by Gavin Reese
February 14, 5:48PM
Ohkay Owingeh Airport. Espanola, New Mexico.
Monsignor Hernandez drove the chapel’s beat-up beige four-door sedan onto the grounds of a small, municipal airport. From the passenger seat, Michael saw several dozen light and sport aircraft lined up and chained to the asphalt parking section next to its single runway. His transport, a Learjet 36A, stood out from everything else as it sat next to a large hangar and awaited his arrival. Only thing that’s even close is a Cessna owned by a local dairy collective. These airports should help us avoid notice, the T-S-A, and paper trails, but the jets themselves stand out too much. Can’t let H drop me off in the San Miguel jalopy again. The license plate’ll be more than enough to let investigators start pulling at threads.
“You ready,” Hernandez asked as he stopped the sedan next to the shiny white jet.
“Not much choice, but yeah. I’m ready.” H put the transmission in park and Michael sensed he had more to say, so he sat for a moment.
“Listen, I’m sorry about the other night. I reacted poorly and, uh, I was too, surprised, to understand everything you said. I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize. I sprung that on you. I have no idea how to gently break that kinda news, though.”
Hernandez chuckled. “Right. ‘Hey, Ed, by the way, I’m a contract killer for the Vatican.’ I still wouldn’t believe you except the jet’s pretty damned persuasive.”
“I owe you an apology for putting this burden on you, but I needed you to understand what I’m doing. I can keep the wool over my parents’ eyes, H, but you’ve been inside the church hierarchy for so long that you’d have just grown more suspicious.”
His mentor paused a moment. “I’m glad you trusted me with this. I’ll just add it to your list of secrets that are safe with me.”
Michael retrieved his duffel bag from the backseat. “Speaking of safe, we can’t have you drop me off anymore. If someone grabs the plate off the chapel ride and starts digging into it, there’ll be too many questions that no one wants to answer. That would encourage whoever’s asking.”
“Fair enough. Lemme know if I can do anything to help you, wherever you’re headed and whatever you’re off to do.”
“You’re okay looking after Ira while I’m gone? I can have my parents pick him up if he gets to be too much.”
“No, he’s great. I figure it’s all the more reason for you to come back home to us."
Michael smiled and nodded as he stepped from the sedan, slammed the stiff, creaky door shut, and strode toward the plane. H put the car in motion and headed back out to the access road.
As Michael walked around the jet’s nose, the copilot descended the short stairs to meet him and spoke with a heavy accent. “Father Andrew?”
“Yes?” Another Italian pilot. That’s becoming a theme.
“I’m sorry, Father, but there’s been a change to your travel plans.”
“That’s rather inconvenient at this late hour.” Michael still didn’t like the feigned insolence that his canned response demanded.
“Then whom shall I send?” The copilot eyed him with a blank expression.
“Here I am. Send me.” Michael liked that John had worked the Isaiah verse into their op-sec protocols.
“Very good,” the copilot smiled and moved for him to ascend the stairs. “Please, come aboard and we’ll have you in the air right away.”
Michael stepped up into the cabin and, as expected, found it otherwise unoccupied. Configured just as the others he’d flown on, this plane had seven plush tan leather seats, padded leather trim on the walls, and thick, dark brown carpeting. I doubt that I’ll ever get comfortable taking the obligatory seat near the hatch instead of sitting with my back to the rear wall. It doesn’t matter that no one can sneak up behind me, I still like to keep my six covered.
“We’ll first fly to Rome,” the copilot advised as he stepped in behind Michael. He hurried to close and lock the hatch while Michael stowed his duffel bag. With the aircraft secured, the copilot retrieved a black, hard-sided diplomatic pouch from a locked storage compartment and handed it to Michael. “Should you require such, we’ll be ready to make alterations to the flight plan after we move to the next air traffic control center. Once we’re certain of our destination, we’ll transition from the Albuquerque Center to either Kansas City or Fort Worth, assuming, of course, that you still require us to take you east.”
“I appreciate your experience and discretion, and I’ll make sure you know as soon as I do.” Michael kept the pouch secured under his left arm. Might be a nuisance for the flight crew, but it improves our operational security by making us a little harder to track.
“Thank you, Father. We’ll be on our way in just a moment.”
Michael took his seat and, as promised, the engines soon propelled the jet forward, out onto the tarmac, and into the clear, blue, and cold northern New Mexico skies. Michael waited until their ascent slowed to open the pouch and review its contents. Never know how much detail will be in here and how much awaits me at the church.
He found the expected two-number combination locks on each side of the pouch’s handle. Michael input “22” and “68” as John’s email had advised and opened the case. Intentional Homicide, he thought as he recalled the corresponding paragraph of the Catechism of the Catholic Church. That’s a bad start for the bad man, whoever he is. Michael saw the front of an expected manila envelope that, in large, bold red letters, displayed Diplomatic Pouch - Property of Holy See Consulate - Internationally Protected Contents over additional legalese. The warning repeated itself in Italian next to the seal of the Holy See.
Michael removed the envelope, turned it over, and saw a red wax seal atop each of the two back, glued flaps. A quick examination confirmed they displayed the Seal of the Holy See over what most everyone else would see as an “X.” In actuality, it represented the sideways, transverse cross upon which Saint Andrew met his demise as a martyr in Greece. Origin and intended recipient authenticated. The meaning behind the symbol for his apostolic namesake brought a dark smirk to his face. It’d be nice if my work on behalf of the Church won’t require me to be martyred in such a manner. Compared to Saint Andrew’s crucifixion, third-world prisons would be a blessing.
Michael retrieved a folding pocketknife, another benefit of private aircraft, and cut into the wax seals. Parchment concealed within each displayed small, typed numbers that corresponded to the additional Catechism sections his target had allegedly violated. John had also sent those by email, which allowed Michael to further authenticate the packet. 2268. 2276-7. 2284-7. 2290-1.
Michael opened the envelope and removed a typed note and three bank-banded stacks of one-hundred-euro notes. Glancing at the cash, he saw each hologrammed band displayed €10,000. No need to count it. This much cash takes up a lot less space than I expected. For the moment, Michael placed the currency in his overcoat’s zippered interior pocket and focused on the note.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Shithead. Time to reaffirm your commitment to the Merry Union of Snake Hunters & Gravediggers. Report to Vienna, Austria, posthaste and meet with Father Dietrich BURG at St Francis the Seraph Church (St. Franziskus Seraphicus Katholische Kirche Breitenfeld). He’s expecting you no later than 1500 hours on 15-Feb. Use the cash to pay for a cab, the train system may not get you there in time. In addition to his association with love, Saint Valentine helped combat crippling afflictions and the plague. In honor of his liturgical celebration, show up tomorrow ready to continue the work that he started in a manner to make him and Saint Michael proud. -- John”
As the plane further slowed its ascent and he could move about its interior, Michael stepped to the opulent three-quarter bathroom at the back of the cabin. Smiling at John’s fulfillment of a previous request, he found a crosscut confetti shredder in a cabinet below the sink. Michael set it atop the open toilet and used it to destroy the note and envelope. One enthusiastic flush scattered wet confetti somewhere across
the eastern New Mexico skies.
Michael returned to his seat and picked up a phone receiver from the adjacent wall to speak with the copilot.
“Yes, Father, how may I assist you?”
“It appears you were correct, and I’ll require us to alter our flight plans.”
“Excellent. We’re nearing our transition to Kansas City Center now. Where shall we deliver you?”
“Vienna, please. It appears I now have urgent business there.”
February 15, 08:51am
Vienna International Airport. Vienna, Austria.
Michael emerged from the private jet onto the cold, wet tarmac. Dark grey clouds spanned the entire horizon in all directions, and a light, sharp breeze cut against his cheeks. Piles of dirty snow stood at the outer edges of the asphalt, and Michael expected they had no chance to melt before the plows cast new soiled snow atop them. Although he’d watched the sun rise three hours ago from thirty-thousand feet, it showed no progress in burning through the low cloud layer here.
He strode the short distance to enter the heated and opulent terminal. During a fuel stop at Charles de Gaulle outside Paris, his flight crew had somehow departed without a customs inspection of the private aircraft, its cargo, or passenger. The short layover in France thus prevented Austrian customs officials from inspecting the plane and its passengers because it had already touched EU soil. No idea how they managed that. Best not to ask, but I’d wager it involves an insider in a position of authority to overlook such things. With devoted and loyal followers spread all across the globe, it’s no wonder that we can so easily move about undetected and unrecorded. If only we could find a clandestine way to defeat London’s surveillance cameras, we’d become global ghosts.
Michael joined the commercial passengers inside the terminal and set about his most urgent op-sec concern: fitting in. I might have to do this a couple times, but I need to make myself appear to be a local. He first visited a coffee and streusel vendor and a newsstand before doubling back to ensure no one was following him. Satisfied he had no tails, Michael stopped in a small clothing store and two kiosks to acquire a rolling carry-on bag, and a dark wool overcoat, scarf, and hat that better matched the men walking around him. A quick trip to the restroom allowed him to change his attire and conceal everything inside the new roller bag. People notice ‘different,’ and I can’t afford to be noticed. The dressier clothes and the cheap duffel bag don’t match, but it might come in handy if I need to blend into a cheap motel in the next few days. At that point, the new Samsonite becomes a disposable liability, and it’s all part of what the stacks of euros are supposed to offset. If I run out of cash, I’ll have to use one of the anonymous, online Estonian bank accounts to cover operational expenses. Until that happens, I’ve gotta limit the number of breadcrumbs I leave behind.
At his last stop inside the terminal, Michael bought a local SIM card for his work cell. +43 phone number, that one’s new to me. Gotta email this local number to John so he can stay in touch. It’s hard to think of him as back-up when he isn’t even on the same continent. He claims local assets can show up and save the day, but they can’t help with anything that happens fast. That’s the kinda trouble that sends me into the Vatican’s prison ministry. Hope we never need to test that out.
Michael exited the front of the terminal, hailed a cab, and passed him a handwritten address near his actual destination. Instead of taking him straight to the church, he’d have the cabbie drop him a quarter mile south and across the U-line tracks. Dropping me in front of a three-star hotel will inspire a lot less curiosity than taking me straight to Saint Francis.
“Sprechen Sie Spanisch?” Michael preferred to present himself as a Spaniard, despite some differences between his fluent South American dialect and that spoken in Spain.
The cabbie dispassionately examined the address and merged into traffic. “Nein.” He didn’t even look back in the rearview mirror when he finally answered.
Perfect, Michael thought. He sat back to appear relaxed and complacent but paid constant attention to their location and direction of travel. He should keep us headed northwest on the A4 for a while. If he pulls off the main route, I’ll have trouble keeping track of our location. The street names are long as hell and I don’t sprechen. These old cities were built alongside rivers, so they’re never gridded until you get out into the ‘burbs. Makes it hard to know what direction you’re traveling after a few turns on the windy side streets. He looked up at the ominous cloud cover. Orientation would be possible if the whole sky wasn’t the same shade of gray.
Michael’s mind soon wandered in the silence that enveloped the cab’s interior, and he considered how little he knew about this assignment. Lot of alleged sins in this one. Drug trafficking, murder, assisted suicide, euthanasia, and scandal. Lots of ways to check all those boxes, so this guy could be an addicted, street-level dealer or the wealthiest importer that won’t use his own product.
Michael thought of his squad mates from Silver City, the cops with whom he’d once stood shoulder-to-shoulder to protect their community. What would they think of all this? If this investigation goes to absolution, it’ll be my third kill. I could celebrate Easter Mass as a serial killer. That’s a damned sobering thought. Thank God this isn’t murder, it’s just killing.
Vienna’s ancient and remodeled urbanity flew by outside Michael’s window, and a directional sign reminded him that the United Nations global counternarcotics mission was located nearby. If the intel and liaison agencies like Interpol and Europol eventually connect our investigations across national jurisdictions, that could be a real problem for all of us. The cops and politicians will call them murders, and likely start an international task force to hunt a contract hitman. He grimaced at a recurring, tangential thought. This one won’t make me a serial killer, anyway, the Bogotá thing was self-defense and didn’t match the M-O of the others. Well, not completely, but each death had, admittedly, similar motives.
Michael returned his focus to the traffic and surrounding environment. It helps that the cabbie knows I’m a foreigner, so I get a free pass to be interested in everything. The taxi continued straight through a large intersection, which Michael saw was the 228. Good, he’s taking a direct route. He’s staying on the A4, and that’ll turn into the B227, the Schüttelstaβe, shortly. I got lucky that he wants to get rid of me instead of ripping me off.
As they drew closer to Vienna’s center, the urban density noticeably increased, along with the amount and diversity of graffiti on the buildings they passed. Michael sat slack jawed when he saw “Los Vatos Locos” spray-painted in large black letters with an even larger “MS13” in bright blue around it. Holy hell! A government worker clad in a yellow hard hat, reflective, bright orange long sleeve coveralls, and a yellow vest had just begun painting over the internationally recognized gang graffiti.
The sight alerted Michael to pay even greater attention to his surroundings. Speak of my old cop days and they appear! Mara Salvatrucha Trece, all the way from El Salvador and L-A to Vienna. Those assholes showed up in dozens of cop intel and safety bulletins, but I never ran into any of them in Silver City. Not much reason for them to spend time in my small mountain town, they woulda stuck out like a sore thumb. Might get to meet a few of them here on the other side of the world if God intends things to go wrong for all of us. Michael realized the possible connection to his visit. Drug trafficking, murder, and scandal. Of course, those assholes are here. I wonder who followed who to Austria.
February 15, 09:36am
Lerchenfelder Gürtel 55. Vienna, Austria.
Michael stepped from the cab and onto the sidewalk in front of the Josefstädter Straβe Inn. He retrieved his messenger bag and carry-on roller from the back seat and left the driver a five-euro tip. Enough to be remembered as just another cheap foreigner, but not enough to ingratiate the man or piss him off. The cab departed as Michael stepped into the hotel’s glass turnstile, so he exited back onto the sidewalk without ever setting foo
t in the lobby. In those few seconds, the cab had disappeared amid a throng of departing southbound traffic.
With his bags in tow, Michael wandered to a café tucked beneath the railway arch just to his east. He entered the west side of the building, purchased another coffee, and took a seat along the eastern glass wall that allowed him a clear view of Saint Francis Seraphicus to the north. Michael pretended to review news articles on his phone. He texted John his temporary Austrian phone number, a short code phrase to authenticate his identity, and advised his boss that he had eyes on the first objective, the church where he was to meet his contact. After he became comfortable that nothing in his vicinity seemed suspicious or threatening, Michael’s mind wandered. Looking out at the beautiful brick building, he thought of its namesake. Saint Francis was an amazing man. So devout he was blessed with crucifixion wounds, called ‘stigmata,’ as well as Christ’s joy at man’s salvation. Upon ascension, he became a seraph in heaven, the most treasured and highest of all God’s angels. Not a bad role model, all things considered.
After thirty minutes, he’d finished the last of his now lukewarm coffee and hadn’t seen anything unusual or odd around his destination. I still have almost six hours to meet the contact’s deadline, but there’s no time like the present. Burnin’ daylight, as John might shout at me, with an added ‘shithead.’
Michael knew Austria didn’t yet have the same problems with terrorism that most of the EU nations faced, so the growing See Something, Say Something practice hadn’t yet taken hold here. As he approached his destination, Michael nonchalantly hid his roller bag between several large snowcapped planters across the street south of the church. Just another piece of intel for the priest and his parishioners to remember about the ‘Spaniard,’ should investigators ever have reason to ask about me. It’s too unusual to take luggage into a church. He kept his messenger bag and its concealed intel packet on his body.
