Crusader (MPRD Book 2)

by Andrew Chapman

  I thought about it for a second.

  “Well, in your case, Anna, you tell John,” I said. “I’ll come along later, clean up the bodies and start the paperwork.”

  “Too bloody right,” said John with a wink.

  Anna leaned across and whispered something in her husband’s ear. He nodded and they both stood up.

  “We’re just going to…” said Anna, before trailing off as if trying to think of the right word.

  “We’re ummm,” tried John.

  “Ah sod it,” declared Anna. “We’re going to go have sex in the conference room. The mile high club beckons.”

  She grabbed her blushing husband’s arm and marched towards the rear of the plane. There was a space, separated from the rest of the cabin, with a large conference table and several comfortable chairs. Anna led John inside and firmly closed the door.

  “I think,” I said quietly, “that we need a little noise in here. I don’t know how good the soundproofing is in that room.”

  I pulled out the remote and switched on the plasma screen that dominated the far wall, selecting the satellite feed that allowed us to access certain TV channels. I switched to the BBC and turned the volume up. We were just in time to see the pilot of ‘Blood Hunters’, Auntie Beeb’s newest drama series, made in cooperation with the Ministry and featuring a lead character who was, let’s face it, me with blonde hair.

  I sighed and put the remote down.

  “Let’s see how bad they fuck this one up,” I said morosely.

  CHAPTER

  6

  The jet slowed to a graceful stop and a set of steps was hurriedly wheeled into position by the cabin door. As we rose and made our way to the front of the cabin a uniformed RAF airman released the catches and swung the door open.

  I pulled my jacket on, making sure it lay smoothly over my gun before stepping out.

  The sky was dark and our Concorde had been directed to a quiet corner of the airport. The only life in view was the ground crew scurrying about their tasks and a pair of Italian Politzei SUVs.

  As we reached the bottom of the steps a pair of airmen were already loading our luggage and crates of weapons into the police cars. Within minutes we were loaded and speeding out of the airport. Obviously the Italian police wanted us through their jurisdiction and into the Vatican as quickly as possible. Bolt, Marie and I were in the lead car, with John, Anna and Cam in the second. Our driver was stonily silent, even to the point of ignoring our greetings.

  The trip through scenic Rome was near suicidal. I swear the SUV went up on two wheels at one point and at least twice our drivers forced the big vehicles through gaps that I was convinced were way too small to admit them.

  Still, we made it to the impressive edifice that is the Vatican in one piece. We skirted St Peter’s Piazza and headed for the Vatican Police headquarters.

  I’ve read and heard hundreds of first-time descriptions of the basilica, the massive dome that surmounts the entire city, and the piazza itself. Some, written by the faithful, speak of breathlessness, of awe, of a sense of peace, of Godliness. Others, written by skeptics, speak of anger, of offense at the amount of money spent glorifying the Church in a world stricken with poverty.

  I was mildly amused. That was all I felt about it. All this money, all this architecture, all this worship, it seemed a little ridiculous to me.

  Sure, it was offensive if you really thought about it, the sheer volume of money that went into keeping this massive dinosaur lumbering across the world, mostly culled from believers so poor that they could barely afford their lives even without the tithing, but I have better things to spend my energy on. The Catholic Church would be supremely indifferent to any offense I felt, so why bother?

  The two SUVs pulled up in an out-of-the-way area and we climbed out. Waiting for us were several blue-uniformed officers of the Gendarme Corps of the Vatican City, the Vatican’s police force. I was grudgingly pleased to see that, although the waiting officers were unloading our luggage, they’d had the courtesy to leave our weapons untouched. I grabbed the solid case that contained my weapons, slipping the strap over my shoulder. The rest of my team followed suit and the Italian police cars sped away.

  “Hauptmann Henderson?” inquired a young-looking officer.

  I’d been warned about this. Because of my position within the Ministry hunters I was to be treated as the equivalent of a captain in the Pontifical Swiss Guard, which could prove useful.

  “That’s me,” I said.

  “If you’ll follow me, sir,” he said in lightly accented English.

  The officer led us around the side of a building and down a dimly lit passageway lined with religious art. I had no interest, though. I was studying our escort. Along with the officer there were three other Gendarmes.

  It took me a few moments to figure out what was bugging me: Their faces showed a mixture of fear and relief. Somehow, rather than resenting the intrusion, they were grateful for our help. And that was worrying.

  We were led to a heavily reinforced door, flanked by a pair of Swiss Guard in their gaudy uniforms.

  Once through the door we went down a short corridor and a long set of stone steps. We took a left, and stopped at another door, one that showed a very definite attitude concerning the notions of ‘inside’ and ‘outside’, and held strong opinions about how difficult it should be to go from the latter to the former.

  “I’ve been instructed to advise you that your weapons and luggage will be safe in the armory,” said the officer.

  I nodded politely and he turned to a keypad. He punched in a long code and the door unlocked with a solid-sounding thunk.

  Inside was a very well stocked room of death. It was huge and vaulted, like an underground church, albeit one dedicated to the Gods of War. Along one wall were racks of SIG SG 550s in both assault and sniper rifle variants, and Remington pump-action shotguns. Down the center of the room were rows of shelving units that held body armor, helmets, SIG P225 pistols, Steyr TMP machine pistols, along with various types of grenades, respirators, and radios.

  At the back of the armory were stacks of what appeared to be Stinger anti-aircraft and Panzerfaust anti-tank missiles.

  The Vatican, it seemed, was prepared to defend itself.

  On the wall to our left were row upon row of more traditional weapons; the shiny pikes carried by the Swiss Guard, the ceremonial swords and rapiers, several partisans and a rack of heavy two handed flamberge blades. Alongside these were shelves that held traditional armor; breast and backplates, gorgets, shoulder plates and various helmets.

  There are some advantages in having dated a Swiss national who was desperately annoyed that the Pontifical Swiss Guard didn't admit women. One such advantage is that you learn things you didn’t know that you didn’t know about things you didn’t know you wanted to know about.

  Our escort indicated a clear space on one shelf and we carefully stacked our weapons cases as our luggage was placed on the floor.

  “Are you carrying any other weapons?” enquired our escort.

  I nodded and patted the pistol through my jacket.

  “You’ll have to leave those behind, too,” he said.

  “No,” I said quietly. “My team goes nowhere unarmed.”

  He thought about this for a few moments and then sighed.

  “If you’ll wait here for a moment, I’ll be right back,” he said.

  After he’d left I strolled over to the racks of halberds. Each was taller than I, tipped with a shiny, beautifully crafted blade.

  I may have been supremely indifferent to the Catholic Church, but the Swiss Guard was another matter. They could, technically, lay claim to the title of the most elite military unit in the world. Every man in the Guard had to be a Catholic, serving in the Swiss military, between the ages of 19 and 30. Don’t be fooled by their clownish uniforms, they are tough, no-nonsense bastards and the Guard is harder to get into than a nun’s knickers.

  With their training, faith an
d discipline most would make excellent vampire hunters.

  “Hauptmann?” came a cultured voice behind me. “Admiring our halberds?”

  “Indeed,” I said, turning around.

  Standing in the doorway was a man that could have been carved from oak. He wore a dark blue suit like it was a suit of armor, proud and erect. His graying hair was smoothed back from his forehead and his lined face radiated zeal.

  “They’re beautiful,” I said, indicating the pikes. “Hand made?”

  “Naturally,” he said with a ghost of a smile. “If you like, I’ll see about a souvenir after you are finished.”

  I inclined my head in thanks.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “I am Oberst Hans von Leoni, and I am responsible for the safety of the Holy Father.”

  The way he said it indicated that this was no mere job description. The Pope’s security was a deeply personal matter for him.

  “No visitor is admitted to see His Holiness with a weapon,” he continued.

  “Okay,” I said with a shrug. “So, what’s next? When do we find out why we just flew across the continent?”

  The Oberst frowned for a second, and then burst out laughing.

  “Hauptmann, of the many thing I have heard about you, your wit is the one most people dwell on.”

  “I wasn’t joking,” I said mildly. “If we can’t go see the Pope without relinquishing our weapons, well, we just won’t go see the Pope.”

  The Oberst's smile widened and he shook his head ruefully.

  “The other thing they talk about is your lack of faith. You must understand, his Holiness has granted you an audience. To us, this is a great privilege, the—ah—request to appear is little short of a holy commandment, and the restrictions are mine to enforce.”

  I wanted to shove my hands into my trouser pockets—as I usually did when trying to appear relaxed and unthreatening—but I am my father’s son and, even now, I can feel the sting of him slapping my hands whenever I looked like I was about to try it. One does not, he would say, shove one’s hands in one’s pockets when one is wearing a suit. Instead I clasped my hands behind my back.

  “I understand, sir,” I said seriously. “However, it is, to me, nothing more than a personal request, no matter the source.”

  “And the third thing they mention is your stubborn nature,” he replied.

  “And the fourth?”

  A mischievous glint came into the Oberst’s eye and he chuckled.

  “Well that’s a lie,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Or rather, an exaggeration.”

  Marie, John, Bolt and Anna had come around the shelves and I introduced them to the Oberst.

  “A lie? Really?” he said innocently, turning to Marie. “This beautiful lady is not your lover? Or she is not a werewolf?”

  “I am his mate, not his lover,” she said sweetly. “But I am a werewolf.”

  The Oberst said something in a harsh, guttural language. Marie gasped, and then replied in the same fashion.

  It was the werewolves’ own language that, to me, always sounded like a Russian speaking German with a sore throat.

  The Oberst held up his hands and chuckled.

  “My apologies lüsfra,” he said. “I’ve about exhausted my knowledge of your language.”

  Lüsfra was a word I recognized, a term of respect for a female who was higher in the pack than the speaker.

  “That’s okay,” said Marie. “Your accent’s terrible, though.”

  “Indeed,” he said dryly. “The friend who taught me did not spend much time smoothing my words.”

  He turned to Anna, snapped his heels together and gave a short, formal bow. Then he spoke, greeting her in the vampiric language.

  He turned, switched back to the werewolf language to greet Cam, into some Arabic dialect that made Bolt stammer in shock, then finished in English. I was impressed.

  “However, all politeness aside, your weapons still must be left behind,” he said firmly.

  “Might I suggest a compromise?” said John.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Well, how about, before we go in to see the Pope, we voluntarily pass our guns to the Oberst here for safekeeping? We’ll only be unarmed while we’re actually in the room and, should anything happen, our guns would be right there.”

  I shrugged and turned to the Oberst.

  “Is that acceptable?” I asked.

  The officer thought about it for a few moments and then nodded.

  “However, in the spirit of compromise and cooperation, I ask that you be honest and hand over all your weapons.”

  “I, uh, can’t do that,” said Cam, holding up his paw and displaying his silver-tipped steel claws.

  “I think those are okay,” said the Oberst. “As you say, it’s not like you can remove them.”

  He glanced around my team and then gave a decisive nod.

  “Okay, if you’d like to follow me,” he said.

  He led us back out of the armory and down a corridor that led to an impressive command and control center. Banks of screens displayed CCTV footage of various areas of Vatican City and uniformed operators spoke in hushed tones. Everywhere we looked we saw a picture of cool, calm efficiency.

  The Oberst picked up a sturdy-looking metal case, slightly bigger and thicker than a standard briefcase, and then he beckoned us to follow him again.

  He led us through a maze of passageways and up several flights of stairs.

  As we progressed the corridors grew steadily more opulent, the carpets thicker, the doors more ornate, and the artwork on the walls more expensive.

  Finally we arrived at a set of doors that looked like they cost more than everything I own put together, and was flanked by a pair of Swiss Guard.

  The Oberst led us through and into a plush antechamber, clearly intended as a comfortable waiting place for those wishing to see the Pope. Several mirrors graced the walls, essential for making sure that the cassock is just so.

  I gave myself a cursorily check. My suit still looked sharp, even if my hair was a little ruffled. Still, it was only the Pope. It’s not like I was going to see the Queen.

  Now there’s a thought to annoy most Catholics.

  I turned to the Oberst, who was talking with two elderly men in black cassocks with the purple sash that identified the wearer as a bishop.

  “Hauptmann Henderson,” said the Oberst. “May I present archbishop Fitzhugh, Prefect of the Papal Household.”

  The shorter of the two men stepped forward. He had a round face and ruddy complexion. I was willing to bet on the Irish brogue before he even opened his mouth.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” I said as I shook the man’s hand.

  “I wish I could say the same,” he replied glumly, and then raised his hands as my face darkened. “No, no. My apologies. It is not you; it is our situation. These are troubling times inside the Holy city.”

  He indicated the second man, a tall, thin, aesthetic-looking gentleman with close-cropped gray hair.

  “This is archbishop Kowalksi, the Secretary for Relations with States.”

  “Charmed,” said Kowalski in a soft American accent.

  “Sir,” I replied with a polite nod.

  The Prefect turned to the Oberst and inclined his head.

  “I shall go and see if His Holiness is ready.”

  “Oberst,” I said formally. “Might I ask you a favor?”

  “Certainly, Hauptmann.”

  “Will you look after our guns while we’re having our audience? I realize this might be an imposition.”

  The Oberst’s face remained serious.

  “Well, this is highly irregular, but in the interests of friendship, I suppose I can do that. And it just so happens that I have brought a suitable case to use.”

  “Remarkable foresight,” I muttered dryly.

  The Oberst passed the case to me with a sly smile. I snapped it open. The inside was lined with rippled foam. I pulled out my pistol and placed it inside.


  “Okay ladies and gentlemen, anyone who wants to ask the Oberst to look after their gun while we go see the Pope, cough up.”

  John rolled his eyes and pulled out his pistol, quickly followed by Anna and Marie. Cam eagerly placed his MP7 inside as well. I turned to Bolt.

  “Bolt?” I asked.

  “I don’t see the point of this,” he said softly.

  I held his eyes for a second before nodding. I snapped the case closed and handed it to him.

  “Change of plan,” I announced. “Bolt will stay out here and look after our guns.”

  “The Pope would like to see you all,” said the Oberst.

  “The Pope can kiss my arse,” declared Bolt.

  “The Pope,” I said, locking my gaze on the Oberst, one eyebrow raised, “can kiss his arse. His Moslem arse.”

  To the Oberst’s credit his only sign of disapproval was a slight tensing of his jaw muscles. Archbishop Kowalski looked like he’d swallowed something that was still moving.

  “I can’t do anything, I’m afraid,” I said with a shrug. “My team’s religious convictions are entirely their own business. Although, I have to say that offering the leader of the Catholic church the opportunity to kiss your backside is a little beyond the pale. We must remember we are representing more than just ourselves here.”

  “Sorry, boss” said Bolt, his expression contrite.

  The Oberst nodded curtly as the Prefect came back into the room.

  “His Holiness is ready,” he said softly.

  “Shall we go in?” I said to my team.

  We formed up and followed the Prefect, the Oberst, and the Secretary into a second room. As we did so, John leaned close and whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

  “You’re being a pain in the arse, Jack.”

  “I know,” I whispered back. “Fun ain’t it?”

  CHAPTER

  7

  The audience chamber seemed to have been designed with two aims in mind. The first was to remind visitors, as forcefully as possible, that one of the people in the room was the Pope, the Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor to the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the State of Vatican City, Servant of the Servants of God. The second was to remind visitors, as forcefully as possible, that they were definitely not the person in the room who was the Pope, the Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor to the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the State of Vatican City, Servant of the Servants of God.