The Absolver: Rome (Saint Michael Thriller Series Book 1)

by Gavin Reese

  The room fell silent for a moment, as all of them considered the gravity of John’s words.

  “One hundred thousand U-S, every year,” Alpha slowly announced. “I might end up with my own Pope-mobile golf cart.” Even John smirked, and the infectious laughter stymied Michael’s joyful tears.

  “Don’t blow it all in one brothel, boys,” their instructor advised. “We mighta hid it from the alphabet group ‘I-R-S,’ but you oughta look into puttin’ it into ‘E-T-F,’ my friends. It’ll let you do a lot more good one day when your conscience needs it.” John looked down at his notes. “Back to business on the V-P-N thing. We gotta assume every communication other than snail mail and face-to-face is recorded, logged, and searchable. If anyone can put your face and your data at the scene of an investigation, that’s when shit goes south for us. Proximity and facial recognition lead to your actual identity, which becomes The Nightly News with Tom Brokaw, and Most Wanted fliers in every goddamned post office in the civilized world.”

  Sergio smirked as he ribbed their trainer. “I think Brokaw’s off the air, John.”

  “Yeah,” Michael added, “I think he left in, like, 2004, something like that.”

  John looked between the two in frustration. “I just said that whole goddamned thing, all that relevant need-to-know intel, and all your bastards care about is that I haven’t watched N-B-C since Brokaw left? You stupid sons-uh-bitches all got chips on your shoulders now that you passed, and think it’s time to poke back at Old Man John, now, right?” All four men chuckled at their trainer as he continued his feigned tirade. “Got news for you, I’m gonna send all-a you shitheads back to day one, week one, and see who’s still around six months from now! I bet I only turn around about twice, and there won’t be anybody left standin’ but me!”

  “See, John, now I’m confused,” Michael jokingly offered. “Do you wanna recycle us and make us drop out, or do you wanna fight us right here, I’m very unclear.”

  John pretended to lunge toward Michael, then dropped his facade and laughed at his own mistake. “I think I hate you most, Andrew, you’re just the goddamned worst, and I’m lookin’ forward to not seeing your ugly mug around here anymore.” He cleared his throat, adopted a more somber tone, and scanned the room for the very few seconds required to bring them all back to the business at hand. “Pressin’ on. For each of your assignments, you’ll get an intel packet. Sometimes, it might be with a church official, but, mostly, it’ll be waiting for you on the plane. It’s gonna be—”

  Phillip raised his hand as he spoke, and Michael saw genuine confusion on his face. “Sorry, John, I apologize, there’s a plane? What plane? Like Delta planes?”

  “Phillip, you might not be smart enough for this shit after all. How the hell did you think you were gonna get delivered to the assignments? Carrier pigeon?”

  “Actually, Phillip,” Sergio joined in, “the African Swallow’s the original overseas freight delivery service.”

  “But nothing bigger than coconuts, I think,” Michael added.

  “Team effort, right,” Sergio replied, “they each grab a side?”

  “You assholes done?” John either didn’t understand the reference or chose to ignore its humor. “Yes, Phillip, ‘there’s planes.’ Which is actually a decent fuckin’ tangent into another critical part of this. The intel packet will be in a diplomatic ‘Eyes Only’ pouch that only you will know the combination to. The contents’ll be a mix of open source intel, like local currency, local news, areas of concern or instability in the region. Local customs, especially of the reigning bishop and churches, any known areas of sanctuary. Finally, it’ll have the identity and location of your contact at a local church or cathedral as well as operational details and intel analysis of your target.”

  “John, one more question,” Sergio asked. “How do we get access to a diplomatic pouch?”

  “That’s what I’ve gotta discuss next, if you’d exercise some goddamned patience. Man, I tell you, ever since y’all found out that you’ve successfully negotiated my training program, you’re like a buncha goddamned high school kids on the last day of school! I swear to God, y’all’s tryin’ my patience today.” He sighed, grimaced, and scanned the small group. “This is probably just gonna make things worse, but, the reason y’all get access to a diplomatic pouch is that you’ll be traveling with diplomatic immunity, so—”

  “Diplo-matic ee-mun-i-teee!” Michael impersonated his favorite Lethal Weapon villain. All but John laughed along with him.

  “That’s it,” the instructor called out and waved his arms, “y’all need some goddamned miles to get this shit outta your system! Get the hell outta there, and don’t come back without five more on your chit!”

  Still laughing and enjoying their moment of accomplishment, Sergio repeated the impersonation but also held his hand up to mimic displaying his credentials. “Diplo—”

  “Goddammit,” John exclaimed. “Make it an hour, and you’d best have a shitload of miles under your belts by then!”

  Despite the inconvenient punishment, Michael and his colleagues smiled at their new status but didn’t dare further antagonize John. They hurried out of the classroom, ran back out onto the trails, and picked up their collective pace to get out of earshot as soon as possible.

  “We far enough yet,” Sergio asked the group.

  Still running forward, Michael looked back and determined they were now at least three-hundred yards away from the closest structure. “Yeah, go ahead!” The group slowed but continued jogging, and all eyes fell onto Sergio as he brought his “credentials” back up.

  “DIPLO-MATIC EE-MUN-I-TEEEEE!”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Tuesday, 1835 hours

  Southbound I-25. Longmont, Colorado.

  Michael had only a vague idea of what to expect from the coming days. He sat in the front passenger seat of a black Lincoln Towncar behind dark-tinted windows while John drove and Father Harry kept watch on him from the back seat. Odd.

  Michael replayed the morning’s events in his mind, looking for some additional kernel of intel he’d missed as it had happened. John and Father Harry had met again with him upstairs after the graduates had returned from their disciplinary run. They’d provided him with clothing similar to John’s associates’ uniform: green plaid button-down shirt, boot-cut Wrangler jeans, and brown packer-style cowboy boots, all of it in his correct sizes. He’d initially been told nothing more than to be ready to leave immediately after the None prayers, and that he needed only bring himself and keep the trip entirely confidential. Sergio had been called upstairs very soon after that but hadn’t returned. As his personal effects remained on his bunk, Michael felt safe in assuming he’d gotten similar orders, just with a more immediate departure. Eight months after I started all this, and we’re finally operational.

  John exited the freeway at its intersection with Colorado Highway 66 and continued west. After they eventually turned south on 75th Street, he saw a sign for an airport and assumed that was their destination. John proved his inference correct when he entered the airport complex and parked the dark sedan next to a large, closed hangar. And where from there?

  “Go ahead and grab your bag. We’re meetin’ your plane inside,” John explained and nodded toward the adjacent hangar.

  Michael complied without responding. After retrieving his borrowed black nylon duffel bag and the contents John packed for him, Michael followed his instructor into the large hangar while Father Harry stayed a few steps behind him. Are they looking at their positions as a dignitary protection detail to keep me from harm, or is this a prisoner escort to my court appearance? Getting hard to tell the difference.

  John led them through a pedestrian door just a few feet away from their sedan and held it for Michael and Father Harry. As Michael stepped into the hangar, he saw it was completely dark inside. The ambient autumn light from the open door only allowed him to see that the few square feet of space around him offered no trip hazards. Father Harry stopped
and stood in place, so Michael did the same. He seems to know what’s going on, so I’ll play along for now. John then closed and locked the door behind them. Definitely feels like a prisoner escort now.

  click

  As soon as Michael heard the light switch, powerful overhead LEDs at the hangar’s tall ceiling bathed the space in near-daylight. Michael realized he stood on the right side of a shiny Learjet that faced out toward the secure, wide hangar door. Looks like the same jet that brought me home from Columbia, just without the Seal of the Holy See on its tail. Surely, it’s a charter, how many of these can the Church possibly own?

  Two uniformed men, apparently the pilot and co-pilot, emerged from the far side of the plane to greet them. Were they just sitting inside a dark aircraft?

  “Evening, boys,” John called out, “we’ll be with ya in a few minutes.” Both men waved to acknowledge their implied directive, and quietly disappeared back around the front of the plane.

  “All this private charter flight is going to ruin commercial travel for you,” Father Harry offered and smiled.

  “This is your first assignment as an absolver, Andrew,” John explained, “and this one’s a helluva lot more critical than most. You understand how imperative our op-sec and compartmentalization are, so I’m not gonna say any more about that. What I am gonna say is that you’re flyin’ to Midland, Texas, to pay a visit to Father Bullard at Saint Paul's Church in Pecos, another town to the east along I-20. You gotta meet him before midnight tonight. Once you land, there’s a rented pick-up waiting for you in the airport parking lot. The keys are in the plane and you’ll find cash in the truck’s ashtray to pay the parking fees. Questions?”

  Thousands, Michael thought. “Nothing critical, John.”

  “I know you’ll figure out what needs to be done over there. You’ll have to carry out the Vesper prayers on the flight over. Father,” John called out to Harry, “can you lead us in Saint Michael's prayer to send this young man off to battle?”

  “Of course,” the monsignor replied. All three men knelt down on the floor and bowed their heads.

  Michael dropped his duffel on the cement floor next to his right knee. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

  “Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle,” Father Harry beseeched, “be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do you, O prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan and the other evil spirits who prowl about the world for the ruin of souls. Amen.”

  Michael exhaled and rose with his superiors. “Anything else before I go?”

  “Just remember that it pays to be a winner,” John replied and shook Michael’s hand.

  Meeting his trainers’ eye contact, Michael saw a number of emotions in John’s gaze. He wondered how much their occasionally-adversarial relationship affected whatever was going through the man’s mind at that moment.

  “Peace be with you,” Father Harry offered as Michael and John released each other’s grip.

  “And with your spirit,” Michael replied. Father Harry didn’t offer his hand, so Michael retrieved his bag instead and confidently strode toward the other side of the waiting plane. Just as he stepped around the nose, he looked back and saw John intently watching him. No telling what that man’s thinking at any given moment.

  Michael stepped up the hatch and boarded the eight-passenger jet. He hunched over just slightly to walk inside and realized the passenger compartment was again empty. Glancing into the cockpit, he made eye contact with the co-pilot, who rose from his seat and came out to greet him.

  “Good evening, Father. We’ll be underway to Cincinnati in just a moment.”

  Michael stopped in surprise. “Cincinnati?”

  “Yes,” he nodded his head, “at least initially. The flight plan will be changed en route, Father, but not until we leave Denver Center.”

  “I’m sorry, what’s ‘Denver Center?’”

  “Sorry, pilot jargon. Most people think air traffic control towers handle all the in-flight radar monitoring and flight plans, but really, it’s the Centers. Towers just handle the landings and take-offs. So, we’ll start out with Denver and transition to Kansas City Center, and that’s when we’ll file the change to our flight plan. We understand that privacy is of the utmost importance for you.”

  “Yes, it is,” Michael confirmed with relief in his voice. “Thank you for your discretion.”

  “Certainly, Father. Can I get you anything to make you more comfortable before we taxi?”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you.” Michael looked at the eight plush, tan leather seats and considered where to sit. Normally, I’d always go Doc Holliday and sit with my back to a wall, but that’d look awfully paranoid and antisocial for a run-of-the-mill priest, especially one who’s in a hurry. No, the front row is better. I can probably trust that John and the flight crew don’t have an elaborate scheme to murder me at thirty-thousand-feet. The co-pilot first closed the hatch and then the cockpit door, and left Michael sitting alone in the opulent cabin.

  Michael spied a black plastic Pelican case next to his seat as they began taxiing. A quick, further glance revealed “Eyes Only – Diplomatic Pouch” written in both English and Italian on its top surface. He waited until the plane was airborne and slowing its steep takeoff ascent before he retrieved the case, which was slightly smaller than a standard messenger bag. The combination locks opened when he input the code John had prescribed, “2270.” Its thick, protected lid opened to reveal a single manila envelope that held only two items: a set of Chevy keys and matching remote key fob, and a Post-It note with “F 3 9” written on it. Guess the Chevy’s parked at F39, he surmised. Hope that makes more sense in Midland than it does right now. Michael placed the keyring in his pocket, and the note and envelope went into his duffel bag. He locked the Pelican case back and replaced it next to his seat. No idea who collects and distributes the cases, and I bet John makes sure I never do.

  Content he wouldn’t acquire any further intel on the plane, Michael submersed himself in meditation. He recited a Vespers prayer and sought the guidance, strength, and resolve he assumed would be necessary in the next few days. As he opened his eyes and exhaled his metaphorical stress, the plane gently banked right, and the in-cabin speakers come on.

  “Father, we’re turning south and are now en route to Midland International Air and Space Port in Texas, as requested.”

  “Thank you,” Michael loudly replied, unsure if they could hear him or not. He glanced out the windows and saw mostly clear skies all around them. Looks like an excellent evening for flying. Settling back into his seat, Michael stayed internally focused until the announcement of their imminent landing in Midland.

  After a short taxi, the plane stopped next to a small hangar, and the cabin’s interior lights came on. The co-pilot stepped from the cockpit and opened the exterior hatch. The pilot emerged to greet Michael as he shouldered the strap of his duffel bag.

  “Father, it’s been a pleasure having you aboard. We look forward to serving you again one day. Peace be with you.”

  “And with your spirit,” Michael replied and stepped toward the doorway. He stopped there for a moment while the co-pilot made some adjustment to the stairs. A small, subdued image caught Michael’s eye on the left side of the doorway. Michael looked at it more closely but tried not to indicate he did so. There, embossed in the leather trim around the doorway, was the Seal of the Holy See.

  This wasn’t just a charter flight, Michael realized, this is another Vatican plane. The final confirmation I needed that I’m really where I’m supposed to be. Unlike the Learjet that had brought him back from Bogotá, this one hadn’t displayed anything related to the Holy See on its exterior. I wonder what the reason could be for that...

  “All set, Father,” the co-pilot announced, “sorry for the delay.”

  “It’s no trouble, at all. Everything happens for a reason,” Michael explained and glanced a
t the seal once more before stepping off the plane. “Thank you for your help. Peace be with you.”

  “And with your spirit, Father.”

  As soon as he passed into the small terminal, Michael worked to blend in with the clusters of passengers from the regularly scheduled commercial flights. Now I just have to look and act like everyone else around me. The first time that I leave a conversation with ‘Peace be with you,’ though, I’m gonna be remembered forever. To ensure no one followed him, he made stops at several vendors and two restrooms before doubling back through a portion of the terminal. Satisfied with his op-sec, Michael walked out of the terminal and proceeded to the front parking lot to search for an “F 3 9.”

  Just as he hoped, stall F-39 held a green late-model Chevy truck, and his new fob unlocked its doors. Oughta blend in pretty well where I’m headed. A lot better than a hybrid Prius, although that would definitely be a less-expected chariot for God’s vengeance. Michael entered the truck, dropped his duffel on the passenger seat, and turned the ignition over. A quick check confirmed the ashtray did, in fact, hold five $20-bills, along with a parking receipt that showed the truck had been there for only a few hours. Someone else nearby’s got a second set of keys, then. Not sure what that means, if anything. Backing the truck from the stall, Michael proceeded toward the airport exit and the uncertainty of his first operational assignment.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Tuesday, 2304 hours

  St Paul’s Church. Odessa, Texas.

  Michael pulled the pickup truck into the empty, asphalt lot. His headlights cast across the front and side of the darkened building and the large sign that confirmed its identity as Saint Paul’s Catholic Church. Looks like the place. Now to see if Father Bullard's still up. He considered stopping near the handicapped spaces at the front entrance but decided that’s what a neophyte would do. Instead, he drove his truck around to the back until he identified the rectory. This’s where I need to be.