The Trafficker: A Michael Thomas Thriller

by Gavin Reese

Hernandez waited until Michael looked at him to speak. “‘Mucking’ it up?”

  “Yeah, you know I’ve got a swearing problem. I’m trying to work on my language, even in private. I keep hearing that priests aren’t even supposed to know the word ‘fuck.’”

  “Who told you that?”

  “You know. People.”

  “We’re people, too, not homogenous robots that exist in a sterile vacuum devoid of emotion and fallibility.”

  “Well aware, H.”

  ‘Well, you know what I always say.”

  “There’s two kinds of people in this world?”

  “No, the other one: ‘fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.’ If we can’t even be people in private, we’ll never be good at shepherding people through public. I digress. Back to your problem.”

  Michael nodded, leaned forward, and stared at his clasped hands as he spoke. “I thought the end result would be different, H. I imagined all the beauty and ideology of saving evil from itself, and it was all gonna be rainbows and white doves, and Godly beams of sunlight shining down through rain clouds. I had no idea it was gonna be like this.”

  Hernandez poured more ale into his coffee mug. “You know how many death row inmates ever come to God? How many humble themselves before that fateful Eleventh Hour? Not many. Even fewer come to God before ten-thirty. Man is a proud and self-righteous species, Michael. Even though we’ve been made in God’s image, we do stupid shit, like get, ‘Only God Can Judge Me,’ tattoos. No one gets ink like that because they devoted their life to volunteering in homeless shelters and digging wells in third-world nations, they get ‘em because they like doing bad shit and hate being called out on it.

  “Here’s the way I see it, Michael. You, and those like you, have chosen to thread this narrow, nearly impossible gap. You’re trying to save the greatest evils on Earth from themselves, and you’ve been led to accomplish that by reconciling their sins and killing them. I still wrestle with the paradox, but I can’t argue that humanity benefits from sending those kinda men to meet God. I’m glad that someone’s willing to arrange the meeting, I just don’t know if I have the confidence in its morality to do it myself. That make sense?”

  “Sure. You see that it needs to be done, but you don’t want the burden. That part feels a lot like cop work to me.”

  “You present very few of God’s children with immediate reconciliation and delivery home to our Father. Only the greatest of evils, right? That means the soccer mom that’s been just a little bit too bad to get into heaven doesn’t get this chance. Perhaps her salvation is on the fence, but she doesn’t get a visit and advance notice of an immediate, scheduled departure time for her judgment. If you look at this from your perspective, that you’re there to save the souls of these evil men, then, shouldn’t that just-kinda-bad soccer mom get that chance first? She’s not been evil at all, not one day in her life, and she’s maybe gonna end up in hell anyway, so why are those assholes getting a chance at eternal salvation that’s never offered to her? Why is God sending you to darken the doorways of the most prodigal and agnostic of His children if you’re being sent there to save their souls? God doesn’t like being tested, so there must be another reason for it.”

  Michael considered H’s point but struggled to find the answer.

  “So, in my position, looking at this from the outside,” Hernandez continued, “and, also, looking at it from your burdened and biased perspective, I want you to consider something. You think that God has sent you-all in to save these souls, to salvage them from Satan’s grasp and return them home like prodigal children so God and all the angels on high can celebrate their triumphant return. To give them that one last chance to exercise their free will to choose God and submit to his divine and universal authority, but, what if you’re all wrong?”

  Michael scowled at his mentor. “That’s what I’m asking you, H. How does that help?”

  “No, you didn’t hear me right. What if God isn’t sending you in to save them, to convince them of their terrible and imminent eternal fate, and let them use their free will for good, just this one last time? What if God has been watching them over their whole life, their choices, their conduct, their evil. And now that he has you all, whoever and however many there are, and he can send you in to confirm the decision He believes they’ve already made, and that they seem guaranteed to make later. He’s just using you to see how committed they are to that decision today, to prove to Himself that their free will is gonna damn them to Hell eventually. If that’s true, then maybe it’s best for everyone that they go home to meet Him now. You’re not responsible for saving anyone, Michael, and you never have been. You’re there to force them into a final decision under the pressure of both time and consequence. Their eternal salvation will always remain their own responsibility.”

  Michael guffawed, amazed at the revelation. He felt a tremendous physical burden lifted from his heart, shoulders, and mind. That changes everything! Tears welled in his eyes. “H, I can’t even begin to tell you what a difference that makes.”

  “I didn’t change anything about all the negative stuff that you have to deal with to get to that end-point, but I think that’s a much more realistic perspective. It’s always gonna come down to free will, and you can’t make decisions for anyone else. I mean, what fun would that be, anyway?

  “You can’t blame yourself for their choices, either, Michael, or consider it a failure when they deny the inevitability of their eternal destination. God certainly won’t see it that way, and He can’t hold you accountable for doing something that He can’t even do himself. Free will, right? God can’t overcome it, so you ain’t got a snowball’s chance in Hell.”

  Michael still looked down at the floor but nodded his acceptance and understanding of the man’s argument. “I couldn’t see that. Free will, it’s such a blessing and a curse. Thank you, H.”

  “Didn’t do anything but point out the obvious. You’re the one that’s been out doing the backbreaking work on God’s behalf.”

  Michael scoffed at his mentor’s self-deprecation. “It’s made all the difference, though. I couldn’t have gone on much longer the way I was headed.” He sat up, leaned back in the chair, and rubbed his face. “Shit was gettin’ bad, man. I just kept replaying those absolutions, and in my mind, my psyche, all I could do was see them as failures. I was certain they’d irreversibly stained my soul.”

  “We Catholics are great at alcoholism and guilt, Michael, and we’re not meant to carry either burden." He poured more beer and winked at his subordinate and friend. “You look like somebody kicked the shit outta you. I expect this last trip didn’t go as planned?”

  Michael chuckled at the understatement, which shot pain through his ribs. “You should, oww, you should see the other guy!” He laughed aloud, even though it hurt like hell.

  Hernandez smirked and skeptically watched him.

  “Seriously, H, either one of ‘em!” Michael howled at his own gallows humor and sharp pain stymied his laughter. One probably lost an eye and the other one’s D-R-T. He inhaled through his nose and tried to manage his pain. Dead Right There. That never stops being funny, which is something God might wanna chat about one day.

  February 22, 08:05am local

  Vatican Housing Complex. Rome, Italy.

  Cardinal Paul Dylan sat in his official Vatican residence at a zebrawood dining table and sipped his first cappuccino of the day. Today’s schedule demanded evening commitments with Italian government officials to discuss shared economic concerns, so Paul had directed Harold to clear his morning. As such, he still wore a plush, dark red bathrobe and slippers while Harold sat across the table and briefed him on the progress of their ongoing side project.

  Dressed in the black cassock typical of his working day, Harold had apparently been up for several hours. He’d even passed on a cappuccino when Paul offered it. “So, it appears the matter in Vienna is concluded.”

  Paul scowled at his subordinate and set his coffee cup
back on its matching saucer. “How can you say that, Harold? We have ongoing exposure there! The police in Austria are still investigating König’s office almost three days later! C-N-N, Sky News, hell, even Univision set up satellite vans on the street outside to update their viewers every hour, on the hour! The Austrian National Police are in the middle of an active manhunt for a gunman who shot a rifle at them and fled before they locked the building down! The matter is decidedly not concluded!”

  Harold cleared his throat and averted his gaze. “Yes, Your Eminence, all that is true, but our target is absolved, as much as he would allow, our man is out of the country, and it appears the police have no leads to tie him back to the scene. I will concede this is not the outcome we ever endeavor to achieve, but there are a tremendous number of positives here. Given all the obstacles that sprung up along the way, our operation should have failed. König’s dealings and his drug network have been exposed for all the world to see, and agencies like Interpol and the D-E-A will take over much of it. The Austrian police are focused on finding the African gunman, and no one is talking about the ‘priest who got away.’ It does seem that we are, actually, ‘clean,’ as John would say.”

  “I can’t argue that point. What’s next for us in this investigation? How much deeper into this rabbit hole are we willing to go?”

  Harold opened up a folder and referenced handwritten notes on a yellow legal pad. “Working back to the Americas, in sequence, the ship’s executive officer committed suicide when Slovenian authorities boarded the cargo ship. They’re still working to identify the dock workers who were to bring the narcotics ashore. We know the container that housed the drugs was taken aboard the ship in Veracruz, Mexico. That area’s controlled by the Santa Lena cartel. Based on the information John gleaned from our man on the ground, we came up with this.” Harold retrieved a grainy black-and-white surveillance photograph from the folder and passed it across the table.

  Paul accepted and reviewed the image, but he didn’t recognize the man and didn’t know if he should. “Who is he?”

  “Interpol and DICE know him as ‘Suspected Santa Lena Leader Number 30.’ Our Division of Intelligence and Counter-Espionage analysts are working to identify him. I’m told we should expect this to take some time, maybe months or years, but it’s well beyond coincidence that this man would be in König’s hotel and across the street from his office the day before such an exchange was to take place.”

  “Very good, Harold. Keep me informed of progress along the way. How’s your man, is he recovering alright?”

  “I believe so, yes.” Harold squirmed in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable with their topic of conversation.

  Paul stopped reaching for his cappuccino when he recognized his subordinate’s reaction. “What is it? Is there some source of additional exposure we didn’t plan on?”

  “I don’t know, Your Eminence, not yet.” He sighed and closed the folder before he continued. “From what he told John, the Absolver barely made it out alive and had to revive himself with antidote injections several times before he reached the airstrip. The pilot told me he could not see who drove him out there, but it was a black Audi sedan, and it looked like a private car. Also, our man was already hooked up to an intravenous drip of antidote when he stepped out onto the tarmac.”

  Paul sat back in his chair, suddenly aware of the potential danger. “Did he explain all this?”

  “Yes, but I’m uneasy with it. John debriefed him after he landed back in the U-S, and he stated that he assumed his small injectors wouldn’t be enough, so he took the I-V bag of liquid antidote from König’s storage room. He said a car service delivered him to the airfield, and he paid the driver in cash. He claimed that he didn’t use either of the fictitious Estonian bank accounts we set up for him.”

  Paul prioritized the elements of his perceived risk. “If he did use one of the accounts, can they be traced back to us, if the driver starts asking questions or goes to the police?”

  “No, our DICE analysts did all that through a VPN. The accounts look like they were set up from Bangladesh.”

  “Do we have any way to identify the car’s owner?”

  “No, the pilot had nothing but ‘black Audi.’”

  “Does our man have any personal ties to Austria or Vienna, maybe someone in the region he could have called for help?”

  “Not that we know of. He’s disclosed nothing to us, and the background investigation found nothing like that. All his known international contacts are in South America.”

  Paul felt stumped and hated his lack of technical savvy, at least to the understanding required for these types of operations and information gathering. “Can we just pull data from his phone, see who he’s been communicating with?”

  “No. My limited understanding from the analysts and technical staff is that the V-P-N defeats most of the programs we could use to monitor the phone’s use from this end.”

  “What can be done from his end, from the phone itself? Can’t we just put a program on it that reports back to us? It wouldn’t even have to be something we access directly, as long as it sends us data every few days that we can review, as needed. When questions like this come up, for example.”

  Harold shrugged. “I suppose I could ask the tech staff to write something. We could install the programs on new phones and trade all our men in the field for their current models.”

  “Make it so, Harold. We cannot tolerate the potential of an external leak. In the meantime, tell John to keep a close watch on this one, the Vienna operative, but do not tell him why. I want John just as nervous and curious as we are. As resourceful as he is, he may accidentally stumble upon the answer himself.”

  Harold fidgeted with his folder. “If my suspicions are confirmed, and there is an external source of risk exposure, how would you like me to resolve it?”

  Paul leaned back, snickered, and gulped at the now lukewarm cappuccino. “I say we take John’s recent recommendation to you, what he said about the Vienna operation itself. Turn your 'desk nerds’ loose to corroborate or dismiss the alleged problem. But, if they find that our man lied to us and we have someone outside the organization that’s aware of us, we’ll have to send someone in to deal with that. Much the same way I believe we’ll soon be forced to deal with the ongoing Thomas problem. We can’t allow prolonged, public exposure, not from any source.”

  Paul set his coffee cup back on its saucer and made deliberate eye contact with his subordinate. “It only takes a couple loose threads to unravel the whole sweater. We can’t have any loose threads laying about, just waiting for some curious passerby to pull on them. Outsourcing, as we economists call it. If we ever find proof of such problems, we’ll have to outsource a tailor who can stitch up all our loose threads for us, no matter the cost. I won’t be caught wearing the Emperor’s Clothes, Harold, not for any price."

  Epilogue

  March 16, 5:37PM local.

  Berry Residence. Silver City, New Mexico.

  Inside an expansive horse stable decorated to celebrate Brandon and Cat Berry’s wedding, Michael stepped back to the stall that served as tonight’s open bar. He ordered a draft beer and dropped another dollar in the co-ed bartender’s tip jar. The disc jockey played Gunpowder and Lead over his mobile sound system and a few dozen guests two-stepped across the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the large stable. Oh, the irony. Maybe Cat knows Brandon better than he thinks and this is a nice, subtle reminder to keep himself on the straight and narrow. The bartender, a WNMU student who’d already explained she studied Equine Science and worked for Brandon’s family, set a plastic cup of local draft lager in front of Michael.

  “Thanks.” He took a sip and turned to see where his old cop buddies had gone.

  “I heard you’re a preacher?”

  Michael turned back to her and grinned. “A priest. I’m Catholic.”

  “Oh. But y’all can drink?”

  “Oh yeah, we even dance a bit. We’re a lot more fun at part
ies than the Baptists.”

  “I don’t get it, is that a joke?”

  “Maybe,” he winked. “God bless you.”

  Her face lit up. “Thank you, I feel blessed!”

  Seeing most of his old patrol squad standing outside the stable’s wide, sliding barn doors smoking cigars, Michael walked toward them.

  brrtbrrt

  Michael’s smartphone sounded two notification alerts. He slowed and saw a text message from Sergio and an email from John. A quick, subtle scan confirmed no one was close enough to see his screen, and Michael checked the text first.

  “Strikeout. Let’s work on putting the band back together. PII.”

  Michael scowled in disappointment but felt no surprise. The London assignment’s gonna take more than one set of eyes and hands. Moving on to the email from John, he first checked again that he was still isolated.

  “Ever listen to The Clash? They got a song you might like, ‘London’s Calling.’ Pack your bags, shithead. More to follow.”

  Michael put his phone away. Dammit. It’s just a dice roll if John doesn’t give in and let us work this as a team. He exhaled, smiled, and tried to force his imminent problems aside. Michael continued outside to join his old friends from a long-gone former life that had somehow never left him.

  “Oh, shit, boys,” Brandon called out to the group as Michael approached, “watch yourselves, Father Mulcahy’s here to keep us in line!”

  Michael put his hands up in a feigned surrender position. “As you were, gents. I know better than to waste my time saving any of your souls.”

  “How you been, Mikey T.,” another Silver City cop, Kent, asked. “Can a brother buy a priest a stogie?” He handed over a tablet-sized, black plastic case with a small assortment of cigars.

  Michael accepted the case and inspected its contents. “Churchills, maduros, coronas? Whaddaya got in here?”