by Rick Jones
At the moment, he was colluding with Archbishop Rousseau from the rue Barbet-de-Jouy in the 7th arrondissement in Paris. The matter at hand was not politically seismic enough in activity to cause a marginal threat to the interests of the Church, but rather was because one of their own was in jeopardy.
The message received from Rousseau regarded a person of interest who might have been caught by security cameras within the Louvre. A specific date and time was given. So Father Auciello manned the keyboard and hacked into the Louvre’s system and backup files, appropriating still-images from the given timeframe.
There were hundreds of photos, one taken every three seconds for the period of fifteen minutes, the clean snapshots totaling three hundred.
Once the files were gathered, they were sent to the archbishop for closer examination.
Ping!
Vous avez du courrier! You’ve got mail!
Archbishop Rousseau quickly downloaded the files and brought up numerous photos in black-and-white, then aligned them in chronological order from left to right. “These are the stills taken from the security cameras by the Mona Lisa, during the timeframe you have given,” he said, his fingertip touching the screen. “As you can see, there are many photos from different angles.”
Gary and Shari studied the stills.
“Can you zoom in?” asked Shari.
When he did, the photos appeared a little fuzzy. So he hit the proper keys to bring them into focus. “How’s that?”
They spotted themselves and their daughters right away, toward the front of the crowd, standing by Da Vinci’s glass-encased painting.
Shari narrowed her eyes in examination. “But I don’t see him.”
“There are plenty of stills to study.” The archbishop patiently scrolled through the images one at a time.
Half way through the images, Gary spotted the man and nearly put his finger through the monitor’s screen with a harsh stab. “Right there!” he hollered. “That’s him!”
The still was that of a hard-looking man with a wild look and a face badly creased with fault lines. He was oblivious of the camera, a good photo. And there were other images that were clear and precise as well.
They gathered more than sixty images from different angles. And with a tap of a button, Archbishop Rousseau sent the photos forward.
Father Auciello brought the images up on the main screen. The man appeared feral, with eyes possessing something savage and wild to them, dark pools that had no shine or polish, no gleam to say that this person was even alive, but rather deadened and numb underneath.
After downloading the photos into a facial-recognition program, the system began to ferret through the images to pinpoint certain landmarks on the man’s face, to identify him. Photos began to race across the screen with blinding speed; the confirmed landmarks freezing upon certain facial points, until a clear image was created. The pieces came together like a puzzle. When all the pinpoints for identification landed with a one-hundred-percent certainty, the identity of the person in question came to light.
It was definitely him: the wild eyes and crazy hair, the deep lines along his face. Beneath the photo ID was the name Tolimir Jancovic, which was subsequently followed by a laundry list of crimes.
Father Auciello fell back in his seat and rubbed a hand across his face a moment, before he unknowingly took the Lord’s name in vain, in a whisper that was no louder than a sigh.
This was not what he wanted to see.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The features of Jadran Božanović’s face remained passive as he listened to Inspector Beauchamp vent, albeit with an underlying tone that wavered.
“An emissary from the Vatican contacted le capitaine at the Direction Centrale de la Police Judiciaire. My capitaine. Do you have any idea who you spotted at the Louvre? Whose children you took?”
“What I took,” said Božanović, “was profit.”
“Does the name Shari Cohen ring a bell to you?”
Božanović shrugged. “Should it?”
“Cohen is the person who orchestrated the mission to rescue the pope years ago, when he was abducted in the United States, remember?”
Another shrug. “And you think this should matter to me how?”
Beauchamp’s eyes fired off. “My department is all over me on this. They want results.”
“And this is what bothers you?”
“I’ve done nothing on this matter, to give you what you want, which is time.”
Božanović said nothing, didn’t even move, his eyes set on Beauchamp. But when he spoke, he did so evenly. “So the Vatican thinks they can flex their muscles because of her crusade years ago. Is that what they think?”
“Apparently so, because in my department it has struck a chord with management. The American Embassy is one thing, but the Vatican is another. When they speak, my people listen. And there’s not enough money in the world that would make them cross God.”
Božanović smiled. “Are you so sure?”
“Why do you say that?”
The corner of Božanović’s scarred lip lifted into a scoffing sneer. “Everyone can be bought,” he told the inspector. “There’s a price for everything, and no one—no one—is immune to the power of wealth.”
“The people I pay off,” Beauchamp said, “are running scared.”
“So placate them.”
“It’s not that easy.”
Božanović removed his knife from its sheath and placed it on the table. “Do you know what that is?” he asked Beauchamp. “Do you?”
Beauchamp stared at the blade of the knife, at its mirror finish.
Božanović pointed to the running scar along his face “This is the weapon that did this. It is also the weapon that killed many men thereafter by my hand.” He then lifted the knife and toyed with it, the weapon as much a part of him as a biological limb. “You will deal with this matter and see it through,” he told Beauchamp flatly.
“How?”
“Provide them with a feast of red herrings. Look for things that are not there. Look at people who you could possibly point an accusing finger at—small-time crooks, thieves, anyone. There is a solution for everything.” He turned the knife over in his hand like a skilled artisan. “Find that solution, Inspector.”
Beauchamp fell away slowly, the message sent: Give Božanović time or give him your life.
“Besides,” said Božanović, as he leaned forward to close the gap between them. “What can the Vatican do?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The flight to Paris from Rome was a short one, via a jet that was chartered by the Vatican.
There were six Knights in total: Kimball Hayden, Leviticus, Isaiah, Joshua, Samuel, and Jeremiah, monikers taken from the Book of the Old Testament, with the exception of Kimball. He had declined the name of ‘Archangel’ after bearing a call-sign as a government assassin. It was all about distancing himself from his former life.
When they arrived in Paris they were taken, by a prearranged vehicle driven by a member of the archdiocese, to the Hotel de La Motte Picquet. Instructions regarding the room were given, so Kimball and his team, wearing leather overcoats to hide the weapons that lay underneath, and with clerical collars showing their religious affiliation, stood before a bank of elevators and pressed the ‘up’ button.
They stood silently, their eyes cast to the numbers as they lit up: six, seven, eight…
On the twelfth floor, the doors opened. The room was to their left.
As they walked down the hallway, people gave them a wide berth. These people wearing the collars of Catholic priests seemed odd and highly different. They walked without acknowledging anyone else around them. Their eyes were distant as they passed others in the hallway with a purpose of which only they were aware.
When they got to the room’s door, Kimball appeared to hold back, as if debating whether or not to knock.
So Leviticus took the initiative and rapped on the door three times.
&nb
sp; When the door opened, Shari stood there with her eyes to Kimball and his eyes to hers, both locked. In time, hers eyes welled with tears, whereas his sparked with the shine of adoration. And they embraced.
It had been years. But to feel her, to actually take in enough of her scent to rekindle old emotions, set him on a path to choose damnation over salvation. He wanted this woman, despite the cost to his soul.
She pulled back and traced the back of her hand along his cheek. “You look good,” she told him.
In his eyes, despite the setback of looking hollowed and aged, she was incredibly beautiful.
Gary joined them and pulled her back, separating them, and then offered his hand. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “Thank you for coming to find our girls.”
Kimball feigned a smile and took his hand. “Good to see you, Gary.” And then, and as much as to Shari as to Gary, he said. “We will find them.”
Gary closed his eyes to blink back tears.
After being ushered into the room, the archbishop took to his feet and offered the Knights a hand in greeting.
“Time is of the essence,” the archbishop told them. “We now have less than three days to find them before they disappear completely from the grid.”
“Understood.” Kimball took a seat on the couch while keeping Shari within sight from the corner of his eye.
Is she overly glad to see me?
He thought so.
But he remained true for the moment. The welfare of the children was the prime concern.
“So what have you got?” he asked the archbishop.
“It’s not good news,” the archbishop said.
This brought dire looks from the parents.
“How so?”
The archbishop positioned the laptop to give Kimball a better view. “I have linked directly with the SIV,” he said. “This is something you need to hear from them.”
After a few taps on the keyboard, the monitor came to life, with Father Auciello on the other end via Skype. “Kimball,” he said in salutation. “You made it.”
“How’re you doing, Gino?”
The man nodded as if he was doing well, then, “On your journey to Paris, we made certain discoveries regarding the person that shadowed Gary and Shari inside the Louvre.”
“And?”
“His name is Tolimir Jancovic,” he told him. “He’s a reputed member of the Croatian mob, who works in the trade of human trafficking.” Tolimir’s image came up on the screen. “He has an extensive criminal history—petty stuff with small jail sentences. But he seems to have landed on his feet, working for this man.”
Another image came on the screen, that of a man with a scar causing severe facial disfigurement.
“He’s a cute one,” said Kimball.
“His name is Jadran Božanović. Do you recall the name?”
He did, vaguely.
“Jadran Božanović is a leading member of the Croatian mob,” he said. “Now the mob is made up of three families, working as a unit of one, but Božanović is a vicious kingpin. He also has his hand in every vice. But human trafficking is his specialty.”
From the corner of his eye, Kimball could see Shari standing with her fists balled to her bosom. And within Gary’s embrace.
“Go on.”
“Kimball, this man is incredibly vicious,” he went on. “His weapon of choice is the knife, reputedly the one that caused his own scar. His tendency is to carve people up. It’s a hallmark signature of his.”
Even Kimball winced at this.
“The human trafficking business is a thirty-two billion dollar a year trade,” he went on. “Mostly kids and young adults, between the ages of fourteen to twenty-five. Boys and girls both. The thing is that Božanović’s Bridge of Bones—”
“—Bridge of Bones?”
“It’s a term used when talking about transit corridors of human trafficking,” he reported. “In Božanović’s case, he has multiple Bridges of Bones that run from Europe to Northern Africa and the Middle East. Right now, the percentage of people transported through these lines stands at nine percent of the worldwide transit system. Božanović maintains seven percent. And it’s believed that he wants the entire lot, so that he can expand the numbers considerably.”
Kimball waited for more. “He wants the whole route to Northern Africa and the Middle East to himself? This Bridge of Bones?”
On the screen, Auciello nodded. “He’s slowly taking out his competition,” he went on. “In trade circles he’s known as The Surgeon—some even call him The Butcher. But according to our information, it appears that Božanović was a freedom fighter during the Croatian War of Independence. He was captured by a team of Serbs. The man who sliced up his face ended up being on the other end of the knife after Božanović was rescued. I guess he made such a mess of the Serb that it became his brutality of choice. But he knows that it’s a psychological tool that’s very effective. And he uses it against his competition. So far he’s outmuscled his competitors, who are abandoning their Bridges of Bones into his complete control, for fear of retaliation if they don’t surrender their routes.”
“So Božanović wants an exclusive franchise?”
“That’s what we believe. And, Kimball?”
“Yeah.”
“Mobs, especially the Croatian mob, are known for brutality and viciousness. But this guy Božanović is all about making statements. Of all the people we have dossiers on he’s the craziest of the bunch. Every international agency is after him, especially Interpol. He’s been known to brutalize entire families—and I’m talking about mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, children, even their pets—just to make a point.”
“So he’s a man without a conscience,” Kimball commented.
“Incredibly certifiable.”
“Where do I find him?”
“Nobody knows.”
“Then what about this other guy—Tolimir?”
“Again, these guys are underground. They’re most likely transient to keep from getting caught. But then we’ve got this.” The screen went black for a moment, and another series of photos came up. They were stills of Tolimir getting into a vehicle. “See this?” asked Auciello.
“Yeah.”
“We ran Tolimir’s facial landmarks into the mainframe system of security cams that are situated at intersections of every main street, avenue, and boulevard around the time of the incident. These photos were taken less than a block away, seventy-six seconds after the abduction of the children. This was the side street Tolimir detoured onto, moments before the capture.”
Everyone leaned toward the monitor to get a better view. The still was of Tolimir opening the back door of a sedan. In the next shot, the door was closed, with the sedan angling off into traffic. The following shots were images of the driver and his passenger.
“Can you zoom in on that?” asked Kimball. “Then polish it up.”
Auciello did. The still image loomed large, the photo of the driver clear, even through the windshield of his vehicle.
Stunned gasps escaped Gary and Shari.
“My God,” said Shari. “That’s Beauchamp! He’s the one heading up the investigation!”
“Really,” said Kimball, as if this was a mild surprise. “I assume that Beauchamp is a man on record, given that he works for the DCPJ?”
“He’s the one you need to start with,” stated Auciello. “The address for the DCPJ—”
“Oh, no,” said Kimball, raising a halting hand. “I want his home address.”
“You want his home address?”
Kimball nodded. “This is not going to be a professional call, Gino. In fact, I plan to make this very personal.”
“Kimball—”
“His home, Gino.”
Auciello hesitated. And then he gave Kimball exactly what he wanted.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
That evening, Jadran Božanović sat alone in his room eating a bowl of mash and gruel, thinking about what Beauchamp had sai
d about concerns coming directly from the Vatican. He could always grease enough palms with Euros within the DCPJ to stave off the worries voiced by the principals of the American Embassy. But the Vatican was something different, a powerhouse that could never be persuaded to join in his venture, even through considerable donations. But perhaps they could be effectively deterred by the threat of retaliation, should they get too close. Either way, it was not a road he wanted to go down.
He continued to spoon food into his mouth, as if it was an involuntary act, his eyes looking out into space as he ate, thinking.
Beauchamp was limited; he knew that, since the calls had been coming in from the Vatican. Whoever this Shari Cohen was, she certainly had friends in high places. Normally he would stay away from products with powerful ties, or allies with considerable connections. But he had grown cocky and arrogant, pulling and taking people at will, despite their pedigrees. He believed he was untouchable and too powerful to contradict.
He realized he was wrong. He sat there telling himself that he had learned a valuable lesson: that he would be more cautious in the future. No matter the beauty of the product or the high potential for profit, he would choose his future goods more wisely.
His eyes shifted to the clock on the wall.
It was getting late, the sun settling.
He would move his goods in a little more than two days, to a port in Italy where he would group his French cache of products with those found in Italy. From there he would take his Bridge of Bones to the Middle East, where there was a market for everything: boys, girls and adults, people who would never have any will of their own.
