by Ken Hansen
“I doubt you will have much luck. He knows you’re looking, so he’ll stay close to his hiding spot, no? You might need to force a break. Have you thought about using the press?”
“We have, but how do we explain the importance of finding him without unduly alarming the populace?”
“Unduly? From your tone, they should be very alarmed.”
“At this point, we can only speculate. We don’t even know where the event will occur, just that there is a possibility. Mass hysteria generally leads to mass chaos and often death. Do you know how many times a year we stop terrorist plans before they occur and the population never hears about them? Now that would really scare you.”
She put her fingertips to her lips. “Why don’t you create a little story to explain the situation? Maybe inform the press that he has Alzheimer’s disease, has disappeared and the authorities fear he may be in trouble?”
“Not a bad idea, but that might not sit well with the Vatican. I doubt they want him to be portrayed as a sympathetic character. And if we do catch him, then what? We have arrested and are now questioning an Alzheimer’s patient? The press would have fun with that one. Nah, we might just have to say he is suspected of links to terrorists and leave it at that. If we are wrong, he sues us, but I think the reward is worth that minor risk.”
“I wonder if he will try to leave the country before you catch him.”
“If he does and has Pardus’s help,” Huxley said, “we’ll never see him again.”
“Why?”
“Because Pardus never leaves anyone alive for long once they can identify him and have any risk of capture. Maybe the cardinal doesn’t know Pardus directly. If so, that might save him. But otherwise, Pardus knows we have a few methods, employed only at times of desperation, that might squeeze out something we can use.” As he said this, Huxley watched her eyes to see if a little truth might appear, but she was a stone to him. It might still work. If she’s playing for the other side, this little warning might just flush him out.
She sighed heavily. “You sound perfectly awful. That is not you.”
“Well, I wouldn’t engage in those practices myself anymore, but I don’t have to tell you what others might do, especially with what is at stake.”
“The man is a snake, but I doubt he deserves that. Unless you are right about his plans, of course.”
“Of course, but isn’t that the conundrum?”
She frowned. “Any other developments you can trust me with?”
“Did I send you the latest verse?”
“The latest?”
“Yep, it appears we have an aspiring Shakespeare in our midst.” Huxley brought out his phone with the latest deciphered poem and read it to her:
Within, my principles do comfort me.
Forget them not or you shall miss my plea.
Beyond my fortress on my left you see
What shall befall the many unlike he,
A priest who never lived before just me.
On truth lies yet obscured thy fathers’ end.
To myths our hearts do reach and then depend.
We seek our consolation with a friend.
Remember now the Maine and then ascend.
To know his fate you must to hell descend.
Sonatina’s face gave nothing away. “It seems like nonsense. Do you have more context?”
“Well, assume you are reading this at the Thomas Jefferson Memorial in Washington, DC.”
“I’ve never been there, so I probably can’t help you. Looks like you need to look to Jefferson’s left.”
“You never miss.” Huxley smiled. “Yep, just over the bridge lies Arlington National Cemetery.”
“A cemetery? So death, then,” she said slowly, “death will befall the many unlike he.”
“Sure seems like it,” Huxley said.
“But who is the ‘priest who never lived before’ Jefferson? That could be just about any clergyman who lived after Jefferson was born.”
“I agree, and what good would it do anyway to find a priest? I don’t know, but I wonder if we are both missing something.”
“Let me think about it,” Sonatina said. “But I must admit I am not well versed in American history or the life of Thomas Jefferson.”
“What do you think of the second stanza?”
She read it again. “Did your father die mysteriously?”
Huxley nodded slowly. “When I was young.”
“I think whoever wrote these things loves to toy with your emotions. Have you considered that this poet knows you pretty well?”
“I have no doubt as to that.”
“But why would he telegraph that so—just to get you off your game?” Sonatina asked.
“When I can answer that question,” said Huxley, “maybe the fog will finally lift.”
“Then let us hope the fog clears before you hear a bang from beyond the mist.”
Huxley was sitting in an enormous Gothic cathedral supported by high pointed arches and adorned with beautiful stained glass windows casting a rainbow of color on intricately carved wooden pews. Twenty feet in front of the pews on a raised dais, a plump, baldheaded Asian man sat quietly in the lotus position, smiling contentedly at the spectacle before him. There an Arab man in white robes and a white turban waved his arms in perfect 4/4 time. He held a short baton in his right hand and appeared to be directing a choir of eleven angels hovering about twenty feet in the air, their wings flapping to the beat as they sang out gloriously: “Meet me at Mary’s Place, we’re gonna have a party.” To their side stood a man wearing dark robes and a tiny cap just covering the back of his scalp, bouncing and singing, “Turn it up, turn it up, turn it up, turn it up!” On the altar stood a golden candelabrum with seven flickering candles. Nearby, a silver-haired man in a tall, pointed hat and a red robe displaying a large, golden monogram of overlaid Greek letters, chi and rho, danced with his arms in the air waving above him. The angels began singing, “Tell me how do we get this thing started?” just as Huxley’s eyes opened. The hotel room was pitch black, except for his phone on the nightstand lighting up as it played his familiar ring tone.
“Hi boss,” said Kira Sampson cheerfully, “I hope I’m not calling too late for you.”
“It’s 2 a.m.”
“Yeah, well, its early evening here. Doesn’t this time difference suck, especially when you’re on the wrong side of it? I think it is time for you to wake up anyway, Mr. Huxley.”
“I will get you back for this, Ms. Sampson.”
“You mean you will thank me for it. I have some news and thought you might want to start making some preparations.”
“Okay, I’m game. Whaddya have?”
“I found your little friend Anwari.”
He sighed. “Dead?”
“No. Why would you think that? He’s alive and well in American custody in Afghanistan.”
“You had him detained? I told you—”
“No, I didn’t have him detained. Ken Mayer took care of that for you a couple of days ago. Anwari is sitting in a CIA cell at Camp Chapman near Khost. Mayer didn’t bother to tell you that?”
“No. No, he didn’t, and I just spoke to him yesterday.”
“Well, I only found out because a friend who has been helping us in Kabul gave me the scoop. He said everything was hush-hush, but he knew I was looking for the guy.”
“Any idea why?” Huxley asked.
“He is suspected of terrorism. That was all I could get. Oh, and you would think Mayer might be heading there himself, but my guy said Mayer had no interest in seeing Anwari face to face. In fact, he didn’t want anyone interrogating him for quite a while. Mentioned something about softening him up first.”
“Thanks, Kira, you’ve done it again. Have you told anyone about this?”
“No, and I agreed with my friend not to mention this to Mayer or anyone who might let it blow back on him, so I doubt Mayer knows you know. You guys really ought to have a talk, don’t you think?”
/>
He nodded. “When the time is right. For now, keep this to yourself. Anwari is a minor character in this investigation, remember?”
“Who’s Anwari?”
He laughed. “Exactly. Oh, and by the way, I will still figure out a way to get you back for your kind little wake up call.”
“Yeah, well, good luck. My cell’s going on moonlight mode tonight.”
He hung up the phone and sat staring in the darkness a few minutes. Mayer didn’t know about Anwari from him. Why would he have the man arrested when Anwari’s a frickin Afghan hero? And if Mayer suspects Anwari’s involvement in this thing, why would Mayer wait to interrogate him with the world hanging in the balance? If Mayer had been keeping an eye on Anwari, why not ask Huxley about Anwari before blowing this up? Or was that his intention? Does Mayer want Anwari out of the game? Could Mayer be the link to Pardus? Or worse?
Chapter 75
Huxley glanced again at his watch, wondering when they would finally begin boarding. It was a colossal waste of time, but travelling to Camp Chapman by military transport from Aviano would have tipped off Mayer way too early. No, he had to fly commercial from Rome through Dubai to Kabul and then drive to Chapman, but that itinerary meant he had to wait most of the day for a flight out of Leonardo da Vinci Airport. At least it gave him more time to study the latest poem from his tormentor:
Within, my principles do comfort me.
Forget them not or you shall miss my plea.
Beyond my fortress on my left you see
What shall befall the many unlike he,
A priest who never lived before just me.
On truth lies yet obscured thy fathers’ end.
To myths our hearts do reach and then depend.
We seek our consolation with a friend.
Remember now the Maine and then ascend.
To know his fate you must to hell descend.
The first two lines opened the verse with an admonition: do not forget the principles or risk missing his plea. The principles must be the Jeffersonian inscriptions, but whose plea—that of Jefferson, the poet or some other unknown person?
The next three lines clearly referred to the death of many, but who the hell was the priest? Did he live after Jefferson or just after the poet or other person? If Huxley found the poet, would he have found Pardus? Or was the poet just trying to help him? No, the writer must be Pardus. But he needed Anwari to confirm that.
The second stanza was all about his father’s suicide. The “myth” must refer to the crazy story of his father’s “accidental death.” After all, his mother’s heart and his own had wanted to reach out to that conclusion, and both had depended on it: a finding of suicide would have cancelled the life insurance death benefit that helped his mother keep them just above the poverty level for years. Still, he could not recall any friend of his mother with whom they sought their consolation at the time of his father’s death. Certainly no friends of his had demonstrated any particular willingness to console him.
Why now remember the Maine? This appeared to be the famous call to arms from the beginning of the Spanish-American War in 1898. The Spanish had allegedly blown up the armored cruiser USS Maine in a Cuban port, killing over 260 U.S. sailors. Huxley had seen many of their graves in Key West. What would that tragedy have to do with his own father’s death? Maybe it was just a reference back to the many myths we often grasp during our worst tragedies. Before the explosion was even investigated, the yellow journalists of the day managed to blame Spain and push America further towards war, thereby creating a convenient cover for one of America’s first weak forays into imperialism. Imperialism—was the poet using the Maine to chastise America as an imperialist? That was the slur Latin American revolutionaries commonly employed against the U.S. in the twentieth century. But in this context, that label seemed quite a reach.
The last line of the poem spoke with the greatest clarity. To truly understand his father’s death, Huxley must himself die and descend to hell. A personal threat? A call to suicide? Does he think I am as unstable as my father before me?
Huxley’s phone began singing. He looked at the screen and answered it quickly. “Hello Sonatina, do you miss me already?”
Her hushed and hurried tone told him she was not looking for another date just yet. “Of course, but listen, this is important.”
“Yes?”
“I found him.”
“Who?”
“Armondo Fine,” she whispered.
“How?”
“No time for that now. Look, I’m following him. Can you come pick him up?”
“I’m at the airport. I’ll call the Carabinieri. Where are you?”
“Near Vittorio Emanuelle II.”
“Who?” he asked.
“The King who unified Italy,” Sonatina said. “There is no time for a history lesson. It is near the Forum. Near Capitoline Hill. Chris, he’s on foot and he’s still on the move. I’ll try to keep following him.”
“Sonatina, get out of there. You could be killed. I’ll call the Carabinieri. They’ll find him.”
“No, he’ll be gone by then. I’ll let you know when he goes into a building or stops walking.”
“No—”
“Have to go. Ciao.” She hung up. He called her back, but she didn’t answer. He began racing toward the airport entrance while trying to call Lieutenant Patismio. The Carabinieri said they could have someone to the site within a few minutes.
As he hailed a cab, he received a text from Sonatina: “No worry. Cant talk, but K. 4got to say - poem - lots of fathers - not all yours - priest is a father - same 4 cardinal - that help?”
She’s texting this while following the guy? He moved his fingers over the phone as fast as he could and sent: “Get away. Cops coming. Don’t want u hurt.”
Not a half minute later, he was in the cab and received another text: “Aw ur sweet—guess u do luv me.”
He texted back: “Of course. U?” What the hell are we doing? She was in mortal danger and they were expressing love for each other for the first time in blubbering text messages? But somehow he couldn’t help it.
The response came ten seconds later: “Certo!” Another message arrived a minute later: “AF w/Arab man near statue at Piazza del Campidoglio. Gave him package.”
Huxley shouted an obscenity, then typed: “Get out of there!” He called Lieutenant Patismio with an update on the location. Huxley shouted in Italian to the cab driver, “How close are we to Piazza del Campidoglio?”
“This traffic—probably forty minutes” the driver responded.
Huxley typed: “Where u now?”
No response.
He typed in: “U OK?”
No response.
He tried: “Sonatina?”
Nothing again. He sent: “U there?”
After about a minute, a new text arrived: “She be OK after wake at hospital - head might hurt.”
Huxley’s heart dropped. He called her cell. Nobody answered. He texted back: “Who r u?”
A minute later a text came back: “Never mess with the leopard, my friend. He pounce on you before you even see his spots.”
When Huxley rushed into the hospital room, Lieutenant Patismio was standing with his pad and pen out at Sonatina’s bedside. When she saw him, she flashed that big Italian smile and said, “A little late for the American cavalry, no?”
Huxley assumed his best stern look. “Did I tell you it was dangerous? Pretty ballsy for a Vatican administrator.”
“Now I am just an administrator with testicles?” she said, deliberately overplaying a pout.
“You’re damn lucky you’re not a dead administrator,” he said.
Huxley held her hand gently, and her soft eyes told him everything. Although Patismio took a step back, Huxley could still feel the lieutenant watching them stare at each other for a few seconds. An hour ago, they had shared a high stress, contextual, textual moment. Was it real, or just the stress? What should he do now? Hug her? Kis
s her? She had certainly proven herself more than worthy of his love by getting knocked on the head for him. So why was he holding back? He looked at Patismio and said, “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I didn’t mean to interrupt your interview, but would you mind if I asked her a few questions myself?”
Patismio flashed a sly smile and twirled the corner of his mustache. “Not at all. We were just wrapping up.” Patismio turned to Sonatina and bowed slightly. “Grazie, Signorina D’Amare.” After she smiled broadly, the lieutenant turned toward Huxley. “Thanks to Ms. D’Amare, we have apprehended Armondo Fine. My government has already instructed me to allow you to interrogate him yourself.”
Huxley’s eyebrows rose. “Grazie, Lieutenant. Did you arrest the Arab?”
“Arab?”
“Shit.” In the excitement Huxley had forgotten to tell Patismio about the Arab. That was just plain incompetent. Stop letting your emotions control you, Hux. “Wasn’t Fine with anyone?”
“No. Do you suspect another?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure he is gone now. Mea culpa. I’ll be there shortly and we can go over it.”
After Patismio left the room, Sonatina looked at Huxley coyly. “You want to question me? What about—Armondo Fine or your undying love for me?”
“You remember that text, huh?”
“Even a crack on the head won’t wipe that one out.”
“Is that what happened—you were hit on the head?”
“What else?” Sonatina asked. “Someone grabbed me from behind, I struggled and everything went black. I awoke with a headache. Patismio said it was probably one of Fine’s men, though my phone was stolen, so there is always the petty thief.”
“I doubt that.”
“Why?”
“Know any thieves called ‘The Leopard?’” Huxley asked.
“Eh?”
“He texted me after you were unconscious. I’m not sure why he didn’t kill you.”
She shook her head slowly. “Never saw him.”
