by Siegel, Alex
Norbert had spotted the enemy walking on the street a little earlier. The heathen hadn't even bothered to wear complete disguises. Vanity was one of the seven deadly sins and surely a mark of evil. Norbert had warned Albertus as they had approached the Wrigley Building, giving him time to escape.
Norbert's cover was more mobile. He was dressed as a maintenance worker in the Equitable Building. He went from office to office, pretending to check the thermostats. Of course he spent most of his time looking out the windows. He would find an unused room with a good view and linger for a while before moving on.
He took out his phone and called Father.
"Hello?" Father answered.
"This is Brother Norbert, sir. Two of the enemy slithered out of their hole, just as you predicted. We didn't see where they came out. They're searching for us now."
"Are you in danger?"
"No," Norbert said. "I'm watching them. I want three fully armed squads to meet me here. This is our chance to take a prisoner or two for interrogation."
"Another gun battle in the middle of Chicago? No. We've caused enough alarm. The mess we made in Millennium Park is still national news, and the confrontation at the harbor was icing on the cake. I've received several unpleasant inquiries from the Vatican about the matter. Our friends in Rome aren't pleased with the media coverage. The Brotherhood is supposed to operate covertly, in case you forgot."
"I didn't forget, but..."
"But nothing," Father said. "I can't allow any more public violence. We will lose crucial allies if it happens again. You can have the squads, but follow the enemy. Wait for an opportunity to capture them quietly."
"Yes, sir. I understand."
Chapter Seven
Smythe looked out the rear window of the cab. "I think we're being followed," he said. "Check the blue Corolla. This is the third time I've seen it."
Atalanta sat beside him in the back seat of the cab. "I spotted it five minutes ago."
They were going to the hospital where the injured Brotherhood monks were staying. The trip should've taken ten minutes, but miserable city traffic was stretching that time to half an hour. Fortunately, they were almost there. The cab smelled unpleasantly musty.
"So," Smythe said, "do you want to do something about it?"
Atalanta tapped on the partition separating the front and the back of the cab. "After the next turn, let us out."
"But ma'am," the cabby said, "the hospital is just a couple of minutes away."
"We'll walk."
They were driving through the University of Illinois at Chicago. It was a large, urban campus that mixed traditional and modern architectures. Some of the trees were still budding new leaves, while others had already reached full foliage. Springtime in Chicago was always a dicey proposition for trees. Snowstorms could come as late as April.
The cabby dropped off Smythe and Atalanta on the side of the road. Smythe paid the fare and the cab drove off.
A good number of students were walking on the sidewalks and paths between buildings. Seeing their young faces made Smythe feel old.
"We can't fight them here," he said. "It's too public."
"I know," Atalanta replied sharply.
The blue Corolla came up the street and abruptly stopped about fifty yards away. Smythe and the driver stared at each other. There were three other men with him of various ages. The car made a quick U-turn, accelerated hard, and vanished around the next corner.
"I hate being followed," Atalanta said. "It's embarrassing. Next time we go out, we'll have much better disguises. We were far too careless today."
Smythe didn't consider himself to be the one who was careless. "There's no point in going to the hospital now. It was obvious that was our destination. I'm sure the Brotherhood already moved the injured men to a safe location."
She took out a small notepad and a pen from the pocket of her white coat. She wrote down some numbers.
"What's that?" he said.
"The license plate of that car."
"I must need glasses. I couldn't read the number."
"My eyes are highly focused," she said, "just like my mind. Call headquarters."
He took the notepad and called Edward. Smythe read off the number to him and described the car.
"Hold on," Edward replied.
Atalanta leaned closer so she could hear the response.
"Interesting," Edward said after a minute. "The car is a rental paid for by the Lost Child Initiative."
"The what?" Smythe said.
"I'm checking... It's a Catholic charity that searches for missing children. They claim they've rescued over six hundred so far. There are a lot of pictures of kids on the website. Guess who is listed as number one most wanted."
"Wesley."
"Got it," Edward said. "The Lost Child Initiative must be a cover for the Brotherhood. It's a really good idea. It lets them search for Wesley without seeming like pedophiles."
"And it's a brilliant way to get the public involved," Smythe said, "as well as collect donations. Do they have a local office?"
"Let me see... No office, but there is a representative who works out of her home. Shelly Fernandez. She lives in Oak Park."
"Tell Ethel we're headed there now."
"Not me," Atalanta said. "I've been away from the legate too long. I'm his bodyguard. I need to be back at headquarters."
"How are you getting inside?" Smythe asked.
"I suppose I'll use the underwater hatch again."
"That's a one way exit. If you try to get into headquarters through a back door, the security measures will cut you to pieces no matter how tough you are, and that feature can't be turned off. The system is designed to force intruders through the garage."
"Then I'll use the garage," she said. "The Brotherhood already saw my face, so it doesn't matter if they see it again."
"What if they attack you?"
She smiled. "That would be good."
"You heard her, Edward." He raised his eyebrows. "Atalanta is going to headquarters. I'm going to Oak Park alone."
* * *
The cab dropped Smythe off in front of a green two-story house. The architecture featured thick beams and pillars. Plain, wooden planks framed the windows and doors. A huge oak tree in the front yard cast a shadow across most of the property.
He had changed into a business suit purchased for this visit. The new fabric made his skin itch.
He went to the front door and knocked. A white woman with short, blonde hair answered. She had two rings in her left nostril and tattoos on her arms. She opened the door only a few inches.
"Hello?" she said cautiously.
"Hi." Smythe smiled. "I'm Dennis Fanning. Is there a Shelly Fernandez here?"
The woman turned around and yelled. "Shells! A man wants to talk to you!" She closed the door.
Another woman opened it again a moment later. She had light brown skin and a beautiful complexion. Her dark hair was short to the point of being boyish. She wore a loose, blue jeans shirt.
"You're looking for me?"
"Ms. Fernandez?" Smythe said. "I'm here about the Lost Child Initiative."
Her stance softened. "What about it?"
"I want to make a large donation, but first I need to be convinced you're a worthy charity. May I come in?"
"Please!" She eagerly opened the door.
He stepped inside and recoiled when the sharp odor of cats hit him. Somewhere there was a litter box or two that desperately needed to be cleaned.
In the front room there was a tall carpeted scratching post and cat toys on the floor. However, the cats had decided that a red couch and a matching chair were the best toys of all. The upholstery was shredded, exposing foam padding underneath.
"So," Smythe said, "tell me more about the Lost Child Initiative. How does it work?"
"We're a national network of volunteers," Shelly said. "People send us tips about missing children, and we investigate."
"How do people know abo
ut you?"
"We buy ads in newspapers and put up posters. We have meetings. We get the word out any way we can within our limited budget."
He nodded. "Let's say you get a tip. What's the next step?"
"We usually send a team of two or three people to check it out. If the tip looks good, we call the professionals."
"Like who?"
"The police or the FBI," she said. "We also use special investigators for tough cases. We don't give up until the child is rescued."
"You rely entirely on tips?"
"Of course our volunteers always have their eyes open. They usually carry what we call a 'hot sheet.' It shows lost children who might be in the area."
"Do you have one?" he asked. "Can I see?"
She took a folded sheet of photo paper from her pocket and gave it to him. There were thirty pictures of children, each with a name and a brief description. The first picture was a beautifully drawn sketch of Wesley done in colored pencil. There was no name under it.
Smythe pointed at the picture of Wesley. "That kid has no name?"
"We just have a description," Shelly said. "We've been looking for him since the L.C.I. was founded, and we just don't want to give up. I guess you could say he's the poster child for the entire Initiative. Keep the sheet. I have plenty of copies."
Smythe put the sheet in his pocket. "Your website states you're a Catholic charity."
"I suppose that's true but we don't get any money from the Church. We depend entirely on volunteers and donations from people like you. We certainly don't discriminate based on religion. On the other hand, most of the volunteers are Catholic."
"Why?"
"A priest began the Initiative seven years ago as a personal project. He was one of the Vatican clergymen at the time. A couple of years later he emigrated to the United States, and that's when the Initiative really took off. We've been amazingly successful. You can't imagine how good it feels when a lost child is finally found. I walk on clouds for a month."
He smiled. "That's great. I'd love to meet this priest. He sounds like an amazing man."
"Sorry." Shelly shook her head. "Father Wulfram retired last year. He doesn't speak to visitors anymore. I guess he has health problems. He's very old."
"Oh. That's a shame. Let's talk about my donation. The best way to handle a large transaction is a wire transfer, so I can show the receipt to the IRS. Could you give me the name and number of your accountant? He can tell me where to wire the money."
"Um, sure." She went to another room. A moment later she came back with a piece of paper. "This is what I have."
He took the paper and shook her hand. "It was a pleasure meeting you. I'll be sure to mention your name when I make the donation. Thanks for your time."
He walked out of the house. As soon as he stepped outside, he took a deep breath of air free of cat stink.
He went down the block and called Edward on the phone.
"Any luck, sir?" Edward said.
"Some," Smythe said. "The Lost Child Initiative was started by a guy named Father Wulfram. Former Vatican clergyman. He must have ties to the Brotherhood."
"I already came across his name in my own research. He could be the mastermind behind the whole thing."
"I also know the Initiative's accounting firm. It's a New York outfit. Maybe you can break into their computers and get some dirt." Smythe read the paper Shelly had given him.
"That's useful, sir," Edward said.
"I'm coming back to headquarters now."
"How are you getting in?"
"Through the front door," Smythe said. "Atalanta did it, so I will too. Hopefully, I won't get my head shot off. Just make sure you don't keep me waiting outside for long."
"Yes, sir," Edward replied in an anxious tone.
* * *
Aaron woke up. He checked his watch and saw that he had slept for six hours. He was hungry.
He made no noise as he stood up. Ethel had thoroughly trained him to be stealthy at all times. He walked to the back of the house to check on Marina, and he found her lying on the floor with her feet against the back door. Nobody could enter without bumping her. Good, he thought. He decided to let her sleep a little longer.
Aaron tried to find Yvonne and Wesley, and this task proved more challenging. Aaron went through the entire house twice before he finally discovered them sleeping under the bed in the smaller of two bedrooms. Yvonne had a pistol on the floor an inch from her hand.
With her skinny body and frizzy hair, she seemed harmless enough. He couldn't imagine her as a feared legionnaire and one of God's most elite warriors. Aaron decided to test her.
He silently reached for the gun. Before he could touch it, Yvonne's hand gripped his wrist and her eyes flicked opened. As she stared at him, he glimpsed the fierce fighter within her, but then her crippling apprehension returned.
"Is it time to get up?" she said timidly.
"Yeah. We should get moving."
Aaron woke up Marina. They put together a meal from what little food they could find. He left two hundred dollars in cash on the counter to repay the owners of the house for their hospitality.
Everybody sat around the kitchen table and dined on corn flakes, canned beans, tuna fish, and sauerkraut. Aaron was reminded of bad camping trips he had endured as a child.
"Let's discuss transportation," he said. "We need a van to carry ourselves and all of our stuff to St. Louis."
"Do you want to steal one?" Marina said.
"I don't like the idea of driving a stolen vehicle across the country. If just one state trooper runs the license plate number through his computer, we've got problems."
"We could change the plates."
"I have a less risky idea," he said. "Let's rent a van. We brought all kinds of false identification and credit cards. We might as well use them."
She snorted. "Too easy."
"There isn't a rule that everything has to be hard. It just seems like it. Yvonne, I want you to get the van. Take a cab to the nearest car rental agency."
"Me?" Yvonne opened her eyes very wide. "Alone?"
"I'm not asking you to conquer an enemy fortress," he said. "All you have to do is fill out some paperwork and drive the van back here."
She gnawed her lip.
Wesley put his hand on hers. "Aaron isn't asking for too much."
She looked at him with an anxious expression.
"Please," he said. "For me."
"But I'll be outside by myself for a long time."
"Imagine how proud you'll feel when you get back. It will be like winning a battle. Do you want that?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"Fear is just an emotion. It can't hurt you."
She rubbed her eyes and sniffed. After a long hesitation she said, "OK, I'll go."
"Thank you." He smiled at her.
They finished their humble meal. Marina used the house phone to summon a cab while Yvonne changed into civilian clothes. She put on a yellow, summer dress that matched the color of her hair. White tennis shoes completed the appearance of girlish innocence. Aaron found some cash for her, a fake driver's license with her picture, and a matching credit card.
The cab arrived a few minutes later. Yvonne stood at the front door, unwilling to go outside until Wesley gave her a push. He closed the door behind her.
"Wesley," Aaron said, "we need to talk."
"About what?" Wesley said.
He sat on a couch in the living room. Aaron stood and tried to figure out how to explain his concerns in a way an eight year old might understand. Marina watched from across the room.
"I know you're trying to help," Aaron said. "You did a good job with Yvonne. But I'm the leader of this team, and it would be best if you let me handle things."
Wesley looked at him with those hypnotic blue eyes. "Why are you the leader?"
"Because the legate said so."
"But Yvonne is smarter and stronger than you."
That response caught Aaron off
guard. "You just like her more."
"I always tell the truth."
"Yvonne won't even go outside without being nudged," Aaron said.
"I'll fix her," Wesley said calmly. "You'll see. She'll be great again."
"Oh? Ethel has been trying to 'fix' her for years without any luck. What chance do you have?"
Wesley stared at him silently. Aaron turned to Marina, who just shrugged.
Aaron took a deep breath. He was learning that arguing with the boy was like swimming in quicksand.
"Forget it," Aaron said. "Do what you want with Yvonne. You can't make her any worse. Let's just get our stuff organized so we can go."
* * *
Yvonne returned a half-hour later. When she handed the cars keys to Aaron, she smiled like she had won the lottery. He had never seen her so happy. He hated to admit it, but maybe Wesley had scored a point this time.
They loaded all the gear into the back of the van. It was white, boxy, and unremarkable, exactly what Aaron wanted in transportation. He was glad to see that the vehicle came equipped with a navigation system. He set it for St. Louis. After everybody was seated, he drove off.
Chapter Eight
Smythe stood in front of the garage door entrance on Lower Wacker. He faced the street, slowly raised both his middle fingers, and held them high for the benefit of the Brotherhood spies. If he were going to die, he wanted to do it in style. No sniper bullet struck him though. He turned around and went into headquarters.
He passed through the garage and entered the lobby with its white walls and bright lights. As usual Jack was in the security booth behind thick, reinforced glass. He worked extra shifts almost every day without ever taking a vacation. Smythe didn't understand how Jack could do it without going insane.
"There is a meeting in the conference room, sir," Jack said. "You're invited." He buzzed the door.
Smythe made his way to the conference room. Ethel, Atalanta, and the legate were already there. It felt weird having meetings without Aaron and Marina. Smythe wondered what they were up to. Probably relaxing on their nice, little vacation, he thought.
Atalanta stood in the corner where she could watch all the doors. Ethel and the legate faced each other across the broad oak table. It was a gorgeous piece of furniture made of thick planks that ran the full length of the long table. A pattern of swords and shields was carved into the edge all the way around.
