by Schafer, Ben
Within minutes I allowed myself to breathe a sigh of relief. We were alive. I whispered a prayer of thanks and enjoyed a moment of peace.
That moment was completely shattered as the radio on my belt squawked to life. “Kyle, please respond. What was that about a distraction?”
I sighed and pushed the button on the side. “Disregard, Central. Please advise the local NATO commander that I am inbound with two civilians who need medical attention ASAP.”
“You mean you . . .” Central’s voice trailed off. “Certainly, Kyle. We look forward to receiving your full report. Central out.”
CHAPTER FOUR
LIEUTENANT Colonel Nathaniel Moore was every inch a military man. He was exactly the sort of soldier the Pentagon would use as its representative to the international media. His square jaw looked like it had been carved from granite. His brown hair was short enough to project professionalism without coming off as aggressive. His Army Service Uniform was pressed to perfection and gleamed with medals. His boots were polished with such care that the reporters in attendance could see their faces reflected in the black leather. He stood ramrod straight behind the podium, facing dozens of members of the press from news agencies all around the world. When he walked into the room, all eyes in the press pool were locked onto his steely gaze.
The room, which was situated within the United States Embassy in Kabul, was filled to capacity. Someone had leaked details about what had happened in the valley, and now the Pentagon was in damage-control mode. I felt sorry for Lieutenant Colonel Moore. He had no idea what had happened, yet he had to face a sea of reporters with an “official” version of events that was a laughable piece of fiction.
With Lieutenant Colonel Moore in the room, no one paid attention to a wiry dark-haired man leaning against the back wall. Okay, so there was the one lady who thought that I was a local interpreter and tried to hire me. And there was the British gentleman who asked me for directions to the bathroom. Not exactly hogging the spotlight. My job, and my survival, often required me to remain anonymous, just another face in a crowd. If my face got plastered all over the nightly news, I would lose a crucial edge and possibly my life.
The press conference started at 1500 local time. The lights in the room dimmed and everyone found a seat. “Good afternoon,” Lieutenant Colonel Moore started. After a polite echo from the crowd, he continued. “Three days ago, the CIA received intelligence that Taliban forces based in Pakistan were supplying local warlords with munitions, including surface-to-air missiles intended to be used to threaten commercial airliners coming into Kabul. These warlords are not friendly to NATO interests in the region. They planned to pay for these weapons by trading them for two prisoners they had captured. Glenn and Patricia Goodmonte are American volunteers with Doctors Without Borders who were kidnapped when insurgents ambushed their convoy two weeks ago.”
A man next to me whispered, “Hostages for weapons? Such a nasty business.”
I recognized the voice. Without looking at him, I said, “I thought you were unavailable.”
“I was. Now I am not.”
I suppressed a smile. While Lieutenant Colonel Moore played the part of the indomitable soldier for the cameras, Bernard Cuvier lived on the battlefield for over thirty years. He had seen and done things that few men can imagine in places that few people knew existed. I only knew a fraction of his past, and I knew he was the toughest man I would ever meet.
There were some rumors that he ran away from home to join the French Foreign Legion. Others said that he had been an enforcer for an organized crime boss in Toulon, and still others swore that Cuvier spent his adult life as a hired gun all throughout Africa and Central Asia. No matter who told the story, however, it boiled down to one point: Bernard Cuvier was a man accustomed to violence.
I turned to face him. He wore a dark blue suit almost identical to the one I wore, but his was well-tailored and fit like an extension of his skin. Meanwhile, I stood here feeling like I borrowed Dad’s tux on prom night.
His skin was rough from years of hard living, but Cuvier didn’t look like one of the deadliest men on the planet. He stood only an inch or two above five feet. He had the build of a triathlete rather than a weight lifter or professional boxer. His hair was jet black, with just a touch of gray creeping in at his temples. He had grown a sizeable beard since the last time I had seen him, and it eased the sharpness of his features.
I opened my mouth to say something, but Cuvier nodded toward Moore, who had been feeding the press the usual government speech. “Quiet. This is the good part.”
“Earlier today, a joint operation by the Air Force’s 33rd Special Operations Squadron and Army Special Forces neutralized a significant Taliban threat along the Pakistani border. While the exact details of the operation must remain classified, I am pleased to tell you that there were no casualties among friendly forces. Mr. and Mrs. Goodmonte have been recovered with minimal injuries and the Taliban armory was destroyed.” A few reporters raised their hands at that remark, but Moore waved them down. “Save all questions for the end.”
Cuvier pointed to the door. I nodded in understanding and followed him out into the hallway. There were a few officials wandering around, but this was as private as we could get while still in the embassy. Even so, we were careful to stand so the security cameras would not be able to record what we were saying.
“‘Army Special Forces,’ is it?” Cuvier asked with a wry smile. “During that mess in Jordan you were a photographer for the Associated Press.”
“No, that was Tunisia. In Jordan, I was a salesman for a solar panel company.”
“Ah, yes. You’ve had such a varied career, it’s hard to keep track.” Cuvier’s smile faded. “What were you thinking? You could have compromised the entire Order with your little stunt. Not to mention the incredible risk you took with your own life.”
“I saved innocent lives. It’s kind of my job.”
“Your job is to do what I tell you,” Cuvier said.
“You were ‘unavailable,’” I reminded him. Cuvier rolled his eyes. “I had a shot to save them. I took it. It worked. End of story. I was just lucky that the UAV flew low enough that I could hear it, otherwise this wouldn’t have had such a happy ending.” I could hear the anger slipping into my words. I tried to dial it back and added, “If you were in my shoes, would you have made a different choice?”
Cuvier sighed. “No. Perhaps that is why I so often have to serve as your babysitter.” He smacked me in the stomach with the back of his hand. “Come on. There is a plane waiting.”
I fell in step behind him. A grim-looking Marine Security Guard watched us pass with calculated interest. I gave him a jaunty salute, and his eyes narrowed. I knew a few Marines who worked embassy duty, and I couldn’t think of one who had been burdened with an overactive sense of humor. I was glad to see some traditions still survived.
We exited the building and made our way across the grounds. My mother had worked as an Information Resource Officer with the State Department, so I was familiar with the workings of an embassy like this. Of course, places like this made me uncomfortable for the same reason. I did my best not to think about it and simply kept my focus on my footsteps.
When we stepped out into the courtyard, it had a strange sense of calm. A cold wind from the east whipped the Star-Spangled Banner atop a tall flag pole in front of the boxy, mud-colored structure. A few members of the diplomatic mission were engaged in a hushed discussion to our left. The American presence here was different from the last time I had been here along with thousands of fellow Marines and other armed services personnel, but there was still a high degree of security around the complex.
Cuvier set a fast pace, and I struggled to keep up. He spoke as he walked. “As usual, the safe house has been sanitized and all your gear has been retrieved and will be returned to inventory. The intelligence you gathered will be relayed to the appropriate agencies. Though I must say, I don’t like these favors you’re doin
g for the American government.”
“I didn’t ask for the Order to get involved. The Pentagon came to us, remember?”
This whole thing started when a staffer from the Department of Defense contacted the offices of Adrian Consulting, the security firm which served as our public face. This staffer knew that we had resources in Central Asia and asked if we could get eyes on suspected weapons transfers across on the Af-Pak border. There must have been a miscommunication and the Air Force had also been tasked with observing and destroying the same shipments.
“Yes, and you took the assignment before we could even have time to prepare a proper cover ID for you. Too many things could have gone wrong. What if the Taliban captured you before you even got to your observation post? What if the Pakistani government got involved? Or the Goodmontes asked to see proof that you were working for the Army?”
“I would have figured something out. I always do.”
Cuvier rubbed his temples. “You’re missing my point. When we get wrapped up in political concerns, we run the risk that we will be distracted from our own mission. The Order is made up of men from eight nations, and that number continues to grow. What will happen when the political interests of those nations are at odds with one another? Who should we support? The Order has to be above petty nationalistic affairs.”
“We also have to realize that we’re not the only kids on the block,” I argued. “Sooner or later, we’re going to run into one of these agencies while working in the field, and I’d feel a lot better if they understood who we are. They don’t need to know everything, but enough to tell us from the bad guys.”
Cuvier snorted. “Come now, Kyle, you’re hardly the paragon of foresight.” He stopped and clasped my shoulder. “I understand that you feel a certain patriotic duty to your countrymen, but our calling must be placed above that. There are enough men in the world willing to die for a flag. We have to keep our eyes on our greater mission.”
There was a black Chevy Suburban waiting to take us to the airport. As the vehicle of choice for the numerous private security contractors in the region, it suited our cover story. Cuvier and I climbed into the back. The SUV started moving the moment my door slammed shut. Cuvier and I rode to the airport in silence. I had a lot of questions for him. I knew he had an earful for me, as well, but we both knew that such a conversation could wait.
I breathed easier when the embassy was in our rearview mirror. Despite its appearance of safety, I knew that a curious reporter or government official could cause problems well beyond what the Taliban could deliver. We were told that our cover stories would hold up to all but the most intense scrutiny, but Cuvier was right. My cover here was the weakest I had ever used and I knew that in the real world even the tiniest inconsistency could cause the whole thing to unravel. Because of this, we tended to avoid reporters, cops, and anyone else who made a living asking tough questions. Because if any of them discovered that we performed our work in service to the Vatican, the backlash would be catastrophic.
Technically, the Order was only connected to the Secretariat of State through a string of cutouts and shell companies, but that was a fine distinction. Though the Order may sound like an ancient secret society, it had only been in existence for a few years. Now, before you get the wrong idea, we are not interested in jump-starting a new Inquisition or anything like that. Nor is there anything supernatural about what we do. Believe me when I say that normal, everyday people are much scarier than any fictional monster.
The Order was established to protect the Church, the billions of Christians around the world. Many people believed the persecution of Christians only happened during the Roman Empire or behind the Iron Curtain. But right now disciples of Christ in over fifty countries are imprisoned, tortured, or killed because of their faith. And the situation only worsened as the enemies of the Church became emboldened by the lack of a response by the parts of the world once known as Christendom.
The Order of St. Adrian was founded to be that response. We were the ones who made sure that any predators who sought to prey on the Church discovered their efforts weren’t worth the price. Beyond the religious aspect, this was a foundational human rights issue too few people seemed to notice. It wasn’t that we believed the Vatican should have the power to raise an army to enforce its will on the world. This was a stopgap, a desperate gamble to save lives while we hoped for something better. But until the nations of the world decided to get serious about stopping the persecution of Christian minorities, the Order would continue the fight.
When we reached the airport, we passed several armed checkpoints. I tensed, but we were simply waved through. Cuvier’s connections ran deep, and he was not in the mood to be kept waiting. The SUV pulled onto the tarmac and stopped beside an old Douglas DC-3. The aircraft had seen better days. Those days had been decades ago. It was pockmarked with several gouges that looked like bullet impacts. The dull blue paint job was faded almost entirely, revealing even duller gray metal underneath. One of the windows above the right wing was secured with duct tape.
As we ascended the airstairs, Cuvier said, “You know, they sent out an internal memo about what you did.”
“What did it say? Wait, let me guess. Something like,” I put my hands out like I was arranging an invisible headline, “‘Hero Walks Through Hellfire to Save Terrorized Civilians.’”
Even from behind, I could tell Cuvier rolled his eyes. “No, it was closer to, ‘Idiot Nearly Gets Himself and Terrorized Civilians Blown to Bits.’”
“Key word: nearly,” I pointed out.
Cuvier sighed. “Be serious for a moment.”
“Can’t. It would break my momentum.”
Cuvier pinched the bridge of his nose. “Kyle, I love you like a son but I cannot keep covering for you.” He paused and looked out the window. “I will not be here to watch your back forever. Sooner or later you will be on your own, and if you are not careful you will not survive very long.”
“Thanks for the advice,” I said, an edge of bitterness creeping into my voice. “I know how to survive. And I appreciate what you’ve done for me, but at the end of the day I’ve always been on my own.”
CHAPTER FIVE
SOARING over the blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea, I looked out my window and made a game out of identifying the various kinds of boats crisscrossing the waterway. I saw an oil tanker making a beeline for southern Europe, most likely bound for Sicily based on our location and its direction of travel. A little earlier I spotted the serene bulk of a cruise ship as it moved at a sedate speed through the Mediterranean. There were several smaller craft in the water, as well. But from this altitude, they were too hard to make out.
Another round of turbulence made me squirm in my seat. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the armrests, making impressions in the cheap polymer. I was never a confident flier. Sitting in an aircraft that was held together with duct tape and luck didn’t calm my nerves. I tried to focus my attention away from the shuddering aircraft and onto the reasons for this recall.
I met Cuvier two years ago when he recruited me into the Order. In this business information is everything, and Cuvier made sure that I saw as much of the big picture as possible. But something was different this time. Cuvier knew he could trust me, didn’t he? Or did he consider me a security risk because I disobeyed orders?
I shook my head. I was getting worked up over nothing. I glanced back out the window at the clouds below us. There were more boats in the water now. We had to be close to a port. Sure enough, if I leaned back in my seat I could just make out the rocky shores of a sizable island in the distance.
Malta.
Until I joined the Order of St. Adrian, the only thing that I knew about Malta involved a falcon and Humphrey Bogart. Then I did my homework. For such a small series of islands, Malta bore witness to a considerable amount of violence over the centuries due to its strategic location at the center of the Mediterranean Sea.
Perhaps the most important event
was an epic battle that took place in 1565. In the siege, the Knights Hospitaller, an organization that had managed to outlast both the purge of the more famous Knights Templar and the complete loss of the Holy Lands to the Saracens, faced an overwhelming Turkish army. To everyone’s surprise, the Hospitallers won.
The battle became so famous that the knights stopped being referred to as the Knights Hospitaller and became the Knights of Malta. Malta’s capital city was renamed Valletta to honor the Grand Master who had led the Christian forces to victory. The Knights of Malta continued to attack Turkish corsairs until Napoleon’s army arrived on the island. The Knights swore to never attack fellow Christians, so they left Malta in peace and scattered throughout Europe.
Two centuries later, the spiritual successors to the Knights Hospitaller returned to call this little island nation home. Now, as then, its location proved ideal for supporting operations in the Middle East, Africa, and Eastern Europe.
Malta was the key to our success. The tiny nation held an important, if often overlooked, place in Christendom’s struggle for survival. It was the place where one legendary group of warriors had faced their greatest challenge, and now it would play host for a new military order as it quietly stepped onto the world stage.
I said a silent prayer of thanks when the wheels touched down on the tarmac at Malta International Airport. As the antique aircraft wobbled to the gate, I noticed that the airport put in a new extension to one of their terminals. Business was booming at Malta International Airport.
The woman at the Customs desk waved to Cuvier when we approached. “Hello, Bernard. Back again so soon?”
Cuvier smiled. “You know I cannot stray too far away from such a beautiful lady,” he said.