7

by Van R. Mayhall Jr.

  Zack laughed in spite of himself. Maybe he would have to think more about the religious thing.

  “Doris, where’re we going?”

  ***

  Thirty minutes later, they parked in front of a hulking two-story wood-frame construction that, in the darkness, looked to have been built up about a half story off the ground. Wrapped in a large and deep front porch, it sat on a tree-lined avenue located in an area on the northern edge of the French Quarter.

  Although it was early morning, they had been welcomed, and, after many hugs for Doris and a few overflow hugs for Zack and Mel, Doris’s mother insisted on a slice of cake and a glass of milk for each of them. They also learned, although it had not occurred to them before to ask, that Doris’s last name was Leneau. The Leneaus were very nice people, and being around them made Zack wish for his own family.

  After the cake, Mrs. Leneau and the girls went upstairs to prepare the bedrooms. Mr. Leneau led Zack into the candlelit living room where he handed him a cold beer. They settled down in deep, overstuffed chairs.

  “Zack, are you kids in trouble of some kind?” he asked directly.

  Zack considered the question for a moment because it had never occurred to him they might be in trouble.

  “Mr. Leneau, I don’t think we’re in any more trouble than anybody else in this day and time,” he replied.

  “Well said, young man,” stated Mr. Leneau. “However, that was more of a philosophical answer than a factual one. Let’s start over. Why is a young man from Iowa sitting in my living room in the middle of the night and a young lady from Guam upstairs helping my daughter, who should be in school in Mississippi, make up beds?”

  “Doris said you would see right through us and we should give you the straight story,” said Zack.

  “I think that would be a very good idea,” replied the older man.

  As he filled Doris’s father in on what they knew and thought, Mr. Leneau tightly packed his pipe with an aromatic tobacco. Listening intently, he carefully lit the pipe and puffed gently. He let Zack get all the way through the story without interruption.

  “And that’s how I’ve come to be sitting here,” finished Zack, his clear blue eyes focused on Mr. Leneau. Would the older man believe him?

  The room was quiet as Mr. Leneau puffed on his pipe. His dark eyes bored into Zack as if trying to plumb the truth. The light rose and fell as the candles flickered.

  “Zack, have you heard that the president has issued an executive order declaring all elections invalid until the martial law crisis is over?”

  “Does that mean he’s president until it’s all over?”

  “Yes, whatever ‘it’ is, is exactly right. Oh, there will certainly be a court challenge, but that takes time,” replied Mr. Leneau. “The question is whether the army will back him up. Already, the vice president has resigned in protest, and the former speaker of the house has been appointed by the president as vice president. This is all completely extra-constitutional.”

  “I can’t say for sure, but maybe this is part of the reason I’m sitting here in your living room,” said Zack.

  “Well, son, this is a pretty hard story to swallow, but even two years ago, if you would have told me we would be where we are today, I wouldn’t have believed that either. What do you need?”

  “The most important thing we need is to find out if there are others like us,” Zack replied. “How can we do that?”

  “The easiest way to reach a lot of people quickly would be to put an ad in the newspaper—probably the online version,” replied the older man.

  “Right. Doris said you worked for one of the local papers—an editor of some type? Could you help us there?”

  “No need to,” said Mr. Leneau, picking up his iPad from the table next to his chair.

  “But I thought you said the easiest way to find out if there were others like us was to post an ad,” said Zack.

  Mr. Leneau did not respond. Instead, he typed something into his iPad and handed him the device.

  Zack studied the personal ads section of the local paper and looked down at a black rimmed advertisement.

  It simply said: “Carded and Compelled N.O.,” 504.225.8787.

  CHAPTER

  22

  “The devil among us? Now?” asked Cloe. The conference room was becoming stuffy. “This is the twenty-first century. How can we believe such a thing?”

  “Good and evil are not time-driven principles,” replied Francis. “We cannot even be sure that evil is personified. We have named evil Satan, Lucifer, the devil, and many other names, but we can’t be sure there is really a person who embodies evil. It may simply be within us.”

  “Within us?” asked J.E. “What can that mean?”

  “Young man,” replied the curator. “As you know, God created us with free will. This means we have the ability to choose.”

  “Sure, we can choose, but why does that mean evil might be within us?” continued J.E.

  “Because, if we can choose good or evil, then we are capable of each. If there is no evil, there is really no choice and no free will. The paradox is that while we are created in the image and likeness of God, who is inherently good, we are empowered by free will to choose evil,” said the cleric.

  “We must nurture the good within us, or evil will surge to the forefront,” said the pope. “If not, we can be overwhelmed by our base instincts and be corrupted.”

  “Holiness, it seems so hopeless when you put it like that,” said Cloe.

  “Not at all, my child,” replied the pontiff. “God gives us everything we need to overcome evil, but we must believe and work at it.”

  “Holy Father, if evil may not be personified but merely the bad side of our nature, how can we say God is a person? Perhaps he is simply the good side of our nature,” said Cloe. “Maybe it’s all just us.”

  “Very perceptive, Cloe,” replied the pope. “But God was here from the beginning, long before man or our free will. Our understanding of God is that he is the source, the uncaused cause. All things came from him. He created us and our free will. Thus, he is exterior to us in that sense, although we believe he is within us as well.”

  “I think I see,” responded Cloe.

  “What do we do about all this?” asked J.E. “There’s gotta be something we can do. You said God gives us all the tools we need to defeat evil.”

  The pope smiled at the man of action and said, “You are correct, J.E. There are things that can be done. Right now I need for you and your mother to go to Malta, where Monsignor Roques is imprisoned, as my extraordinary emissaries.”

  “To do what, Holiness?” asked Cloe, adjusting her shoulders.

  “You are to meet with the potentate of Malta, as he calls himself,” said the pope. “This man is overcome with his power and is very dangerous, but he has something we desperately need. So we must deal with him.”

  “The monsignor,” Cloe asserted.

  “Yes,” said Father Dimitri. “We need Albert with us. He has a secular understanding of the forces we are confronting. You must free him.”

  “What has been agreed?” asked Cloe.

  “Malta has Albert and has demanded a ransom that we are loath to pay but we must,” said the pope, with resignation. “You will, of course, have a detachment of the Swiss to protect you, but this trip will be very hazardous, in part because of the nature of the people we are dealing with. Malta is on the verge of chaos. While there is martial law, the civil authorities are on the cusp of losing control.”

  “You will fly into Malta on a papal jet with full diplomatic credentials and protection,” said Father Dimitri. “Your Swiss bodyguard will be heavily armed, but we are still relying to a substantial extent on the protection of the Maltese authorities. This is customarily for diplomatic missions. We just don’t know how far we can depend upon them.”

>   “Okay, we go to Malta, and we are to seek the release of the monsignor,” said Cloe. “Has this been agreed by the Maltese potentate?”

  “Yes,” said the pope. “The only condition is my representative must personally deliver the ransom. You are my representative.”

  “But Holiness, surely there are diplomats far abler than I to do this,” said Cloe.

  “There are Vatican diplomats, but I don’t think any are more able than you,” said the pontiff. “Your mettle has been tested in the battles with the Kolektor and the Karik. Plus, the monsignor knows you and will trust you implicitly.”

  Cloe looked around at the faces of determined men. There was no trace of doubt, and their jaws were set. She had no reservation that her mission was right. How could she? The monsignor needed her. She was prepared to do what was necessary.

  “Holiness, we are at your service,” said Cloe finally. “When do we start?”

  “Unfortunately, time is not on our side,” said the curator. “We must depart very soon.”

  “What do you mean ‘we’?” asked Cloe, turning to the curator.

  “Cloe, Father Dimitri will accompany you,” said the pope.

  Cloe looked at the pontiff and thought about Father Sergio and his involvement in the previous mission. Sergio’s assignment had been a test of his worthiness to be counted among the pope’s innermost circle, and before his death, he had passed with flying colors. She was not sure she could bear another such loss.

  As if he had plucked the thought from her mind, the pontiff said, “Cloe, Father Dimitri has nothing to prove to anyone. He will be a resource to you and your team. He speaks a number of the dialects that are common in Malta. He has studied the ways of the people. We have certain friends there whom Father Dimitri will be able to access should they be needed.”

  “All good, Holiness,” Cloe replied after a moment’s consideration. “Where do we go from here?”

  “We will provide a place for you to rest for a few hours and to clean up and put on fresh clothes appropriate to Malta,” said Father Dimitri. “Then you will take the ransom and be on your way. You will exchange the ransom for Monsignor Roques, and you will return here.”

  “Fine. What is the ransom?” asked Cloe, wondering what the Maltese would think the monsignor’s life was worth. “Father Anton said it was not money. Is it gold or precious jewels?”

  “It is neither.”

  “What is it, then?” pressed Cloe. “What is the ransom?”

  “What they have demanded for the safe return of the monsignor is outrageous,” replied the pope. “Still, it must be done.”

  “What is it?” cried Cloe.

  “It’s the ring, the Ring of the Fisherman,” replied the pope.

  CHAPTER

  23

  For the second time in the last twenty-four hours, Cloe was aboard a Vatican jet at the bidding of Pope Francis. She had caught a couple hours of sleep and then had showered and freshened up after the conference. She had donned one of the two spare outfits she had packed—her nicest black slacks and jacket along with suitable shoes. If she was going to be the pope’s emissary, she would look the part. Though she felt refreshed physically, she put her head back realizing how tired she still was. With her were J.E., the curator, and a detachment of the Swiss Guard. The group included some of the best-trained soldiers in urban warfare in the world. They were the Vatican equivalent of top US forces such as the navy’s Seal teams and the army’s Delta Force. Indeed, the Swiss had successfully been through some of the most rigorous US training programs. She was glad they were with them.

  They had been with her in the fight with the Kolektor and against the Karik. Her battle with the Kolektor had begun when her uncle Sonny called her in Seattle to tell her that her father was dead. She had not spoken to her father, Thibodeaux Lejeune, in twenty-five years—ever since that terrible fight when she had left home, pregnant and alone. She had been dating Evan … Evan. They had looked at a ring and had talked about marriage, but Evan was killed in an accident, and she had to confess her condition to her parents. Thib was furious, and her mother was too sick to help. Words were said that could not be undone.

  Cloe left Madisonville that night and fought to raise her son, J. E., and to make something of herself. Over the quarter century, she had become educated and skilled in ancient languages.

  On the phone, Uncle Sonny had said only that Thib had died and that she had to come back to bury him. She and J.E., now an intelligence officer and army ranger, had flown back to Madisonville. Uncle Sonny picked them up at the airport and on the way home told her Thib was murdered in an apparent robbery attempt. After Thib’s funeral, she learned he had left her the old oil jar and a letter explaining how he came to possess it. It turned out the contents of the oil jar were earthshaking, and the Kolektor, a man evil by any measure, wanted it and would do anything to get it.

  It hadn’t ended in the Kolektor’s favor. He was crucified at Hakeldama by a secret society, the Sicarii, who guarded the jars, and his criminal enterprise was destroyed. The Sicarii had saved her life and given her a second jar containing what she believed was the journal documenting Christ’s public ministry.

  One of the Kolektor’s trusted lieutenants, known as the Karik, had survived and had taken up where the Kolektor left off. It had been a race to the cave of jars, but in the end there were no jars. Once again, the Sicarii intervened and moved them to a secret hiding place. The new piece on the board had been Michael, the Kolektor’s son—more ruthless than his father. Cloe felt hot with shame as she thought of Michael’s pretense in caring for her.

  It had all ended at Masada, the mountain fortress, where the Karik, Michael, and all his people died. Before that, he and Michael had destroyed all the Sicarii, all but one. In the end, Cloe had all the jars and was the only remaining Sicarius—and she had lost Father Sergio. That was over three years ago.

  “Mom.” J.E. nudged her. “We’re approaching Malta.”

  Cloe shook herself free of the past and looked down at the small island, or at least the main island in the archipelago. She could see smoke rising from some of the cities.

  “There’s supposed to be a Malta military escort for us at the airport,” said J.E. “They’ll take us into Valletta, two miles away, if they show up.”

  The airplane circled, and from the starboard side, the capital city came into close relief. Cloe’s first impression was of a large fortress, as Valletta was encircled by several walls.

  “Malta has been a place of strategic importance in the Mediterranean for a long time,” said the curator. “Valletta has been the center of many battles and has been fortified by a host of factions over the years. These range from the Phoenicians to the British.”

  “The monks in the Opts Center tell us that the potentate has moved his headquarters to Fort St. Elmo, which is deep within the walls of Valletta. The government offices are actually outside the walls on the way into the old city. Essentially, from the land, Valletta can be defended by a relatively small force due to the fact that all means of ingress narrow to enter the city gates.”

  “Sort of a defile,” said J.E., “an enclosure or structure designed to let only a few people pass at a time. We encountered structures like this at both Masada and at the Church of St. John in France.”

  The airplane continued to circle, and Cloe heard the wheels clunk down. They were on final approach.

  “Yes,” replied the old priest. “So you have had experience with defiles. I’m surprised that such an ancient concept is known to modern soldiers.”

  “Well, we studied the structure in military history, but we saw one firsthand under the old church of St. John at Lyon, France,” replied J.E. “It was pretty amazing. Also, the snake path from the floor of the valley to the top up Masada allowed only a single file of climbers to approach.”

  “Then you know the prevailing idea
behind most ancient cities and fortresses,” said the priest. “The structure winnows down the path into the city or fortress so that only one or two people can enter abreast. If they are an enemy, archers or swordsmen can make short work of them. Due to the restricted access, the defenders cannot be overwhelmed.”

  “Okay, I can see why the potentate has moved his office within the walls,” said Cloe. “He’s safe from his own people and anyone else. All he needs is a relatively few loyal soldiers.”

  “That’s where we have to go, into the lion’s den,” said J.E. as the plane touched down at the old RAF airfield. “Once we get inside, we’ll be bottled up like rats in a maze. Getting out may not be as easy.”

  CHAPTER

  24

  On her way to bed, Robby’s mom padded down the hallway and paused at her son’s bedroom door, opened it a crack, and peeked in on him.

  “Grrrrrr,” came a low, menacing growl from somewhere in the dimly lit room.

  She swallowed hard and pushed the door open a bit more. A low light from the wall-mounted nightlight cast a pale glow. The bulldog was standing straight up on the bed, looking eye to eye with her.

  “Grrrrrr,” rumbled the dog again.

  “Whoa, boy. It’s me,” she whispered.

  The dog blinked, sniffed, and seemed to recognize her. He calmed down and lay down on the bed between Robby and the door.

  She cautiously entered the room and walked to the bed. Robby was fast asleep in the way only children who felt completely safe could sleep. She patted him on the head and kissed his forehead. He only sighed and continued to sleep.

  The bulldog stared at her, eyes glistening in the dark. Bully had massive front shoulders and a huge head. The dog reminded her of a medium-sized bear. There was something wild in his eyes.

  The bed was designed to look like a tree house and required a small, two-step stool to reach it. The bulldog weighed at least a hundred pounds, and he was hardly agile. Yet, there he was on a bed that a cat would struggle to reach. He weighed more than Robby, so her son could not have lifted him onto the bed without a small winch.