by Declan Finn
Murphy mirrored her body posture, and leaned in a little, his voice little more than a whisper. “Considering how I woke up, I thought I should ask what would happen tonight.”
Her smile grew, and her eyes flared dramatically. “What do you want to happen?”
Scott Murphy looked into her eyes, and found that they had caught the lamps in such a way that her eyes sparkled with a thousand points of light, each one like a tiny star. His heart beat picked up, and he was worried that she would be able to hear it in the silence of the hotel room.
They were too close. He knew that. It was right in the back of his head, alerting him to losing composure – even losing control – during a mission. He was there for a job, not to get a date, not to get lucky, to just show up, figure out what was going on, and leave. And now, he was too close. He was on a bed that was so broad, if they were at the opposite sides, she couldn’t even touch him with her big toe. And now, they were within breathing distance.
Murphy had so many conflicting emotions, he couldn’t figure out if he admired her for her mind and skills, or because she was just that breathtakingly beautiful he wanted her body.
After a few breaths, tasting her scent, he realized that he didn’t want her body. He wanted her, plain and simple.
What did he want to happen? So many things. Not one of them was a good idea.
He cleared his throat. The safe route was evasion. “You seemed a little concerned before when they figured out what you were.”
Those points of light dimmed. It seemed that he had successfully killed the moment. Murphy’s guts twisted that he had to do that.
Shushurin rolled away from him, onto her back, and she went to look at the ceiling. “Maybe a handful in the upper chain of command of the BND knows about me. Everyone else thinks my last name is fake – that I’m probably a NOC. But those people met me for thirty seconds and knew. If I’ve been that transparent, then—”
Without thinking, Murphy reached out and gently touched her shoulder. He knew instantly that it was a bad move. Her skin was sift and smooth, and warm, and reaching out to her brought him closer, and her breathed deeply.
He swallowed and gave her a little squeeze. “You were outed by the Williams family. They’re about six generations of spooks, so they’re genetically meant to see everything.”
Shushurin laid her hand on his, and slid along his arm, rolling towards him. “You sure?”
He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. “Don’t worry about it.”
Her eyes began to sparkle once more. Murphy leaned in and kissed her on the tip of her nose. He lingered close to her, taking in the feel of her skin, the nearness of her body, and Murphy thought, Oh Hell, why not?
Murphy darted forward and kissed her. Her arm wrapped around his waist and drew him into her, pulling him against her. His hand slid down her back, along her shirt, and stopped just at the hem. Murphy’s hand bunched into a fist to move the hem up her spine, and his hand slid under her shirt, pressing gently against the small of her back. Shushurin’s breath hitched, and her fingers curled, and she racked lightly down his back, sending pleasant sensations shooting all along his nervous system.
Murphy gasped into her mouth, and hugged her closer to him as he rolled his upper body onto hers. He used his other hand to support his weight and not crush her, even though his kiss became more forceful.
Shushurin moaned into the kiss, her hand sliding up to the back of his head, keeping him in the kiss. Her other hand slid under his body, diving into his pants, wrapping around to grab his butt. His hips shot forward, pressing him against her stomach. She gave another, deeper moan of appreciation, and pressed his legs open just enough for her own leg to meet him.
Murphy moved down to her chin, and then kissed along her jaw line. When he got to her ear, he whispered, “We’re probably going to want to tone that down in a minute.”
Shushurin gasped as he nuzzled her neck, and she pressed her leg gently against him. “Tell that to the rest of your body.”
Murphy kissed her neck one more time, causing her to make a cute whimper, and stopped. He sighed, then growled in frustration. He took his hand off her back, placing that on the mattress, and pushed up, pulling back from her. “You’re probably going to hate me for this, but not half as much as I’m gonna.”
Shushurin’s eyes narrowed, and she cocked her head slightly. His hand hadn’t wandered anywhere that wouldn’t have been covered by a bathing suit. There was only a thin t-shirt between him and her, and he stopped. “You’re serious?”
Murphy closed his eyes tightly, and slowly moved his leg off of hers. “Oh, I’m serious about what I would really, really like to do with you right now. But we seriously have to stop. You have no idea how much I wish I didn’t.”
Shushurin’s brows furrowed, confused. “Why?”
One corner of his mouth came up in a self-deprecating little half smile. “I’m still Catholic, and we ain’t married. And? We’ve known each other a whole thirty hours.”
She gave him a cynical little smile that made parts of him lurch. “That usually doesn’t stop most people.”
Murphy slowly pulled his hand back, the tips of his fingers grazing along her stomach as he pulled away. “I know. I try not to be like most people. Better control.” He chuckled. “Damn it.”
She sighed, and placed her hand on his cheek. She wanted to pull him in and molest him. “I really wish I could rape you right now.”
He shook his head. “Sorry, not possible.”
Murphy shifted positions so he was merely hugging her, his forehead against hers so he could look deep into her eyes. “You realize that I’m not casually interested in you, right?”
“I know,” she said playfully, “you said no one else has been interested.”
He chuckled softly. “True, but I’ve also never been as motivated to try for someone as much as I want… you. I don’t want your body…” He blinked, frowned, and bunched up his mouth. “Okay, I do want your body, but mostly because it’s attached to the rest of you. I like the way you think. I like that you can keep up with me on a pure spy craft level.”
“But we’ve only known each other thirty hours,” Shushurin finished. She sighed, annoyed.
“If you don’t mind,” he continued, “we should probably stop.”
“Then why did you start?”
“Well, I’ve been with you nonstop for two days, and you were never really down until …” he looked at his watch, “an hour and a half ago.” He smiled goofily. “I like you happy.”
Shushurin smiled gently. “Be careful,” she said in a teasing tone, “philosophers defined love as wanting someone to be happy and seeing to it.”
He leaned up and kissed her lips lightly. “Duly noted,” he said in a whisper.
* * *
The next morning, Ioseph Mikhailov looked around at the men gathered. It was a significant portion of his force currently in Rome, but to pull off the actual mission, he didn’t need any of them. The problem was, as they say, getting away with it — and that was what they were all there for.
Nikita, still wearing the black priest’s outfit that had come in so handy, waited patiently. For some reason, Mikhailov’s son had gone unnaturally silver at an early age. Given his son’s build, and the way he carried himself — as they all did, like trained killers — he bore a great resemblance to Father Francis Williams. Granted, anyone who looked closely for more than a bare moment would be able to tell instantly who it really was, but Nikita had always been fast.
“Now that we know what they have in mind for this morning,” he started, “we’ll be moving in early for advance work. We’re not going to have any problems this time. If for any reason we get cut off, I want you to all proceed as planned.” He looked to his son. “Nikita, I want you to hang back, outside the perimeter, in case something goes wrong. You’ll be our path out of there.”
* * *
James Sherman Ryan exited the airport, suitcase in hand. He
scanned the airport parking lot for a moment before he spotted exactly the people he wanted — he could tell because they had so much armor they had to be friends of his grandson. All of the cars were Fully Armored Vehicles, the kind favored by civilians with a lot of cash and even more enemies.
In this case, this “civilian” was the official leader of about a billion Catholics on the planet (unofficially, the numbers who actually listened to the Pope were such that those on the fourth floor of the Vatican didn’t want to think about it).
The first FAV stopped directly in front of him and the door swung open.
“Hello,” Sean told him, “welcome to Rome.”
* * *
Ioseph Andrevich Mikhailov smiled at the kind nun who had offered to be their tour guide through the papal audience hall. She smiled back as she went on in intricate detail about what felt like every square inch of marble.
Of course, no one paid the group any mind. Not really. It was just another group of tourists– just a group of “monks.” They were wearing full brown robes and all of them were cowled, because a full robe covered a multitude of guns. The only Swiss Guard they had found so far was walking along with the tour group, more or less sleepily. It was still early, by Rome standards, and the guard was only there to guarantee that the group could be cleared out when the Pope needed the building.
So no one really noticed when the left flank of the monks advanced faster than the main group, cutting off the nun from the sight of the Swiss Guard. A few moments later, the nun turned to yet another piece of artwork, and Ioseph moved. He wrapped his arm around the nun’s neck and twisted, sharply, breaking her neck before she had even a moment of terror.
Ioseph let the body hit the floor, then fell to one knee next to her, crying out for the guard to come to their aid. The guard dropped his halberd and ran over, hoping to lend some assistance. He bent over Ioseph, studying the woman over his shoulder, when Ioseph’s elbow drove up, straight into the man’s solar plexus, doubling him over. He drove his elbow up a second time, into the guard’s throat, crushing his windpipe.
Ioseph stood, tossing his hood back. “Everyone, into positions.” He pointed at one of his men. “Hide the bodies and get into the guard’s uniform. We’re going to listen to what they know, and then we’re going to end this.”
* * *
James Ryan was led into the antechamber of the papal audience hall.
James Ryan glanced at the chairs around the room lined up in circular formation, and matched them to the number of investigators he’d been told about on the way in. He also noted the dozen Swiss Guards, halberds at the ready, and bulges of automatic weaponry under their colorful uniforms.
The elder Ryan smiled. “I’ve been here before.”
“Ah? I hope it doesn’t look worse.”
James turned to see the large, dark-skinned Pope, who grinned broadly.
James shrugged. “Doesn’t look the worse for wear.” He reached forward his hand, and the Pope grasped it firmly. “Good grip… I wanted to congratulate you on choosing a fine name. You could not find one better.”
Pius XIII gave him a small smile. “And why would you say that?”
James looked to his left, and spotted a lovely, dark woman with almond-shaped, glittering eyes and marvelous skin. He grinned and stepped forward, offering his hand. “This lovely young woman must be the German I was told about. It is a pleasure to meet you. If I were forty years younger, I’d properly show you how much of a pleasure it is, but my knees can’t take it, you see.”
Shushurin gave a cockeyed smile, and looked to Sean. “Call off the DNA test, he is related to you.”
Sean waggled his eyebrows. “This I know.”
James looked next to her and cocked his head. Dark blond hair, blue eyes, this was a Mossad agent? “Funny, you—”
“—don’t look Jewish,” Murphy sighed, “I know.”
He glanced at the short Wilhelmina Goldberg. “You could, though.”
Goldberg rolled her hazel eyes. “Thanks? I think?”
Hashim Abasi offered his hand. “And could I pass for Muslim?”
“So could the Pope, what’s your point?” He eyed Abasi’s tan suit. “Anyway, I guess that you’re Goldberg, you’re Abasi, Shushurin and Murphy.” He nodded at Giovanni Figlia, all in black. “You’re the Italian security, yes? You look like a priest.” Figlia arched his brows. “You know a better place to look like one?”
James laughed and nodded. “Point taken.” His eyes flicked to Maureen McGrail, wearing a frilly blouse and black slacks. “And you I know from photos Sean’s shown me.”
McGrail glanced at Sean with her pale green eyes and raised a brow. Sean shrugged. “I’m devious, you know this.”
McGrail waved it away. She sat, and looked for the others to do the same, looking for Xavier O’Brien and the Williams family.
James Ryan said, “I see we’re missing a few people.”
O’Brien walked in a moment later. “Sorry, I’m a little slow. I sent the Williams duo off to fight evil somewhere. I’ll take notes.”
O’Brien sat on the Pope’s right. Next to O’Brien was Scott Murphy and Manana Shushurin. The German spy was between the Israeli and the Secret Service Agent. The next one over from Goldberg was Hashim Abasi. James Sherman Ryan was next, with his grandson next to him. Sean sat next to McGrail. To her right was Figlia, who wouldn’t leave the Pope’s side for anything
“You said,” Shushurin began, “that Joshua couldn’t have picked a better name. Why?”
James smiled at her. “Because I went out to work for him once… Pius XII, I mean.”
The Pope nodded. “Explain it to them.”
James leaned back in the chair. “You see, in the 1940s, I joined the Army… a little early. I managed to get to Italy through a rather long road — a little recon work, lots of fighting — and by mid-1943, I was in Italy. I crashed my plane, I managed to get out and into the city, and ran right to the Vatican. I did some work with the partisans and the local British SAS. Some of you may have heard of a Msgr. Hugh O’Flaherty. They made O’Flaherty’s life into a movie… only it has O’Flaherty take credit for almost everything that happened in Rome.”
He chuckled, and continued. “O’Flaherty found me, took me in. In October, ’43, after the death trains rolled in and took people away from Rome by force, the Pope…” he drifted off for a moment with a dreamy smile, searching for the right euphemism, “called upon a few of Father O’Flaherty’s refugees. There were at least a dozen of us — the healthiest, best trained, the most fluent in German — and he wanted us to do something for him. Pius XII swore all of us to secrecy, no matter what happened, no matter what history said about him, and he had a pretty good idea where everything was going. Unfortunately, at the end of the day, only two of us made it out alive.”
Goldberg leaned forward. “What did he ask you to do?”
“Establish contact with German generals who wanted to end the war in 1943, and after that, kill as much of the top brass of the SS as possible, and most of all, kill Adolf Hitler.”
* * *
Ioseph Mikhailov listened to the entire conversation in an earpiece transmitter. His informant had done quite well, bringing the communication earpiece along.
The insider had been correct; this was the moment of truth. Ioseph had placed his men accordingly, ready to make this moment of truth into a moment of death.
Mikhailov waited, and listened. His men slowly scattered throughout the building of the papal Audience Hall, ready for the kill order. After the debacle at the Spanish Steps, there was really only one last chance to clean up the mess. He would take no more chances. Besides, he and his men were already in the building.
He even had one man who had quietly trailed after the Pope and his entourage, clearing the way of Swiss Guards one by one until he stood outside the main hall, waiting for the moment when he should strike.
Mikhailov knew that risking one of his men wasn’t enough to completely cru
sh the opposition, but with his insider already in the room, and the gunman armed with automatic weapons, most of the opposition would be swept away. And shortly thereafter, all of the evidence would vanish along with them.
He raised his MP5 submachine gun, and held back a laugh. He would kill all of them, and the plan could proceed.
* * *
“What?” Wilhelmina Goldberg asked. “Pius wanted to have Hitler killed? Why? He was the Pope.”
James Ryan’s eyes lit up like a lightning storm. “There is a Catholic concept of tyrannicide – assassinating a leader who, in essence, has it coming. Pacelli was a very well-read man, and he knew natural law. Which is what put Hitler squarely in the column of tyrant who has to go. The Nazis had taken a thousand people from his city. True, Pius XII saved nearly all of them, but over a thousand were stolen away, some under his very windows, and he wouldn’t have it.” His mouth twitched into a near-snarl at the memories of what he had been through. “Houses raided, homes broken into, the screams of the prisoners being taken away, to a final destination.
“By that year, we knew what awaited those being dragged away,” he continued. “We knew about the death camps. Everyone had heard about it the year before — the BBC finally broadcast what had been going on. But the Pope had already heard rumors.” The veteran’s hands balled up into fists. “The bastards took them from his city, despite German promises, despite the money paid out in ransom. It was the last straw.
“Pius had an organization in place — he backed it, financed it and gave it all the weapons of diplomacy at his disposal, from fake passes and passports to clemencies, to smuggling people out of Eastern Europe. It was a simple matter to turn the entire system backwards, and smuggle people in to Eastern Europe, and to Germany. To smuggle us in.”
James Ryan looked to Goldberg, continuing to address her earlier point. “Pius had often stressed that he had commissioned us as a private citizen with a family fortune to finance the mission. He’d often refer to himself in the Royal we. But when he spoke to me and my men about what we were planning, and the assassinations he’d already supported, we never once heard him speak like he was Pope.”