by Declan Finn
“The little computer hacker who could,” sometimes known as Blaine Lansing, when the CIA folks weren’t busy making fun of him, had spent the whole night on his assigned case. He had continued to pound his way through firewalls and other weapons of mass protection, and he had left a trail of destruction in his wake that no one could spot unless the ACLU hired someone with a supercomputer to backtrack him.The usual assumption would be that the program just needed to be reinstalled, and nothing more.
And within the day after being put on the case, Blaine Lansing leapt to his feet and shouted, “I have it!”
An hour later, he stood in DCI Weaver’s office explaining himself to the head of the CIA. The FBI agent looked even more scrawny and pale when in the same room with the fit ex-SEAL, but Lansing never noticed. He came in with his laptop, and grinning from ear to ear with enough excited energy that even the DCI smiled on his arrival.
“You see, sir, the ACLU have been planning this for months, with the rest of them,” Blaine Lansing explained.
Weaver glowered. “The rest of whom, exactly?”
The FBI techie shrugged. “Well, we’re not where it started. I’d guess that it started simply with ‘Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?’ After all, the Sudanese have wanted to get rid of the Pope before he even became Pope. After that, I think another member of the Human Rights Commission heard it—namely, Libya—and put the Sudanese in touch with old friends in Russia—they were, after all, good friends during the Cold War—”
Weaver sighed loudly and looked next to Lansing, at the shorter, pixie-like FBI agent next to him. “Agent Lane, can you give me a shorter version of this?”
Jennifer Lane nodded, taking Blaine by the arm and tugging him away from the Director’s desk. “The Koreans, the Chinese, and the Sudanese have been growing closer ever since the Pope put them on his hit list of human rights abusers. We think that Sudan, Libya, North Korea, the PRC, someone from Russia, and contacts in al-Qaeda basically coordinated the deal through the United Nations. ACLU lawyers were couriers in order to avoid anyone hearing about it—tapping lawyers is hard to do, so I’m told. It’s obvious that they used thinly-veiled coded language to give the lawyers deniability, but—”
“What do you mean?”
The brunette cocked her head. “I mean they at one point used language like ‘When will we bring down the infidels?’ It’s an idiom, so it could be taken either way, but some days…”
“At one point,” Blaine interjected, “they said ‘We’re going to blow the Catholic Church straight to Hell.’”
Weaver started to comment about how stupid a lawyer would have to be in order to miss such an obvious statement, but instead asked, “Who sent those messages?”
Lansing and Lane looked in their folders. “The Russian representatives, sir,” Lane answered. “They had one or two recorded audio files in their computer systems. We handed over the information to the CIA techs to have them process the voice, but we’ve not gotten anything just yet.”
Weaver leaned forward in the chair. “You both have your laptops; do you have the voice on file? Play one for me, would you?”
They did. The voice was clear, smooth, no trace of an accent at all, and the speech patterns were thoroughly American.
Weaver nodded. “Okay, thank you both. We’ll talk to you a little later about the follow up.”
Jennifer Lane nodded. “Yes sir.”
After the FBI agents departed, DCI Weaver called in his number two man, David Grant, the Deputy Director of Operations. Grant was the type of person that could sneak in the back way of a building in order to complete the mission objective. But that was usually when his partner, a crazy man named Captain Wayne Williams, was busy firing rockets at the front.
Grant came and smiled, “Hey, Charlie, what’s up?”
“Charm schoolers!”
Grant arched his brows. “I gather you just figured that out?”
“That the bastards are all still alive? Yes … damnit!” he boomed, tossing a pen on the desk. The pen bounced off of the desk. Grant casually snatched it out of the air and started twirling it
“You were on that mission, weren’t you?” Grant asked.
The DCI nodded. When he was a Navy SEAL, he had led a mission to eradicate a Soviet training camp to teach Soviet citizens how to act and speak like Americans. There was one critical difference about this Charm School—the students were all trained from the time they were born, and in the deadliest arts that the Soviet Union had learned over the course of its existence. If the Soviet Union had lasted five years longer than it had, the students, and the Charm School, would have created the worst threat that the United States had ever faced.
“I thought we killed all of the instructors, razed all the buildings, and we damn near took out the students as well.”
Grant shrugged. “You had discretionary power. You let all of those kids live.”
DCI Weaver sighed. “Yes, but they were what, ten, something like that? The KGB wanted to go down with a fight, with or without Gorbachev’s say-so, but I thought killing the institution would at least stop them long enough for the USSR to fall.”
Grant smiled wryly. “Well, it did, but it seems like some of the children grew up in the family business anyway. Do you think that the Advanced Charm School had a few teachers we missed? Because one of these bastards is an older fellow. We know that from Wayne’s report.”
Weaver sagged. “I never thought any of those decisions made while I was on the teams would have this much fallout—blowback, maybe, but not repercussions against everyone else.”
“What do you want to do about it?” DDO Grant asked
Weaver grimaced. “We don’t know how many of these advanced Charmed School babies grew up to be a real threat. For the time being, we’ll have to assume that the Russian government had no actual handling of this operation. For all we know, the Libyans referred the Sudanese to a retired KGB operative who just happened to know a few of the ACS kids.”
Grant cocked a brow, “Yes, but if not? If Moscow worked with Peking, Pyongyang, Khartoum and Libya to attack Vatican City—seriously, what do we do?”
Weaver grimaced. “Assuming we had the political will? It would still be awkward. Diplomatically, I’m not sure we can act without making it look like we’re supporting a religion and messing with international law. Militarily…we can take them all if we ask our allies nicely, and bribe them into next Tuesday, but it’ll be bloody. We can cripple their armies without a problem—they don’t have half the technology that we do, and a fleet of GPS-guided bombs can level a fleet of tanks. If we borrow the Japanese navy, they can sit on the Chinese coast and blow up the People’s navy for target practice, and probably their air force. But, once we blow their primary force projection to hell and gone, then what? Are we going to occupy Russia and China? We’d have to kill half of Korea, then feed the other half; and Sudan…hell, it’ll be easier just to nuke the country. And this all assumes that China or Russia doesn’t nuke us.”
Grant smiled. “So, run for president, nuke them yourself.”
Weaver nodded. “If only, David. If only.”
* * *
Vatican City. Insanely Early
Wilhelmina Goldberg opened her eyes to dawn’s early light creeping through the windows, and saw two elegant figures going through basic martial arts katas. Not another one, she thought.
This time, both Maureen McGrail and Manana Shushurin went through motions, but each was slightly different. She sighed, then slipped out of bed, moved to the door, and opened it slightly. There was Sean Aloysius Patricus Ryan, simply standing in the doorway like a solid piece of mountain not even five and a half feet tall.
There was, however, something off about the eyes. Certainly Ryan wasn’t exactly what one could call a perfectly relaxed person—there was always a certain amount of intensity to him, especially about the eyes. It had taken two days, but it had finally occurred to her that his eyes became more intense and more
focused. Any more so she was going to be tempted to use him for a laser torch.
“I’ll get Maureen,” Goldberg muttered.
“No,” he nearly growled, “get me Manana. I have work for her.”
* * *
7:00 AM
Manana cocked her head, looking deep into Scott Murphy’s eyes. The Mossad man had chosen a dark blue shirt and gray slacks, which only accented his pale complexion and his dark gold hair.
“And what do you intend for me to do?”
Murphy smiled, glad he confused her and very glad that she had gone for a more conservative ensemble since coming over from the dark side—loose-cut jeans that didn’t cling to her like he wanted to, and an equally loose blouse. “You’ll work for the Mossad, of course, tell us everything that Germany doesn’t want us to hear.”
“But won’t they think I’m a security risk?”
Murphy waved that away. “Once your father is confirmed dead, they won’t care. As for the rest of the mercenaries—your brother included—if any are still alive when this is over, it won’t matter because they won’t know where you are. They won’t be able to blackmail you because we already know about your past, and we don’t care.”
Manana smiled gently at him. “They don’t, or you don’t?”
He gently squeezed her hand. “I don’t.” He held onto her hand for a moment before he let go. “And neither will they. Aside from recent problems, you have a spotless record, and you’d be surprised what Mossad will forgive with the proper recommendation.”
She nodded. “Understood. So will Mossad provide me with a house?”
“Not needed. You’ll have temporary housing that you can hold onto once you have enough cash to pay your own way.”
“And where would that be?”
“My house. I’ve got a bed and a few couches. I’ll sleep there while you take the bed.”
Manana raised a brow. “You don’t want to share the bed?”
He laughed. “Oh, you have no idea how much I do, but I don’t want you to feel indebted to me and decide to take it out in trade. Otherwise, I’d have to hurt you.”
“Really? This from the man I held at gunpoint not two days ago?”
“Um, well…I’d put up a good fight.”
She leaned over and ruffled his hair. “I’m sure you would.”
“Yes…um, can we get back to giving you a new life in Israel?”
She smiled. “If you insist. You might wish to hurry, however. Sean has a few odd jobs for me to do today.”
Murphy frowned. “Really? What exactly?”
“I’m not sure. Something about being ready for an invasion.”
* * *
Inna Petraro looked at her fiancé’s intensity, and worried. Ryan had taken it upon himself to start full-day training for priests and nuns, no stopping, all day. Even his dress had changed from his usual ensemble of black slacks and polo shirt to a straight, all-black commando uniform. He looked more feline and flowing; more like a tiger stalking a hunter who had shot at him, not because he was worried, but because he had been offended that he had been shot at in the first place.
Near the Vatican helipad, he had a makeshift target range with his students practicing with handguns that shot rubber bullets in single-shot or three-round bursts. After a half hour, they had the rhythm of “fire, double-tap, select fire” down pat, as well as the rotation schedule. A Korean-American seminarian from Queensland, Australia kept score, taking account of who did well, as well as play drill sergeant with the priests, shouting the bursts.
In the Borgia Gardens, Sean “Armor Piercing” Ryan stalked among his remaining students, carrying two telescoping, long tactical batons.
“Those of you with experience in fencing, kendo, escrima, or other forms of stick or sword fighting, consider yourself drafted,” he barked. “Clubs and staffs are the traditional accepted forms of defense for priests,” he continued, flowing up and down the rows of his “students,” “and we’ve got them. Because once you’re done being taught how to handle one and two tactical batons, we’re going to move on to the more traditional monk’s staff.”
Ryan stopped at the head of the group, holding both batons over his head, the butt of each grip pointed toward the other. He clicked them together and twisted, locking the two batons in place as one long fighting staff. By the time he was finished speaking, he had three volunteers. One had the “Irish cop look” about him; a second was definitely, obviously Asian; the third a large Cardinal from India, who carried his own Pastoral staff, crooked end and all. A fourth came scurrying up a little while after.
Ryan smiled. “And you are?”
The dark, blue-eyed “Irish cop” priest smiled. “Police Chaplain Evan Nolan. Ex-NYPD.”
Ryan raised a brow, looking over the man’s long form, and big beefy hands. No, we’re not playing any stereotypes here. “Where’ve you served?”
“Here and there… shot at in Bed-Sty, the Bronx, some time overseas in Afghanistan to visit the troops, and some old parishioners turned marines. I’ve picked up a few things with a tactical baton, if you’d like me to show you?”
Ryan grinned. “I’d like to see that, Fr. Nolan, thanks.” He turned to the Asiatic priest who was small, medium build, and wearing a Cardinal’s uniform.
The newcomer had a square forehead, high, gentle cheekbones, and an angular chin that made his face look like an inverted isosceles triangle. “Cardinal Sin,” he stated, in a thick, guttural English. “From…Japan.”
Ryan raised his brow and cleared his throat. In clear, crisp, tonal Japanese, he said, “A pleasure to meet you.”
The Cardinal smiled. “You speak with a funny accent,” Sin answered in the same language.
Ryan nodded. “And your background?”
“Samurai.”
Ryan blinked. “Come again?”
“My ancestors have a long military tradition to the Samurai. My family came from the Catholic area of Hiroshima… before it was destroyed. I had military training, though I joined the priesthood, I keep up.” He smiled slyly. “I would hate to get the build of an American bishop.”
Ryan laughed. “That’s a frightening thought.”
Ryan looked the other Cardinal up and down, at the set of dazzling scarlet robes. He had a turban to match, with a crucifix set dead center. And the way he carried his iron shepherd staff pretty much told Ryan that he knew how to use it.
Ryan switched to Latin. “And you are?”
“Harsharan Khan.”
Ryan eyed him once more, thought to ask about the turban, but shook his head and said, “Glad to have you.”
The fourth one looked like a reject from central casting of an old Universal monster movie—thick, full mustache, a body thick with muscles from laboring alongside his parishioners, and inky black hair that was all swept back, each hair going to the nape of his neck.“Bucharest Auxiliary Bishop Vladimir Pieczenik, Gypsy vicariate,” he stated in an accent so thick Ryan could use it for Kevlar. He bounded up and grabbed Ryan’s hand, nearly shaking it off.
Ryan replied by grabbing his wrist with his free hand and twisting, locking the man’s arm high behind his back. Ryan then carefully retrieved his watch, and took two steps back, releasing Vladimir.
The Aux. Bishop turned, smiled, and shrugged. “Old habit,” he explained with a smile.
Sean Ryan cocked a brow and looked at Evan Nolan. The police chaplain smiled. “He’s a Gypsy … in charge of regulating the herd. He knows the cons, drinks the drink, plays the music on the violin, and throws a knife with the best of the traveling shows. He also keeps the first sacraments, death, and marriage registers so that everyone is properly hatched, matched, and dispatched.”
Ryan frowned thoughtfully and nodded. “Ah. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave this group in your capable hands for the moment. Go through the motions, then have them strike and block at one another. I’ll be back later, I have a few other training grounds.”
Ryan turned and marched off,
smiling at Petraro as he moved past. “Hey, darling, how are you?”
Petraro started moving with him, refusing to be left behind. “Sean, maybe you should slow down.”
He smiled…sort of. “Not until I’m done with them. Did you see Kovach?”
She cocked her head. “Not yet. Why?”
“Because I’ve got him on the other side of the Vatican teaching hand-to-hand combat basics …” He shrugged. “He’ll do. I’ve also got Shushurin doing the basics of improvisation.”
“Improvisation?” Petraro asked.
“How to make books into shields, chairs into weapons, plates as long-distance strike weapons, how to turn rosaries into nunchucks, that sort of thing.” Ryan sighed, as though thinking if he missed anything.
“Oh. Why aren’t you having anyone else do this…coordination for you?”
He shook his head. “I need to keep busy. I’m not going to sit around and mope over Granddad, and I need these guys ready in case someone comes back. There have to be more of those assassins floating around somewhere on the planet, Shushurin almost said as much. As for the others… Wayne and Maureen are busy dealing with the prisoners.”
“And you think hand-to-hand techniques and rubber bullets will stop them?” Petraro asked.
He smiled. “No, I expect it to slow them down. I expect technology to stop them. We have some cool toys floating around. The rubber bullets, a directed energy cannon…” he drifted off, as though only now occurring to him that it may not be a good explanation.
“You mean a laser?” she asked.
He shook his head. “A microwave gun … it doesn’t burn flesh, it only feels like it. There’s also anti-traction gel, malodorants that are so bad they are limited by chemical weapons treaties, soft bullets, a Kevlar net system that stops people and cars, and beam tasers.”
She blinked. “I do not think I’ve heard of that.”
“It basically uses ultraviolet light to transmit an electric current—a taser beam, make it like a handgun, you can call it a phaser from Star Trek. I think we’re good to go.”
* * *
Giovanni Figlia spent that day with Wilhelmina Goldberg – and, later, Captain Williams, going over security designs and tactics.