by G. C. Harmon
Steve glanced at the others and nodded up the stairs, and they followed. It turned out to be multiple sets of concrete stairs that finally led to a circular veranda in front of the main building, the Esplanade. When Blazer arrived there, Birdsong was already ushering the priest in through a side door. He hadn’t said another word to the SFPD cops.
It was as if they could breathe for the first time in hours. The case appeared to be winding down. They’d found their missing person alive and well. They’d faced down and captured the man trying to kill him. And they had successfully brought their missing person to the special event he was to be a part of.
Steve glanced at his men, all of whom seemed to be looking at him for some guidance. Steve shrugged. “Take a break, guys. Go see the sights. But stay close in case our friends from State decide they need us for some other task they can’t do themselves.”
This brought quiet chuckles from some of them. They quietly dispersed to explore the grounds of Hearst Castle.
Father Fitzhugh was given a bedroom on the second floor, somewhere below the quarters where William Randolph Hearst himself ran his empire. The room was intricately decorated in a mixture of Gothic-related styles, from the wood-carved pattern in the ceiling to the sixteenth century tapestry hanging across from the large two hundred year old bed. It was a truly magnificent sight, and as the door closed behind him, he took a moment to look around and marvel at the art and artistry.
He finally walked slowly to the bathroom, still glancing around at everything. The fixtures inside were shiny silver and gold. He lamented that he had no spare clothing to wear to the gathering this evening, but he could at least wash and make himself somewhat presentable.
It was some minutes later, while he was standing in the bathroom, that he heard a knock at his door. After everything he had been through the last forty-eight hours, he thought nothing of the immediate suspicion that sprang to mind. But, he was in a secure location now, and new opportunities and events awaited him this evening. He left the bathroom and padded to the door to answer it.
The man on the other side was a few years older than him, pushing seventy, and wore an immaculate suit and red patterned tie. His face was craggy from childhood acne, his hair longish, dark heavily streaked with gray. He broke into a broad smile, as did Fitzhugh. “It is so good to see you, my friend.”
“Klaus, me boy,” Fitzhugh grinned and pulled his German friend into a heartfelt embrace. “Please, come in.”
Klaus Wingert, the German businessman, eagerly entered. As Fitzhugh closed the door, Wingert didn’t bother to wait for an invitation, he picked an easy chair and sat. Fitzhugh sat on the bed across from him.
“I must confess, when I arrived this morning, I immediately inquired whether you had checked in. The longer you delayed, I became more and more worried.”
Fitzhugh hesitated, wondering how much he should tell him. But Wingert had trusted him with his own personal history. “You may have been right to be worried. It seems my past has rushed up behind me and is trying to take a horrendous bite.” He briefly explained about Conner tracking him down and trying to kill him, now multiple times.
“Sheise,” the German breathed, then quickly added, “I’m sorry, father. As they say here in the States, pardon my French.”
The priest smiled briefly at the joke. “I think maybe I should have expected something like this. But it has been more than three decades. The church has shielded me, and I have had help from the American government. But did anything like this ever happen to you?”
“Nein. No. I suppose I have been fortunate in that respect.” The seriousness of the moment had dampened their mood, and the German took a moment to offer a smile. “Look at the two of us. Both of us coming from the violence of revolution. You renounce that violence and become a man of God. I renounce that violence and embrace Capitalism.”
“You sell yourself short, my friend. You’ve become a man of the people, and in a much more productive role that in your previous life. I know you are here to do right by the people of your company and your country. I admit that the sins of my past have caused me to doubt my position on these committees. How hypocritical am I that I expect to hold sway over the leaders of a nation?”
“But Father…you just said yourself. You are here for the same reason I am, to do right by the people. We have already made such progress.” He saw the sincerity of the doubt in the priest’s eyes. “My friend, I beg of you, for the sake of our friendship. Stay with us, and help convince the other members of the European Union to stand up for the rights of their people.”
Fitzhugh’s eyes dropped to the floor, but he managed a smile. “You’re right, of course. That is why I came, to help the people of all nations.”
“Wunderbar,” the German smiled. “If you’re ready, would you accompany me to the reception downstairs?”
“It would be my honor.”
The Sheriff’s patrol SUV turned off Highway 1 at the ornate sign that advertised Hearst Castle. Deirdre was once again behind the wheel, and she drove the short distance up to the parking lot by the Visitor’s Center. In the passenger seat, Conner scoped out the area. The visitor’s center was closed, he saw no one there. Across the way, where the road continued up toward the castle, they spotted the two security vehicles. “Drive up there,” he said. “Let’s see if we can bluff our way through.”
She rolled the vehicle forward, slowly approaching the security detail. Their vehicles were parked nose to nose, blocking both lanes. As they stopped, a black man in uniform approached the driver’s side.
“Good afternoon,” Conner smiled from the passenger seat. There was no hiding his accent. “Sheriff’s Department. We’ve been sent to join the Security detail.”
The unfirmed black was instantly suspicious. “Sir, your department was notified, but we have no detail from the Sheriff’s—”
Conner leaned forward, raising his pistol. His left hand pushed Deirdre back out of the way, and he fired twice. The guard backpedaled at the sudden movement but was not fast enough with his own weapon. The first-round tore open his throat and jugular, splashing blood across the driver door. The second round cored his forehead. The officer was dead instantly, and he toppled backward.
The second guard sprang from the driver side of the vehicle on the right. He quickly fired off several rounds, which smashed through the windshield. Liam took him, stepping from the back seat. He rapid fired his own pistol, which showered the second officer, and the window before him, with lead. The window shattered, spattered with the blood of multiple chest wounds. Liam checked around them, seeing no more Security guards that might come out of the woodwork.
The gun firing practically in her face had left Deirdre moaning. “Shite, I can barely see or hear!”
“Ram them!” Conner ordered.
She took a moment to let her eyes adjust again and knew there was nothing she could do about the ringing in her ears. Still blinking against the retina burns, she shifted the SUV into reverse and backed up several yards. Then she gunned the gas.
The Tahoe rocketed forward. It slammed into the front ends of both cars. They were both knocked aside, their front ends crushed from the sides. The SUV’s push-bumper helped minimize the damage, but there was damage. The hood was crumped, one side of the radiator pierced, and both headlights were destroyed. But with the entrance now clear, Deirdre floored the gas, sending them rocketing up the road into the hills.
The further up they reached, the more she saw that the vehicle had sustained greater damage than she thought and would not make it all the way. She watched the temperature gauge creep higher and higher. The radiator must have been affected, she realized. The gauge soon spiked into the red. A shot of steam began to whistle from one side. Moments later, the engine lost power and began to rattle. It suddenly quit. The SUV rolled to a stop.
They were no longer in the open. The rolling hills and grasslands had given way to thick trees and bushes as they neared the crest of the ridge where
the castle was built.
“Come on,” Conner said. “Grab the rifles. “We’re going to kill that priest, those cops and anyone else who gets in the way.”
They climbed out. Each IRA fighter wielded an M-4 rifle, and the loaded magazines had been split up between them. They each shoved the magazines into their coat pockets.
Conner was watching the road ahead. They couldn’t be more than a few hundred yards from La Casa Grande. He nodded toward the south, and led the group off the road, around a clump of bushes and into the woods.
Outside, Steve was trying to decompress from the incident they had left behind on the roadway. He was still feeling some of those nerves. Relax, he kept telling himself. The bad guy is in custody. When the time comes, we can work out what to charge him with. For the moment, Steve tried to lose himself in admiring the grounds of Hearst Castle. There was not one speck of land that did not have something of beauty to admire. The landscaping was ornate. Flowers were starting to bloom on every bush. There were statues all around grounds outside the building. In the distance, he could see the bright blue waters of the Neptune pool, surrounded by pavilions on columns of stone and marble. He wandered the Esplanade outside La Casa Grande. The stone carvings on the main building were exquisite. The main entrance was situated below the two bell towers and was blocked off by a tall metal gate. Nearby, the men of Special Forces had gathered around his father, who had taken up the mantle of tour guide. He was telling them why the main entrance was closed. As the story went, the tile inside the main entrance was laid in such an artistic fashion that the man who laid it requested that it not be walked on.
Steve turned around to walk back toward the where he’d seen Birdsong and Fitzhugh enter, but he stopped suddenly. Two men were walking around the corner toward that entrance. He caught the barest glimpse of them, but they were instantly familiar. They were wearing all black, the only detail he could see from the back. But he knew from general description where he had seen them. Yesterday. The Westin St Francis Hotel. If it was true…what were those mysterious priests doing here? He started toward that door, wanting to verify who they were—
“Blazer!” Stanson called out.
Both Steve and Drew turned at their name, but Stanson hurried up to Steve. “We may have a problem.” He was still on the phone, apparently on hold. “I called to check on our group in county lockup. They never made it. They said something about an officer shot. Putting two and two together, it sounds like our Irish suspects escaped. I’m trying to get more details from the patrol division.”
“Shit. If they’ve escaped, they’re probably headed here. Guys!” Steve turned away and beckoned to his team, and they ran after him.
Steve had already gotten himself confused with the geography of the place, so he headed in the general direction of where they’d left the vehicles. He quickly found the right staircase and they headed down. The two Ford Expeditions had been left at the curb, and the team gathered there.
“Rifles and magazines,” Steve ordered. “I’m expecting trouble. Our Irish crew may have escaped.”
There were muttered curses at the news. Both SUVs had M-4 rifles, a slightly more compact rifle built on an AR-15 platform. One rifle was mounted between the front seats, with each vehicle carrying two spare rifles in the trunk. Each man grabbed a rifle and at least four spare magazines. The only exception was Scot Black. With a look at his Sergeant, he refused to take one, but pulled out his Smith and Wesson sidearm and checked his load. Steve met his gaze but said nothing.
Then Drew himself reached into the locker. He’d spotted a SIG/Sauer P229 and pulled it out. Showing plenty of skill with the pistol, he ejected the magazine to check it, reinserted it and racked the slide. Steve noted this with more appreciation than curiosity.
As they were readying the rifles, Drew said to the group, “I don’t need to tell you lads about courage, I’ve seen plenty of it from you all today. Let’s finish this and come back. With your shield, or on it.”
Steve had heard this saying from his father before, and to him, it had special meaning. His face went stone cold as he slapped a magazine into the M-4. “Let’s get up there and spread out along the terrace,” he said, leading them back to the stairs.
But before they’d even mounted the first step, a series of shots rang out above them, sounding like they came from the other side of the building. Steve suddenly wondered, Are we too late? He went tactical, holding the rifle aimed in front of him, ready to shoot any threat that presented itself.
Seconds later, they topped the last stairway and spilled onto the Esplanade in search of bad guys.
Captain Stanson was still on hold with San Luis Obispo County Dispatch when the first shots rang out. He immediately hung up the phone, whipped out his Colt 1911 and backed toward the building for some cover. The shots were coming from the north side of the Esplanade. He moved that direction, his gun leading the way. A red-brick staircase descended here to another terrace below. The stairs were bordered by green bushes that partially blocked the view. He stepped partway down the stairway until he saw movement. At the bottom of the steps, he used a retaining wall as cover to move toward another staircase that led back up to another walkway and the east wing of the main building. At the base of that staircase, he poked his head out to see if he could see anything.
Just over the top of the stairs, he saw a group filing through the scattered trees. One subject was approaching a back door to the building buried in an alcove. There was a uniformed Security officer there, and he stepped out to investigate the group, only to be shot down immediately. As the shots rang out, Stanson mounted the steps, aiming his .45 at the shooter. He loosed a single shot. At a range of nearly thirty yards, he was close but missed, seeing the round chip off paint and dust from the wall.
And now all five shooters in the group turned on him. A massive wall of lead was unleashed upon him. He ducked back as bullets tore at the retaining wall and the bushes above him. He’d kicked up a hornet’s nest, and he ran back up the other staircase.
Steve motioned for his men to spread out along the Esplanade. As he did, Agent Birdsong emerged from the side doorway. As Steve approached, Birdsong saw the rifle and said, “What the hell is this?”
“You may want to get everybody out of that reception and to safety,” Steve said. “That IRA crew after the priest—” he trailed off as gunshots rang out on the other side of the building— “They’re here.”
At that moment, Captain Stanson came running up the stairs. Seeing the men of Special Forces armed, he said, “Five tangos. They just killed a guard. They are in the building.”
“Go,” Steve said, pushing Birdsong toward the door, “Let’s get them out.”
When Fitzhugh and Wingert walked into the hall together, they spotted a gathering of the business officials clustered nearby. The dining room was exquisite by itself. The walls were lined intermittently with tapestries and carved wooden walls. Above, rows of flags and banners hung, lining both sides of the long dining hall, just below the ceiling. The ceiling itself was comprised of a series of panels with intricate wood carvings. Fitzhugh remembered from a previous tour that these were restored from the originals. A long dining table stood in the center of the room. Along one side of the dining room was another table, this one line with trays of various types of finger food. At the far end of the tables, a mobile wet bar had been set up, complete with a tuxedoed bartender standing by to provide drinks.
This was where they found the bulk of the guests. Businessmen representing the companies who were taking part in the human rights talks had gathered there to socialize. A couple of them had brought their wives, and they joined in the conversation and occasional laughter. All of them had a drink, and they saw one older gentleman lead his wife to the bar to refresh their drinks. The priest also saw another group of men standing nearby, and he recognized some members of the State Department team he’d been working with. They seemed to be abstaining from conversing with the businessmen. Truthfu
lly, he realized, their job was more to facilitate things and make sure events transpired smoothly.
“Gentlemen,” Herr Wingert announced as they approached the group of businessmen. “I think you all remember Father Fitzhugh. He’ll be joining us again tomorrow in our talks.”
There was a chorus of welcomes as most of the group raised their glasses to him. However, one man, standing off to the side on the fringes of the group offered no hearty welcome. He was tall and stocky, in his mid-sixties with sagging skin from too many decades of smoking cigarettes, and wispy flowing salt and pepper hair, a bit long for his age. Fitzhugh remembered him from previous meetings, Kristoff Hess. He was the head of another German Company. He and Wingert were close friends, but Fitzhugh had seen that he had not taken a liking to him yet.
Hess was brave enough to step forward. “It is good to see you again, Herr Father. But surely, I am at a loss as to why you are still a part of these talks. Many of us have already reached agreements amongst ourselves to root out the problem workers in our respective organizations. The issue of the violation of rights against British citizens for their desire for independence…it will be dealt with, and by this august body.”
Fitzhugh smiled through the insult. “Herr Hess, surely you can’t believe that I am only here to assign blame. No, my purpose here, I see it as being much deeper. I want to help this august body find the humanity within.”
“We welcome such a quest,” one of the wives said, raising her glass, and drawing others to do the same.
Steve followed Agent Birdsong in the side door. They found themselves in a small alcove, where an elevator was installed. Through another door was a large reception room. Among the art adorning the wall, he noted a suit of medieval armor positioned at the entrance to the dining room, complete with a long sword placed before the figure, point down, as if the ancient soldier was leaning on it. The suit of armor seemed to be standing guard over the entrance to the dining room. A second similar suit of armor stood on display outside the door to the opposite entrance.
