Paul and Joseph met David and Michael on the street outside the hotel. While Joseph went to look for a black and yellow taxi, because there were only yellow taxis in front of the hotel, Paul explained to David and Michael how the press conference had gone. Soon a taxi with Joseph directing it came around the corner and stopped to pick them up. Once again, Paul was grateful that Joseph was there to take care of details like negotiating with taxi drivers. They headed toward the bay.

Paul relaxed for a moment in the taxi, as they moved through the traffic in the congested downtown area and then into a more residential section of the vast city. The homes here were large and clearly visible behind their high security walls. Some of the walls had razor wire on top to prevent anyone from climbing over, and guards were positioned at the gates of most of the homes. After a couple of turns the taxi pulled up to what might be described as a medium-sized home in this neighborhood and honked. A security guard opened the small door next to the gate and came over to the taxi.

"Is Bishop Rawlings expecting us?" Paul said to the guard. "I called earlier, but I was only able to talk with his secretary."

The guard went back inside the wall and then returned in a few moments, waving them in. The gate soon swung open and the taxi drove inside. They would have a hard time finding another taxi in this neighborhood, where everyone had their own car, so Joseph had arranged with the driver to wait for them.

Driving through the gate, Paul was struck again by the lifestyle of foreigners in Pakistan. Pakistani Rupees had been declining in value for years, so having foreign currency made living in Pakistan very inexpensive. Bishop Rawlings was retired, but he still received a missionary stipend from England. Although the stipend was not large by English standards, it was obviously enough to provide him with more than the essentials.

The four of them got out of the taxi and followed the guard to the door, where the secretary of Bishop Rawlings was waiting for them. She was a slight woman in her fifties, with blond hair turning grey in streaks and a sharp, slender nose. She reminded Paul of a librarian he had known in Birmingham.

"Good afternoon, Fr. Paul. We've been expecting you." Her voice was cordial but politically correct. They were expecting him all right, but they weren't happy to see him. When he'd called to make the appointment, he'd overheard the Bishop in the background saying something about "that damned fool." Clearly, he was in for a chewing out by the old man.

She led them through a hall covered with thick carpets. They're probably from Archibald's bonded labor factories, Paul thought. He wondered if Bishop Rawlings was at all aware of the desperate reality of life in Pakistan for 90% of the Christians. At the end of the hall the secretary opened a door, and they entered a study. Bishop Rawlings was sitting behind a large, oak desk, writing with a pen he had taken from the brass holder in front of him. He continued to write as they approached him. "Fr. Paul to see you, sir," his secretary said, directing them to sit in the chairs set evenly in front of the great desk.

As Paul sat, he noticed that the desk was resting on a base that raised it slightly. Probably the Bishop's chair was also raised. The Bishop was a tall man, so this might be for his comfort. But more likely it gave him the appearance of looking down at his guests. Bishop Gregory would have sat with them in another chair around a low table, but Bishop Rawlings stayed firmly entrenched behind his oak barricade.

Bishop Rawlings shoved his pen into the holder on his desk and looked up at them. Even in his old age he had a thick head of hair, which was carefully combed. His face was fleshy and his jowls hung at the sides of his mouth, reminding Paul of a bulldog. As Bishop Rawlings took off his glasses, Paul saw that his eyes seemed to be a lighter blue than he'd remembered. Perhaps the Bishop was getting cataracts.

"Good afternoon, Paul. I see you're travelling with bodyguards these days."

Paul ignored the sarcasm in the bishop's voice. "Thank you for seeing us, sir. This is Joseph John, Michael Thomas, and David Lazar," he said, looking at each one as he introduced them to the Bishop. "Samuel has assigned them to assist me."

"Ah, Samuel! That old dreamer! Did he put you up to this nonsense?"

Again, Paul side-stepped the attack. "Bishop Rawlings, I'm glad to have an opportunity to talk with you about the strategy we're pursuing against the blasphemy law."

"I know all about your so-called strategy, Paul. It's foolish and dangerous. The risks to the Christian community far outweigh the potential gains."

"We've just come from a press conference, sir, which announced the petition and our intention of sponsoring public discussion on the rights of religious minorities. Certainly there are risks, but we've tried to minimize them."

"You don't have any control of the situation, Paul! That's what you don't seem to understand. The Muslim extremists have all the cards. In any of our major cities, they can stir up a mob in less than half an hour. The police won't intervene until it's too late. How can you even talk of minimizing the risks?"

Paul had to admit there was a lot of truth in what the Bishop was saying, but he felt Bishop Rawlings was overstating the risks. Paul watched as the blood rose in the old man's face and his cheeks became flushed.

Bishop Rawlings was leaning forward now in his chair. "It's too late to withdraw the petition, because of the press conference. But you don't need to go ahead with your plan to hold public meetings. These will simply draw the wrath of the extremists and endanger the Christian communities."

"But public discussion is necessary to show that Muslims as well as Christians support the lawsuit against the blasphemy law and the rights of religious minorities in general. It's vital that we hold these public meetings in Karachi, Lahore and Islamabad, and in other cities as well, if we can."

Bishop Rawlings slammed his fist down on his desk so hard that his pen dropped out of its holder.

"The Muslims will only help us so long as it serves their interests. They'll abandon us, once the extremists threaten them. I know these people. I've done business with them for decades. You can't depend on them, Paul."

"I know they'll act in their best interests, sir." It was condescending of the Bishop to think Paul wasn't also experienced in working with the Muslims in Pakistan. After all, he had grown up in this country. These were his people. "But the public seminars are in their best interests as well as ours. Moderate Muslim want to resist extremism, but they can't do it directly. By joining in these public seminars, however, they can offer an alternative. We already have commitments from half a dozen key leaders of the religious parties. Once they make their public statements, that will provide cover for other Muslims and help the religious minorities as well."

"Have you talked with Bishop Gregory about this?" Bishop Rawlings asked sharply.

"Yes. I met with him a few days ago. He was supportive."

"He's got to prove his strength, Paul, as Bishop. I don't have to do that now. I would have given you better advice. You should have come to me before you made your decision."

Paul admitted to himself that it was a tactical mistake to avoid seeing Bishop Rawlings until after the press conference. He could express remorse, at least for that.

"I'm sorry, sir. You're right. I should have talked with you before agreeing to file the petition."

"You would have ignored my advice and gone ahead anyway," the Bishop responded angrily, and Paul knew it was true. Once Bishop Rawlings would have had enough clout with the elders to keep them from supporting the petition, but that time had passed.

The Bishop sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Who have you lined up to participate in the Karachi public meeting?" he asked.

Paul reached in his pocket and took out a list. "These leaders have said they would speak." He handed the list to Bishop Rawlings and waited, while the Bishop put on his glasses and looked down the list. Paul noticed the bookshelves behind the Bishop, which contained several statues and plaques. Gifts and awards of one sort of another, he thought. He could see the Rotary symbol on one of the plaques. It reminded him that Bishop Rawlings had long been the Bishop of the foreign community in Pakistan. He dined and golfed with them, squeezed contributions out of them for the churches and schools, married their children and buried their dead. Bishop Rawlings wasn't just concerned about the Pakistani Christians, but about the foreign Christians as well. Perhaps they were his primary concern.

As Bishop Rawlings took his pen and wrote something on the paper Paul had given him, Paul glanced at the books lining the wall behind the Bishop on either side. On the right side the books were about theology and the Bible. On the left side the books seemed to include histories, novels and travel books. The Bishop had been all over South Asia. He's an experienced man, Paul thought, but he doesn't know the colonies in Karachi like I do. When he travels, he stays in places like the Sherman Hotel.

Paul leaned forward to take the list that Bishop Rawlings was now handing back to him. "I've added a few names of men who might help you," the old man growled. "You'll need all the support you can muster."

"Thank you, sir. When I contact them, may I say that you've given your support?"

"I'm not supporting you, Paul! I'm just trying to protect you and our people. You can tell them that I gave you their names, but let them know honestly that I oppose this strategy. I want them to help you do what you're going to do in a way that will cause as little damage to our churches as possible. They may be able to give you some advice about that."

"Yes sir." Paul knew the interview was almost over. They had done better than he'd expected.

"One last thing, Paul. Watch Javed carefully. He has powerful friends, but he also has some very dangerous enemies. He may hurt you as much as he helps you. Moreover, he doesn't have any clout with the Muslim clerics. If they get stirred up against you, there won't be any safe place to hide in Pakistan."

On that encouraging note, Paul thought, it was time to leave. "Thank you, sir, for your advice and for these contacts. I very much appreciate your help."

"No need to flatter me, Paul. I know you think I'm just an old colonial missionary who doesn't understand what's happening in Pakistan today. Of course, I'm not up to date on a lot of things, but I know how this country works. And I know how evil men can be. Be careful, Paul. Remember the passion story."

Bishop Rawlings was standing now and Paul and his bodyguards also stood. They walked to the door, leaving the Bishop alone behind his desk. Then Bishop Rawlings' secretary led them down the hall toward the front door. A bronze statute of a large bulldog faced them as they passed the stairway to the second floor. Funny, he hadn't noticed it on the way in. The face of the Bishop bore quite a resemblance to the statue of the dog, he thought grimly. He thanked the secretary of Bishop Rawlings, who closed the door behind them. Walking to the taxi Paul realized that they hadn't been offered any tea, as they would have been if they were guests in any poor home in the ghettos of Karachi.