7

by Van R. Mayhall Jr.

  How in the world did you get up here, Bully? There had to be some rational explanation, she speculated. She recalled Robby’s story about the giant from the park who had given him the dog and became further puzzled.

  As if the dog had read her thoughts, he seemed to smile slightly. The narrow mouth widened somewhat to hint at a chasm of canine teeth. He rolled slightly to one side, and she had the irresistible impulse to scratch Bully’s stomach. As she did, the smile on the dog’s lips widened. The dog chuffed with pleasure, but his eyes never left her.

  After a few minutes, she headed for her bedroom certain of two things: Bully was here to stay, and they were going to be great friends.

  CHAPTER

  25

  It was midafternoon by the time they arrived at the potentate’s official chambers at Fort St. Elmo. The fort itself was an ancient, drab structure that had been retrofitted as offices, meeting rooms, and the potentate’s personal spaces. As she waited for the so-called potentate to appear for their audience, Cloe reflected on their trip from the airport. The military escort did indeed show up, if a ragtag group of undisciplined fighters could be dignified with the title “escort.” None of them had a full uniform, only individual pieces such as military trousers or blouses—some had merely hats or scarves. However, all were armed to the teeth. Cloe, J.E., and the curator, after being stripped of their weapons, rode in military transports along with the two of the Swiss who were permitted to join them. They encountered no resistance coming from the airport, although they drove through widespread chaos. Stores had been looted, cars burned in the streets, and people milled around, angry and crying out.

  After a thirty-minute wait, more formally dressed soldiers drew back the massive doors to the inner chambers, and Cloe and her group were led forth to meet the potentate. A senior aid warned them of the expected courtesies. They were told never to show their backs to the potentate and to speak only when spoken to. He instructed them on the proper method of bowing. Cloe bristled, but she knew she was here on a diplomatic mission and certain niceties had to be observed. The curator absorbed these things silently but with a degree of interest.

  They entered what might once have been a large storage area but was now converted into some sort of throne room. It was a huge, open area bisected by a wide, red carpet that led to a dais. On the dais sat an oversized and gilded chair. There was an array of various flags and symbols of office on lacquered poles. A thin film of dust hung in the air. If things were not so serious, Cloe would have laughed at the self-important absurdity of it all.

  The senior aid announced the entry of the potentate along with his many titles. The potentate, a slight, short man, swept into the room from a side entrance, along with a dozen attendants and advisers. It was hard for Cloe to measure exactly his height as his knee-high military boots had formidable heels. They gleamed brightly against his flat black riding breeches. This magnificence was finished off by a frock-style coat, militarized by the addition of epaulets and a liberal sprinkling of ribbons and medals. The potentate looked like a Dickens character. He was of indeterminate age—somewhere between forty and sixty.

  The potentate strode directly to the dais, mounted it, and stood in front of the throne, facing his subjects. After a moment’s pause, he climbed onto the chair and settled in, with his feet hanging about ten inches above the floor.

  “Highness, I have the honor of presenting to you the Vatican delegation,” cried the senior aide, giving their proper names and titles and handing over their diplomatic credentials.

  The potentate studied them and glanced at the paperwork before handing it to one of the advisers.

  “Why … have you come to me?” asked the ruler.

  His words and tone caught Cloe off-guard, and she glanced at J.E. and the curator in confusion. They were just as surprised.

  “Highness, we have come on behalf of Pope Francis to secure the release of Monsignor Albert Roques, whom we have reason to believe has been imprisoned here on Malta,” said Cloe in a neutral voice. She could see the curator wince slightly and worried she had been undiplomatic.

  “Imprisoned? Here? On Malta? Impossible … or I would know of it!” replied the potentate in his strange and distracting way.

  “Are you saying the monsignor is not here under your control?” queried Cloe.

  At that, the man on the throne jumped down to the dais, rose to his full height, and said, “Do … you dare question the potentate? Next … will you accuse me of holding him for ransom or some such other international crime?” Each emphasized first word was accompanied by some hand gesture, often an index finger pointed upward near his nose as if he were summoning the word at the point of a spear. He seemed to pause for effect after the demonstration.

  The curator stepped forward and bowed deeply saying, “Highness, we do not question you at all. We certainly imply no illegality. We seek only your assistance and wise counsel in our inquiries about our friend. Perhaps he is here in some other capacity.”

  The potentate turned to his group of advisers and nodded. One of them approached and whispered in his ear. A brief but inaudible conversation ensued between them.

  Finally, the potentate turned back to the Vatican emissaries and said, “My … adviser tells me the man you seek is here on Malta as our guest. While … he is quite busy with his studies of ancient Maltese relics, a visit might be arranged.”

  “Highness, Monsignor Roques is needed for other duties and is being recalled to the Vatican by Pope Francis,” replied the curator. “We trust he is free to leave with us since he is only a guest here.”

  “Out … of the question,” said the potentate.” The … man’s research is valuable to Malta. He … must stay and finish his work.”

  Cloe picked up on the curator’s softball strategy and said, “Highness, we understand the situation. Perhaps the monsignor could be permitted a brief visit to the pope so the pope can consult with him on matters of great importance to the Vatican.”

  “We … are aware of events on the world stage, and, indeed, we know the Vatican itself has been sacked by the mob,” said the potentate. “If … this monsignor left here, what guarantee would we have that he would return to finish his work?”

  “We have brought with us an object of great value, which we will leave as security for the monsignor’s prompt return,” replied the curator.

  “An … object of great value?” asked the potentate, pointing and smirking. “What … would that be?”

  The curator withdrew the object from one of the interior pockets in his cassock. It was contained in a small, highly lacquered wooden box.

  “May I approach, Highness?” asked the curator.

  Cloe glanced at J.E. and saw the slightest smirk on his face at this farce.

  “Certainly … not,” gushed the potentate and nodded to his adviser. The adviser stepped off the dais and accepted the box from the hand of the curator.

  Cloe’s heart went cold when he grabbed the box and turned to present it to the potentate. Now there was nothing to do but to trust this strange man.

  The potentate took the box and slowly opened it. As he gazed on the Ring of the Fisherman, his eyes grew wide with surprise, pleasure, and finally avarice. He took it out of the box and slipped it on his ring finger. It was much too big for his small hands, so he tried other fingers, settling on the index finger of his right hand.

  He gazed at the ring in wonder, captivated. Without looking at them, he actually said, “Thank … you.”

  The curator cleared his throat, and when the potentate finally focused on him he said, “Sire, may we take our friend and go? Will this serve as adequate security?”

  “Security … security?” said the potentate. “Oh … yes! Security … yes certainly. However … there is just one problem.”

  “Problem?” responded Cloe.

  “The … man you seek is not here,” sa
id the potentate, still admiring his hand with the symbol of papal authority now firmly on it.

  CHAPTER

  26

  As it turned out, there were five others—including him and Mel, seven in all. It had taken many phone calls and most of the morning to link up, but Zack was persistent. He was unable to speak to one of those involved but had received a text. They arranged to meet just before noon at City Park at the Morning Call coffee shop. Doris fussed at him that calling Morning Call a coffee shop was like calling a Rolls-Royce a car. It was actually a 142-year-old institution serving its specialty café au lait and beignets 24/7. Still, from a safety point of view, it was the perfect place for a meeting—public and pretty crowded.

  When Zack and Mel arrived, they entered the busy restaurant and looked around. Zack wasn’t sure what he was looking for. The Australian woman he had spoken to, Zoe, said she would have a sign. They wandered through the café and came to a large table in the breezeway where a woman sat alone. The table was in a corner and overlooked a small lake stocked with geese.

  The woman appeared to be forty-ish, plus or minus. She had short, cropped brown hair, bright blue eyes, and an open face—one that you might trust right away.

  As they stepped closer, the woman pulled her hands slightly apart, and there on the table was the ubiquitous card. After exposing the card, she quickly covered it up again with her hands.

  Zack stepped forward. “Zoe?”

  The woman stood and came around the table with her right hand outstretched. “Zack?”

  “Yes, and this is Mel,” he replied, eschewing the handshake and hugging the Aussie like a long-lost friend. “We are so happy to see you.”

  They moved back to the table, but no sooner had they sat down than an older woman approached.

  “Good day,” she said. “I’m Anna. I saw die card. I spoke to you on die phone.”

  “Yes, Anna, you posted the ad,” replied Zack, standing. “Please join us.”

  “I see die angel visited each of you,” said Anna.

  “Angel?” Mel queried.

  “Yes, das is die way I think of him,” said the woman who was probably in her sixties with gray, almost white hair. “When he came to me, he must have been close to seven feet tall, with a horribly scarred face. He vas dressed like a peasant with dungarees and a flannel shirt. He vas very fierce looking and scary but ever so gentle in giving me die card.”

  “Did he speak to you?” asked Mel.

  “Niche a word,” said Anna. Zack thought her accent might be Russian, German, or Eastern European.

  “Nor did he say anything to me,” added Zoe. “He looked at me like he was giving me the bloody crown jewels instead of some strange card.”

  They were interrupted when two men approached from different directions.

  “Hello, my name is Rey,” said the one with dark hair and olive skin, holding up a card for all to see.

  The other man was silent, almost surly; he simply approached and plopped down at the end of the table.

  Zack stood again and said, “Welcome, Rey.”

  He then looked at the silent newcomer, a smallish man with a large nose and rodent-like features.

  “I don’t know why I’m here, but my name is Louie and I’m from the Big Apple,” the man said.

  “Apple? Apple? Vas is dis Apple?” asked Anna.

  Zack laughed. “The Big Apple is none other than New York City. Welcome, Louie. We’re glad you’re here.”

  Zack looked around at the strange group. Each of the six had his or her card on the table or balled up in a hand. They were numbered consecutively one through six. He had only been in touch directly with these four, but he thought there might be one more, the one who had sent the text. If he was correct that would be number seven.

  Rey cleared his throat and said, “Why are we here? What is this all about?”

  “Maybe we ought to start at the beginning and introduce ourselves,” said Mel. “There might be a clue we can learn from something in our backgrounds.”

  There was general agreement on this, and Mel began outlining where she and Zack had met as well as their adventures in getting to New Orleans.

  “So Zack is an IT specialist from Des Moines, Iowa, and I’m an EMS tech from Guam,” she finished. “We have absolutely nothing in common except a distant relationship with New Orleans and not much, if any, living family.”

  Zack looked at the other four and said, “Who wants to go next?”

  There was an awkward silence, and then Anna said, “I’m from a little town in what used to be East Germany. I sew, making wedding dresses and other custom garments. I have almost no family because of die purges after the war when the Communists took over. My only brother is a priest in Italy at the Vatican. He cares for St. Peter’s. Otherwise, I am alone.”

  She paused, and Zack was unsure whether she could continue. The old woman recovered, however, and said, “Well, das is ancient history. Der giant came to my tiny shop. He cast a mighty shadow over the doorway, and I thought I vould be robbed by one of die thugs in die town. His hair was white, and his face was horribly scarred, but his manner was very gentle. He reached into his pocket and drew die card. Either die card or his mission was precious, holy, to him. He bowed and put die simple card in my hands. I glanced at it, and when I looked up, he vas gone.”

  “Yes. That’s similar to what we experienced,” said Mel.

  “And then, it vas the strangest thing. Although I knew little of it, I felt I needed, needed to come to New Orleans,” said Anna.

  “We definitely experienced the same need to get to the city,” mused Mel. “We believe we are here for some reason.”

  “But what?” cried the wry, little man who had introduced himself as Louie. “I don’t know any of you people and don’t want to. Listening to your stories, it’s perfectly clear you are all nuts.”

  “But here you are a cardholder, one of us,” replied Zack. “Tell us your story.”

  It turned out Louie had a mother in New York, but his only other relative was a sister in London and her children.

  And so it went around the table. In each case the giant had approached and had deposited the a card with them. Thereafter, each of them was compelled to make their way to New Orleans. Why? Zack had no answers.

  “Rooof, rooof,” came the deep-throated bark of a dog. Zack turned to the entry of the breezeway and saw an enormous English bulldog on a leash, towing a boy of about seven or eight. The dog dragged his owner along like a team of Clydesdales might tow a beer wagon.

  “Whoa, Bully!” shouted the diminutive master.

  Bully finally stopped and sat on his haunches near the edge of the table. His massive head hovered above the tabletop. The young boy walked up, hugged the dog, and then looked fearlessly at the people huddled around the table.

  “Hi, my name is Robby,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  27

  Zack and his companions looked at the young boy in amazement. They were wondering at the strange situation that could involve a youngster like Robby. The small boy was a surprising addition to the group of adults: an older German woman probably in her late sixties, a petty thief from New York, a man from the Philippines, an Aussie named Zoe, himself, and Mel. As Zack mused on the scene before him, he heard the dog growl; Bully was looking directly at him.

  He stared back at the mammoth creature. The dog was sitting with his back to the table, between Robby and the entrance, clearly on guard. Bully reminded Zack of a small, very muscular man—a canine weightlifter. He had no tail at all, and his body was covered with a stubbly, light brown fur. His shoulders were large and strong. His massive head was bigger than a soccer ball. Bully’s eyes were a deep brown. Zack had the distinct impression of keen intelligence. Bully had a strange way of looking behind him, not turning his head at all but rather extending his head and what neck h
e had straight up, so that you were looking at his face upside down.

  Zack laughed and said, “Nice to meet you, Robby—and you too, Bully.” He could have sworn the dog smiled slightly before he went back to watching the entrance, occasionally raising his head to look back in his odd, contorted manner at the table and its occupants.

  Mel stood up and walked to Robby.

  “Robby, where are your parents? Are you here by yourself?”

  “We live a few blocks from the park, and I come here all the time to play,” said Robby. “Besides, I’m not alone. Bully is with me. This is where I met the giant.”

  “Hey, kid! Beat it,” said Louie. “We got important stuff to talk about.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Zack. “You sent us a text message, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah,” said Robby. “I saw the number, but I couldn’t call it because you would’ve wanted to talk to my mom, and she wouldn’t have let me come. I used my mom’s cell phone.”

  “Kid … you got a card?” asked Louie.

  Robby reached for the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his card and held it up for all to see. Where the other cards had been numbered one through six, Robby’s card said “7.” Bully chuffed with satisfaction and continued watching the access way to the outdoor seating area.

  “I’m supposed to be here, just like all of you,” Robby said.

  The group was quiet for a few moments. Supposed to be here? Is that part of the answer to the riddle of why we are here? Zack wondered why he had not thought about that word before.

  “We all have these ‘numbered’ cards,” he began. “Does that mean anything to anybody?”

  “Well, it’s more than one thing,” said Zoe. “For now it seems there are seven of us. It’s not just the number seven, it’s our number. But what would that mean?”