"Your mom said it was okay?" he asked.
"Yes," Mandy answered in an annoyed voice. He was going to have to talk to her about that. It really displeased him to hear that tone of voice from his daughter.
He almost said something to her right then on the phone, but decided not to. He had other, bigger things to worry about. He’d have a talk with her once this latest fire was put out.
The problem was…for every fire he put out, two or three new ones sprang up. He suddenly realized he’d not had an honest conversation with his daughter in months.
"Mandy," he said, with every intention of telling her he was sorry for not being around more lately.
"What?" she asked in that voice. Waldrup felt his blood rise. He realized that if he continued the conversation with her he’d just lose his temper.
"If your mother says it’s okay, then you can spend the night at Tiffany’s."
Nothing from the other end. Not even a "Thanks, Dad." It suddenly occurred to him that she hadn’t called him that in a while. Dad.
"Put her on the phone, will you?" he asked.
He heard her put the phone down and then yell out, "Mom!! He wants to talk to you!!"
He wants to talk to you. Not Dad. He wants to talk to you.
While he waited for his wife to come to the phone, Waldrup pondered his next move in the current situation. The field was in motion, and he needed to put his own ass in motion to keep up. If Dex was right, and Waldrup had no reason to believe otherwise, then Atlanta was the place to be. He wondered what he would have done if he’d been asked to decide the fate of his own daughter. But Samantha Rohde was not his daughter. And if Dex was right, Samantha Rohde was still alive.
Waldrup remembered the Lion of India. He was determined not to make that mistake again. No matter what it took.
Marcus Hamilton, Archbishop of Atlanta, stood on the steps of the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception downtown. He was somewhat apprehensive, although calm, as he scanned the street. He was looking for a man, a woman, and a little girl. Hamilton was a slender black man in his fifties, well aware that to others he seemed distant, withdrawn. Unless they knew him well. It would have been difficult for anyone to know that he was nervous about his expected visitors.
The phone call from the Vatican had given him pause. Something with international ramifications was happening, and the Church was involved. He didn’t like it when the Catholic Church played cloak and dagger. He accepted it, though, as the price it paid for being the oldest, largest Christian institution in the world. He forgot, sometimes, the vastness of the Church when all he had to worry about was the Archdiocese of Atlanta.
He checked his watch. Late mass would be starting soon. Just enough time for one more cup of coffee from the nearby Starbucks. One more glance down the street… A homeless man ambled along in a tattered overcoat, despite the heat. Tucked under one arm was a rolled-up paper bag, probably containing all his worldly possessions. The cup of coffee beckoned Archbishop Hamilton.
He reached into his pocket and felt the money clip, thick with bills. He wasn’t a rich man by New Economy standards, but he was comfortable. He pulled the money clip out. On the outside was a five. He removed the clip and palmed the money, then walked down the steps of the church. He walked quickly towards the homeless man.
"Excuse me," he said to the man, who stopped and looked at Hamilton with emotionless eyes. Hamilton had intended to ask the man how he’d come to be homeless, what he’d done before, where he stayed…the questions vanished from his mind. He merely held out the wad of money. The homeless man just looked at it, apparently not comprehending.
"Take it," Hamilton said. "I don’t even know how much it is, but maybe it’ll get you a room somewhere, a hot meal, some new clothes. Take it."
The man extended a grubby hand. Hamilton placed the money into the man’s hand. Without a word the man continued on his way. Hamilton watched him go. He did not feel that warmth he felt when he and his staff held their free Thanksgiving meal for the homeless. He did not feel as if he had given the man something useful. Money? It was nothing more than paper.
He walked back to the church. He felt ashamed, almost dirty. Had giving the homeless man money been giving into temptation? Had he made the wrong choice? Maybe he should have just gotten himself that cup of coffee.
Chapter 10
Henry found street parking on Central Avenue in the heart of downtown Atlanta. The church was half a block away, across the street. In the car, he looked at Tina, and then Sam.
"We’re going into that church across the street there," he said. Sam turned to look through the rear window at the massive red brick church.
"A church?" Tina asked.
"Yes. I have reason to believe someone there can help us. Can help her, I mean." He indicated Sam with a nod of his head in her direction.
"I go to church," Sam said, looking back at Henry and Tina.
"You do?" Tina asked, smiling.
Sam nodded. "It’s a Presba… Presba…"
"Presbyterian?" Tina asked.
Sam nodded again. "Do you go to church?" she asked Tina.
"Well, I used to go to a Methodist church, when I was a little girl," Tina said.
"Do you go to church?" Sam asked Henry.
"No," he said flatly.
"Don’t you believe in God?" Sam asked, almost accusingly.
"I’m undecided."
"What does that mean?" Sam asked, frowning.
"It means he’s not sure," Tina said.
"We can discuss theology later," Henry said. "Right now listen to me. When we get out of the car, you hold my hand." He directed this at Sam. "And you…don’t do anything stupid." That was for Tina.
"What if my definition of stupid is different than yours?" she asked sarcastically.
"It better not be." There was no sarcasm to be found anywhere in Henry’s reply.
He opened the driver’s side door and got out of the car, keeping his gun tucked inside his jacket. He realized, of course, that even a casual observer would think he looked suspiciously like a man holding a gun tucked inside his jacket, but there was no other way to do it, especially with his wounded arm. He unlocked the other doors in the car using the button on his own door, then motioned for Sam to get out. She did. He held out his hand and she placed hers in it. Tina got out on the other side of the car. She looked up and down the street, as if contemplating something stupid; Henry’s definition of stupid, at least. But she didn’t do anything.
They walked slowly towards the church. Henry was still not entirely convinced it wasn’t a trap. The street was intermittently lined with cars, but was otherwise quiet. An apparently homeless man in a trench coat walked towards them, sipping from a large Starbucks travel mug. White froth coated his upper lip. Heat radiated from the pavement, and the sight of the man in a coat sipping what appeared to be a cappuccino made Henry feel the heat even more.
The homeless man ignored them as they passed. They went up the steps of the church to the large, oak doors. Henry paused. He scanned the area around the church entrance. There was a diner caddy-corner to the church with blinds drawn to block out the sun. Directly across from the church was what looked to be a government building by its granite walls. Ninety degrees from the entrance to the right, and across MLK Drive, was an office building. Next door to the church on Central was a parking garage. Just beyond that was the Starbucks.
"What?" Tina asked, when Henry’s pause began to drag on.
"Nothing," he said. It wasn’t nothing, though. He felt as if, perhaps, he’d too easily allowed himself to be led to the church. A phone call… But it was the nature of that phone call, and the circumstance in which it had come, and the situation that Henry found himself in that were unusual, that made him believe there might something to it, something other than an elaborate trap. It would have been easier to tail Henry from the airport to the Rohde house, or just to have had someone waiting there for him. Something else was going on. Maybe somebo
dy really did want to help Samantha Rohde.
He grabbed the brass handle and pulled the door open, motioning for Tina to go in first. He then led Sam inside, and the door closed behind them. It was much, much cooler inside than outside. They stood in the vestibule, surrounded by dark wood, lit by sunlight that shone through windows above their heads. To the right and the left were sets of doors leading further in.
Henry chose the door to the left, and pulled it open. The door creaked noisily, the sound echoing through the church. He let Tina in before him, then Sam. The pews were empty, and the light dimmer as it was filtered through stained-glass windows set high up in the walls.
"Welcome," a voice said behind Henry. He whirled and instinctively drew his silenced 9mm, and found himself pointing it directly at the forehead of a black man dressed as a priest. The man’s eyes widened, but he did not move away and quickly regained his composure.
"Who are you?" Henry asked him.
"You don’t need that here," the man told Henry, ignoring the question.
"Who are you?" Henry repeated the question. He did not lower the gun.
"If you do not put it away, I will ask you to leave," the man said firmly. His eyes betrayed nothing of fear, but plenty of stubbornness.
Henry lowered the gun.
"Thank you. My name is Marcus Hamilton. You may call me Archbishop Hamilton."
"Archbishop?" Tina asked, apparently impressed.
"Yes," he said, nodding hello to her. "I have been expecting you."
"All three of us?" Tina asked.
"Yes. If you’ll follow me, please, I would prefer it if we talked in my office."
He turned and walked through the church towards the altar. He made a left at the altar, then went through a door and up a flight of stairs that opened into a wide hallway. He led them to a large room with a window overlooking the street. The room was furnished with an oak desk, a high-backed leather chair behind the desk and two wooden chairs in front of it, a sofa and two plush chairs arranged around a coffee table, and a shelf of books against the wall opposite the window.
"Please sit," Archbishop Hamilton said as he went around to his chair behind the desk. He’d left the door open, and Henry closed it before turning to face the Archbishop.
"They can sit," he told Hamilton. "I prefer to stand, for now."
"I would like you to sit," Hamilton said, somewhat forcefully.
Tina sat in one of the chairs in front the desk. Sam went to her, leaned against her while Tina put her right arm around Sam’s shoulders. Henry didn’t respond right away, but then went to the other chair and turned it at an angle to give him a better view of the room, and at least a peripheral view of the door. Otherwise, his back would have been to the door and that would not do.
"You’re not the person who called," Henry said flatly.
"No, I am not," Hamilton replied.
"Who called you?" Tina asked Henry.
"A man…he told me to come here. He said to bring the girl, that he would be able to help me keep her safe."
Henry looked at Tina. Was she beginning to believe him, that he wanted to save Samantha Rohde? He wanted to ask her, but it didn’t feel like the right time. More needed to happen, to show her that he was telling the truth. Mostly, anyway. He felt a sudden, almost overpowering desire for her to believe him, for her to think of him as one of the good guys.
Because he was one of the good guys. He’d always believed that, even when he killed. It was for the good of humanity. It was for Connie, to help her rest in peace.
"Who called him?" Tina asked Archbishop Hamilton.
"He should be here soon," was Hamilton’s reply. He checked his watch. "Very soon."
Henry looked out the window, but he couldn’t see much from where he sat. The leaves of a tree, sunlight, that was all. From a certain perspective that could be all that existed in the world.
"I don’t know what it is you people are involved in," he said, "but I hope you have given thought to your eternal souls."
"My eternal soul is just fine, thank you," Henry replied sardonically.
"Is it?" the Archbishop asked. He looked at Tina. "And you?"
"I’m not…" She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, cleared her throat. "I’ve never really been…" Whatever she was trying to say, she couldn’t seem to get it out.
"You’re trying to say you’re not religious," Hamilton said.
Tina nodded mutely.
"What about you, young lady?" the Archbishop asked Sam. "Do you believe in God?"
Sam nodded.
"So do I," Hamilton said, smiling.
"You have to," Sam said, "it’s your job."
The Archbishop nodded.
From his table in the Starbucks, Angus Becker had seen the man, woman, and child cross the street towards the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. Upon seeing the man memories threatened to distract him, but he tuned them out. He waited, although it was difficult for him. Waiting was not his thing. He sipped a double espresso and watched the street. The Cardinal needed to make his appearance, and then one other party was expected, although not by the Cardinal nor anyone else in the church. Only Becker knew, and that person would have to show up before Becker could stop waiting and act.
Act. That was the word for it, too, wasn’t it? Becker would play his part. He would be worthy of an Oscar, he would. He grinned to himself as he imagined his acceptance speech.
"I’d like to thank the United Nations, and I would especially like to thank Alan Turing…" It was a joke he would not have understood until only recently, since his crash correspondence course in Artificial Intelligence. His employer was an excellent teacher. Now, Becker fancied he knew as much about the subject as any layperson shy of a PhD in Computer Science. And Becker, who’d gone through school as a child with an intense hatred of learning, had enjoyed it. It was a miracle. Oracle was a miracle of science, truly. When he met Oracle’s maker, and he knew he would, Becker would shake the man’s hand…before killing him, if it came to that. He couldn’t remember… Was he supposed to kill that one, or not? He’d have to check his notes, but it wasn’t something he needed to worry about right away.
Watch and wait, that was his lot for the time-being. Watch and wait. The street was beginning to show some signs of life as churchgoers arrived early for late mass.
The Starbucks was quieter and more muted than the Waffle House he’d subjected himself to earlier. It was new, he could tell. It smelled of roasted coffee freshly ground and brewed into espresso. The place stood empty, at the moment, save for himself and the tattooed, goateed teenager behind the counter.
Letting his mind wander again, this time to food. He checked the clock on the wall. It was getting close to lunchtime.
The Yellow taxi cab turned the corner from MLK onto Central, the brakes squealing as it pulled to a stop in front of the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. Cardinal Roscoe paid the driver, a thirty-ish black man from the Dominican Republic who’d talked about this sister-in-law and her drug problem the entire trip from the airport, and got out of the cab. Well-dressed pedestrians walked past him and up the stairs of the church, on their way to late morning mass. They were black, white, Hispanic, Asian…it was probably the most ethnically diverse congregation Roscoe had ever seen. It had been almost like that at St. Patrick’s in Manhattan, at least in terms of black and white.
But, still, they were mostly older people, or middle-aged at best. There were scattered couples who looked to be in their twenties, but not many. He didn’t see any teenagers at all.
Inside he went, insinuating himself among the flock, still anonymous. Almost as soon as he stepped inside, however, a petite, older lady in a tan pantsuit approached him.
"Cardinal Roscoe?" she asked in almost a whisper, but he was sure others heard.
For a moment he wondered if he could pretend to be someone else and simply disappear into the crowd. Was he indeed the right person for the job? In a flash of insight, however, he realized that t
here really was no right person for the job. He would do just as well, or just as poorly, as anyone else the Vatican might have sent.
The lady led Roscoe upstairs to an office, opening the door and standing aside to let him enter. There sat Archbishop Hamilton behind a large, oak desk; and there also sat the man, the woman, and the child. It was the child whom Cardinal Roscoe looked at first. He wanted to see innocence. Her gaze met his… Innocence? He wasn’t sure. Maybe it was too late.
Then the man…the assassin. The killer. His eyes startled Roscoe. They were like the girl’s. Not the same color, but the same emotion seemed to emanate from them.
Finally, a woman; slightly younger than the assassin. Fear, confusion, anger in her eyes, and maybe a little more innocence than the other two. Roscoe knew nothing about her except that Augustine had said there was a chance she’d be with the assassin and the child. The arm was wrapped protectively around the child’s shoulders, and the child leaned against her. Not the mother, Roscoe knew. The mother was likely dead, along with the child’s father. Killed by the assassin. Murdered.
It had been many, many years since Roscoe had looked into the eyes of a murderer. Not just a murder. A righteous murderer.
Chapter 11
Alison Haley, personal aide to the ancient of days Senator Joshua Watts (R-North Carolina), was enjoying lunch in the café of the National Gallery, just down the Mall from the Capitol, in Washington, D.C. The art museum was her favorite refuge from the grind whenever she could spare herself a long lunch break. She ate a vegetarian sandwich; grilled portabello mushrooms, fresh spinach, onions, sun-dried tomatoes, and sliced black olives on foccacia bread. She had just taken her first bite of the sandwich when a private courier stepped up to her table. He held out a letter-sized envelope, which she looked at for a moment before taking. The courier then turned around and walked away. She didn’t have to sign anything. It wasn’t one of those kinds of courier services.
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