Cardinal Polletto took a deep breath to steady himself, placed a hand on Bishop Giordano’s shoulder, then headed for the castle.
45
C ardinal Polletto sat alone in Caesars Hall, mustering his strength.
He’d only met with the Black Pope on two other occasions. First, when he was chosen to head The Order’s day to day operations, and last, just after Samuel was kidnapped by the CIA. Each time, the cardinal felt as though a part of his soul had been drained away. He was used to dealing with the world’s most powerful men, many more than his equal. But he feared the Black Pope, a man who could end his life, or elevate him to head the Vatican, with barely a whisper.
The cardinal poured himself a glass of wine, but didn’t immediately drink it. He held the glass up and watched the dull light from a yellow bulb, dance and sparkle inside the fermented grape. He wanted desperately to put the ritual behind him. Success meant his ascension to the office of Holy Pontiff, failure meant something worse than death, right before they took his life.
Cardinal Polletto finally took a long sip of wine, then another. He closed his eyes and let the alcohol coarse through his veins, soothing and comforting. His hands steadied with his resolve. When his eyes opened he felt stronger, self-assured.
Bishop Giordano entered, sweating profusely, wringing his hands.
“Cardinal, he’s here,” he said.
Cardinal Polletto stood. “Good, I’ll be right down.” Bishop Giordano shifted uncomfortably, shivering as though he’d just stepped out of the ice-cold lake. “I’m sorry, Cardinal, but he said for you to wait here. He’ll be up just as soon as finishes a few phone calls from the car.”
The cardinal resumed his seat. “Fine, bring up a bottle of Bordeaux, the Chateau Petrus.”
The bishop left and returned in record time. He waited nervously while Cardinal Polletto opened the bottle to aerate the wine. “You may be excused,” he finally told the bishop, after letting him stew.
Bishop Giordano bowed multiple times as he backed out of the room, effusive and obviously relieved. Cardinal Polletto sat for forty-five minutes before hearing someone slowly ascend the stairs. He stood behind the desk, hands behind his back.
From around the corner, an old man with deep set black eyes, silvery gray hair, a soothing, kind countenance, and grandfatherly smile, floated inside the room, two large, wide shouldered aides in tow. Cardinal Polletto quickly moved around the desk, fell to one knee, and kissed the large gold and black onyx ring on the Black Pope’s left ring finger.
“Welcome, Your Eminence. It’s an unexpected, but gracious privilege to have you honor us with your presence.” Cardinal Polletto stayed on one knee until the Black Pope gave him permission to stand.
“Thank you, my son,” said the Black Pope, stroking the cardinal’s head as though he were a child. “Please, let a tired old man sit.”
“Of course, my lord,” the cardinal gushed, leading the old man to the seat behind the desk. “We’re surprised to see you today,” he said, pouring two glasses of wine. “If we’d known you were coming, we could have prepared a meal.”
The Black Pope, draped in a fine black vestment, held the glass in the air, examined it closely, tested the wine’s nose, then took a small sip.
“Wonderful choice,” he said, in a whispery tone. “I’ve heard tell that wine is a specialty of yours.”
Cardinal Polletto gave his thanks and sat down in front of the desk.
The Black Pope waved his aides out of the room. He took another sip of wine, this time a longer drink.
“I know this is a bit of a surprise,” said the old man. “But I wanted to make sure everything is going smooth.” He stared into Cardinal Polletto’s eyes. “I hope this isn’t an inconvenience.”
“Not at all,” answered the cardinal. “Everything is going as planned, and will be ready as scheduled.”
The Black Pope took another drink, staring intently at Cardinal Polletto, as though reading his thoughts. “I trust precautions have been taken to ensure that young Samuel Napier will not escape again,” he finally said.
The cardinal swallowed hard. “Yes, Your Eminence,” he stuttered.
“It was an unfortunate incident. It won’t happen again.” Cardinal Polletto told the old man where Samuel was hidden, and explained the precautions taken to make sure the boy was secure, not mentioning that Samuel’s location had been discovered. The longer he explained, the cardinal got the feeling the old man already knew more than he’d let on.
“I see,” the Black Pope said, resting back in the velvet of the high-back chair. “I’d like to meet with Father Tolbert before I leave. Is he available?”
Cardinal Polletto cleared his throat. A direct lie could end his life immediately. He forced a smile. “I’m afraid he’s not available at the moment, Your Excellency. Maybe sometime later?” The Black Pope placed both palms on the table and leaned forward.
“Perhaps.” He bored a hole right through the cardinal. The grandfatherly countenance was replaced with something sinister, something wicked.
Then just as quickly, the kind face reemerged. “I understand the ritual area is almost complete.”
Cardinal Polletto, relieved that the questioning ended quickly, stood.
“Yes, it’s almost completed. Shall I show it to you?” The old man slowly rose, finished his glass of wine, then crept around the desk, hands behind his back, and headed for the door in silence. Cardinal Polletto finished his glass, wanting another, but followed the Black Pope outside. The old man’s two heavyweight aides trailed them both.
Cardinal Polletto proudly showed the ritual stadium to the old man, proudly commenting on how fast his men had brought it together in a short amount of time. The Black Pope simply nodded here and there, but didn’t utter a sound. When they reached the last platform, where the children would be herded and dumped into the lake, the old man faced Cardinal Polletto, and asked his men to leave them alone.
He stared at the cardinal for awhile, sizing him up. “You’ve come a long way, Cardinal Polletto, and many inside The Order are extremely proud of what you’ve accomplished.”
“Thank you, Your Eminence.”
The Black Pope moved closer. “This event is more important than anything, anyone, inside The Order will ever take up.”
“I understand.”
“To bring into the world the one foretold in scriptures is a monumental task that will change the world. A task you cannot fail.” Cardinal Polletto felt a swell of energy and strength. “I shall not fail, Your Eminence.”
The Black Pope leaned in close and slapped the cardinal hard across the face. “How can you be so sure?”
Cardinal Polletto rocked backwards, dizzy. The old man’s hand felt like granite.
The Black Pope raised his hand again. The cardinal winced, but this time the old man gently stroked the cardinal’s face. “This man, Robert Veil, and his partner, Nikki Thorne, are a problem, no?”
“A problem, yes, but one we can deal with. They won’t interrupt our plans.”
The old man smiled and backed away. “Good, good. And what are your plans for Alison Napier?”
The cardinal was not surprised to hear the question. The old man had ears everywhere. “Whatever do you mean, Your Eminence?”
“After the ritual, she’ll no longer be necessary.”
“But she could be of use while we raise the boy,” said the cardinal.
“We should give it time. We can always get rid of her later.”
“I see,” sneered the old man. “You’ve become attached to the woman.”
“Not at all, I just think we’d be hasty to eliminate her too soon.” Cardinal Polletto felt exposed. He had grown attached to Alison, and wasn’t ready to kill her just yet.
“Nevertheless, you will dispose of her directly when the ritual is over. The longer she lives, the longer law enforcement agencies in the States will keep looking for Samuel. Close the loop, and finish her.
That’s an ord
er.”
The cardinal bowed his head, veins bulging in his neck, his face twisted. “As you wish,” he said.
The Black Pope put a gentle hand on the cardinal’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, my son, when this is over, you’ll head the Vatican, and be in complete charge of raising the boy. Removing the present Pope is no small reward for your success.”
Cardinal Polletto knew the old man spoke the truth. He was going to become the Holy Father, a prize he’d coveted since joining The Order.
He fell to his knees and kissed the old man’s ring again.
“Forgive my hesitation. I was only thinking of myself,” said Cardinal Polletto.
The old man bid him to rise. “I understand. We all have much to learn.” They walked back to the castle and stood next to the old man’s car. “On the night of the ritual, I’ll be in the crowd,” the Black Pope told him.
“Yes, Your Excellency, we’ve prepared a place for you on stage.”
“Do nothing of the sort,” snapped the Black Pope. “My presence will be known only to a few.”
The cardinal bowed his head. “Will there be anything else, Your Eminence?”
The Black Pope leaned forward and whispered into Cardinal Polletto’s ear, then slid inside the shiny, black limousine and sped away.
When it cleared the road and was out of sight, the cardinal fell to his knees and wept, as the old man’s description of his punishment and death if he failed rang in his ears and tortured his soul. The cardinal pounded the ground with both fists and clawed the earth until his fingers bled.
“Cardinal!” Bishop Giordano yelled. He grabbed the cardinal and helped him to his feet.
“We must not fail,” cried Cardinal Polletto, weeping. He shook loose from the bishop. The Black Pope knew everything, Samuel’s escape, the problems with Father Tolbert and Robert Veil.
Cardinal Polletto decided to get back in touch with Rinaldo and Dianora, and double their fee. He wanted Cardinal Maximilian, Robert Veil and Nikki Thorne dealt with immediately. He turned to Bishop Giordano.
“Call Father Ortega, I need him back here as soon as possible. Then contact Sister Bravo,” said Cardinal Polletto.
“Yes, Cardinal.”
“And here’s what I want her to do with Samuel and the other children.”
46
C ool air breezed in through Astura Torre’s castle window. Samuel, tired of staring out at the sea, no matter how beautiful it looked, laid back on his cot and watched bundles of clouds float by the window, teasing him with their freedom. Three days had passed since the last time he’d been allowed outside, with no explanation. He complained to Father Murphy every time the priest came in to check on him or bring food, but was ignored.
Samuel sat up and finished a lukewarm, half-full glass of orange juice, leftover from breakfast. His thoughts turned toward Sister Bravo.
Over the past three days, he hadn’t seen or heard from her, and although he still considered her his enemy, not having her around made him nervous. It was a strange feeling. She was one of his captures, and had taken him from the only life he knew, but he missed her presence and had grown to depend on her for comfort and security. She made him feel safe when she was around.
He had almost asked Father Murphy of her whereabouts, but didn’t utter a word, not wanting to show concern. But the longer she stayed away, the more fearful and alone he felt.
Lunch turned into dinner, and dinner to night. Samuel paced the room and eventually hung out of the window looking down at the now moonlit water again. The longer he looked, the closer the water seemed.
He considered jumping, and pulled himself up further to make sure of the fit. He stared down at the wet, rippling water, and knew he’d never survive the jump, let alone swim away afterwards.
Multiple footsteps pounded the concrete stairs, slowly coming his way. Samuel jumped down, ran to the bed and sat against the wall, struggling to control his breathing, wiping sweat from his forehead with his shirt.
The door creaked open. Father Murphy backed inside, carrying the end of a large, brown leather traveling trunk. One of the goons who guarded him outside handled the other end. The other machine gun toting thugs carried in two more trunks and stood them upright. Everyone left the room without giving Samuel so much as a glance, except Father Murphy, who smiled on his way out and left the door wide open.
Sister Bravo walked inside. Samuel felt a surge of relief and almost ran to her, but resisted. Sister Bravo’s face said she’d read his mind, but she too kept her composure.
Samuel stood. “I haven’t been allowed outside for three days,” he said, mustering up his anger. “You promised.” Sister Bravo walked over and gently stroked his hair. “I’m sorry, my child, but it couldn’t be helped.”
Samuel looked up at her deceptive, angelic face. “I’m going crazy in here. It’s not fair,” he said.
The nun kissed his forehead then walked over to the first trunk. She unlocked the door and pulled it open. Samuel took a step forward in disbelief. A child, his age, with his face, stepped out of the trunk. Sister Bravo opened the next trunk, and another twin, this one with dark hair, stared back at him.
Samuel fell back against the bed and landed on his behind. “What?” The two boys looked as confused as Samuel. They all looked up at Sister Bravo, bewildered.
“Samuel, this is Felipe and Eduardo. They’re your brothers. Boys, this is Samuel,” she said in French, then Italian.
Each boy gave a half-hearted wave, their faces pallets of fear and confusion, echoing Samuel’s emotions. Sister Bravo herded the boys back into the trunks, then opened the third, which was empty.
“It’s time to leave the castle,” she said, firm and serious. “Get inside.”
Ten minutes later, Samuel heard footsteps again, and his trunk lifted into the air. They carried him down the stairs and outside, then loaded him on a truck or in a van, he couldn’t tell. He heard the other two trunks being loaded next to him. Doors slammed shut, the engine started and they drove away. They stopped abruptly, then kept going.
A few seconds later, gunshots rang out and he was tossed back and forth against the walls of the trunk. The engine growled louder and Samuel bounced up and down, hitting his head. There was more gunfire, then silence. Samuel thought he heard screaming in the distance, as the wind whistled his name. Samuel!
47
I n pitch-black darkness, Robert and Thorne silently maneuvered the rubber watercraft across the lake toward Astura Torre castle with ease.
The lightly clouded sky profiled a blanket of bright stars and bright moon, unimpeded by dull city lights as in Chicago or New York. Earlier, Thorne had asked to be dropped in the city to talk to one of her sources, so she could secure everything they needed. Father Kong and the others were less suspicious than they would’ve been if it had been Robert stepping out instead of her. She had secured all the equipment they needed to rescue Samuel. Two fifty foot sets of strong rope with grappling hooks, mountain climbing hooks and spikes, Mac-10 machine guns fitted with silencers, (they were out of 9mm’s and. 45’s), and night-vision goggles.
Their plan, deceptively simple on paper, required a strong bit of luck.
They had launched the raft a little more than a mile down the coastline from the castle, out in the lake about a mile and a half, where they wouldn’t be seen. Thorne guided the boat slowly, and a half-mile away, Robert saw the shadowy, barely-lit castle. Although the engine was near silent, Robert signaled for Thorne to cut the motor and they rowed the last quarter mile. As they dug their oars into the lake, Robert wondered what Sister Isabella and the others would think when they discovered that they were gone.
Robert activated his night-vision goggles and scanned the coastline as they inched closer. Nothing. They reached the wall under the window where Robert had spotted what he was sure was Samuel’s flaming signal.
He turned off the goggles and grabbed the rope and grappling hook.
Thorne followed his lead. Robert threw
his first, caught the top of the wall, tested the rope, and started to climb, the machine gun swinging from his shoulder. A few seconds later, Thorne’s hook found its mark and she pulled herself up right behind him. The closer they got to the top, the harder Robert’s heart pounded. One peek down by one of The Order’s people and they’d be finished before they got started.
They reached the top of the wall simultaneously and unhooked themselves. Robert checked around the corner to the left, Thorne, the right, and gave each other the all clear. Up above about fifteen feet, the window emitted a dim light, but no sounds or voices. The wall, a maze of stony cracks and crevices, reminded Robert of the mountains he and Thorne climbed back in the States, only a bit more slippery.
“We’ll go up together,” Robert whispered. “When we reach the window, I’ll head inside first.”
Thorne nodded in agreement, then readied her weapons, the Mac-10, and her favorite, a Mosberg pistol grip pump shotgun.
They spread out to give each other room and started to climb. A few feet from the window, Robert heard faint voices and stopped, Thorne following suit. If Samuel’s inside, he’s not alone. They waited. Robert heard bumping and knocking, minutes later, silence fell, and they continued up the wall.
At the window, Robert pulled himself up on the ledge and peeked inside. The bedroom was empty, the door wide open, and the voices and stomping feet were headed downstairs. Robert climbed inside and stepped to the left, giving Thorne room to make it inside, his machine gun pointed at the open door.
They searched the room, but found nothing. Robert signaled his partner, and they edged toward the open door. At the bottom Robert heard the sound of men struggling, and cursing in Italian.
“They’re carrying something heavy,” whispered Thorne. “They said they’re heavy.”
“It could be the boys,” Robert whispered back. “Let’s go.” They carefully worked their way downstairs to a large room with a cobblestoned floor. It was empty, but the fireplace was blazing.
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