Patriot Dream

by Stephen Templin

  The four men strolled through the garage and passed a trio of blazing Italian beauties. “Bada-bing, bada-boom,” Max said within earshot of the team but out of earshot of the ladies.

  “A lot of moustaches and not a lot of trimming,” Sonny said.

  “Have you been with an Italian woman?” Max asked.

  “No,” Sonny said.

  Max rolled his eyes. “That says a lot.”

  Unusual for Sonny, he had no comeback.

  They split up in pairs at the garage entrance—Max and Chris were one pair and Sonny and Tom were the other—so they wouldn’t look conspicuous with all four of them together. Soon Chris and Max strolled past shops and gelati stands, pretending to be tourists. When they neared Vatican City, Chris eyed five light blue subcompact cars, each with the word POLIZIA written under a white stripe. Three of the Italian national police cars were parked east of Largo del Colonnato Street, the Italian side of the border, and two were parked to the west, on the Vatican side. Vatican City was the smallest country in the world, and its head of state was the pope.

  Italian police officers on both sides of the border wore dark blue shirts and gray trousers. The policemen and their vehicles on the Vatican City side were there by a long-standing agreement between the two nations, but their authority extended only as far as the Vatican allowed.

  Sonny remained on the Rome side of the border as Tom entered Vatican City to the right and passed through a security x-ray machine. Meanwhile, Chris and Max were screened by security to the left before they entered Piazza San Pietro—Saint Peter’s Square. Chris didn’t know what Minotaur looked like, but he scanned the square for telltale signs of professional surveillance, such as someone with a preoccupation with videotaping security personnel—or someone focusing on tactical positions for hitting the pope. But he spotted no one out of the ordinary. An expert such as Minotaur would make his operational behavior appear natural. Finding him seemed impossible, and Chris was frustrated.

  Entering Vatican City, Chris continued to blend in with the other tourists. In the center of Saint Peter’s Square, bronze lions hefted a red granite obelisk, a sun dial that towered over a hundred feet tall. Chris used his smartphone to take pictures of Max in front of it.

  Two water fountains flanked the obelisk, and to the outside of them stood four rows of columns in half circles. Above the columns rested more than a hundred statues of religious figures. The whole plaza was laid out in smiting symmetry. Chris took more pictures. The photos helped his cover as a tourist and created a reconnaissance record that he and his crew could study later.

  “Do the fountains work?” Max asked.

  “Vatican turn off because of drought,” a stout woman said with an Italian accent.

  Max nodded.

  Chris and Max strolled over cobblestones and travertine. A Vatican City police officer in his black trousers and white shirt helped a tourist. Chris and Max passed a couple of nuns and others and approached Saint Peter’s Basilica, towering at four hundred and forty-eight feet. Statues of Jesus Christ and his apostles adorned the top of the façade in front of the basilica’s dome.

  A clean-shaven man jabbered on his cell phone and, without seeming to pay attention to the people around him, backed into Chris. He grabbed Chris’s arm, and his leg tangled with Chris’s, almost knocking him off balance.

  Chris twisted his arm away from the man on the phone and backed away from him, creating immediate distance. Max turned and gave Cell Phone the evil eye.

  Meanwhile, someone else bumped into Chris from behind, but it didn’t stop there—his hand fished into Chris’s front pocket, where his wallet was stashed. Either this was a pickpocket or someone worse.

  Chris grabbed the pickpocket’s hand, pulled it out of his pocket, firmly pressed the base of his thumb knuckle at an angle, turned toward the thief, and caught a glimpse of his moustache before twisting his hand into a wristlock. Chris continued to twist and turn until Thief faced away from him. With one hand still holding Thief in a wristlock, Chris used his other hand to push the man’s elbow at an angle.

  Now Thief had a choice. He could stand his ground and end up with a broken wrist and elbow, or he could go with the flow of Chris’s twisting and turning and kiss the cobblestones. Thief chose the latter and gave the concrete a smack. A pair of wallets and a purse spilled onto the ground beside him.

  A woman pointed at the purse and shouted in fluent English, “That’s my purse!”

  His forehead bleeding, Thief struggled to his feet, left the wallets and purse, and staggered away. Cell Phone, who was probably an accomplice to distract Chris, maintained his composure and walked away, still on his phone.

  The woman who’d told Max about the drought chased after Thief, pointing at him. “He stole my purse!”

  The police officer stopped helping the tourist trio and chased after Thief, who took flight. Meanwhile, Cell Phone continued his leisurely pace.

  Chris took photos of Thief and Cell Phone.

  Max pointed to the top of the building to the right of Saint Peter’s Square and Basilica. “On Sundays, the pope speaks from his apartment there. It’d take a sniper rifle to reach him, but that’d be a bulky weapon to sneak in and out of here, and firing it would make some noise.”

  Chris took another photo. “If Minotaur were using BK-16, I’d expect him to engage the pope up close and personal. But we took his BK-16 and destroyed the lab.”

  “He might still try for up close and personal,” Max said.

  “Tomorrow or the next Wednesday,” Chris added.

  “I’d guess sooner rather than later. And we’ll be here, ready.” Max took out his phone and examined the screen. A look of surprise crossed his face.

  “What is it?” Chris asked.

  Max’s look of surprise transformed into a smile. “A license to kill.”

  “Willy?”

  “He says kill or capture Minotaur—it’s official. He’s sent a physical description and photos.”

  Chris was elated. “Now we know who we’re hunting.”

  “Tomorrow’s security will be locked and loaded,” Max said. “Won’t be able to take in weapons.”

  “Two of us can go in unarmed, and two of us can stand nearby with concealed weapons as a quick reactionary force.”

  Max nodded. “Tom and I are used to working together, and you and Sonny have experience with each other, too—those will be the best pairings.”

  Chris nodded. “Tomorrow, we’ll kill Minotaur.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Early Wednesday morning, Max and the others drove into the heart of Rome. After parking, Chris and Sonny hid their weapons in the door compartments, while Max and Tom retained theirs. They exited the vehicle and went on foot to Vatican City. Max could feel his breath speeding up on him, so he took deep breaths to decelerate it.

  Max and his brother remained on the Rome side of the border, their Glock pistols concealed under their clothing. They pretended to be interested in souvenirs, but they kept careful watch of their surroundings.

  Security was tighter now, and Chris and Sonny lined up to pass through security and into Vatican City. Waves of people filled the boulevard, and soon the waves washed over the two men, hiding them from Max’s view. He scanned for Minotaur but couldn’t spot him.

  For two and a half hours the line of visitors moved slowly, advancing into Vatican City. More than twenty thousand people poured into the square, and security stopped allowing people in.

  From the Rome side, Max could see a pair of jumbotrons that broadcast live video of a priest reading out names of groups in attendance for today’s event. The list seemed to go on ad nauseam.

  Then Pope Francis rode into St. Peter’s Square on his Popemobile. A children’s choir sang “Ave Maria,” and an ecstatic crowd drowned out their little voices.

  Max continued to fake interest in souvenirs at a nearby stand when a physically fit man caught his eye. Other people were happy and excited, but this guy wasn’t joining
in the lovefest. Max looked for signs of a concealed weapon printing its shape in his clothing but couldn’t spot one. Max watched his hands to see if they reached for a weapon. “See the grumpy athletic guy with the mushroom hairstyle loitering near the gelati stand?” he whispered.

  Tom pretended to examine keychains with pictures of the pope. “Hang on.” He shifted his attention to keychains with Saint Peter’s Basilica on them. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “What’s he doing there?”

  “Doesn’t seem interested in the gelati,” Tom said. “What about the well-built guy in the red shirt—standing near him?”

  “Are they together?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Mushroom spoke with Red.

  Max answered his own question: “Looks like they are.”

  Red glanced down at his own hip as if he was concerned whether or not his concealed weapon was showing.

  A young carabinieri approached Red. The carabinieri wore confidence and alertness with his camouflage uniform and navy blue beret. He was part of a military police unit that had civilian authority, the national gendarmerie of Italy, roughly similar to the FBI in the US. Max wondered if he, too, had picked up on the significance of Red’s glance. Sometimes Max could pinpoint what didn’t fit, but other times he only felt it, and he didn’t know why.

  Mushroom and Red turned away from the young carabinieri and Saint Peter’s Square. They hustled along the cobblestone road that was Via della Conciliazione, closed to public vehicles but not pedestrians.

  The young carabinieri picked up his pace and followed.

  Tom stepped away from the souvenir stand. “That carabinieri is going to need help.”

  All hell was about to break loose, and Max’s breaths became shorter and fleeting. “We don’t know where Minotaur is yet.”

  Tom walked in the carabinieri’s direction. “The carabinieri needs our help,” he repeated.

  Max followed. Tom sped up. Max did, too.

  The carabinieri called out to Mushroom and Red in Italian. He didn’t wait for a response before he called out in English: “Just a minute, I want to talk with you.”

  Mushroom and Red ignored him and kept going.

  “Stop, police!” the carabinieri called out in English.

  Some bystanders avoided the policeman, giving him a wide berth. Others stopped and rubbernecked. A pair of twenty-somethings whipped out their phones and filmed the action, probably to post to their social media accounts.

  Mushroom and Red dashed away and ducked into a small street to the left. The carabinieri turned the corner after them.

  Shit.

  Max and Tom sprinted around the corner. Two four-story buildings shaded the narrow cobblestone street, which was only wide enough for one car, but a barricade prevented vehicles from entering. Instead, about three dozen people occupied the alley; some looked lost, some shopped, some walked, and some were sitting down. Mushroom and Red stopped, spun around, and blasted Beretta 9mm pistols at the carabinieri.

  Pedestrians screamed, scattered, collapsed, and froze. One round struck Max in the shoulder like someone had stabbed him with a hot knife. The carabinieri returned fire with a Beretta and took down Red, but the officer went down, too. Then Mushroom moved in as if about to finish off the carabinieri.

  Max drew his pistol, and Tom did, too, but Tom was in Max’s line of fire, and he couldn’t shoot Mushroom without shooting Tom. Max took a step to the side.

  Pop, pop, pop! Tom shot Mushroom, and he fell.

  Boom! The sound came from behind Max. He felt as if he’d been struck in the back by a car, but he thought the place had been barricaded from vehicles entering. Max did a belly-flop on the street. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t get up. He didn’t know if he was stunned, paralyzed, or dying. The warmth of oozing blood spread across his back, and his vision of the cobblestones beneath him blurred and shrank. Someone with heavy footsteps passed him from behind and pumped a shotgun.

  “Max!” Tom yelled before he got off a shot: Pop!

  Max could hear, and he strained his neck up to see.

  Boom!

  Tom’s chest erupted in blood, and he landed on his back. A monstrous man armed with a sawed-off shotgun spit tobacco juice. He closed in and aimed at Tom’s head.

  Tommy! Max’s pistol was in his hand, and he pointed it at the center of the monstrous man’s head and pulled the trigger. A chunk of the top of the monster’s head and a burst of blood flew through the air. He toppled over like a stone statue.

  Max crawled to his brother. “Ungh.” His life light was fading fast. He knew he wouldn’t survive a trip to Naples and therefore needed a nearby hospital, but he didn’t want civilian doctors and nurses to discover his weapon and alert the police. He was too weak now to use it, anyway. He looked for a sewer to ditch it in, but he didn’t spot one. He reached the fallen monster and slipped his pistol underneath him. Then Max stripped off his belt and ammo and stuck it under the man, too. He didn’t have the energy to wipe the fingerprints.

  People cried and shouted, and sirens blared. Someone took pictures. The narrow street was chaotic. Max was dying, but his mind became consumed with his brother’s safety. He reached Tom, who’d crawled to the carabinieri and deposited his gun and other kit with the motionless soldier. His younger brother was like him, and it made his heart proud.

  Max wheezed. “The Canadian Embassy is three hundred meters from here.”

  Tom was a bloody mess, and his breathing was labored: “I can’t make it three hundred meters.”

  “You don’t look bad,” Max lied.

  Police rushed into the alley yelling in Italian. People shouted in Italian, English, French, and other languages. It was pandemonium.

  Tom was right—neither of them could make it to the Canadian Embassy. But Max didn’t want to be arrested, either. Max and Tom crawled to the side of the street and collapsed. They couldn’t crawl anymore.

  A young woman sat next to them in tears. “It all happened so fast,” she cried in French.

  The color bled out of the world, and the edges of Max’s vision darkened. The circle of light shrank tighter and tighter. Pretending he was a civilian, he asked her in French, “Are you okay?”

  She looked at him with the face of his deceased mother. She was so young. “Oui,” she said.

  “I thought they were going to kill us,” Max said, before turning to check on his brother.

  Tom closed his eyes and sank to the pavement.

  Max wanted to say, Stay with me, Tommy. But he didn’t know if the words came out of his mouth. His vision became a pinhole, and it was too taxing to try and see anymore. Then all went black.

  “Rest, honey,” his mother’s voice said.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Wednesday morning dawned cool, but Chris burned with a fever to kill. In Terminal Gianicolo, he paired up with Sonny, and Max took Tom as his buddy. When they reached the border, Max and Tom stayed on the Rome side, and Chris and Sonny queued up to enter Vatican City. Chris glanced at his watch: 6:47 a.m.

  At the front of the line stood eight carabinieri. Chris hadn’t seen them yesterday, and he wondered if this was standard for Wednesday morning, or if it was something new. The line grew and grew, but the carabinieri weren’t letting visitors pass. Ironically, some people tried to cut in line to attend this holy event, but other visitors yelled at them in gesturing Italian, multiple varieties of English, and a Slavic language. The cheaters retreated.

  For the next two and a half hours of waiting in line, Chris thought of finding Minotaur and killing him—roundhouse punch to the temple, snapping his neck, or a vicious curb stomp. He scanned the area for Minotaur or his men but couldn’t ID them. The crowd was so thick that when he looked back, he couldn’t even see Max or Tom.

  At 8:29, a carabinieri started checking tickets, two others examined bags, and another waved his handheld metal detector over people. The line advanced slowly. An Asian family didn’t have tickets, and a carabinieri waved
them away, denying them admission.

  Chris took his turn in line and showed his ticket. The carabinieri studied it and waved him through the first checkpoint. A carabinieri with a thin Spanish-style beard turned away a white couple who had tickets but were underdressed in their shorts and tank tops.

  “Dumbasses,” Sonny muttered.

  Admitted were ticket-toting visitors who wore conservative clothing that didn’t expose their skin: men in pants and short-sleeved shirts and women in pants, capris, dresses and skirts covering their knees, and short-sleeved blouses. Chris and Sonny were dressed appropriately, too, wearing tan slacks and polo shirts. Even so, the tension of the undecided fueled his fever. Will we make it through? Because he didn’t have a bag, he was swept with the wand and expeditiously admitted—so was Sonny.

  The race was on. A red-haired priest, two laughing nuns, a group of people wearing matching yellow T-shirts, and a slew of others dashed past thousands of chairs lined in rows to get to the front seats in St. Peter’s Square. Chris and Sonny jogged to chairs in an aisle near the center, giving them a tactical view of the square, basilica, and jumbotrons.

  The square rapidly filled to over twenty thousand people, and a priest moseyed over to the microphone at the top of the steps in front of the basilica and began reading names of groups attending. The atmosphere was festive, but Chris wasn’t smiling. Neither was Sonny, which was often his nature, and there was no changing that. Two grumpy men in good physical shape were sure to set off the spider senses of the pope’s security team. Even if Vatican City security personnel didn’t notice them, Minotaur or one of his clan might. Chris tried to lose his frown, but he was still angry and bitter over Hannah’s death, and there was no faking it.

  He tried to remember something positive. In Washington, DC, he’d floated in a white swan boat with Hannah on the Tidal Basin, and white cherry blossoms glided through the air. Their beauty was silken and vibrant, without regret. Down came the petals—warriors falling in battle—magnificent and glorious. Like soldiers, the cherry blossoms came and went with the fleetingness of dreams. Like Hannah. They lived as they died and died as they lived. The blossoms covered Potomac Park as if they were white markers in the field of Arlington Cemetery. Such markers might fade, but the sacrifices lived on. Chris still couldn’t smile, but some of the burden on his heart lifted, and his frown dissolved.