by Cole Reid
“She’s right,” said Mason.
“She is,” said Xiaoyu, “She could say the same thing about churches in Rome.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Mason.
“I spent the afternoon in the city center,” said Xiaoyu.
“Looking at churches,” said Mason.
“The safe house in Paris is hidden in an art gallery,” said Xiaoyu, “A true art gallery.”
“You think Voloshyn is hiding in a church,” said Mason, “Why?”
“They’re open to the public,” said Xiaoyu, “His chip is deactivated. Now he’s a member of the public.”
“Which church?” asked Mason.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” said Xiaoyu.
“Why?” asked Mason.
“I’ll feel better,” said Xiaoyu.
“Afraid you’re wrong?” asked Mason.
“Call you back,” said Xiaoyu. Xiaoyu severed the connection. He took a shower before going to bed early. He fell asleep fast and didn’t wake up until an early morning alarm. A satellite link away, Mason wasn’t sleeping at all.
• • •
Sant’Ivo alla Sapienza was a Roman Catholic rectory church in the City of Rome. The church was known for its unique lantern stacked like a layer cake, spiraling upward toward a celestial orb, a divine merry-go-round. The lantern couldn’t be seen from the front entrance of the church, but it could be seen from the back, along Via Teatro del Valle—The Via. Xiaoyu walked casually along Via Corso del Rinascimento carrying Shaw Borwa’s backpack, lightly dangling from his shoulders. A high pink walk rose from the sidewalk of the wide street. On the wall was the mineral sign, ARCHIVO DI STATO, written in old Roman lettering. Above it, was a smaller sign with smaller letters, S. Ivo Alla Sapienza. Xiaoyu passed through the tall doorway and into the courtyard. The courtyard was made up of arches in two divisions, one on top of the other. The arches gave the church an organic appearance that lessened as Xiaoyu approached the door to the church building ahead. Xiaoyu walked steadily forward with a certain pair of eyes watching from a window in the courtyard. It was Thursday, an early morning. The doors to the church were recently unlocked. Xiaoyu approached the doors with unusually patient steps, unusual for someone playing a hunch. The high wood double-doors were closed but unlocked. The chapel was adorned. It was baroque, classic and Italian. The floor resembled the dragon scales on Xiaoyu’s painted arms. Green and white tile marble made the light and dark impressions of reptilian scales. Apologizing for the serpentine floor, were the pristine white marble walls. The walls were organic geometry, straight and structured but open and orgiastic—built by human hands with angelic hormones. Simple dark wooden pews stood in formal fashion like Roman Centurions, eight rows on each side—their ranks were empty.
Xiaoyu walked a circle around the pews with his head pointed up at the hand-crafted wilderness of the rotunda. The church was unlike anything Xiaoyu had seen and he took the time to see it. He didn’t stop; instead he stared with constant motion. Xiaoyu looked a first time before a second. The second time revealed less than the first but yielded more. Across from the high wooden doors was the altar. Xiaoyu didn’t approach the altar. He didn’t like the look of it. The candles made him think of a dinner table, one for ceremony. Xiaoyu didn’t like those who stood on ceremony. Deni Tam was the perfect example. Xiaoyu continued to tour the church on his own when he realized he wasn’t on his own. A fifty-something man in a black cassock came out of a side door behind the altar. Xiaoyu stood in silence as the entering-age man approached. Xiaoyu and the man traded one buon giorno each before the man continued in Italian. Xiaoyu instinctively answered in Italian.
“You’re here early,” said the man, “In my experience the first one through the door on the day has a real reason to be here.” The man walked closer to Xiaoyu. His protruding belly and kind nature preceded him, showing his favor for spiritual exercise over physical.
“I’m Padre Lazar,” said the man, “And you—well—you’re no tourist.” Padre Lazar wasn’t of Italian origin, not entirely. His mother was Italian but his father had been an ethnic Slovene forced by the Italian Fascists to resettle in Torino in 1941. His father—Teodor—was only twenty-five years old but a talented engineer. Teodor Lazar was made to help modify Italian factories tweaking Mussolini’s war machine during the Second World War. Teodor was forbidden to speak his native Slovenian and could only speak Italian. Although he resented having to speak Italian only, it forced him into fluency. Teodor’s fluent Italian came in handy when he was smitten by Liona Martignetti, a factory secretary. Liona was two years older than Teodor and his forced Italianization played her heartstrings like a concerto. They were married in eight months time. Their son—Gerodi—was born in the last month of their first year of marriage. Gerodi was a peace-loving child. Even as he was bullied for his Slovene family name and somewhat eastern features, he chose explanation over retaliation. He told his tormentors of the plight of the Italianized Slovenes and their shared sufferings. In time his tormentors matured and understood. Gerodi Lazar had always had his face forward, looking into the light. Which led him to the priesthood. Those who knew him joked that he would be canonized one day, if not Pope. Gerodi had no interest in the papacy.
Gerodi Lazar had a childhood similar to Xiaoyu’s childhood. Both were of mixed parentage and had been bullied as a result. The similarities between Xiaoyu and Gerodi Lazar were somewhat unnerving. Xiaoyu could feel the heartbeat of similarity between himself and Gerodi, now Padre Lazar. Their similarities were alive.
“I’m not a tourist,” said Xiaoyu.
“You’d be a lousy one if you were,” said Gerodi, “You should have been snapping pictures by now.”
“No camera,” said Xiaoyu.
“Definitely, not a tourist,” said Gerodi. Gerodi paused to study Xiaoyu’s body language.
“You seem anxious for this early in the morning,” said Gerodi, “Would you like to go to a confessional?” While Gerodi studied Xiaoyu, Xiaoyu studied Gerodi.
“No,” said Xiaoyu, “I’m not here for myself.”
“You’re here on behalf of someone else?” asked Gerodi. Xiaoyu nodded.
“A family member?” asked Gerodi.
“Not any more,” said Xiaoyu. Gerodi looked at Xiaoyu suspiciously.
“Then I know who you are looking for,” said Gerodi.
“Why so sure?” asked Xiaoyu.
“Because I was told you would come,” said Gerodi.
“He told you,” said Xiaoyu. Gerodi nodded.
“How much did he tell you?” asked Xiaoyu.
“I cannot tell you,” said Gerodi, “He came here like you and I asked him if he wanted to go to confessional, like I asked you. He answered yes. Of course you are aware what’s said in confessional is confidential. I can’t say anything about what was told to me.”
“You have to tell me,” said Xiaoyu.
“Why do you say that?” asked Gerodi.
“Otherwise I have to assume what he told you,” said Xiaoyu, “Then I kill you.”
“Do you know the name of our church?” asked Gerodi. Xiaoyu nodded.
“Sant’Ivo is the patron of abandoned children,” said Gerodi, “I cannot refuse them in good faith. He’s been here barely a week. Giving him up or sending him away now is the same as turning him away. If you knew what I know, you would know he’s been through enough already.”
“I have my own story,” said Xiaoyu, “You might be sympathetic to it as well. But I’m not in the business of sympathies. I’m not telling my story. And I’m not telling you again.”
“What kind of man threatens a priest in God’s own house?” asked Gerodi, “What kind of creature hunts another, but not for food?”
“Now you know,” said Xiaoyu walking toward Gerodi. Xiaoyu passed the point of no return. He stepped uncomfortably close to Gerodi triggering the fight or flight instinct that affected even priests. Both knew Gerodi had no options. His belly was a buffer to running and his temperame
nt wasn’t combative. Gerodi’s eyes met Xiaoyu’s. Xiaoyu’s eyes weren’t cold they were matter-of-fact, like a dog on a leash being yanked. Then there was the barking. The barking sound didn’t come from Xiaoyu or from Gerodi. It came from the two large wooden doors opening. Gerodi looked over Xiaoyu’s shoulder causing Xiaoyu to take a step back and turn his head.
Xiaoyu saw a familiar face, Mykola Voloshyn. Voloshyn stepped into the church and closed the door. With a key from his pocket, he locked the door. Seeing the key, made Xiaoyu understand the integrity of Gerodi’s belief in his duty to help Voloshyn. Gerodi’s commitment to Voloshyn was as sturdy as the lock on the door. Their was no road ahead only the closed door.
“I remind you both this is God’s house,” said Gerodi.
“Then he should have locked the devil out instead of in,” said Xiaoyu. Xiaoyu stepped back and kicked Gerodi in his belly. He didn’t have to look, it was a large target. Gerodi quickly lost his balance and fell to the floor. Voloshyn charged toward Xiaoyu. With the time given, Xiaoyu stepped on Gerodi’s windpipe, crushing it. He kneeled down flattening his left hand on his right fist shoving his right elbow into Gerodi’s nose, causing the bone to splinter and slide through his skull. Gerodi would soon stop breathing. Voloshyn came upon Xiaoyu quick. Xiaoyu remained in a low position and lunged upward at Voloshyn with his right foot. The kick impacted Voloshyn but didn’t stop his charge causing Xiaoyu to spin with a hammer fist that Voloshyn read and was supposed to read. Voloshyn caught Xiaoyu’s arm with both hands and exposed his right shin to Xiaoyu’s left heel. The pain in Voloshyn’s shin didn’t slow him much, as Xiaoyu bent his knees and rolled his body inward toward Voloshyn. Voloshyn landed a hard right elbow to Xiaoyu’s ribs that was partially blocked by Xiaoyu’s right forearm as he rotated his body round. Xiaoyu leaned in to fake Voloshyn before jumping backward to create some distance.
“You’re angry, but you have yourself to blame,” said Xiaoyu, “He’s dead because you brought him in, in between.”
“You killed a priest in a church,” said Voloshyn, “That’s a curse.”
“You knew that already,” said Xiaoyu, “You even know the name of my curse.”
“That’s man’s curse. Now you’re cursed by God,” said Voloshyn.
“You believe that?” asked Xiaoyu.
“I believe in God. I always have, that’s why he has set me free,” said Voloshyn, “You’re still trapped. The devil still lives in you. Still watches you from afar. The devil in me is dead.” Xiaoyu looked intently at Voloshyn.
“You know how Caprice got me?” said Xiaoyu, “They didn’t threaten me. They couldn’t, I wouldn’t have broken down for them. But they leveraged me. They threatened someone else. And I didn’t want them to ruin someone else over me. So I agreed to Caprice. And that’s where it is, in my head. Because I agreed. Tell me how to get it out or I’m going to kill you like…”
“You’ll kill me anyway,” Voloshyn interrupted, “That’s why they sent you.”
“Yes, but you’re not paying attention,” said Xiaoyu, “If you don’t tell me, I leave here empty-handed. I will take it out on your family like they would do to mine.” Voloshyn remained silent before charging Xiaoyu again.
Voloshyn straight punched at Xiaoyu. Xiaoyu was able to guide the punch away from his body and side step the uppercut that followed. Voloshyn kept coming. His motion was fast but slowed by his size. Voloshyn stood a good twelve centimeters taller than Xiaoyu and looked thick compared with Xiaoyu’s muscular frame. Xiaoyu was able to maneuver around the stocky creature and study his redundant motion. Voloshyn was keen to strike at Xiaoyu’s face, a favorite of mafia enforces. If not the face, he stomped at Xiaoyu’s kneecaps or swiped at Xiaoyu’s ribs. Voloshyn didn’t seem to contemplate any other targets and didn’t understand how throwing his body into his punches made him easy to read. He was incredibly limited as a fighter, incredibly redundant. There was pattern in everything he did. Xiaoyu was able to work his way around Voloshyn dealing heavy blows to exposed body parts. As Voloshyn tired, Xiaoyu was able to read and counter his attacks before they posed a threat. Xiaoyu read Voloshyn’s shoulder as he threw his final punch. Xiaoyu moved in on Voloshyn punching him in the armpit and elbowing him in the jaw. He half-kicked Voloshyn in the kneecap, reminding Voloshyn of his favorite target. Voloshyn fell to the floor but didn’t make a sound. Realizing his left knee would no longer support his body weight, Voloshyn began to crawl on his hands and broken knee. Xiaoyu paused and watched Voloshyn crawl away from him and disappear between the pews. Xiaoyu stared and thought, realizing the flaw in the system Voloshyn had discovered. He went to the pew only to notice Voloshyn had moved. Xiaoyu ran on top of the pews looking for Voloshyn. He saw a figure crawl across the aisle in between the two rows of pews. And ran across the aisle toward the crawler. He knelt down looking underneath the pews and saw Voloshyn resting two rows in front of him. Xiaoyu came around the pews and ran in the aisle two rows forward. Voloshyn saw Xiaoyu’s movement and tried to crawl toward the end of the row but felt the tightness of hands around his ankle. Voloshyn tried to kick himself free but felt his ankle twist hard. His body rolled over as his ankle twisted inward but he couldn’t roll his body fast enough. His anklebones were badly warped out of place. His Achilles tendon loosened and split. The pain of his tearing tendon registered and Voloshyn registered the pain. He shrieked loud enough to echo in the nave of the church. But the shriek was short. Xiaoyu pulled him by his leg back one row.
Xiaoyu stood over Voloshyn with his foot on Voloshyn’s throat. The understanding of defeat filled Voloshyn’s eyes but not the acceptance. He was in no condition to continue fighting but wasn’t sure what he had lost or what Xiaoyu had gained. Voloshyn knew he was as good as dead but he had his secret. He held on to it. Taking it to his grave was the only move he had left. He could feel the weight of the foot on his throat. It was the feeling that made his eyes ricochet around the ceiling, catching last glimpses of whatever he could. His face and eyes went red. He could feel the redness before seeing the darkness creep quickly from the corner of his eyes. Without expecting, the darkness crept back to the corners. The pressure on Voloshyn’s throat softened. Xiaoyu had given Voloshyn enough space in his windpipe for air to flow through, enough to speak.
“How did you beat Caprice?” asked Xiaoyu. Voloshyn looked at Xiaoyu with dark eyes like black wax. The whites of his eyes were pink as if sun-baked. Voloshyn said nothing only stared with suffering eyes then he hid them from view. Xiaoyu grew frustrated. Voloshyn keeping his secret didn’t make sense but he understood Voloshyn didn’t see it that way. He increased the pressure on Voloshyn’s throat exponentially. He held his foot in place long enough for ten Hail Marys. Voloshyn recited the prayer in his mind as the oxygen expired. Xiaoyu raised his foot and delivered a hard kick to Voloshyn’s throat. His neck broke. Xiaoyu knelt down and looked at Voloshyn. He ran his eyes along the face of a man he didn’t understand. Xiaoyu had killed before. He knew death brought little understanding but he tried anyway. Xiaoyu took a long look at Voloshyn’s face seeing parts he recognized and parts he didn’t. When he was done he opened Voloshyn’s eyes. He stared. He saw something in Voloshyn’s hollow eyes that made him wonder.
Xiaoyu walked out of the church into the courtyard of the still dripping morning sunlight. It complimented the dew on the grass in the courtyard. With Shaw Borwa’s backpack heavy on his shoulders, he walked away from the structure and returned down Via del Teatro Valle, returning in the same direction he came.
• • •
Xiaoyu used the key to get into his apartment on Avenue de Clichy. Alain Metayer was in the building. It was midday by the time he returned to Paris and he felt drowsy as if it were a side effect. He sprayed his skin with a silver topped can and took a shower to wash the flakes away. He returned to his bedroom wrapped in a towel from the waist down. He lied down on his bed and fell asleep unwittingly. He was awakened by the sound of his phone ringing, the house phone.
�
�Hello, Mr. Metayer,” said the woman.
“Call me Alain,” said Xiaoyu.
“We have an appointment scheduled for you tomorrow at the gallery,” said the woman.
“What time?” asked Xiaoyu.
“Does 10:30 work for you?” asked the woman.
“Ok, confirmed, 10:30 at the gallery,” said Xiaoyu.
“Bon soiree,” said the woman. Xiaoyu recognized the voice but it took him several seconds to place it—Marti Laine—the curator of Galerie L’Esi.
The gallery floor was empty except for Marti Laine and one apparent customer. She approached Xiaoyu and shook his hand professionally.
“Good to see you again,” said Marti, saying it like she meant it, professional. Xiaoyu shook her hand without saying anything.
“The piece you inquired about is in storage upstairs. I’ll take you up if you like,” said Marti.
“Of course,” said Xiaoyu.
Mason was waiting for Xiaoyu in the same third floor room where he had been introduced to Georgia Standing. Mason wasn’t smoking but he was sipping espresso like Georgia, sitting in the same chair.
“Sit down,” said Mason. Xiaoyu sat down without trepidation.
“I want to tell you about your next project,” said Mason. Xiaoyu nodded in silence.
“You can relax and take some time off,” said Mason, “We have a new project starting in Malaysia but it will be several months before we have a role for you. We’re just now laying the foundation. There’s a group in Malaysia that’s creating American money out of thin air. We don’t know if they’re printing the bills themselves or moving them for someone else. But they work the currency back into the system and it’s as good as gold once it’s in. We know the money is fake we just can’t prove it. The counterfeiting’s that good. The Secret Service follows fake money but we have international license so we’re involved to see what else is going on besides the money. I’ll give you briefing when I understand what we need from you. For now, remember the name Project Open Gate. We’ll assign you soon enough.” Xiaoyu barely moved.
