A Pius Legacy

by Declan Finn

  They left, leaving Inna Petraro, Sean Ryan, Scott Murphy, and Manana Shushurin alone together.

  “Well, that was fast,” Murphy joked. “The only reason we’re left is that we’ve got nothing better to do.”

  “It helps that your boss just left the room,” Ryan added. “And that Mani doesn’t have a boss left to report to.”

  Inna Petraro elbowed him. “And that you don’t have a boss.”

  “Of course I do,” he answered, gently kissing her neck, “I have you.”

  “I hope you two are not going to continue that here,” Murphy said. “I’m sorry, she’s pleasant, but you as romantic lead doesn’t work for me.”

  Ryan grinned. “Yeah, that’s pretty much what all my casting directors said. See how much I’ve cared.” He looked at Manana. “By the way, I caught your conversation in the garden last night. My condolences.”

  Petraro looked at him. “What happened?”

  “My mother died,” Manana Shushurin answered softly.

  “She died because Mani here saved my life,” Ryan supplemented. “Just running to my rescue caused the order by the same bastard who had Grandpa killed.” He met the German’s eyes. “Your war is my war.”

  She blinked, her eyes watering slightly. “Really?”

  He smiled. “I guess you know what that means.”

  Manana nodded. “It means that everyone my father ever knew will die by the time this is over.”

  Chapter XI

  Bankrupt

  Langley, Virginia.

  Day 4. 4:00 PM

  Blaine Lansing of the FBI’s Internet Task force paused a moment. He didn’t pause all that often, and he had been working since Director Weaver had given him the assignment. Most of the staff had come and gone, and even Jennifer Lane had taken four hours for a nap of her own.

  And now, both of them were on the case, looking and hunting through the files of the NSA, DEA, CIA, FBI, DHS, NRO, ACLU, and any other alphabet soup organization he came across.

  “Hello, fellas.”

  Blaine glanced over his shoulder, noting David Grant, DCI Weaver’s Deputy Director of Operations, a medium-sized, slender fellow, with iron-blonde hair, and a face filled with smile lines.

  “Can I get you something, Mr. Grant?”

  “Well, you can narrow your search,” he said, putting two computer mini-disks on the table. “We’ve got the operations team leader, and we even pulled his file.”

  He inserted the disk. “Thanks.” He glanced at the name, Ioseph Mikhailov, a.k.a. Hans Franke. “By the way, I’ve been checking the web every five minutes, and I discovered that someone suggested shutting down the Catholic Church while I wasn’t looking. Has someone gone nuts?”

  Grant chuckled. “Possibly.”

  Jennifer frowned at Blaine. “Of course they have. Trust me, it’s the Sudan, they’re kinda cracked.” She looked at Grant as she typed. “The President is going to shut this down, right?” She glanced back to the monitor, and paused only after the DDO didn’t answer her. After a moment, she stopped typing and turned to face him fully. “Right?”

  Grant shrugged. “No idea. Trust me, I know how you feel, we’re both Papists, remember. You’ve got to relax. You Italians are always so high strung.”

  Blaine laughed.

  They both turned to him. “What’s so funny, boy?” Grant drawled.

  “You two,” he laughed. “You Catholics are so amusing. You’re the biggest Church on the planet, a billion strong, and you are all as different as night and day. It’s hard to believe it’s all the same organization. She’s from New York, you’re from New Orleans, and you both have different outlooks on life, even on death. In New Orleans, you have a party; and the Italians—sorry, Jen—but it’s like sackcloth-and-ashes time, wailing and gnashing of teeth. It’s quite amusing to see how you folks differ. As for me, I’m just a reformed WASP, and I don’t need to compare or contrast to anything.”

  “Ah,” Grant replied, “that explains why you’re so colorless.”

  “Ha. Ha.” Blaine looked back to his computer screen and blinked. “I don’t believe this.”

  Jennifer looked at him. “What?”

  “I found something. The ACLU.”

  Grant snickered. “What about it? They’ve been after the Church for years.”

  Blaine Lansing sighed patiently. While he was a computer genius, he suffered from a common malady amongst his profession—an inability to deal with people who couldn’t keep up. “They’re the ones helping the conspirators lodge the suits with the World Court and the UN, and they’re ‘suing’ to ensure the US can’t help.” He pointed at the screen. “They posted it on their website on Saturday.”

  Jennifer gasped, noting the time line. “They knew. Saturday was before any of this happened. The Vatican shootout hadn’t even happened yet. They were helping before the shootout at Rome; before the suits were filed.”

  Grant’s features darkened. “A perfect way to smuggle information—through a lawyer’s office. Are they part of the suit, and they filed early, or were they in on it from the beginning?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Find out.”

  * * *

  Dublin, Ireland

  Deaglan Lynch was an old man, but he didn’t feel it. In fact, he wasn’t feeling much except excitement. As Commandant for the Provisional Irish Republican Army, he’d had some amazing political coups in the past few months. Thankfully, Deaglan had had his men dispose of all their weapons in the Swiss embassy as a neutral partner before peace broke out.

  However, he was an old man, and one look at him would clarify that, wrinkled skin, smile lines deeply engraved into his face, and snow-white hair that barely clung to his head. The deceiving part about it was the light, baby blue eyes that sparkled as he did almost anything.

  Commandant Lynch sat on his hotel room’s bed in the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin City, and he polished his sword cane, ever ready to defend himself if the need should arise. Ever since he had taken over the position as commandant and as head of the political Sinn Fein, not only had the Provisional IRA attacks been more properly aimed, but he was able to time them all properly, exploding an ammunition dump every time the glorified street preacher that was Ian Paisley opened his anti-Catholic, bigoted mouth.

  But that had been years ago, before Ian Paisley had decided to become cooperative—after a fashion. Paisley was still a prick, but he wouldn’t be causing too much death anytime soon.

  His cell phone rang. “Aye?”

  “Sir,” his man, Thomas Healy, began, “we have someone who wants to talk with you by computer. A Matthew Kovach?”

  Lynch’s smile brightened. “Is it now? Well, let the boy through. Give him the number.”

  Lynch leaned over to his laptop and turned it on.

  On the other end of the screen popped up the face of a young man with blue eyes and blonde hair, standing next to a striking brunette with luminous green eyes.

  “Commandant Lynch, it’s Matthew Kovach—the author.”

  The Commandant looked at the younger man through the videophone. “What is this, another interview? Which outlet?” He looked at the brunette. “And who are you with?”

  “Agent Maureen McGrail of Interpol.”

  “I believe we may have met before,” Lynch replied amicably—ignoring that McGrail had destroyed several of his men’s old strongholds.

  McGrail nodded, acknowledging her identity. “And this isn’t about an interview. We believe there might have been a member of your little club who went down and bumped off a priest early Friday morning, late Thursday evening. Killed in Dublin.”

  He cocked his head. “You don’t say? I’ll have someone find out who’s in the area, and who could have done it.”

  “Get pictures, if possible,” Kovach added, “if you wouldn’t mind. We have someone who might be able to ID them. Sort of.”

  “We have someone who knew him when he was twelve,” McGrail clarified, “but we can alter the co
mputer image so it could match him at any age.”

  Lynch nodded. “I see. You said you were calling from Rome, did you? Does it have something to do with this business at the Vatican I’ve been seeing on the telly?”

  Kovach nodded. “Sort of.”

  “Ah…do you need any help down there, by-the-by?”

  Kovach kept from chuckling, then looked to Maureen, who kept a perfectly straight face when she said, “We don’t even know what to do with the people we have, but if something comes up, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Lynch nodded. “Thank you, lass. I’ll be getting back to all of you shortly.”

  He signed off, and Kovach smiled. “Well, that went well.”

  * * *

  Vatican City

  10:00 PM

  Pope Pius XIII sat behind his desk in his small office, looking at both his chief of intelligence and head of protection. Giovanni Figlia looked even more tired than he had for the past week. XO looked…calm, but irritated.

  “I saw the news,” Pius said. “Cheerful, isn’t it?” he grumbled.

  Xavier O’Brien nodded. “I’m starting to wonder if this isn’t exactly the sort of thing Undersecretary of State Alger Hiss wanted when he set up the UN while on the Soviet payroll.”

  Figlia raised a brow at him.

  XO smiled. “I’m the head of two intel machines. You don’t think I’d know spy history?”

  Figlia shrugged. “I suppose. My worry is less that and more a matter of what this will do to our ability to provide protection. Give a few pazzi an excuse, they will feel free to shoot at the Pope.” He gave a mirthless smile at him. “Usually, the fact that you are the Pope is reason enough. Now you are a ‘great human rights criminal,’ or some such nonsense, anyone who shoots at you will claim that he is a vigilante, or an executor, or—”

  “Or sanctioned by the UN,” the Pope finished wryly.

  “XO” O’Brien turned to Figlia and added, “You mean an executioner, by the way,” O’Brien corrected his English. “Although I think that some people would tell you there is little difference.”

  Figlia raised a brow, shrugged, and continued. “This will bring the pazzi out of woodwork.”

  The Pope sighed with a sigh that quickly resembled a growl. “That may be the intent. If they are fortunate, they won’t even have to waste the bullets on me—why bother if they can prod some random madman to do it.” He leaned back in his chair, tossing the pen on the table. “Now what? We start a counteroffensive with the release of archive documents, recorded testimony from James Ryan?”

  O’Brien readjusted his chair. “I guess the shame of having a Pope put out a hit on a head of state is no longer an issue?”

  Pius looked at him. “At the moment, we are being threatened with extinction. I do not think anyone is going to care that we planned to kill Hitler; it would, in fact, be more than anyone else did in the 1940s. It would certainly put us head and shoulders over the French.”

  Figlia coughed. “It is not hard to be head and shoulders taller than a moral midget, Your Holiness.”

  Pius smiled. “I wish the French had a midget…at least Napoleon had a spine, unlike these…jokers, as Sean Ryan would say.” Pius shook his head. “But then again, Napoleon was Corsican, not French.” The Pope sighed. “XO, start getting records in order, ready for publication, and line up whatever witnesses we still have. Including the testimony of James Ryan.” Pius bowed his head, using one massive hand to rub both his temples. “Speaking of whom, when will the body be ready for the funeral?”

  O’Brien looked to Giovanni. Figlia thought a moment. “Ronnie says that it will take a while, but the autopsy should be done by tomorrow night. Given the general speed of undertakers, James Ryan should be ready by Thursday.”

  “Good. I’ll do the funeral myself.”

  O’Brien leaned forward. “Do you think that’s wise? It could look a little showy. I’m not sure when the last time a Pope did a funeral mass.”

  Figlia nodded. “It would also be a security concern.”

  Pius’ eyes went hard for a moment. “This man spent his life in the service of his country and his God, and he eventually died for the latter. I will see to it that he is accorded all the due honors of his sacrifice. We’ll do the requiem—Mozart’s Requiem.”

  O’Brien’s eyebrows went up. “Really?”

  The Pope smiled. “Given the Ryan family, I am sure that a song entitled ‘Day of Reckoning’ would be appreciated, by both the living and the dead.”

  * * *

  Manana Shushurin opened her suitcase next to Inna Petraro’s. Vatican security and the Rome Police Department had retrieved her stuff from her hotel room, and Gianni Figlia had added miscellaneous supplies confiscated from the other spies Manana used to work for. Not to mention that the complete contents and gadgets of her luggage were all there.

  “Who wants to consider where we’re all sleeping tonight?” Goldberg asked from the side. “Or does no one care?”

  Shushurin dug her way through a set of clothes. “Well, unless two of us are involved in a lesbian relationship with someone else in the room, I don’t have a preference.”

  Goldberg looked at Maureen. “Nice to see she can be blunt.”

  Shushurin laughed as she picked up a pile and moved to the dresser. “Not hard. Everyone seems involved with someone else around here. Inna is with Sean, and you and Maureen don’t strike me as being close.”

  Petraro smiled as she made a small pile of her own clothing by her side of the bed. “And you appear to be with Mr. Murphy,” she stately gently.

  Shushurin closed the drawer and smiled. “He’s a good man.”

  Petraro looked over her shoulder. “I know I have only just met him, but he seems…a little colorless. No offense.”

  Shushurin waved it off as she returned to the bed. “None taken. Next to Sean, Oscar Wilde is colorless, and he dressed in Technicolor. But Scott is kind, and he’s gentle, and he listens.”

  Goldberg gave an abortive chuckle. “He seems more pale then nice.”

  “Last night, he just held me. All night, outside, and never did a thing to me but caress my hair. He wouldn’t even move inside, lest I jump him.”

  Maureen blinked, seemingly taken aback. “You’re not sleeping with him?”

  Shushurin looked up from her suitcase and glared at the Interpol agent with sudden annoyance. “Why? Is that so shocking?”

  ”I’m a cop, Mani, I have to think like that, otherwise I’m not doing the Job. I’m surprised he hadn’t jumped you already, or even tried.”

  The German shrugged. “So am I. He came close though… I think.”

  Petraro stopped at that and looked at her. “You think? How can you not know? Either he did or he didn’t, unless you were drugged.”

  Shushurin looked at the agent with a small smile at the rapid-fire, off-color dialogue. “You’ve been with Sean too long.”

  Petraro paused, thought a moment, and shrugged. “I know.”

  Goldberg leaned forward, looking around Maureen to glance at Petraro. “How long?”

  “Since we were both 18.”

  Manana looked at Goldberg before picking up a pile of clothes and moving to the dresser. “And you?”

  “Who has the time? I’m Secret Service abroad, for all intents and purposes, and the closest thing I have to a boyfriend lives in my apartment with me, and pushes in the White House.”

  “Pushes?” Petraro asked.

  “She means he serves guard duty,” Shushurin translated as she returned to the bed for more clothing. “To push a post is to be assigned to someone.”

  Goldberg nodded, then cocked her head at Shushurin. “Most people don’t know that.”

  “When I was trained as a ‘super spy,’ as Sean calls them, I was trained as an assassin.” She grabbed another fistful from her suitcase. “So if you think my sex life is bad, it helps that I was trained that way. Paranoia helps.” She looked at Maureen. “What about you?”

 
McGrail shook her head. “I’ve come close a few times, but even Micks have problems with a woman who can cripple them.”

  “You said you came close?”

  McGrail shrugged. “He was coming off something bad. I don’t think it would have worked with him on that sort of rebound. Most other men, when they hear that I have a black belt, they want to tussle. I beat the shite out of them, and they stop returning my calls. That’s quite something, given that Dubliners are usually quite resilient.” She smiled at Petraro. “So, there’s my life. How about Sean? Does he mind that you’re not as dangerous as he is?”

  Petraro laughed. “No. In fact, he’s been trying to make me as dangerous. He’s been giving me lessons in shooting.”

  Goldberg raised a brow. “You? Fire a gun?”

  She nodded. “Mm hm. He started me out with a .22 caliber Ladysmith, then a .38 AMT Backup, and then a 9mm Kel-tec P11, then a .45 Semmerling and a .357 once. I tend to stay with the P11.”

  Shushurin smiled. “I approve.” She reached into her holster and drew her Stechkin. “Not standard issue, but it’s a .9mm, with an automatic setting.”

  Petraro’s eyes widened slightly. “Yes, and too big to hide on me.”

  Shushurin looked over Petraro’s petite form. “True, but it is effective.”

  Goldberg shrugged. “I just have a lowly .357 Sig Sauer.” She looked to McGrail. “Do you even need a weapon?”

  “No, I am the weapon.”

  Chapter XII

  Ghosts

  Langley, Virginia.

  Day 5 (finally). Insanely Early

  The next morning, in Washington DC, the Director of Central Intelligence got up with the sun—he had long been used to only five hours of sleep at a time. As a result, more often than not, he was in his office at least an hour before many of those who worked under him.

  In said office, at an hour that many would not consider the start of the business day, Weaver blinked a few times to clearly see the blurry figure in front of him, and it didn’t help much.