“Administration.”
“Can you transfer me over there?”
“Certainly, Mr. Secretary.”
As he sat on hold, he replayed his conversation with Shamrock, wondering if he’d said anything he shouldn’t have or gotten himself in any deeper. Fitzgerald had always played it fair with him, never misused the knowledge or insights he passed along to her, never betrayed the trust. They’d talked three times on the record, and now seven off. It wasn’t unusual because she was one of the most influential media people covering the Church. Though her reports always appeared evenhanded, he was certain she had a heavy Sancter bias. She usually got advance notice about big stories and was one of the few reporters who had ever been granted an extensive interview with the Pontiff. Twice. So talking to her, he concluded, was simply an extension of Peter’s confidence in her and her efforts. Not that he’d ever want their relationship revealed. Although there was no permanent ban on talking to the media, communications were supposed to go through the Secretariat of Information. But that was an Administration rule, not a Party rule. The Party rule was Gayle’s Rule: If it helps the cause, do it. And that guideline often made Party more effective. There were many things the Party had accomplished that weren’t those the Church should accomplish. There were some things Administration had succeeded at that Party couldn’t match. But if half of what Shamrock offered was accurate, only a combined front had a spit’s chance on the surface of Mercury to survive.
Silver Piece. Watch Archie Knight. Protect Peter. Stop Iscariot.
“Connecting you to Security at Administration, Secretary Samson.”
“VG Security.”
“I need to come over.”
“The building is closed until eight tomorrow.”
“It’s important. I’ve got some work to do.”
“Closed to everyone.”
“Everyone?”
“Is there a problem on the line? I thought I said everyone.”
“Who am I speaking to?” Samson asked.
“This is Sergeant Potter.”
“Remind me of the OCP.”
“Maybe you should contact Cardinal Valenti,” the Vat snickered. “Is that an indication of how closed we are?”
“According to my list, there’re a couple of people who outrank Cardinal Valenti.”
“The Pope and who?”
“Cardinal O’Rourke, Secretary of State. Terry Samson, Secretary of Finance. How about him?”
“Have him call me.”
“You’re talking to me.”
“Secretary Samson? Oh, man. Please excuse me. I just transferred over here from… Please excuse me, Cardinal. It’s just… a little after 1400 hours we, I mean the Guard, got orders to clear the entire building.”
“Why?”
“They told us… I mean my boss told me that all personnel had to vacate. I mean, seeing most people were gone anyway, I guess they thought it might be a good time to…”
“Bring in the dogs?”
“Yes, sir. The dogs have been brought in.”
The dogs.
It was an exercise the Guard reveled in, a show of force relished like a frank at Cyclo Stadium. It happened every couple of months. Electronic hounds designed and manufactured by one of Knight’s Transponder subsidiaries, Caninavonics, brought in to scan the entire building to discover anything not supposed to be there. Taps, bugs, stowaways, contraband. The mutts could find virtually any item that wasn’t part of the plan, unauthorized additions to the fragmented fraternity holding the skeleton keys of the Church. Occasionally they did sniff something out— dope, comcent misdirection errors, incorrectly flagged ravens—but most of the time the waste of time was billed as Precautionary Measures.
“So when can I get in, Sergeant?”
“I’d doubt until later this evening, sir. They’re looking for something more extensively than SOPs and… We were told nobody gets in until the sweep is done.”
“What’s Canin after?” Samson asked.
“An intruder, sir.”
“ExtPath operating?”
“Yes, sir. SystOps was only locked for 20 minutes then reset, but the flame breaks, the security walls? Won’t be placed ’til sometime after 1800.”
“Thanks for your help.”
“Anytime, Cardinal. Wish I could’a helped more. I’m just spare parts over here right now.”
Samson hung up then booted the home computer he rarely used. After signing onto ExtPath, the subway rejected entrance twice for Invalid Passwords but finally connected to Castro’s bank.
Silver Piece. Stop Iscariot. Come on, Juan? Where’s the cookie jar?
Fifteen seconds into his search, the CPU burped. He noticed an unfamiliar, tiny green dot start to flash near the lower left corner of the monitor. Mousing down, he double-clicked to discover its purpose.
Downlink Accomplished
Chapter Twenty
As Samson walked the long driveway leading to the mansion, a limousine slowly passed in the opposite direction. The windows in the rear compartment were down and he saw the three passengers: Secretary of State Cardinal O’Rourke; Alberto Cardinal Preza, head of the Party of the Cross, and; Thomas Cardinal Gamboto, leader of the African Catholic Party. But why were they leaving?
Peter typically held large dinners the evening before major events, the grand dining hall of the mansion seating 200 with room to spare. But instead of the usual flock of stretches parked in front of the mansion on such occasions, only one sat near the steps. As he drew closer he could tell from the license plate TED 111 that it belonged to Transponder Electronic Data. This wasn’t surprising as Transponder often lent its limos to the Church during shortages. But the absence of any of the six Chariots was curious.
He saw Candice and Mark, two Swiss Guards assigned to Compound detail, standing near the front door. Mark was always an easy touch when it came to pat downs and information so Samson greeted him warmly as he reached the bottom step.
“Mark? Getting a little uppity with the higher-ups, huh?” he asked as he looked up the sweeping stairway. “Sending away the big guys without even an appetizer?”
“Not on the guest list, Secretary Samson,” he responded.
Samson wheezed as he walked to the threshold. “The Secretary of State and two Councils not invited?”
“No, Sir. This is one of those intimate gatherings you read about in the RCC gossip column. Think the rest… no, I know the rest are droppin’ by for tea and crumpets later on.”
“Oh?” Samson replied as he casually placed his hands high on one of the pillars of the porch, spreading his feet apart once, then twice, Candice saying, “Lemme do the pat on this guy.”
“That’s against the rules, Candy,” Samson smiled, not turning. “Let Mark. He’s got such nice hands.”
The guard placed his hands on Samson’s shoulders, gave them a slap and then stepped back. “You’re clean.”
“That’s it? Not the whole extravaganza?”
“That is it, Terry Cardinal Secretary Samson.”
Everyone laughed.
“Now we’re going to get formal?”
“You are the Secretary Samson on the guest list, aren’t you? And our final guest, I might add.”
“I am he but how come no third degree this evening?”
“Cabinet and Council don’t get nothing but good mornings and good evenings.”
“Since when?”
“Since some of the Cabs started bitching about it.”
Prior to the Guralski killing, anybody who even looked vaguely familiar could walk in and out of the mansion unmolested. But shortly after the murder, pat downs for everyone seeking to enter the residence became the rule.
“Who bitched?”
“Think it started with Valenti.”
“Valenti? You were patting down the Secretary of Security?”
“Yes, Sir. Not to mention the heads of both the Guards.”
“Calvello?” Samson asked, lowering his arms and rubbing his palms tog
ether. “They’re always packing. Were you supposed to see how many pistolas they were carrying?”
“It was a bit strange. Had to leave the pieces with us. Only exceptions were Clarence and Archibald. Guess that’s why they, I mean the Pope, changed the rules.”
“So who gets in for free these days?”
“Red caps. Mitch. Privileged types.”
“And I’m one now?”
“Way I see it, you’re in the Cabinet so ought to be afforded the same pass.”
“You still have the met detectors.”
“When they work.”
Samson nodded, then stepped in.
It was unfamiliar, coming through the formal opening of the mansion. Practically all the times he’d been there, he’d entered via the west entrance or the north door. It was these gateways that the people closest to Peter always used, not needing the emotional boost of strolling through a portal designed to remind visitors they were someplace singular.
The foyer soared five stories; priceless paintings and tapestries hung with care, tall potted fichus and palm trees scattered about the cherry wood floor. It was here guests at the big dinners typically enjoyed cocktails and hors d’oeuvres before being seated, the space easily accommodating them.
Instead of the throng he expected, Samson merely saw one lone servant standing in the expansive lobby. He instinctively asked: “Where is everyone?” then just as instinctively turned left in the direction of the hall, worried his late arrival would be noted by everyone.
“Secretary Samson? Refreshments in the drawing room,” she suggested, motioning to the right.
The drawing room? What an odd place to scrunch a crowd. He made his way toward the small enclave off the private dining room, pulled by the sounds of Mozart and quiet conversation. He followed down the lengthy hallway then turned in. Three staffers were stationed at the far wall, waiting for the next order from the guests they were there to wait upon. Easy duty as there were only eight to be served. Archie and Annie Knight were in the center chatting with Mary Beth and Angelique. Her manager, Julianne Pratt, was off to the left conversing with Primovich and Mitchell while Carter ambled about, glancing at the decorations.
Emmanuel bowed slightly. The young Cuban had been a dishwasher back at the Archdiocese when Nicholas was Archbishop and had bonded with Peter like few others could ever hope. As Peter’s star rose, so did the illegal immigrant’s. Citizenship had been taken care of years before, as had a BA from the University of Illinois Chicago campus. Within a week of his mentor’s elevation to the papacy, he’d been shipped west and returned nine months later with a Masters in Hotel Management from the University of Nevada at Las Vegas. Aside from overseeing the operations of Compound, he also served as ad hoc MC for special gatherings.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he announced in a voice carrying only a trace of a Cuban accent. “Mr. Terrance P. Samson, Secretary of Finance for the Roman Catholic Church.”
The other guests turned to look, Primovich first to step across with greetings.
“Terry. Congrats on the temp duties, but I’m looking forward to you being back at Party.”
“Thank you, Eminence. I’m looking forward to that, too.”
Knight approached next, hand extended, smile reassuring. “Yes, yes. Congratulations, Terry.”
“Thank you, Mr. Knight.”
“Come, come young man. Enough of this Mr. Knight business. You’re now a member of the Cabinet and soon… I think you can… I request you henceforth call me Archie.”
“Thank you, Sir, but the way I see it…”
“And the way I see it, you should call me Archie. And just between you and me, pleasant things await you, son.”
Pleasant things? Knight probably knew most of Peter’s plans before the Pope himself did, so the courtesy rang true.
“Julianne,” Pratt said as she held out her hand. “Mr. Secretary. I don’t know if you recall meeting me.”
“Sure,” he replied, shaking it. “At the St. Scholastica Foundation dinner in LA.”
“Yes,” she smiled. “Thank you for remembering.”
“My pleasure.”
“Secretary Samson,” the singer deferred.
“Ms. Caulfield.”
“Secretary Samson,” Mary Beth beamed.
“Ms. Gosling.”
Mitchell stepped up next, wry grin on his lips. “Credit where credit’s due,” he said, offering to shake on it.
I don’t know if you’re listening, Sir. But I’d like to report I just witnessed a miracle.
“Thank you, Bishop,” Samson returned.
Then it was Carter’s turn. Grabbing his friend’s palm, he eyed it like a fortune teller might, flipped it over, put on a face of amazement then asked Primovich, “How come you get a ring and Cardinal Samsoni doesn’t? What’s a civilian like me ’sposed to kiss??”
That got laughs from everyone. Even Mitchell.
Annie Knight was the last to step forward, her hands moving to his arms, a fleeting kiss brushing his cheek. “So good to see you again, Secretary Samson. Congratulations.”
Just the way it started that night in LA.
* * *
At the conclusion of the fete, many of the SSF guests left to take advantage of a midnight cruise on The Prairie Princess, the private yacht originally built for insurance magnate Dallas Arnaude and now owned by David Stonetree, the Chairman of Camden Mediworks. Annie begged off, saying she just wanted “some quality sack time,” and Samson, jet-lagged and facing a flight to Boston the following morning, accepted her offer of a lift back to their hotel. Once there, she invited him up to her suite for a nightcap. Seeing she was Annie Knight, he would have agreed under any circumstances. But beyond that, he genuinely liked her. She was extraordinarily generous and unlike her husband, wore her billionairess status like a delicate lapel pin, not the Congressional Medal of Honor.
She was both a pleasure for the mind and a pleasure for the eyes. Thirty-seven to her husband’s 55, her personal fortune placed in the world’s top ring so she needed her spouse like a wasp would a sewing needle. Before inheriting her collection of real estate and stock certificates, she’d spent her formative years picking up a BA in History, a Master’s in Design then twin Ph.Ds. in Philosophy and Art.
She’d traveled most of the countries on earth for her many charitable endeavors, was friends with many major artists and writers in the western hemisphere, had world rankings in steeple chasing and chess, and was the 5’10” inch body that every designer in Paris, New York, Milan and Buenos Aires prayed would wear their creations. Not so much because she was Annie Maxwell Knight; more for the fact she left most runway models in the dust.
After tuning the stereo to a classical station, then lighting a few candles—hesitating after the fourth as if offering a silent prayer—she’d asked: “How about a Maxwell’s Silver Hammer?”
“Fine. Never had one.”
“Secret family martini recipe. My Mom and Dad always had one before dinner. They liked ’em neat but I like ’em on the rocks. How do you like ’em??”
“Rocks is fine.”
“Could you open that for me while I begin my preparations?” she suggested, gesturing to a bottle of Skyy vodka on the credenza. As he broke the wrap, he watched her methodically begin removing individual cubes from the ice bucket, examining each in the tongs like a jeweler might a gem, rejecting every third or fourth while gently easing the keepers back and forth into a pair of crystal water glasses. “Step one. Eight acceptable coolers per serving.”
“Why Eight?”
“Because that’s what my variation on the recipe calls for. Step two. Add liquid until it reaches approximately one half inch below lip of receptacle.” And she did, probably six ounces worth in each. “And now, the all-important step three,” she finished.
“What’s that?”
“The toast,” she purred, passing him one. “Bang bang.”
They clinked the glasses. He took a small sip while she emptied a
third of hers in two swallows. As he sat on the divan beside the writing desk, she eased to the four doors fronting onto the balcony, idly moving the open weave curtains with a finger as if to get a better view of the plump full moon she’d commented on in the limo during the short drive back.
Her monologue lasted a quarter of an hour. She was disappointed only $28,000,000 had been pledged earlier in the evening as her target was $35,000,000, so she’d personally make up the shortfall the next day. She was miffed Cardinal Elliott had cancelled attending on such short notice but wrote it off to “the herbal tonics all the Acers must have to take everyday.” She’d been informed earlier that morning that one of her favorite foals, Sanctuary Goddess, had cracked a leg bone but against the vet’s advice, wanted to save the creature rather than have it put down, having a series of andronic replacements performed if that could do the trick. “And then there’s Archie,” she sighed. She was ticked he hadn’t made time to attend the fundraiser after all of the effort she’d devoted to it. She was weary from the arguments they continued to have about Analog Machinery Incorporated, her refusal to participate in an attempt to take it private, his relentless hectoring of Peter to use the holdings of the SPPT to accomplish a buyout “just so he can introduce himself as ‘Hi. I’m Archie, the Chairman of the biggest corporation in the universe.’” The vicious feud that continued between him and Juan Castro over access to Church investment strategies, the last shouting match occurring a few days before.
A discrete though incisive investigation had confirmed why, “He hasn’t touched me in months, Terry. Hasn’t touched me in three years.” Knight was having affairs with two women, both in their mid-20s. One a secretary at Transponder, the other a VP at AMI.
“So I figger,” she offered, cocking her head and meeting his gaze, rattling her glass to reveal it was down to a single, fused iceberg, “what’s good for the stallion is likewise good for the mare.”
She said her fantasies about him had begun the third time they’d met—at the annual Summer BBQ & You shindig tossed by the Party—when Archie had directed Samson to: “dance with my wife to keep her occupied while I talk with the guys.” When she felt, “that little squeeze you gave me at the end of “The House of Love.” Remember?”
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