all odds, this might just be an innocent priest.

What proof do I have?

If I wait long enough, I'll get the answer.

If he doesn't shoot, I'll know he's innocent.

If I shoot first, I'll know he's dead.

If he shoots first, I'll know he's The Chef, and I'm dead.

And I don't have time to think.

I have to act.

I thought I was prepared, but I wasn't prepared for this.

...

Killing him is no option. I'm not a killer. Saving the world from the bad boys should be done without violence. Violence is always the problem, never the answer.