by Declan Finn
She flipped open Under His Very Windows, and went directly for the index. Not long after, she also performed a few computer searches with her laptop. By the end of the flight, she had a small biography of Monsignor John Patrick Carroll-Abbing, founder of the Boys Towns of Italy, the oldest American charity abroad.
Carroll-Abbing… Vatican diplomat… worked World War II in the Vatican… hid Jews and escaped POWs …set up first-aid stations between the front lines and Rome, evacuated the sick and wounded, and rescued children and old people from the battle zones.
When she was done, all McGrail could think was, Okay, great, and Father Harrington was with him all the way. How is that a reason to kill Harrington?
* * *
Wilhelmina Goldberg looked over the food set down on the table, and was surprised to see that the entire meal was kosher. The lasagna was vegetable, the meatballs were in a separate bowl, and in a country where the most popular fish food consisted of things that slithered or scavenged to survive, almost all of it was edible.
“My compliments to the chef,” she muttered. The Secret Service agent leaned back in her chair, angling it to better face the other American. “So, Ryan, what exactly are you doing here with the priests and the nuns?”
Sean Ryan sipped a glass of white wine, gently holding the class. “Aside from self-defense?”
The Pope smiled. “This is why you were invited for lunch, Mr. Ryan. Special Agent Goldberg is here for a security audit, and you are a part of that.”
“Yep,” Goldberg agreed. “Basically, we’re considering using the priests and nuns you train as a roaming assault team. However, if they suck at it, I can’t take them into account.”
Sean nodded slowly. “Basically, I’m teaching them Krav Maga lite.”
Abasi gave a light cough into a cloth napkin. “I did not know you were interested in Israeli martial arts.”
Sean smiled. “It’s almost standard now for anyone in the business of violence — all the fashionable alphabet-soup agencies use it. It’s also nonlethal — for the most part. Mostly what I teach is improvisation and spotting threats, building up speed and reflexes.”
Sean looked around the table, trying to spot something useful. He smiled, got up from the chair, and went over to a bookcase. Mounted on the wall were two long rosaries; one of them had beads literally a half an inch around, with more than fifty different beads. He slipped it from the wall, then dangled it in from of him.
“Now, one of these is something you’d see wrapped around the waist of a monk — or a Dominican. This is heavy enough to use as a morningstar. The small beads can be used as a whip or a rake, or even makeshift brass knuckles.” He draped it over the back of the chair, then slipped back into his seat. “Basically, something even the little old men can use.”
Hashim Abasi chuckled lightly, leaning back in his chair, sipping from his glass of water. “I’m curious. What do your parents think of all this? I have trouble believing that they wanted you to be a mercenary when you grew up.”
Sean’s smiled dimmed a little. “My mother and grandfather are fine with it. My father? Eh, who cares?” He grabbed his glass again. “You’ve ever heard of Clarence Ryan?”
Goldberg laughed. “Oh, him.” She looked at Giovanni Figlia’s blank stare. “He’s one of these American Leftist nuts who thinks Castros was too moderate. Or every president from Carter to Clinton has been bought and paid for by some corporation or another. Real nutjob. I—” She paused, then looked over at Sean. “You’re kidding? You’re his son?”
“Only biologically,” Sean replied, taking a long sip. “I consider my grandfather my dad.” He gave a small smile. “Hell, my grandfather sided with his daughter-in-law against his own son. My grandfather taught me terms like duty, honor, and country. Then, he’s a World War II vet, he should know. Though he spent much of his time wondering how he had failed to raise Clarence like a human being.” He shrugged.
Abasi leaned forward, intrigued. “And what did your grandfather do during the war?”
Sean shrugged. “Killed a few people. Won a few awards. He told some war stories, but not nearly enough to cover his time in the war. So he either did more secret squirrel stuff than I can imagine, or they stuck him on a desk when they found out he was too young to be enlisted.”
Pius XIII cocked his head at Sean. “Too young?”
Sean gave the Pope a little smile. “Let’s just say that Granddad was eager to join the fight. He was just big enough to pass for 18. He grew up in the Midwest, had a rifle since he was seven, and figured that anything after that was just a small upgrade.”
The short Secret Service Agent cocked her head at him. “So, homicidal tendencies skip a generation?”
Sean chuckled. “Indeed? Whatever could you mean?”
“I heard stories about you.”
Sean laughed. “Oh, they’re probably all true.”
“Like how you blew up a house because a dozen gunmen came after your client?” Goldberg asked.
“I didn’t blow it up,” Sean murmured, “I set it on fire.”
Figlia laughed. “I prefer the story of how he bombed parts of Harvard to protect a student hunted by terrorists.”
He smiled at the pope. “Patently untrue — I only used bullets.”
* * *
By the time the Pope had more than bent the ears of his guests about North and South Sudan, and Wilhelmina Goldberg yawned for the third time, Pius said, “Tired?”
“More than a little. I think I set my biological clock the wrong way.”
He laughed. “If there’s any place to fix that, it’s Italy. If the Europeans wonder why America has such a good economy, they should stop sleeping in the middle of work, yes?” He reached over and patted Father Frank on the back. “Frank can take you to your hotel.”
Figlia was about to say something when the Pope cut him off. “Go see Ronnie. We can talk later. Yousef and Gerrity aren’t going to rise anytime soon, and if they do, then a homicide investigation isn’t necessary — the world’s about to end.”
Figlia smiled slightly at the Pope’s odd religious humor. “Io ho capisco.”
His Holiness smiled. “Good. You’re not doing anything I wouldn’t approve of, are you?”
He grinned. “Of course, not Your Holiness. We’re married, what do you expect?”
“More children, of course.”
* * *
Pope Pius XIII sunk into his desk chair after the three professional security officers departed, led by Father Frank.
Once Auxiliary Bishop Xavier O’Brien came back into the room, the Pope smiled at him. “So, XO,” the Pope asked, “do you think they bought it?”
Bishop O’Brien shook his head as he settled into the chair in front of the Pope’s desk. “Not entirely. We’re the Catholic Church. Enough people think we’re run by pedophiles and misogynists that we’re automatically evil, no matter how much proof we can fabricate to the contrary. Heh.”
Pius smiled briefly. “I just wish we didn’t have to tell them about Yousef.”
“They would have found out about him sooner or later,” O’Brien told him. “We still would have had to deal with it, only on their terms, not ours. This way, we managed to hand them a reason.” XO took a brief drag on his cigarette. “They’re in good hands with Frank. He’ll take care of them. He’s taken care of everything we’ve given him so far.”
Chapter IX: A Pius Operative
Father Francis Williams led the American and the Egyptian over the gray stone streets of Rome leading out of St. Peter’s Square, and was immediately picked up by one of two spies. Scott Murphy was intent on hanging back by at least two blocks. He was relatively certain he knew where they were going, since he had already called into Tel Aviv and had their computer- systems people find out what rooms they were in at the Emmanus hotel.
Murphy paused and waited just inside the wall of the Vatican.
This was lucky for him, because Special Agent Goldberg looked over her shoulder
, as though she felt she was being watched. However, it was two in the afternoon in Italy. The street behind her was vacant.
Goldberg shook off the feeling. I’ve been around Abasi too often today. She spared the Egyptian a glance, and found him also looking over his shoulder.
Father Frank smiled. “Uncomfortable that I met one of your murder victims?”
Abasi laughed as he turned back to face the priest. “No, I do this all the time. I don’t know what Agent Goldberg’s excuse is.”
“Call me Villie.” She looked at Father Frank. “So, what are you going to do now that you’ve lost your assigned convert?”
The silver-hair priest shrugged. “That was only one day a week; surely you must have guessed I have other duties. Right now, I have tours to give, and people to escort.” The priest smiled at both of them a little shyly.
“Sure, you don’t think we need protectin’, now do ya?” Abasi said in a surprisingly good imitation of an Irish brogue.
Both Frank and Goldberg stopped to look at him. Abasi shrugged. “My wife was Irish.”
The Secret Service Agent and the priest exchanged a glance. She said, “Yeah, I know. I would so like to hear that story.”
Abasi frowned thoughtfully. He debated telling them at least parts of the story. After all, who would they tell? The beginning of the tale most people found amusing and entertaining.
“Hey, Father faggot!”
The three travelers forgot the brogue and turned. Ahead of them, on the way to the hotel, were a troop of six young adults with “Occupy” t-shirts and bottles of beer in their hands.
Goldberg rolled her eyes. Drunk Americans in Rome, Adonai save us. Why couldn’t they at least be French?
“May I help any of you?” Father Frank said.
The teenager in front pointed and said, “Yeah, you can die, you baby rapist.”
It was Frank’s turn to roll his eyes. The teenagers stopped about five feet away from him. The leader took a step forward, and pulled out a gun from the small of his back. The gun was halfway up when Father Frank stepped forward, grabbed it with his right hand and twisted the gun away. He pistol-whipped the thug across the face, backhanded, and sent him staggering back.
Father Frank tossed the gun to the other hand, ejecting the magazine into his right. He leaned his head slightly back and to one side, saying to Abasi and Goldberg, “Please, the both of you, get back. I would hate to see a stray bullet strike you.”
Goldberg frowned, confused. “There’s five of them.”
“Six,” the fallen one muttered as he tried to rise. “And we’re going to get you and your friends, you—”
“They are with me,” Father Frank said firmly, his voice not rising. “My flock is not to be touched.”
There was the flick of a knife blade opening.
Father Frank nodded, and threw the gun magazine like a shuriken, hitting one of them in the temple. In the same motion, Frank dropped to one knee and fired the bullet in the chamber an inch to the right of the leader’s skull; he wisely stayed down. The priest grabbed the grip and the slide, and then pulled the two of them apart, throwing each piece as a separate weapon. The disconnected grip hit one in the forehead and the barrel struck another behind the ear as he tried to run.
The remaining two only managed to get one step forward. The first one didn’t even see his attacker, until the diminutive Wilhelmina Goldberg punched him directly in the groin. Hashim Abasi lashed out with one, simple, open-palmed right cross, dropping the last attacker to the ground.
Father Frank rose and dusted a little dirt from the knees of his pants. “Well, I am sorry for that. I generally do not have parishioners attacked merely for being around me.”
Wilhelmina Goldberg looked down at the one she felled, shrugged, and kicked him where she had first punched him. She looked at Frank. “We’re not Catholic.”
“You’re in my current parish; you’re my parishioners.”
“Where did you learn to do those combat moves?”
Father Frank smiled. “I wasn’t always a priest. Let us get you back to your hotel.”
When they were fifteen feet away from the fallen teens, there was another cry.
“I’m not done with you yet!”
The three of them gave a collective sigh and turned. The initial instigator stood, knife in hand. Abasi grabbed the priest’s shoulder. “I can do this.”
There was a loud snap, and the thug cried out. He fell to the ground, revealing a short, dark-haired Sean Ryan standing behind him. “Father,” he said with mock-chastisement in his voice, “what have I told you about leaving people mobile?”
“I’m sorry, Sean,” Frank replied. “I’m unused to hurting people anymore. I gave up that profession.”
“Pity. You’re so good at it.” Sean looked over the mess of bodies on the ground. All of them were broken, unconscious, or in pain. One was on his hands and knees, trying to get up, and Sean merely kneed him in the head. “Damnit, now I’m going to have to bring these guys into the police.” Sean looked up. “Aren’t you glad I wanted to ask you something about your schedule next week? Otherwise, you’d have to wait for the cops yourself.”
Scott Murphy, well over a block away, smiled, taking notes in his head.
* * *
Vatican crime-scene analyst Veronica Fisher scanned the analysis reports from the hotel room. It was odd: the killer had first assassinated Gerrity, then moved into the room, and then apparently stopped to make a phone call. Why did Clementi, the assassin, stay in the room? Clementi could have shot the scholar and left, but he deliberately moved inside the room, cart and all, and dialed his cell phone.
Fisher frowned again, flipping back to the explosives report. The lab had estimated the composition of the explosive, and how much force it had generated. She did a few quick calculations based on the landing site of Clementi’s body. The force of the blast, the condition of his body, plus his relation to the window indicated that he was standing in front of the desk — more precisely, in front of the foot well in the desk. Which meant he was looking at something on the desk. The laptop?
Fisher frowned and flipped back to the results on the computer. It had been thoroughly smashed, and there was no hope in hell of getting any results back anytime soon. “Damn it!”
“Be careful when you say that around here. Someone may take you up on it.”
She looked up into her husband’s face, grinning broadly. “When did you get in?”
“I’ve been here for a while,” Figlia answered. “Going over this morning’s… what would you call it?”
“A hit?” Fisher tossed the report on the desk and ran her fingers through her light brown hair. “Yeah, well, I’m still trying to figure this out. I think he was looking at something on Gerrity’s computer.”
Figlia tried not to laugh. “Can I get a hello first?”
She paused for a moment, stood, leaned over her desk — giving him a very nice view — and kissed him on the cheek before sitting down.
He arched his brows. “Only on the cheek?”
“No more than that while in the Vatican, wise guy. I don’t care if we’re married.”
Figlia took a deep breath. There went his siesta plans. This day was only getting longer. He glanced at the report. “He was searching the laptop?”
Fisher shook her head. “He was blown directly out the window, which meant he was standing too far away from the computer at the time to do that, unless he had Inspector Gadget arms. It had to be something on the computer screen at the time. Now, either he called someone else, saw the computer, and died, or he saw the computer, and then made the phone call, and died.”
“Which means?”
Fisher smiled. “Which means my forensic electronic boys are going to receive very nice treatment until they put the laptop back together again.”
“Have you eaten?”
She nodded. “A little. You?”
He nodded. “Up for a siesta?”
“I use th
e couch in my office… it folds out into a bed.”
* * *
Special Agent Wilhelmina Goldberg waved Father Frank inside; she closed the door behind him and said, “Are you in the Vatican SF or something?”
He smiled “You mean, am I a spy? All priests are, to one degree or another. We report what we see, and what we can. Why do you think we’re put down in so many conspiracy theories? We’re bigger than any Mafia, and in more places than all the intelligence agencies put together.” In China, our priests undergo special training before being inserted into the mainland. With His Holiness, you can see the effects of priesthood in Africa — he was once accused of killing a soldier who threatened one of his parishioners.”
Goldberg coughed politely as he tried to wander off-topic by being a theological history geek. “Hey, Frank, your little stunt back there didn’t exactly scream ‘just one of the boys.’ And Ryan made it sound like you’ve done this before.”
He gently shook his head. “My apologies, Agent Goldberg, but he merely meant his training — you were shown our clerical hand-to-hand defense system.”
She nodded. “I was, but I saw what he was doing, and he was nowhere near advanced weapons training and disassembling guns. I’m guessing you picked that up from your time in the Green Berets.”
Father Frank cringed. “We’re not hats.”
She grinned. “Why’d you give it up?”
He looked at her intently, with a long, powerful violet gaze. “Because, Agent Goldberg, there are some moments when people ask themselves: who am I? What am I? What am I doing being pinned down in a sand trap?”
“I see that… but they make you give up sex.”
Frank blinked and hesitated for a long moment, and Wilhelmina Goldberg thought she had hit on the wrong topic.
