Or, rather, his master and his mistress.
The sharp twinge of anxiety Troisi felt—not guilt, but more akin to fear of being caught and punished—passed almost immediately. They were on the verge of great things, changing history in fact, and opposition from the dark forces confronting them was only natural. What tyrant ever willingly surrendered power? From the days of Caesar to the machinations of vast multinational corporations, avarice and lust had always ranked among the greatest motivators of corrupt humankind.
What could defeat them? Only faith, supported by a righteous army.
Prayer alone, Troisi had discovered, rarely made a difference in life—and never on a global scale. God was all-powerful, of course, but helped those who stood up for themselves. More to the point, He aided those who stood for Him. The weapon He had placed into their hands would cleanse the planet of a cancer that had claimed millions of lives since the Middle Ages, blighting countless others and leading their immortal souls into damnation. Having granted them that power, though, it was expected that the Lord would stand back and observe what use they made of it themselves.
And if they failed? Then what?
According to the gospel as Troisi understood it, God would be content to watch and wait until a stronger union of believers came along to carry out his will. A year, a century or a millennium, it made no difference to Him. If God ran out of patience, sometime in the future, He could always send another flood or rain of fire to rid the world of infidels. But He preferred to see His faithful do as they’d been ordered and achieve the victory themselves, through faith and perseverance.
Triumph, thought Troisi, would absolve the victors of whatever petty sins they had committed during their campaign on God’s behalf. Salvation was its own reward. But if his earthly lord and master recognized Troisi’s passion for the sect’s queen mother, there would certainly be hell to pay.
Amen.
Addis Ababa
BROTHER JOSEPH HALLORAN was curious about his new comrade, this Matthew Cooper. He knew the soldier’s name translated from Hebrew as “gift of God,” but what did that prove? Modern Americans more often named their children after decadent celebrities than for disciples of Christ. A useless factoid—one of thousands stored in Halloran’s brain by his eidetic memory—reminded him that Matthew ranked as one of the English-speaking world’s thousand most popular names since the 1970s, one of Britain’s top one hundred, fifteenth in Ireland, and—
He caught himself and broke the rambling chain of thought, returning to the here and now with Cooper’s voice in his ears.
“I thought this anti-Catholic business went out with the old Ku Klux Klan,” Bolan stated. “Or at least with JFK’s election to the White House.”
“Hardly,” Halloran replied. “Some Protestant sects devote as much time to reviling the papacy as others spend condemning gays or abortion. Or consider Northern Ireland, where sectarian violence between Protestants and Catholics is historically indistinguishable from political strife. Thousands of Catholics were slaughtered by Muslims in Sudan’s civil war, between 1983 and 2005. Even in predominantly Catholic countries—say, Latin America—leftist guerrillas often target priests and nuns for violence.”
“But this Custodes Foederis stands out, somehow?”
“Indeed it does,” Halloran said. “From small beginnings and employment of the age-old propaganda, it has grown into a movement geared toward action. Individual adherents have been linked to desecrations of Catholic churches, schools and graveyards, even to the murder of a priest in San Antonio—your Texas—late last summer.”
Frowning in the dashboard’s light, Bolan told him, “I’ve missed all that.”
“Most of the cases received only local attention, and some of them were in Europe. The Texas murderer was killed by police while resisting arrest. His connection to the Keepers wasn’t widely known.”
“But you’re aware of it.”
“The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith keeps track of enemies who pose a threat.”
“You work with the police?” Bolan asked.
“Whenever possible. The present instance is, of course, rather unusual.”
“So, you’re...what? Like a one-man crusade?”
Halloran smiled at that. “The Crusades were mounted to regain the Holy Land from Islam. Warriors who enlisted were absolved of any sins they might commit on God’s behalf, by means of plenary indulgence. The Crusades continued, with brief interruptions, from AD 1095 to 1272, ending rather inconclusively.”
“Is that a yes or no?” Bolan asked.
“You may consider my assignment a crusade of sorts,” said Halloran, “against an enemy devoted to destruction of the world’s largest Christian denomination. I trust that it won’t drag on for 177 years.”
“And what about the plenary indulgence?”
“No,” Halloran said. “I act as I see fit, in self-defense or to defend the faith, but I’m still expected to confess and purge myself of sin whenever it is feasible.”
“Back there, you killed three men,” Bolan said. “I’m not complaining, understand, but that’s not something I imagine would be sanctioned by the church.”
“The fifth commandment says ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ but most authorities agree that the original translation is a reference to murder. Killing in defense of innocents, to halt atrocities, or in a righteous war isn’t defined as murder. Neither is the execution of a legally convicted and condemned offender. Still, when I have time and opportunity, I will confess those actions and make a good act of contrition.”
“And all’s forgiven.”
“According to the Gospels and Ephesians, chapter one, that is correct,” said Halloran. “What are your own beliefs, if I may ask?”
“They wouldn’t mesh with any given system of theology,” Bolan said. “My family was Catholic.”
“Yet you perceive morality and risk your life on its behalf.”
“You’d get an argument on that, from some.”
“I don’t concern myself with the opinions of the world,” Halloran replied.
“But your ecclesiastical superiors,” Bolan said, “might not appreciate our joining forces.”
“Why should they be burdened with the fact, as long as I pursue my mission?”
“Easier to get forgiveness than permission, I suppose.”
“Where were you planning to go next?” Halloran asked. “After you’d spoken to Astatke?”
“I was hoping for a pointer there.”
“In which case,” Halloran replied, “I think that I can help.”
Custodes Foederis Headquarters
ACCESS TO THE royal apartments of the Sedem Illustratio was by invitation only. Even Ugo Troisi couldn’t enter uninvited by Janus Marcellus or Mania Justina. Burly guards with automatic weapons stood watch at the entrance to their quarters day and night, with orders to use deadly force against would-be intruders. As it was, Troisi had already phoned ahead and spoken to the servant supervising household staff, citing an emergency, and waiting on the line until his visit was approved.
Two hours difference between the time in Rome and Addis Ababa. All things considered, he had been alerted quickly of the raid against the Temple of the Holy Covenant, but the attackers still remained at large, as far as he could tell. Whether police eventually apprehended them or not, Troisi had a duty to inform his masters of the incident, enabling them to be prepared for any repercussions.
There was no need to announce himself as he approached the royal living quarters. Brother Guido Turriano, the royal butler, waited in the outer corridor to lead Troisi past the guards, advising in a whisper about the situation he would face.
“There is uneasiness tonight,” Turriano said. “Your emergency has further agitated troubled waters.”
Trying to make sense of th
at, Troisi wondered whether he had walked into a trap. If Marcellus knew about his private meetings with the Queen Mother...
“What else disturbs them?” he inquired.
A shrug from Turriano was the only answer he received, before they reached a tall door and the butler knocked, waiting until a male voice called, “Enter!”
Turriano held the door open, then closed it firmly when Troisi had passed through. Before Troisi, Marcellus stood resplendent in a purple satin robe, with gold around the collar, cuffs and hem. Its back, Troisi knew, was decorated with the golden symbol of an ever-watchful eye.
Mania Justina was nowhere in sight. A bad sign, or nothing at all?
“You spoke of an emergency, Ugo,” Marcellus said. “Be so good as to explain.”
Troisi shared the sparse details at his disposal: the preliminary call, his own brief conversation with an officer the sect employed to gather information for its benefit in Addis Ababa. A shooting at the temple, seven dead, that count including Bishop Berhanu Astatke. “He was wounded in the legs, from what I understand,” Troisi finished, “but has since died at a local hospital.”
“And those responsible?”
“Still free and unidentified, Your Grace.”
“So, we have no idea?”
“Only a sparse description at the present time. Two men. One black, one white.”
“A white man in Addis Ababa? What does that suggest to you?”
“A foreign agent, obviously. As to who he serves, Your Grace—”
“The options must be limited,” Marcellus said, interrupting.
“If not the Vatican directly, possibly the GIS,” Troisi said, referring to the Gruppo di Intervento Speciale attached to Italy’s Carabinieri.
“No one heard him speak, I take it?”
“No one who survived, Your Grace.”
“Unfortunate. The black man could be local, from their national police perhaps, but why would he be working with a white man?”
“If another country was involved, Your Grace, it is conceivable. We can’t rule out the CIA, who have pursued the Ark for thirty years or more, albeit unofficially.”
“They’re all preoccupied with Arabs since the towers fell,” Janus replied. “Who else?”
“The British are an outside possibility, Your Grace. Their SIS, or MI-6.”
“If only he was heard to speak! An accent could betray him.”
“I suspect all white men sound alike to Ethiopians, Your Grace,” Troisi said.
“Surely they know a Brit from an American.”
“He might represent the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith,” Troisi offered.
“Ah! In which case, a response is all the more important, eh?”
“Indeed, Your Grace.”
“You have something in mind, Ugo?” Marcellus inquired.
“With your permission, I suggest a broad response on several fronts. Our enemies must learn that they cannot attack us with impunity.”
“Agreed. But at the same time, we must exercise a certain...circumspection,” Janus answered.
“Absolutely. As you say, Your Grace.”
“I leave the details in your able hands, Ugo.”
Meaning that if he failed, the blame was his and his alone. He smiled, projecting confidence, fighting the urge to ask about Mania’s absence.
“You may trust me absolutely,” Troisi replied.
CHAPTER FIVE
Boston, Massachusetts
Streets were narrow and perpetually crowded in the Old North End of Boston. Tourists often cursed the traffic, likely wondering if any new construction had been undertaken since the days of Paul Revere. A horseman would make better time on Salem Street than any out-of-towner in an SUV, particularly since the locals had a tendency to double park and leave their engines running while they wandered into nearby stores.
Brent Houston didn’t mind the traffic. He was walking on this final morning of his life, taking his time, absorbing all the sights and smells as he proceeded south on Endicott, already getting scowls and stares but ready to accept them. Nothing mattered anymore, except the mission that he’d volunteered for. Setting free his soul.
The neighborhood was old Italian, known for restaurants like Massimo’s and Filippo’s, for street processions on the Feast of San Gennaro, and occasional Globe articles about the Mafia. Houston liked his pizza and lasagna as much as the next guy, and he figured most of the people giving him stink-eye that morning were probably nice enough once you got to know them, but who had the time?
An apocalypse was coming and he had his tiny part to do, lighting the fuse.
It’s nothing personal, he thought, and smiled back at a stumpy gray-haired man who muttered something at him in Italian, shaking his head in disgust.
Whatever.
Houston had made the sandwich sign himself, from sheets of poster board, with shoulder straps cut from his dachshund’s leash. The dog was kenneled with her vet this morning, and he’d left a wad of cash—the last he had—to cover boarding for a while. Once people at the office heard the news that evening, they’d make arrangements to find Noodle a new home.
The front of Houston’s homemade sign read Damn the Scarlet Whore of Babylon. For anyone who missed the point, the back read Vatacan Must Go! He’d caught the spelling glitch too late and didn’t want to start from scratch. Some TV talking head would likely have a laugh at his expense, but Houston had the last laugh coming. Any minute now.
Beneath the sandwich sign, affixed with duct tape to the poster board, were six dozen large freezer bags filled with homemade plastic explosive. Houston was no chemist, but the poor man’s C-4 wasn’t hard to make if you had petroleum jelly, bleach, potassium chloride, wax and a fair amount of patience. He’d experimented with a recipe he found online, fiddled around with the proportions and tested a small batch, just cherry bomb size, at the Belle Isle Marsh Reservation.
Rigging the detonators was the hardest part, but Houston had gone back online and found a handy booklet that walked him through the steps of fabricating blasting caps at home. Once he’d produced enough, handled with loving care, and wired them up to the handset from a slot car kit, Houston was good to go. The fully loaded sign weighed close to fifty pounds, but what the hell. He had to wear it only once.
One block ahead, he could see people entering the Church of Saint Francis Caracciolo. Houston had done his homework, looked it up, and learned that this particular Saint Francis was Italian, that he’d died in 1608 and been canonized two hundred years later. He was the patron saint of Naples and Italian cooks, which made him perfect for the neighborhood.
And marked the church named in his honor as a perfect target.
Houston climbed a flight of concrete steps to reach the double front doors, which were standing open. Stopping there, he began to sing “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” His voice was nothing special, but that was fine. Brent Houston had a reservation booked in Paradise.
The song he chose had been penned by Martin Luther, first to stand and shout against the Scarlet Whore, although Houston understood that it was sometimes sung at masses now. So what? He was only killing time until the priest arrived—and here he came, a fairly tall man, middle fifties, almost certainly Italian from the look of him.
Perfect.
“Excuse me,” the padre said. “I must ask you to remove yourself. These steps are private property.”
Instead of moving, Houston started belting out the next verse, louder than before. He raised his right arm, the one trailing insulated wires connected to the handset in his fist. The priest saw that and gasped, lunging for Houston’s hand.
Too late.
His thumb depressed the handset’s plunger. Suddenly, the world went white and very loud.
Fulham, London, Engla
nd
DRIVING NORTH ON Harwood Road past Fulham town hall, Percy Collins kept a sharp eye on the rearview mirror of his aged Mini Cooper sedan, watching out for the blue-and-orange cars used for routine patrol by officers of London’s Metropolitan Police Service. None was in sight, and while he stayed within the speed limit, giving law officers no reason to detain him, paranoia gnawed around the raw edge of his nerves and had him fairly bouncing in the driver’s seat.
Why not, considering the cargo he carried? In a black gym bag immediately to his left, filling the rider’s seat, there lay a Sterling L2A3 submachine gun, its metal stock folded beneath its ventilated barrel shroud, together with a dozen magazines of 9 mm Parabellum hollow point rounds. The gun had been his father’s, smuggled home from service in the Northern Irish troubles of the early seventies, together with the Webley Mk VI revolver Collins carried in a holster underneath his knee-length raincoat. The coat’s pockets were heavy with .455 Webley cartridges, some of them loose, a couple dozen slotted into half-moon clips for rapid loading.
Percy Collins was prepared to leave his mark on history.
The call had come the previous night, from Pastor Leo Berkus at the Temple of the Crucifixion. Collins had been chosen from a list of volunteers to carry out the first strike executed by Custodes Foederis on British soil—an honor that thrilled him, even as it set imaginary insects to scrabbling inside his stomach. This day his name would be inscribed on Christ’s own honor roll.
Written in blood.
His designated target was the Saint Ignatius Academy on Vanston Place, near Walham Grove. The school had thirteen hundred students, mostly boys, though females were admitted in the sixth form, preparing for their A-level examinations. Collins knew he couldn’t kill them all, with some five hundred rounds of ammunition, but he’d make a start.
And more importantly, he’d leave a message.
Tucked into an inside pocket of his best tweed jacket, underneath his raincoat, an eight-page manifesto nestled in the plastic bag he’d picked to keep the papers free of bloodstains when armed response units arrived to gun him down. Collins had already resigned himself to death, wouldn’t subject himself to public scrutiny like something from a freak show. But his words would live on, echoing across the ages to a time when humankind was liberated from the Scarlet Whore of Babylon.
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