Blood Pact (McGarvey)

by Hagberg, David

  “Then may I suggest that you call your superior, because I have something that is extremely important to the Holy Father that cannot wait. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, of course,” Fr. Norman said, and he started to get up from behind his desk.

  “Telephone him.”

  “He is on his morning walk, and unfortunately does not carry a cell phone with him. But it’ll be just a minute, he’s somewhere on the quad.”

  “Go with God,” Dorestos said.

  The chaplain was momentarily startled but he hurried out, softly closing the door behind him.

  Dorestos got up and opened the door a crack in time to see the priest scurrying down the aisle to the front doors. None of the handful of people in the nave looked up. But just as he withdrew the main door opened and a man came in. He was backlit by the sun, and for a moment as he stood on the threshold his features were indistinct. But then the door closed and Dorestos shrank back.

  It was Kirk McGarvey. Somehow the man had traced him this far. Dorestos leaned against the wall, trying to work out what should have been a near impossibility.

  The woman still lived, and they thought that another attempt would be made on her life. Assuming that much, it meant that McGarvey would have reasoned that Dorestos was close. Someone in or near Georgetown. In a motel under an assumed identity.

  Or seeking sanctuary in a church if McGarvey had made the assumption that the Vatican had become involved. The Order.

  He phoned the monsignor, and explained his situation.

  “Are you certain that it is Mr. McGarvey?” Msgr. Franelli asked. He sounded impatient. It was afternoon in Malta.

  “Sí.”

  “How did he trace you to the chapel?”

  “I’m not sure unless he’s somehow discovered that I work for the Order, and that I’ve come here seeking sanctuary.”

  “The Cuban woman is not dead?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Tell me everything,” Msgr. Franelli said.

  Dorestos did so, leaving out no detail. “I plan on going back in this evening. They wouldn’t be expecting me to return.”

  “No,” Franelli said. “It is far too late for that. All that we can do now is mitigate the damage that you have already done.”

  “I am at your eternal service, Monsignor.”

  “Yes, you are, Father. Give me just a moment.”

  Dorestos sat back and breathed in the scent of the office, of the church. Oiled wood, mixed with the lingering odors of incense from high mass, starched surplices, maybe old books and freshly cleaned carpet runners. Places like these were the only home he’d ever known, and the scents represented order and comfort and safety to him.

  Franelli was back. “The Senior Chaplain there is Fr. Carl Unger. He has his doctorate in psychology so he will be a difficult man to fool. He’ll see right through you unless you are careful.”

  “What am I to do?”

  “He’ll give you sanctuary, but you will have to tell him the truth, or at least enough of it to ask for his blessings and help and God’s forgiveness.”

  “Confession?”

  “Yes. But in such a way that McGarvey will see and hear you and yet will be confused.”

  “I think I understand,” Dorestos said.

  But Franelli explained it to him.

  “Do you wish to speak with Father Unger?”

  “No. I leave that as well as the other to you. Go with God, my son.”

  “And you, Monsignor.”

  McGarvey was halfway up the aisle when Fr. Norman came in with another man, who was also dressed in civilian clothes. They passed the CIA officer.

  Dorestos closed the door, got down on his hands and knees beside the desk, and took a small vial from his pocket and drank its contents—less than an ounce—and instantly the somewhat diluted but still strong combination of Serrano and cayenne peppers constricted his throat.

  He bowed his head, closed his eyes, and clasped his hands in front of him.

  The door opened, and for a moment nothing was said.

  “Leave us, Father,” a man said, and the door was shut.

  Dorestos stayed in position for a full minute, but then he finally looked up into the eyes of Fr. Unger, the university’s senior chaplain. “I am in trouble,” he said. “I have come for your help.”

  “Yes, I understand,” Fr. Unger said. He was a man of medium height with a sharply receding hairline, thick glasses, and a pleasant manner that made you want to tell him your sins. As a psychologist he was the perfect father confessor.

  “Will you hear my confession?” It was hard for Dorestos to speak, his throat was constricted by the peppers.

  “Yes, of course. But I am told that you are a priest. Is this a problem of faith?”

  “I am a priest, but it is not faith.”

  “What then?”

  “My order is the Hospitallers. More specifically the Sacred Military Order of Malta and I need Christ’s forgiveness for what I have done.”

  Fr. Unger was momentarily taken aback. “I think that I understand. You are not an American?”

  “No.”

  “Are you a fugitive from law enforcement?”

  “Not yet, but I may be. I have killed a man who was an apostate. A true enemy of the Mother Church. I had orders, but it was a mistake nonetheless, and I don’t know what to do. It’s why I came here.” Dorestos bowed his head and closed his eyes. “Please help me, Father. I don’t want to offend my Church and yet I do not want to offend my God.”

  “I will hear your confession, my son, and afterward we will decide together what your next step should be,” Fr. Unger said, and he pulled a chair around from behind the desk so he could sit near.

  Dorestos looked up in anguish. “This must be outside in the confessionals. Where everyone else opens their souls.”

  “It’s not necessary—”

  “It is, for me. Please, Father.”

  “As you wish,” Fr. Unger said.

  “But I will need some help. My legs have gone numb. I think that it is probably psychosomatic. But I cannot walk. I’ll need a wheelchair.”

  Fr. Unger looked at him for a beat, but then went into a back room and returned shortly with a wheelchair, which he helped Dorestos into.

  Outside in the nave they turned left to a line of three confessional booths along the outer wall.

  McGarvey stood two rows back from the front, and he met Dorestos’s eyes, but didn’t move.

  “Here will be fine, Father,” Dorestos said, raising his ragged voice.

  Fr. Unger bent over. “It’s okay, Father, you do not have to speak so loudly,” he whispered. “I will hear you and so will God.”

  FORTY-NINE

  “Cry out and I will kill both of you,” al-Rashid said from the short corridor, the silenced SIG Sauer in his hand. From this angle he could see Mme. Laurent sitting on the edge of the couch, and their eyes met. She was frightened, but determined.

  “Leave now before it is too late for you,” she said defiantly.

  “Not until I get what I came for.”

  “Robert is not a member of the Society, I am. And I don’t know who has the cipher key you’re looking for. You’ve wasted your time.”

  “I know where the diary is.”

  “You’ve already said this. But you have to know that the book is of only historical significance to us. We have made copies.”

  “Who has them?”

  “I don’t have a copy, and I do not know who does.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Someone came down the hall from the building entrance and rapped on the door. Al-Rashid took up the same position he had before so that when the door opened he would be behind it.

  Mme. Laurent sat forward and al-Rashid pointed the pistol at her and she shook her head.

  A key grated in the lock and the door swung open.

  “Adie?” the mayor said, and he came into the corridor. He spotted her seated on the couch, her breasts
bare, and the body of the half-naked man on the floor. “My God,” he said, and he rushed toward her.

  Al-Rashid had half a second to make certain that the mayor’s bodyguard had not come with him, before he shut and locked the door.

  Vice Mayor Chatelet pulled up short and looked over his shoulder as al-Rashid came into the living room.

  “Call for help and I will shoot you,” al-Rashid said, his tone reasonable.

  Chatelet opened his mouth to speak, but then looked again at the man on the floor and at his mistress.

  “The man on the floor did not rape the mademoiselle, nor did I. In fact other than a blow to her mouth, the only indignity she has suffered is a torn blouse. Now, be so kind as to sit down next to her.”

  Mme. Laurent moved over and Chatelet sat down beside her. “Is this a robbery, or do you mean to embarrass me politically?”

  “Neither, actually. I’m here simply for some information, that Mme. Laurent assures me that neither of you have.”

  “Then go. I’ll give you twenty-four hours before I report this to the Sûreté.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I still need one piece of information.”

  Chatelet turned to his mistress. “Do you know what this man is talking about?”

  She nodded. “I’m a member of a secret philanthropic society. We have some historic documents that are in code. He wants to have the key to the code. But I don’t have it, nor do I know who does.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Mme. Laurent laid a hand on his. “It’s not important that you do,” she said. She looked up at al-Rashid. “Your contact at the bank in Bern. Is he still alive, or have you murdered him?”

  “He is alive.”

  “Then return to him. He has the cipher key.”

  “Only the diary was in the safety deposit box.”

  “There is another box. If you give me a piece of paper and a pen or pencil I shall write the password.”

  “No need to write it down, tell me, I’ll remember.”

  She recited a mix of eleven numbers and letters that al-Rashid recognized.

  “You have at least proved that you are a member of the Society,” he said. The password for the supposed second safety box was only two letters and one number different from the password their contact had supplied them.

  “Then leave us in peace, you have what you came for.”

  Chatelet was confused, it was written all over his face, but also written in the corners of his eyes and his mouth was a calculation of what damage something like this incident could do to his presidential bid, and perhaps even more important where there might be an advantage.

  “Before you leave—and you have my word that I will give you a twenty-four-hour head start—what are we talking about here?” He looked at his mistress, and then back at al-Rashid. “A philanthropic society for which evidently people have lost their lives over, if I am understanding you correctly. Including the unfortunate doorman. That makes no sense.”

  “It’s not what you think, Robert,” Mme. Laurent said. “Henri did nothing but try to come to my rescue.”

  “Nor does your whore make much sense,” al-Rashid said harshly, and the vice mayor rose half up off his seat.

  Al-Rashid pointed the gun at Chatelet. “I am done with the fantasy.”

  “I gave you want you wanted,” Mme. Laurent cried.

  “You gave me a clever password, which I would have to return to Bern to use. But even if it were a valid number, Interpol would be waiting for me. I want the truth this time.”

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  “No.”

  “I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I’ll give you whatever you want to make this situation disappear,” Chatelet said. “For Christ’s sake, Adie, give the man what he wants.”

  “I have.”

  “No,” al-Rashid said.

  “What is it worth?”

  Mme. Laurent lowered her eyes for a moment. “More than you can possibly imagine, my dear Robert.” She looked up. “It is all I have to say.”

  Al-Rashid stepped forward and jammed the muzzle of the silencer against the vice mayor’s forehead. “The truth.”

  Mme. Laurent said nothing.

  “Where is the cipher key?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I will kill him,” al-Rashid said. The dynamic was interesting.

  Mme. Laurent looked up. “You’ll kill us anyway.”

  “You cannot know that for sure.”

  “For God’s sake, Adie,” Chatelet said, gripping her hand.

  “Robert,” she said softly.

  “Please.”

  Mme. Laurent looked away. “I don’t know who of us has the key, and that’s the truth. But the original is in Seville. Has been from the first.”

  “What’s in Seville?” al-Rashid asked.

  “The Archivo General de Indias.”

  Al-Rashid knew of this place. It was the repository of original documents from the Spanish Empire’s interests in the Americas and the Philippine Islands. And this was the first thing she’d told him—other than her love for Chatelet—that had the ring of truth to it.

  “That is a very large, complicated place, unless you know your way through it.”

  “Dr. Vergilio is the curator,” Mme. Laurent said. “Or at least she was during the last trouble several months ago involving a pair of agents from the American CIA.”

  She’d piqued al-Rashid’s interest. “What trouble?”

  “I’m not sure, but it had to do with the treasure,” she said. She glanced at Chatelet. “I am truly sorry, Robert. None of this has anything to do with you, or with France.”

  Chatelet started to say something, but al-Rashid fired one shot, driving the vice mayor’s head back in a spray of blood.

  “No!” Mme. Laurent screeched, and she lunged over his body.

  Al-Rashid switched aim and fired one shot into the top of her head, and she fell forward, her head bouncing on the coffee table, her legs twitching violently for several seconds before her entire body went slack.

  For a full ten seconds al-Rashid remained perfectly still, waiting for the sounds of alarm, but the building was quiet.

  He stood up, wiped down the pistol, laid it on the floor in front of the couch, then left through the French doors into the courtyard, and through an old wooden door onto the mews and then to the avenue, where two blocks later he hailed a cab for the Hotel Inter-Continental and had a well-deserved bath and full breakfast.

  FIFTY

  It was late in the afternoon by the time McGarvey got back to All Saints. The place had been put back together, no battle damage visible anywhere. A team of security technicians had come down from Langley and installed dual motion/infrared detectors around the perimeter of the entire hospital, including the woods at the back. In addition four heavily armed combat training officers and four of their students had come up from the Farm and stood guard.

  Callahan was at the security station in the front hall with Tommy Newman. He broke off when McGarvey came down the hallway from the rear entrance. “He checked in yesterday at the Georgetown Suites just off M Street.”

  “He wasn’t there?” McGarvey asked. He thought it was probably a dead end. The priest might have checked in, but he would not have gone back there after last night.

  “No. The cleaning crew said it appeared as if he’d slept in the bed, but when we interviewed the night staff, they remembered him, high-pitched voice and all, but he’d left around ten and no one saw him come back. I just found out, otherwise I would have called you earlier. What about the churches?”

  “No one would admit that anyone had asked for sanctuary, though I had my doubts about the university chapel. The father superior was hearing someone’s confession when I came in, but the guy was in a wheelchair and his voice was all wrong.”

  “Could it have been your man?”

  “Except for the voice, but he looked me in the eye and nodded. Seemed that
he was relieved about something.”

  “He confessed his sins. A lot of Catholics feel that a burden has been lifted off their souls.”

  “Then they go out and do the same thing the next day.”

  Callahan nodded. “So what’s next, Mac? It’s your call.”

  McGarvey’s instincts were humming in high pitch. His tradecraft, most of which he’d learned on the run, and his understanding of what motivated just about every son of a bitch he’d ever faced told him that the priest was coming back to kill María. The hell with the odds.

  Yet all the facts pointed in the opposite direction. He’d abandoned the Tahoe and the hotel room. He had stolen a car, driven it out to National, and shortly after that the same charter Gulfstream that had brought him up from Sarasota had filed a flight plan for San Juan but then had disappeared somewhere over the Atlantic just outside U.S. airspace.

  The guy was gone. Yet McGarvey couldn’t shake the fact that in his gut he knew the priest was not on that plane.

  “I’m going home to get something to eat, take a shower, and get some sleep,” he said. He turned back to Newman. “Anything comes up give me a call.”

  Newman, who’d been good friends with Kutschinski, nodded and smiled viciously. “Yes, sir. I’ll let you know when we stuff him in a body bag.”

  McGarvey stopped himself from saying that he wanted the priest alive. “See you in the morning.”

  He gave Callahan a nod and went back outside to his car and drove around front where he was buzzed through the gate. His apartment was less than a mile away just off Dunbarton across from Rock Creek Park. In the morning he would go for a ten-K run along the creek. It seemed like months since he’d stretched himself. He was getting a little rusty, especially after witnessing the priest’s antics on Casey Key and imagining how the bastard had made it over the fence at the hospital.

  Sometimes like this he felt old, but then he reminded himself that self-pity was the start of a downward spiral, especially for people in this business. The ones who lost their mental edge were their own worst enemies.

  As soon as he was away he phoned Otto. “I’m on my way home to take a break. That Embraer has to land sooner or later somewhere. Track it to its destination and see if we can put some boots on the ground to find out who gets off.”