Too Secret Service: Part Two

by Declan Finn

  Who does that leave? Some sub-Sahara African nation? Admittedly, while the fallout wouldn’t reach Africa, what would be the point? In fact, what would be the point of threatening the President like this? Who has anything to gain?

  Fingers snapped in front of his face. His eyes came to focus on Catherine scanning him, lips turned up at one end, amused. She had already settled under the blanket next to him

  “Where were you?”

  “Thought.” He flashed her a brief grin. “I just wondered what was going on. Why and who was doing all this.”

  Catherine nodded. “I thought as much. You were so spaced out I felt quite confidant I could walk across this room stark naked and you wouldn’t have noticed.”

  Williams thought about it for a second. “You’re probably right. You could have.”

  She allowed a small smile to play upon her lips. “I know. I did.”

  Wayne glanced down a second, noticing she wore a white sweat suit. He wore the only robe in the hotel room—They must have thought “husband and wife” wouldn’t need such things—and her suitcase was on the other side of the bed, leaving him between it and the bathroom.

  He gave his head a sharp shake, then rubbed his temples. “God, I must really be out of it.”

  Catherine opened Dead Simple. “Hey, don’t worry about it. You have Descartes’ problem.”

  Williams looked at her curiously. “Descartes?”

  “Yes. He dug himself so deeply into his own mind before he came to ‘I think, therefore I am,’ he came to the conclusion God must exist to bring his mind and the world together.” She chuckled softly. “Aquinas said it best: ‘Nothing exists in the intellect unless it first exists in the senses—except of course for the intellect itself.’” Her shoulders twitched in what may have been a shrug. “I find the same happens with many of my operations. I don’t concentrate on the organizing force behind it, but I work on the mission and let the pieces fall into place as I experience it.”

  * * * *

  Sarah Durkin drove up to the guard post at the front gate to the George Bush Center for Intelligence, which most people still called Langley. She was early, but Patrick had sounded so urgent over the phone she came immediately. She pulled in behind what looked like the fifth car in line.

  She wondered at the number of cars waiting to get in. What, are we bombing the Sudan again and no one told me?

  Her passenger door unlocked and Cochran slid in. He slammed the door shut behind him and said, “Keep going.”

  “So, how has your day been?” she asked. She glanced at his slightly disheveled appearance. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “Someone tried to kill me almost as soon as I pulled out of work this morning.”

  “This morning?” she asked. “What have you been doing the rest of the day?”

  “Filling out police reports. Personally I didn’t want to, and I probably would not have had to if I had flashed my credentials, but I figured I would be safer surrounded by police officers.”

  She shot him an amused glance. “Haven’t learned much from our little situation with Tallman et al?”

  “That was different. That was New York.”

  “So, who tried to kill you? Better yet, why?”

  “Because I’ve leaned something today I don’t think I was supposed to know. And I think David’s office is bugged.”

  Sarah did a brief double take. “David Grant? Our boss? The Director of the CIA? You’re joking, right?”

  “No. Either that or he’s trying to kill me, and I somehow doubt that. I waited for you so you could drive me in the front gate. If I walked, that would attract far too much attention.”

  * * * *

  Cochran knocked on the door to Director Grant’s office. Sarah had already stopped off at her wing of the building, wishing him luck in trying to explain the guy who had tried to kill him.

  “Come,” Grant said.

  Cochran walked through the door. Grant looked up from a file he’d been reading and looked at Patrick over his reading glasses. His eyes widened. He nearly dropped the file. “Patrick, you’re back.”

  “I know,” he said, sitting down. “I’ve been shot at once already today, only minutes after I left.”

  Grant arched his eyebrows. “Really?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe this room may be bugged.”

  “You think so?”

  “It’s the only sane reason I can think of.” He laughed. “Unless, of course, you have a set of ten nuclear bombs and sent that person to kill me.”

  Grant laughed along with him. “Well, if you think that’s the case…”

  Grant pulled open a drawer with a gun, and reached inside.

  Chapter 35

  Sunday, November 12th

  New York City

  Blaine looked over the file of what was probably the world’s best terrorist, reminding himself of all he had read the night he had been shot. Michael DeValera had the temperament of a serial killer and all the charm of a hooded viper.

  “The only thing that holds him back,” the file read, “is the time it takes to prepare and execute a mission. Without that time, Longfellow”—an Irish history buff’s code name, for the original DeValera had been known as The Long Fella—“has the escalation pattern of a serial killer. In the current government atmosphere, DeValera would never have been hired by the Company. Ironically, the only thing slowing him down is what keeps us three steps behind. All of his plans seem to include a travel route to put as much space between him and his attack as fast as possible—although, if the serial killer analogy is even half accurate, it might be very possible that he’s waiting at the scene, watching the police work.

  “Every analyst that has ever looked at the case agrees he is one of the best assassins we’ve ever had, with the possible exception of Strongbow; however, sending Strongbow after Longfellow would be a waste of time unless he could be pinpointed first.”

  Blaine didn’t know what a Strongbow was, but he would be willing to bet even money it was a code name for another assassin. He nodded at the logic of the analyst who put this together. While he barely believed in God, he sometimes believed in Biblical payback.

  “Even freelance terrorists have some standards. They draw the line at children, or missions with a certain level of brutality and danger, or working for certain people. These restrictions do not apply to Longfellow. He has worked for anybody and seems to try outdoing himself time after time. Soon, at current rate of speed, he may start working with ABC’s.”

  Blaine paused, wondering what The Disney Network had to do with anything. A moment later, he realized it meant “Atomic, Biological, Chemical” weapons.

  “In conclusion, while we do not especially care for theatrics, when we tried to summarize Longfellow in short, the only word that covers him is ‘Evil.’

  “Recommend liquidation as soon as possible.”

  Blaine read down DeValera’s record, and ran to vomit halfway through.

  After he discharged the last of his well-cooked dinner so thoughtfully provided by Maria Koenig, Blaine thought, Maybe I didn’t forget this because of trauma. I’m not sure I want to remember this.

  * * * *

  Rome

  Wayne and Catherine strolled toward the double colonnade enclosing the courtyard of St. Peter’s Basilica, admiring the architecture like tourists. Although, usual tourists do not go about looking for men with artillery, nor do they carry guns. Aside from those two minor details, they were the model of an ordinary couple on a holiday; Catherine had her arm wrapped around his, they even walked in stride. Catherine had pulled on a set of oxblood dress pants, a navy dress pullover sweater, and a flowing raven black wig. Wayne was again dressed in a suit and tie, making Catherine wonder whether or not he wore anything else.

  “Maybe I should come here more often,” Catherine said admiringly.

  He smiled as though she had made a joke. “You’ve been here before? Who did you have to kill?” he asked pleasantly.

&
nbsp; “Oh, just some guy trying to take out the last Pope. One of Arafat’s people, I think. Can’t quite recall. He was too inept to be memorable. I actually held off reporting the early success so I could spend time here.”

  He chuckled. “And now we know why taxes are so high: your hotel bills.”

  She slapped his arm. “Oh, stop it,” she said playfully as they passed a carabiniere—a cop. The man in the patrolman’s uniform smiled at them. They walked passed him and between two of the columns, into a courtyard where a giant obelisk stood, marking the site of St. Peter’s martyrdom. When they were in the colonnade and out of earshot, the assassin said softly, “Is there something wrong with this picture?”

  At the same volume, Williams answered, “You mean the Roman cop on Vatican territory, considering the Vatican police force is a totally different animal?”

  “Exactly.”

  “At least we know what the heck the bad guys are wearing this year in the latest fashion of Italian disguises.”

  “Which means they must have taken up residence somewhere outside of the Vatican and didn’t have the smarts to change costumes once inside the border.”

  “Yeah… You went to acting school?”

  “Yes. New York School for Performing Arts. Why?”

  Wayne raised an eyebrow. “Just wondering about the position of your hands.”

  Catherine moved them both back around his arm. “Ah. Sorry, our ‘cop’ was looking at us….by the way, do you ever curse?”

  Wayne shot her a glance. “Excuse me?”

  “Do you ever curse? Since I’ve met you, you’ve been saying ‘darn’ and ‘heck’. Didn’t they teach you anything in your Marine training?”

  “Yes. Being a gentleman was one of them.”

  “Shit,” Catherine murmured.

  “What?” he asked, following her gaze. When he locked onto her target, he had the exact same sentiments.

  It was a hunchback walking through the entrance of the colonnade, heading toward the same target they were.

  St. Peter’s Basilica.

  The hired killer in the carabiniere uniform watched the couple stop and stare at the hunchback. He reached for the pistol at his side, unclasping the holster strap.

  “Buon giorno, signore,” a voice came from behind.

  The carabiniere turned. There stood someone who was undoubtedly a tourist: a pleasant looking man in his mid-fifties with gold and silver hair. “Buon giorno,” he said offhand.

  “Lei conosce dove la Basilica di San Pietro e`?” the old man said.

  The killer smiled. He turned around part of the way and pointed.

  Moniak smiled and nodded. “Grazie, signore.”

  * * * *

  The first morning mass was, by Papal order, the Latin mass for the day, for all those old priests with nostalgia about the way things were.

  “The last thing I need,” Pius XIII had said when reporters asked about it, “is some Cardinal whining about the old ways. Besides, I like Gregorian chant, very relaxing. Frankly, I fully intend to break my predecessor’s age record.”

  The Eucharist started as Wayne and Catherine entered: both of them nearly got run over by the entrance procession, both of them distracted by the search for the hunchback of Notre Bomb, as Wayne had dubbed him. Williams maneuvered Catherine into a pew.

  Very few people were actually there this early in the morning. Everyone in the Church was in the front half, and almost all of them wearing Roman collars.

  Wayne glanced around, looking for the hunchback. He must be somewhere in the front of the Church, Wayne concluded. That’s where they put all of the disabled patrons unable to walk up and take communion.

  After the procession marched in, Wayne pulled out of the pew and walked behind them until he was in the row directly in the middle of the Church, sliding in, followed by Catherine. The assassin leaned over and whispered in his ear, “You’re the Catholic here. You’re going to have to walk me through this.”

  Wayne whispered back, “Just sit back, enjoy the show, and do what I do.”

  Catherine did just that, letting the words and the music wash over her. They were amazingly calm and soothing, even if she didn’t have a bloody clue as to what they meant. She managed to make out words from similar languages. For the gospel and the sermon, they were delivered in Italian.

  About forty-nine minutes into it, Wayne stood, tapping Catherine on the shoulder as a sign that she should stay there. She merely let him pass, and then walked behind him. She took Communion and said “amen” at the proper moments after hearing six other people say it. She followed Wayne back to their pew and became grateful to her good fortune that she ignored his advice.

  The entire back of the Church was now filled with men and women in carabinieri uniforms. Far too spooky to be the Rome Police Benevolent Association Mass.

  Catherine Miller slid in beside Wayne, kneeling down beside him and crossing herself as he did.

  “Thank you, God, for ignoring my advice about the pew,” he murmured at a volume just loud enough for her to hear.

  “Amen,” she replied as she saw the people in carabiniere uniforms walk up to take Communion.

  The two of them stayed that way until the gold dishes the little round wafers had been placed in were put away. They stood for the blessing to follow, and watched as the row of priests followed the procession out.

  None of those in police uniforms moved while the priests filed out. The supposed hunchback up front now made his way to the altar.

  “They’re going to stay behind and secure the church—” Catherine began.

  “—while the hunchback plants the bomb in the catacombs under the Vatican,” Williams finished. “You want to wait for them to evacuate the area, or should we just take them out?”

  “The civilians can drop and stay out of the way. Better that one of them accidentally dies than that bomb going off.”

  Williams didn’t like the logic, but had to agree with it. “I’ll take the twenty killers, you take the guy with the hump?”

  “Not on a first date, Wayne, but I’ll get him. Have fun.”

  “You too.”

  As Wayne casually strolled down the center aisle, he wondered if his parents ever had a conversation like that.

  Chapter 36

  Jonathan Koenig opened the door to his den. Blaine Lansing was still at the computer. The giant glanced at his watch. It was 2:15 in the morning!

  “What in God’s name are you doing up this late?” he rumbled.

  Blaine cast him a passing glance, acknowledging his presence, then went back to the computer screen. “I’m looking over the profile Williams wanted me to find. The more I gather, the more I don’t want to know.” He raised his coffee mug. “At the moment, I’m driven by horrid fascination and espresso.”

  Koenig pulled up a chair. “That bad?”

  “Pretty much.” Lansing hit the down arrow one more time and looked at Koenig. “What are you doing up at this hour?”

  Koenig smiled. “I’m married.”

  “Yeeeesssss,” Blaine replied, drawing out the syllable.

  “To a very beautiful woman,” Koenig added, hoping he’d get the point.

  Lansing nodded. “I had noticed.”

  “My room is soundproof.”

  Blaine processed the hints and thought a moment, staring off into space. His eyes snapped back to focus on Koenig and he nodded. “Oh… Anyway, mind if I ask you what you do for a living?” he asked, trying to change the subject.

  Koenig’s back straightened. “Yes, I mind,” he replied coolly.

  Lansing cocked an eyebrow. “Why? You work for the IRS?”

  Koenig heaved a deep sigh. “I work for Alfredo Masciale.”

  Blaine thought about it a minute. Alfredo Masciale was a mob boss, rumored to own half of Brooklyn, maybe all of it. It’s possible that he took out his own father, Michaele Masciale, who made John Gotti Jr. seem like an angel. If Alfredo had confessed to it, there were probably some cops out t
here that would tell him it was self-defense, much like Augustus [Little Augie] Caesar’s saying “It’s safer to be one of Herod’s pigs than one of his children, that way I’d live longer.” The elder Masciale had had people on his payroll with names like “The Butcher,” people who Alfredo had taken upon himself to remove from society at large.

  The Organized Crime Division of the FBI had received more than three-dozen reliable tips on old Family members within one year of the Masciale Family regime changing hands. All of these convictions stuck, and the old Family personnel were sent to prison. After a year, the tips had dropped in half and the bodies doubled. OCD didn’t seem eager to prove that Masciale had a man working for him, a giant ex-cop, fired for swinging back on a child molester who had “resisted arrest.” A giant someone who “by any means necessary” got the old Masciale monsters off the street, either by sending them to prison or to Hell.

  Blaine looked at the six-foot ten-inch giant of a man named Jonathan Ameris Luka Koenig.

  “They call you Masciale’s Monster over at OCD, you know,” Blaine told him.

  Koenig smirked. “Do they? I’m flattered. I’ve earned a nickname.”

  “You should be; there are some guys working for OCD who’d love to have you on the payroll. Unfortunately for them, that would be illegal.”

  “It works for the CIA,” Koenig stated. “I’m surprised the FBI doesn’t have any assassins.”

  Blaine shrugged, almost laughing. “We might. I wouldn’t know. I’m just a freaking computer geek from ITF.”

  “Peter told me on his way out the door. If I had any sense, I’d follow him. Getting shot at again is not exactly my cup of tea.”