by Brandt Legg
Lost in meditation, he heard nothing- until a heavy blow to his chest paralyzed him, and Gale’s then piercing scream.
Chapter 13
Sean Stadler sat behind the wheel of a rental car, in the hotel parking lot. Busman, in the passenger seat, worked the screen of what looked like a custom iPad; while deep in conversation. Sean couldn’t hear the other voice, coming through a tiny receiver fitted in Busman’s ear. He did know that Rip hadn’t been caught yet, but there had been constant calls and data coming in to Busman, who periodically checked his pulse and heart rate on his fitness band.
The other NSA operatives were in two vehicles behind him. They’d all stayed up late last night preparing for this. Busman was meticulous, reminding Sean of his old high school chemistry teacher, only much shorter. “One thing leads to another. Each action creates a reaction. Consequences, that’s what we’re interested in,” the teacher had said, at least once, during every class period that entire year. Sean, not a great student, had pulled a low B in the class; more for his people skills, than his ability as a chemist.
Being likeable came naturally to both Sean and his brother. Sean sensed that Busman liked him too. If he got the chance to see Gale and Rip again, he would need every bit of the Stadler charm to pull off what he needed to do. How did they expect him to rejoin Rip and act as if nothing had happened? Knowing the NSA would be hearing every word they said. Part of him hoped Rip got caught first, so he wouldn’t have to go through with the act. But more than that, Sean wanted a chance to make everything right.
He wished he could talk to his brother about it, wished he could talk to him about anything at all. But this would have been way over Josh’s head. Sean had heard enough of Busman’s communications during the last forty-eight hours to know this was huge. The National-freakin’-Security Agency was in charge. He’d overheard names he knew from the news – big shots from the White House, Senator Monroe; wasn’t he predicted to be the next president? The Pope! It was all a little too “James Bond” for him. But he didn’t really care about national security or politics. Sean Stadler had one objective in mind, the only thing that he clung to during the desperate grief he felt over the death of his brother.
When they were kids, Josh used to make monkey sounds and called him “Curious Sean,” because Sean’s curiosity always seemed to land him in trouble. So much of what had happened since Josh called, asking him to help Gale and Rip, didn’t make sense. It made his head hurt, but he kept trying to figure it out; like a jigsaw puzzle, with missing pieces. The Vatican part intrigued him most. He’d taken a Religious Studies course in college because he heard it was easy and filled with pretty girls – neither had been true. But he remembered the time they spent on the history of the Catholic Church, from the crusades to Papal manipulations of European royalty and politics, to the controversial role the Vatican played in World War II. They focused on the seeming epidemic of pedophile priests and subsequent cover-ups. It was no wonder the Church was in decline – its opposition to gays, women rights and birth control seemed out of step with the modern world and the needs of its diverse billion-plus congregation.
Then, one day, it had all changed. For reasons he still didn’t understand, and wasn’t sure anyone else did either, the sitting Pope resigned. In two thousand years, it had only happened only a handful of times and the last was six hundred years earlier. Sean, like most people who even casually followed the Vatican, found the development very surprising. He wasn’t Catholic, but understood the Pope’s influence on the world; specifically the 1.6 billion faithful. It seemed encouraging when the new Pope began making great changes to restore the Church to something more than it had become.
The Vatican’s involvement in the Gaines case didn’t fit the new face of the Church. Sean understood the artifacts might have some religious significance, but he heard things about Vatican agents. Even in his Religious Studies course, they hadn’t covered anything about Catholic spies and Church espionage. One thing he had learned was that in the Vatican, the Pope doesn’t call all the shots. There is the Curia, Catholicism’s Rome-based bureaucracy, and its many secret committees; so it was impossible to know the real villains or motives.
But as he sat in the rental car, waiting for a desperate operation to begin, what worried him most was why he had been allowed to hear so many classified conversations. Busman didn’t seem worried that Sean might run to the media once he was free. Sean Stadler knew he was likeable and curious, but he also knew he’d always been considered a bit of an airhead by friends. He clenched the steering wheel tightly; listening to Busman’s clipped commands to some faceless technician, probably located thousands of miles away, and tried to think. He had to figure it out. Something was wrong with this picture; he just didn’t know what. It was time to get smart, and time was running out.
Chapter 14
The pain burned through Rip’s ribs. Although doubled over, he managed to look up, but just as he focused on the old shopkeeper; another boot slammed into his stomach, and he collapsed again.
“Pick him up,” the shopkeeper said to the young man, who had kicked Rip. Another guy held Gale.
“Stop screaming or this will be worse,” the young man warned.
“Why are you doing this?” she cried.
“You’re on sacred ground,” the man holding her growled.
“No,” the shopkeeper said, looking into Rip’s eyes. “You have been on this ground before; it is for that crime that you must first pay.”
“What are you talking about? This is the first time either one of us has visited the Pueblo,” Gale said, fighting to break free.
“No,” the shopkeeper said sharply. “This one has done great harm here.” He pointed a finger into Rip’s face and then slapped him.
“Stop it!” Gale screamed.
“What have I done?” Rip asked, gritting his teeth against the pain.
“You came here in search of Clastier,” the old man said.
Rip managed to turn toward Gale. Her face registered the same disbelief.
“How did you know?” Gale asked.
“The soul cannot hide. I see him.”
“Who? Who do you see?” Gale demanded.
“Conway.”
“Who is Conway? That’s not his name,” Gale said, trying to make sense of the senseless old man. “Are you related to Tagu? Is that how you know about Clastier?”
“I am Tagu.”
Rip shook his head and sighed. “Tagu has been dead for at least a hundred and fifty years.”
“Souls do not die. Your ignorance confuses you.”
“You’re confused, damn it!” Rip yelled.
“Wait,” Gale said. “Are you saying you are the reincarnation of Tagu?”
“The soul continues. And Conway must face justice,” the shopkeeper said.
“Please,” Gale said. “Who was Conway?”
“Conway hunted Clastier, for the Italians.”
“So, you didn’t mean Rip was searching for Clastier today, you meant back when Clastier was alive?”
The shopkeeper looked confused.
“But he couldn’t have been Conway. We’re here today trying to save Clastier.”
“This is ridiculous,” Rip said. “Reincarnation, come on, Gale.” He turned to the shopkeeper. “Let us go, now.”
The two thugs looked at the shopkeeper.
“Tell me why you came back after so much time, Conway.” The shopkeeper spat at Rip.
“I’m not Conway!” Rip growled.
“Grandfather, what are you doing?” the tour guide yelled from the wall.
“Let us be, girl, go away!” He yelled back at her.
She shouted back in their native language of Tewa. Rip couldn’t understand but got the meaning. “Listen to her,” Rip said. “Let us go.” He turned to the man holding Gale. “He’s old and senile. I am not Conway. I’ve never been here before.”
“You came here with the troops!” The shopkeeper yelled. “You did this. Yo
u killed them. You did!”
“This happened in 1847. My great-great-grandparents weren’t even alive then!” Rip tried to break free, but he was no match for the strong Native American man holding him.
“You massacred them because they supported Clastier! You killed my ancestors because they carried Clastier’s words.”
“No. I have spent my life seeking to prove Clastier’s words.”
“I don’t want to hear your lies. I was there. I saw your murdering ways.”
“My God, karma can be a brutal thing,” Gale said quietly.
“You believe this fairytale?” Rip asked. “What? I was some guy named Conway and led the charge to kill all these innocent people hiding in this church because they supported Clastier? We’re talking about Clastier, Gale! My Clastier! Even if I believed in reincarnation, why would I come back more than a century and a half later to risk my life to try to save his words?”
“Karma,” Gale said.
“Oh, good God!”
“Rip, you can’t deny the situation. He recognized you from another lifetime. A time when you were doing the exact opposite of what you are doing in this life. Don’t you see? You’re making up for past mistakes.”
“Damn it, Gale, look.” Rip motioned his head across the cemetery. A Pueblo police car pulled up; two uniformed officers got out and started jogging toward them.
Chapter 15
Nanski fiddled with his Saint Christopher medal. “That was Pisano. The FBI is in town and they’re moving on the Taos Pueblo right now! Let’s go.”
While Leary drove, Nanski pushed a button on his phone and twenty seconds later a number in Rome rang. “I need to know everything about Clastier.”
“Little survived,” the Cardinal replied.
“Gaines is at the Taos Pueblo right now. The FBI will likely beat us to him. If I’d known more, we could have anticipated him going there first.” Nanski knew the Vatican archives were unsurpassed in their volume and historic depth. More than fifteen centuries before the dawn of the information age, a Pope recognized that information was power. The Vatican knew the world’s secrets, and rarely did anyone see all the facets of a secret. “I need everything,” he repeated.
“It may take some time.”
“I pray we have any time left at all.”
On Barbeau’s orders, the FBI agents watching the Vatican men, followed at a safe distance. Barbeau knew the Vatican was getting information directly to Attorney General Dover’s office and was determined to keep them under surveillance, even after he captured Gaines.
Pisano was on the phone with the Attorney General at the same time, pushing for Dover’s agreement to turn the artifacts over to the Vatican; should the government locate them. Although Dover considered himself a Catholic first, and an American second, as the United States Attorney General; he couldn’t just turn over evidence in a criminal proceeding, let alone significant cultural artifacts, to the Vatican. Pisano was asking him to break the law or, as he had put it, “circumvent the law of man to obey the law of God.” And Pisano brought tremendous pressure to bear. In the modern era, the Church operated behind the scenes, but its influence and power were greater than ever. Even more than that, they had files . . . on everyone; a database of information on important citizens, high officials, even entire countries. Dover didn’t know what to do, but knew either way it would end badly. After the call, he knelt next to his office window and prayed.
Senator Monroe insisted the Attorney General meet with him. The two most visible Catholics in the country met in a secluded park outside Washington, D.C. Each had his own security detail shadowing him as they walked along a maintained, but little used, trail.
“Damn it, this thing has the potential to become a complete disaster!” The Senator said. “It’s only a matter of time before the media puts some of the pieces together. Charging such a well-known figure with murder . . . what the hell were you thinking?” He snapped his fingers and pointed at Dover, as if commanding an answer.
Dover, although well aware of the Senator’s odd habit of snapping his fingers, still took offense. “Aren’t you afraid that your affair with his accomplice, Gale Asher, will become a scandal?”
The Senator, having been in politics too long, hid his surprise that Dover knew about something so far in his past. “It’s got nothing to do with her.”
“I think your Christian constituency might disagree, especially when your ‘friends’ in the liberal media get wind of it.”
Monroe laughed. “You’re a slippery bastard, Dover. Maybe you’re just jealous because I get laid a lot more than you do, or you just want to take the attention off your many mistakes in handling this case. I thought you were trying to keep the media at bay, yet you indicted a celebrity. Christ, Gaines has got a million Twitter followers. Even more, since you made him ‘America’s most wanted professor.’ And you think me doing a beautiful college student thirteen years ago is news? You’re trying to cover up your own mess.”
“We needed some help in getting him off the streets.”
“So you’re desperate?” the Senator asked, gruffly.
“I’m not the one running for president.”
“Oh, aren’t you?”
“You know, I’ve not announced my intentions.”
“Ha!”
Dover smiled. “Perhaps if I do, you could be my running mate. You have the look of a vice president. Although an affair with a criminal . . . those things have been known to derail campaigns.”
“You’re a little too obsessed with my love life. Have you spent too much time staring at Gale Asher’s photos? Do you want me to fix you up with her? Is that it?” The Senator snapped three times, alternating hands.
“She was your student, Senator. You’re still friends and now she is wanted as an accessory to murder, theft of government property, aiding and abetting, et cetera. When was the last time you spoke to her?”
“None of your damn business. You know none of that garbage will stick to me. I’m the next president of the United States.”
“We’ll see what the election brings.”
“Election?” he said, as if the word was new to him. “The election is theatre; my rise to the presidency is preordained.”
“By God?”
“Yes, by Him. And more importantly, by the people who actually make these decisions.” He snapped both hands and twirled his index fingers.
Dover didn’t like Monroe’s brand of faith, but the truth was that they were old friends; the kind for which the term “frenemies” was coined. And Dover had long known he didn’t stand a chance against Senator Monroe in the primaries. But this explosive case contained enough traps, landmines, and tripwires that anything could happen. It could destroy them both or land one of them in the White House.
“Have you had a visit from Pisano?” Dover asked.
“That pushy little weasel is the reason we needed to meet.” The Senator stopped walking. “Listen, Harry, let’s find a way to give them the artifacts. Whatever they are, we don’t care and we don’t have any use for them. It could be a chunk of the cross, or the Ark of the Covenant, for all it matters to us. Let’s keep Rome happy.”
“What do they have on you, Senator?”
“Nothing, except maybe the keys to eternal salvation. My church needs my help.”
“What about your country?”
“My country doesn’t need a few dusty objects; dug up in the Virginia mountains. My country needs a strong relationship with the Vatican.”
“And if I were willing, which I’m not saying I am, how do you suggest I go about it?”
“That’s not my area. They get ‘destroyed’ in the arrest, lost in storage, sent for study, and misplaced in shipment; it’s happened before. You’ll come up with something.”
“Why is it my hands that have to get dirty?” Dover asked.
“Because I’m the next president.” The Senator slapped Dover’s back and laughed. Dover didn’t think it was funny.
> “What if I told you that we’re not the only ones who want those artifacts?” Dover asked.
“As long as it isn’t the Chinese or the Russians, I’m not too worried about it,” the Senator said. “Don’t tell me National Geographic has called you.”
“How about your friends at the National Security Agency?”
“You’re not serious!” He stopped again and stared at Dover. “They called you?”
“No, they’re operating around us.”
“Damn it, that’s even worse.”
Chapter 16
The two men holding Gale and Rip were unsure what to do when they saw the Pueblo cops coming. Fearing they could be arrested for assaulting tourists, they released their grip. Without hesitation, Gale and Rip bolted.
The shopkeeper gave chase, but tripped and became tangled in the crosses. One officer reached the two Indians, who were helping the shopkeeper to his feet. The other patrolman ran to intersect Gale and Rip, now separated as they dashed through the cemetery.
Rip hurtled the far wall, not realizing the ground on the other side was much lower. He sacrificed his knee in order to avoid his backpack with the Eysen, taking the brunt of the fall. Landing in a parking lot outside the village, he sprang to his feet, ignoring the pain and blood.
Rip spotted an older heavy-set couple in leather jumpsuits; who had just gotten off a wide Harley. The keys, still in the ignition, were too tempting; he pushed the man out of the way, unintentionally sending him crashing to the ground. The woman screamed and went to her husband’s aid, as Rip jumped on the bike.
Gale emerged from behind a building forty feet ahead; he slowed just enough to allow her to climb on, then sped away.
“You’re full of surprises, professor,” Gale shouted over the engine’s roar.