by K A Bryant
"We need to move."
He touches his ear, listening in the ear piece.
"They’re coming."
Jean shoves her costume in the garbage. Dread pulls his favorite pistol out and hands it to me.
"You're going to need this," says Dread.
"Thanks." I tuck it behind my back. "Here." I hand Jean a phone. "When you have her, call me on this."
I put my hand on her shoulder. All those days seeing her in that hall. I couldn't touch her. If there's anyone I trust with this, it's her. Time will tell if I've made a mistake.
"Thought we lost you in New York. I know that look. That, living out of a bottle look. You looked behind yourself."
I put the gun in my waist band behind me. My eyes are clear and so is my head. I look up and find myself looking into the broken mirror. My image is fragmented. Distorted. Just as I was these past years. I lost myself in grief and self pity. The only thing that kept me on mission was the promise that seeing it through may uncover what really happened to my parents. The question that plagues me. It helped me hold my tongue while listening to Wilkes’ long tale, yet drives my fists to clench. I feel my inner battle coming to a close.
I step to the right and look in the next mirror. Perfect. Whole. No cracks.
"I'm back."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jason Jones
I couldn't do anything else in New York so I went back to D.C. storm and all. At least I couldn't fall off the sofa. It is impossible with the deep dip in it. I just sunk in at about three o'clock in the morning.
My phone. What time is it? It's somewhere on the side table above my head. There goes the lamp. It hit the floor. Ah. The phone.
"Great 8:17 am," I say out loud.
I need to see Director White. I pull myself together and go to her office. Paused in front of the door I hear someone.
"Not going to open itself. Just go in."
"You are?" I ask.
"Not as chicken as you." She pushes the door open and Director White hangs up her phone quickly.
Director White signs the papers she gave her quickly, shuts the file and hands it back to her without even having addressed her.
"Agent Jones. I thought you would be half way home by now."
The young lady shuts the door behind her as she leaves the office. The window in the office reveals a cloudy snowy sky.
"No," I point to the window, "the storm isn't over yet."
"It's not as bad as it looks." Director White says, standing.
"It's treacherous but you know what I like about storms?"
"What?" she asks.
"It shakes things up and causes everything loose to fall. When the snow clears, then we will see everything dead under it. All the hidden things."
"I assume you have something to tell me. I didn't ask you here to give me a weather report. What happened in New York?"
"Nothing worthwhile. I wasn't sure so I checked it out. Nothing."
"That's two 'nothings' in one sentence. That spells something."
She gestures to my shirt. It is buttoned up wrong. I knew it. I just didn't feel it was relevant to fix. Until now. She's observant.
"Not at all," I say.
"Well, I have something to tell you." She opens her office fridge and takes out a pre-packaged sandwich. "Case is closed."
She sits down at the desk with a large television mounted on the wall playing CNN and begins watching it while opening the sandwich.
"Closed. Something fishy happened in Afghanistan. His entire platoon dead? Everyone except him and his first Officer walk out of there without a scratch on them from the Alfghans? This stinks to high heaven and you know it. His ties are cut. He's retired. People relax when they are retired. They get sloppy. This is exactly when we need to look. That's investigation 101."
"Careful, Jason. I've fired men for saying less and I haven't forgotten your stunt at the inquisition. I almost lost my job because of that."
I step in front of a seat in front of her desk.
"Stand. You won't be here that long," she says, stopping me mid-bend.
I hate that she didn't even look my way when she said that.
"He purposely beat the storm, flew out on a private jet," I say.
"He has substantial stock in companies in other countries? Gee, I don't know, maybe checking on his investments so his nest egg is insured. This has too many holes in it. We can't justify spending any more money on hunches."
I look at the burner phone in my pocket. Still no calls. No news.
"The case is closed." Director White bites her sandwich. "This is for the best, Jason."
I had my suspicions that there was someone on the inside. Someone with enough pull to curve the facts and how they would be recorded. It's not enough for a prominent figure in Washington to retire. Legacy. That's what they push for. Was Director White the keeper of Secretary John Wilkes’ legacy?
A phone is ringing in my pocket but it's not the right phone.
"This better be good, Sam."
"You're chipper. There is movement, Jason."
"Speak," I say.
"John Wilkes and three others arrived in Italy."
I grunt in response. I can hear Director White put her glass down on the desk from behind the door. I don't want to speak here. To the sunken sofa. I turn the corner and see a man, suited, turn the corner talking on a cell phone.
"Do you have an I.D. on the other three yet?" I ask, reaching for the door knob.
The door is ajar. I pause. I know I closed it. I always close doors. A slight push on the door. The room appears untouched. That is only because I haven't looked close enough as yet.
I walk in a straight line to the coffee table where the files are displayed. The ones I pulled this morning are in their stack, but one was hastily pushed back into the line up. The one at the bottom. The most important one.
The one littered with "TOP SECRET" in red faded lettering. I slide it, open it and on the first page, it's his file. Even reading it cover to cover, not much is revealed. Not enough anyway despite the photo. Only x-ray eyes can see through the black redacted marks. Someone has an interest and worse yet, they are clearly informed enough to know what they are looking for.
The hall. No one, to the left or right. I check the burner phone again. Still, no call. I won't just wait. Someone knows something.
I dial one of the few numbers I made myself memorize.
"Have you heard anything?"
A male voice answers and replies.
"Nothing."
I grunt.
"Is there anything-?"
"No, no. Just keep me posted if anything," I say, hanging up the call.
Waiting has never been my strong point. Right now, I have no choice but to wait.
Caleb Promise
The ear piece is good. I can hear Wilkes clearly.
"Move in," Wilkes says.
I can hear a phone ring and Wilkes answers it, putting it on speaker phone. He must be alone.
"Good Day, Mr. President," says Wilkes.
"John, I have conferred with the others. Tolerance is short. The climate, volatile. I pray your product is as marvelous as you claim or you will lose what little respect you have from the world leaders," says a man with a heavy accent.
"You may care to watch your tone. You don't want me as an enemy. Not now. Remember, I have no leash. This dog is free. And you can tell the others that my bark isn't nearly as powerful as my bite."
"I will convey," says the man.
Wilkes hangs up the phone and I can hear him slam his hand down. I hear his car window go down.
"Ron, where are they?" Wilkes says.
"In pursuit, Sir. Closing in."
I turn to Dread and Jean who are ready to leave. I look at the red dot on my hand-held device: a team approaching from the left of the bathroom door and a team approaching from the right. I stuck trackers on them in the ride to the Vatican.
Dread, Jean and I make it out of the re
stroom. I follow her to her Fiat. I give her the cell phone device showing the live feed. Jean plugs it into her computer with a U.S.B. cord. A few taps on her keyboard and a hologram map rises from the device showing the globe. She spins it and a red marker dot flashes on, co-ordinates appear.
"Got it," she says.
She hands the cell phone device to me through the window. I reach to take it from her but she holds it, making me stop and look at her.
"Caleb. You know me," she says.
"Promise me you will get her," I say to her.
"I promise," she says.
I race back to the Vatican Archives. Dread is waiting for me there. About ten of Wilkes’ men see me. They are approaching. Wilkes is not crazy enough to start an international incident in the Vatican. Or is he? The Swiss Guard will descend. The Archbishop is about to begin the Mass.
"Dread, I need a distraction. Now."
I put my hand on the pistol in the small of my back when I see a group of children run between us. Suddenly, in the distance, gunshots. It must be Dread. My distraction.
Screams from the crowd and everyone starts running, looking for a direction.
"There! Get out that way!" I yell, pointing them in the direction of Wilkes’ men, forcing the distance between us to increase. This is it.
I have to get to it now before they shut down the square. People are running full steam out of the Archives. In the blink of an eye Swiss Guards are marching into the square. The guards in the perimeter are watching for movement. Dread is in the wind, I'm sure.
I slip into the Archives just before the metal gate shuts.
I sit in the same seat I sat in when I was just eleven. Dad is precise so I must be close.
"Where is it, dad?" I say aloud.
I can hear the excitement in my mother's voice. I remember it like yesterday.
“In here, you must ask them for what you want to look at and they will bring it to you-" Mother whispered in my ear, "-but some treasures, are hidden in plain sight," I recall mom saying. She points.
I look in the direction she pointed in. The echo in the room is muffled, absorbed by the books. The time is winding down. I walk to the shelf, quickly reading the titles. Nothing stands out.
Boots. I hear them coming. No. Not now. I just need a little time. Think, think. I feel my pocket.
The mysterious metal box key. There, right where mother pointed, an ornate shelf marker. In the decorative metal, a box shape. I lean in then slide the metal box key into the grooves.
Wait, what was that. The tile beneath my feet lowered about half an inch. I turn the metal box and the shelf releases and a section of it swings open like a door. Something it could not do if the tile beneath my feet was in place.
The men are here. Right outside the door. They are searching the other reading rooms. I step inside the open hidden doorway. It swings easily, and creaks. In front of me, an old stone wall. Ancient, dusty. The Archives seem to be a room inside of an old stone room. In front of me, a circular stairwell with black metal railing descending into darkness. There is no light. I pull the door shut. A soft click and it is completely sealed and a light goes on.
They are here. I hear them bang on the book case that just closed. They are pulling out the books and throwing them onto the floor. It won't do much good. The back of the door is steel.
The further I walk down the stairwell the darker it gets. The light was only on the landing. I have never been afraid of darkness. I have only ever been afraid of meeting the dark side of me. That side that is fearful, angry, jealous. For some reason descending in this place makes me face more of myself than I anticipated.
Above, I can hear them pressing forward.
"He's right there! Go in!" I hear Wilkes yells at them in my ear piece.
"He's in the wall, Sir."
"Tear it down," says Wilkes.
The signal stops. I can't hear them anymore. I must have gone down at least two floors already. The steps are steep. The timer stopped on "00:03:47".
The tunnel is dimly lit. Small enclosed lanterns. No soot. They were recently lit. But, by who. Why? Someone knew I was coming. Are they for me or against me?
The dirt floor corridor, dotted by arched stone openings. Some of the arched openings have ancient steel doors, some, open.
The answers are close. I can feel it. The hair on my neck is standing up. Wind is whistling through openings in the stone. Is that a man? It's too dark. I can't see clearly. Perhaps a woman, yes, it must be, I see a dress skimming the floor.
A few feet away, the person is standing purposely between lanterns, in the shadows. I am wrong. It is not a woman.
I stop just before him. I am not easily intimidated. There is a first time for everything. Immediately, I'm intimidated. Not by his title, obvious from his garb. I learned something useful from my time in the Monastery. I am intimidated by him. There is an air about him, a humble air that commands respect in its paradox.
He's a Cardinal. His Ferraiuolo, I mistook for a dress. Second to the Pope. Cardinals are nominated by the Pope. How could my father possibly have had anything to do with this man? He's not here accidentally. He looks as if he were waiting for me. Patiently waiting in a calm in this abandoned place. What if he's not what he seems?
"Caleb Promise," he says.
His voice is deep, bold, but smooth and clear as a bell. Every letter of my name pronounced perfectly. He declared I was Caleb Promise. He didn't ask if I were.
By habit, trust no one. I touch the gun in the small of my back with my fingertips.
"You won't be needing that. Not with me," he says.
His hands are clasped behind his back and he turns around slowly looking at the fifteen foot ceilings looming above them.
The lights flicker and a breeze blows through the corridor we are standing in, blowing his Ferraiuolo.
"Remarkable. Old but still standing. Just like me. I am equally unyielding, so I've been told."
"Who are you?" I ask.
"Not important." He walks. "Follow me."
I pause. How do I know it's not a trap?
"How do I know-?" I begin.
"-that I'm not the enemy?"
"Yes."
"Your father thought you would have reservations. He told me to tell you these words. He said by them, you would know he sent me."
I swallow so hard I think he will hear it. This journey has been wrought with many things, comfort is not one of them, until now.
"Keep God first, obey your parents, and do well in school." He looks at me long enough to catch my response.
Never thought something could hit me this way. I'm on my knees with dirt beneath me. All of my tears and pain from losing them rolls out of me. Not in bitterness, just clean sadness.
Something unspoken about this man is disarming. His words so few but his presence says so much.
I know it now. I got lost. The mission swallowed me. Pretending to be an alcoholic became real. Pretending to be wandering aimlessly through life, became me. I needed alcohol. I never even felt the need to admit I was addicted to drink, but here, somehow, it felt right. To purge. Let the old totally go.
That night, the last night in New York, I grabbed the wrong bottle on purpose and Tony knew it. The one intended for me to grab, the fourth one, was filled with water. Tony replaced it every day.
Here, with minutes to go, I'm facing the shame of veering from those three things. I stopped keeping God first, I disobeyed my parents by drinking, and well, I could have done better in school.
"It's alright, Caleb," he says.
I didn't realize I was fighting back my pain.
"I miss them so much. I never told them, there's so much I wish I told them."
"From the sound of things, they know."
The Cardinal takes the hard drive from his pocket.
"If you have not become the man God intended you to be, this is for nothing. He told me, if you were found wanting, to withhold it."
His shoulders slouch
in a humble way. His eyes pierce to my soul. He's weighing me, I can feel it. But something bigger was happening. My purpose is confirmed. I know who and what I am. Whether he gives it to me or not, I know what I must do. Then it happens.
He holds it out to me.
"God bless you, Caleb Promise. Do what God has called you to do. With this, and always."
I take it and look at it, turning this tiny thing around in my fingertips. So small but so much.
"Is there any-?" I start but he is gone.
