by Gavin Reese
Michael mentally reviewed the list and its corresponding topics: Contrition. Penance. Sacramentum exeunitium, commonly known as Last Rites. Duty to Defend Others. Intentional Homicide and its loophole to kill to save others and defend against unjust aggression. Suicide and God’s forgiveness for it. Just War doctrine. He tapped the pen several more times. These are among the foundations of our understanding that allow me to target, investigate, and kill the greatest evils that walk the earth. Once such men have proven themselves beyond voluntary rehabilitation, there is no other way for us to remove them from society and protect the dignity of their future victims. I’ll never stop seeing the irony in saving their souls by killing them, but without the crushing weight of an imminent death penalty, such men never humble themselves before God and are destined to an eternity in hell. I offer their only chance to meet God with a clear, fully absolved conscience. Their soul has no other opportunity to enter the kingdom of heaven.
Several more taps of his pen. What else will I want her to understand? Michael scanned his surroundings again as his mind mulled over the question at hand. Inspiration struck, and he added 2330 to the list. Blessed are the peacemakers. Setting the pen aside, he sipped at the cappuccino and returned to selling his appearance. Just another tourist enjoying a warm spring morning in Paris.
Michael leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms, and looked away to scan the expansive Place de la Concorde before him. He imagined what the eighteen-acre public square must have looked like in the 1790s when the French were busy guillotining King Louis XVI, Marie Antionette, and anyone else who just smelled too aristocratic. I’d love being surrounded by this much history when I don’t have to worry so much about getting caught or killed. I bet the city feels very different on vacation.
Michael sat forward in his chair and went back to work. He held the unread book up off the table and, looking over it, surveyed The Oremus and his adjacent environs. Only then did he notice a driver seated in a new, pale blue Renault Clio, a four-door sedan about the size of a Toyota Yaris.
The subject vehicle was parked across Avenue Gabriel facing away from Michael, but with an excellent view of the area and, in particular, the front entrance of The Oremus. If there weren’t three of the same cars parked on this street, and one close enough to read the name, I’d have no idea what the hell kind of car it is. Michael nonchalantly skimmed back through his novel to the places he’d made notes throughout the last hour. There. He read the license plate and time he’d recorded it. GR-919-JL, 0903. A quick glance up matched the plate to his notes. The car was in place when I landed here an hour ago. No one’s entered or left it since, so he’s been holed up in that blue tuna can this whole time. Despite his certainty that the driver was part of a stakeout, Michael didn’t know if he was the intended prey. Can’t take that chance. Complacency kills quick. Paranoia lets you live all the way to the heart attack.
In light of the potential opposition force staged outside his hotel, Michael went back to the novel and made a quick, coded shorthand list of his efforts to protect himself, something akin to a combine “to do” and “have done” list. New burner phone for contacting Sergio. Discarded the luggage and clothing from the flight. Bought all new possessions. The cellphone John gave me is in airplane mode and turned off. No possible trackers. Multiple heat runs to get here from the airport, so no tails. He looked up and glared at the back of the distant driver’s head. No one’s followed me, no one can possibly know where I am right now. John altered both of my digital passport photos, so facial recognition software can’t tie my real picture to either government image. I’m as off the grid as I can get so, effectively, I’m invisible until I mess up or let them find me again.
Having restored a measure of confidence in his current position, Michael retrieved a prepaid burner cellphone from his pants pocket and dialed 17, the Parisian equivalent of 911. I’d rather pay some smartass kid to walk up and confront the guy, but there’s never preteen brats around when you need them.
“Police,” a female voice announced on the second beep. “Quel est le lieu de votre urgence?”
“I am so sorry, parlez vous anglais?”
She audibly sighed into the phone. “Yes. What is the location of your emergency?”
“My family and I just left the Place de la Concorde, and a strange man in a light blue Renault Clio stopped and tried to talk to my daughter.”
“Is there an emergency, sir?”
“Well, yes, I think there is. My daughter’s eight, and he asked her to follow him to his car. He offered to take her to see his puppy, but I think he wanted to kidnap her.”
“Do you know where he is now, or where his car may be found?” Michael watched the Clio’s driver while he slandered the man to the Parisian police. “He drove north on Avenue Gabriel, and I got his license plate. It’s G-R-9-1-9-J-L. The car’s light blue, like I said, and I think it was pretty new.” Despite the call taker’s apathy, Michael felt certain they’d have to dispatch a few cops to look for the car, just in case the allegation was legitimate. He gave the woman a generic, fake name and contact information to a hotel across town and ended the call. Now we wait for the local patrol cops to shake the guy loose and see what happens.
Michael checked his watch and tried to estimate how long until—
The blue Clio started up, and its tires squealed for a moment while the driver hurried away from the parking space. The tiny car merged into traffic on Avenue Gabriel and accelerated toward the Arc de Triomphe.
Michael calmly looked around for anything else that could have motivated the driver’s sudden and urgent departure. Nothing. Lots of pedestrians around, but nothing else stands out. He might have a police scanner, or it could be totally unrelated. Might be nothing, might be everything. If the driver’s an undercover cop who doesn’t want to blow his cover, that might be really bad for me. The police could bring about life-in-prison kinda problems. No way John would’ve turned me over to the cops, not even if he found out everything I’m hiding from him. Right?
Michael considered all the omissions, half-truths, and blatant lies he’d offered since his recruitment to the Vatican’s clandestine organization. Each violated the group’s operational security protocols, at minimum, or defied direct orders and betrayed their absolute dedication to secrecy, at worst. If John learns my secrets and gets me alone, he’d just handle it himself. Michael grimaced at his own dark humor. On the plus side, if I ever lose John’s trust, I won’t have to worry about him turning the cops or Interpol onto me, even with a hemisphere between us. The man’s got a lifetime of secret agent contacts and cut-outs for that kind of wet work.
Michael gazed up Avenue Gabriel to The Oremus Hotel and the myriad of answers that awaited him inside. I can’t run or fight this until I know more about my opponent. If I have to risk my freedom and my life, I’d rather get on with it. Suspense is the only thing killing me from here. Michael pocketed the burner phone, stuffed the novel in one of the backpack’s external compartments, and stood. He gulped down the cappuccino, donned his dark gray backpack, and stepped from the upscale patio. As he blended into the pedestrian crowds on the adjacent sidewalk, John’s words rang through his mind. Burnin’ daylight, shithead.
May 6, 10:32am
Hotel Grimod de la Reynière. Paris, France.
Michael stood on the sidewalk at the northwest corner of the Place de la Concorde and scanned the crowds moving around him. Somewhere nearby, among the vacationing families, couples, and strolling lovers, he feared a malicious adversary watched and awaited his arrival. Known to professionals as an “opposing force” or “op-for,” Michael kept a vigilant watch for people too interested in him. Just because I don’t see threats doesn’t mean they don’t exist. John’s told us a hundred times that we aren't as skilled as secular government operatives, but I’ve never felt that shortcoming until now. I have to presume their presence until I prove otherwise.
Inspired by several young twenty-somethings to his left, he ret
rieved his personal cell phone, turned his back to the famous square, and assumed the familiar pose. Instead of documenting his narcissism, he shot a dozen quick photos of the cars and pedestrians around him. Across the sidewalk and next to the Hotel Grimod de la Reynière, a large blue street sign identified Avenue Gabriel and a semicircular blue topper above that specified the neighborhood: 8th Arrondissement. Michael moved over and stood next to the prop to complete his intel gathering and surreptitiously photograph the rest of the crowd. Now I have a better chance to spot any tails over the next few days, assuming I’m not arrested or dead by then.
Another nonchalant scan didn't expose any threats, so Michael proceeded northwest along the tree-lined Avenue Gabriel to press his momentary advantage. Despite the meandering pace dictated by the pedestrian collective, he had to enter The Oremus before any security or surveillance personnel shifted to compensate for the driver’s absence. If the banished Clio and its driver are even involved. I don’t believe in coincidence, but that doesn’t exclude it from reality.
In stark contrast to his outward appearance, Michael’s eyes stayed active behind his dark sunglasses. Just as he’d found in major American cities, the tourists wore fun, bright, and comfortable clothing, chatted with friends, and smiled. The locals wore darker attire, earbuds to isolate themselves from the ever-present crowds, and dispassionate faces that appeared incapable of happiness. New York, Boston, Paris. Change the local accent and it’s all the same behaviors.
While his target destination stood more than a half-block away, the US Embassy loomed large on Michael’s right. Someone’s always watching and photographing everything near that place, and John’s intel staff has proven access to US databases. I don’t want to find out they’ve hacked into the real-time camera feeds, too. Turning his back to the embassy building and the threat it represented, Michael waited for a yellow Citroën to drive up the slow, one-way residential street. As it passed, he casually crossed Avenue Gabriel to obfuscate his government’s surveillance efforts.
No one in the nearby crowds mimicked his path. Michael looked across the street at the massive American flag that hung from the roofline of the US Embassy. Several groups of college-aged tourists posed for selfies in its foreground, so he used the brief opportunity to memorize the grounds’ general layout and look for watchers. Rows of connected metal crowd-control stanchions stood inside the property’s outer edge with dozens of subtle, waist-high concrete pillars placed behind them that supported the embassy’s strategy and tactics to counter personnel- and vehicle-borne IEDs. The stanchions forced queueing visitors to climb over or zigzag through their entirety. Either entry method identified potential suspects and slowed their progress. Crime prevention through environmental design. Gotta keep that in mind in case I have to escape whatever’s in the hotel. Michael grimaced. There’s no way the movies have it right and I get to run away from local authorities just by stepping onto American soil like it’s some kinda ollie-ollie-oxen-free. Can’t be that easy.
Michael pressed on toward The Oremus and whatever fate awaited him there. Despite being located only one block from the famed Champs-Élysées between the Place de la Concorde and the Arc de Triomphe, Michael found himself increasingly isolated as people disappeared into businesses, rented residences, and small boutique hotels. He sped up to catch and tailgate a large tourist group.
As he drew closer to The Oremus, the street’s shaded tree canopy fell away, and Michael studied the five-story hotel and its grounds for intel. An open, grand lawn with a lush, landscaped border covered the thirty-yard space behind the sidewalk. Matching most of the historic city, the hotel had a tan granite or marble exterior. Two-toned, light gray stone lined the balconies, windows, and dormers, and dark gray slate tiles covered the steep roof. Black-and-gold iron railing adorned the balconies to protect the hotel guests from gravity and poor choices. No concealment between the sidewalk and the entrance, nothing I can hide behind that’ll stop a bullet. A scene from an old Peter Faulk movie played in his head, and he reminded himself to serpentine when the shooting started. Michael shook his head and refocused. Small rooms on the two lower floors with tiny balconies. Floors three and four have larger rooms with long, shared balconies. Top floor’s probably penthouse suites. The dormers and small balconies likely mean larger, private outdoor space on the other side of the hotel that faces the Champs-Élysées.
Despite the extensive parkour routines John had forced him and the other recruits to endure in training camp, Michael knew he’d have trouble scaling the exterior walls of The Oremus. He glanced around at the adjacent buildings, which confirmed he could put himself on any other roof along the avenue. I wonder if that was an intentional part of the hotel’s security plan?
When he reached the wide walking path to the hotel’s entrance, Michael alone turned from the sidewalk. For all my efforts to the contrary, I’m now singled out. He walked as fast as possible without drawing added attention to himself. A tall, athletic doorman stood next to the hotel’s oversized metal-and-glass French door entrance and watched Michael’s approach. Despite the late spring warmth, the man wore riding boots polished to a high shine, tight white riding pants, a black suit jacket with blood-red accents and tails that fell behind his knees, and a black pelt top hat. His face showed no emotion, even when he stepped over to open the wide, heavy door for Michael.
Striding past the doorman, Michael barely noticed the luxurious lobby as he visually searched for an op-for. Ornate black, white, and gray marble floor tiles lay beneath occasional, large Persian rugs. Open to the lower three floors, the lobby comprised a tall, open sixty-by-sixty three-dimensional rectangle in the center of the hotel. Just inside the wide entrance and to his right, a bellhop waited to retrieve luggage from arriving guests and a concierge desk sat just beyond him. Michael considered finding an out-of-the-way seat to watch the employees and guests before identifying himself to anyone, but again decided speed remained his greatest asset.
He walked straight to the registration desk across the lobby, where a clerk in a dark blue suit stood behind the desk and passively watched him. As Michael drew near, a gold Oremus-logoed nametag on the man’s left lapel identified him as “Adam.”
“Bonjour, how may I serve you today?”
Michael smiled despite his anxiety. The interaction reminded him of the desk clerk at the Hotel Sacher in Vienna, and he realized that all such employees likely spoke to guests in two languages until they knew how best to communicate with them. “Bonjour. I need to check-in for my reservation.” He dug out his Holy See passport from a concealed pocket in his travel pants.
“Name, please?”
“Andrés Bethsaida.” Michael handed over his identification. The Holy See nation-state had printed and issued the forged passport in his apostolic pseudonym, so Michael never thought of it as a fake ID. One less thing to make me nervous, never mind how I feel about everything else right now.
The man clicked at a hidden keyboard and glanced at a monitor concealed from guests. “Yes, I have it here. The notes explain that you don’t yet know how long you’ll be with us, does that remain the circumstance?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it does.”
“The room and our grateful hospitality are yours for as long as you’ll have them, sir.” A light whirring sound emanated from somewhere behind the desk, and Adam stepped away, reached down out of Michael’s sight, and retrieved two credit card-style room keys. He placed them inside a slotted brochure, wrote on the interior flap opposite the cards, and passed the closed brochure and passport over the desk to Michael. “You’re assigned room 144, which is on the floor above us, just down the hall from the elevators. Jacques, our concierge, will show you the way.” Adam gently waved his hand toward Michael’s right, and he turned to see another blued-suited man approaching them.
Michael retrieved the documents in his left hand and then moved both hands up to lightly grip the front of his backpack’s shoulder straps. By keeping his hands there, he appeared non-t
hreatening, but stayed better prepared to defend himself from a spontaneous attack. He glanced back to Adam and nodded. “Merci.” Michael stepped closer to the inbound concierge and the elevators. If things go south, I don’t want to place myself squarely between two opponents.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Bethsaida,” Jacques announced as he drew close to Michael and extended his right hand. “I am Jacques. Please allow me the privilege of showing you the way to your room.” After they shook hands, he motioned toward the bank of three elevators before stepping off in the lead. Jacques swiped a hotel room key across a small gray sensor next to the buttons and pressed UP. A light ding sounded to identify the available car at the far end of the bank. Jacques hurried over, stepped inside, and held the doors open. He waited to press 1 until Michael joined him.
Keeping his hands up on the straps, Michael leaned his backpack against the front corner opposite Jacques while the well-oiled doors closed behind him. He watched the man much closer now that they were locked in a small metal box together. Although Jacques maintained a pleasant smile, his eyes offered something darker.
The concierge cleared his throat, clasped his hands over the front of his belt buckle, and held Michael’s eye contact. “We’ve been expecting your arrival for several hours, Father Andrew. John asked me to convey his regards.”
May 6, 11:17am
The Oremus. Paris, France.
Michael kept his hands up but loosened his grip on the backpack’s shoulder straps. He took a small, reflexive step back against the corner and narrowed his eyes to focus on Jacques, the concierge who’d just identified himself as a potential threat. He knows my apostolic codename! No sooner than the time required to prepare himself to react, a light ding announced their arrival at Michael’s floor.
