The Guardian

by ROBBIE CHEUVRONT

  “Hello, this is Cardinal Wickham.”

  “Louis, it’s me. We need to talk.” He waited for the eruption he was sure was soon to come.

  “I can’t really talk right now,” Wickham said pleasantly. “Why don’t I call you back in about twenty minutes or so?”

  Jonathan pulled the phone away and looked at it quizzically. “That’s not possible. My phone is dead. I’m calling from another number. Tell me when I can call you back.”

  “Give me five minutes.”

  “All right. I’ll call you in five minutes.”

  Jonathan hung up the phone and leaned back on his crutches. Now that was weird. Never in the history of his talking to that odious man had he heard a tone like the one he had just witnessed. What was going on? Either something was very, very wrong, or something was very, very good. He hoped it was the latter.

  Five minutes later, he redialed. “We need to talk,” he said again when Wickham answered.

  “So talk.”

  “I’ve got a problem.”

  “And what kind of problem would that be?”

  “I’ve been benched.”

  “What do you mean, benched?”

  “You know. Benched. Taken out of the game. Put on the sidelines. Out of commission.”

  There was silence for a moment. Then a big sigh. Finally, Wickham spoke. His tone changed. It went from polite to disappointed.

  “Jonathan, why do you always have to ruin the perfect day? Did I do something to you in an earlier life? Is this some kind of elaborate scheme to get me back for some wrong I’ve done you? What is it? Revenge? Tell me. Because right now, this moment that I’m trying to enjoy is the pinnacle of my life’s work so far. And you are ruining it.”

  “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do. I’ll be out of pocket for at least a few days. A week at most.”

  “Do you know what I’m doing right now?”

  “Probably seething. Foaming at the mouth. But I can’t change it. That’s the way it is.”

  “No Jonathan, I’m not seething. Nor am I foaming at the mouth. Actually, I’m celebrating. It seems our beloved pope has passed away.”

  Jonathan had never been a spiritual man. He never cared for going to church. Whenever he would find himself in a conversation about faith or religion, he would just shrug it off. The fact that the most famous and powerful religious figure in the world was dead wouldn’t normally mean anything to him. But this was different.

  In the span of two seconds, his entire view of Cardinal Louis Wickham changed. He wasn’t just dealing with a determined employer. He was dealing with a lunatic. Wickham had killed the pope.

  “How’d he die?”

  “He’s been sick.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean, Jonathan. Tell me about your problem.”

  “I told you already. I’m down for at least a week.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Well, let’s just say I had to get a second opinion on a medical issue.”

  “Get a third one if you have to. I want my scroll.” “And you’ll get it,” Jonathan snapped. “Just not for another week.”

  There was silence on the line for several seconds. Finally, Jonathan heard Wickham cursing under his breath.

  “Here’s the thing,” Jonathan said matter-of-factly, “I’m gone for a week. You don’t like it, find someone else to get your stupid scroll. Otherwise, pay me my money, like a good boss, and deal with it!”

  Jonathan heard the labored breathing on the other end of the line. “You have a week,” Wickham spat. The line went dead.

  Jonathan hung up the phone and made his way back to the couch. He sat down and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. He was over it. He hated everything about that stupid little scroll. He didn’t care what it was for, what it did, or who it benefited. He hated Wickham. The man was a sleazy, rude weasel. And he hated being bested by an amateur. That’s what the girl was—an amateur. And so far, it was a million to nothing in the girl’s favor.

  He would take the week to get better. Then he’d take care of this scroll business once and for all. He didn’t care who he had to beat up, run over, or flat-out kill to get it done. Then he would tell Wickham to shove it. He smiled to himself. That part was going to be fun.

  One other thing, too. He was done. No more. This was going to be his last job. He was tired. He was getting old. And he was rich. And after he found Remy … well, he decided to play that one by ear.

  The Vatican

  Wickham hung up the phone and shook his head. Jonathan had once again ruined his day. Couldn’t he have just one victory without someone or something getting in the way?

  He pulled the collar of his jacket up over his face and walked back out into the cold. He crossed the courtyard and stepped back into his building. Fumbling for his keys, he undid the lock and moved inside. A voice startled him, and he dropped his keys on the floor.

  “Bravo, Louis! Bravo!” the voice said.

  Wickham turned around slowly to face his visitor. “What are you doing here?”

  “You know, Louis, I think I’ve tolerated your insubordination long enough. I guess you’ve forgotten who your master is.” Lucifer moved close to Wickham and stuck out his hand, palm down. “Kiss my hand, Louis. Show me you still serve me.”

  Wickham began to tremble as he bent at the waist and took hold of Lucifer’s hand. Lucifer quickly pulled it away from him and slapped him hard across the face.

  Lucifer grabbed Wickham by his hair and screamed, “You kneel when you pay homage to me, you stupid monkey!”

  Without saying a word, Wickham quickly knelt to one knee and kissed Lucifer’s hand.

  Lucifer smiled and stepped back. “Little trained monkeys. That’s all you are. You know that? Your whole species. Little trained monkeys. I still, to this day, do not understand why He even bothered with you. I mean, weren’t we good enough for Him? Didn’t we love Him? Isn’t that what He created us for? And me!” He threw his arms up in the air. “Do you know that I was the most beautiful one of all?” He started pacing around in a circle. “I was the angel of worship. My entire body was one giant musical instrument. Every word I spoke came out like a concerto that even your Mozart would envy. He loved me. I was the angel of light. I was spectacular.”

  He paused again, stopped walking, and bent over so that he was right in front of Wickham’s face. Then he began screaming again. “And I knew it! I was the most spectacular thing He’d ever created! Nothing could even come close to what I was!” He paused and lowered his voice again. “And that was the problem. I knew it. And I liked it. And if I was so spectacular, why couldn’t I be like Him? Well, you know what, Louis? I am spectacular. And I may not have the power He has, but I’ve got the means to stop His cute little fairy tale.” He stopped and snapped his fingers with a disappointed look on his face. “Oh wait. That’s right. I don’t. Because”—and now he started screaming again—”you haven’t gotten me my scroll!”

  Louis stared blankly at him. “You’ll have your scroll before next week.”

  “Well, I certainly hope so,” Lucifer said. “For your sake.” He stepped over to Wickham’s desk and sat down at his chair. “Now, on to other business. I do have to say, you have rather impressed me on the other matter. I mean, to actually murder the pope? Incredible! For a while there, I thought you were going to screw that up, too.”

  “I’m going to be busy this week. It’ll be like a circus around here,” Wickham muttered.

  “Yes it will. I will leave you to your business. But I’m telling you, Louis. After you see to it that Joseph gets elected, I’d better get that scroll. For two thousand years I’ve searched for it. And your predecessors failed me. I promised them the same things I’ve promised you. They couldn’t get the job done. And now they are paying for it. Don’t make me show you how they are spending their eternities. It’s not pretty.”

&nb
sp; “What’s on the scroll?” Wickham asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Lucifer. “But I do know what it does.”

  “What’s it do?” Wickham asked

  “It keeps me from owning this world free and clear. And that means it keeps you from having all the power I promised you.” “I’ll get the scroll.”

  “Like I said, let’s hope you do. For your sake.”

  CHAPTER 45

  The Vatican

  I need to see Cardinal Wickham.” Hale stared at the receptionist. She looked at him as if he were speaking Japanese. He was getting impatient. The woman hadn’t said one word to him since he’d been standing there. She just held the receiver of the phone she was holding to her ear. She was nodding her head up and down, as if the person on the other end could hear her nodding. Again she held up a finger, letting Hale know he was going to have to wait until she was finished.

  He had barely gotten the plane in the air when the news came over the radio. Pope Paul was dead. At first he couldn’t believe it. Hale truly loved the man. He wasn’t just a spiritual teacher for him, he was like a father. Hale had never known his father, and Paul had treated him like a son.

  He spent most of the long flight crying and recalling memories of Paul and himself. Some were nothing more than simple conversations they had shared. Others were more significant. One in particular came to him, the day he became a Christian. Paul had been the one who led him to make that decision. It was, Hale thought, the best day of his life.

  His last conversation with Paul, over the phone, let him know that there were enemies of the Vatican within its own walls. Paul’s death couldn’t have been due to some flu. It had to be something more involved than that. And he had a feeling that a certain nosy cardinal was to blame.

  The woman at the desk finally hung up the phone and stared at him with an uninterested look.

  Hale repeated himself for the third time. “I need to see Cardinal Wickham.”

  “I’m afraid he’s busy right now. Is there something I can help you with?”

  Hale sighed in frustration. He didn’t like being rude with people, but he saw no other choice. “Listen, lady. I understand that the cardinal is busy. I know he’s dealing with everything that’s going on today.”

  “We lost our spiritual father today, sir. I think you could be a little more sympathetic.”

  That was it. Hale had reached his limit. “What’s your name, miss?”

  “Claire. Claire Costello.”

  “Well, Claire, here’s the deal. I’m going to ask you again to get Cardinal Wickham for me. After that, I’m going to go find him myself. When I do, I’m going to let him know how you let one of his special agents, with level-nine clearance, I might add, sit out here when he needed to give the cardinal a highly classified message.”

  The woman looked at him blankly. “I don’t know of any special agents with level-nine clearance, nor do I have any idea what it means.”

  “Well, you’re looking at one right now. And he’s not enjoying this little jousting session with you. Now, where’s the cardinal?”

  The woman moved her arm across the desk and lifted the phone. She never took her eyes off Hale. She pushed a button and spoke. “Cardinal Wickham, I have a Special Agent Hale here to see you …. Uh-huh …. Okay. I’ll tell him.” She hung up the phone and smiled. “The cardinal will see you now.”

  Hale gave the woman a smart smile and said, “Thank you.”

  Miss Costello motioned with her hand to the office door that stood behind her. “He’s in there.”

  Hale was already halfway around the desk. He knew where the cardinal’s office was. He’d walked past it a dozen times or more in the past.

  Cardinal Wickham was sitting behind his desk, his feet resting on an open drawer. He had his hands folded neatly in front of him, and he seemed to be suppressing a smile. He never changed his position as he studied Hale.

  “Hello, Agent Hale. I understand you needed to see me?”

  “What happened to him?”

  Wickham’s expression was thoughtful. “Well, he was sick. You knew that. Everyone knew that.”

  Hale grabbed a chair and thunked it backward in front of the desk. Straddling it, he rested his arms over the back. “Let me tell you what I know.”

  Wickham raised his brow and waved his hand in front of Hale, as if to say, “Go ahead.”

  Hale fixed Wickham with a piercing glare. “I know what didn’t happen to him.”

  Wickham looked genuinely surprised. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” Hale said, “that he didn’t die from some flu.”

  “I see.” The cardinal stood up and walked from behind his desk. “And what makes you think that?”

  “I also know that since Paul’s untimely death, you’re in charge around here.”

  Wickham had now moved to within inches of Hale. He leaned over and said, “That’s how our government is structured around here. What are you insinuating?”

  “I also know that Paul thought he had an enemy around here.”

  Wickham was now almost nose to nose with Hale. His beady little eyes were bloodshot. His lips moved into a thin line as he pointed a finger in Hale’s face. “I suggest you either quit talking in circles and tell me what you came here for, or get out.” He jabbed a finger back at the door.

  Hale stood up. He was a good six inches taller than the cardinal. “I came here to tell you I’ve got nothing to say to you.” He turned around and headed for the door but called back over his shoulder, “Except that I’m going to find out what really happened. And when I do, you’d better hope you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  Hale touched the doorknob.

  “Tell me about the girl,” Wickham said from behind him.

  That was it. Now he was positive. Paul, unless he was drugged and couldn’t control his faculties, would never mention Anna or the scroll to anyone. He turned to face Wickham. “Excuse me?”

  “The girl. Paul mentioned something about her just before he passed.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Wickham tried to look innocent. “Neither do I, Agent Hale. Paul was barely able to squeak it out. He said, ‘Ask Hale about the girl.’ I just assumed that was what you came here about.”

  Hale returned that innocent look with one of his own. “Like I said, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cardinal.”

  “If someone’s in trouble and you’re keeping it a secret, I’ll have your badge! You will be looking for employment elsewhere, sir!” Hale walked out the door without another word.

  CHAPTER 46

  London

  It was getting late in the afternoon when Anna and Jason finished up their shopping trip. They had visited several boutiques before Anna found exactly what she wanted. She had initially chosen a beautiful deep red gown with a high collar and long sleeves, but Jason noticed that wearing something so bold would draw attention to them—and that wasn’t what they wanted. So she found another, equally beautiful black dress. It was simple, but when Anna stepped out of the dressing room to show him, he declared that, whether they wanted the attention or not, it was going to be hard to avoid when she looked so beautiful.

  Anna couldn’t remember the last time she’d blushed that hard.

  After asking the cab driver to drop them off a few blocks from the safe house, they watched over their shoulders as they walked the few blocks back to the old brownstone. It didn’t seem that anyone was taking special notice of them.

  They hadn’t been inside more than a few minutes when they heard a knock on the door.

  Carefully, Jason moved to the foyer and peeked out of the peephole. There was nobody there. He undid the locks and opened the door an inch. The chain was still engaged, and the door was reinforced steel. If anyone tried to force their way in, the chain would easily stop them.

  He looked out and didn’t see anything. Anna was behind him whispering, “Who is it?” He didn’t bother
to answer but just waved his hand at her as if to say, “Shh …”

  He was about to close the door again when he noticed a note lying on the doorjamb. He picked it up and closed the door. He turned back to Anna and held it up. It was a note addressed to him.

  “Well, what is it?” she asked.

  He rolled his eyes at her. “What am I? A psychic?”

  He opened it and read it aloud.

  Jason,

  We were very impressed with your attention today. Keep it up, but don’t worry. We’re still watching. We won’t contact you again unless it’s an emergency.

  P.S. Anna, we loved the red dress, too. But Jason was right—too much attention!

  The security team

  “Well,” Anna said, “looks like you’re just a regular James Bond!” Jason laughed. “Just trying to keep us alive.” “I know. You did good.”

  She walked over, reached up, and moved the hair out of his eyes. Then she leaned up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “I mean it, you know. I never once felt unsafe today.”

  “Thanks.” He smiled.

  She pulled back, feeling suddenly shy. “I guess now we need to figure out how to get in to that embassy.”

  They started in the office where Thomas kept his notes. Jason went through drawers as Anna sifted through notebooks and loose papers, looking for any information about an embassy ball. Nothing.

  They moved from room to room, looking everywhere they could think of. Finally, after leaving Jason to rifle through her grandfather’s study, she went back to the kitchen where she noticed a small stack of unopened mail sitting on the far counter. She thumbed through the first few pieces and stopped. An envelope with the Israeli embassy letterhead stared back at her. She tore open the end and pulled out the contents. She breathed a sigh of relief and ran back to the study.

  “Hey, I found it!” She waved it in the air like a baton.

  “I see that. What does it say?”

  She opened it up and read it. “It says here that the Prime Minister’s Ball,” she said it with a swanky slur, “starts precisely at eight and goes until midnight.” She turned it over and looked at both sides. “It doesn’t say how many guests the invitation is good for.”