The Trafficker: A Michael Thomas Thriller

by Gavin Reese

  Michael stepped toward the red brick church’s southwest entrance and a tall gray metal double-door there. The creme marble that encapsulated the doorway had a recurring, intricate ivy and fleur-de-lis pattern carved into its surface, and the doors displayed a repeating, lattice-like X-pattern. To his biased eye, the door design appeared as a series of transverse crosses. Comforting thought that my pseudo-namesake has blessed this place and those in it. Hard to believe in coincidence anymore.

  Michael entered the church and found its bright, open, and welcoming three-story interior in stark contrast to the February morning and its low, cold cloud layer. He pulled the heavy door closed behind him and stopped just inside the narthex at the back of the church. Holding his breath, Michael took in the beauty before him and heard absolute, peaceful silence despite the bustle and traffic just the other side of the brick walls and stained glass. All the interior walls, columns, and buttressed ceiling were covered in clean, smooth white plaster with ornate, detailed accent designs at their corners. Dark stained wood pews with elaborate, carved endcaps faced a tall, two-story altar to the east. At first glance, Michael thought the nave was carpeted, but closer inspection revealed the intricate design was comprised of thousands of small, meticulously placed stone tiles.

  Michael closed his eyes. He inhaled the rich, familiar aroma. Regardless of where I’ve been in the world, God’s monuments offer the same reassuring scent. Eau de Dios. He exhaled all the mission-driven anxiety from his heart, and soft, distant footfalls brought him back to the task at hand.

  Michael followed the sound toward the south transept, the right side of the building’s overhead cross design. He stepped inside a small side chapel there and, to his surprise, found a nun wiping down a candelabra in front of a small prayer bench. I don’t remember there being a convent nearby.

  She looked up as he approached and smiled pleasantly. “Guten Morgen.”

  “Guten Morgen.” Taken aback by her unexpected radiance, Michael smiled and struggled to find his words for a few awkward seconds. “Sprech, uhh, sprechen sie Spanisch?”

  The nun shyly cast her eyes to the floor. “Un poco, no, muy poco. Lo siento.” She shook her hand as she replied.

  Michael shrugged his shoulders. “¿Es Padre Dietrich aqui?”

  “Oh, sí, un momento, por favor.”

  Michael waited in the side chapel while she disappeared toward the rectory at the east end of the building. He retrieved a one-hundred-euro bill from his wallet, folded it, and slid the donation into the candelabra’s offering box. After lighting one of the tea candles there, Michael knelt before the side altar and prayed for clarity, wisdom, and guidance.

  Two sets of approaching footsteps compelled him to open his eyes and rise from the prayer bench. A slight priest, perhaps twenty-five-years-old at most, walked toward him, just ahead of the taller nun.

  “Buenos dias,” he offered when they reached Michael. “Soy Padre Dietrich.” They both glanced at the nun, who then walked toward the north transept and the side altar there.

  Michael allowed her enough time to ensure she wouldn’t hear their exchange. “Sprechen Sie Englisch?”

  Burg appeared relieved and smiled. “Yes, thank you, much better than Spanish. How may I assist you, sir?”

  “Father Burg, I’m Father Andrew.” Because he wasn’t dressed in his clerical garb, Michael emphasized the priest’s last name and his apostolic pseudonym. He watched Burg until his contact seemed to recognize the beginning of their coded phrase. No one calls priests by their last name, so that alone oughta stand out. “I need to hear your confession.”

  “I can’t imagine what I would need to confess.” The Austrian blurted out the words like he’d been desperate to get them out of his mouth.

  Michael spoke more calmly to reassure his contact. “I can’t, either. I won’t know until you tell me. I’m here to offer absolution.”

  Father Dietrich looked around, first toward the nun to his far right and then to the rest of the church. “Let us go somewhere more private, Father. I might have something to share with you, after all. My partners are out at the market this morning, so we can be alone for perhaps another half-hour.”

  Michael nodded and followed him back to the rectory and the priests’ private living quarters. Dietrich locked the door behind them, which raised Michael’s suspicion. No one’s ever done that before. Maybe he’s more paranoid than most? He scanned the small living room for anything amiss as Dietrich made his way into the adjacent, modest kitchen.

  He removed a manila envelope from atop one of the cabinets and offered it to Michael. “Would you care to sit? I expect this might take several minutes.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Michael accepted the envelope and confirmed it displayed the Diplomatic Pouch warnings. The red wax seals showed the Seal of the Holy See over a transverse cross. Authenticated. He followed Dietrich deeper into the room, where they sat in simple wooden chairs across from one another at a bistro table. Michael finished his confirmations and removed the envelope’s documents. “I’m surprised to see the nun here. Where is the convent?”

  “That’s part of what I must discuss with you, Father. She is here on a temporary assignment to aid us.” Dietrich crossed himself, so Michael did the same and scanned the first few pages while Dietrich began their ritual. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. One day has passed since my most recent confession, and I find hate in my heart.”

  Michael saw the target of his investigation was Alfred König. The executive summary identified him as a well-known, wealthy, and admired international businessman who’d gotten himself into bed with drug traffickers. He looked up at Dietrich. “Go ahead, Father. I promise I’m listening.”

  The penitent nodded. “I have been holding hate and anger in my heart for one of my own parishioners. He’s been a distant member of our church for ten, maybe twelve years. Over that time, he’s also been one of our most ardent and reliable financial supporters, which, of course, makes this all the harder. It has been brought to my attention that his business began failing several years ago. To keep himself in wealth and his preferred lifestyle, he created partnerships with foreign drug cartels from Mexico and South America.

  “Since that time, he’s become central Europe’s largest importer of heroin and cocaine, and he’s dabbled in methamphetamine. Recently, I’m afraid, he’s also trafficked a drug called fentanyl, of which I knew nothing until a few days ago. It’s quite dangerous, I’m told, and deadly for many of its consumers.”

  “I’m sorry to be familiar with it.”

  “And I’m sorry to hear that,” Dietrich offered. “It seems there are no happy memories or events associated with it. Someone close to him, another of our parishioners, identified a dead Mexican drug trafficker as one of Alfred’s business associates. They spent time with him vacationing at a beach in Mexico last year, and she recognized his corpse in a news article about drug and gang violence in that country. Although it seems a silly technicality at this point, I cannot identify the woman to you, Father Andrew. I’m sure you understand.”

  Michael smiled. “I do. Please continue.”

  “The nun, who you asked about, has been here for four days now to assist us with her. The woman, our penitent, has asked for sanctuary. For the time being, she is staying here until arrangements can be made to place her in a friendly convent well outside Austria. It’s not too surprising that bishops across most of Europe are familiar with both of them and their long, mutual history of scandalously glamorizing sin all across the Internet and social media. Their local fame is complicating our efforts to provide her a safe haven. The woman’s parents raised her as a Catholic, and her new predicament seems to have inspired a return to her younger values.”

  Michael skimmed through the rest of the intel packet and settled on photos of the target and his unnamed wife. She’s obviously the penitent. I recognize her, but I don’t know why. Maybe she looks like someone else. Regardless, she’s stunning, and, it seems, stunnin
gly sinful. This is the precise kind of eyewitness statement John wanted to make sure we always corroborated. If she says it’s snowing, we should open a few windows to check.

  Dietrich cleared his throat. “I feel betrayed, Father Andrew. This man has been in my church dozens, even hundreds of times. I never suspected he was capable of such evil, of degrading the dignity of himself and those suffering from addiction around him in pursuit of nothing more than money and material wealth.”

  Michael set down the papers and removed an ink pen from his overcoat’s interior pocket. “Why does she require sanctuary?”

  “Oh, yes, thank you. She alleged that Alfred’s new associates are sending an unusually large shipment of fentanyl into Austria. They told him they will kill him and all his identifiable family if it is lost, either to fate or the authorities. She cannot stay with him knowing what he is doing. The reports of hundreds of overdose deaths across the E-U this year are encouraging her to tell the authorities what she knows, but she has not yet accepted that necessity. She fears for her life, that one of Alfred’s partners will kill her to keep her quiet and allow their drugs and money to flow freely, or that she will die in retaliation if she reveals all this to the authorities.

  “The reality of Alfred’s involvement with all the overdose deaths haunts her, though. I’m certain she will make the right decision, but I fear she will not do so in time. I believe she holds out hope that, through some miracle, her husband’s actions won’t harm anyone and she can flee without sending him to prison. Displaced loyalty.”

  “Perhaps she needs to revisit paragraph 22-66 of the Catechism. It might do her good to know that punishment can be therapeutic.”

  Dietrich offered a sad smile. “Yes, but that requires Alfred to accept that punishment and reconcile his part in it. It appears that is unlikely.”

  “She might also consider not asking God to work such incredible miracles, like changing the hearts of evil men. There are always simpler solutions.”

  Dietrich nodded his agreement. “Although I am surprised to learn of his actions, I am not surprised by his lack of accountability for them. I suppose that I will have to pray for you and whatever influence you can have on this. If her information is correct, you have only five days to alter this ominous evil and its near-certain outcome. If you’re here to do what I believe you are, I hope that you have help. One man cannot expect to resolve this on his own.” Dietrich rolled up his left sleeve and revealed a tattoo with obvious military origins. Even though Michael couldn’t translate the surrounding inscriptions, its significance was clear. “I am a man who knows something of such things. At least, the things that I believe and fear are necessary to resolve this matter.”

  Michael smiled and nodded but didn’t further confirm Dietrich’s assertion. This guy is the closest thing I have to backup here. “How else can I help you? I can’t give you any advice you’ve not given your parishioners thousands of times.”

  “I ask you to pray for us, Father Andrew.” Dietrich rolled his sleeve back down. “Pray for Alfred and his change of heart. For my penitent’s prodigal return. For me and the outward anger from my wounded pride.”

  “I can start with that. I’ll pray for you and for all of us, but I intend to do far more than that."

  February 15, 1:19PM

  Hotel Sacher. Vienna, Austria.

  Michael stepped from a rented black Maybach S500 executive sedan, which was a slightly remodeled Mercedes that focused on the experience of the backseat passengers instead of their chauffeur. He’d dropped three hundred euros to secure a fifteen-minute ride from the retail shops near Saint Stephen’s Cathedral to the opulent, historic hotel across narrow Philharmoniker Straβe from the Royal Opera House. For a hundred euros per kilometer, this chariot better let me make the impression I need here. Michael kept his brown Italian leather messenger bag under his left arm, its thick strap slung across his chest and right shoulder. Can’t let the bellhops carry my intel packet around, even if the luggage doesn’t ever leave my sight.

  John had demanded that they always work to fit into their environment and, unfortunately for the Vatican’s bankroll, this investigation required that Michael fit into the wealthiest social circles in Austria. Rooms at the Hotel Sacher cost more than $600 per night, even with late-winter discounts when most travelers wanted to get out of Vienna and onto tropical beaches. The hotel’s website proclaimed, over its history, that its staff had hosted foreign royalty, global spiritual leaders, and American presidents. The ones popular overseas, anyway.

  Unlike the cabbie that brought him into the city four hours earlier, Michael’s current driver insisted on hand-delivering all his new luggage to a tuxedo-clad bellhop, who’d hurried to meet the rare sedan as soon as it approached the curb. Not many Maybachs around, even in this town. Michael over-tipped the driver and followed the bellhop into the lobby and toward the registration desk. Except for Versailles, this is the most opulent place I’ve ever been. Not easy to make our cathedrals seem second-rate, but this place does it. He kept his face expressionless as though he had both been there before and wasn’t impressed with what they’d done with the place.

  “Hallo, guten tag,” a classically handsome brunette with very little makeup and a tight, long ponytail greeted him from behind the granite-topped desk. The mirrored wall behind her confirmed her black pencil dress and heels were equally modest and tasteful. “Good afternoon, and welcome to the Hotel Sacher Vienna. How may I be of service today?”

  He smiled inwardly at her correct assessment of him but wanted to keep up his feigned Spanish origin. “Hallo, buenos dias.”

  “Buenos dias.” Her flawless reply seemed as though she had always expected the conversation to take place in Spanish.

  “Estoy registrándome durante varios días.” Michael presented his forged Holy See passport and a credit card tied to his apostolic pseudonym, Andrés Bethsaida. It’s hard to think of them as forged when a legitimate government issued both of them. They just happen to be in my ‘other’ name. When John gave the official state identification documents and credit card to Michael, he’d explained that their associated digital files had been slightly altered. Even though they’d been uploaded and shared with all manner of law enforcement and customs agencies across the globe, no one could connect actual photos of Michael to either of his passport images through facial recognition software. Love to know how they modified the digital file for my real U-S passport, but John claimed that info was too far above my paygrade.

  Soft digital chirps from beneath the counter drew the clerk’s attention, and she pulled receipts out for Michael to sign. He reminded himself to use the pseudonym and returned them to her. The clerk provided his electronic room key, along with his credit card and passport. She seemed unimpressed with the Holy See citizenship, or unaware of its rarity. Best possible scenario is that she didn’t take notice.

  “Esperamos que disfrute su estadía.” Her smile conveyed nothing but professional, sincere courtesy. We hope you enjoy your stay.

  “Gracias. Siempre hago.” Michael secured his documents inside his overcoat and strode toward the elevator. I’d prefer the stairs, but that’s too abnormal for this crowd, unless I’m in five-hundred bucks worth of workout clothes. As he stepped into the elevator, the attendant inside had already pushed 3, as though he’d somehow been alerted to Michael's destination. I wonder how surprised they’d be to learn I’m here to kill one of their long-term residents. I also wonder if they’ll be more upset about losing the man or the carpeting he’s found on?

  February 15, 2:00PM

  Hotel Sacher. Vienna, Austria.

  After securing himself inside the opulent hotel room, Michael retrieved the intel packet from his brown leather messenger bag. He set it on a low glass coffee table in front of a gas fireplace. When he sat on an adjacent tan-and-maroon leather loveseat, he realized the plush two-cushion couch was the most comfortable thing he’d ever rested on. Makes me wanna give the bed a spin, just to kill the jetl
ag.

  Michael took a moment and soaked in the room’s impeccable furnishings. The oversized bed looked like two queen mattresses placed side-by-side with custom fitted bedding. Maroon, leaf-patterned velvet clung to the wall behind the bed and matched the bedspread. Crystal chandeliers hung over both the bed and the coffee table. Light, eggshell colored walls rose to a starch white coffered plaster ceiling and fell to a beautiful, dark stained and intricate wood floor. Two dark wood chairs with red velvet cushions sat beneath the right side of the glass wall opposite him, which overlooked the Royal Opera House across the street.

  Just past that historic landmark and more important than the grandeur of his view, Michael saw the northeast corner of Austria’s Tourist Information Center. He didn’t know which yet, but one of the office windows in his line of sight belonged to Alfred König. And he’s been living in the room above me for two months. The man hasn’t been home in so long that he hasn’t even noticed his wife’s missing. It’s either not that unusual, or the servants don’t have the stones to tell him.

  Michael stood up, moved a decorative bowl of candied walnuts from the coffee table, and pulled it closer to the loveseat. No other desk space. The room’s not designed for working executives, just the playboys and trust fund babies. With his best available workspace ready, Michael pulled the intel packet’s contents out onto the table. Along with the usual documentation, a plain black wallet-sized plastic card hit the glass. Michael saw a handwritten sticky note on one side: Beware of Polizei. He turned the card over, and the front side displayed a stylized calligraphy “KI” with König International inscribed beneath it. That’s a first. The mystery deepens.