by Declan Finn
“No,” Figlia said. “Ronnie does not want me driving with my head like this. Besides, the three of us are going to do business in the car.” He looked at Abasi and Goldberg. “We have to discuss security procedures, and Father Frank can treat it as secret as the confessional.”
Father Frank smiled. “I like that. It gives them a way to keep an eye on me.” He smiled benignly at both of them. “A few simple moves and you get paranoid; would it help if I said I’m an army chaplain, and my parish keeps me up-to-date on self-defense because they can kill twenty ways with their bare hands? Have you both been reading conspiracy novels?”
Figlia laughed. “I’ve got to call in another van, otherwise there won’t be enough room for… did you get her name?”
Father Frank shook his head. “No. Sorry.”
Chapter XI: Stairway To Hell
Sean Aloysius Patricus Ryan coughed slightly, hoping that, somehow, he wouldn’t get a cold. While his immune system was damn near impervious, he wasn’t superhuman. And spending over two hours in an Italian police station was possibly the most boredom he could stand. Heck, how often could a guy reread the newspaper without dying from weariness?
He turned the corner, still carelessly walking in the middle of the street…
He blinked as a set of black vans came bearing down on him. I guess siesta is over.
Sean leapt sideways, onto a parked car, sliding over the roof as the vans screeched to a sudden stop. Sean merely slid off the roof to the ground.
The doors of the van opened, Giovanni Figlia stepping out first. “Tu pazzo stupido americano! Che pensato? Schmuck!”
Sean smiled, cocked his head, and said, “Funny, you don’t look Jewish.”
Wilhelmina Goldberg laughed as she came out of the back. “No fair, I was going to say that!”
Father Frank smiled, leaning out the car window. “While I do not agree with some of Signore Figlia’s language, I must say that the sentiment is shared.”
Sean walked around the car. “Sorry about that, I thought it was still siesta and everyone was still asleep. You can’t imagine what it’s like trying to get anything done at a police station between one and three in the afternoon in this town.”
“More like this country,” Father Frank told him.
Sean nodded. “I’ll take your word on it, because I really don’t want to test that thesis. Anyway, where’re you people headed in such a blasted hurry?” He glanced at the second van with the Swiss Guard driver, wearing all black — he could tell the man was Swiss because he had blond hair, blue eyes, and a neutral look on his face.
Welcome to The Stepford Wives. “And what’s with the caravan?”
Figlia counted to ten before he answered. “We are picking someone up, and we need the room.”
Sean shrugged. “Okay. Let me know if you need any help.” He patted the van’s hood as he turned away. “I’ll get out of your way. Ciao.”
“Molto grazie. And unless you know any Irish Interpol officers, I doubt you can help any.”
Sean stopped and pivoted, grinning. “I know one or two. I can drive.”
Figlia closed his eyes, still shaken by the madman. “Fine.”
Father Frank nodded. “I’ll get rid of our companion in the other car. You don’t need more than two cars, and I’m certain he can be of use elsewhere. I will drive his car… I have nothing else to do.”
* * *
As the two black cars pulled away, Scott “Mossad” Murphy stepped back, smiled, grateful he had placed the dual-purpose tracking device and bug on the lead van while it had been stopped. If the short guy with the blue eyes hadn’t stopped the car, Murphy didn’t know what would have happened.
Thank God for happy accidents. Murphy counted to ten, and then, when a dark blue Jetta pulled up in front of him, he let himself inside.
Manana Shushurin, sitting behind the wheel, reached under her blonde wig to secure the earpiece. “We’re wired, and so are they.”
Murphy blinked. “I’m sorry, I thought I just heard you say that we’re weird.”
She grinned broadly. “That, too.”
* * *
“So, what’s all this about, anyway?” Sean Ryan asked, shooting through the streets of Rome as though the cars weren’t actually there, swerving in, through, and around traffic that made the Los Angeles freeways during rush hour look calm.
Giovanni Figlia gave him a dirty look. “I brought two cars so I could talk business, not socialize.”
Sean nodded. “Okay.” He made another sharp turn through traffic, briefly leaping onto the curb, the sidewalk, around a parked car, and onto the street, all to avoid a triple-parked car. “I feel like I’m back at Cambridge,” he muttered. He glanced at Goldberg in the review mirror. “Are Secret Service people as stiff as Johnny boy here?”
“More than you can possibly know.”
Giovanni Figlia rolled his eyes.
Sean made another turn that made Figlia grab his seat. Figlia thought a moment. “Is Father Williams still behind us?”
Sean nodded. “He’s been on my tail the entire way. That isn’t bad for a priest; but then, he’d have had to drive through worse garbage to be in the Army.”
Wilhelmina Goldberg leaned forward. “Which one?”
“He told you already — he’s an Army chaplain. Why, you think he’s something else?”
“Well, with the way he took out those thugs—” she began.
Sean waved it away. “Frank’s an Army brat, son of An army brat, with two siblings in the military, and he has military service of his own. And now, his day job is as an army Chaplin. He’s surrounded by thousands of guys every day who work well with killing people. Have you all been reading John Cornwell novels lately?”
“Cornwell? Of Hitler’s Pope?” Wilhelmina arched her brows. “I thought he was a historian.”
Sean shook his head. “No, my girlfriend is a historian. Cornwell’s just a journalist who likes to say Catholics are the center of all that is evil in the world. What do you expect from a British ex-seminarian? Hitler’s Pope was a hit piece on John Paul II; when JPII died, Cornwell backpedaled on Pius XII because it was safe to go after John Paul. Frankly, most people who claim that Pius XII was an evil genius working with Hitler cite forgeries.”
Goldberg sighed. “You’re another member of the Pius XII canonization campaign?”
Abasi smiled at her. “At least this one has a pulse.”
Sean laughed. “Hell no, I just have a good memory. Also, it’s a memorable story when Hitler invites the Pope to Germany, the Pope arms the Swiss Guards with submachine guns, and then does the Pope refuse the invite.”
Sean made another sharp turn, only this time it was into the train terminal connecting central Rome to the airport. “However, as for Father Frank, I see no reason why he can’t be an ordinary priest. I mean, honestly, you think the Vatican actually has an intelligence service with members fully trained in hand-to-hand combat? Granted, they have the hierarchy for it, but having the correct command structure doesn’t mean that you have the training. Having a bureaucracy does not bestow all the required discipline. Heck, if you get a few members of Opus Dei drunk, you’ll wish they were a secret society.”
* * *
Maureen McGrail stepped out of the Termini train station, newly arrived from Leonardo Da Vinci airport, carrying a single black bag. Around her long frame she had wrapped a black, lightweight raincoat that made her seem smaller than she was, a style she liked to affect. She had lost count of the times she had walked into the middle of a firefight and survived because no one had even seen her. She ran her long fingers through her rich black hair and wondered exactly how long it would take before her ride would arrive.
Her glittering pale green eyes surveyed curbside. Despite the cars and the train she had just gotten off, the ambiance, even the air smelled old… well, except for the exhaust fumes, but she couldn’t completely remove the present.
The sound of squealing tires made her jump as s
he looked left at the black vans heading almost directly for her. She noted the angle and stepped back. The vans didn’t stop, or change direction, until they stopped a yard in front of her, at curbside.
She raised an eyebrow. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I knew the driver.
The driver’s side door opened. The driver swung himself out of the van, and quickly swept up her bag, then hugged her, lifting her off the ground and swinging her around. She was about to break his neck when he let go and took a step back.
“Superintendent McGrail! It’s wonderful to see you again! How have you been?”
McGrail blinked when she saw the electric-blue eyes she should have seen a mile away and through the tinted glass. “Sean Ryan? What the hell are you doing here?”
“Training a few civilians, believe it or not. It’s been years. You haven’t called, haven’t written—”
An official looking sort stepped out of the car and went straight to McGrail. He was taller than Sean – but so was everybody – but about medium height, with a runner’s build. He looked local, with a Mediterranean tan, dark hair and eyes. His black suit on his black polo almost made him look like a priest, but the jacket was too nice. He reached forward and offered his hand. “Giovanni Figlia, Vatican Central Office of Vigilance.”
She took it. “Superintendent Maureen McGrail, Interpol.”
“A pleasure.” He jerked his head to Sean. “You know this scherzo?”
She beamed. “Aye, I know this joker.”
A shorter woman with a terrible blonde dye job slid out of the van. “He called Ryan a joke, not a joker. Hi, Villie Goldberg, Secret Service, and the guy hiding in the van is Hashim Abasi, Egyptian cop.”
“I am not hiding,” the one called Abasi said, just sticking his head out of the car. He was a bigger, heavier man than the others, packed with muscle weight. “I just don’t see a reason to leave the van only to get back in.”
Sean Ryan tossed McGrail’s bag into the back of the security van, and looked at the toy collection in the trunk. He smiled at all of the electronic stun gadgets and Taser-beam weapons. He spied a nice little stun gun, and thought he’d steal it for the ride back. Sean liked having personal protection, and he had had enough guns jammed into his spine that he waited for the day when someone realized that a handgun was not a contact weapon. He took the Taser before closing the trunk. “I just want to know where everyone sits now.”
“And why Superintendent McGrail is here,” Figlia said.
“Ah, and can’t I explain that one in the van? Shall we?”
* * *
From half a block away, someone wearing a solid black outfit stepped out of the shadows behind a tree. He carried himself well for a man who was only forty, and he slid to one knee, hoping that no one would notice him until it was too late. He leveled his Beretta and aimed at the three cops — Goldberg, McGrail, and Figlia — then fired.
However, all three were professionals. As such, they had all eyed every probable avenue of attack, including the tree he’d been standing behind.
Sean Ryan, who already had a weapon in his hand, was the first to fire, dropping to one knee at the side of the armored van and firing a solid, three-second blast, shocking the man in black in the right forearm, the left bicep and the left shoulder. The beam burned mercilessly, and he fell onto his back. He painfully rolled over, into the cover of the tree, as Figlia and Goldberg opened fire.
The sudden acceleration caught Sean’s attention, and he whirled, and nearly opened fire on the car speeding towards them, until he realized that Father Frank was behind the wheel.
And then it was hit with the rocket-propelled grenade.
The impact alone would have been enough to throw the van across the street. But the explosion lifted the driver’s side wheels off of the street, and the massive fireball threw the vehicle into a roll, onto the sidewalk, landing on its side.
Sean Ryan whirled around, spying a possible location for the RPG. He fired twice, conserving his battery power. He opened the trunk, threw himself inside, and then crawled over the back seat to get to the front. He started the engine, and prayed the shooters didn’t have a second RPG ready and loaded; otherwise, they were screwed. He slammed his door shut, then noted that McGrail, Goldberg and Figlia had already leapt in.
Sean gunned the engine and sped away, riding the sidewalk instead of fighting Rome traffic. The injured gunman who had been shocked had, at that moment, poked his head out to see where the four of them had gone. The bumper of Sean’s van caught him squarely in the head. The license plate number embedded in his skull.
“What about Frank?” Goldberg screamed.
Sean, to everyone’s surprise, laughed. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him,” “” Sean said calmly “He’s harder to kill than he looks. If no one minds, I’m going to take the long way to the Vatican. I don’t want to be caught in an ambush by taking an obvious, shorter way there. Any objections?” He paused. “So, Maureen, light of my hour, what brings you to this fair city? Anything to get you shot at?”
McGrail furrowed her brow. “I have a murder victim who was on his way here to give eyewitness testimony on the Pius XII canonization. There been anything like that around here?”
* * *
Manana Shushurin heard the entire fracas over the transmitter planted on the van, and cursed in German, following it up with, “Son of a bitch.”
Scott Murphy blinked at the explosion up ahead. “Tell me that wasn’t our guys.”
“It was, and the RPG hit the van with the priest in it.”
“Well, that’s stupid,” Murphy muttered. “Why bother? Those vans are probably like Sherman tanks.”
“To keep Father Frank out of the chase? Give him an excuse not to be involved as they kill the passengers in the other van — the only investigators in the David Gerrity case?”
Murphy shook his head. “Is that supposed to be his alibi, or his luck?”
“Great question,” she murmured, eyes locked and focused firmly on the road.
“Where do you think they’ll be heading?” Murphy asked.
“I have an idea, and I might be able to intercept them. The driver is Sean Ryan — the man you saw come to Father Williams’ aid.” Manana made a sharp left. “Your people had me compile a record on him a while ago. He’s very colorful.”
Murphy gripped his seat tightly. “You mean he’s nuts. And you’d know from crazy?”
Shushurin sped up to sixty, gave him a long, drawn-out look and smiled at him. Murphy was certain his heart had stopped, but he wasn’t certain whether it was because she was gorgeous or because she wasn’t looking at the freaking road. “Where did you learn to drive growing up? Georgia?”
“No, that’s Stalin’s old place.” She looked back to the street. “I learned on the autobahn.”
She increased her speed, circling around traffic, weaving through cars and around corners, taking off one car’s side mirror.
Murphy white knuckled the chicken grip. He took a deep breath, distracting himself from the terror-inspiring drive, asked, “What the hell is going on around here, blast it?”
“Someone obviously knew where they were going,” Shushurin answered. She paused, and listened to the transmitter attached to the car. “They just picked up a woman investigating another murder related to Pius XII.”
Murphy glanced at her. “Is someone having a bad flashback to the forties? Neo-Nazis on an acid trip?”
Shushurin frowned at a slow pedestrian in front of her and made a slight course correction, shooting around him. “No. This particular victim wasn’t in Rome at the time. He …” she paused and listened to the bug attached to the van, “was a priest found murdered in Dublin, and had a swastika carved into his forehead? Oh, dear… the guys I work for are sensitive about Nazis.”
“I can imagine,” the Israeli agent said dryly. “So are mine. Listen, are we sure that we don’t know is there no way to find out what Yousef was looking at in the Vatican archives? Because i
f there’s one body in Ireland who’s connected to Pope Pius XII, how much you want to bet both of our dead researchers here were on the same subject?”
Shushurin nodded, zipping down a side street to circumvent a traffic jam in both road and sidewalk. “Which would make sense. In fact …” she searched her memory. “When Sean Ryan went on about Pius XII, the Secret Service Agent said ‘oh God, another one’.”
Murphy furrowed his brow. “They probably meant that Gerrity was working on Pius XII!” He smiled broadly. “We have two dead bodies connected to one pope, and maybe three. All right! We know something of what the hell is going on here!”
Manana Shushurin grinned. “You get so cute when you’re excited.”
* * *
Sean Ryan laughed as he drove over the sidewalk and around traffic. “If this were a novel, that would mean five bodies are on the deck before page 150—nice going. One dead gunman at the terminal, two dead terrorists, a capped priest, and a dead academic. If I knew that my time here was going to be so much fun, I would have brought the rest of my office with me. We could use them.”
Figlia frowned at Sean’s enthusiasm, and his driving. “I am sorry you had to enter into the middle of this, Superintendent.”
The lady in question waved it away. “Call me Maureen. What’s going on, exactly? Your terrorist and this Gerrity fella, what do they have to do with my dead priest?”
“Gerrity was researching the Pius XII archives,” Figlia answered, eyeing the road with worry as the ex-stuntman continued driving. “As for the terrorist Yousef, we’ve not gotten around to the archives yet to see what he was working on. Thankfully, the archive logs keep track of such things. We can evaluate how important he thought something was by the time he spent reading it.”
Sean smiled at them in the rearview mirror, driving with his peripheral vision around a pedestrian, through an intersection, and onto the opposite sidewalk. “However,” Sean said, as calmly as though he were cruising slowly through scenic countryside, “you say that Father Frank had constant contact with Clementi, the one who shot both Yousef and Dr. Gerrity?”