The God Particle

by Tom Avitabile

  “Just so long as you either throw them out or take ’em with you when you leave. I want ’em out of here,” Helfer said, as he brought a wastebasket next to Brooke.

  Two hours later there were two filled and one half-filled blue recycling barrels next to Brooke, and she was down to her last stack. She had placed nine letters aside, either because they were heartbreakingly eloquent or she thought she’d snoop around a little. For instance, there was a woman who wrote saying that her daughter had been killed by her husband’s bookie as a way to get him to repay a gambling debt. Another sought out Brooke to help track family heirlooms that disappeared from a bonded warehouse; the heirlooms were gold coins squirreled away by her grandfather right before the government recalled all the coins in the 30s. The now rare coins were worth millions and she suspected the manager of the warehouse. Brooke didn’t know what she would do with these letters. Maybe just write back saying she was retired or maybe offer some advice, but that would probably make her somehow legally responsible, so maybe not. Maybe with these she could get a P.I. license and make some cash before Mush got back.

  Brooke got up to take a bathroom break when her cell phone rang. It was Joey from Paris.

  ∞§∞

  The Boston Seven, as Bill had come to refer to them, were proving to be an isolated group who had two major connections that rattled Bill and the higher-ups in both Justice and Homeland Security. One was a direct pipeline to the militant wing of the Irish Republican Army in America. That was where the surface-to-air shoulder-launched missile had come from. ICE and ATF were raiding and shutting down that arm right now, in raids on docks and airports, and a few diplomats were being uninvited by the State Department to stay in America. The second element, and by far the more worrisome to Bill and the president, was the Knights of the Sepulchre members to whom the Boston Seven had arms-length access. It was they who had forwarded to the seven the instantaneous information on the meeting Bill had with the Landau at Camp David.

  What kept the president and all his best people awake every night was that there were spies deep within the American government at the most sensitive levels. Although not Russian, Chinese or Iranian, they were spies who had decided there was a loyalty that surpassed their oath to the United States. Bill knew that all spies share this suborned agenda; however, these individuals were doing it out of religious obedience. The devastating impact of this subtle difference was that a communist spy in the government would never take May fifth, the Russian Day of Independence, off, lest they show their true colors. Yet employees of the United States government openly celebrated Christmas and Easter and Passover and Ramadan. Deciding who was a religious spy was a hornet’s nest of conflicting national security and civil liberties tenets. For that reason, the president quickly passed a finding, a secret law, allowing extreme measures to be taken in ferreting out the Knights. Mitchell knew that this kind of treason threatened the sovereignty of the United States at a cardiovascular level compromising the very heart of government. He was out for blood. He didn’t have to wait long.

  Bill started reading the morning briefing Cheryl had prepared back in Washington on the developments overnight in the Boston Seven investigation. The FBI had broken the IRA connection by arresting the second-level operatives in five states. The FBI, the Diplomatic Security Service, the Secret Service and the CIA were circling around three suspects who might be members of the Knights. Arrests were imminent, one inside the White House itself. Bill knew that one would personally hurt James Mitchell the most. Being the first independent to hold office, and owing no patronage to either party to hand out jobs, he had hand-picked every one of the heads in the administration. This would strike him at his very core. The report was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Come in.”

  The janitor of the Paris Embassy entered, “Monsieur, here is the hammer you requested.”

  “Thank you, er…”

  “Henri.”

  “Yes, Henri, thanks.” Bill unlocked his desk drawer and placed the hammer in it.

  The report riled up anger in Bill as he read it. He wanted summary public execution in Yankee Stadium for the person whose treason had led to the death of Professor Landau, and to announce to the world, You can’t fuck with America, whether you are a radical Muslim or devoted Catholic. Bill didn’t connect his personal desire for revenge with the fact that he and his son came inches away from being killed by that same treasonous act.

  Bill’s aide knocked on his door, “Sir, the Papal Nuncio is here.”

  “Send him in. And no calls.” Bill closed the briefing file and put it in his top desk drawer. He stood and shook the hand of the de facto ambassador of one billion Catholics around the world, but principally of the one head Catholic seated in the Holy City in Rome.

  “Your Eminence, thank you for coming all this way.” Bill gestured to the chair next to the couch, figuring it would be easier for the septuagenarian to sit in than the couch, which swallowed up anyone who sunk into it.

  “Coming to Paris is never a burden for the former Cardinal of France,” he said with an old man’s grunt as he sat.

  Bill chided himself for already slipping on a diplomatic banana peel for not knowing that, or knowing the man for that matter. The bishop had been brought up from the French ‘farm team.’ France being the birthplace of diplomacy, he must have been a shoe-in for the Vatican’s chief political officer.

  “Will your ambassador be joining us?” the Prince of the Church asked.

  “No, no, Your Eminence. I bring a personal message from the president, and he asked that I share it only with you. No disrespect to the American ambassador, but when you hear this sentiment you’ll understand why it was better left to me, a non-diplomat.”

  “Very dramatic introduction, Dr. Hiccock. Before you proceed, may I have some water?”

  “Sure.” Bill got up, brought the tray with the pitcher and glasses over to the table before them, and poured a glass for the man. “Here you go.”

  “Merci beaucoup. Sorry I interrupted you; go on.”

  “Yes. Well, the president would like you to convey to the Pope that the sovereignty of the United States will not be compromised by religious zealots and, in the last analysis, downright spies. The Vatican must immediately cease and disband the espionage network through which sensitive U.S. government intelligence is channeled to sects, who then perpetrate atrocities like the assassination of Professor Landau.”

  “With all due respect, Professor, nothing of the sort has been orchestrated by the Vatican, and frankly, I take deep umbrage at your allegation…No! Your condemnation, of the Papacy.”

  “Bishop, I assure you, we do not make these accusations without overwhelming proof, physical evidence of which is being amassed at this very moment for world exhibition if you fail to comply with the president’s wishes.”

  “Threatening blackmail in the court of public opinion will not serve your end.”

  “Not the public court sir, but the Supreme Court of the United States, as a prelude to declaring that surveillance of all Catholic churches and other property be considered as necessary to answer a clear and present danger to the United States.”

  “That’s preposterous. American Catholics will not stand for such draconian measures. He will isolate himself and be more of a lame duck than he is already.”

  “There’s more. Every church lease, every retreat, every Catholic university, rectory, and neighborhood bazaar will go right to the top of the IRS audit list. And the Justice Department will sweep through every Catholic archdiocese and very publicly arrest every priest who ever smiled at a kid sideways. Very public! When they’re finished, American Catholics will be converting to Protestantism — hell, Judaism, before the next Sunday.”

  “This is madness, separation of church and state…”

  “Don’t go there; the separation tradition does not serve as immediate immunity against all crimes or suspicion of illegality. A priest who commits a hit and run with his ca
r is not covered under separation. He is, and will be tried as, a criminal. It’s the same for espionage — worse, because your guys really pissed off the president. Off the record?”

  “Yes.”

  “He wants whoever your spy is in the White House executed! His counsel has, of course, objected, but then the old man pushed for and got a mandatory life sentence without possibility of parole for the Vatican mole. Back on the record.”

  “Doctor, your accusations and the measures you are proposing, are tantamount to a declaration of war. I am afraid I cannot take your word that such a drastic message is truly that of the president and not just your own prejudice as a disenchanted Catholic — a man of science as well.”

  “I told him you’d say that, and the problem is, if he made this any more official, there would have to be a record of your crimes against America as well as his radical response. So in the interest of giving you and the Pope a way out, he has kept this only between himself and me. But I told him you wouldn’t believe me alone, so we came up with this idea.”

  Bill got up, went to his desk and opened a locked drawer. He returned with a hammer and an iPhone. The old priest watched with curious intent as Bill placed the hammer on the table next to the water tray and moved the pitcher and glasses off the tray.

  He touched and slid his finger over the iPhone and held it up for the bishop to see and hear. On the screen was a video of the President of the United States in the Oval Office. The picture was unsteady as it was being held by hand across the president’s desk. The bishop watched as the president’s eyes looked up and asked, “Is it going, Bill?”

  Bill’s voice was heard, “Recording, sir.”

  In the video, the president crossed his hands on the desk, nodded his head, and spoke. “Your Eminence, I have asked Dr. Hiccock to record this message to you because I know what he just told you is hard to imagine; but as God is my witness, this abomination of my country’s security and the personal oath and unquestioned loyalty I demand from my immediate staff will not stand.”

  He pounded the desk as he spoke. “God damn it, I will not have the security of my government eroded by religious subtext. If the Vatican does not destroy this network, I will use everything in my power to put the entire Catholic Church in America on the same status as mosques and radical Muslim groups who enjoy such special attention by the Justice and Treasury departments, which, I may remind you, I run! Make no mistake, Cardinal, don’t fuck this up!”

  The president then looked up to Bill, behind the camera, and said, “That’s all Bill, make sure he sees this,” and the video went off.

  Bill saw the color drain from the man of God’s face; no one had ever spoken to him, much less the Pope, that way. Then Bill broke the stunned silence by saying, “Bishop, it was just the president and me in the room, and the Oval Office recording system was turned off. I made no copy and I recorded it right on this phone, which is, thankfully, not mine.” Bill then smashed the phone with repeated blows of the hammer until it was cracked and splintered on the water tray. All the man could do was stare at the carnage of the phone as the weight of the diplomatic dilemma that had fallen on his shoulders became apparent. Bill held up the hammer and admired it. “Plausible deniability, I think you diplomats call it.”

  Then Bill just couldn’t resist, “When can I report to the President of the United States that we have hammered out a deal?”

  ∞§∞

  On the flight over, Brooke reviewed the CIA world book information on Switzerland and found that the Federal Office of Police, or FedPol, as the Swiss called it, coordinated international operations for the twenty-six quasi-independent cantons of police organizations across the Alpine country, so that was their starting point. Brooke met Joey at their headquarters in Geneva. First order of business was a big hug.

  “Brooke, glad to have you back, even if only for a little while.”

  “I found my life in a holding pattern and your call was timed perfectly.”

  “Nice work, really, back in New York,” Joey said as they released each other.

  “Before I knew it, I was facing the perpetrator. I didn’t stop to think; I just wound up there.”

  “Instinct. It’s hard to suppress. Gee, I guess Mush doesn’t know about it, huh?”

  “I don’t see how he could.”

  “You going to tell him about the free ring?” Joey asked, pointing his right index finger to the third finger of his left hand.

  “If I don’t, somebody will, but call me crazy, I think he’s the kind of guy who would want to pay for the ring himself. Listen to me, will ya! I mean we haven’t even discussed marriage and here I am jumping to conclusions like a school girl in the lunchroom.”

  “Brooke, love makes teenagers out of all of us!”

  Brooke just smiled. He was right; she shouldn’t fight it. Risk had always been part of her job. To fall in love and risk that it might not turn out the way she wanted shouldn’t be more terrifying than facing bad guys and guns, but it was. “Thanks Joey. How’s Phyl?”

  “Hates me being here, so the sooner we get going, the sooner I can get home.” He escorted her to a conference room.

  Parnell was already there with Captain William Lustig, FedPol director. Joey made the introductions and then everybody sat down. Lustig started speaking in accented but flawless English. “Here are the records, cross-indexed to the leads Mr. Sicard was investigating. I have widened the time window on the search to twenty-four hours prior to and after the day Mr. Sicard was to arrive here from France. Each of these twenty-six folders contains the two-day crime reports from each of the cantons translated into English. I suggest that we focus on the cantons of Geneva and the surrounding area first, then increase the scope if we find nothing.”

  Since the logic was sound, all agreed and the folders were distributed. They started with Geneva and the contents were circulated as each judged it or tried to discern any connection to anything related to the ‘Architect’ or ‘Engineer’ that Parnell was hot on the heels of.

  After two hours, there were no real hits. Brooke had a thought, “Have we checked with the Security at CERN?”

  “They have assured us that all persons coming and going for the month at the facility have been confirmed and identified as who they presented themselves to be both by guard’s inspection of their identity papers and, later, facial recognition software from the entrance security cameras.”

  “It does not rule out the possibility of a turned employee, plant, or mole who is already cleared for work.”

  “Yes, that keeps the head of security at Hadron alert and he is constantly monitoring the workers and scientists for any suspicious behavior.”

  “Difficult job; I work for a scientist and quirky doesn’t begin to cover it,” Joey said before he added, “Ten minute break, everyone?”

  All agreed and stepped out of the room to get coffee or relief or both. Brooke made a beeline to the coffee. She had flown through the night and got a little sleep on the plane, but her ass was dragging. As she figured out the buttons on the automatic machine, she looked over at the TV that was on in the office. The news was on, and she noticed there was coverage of a trial or court hearing. Through the standard Swiss German she heard the name ‘Abrim.’ She glanced up at the screen and saw a file photo of Abrim Walhime, identified as a Saudi national. She grabbed the next person that passed her and asked, “What are they saying?”

  “Well, the judge has decided to suspend the investigation into the murder until such time as the woman of interest can be located.”

  “Thank you.” Brooke returned to the room.

  They stayed at it for most of the afternoon, and in the end all they had was one possible lead. Parnell thought there was something to a break-in at a computer factory and he went down to the records department to see if it connected.

  Brooke took the opportunity to make a special request. “Captain Lustig, I noticed on TV before that there is a case concerning a Saudi national?’


  “Yes, the security guard. Most tragic. The victim of a sex scandal.”

  “I remember reading about that. He goes after a hooker and the pimp kills him,” Joey added.

  “And both disappeared. There is no case to pursue so the judge has suspended the inquiry pending further developments.”

  “Why does it interest you, Brooke?” Joey asked.

  “After I was in the paper, I got tons of mail. Some were like, ‘You go girl,’ but most were people writing and asking for help. Oddly enough, I got a letter from Abrim’s mom in Saudi Arabia. She also heard about the jewel heist. I felt for her, as apparently the circumstances brought shame on his family so she got double grief. Anyway, her letter really got to me, so I thought since I am here anyway, I’d look into it.”

  “In your spare time!” Joey said.

  “Of course, boss. Spare time.” She nodded and opened the next folder from the pile.

  They knocked off at seven thirty and Brooke was too tired to take up Joey on his offer to grab a bite, so she went back to her room and crashed. At around eleven, she rolled over and awakened with an urge to pee. She stumbled into the bathroom and upon exiting, she grabbed the remote and popped the TV on. She clicked off the hotel channel and landed on the news. The next story was once again the news that the judge suspended the Saudi case. That gave her an idea. She got out her laptop and signed into the hotel’s Wi-Fi network, charging the fee for a twenty-four-hour period to her room, then commenced to search for news about the murder.

  Using two different translation programs, she scanned the news reports in Arabic and German. Most of what she read was a rehash of the initial story as retold by other national news agencies, with later reports containing political bents sprinkled in from the Arabs, which was as close as her German-English translation program got her. The Iranian coverage — in Farsi which she was versed in — savaged the Royal Family and charged them with cover-up. As she widened her search, she learned that the men chosen to be security guards for the Royal Family went through rigorous screening and had to prove loyalty before all else to the King. They were selected to be beyond questions of greed, politics, or gambling. She read that many protected persons in the Middle East, or the world for that matter, had been assassinated by their trusted security men.