by Declan Finn
“And that is just, as Americans say, the short list,” Figlia added thoughtfully. “The long answer is anyone with a grudge.”
McGrail turned her body towards the Pope, and cocked her head. “You’ve been thinking ’bout this fer a while, haven’t ya?”
He smiled. “My darling detective, I’m the Pope.” The smile disappeared. “My people are killed in the Sudan, Latin America, China, Libya, Lebanon, in places no one even suspects — Toronto, London, Long Island.” His lips tightened, and his fists squeezed so tightly the knuckles threatened to turn white. “I think about this every, blessed, day.”
Sean nodded solemnly. “A great tragedy… but do you mean—”
Figlia’s phone rang, he answered. After a moment, he dropped the phone. “There’s a problem downstairs. Ryan, McGrail, with me.”
* * *
The man Scott Murphy wrestled with was tired of this. In a feat of strength Murphy could never have imagined, he pushed to his feet — Murphy still on his back — and dropped forward, this time throwing the Mossad agent across the room. Murphy landed on his back and slid across the floor. He barely even saw the older man as he looked around for something — anything — to use.
And then he found it.
Murphy frantically grabbed the weapon and stood, Shushurin’s fallen Stechkin in hand. “Now who the hell are you… two?” He stared at the newcomer, looking at him for the first time. “Captain?”
The gray-haired man nodded, then peered at him for a moment. He cleared his throat In a perfect American accent, he asked, “Mr. Murphy, isn’t it?”
The Mossad agent nodded, the gun level on the “Captain’s” chest. “I take it the Jebbie is related to you?”
“He’s my son.” Captain Wayne Williams, U.S. Army Rangers (ret.) smiled. He was about 5’9”, with blue-green eyes, and an odd intermingling of silver, iron gray, and fringes of gold in his hair. He had broad shoulders, and at the moment looked like he was about to break Murphy in two.
Shushurin slowly backed away from the priest, moving towards Murphy’s side. “You know him?”
Murphy frowned. “We’re professionally acquainted.”
At that point, Sean Ryan, Giovanni Figlia, Wilhelmina Goldberg and Hashim Abasi all ran into the room in order, weapons drawn, Maureen McGrail behind them.
Sean looked at the Mossad agent, his partner, the priest, then—“Who the hell are you?”
Father Frank looked over his shoulder at Sean. “He’s my backup for this mission.”
Sean nodded. “Scott, put the gun down.”
Murphy glared at him. “Why the hell should I? These people haven’t exactly been playing nice.”
The Pope walked in behind Abasi. “Murphy, put down that pistol before you shoot yourself.”
Sean looked over his shoulder at the Bishop of Rome. “You know him?”
Murphy lowered the gun. “Josh? You have something to do with this?”
Pope Pius XIII nodded. “Father Williams works for me, Mr. Murphy, just like you do.” He put his hands behind his back and walked into the middle of the room, speaking to all assembled. “As you all may have guessed by now, Bishop O’Brien is the executive officer of the Vatican intelligence service, a special branch that trains with real intelligence agencies. Officially, I’m in charge of the de facto intelligence network, and he is just a bishop.” The Pope then smiled. “However, while XO is the current head of intelligence, I used to be involved as well.”
Goldberg, who felt like she had been thrust knee-deep into a spy game from hell, lowered her weapon. “And, what, you’re in charge of Mossad, too?”
He spared her a glance and shook his head. “Not at all. Before I became Pope, I became the first chief of Mossad’s ‘Goyim Brigade.’ Technically, I Vatican’s intelligence network, and aided Brigade. Mossad thought it would be useful to have a Catholic coordinate their many myriad Christians. I was in Rome then, I had international contacts, and they were certain I would not stab them in the back. The position later went to XO.” The Pope looked around the room, positioned between the three former combatants and the new arrivals. “And here we are.”
Sean cautiously lowered his weapon and added, “I managed to drag some of this out of Father Frank earlier, though he told me to keep quiet. Apparently, Ashid Yousef came to make a case that Catholics should unite with al-Qaeda against ’the Jews.’ What he saw in the archives changed his mind. He’d probably make announcements on Al-Jazeera, and lead an old-fashioned jihad against the Church.”
Abasi craned his neck towards Sean. “Since the Western media pays more attention to Al-Jazeera than the Pope, that broadcast would be spread over the planet, which would have ruffled the feathers of a lot of people. Once he reported what he had found, he had to die.”
The Pope nodded, and drifted towards Murphy. “That is what we believe. As for Dr. Gerrity, no one knows why he was killed. We’ve had other scholars read the archives — they’ve published again, but not on this subject, not that we’ve seen. Why Gerrity?”
“For the same reason the hit man who shot him was taken out by the bomb,” Goldberg answered. She looked to Figlia. “Something on Gerrity’s laptop got both Gerrity and Clementi killed, right? So, anyone who knows about what’s in the archive and raises a fuss is a dead man. What did Gerrity find?”
Scott Murphy checked his watch. “Nobody knows. Trust me. I’ve been listening to all of you discuss the damn thing since yesterday. Now, I haven’t eaten anything but meal bars since I got up this morning, and Father Williams dragged us kicking and screaming all over Rome. If we’re going to continue this, can we at least order food and settle down somewhere?”
The Pope stopped in front of Murphy and put his hand out for the gun. Murphy handed it over and the Pope gave it to Shushurin. “You fill them in on the rest.”
“What rest?” Goldberg asked.
Murphy nodded at the Pope as he departed, then looked to the Secret Service Agent. “Obviously, I was sent because of Yousef.” He moved toward Shushurin’s side. He touched her arm with a questioning look, and she nodded, indicating she was okay. He looked back to Goldberg. “My associates wanted to tail Mr. Abasi, but given his history, I knew it was more likely he’d be here to investigate the incident.”
Abasi shrugged. “What do you want me to say? I didn’t even hear Yousef was in the city until after I arrived.”
Murphy cringed, then snapped his fingers. “Darn.”
Goldberg studied the father and the priest. “And he was backing you up, Father. You were point man on Giacomo Clementi because he was a not-so-former terrorist, and you could probably break him if he tried something.”
Shushurin nodded. “That’s what we figured as well.” She turned to the priest. “Is that what you earned the medals for?”
The priest’s father laughed. “Let me tell you a story.”
Chapter XVIII: A Pius Veteran
After the father of Frank Williams finished explaining a little bit of his son’s history, they settled down in Giovanni Figlia’s office.
Goldberg frowned at Captain Wayne. “What’s with the funny accents?”
Wayne smiled. “I enjoy them.”
Frank said, “He merely prefers to talk like Boris Badenov.”
Abasi laughed. “Is this what the Vatican call spies now?”
Father Frank locked his violet eyes onto Abasi. “I am not a spy,” he replied quietly. “My father here, Army Ranger that he is, trained me to go into the family business, and Special Forces took me in. When I joined the Jesuits, Bishop XO noted me and took me into the proactive intelligence unit.”
Sean Ryan, propped up against the wall, said with a smile, “Let me guess, the Templars?”
Father Williams nodded, raising the ring on his left hand for the others to see. “Good, you noticed. They used to protect pilgrims to the Holy Land, so they seemed the obvious choice, since we’re meant to protect parishioners in unholy lands. I’m more of an emergency situations agent.”
<
br /> Giovanni Figlia laughed. “Ah, bene, bene…” He smiled at Frank for a moment, allowing some pieces to come together. Abasi had mentioned several times that whoever stole the forensics report about the Gerrity crime scene was more likely interested in knowledge — and was most likely a third party who had nothing to do with the killings. “By the way, Father Williams, did you find the evidence book interesting reading?”
Father Frank smiled sheepishly. “Yes, it was. Sorry about hitting you, though. I did not want to blow my cover until it was absolutely necessary. May I ask exactly why you and your colleague came after me?”
Murphy and Shushurin, seated together, exchanged a look. Murphy shrugged, then leaned back in his chair, settling in. “We figured the attack on Ryan was too convenient. He gets attacked after bringing up some sort of Soviet super-soldiers. Then, here you are, able to beat the heck out of people, and you’re just a priest. All of the information we had on Pius XII says he committed crimes during the Holocaust, and that all those researching him or having firsthand knowledge about him have been dying lately. In addition, we ruled out everyone else who knew Ryan’s theory — Goldberg is Secret Service, my people knew Abasi, Figlia was being shot at, as was Maureen. The only person who hadn’t been targeted was you.”
Father Frank Williams shrugged. “Because I am never noticed. They shot at the van I was in, but only because it was another armored van. What about yourselves? Have you been attacked?”
Murphy raised an eyebrow, but it was a reasonable query. XO could vouch for him, but paranoia was a necessary lifestyle choice. He tensed briefly, then leaned back in the chair and laid his arm around Shushurin. “Not unless you count my friend here shooting the attackers on the Spanish Steps, drawing fire from you people.”
Frank smiled slightly. “I thought the bella donna looked familiar.” He saw the way both of them were seated — they had individual chairs, but they had both moved them until they were touching — their easy air around each other, and the way Murphy had his arm around her shoulders. “How long have you two been together?”
“We just met yesterday. Why?”
Goldberg and McGrail smiled, both seeing what the priest had seen, and the Secret Service agent was surprised that he had seen it.
The priest waved it away. “Just asking.”
Father Frank nodded thoughtfully. “Speaking of which, I found your fighting style equal to my own, and I’ve had nearly lifelong training due to my father. Who trained you, miss? If I am correct about your employer, then you are German. I can only assume—”
Captain Wayne cut him off, clamping a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Sorry, my son’s long-winded. What he means is: did your father work for KGB or Stasi, and if he did, did he put you into a spy training program for children?”
Shushurin straightened imperceptibly, and her hand tensed on Murphy’s.
Murphy sighed gently. “Sorry, we’re not dealing with stupid people.”
She leaned back in the chair, attempting to relax. She closed her eyes, trying to figure out exactly how much information she could safely give out. She felt a tender squeeze from Murphy’s hand, and she opened her eyes again, meeting Murphy’s. He smiled at her, and she returned the look.
Shushurin finally nodded to Wayne. “Yes… but, if you want to go into histories, why not Mr. Abasi’s? Murphy says Mossad knows him, but I sort through information to send Israel, and I know that Abasi here personally stoned his wife to death for adultery several years ago, making him, in my opinion, the perfect possible partner for Ashid Yousef.”
Wilhelmina Goldberg, sitting right next to Abasi, moved three inches down the couch, and readjusted herself so she could grab her gun easier. Maureen McGrail tensed in her chair. Sean Ryan calmly undid his holster strap. Giovanni Figlia reached into his desk for his gun, and even Father Williams tensed slightly.
Goldberg turned in her chair to face him, and crossed her arms — putting her right hand next to her gun. “Is that true? I thought you married an Irish girl working down in your neck of the woods.”
Murphy raised his hand to stall anyone from shooting Abasi. “I can explain. Get your hands off the guns. Mr. Abasi here is an honorary member of the Goyim Brigade.”
Goldberg — and the rest of the room — turned. “What?” she snapped.
Murphy smiled, then caught Shushurin’s look of shock. “We bought that suit for him in Tel Aviv, and he’s been on our side since we helped his mother with her husband.”
Goldberg blinked, then gave a sharp smile. “I thought he might have made that up.”
Murphy shook his head. “Not a chance. His father tossed his baby sister away, literally; we helped his wife tinker with a suicide vest he was to give to Hamas. Abasi met his wife, Maria King, when she started her charity work in Egypt as one of the Irish abroad. She went abroad, in part, to get away from certain Irish factions in Belfast who wanted to kill her. I forget why, but growing up Catholic in Belfast can get you killed for all sorts of reasons. The Provisional IRA wanted to kill her in Egypt, and they kept getting closer. When she was wounded by the IRA during the ‘Arab Spring’” – he rolled his eyes at the term – “Hashim contacted us to help him get her out. We staged a stoning for the benefit of the Provos, and made her disappear.”
The room gaped at Murphy, except for Abasi. Goldberg let her hands drop to her sides, her pistol forgotten. Sean even snapped the clasp on his closed on his holster.
Abashi shrugged. “Yes. And after several weeks being taught makeup by Mossad officers, I now have a good Muslim woman… who happens to be the exact size and shape of my last wife, who also works with charity.”
Murphy looked to Shushurin. “Sorry, Mani. It wasn’t my place to discuss it. My superiors keep things very close to the vest; they generally do not like telling things to the goyim that work for them, to heck with the ones that don’t.”
“I’m always free with the information I’ve given you,” Bishop Xavier O’Brien objected as he walked into the office, a trail of smoke following after him. He pulled out another cigarette. “It’s just that we’re highly compartmentalized. You get information. You’re not supposed to need more than you’ve been given.”
Murphy laughed. “You’re kidding, right? The only information I was given this time was ‘Meet your contact in Rome.’ That was it. I’ve gotten more information from this beautiful spy than home base. I ask about Pinchas Lapide, the Yad Vashem files — nothing! Both seem are classified up the wazoo, and for the life of me I can’t figure out why. Can you?”
The current head of Vatican Intelligence and official executive officer of the Goyim Brigade shook his head before taking a seat in front of the door. “Once I heard you asked for it, I put in a request to read the file and find out what all the fuss was about. I can’t seem to find or get access to it. You’d pretty much need a strike team to get to it, but I wouldn’t recommend it unless you had the 82nd Airborne. Even then, I wouldn’t want to be you in the following years.”
Murphy scoffed. “Yes, my coworkers do have this tendency to kill people who piss them off.”
“Excuse me,” Goldberg said, slowly drawing out her gun. Her hazel eyes flicked over to Manana Shushurin, and she carefully brushed back a blonde strand of hair. She rested the pistol on her hip, the barrel pointed at Shushurin. “Did anyone not remember what was said about thirty seconds ago? This shiksa was trained by the KGB, and you schlemiels seem unable to hold onto this thought long enough to ask about it? What, you all have ADD?”
Manana Shushurin smiled slyly, ignoring the gun. “I am German, and therefore I am a Nazi?” Her eyes flicked to the top of Goldberg’s head. “Funny. You’re the one with the blonde hair.”
“They’re. Just. Highlights,” the Secret Service agent ground out from between gritted teeth.
Murphy nodded slowly, and cautiously stood, moving himself between Shushurin and Goldberg. His dark blue eyes seemed black, and his facial muscles were tight with controlled anger — as tight as his
voice, “Sure. Let’s also discuss a few things — like that Mani here saved your asses back at the Steps, even before Father Secret Agent Man showed up.” He took a step forward, moving closer to the gun. “She came to my people about Ashid Yousef’s death and the Vatican connection.” Another step. “She saved Ryan’s life during the shootout — she could have capped Sean in the back of the head, or simply let him die.”
Murphy closed the distance once more, the gun mere inches from his crotch. “She could have killed me any time in the last thirty-six hours, taken out Sean, and most of the people in this room. Hell, exempting the clergy and Captain Williams, she’s saved the lives of every one of you, at, least, once.”
Goldberg looked up at him, her gun not moving. “And she just happens to have been trained by the same people who are trying to kill us? That’s an accident to you?”
Murphy’s eyes narrowed. “These people are world-class killers, almost unequaled. Who else are you going to hire to topple an organization two thousand years old, with a billion members?”
Goldberg glared right back at him. “Are you done?”
Murphy nodded, but didn’t move.
Xavier O’Brien slid the cigarette over to one side of his mouth and let it practically dangle there. “Now that the melodrama is over, I’ll answer Agent Goldberg’s initial question. Unlike Scott, I can push for information when needed. Manana is an exceptional agent when she’s called for, and she’s sent more interesting and valuable information to Israel than practically anyone else in her position. She’s not politically popular. There have been no exceedingly large deposits into her bank accounts. She’s not rich or anything like what you would expect from a woman on the make. Sorry, but she doesn’t win the door prize on the terrorist lottery. Anyway, the Pope wanted me to have food sent up. It’s been a long day, and you all still haven’t killed each other yet. That’s cause for some nice Chianti.”
