by John Whitman
“Was this one of the priests that was relocated?” the Pope asked.
“Twice, Your Holiness,” Mulrooney said. “And . . .
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it seems the police discovered a book of some kind. Written by one of the children. The killer was the father.”
12:11 A.M. PST West Los Angeles
Big cities were sometimes the best places to hide. Andre Farrigian operated a small import/export business out of a nondescript warehouse on Pico Boulevard just a few blocks west of the 405 Freeway. His warehouse was a mile away from Sony Pictures, a few miles west of UCLA, and only a few blocks from a police station, but no one noticed him. Who cared about one more gray and blue building surrounded by a plastic-sheath and chain-link fence?
Farrigian’s import business was legitimate, but it was a loser, and had operated in the red for all three years of its existence. Neither Andre nor his two brothers cared. The business offered plenty of cover for their more profitable hobby—small-scale arms dealing. They were small-scale because they were smart enough to realize that they weren’t smart enough to get bigger. A bigger operation meant greater danger and more watchful eyes. A bigger operation required better contacts among various governments, and bolder action to secure both equipment and customers. The Farrigians were neither bold nor well-connected. Besides, they made a decent enough profit distributing small quantities of automatic weapons to local gangs, snatching up explosives for the mob, and sending the occasional ordnance overseas to a few Palestinian and Lebanese organizations they had come to know. Big business just sounded like big trouble, a thing that Andre had avoided with an almost religious devotion.
So when the man called saying he was named Stockton and using Dog Smithies’s name as a reference and giving out Dog’s cell phone number, Andre was only a little suspicious. He told the man he’d call back, then he dialed Dog’s number, which he already knew, of course. No answer. This didn’t surprise Andre since he knew the motorhead usually parked his carcass at the Killabrew around this time of night.
Farrigian called over to the bar.
“Killabrew,” said a gruff, vaguely feminine voice.
“Hey, it’s Andre Farrigian,” he said, not remembering her name. “Dog there?”
The bartender lady snorted. “What’s left of him. Drunk out of his gourd. Can’t get him off the floor. Sure can’t get him to the phone.”
Farrigian frowned. He didn’t know the bartender well, but Dog had told him that they moved in the same circles, so he thought the risk was minimal. “You ever hear Dog talk about a guy named Stockton?”
The bartender lady hesitated . . . but maybe it was the usual thief’s hesitation before speaking on a telephone. The untrustworthy trusted no one. “Maybe,” she said at last. “Kind of blondie. Raspy voice.”
Farrigian nodded. “Thanks. Gaby,” he added, remembering her name at last.
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12:14 A.M. PST Killabrew Bar, Lancaster
Gaby hung up the phone and turned to the Federal agent standing next to her. “Okay?” “Good enough,” the man said, already walking out.
“Just don’t take my liquor license!” she yelled.
“We’ll be in touch.”
12:15 A.M. PST Farrigian’s Warehouse, West Los Angeles
The blond man and the skinny chick walked into his warehouse at about a quarter after midnight. Farrigian was sitting at the steel desk in his cramped, frosted-glass office in a corner of the warehouse. The desk was piled high with invoices, customs forms, shipping manifests, and other assorted documents. All of it was as real as it was neglected. Andre hated paperwork. He stood up and moved toward the door as they approached.
“Hey there,” Andre said. His English was perfect and his slang very American, but he could still hear traces of that clipped Armenian accent he cursed his parents for. “No sense going in there,” he said. “Not even room to fart.”
“Glad you could see us,” the blond man said, holding out his hand. “Stockton. This is Danni.”
Farrigian smiled. Smiles seemed to relax people and cost nothing, so he doled them out freely. “How’s Dog?”
“Drunk, last time I saw him,” Stockton said.
“Most of the time.” Farrigian laughed. “So, what can I do for you two?”
The blond one, Stockton, said, “I’m looking to buy something kind of like what you sold to Dog.”
Andre kept the big, friendly grin on his face, which was easy. He was the jovial type. But he wasn’t stupid. “Hmm, I guess I sold some stuff to Dog. I sell a lot of stuff, you can see. We talking about imports here? I got these great office decorations. It’s like a crystal ball, but there’s a Chinese scroll inside, all decorated.”
The woman spoke up. She was hot by American standards, but Andre liked his woman with more hips and ass. “We’re talking about something a little more interesting. Some people are throwing a party. We’re looking for something that will make a big bang.”
That was corny, Farrigian thought, but he was used to it. Truth was, he’d spoken more than a few corny lines in his time. No one wanted to come right out and ask for illegal weapons.
“Well, I don’t usually deal in party favors,” he said, trying to help her out. “You mean something like Chinese firecrackers?”
“Chinese or whatever,” Stockton said. “Whatever you can get your hands on right away.”
“Oh, a rush order,” Farrigian said. “There’s a delivery charge for that, okay?”
Stockton nodded irritably, but not because of the money. The man had no patience for the obvious. Rudeness never bothered Andre, as long as the customer paid. “We’re looking for something in plastic,” Stockton said purposefully. “Dog told me you found him some plastic, too.”
Farrigian scratched his chin. This was getting a little
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too close for comfort and moving a little too fast. “I am sure I can help you,” he said. “But I’ll have to call a distributor or two that I know. Give me a number and I’ll call you back. An hour, no more,” he said in response to Stockton’s impending objection.
Stockton nodded and handed him a piece of paper with a phone number on it. They shook hands and Stockton and Diana walked out.
12:19 A.M. PST West Los Angeles
Jack and Diana walked casually out of the warehouse and into the narrow parking lot on the inside of the fence. They hopped into Jack’s SUV and drove slowly out of the gate, turned on a side street, then made another turn onto Pico.
“Do you think he’ll call back?” Diana asked.
Jack nodded. “If he’s suspicious, he’ll make a few calls. We’ve covered everyone we can find connected to Dog Smithies, so any of those people will back up our story.”
“How long can you keep those people under your thumb?”
“Not long. Rumors will start flying, but by tomorrow night it won’t matter anyway. We don’t know what kinds of sources Farrigian has. I doubt he’s all that sophisticated, but if he is connected and has a way to check out the cell number, it’ll come up as James Baker, giving Tom Stockton as an alias. That’ll make us more believable.
“I’m not worried about him checking us out, though. I want to know who his people are.” Jack tapped a phone number into his cell while keeping one eye on the road. Henderson answered immediately, sounding a little surly about working so late.
“Christopher, I want to get wiretaps on this Farrigian character. He’s going to start making calls right away, and I want us to trace them.”
There was a moment of faint white noise. “Jack, Chappelle has to authorize all wiretaps and surveillance.”
“Well, let’s get him to authorize it!” Jack urged.
Henderson made a noise. Something more than a grunt and less than an actual word. Whatever it was, its meaning was clearly miserable. Jack waited. There was some shuffling and several clicks, then Henderson came back on. “The District Director is on the line with us,” Henderson said simply.
“
What?” Chappelle snapped.
Jack told his story. To his credit, Chappelle listened without interrupting once. When Jack was done, Chappelle actually agreed. “Don’t sound so damned surprised, Bauer. You play by the book and I’ll back you one hundred percent. You’re following a lead, you got a suspect’s name, you investigated and got probable cause.” Jack was indeed surprised by Chappelle’s cooperation. “As far as I’m concerned, though, this is LAPD, CTU, and NTSB investigating, not the CIA. But I’ll let your people sort this out when the time comes. I’m fine authorizing your wiretap. Just get the paperwork to me in the morning and we’ll proceed.”
Jack’s heart sank. “In the morning? No, I need it right now. Not the paperwork right now, the wiretap. Right now!”
“Never happen,” Chappelle said matter-of-factly.
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“There’s me, there’s the judge, then the actual surveillance guys to do the wiring. We’re looking at mid-morning, tomorrow evening at the latest.”
Jack squeezed the phone till his knuckles turned white. “You don’t seem to get the urgency.”
“And you don’t seem to get that the plot has been stopped!” Chappelle snapped back. The moment of cooperation vanished. “We need to make arrests, but we have some of the plotters and we have the plastic explosives! You even found the few bits left over. So get them, but get them by following procedure! Henderson, deal with this jack-off before I have to deal with you!” The phone clicked.
“That went well,” Henderson quipped.
“I think he’s warming up to me,” Jack agreed. “Don’t worry about it, Christopher, I’ll take care of everything.”
12:23 P.M. PST Brentwood
Harry Driscoll was used to knocking on doors after midnight, but usually all the cops were on the outside when he knocked. This time the cop was on the other side.
Driscoll didn’t know Don Biehn. He thought he’d met him once or twice, at the funeral of a slain police officer, maybe, or the retirement party for another. But he’d never worked with Biehn and couldn’t have told anyone a thing about him . . . except that his son’s diary had been found at the scene of a priest’s murder, and that, according to that diary, the priest had molested Biehn’s son repeatedly.
Driscoll held up his hand, balled into a fist, but hesitated. He stood there for more than a minute, reluctant. No good, no satisfaction, would come from knocking on that door. That door would open on nothing but horror and politics and most likely the destruction of a fellow badge. Harry wanted no part of it. The man, the father in him protested that justice—real justice by any definition he could muster—had been served the minute that child-violating son of a bitch had his face blown off. The man, the father in him told him to lower his hand and walk away. Leave the door unopened.
But the cop in him replied that there were rules and laws, and those laws allowed the just to live among the unjust with the belief that they were shielded from iniquity. But the only way for that shield to work was for men to pin it to their chests and walk around day and night, enforcing the laws it represented, opening the doors that did not want to open. All the doors.
Harry knocked.
To his surprise, the door opened almost immediately. The man standing before him looked like the victim of a car wreck. His face was battered and swollen. Three fingers on one hand were splinted together with tape, and the fingers of the other hand looked like a dog’s chew toy.
“Detective Don Biehn?” Harry said.
Biehn nodded.
“You’re under arrest for the murder of Father Frank Giggs.”
Biehn didn’t panic, nor did he look relieved at being caught. He nodded matter-of-factly and said, “I figured as much. Won’t you come in?”
Driscoll was nonplussed. Procedure told him not
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to, of course. Take control of the suspect; don’t give him any control. But this battered man was no threat of any kind. Even so, Driscoll motioned to the two uniforms behind him, and all three walked into the house together.
Biehn walked them into the living room. He didn’t seem to mind at all when the two uniforms took up positions at right angles to each other—positions that would allow them to draw and fire without risk of hitting each other. Only Driscoll sat down, in a seat opposite Biehn’s.
“Is your wife home, Detective Biehn?” Driscoll asked. Biehn shook his head. “Hospital. Our son is in critical condition.”
“I’m sorry to hear—”
“He tried to kill himself a couple of hours ago. He was tormented by the idea that his priest had been sodomizing him for the last three years.” Biehn delivered the message with a dryness more vicious than any venom. Driscoll steeled himself against sympathy.
“I’m sorry for your trouble,” he said weakly. “But you’re still under arrest. I need you to cooperate with us, Detective. You’re in no condition to resist.”
Biehn smiled. “I want to do more than cooperate. I want to make a deal.”
12:33 P.M. PST St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles
Pope John Paul sat by himself in the first pew of the chapel of St. Monica’s. The chapel would have been empty at that hour in any case, but at his request Giancarlo had positioned Swiss Guards at each entrance.
He had spent the last half hour here in private meditation. He could have remained alone with his thoughts in the rooms Mulrooney had provided him, but truth be told, John Paul did not feel the presence of God in private. He had wished all his life for God to speak to him as he had spoken to Abraham. Instead, the Lord spoke to him through inspiration that he felt here, in the great echoing cathedrals throughout the world.
For twenty minutes he had prayed for guidance in this most delicate matter, but for once the majesty of the cathedral failed him. God’s word did not speak to him out of the echoing corners. He was truly alone with his thoughts.
Mulrooney appeared again, his face taut. As the Holy Father had ordered, Giancarlo allowed him through. Mulrooney hurried forward, discarding all pretense of humility. “Your Holiness, we must act,” he declared.
John Paul looked at him with his pale blue eyes, his gaze far away. Mulrooney nearly grabbed the man and shook him. “There is no more time.”
The Pope’s eyes hardened and focused on the Cardinal. “I’ve been thinking of it, Your Eminence. You are right. We have to do something, if there is still time. I am not happy about it.”
Mulrooney relaxed visibly. “It’s for the sake of the church.”
John Paul nodded. “We have a man who does this sort of thing. In the service of the church. I can have him here in ten hours—”
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Mulrooney interrupted. “I have a man here.”
Now the Pope’s eyes turned hard as sapphires, gleaming suspiciously at Mulrooney. The Cardinal was reminded that they did not send up the white smoke for just an ordinary man. “Your Holiness,” he said appeasingly, “you and I may not agree on some things, but on this we are in accord. These accusations must not become public. Certainly there must be no trial. I have a man who can handle the job.”
John Paul did not trust Mulrooney, but he was right on this count. “Very well, Your Eminence. But I want Giancarlo to meet him.”
Mulrooney stood immediately, executed the briefest of bows, and turned away.
12:40 A.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Jack was just walking through the now-familiar doors of CTU when his phone rang and flashed Driscoll’s number. “Jack, where are you? I need you to meet with someone right away.”
“I’m at CTU. Counter Terrorist Unit headquarters.” “Give me the address. You need to meet this guy.”
12:41 A.M. PST St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles
Mulrooney brushed past the Swiss Guard and out into the hallway. He knew Giancarlo had fallen into step behind him, though he could barely hear the man’s footsteps. It was a few minutes’ walk across the cathedral grounds to his private quarters, where the man he had
in mind waited.
“We are on,” Mulrooney said as the man stood up. He indicated Giancarlo. “This is one of the Holy Father’s security men. He wanted to meet you.”
The man extended his hand. “You can call me Michael.”
Mulrooney watched the two men shake hands. They were similar, he thought, though they looked nothing alike. Giancarlo was gangly with thinning hair and a sunken chin. Michael was bronze-colored, with a sleek bald head and a very fit appearance. Yet both of them emitted the same aura.
“Michael has worked for me before,” Mulrooney said. Giancarlo nodded and smiled faintly, but didn’t take his eyes off the man. “He has some expertise in work that has been useful in the past.”
“I caught someone trying to break into the house of another priest,” Michael explained. “I stopped him, but he got away. I am sure he has a list of priests he wants to murder.”
“Did you know he was going after this other priest?” Giancarlo asked. “Do you already have the list?”
“No,” Michael said, glancing at Mulrooney. “I was watching that priest for other reasons.”
“Unrelated,” Mulrooney said.
Giancarlo shrugged. “You’re not from the U.S.,” he said to Michael. “Your accent is very good, but there’s a hint of something.”
“Lebanese Christian,” Michael said. “And I lived in Jerusalem for a while when I first started working
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with the church. But that was a long time ago. I’ve been here for a long time.”
This answer seemed to satisfy Giancarlo. “Please keep me up to date on anything, even the smallest thing. His Holiness will want to know.” Mulrooney promised, and the Swiss Guard took his leave.
“Will they check on you?” Mulrooney asked.
Michael stared at the spot where Giancarlo had stood as though he could still learn something from the invisible air, and said, “Yes. They will find a Michael Shalhoub who was born in Beirut as a Christian and moved to Jerusalem to join the Catholic Church.”