by Gavin Reese
“How do you think that differs from the serial rapist in Rome, or the overdose-death-dealer in Vienna? Did you think they were just gonna roll over and submit to your every damned wish, just ‘cause you caught ‘em, tied ‘em up, and gave ‘em their one last chance to meet God on good terms? We hunt monsters, Andrew. Monsters. Even leopards can’t change their spots.”
“If you don't think people can change, then this has always been about killing, not salvation.”
John’s tone changed and became conciliatory. “You’re right, at least that I don’t believe people change. I have seen it a couple times, though.”
Michael shook his head and grimaced. “John, are we a group of priests who protect human dignity and give evil men a final opportunity to enter heaven, or are we a bunch of assassins using religious dogma and faith to justify murders and serial killings?”
John sighed through the digital connection. “Nothin’s changed from Day One at the training camp, Andrew. We’re selective gravediggers. That’s it. Some kinds-a evil deserve our full and undivided attention, and we only act to defend past and future victims. If the target allows it, we can put in a good word for him with Saint Peter, but that ain’t up to us. Never has been, never will be.
“For this particular investigation,” John continued, “you oughta revisit section 841 in the Catechism. The Muslim population has a special and integral part to play in God’s plans. You might be right, and maybe this asshole’ll refuse to come around to our way-a thinkin’. But you might wanna make sure you know Christ’s special status in his Qur’an, and about the Muslims’ inclusion in Christ’s plans.” The aging spymaster paused. “You ready to get back to the strategy and tactics of your operation, or you wanna keep up this philosophy debate until the clock runs out to stop this thing?”
Michael shook his head and recognized how his internal struggles continued to plague his operational effectiveness. “No, let’s get on with it.”
“That’s more like it, shithead. There’s a lotta unknowns on this one, and I hate that shit, same as you. I didn't wanna send nobody out on this until we corroborated the allegations, but everyone’s afraid that can’t be done in time from afar. When we got word that the French police were gonna flush the investigation without knowing how this ends, we had to step in and fill that gap.”
“I didn’t realize you knew that ahead of time.”
“Like I said, I don’t enjoy puttin’ you behind the eight-ball, either. Most of Europe’s spent the last ten-to-fifteen waiting for their hug-a-thug social programs to convince radical Islamists to come around to secular liberalism. Their world is fallin’ down around ‘em right now.
“Even though they’re one of the worst, Andrew, it ain’t just France, it’s the whole goddamned continent. Sweden just got done prosecutin’ and convictin’ a retiree for havin’ thought crimes. This sweet little old lady had the audacity to post her opinion on social media about being fed up with how Muslim refugees and immigrants get away with all manner of crimes there. Biggest mistake she made that day was thinkin’ she still lived in some form of democracy. England’s doin’ the same shit. Say anything you want about Christians and Catholics there, but nothing against Mohammed or Islam.”
Michael leaned back against the tank. “That’s a bipolar existence. Didn’t the head of the Swedish Security Service just say violent Islamic extremism is the greatest threat to their national security, and that Sweden’s likely to endure another terrorist attack?”
“Yep. Kinda hard for decent folks to live in a society that welcomes ISIS fighters back with open arms, sayin’ we gotta respect the human rights of hardened terrorists.”
Michael scoffed and shook his head. “A Russian invasion might save Sweden from itself. If my only choices are Putin or Sharia, Vladie wins every time.”
“They’re already livin’ through another hell right now with the perception of safety and security. Nothing more dangerous than that, which is why you always hafta stay intel-positive. You won’t live long if you’re givin’ away more intel than you’re takin’ in.”
Both men fell silent before John continued. “Whenever y’all got sideways in training, I punished the hell outta you because pain and misery are damned good teachers. If you fuck up out there and give away intel to the enemy, you don’t get another chance to do it right, and you don’t get to learn from it. You get dead, Andrew, D-R-T. You don’t getta learn from the mistake, you just get Dead Right There. The cops and coroners hafta try to make sense of it and your folks get a midnight phone call, maybe a visit from the local cops or feds, wantin' to know what the hell you were doin’ in a foreign nation that got you killed. They’ll figure out quick that Customs ain’t got no record of your entry, so there’s gonna be a shitload of questions for anyone that knew you. Your monsignor out there in Santa Fe, what’s his name, Hernandez?”
“Yeah.”
“How much does he know, even if it’s just a hunch or suspicion? How well do you think he’d hold up to being interrogated by a couple pissed off feds in a small room that wanna leverage him into givin’ them every little detail of your life and whatever he thinks you mighta been doin’ that got you dead? Would he hold up long enough to protect all of us, or would your little op-sec fuck-up destroy the whole organization and everything we’re tryin’ to do here?”
Michael swallowed hard. No matter how small the mistakes, their sum matters over time. “I remember the lessons, and I didn't stay diligent about it.”
“Well, then square yourself and get with the program. Every choice endangers or protects more lives than just yours. This assignment’s no damned cakewalk. You’re one-a my best, and you’ll hafta be at your best to survive this thing with no more holes than you started with. If he is what we fear, the man you’re investigating will kill you without a second thought, especially once he understands you wanna keep him from fulfillin’ whatever he thinks God’s tellin’ him to do. Accept that, and act accordingly. Startin’ right now."
The call disconnected. Michael rose and slipped the phone into his pants pocket. He shut off the faucets, stepped back into the hotel room’s living area, and covertly scanned the room. John’s right. I have to assume that someone’s always watching. Just like he told me in training, it's only a matter of time until the suits upstairs wanna bring in new gravediggers with shorter memories of where all the bodies are buried.
May 7, 03:02am
The Oremus Hotel. Paris, France.
Michael hurried to escape the attic of a three-story rowhouse, well aware he had only seconds to avoid detection. I can’t risk being identified, and he’d have every right to fight me, thinking I was a common burglar! His heavy, careless steps thumped against aging wood stairs as Michael fled toward the ground floor. Keys rattled in the front deadbolt somewhere below him and echoed up the stairwell, compelling Michael to move even faster. As he reached the bottom floor, the figure of his short and dumpy target, Basil Wimberly, appeared through the opaque glass front door. Wimberly banged hard on the door and the glass shook as Michael ran out the back.
“I know you’re in there, Andrew!” The man’s meek English voice now boomed through the house.
Michael flung open the back door and sprinted outside into the man’s back garden. After only a few steps, cold rain fell hard on Michael’s face as he hurried across the one-way street next to the Royal Opera House in Vienna. He had to get back upstairs before anyone else discovered the body. He pulled open a metal door, stepped into the commercial office building, and recognized Pietro Isadore’s apartment building in Rome. Still desperate to avoid discovery, he ran through the hallway, up a flight of creaky wooden stairs, and through an unfamiliar doorway. I have to escape, I can’t be found!
Michael tossed the door open and ran inside without regard to what awaited him. His shoes splashed through shallow puddles in a familiar, terrifying back alley in Bogotá. He slowed and tried to focus on the surroundings. I can’t bring anything into focus. Fuzzy images of th
e lean-to’s, shanties, and dark, ominous shadows shifted as he walked. Everything around him watched and followed his every step. Michael’s fear escalated and his accelerating heartbeat thumped in his neck and temples. He’s right here somewhere, just out of sight, deep in the shadows--
“Alto,” a malicious voice called out from the shadows to his right. “This time, I’ve got you, serial killer!” Sharp pain from an unseen blade plunging deep into his liver--
Michael awoke and abruptly sat up to defend himself. Finding the assassin’s pistol on the nightstand just as he'd left it, he grabbed up the gun in both hands and swept it over the surrounding darkness. Michael recognized his hotel room, which subsided his irrational anxiety. With the pistol still in his right hand, he breathed a sigh of relief and flopped back onto the mattress. Sweat had soaked through his pillows and t-shirt, so Michael tossed back the comforter. Goddamned anxiety dreams. These new ones make me miss the classic Universal Cop Dream where my gun won’t fire back, or I can’t punch the guy that’s beating the shit of me. I’d gladly take those back, at least they didn’t make me feel like I’d mucked up my life so badly that I’ll end up in hell. Mucked. He mocked himself. Gonna kick that swearing habit one fuck at a time, I guess.
Casting aside the damp pillow, Michael crawled to the other side of the king mattress and pulled a fresh pillow under his head. He laid on his back with his right arm cast over his sweaty forehead and considered what lay before him. John’s set me up for failure, whether it’s intentional or not. My target lives in an unknown apartment in an ethnic neighborhood known to be suspicious and violent toward outsiders. We don't have any confirmed sins or crimes that warrant direct action. If I find irrefutable evidence he poses such a risk to the public and his own soul, then I’ll have the equally impossible task of convincing a radical Islamist to place his salvation in the hands of Catholic orthodoxy. Even if I succeed at everything else, I expect to fail at reuniting his soul with God, and I’ll answer for it one day.
Feeling the weight of the pistol still in his right hand, Michael reached over and replaced it on the nightstand. He laid back in the darkness and tried to quiet his mind, but a nagging reality only grew louder. If all this proves true, I might become a serial killer today. Won't mom and dad be proud to know that little tidbit?
He cleared his mind, sat up, and clicked on a bedside lamp. Still a few hours until I have to be in Seine-Saint-Denis at sunup. No reason to lay here and stew though, I've gotta go fight evil today. Michael retrieved his personal, burner phone from the nightstand and considered calling Sergio. The nightstand’s digital clock read 3:14. No idea where he is, or what he’s doing right now. Better not risk waking him up on an op, I don’t need an ear that badly.
Instead, he opened his personal email app and saw he had another note from Doctor Merci Renard, his friend from Columbia. I think she’d understand my life and purpose even less than my parents. Uncertain when he might read it later, Michael sat on the edge of his bed, opened the email, and read her words.
“Dearest Father Michael--I’ve found myself thinking of you over the past day, even more so than usual. Although initially concerned that you might be in danger, I’ve comforted myself with the understanding that wherever you are, you've landed exactly where God needs you to do whatever he requires in the service of His children. I know your righteousness and absolute morality will see you through whatever obstacles now stand in your way. I continue to pray for you and for those you seek to help.
It’s already late here, and I’ve another early day of research ahead of me. Love & Light, Merci”
The doctor’s ruminations calmed Michael’s nerves and steeled his resolve. Even priests can stand spiritual reinforcement every now and again. Maybe Merci would understand this, and I haven't given her enough credit. She expects me to do what’s right and just, regardless of the opinions and perceptions around me. The realization reminded Michael of an article he’d read from an Episcopal minister who became a Catholic priest despite being married and sexually active with his wife. He proclaimed that she made him a better priest when the phone rang at 3am and he considered sleeping through it. Women often make us better men.
Michael considered responding, but only for a moment. I can’t be distracted with more emails from her, not until this is over. Even then, I’m just not prepared to let the truth of my life destroy our friendship.
Turning his focus back to the task at hand, Michael rose from the bed and dressed for the day. He donned dark gray slacks, a black dress shirt, and a black driver’s cap to blend in with the general Parisian population. I can’t pretend to live in the Muslim neighborhoods, but I can try not to look like a foreigner. I’ll be safer if they think I’m a French cop. The possibility of backup and a weapon should give even the worst men pause.
He reviewed overhead maps of the target, the surrounding neighborhood, and the limited escapes and safe havens in the area. Critical failures are always the result of multiple errors. One bad decision will never get you killed or hurt. My neck’s going to be out far enough that I can’t afford any more consecutive mistakes. One, maybe, two, probably not. Three? That’ll get me D-R-T wherever I am.
Michael packed a matte gray messenger bag with the day’s essentials: combat first aid kit, protein bars and two bottles of water, a portable charger for his cell phones, binoculars he’d brought with him from London, and a notepad and pen. It’d be nice to have an Audubon Society bird guide, but anyone willing to rummage through my bag wouldn’t believe it, anyway. He pulled the top flap closed and snapped it in place over his gear.
Michael set the bag aside, spread his cleaning equipment and Q-Tips on the desk, and then unloaded and disassembled the Ruger pistol. Although his normal cleaning efforts aligned with “good enough,” he meticulously cleaned and oiled every contact surface inside the weapon. First time I’ve felt my life really depends on this. ‘Luck’ is for the suckers unwilling to prepare for predictable problems. The notion reminded him of an Army Ranger expression relayed to him by a former college buddy. Prior planning prevents piss-poor performance.
While removing miniscule grit from the pistol’s inner workings, Michael considered his purpose. Islamic radicals continue to hold that religion hostage and ruin the fate and lives of everyone within blast range or rifle shot of their insanity. I have this one chance to stop a potential villain who threatens to further plunge humanity into division, fear, hatred, and bloodshed. He wiped a cotton patch over the weapon’s interior surfaces to collect excess lubricant. All that’s required is the risk of my mortal life and the eternity of another. The death or failure of either of us will have implications far beyond ourselves.
After reassembling the pistol and returning the cleaning kit to its small plastic container, Michael composed a list of equipment, data, and analysis he needed. I can leave the gear list in the safe for Jacques and send John an encrypted message for the intel. Give his desk-nerds something to do today.
That task complete, Michael stood, slid two extra pistol magazines into his left pants pocket, and secured a leather holster in the right side of his front waistline. The suppressed, nearly silent .22-caliber pistol slipped inside and disappeared under his untucked shirt. May all my problems be so small. He slung the messenger bag across his chest, tightened its strap so he could run with it, and stepped over to the closet. He opened the small safe, secured the intel packet there, and placed the folded handwritten note on top of it. Michael turned the note so Jacques was visible without removing the paper. After locking the safe, he turned off the room’s interior lights which confirmed no predawn sunlight poked in around the room’s blackout curtains. Michael checked his watch. 4:51. The Metro will start running soon, and I still need time for an effective surveillance detection route to get on the first train.
Michael inhaled a reassuring breath through his nose and kneeled next to the bed. He hated thinking of his daily prayer as “chores,” but he still rushed through the recitation. At 4:59am, Michael
stepped into the bright, quiet hallway. Finding it abandoned, he secured his hotel room door and strode toward the farthest exit. Each step better suppressed his doubts and renewed his sense of righteous purpose. He focused on the mission for that day and ignored the cumulative significance of the past few months. If it’s meant to be, at least one avenue of this investigation will pay off and make the others moot. With the right gear and intel, I can hedge my bets in a day or two. I wonder what the over-under is on this operation’s success...
May 7, 06:12am
Place de Clichy Metro Station. Paris, France.
Michael rose from a blue plastic-and-vinyl bench seat and nonchalantly confirmed the suppressed pistol remained well-concealed beneath his untucked dress shirt. The messenger bag slung across his chest and over his left shoulder carried the tranquilizer gun and extra darts. As long as he retained control of the bag, those items didn’t require the attention the lethal weapon demanded.
He scanned the few dozen early morning passengers scattered around the subway car with him. No anomalies. The westbound #2 train had sat open at the Place de Clichy station for five seconds, and the car’s automated double-doors would soon close. Michael strode toward the platform, folded a Spanish language newspaper he’d found at a news kiosk several stops back, and timed his exit. Five, four, three...
Michael stepped out onto the concrete platform as he reached one.
bzzzzzz
On cue, a warning alarm sounded, and the doors slammed shut behind him. Michael stayed in place and scanned the remaining passengers once more as the train accelerated away. No one’s trying to force the doors open, and nobody gives a damn that I left.
