She’d already told him she would meet him at JFK, so there was no turning back. There was some detective work to be done, figuring out which flight he’d be on, where and exactly when he’d be coming in. Plus he’d have to go through the whole customs drill…
If somebody really was after him, “they” would have plenty of chances to nail him. Marion gulped the rest of her wine, poured another glass. This might turn out to be exciting.
Well, she could use a little intrigue in her life right now. If nothing else, the diversion would keep her mind off James.
SIXTEEN
Rome, Italy—Targeno
* * *
August 27, 1998
He was working late in SSV Records when Father Francesco beeped him on his portable digital phone.
“Yes, Father, what can I do for you?”
“I need your help,” said the Jesuit. The edge in his voice indicated either fear or barely controlled anger. Knowing the old man as he did, Targeno would have wagered on the latter.
“It is the middle of the night. Can this wait till morning?”
“If that were true, I would have called you in the morning.”
“All right.” Targeno sighed as he reached out and disabled the CD scanfax. There would be no more research tonight. “What do you want?”
“There is an emergency. Listen.” Francesco recounted the escape of an American priest being held under observation by the Curia’s committee on miracles. A psychologically disturbed priest who was now on a flight back to America.
Targeno chuckled into the mouthpiece of the portable phone. “You want me to chase down a runaway priest? Are you serious?”
“I have already made arrangements for him to be met at Kennedy International,” said Francesco. “But I want to be certain there are no mistakes.”
Targeno paused, letting him twist in silence for a moment. Then: “You are not telling me everything. What is going on? First this business with the nun. And now I am supposed to chase down a psycho priest?”
“I am telling you all you need to know.”
“Wrong. I need to know everything!” he hissed into the phone. “If you think I am strolling into a situation without knowing the details, you are crazy! That is how people get killed, Father.”
The Jesuit chuckled softly. “Is II Chirurgo afraid of a crazy priest?”
“Only dead men know no fear,” he said.
“Besides,” said Francesco, “why should I tell you everything I know when you do not follow your own advice?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your report on the nun. If she told you nothing, why did you spend almost three hours with her? Sister Victorianna told me of your visit. Three hours is a long time for nothing.”
Targeno smiled. “Looks like we have each other by the cogliones, Father. I think we will both get what we want if we both start singing.”
There was a silence on the other end of the line for a moment.
“You are a sheep-fucker…” said Francesco. “All right, but not over the phone.”
Targeno smiled. In his business, he’d long ago learned that information, not money, was the most valuable bargaining chip. If you had some, you could always get something in return.
“Very well,” he said. “My office in a half-hour. I will have a pass waiting for you in the lobby.”
“We are wasting time, you know.” Francesco’s voice registered the compromise, but he attempted one last dissuasion.
“Either we deal, or I do not chase down your boy.”
“Half an hour,” the Jesuit said, and terminated the connection.
Targeno gathered up the papers he had faxed from Information Retrieval and left the area. Half of what Francesco would probably tell him, he had most likely already gleaned himself from the computer records. Access to the cross-indexing of so many databases yielded many interesting tidbits. He already had pieced together a fascinating portrait of Sister Etienne, an apparently innocent nun.
Perhaps the Jesuit could tell him why a German scientist had been hired to oversee her pregnancy? Or why she claimed she could only tell her son or the Pope the contents of her vision?
Checking his watch, Targeno entered the elevator that would take him to his cubicle. He had the feeling he had already collected all the puzzle pieces, and needed only to fit them together.
Therein lay the best part of his job. After a while, assassinations got to be a bore.
SEVENTEEN
Queens, New York—Carenza
* * *
August 27, 1998
The HST jetliner touched down at JFK exactly on schedule, and Peter felt the first suggestions of relief since the madness had begun. He still wasn’t sure what he would do beyond the next day or two, but he felt better just being back in the States, away from those Old World zealots and their revelations.
The flight had seemed endless and he’d been unable to stop replaying the events of the past few days.
Insane. Ludicrous. Impossible.
It had been all of that. But there was a part of him that kept wondering what if…?
What if it were true?
The idea of a man being cloned from the genetic blueprint of the blood of Christ was staggering in and of itself. But to even begin to think that the man in question could be Peter Carenza—
No. It was stunningly absurd.
How could he be that person? To be, as they claimed, Christ himself?
A flight steward touched his arm lightly. Peter looked up at the young man blankly.
“It’s time to deplane, sir.”
“Oh yes,” said Peter. “Sorry…”
Getting up, he grabbed his little bag, and followed the rest of the passengers down the aisle to exit into TWA’s own International Terminal. Peter followed the signs down a long ramp to Passport Control. The line for U.S. citizens moved quickly and he passed through toward the routine customs check.
Customs. In the confusing storm of his thoughts, he’d forgotten about the procedure.
“Excuse me,” he said to an airline employee as he reached the end of the ramp. “If I’m going to meet someone, somebody who’s supposed to pick me up, where would they be?”
The young woman smiled at him graciously.
“They would have to be waiting in the terminal lobby. No one’s allowed in this area without a ticket or a boarding pass.”
Thanking her, Peter joined the flow of passengers to the customs area. There were seven functioning checkpoints, so the lines were moving fairly quickly. If Father Francesco and his band of merry men had discovered which flight Peter had taken, somebody would be waiting for him somewhere along the line.
Customs might not be the best place to cause a scene, or, contrarily, it might be the best place. But was it possible that the Vatican had men secreted within a U.S. government agency?
Anything was credible, especially assuming that most government jobs were carried out by lazy, uninspired work-a-days who wouldn’t notice a spy or a plant unless his pants were on fire.
But there were seven customs agents working. Unless all of them were Vatican operatives, it would be difficult to detain him here. Peter’s chances of selecting the line controlled by one of Francesco’s men were like playing Russian roulette. Though customs was a perfectly logical place to publicly detain a person, it was almost impossible to ensure that the prey moved through the correct line.
Peter queued up behind a stout woman carrying several large bags. The line moved forward, and Peter studied the faces of the customs agents. At least half of them looked pleasant and were even smiling as they went about their jobs, usually just asking a few questions. No one seemed to be paying any attention to him as he approached the bank of inspection stations. But of course that’s exactly the way they would act if they wanted to lull him into a false sense of security.
Damn! Paranoia was a wondrous affliction! No matter what path of thought you chose, there was always a flip-side to make you wo
nder what was really going on.
The fat woman hefted her luggage onto the low tables where the agents worked. The black man who inspected her bulging vinyl and nylon bags was young and courteous. He was articulate and charming, and Peter had a hard time imagining such a person working for a wolfish type like Father Francesco.
“Aha,” said the agent in a soft voice. “What’s this?”
He fished out several bottles of white wine and another of red.
“Do I have to pay a duty on those?” asked the woman. “Did I do anything wrong?”
“Well, I don’t know, ma’am. Do you intend to drink these yourself, or were you going to sell them?”
“Oh, no, they’re for me. Honest.”
The agent smiled. “No problem, then.” He checked off a space on a form on his clipboard, continued looking through the remainder of her things. After he passed her through, the agent smiled at Peter and looked down at his sports bag with surprise.
“That’s it?”
“I like to travel light.” Peter smiled back at him, hoping that he did not appear too nervous.
“I guess you do…” The agent unzipped the bag, passing over Peter’s wallet and assorted toiletries, then paused when he saw the black clothes, the roman collar.
“You’re a priest?”
For an instant, time stopped. Peter didn’t know how to answer. Had they all been told to look for a priest? What the hell should he do?
Without a discernible pause, Peter yanked his passport from his sweatjacket pocket. “That’s right. I’d been called to the Vatican on short notice.”
The agent nodded, handed back the document. “I see. An emergency with God, eh?”
Peter chuckled as he shared the small joke with the young black man. The agent quickly rezipped the bag, pushed it back to him.
“Thank you, Father. Have a nice evening and welcome back.”
“Thank you,” said Peter as he grabbed his bag and escaped the customs bottleneck. He headed down another corridor to the terminal lobby.
Along with a steady stream of travelers coming from various international flights, Peter entered a large open space where crowds of people stood searching the faces of the new arrivals. Parents awaited sons and daughters; lovers longed for lovers; drivers held up handprinted signs for people they wouldn’t recognize; families fidgeted in wait for fathers and mothers.
Slowing his pace, he scanned the crowd for someone who looked something like Marion Windsor. He noticed a girl with a scarf and billowing cotton skirt, but her puffy, thickly featured face was that of an Eastern European peasant. Another woman in a straw bonnet with a satin ribbon looked at him for an instant, then continued to search the pack of new arrivals. Suddenly there was a blur of motion from his left as a young woman wearing an Aussie hat, a baggy khaki shirt, and shorts grabbed him by the arm. Her hair was pulled up underneath the hat, and she wore sunglasses.
“How do I look?” she asked, smiling as she began guiding Peter toward the exits. He looked at her, and even though he knew she was Marion Windsor, he marveled at the effectiveness of her disguise.
“Fantastic!” he said, feeling the soft yet firm touch of her hand on his arm. Several times she brushed close to him and he could feel the fullness of hip and breast unique to the female body.
“See anybody or anything funny?”
“Not yet. I was wondering about customs but that seemed to go okay. What about you?”
“Nothing. Either they’re really good, or there’s nobody around.” She looked at him through her amber lenses and smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you out of here.”
He scanned the area ahead as they walked through the crowds, looking for anyone who seemed to be watching them. Everything seemed so ordinary, so damned normal. That’s when they were going to strike, he knew it, just when he let his guard down completely.
“Did you bring your own car?”
“No, I borrowed my girlfriend’s.”
“Good idea. If anybody sees us, they’ll have a harder time tracing us.”
“I already thought of that,” said Marion.
Even as they walked, even while looking around, Peter had been staring at her face. She had the most intriguing mouth he’d ever seen on a woman. Her smile was so engaging, so unique; the kind in which you swore you saw every one of her teeth for the briefest of instants. Amazing.
“Maybe we’ve seen too many spy movies,” he said.
“This way,” said Marion, pointing to an escalator leading down to street level. She still clung to his arm like a woman who’s waited a long time to see her man, and Peter found himself enjoying the contact. He was certain he and Marion looked convincing as a pair of adventurous, athletic young lovers.
They passed through the pneumatic glass doors. Peter saw the yellow hulks of the taxis awaiting fares and the entrance to the parking lot beyond. He stepped forward just as a skycap pushing a luggage-carrier darted in front of them.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said in a deep voice. Peter glanced at the tall, broad-shouldered man—who suddenly did not look very much like your average skycap.
Before they could step around the obstacle, another skycap appeared on their left and reached out as though to assist Marion and gripped her by the arm. There was no way for Peter to reach around her to free her; the other man stepped close. The one holding Marion’s wrist produced a handgun. It was an angular, chrome-polished article of menace with a matching silencer, pointed at Peter’s midsection. He felt the bottom drop from his stomach and his mouth go instantly dry.
These guys were good. They had moved in without being noticed and had quickly neutralized their prey. The unarmed man had a tight grip on Peter’s upper arm. Peter glanced about like a cornered animal, but could see immediately how bad things looked. The large concrete support pylons covering the departure area afforded lots of shadowy protection from the notice of others.
“You have to come with us, Father. I think you know why…” said the one with the gun. His baritone voice was smooth, and he was smiling like a stand-up comic, but there was an unmistakable chill in his eyes.
Tensing up, Peter tested the strength of the man to his right. The big guy was strong, no doubt, and Peter wondered how badly he would do against him.
“What’s going on here!?” cried Marion trying to back away from the man with the gun. “Peter, my God!”
Her expression displayed total helplessness and terror. Seeing her like that, Peter hated himself for involving her. She thought she was helping a troubled priest, but she was actually making the descent into the maelstrom.
He had to do something.
Forcing himself to smile, he looked directly into the ball-peen eyes of Chrome Gun. “You aren’t going to use that thing,” he said. “That’s the one thing you can’t do to me. Francesco told you I don’t get touched, right?”
The man didn’t respond, but he didn’t have to. There was moment’s hesitation as the two thugs reassessed their options. Peter’d scored the points he might need. Then:
“He didn’t say nothin’ about this one,” said Chrome Gun, suddenly flashing the silencer up into Marion’s face. He reached up, as if to remove her sunglasses. “Too bad, too. She looks like a pretty one, eh?”
As his hand touched the cheap plastic frames, Marion reacted.
Spinning and lashing out at the same time, she executed a martial arts move with stunning perfection. One hand seized the man’s gun arm, her other snapped down with shattering force. The angle was precisely measured and the man’s ulna cracked like a dry twig. His scream masked the clatter of the gun on the pavement. It had happened so fast, both Peter and the muscular thug at his side were shocked into immobility.
“Peter! Move!” she cried, then reared back to deliver a side-kick to Chrome Gun’s belly. Bent double, the guy caught Marion’s power-punch to the temple and went down hard. But even before he hit the concrete, his partner had thrown himself for the gun. Peter stood by helplessly, watching the
broad-shouldered thug grab the weapon and roll back toward Marion, who was only now turning away from her handiwork to deal with the other half of the problem.
“Okay, lady!” he screamed, holding the shining piece steady. “You move, and I gotta do it!”
Though Marion’s eyes remained masked behind dark plastic, Peter could see the defeat in her face. She had begun to coil for another attack, but suddenly her body went limp.
“You bastards! What do you want with us?”
Big Guy sort of half-smiled and nodded toward Peter. “They want him back. Now.”
“What for? For God’s sake, Peter, what have you done?”
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. Look, I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”
“Shut up. We’re getting out of here.”
“What about your buddy?” asked Peter, looking at the still unconscious figure at his feet.
“Fuck him,” said Big Guy. “They’ll clean this mess up later. I gotta get you outta here. Now.”
He gestured quickly with the gun toward a black Accura at the curbside. “Okay let’s go. Get in the car.”
Marion’s shoulders slumped even lower as she began walking toward the sleek vehicle. Peter paused one last moment.
“What’re you going to do with her? She didn’t have anything to do with this.”
The man shrugged. “I don’t know. Nobody said anything about anybody else. She comes along until they tell me what to do with her.”
Peter didn’t like the sound of that last line. “And what happens if they tell you to kill her?”
The assailant smiled. “Hey, everybody’s gotta make a livin’, right?”
Marion stopped in mid-stride, obviously chilled by the thug’s implication. Peter could almost feel the acidlike scent of her dread. Without thinking, he reached out, grabbed the guy’s thick forearm.
“No,” Peter said softly.
The thug’s eyes met his, and in that instant of silent contact, Peter knew what was going to happen. It was like looking into a bottomless pool, into that place where lay his deepest fears and desires. The immediate future uncoiled before him like a long, white snake, poising to strike.
The Blood of the Lamb Page 12