by Declan Finn
“Nine-fifteen is when the neighbors heard some suspicious noises the night of the Spanish Steps shootout. That’s the most accurate they can be right now.”
A tear rolled down her face. “And we saved Ryan at nine-ten. He called his men to kill her as soon as I showed up to save Sean.”
Murphy’s eyes started to water. He moved his leg so he straddled the bench, and inched closer to her. He slid his hand up her arm and squeezed her shoulder. “Looks like it.”
Manana fell forward and wrapped her arms around his chest, and he hugged her around the shoulders as she silently wept for the only other person in her life that knew everything about her, her hopes, her dreams, and her past. There were only two other people who knew her so well: one was the person who’d had her mother killed; the second was holding her, brushing his fingers through her hair, just being there, a man she had met less than seventy-two hours before.
Off in the shadows and columns of the garden arcade, one man watched, a man who was as pissed at her five minutes ago as she was at this moment.
Sean Ryan watched her slowly collapse into silent tears, and he paused a moment to kill whatever hatred was in his own heart.
Manana Shushurin had helped kill his grandfather, whether she knew it or not, planned or not. But she was innocent of the crime. Two men were truly responsible, and Sean Ryan had killed two of them—the gunman who had shot his grandfather, and the man who had ordered it – Ioseph Mikhailov, the same man who had ordered Manana’s mother executed.
At the end of the day, it was a simple equation for him.
Her war was now his war.
* * *
Matthew Kovach frowned deeply and grumbled. Why were people calling him so early lately? He blinked and glared at the clock. It wasn’t even dawn yet. Damnit, what kind of inconsiderate, lunatic—
He grabbed the phone and snarled, “Moira, it better be you and someone better be dying.”
“Actually,” Inna Petraro said, “it is your agent.”
Matthew closed his eyes and sighed. “Yes, Inna. What?”
“I’m coming to Rome today, I should be there in a few hours.”
Matthew fell back on the bed and settled to get comfortable again, ready to fall asleep after he put back the phone. “Okay, so Sean will pick you up, I’ll see you after a while.”
“Actually, Matthew, I think they need your help.”
“They?” Matthew murmured, 50% asleep, and percentage rising. “They who? Help with what?”
“The Pope. Didn’t you read the paper about the shootout yesterday?”
Matthew’s eyes shot open as he sat up in the bed. “Shootout? Inna, just what the heck is going onWhat has Sean been doing now?”
Chapter VI
Preparations
Day 4. Insanely early.
Once Sean Ryan had finally managed to go through his miles on an exercise bike, he decided that if he were going to run, he was going to do it outside, and that meant with a partner.
He slipped down the hallway to another door.
* * *
Secret Service Agent Wilhelmina Goldberg, when abroad, had always followed one simple rule before going to bed—dress as though you might be shot at as you wake up, meaning her day clothes, followed by her gun under her pillow. She didn’t recall when she developed that rule, but it was simple. When she was abroad, half the time she was on location helping a foreign government with presidential security when the target had come under fire. After that had happened the first few times, she began dressing to kill even when in bed. No one had really seemed to mind, mainly because her colleagues were all people who had dedicated themselves to being shot if someone with a grudge decided to use the president for target practice.
Goldberg, of course, by virtue of her height, was never able to make that sort of pledge. She was many things—sort of cute, well proportioned, for her height, had nice hazel eyes—but she was still only five-feet tall on a good day and wearing the right shoes. And the current President needed ex-basketball players to serve as his protection detail instead of a five-foot “Jewish-American Duchess,” as she called herself.
When accosted by a colleague about her “JAD” self-description, she responded: “I don’t need a Prince. I’ll settle for a Duke.”
So it was still very strange for her to wake up and see in the pre-dawn light a woman flowing through her temporary quarters, flowing in slow-motion katas… karate formations that resembled actually being attacked, and from different sides at alternate times.
Interpol Agent Maureen McGrail wore only a t-shirt and underpants as she flowed from one martial arts form to another, letting each muscle slowly work. It looked like a piece of performance art. The dim light coming through the thick curtains barely illuminated her form, making her milky white skin almost luminescent. The skin stood in stark contrast to the deep black hair and the bright green eyes.
“You know,” Goldberg said, “this is still strange to wake up to in the morning.” She chuckled to herself as McGrail made a slow motion gesture that looked like she was breaking someone’s neck.
McGrail smiled. “Aye? And how do you think I feel? I don’t usually have an audience, now do I?”
Goldberg arched a brow. “Really? I’d think someone who could kick models off their magazine covers would have someone at home. Even if you are chasing bad guys around the planet.”
The Irish cop didn’t sigh, but only because she was controlling her respiration. “Didn’t I once like a fella? And wasn’t he a perfect professional the entire time? He didn’t even try to flirt with me, now did he?”
Goldberg blinked, and thought that through a moment. I must not be awake. I was used to her speaking in questions last night, wasn’t I? Oh no, I’m not doing it too, am I? ARRRRGGGHHH....
The Secret Service Agent cleared her throat. “Gotcha. Well, we should both be glad I break codes for a living. You want I should track this guy down for you?”
McGrail laughed. “Aye, now wouldn’t that be a perfectly good waste of government resources? When do we start?”
Goldberg merely smiled. “Maybe after the whole Pius thing settles down. At least a little?”
McGrail didn’t waver, but kept moving. “By the way, you never told me how you got into code breaking?”
She shrugged. “NSA took one look at my background and said, ‘We want her.’”
“Your background?”
“Yeah…. My parents are flakes. As in ‘a little not there.’ Their answering machine message says: ‘Hi, me and my frontal lobe are not here right now, but if you leave a message with the temporal lobe, one of us—me or my lobe—will get back to you at the earliest convenience.’ Both are Orthodox Jews, both researching esoteric languages.
“Mom started as a mathematician—a snowflake shy of a blizzard—and developed a system of translating languages through mathematical formulas, which she partially stole from the novel A Canticle for Liebowitz; which she originally picked up because she thought it was about a relative, Harvey Liebowitz…and Uncle Harvey was an FBI agent. And trust me, he’s the normal one. At every bris, bar- and bat mitzvah, when my parents rejoined the human race, they took time to decide what language should be used to communicate with their own family.”
Maureen laughed musically. “I can only suppose you take after Uncle Harvey.”
“With a hatchet, sometimes,” she muttered. “But, yeah, I was dissecting computers at 7, and programming when I was in 7th grade. Take the parents and my computer interest, and you have me taking languages at Brandeis and classes at M.I.T in alternating semesters. I’m the white sheep of the family…one brother’s a Rabbi, another’s a classics professor, and my sister…I’m not actually sure what she does, to tell the truth…but they all managed to follow our parents’ route into Greater Flakedom.”
McGrail sighed lightly as she turned around again with a slow-motion kick. “I can understand that. I’ve met some…interesting people. I can only assume you went into Secr
et Service because of the NSA having more flakes.”
“I guess you could say that … I also got recruited. One of the Service guys walked into my office and said, ‘I need to break into a Soviet communications satellite, intercept one particular phone call, and make sure that I’m at both ends of the phone talking with each of the callers, without letting either of the callers hear the person they actually called … can you do that?’ When we were done, he asked if I wanted to join. I thought I was a little short, and he replied, ‘So’s life, so what?’ ” Looking back on it, I never got a last name on him.
“So you’re still doing a security audit for the Pope, ya?”
Goldberg shrugged, even though the girl from Interpol had her back to her. “I have no idea if I’m even supposed to be here anymore. Going abroad, doing security audits for our allies usually doesn’t mean taking down a conspiracy while I’m there. I’ll trade fire, but usually keep my head down.”
“Indeed?” Maureen flowed into another position, this time, facing the desk where Goldberg had stored most of her things—which included security manuals, weapons magazines, technical journals, Klezmer music, and science fiction novels. “I’m sure your boyfriend likes that.”
The Secret Service Agent giggled—which was rather odd for a woman of her age. “I don’t have a boyfriend. Just a roommate, only he works a post for the Service.”
Maureen went from one slow moving, idolized thing of beauty into a whirling lethal weapon. Each kata that looked so beautiful in slow motion now disappeared into the strikes and blows McGrail rained upon adversaries who weren’t there. Several other moves were added as well, which couldn’t be used in slow motion—flying spin kicks, for example.
When Maureen spun to a stop for the last time, someone knocked on the door.
Villie Goldberg reached under her pillow, grabbing her weapon, and answered the door.
Sean Ryan smiled. “Can Maureen come out and play?”
Goldberg blinked. “What are you doing up this early?”
Ryan grinned. “Back when I studied with Jesuits, we used to get up in the morning with the sun, best part of the day—ha!”
She sighed. “It should be illegal for you to be so damn cheerful this early.” She turned inside. “Maureen, this wacko’s for you.”
“Is he now?” McGrail poked her head around the edge of the doorframe. “What do you want?”
He shrugged. “Since no one’s to go out alone—and getting shot at the other night made even me learn my lesson—I’d like to ask if you’d accompany me for my basic triathlon training on my way to the Swiss Guard shooting range off campus…or I should say outside Vatican City. They have a room for me as long as I show up before hours.”
* * *
Sean Ryan just finished his final run on his way to the army base, and smiled at Villie Goldberg, who’d been taking a motor scooter alongside him and McGrail as the two performed feats like four-minute miles—essentially, impossible speeds for the average human being.
Ryan, in shorts and t-shirt, walked into the shooting range, picking up a gym bag by the door as he passed by.
“And what’s that for?” Goldberg inquired.
He smiled and set up at the nearest table, opened the bag, and took out several sets of pistols, several sound-suppressed “Personal Defense Weapons,” small submachine guns, and dozens of throwing knives. Each holster had a pouch for two magazines and slits for at least two throwing knives. He strapped a pistol to one side of his calves, a PDW to the other, and did the same for his other calf. On his hips were PDWs; on his thighs, pistols; his torso had PDWs in shoulder holsters, with pistols right below them; and pistols at the small of his back. On his forearms he had knives strapped to both sides, and his neck had a brace of four knives.
With a smile, he walked into the center of a circular room lined with targets of human beings. “Maureen, feel free to knock me down at regular intervals, okay? Just like last time.”
With that, he threw himself into a back flip, torquing in midair, firing at the paper targets. He did not even stop when he hit the mat and rolled head over heels to his feet. As he flipped, he had the guns out at his side, still firing. Ryan cartwheeled through the air, firing both handguns without a pause, picking different targets at each pull of the trigger—head, heart, shoulder, arm, whatever he wanted. He threw himself to the side and did the same; time after time, Maureen tripped, pushed, smacked, spun him around and punched him so he could practice shooting when under direct attack in less than perfect conditions.
After he had solid clusters in the center, the heart and head of each target, he continued with the throwing knives, making all of them land on either side, above and below the clusters. At the end, he drew his PDWs on full automatic, firing all the way, not taking his finger off the trigger for a moment, not when changing targets, not even when hit, and only when he needed to reload.
When he was finished, he smiled, walked over, and took the knives out of a target.
The person-shape outline floated to the ground. He had, with the automatic weapons, cut the targets out of their paper square, perfectly outlining the silhouettes with bullet holes.
Goldberg watched, still amazed he could do that. “I don’t care how many FBI sharpshooters you hung out with, or how long you’ve been doing this. That’s just impossible.”
Ryan smiled. “And that’s why I wait for breakfast. I believe six impossible things before then.”
* * *
Giovanni Figlia walked into his office, half-asleep, espresso in one hand, files in the other. He kept the room dark, lest he actually wake up too quickly with light.
He dragged himself over to his chair, and thanked God that he had left the curtains closed.
He had even made certain to wear his typical ensemble—black shirt, black pants, matching shoes.
“Giovanni,” a deep voice rumbled from the shadows.
Figlia literally jumped behind his desk, then came up in a crouch, his pistol leveled in the general direction of the voice.
“It is only me,” the voice continued.
Figlia sighed, then slowly rose to his feet, looking out at the darkness. He had a well-sized room, enough for several bookcases, chairs, and a small couch.
The couch was taken up by a large man, well over six-feet tall, with a deep imposing voice the Jesuits taught him how to project. The accent was from central Africa—Uganda, to be precise.
Pope Pius XIII rose. “I take it you did not expect me.”
Giovanni almost growled. “Your Holiness, please, stop being so quiet. I nearly shot you.” He could finally see the man’s white robes of office. The Pope was big, and wore over twelve feet of white, tailored Kevlar—Giovanni would never tell him that, however. He could never figure out how the Pontiff moved so silently.
The Pope smiled, his teeth flashing in the darkness. “I doubt that very much.”
The Commander sighed and reached for his coffee. “In any event, you are here, and my espresso is intact.” He smiled slightly. “And I was worried about waking up.” He paused for a moment, feeling his pulse beat in his own neck. “I am awake now, as Sean would say. How do you move so silently, Your Holiness?”
Pius XIII, born Joshua Kutjok, cleared his throat. “I grew up in Uganda. We had war, we had genocide. We have terrorists, and pirate gangs, slave traders and a cannibal who ran the country for years—one had to be able to fight, or to hide. I was able to hide…and fight when necessary. Fighting is not much of an option in my chosen profession.”
Giovanni nodded at the obvious. “But there was some rumor about you killing a man who threatened a parishioner?”
“You should never listen to rumors, Gianni. It is not good.” There was a long pause before the Pope added, “And it was not a parishioner. I wasn’t a priest, then. It was my sister.”
Figlia blinked. He didn’t even know the Pope had a sister. “I see. I am sorry, I have never heard of her.”
Pius turned around and started
to leave. “I have not heard from her in over twenty years. She was kidnapped one day, and never returned.” He opened the door and paused, not yet turning around. “They cannot get away with what they have done, Giovanni. Not the genocide, not the slavery, and not murder. I have Pierre ready to launch the first salvo.”
Figlia nodded slowly. The Cardinal Secretary of State was a Vietnamese priest named Pierre Nguyen Van Nho, a former Vincentian missionary into the People’s Republic of China. He had been considered something of a bomb thrower with the press. After living in China under threat of harsh reprisals if caught evangelizing, his idiocy-tolerance threshold had dropped down to that of most career army personnel. He also had a degree in communications before going into the Church, so the two allowed him to tell reporters to go to Hell with all of the best in psycholinguistics he could throw.
“I understand, Your Holiness.”
The Pope disappeared without another word.
Only to be replaced by the shorter form of Sean Aloysius Patricus Ryan.
The younger man was calm and moved smoothly through the doors, a large mug in his left hand. “Good morning, Giovanni. Come stai?”
Figlia shrugged and sipped more of his coffee. “I suppose I should ask you that. Your grandfather was murdered.”
Ryan barely flinched—his eyes blinked, and squeezed shut for a split second before he opened them. “I’ll live. You know what that’s like.”
Giovanni raised a brow. “I do?”
Ryan sipped from the mug, moving into a chair across from Figlia. “Tommaso Figlia,” he began, “carabiniere officer, killed in an explosion around the World Bank visit during the early ‘80s. The life of a rising soccer star, Giovanni Figlia, then took a sharp U-turn into the police force, SWAT, training with the LAPD SWAT. While there, you managed to hook up with Veronica Fisher of Las Vegas. You’ve been married for quite some time, and the Pope took notice of you after you were transferred into the investigative end of things.”
Ryan took another sip of his coffee. “I am very thorough, Gianni. And I have a very good memory—the only thing that my father ever taught me.” Ryan did not mention that he had been expected to help his father memorize the dialogue for the soaps he was on.