“Good morning, Father Jean-Philippe,” a passing monk said.
“Good morning, Father Gregory.” The two men continued up the path together.
“We missed you at breakfast. You should eat before working up a sweat.” Father Gregory drew a pistol from inside his cassock.
“Heading to target practice?”
“You have your morning rituals, I have mine.”
They separated at a fork in the path. “See you at the assembly, or has your papa summoned you back home?”
“I’ll be there,” Jean-Philippe said.
He continued to the dorter4 and Father Gregory headed down the path that led into the Sonian Forest. Jean-Philippe opened the door to his dwelling just as Father Gregory’s gunshots rang out in the distance. He closed the door of the cramped quarters furnished with a simple chest of drawers, a chair, a twin bed, a pillow, and a wool blanket. He set the envelop down and removed his robes, revealing welts from self-flagellation on his muscular back. He grasped the horizontal bar above the doorframe and pumped out twenty repetitions each of pronated and supinated pull-ups then continued his workout on the stone floor, doing pushups and crunches.
After the alternate mortification of the flesh, he threw a towel over his shoulder and walked naked to the balneary. Another passing father nodded respectfully, unfazed by Jean-Philippe’s lack of modesty. The cold water worked its magic on his aching muscles, and he lingered enjoying the one simple pleasure of the flesh that he would allow himself.
Jean-Philippe’s steps echoed dully in the cloister of the 14th century monastery, the light of iron sconces casting intermittent shadows of his robed figure. The heavy wooden door creaked open, and he entered the chapterhouse lit by a circular medieval chandelier with more of the wrought iron sconces on the walls. A dozen monks milled about conversing in hushed tones around a long table lined with wooden chairs.
“Let’s commence,” Jean-Philippe said as he walked to the head of the table and took his seat.
“Father Gregory has not arrived yet,” said a sheepish monk, Father Timothy, as he sat to Jean-Philippe’s right.
“Father Gregory can read the minutes later.”
“Father Gregory is the secretary,” Father Timothy contritely reminded him. The monks settled into their seats. Jean-Philippe clasped his hands and they waited in silence.
Finally, the massive door creaked opened, and Father Gregory entered apace. He cradled a leather-bound tome in his left arm and a fountain pen in his right hand. The massive book came down with a thud on the table in front of the last empty chair to Jean-Philippe’s left. Father Gregory sat and opened the book, searching the pages for the last writings. He held the pen expectantly over the next blank page, poised to take notes.
“This meeting of the Fathers of Mercy is now called to order at 15 hours and 13 minutes, December 11th, 2001,” Jean-Philippe said. When the sound of Father Gregory’s pen nib scratching the parchment stopped Jean-Philippe continued. “Old business, Father Gregory?”
Father Gregory read from the previous minutes. “Old business, the ordination of the Solemnity of the Immaculate Conception, our yearly novena to our Lady, a solemnity proper to our congregation, according to the original constitutions drawn up by Father Rauzan, affirming the belief that one goes surely to Jesus through Mary, on December 8th was completed by all here.”
In sync, the monks crossed themselves. “Amen.”
Father Gregory scanned his notes to the next item and continued. “New business: planning of our next ordination of the Solemnity of Mary, the Holy Mother of God on January 1st.”
“Very well,” Jean-Philippe said. “Father Timothy, will you form a committee and draft a budget for the next ordination to present at the next meeting?”
“You can count on me,” Father Timothy said enthusiastically. Father Gregory forged it into the notes.
“Next order of business,” Jean-Philippe said. “It has come to my attention that the Marian shrine at the Catholic retreat center near Genval has been compromised. It will require the unique skills of Father Gregory to remedy. Effective immediately, he is to be relocated to Genval until further notice.”
The scratching of the pen nib slowed as Father Gregory wrote his own name. His eyes widened as he realized he had just been given a new assignment.
“Moi?” he asked, pointing to himself with the pen.
“Is there a problem?” Jean-Philippe asked.
“No problem,” Father Gregory said. “Thank you for entrusting me with this mission. You will not regret it.”
“You haven’t heard it yet.”
“You are correct,” Father Gregory said, holding the pen above the page again. “Please, continue.”
“There has been an infestation of gophers that has compromised the grounds,” Jean-Philippe said. “You will literally have to take matters into your own hands.”
Father Gregory shook his head vigorously in the affirmative as he wrote, then his pen slowed again in realization. He looked up from the page. “You mean…” He pointed the pen with his thumb raised like a gun.
Jean-Philippe nodded yes.
“Oh,” Father Gregory said, resuming his writing. The other monks crossed themselves, and some began rosary prayers.
“Meeting adjourned,” Jean-Philippe said. “Father Gregory, please stay so I can brief you on your assignment.”
A collective whisper rose as the monks exited the chamber. Once the door closed, Jean-Philippe was able to speak freely to Father Gregory, who remained with his pen poised to take notes.
“This is off the record,” Jean-Philippe said.
Father Gregory lowered the pen and closed the book with a thud. “I’ll take mental notes,” he said.
“After four years of infiltrating a crime ring here in Belgium, Interpol is close to having enough evidence for an arrest,” Jean-Philippe began. “The Catholic retreat in Genval where I have assigned you is a château owned by a nobleman. The owner is in hospice, but his son, Arnaud D’Atout, resides there with his niece.”
“His niece?”
“Yes, a young debutante, whom he is grooming to come out in society. Apparently, her parents died tragically, and as her uncle he was next of kin. But he is involved with some questionable characters. It could be a dangerous assignment.”
“That’s not a problem,” Father Gregory said, patting his robe where his firearm was concealed.
“Let me have your gun.”
“My gun?”
“Yes, it is too conspicuous for this assignment,” Jean-Philippe said. Father Gregory reluctantly took his Beretta M9 from his robe and placed it on the table. Jean-Philippe took a pistol from inside his robe and handed it to Father Gregory. The .32 caliber pistol had a 6-inch octagonal metal barrel with a mottled gray patina and walnut grips. The side bore the heraldic emblem of the Swiss canton of Basel-Landschaft.
Father Gregory handled it with expertise. “This relic? You’re kidding, right?”
“It shoots true and should be more than enough for little critters popping out of the ground.”
“What about big critters popping out of the woodwork?”
They got up from the table and walked to the door. Jean-Philippe stopped and placed his hand on Father Gregory’s shoulder. “This probably won’t be a car-chase or shoot-out kind of mission. But it could be the pay-off we’ve been working toward all these years, old friend.”
“Do you think you’ll leave the monastery if we ever crack this case?” Father Gregory asked.
“I’ve made a promise to my father to do just that.”
“Good, because I can’t wait to get back to the real world. What will you do?”
Jean-Philippe thought for a moment. “Perhaps I’ll take up the violin.”
F O U R
December 11, 2001
The atonal tuning of violins evoked Henny Youngman scratching out scales on his fiddle. The cacophony of the instruments contrasted with the majestic ballroom overlooking the formal g
ardens of the Renaissance château and the Meuse River in Wallonia, Belgium. A string quartet of young women, one more beautiful than the next, tuned their instruments. The tallest of the four stood out, with long blonde hair, rosy cheeks, ruby lips, and wide-eyed anticipation. She wore a simple strapless blush satin gown, her naturally golden tresses cascading over bare shoulders.
The bloated middle-aged Arnaud D’Atout observed the girls haughtily, his comb-over threatened by droplets of sweat, his regard fixed on the blonde violinist. He became momentarily distracted by the tempting delicacies on display. Succumbing, he reached over the table, taking a napkin and helping himself to a canapé of caviar and crème fraîche. He gulped it down then used the napkin to blot the beads of sweat and returned his attention to the girl.
The clinking of a champagne glass drew everyone’s attention to the hostess, Julia Almasi, the widow of the late banker Ekram M. Almasi.
“Dear friends, your presence at this very special event means the world to me.” Julia was the definition of impeccable elegance wearing her signature beauty-salon blonde bouffant, black eyeliner, thick black mascara, and an understated black Chanel gown.
“As you know, I have devoted my life to philanthropic causes. The most important to me being, for obvious reasons, research on Parkinson’s disease, which afflicted my husband. Your donations will help continue the vital search for a cure to end the heartbreak of Parkinson’s disease.” She composed herself and continued. “Now, please, enjoy the party!”
On cue, the quartet played Mozart’s String Quartet No. 14 in G major with surprising virtuosity. The music seemed to lift the mood while the venust young blonde’s passion captivated the audience. She played most of the piece with her eyes closed, rarely checking the sheet music, letting the spirit of Mozart guide her. Her porcelain skin, ruddy with emotion, enhanced her symmetrical features. During the crescendo, she gazed upward, her dark lashes intensifying her almond-shaped hazel eyes.
Arnaud studied the guests’ reactions, then compulsively raised his right hand to his head, plucked a single hair, and rolled it between his fingertips. The recital ended with Mozart’s string Quartet No. 23 in F major to a standing ovation. Faces were flushed with enthusiasm, and pockets were flush with cash. As the quartet disassembled, admirers approached eager to meet the violinists and donate to the cause. Arnaud cut ahead of a young man waiting to meet the beautiful blonde violinist.
“Annabel, bravo!” Arnaud said, holding his arms out to her.
“Uncle!” She hugged him excitedly then kissed him on the cheek. “Did you enjoy the performance?”
“It was perfection. I’m very proud of you, my dear.”
“Is Evelyne here?” Annabel pronounced Evelyne in French with a long e for the y. “Evelyne!” she called out, craning her neck and searching the faces in the crowd.
“No, darling, Evelyne couldn’t make it.”
“But you promised!” Her bottom lip quivered in frustration.
“You will see your friend soon,” Arnaud lied. “Come, gather your things. I’ll take you home.”
“But couldn’t I just stay for a while? It’s a lovely party.”
“Next time. You need your rest. It’s been a long day.”
She retrieved her coat and violin case and they made their way toward the exit, stopping only to thank Mrs. Almasi.
“Julia, thank you for having us,” Arnaud said.
“Thank you for attending, Arnaud.” Julia turned to Annabel. “And thank you for performing, Annabel. You played beautifully.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Almasi.” The sixteen-year-old was still glowing from her first public appearance. “I’m looking forward to performing again. This is such a wonderful party.”
“Will you stay and do a solo for us?” Julia asked.
Beads of sweat formed on Arnaud’s brow again, jeopardizing his immovable hair. “Annabel needs her rest. She has been rehearsing so much.”
“How is your father?” Julia whispered.
“Not well, I’m afraid.”
“My prayers go out to you and your family,” Julia said.
“Thank you again,” Arnaud said. “Goodbye.”
He rushed Annabel out to his sedan and sped off. They drove about thirty minutes to the town of Genval and arrived at a private château. Arnaud pulled into the parking area and got out to open Annabel’s door. She held the cherished violin case in one hand and took his arm with the other. They walked down the pulverized gravel path and ran into Ferdinande, the manager-in-residence, carrying a wicker trug containing neatly stacked long thin votive candles.
“Bonjour mademoiselle Annabel et Monsieur Arnaud,” Ferdinande said in twangy Belgian French. “How was your recital?”
“It was marvelous!” Annabel beamed proudly. “They gave us a standing ovation.”
“It was a great success,” Arnaud interjected. “But Annabel needs her rest now.”
“Of course,” Ferdinande said. “Will you be needing anything, Monsieur?”
“No, merci,” Arnaud said, walking away. “Good day.”
“Good day. Give your father my best.”
They continued down the path to a private entrance in the back of the sprawling seventeenth-century château flanked by two Rapunzel towers. Arnaud took out a keychain to unlock the heavy wooden door of the rear tower. The frigid entryway had original stone floors and walls. A medieval chandelier and a narrow beam of daylight from a single window were the only sources of light.
They climbed a curved stone staircase to a landing with another solid wood door. Using a different skeleton key, Arnaud opened the door to Annabel’s quarters. Inside, the décor contrasted sharply with the uninviting stairwell. It was a sumptuously furnished apartment with a comfortable lounging area in the center. In one corner there was an easel with paints, brushes and palettes set up near a window overlooking the Sambre River. A half-finished oil painting on the easel bore witness to more of Annabel’s remarkable talents. In another corner was her rehearsal area with a chair and a sheet music stand. Annabel set her violin case down there as Arnaud lit a fire in the large stone hearth.
“Get some rest,” he said, kissing her on the forehead.
“Did I make you proud, uncle?”
He gently brushed some loose hairs from her face. “I have never been so proud of anyone in my life.”
“When will I see Evelyne?”
Arnaud tried to conceal his frustration. “I’m afraid it will be longer than expected.” The emotions of the day’s events welled up in Annabel’s eyes. “Come, take a nap before dinner. You’ll feel much better.” He sat her down on the four-poster bed, then hurried out, locking the door behind him.
F I V E
December 11, 2001
“He’s either a psychopath or a sycophant,” Superintendent Paul Dupont said. “But there is no doubt, Todd Mayer acted alone in the murders of Ekram M. Almasi and Theresa Leigh. He is a trained Green Beret who knew what he was doing when he stabbed himself and started that fire.”
Monaco’s Attorney General, Daniel Graham, sat behind his desk listening to Dupont make his closing statement in favor of the case being ready to go to trial. Patrick Roblot fumed, knowing by the way the AG nodded that he had already lost his argument.
“With all due respect to the prosecution, Mr. Attorney General,” Roblot interrupted. “I have been researching this case for over a year and have documented evidence indicating that Mayer could not have acted alone. Yes, Mayer served as a Green Beret, but as a medical auxiliary. He had no more experience in combat than he did of high style living. He was there to tend to his employer in a nursing capacity, not as a bodyguard. Almasi had a security team for that, still, he so feared for his life that he built a saferoom.”
Dupont cut him off. “Which explains why his own security team was not at the Monte Carlo residence at the time of Almasi’s death. His residence was reinforced, making him feel safe enough to keep the security team at his villa La Leopolda ten miles away.”
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“Then why did you arrest Almasi’s chief of security?” Roblot asked.
“I only detained him for questioning,” Dupont replied smugly.
Roblot was not ready to concede his case. “Sir, when I interrogated Mayer, he was very clear. He said that two hooded intruders had penetrated the apartment and stabbed him.”
Dupont interrupted again. “Then several days later, he retracted and confessed that the stab wounds were self-inflicted. There were no holes from the stabbing through his clothing, only to his abdomen and leg. He slashed himself with his own switchblade to corroborate his story about the intruders. You said yourself that he was a trained medical auxiliary. Therefore, he would know how to inflict non-lethal wounds.”
Roblot knew he had little time, so he got to the point. “Almasi’s involvement with the FBI indicates this may have been a well-executed Russian mob hit, and Mayer is just a patsy.”
“Well they must be Russian ninjas then. Monaco is the safest, most tightly controlled city in the world! There is one policeman for every one hundred inhabitants. You can barely take a step in Monte Carlo without being monitored by closed-circuit cameras, which are on the streets, in underpasses, in the halls of hotels, and in the casino.”
“And you didn’t find any other suspects on those surveillance tapes?” Roblot asked, knowing the answer.
“Unfortunately, much of that evidence has been lost,” Dupont said.
“Which brings up my final plea, sir.” Roblot took a document from his file and handed it to the Attorney General. “This case has clearly been compromised. Evidence has been destroyed in what appears to have been collusion between chief investigative Judge Christophe Herly and a member of Mayer’s state-appointed defense team.”
“The missing surveillance tapes had no bearing on this case!” Dupont interjected, losing patience. “Mayer confessed to setting the fire. He had staged it to win favor with Almasi. He said that he had started a fire in a wastebasket to create a situation where he could then save Almasi and be a hero. Case closed!”
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