“There won’t be any jellyfish.” She choked back a laugh she knew came from fear. “Just relax and let me hold you. I’ll swim you to the top, just like the Little Mermaid. You remember the Little Mermaid?”
Anthony nodded.
The water was halfway up his chest. ”All right,” Helena said to Susan. “I’ll count to three, and then we start rolling.” She counted down and then pressed the window-control button.
Nothing happened.
Susan was stabbing at the window button on the passenger side. The window didn’t budge. Helena’s panic shot higher. The water had shorted out the circuits.
She looked wildly around the car. It had landed at a tilt, and the water hadn’t yet breached the driver’s side rear window. Sudden calm swept over her, as if she’d gone clear through terror and out the other side. “Never mind, then. I’ll kick out that window”—she nodded toward it—“and you follow me.”
She pulled Anthony against her, shielding him with her body. “Hold your breath.” She grabbed the passenger strap with her right hand and the back seat with her left, took in a deep breath of her own, and slammed both feet against the window. The glass popped out. Water rushed in, crowding out the light as the car sank faster.
***
Racing toward the bridge, Michael heard the shot and watched in helpless panic as Helena’s car went through the railing into the murky water. The green Mercedes shot across the bridge and took off down the road.
Michael screeched to a stop hard by the bridge and hurled himself out of his car. He half slid, half stumbled down the river bank toward the water, stripped down to his pants and dove in.
The water was murky, but after a second or two he made out two large shapes in motion. Anthony, he thought, and suppressed a jolt of panic. He pushed forward through the current. Relief flooded through him as he saw his son, held close by Helena’s arm around his waist. Helena was stroking upward with her free arm and kicking hard toward the surface.
He watched her break through, Susan doing likewise just a few feet distant. Michael swam upward and surfaced just a few strokes away. Anthony was coughing, a blessedly welcome sound. Michael swam over and took Anthony from Helena’s arms. Together, Michael and Helena swam to shore. Susan was already there, dragging herself up the bank.
They staggered out of the water. The warm June air and the grassy bank beneath his feet had never felt so welcome. “Cough hard,” Helena said to Anthony. “It’ll get the water out.” Anthony coughed obediently and blew a little water out of his nose, but otherwise seemed unhurt.
Susan stumbled over. “Helena saved us. She kicked out the window and got us out of the car. She saved us.”
Michael led them toward his car, parked at a crazy angle by the bridge. His jacket and shirt lay in the grass. He picked the jacket up and wrapped it around Helena and Anthony as best he could. “Forgive me,” he said softly.
Helena leaned against him. She looked into his eyes, but said nothing. Then her eyes widened. “You’re bleeding.”
He’d forgotten about the bullet graze. He picked up his shirt and tore it, then folded the torn strip into a compress for his ear. Helena held it in place. She was shivering despite the jacket, as the adrenaline rush wore off.
“Let’s get out of here,” Michael said. ”Before Mr. Green Mercedes comes back with friends.”
***
A few hours later, after hot showers, a change of clothes and a light meal, they gathered around the table on the terrace at the villa. Anthony sat on Michael’s lap, clearly enjoying the extra attention from a father reluctant to let him out of his arms. Helena sat next to Michael, Susan and James across from them. Lorenzo, at the far end of the table, spoke softly in Italian with Luke.
“The rest of your men got to the farmhouse just after you left,” James said. “They took custody of the thugs and searched the house, but found nothing except a couple more handguns. Colt Trooper Mark III .357 Magnums, to be exact.”
“And the one I stomped on?” Michael wanted to know just how badly he’d injured the man. He wanted to know if the man would live.
James looked grave. “He’ll live. With a broken neck, though. I expect he’ll need reconstructive surgery for his face. Even with the best care, he’ll likely be disfigured. And paralyzed. He’s paying a heavy price.”
True enough, but Michael had no regrets. He gave Anthony a gentle squeeze. His wife and son were alive and unhurt. Even though he knew it wasn’t over yet, he felt profoundly grateful. His fellow Specialists had picked up the man in the green Mercedes, who’d been booked for conspiracy, attempted murder, and kidnapping. Michael’s villa and the surrounding roads were crawling with Italian security forces.
“We’ll retrieve your car tomorrow,” he said, with a wry glance at Helena. “We’ll probably have to get a new one.”
She returned his smile. “This time I’ll just kick the tires.”
James examined Michael’s head wound. “When was the last time you had a tetanus shot?”
He had to think about it. “Last year.”
“I think you should get antibiotics and an X-ray just to be on the safe side. You might need a stitch or two, although it doesn’t look too bad.”
“One thing I’d like to know,” Michael said, “is what happened to that gunman in the first place. When he screamed and grabbed his knee. Something hurt him, but I didn’t see what.”
Anthony turned and looked up at Michael. “I did. I kneecapped him!” The boy’s face shone with pride.
“What?” Michael was stunned. “How?”
“He was going to hurt mamà. He was a bad man. I had my whittling knife Lorenzo gave me. So I stuck him.”
Michael kissed the top of his son’s head. “You may have saved all our lives.”
***
Helena took the boys off to bed a little later, clearly unwilling to relegate that task to the nanny on this particular night. Michael reluctantly let his older son go. He felt proud of Anthony, but also unsettled. A six year-old boy never should have been in that kind of situation, defending his mother from an armed thug.
James had gone into the house, leaving Michael and Susan alone on the terrace. He saw his opportunity and took it. “You set me up,” he said.
She looked startled, then shamefaced. “Yes, I did. “I’m sorry about that now.”
“It was Graf,” wasn’t it?”
Her eyebrows rose. “How did you know?”
“I smelled your perfume in his apartment.” It had taken him awhile to place the scent, but he was sure of his ground now. “Why did you do it?”
Susan tossed her head and shrugged. “Graf said he’d give me inside information on what was happening in the Vatican. I’d have a great story about a major change in the Catholic Church, with power struggles, murders, pictures, background material, everything.”
“And that was all?” Michael asked gently.
Susan looked away. “He also paid me $25,000. He bought me clothes and paid for my dye job. He said it was important that I look right.” She fidgeted with her hair. “I’m sorry. I had no idea there would be any real danger.”
Money and a story, he thought. Graf had gone to great lengths to throw him off balance. He had access to Michael’s files, to pictures of Irena. The sense of violation made Michael furious. And Susan was a willing accomplice. He couldn’t bring himself to forgive her, at least not yet.
“Well, what exactly did you think was going to happen?” Michael couldn’t hide his irritation. “You agreed to be an accomplice in an obvious scam.”
Helena stepped out on the terrace and heard his last remark. Her expression was grave and tense. She approached them with a keen glance at Susan before turning to Michael. “You have a phone call,” she said. “A Father Graf. He says it’s urgent.”
Michael strode into the house and picked up the phone. “Yes?”
Graf’s deep voice came over the line. “I know who Father Miro is, and I have evidence that can help you
. Can you meet me at my apartment at nine?”
Michael glanced at his watch. Two hours from now.
He made a swift decision. “I’ll be there.”
“Come alone,” Graf said.
CHAPTER XXI
Rome
Thursday, June 20
Father Graf’s door was ajar when Michael arrived at the priest’s apartment. He drew his gun, pushed the door open wider, and cautiously stepped inside. It appeared quiet and deserted.
Graf’s dining room looked ready for an Architectural Digest photo shoot. The elegant china, silver and crystal service were arranged for a formal multi-course meal for two. A candelabra centerpiece held fresh white tapered candles, unlit. A wine bucket held water with remnants of melting cubes.
He called Father Graf’s name. “It’s Michael Visconte. Are you here?”
No answer. Gun at the ready, Michael moved swiftly and carefully through the apartment.
In the kitchen, a large saucepan held veal scaloppini, the sauce cold and congealing around the meat. The bedroom and bathroom were empty and undisturbed. Not even a faint trace of perfume.
In the study he found a note, hastily written on a piece of stationery: Change of plans. Meet me at the top of the Castel Sant'Angelo. Michael stared at the note for a second or two, then quickly went through Graf’s desk. The priest’s appointment book yielded several handwritten scrawls that matched the writing on the note.
Michael took his phone from his pocket and dialed his office. He relayed some quick instructions, tucked the phone away, and headed for his car.
***
Michael carried no flashlight, but the city below provided just enough light for him to dimly make out his surroundings at the top of the Castel. He saw the burly priest waiting for him, leaning against the base of the dark angel’s statue. The priest stayed silent and immobile, as if waiting for Michael to come to him.
The hair stood up on the back of Michael's neck. He knew Graf was Father Miro, the Society’s traitor and capable of murder. Graf had ordered the killings of Father Manion and Father Pintozzi, and Michael suspected he’d disfigured Manion’s body under the guise of the autopsy. He’d likely ordered Father Pintozzi’s mutilation too. But Michael couldn’t prove anything unless he trapped Graf into incriminating himself. All he had was a folder full of coded passwords on Pintozzi’s old desk. Father Pleurre’s passwords, which Pintozzi hadn’t known. Which in turn meant the traitor to whom Pintozzi fed information was Father Graf or Father de Aragon, until de Aragon’s death left only one suspect.
He tightened his grip on his gun and took a slow, deep breath. It was down to him now, and to whatever happened in the next few minutes. He owed it to his family, to James, to Father de Aragon, to the Specialists and to himself.
He approached Father Graf. The priest didn’t move. He gazed unblinkingly at Michael, who felt new fear as the meaning of that eerie stare sank in.
Graf’s face was oddly smooth, lacking the grimace of a death mask. Michael moved closer and saw that the priest had been stabbed through the heart. The stain around the wound was surprisingly small. Dead for less than an hour, Michael guessed.
A savage blow came down hard on Michael’s bandaged head. The impact drove him to his knees. He rolled away, ears ringing, and tried to right himself. A savage kick to his ribs knocked the wind out of him. Before he could draw breath, another kick sent him sprawling.
Rough hands raised him, pulling him toward the edge of the battlements. Too dazed and winded to fight, he let himself sag. Dead weight would make things harder for his attacker.
“You shouldn’t have gotten involved,” a familiar voice said. Michael blinked and focused on the face of Father Pleurre. “It’s too bad you showed up here.”
Shock coursed through him. He had to buy time, clear his head. Stay alive long enough for his men to arrive. “Why?” he managed to gasp.
“Graf betrayed the Society. I tapped his telephone and his computer; I know everything. He called me tonight, begging me to use my influence to help him. But he lied. He was going to frame me as the traitor! I told him to meet me here, where no one could see us who might make more trouble for him. He believed me. It was so easy to trap him.” Father Pleurre chuckled, a chilling sound. “I can protect the Society. I have devoted my life to it. Evil men like Graf, like Matteo Pintozzi—I won’t allow them to destroy it.”
“Pintozzi?” Michael’s breath came easier now, though he still felt too dizzy to best Pleurre in a fight. Just a minute longer… “You killed him?”
“He was a traitor as well,” Pleurre growled. “A parasite feeding on other men’s wounds of the spirit. He charmed me at first, the way he charmed everyone else. He flattered me, said he couldn’t have made so much money without me. A few months ago, he asked me to be his confessor. He told me he was a homosexual. A disgusting little pervert. And he took things, confidential papers, secure computer files. He gave them to someone in the Archangeli. I didn’t know who then, but I knew I had to act.”
“You were wrong,” Michael said. He felt his strength returning. “Father Pintozzi wasn’t a traitor. He was acting on Father Herzog’s instructions.”
“Liar!” Pleurre spat the word and shook Michael hard.
“No.” Michael fought off a new wave of dizziness. “He was helping to unmask the Archangeli. Father Pintozzi infiltrated the computer system just far enough to earn their trust, so he could discover who their leader was.”
Father Pleurre stared at Michael in confusion.
“It’s over, Father,” Michael said. “My men are all around the Castel by now, on their way up here.”
“I don’t believe you,” Father Pleurre croaked, his face twisted in agony and doubt.
“Father Pintozzi was loyal to the Society. You made a mistake. You harmed the Society and killed an innocent man.”
“No, I would never harm the Society!” Pleurre choked out a wail of grief. Matteo was a traitor!”
He dragged Michael nearer the edge of the battlements. Head throbbing, Michael struggled in his grip. He was losing ground, moving nearer to the edge.
Pleurre gave a final, powerful shove. Michael allowed his body to go limp, dropped his weight straight down towards the masonry, and used his attacker’s own momentum against him as he grabbed the priest and threw him. Father Pleurre hurled past him and vanished into the darkness below.
CHAPTER XXII
Vatican City
Friday, June 21
Father Herzog meditated and prayed. He performed the Spiritual Exercises and the Jesuit Test of Conscience, and asked for strength and guidance in the task he was about to undertake. Then he dressed in the simple black robes of a Jesuit priest and assessed himself in the mirror. His white mane testified to his advanced years, but his posture was youthful and erect. A leather briefcase held his carefully prepared documents, and he picked it up. He took a last deep, calming breath and left his rooms, making his way swiftly to the Apostolic Palace.
At the entrance to the Papal apartments, he was briefly stopped by the first set of guards, who examined but did not attempt to read the contents of his briefcase. The other three sets of guards waved him on through. He was expected.
At the door to the Papal reception room, the Maestro di Camera showed him in, with a curious glance at Father Herzog’s briefcase. Herzog smiled, but declined to enlighten the man. He knew there was intense speculation in the Vatican as to why the Superior General of the Society of Jesus had requested a special private audience with the Pope, let alone on such short notice. Such a thing had never happened before in the memory of the Vatican. The Maestro di Camera strained to hear Father Herzog's words. He closed the soundproof door as slowly as decency would allow.
“Salve clementissime Papa,” Father Herzog said. “In spiritu humilitatis, et in animo contrito suscipiamo a te, Pater.”
The Maestro di Camera frowned in disappointment. All he heard was a flowery Latin greeting: Hail, gracious Father, may you accept my
spirit of humility and contrite heart."
The Pope was waiting for Herzog at a small table. Father Herzog greeted him and took the empty seat. The Pope and Father Herzog continued with the polite Latin formalities.
Herzog took a moment to focus, and imagined what the two of them must look like. The hulking Pope in white ceremonial robes, Herzog himself—thinner and smaller but sturdier—in his simple black cassock. Two white-haired old men with the fate of their Church in their hands.
Father Herzog looked at the Pontiff and switched from Latin to flawless upper-class German. “With the permission of Your Holiness, I would like to continue the rest of this meeting in Your Holiness’ mother tongue.”
The Pope’s eyes widened slightly, a subtle betrayal of surprise. After a moment, he nodded stiffly. “Please continue.”
Father Herzog reached for his black briefcase and took out two sets of documents. He handed one to the Pope and kept the other. “If it please Your Holiness, this is a detailed listing of the Archangeli, their conspirators, and proof of their participation in criminal activities.”
The Pope’s expression betrayed nothing. “Why are you bringing Us this information, Father Herzog?”
“The Society thinks it is important these crimes be brought to Your Holiness’ attention. Obviously this has serious ramifications for the administration of the Church.”
They sat in silence for several seconds, Father Herzog unruffled by the Pope’s cold appraisal. It bothered the Pontiff, Herzog knew, that he himself spoke the perfect German of an orator, rather than the Pope’s lower middle-class German. He was counting on that to add to the intimidating effect of the information the Pope held in his hand.
“We think this is a matter for Vatican Intelligence,” the Pope said. “We must insist the Society turn over all of its evidence to Us. We stress all of it, and We will take care of it from here.”
Archangels: Rise of the Jesuits Page 19