A Pius Man_A Holy Thriller

by Declan Finn

  “She’s doing well. I miss her like hell, but what can I do? I follow the work.”

  “Ah? And who’s paying for this?”

  Sean smiled. “The Pacelli family — an old Italian nobility, apparently. They’ve certainly kept up over the years. And yes, before you ask, they are related to Pope Pius XII. The family fortune isn’t half as big as it used to be, though. Eugenio’s cut disappeared into the abyss of time. As for the rest, well, they’ve still got enough to pay me to teach the little kiddies how to kick some ass.”

  Sean looked behind him and sat down on a chair. McGrail sat down on the narrow bed. She looked over at the other bed, concluding that must be for Goldberg.

  “What else?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Inna’s actually coming in a few days to visit a client of hers. If I feel lucky, I’ll have the Pope marry us, and tell him to forget my fee.”

  McGrail’s face lit up. “Isn’t it about time? You’ve been together since when?”

  “A long time,” he smiled.

  “What’s been happening in Dublin?”

  “Damn little. My boss is thinking about putting out a notice on you. I’m thinking he might come up with a new color notice, for spite. He’d like to issue a black notice for your murder, but you’re still breathing.”

  Sean smiled. “Good to know I’m still in form.”

  McGrail shook her head. “I’m going to omit your presence when I call in.”

  The bodyguard chuckled. “I seem to have that effect—”

  At that moment, the door shattered and two men sprayed the room with automatic fire.

  Chapter XIV: Bankrupt

  They were both professionals, that much was clear. They had hit the door once with enough force to break the door open, but not enough to have the door hit the adjacent wall and bounce back in their faces. Even more impressive, the breach artist had hit the door with his shoulder in such a way as to wheel into the room immediately — most people had to kick the door so they wouldn’t have to break their shoulders, but maneuvers like that took time.

  However, at the exact moment the door first vibrated with the impact, Sean Ryan and Maureen McGrail reacted as one, throwing themselves backwards, rolling onto the floor.

  Sean had kicked his chair backwards, and tumbled to one knee. He grabbed the back of the chair and hurled it at the breach artist as he came into the room. The object of his attack pivoted his upper body, letting the chair bounce off his shoulder, and twisted back to fire at Sean with his silenced Spectre submachine gun — the Italian version of an Uzi. Sean was already in motion and leapt forward from his kneeling position, throwing himself into the gunman’s legs, cutting them out from under him. The gunman twisted as he fell, landing on his shoulder and rolling onto his back, bringing his weapon to bear once more. Sean lunged on top of the gunman, smacking the gun away, and locked his hand around it, keeping it in place.

  Sean continued with an uppercut to the man’s chin, then an elbow slam into his nose, followed by a hammer blow with the same hand. The assassin stabbed for Sean’s ribs with the other hand, a knife flashing. Sean quickly grabbed the other wrist, holding onto it firmly. The two of them stayed locked there as neither one gave ground to the other. Sean arched a brow with interest. He had the ability to bench-press the Pope, so coming up against someone with equal muscle told him more than he wanted to know.

  On the other side of the room, as Sean Ryan had hurled the chair at the opening attacker, McGrail had already snapped a leg off the night table and hurled it at the second gunman with the speed and accuracy of a circus knife wielder.

  The target didn’t even blink. He snapped his wrist with the Spectre and sent the table leg off to the other side of the room. However, McGrail had sent herself after the leg as soon as she threw it, and as the gun came back to focus on her, she was already in the middle of a spin-kick, sending the weapon flying. She followed it with a right roundhouse he ducked under as he sent a jab to her stomach. His blow glanced off an armor of muscle and he threw himself forward, into a roll, and came up with a knife.

  McGrail sidestepped, letting him charge past, and then turned to face him. They both paused a split-second to reassess one another. If she hadn’t had abs like sheet metal, she would have been dropped to the floor, and still struggling with him, and possibly slashed by now.

  The attacker stepped forward, thrusting with the knife. McGrail sidestepped, grabbed the wrist and twisted the knife out of his hand, her knee coming up to meet his stomach. He threw himself backwards, rolling with the way she twisted his wrist. He went down to the floor...

  He came up with his recovered Spectre.

  * * *

  Sean Ryan, still locked in combat, smiled, baring abnormally white teeth right before he bit into the gun hand of his assailant. The gunman didn’t cry out or drop the weapon until Sean snapped back, his teeth ripping out a hunk of flesh and muscle. The weapon fell to the ground and his attacker blinked, no longer fighting Sean’s grip, but pulling him in for a head butt. Sean, dazed, pushed back with his legs, dragging his attacker up off the floor.

  Sean curled both legs between them, rolling onto his back, and kicked forward once the assassin was on top, throwing him across the room.

  * * *

  McGrail was about to jump aside as a falling object slammed into her sparring partner. Both gunmen fell into the corner of the room. The impact knocked the Spectre out of his hand, and it bounced off the wall. McGrail hooked a foot around the nightstand and kicked it over the gun, putting the tabletop between the weapon and the thugs.

  Sean scooped up a fallen submachine gun and spun toward the two who had charged in. They scrambled to their feet, knives at the ready.

  Sean lowered the Spectre. “You two are so stupid, you deserve a fair fight.” He let the Spectre dangle from his hand, and suddenly hurled it, smacking a gunman between the eyes, making him slump and slide down the wall. “I lied, but I want at least one of you alive.”

  The other one merely stared, and McGrail moved toward him. He smiled, and in a flash, he stabbed in an arc, catching his partner in the temple with the knife. Before McGrail could leap forward, he himself bit down on something in his teeth, making him fall to the floor dead.

  Sean roared, “Damn!”

  McGrail frowned. “And who the hell were they?”

  * * *

  “I’m not sure,” Sean answered, “but they were good, well-trained, and young — couldn’t be more than mid-twenties, which means they were trained from a very early age, probably one of the old Soviet Union training programs.”

  The usual suspects were all in the main office of the Central Office of Vigilance — Commandatore Giovanni Figlia’s room. Sean and McGrail were both on the couch with Goldberg and Abasi seated in office chairs. Figlia was behind his desk, and the Pope stood right next to him — the Pontiff himself refusing to take any seat, and Xavier O’Brien, like his boss, standing, next to the door.

  “Unfortunately,” the Commander replied, “that is of no help. The Soviet Union ran terrorist training camps throughout Eastern Europe, and they backed the Red Army Faction, the PLO, the IRA, the PFLP, Carlos the Jackal, the Sandinistas, and Horn of Africa insurgents.”

  Sean nodded. “So we’re talking a long list of a lot of bad people.”

  Goldberg blinked, looking at Figlia askance. “How do you know this?”

  He gave her a sad smile. “The Red Army here, the brigate rosso, planted a car bomb that killed my father, one of the carabinieri. Io sono un studente bene del’mio avversari. I am a good student of my enemies.’’

  Sean nodded. “However, these guys needed training from the start of their lives, and reinforcement — physical and mental endurance techniques, that sort of thing.”

  Xavier O’Brien puffed on his cigarette. “Since children learn better than adults, having them trained younger would be sensible, if you were interested in raising murderous fanatics and you were very patient to get a return on your investm
ent. So it’s not out of the realm of possibility.”

  Wilhelmina Goldberg said, “You’ve both been watching too much TV.”

  McGrail shook her head. “I’ve worked in martial arts all my life. The bastard I fought was as good as I am — and I’m a black belt with multiple levels in in multiple styles. So he had to have had intense training for years… given his age, I would say it took him his entire life at an accelerated pace.”

  “Also,” Sean added, “the one I dealt with was as strong as I am, and you don’t get to be like that unless you’ve been training since you were… oh, four or six.”

  Abasi laughed. “Really? And how strong are you?”

  Sean let his eyelids droop as he gracefully rose from the couch and strode over to the Pope. He smiled, nodded at the Pontiff, slowly reached out with his hands, grabbed the large Sudanese native around the waist in a bear hug, and lifted him off his feet as though he were a ballerina in Swan Lake, holding him in the air with preternatural ease.

  Sean slowly lowered the Pope, turned, and moved back to his seat. The pope’s face registered shock, Lèse-majesté, and then laughter. “The Pope has many titles, but I had better not hear ’Ryan’s barbell’ as one of them.”

  Sean smiled. “Absolutely, sir. We won’t call you a dumbbell either.”

  McGrail nodded. “And while I can’t do that exactly, aren’t I just as comparably strong for a woman?”

  Sean simply said, “Anyway, I’m starting to get annoyed.”

  A soft voice inquired, “And who, may I ask, has earned your ire today, Mr. Ryan?”

  Sean smiled before looking over to the silver-haired priest, showing no surprise at all. “Someone tried to kill me a little while ago, Father. And you?”

  Father Frank closed the door behind him and sat in an office chair. “Something destroyed a stretch of rail — I was trapped on the train for hours. What else has been going on here?”

  “Someone killed Dr. Almagia, Frank,” O’Brien replied.

  “Someone who bears a striking resemblance to you, and who moves like you do, Father,” Sean answered. “And attacked me, and burned entry logs for the Vatican Archives.”

  Father Frank blinked for a moment, tapping his ring on the arm of his chair. “Almagia dead …” he muttered aloud. He looked puzzled for a moment, as though disoriented.

  Father Frank cocked his head, looking at Sean. “Really? Oh, well then. I suppose it’s time to substantiate my alibi?” he smiled, amused, pulling a slip of paper from his pocket. “If this man looked so much like me, maybe you should turn on the news and see the train wreck, and then see my ticket stub?” Father Frank looked to the rest of them. “Anything else?”

  Goldberg shrugged. “Nothing to burden you with, Father. I’m certain you can take care of yourself.” She smirked. “But I doubt you’d need to — it’s not like you’re involved or anything.”

  Father Frank smiled beatifically, ignoring her sarcasm. “I’m a priest; I am always involved in the actions of my fellow men.”

  “Even if they have automatic weapons?”

  “Especially… I’m an Army chaplain after all.”

  Sean Ryan rolled his eyes at the banter, as well as Goldberg’s insinuations. “Back to the issue at hand: does anyone know how Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber got inside the building?”

  Figlia sighed. “They were wearing all black — it’s possible my people thought they were priests, and you try pulling over a priest to check his ID in Rome.”

  The Pope nodded seriously. “That is sound. Even if one asks, ‘pardon me, Father?’ you are likely to ’get grief’ because he’s a Monsignor.” He smiled at Goldberg. “Priests can be touchy about their rank. You’d be surprised.”

  “Not really,” she said. “I live in D.C., remember?”

  Sean looked back at Figlia. “Besides, if any of your Swiss-cheese brigade tried to pull one of these guys over, they would’ve made him eat his halberd — trust me, there’s no amount of training that could have prepared your guys for these hitters. You need to lock the place down a little tighter.”

  “Could we get back to the main topic?” McGrail began. “Who the fock is tryin’ to kill us? Sorry, Your Holiness.”

  Pius XIII grinned. “Don’t apologize. All of my curses are real curses; yours don’t come close.”

  XO shrugged. “He deals with me all day long. You can imagine the amount of cursing that inspires.”

  Figlia merely shook his head. “We know they bought their weapons locally, they’re well trained, and they’re too pale to be local. Aside from that… well, let’s say that our forensics folks will have a busy night.”

  Abasi said, “If I may suggest something?” He looked at Figlia. “Dr. Almagia, you say, has been with the Vatican Library as a family tradition, since the second World War. May I suggest that it is odd that the killers waited so long between killing Ashid Raqman Yousef and trying to burn the Vatican Archive logs he signed? Why not burn them sooner?”

  Figlia shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “We didn’t know the motive for Yousef. There wasn’t a reason to burn the logs until Gerrity was killed, and we knew it had something to do with his research.”

  Abasi nodded, but raised his hand and ticked off points with his thumb. “But you discovered that today. How did they know? The attack at the terminal was an attack on all of us — if they were only after Detective McGrail, they could have waited. Someone stole the murder book for Dr. Gerrity’s murder, but not Yousef’s. Why one and not the other? If the thief is, in fact, not responsible for the killing, then how did the murderers know Figlia was involved instead of the local police? It is not as though many people were on-site so early in the morning, were they?”

  Goldberg sighed, trying to forget that she’d been up for so long. “Not really. A few cops, the fire department, and …” Her eyes flicked quickly to Father Frank.

  “Or!” Sean Ryan interjected, “they could have merely been hanging around a doughnut shop listening to the cops discussing that sumbitch Commandatore who confiscated their crime scene.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s been about ten hours between the initial murder and the attack on the stairs, maybe even more. Any number of things could have happened. Quite frankly, ladies and gents, it’s been a long day, and I’ve been attacked three times, thank you. Giovanni, I’m guessing you have new guest rooms set up for the ladies?”

  Figlia nodded. “Down the hall from where you were attacked earlier. Right next to them are you and Hashim. I’ll take my office. The luggage from the hotel was brought over an hour ago for the two of you,” he added, looking at Abasi and Goldberg.

  McGrail took the hint. “Come on, Special Agent Goldberg, I’ll show you.”

  Goldberg nodded, sparing a glance for Father Frank and another for Sean Ryan. Figlia reached for his phone to make the calls he’d been trying to dial for the past few hours. The Pope said his good nights, and Sean followed Father Frank into the hall.

  Sean closed Figlia’s office door behind him, and walked alongside the priest for only a few steps. He quickly looked up and down the hallway, and was reasonably certain no one was around.

  He then grabbed Father Frank by the collar and hurled him with one arm across the hall. The priest quickly bounced back, sliding automatically into a defensive stance. Sean advanced with slow, menacing steps, his body posture going from one martial stance to another as he walked down the hall.

  “What the hell is going on here, Father?” Sean growled in a low voice. “Goldberg had you dead to rights, and even I suspect you’re in this deeper than you let on. You were the handler for Leftist assassin, probably because you could handle him physically. You expect me to believe that you wouldn’t have the same job with Yousef? That ties you to two dead terrorists. I saw you dropping a large novel into a fountain — about the size of your average murder book. What do you know that we don’t?”

  Frank sighed and sagged, relaxing. “Oh, is that all? I can tell you, but only if you keep it a secr
et, and only if you promise to play along, and trust me.”

  Sean nodded. “Hit me with your best shot.”

  * * *

  The thick Russian accent grated on Father William’s nerves, but he had to stand it. He needed backup, and soon. This was getting out of hand, and nothing worked.

  “And vot could you possibly need from me?” his contact purred.

  “I’m in the crossfire,” Father Frank Williams explained. “I’ve got the Secret Service and Interpol on my back, I’m certain someone from Mossad is creeping around, and I think the Germans are here, too.”

  The Russian voice laughed. “Wonderful. So you call in the old Cold Warrior against the Germans. This I call irony.”

  “Trust me,” Frank said, “that isn’t even the beginning. Besides, you’ve been in on this for weeks. I’m just calling you in sooner than expected, that’s all.”

  “And who do you want me to kill that you don’t want to dirty your cassock with, eh?” his contact asked.

  Now the accent was getting on his nerves. “There’s been enough of that, and it hasn’t worked yet. Listen, just be available. I know you’re in walking distance, but I need you here within minutes in case I need you.”

  “And what type of weaponry do I need?”

  Father Frank thought back to Sean Ryan talking about the abilities of the gunmen. “Come as though you’re about to go into battle against yourself — they have the same type of training you gave me.”

  “From birth?”

  “From birth,” the priest agreed.

  * * *

  Soviet assassins trained from birth, for God’s sake. But after 9/11, even the dumbest reporters agree that a lack of imagination can kill you, Scott Murphy thought as he listened to Wilhelmina Goldberg update him.

  Murphy and Shushurin had waited for almost an hour to reunite after the body of Dr. Almagia had been found in the Vatican Archives. Murphy had spent most of that time avoiding the crime scene analysts and trying to get the hell out of there. Shushurin had spent her time observing the security patrols, seeing how they operated and what they removed from the building.