by Declan Finn
Sean smiled at them in the rearview mirror, driving with his peripheral vision around a pedestrian, through an intersection, and onto the opposite sidewalk. “However,” Sean said, as calmly as though he were cruising slowly through scenic countryside, “you say that Father Frank had constant contact with Clementi, the one who shot both Yousef and Dr. Gerrity?”
Sean jerked the wheel sharply around one pedestrian who wasn’t fast enough to jump, then tacked back the other way to avoid a parked car. “If you’re right, and Father Frank is Vatican intelligence, then he’s been running operations on behalf of the Pope. You think the Pope’s in on… whatever this is?”
Figlia was the first to jump in. “First of all, that is an unwarranted assumption. Like blaming the U.S. President for every operative the CIA has in country. We’re not even sure—”
Sean sped up Via Sistina, slipping between two cars. “Did ya grow up somewhere without speed limits, ya daft bastard?” Maureen McGrail yelled at him.
“Actually, I learned to drive in the FBI’s closed defensive-driving course. Mom was so proud.” He looked over the turn he wanted, which was a path between two buildings down what was meant to be a walkway. “Hold on.”
Sean made a sharp left, a move that almost no one else in the car would have considered. Had they asked Superintendent McGrail, they would have learned that the mind of Sean Ryan was a dark and dangerous place, most likely booby trapped with land mines. She, at least, was not surprised by his crazy scheme. Everyone else didn’t have time to process what he was going to do before he did it.
Sean slammed the horn thoroughly, trying to clear the area around the palazzo of its civilians. They scattered quickly, used to spending their lives running toward a soccer ball in their youth, or dodging cars in the street since they learned how to walk.
And then, immediately ahead of him, Sean saw his goal — the top landing of the Spanish Steps.
* * *
Murphy tried to ignore Shushurin’s speed as she shot up Via del Babuino.
“Get ready to take the wheel. We’re coming up on La Piazza di Spagna.”
Shushurin turned the wheel to the right, going swiftly around the fountain, stopping directly in front of one of the two short buildings on either side of the Spanish Steps. The wheels nearly grazed the bottom landing. She opened the door and moved without even putting the car into park. Murphy lunged for the wheel and stomped on the brake.
Shushurin rolled to a crouch behind the car, aiming her weapon at the rooftops, hoping to God that whatever idiots had been shooting before had not been smart enough to make the same mental leap she had. She made her way around the car, to the bottom of the stairs, staying just in the shadow of the building. It was evident that her guess had been correct — she could hear the rumble of the black van starting down the Steps.
Sean Ryan, maniac that he was, had decided to charge down the Spanish Steps without slowing.
Unfortunately, her prayer had been answered.
The answer was no.
Shushurin had worried that someone else could anticipate Sean Ryan; the worry had been valid, only exponentially worse than she imagined. On the roof across from her, she could see four men with assault rifles, and she didn’t even want to guess how many were on top of the building she crouched in front of, or even how many had managed to find their way above the Palazzo itself.
Manana carefully leveled her Stechkin at the gunman with the best vantage of the van, and fired twice, aiming for center mass. With her first bullet, she hit the man’s gun arm, and her second bullet went astray, kicking up stone dust from the building, getting into the eyes of the gunman immediately behind him.
This latter one prematurely let off a stream of bullets that missed the black van, strafing the building opposite them.
On the positive side, the gunfire from both the BND officer and the rooftop shooter had encouraged the tourists to evacuate the steps even faster than the honking of Sean Ryan.
However, the two shooters closest to her turned away from the van, and swung their weapons toward her. She slid back, content to let them both waste their ammunition against the side of the building, grateful that most of the civilians had already run off the steps.
* * *
Sean Ryan looked up at the gunmen on the building to his right, and then spotted shooters on his left…
And then felt the impact of bullets on the back, front, and sides of the car.
Wilhelmina Goldberg was already reaching into the back, pulling an MP-5 submachine gun from its compartment, along with two magazines. Hashim Abasi, sitting on the other side of Maureen McGrail, did the same.
Giovanni Figlia lowered his window a crack and opened fire with his handgun. Four more bullets added to the dust cloud obscuring the gunmen’s vision, and two more found their way into someone’s chest, knocking him out of sight.
The two gunmen who had been firing elsewhere turned their attention back to the van. From the street below, a woman wheeled around the corner of a building and opened fire, causing civilians to simply evacuate the piazza altogether. After three bursts, the sound of the strange handgun went from semi to fully automatic.
Sean spotted one of the gunmen on a roof fall down. I think we have backup from somewhere, and she looks blonde. Or she’s a dyed hippie from the Valley. My money’s on a wig.
Sean caught a bit of movement on the roof above the newcomer; a gunman looking straight down, at the bright blond hair of her wig. He leaned forward with his assault rifle, aiming straight down for her perfect blonde head.
Sean was about to honk the horn to try warning the blonde shooter, but at that moment, a new barrage opened up from the street, making the roof in front of him explode.
Across the street, on the opposite end of the Via del Babuino was yet another van. Sean could just make it out through the cracks in the bulletproof glass. The van looked like it had been punched in with a giant fist. And, in front of it, a man in black fired an M4 assault rifle.
Father Frank Williams did not look like a happy priest.
He let go with another burst of automatic fire, aiming low, mainly at the wall just below the gunman.
Sean gave a mental shrug. Well, his vows say nothing about suppressing fire.
The gunman leapt back, and his rifle swung up.
“Abasi, eleven o’clock high, nail that sucker.”
The Egyptian cop opened the window enough to allow the muzzle of his gun to peek out. Since this made aiming difficult, he fired on automatic, using the top of the window as a platform, so he strafed the roof in a line that varied with the bumps for each of the steps.
Sean called back, “Maureen, I saw some gas grenades back there. Send two up front, would you? We can’t fire at the guys behind us, so we might as well blind them.”
McGrail handed three grenades forward. “Who says we can’t shoot them?”
Sean smiled. “Good idea. Everyone, hold on.” He made a hard right, and halfway through it, he hit the brakes, letting the back end of the van fishtail, and he put the car into reverse. The armored windshield became covered in a spider web of cracks as it took fire from the rooftop of the palazzo.
As Figlia fired at the rooftop — quickly supported by Father Frank — McGrail pulled the pins on the gas grenades and Ryan opened the sunroof just wide enough for her to slide them through, and quickly closed it again.
The grenades rolled to the front and either side of the car, unleashing large clouds of smoke that made it hard to see a moving target like the van.
However, the defenders inside the van knew exactly where their attackers had been last time they saw them.
Sean felt like he should contribute to the gunfire, but he noted the water fountain in the mirror and swerved to avoid it, barely catching a glimpse of blonde hair as the woman ducked into her Jetta’s passenger side door.
Sean wasted no time as he made a ninety-degree turn onto Via del Babuino, making a right onto the street and then — in forward gear �
� making a left onto Via Della Croce, speeding away.
* * *
“Who the hell were those guys?” Wilhelmina Goldberg asked, looking back at the Spanish Steps through what was left of the rear windshield.
“Well, darlin’,” Sean drawled, “that’s the question on everyone’s mind right now, followed by how the hell do I get back to the Vatican — that last one is rhetorical, Gianni.” He blinked, and thought for a moment he had a ringing in his ear. “Anyone have a cell phone?”
Figlia put away his handgun and answered his cell. “Figlia, pronto.”
“It’s Father Frank,” came the soft voice. “Is everyone all right?”
“We got out. Was that you firing?”
“Yes, conveniently enough,” Father Frank answered. “After the RPG hit the van, a few helpful pedestrians flipped me onto the tires. I knew Mr. Ryan well enough to meet you at the steps.”
Figlia furrowed his brows. “How?”
“Have you not read his resume?” Father Frank answered. “He does seem to enjoy destroying public places. Also, it was an unconventional route.”
“Where are you now?” Figlia asked as Sean made a left onto Via Mario de’Fiori.
“On Via del Babuino, heading south toward Condotti.”
“We’re on the way to Condotti now. See you shortly.” He closed the phone. “Apparently, Father Frank still knows how to handle a gun. He provided cover fire.”
Sean nodded. “I suppose that explains why we got out alive. Had they all been ready and waiting with no distractions, they probably could have leveled us with an RPG.” He darted around a slow-moving Vespa. “I just have one question. How’d they know we were going to be there?”
Figlia shrugged. “Maybe the way Father Frank knew. He said he knew you.”
Sean frowned thoughtfully. “True… it’s a very ‘me’ thing to do… but who knew I was driving? Six people?”
Everyone hesitated for a moment – that was everyone in the car, Father Frank, and the Swiss Guard they left behind.
“Is the guard we left behind new?” Ryan asked.
“No, he’s been here for years. I’d trust him to run an operation in my stead.”
Ryan said nothing for a long moment as he sped through the streets of Rome. “Then we have a problem.”
* * *
“Damnit,” Scott Murphy growled as he finally turned back in the direction of the Vatican. Granted, he thanked God that he had gotten out of there alive, and his partner with him, but getting shot at was usually a sign that he had botched his job.
“By the way, that light says you should stop.”
Murphy jerked to a stop. He let himself relax, finally noticing that he shook from adrenaline. “Ah, sorry… haven’t been in a firefight for a while. I forgot the aftershocks.”
Shushurin watched him shake, and placed her hand over his. “Don’t worry, you did fine.”
He gripped her hand in a squeeze without thinking. “I know. We probably should leave the car somewhere.”
“I’ll handle that,” she answered. “I’m reasonably certain Father Frank saw me, though.”
“Secret Agent Priest?” He let go of her hand. But before he fully let go, he slipped his thumb from under her palm and put it on top of her hand, squeezing it firmly. He put his hand back on the wheel. “You were blonde at the time; I think you’re safe.” He pressed his head into the headrest. “You were damn good back there.”
She grinned. “They love me for my mind, not my scores on the target range.”
Murphy chuckled. “Why did anyone allow you to stay behind a desk, aside from the fact that you’re too beautiful?”
Shushurin blinked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Murphy rolled his eyes. “It’s hard to be invisible if everyone on the street is leering.”
“Aw,” she said in a mock-whine, “but if nobody stared, how would you know that I’m still beautiful?”
Murphy, caught off-guard by the playfulness of the comment, laughed, and kept laughing through the green light, so hard he had to pull off to the side of the road to catch his breath.
Once he quieted down to a breathless chuckle, she said, “Feeling better?”
Murphy glanced her way. “Much. Thanks, I needed that.” He smiled, and just looked at her for a moment. He thought for a second, and figured it couldn’t hurt. He reached over and around her back, gently taking her by the right shoulder, leaned over, and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“Anytime.”
* * *
The silver-haired man in black received a call on his cell phone. He stopped, looked around, then stepped out of the line of traffic.
“What the hell were you doing today, you bastard?” the caller snapped.
He smiled. He was always amused when insiders freaked out. Undercover personnel are just so touchy. “You never respect your superiors, do you?”
“My superior? Hardly. I’m not so damn trigger-happy.”
“Speak for yourself. You did a good job on our men.”
“At least when I was shooting at you before,” the insider growled, “I knew you’d be wearing solid body armor in case I hit your guys. Now why did you pull that crap? You’ve seen their every move, I made sure of it. Why the hit?”
“It was a likely chance to remove all of the investigators,” the man in black said reassuringly. “You’re taking far too long. We saw a way of finishing the entire ordeal.”
“Hey, I’m lucky I’m not under any real suspicion already. Now that might change, considering that they should all be taking a very close look at everyone now. We both know that if they look at me, they’ll find you. Not to mention that I could have been killed.”
“But you weren’t. And you wouldn’t have been in harm’s way had you not gotten involved. You were told to stay close to them, but not too close.”
“Tough. Next time you guys get involved, I might go for head shots. You know I can, and I would. Stay the hell out of my way, or you’ll regret it. You assigned me to this job, and damn it, I’m either going to do it my way, or you’re going to get yourself a new agent.”
The man in black adjusted his white Roman collar. Ah, insiders always want complete control, don’t they, worried we’re going to blow everything. Good thing it’s not a valid concern, or else we’d all be screwed.
Chapter XII: A Pious Goy
Giovanni Figlia relaxed in his chair, leaning back, letting the adrenaline buzz dull slightly. “Father Williams went to file a report with the carabinieri. Given the suspicions of Villie and Abasi, I thought it would be prudent that he leave while we chat with Superintendent McGrail.” He glanced around the room at his fellow professionals. “And I refuse to believe him a killer, or that he set us up — Father Williams came to our aid, providing cover fire for us.”
Wilhelmina Goldberg nodded. “Conveniently hitting no one, from what I could tell.” She shrugged. “As you say, Gianni, I’m paranoid. I came here for a simple security audit and had a body fall on me before I was even in the country an hour.”
Sean smiled. “I’d figure guys would’ve jumped you as soon as you got off the plane.”
Figlia looked at his clock with exasperation. “I have had an exceptionally long day, and it’s not even close to being over. I must have a long chat with the police about my psychotic American driver riding over a national treasure. I am not in the mood for any paranoid theories that have to do with Jesuit assassination squads.”
Sean Ryan was about to open his mouth, but paused, blinked, and cocked his head to the side. “Does anyone else hear an elephant stomping down the hall?”
The outer doors to Figlia’s office exploded inward as Pope Pius XIII burst into the office. “Gianni! I was just called by the carabinieri. What in the Lord’s name happened? Is everyone all right?” He looked around the room, noting everyone. “Where’s Father Williams? Did he make it?” The Pope’s questions continued in rapid-fire speech that was so fast it
sounded like a different language… until Sean Ryan realized that he spoke in Latin.
Suddenly, the Pope stopped and turned to acknowledge McGrail, still seated, and still not quite sure of what was going on. “My apologies, miss,” he said, in English this time. “I’m Pope Pius XIII. If you’re not Catholic, please call me Josh.”
She smiled. “I am, Your Holiness.”
“In which case, you must be Maureen McGrail, the officer Figlia was sent to pick up. I hope nothing was damaged along the way.”
She shook her head. “Aren’t we fine, Your Holiness?”
“Good.” He was about to say something else when he turned around, noting the short, dark Irishman learning against the wall. The Pope beamed. “Ah, Mr. Ryan, how good to see you again… what are you doing here?”
He shrugged. “Oh, you know me. I hear gunfire, I come running.”
The Pope nodded. “I heard that Giovanni was shot at while driving over the Spanish Steps. I had wondered why he would drive over them in the first place. I suppose he was not driving?”
Sean grinned wider. “A good guess, sir. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, Your Holiness, I’d ask that you briefly allow me to walk our guest to her hotel, let her relax, freshen up, that sort of thing. I hear that Giovanni needs to chat with the Rome police department, and I suspect that phone call will go much better if I’m not in the room — especially when they suggest confiscating my passport or booting my ass out of the country.”
The Pope’s eyes narrowed. “Why? You weren’t the one doing the shooting.”
Sean smirked ruefully. “Unfortunately, no. However, someone apparently knew I was driving, and they knew me well enough to expect me to do something that stupid. So, tag, my fault.”
“I see. And how do you think they knew you would be driving, considering that I do not recall anyone inviting you along?”
Before anyone could hint at a spy planted among their caravan, Maureen McGrail raised a finger. “Because, Your Holiness, doesn’t Sean know me? And isn’t Sean’s presence in Rome openly known?. Couldn’t anyone conclude he’d be there to meet me, and then take the wheel once any shooting took place? Or, the shooter they had in position could have spotted him at the terminal.” Giovanni Figlia nodded, grateful for the alternate ideas. “The latter was most likely the case, makes things far less complicated.” He glanced a little at Wilhelmina Goldberg and Hashim Abasi. “After all, it’s not like we had a spy around here, now is it?”
