by Gavin Reese
SIXTY-SEVEN
Tuesday, 0436 hours.
Ciampino–G. B. Pastine International Airport. Rome, Italy.
Michael purposefully strode through the private terminal at Rome’s secondary airport. His pace showed he was in a hurry, but didn’t reveal his inner turmoil. People would definitely remember a priest who looked like he was running from a murder scene. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. His previous intel packet had included the known camera locations inside this terminal, so Michael turned his head, adjusted his hair, or rubbed his temples as he passed them. Anyone casually viewing the footage wouldn’t suspect anything, but determined investigators would see my intent. They won’t care that I’m wearing a Cossack, not even in Rome.
A panel of six large-screen televisions caught his eye. Two of them, tuned to CNN, showed a report entitled “Vatican’s Mental Health Crisis?” Michael slowed and then stopped to watch the news segment. One television projected the CNN audio in Italian and one next to it showed closed-captioning in English. The channel replayed a cell phone video clip of a handcuffed man in a black Cossack being forced into the back of a police car. As the video showed him thrashing against the officers and yelling to the unknown videographer, the footage stopped on a frame that clearly showed his face. Thomas.
Michael stepped closer to the screens, engrossed in the report and filled with apprehension about what it might mean for him and those few like him. He abandoned the video and voraciously read all the captioning:
“...this young man, who identified himself as ‘Father Shawn Moore’ to The Powerful 99, a global network dedicated to uncovering and investigating abuses of power and vigilante justice.”
The video feed continued playing, but CNN producers had added its audio to the report. “They’re training killers, and I used to be one of ‘em,” Thomas frantically shouted at the camera. Michael understood the cops’ efforts to subdue the man without striking or harming him, especially in front of the camera. “They sent us to a private camp, up in Wyoming, twelve of us, just like the Apostles, and they made me go by Thomas, just like the apostle, and they made us steal newspapers and commit burglaries, and the guy in charge, he goes by ‘John,’ but I know that’s not his name ‘cause we all had fake names, and we had to keep everything secret, but then I didn’t like the way they made me kill the pig, so I went back and tried to kill another one the right way, and they kicked me out before I—” The cops finally got him shoved into the back seat of their patrol car. As the door shut on Thomas’ shouts, the police turned their focus on getting the camera crew back away from their squad car. Thomas continued yelling, but the camera didn’t pick up anything else he said.
The report cut to a dark-skinned, Mediterranean-looking female anchor. “Representatives of this organization,” she explained, “claim to CNN they tried to meet with Father Moore to videotape his allegations that the Vatican is currently training and arming a clandestine group trained to kill on command all those who oppose the church and its holy leader.
“The investigators claim local police and church officials were already on-scene when they arrived to meet with Moore, and that he was soon forcibly handcuffed, arrested, and taken away on what they assert are trumped-up charges of mental instability and danger to himself and the public. In their released statement, The Powerful 99 assert that such vilification actions are typical of those that abuse their power and must work to silence the whistleblowers who refuse to go along with the evil ways. Their statement reads in part, ‘We must question authority at every level, especially that which has unlimited power, financing, and ideologically devoted followers potentially willing to do anything to protect their own self-interests and world-view.’”
The anchor continued reading from her teleprompter. “CNN reporters spoke with Bishop Harold Hoffaburr, a public information officer for the Archdiocese of Omaha, which oversees Catholic church operations for the parish where Father Moore is employed in the United States. Here is an excerpt from that interview.”
The news report cut to an edited video that showed the man Michael knew as “Father Harry” speaking into a black foam-covered, handheld microphone. Oh, shit, Michael thought, he is more involved than he or John let on!
“While I cannot speak to Father Moore’s specific circumstances, out of respect for his privacy, I can tell you that the Catholic church and the Holy See take the mental health of all our clergy and employees very seriously, and Father Moore has lifelong access to all the best available help for whatever care he requires.”
The report cut back to the anchor. “Back here in Italy, the Vatican has not yet responded to CNN’s requests for comments or interviews, but we did recently receive this statement from the Archbishop of Omaha, who oversees Father Moore and his superiors.” A transcript of the statement appeared on the screen, and the female anchor read it aloud for her audience. “We take our obligations to care for the physical and mental health of our employees and clergy very seriously. Most priests enter seminary at an age in which they remain susceptible to hallucinations and delusions consistent with schizophrenia. While Father Moore has not yet received such a diagnosis, we have long been prepared to accept and care for clergy that fall victim to these terrible types of illnesses. Father Moore, should he eventually require such care, will be allowed to remain with our mental health professionals for as long as he requires it at no expense to him or his family. We view the care of Father Moore and those with similar afflictions as part of our Holy obligation to care for the dignity and lives of all people. We pray for Father Moore’s recovery and hope that you will, as well.’
“And, in current European news,” the anchor transitioned to the next story, “the Greek economy again shows indications of looming trouble...”
Michael tried to keep his face expressionless as he continued on to his waiting plane. So that’s what becomes of anyone that John and Bishop Harold Hoffaburr identify as traitors. Predictable, but, still good to know. Doesn’t matter that he’s right, I bet they keep Father Moore zoned out on psych meds until he’s no longer a threat. I wonder if they’ll bother with moving the compound, now that Moore’s obviously discussed it.
He looked ahead to the doorway required to access the tarmac and his aircraft. A grandfatherly-looking man stood just to the left of the doorway and appeared to be scanning the sparse crowd. The man looked at him, and Michael thought he saw recognition on his face. Is he looking for me? Ignoring the man for the moment, he continued on to his assigned exit. The man smiled and half-raised his hand as Michael approached.
“Father Andrew?” He spoke in English, but his heavy Italian accent revealed his native tongue.
“Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you, but I’m told there’s been a change of plans in your destination this morning.”
“That’s rather inconvenient at this late hour.” Michael hoped his objection seemed believable and sufficiently spontaneous to anyone that might have overheard them. Still feels insubordinate to pretend I’m put off by the alleged schedule change. Please God, don’t be a plant already, we’re just getting this off the ground.
“Then whom shall I send?” The challenge question rolled naturally off the man’s tongue.
“Here I am,” Michael calmly replied. “Send me.”
The man smiled and revealed a small messenger bag that he had concealed behind his back during their initial contact. He passed the bag to Michael, which had the same diplomatic pouch markings and locks as the bag Michael had received for the Isadore assignment.
“I’m told this has all the instructions you require to continue on your way,” the man offered as he stepped closer to Michael to have a more private conversation. Michael had gripped the bag’s handle, but the man didn't yet let it go. “Did you happen to see the morning news reports out of Nebraska, in the U-S?”
“I did,” Michael replied and tried to keep his suspicion out of his voice.
“What a shame, Father,” the man offered and maintaine
d eye contact with Michael.
There isn’t sympathy in his eyes, Michael realized, only caution, at best.
“It’s such a terrible thing,” the man offered in a cold and calculated tone, “that a man of God would succumb to such a fate. I hope you understand no one believes anything he says. If other priests are found to suffer from his affliction, you can have confidence that the church will always ensure they receive the same lifelong treatment.”
“Thank you,” Michael calmly replied and considered his response. “It’s a tragedy for such a young life ruined. I’m sure he will be properly cared for.”
“God Bless you, my son. Peace be with you.”
“And with your spirit.” Message received, Michael thought. He accepted the bag when the man released it, tucked it tightly under his left arm, and strode through the doors and out onto the tarmac. Did he intend to reveal he holds a higher position than me? Thomas’s committal may silence him and warn the rest of us, but inconvenient truths are still true.
Michael walked directly to the waiting aircraft, and the pilot emerged into the doorway as he approached. He consciously focused on the bag and its potential contents to put Thomas and the messenger’s threat out of his mind.
“Good morning, Father. You ready for this short flight to Vienna?”
“Good morning,” Michael replied as if he already knew the flight plan, “and, yes, it’s been a long time since I’ve visited Vienna. I’m looking forward to it.”
“We’ll have you wheels-up in a few minutes, sir.”
Michael summited the short flight of stairs and found the cabin empty, save him and the pilot. He expected the co-pilot was already in the cockpit by now. “Just me?”
“You’re my only passenger this morning.”
Michael glanced back at the airport gate he’d just exited. The messenger’s nowhere to be seen. Probably walked off as soon as I did. He brought his attention back to the chipper pilot. “I appreciate any expedience you can offer.”
“We’ll make it so, Father.”
Although his former-cop instincts still directed him to the back row, especially after the unexpected threat, Michael again sat close to the hatch. I don’t appear tactically proficient or paranoid up here. He placed the diplomatic pouch in a leather-wrapped storage bin next to his seat. I don’t want to risk reviewing it until I’m alone. I can only trust everyone by trusting no one.
Likely the result of both the early hour and the aircraft’s registry, the crew had them underway almost immediately after closing the hatch. With the cockpit and his privacy secured, Michael opened the diplomatic pouch with its recently prescribed combination of “0401.” He found a familiar, red-wax-sealed manila envelope inside. Seal of the Holy See above a transverse cross. Origin and recipient confirmed. The parchment inside the wax seal displayed the same, single Catechism section, 401, that Michael had received by email. Contents are authenticated. Just as the aircraft gained lift and rose into the darkness beneath Rome’s low cloud layer, Michael read the packet’s only page:
“Congratulations, shithead. Glad you made it through this one. Consider it your official admission to the Merry Union of Snakehunters & Gravediggers. Your initial flight plan is for Vienna, but they’ll take you anywhere you wanna go. Lemme know where and when you land. Keep your phone on. More work headed your way right quick. Keep section 401 in your prayers. It deals with original sin and the evil inherent in all of us. No rest for the wicked. – John”
As the jet steeply climbed through the dark and clear autumn sky, Michael looked out and noticed light cast off the full moon brightly lit the clouds below him. The world is still a beautiful place, even with us in it. I pray that God uses me to lessen the negative impact we have on each other. He picked up a telephone cradled in the cabin wall next to his seat.
“Yes, Father, how can I be of assistance,” the unseen co-pilot almost immediately asked.
“I’ve just learned of a change in my travel plans. I’m required to be back in the U-S, in Santa Fe, New Mexico, as soon as possible, please.”
“Certainly, we can do that for you. We will need to make one fuel stop somewhere on the East Coast at about sunrise there. Is there a particular location you’d prefer for the layover?”
“No, whatever’s most convenient for you.”
“Thank you, Father. I’ll let you know once it’s decided. Do you want the change of flight plan filed immediately?”
“No,” Michael replied, “that can wait until we’ve transitioned to our next center. No need to bother anyone else with this for now.” It’s nice to know the proper vocabulary.
“Very good. We’ll make it so.”
“Thank you.” Michael returned the receiver to its in-wall cradle, secured the pouch and its contents, and leaned back in his reclining seat. ‘No rest for the wicked,’ indeed. In the last day, I became operational, succeeded in protecting an untold number of people, failed at my primary objective, and had a grandfatherly messenger threaten me after I watched a former classmate get put a psych hold for being honest. It can’t always be like this.
Michael wondered if Sergio and the others were getting the same treatment. It’s possible there’s an established list of targets. You don’t open a new business without first identifying your customers. No rest for the wicked… Michael kept turning the misquoted phrase over in his mind, wondering if John had intended to make the error.
His mind predictably returned to Father Moore, Thomas, as Michael had known the man. How far will John and Hoffaburr go to keep our secrets, and theirs? The Vatican’s trustees failed in their screening process, and that’s put all of this at risk, even if only for a little while. If the program’s in jeopardy, then so is everyone involved in it. Somewhere, a scared old man in a red or white Cossack is watching CNN and deciding what must be done. Actually, what others must do on his behalf…
Even if he could have spoken with Sergio at that moment, Michael expected the jet’s interior wasn’t a safe place to question their hierarchy. Thomas’ public psychiatric committal confirmed that Michael’s bosses didn’t let perceived threats quietly go by the wayside. John warned me about accidentally digging my own grave, but, given the scandal of this betrayal, what’ll he do if that scared old man orders us to dig one for Thomas?
SIXTY-EIGHT
November 1. 06:32am local.
New York City.
Cardinal Paul Dylan already sat behind his oversized Italian mahogany desk despite the early hour. Concealed under the desk from view of anyone but him, a small red light unexpectedly blinked near his right leg, and a smile immediately spread across Dylan’s aging face. He’s early. That almost always means good news. He pressed a small adjacent button that unlocked a private, downstairs access door to his dedicated en-suite elevator. Bishop Harold Hoffaburr soon stepped into his office, which Dylan knew the subordinate someday wanted for his own. He wants the office and the prestige, but he knows almost nothing about the responsibilities that come with it.
“I hope you bring good tidings.”
“I do,” Hoffaburr beamed. “We’ve had our first successes last night, three of them, actually, and two more are expected today.”
“And all is well, they’re clean and undetected?”
“It’s even better than that. Only one has been reported in local news, and it’s already declared a remorseful suicide. ‘Driven to take his own life by his heinous crimes,’ I think it roughly translates.” Hoffaburr turned over a closed manila envelope from his shoulder bag that contained a few printed pages of an online Portuguese news article, along with its English translation. He sat down in his usual chair near the sheer-curtained window. Dylan saw the man looked vindicated by the early success.
“And we expect the other two matters concluded today?”
“That is the expectation, Your Eminence, although it may be necessary for them to delay to ensure their operational security and escape.”
“Of course, Harold, I expect perfection, and
I understand that takes time and effort well in excess of the recklessness of instant gratification. Which brings me to the matter in Omaha…”
Hoffaburr cleared his throat before he spoke, obviously uncomfortable with the unexpected development. “I assure Your Eminence that it’s all been handled and won’t again be an issue for anyone involved.”
Dylan skimmed over both news articles, even though he didn’t read or speak Portuguese. “Good. Make sure it stays that way, Harold. You will let me know as soon as you hear about the others?”
“Of course, Your Eminence.”
“Cardinal Dylan?”
The sound of his desktop intercom speaker interrupted their conversation. Dylan reached over and depressed the ‘talk’ button as he spoke. “Yes?”
“Sorry to disturb you so early, sir, but you have a call holding. It’s Cardinal Rorke with the Travel Office. He has some details he wishes to share about your upcoming appointment to Vatican City.”
Dylan looked across his desk at Harold and smiled. He depressed the ‘talk’ button once again. “Thank you, go ahead and put him through, please.”
“It’s finally happening, Your Eminence. Just as you anticipated.”
“No, Harold,” he corrected, “just as God intends. It’s all coming together just as He intends.”
Epilogue
November 1, 01:34pm local.
Thomas Residence. Santa Fe, New Mexico.
Father Michael Thomas woke up in his childhood bedroom, thankfully no longer decorated in sports posters. Once fully revived, he slid from the twin bed and knelt on the floor to complete the third part of daily recitations. Out of habit, Michael spoke just above a whisper as he recited Saint Michael’s Prayer. As he finished, he smelled brewed coffee and opened his eyes. Plenty of time left in the afternoon for my None prayers.
