by Declan Finn
“Well,” she said, not turning around, “the first time I wanted to make sure everything would go well, and you would be comfortable with me fully dressed; the second night I wanted you to jump me.”
Murphy smiled awkwardly. “Sorry I disappointed.”
She grinned. “Oh, trust me, you didn’t.”
Maureen rolled her eyes, and looked to the American. “Sean, what happened? All I know is that they have the Pope.”
Scott was the one who answered. “Figlia is coordinating with the locals to make sure no one gets away. I heard him mention that before he rushed off, but if we don’t have them by now, I can’t see any reason why we’d have them later.”
Manana nodded. “Exactly. Figlia probably called the cops immediately, and after that, every policeman should have been here in a minute, and the Vatican security would have cornered them. Most likely there was a helicopter waiting for a signal, they circled around to the back of Vatican City, and took off from either the helipad or the gardens, or they hopped a motorbike for somewhere else in the city, like the Coliseum.”
Ryan looked at his watch, grateful it hadn’t been blasted. “Well, if they haven’t been caught now, they could have hit the Coliseum and taken off. But if they land anywhere in the country, the locals will be all over him. They have to have backup personnel wherever they land—even if they land on an aircraft carrier. There are some helicopters that could fly to Switzerland, Paris, possibly Spain.”
Maureen sighed deeply. “All that aside, why would the French take him?”
“My guess,” Ronnie said, “given what I’ve heard on the news, the French are serious about the whole World Court thing. I mean, they only get one case a year on average. And if they take the US precedent on Manuel Noriega, the court doesn’t care how Josh gets there, just that he’s there. The World Court, or even the Belgians, seem to think they have jurisdiction over everything, and if they have a clear docket, they’d want to move quickly.”
Petraro nodded as she watched Fr. Williams examine her fiancé. “Indeed. The counterattacks on the news from our side have been quite good. The enemy needs to move fast.”
“Otherwise,” Manana added, “the whole thing will go to Hell.”
“Does anyone know where they might hide him? France? Belgium?”
Everyone thought, then shook their heads. Ryan sighed. “We’re going to have to hurt people, I’m sure. Just when I thought this would be a restful venture.”
Petraro patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, you can rest on the honeymoon.”
“Yes, I know.” He suddenly pounded the examination table. “Damn it! I might as well have gift-wrapped him for them.”
Manana looked over her shoulder from her own table. “You’re telling us? I should’ve known that they’d try this.”
“Hey, super girl, I’m Catholic, I’m supposed to beat myself up—”
McGrail sighed. “Oh, stuff it, the both of ya. We were lucky the three of us survived six guys with fully automatic weapons.”
Ryan looked at her. “Luck? Maureen, were you not there when I took on twenty Serbian terrorists with little more than my bare hands and a nightstick?”
“I was, and they weren’t armed with anything more than what you had. When you’re armed equally, you can take out as many bastards as you want. When you’re outgunned on a one-to-one basis as well as outnumbered, that’s a touch harder.”
There was a loud crash out in the hall, and half of the room turned, Ryan and Manana drawing their guns. The next moment, Wilhelmina Goldberg kicked the door open, Xavier O’Brien hot on her heels. Bishop XO was either a very fast dresser, or he had still been awake when the shooting had started.
Goldberg glared at everyone. “Come on, you lazy bastards, what are you doing just sitting there? The principle has just been taken, damn it. Get up and start hunting these bastards down. They’re still in Italian airspace!”
XO put a hand on her arm. His steady presence grounded her before she started off again. “We don’t have an air force,” XO explained. “We’d have to wait for the Italians, who probably mobilized the moment gunships started shooting up Rome.” He looked to Veronica Fisher and said, “Ronnie, if I may speak with you outside a moment.”
The forensic scientist paused a moment, blinking. She had been smiling at the exchange of just a moment ago. It took a few seconds, but her face fell.
Ronnie was a cop’s wife, and daughter of a cop’s wife, so when the second-in-command of the Jesuits and the Vatican, and head of Vatican intelligence—the same person—came to her door, personally, she knew what it meant.
Ryan blinked, then breathed deeply. “Oh crap.”
Maureen winced. “Fock,” she muttered under her breath.
Scott put his hand on Ronnie’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks,” she whispered.
Ronnie grabbed hold of the table, and Manana slid off, then lifted her onto the exam table, where she had been a moment ago.
Fr. Williams sighed deeply and whispered, “Giovanni Figlia is dead.”
* * *
Matthew Kovach had, one day in 2001, gone to class in college; it was just an English course, nothing special. It started at 9:05 in the morning, and a classmate had asked him, “Did you hear about a plane heading into the World Trade Center?”
Kovach laughed it off. “Sorry, but the towers are a little large for someone to not see them.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
When the class ended ninety minutes later, he was told that all classes were canceled.
On the way to his father’s office, he had a very strange feeling, as though something was off. Every cell phone on campus was open, which was curious. He felt like he was in a scenario from The Birds.
The first words his father said to him were, “They rammed airplanes into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. The Towers are gone, and the Pentagon is burning.”
Kovach blinked and felt like he had fallen into a Tom Clancy novel.
Years later, Matthew Kovach looked up from a sound sleep at the long face of Inna Petraro.
He blinked and muttered, “If you start doing a strip tease, I’ll know this is a dream.”
“Giovanni Figlia is dead and the Pope has been kidnapped.”
Kovach blinked. “Damn it, I’m in Clancy territory again.” He tossed off the covers, slipped into his shoes and pushed off the ground, throwing himself into action. He was just glad that he slept fully dressed—a habit he had picked up rather recently, as it turned out.
He started by storming out of his hotel room, and then stopped, turned, and said, “How did you get in here?”
Over Petraro’s shoulder, Kovach finally noticed Captain Wayne Williams.
“Oh, never mind.” He whirled and started down the hall, for the stairs. “Do we know anything about who did it?”
“We have their location, where they hid the Pope, and most of the team who came to take him away,” Wayne answered as he followed.
“Why didn’t anyone wake me up earlier?” Kovach checked his watch. “Four in the morning … when did this happen?”
“About two hours ago,” Wayne answered. “We just got around to it, considering that you’re only the chronicler.”
“Yeah, well, guess what? I’m going to be your best friend if this ever comes down to a public relations battle,” Kovach replied. He stopped on a landing and looked to his agent. “Inna, speaking of which, get on the horn to anyone you think wants to talk to me. About my new book, my last book, any book I’ve ever written. So far, I’ve set all my stories in Catholic school and they know I’ve PhDs in history and philosophy, they’ll want to ask me something about all of this, and I don’t care if it’s C-Span’s Book TV. I’ll get Skype set up, though from the hotel, not from the Vatican, or anywhere near it. And I’m on location, it helps.”
Kovach literally hurled himself over the last five steps down to the landing, nearly stepping on Wilhelmina Goldberg, who sides
tepped the charging author.
“Nice to see that you’re up,” the Secret Service Agent muttered, heading after him.
“Can I help you?” Kovach asked, businesslike without being curt.
“The NSA intercepted the video feed from the paras. I have all of it.”
Kovach stopped dead in his tracks and turned towards the short woman. “You’re beautiful, and I intend to dance at your wedding.”
Goldberg arched a brow, looked him up and down—hair wild, eyes focused and shining bright with the intensity of the truly mad—and smirked. “That’s if I invite you.”
“Granted.” He turned back and started hurrying toward the door once more. “I’ll need the full feed, and permission to show it. I’m going on air in a few hours, and I want to start my own media blitz.” This time, the writer skidded to a stop. He blinked, rewound to her first words, then looked over his shoulder. “Wait a moment, Giovanni is dead? Figlia?”
Goldberg nodded, so did Inna Petraro. “They’re calling it an ‘arrest,’ ” the Secret Service Agent continued. “Giovanni was killed while obstructing justice, or some such garbage.”
Kovach smiled. Petraro knew this look. This is where everything in him had gone still, cool, calm and focused. That was the look when he was about to pick something apart like an infected pimple, and enjoy every moment. Petraro had told him it resembled “the portrait of a serial killer as a young man,” akin to a blooming serial killer torturing a cat.
“These guys have short fuses,” he stated simply. “As impatient as a two-year-old wanting ice cream. If I go after them, and if I push hard enough, I’m going to make them do something stupid… er.”
Goldberg frowned, and looked at Wayne. The Captain shrugged, also not understanding. “I know. Encouraging, isn’t it?” she said sarcastically. She looked back to Kovach. “What did you have in mind?”
He laughed—it was deeply felt, humorous, and entirely unpleasant. “I want them to come after me.”
* * *
Director of Central Intelligence Charles Weaver was naturally imposing with his height and build, and his SEAL training made him more so. Nobody liked to see him when he was angry, mainly because the only thing restraining him was years of training.
At the moment, he paced up and down the situation room, glaring at the replay of the feed intercepted by the NSA played on the large screens as he circled the Deputy Directors of Operations and Intelligence, as well as four of their underlings.
“WHAT THE HELL WERE THE FRENCH THINKING?”
“From what we can tell,” Grant answered, “it looked like the French were let in on the deal to split up the Vatican museums. The Russians were too close to it already, considering their ties to this Mikhailov character, and probably felt that any more involvement would look funny. Given the potential gains, the initial conspirators probably decided to swallow the bullet and offer the French either some or all monetary rewards from the Vatican. The French were technically out of the scheme until now.”
DCI Weaver looked at him with a harsh glance. “I guess you don’t count them voting for yesterday’s resolution?” Weaver growled. “What do the French intend to do with him?”
“He’s in Belgium at the moment,” Grant answered. “One of the NSA’s former employees managed to track the French exfiltration team there, and we have a probable location on the building they’re holding him in.”
“And,” the DDO Patrick Cochran added in his Hah-vud accent, “we can’t go in and get him ourselves because they’re supposed to be an ally of ours, so Barry,” he growled, referring to the President, “won’t even be bothered sending any of our people in.”
“Hell, he wouldn’t even let us bring up the idea to him,” Weaver declared. “Why do we have allies anymore, gentlemen? That just means we can’t declare war on some people who are supposedly our friends.”
* * *
New York City
9:00 AM EST
Moira McShane worried about her husband, with good reason. In the life of Mathew Kovach, trouble found him, and Trouble was a proper noun, on a first name basis with the family. Between Matthew’s family and hers, there was probably enough hand-to-hand and regular combat experience to train a fleet of dojo students.
Then again, if we didn’t attract trouble, we wouldn’t be living here.
McShane and Kovach lived in The Complex, the most secure apartment building in the world, run by former Marines and had as many computer background checks and facial recognition programs as the Pentagon and all the casinos in Las Vegas combined. The doors had a code to be inputted, including a key, and had metal bars like a bank vault slide through both the door frame and the door itself.
She went through her djurus with Fox News on as they tried to get updates live from Rome. The only way she could work out her nerves was to assert control over herself…well, one way, that is; there were others, but she felt like killing something right now, as she suspected much of the planet did at that moment.
Kidnap the Pope. If they kidnapped Netanyahu or Bill Clinton for war crimes, Mossad or CIA would dynamite the UN and the World Court just for kicks, and then the Israelis would nuke Paris. DCI Weaver would probably just greet President de Villepin at a formal function and shoot him between the eyes…he might be elected President for that.
“I guess you heard?”
McShane should have jumped, as would most other people, but she just continued through the djurus. “Hi, Mike.”
The intruder closed the door behind him. He was a man whom no one with a normal frame of reference would see as anything more than what she or he saw. He seemed like a blond space case, a six-foot pushover only two years away from forty. He had gentle green eyes that stood out in an exceptionally tanned face. His cheekbones were softer than his eyes. His hair was light and fluffy like a chick’s fur. He looked like the man he wasn’t and the man he wanted to look like, the kind no one paid attention to. Such lack of attention had served him well all over the globe, and had been the regret of many others.
Michael Finn stepped off the open landing onto the carpet of the living room, checking for booby traps. Matthew had become proficient at the prearranged booby-trap with normal household items.
“Where’s Matthew?”
Moira smiled. “Can’t you guess?”
Finn rolled his eyes. “Crud, he’s in Rome? He really should be transported to Moscow or China, let him bring death, doom, and destruction to them for a change.” He shook his head and sat down in an armchair.
The phone rang, and Moira slipped from a djuru, pivoted and in one fluid motion leapt to the phone before the first ring stopped.
“Matthew?”
“Yes. You heard?”
“I did.”
Kovach smiled. She had once had a forced stay in the Republic of Ireland, and sometimes, like the Irish language, the word “yes” totally disappeared from her vocabulary, replaced only with verbs…which, Matthew had to admit, made some love-making sessions VERY interesting.
“Where are you now?”
She smiled. “You dialed the apartment, didn’t you?”
“Oh, yeah, right. Have you considered calling your father?”
“No need, Uncle Mike is here.”
There was a long moment of silence. “Put. Him. On.”
She tossed the phone to Michael Finn, who caught it easily. “Yes?”
“You’re staying there with Moira.”
“Hello to you, too, Matthew, how’s Rome?”
“Take a guess,” Matt growled. “You’re not going to leave Moira’s side, for any reason.”
Finn laughed. “You really are wound rather tight, aren’t you? What makes you think I’ll follow your orders?” he asked in an easygoing manner.
The younger man’s voice dropped to a dark tone that matched the soul of a serial killer, but his voice remained perfectly calm and controlled. “Because if anything happens to her that you could have prevented … we’re going to see just how well Mo
ira has trained me.”
Michael’s eyebrows rose. He had always perceived that Matthew was afraid of him. Maybe he was wrong. “I’m only kidding you, son. That’s why I’m here, to be next to her.”
“I don’t care,” Matt snapped. “I’m up to my neck in a school of piranha, and continuing to sink. These guys already have me on their little list. I figured that since they’ve missed me here, they might want to try for Moira.”
“What exactly do you intend to do there, Matt? And who are you going to piss off this time?”
Kovach laughed evilly. “I’m going to tell the truth.”
Michael nodded. “Oh, you intend to piss off everyone then.”
“When don’t I?”
Chapter XVI
Opening Gambit
Undisclosed Location.
3:00 AM
Pope Pius XIII knew he was awake, and knew he was alive—if he were dead, it wouldn’t ache so much. He slowly opened one eye. It didn’t help much, since he was still in the dark.
He rolled onto his side, feeling the wooden bench he had been laid out on. Unpleasant, but nothing worse than a day at a monastery.
“You are awake,” came the smooth, cultured voice. “Welcome, Your Holiness.”
The Pope propped himself up on one arm, focusing on the man leaning on the door. He was of a build on the husky side of medium, with broad shoulders and graying hair, slowly changing from black. There was a mustache that looked like it was going to be a handlebar, and suddenly changed its mind halfway. And despite his build, he held himself casually and gracefully, and almost like someone else the Pope knew.
“Mr. Ryan holds himself like you,” Pius said. “He once told me that he needed years of training to be like that…so you are one of his so-called ‘super soldiers’…given your age, I would think I should call you Mr. Shushurin…or is it Herr Franke? Or Comrade Mikhailov? I can only assume that Mr. Ryan did not kill you enough.”
Ioseph Mikhailov smiled, giving a low chuckle. “You have me there.”
Pius smiled, sitting up. “It would appear that, in fact, sir, you have me.” He waved around the room. “Where exactly am I?”