by Declan Finn
Moira and her student rolled away from each other as Matthew continued, and the third student charged.
“He came out ‘against all movement’ ‘in certain countries’ of an anti-Christian nature, condemned aggression, oppression of minorities, economic slavery, and treaty violations, adding that he would not support the invasion of the Soviet Union.”
Moira bent in half, effectively dropping under the student’s swing, then snapped left, pivoting her torso, hitting him with a left backfist and a windmill right to the kidney.
Matthew laughed. “Could he be referring to Germany there, I wonder?”
Moira stabbed the blade of her hand into her student’s solar plexus and dropped him to the mat, breathless. “It sounds like it to me.”
“Yeah, and what’s really cool is that he had already condemned the Nazis.”
She smiled at them kindly. “Who did?”
“Pius—I mean, Pacelli. Back when he was Secretary of State, he told 250,000 pilgrims in Lourdes that ‘the Church will never come to terms with the Nazis, as long as they persist in their racial philosophy,’ and he condemned ‘superstitions of race and blood’ as ‘contrary to the Christian faith,’ and then called the Nazis ‘miserable plagiarizers who dress up old errors in new tinsel.’ When Italy started firing Jews, the Vatican hired them. They hired Jewish cartographer Professor Roberto Almagia, had him make an artistic reproduction of a Map of the Danubian States and gave that to Foreign Minister Ribbentrop on the Pope’s behalf. This guy had style.”
She chuckled, looking at all three of her fallen students. “I like him.”
“Thought you might.” He thought a moment. “I hope I didn’t interrupt too much.”
She shook her head. “Nope, just wiping the floor.” …with my students’ faces.
* * *
That night, Matthew Kovach stretched out on the bed. He didn’t want to go back to the archives, but probably should. It couldn’t hurt, of course. What would be the harm?
You have to ask? It’s you, Matt, trouble finds you, hunts you, and will probably kill you one of these days.
Someone knocked on the door. “Room service.”
He literally rolled out of bed, landing on the balls of his feet, then walked on them all the way to the door, pressing himself next to it.
Damn it, I have to stop being paranoid … though why did he say it in English? “I didn’t order anything.”
“Really? Sorry, sir.” The server went away.
Matthew relaxed. He walked away from the door, then his phone rang. He grabbed it.
“Mr. Kovach, a package has arrived for you. Do you want it sent up?”
“I’ll be down shortly.”
Matthew waited for five minutes, hoping that the serving cart would have disappeared by then.
Matthew walked to the door, checked out the peephole, and saw no one.
And even if someone waited for you, they’d be hiding, he thought to himself. They’d need to be close so you couldn’t escape, and wouldn’t come out until they heard you unlocking the door.
Matt, you’ve got to stop being paranoid.
Matthew moved the chair from the door, removed the chain, then looked out the peephole. Nothing. See, told you.
Shaddup.
He opened the door, only to have a silenced .22-caliber pistol shoved in his face.
Chapter II
Pius Troubles
30 minutes later
The head of the Vatican Office of Vigilance, the team that protected the Pope himself, Giovanni Figlia, sighed. The former soccer player leaned back in his chair, his head throbbing. Right now, he wanted to do nothing more than go home, spend some more time with his family, and then sleep. Possibly for the next four days. Maybe by then, everyone will have stopped dying, and all the people with automatic weapons would just go home.
He already had some hearing loss in one ear, and he couldn’t tell if it was from bullets or the shouting he had to endure from several prominent police officials, several of whom he used to report to. And, now that he was head of the security force for the most powerful religious leader in the world, they all didn’t seem to think much more of him.
The bullets were another matter. He had been on the SWAT teams, he had trained with the LAPD SWAT, had been to a World Cup riot, and he had never had so much gunplay before. He may have fired more bullets in one engagement that evening than in any real life exchange of gunfire over the course of his entire life.
The American smiled, enjoying himself throughout the exchange. And that practically pushed Figlia over the edge into a full migraine.
His phone rang once more, and he groaned, picking it up. “Giovanni Figlia. Pronto.”
“Hey, Gianni,” came the voice from the other end of the phone. His forensics expert, and wife, Veronica Fisher said, “We at least get to spend some time together this evening.”
He blinked, daring to smile. “How do you mean?”
“There’s been another attack on a researcher looking through Vatican archives. One of my friends in the Rome morgue called me about it, since they heard we were having such an interesting day.”
“Another dead body?” he groaned.
“Yup.”
“You don’t have to sound so cheerful about it.”
“I think you’ll enjoy this one.”
* * *
The local authorities were pissed. This was the third body at this hotel today. As a large, sleepy city, Rome usually didn’t mind a murder or two every now and then, but this was ridiculous. Another man shot, more academics involved.
Another silenced pistol, another .22 caliber, another annoying dead body.
The homicide detective sighed. “More dead bodies. This signore will be as annoying as the others we have in our freezers.”
The corpse lay in the middle of the room, a bullet neatly lodged in his right eye. In most tactical situations, such a shot was impossible. But then again, the target hadn’t moved, just stayed there like an idiot while an armed man pointed a gun at him. He had had all the time in the world to be aimed at, and he died. Simple as that.
The rest of the room was a wreck, with a destroyed chair, .22-caliber bullet holes in the walls, the ceiling, and the television, bullet casings clustered in one portion of the room, a silencer next to the gun, a clump of hair by the door, and a body on the floor.
The author stayed very still. He didn’t move, blink, breathe, and remained as still as, well, a corpse. But then, a lot of that thing called death going around lately. Really couldn’t avoid it. The mortality rate was a quite annoying 100%. A serious design flaw in the immune system.
Oh, stop writing warped prose, Matthew Kovach thought to himself, staring at the dead body of the assassin across the room.
Sure, and I’m being too paranoid, am I? What sort of annoyance are you anyway?
I’m the only author I know who can lose an argument with himself.
That depends, how many people are in Stephen King’s head? Kovach thought.
“This one also looks Russian,” the woman in the white forensics suit said from the other side of the room, looking at the body. Matthew had put a nice, neat little hole in the bugger.
Matthew hadn’t taken a close look at the forensic scientist—and couldn’t through the giant garbage bag they called a protective suit—but she seemed interesting enough.
The other fellow looked curiously tired. From what Matt knew of Rome, late night didn’t even start until the next day had already begun. This guy looked like he had been put through more than a few wringers, and had gone ten rounds with a tire iron. He was about 5’9” tall, and still had some athletic ability to him, more like an aging soccer player than a weight lifter.
The strange thing was, this man—Giovanni Figlia, if he heard right—was part of the Vatican protection detail, not local cops. While the Vatican was down the street, it made Matthew wonder if all their guests got such good treatment.
Giovanni Figlia asked how e
xactly he had survived.
“I’m…” the author began, his eyes going out of focus as he drifted off. They snapped back to Giovanni and he smiled. “Sorry, I get fuzzy at times. As I was saying, I’m a little paranoid. Room service came up with an order I didn’t place, and I sent him away. However, I was told I had a package waiting down at the lobby, and when I opened the door, the busboy waited in the hall, with a silenced automatic.” He glanced around the room. “You can ask the detectives for details, but the short version is, my wife teaches self-defense.”
Giovanni nodded, looking over the room once more. “You immediately disarmed him?”
“More or less. I didn’t want to be ventilated.”
Giovanni nodded. “Understandable.”
Giovanni turned for a few moments and chatted with the local Italian detectives. After a moment, when Figlia paused, Matthew said, “Signore…Figlia, was it?”
Giovanni turned and tried for a patient smile. “Si?”
“You said you were from the Vatican?”
Giovanni nodded. “Si, signore, we wanted to make certain that you were all right. We know you are working at the archives, and came as soon as we heard about your assault… Tell me, one last thing, what is your research on?”
“Pope Pius XII,” he answered. “I figured he was set up by a lot of people with very ulterior motives. Why do you ask?”
Figlia frowned thoughtfully, and hoped his tired appearance didn’t turn it into a grimace. “Just curious.”
The author raised a brow. Yeah, right, buddy. I know of no cop who would let the next precinct claim a murder investigation...unless you’re part of an investigation already under way, and you think I’m part of it. “Right…by the way, you should rest, sir. You look awful.”
Giovanni laughed. “I will try.” He sighed. “Thank you for your service, Signore Kovach.”
Matthew blinked, concentrating a moment. He heard something strange outside – it was faint, but his father used to be able to hear dog whistles, so he was never certain if anyone else heard what he did. “Is it just me, or is there a war going on outside?”
Giovanni sighed, “Not again…I must go.”
He was out the door in a flash. Matthew sighed. Here we go again.
Chapter III
An Impious Retreat
12 Hours Later
The next morning, Matthew Kovach walked into the archives, noting all the strange people who were digging around in his boxes of Pius XII documents. He stopped himself before he began his screaming match. He gazed over the table scattered with documents—his documents—and studied the people at the table. The one closest to him was only 4’10”—a woman wearing black jeans and a tight-fitting, long-sleeved turtleneck. Her cheekbones didn’t seem all that delicate, but weren’t exactly hard, either—they were soft for Germanic features, and fit well on her face. Her nose had an almost imperceptible turn to it—he could see where the bridge of her nose stopped only because the cartilage wasn’t parallel, although most people would need a protractor to note the angle.
She was also armed with a small SIG Sauer, P-229. The first time she opened her mouth, an American—more precisely, New York—accent came out. “This doesn’t make any sense!”
The woman across from her, who stood long and tall, with green eyes, milky white skin and raven black hair that fell in ringlets to her bra line, smiled. “What’s that in particular?” she asked in an Irish brogue. This one wore a loose white blouse and black suit pants, with a black raincoat draped over the back of her chair.
As they talked, Matthew studied the man at the table. Tall, powerfully built, broad shoulders, bald scalp, wearing a dress shirt with a loosened black tie. He wore a tan suit, the matching jacket hanging on the back of his chair. Reading glasses hung over his sharp, angular nose.
A head of silver-threaded hair floated into Matthew’s view. Wait a second. Hold on. I know him.
Matthew approached the newcomer as he wandered away from the group. “Can I help your folks with something, Father?”
A medium-sized priest paused, then turned towards him. Fr. Francis Williams smiled up at him with violet eyes. The hair didn’t match the youthful face. “It’s nice to see you still around, Matthew. What have you been up to?”
“Investigating Pius XII and being shot at, you?”
Fr. Williams cocked his head. “The same. Would you like to help our research?”
Matthew smiled as he looked over his shoulder at the unlikely trio at the table. “Sure. Better yet, they can help me.”
“Enjoy. Tell them I sent you, and introduce yourself by your pen name, it might be easier.”
Matthew nodded. “Done and done. May I ask what’s been happening around here? First my new friend Dr. Gerrity disappears, then I get shot at last night—”
The priest’s eyes flashed a moment, and he interjected, “Literally? How many were there?”
Blink. How many? Don’t you mean “why”? What exactly has been happening here? The author leaned in and whispered, “One. Can I guess that this has been happening a lot lately?”
The priest frowned thoughtfully, studying the younger man. “I don’t think I can tell you precisely what happened. But … Dr. Gerrity is dead.”
Matthew blinked twice, his mouth dropping. “He’s dead?” he said with shock. “When?”
“Yesterday morning,” Frank answered softly. “He and his assassin were killed in his hotel.”
Matthew thought back to the crime scene tape on the street the day before. Then thought about Giovanni Figlia showing up at his hotel room. “Darn. Somebody didn’t like what he found.”
“Indeed. And if someone shot at you last night, then I suggest that you might wish to keep your head down as well.”
He nodded. “Always, Father, always.” He paused, thinking about it a moment, then leaned forward and said, “What else has been going on around here? Just yesterday, I caught a man coming in here and locking the door behind him. This is my first time back here since then, but I figure if what you told me is true, then Dr. Almagia might be in trouble.” He looked at the priest’s expression and said, “What?”
“Dr. Almagia is dead. You probably saw the man who killed him.” Frank put his hand on Matthew’s shoulders. “Be grateful the man didn’t spot you, otherwise you would also no longer be here.”
Matthew gave him a smile that could only be categorized as evil. “Don’t be so certain of that, Father. Now, I have to ask something—what abject psycho on God’s green Earth would go around killing academics over a 70-year-old historical debate?”
The answer, surprisingly enough, wouldn’t be a shock when he found out.
Chapter IV
Pious Warriors
Day 3 (For those of you keeping score)
Secret Service Agent Wilhelmina “Villie” Goldberg looked at the television screen with apprehension. She didn’t look forward to Skyping with the President of the United States. She looked at her French-tipped nails, decided they didn’t matter, and then combed her fingers through her straw-colored, highlighted hair. It had originally been brunette.
She glanced over the electronics setup again, even though she had personally rigged it to go through her laptop, and its secure connection to the White House. There was no reason for her to worry; she was the electronics guru, after all. There wouldn’t have been much else for her to do in the Secret Service at her 4’11” height.
Unless the President is a dwarf, she thought. Then again, President Barry always did strike me as dopey. Maybe even grumpy.
At that thought, the President of the United States blinked on. He clearly did not look amused.
“Agent Goldberg,” POTUS began, “do you know why I sent you to Rome?”
Because you thought a Jewish agent in Rome was the start of a good joke? she thought. Because you’ve alienated so many Catholic voters, this was the only play you could think of? “To audit the Papal security, advise and comment on procedures.”
P
OTUS nodded slowly, careful and controlled. “In which case, explain how a simple assignment turned into a full-fledged war?”
Agent Goldberg cleared her throat. “I think that’s overstating it a little, sir. In fact—”
“There was a shootout at the Spanish Steps in broad daylight,” POTUS interrupted. “A gun battle at the Vatican. You destroyed an airport!”
Goldberg raised a finger, glad that she had checked her French tips after all. “We only destroyed a hangar.” And that was almost all Sean Ryan.
“I think you’re missing the point, Agent Goldberg. How did you get involved in any of this?”
Goldberg kept her tongue in check, and took a deep breath. This was going to be a very long conversation no matter what. If she still had a job after this was done, it would be a miracle of biblical proportions.
“I was working with Giovanni Figlia,” she slowly began. “He’s the head of Vatican security. When he was driving me from the airport, a body fell on the car. From there, things got complicated.”
Goldberg took a slow, easy breath. “Anyway, when the body fell on the car, Figlia wanted to go and play with the body. He took over the investigation, probably because I think he was bored.”
“Bored? Bored!”
She didn’t sigh. This President would not make her top-ten list of favorite politicians. “Yes. He’s a street cop with SWAT experience who’s been promoted into management. And he’s a soccer player – if you stop moving, you’re dead.”
“I thought that was a shark.”
“Same principle.” You know, she thought, for a guy who spends more time apologizing for America to other countries, you’d think that he’d at least know something about Europe.
“And you just went along?”
“I’m a guest here. I wasn’t going to boss around my host. I didn’t want to be an arrogant American,” she said, using one of his favorite phrases. “While he looked into the murder, I advised him about security during the investigation. We learned that the body that fell on the car had just committed another murder. He killed an academic named David Gerrity. It turns out that the academic had been looking into Pope Pius XII—”
