Name of the Devil

by Andrew Mayne

  “So you went and told the Catholic Church, even though you didn’t have any evidence?”

  “I had my instincts.” I avoid using the word “faith,” but I guess that’s what it was. While I was talking to the priest downtown, Marta’s X-20 goons were parking a truck full of plastic explosive in my basement. If I hadn’t said anything and kicked up a fuss, and, I hesitate to admit, if Damian hadn’t been watching my back, I’d be dead along with a lot of other people and the plot to kill the pope would be advancing along.

  I expect him to yell. Instead, he lets out a sigh. “What am I supposed to do with you? I send you over to Ailes’s school for mutant agents, hoping he can channel that energy into something constructive. It turns out he’s made you a more resourceful pain in the ass.”

  “Sir. My goal isn’t to subvert you. I’m a cop. I’m just trying to do my job.”

  “You are also in a chain of command,” he replies.

  Breyer didn’t get his job by sitting still. We both know that sometimes when the person upstairs doesn’t get it, you have to push things. The problem is if the results don’t justify the action.

  “You told me not to leak this to the press. Those were your specific words. My understanding was this wasn’t to be made public. I got it. I didn’t do that. I didn’t go around you within the Bureau. I didn’t try to interfere in any of the diplomatic channels, whatever those are supposed to be. I told one priest.” I leave out that he’s in the most important archdiocese in the country.

  “Diplomatic channels,” he scoffs. “One priest?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please don’t bullshit me. If you have connected friends, just tell me.”

  That’s got to be a sore spot for Breyer, knowing Ailes is rumored to be golfing pals with the president and has Wall Street billionaires on his speed dial.

  “Pardon me? The man who met me in Hawkton? I wrote a full report on Mr. Oberst.”

  “Yeah, him. How’d you find yourself out there? It’s not your case.”

  “I was following a lead on a matter that appeared unrelated at the time.”

  He scoffs. “Unrelated? Never mind. Do you ever sleep?”

  “I can’t go back to my apartment. I was just following up on some information about Groom’s murder.”

  Breyer leans back in his chair and puts a hand to his brow. “Have you always been a magnet for trouble?”

  “I prefer to think I’m just good at finding it.”

  He shakes his head. “Too good. Let me tell you what’s been going on in my world. Besides this attempted bombing mess that we can’t sort out just yet, whether it was some unknown Filipino terrorist group or X-20, I’ve been getting the State Department yelling in my ear.

  “Just so you know, after you left here, I did as I promised. I made calls. An hour later I get someone calling from the Secretary of State’s office screaming, I kid you not, screaming that we’re going to ruin diplomatic relations with the spiritual leader of a billion people if we persist in a line of investigation that not only advances a rather thin notion the pope is going to be assassinated for reasons I can’t even understand, but also asks if this same man may be guilty of manslaughter on US soil.” He catches his breath and lowers his voice. “All because of your ‘instinct,’ which so far isn’t backed by much physical evidence.”

  “Well—”

  He interrupts me. “Hold on. So . . . Marta Rodriguez watches a room full of people kill her brother in a botched exorcism. Years later she becomes the head of a drug cartel and decides to start getting revenge. She begins by getting the sheriff hopped up on some strange trip where he’s seeing demons that drive him to attack others. Then the church blows up from what we can only describe as a ‘fat bomb’ that makes it look like spontaneous human whatever. She then makes another accomplice kill himself on live television using a transmitter and a hidden gun. And . . . and she’s watching these events from remotely controlled drones.”

  “There’s more to it—”

  His face is red at my interruption. “Let me finish. Her final target is the mysterious man in the room who happens to be the pope. Have I got it? Wait, she tries to kill our intrepid agent, not once, but twice. Am I missing anything?”

  It’s never easy being the only one to see a pattern and having to explain it to everyone else. The simplest reaction for them is to blame the messenger.

  My life would be so much easier if I could ignore things. I wouldn’t be all twisted up inside and feel like I was under constant attack. But it’s not a choice I’m capable of making. If I get pushed, my instincts are to push back—twice as hard.

  I’ve been bracing for this moment. “Is it too weird? Is that the problem? Ever follow the life story of the guy who shot Kennedy? How about John Wilkes Booth? Did you know his brother was the most famous actor of the day and once saved Lincoln’s son from being run over by a train? You tell me, what part of my story don’t you believe? Is the C4 that was parked in my basement just some strange coincidence? Is the fact that I’ve got a witness placing the little girl who was there that night in Hawkton at the head of X-20 not important? The pope? Maybe it wasn’t him there that night. My suspect thinks so, which makes him a target regardless if he’s on the tape. That’s all that matters right now. After that’s sorted out, we can figure out if it’s true.”

  “Then what?”

  “Same as any other cold case where we find a possible suspect.”

  “Prosecute the pope?” Breyer massages his temples. “Oh, Lord. What part about him being the pope don’t you understand? Anyhow, that’s not the pressing issue right now. I’ll let you deal with that later.

  “That person at the State Department who was screaming at me—me, the Assistant Director of the FBI, mind you—called while you were gone. Only this time it was in a much more cordial tone. It seems somebody in a very high position of power called her and asked for a favor. A favor only I have the power to grant. I have half a mind to say ‘no.’ But the other half says ‘yes,’ because of their previous attitude.”

  “What kind of favor?” His change in tone catches me off guard.

  “He’s coming here.”

  “Who?”

  “The pope. He’s planning on making a surprise visit at some youth music festival in Miami.”

  “You’re kidding?” Damn. Marta is probably all over this now.

  “No. No I’m not. It’s in less than two weeks. Now it’s our responsibility. We need to know if there’s a credible threat to him. We can’t have that happen on US soil.

  “The Vatican asked for you personally to assist with security arrangements.”

  “Me? I wouldn’t know the first thing about that.” I can feel Oberst’s machinations behind this.

  “Apparently, they have some concern as to whether or not a credible attempt could be made on his life. There’s an unanswered question that they believe you can shed some light on.”

  “I just wanted to bring the threat to your attention. I don’t actually want in on this.” My plate is too small. My anxiety levels are already at their limit. Having to personally worry about another person’s safety makes me even more queasy.

  “Too late. You stick your nose in too many places, you’re going to get stung.” He waits a moment before dismissing me. “You play by your own set of rules, Blackwood. You’re clever, I’ll give you that. But right or wrong, I don’t forget how you play things. One day you’re going to find yourself in a gray area and the people you’ve walked over on the way might not see it the same way.”

  This is a threat. Technically, Breyer isn’t in a position to reprimand me for going to the priest, maybe . . . But either way, he is letting me know when this is over, I will have to pay a price for going around him.

  56

  FOUR HOURS LATER, I’
m in the heart of the US Secret Service headquarters, three blocks away from the FBI. While some of our mission statements overlap, you can see the cultural differences. The FBI sees itself as protecting the citizens of the United States, while the Secret Service guards the president, our money, and visiting heads of state. The framed pictures of limousine caravans and Secret Service agents standing stoically in exotic locations reflect this.

  Dennis Ratner, head of the Secret Service unit assigned to the Pope’s visit, appraises me with a look that’s one part skeptical and one part leer as I’m escorted into their operation center and introduced around. Dressed in a Brioni suit, hair a little too long and stylish for the Bureau, he looks flashier than the Russian politicians and oil princes he protects.

  There’s about twenty people here. A mixture of men and women who, thankfully, seem to be a tad less fashion obsessed than Ratner.

  He addresses the room full of agents. “This is Agent Blackwood, who I assume you all know of from her many, many interesting past exploits. She’s here to keep his holiness from spontaneously exploding or being attacked by flying monkeys.”

  This is one of those situations where, if I don’t respond to his crack in kind I’ll look weak, or like I don’t have a sense of humor. Everything I do or say from now on will be judged in that context. He’s baiting me, trying to show how cool and relaxed he is as he asserts his dominance.

  “Let’s just hope the pope doesn’t borrow a government vehicle for a hook-up with a transvestite hooker,” I zing back with a smile.

  My reply gets a laugh from the room and Ratner blinks.

  I spoke to a friend in the capital police for some background before I came here. They knew someone in the Secret Service uniformed division. It never made the news, but a few months ago one of Ratner’s foreign assignees managed to cause an embarrassing situation he clearly didn’t think made it outside of the office. Guess again.

  “Let’s hope not,” he replies with a cocky grin, trying to keep control of the situation. “So, why does the Vatican think you need to help us dumb saps out?”

  “We think the pope may be a target of X-20. We suspect they’ve been targeting him for some time now. It’s rather complicated, but we think they’ve been using psychological warfare techniques to make him seem unbalanced. He’s made erratic speeches, said some unusual things implying he’s not in control of his faculties. It has the appearance of a kind of psychological manipulation. The apparent goal is to make the pope think he’s possessed.”

  “Drugs?” asks an agent named Carver. I was told he’d be handling the actual visit, while Ratner was in charge of the advance preparations.

  “We don’t know,” I reply. “They’ve been testing him to see if he might have been given something. So far all the screenings have come back negative.”

  “What do you think?” asks Ratner. I can tell he’s buying time to process what I just said.

  “In the case of Reverend Groom, the television priest who killed himself, we think we found a form of electronic intrusion where they were threatening him on air and telling him how to act and what to say. Possibly in a manner that made him think he was having some kind of supernatural experience.”

  “And that’s not the case here?” Carver is taking this in without too much observable skepticism. Thank God for small favors.

  “Apparently not. But that doesn’t rule out other forms of electronic interference.”

  “Are you saying some kind of magical mind weapon?” Ratner says mockingly. “Maybe we should get a search warrant for Hogwarts.”

  I set my briefcase down on the table. “We think it’s a little more real than that.” It’s a lot to believe. I get that. I also don’t have the time to build the whole case for them brick by brick.

  “It’s still a theory.” Ratner shrugs. “Over here we prefer to work . . . to work . . . to work with monkey balls.” He’s shocked by the words that just shot out of his mouth.

  The room is confused by the outburst.

  “Monkey balls?” Carver keeps a straight face. “I don’t remember that at the Academy.”

  “What the hell?” Ratner glances around the room, baffled by what just happened.

  I point to my briefcase. “I brought this to demonstrate. Thanks for volunteering.”

  There’s a flash of anger on his face, but he’s still confused.

  I open my briefcase and show them the disc of ultrasonic speakers Gerald cobbled together. “It’s just a demonstration device. My coworker borrowed some stuff from an intelligence agency that doesn’t want to be named. All we had time for was one phrase.”

  “Monkey balls?” Ratner shakes his head.

  “Gerald’s idea. Not mine.” I point to the iPod plugged into the device. “It listens for a speaker then synthesizes their voice and aims it back at them with a little delay. What did it feel like?”

  “Like an electric toothbrush set to kill.” Ratner inspects the device. “This would be great for getting confessions,” he admits grudgingly.

  “You mean manufacturing them,” I correct. “In any event, this is what we think we’re looking for.”

  He looks up. “Normally, as a precaution, we’d sweep the area anyway. No offense to the Swiss Guard, but we take protection protocols pretty seriously.”

  “I understand that. They do too. The important question is whether X-20 plans to use the oneLove festival as an opportunity.” I point to the machine. “I think they’re past using that gimmick now. They’re in the final stages.”

  “May I look?” asks a woman named Hamed, who’d watched the demo with a certain amount of detachment.

  “Sure.”

  She begins to inspect the speakers and make notes.

  “How would you suggest we figure out X-20’s next step?” asks Carver.

  I’d sent them my briefs about Marta. Looking at it on the page reveals how many blank spaces there are. Her methods range from the subtle to the extreme, and we still don’t understand all of them. “We need to know if they had earlier opportunities. Is the method they used to disrupt him something they could just as easily have adapted to murder him? If the answer is ‘yes,’ then it seems very likely they’ve been waiting for a more public situation to kill him in a dramatic fashion. If they haven’t had the opportunity yet, then at least we know the degree of protection he has so far has been working.”

  “We’re going to offer him the same level of protection irregardless,” replies Ratner.

  I bite my tongue at the ‘irregardless.’ “How many agents will be assigned to this?”

  “Probably forty, along with at least a hundred local police tasked to work with us,” Carver points out. “And Dennis, it’s ‘regardless,’ not ‘irregardless.’”

  This gets a laugh from the group. I get the impression Ratner is the butt of more than a few jokes here. It seems a friendly enough way to keep him in check.

  I suppress my own smile. “We just found out that X-20 is believed to be behind a recent prison break in Oaxaca. They had over two hundred armed men storm the compound. So they’re very capable of putting together an army.”

  “This isn’t Mexico,” snaps Ratner.

  “True. It’s not. But before coming over here, I looked up some statistics. Do you know how many X-20 affiliated gang members are currently on parole right now in the United States? At least eight hundred. Those are only the ones documented by gang units as X-20 related or had the X-20 tattoos on their necks visible in arrest photos.

  “If they can gather two hundred men for a minor operation, we can only imagine what they’d pull in for something like this.

  “I think this is their leader’s one single purpose. The existence of X-20 was predicated upon getting her enemies. She’s smart. She’s rich. She’s ruthless. And now she has an army.”

  The room goes quiet. Assassinations are usually carri
ed out by one or two people. I just outlined the possibility of a full-on military strike.

  They’re starting to grasp the scope of the situation. I continue. “If she could have killed him before, then we can reasonably assume she has something in mind other than brute force. This is a statement for her.”

  “How do we settle the pope question?” asks Carver.

  “We need to know how they made him act erratic.”

  “That was all in Europe?”

  “Yes. But going to Europe to investigate the locations where he went off-kilter like Groom wouldn’t be practical at this point. What we need is someone there who can be our eyes and ears . . .” My voice trails off as I get an idea. Up until now, I haven’t really been able to pursue physical evidence tying the pope into all this. “Can you get a Skype feed on that video wall?”

  Hamed brings me a laptop computer wired into their network. “What do you need?”

  “One second,” I tell her. I pull up the list of speech locations, and pick the pope’s second appearance. He was in a reception hall, but the photos I received from Oberst were too inconclusive. I couldn’t make out enough details.

  I find the number of the building he spoke at on Google. After several rings an exasperated man says, “Hola?” I speak slowly so he’ll understand my Spanish. “Excuse me, Señor. I have an unusual favor to ask. I’m calling from the United States and would like to have a look at your building. Do you have a smartphone that can stream live video?”

  The young voice responds, “If you’re as pretty as your voice then the answer is yes, Señorita.”

  57

  GUSTAVO, THE NIGHT security guard in the annex to the Palma Cathedral on the island of Majorca, was very bored when we called. It’s probably not the most exciting of jobs. He eagerly took the call from Skype on his personal phone and chatted away as he walked down the long corridor from the security office to the reception hall.