by Declan Finn
Kovach leaned back and smiled. “Besides, even Harvard boy pointed out just then, we have more documented evidence for the life of Jesus Christ than for the war of Rome versus Carthage and Hannibal with his elephants. If Jesus were married, we would’ve heard about it in more than just one supposed, non-existent gospel that’s believed by literally 32 ‘scholars’ who are all currently in Belgium trying to have the Pope himself crucified. Coincidence? Hardly.”
“Oh,” she snarled, “so you’re going to dismiss the sacred feminine in God, and—”
“Dismiss? Are you kidding? Read a Fr. Andrew Greeley novel sometime, you twit. What about devotion to Mary? Marriage as a holy union? Nuns? What about the Aramaic for Holy Spirit, shekina, which is a feminine noun? I mean, can you get more sacred than God being in one aspect feminine?”
“Oh,” she sniffed, “you’re one of those threesome Godhead believers. Well, I believe there is only one God, and—”
“So has the Church since St. Augustine in the fifth century. Do you get this now, or do I need to draw you a road map with pictures? Or maybe you believe that water, ice and steam are not all H2O? Three forms, one substance. You’re supposed to be a Catholic? Can’t you even fake an education?”
Chapter XXI
Every Spy A Prince
Vatican City. 1:00 PM
Day 7.
Wilhelmina Goldberg smiled. That last was a particularly nasty shot. The show cut to a break just before the knock on the door.
“I’ll get it,” McGrail said, rising.
Maureen looked through the peephole, to find a thoughtful-looking Scott Murphy in the hallway. The Irishwoman opened the door, and Scott slid inside.
“Have any of you seen Manana?” he asked immediately. His dark blue eyes scanned the area and frowned. If she were here, she would be near the door, with Kovach. He couldn’t shoot a gun to save his life, but he could still grasp the basic concepts of tactics and positioning.
“The super spook?” Goldberg asked. “I haven’t seen her since this morning. Why?”
Murphy combed his fingers through his dark brown hair. “That’s just it. I haven’t been able to find anyone who’s seen her for hours. I saw her briefly after her daily workout with Ryan, but after that, I’ve been stuck a lot with XO. And trust me, O’Brien’s pissed with the known universe. I think he’s been talking with the guys back at my home office about firebombing parts of Western Europe.”
Goldberg nodded. “I wondered what you were doing. I know you’re only here as long as Mani is, but I figured you’d be bored to death by now.”
Scott smiled. “I’ve kept busy. I talk with Mani a lot. Speaking of which, who would know where she is?”
Kovach shrugged. “Have you tried looking for Ryan? They may have decided to get in some more combat training.”
Inna Petraro came out of the washroom, drying her hands with a paper towel. “What was that about Sean?”
Murphy nodded her way and asked, “I’m looking for Mani. She may be with Ryan. Any thoughts?”
Petraro shrugged. “Possible. He has been caught up in keeping everything secure. But you should be able to get his cell. He almost never turns it off.”
Murphy frowned. “I tried.”
Goldberg blinked, then reached down to the little pin she had at the collar of her turtleneck and spoke into it, “This is Goldberg, all parties, check in.”
Scott looked to Maureen. “Check in?”
She smiled. “Villie and Sean came up with a way to keep everyone in touch, using Secret Service equipment in emergencies. You weren’t issued any because you were never alone.”
Goldberg waited a moment, then cursed. “Sean and Manana are missing. Repeat, Don Kishote and Bond Girl are missing.”
“I’m not sure what’s more disturbing,” Kovach muttered, “that they’ve disappeared or their code names.”
Petraro smiled at Matthew and said, “Sean thought them up.”
The author rolled his eyes. “Now I am worried.”
The Mossad agent reached for his pipe with careful, controlled motions and brought it to his lips “My question,” Scott said quietly, “is how did anyone take them without a full-scale war?”
He puffed out a wisp of smoke as he lit the pipe with a match. “They would require an insider, perhaps?” He waved out the match, and asked in a voice of deathly calm, “Where is Cardinal Canella?”
* * *
The Cardinal from Boston paced his cell with impatience. It wasn’t a prison in the modern sense, but it was a cell, nevertheless—a religious cell, usually reserved to house voters for the Papal conclave. It wasn’t a large room —McGrail had made a joke about violating the Geneva Convention by giving him a room that was too small.
The room had been stripped bare, all of the limited furniture replaced with a small table and a chair. If Canella wasn’t aware that this was now an interrogation room, he was dumber than he looked. This was a possibility that no one rejected.
The door unlocked, and slowly opened to reveal a plain, pale man with dark blond hair, and dark eyes. He was impeccably dressed in an Armani suit, with a simple silk tie. He carried a hardcover binder, and looked more like an accountant than the lawyer who should be in the suit.
“Hello, my name is Scott,” he said calmly. “I am from the Mossad, and I am here to help you.”
“How dare you be impertinent with me. I am a prince of the Church!”“From what I’ve heard, you’re now a serf.”
Canella blinked. “Come again?”
“Wow, you are slow. To quote a certain US executive—you’re fired. You see, you blew it when Sean Ryan got the drop on you. We found drops of his blood on your sleeve—you couldn’t change, with your broken arm, and the infirmary is what we’re using for forensics. So we know you stabbed him with that little needle-stick pad on your joints.” The spy’s eyes grew darker, and his voice colder. “However, there’s something else. Blood on your shoulder, from a woman. And, surprisingly, we’re missing a woman. I’m told there’s a bruise on your stomach that looks like it could match a human knee. Now, as I’m certain you may have heard, grabbing the trapezoid muscle and driving a knee up into the stomach is a common tactic.”
Canella shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. “So? You’re not going to touch me. His Holiness…” he drifted off, suddenly realizing his error.
Murphy nodded slowly. “That’s right. You forgot that the Pope isn’t running the show anymore; he’s sort of kidnapped. Xavier O’Brien is in charge and he hasn’t said anything for or against…intensive interrogation. At my office, the prison facility at Guantanamo Bay is a joke.” He scoffed. “Water boarding, lapel grabs. Please.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” Canella looked up and down Murphy and sneered. “You petty little man. You’re nothing but a damn bureaucrat.”
He nodded again. “Correct. However, I specialize in conversion.” He gave a little smile, and his eyes darkened with rage. “And today is a very bad day. I am somewhat cranky.”
The Cardinal was about to sneer again when Scott Murphy stood, collecting the notebook from in front of him. Canella thought the spy was about to walk out—then the book came down on his broken arm.
The screams echoed for a full minute.
Scott placed the book on the table. “Shall we start again?”
* * *
Matthew Kovach yawned. Working during the daylight hours of both Europe and America was rather trying, even for him. He looked around his hotel room, and wondered exactly how many people were in the Vatican at this point.
He looked from his desk, and suddenly glad he’d moved to a full suite—it looked more like a command center than a place to sleep. Wilhelmina now had her feet up, still upright in her chair, laptop open and plugged in, awaiting any new word from FBI agent Blaine Lansing. Captain Williams had propped himself up on a couch, his broad shoulders threatening to spill him to the floor. Over by the table at the kitchenette, Scott Murphy and Inna Petraro sat, just chatting.
“Matthew?”
Kovach looked up at his agent and smiled. “Hey there, how are you holding up?”
Inna Petraro shrugged. “I’m used to this. However, Scott is not. You may wish to speak with him.”
He blinked. “Me? Why me?”
She looked around. “Do you see anyone else awake? Besides, I am too used to this. I used to worry, but not anymore.”
The author nodded, stood, and walked over to the Mossad agent, who already had out a deck of cards, sorting them for solitaire, an unlit pipe in his mouth.
“I don’t think these are smoking rooms,” Kovach said on approach.
“Not a problem, I disabled the alarms.” Scott spread out the last few cards and put the rest of the deck off to the side. He slipped out a match and lit the pipe with practiced ease. The lazy curls of smoke floated to the lights, and he took a deep breath. “Can I help you with something, or are you playing the part of the smoke police?”
Kovach shrugged before he pulled out a chair and sat. “Hell, my father smokes a pipe. I’ve been used to it since I was six. Now, maybe you might know this: where’s Maureen?”
“McGrail?” Scott looked at the cards. “No idea. Last time I saw her, she went to talk with your guy, Lynch.”
Kovach shook his head. “Not possible. She can’t call Lynch without someone else—an Interpol cop interacting with the head of the Provisional IRA? No way in hell.”
Scott didn’t look up. “She said she had your iPhone.”
Kovach blinked, then reached down to his belt, where he kept his phone. It was there, but sure enough, it had been put in the wrong way—he put it so it was touch screen outward, not inward. He checked the last called dialed—it wasn’t a surprise.
“I’m glad I have free minutes,” he murmured. He slid the phone away and said, “So, you want to tell me about yourself?”
Scott sorted through two sets of three cards, then paused in mid-deal to look at the writer. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“I’m going to write a book on this.”
Scott Murphy coughed harshly, dropping the cards so he could clear the pipe from his mouth. He hacked a little more, then drew a deep breath. “You’re kidding me. Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Oh, lay off. When people think Mossad, they don’t think George Smiley, they think commando leader.”
Scott arched his brows. This guy’s dialogue was peppered with more literary references than most people Scott knew—but he knew John Le Carre’s famous spy, a drab, gray little man who was more cunning than anyone he worked for.
The Mossad agent slowly clamped his teeth around his pipe. “Indeed. Well, what can you write about me without blowing my cover?”
“What could I say that would?” Kovach asked. “If I don’t give your name, what is the harm in saying that you’re a perfect chameleon who disappears into the ether, screws around with anyone he likes to, and disappears? I could spin it so much, half of the Middle Eastern despots would look under burkahs trying to make certain that you’re not spying on them. And what would you do if I did? Break out the deadly umbrella?”
Scott slipped several cards around. “One, I’m not John Steed. Two, Ricin in the umbrella tip is so old-school.” He smiled slyly. “I prefer Polonium-209.”
“Uh huh.” Kovach readjusted his chair. “No Krav Maga?”
Scott shrugged. “I suck at sparring,” he muttered. “Besides, the moment you need hand-to-hand, gunplay, knives, the moment you do anything lethal or are required to defend yourself, you’ve lost, unless you’re sent on an assassination mission, and I never am.”
“And you met Manana only last week?”
The spy paused and smiled before shuffling again. “Is that what this is about? Console the poor little spyling? Please.” He dealt out one card at a time, slowly. “I’m fine. And yes, I only met her last week.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not the consoling type.” Kovach looked around the room, pondering the others.
“As far as Mani and me…” Scott paused, studying the cards. “I figured out that she was Soviet trained, and I didn’t care one whit. I’m a goy in the middle of Israel, and unlike a lot of goyim who move there, I came single. And let’s face it, I’m not a model.”
“I believe romance novels would summarize it as two people thrust together after years of isolation, blah, blah, blah.”
Scott shrugged. “Probably.”
“Which is why I’m surprised that you’re so calm. Someone tried to capture my wife, and you saw my reply. Shushurin is taken, and you’re…”
“Remaining calm,” Scott finished through gritted teeth. Kovach craned his head, noting that the only thing preventing his teeth from grinding together was the pipe stem.
“When Manana gets back,” Scott continued, putting the red seven on the black eight, “and she will get back, everything will be fine. And then, I will help Mossad hunt down these schmucks and they will face Heavenly justice so fast that they’d think they were struck by lightning.” He smiled and said, in an accent reminiscent of a Jewish mother, “So, how would you like a nice glass of tea?”
Chapter XXII
Rifles of the IRA
Vatican City. 9:00 AM
Day 8
Villie Goldberg awoke with the chime of an instant message arriving on her laptop. She blinked her eyes clear, noting that it was nine in the morning. She looked down at the glowing screen as it powered up from screen saver and blinked again.
Special Agent Blaine Lansing was apparently a very busy boy last night—or more likely, that morning. It had to be about three AM on the East coast.
NTFRCGEEK1: Was any of that chatter we sent actionable intel?
The Secret Service agent smiled.
Kishote24601: I think so. Gave it to the Irish girl. Nothing’s happened yet.
Wilhelmina glanced around. Kovach was off to the side, a web camera broadcasting his latest interview to the planet. The only programs he hadn’t been on yet were the Sunday morning talk shows. NTFRCGEEK1: I have a roster of the one witness for the day. Scholar, discussing Islam-Catholic relations. You have a historian?
Kishote24601: You could say that.
* * *
Undisclosed Location
Noon
Sean Ryan woke up that morning with a slight chill. He looked down and understood better—he was naked, if one didn’t count the manacles on his wrists and ankles. His hands were behind his back, and his ankles secured to one another.
Ryan’s eyes adjusted to the darkness with ease. He was in a long, windowless room, minimally lit. Essentially, a gray windowless box. The mattress he was on was thin, and the entire thing was angled—which probably meant it was a hospital bed. Given the accommodations, it was probably “borrowed” from whatever hospital was handy.
And then he noted the hooks dangling from the ceiling, and the dark spots on the wall that looked like a crime scene spatter pattern, and concluded that he was rightfully screwed.
“Yes,” a voice came from the other side of the room. “This is a slaughter-house.”
Ryan glanced to the other end of the room, watching someone come out of the dark. For a moment, he thought it may have been Captain Williams but this man was a tad slimmer, and more graceful. Captain Williams looked like a big, loud, friendly fella until he started killing people; but this guy just moved like a cat, with smooth, boneless motions.
Ryan rolled slightly on his side, the handcuffs rattling. “I suppose I am formally obligated to tell you that you’re under arrest. I promise that if you tell me where the Pope is, you’ll die sooner rather than later.”
The human shadow chuckled as he moved closer. “Do all Americans watch the same movies?”
The former stuntman smiled. “Nah, just the same attitude. Kind of like the little engine that could. ‘I can kick ass, I can kick ass.’ I’m surprised you haven’t figured that out.”
The dark man only nodded with a smile. “I suppose you can guess what you are here for?”
Ryan thought a moment. “You failed to kidnap Mrs. Kovach, so you grabbed me? To shut up Matt?”
“Doubly so, in fact,” he confirmed, still moving in darkness, only around the foot of Ryan’s bed. “In your case, not only do I hope to silence him, but I want your Pope to surrender as well.”
There was a moment of silence before Ryan laughed so hard that the sound echoed throughout the slaughter room. He honestly couldn’t stop laughing. It wasn’t even a nervous laugh—it was a full-out belly laugh. He laughed himself nearly faint when he finally gasped out several last laughs before pausing to take a deep breath.
“Finished?” the shadow asked, bored.
“Probably not,” Ryan panted, “but what the heck.” He blinked. “Wait a second, don’t I know you? You’re too tall to be Nikita, and I already dropped a house on your boss, so who the hell are you?”
The shadow leaned into the light, the lamp illuminating Ioseph Mikhailov’s Stalin mustache and broad grin. “You missed.”
Ryan did not express dismay so much as annoyance with his one word reply, four letters long, starting with the letter F.
“You’re not my type, Comrade Ryan.”
Ryan rolled his eyes. “Damnit, didn’t we have enough of you the last time?”
Ioseph gave a hearty laugh. “Do not feel so bad. After all, a truck is not exactly an accurate weapon. Though you certainly get my respect for trying … and you came very close to killing me.”
“I’m still on how I didn’t kill you.”
“There was a back door to the hangar.”
Ryan sighed. “The airport may sue me for damages now that I didn’t hit anything with their precious fuel tanker.”
“Do not worry, you will not be around long enough for them to collect.” Ioseph sighed, then smiled ruefully. “As for the Pope, this turbulent priest is annoying; even with almost no research material and no legal training, he is tap dancing on the heads of prosecutors.”
He gestured at Ryan, as though to concede a point that Ryan hadn’t made. “Granted, he will be found guilty no matter what. But, he is, unfortunately, making us look bad. Our bastards can’t be bothered with knowing anything about counter-arguments; they knew nothing about who or what they are trying to convict, only that he and his thoughts are inconvenient. They don’t like what he says, and refuse to hear the message. They would much sooner be slaves to their desires and whims than mastered by their reason.”