The Secret of Fatima

by Tanous, Peter J;

  “I got a ride to the airport from a friend,” Kevin explained.

  Drotti smiled. “Miss O’Connell?”

  Kevin was more annoyed than surprised. “Sounds to me like your investigative work has crossed the line,” he said.

  “I told you we were thorough.”

  Kevin decided not to pursue it. Clearly, when it came to Drotti and the guys in Rome, nothing in his life was private.

  Onboard, business class was an unexpected treat. Both men ordered Scotch. Chivas Regal. Kevin grabbed some magazines and nuzzled in, sitting all the way back. Drotti fussed with papers in his briefcase.

  “Can you tell me more about this assignment?” Kevin asked.

  “In due time, Kevin.” Drotti finished his Scotch and ordered another.

  Kevin drifted off to sleep. Soon he was afloat, airborne, flying not toward Rome, but toward an airy, puffy cloud where a beckoning, lovely Katie awaited him.

  Chapter Four

  Rome, Italy

  Arriving at the Leonardo da Vinci Airport outside Rome, Kevin and Monsignor Drotti gathered their carry-ons from the overhead bins, joining the queue exiting the plane. Entering the sleek steel-and-chrome terminal, soaring glass panels offered magnificent vistas of a clear spring day. The airport was alive with businesspeople stampeding the gates, Starbucks and briefcases in hand. Clusters of tourists were headed to line up at customs along with Kevin and Drotti. These days, customs control was little more than a passport check. Then baggage claim to retrieve luggage. So far, on this trip, Drotti was tight-lipped.

  Stepping outside for fresh air, Kevin took a deep breath. Not quite the great outdoors, but better than the recirculated air of a nine-hour flight. After hopping on the shuttle bus, they rolled their luggage to the parking lot where Drotti had left his car.

  “Nice wheels,” commented Kevin when they approached Drotti’s gleaming black Alfa Romeo.

  “Thanks,” said Drotti. “Probably not something you’ve ever seen in the States.”

  “Oh I don’t know,” Kevin replied as he inspected the car. “It’s a 1990 or 1991 Spider Veloce, four cylinder super-charged engine, with Panasport wheels. Good condition, too.”

  Drotti smiled. “I’m impressed. Would you care to drive it?”

  “No thanks.”

  They climbed into the sports car, and Drotti drove out of the parking lot and onto the freeway.

  Ten minutes into the drive, in the side view mirror, Kevin saw something he didn’t like. He turned to Drotti. “I changed my mind. I’ll drive.”

  Drotti raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. In a few moments, he pulled over at a rest stop where benches, a table, and wooden structure housing toilets were nestled in a park-like area.

  Kevin opened the car door and got out. Drotti did the same.

  “Do you know how to get to the Vatican from here?”

  “Sure, I lived here for eighteen months, remember?” said Kevin. “But let me tell you why I want to drive. We’re being tailed. Let’s just say my James Bond background may be better suited to handling this.”

  Drotti frowned, looking around. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “They’re over there. In that souped-up Fiat,” Kevin said, motioning towards a car parked in front of a bench.

  “What are you going to do? Lose ’em?” Drotti asked, blinking his eyes as if trying to see more clearly.

  “Maybe. I want to know why they’re following us.”

  Drotti shook his head. “What do you plan to do?”

  Kevin smiled. “You’ll see. Let’s find the men’s room.”

  Coming from the restroom, Kevin glanced toward the black Fiat. One of the men was stocky, with fine tufts of hair, smoking a cigarette, leaning ever so nonchalantly on the back of the car. The other was inside the car at the wheel. Upon sighting Kevin, the man standing put out his cigarette and hopped in the vehicle.

  Drotti tossed the keys to Kevin, and they were off and running. Truth be told, Kevin was just enough of a cowboy to relish the feel of Drotti’s Alfa. He shifted effortlessly through the gears, savoring the high pitch of the engine as they picked up speed, watching the speedometer hit 140, 150, 160 kilometers an hour. The Fiat struggled to keep up.

  Once in Rome off the freeway, they slowed, navigating their way toward the Vatican, down Via Aurelia, into a working-class neighborhood with small shops, the occasional outdoor café, and bicycle repair businesses and merchants. Young men and women on motorbikes were whizzing past them.

  At a stoplight Kevin abruptly veered left on to a side street. Sure enough, the Fiat was following. The two priests continued along the cobbled road until it turned into a gravel and dirt footpath.

  Pressing down on the accelerator of the Alfa Romeo, spewing dust and gravel under the tires, Kevin shifted into fourth gear, churning up a dark dust ball astern. The Fiat was still hugging the Alfa’s bumper.

  Now there was only one thing to do.

  Kevin turned the steering wheel 45 degrees while simultaneously slamming on the brakes. First a skid, then the car spun around. Now it was facing the other way, headed straight toward the Fiat.

  This tricky maneuver Kevin had mastered in the CIA. Not bad. A reversal of fortune.

  Drotti, gasping, clutched the seat underneath him.

  Approaching the Fiat, Kevin again slammed on the brakes, turning the Alfa across the entire road, skidding to a full stop.

  The Fiat was still heading for them at high speed. Kevin knew the car, a Fiat Linea made in Turkey. A piece of junk, a low-end model at least eight years old. The driver could do one of two things: stop or crash. He had about five seconds to decide. The Fiat screeched to a halt.

  “Stay in the car,” Kevin said. Glancing over at Drotti, the monsignor’s color drained from his face. He was ghost-like.

  Opening the door to the Alfa Romeo, Kevin calmly stepped out, walking over to the stopped vehicle. The driver and his companion got out of the Fiat.

  Now, let’s see who’s gonna make the first move, Kevin thought, clenching his jaw. He was acutely aware that he wasn’t armed. They might be. Kevin assessed his situation. He expected that one man would approach and the other stay at a distance. Standard procedure. He knew he could take one of them, but could he neutralize the second one?

  The tall, dark-skinned driver was dressed in workman’s jeans. The smoker was shorter and rounder with a balding head, wearing jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. He was trailing behind.

  The driver, wearing Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses and a fitted leather jacket, walked quickly toward Kevin. As he drew near, Mr. Sunglasses reached inside his jacket.

  Kevin knew the guy wouldn’t be reaching for a cigarette. His instincts took over. He lunged and tackled the thug at the waist, knocking him to the ground. They hit the surface hard, but luckily, Kevin was cushioned by the man’s body. As the driver’s Ray-Ban’s spun off, he was trying to get at the pistol inside his coat. As the thug withdrew the pistol, Kevin grabbed his outstretched hand. In a split second, Kevin kneed him in the groin, then karate-chopped him on the neck. The man crunched up in pain.

  Kevin picked up the pistol and stood up. A Glock ASP. Very familiar, thank you. Using its butt, he struck the guy on the head with the full force of the gun, knocking him out. Kevin looked around just in time to see Mr. Baldie rushing him. He, too, was holding a pistol, and this one was aimed at Kevin’s head.

  Kevin fired a shot into Mr. Baldie’s shoulder. The man buckled to the ground, yelping in pain, his gun flying from his hand, out of reach. Kevin turned back to the driver, still lumped on the ground, grabbed his collar, yanked him up to a sitting position, and spoke through clenched teeth. “Do you want to live?” Kevin pushed the pistol into the side of the man’s cheek.

  The man was coming to, regaining consciousness. He gasped a barely audible ‘yes.’ Apparently, he understood some English.

  “Start talking.”

  Monsignor Drotti was peeking out from behind the Alfa Romeo. Kevin motioned for him to c
ome over. Drotti tentatively approached. The man who’d been shot in the shoulder was on the ground, moaning. Keeping his eye, and his gun, on the two of them, Kevin yelled over to Drotti, “Max, pick up that gun and hand it to me.”

  Looking terrified, Max went over and picked the pistol off the ground with his thumb and forefinger.

  “Max, now I want to get this guy to talk. Get over here. My Italian isn’t as good as yours.”

  “This man’s bleeding, Kevin. We’ve got to do something.”

  “Max, ask him why he’s following us, who he works for—the important details. Tell him if he doesn’t, he’s roadkill.”

  “I can’t say that!” Drotti winced.

  “Just do it, damn it.” Kevin kept his gun pointed at both of them.

  Nodding, Drotti came over and handed the gun he’d picked up to Kevin, who stuck it in his jeans. Still pale and shaking, Drotti translated as they talked, but Kevin understood most of it. After a lot of Italian jabber, Drotti said they’d been hired by a group called Columbo to follow them wherever they went, and report back who they talked to. For the job, they were paid 2,000 euros. The thug said he worked regularly for Colombo, but didn’t know his identity or any of the bosses. They were originally contacted over the Internet, so they didn’t even know the names of the guys hiring them or their intentions. For ordinary thugs like them, this was simply a source of income. Nothing personal.

  “Okay, that’s all we’re going to get out of them,” Kevin concluded. Nothing new here. He’d assumed they were just hired guns.

  Reaching into his pocket, Drotti pulled out his cell.

  “What are you doing?” Kevin asked.

  “Calling an ambulance,” Drotti responded.

  “No. Put that phone down.”

  “Kevin, this one’s bleeding to death. We can’t just let …”

  Kevin grabbed the phone. “We’ll call for help, but not on your phone. They’ll trace the number.”

  He reached inside the jacket of the man who lay bleeding on the ground.

  Kevin searched Baldie’s pocket, found a mobile phone, and threw it at Drotti. “Here. Use this one. Don’t let them know who you are.”

  “They’ll find out, won’t they? Shouldn’t we stay until the ambulance comes?”

  “Just make the call, Max. Trust me. These guys won’t say a word. If they do, next time I won’t be so kind and gentle.”

  Drotti called the emergency number, gave the location, and requested an ambulance. Snatching the phone from him, Kevin removed the SIM card with the stored data.

  From his pocket Kevin found a clean handkerchief and handed it to Baldie to stop the bleeding. He then searched the pockets of the driver who was still on the ground, squirming in pain. Kevin found his cell, yanked the SIM card out, and dropped the phone on the ground.

  “C’mon, Max, let’s get out of here.”

  They got into the Alfa Romeo and sped away, rubber to the road, toward the Vatican, Kevin at the wheel.

  Drotti was still visibly shaken up. He whined, “Kevin, if this is the way it’s going to be, I’m not your best partner material. I’m a priest. I’ve no experience or appetite for this.”

  “I’m a priest, too, and I’m not sure that you should be my partner, either. But given how this assignment is starting, I’ll need someone who’s not afraid to get his hands dirty.”

  After a while, Drotti asked, “Kevin, forgive me for asking, I’m terribly curious, how does a man like you become a priest?”

  Kevin didn’t answer. Interesting question, monsignor. I’m a priest who roughs it up with the best of them. Excites me, that adrenaline. How do I reconcile this with my calling to serve as a priest of God? Does it matter? It’s who I am, what I want. I’m divided, a split personality. I am two, Kevin the brave and fearless warrior, and Father Thrall, the humble servant of God. What’s mind-boggling is that they’re opposites. Kevin, meet Father Thrall. Father Thrall, meet Kevin.

  Finally, Kevin turned to Drotti. “When I find out, I’ll let you know,” he said. He pushed into fifth gear as an ambulance, sirens screaming, passed them.

  Chapter Five

  Vatican City

  The dome of St. Peter’s Basilica, the world’s largest church, appeared in the distance above the sand colored buildings. Nearing the city limits of Rome, Drotti took the wheel as the car slowed in the heavy traffic on Via Aurelia.

  St. Peter’s, built over a span of more than one hundred years by the greatest Italian architects of the era, was the most recognizable place of worship in the world. Built of travertine stone, combining eclectic architectural styles and adornments, it seemed nothing short of a miracle that this edifice, more than 500 years old, sustained such splendor over the ages. In addition to housing its works of art, including Michelangelo’s masterpiece, the Pieta, St. Peter’s houses the tombs of 91 popes, including that of the first pope, St. Peter. Vatican City is the heart of Rome, surrounded by the city itself.

  As they approached, a burst of sunlight from above was flooding St. Peter’s Square, as if it were a part of heaven itself. As always, tourists were milling about, snapping photos in front of the stately columns and fountains. Kevin had seen many of the great churches of the world, yet none affected him as viscerally as this one. To him, it was the holiest of holy places. It made him proud to be a priest.

  Kevin opened the car window to take in the air, the smell, the aura of this place he’d once called home while training for the priesthood. There was something about being here. Even with his eyes closed he knew exactly where he was, and he liked it. As a city, the entirety of Rome was sacred: just being here lifted his spirits.

  From time to time, Kevin noticed Drotti looking at him quizzically. Kevin knew Drotti was still ruffled by the skirmish with the thugs. To a shielded soul like Drotti, the incident must have been upsetting. Every time Kevin looked at Drotti, he’d see that question on his face. How does a man like you become a priest?

  Drotti drove to the side of the columns, through the gates to the Vatican, and stopped at an administrative building. The two men said little. When they stopped, Drotti got out. “I’ll pick up the keys to your apartment; be right back,” he said. “Stay out of trouble while I’m gone?”

  “I didn’t start the trouble,” said Kevin defensively.

  “I know,” Drotti said. He was stiff and slow, with a wise, all-knowing look on his face, as if he knew more than he was telling.

  Drotti went to the villa’s gated reception area. Kevin watched him, thinking, Why had he been brought here?

  When Drotti returned, he climbed back into the driver’s seat and started up the engine.

  “Everything OK?” asked Kevin.

  “Sure. I got your key. No messages from the thugs.” He looked at Kevin, smirking.

  Kevin allowed a half smile, knowing their scuffle with the thugs was only the beginning. This wasn’t a pleasure trip.

  Drotti drove the Alfa Romeo up a hill lined with towering pines. Kevin rolled down his window, relishing the fragrance of the pines and the freshness of the morning air, a welcome contrast to the smog and hustle-bustle of the city. The Sistine Chapel’s steepled roof was on his left, the Vatican Museum on his right.

  Slowing in front of a four-story brick building, the Villa Domenica, a Romanesque villa with manicured gardens, Kevin recalled it was the one he was looking for. They stopped. Kevin wondered why he’d be staying in such splendor. This place was for VIPs, like diplomats, celebrities, or high-ranking church officials.

  “Welcome to your home away from home,” Drotti said dryly.

  “I’m staying here?”

  “I think you’ll like it.” Drotti nodded.

  “You think it’s secure?” asked Kevin.

  “As secure as anywhere here,” Drotti said. “Best we can do.”

  The men left the Alfa Romeo and Drotti led Kevin through the villa’s reception area to his apartment on the first floor. Kevin whistled. “This is a welcome surprise.”

&nb
sp; “Pretty luxurious, isn’t it?”

  It was far more than Kevin had expected. A VIP setup with a living room and flat screen TV, separate bedrooms, outfitted in modern furniture, and a fully stocked refrigerator and bar with whiskey, beer, and vodka. Mmm, thought Kevin. Drinking is one of the vices tolerated in the priesthood. He was grateful for that.

  “Try to get some rest. I will too,” Drotti said, his face drawn. “I’ll be by for you at five o’clock. We have a meeting.”

  “Who with?”

  “Tell you later. Make yourself comfortable. Please, no shootings or gangsta-like shenanigans.”

  “Duly noted.” Kevin beamed, grinning from ear to ear.

  “If you need anything, you have my number. But my offer is good for emergencies only,” said Drotti.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

  When Drotti had left, Kevin unpacked quickly, finding ample room in a walk-in closet and dresser for storing his things. He plugged in his laptop, placing it on the desk, and was relieved to see a card offering Wi-Fi with a password. The apartment had all the office equipment a guest might need, including a copy machine and a fax.

  Once everything was put away, Kevin laid his breviary, the liturgical book of the Latin rites of the Catholic Church, on the bedside table. He never traveled without this little book. Exhausted, he flopped onto the bed. He had a throbbing headache. The jet lag, plus the charade with the thugs, had done him in.

  “Colombo,” the thugs had said. What did that mean? Kevin had no idea. At least, by the end of it, Kevin had gotten his hands on a couple of pistols. He’d need to figure out how to get ammunition. That shouldn’t be too difficult. Maybe he wouldn’t need it, but his experience told him otherwise. Later on, he’d search the SIM cards.

  Kevin’s iPhone beeped. A text message from Katie:

  “Going to Brussels next week. Afterwards shall I come to Rome for a couple of days?”

  Kevin had no idea of his itinerary—he’d just gotten here. A visit from a woman might be problematic. But then it was Katie. The thought of her warmed him.