The Trinity Game

by Sean Chercover

  Lucien Drapeau was the most expensive assassin in the western hemisphere. It was said that he’d never botched an assignment.

  But William Lamech was not disturbed by either the price or the possibility of failure. He was disturbed—deeply disturbed—by Drapeau’s complete independence. Drapeau was a specter. The law firm’s clients didn’t know where he lived or what he looked like or how he traveled. Terms were simple: half up front, half upon death of the target. No meetings, no details, and no future promises. You could pay him five million to kill a guy, and when the job was done, he was free to take five million from the guy’s widow to come back and kill you. The half-a-mil you paid to the firm each year bought you a place on the client list, but it didn’t buy you Drapeau’s loyalty.

  William Lamech didn’t like it, but the men he’d sent were capable professionals, and they were dead.

  Now he would use the specter.

  When Tim Trinity took off his hat and sunglasses, Priestess Ory immediately recognized him. She sat in stunned silence as he told her of his dream, and how he awoke with the vision of her storefront.

  He summed up with, “So I had a vision of you, and you had a vision of Daniel. I think it’s safe to conclude that God has brought us three together. The question is, why?”

  “I have no idea,” she said. “I’m still trying to process the thing.”

  “Danny? Any ideas?”

  Daniel was still stuck on God has brought us three together. She had dreamed of him, not of Trinity. And with that, his place at Trinity’s side was no longer a leap of faith.

  He was supposed to be here.

  But that didn’t answer the question. Why here? And why her? He looked from Ory to Trinity, shook his head. “Priestess Ory, do you know anyone who goes by Papa Legba?”

  “Papa Legba is the guardian of the crossroads.”

  “I don’t mean the loa. I mean, a person using it as a nickname.”

  “Of course not. It would be very disrespectful, and,” she smiled, “nobody wants to get on Papa Legba’s bad side. Legba can be temperamental, and you’ll get nothing done without him.”

  Daniel turned to Trinity. “Well, I’m out of ideas. I don’t know why the hell we’re here.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. Priestess Ory said, “Following Tim’s line of thought: The divine brought you here. To me. Maybe the intent is for you to receive what it is that I provide.”

  “Somehow I don’t think he brought Tim here for a tarot reading,” said Daniel.

  Ory shot him a stern look. “Yes, I sell trinkets to tourists. I fail to see how that’s different than the thousands of plastic-Jesus gift shops in cathedrals around the world.”

  “She’s got you there, son,” said Trinity.

  “I apologize,” said Daniel. “I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

  “Yes you did,” her tone still sharp. “I see how you got the wrong impression, but once you get past the gift shop, this really is a house of worship. We hold weekly services in the courtyard out back, and once a month we have a larger ceremony at my sister’s house. For the record, I take my religion seriously.”

  “Priestess Ory, I believe you. Truce, OK? Friends?”

  She smiled, regaining her poise. “All right. But my friends call me Mama Anne.”

  Trinity said, “Let’s say God does want me to receive what you provide, Mama Anne. What does that look like? You gonna slaughter a chicken over my head or—not judging—I just want to know what I’m lettin’ myself in for…”

  Priestess Ory laughed. “I’m a vegetarian. In my ounfo, my congregation, all our sacrifices are mange sec.”

  “Dry meal?”

  “Yes. It means that our offerings to the loa are without blood.”

  Daniel pointed to the altar. “Tell that to the rooster who left his foot over there.” He meant it with good humor, and she didn’t seem to take offense.

  “Like all religions, we are not without our little hypocrisies. But I don’t sacrifice animals at our rituals.”

  “You said ‘the divine’ brought Tim to you, instead of ‘God.’” Daniel made sure his tone was curious, not challenging. “Why is that?”

  “I received my Mambo training and ordination in Haiti, where the Vodou tradition does not include the neo-paganism that you see creeping into a lot of American Voodoo. We believe that God—Bon Dieu Bon—is somewhat distant and perhaps a little busy to deal with our day-to-day problems. So it wouldn’t be God, directly, who brought you here but those spirits we call the invisibles—the loa and orisha—who do have direct influence on our daily lives. And it will be them who will help us understand why. As Catholics pray to various saints for intercession, so we pray to the invisibles. But instead of just lighting a candle, we make offerings of food and drink, incense, music, dance. We invite them to possess our bodies, so they can briefly experience the physical plane. In exchange, they help us on our journey through life. We look after their needs, and they look after ours.”

  “Right, but I thought possession rituals were usually reserved for initiates,” said Trinity.

  She nodded. “I’ll be the vessel for the possession trance and act as an intermediary on your behalf. You’ll probably feel the presence of the loa, feel them knocking at your door, but they won’t enter uninvited. Don’t worry, it’s not an unpleasant feeling at all. It’s actually comforting to know we’re not alone.” She smiled and put her hand on Trinity’s knee. “You’ll see.”

  It was two hours past sunset when Daniel pulled to a stop across the street from Trinity’s old mansion in Lakeview. He’d insisted they at least wait for the cover of darkness. Coming here at all was a significant risk—seriously bad tactics, Pat would’ve said—but Priestess Ory had declared it an essential part of the ritual.

  Ory had explained what would happen at the ceremony in general terms and said that in order to know which of the invisibles to call on for assistance, she had to know Trinity’s history.

  She served coffee and beignets, and Trinity talked for over two hours. He told her of his childhood, his career as a tent revival Holy Roller and his rise to riches as a prosperity preacher on TV, his experience of Katrina, rebuilding his business in Atlanta, the voices, the tongues, and Daniel’s return with news of prophecies. He told of his failed attempts to warn the oil refinery and his conversion to belief in the aftermath, the attempts on his life, and his sincere desire to understand and do God’s will.

  “You have been at war with yourself, and now you are at war with the forces of darkness,” said Priestess Ory. “Shango is the loa most helpful both in matters of personal transformation and in battle. We will summon Shango tonight.” Then she gave them directions to her sister’s house in the Ninth Ward, told them to be there at midnight. And she instructed them to obtain a cup of earth from the property of Trinity’s old mansion in Lakeview.

  Daniel scanned the block as they got out of the car. Lights burned behind the windows of some houses, but the street was empty, save for Daniel and Trinity. All the other homes had been restored to their pre-Katrina splendor, but Trinity’s was in a state of mid-renovation, a Dumpster in the driveway and a small tractor parked in the dirt yard. They crossed the street, Trinity carrying a mason jar and Daniel resting his hand on the butt of his pistol, under his shirt.

  Daniel watched as his uncle wandered from one mound of dirt to another. He checked the street again—all clear—and filled his lungs with warm, moist air, perfumed by a large magnolia tree that had survived Katrina and still stood in the yard.

  Trinity came to a stop between two large mounds of dirt. “Which one?” he said.

  “I don’t think it matters, Tim.”

  “Yeah, I guess not.” Trinity bent down, scooped some dirt into the mason jar. “Think that’s a cup?”

  “Just fill it. She can measure out a cup later.” Headlights swept around the corner as a car turned onto the street, heading in their direction. Damn. Daniel pulled the gun from his waistband but kept it under
the shirt. “Hurry up.”

  Trinity straightened up and screwed the lid on the now-full jar. “Got it.”

  The car was just four houses away, slowing as it approached. They couldn’t cross the street unseen, and with the headlights, Daniel couldn’t tell how many were in the car.

  He pointed and said, “Take cover,” and brought the gun out as they ducked behind the Dumpster.

  He took a deep breath and blew it out, getting his heart rate down. He peeked around the corner. The car was now two houses away, slowing to a crawl. Then a turn signal flashed, and the car turned up the neighboring driveway and out of sight.

  He pulled back and listened. The engine stopped, two doors opened, and two people stepped onto the driveway and both doors slammed shut.

  A man’s angry voice said, “Well maybe we could stay longer if you didn’t drink so damn much.”

  A woman slurred a response. “Yeah, well maybe I wouldn’t drink so much if you didn’t hit on every woman in the fucking room.”

  “And maybe if you didn’t drink so fucking much, I’d be hitting on you. Ever think of that?”

  “Jesus Christ, you really are a bastard.”

  “That’s just the Andersens,” Trinity whispered. “They been having that same conversation for ten years.”

  Daniel tucked the gun away as the Andersens quarreled their way up the steps and into the house. When the front door slammed shut, he nodded at Trinity and they strode back to the car and got in.

  As Daniel cranked the engine to life, he noticed Trinity staring back at the mansion with a haunted look on his face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Just remembering,” said Trinity. “Remembering the man I was. And you know what? I’m ashamed.”

  Conrad Winter pulled to a stop outside an unremarkable Catholic church in an unremarkable suburb just west of New Orleans. He’d left Father Doug in the Sazerac Bar back at the Roosevelt and come alone for this.

  The parish priest here, Father Peter, had called the regional HQ with a lead, of sorts. Some young man had arrived in a state of severe psychological and spiritual distress, babbling about Reverend Tim Trinity and begging for guidance.

  Probably not much of a lead, but perhaps an opportunity just the same. The young man sounded like a lost sheep, and lost sheep can be useful in the right situation. Throughout history, the men competing to shape the future had collected lost sheep to use as pawns in their game, cannon fodder in their wars. Conrad knew he was one of those men, in this age. He was in the game, a shaper of the future, and this particular lost sheep might be just what he needed.

  As he locked the car and walked up the path to the church, Conrad congratulated himself on how well he’d played his hand. When he learned that Trinity and Daniel had survived the bombing at the TV studio, he’d guessed they would return home like salmon swimming upriver to spawn. Whoever planted that bomb had done Conrad a huge favor, and he’d immediately spotted the best play.

  He’d called Cardinal Allodi, and Allodi had quietly come to New Orleans while sending Nick to the command center in Atlanta, where Nick could lead the official operation, unaware that he’d actually been removed from the game.

  It was perfect.

  Conrad entered the church and crossed himself, walked up the aisle, genuflected and crossed himself again when he reached the altar, and turned to face the disheveled young man reading a Bible in the front pew.

  Father Peter approached and nervously introduced himself. He led Conrad to one side and spoke in a low voice. “I’m very sorry for bringing you all the way here, Father. I’ve spent some time with him, and I don’t think he has any idea where Trinity is. In fact, I think he may be insane.”

  Definitely a lost sheep. Conrad smiled. “That’s quite all right, I’m glad you called. And I’ll be happy to minister to the young man.”

  “But sir, my call seems to have set off alarm bells in the council.”

  Conrad put a finger to his lips. “We will not speak of the council.”

  “No, of course, I’m sorry, sir. I—it’s just, I’m pretty new at this, and…” His voice dropped to a whisper, “there’s a cardinal in my office.”

  “I know there is.” Conrad put a reassuring hand on the nervous priest’s forearm. “Perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell His Eminence I’ll join him in a few minutes, after I talk with the young man.”

  “Yes, of course. Right away.” Father Peter scurried away.

  Conrad turned and approached the front pew. He smiled gently, put his hand on the young man’s shoulder, and spoke with the voice of a shepherd.

  The lost sheep was not insane, but was clearly headed down that road, Conrad decided. Unmoored from his former self and now drifting, desperately searching for solid ground upon which to construct a new identity.

  “I think I can work with him,” he told Cardinal Allodi, after Father Peter left the office to sit with the young man. “He was Junior Army ROTC in high school, he responds well to authority. I can whip him into shape for it.”

  “I don’t like it,” said Allodi. “The risk of exposure is too high, too many variables you can’t control.”

  “Well I don’t really like it either,” said Conrad, thinking: “Yes, but…” always works better than “no.” “But I’ll do everything I can to minimize the risk, tie off loose ends. And if it isn’t coming together as planned, I’ll scrub the mission.” He closed with, “Sir, the council has made Trinity a top priority, and we’re running out of options.” Then he shut up to let Cardinal Allodi think about that.

  After a full minute, Allodi said, “All right. You have a tentative green light. On two conditions. First, Father Nick must never, ever catch even a hint of this. If he had any inkling of the council’s inroads into the Holy See…” Allodi didn’t need to finish the sentence. They both understood what was at stake.

  “Yes, sir.” He waited to hear the second condition.

  Cardinal Allodi reached inside a leather briefcase and pulled out a file folder. He handed the folder across to Conrad.

  It was a personnel file. Conrad read the tab: FR. DANIEL BYRNE.

  “You’ll find details of his contacts at the seminary, his life in New Orleans before coming to Rome,” said Allodi. “You need to find him and present Father Nick’s offer, before going ahead with this operation.”

  “He’ll reject it.”

  “That’s not for you to pre-judge, that’s for him to decide. If he takes the deal, we can avoid the risk of exposure entirely. If he doesn’t, then you may proceed. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Eminence.”

  Lower Ninth Ward – New Orleans…

  Tim Trinity peered into the darkness. “Got any idea where we’re at?”

  “Not precisely,” said Daniel. “I’ll stop next time we see a street sign standing.” There was still no electricity in this part of the Ninth Ward, and Daniel couldn’t see past the beam of their headlights.

  What he did see made him feel sick to his stomach. Piles of splintered wood and smashed windows, twisted metal and scattered shingles, broken furniture and rotted mattresses. The ruins of small houses. The ruins of blue-collar lives. Row upon row of them, block after shameful block. No sign of rebuilding.

  As if reading his thoughts, Trinity said, “Looks like the aftermath of a three-day kegger in hell.”

  Ory’s sister lived in a neighborhood that was rebuilding, if slowly. Maybe four in ten houses rebuilt, three in mid-renovation, and three still in ruins. This block had electricity, and a third of the streetlights were actually working.

  Priestess Ory greeted them at the curb. In her shop, she’d been dressed very colorfully, but now she was wearing a simple white dress and white head-wrap. Her feet were bare. She led them beside the house to a gate in the privacy fence surrounding the backyard.

  “Welcome to our peristyle,” she said.

  Inside was a courtyard, covered by a corrugated tin roof on stilts. The inside walls of the fence were painted green with red and yel
low trim, and black drawings of the veve symbols of various loa, alongside snakes and roosters and crosses and coffins, and a large portrait of Marie Laveau, the nineteenth-century Queen of Voodoo. About a dozen tiki torches provided the lighting, augmented by twice as many flickering red and white candles scattered about the place.

  In the center of it all stood a striped pole, surrounded by an altar that would give Ory’s store altar an inferiority complex. A magnificent collection of fetishes and offerings, bottles of rum and perfume and sarsaparilla, plates and bowls overflowing with yams, plantain, apples, peppers, nuts, figs, and hard candy. Two framed portraits—Saint Peter and Saint Barbara—were propped up against the altar, behind the offerings.

  Priestess Ory brought a couple of mugs to Daniel and Trinity. “Legba and Shango both love rum. We drink to honor them.”

  Trinity winked at her, said, “L’Chaim,” and downed his in one swallow.

  “Oy vey,” Daniel deadpanned.

  Priestess Ory let out a good-humored laugh, then took Daniel’s hand in hers and turned serious. “You have a skeptical mind, and I respect that,” she said. “I’m not asking you to believe anything, I simply ask that you clear your mind of preconceptions and be open to your feelings. You may not believe in the loa, but please do not disrespect them.” She smiled and gave his hand a squeeze. “They can turn ugly if they feel mocked.”

  Daniel felt the ghost of an ice cube slide down his spine. “I’ll behave myself. Promise.” He drank the rum.

  “Thank you,” she said. “This is a Rada gathering—the invisibles we’re working with tonight are very benevolent and not aggressive. They won’t take possession unless you give them permission. So be sure that you don’t, unless you’re willing to be mounted. Just stand over here and relax. And if you get the urge to dance or sing along with us, feel free.”