by Declan Finn
By the time Scott Murphy finally got out of the archives (he was reduced to using two tied ends of a curtain cord from the second-story window that he slid down before the cord snapped like a set of cheap shoelaces), everyone from criminalistics experts to archivists and researchers had left for the night and the entire building had shut down. Once he and Shushurin found an obscure corner of Vatican City to hide in, he dialed Wilhelmina Goldberg for an update on a situation he couldn’t really believe.
“How serious is Sean Ryan about this Soviet super-soldier theory of his?”
“As serious as a hull breach on the Mir space station,” Goldberg answered. “As if he knew something I didn’t. You have any idea what he’s talking about?”
“No idea,” he lied, looking over at Shushurin. “What’s Ryan doing now?” he asked the Secret Service agent.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” she told him. “I’ll chat with him tomorrow, see what he’s doing about the priest. Your turn. What do you know about Father Williams?”
Murphy smiled. He’d expected this, and gave her a full rundown. He laughed to himself, thinking about one of the running gags he and Shushurin joked about. “By the way, my partner and I were thinking, have you seen Father Williams wearing a ring?”
After a brief pause: “Not that I noticed.”
“If you do, note it. I’m half expecting a red background with a cross and two swords crossed behind it. Old Catholic joke.”
“Whatever.” Click.
“Touchy, isn’t she?” Shushurin noted. “What was that about the ring?”
He smiled. “It’s the old symbol of the Knights Templar. If you’re going to be in a Vatican hit squad, what else would you be in? Granted, the order died damn near 700 years ago; it lent out money to kings who didn’t like paying back loans.” He shrugged and put away the phone. “Anyway, with an institution as old as this, why throw anything away, even a name or a symbol?
“Now, what do you think about the program Ryan suggested?” he asked. “You said you had been trained in a program for spies since you were a kid, so you could be a trained assassin when you grew up. Does Ryan’s theory sound like what you did?”
Shushurin nodded. “Exactly so.” Her eyes narrowed, and she looked off, deep in thought.
He nodded slowly. “You think you know these people?”
Shushurin’s eyes focused on him, and she looked like she was ready to hit him. “What? Just because I’m a German, I must be a Nazi? Or is it because I was given some training when I was a kid?”
He literally took a step back, hands in front of him and spread open in a gesture of submission. “Down, girl. I meant how many of them could there have been? A few hundred? We don’t know how many are here, and with such a small group, being raised together for years, wouldn’t the odds be good that you would know at least one of them?”
She leaned against a wall, deflated. She put a hand over her eyes and took a deep breath. “I know. I’m sorry. I just… I’ve spent years worrying about this. Who would know, who might find out, how far it would spread.” She lowered her hand, laying it on her opposite shoulder, across her chest. “You must understand, when Stasi files were opened, over half of East Germany had been revealed as spying on the other half. Whole communities were destroyed overnight. Reminding people of the Stasi is like making them recall the Nazis, or the Holocaust, and other things they have all but expunged from their history. Like former drunks, they shun their mistakes with the same enthusiasm with which they had initially accepted them. Maybe more. So, every time you mention it, it feels like an accusation.”
Murphy nodded, laying a hand on her shoulder. “I get that.” He smiled at her, using his other hand to turn her face towards him. “Don’t worry, if I’m ever dumb enough to accuse you of anything, I’ll be sure to have you handcuffed first.”
She smiled, at least. “I thought you weren’t into that sort of thing.”
He chuckled, then leaned forward, and lightly kissed her on the cheek. He lingered a moment, then gave her a peck on the lips… and lingered there for a few seconds. And a few more seconds. When her hands reached out to him, he blinked and stepped back, his breathing a little faster than before.
Shushurin’s hands hovered for a moment, then dropped, and she blushed. They were still in public. Her head was spinning. Have I been alone that long? Have we both been? We met only ten hours ago.
Scott took a step back, and blinked, slowly steadying his breath. “I think we should focus on business for the moment,” he said, clearing his throat. “I also think making out within sight of St. Peter’s is illegal. And if it’s not, it should be.”
* * *
“Please, pick up the damn phone,” Sean Ryan muttered into his cell. He had spent the last half hour getting far enough along the Via della Conciliazione to make sure that he wasn’t being followed… and that that no one was listening ... and that most of all, no one could possibly suspect what he was doing. With all of the bodies dropping lately, he wanted his man to be safe and secure.
Sean glanced at his watch, and figured it was probably still early enough in London for his target to still be awake. During all his years of protecting stars, starlets, and other cult members of the glitterati, he had run into some of the deadliest mercenaries on the planet, but despite all of that, there was still only one person he could really rely on for the facets of intelligence history.
Sean turned sharply, accidentally bouncing off a civilian and onto the ground. He looked up from the concrete and smiled. “Sorry about that, I…” his eyes flicked to the glimmer of moonlight shining off the knife blade, and he promptly rolled into the alley, three seconds ahead of a burst of gunfire.
The mugger caught the burst full in the chest.
Sean pulled out the beam Taser he had taken from Figlia’s van. He noted the holes in the mugger’s chest, thought a moment, and, crouching, wheeled around the alleyway, briefly firing at a diagonal across the street before wheeling back.
You idiot, they probably had a lookout on the Colonnade and waited for one of us to come out, and you walked right into it.
He glanced at his watch again. Where the hell are the civilians?
Oh, wait, what am I thinking? It’s Italy. Everyone else is already in the nightclubs and won’t leave until three in the morning.
Another burst of fire strafed the ground. Sean smiled. All he had to do was sit there and wait for the cops to come for him. But why wait? You’ve got a cell phone.
He glanced toward the opposite end of the alley. Wait a second… if there’s a shooter up there, why’s he still firing? All I have to do is go out the back end of the alley and get away.
Sean rolled his eyes. Duh, idiot; there’s backup at the other end of the alley. Probably waiting for a few more shots before coming in after me. And therefore? Therefore…
The automatic fire stopped and a motion from the other end of the alley caught his attention—
It was a hand grenade bouncing down the alley.
* * *
Giovanni Figlia leaned back in his chair. His head was already throbbing, and 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 would have stopped dying, and all the people with automatic weapons would just go home.
Figlia already had hearing loss in one ear, and he couldn’t tell if it was from gunfire or the shouting 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 than when he worked for them.
The bullets were another matter. Figlia had been on the SWAT team for Italy, he had trained with the LAPD SWAT, he had been to a World Cup riot, and he had never seen so much gunplay before in his life. He might have fired more bullets at one engagement that evening than in any real-life exchange of gunfire over the course of his entire lif
e.
And the entire time, Sean Ryan had smiled, enjoying himself throughout the entire exchange. That just 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,” his wife said. “Look at the bright side. 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,” Fisher answered. “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.
Figlia frowned. “You don’t have to sound so cheerful about it.”
Fisher laughed. “I think you’ll enjoy this one.”
Fifteen minutes later, Figlia looked around the hotel room. It was nothing fancy, just a king-sized bed, neatly made, a nightstand, a lamp, and a television.
The rest of the room was a wreck. There was one destroyed chair, .22-caliber bullet holes in the walls, the ceiling, and the television. Bullet casings clustered in one portion of the room, and a silencer next to the gun. There was also a clump of hair by the door, and a body on the floor.
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 researcher’s name was Matthew Kovach. He was a young man neatly dressed in pants and a polo shirt. He had medium-blue eyes with silver wire-frame glasses and was the picture of a stereotypical young academic. The only thing out of place was his blond hair, thoroughly disheveled from the struggle that had ended with a bullet in a man’s skull.
Kovach also happened to be a well-published American author, and reviewers compared his Tales from a Catholic High School to Jean Shepard meets Jack the Ripper.
The author stayed very still. He didn’t move, blink, breathe, and remained as still as, well, a corpse.
However, the dead body and the researcher were two different people.
“This one also looks Russian,” Fisher said from the other side of the room, looking at the corpse.
Figlia nodded, looking at the blond man who looked more Irish than anything else. Not to mention a little too well fed. He could have afforded to lose a few pounds, and the impression he gave made Figlia wondered why he was alive.
He asked Matthew Kovach exactly that. “I’m …” the author began, his eyes going out of focus as he drifted off. They snapped back to Figlia 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; I sent him away. However, I was told I had a package waiting in the lobby, and when I opened the door, the busboy was still in the hall, but with a silenced automatic.” He glanced around the room. “You can ask the detectives who talked to me for the details. But the short version is, my wife teaches self-defense.”
Figlia nodded, looking over the room once more. He found it interesting that there were bullets all over one side of the room, but not the other. “You immediately disarmed him?”
“More or less. I didn’t want to be ventilated.”
Figlia nodded. “Understandable.” He stared down at the carpet by the door. It was so scuffed, either an army of cops had moved through, or the young author had some interesting footwork.
The local police authorities were pissed. This was the third body at this hotel today. After all, Rome was a large, sleepy city, very lethargic, and 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 muttered from the hall. “More dead bodies. This signore Kovach will be as annoying as the others we have in our freezers.”
Figlia looked up at the police. “E tu pensi che e`…che?”
The police officer shook his head and told Figlia what he thought this was — a simple attempted robbery.
Figlia wanted to give him a stern dressing-down, but he was simply too tired to fight. Especially after a day this long. He didn’t want another long battle. But there was, at least, one thing he could get from this.
“Signore… Figlia, was it?” Matthew Kovach asked from the bed.
He turned and tried for a patient smile. “Si?”
“You said you were from the Vatican?” the writer asked.
Figlia 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. “Right. By the way, you should rest, sir. You look awful.”
Figlia laughed. If he had only known the half of it. “I will try.”
He sighed. That was the final nail, clinching the motive shut. They had all been right — these weren’t attacks on people going to the archives, but on people writing about Pius XII. He would have to make certain there was some kind of protection on the author soon. Preferably without anyone noticing it. “Thank you for your service, Signor Kovach.”
He put away his pen and paper, and tucked them away in his pocket, when Matthew Kovach said, “Is it just me, or is there a war going on outside?”
Figlia blinked. Where was Sean?
Chapter XV: Buried Bodies
Sean sprang out of the alley and threw himself to the side, out of the way of the alley opening and into hiding behind two parked cars. The grenade exploded, contained by the walls of the alley, and shooting the force outward like a cannon, blowing past Sean. He leapt back toward the cover of the alley, preferring that to a car with a full gas tank. He turned the corner and walked into an elbow from another gunman.
Sean tumbled backwards and fired without thinking. The gunman dodged, throwing himself out of the way. Sean tracked him, and aimed for the man’s center mass. Instead, it hit the Spectre dead on. The gunman landed on his feet, gasping in pain as he hurled the submachine gun away.
Sean’s laugh came out in a sudden bark. “Wow, couldn’t do that again if I tried.” He pressed the trigger again… and the beam flickered and died.
Sean frowned at the weapon. “Great.”
The gunman reached for the small of his back. Sean was already on his feet when the secondary weapon came out. He swung the beam Taser like a stick, swinging his upper body into it. The Taser was built like a heavy-duty fireman’s flashlight, so it met the gun arm before the barrel could line up with Sean. The gunman leaned back as the gun went flying, letting Sean’s backhanded follow-up go by.
Sean landed on his feet again, cylinder in hand. He lunged forward with a slash across the gunman’s path, just missing his jaw. The gunman stepped back to reevaluate his options.
Sean grinned, visibly enjoying himself. His attacker cocked his head, now evaluating Sean — for the former, this was a business, a job, something to be taken professionally, not something to be smiling about.
“None of you guys have a sense of humor,” Sean mused.
A burst of automatic fire sounded from down the street, with a returning staccato from the rooftop sniper. The bodyguard’s electric-blue eyes glowed. “I also have well-armed friends, who sound like they’re already on the way.”
The gunman narrowed his eyes, and launched himself sideways, kicking off the alley wall. Sean leapt forward, grabbing the gunman’s fallen handgun, rolled flat onto his back and fired straight u
p into the gunman without stopping, cutting into legs and torso. The gunman twisted in midair with the impacts and slammed against the ground.
Sean immediately rolled to one knee, examining the various wounds. The supine figure blinked a few times, realizing that he was still alive, and violently lurched forward, trying to claw at Sean. Sean twisted, blocking the attack with his left and lashing out with a solid right palm to the face, dropping him back.
Either he’s stronger than I thought or… what caliber is this thing? Maybe a .22. Great, these guys think they’re the Mafia. They would have done better to drag me down to Sicily and then whack me in broad daylight.
The gunfire on the street stopped. A moment later, there was motion at the mouth of the alley, and Sean rounded on the new figure, gun raised. Scott Murphy skidded to a stop, hands up. “Wow, down, boy! I’m on your side.”
Sean lowered the gun to a rest position. “Sorry, I’m a little jumpy.”
Murphy looked around the area, noting the two bodies, and the bullet-strafed street. “I can understand that. What the hell have you been doing now?”
“Very little, for once, but I suspect our new friend can help.”
“Va fungu!” the gunman growled.
Manana Shushurin ran up next to Murphy, Stechkin at the ready. She also gave the area a once over before relaxing her posture. “Everybody in one piece?”
Sean nodded, then noted her weapon. “You’re with the BND and you’re using a Russian handgun? Whatever happened to the Glocks of Austria? Even an H&K?”
She shrugged. “Heckler and Koch got taken over by the British, and the Glocks don’t have the full automatic setting. Besides, I’d shoot myself before using a Beretta.”
He laughed. “Nice to know you’ve got your tastes down pat. As opposed to these guys trying to use local weapons; I think they’re trying to keep an air of being amateurs.” He rested both hands on one knee. “Problem is, you do that, you’re firing brand-new guns you’re not familiar with, which is like the kiss of death in combat and—.”
