The Trinity Game

by Sean Chercover

  And rage for himself. Because, underneath it all, in the silent stillness of his innermost self, this thought was always waiting for him: I killed my parents.

  At the seminary, Daniel had worked on it with church therapists, and in time he came to accept his personal history with not much more emotional baggage than most people carry through life. And he had learned to be honest with himself, most of the time, which he figured was about as much as anyone can ask for.

  He shuffled his feet, switched to southpaw, right jabs and left hooks.

  If it was meant to be… Would he end up with Julia after all? While Trinity was still sleeping, Daniel had only managed five hours, jolted awake by the realization that today he would go to the prearranged meeting place.

  Today he would see her again.

  And then what?

  No use getting ahead of himself. He had more practical matters to focus on. Like keeping his uncle alive.

  Trinity had vowed to resume preaching in public and to share the tongues whenever they came upon him. He’d also vowed to share what he’d learned about what he was calling God’s Only Commandment.

  Daniel told him it was suicide and suggested that Trinity send his messages to the world on television, from a secure location. “You don’t deliver a sermon on love from the safety of a bunker,” Trinity had insisted, “you do it out in the open, embracing the world.” He would not be dissuaded.

  Worse, he planned to announce the time and place of his next sermon in advance, during an interview with Julia on CNN. Daniel was happy to be able to make good on his promise of an exclusive to Julia, but the announcement was not going to make the task of keeping his uncle alive any easier.

  Keeping Trinity alive…But how, when they didn’t even know the source of the threat? Samson Turner had worked for a large, high-end security company. That told them nothing about who was behind the attacks. It could be any well-heeled entity with a vested interest in maintaining the status quo.

  And what about the Vatican? What would be their next move? Father Nick would never sanction murder, but was it beyond Conrad Winter? Was there any line Conrad wouldn’t cross for the greater good as he saw it? Hard to say.

  Daniel unleashed a flurry on the heavy bag as Father Henri walked into the gym.

  “You’re still dropping your left,” said Father Henri, as if Daniel had only been gone a week. “How many times I gotta tell ya?”

  Daniel grabbed the big leather bag, bringing it to rest. “Never woulda won the Golden Gloves without you,” he said.

  “You got that right,” said Father Henri.

  This meeting with Julia wasn’t a date, but you couldn’t tell that by the butterflies in Daniel’s stomach. Pat had arrived in New Orleans and was looking after Trinity at the athletic club, and Father Henri had been getting ready to serve them leftover red beans and rice as Daniel headed out to the French Quarter, freshly showered and shaved, dressed in clean clothes, chewing on minty gum.

  Daniel entered the Quarter off Rampart, walking down Conti and then turning left onto Bourbon Street. The crowds on Bourbon would help him get lost if he were being tailed. He crossed the street every block or so, checking behind, but didn’t spot a tail.

  Walking down Bourbon, heading for this non-date with Julia, felt like walking backwards through time…

  Their first real date did not begin well. In those days, Daniel’s relationship to time was somewhat loose, and he was usually ten or fifteen minutes late for anything. When he arrived at the bar where they’d arranged to meet, he spotted Julia at a table in back, scowling into a book. As he approached, she took a long look at her watch and said, “An hour and fifteen minutes, Daniel. You better have a hell of an excuse.”

  She’d misremembered their agreed meeting time and had been sitting in the bar for an hour and a half. He protested, she checked her planner, and they’d finally laughed about it. The date was salvaged.

  It became a private joke between them. Whenever Daniel arrived slightly late, and he usually did, Julia would glare at her watch, add an hour to his lateness, and say, “An hour and eight minutes, Daniel. Your usual punctual self.”

  So when Daniel told Julia to meet him at the location of their first date at three o’clock and said he’d be his usual punctual self, they both knew he meant four o’clock at The Abbey bar. Unlikely that the FBI had tapped his cell phone so quickly, but better to be safe, so he’d used the code only she would understand.

  He turned right on Governor Nicholls, circled the block to be absolutely sure he wasn’t being tailed, and then headed on down to Decatur.

  He ducked inside the darkened bar. Dusty old stained glass windows lined one wall, and the little Christmas tree lights on the ceiling fought to cut through the cigarette smoke.

  Julia was sitting at a table near the back wall—the same table where she’d been sitting on their first date—and as Daniel approached, she looked at her watch. And frowned.

  “You’re on time,” she said. “I don’t get to say my line.”

  “I’ve changed,” he said.

  She stood and hugged him hard, whispered in his ear, “I’ve been so worried about you.” She kissed his cheek and they sat. There were two drinks on the table. “Ordered Sazeracs,” she said, “for old times.”

  “Here’s looking up your old address,” said Daniel. They clinked their glasses together and drank.

  He told her about the journey from Atlanta to New Orleans. He didn’t go into detail about what happened at Pat’s place, simply said that there’d been another attempt on Trinity’s life, and they’d gotten away unscathed. And he told her about their astonishing meeting with Angelica Ory, the voodoo ritual, and Trinity’s epiphany of God’s only commandment at the ruins of his soup kitchen in the Lower Nine.

  Julia smiled. “That’s what secular humanists have been saying for ages, minus the God part.”

  Daniel smiled back at her. “Well, you can ask Tim all about it. On camera.”

  Her eyes went wide and she let out a small gasp. “Really? When?”

  Daniel knew how important this story was to her, felt a thrill at being able to deliver it. “He wants to sit down with you for an interview, as soon as you can arrange it.”

  “Oh my God.” Her face flushed and she looked a bit embarrassed, perhaps at having revealed such naked ambition, such elation at the prospect of bagging her prey. She put her hand on his. “Thank you.”

  Daniel’s excitement turned decidedly sexual, and he didn’t know exactly what to do with it. This is not a date, he reminded himself, crossing his legs. “I told you you’d get the scoop,” he said. “But he won’t tape it. It has to go out live.”

  “Not a problem.” She picked up her cell phone, dialed. “Kathy, Julia. Great news. I’ve got Trinity.”

  “Put that in your wallet,” said Pat, handing Daniel a card key. “If the shit hits the fan and we gotta split up, we rendezvous at the Pelican Motel on the Westbank Expressway across the river in Gretna. Room 104. It’s booked for the next three nights.”

  “Got it,” said Daniel.

  “You know I think this whole thing is a terrible idea.”

  “I know.”

  “I tried to talk him out of it,” said Pat. “Got nowhere.”

  “He’s committed to this. He knows we can’t do much to protect him at a public rally. He just doesn’t care.” Daniel tucked the card key away. “All we can do is our best.”

  “We gonna have to get very lucky, brother.”

  “I know.” Daniel checked his watch. “Julia’s gonna be there with her cameraman in an hour. We should get going.”

  The door from one of the back rooms opened and Tim Trinity stepped into the gym. He wore a new silk suit, royal blue to match his Bible, crisp white shirt, matching pink silk tie and pocket square. His boots gleamed white. His hair was back to silver.

  “How do I look?” Trinity grinned. “Ready for prime time?” He straightened his tie, shot his cuffs. “Couldn’t believe it,
Ozzy still works at Rubensteins. Still had my measurements on file, even remembered: long-point collar, French cuffs. Now that’s customer service.”

  Julia and Shooter drove out to Parran’s Po-Boys in Metairie and parked in front, as per Daniel’s instructions. They arrived early, split a seafood muffuletta for dinner. Shooter went back out to the news van to make sure the satellite uplink was working, and Julia stayed in the restaurant, reviewing the questions she’d written for the most important interview of her life.

  She’d written her questions on index cards. Now she put the cards in three separate stacks, according to importance. She had forty-seven cards—enough for a ten-hour conversation—but only one hour of airtime with Trinity.

  She pushed the two “less important” stacks aside and shuffled through the questions in the “essential” stack. She’d still only have time for half of them, even if Trinity was succinct in his answers. And once the conversation got rolling, she’d need time for follow-ups and redirects.

  Damn, it was hard to choose. If the interview went well, she’d ask him to stick around and continue the conversation on tape, for airing later, so it was important to get him relaxed, but she wasn’t going to resort to lobbing him softballs. It was a popular “bonding technique” used by many television reporters, but she’d always considered it disrespectful of the viewers’ time and trust.

  And besides, her professional ego would not allow it. She’d worked too hard to be taken seriously in this job, and she was damned if she’d allow herself to be made “soft” by the pressures of television.

  Her phone rang, and she answered it. It was Daniel.

  “We’re in a motel a few blocks from you,” he said. “There’s a green Forester parked beside your van. The man inside is a friend, Pat Wahlquist. He’ll lead you here.”

  Shooter angled a couple of chairs toward each other and wired a microphone to Tim Trinity’s lapel, then switched on two powerful lights and stood behind the camera. He donned a headset as Julia gestured to one of the chairs and Trinity sat.

  She took her chair, straightened her jacket, and spoke into the mic for a sound check. Shooter gave her a thumbs-up. Daniel and his friend Pat Wahlquist stood over to one side, in the darkness behind the lights. She could just make out Daniel’s smile, and she nodded back at him.

  Trinity leaned forward, touched her knee. “I think Danny’s sweet on you,” he said. “You should give him another chance. You make a good couple.”

  “Tim, please,” said Daniel from out of the darkness.

  Julia suppressed a smile, cleared her throat. She inserted her earpiece and listened to the director in Atlanta.

  She nodded to Trinity and said, “We’re on after this break,” and shuffled through her index cards again, rearranging them, trying to clear her mind.

  Just another interview, she told herself, no big deal…

  Shooter said, “Quiet, everybody. We’re on in ten…” He held one hand up high.

  Through her earpiece, Julia listened to Anderson Cooper intro the segment. Cooper was saying, “Forget about Waldo, the question the entire world has been asking since Sunday is Where is Reverend Tim Trinity? Well, Julia Rothman of the New Orleans Time-Picayune found him, and he agreed to sit down with her for this live interview, exclusively on CNN. I, for one, can’t wait to hear what he has to say. Take it away, Julia.”

  OK, here we go…

  Shooter brought his hand down and pointed at her.

  “Thanks, Anderson,” she said, looking into the camera’s shiny black eye, thinking: No big deal, just another interview... “We’re in a motel in the New Orleans area with, as you say, the man everyone has been looking for.” She turned to Trinity. “Reverend Trinity, thank you for being with us tonight.”

  “My pleasure, Julia,” said Trinity. “Thanks for having me.”

  She’d already memorized her first five questions, didn’t even need to glance at the index card. She said, “Please tell us—”

  “Excuse me.” Trinity held up a hand. “Pardon me for interrupting. I’d like to make a statement.” He turned to face the camera. “On Thursday afternoon at one o’clock, I will be in front of Saint Louis Cathedral in Jackson Square. At that time, I will share with the world what I’ve just recently come to understand. I hope you’ll all join me. Thank you.” Trinity smiled at Julia and said, “Thanks again for having me.” He stood up, took the microphone off, and walked out the door. A second later, Pat followed after him.

  Julia glanced at Daniel as he shrugged a bewildered apology.

  She turned back to the camera, her cheeks burning.

  Within an hour of the broadcast, Trinity’s Pilgrims were gathering in Jackson Square. Within two hours they were crowding out the tourists and pissing off the merchants.

  According to news reports, the pilgrims had left a wake of destruction in Atlanta, and nobody wanted a repeat performance in New Orleans. At midnight the mayor gave the order, and the NOPD sent cops in on foot and on horseback to disperse the crowd with as much force as necessary. Which they did. A few hippies bloodied, a couple of bikers pepper-sprayed, but no serious injuries.

  The crowd pulled back to the tent city that was now filling Louis Armstrong Park, and to Lafayette Square and Lee Circle, which were soon teeming.

  At nine o’clock the next morning, twenty-eight hours before Trinity was scheduled to give his speech, the mayor made a statement to the press: Reverend Tim Trinity did not have an event permit and would not be allowed to hold a rally in or near the Vieux Carré. If Reverend Trinity wished to apply for a permit, he was free to do so, but it would not be approved by the following day, and there was no guarantee it would be approved at all. The NOPD and the Orleans Parish Sheriff’s Office were putting all available officers on double shifts until further notice.

  This did not go down well with Trinity’s Pilgrims, and the scene in the parks was starting to look more like protest than pilgrimage.

  Still they kept coming. By late morning Audubon Park was starting to fill up. At noon, the mayor’s office announced that a press conference would be held at three p.m.

  The press conference took place at four. This time the mayor was joined by the city police commissioner, parish sheriff, the governor, and United States Senator Paul Guyot. Senator Guyot spoke for the group while the mayor stood in the background looking like he’d swallowed a handful of nails.

  Senator Guyot said he was delighted to announce that an agreement had been reached between federal, state, and local governments, allowing Reverend Trinity to hold his rally the following day as originally planned. The front steps of Saint Louis Cathedral were private property, but a stage would be set up on the public sidewalk directly in front for Trinity’s use. The Louisiana National Guard was being mobilized to assist local and state authorities with crowd management. He said Reverend Trinity’s First Amendment rights were not negated by the fact that so many Americans wanted to hear him in person, and that the government’s goal was neither to restrict Trinity’s right to free speech nor the right of Americans to peacefully assemble, but simply to do everything possible to ensure public safety.

  “Uh-oh,” said Pat, looking over Daniel’s shoulder at the entrance of Vaughan’s Lounge. “We got trouble.”

  Daniel turned away from the television and toward the open doorway in time to see two athletic men in blue suits and short haircuts close the doors of an unmarked gray sedan. The men peered into the darkened bar.

  “They ain’t local yokels, neither,” Pat added, laying his hands on the table, open and relaxed. “These cats are the real deal. We don’t wanna put them on edge, man. Keep your hands visible.”

  Daniel lifted the hand that had fallen in his lap, now hyper-aware of the gun on his hip, for which he most certainly did not have a concealed carry permit.

  The taller man wore an expensive suit cut to help conceal his sidearm. The other man apparently didn’t give a shit if anyone knew he was carrying. The taller man made eye contact and nodded
as they reached the table. “Good afternoon, Mr. Byrne.” He pulled out the chair next to Daniel and flashed his badge as he sat. “We’re from the FBI, I’m Special Agent Hillborn, and,” he gestured at the other man, “this is Special Agent Robertson. Perhaps your friend Ms. Rothman mentioned that we were eager to speak with you.” A smile, neither friendly nor menacing. Strictly professional. Hillborn turned to Pat. “And you are?”

  “Pat Wahlquist. I’m an executive protection specialist, under the employ of Mr. Byrne. If you’d like to see my papers, I’ll have to reach into my back pocket.”

  Hillborn waved it off. “I believe you.” Back to Daniel. “We’re investigating the bombing at your uncle’s church in Atlanta.” He signaled to the bartender, “Two Abitas here, and whatever these men are drinking.” Back to Daniel. “Funny thing, Ms. Rothman neglected to tell us that Trinity is your uncle. Must’ve slipped her mind. But I spoke at length with a representative of the Vatican who was very helpful. He said that you seem to have walked off the job, said you are no longer operating under the direction or authority of the Holy See.”

  “That’s correct,” said Daniel.

  The bartender deposited their drinks on the table and Hillborn dropped a twenty on the bartender’s tray and waved him away. He took a swig of beer. “You understand, then, that you no longer have diplomatic immunity.”

  “I’m an American citizen in the process of moving back to my hometown.” The gun was growing itchy against his side. “I’m not involved in criminal activity. I have no need for immunity, diplomatic or otherwise.”

  “If you’re keeping us from meeting with Reverend Trinity—”

  “I’m not,” said Daniel. “The whole world knows where he’s going to be.” He gestured at the television over the bar, “And he’ll be happy to meet with you after his public address tomorrow.”