by Martha Carr
They didn’t have much use for modern technology and after the President’s assassination the Circle had even warned them of an uptick of online surveillance. The checks and balances were gone, at least temporarily, and the new structure in power, led in the shadows by Clemente was free to do what it wanted. There was almost no one left to look over their shoulder or complain.
A form of martial rule was in place for any Circle operatives that were caught by Watchers out for revenge. The Watchers were holding meetings on their own, determined to take out their frustration on the Circle members who were doing their best to hide.
To the average citizen it was the usual sound bites on the news about arrests or unfortunate car accidents or horrible murders or apparent suicides. The last one was a favorite of the Watchers. No one was connecting the dots.
The White Rose Order still survived by passing things along from one operative to the next at specified locations, or not at all. They followed the old adage that good news could be broadcast out to the world but bad news, or highly sensitive news, was only shared person to person.
Any message that involved operational details such as changes of code, dead drops, or Watchers movements were too sensitive and lately, all of it was bad news as well.
Father Michael was particularly fond of saying that any messages about who, what, when, where, why were to be handed off while looking in the other person’s eyes. He was the elderly minister who had reached out and saved Fred when everyone was calling for his head, or at the least to lock him up somewhere dark and impenetrable.
Still, Father Michael was a cautious man even if he took in a rogue like Fred Bowers. Anything that he didn’t want to put out there in a message that might be potentially intercepted was kept out of an electronic device. The only way to control the path of the data for the Order was to physically move it.
Everyone in the Order had learned over hundreds of years of serving to protect ancient secrets and artifacts and more importantly, to protect some balance in the world had taught them the power of information and the ease with which it could be exploited. Besides, now they had thousands of innocents still to protect in the Butterfly Project.
The priests were more willing to risk moving around in the open than send something electronically, while they came up with a plan to fight back.
Three, four, five. Fred slowed as he approached the fifth bench in the center of the park under the tallest oak. He looked to the left into the darkness behind the sixth bench, the same measured ten strides between each bench. He veered slightly to the left of the wide pathway and kept walking at a steady slow pace past the far side of the bench.
There was no chalk mark.
He thought about circling the park, despite his instructions to leave if there was no mark. Fred didn’t like failing at assignments.
It wasn’t until he was almost past the next bench that he saw something huddled on the ground, just behind the first row of trees, too far back to see unless you were looking straight at it. He took a quick look around as he kept walking toward the trees, making sure not to change his pace and draw attention his way.
He stepped further out of the light, taking just a moment for his eyes to adjust as he knelt down, putting out his hand. The body lying on the ground jerked, trying to pull away from him.
“Leonard Kipling?” he said in a low voice. “You are Leonard Kipling,” said Fred, taking a chance. He knew the protocol was to leave this man to his own devices but Fred had given up on following strategies just because they were written down somewhere.
“What has happened? Are you injured?”
The third generation zwanzig was bleeding badly. He was one of only a handful of descendants of the original twenty remaining Circle members who had made it to America from Germany after Management had managed to slaughter the rest of them. Even though it was over a half century earlier, no one on either side had forgotten even if there were two different versions of the same story.
“A team of Watchers has been hunting us,” groaned Leonard, rolling onto his side.
“We know about that. There have been reports.”
“Sharing the information would have been useful,” said Leonard between clenched teeth, as he grimaced in pain. “We were staying in the safe house in Pittsburgh and I was coming back down the alley when I saw them breaking down the door. They looked like a SWAT team,” he said, as Fred helped him to his feet, “but I knew it was them. I finally got the evidence we need. It’s from a Butterfly. I have to get it to Father Michael.”
“We can’t stay here,” said Fred. “We need to keep moving.”
“They took everyone else away. I tried to stop them,” said Leonard, as Fred alternately righted him again, and dragged him. Leonard’s left eye was puffy and almost shut and there was a large deep red stain on his lower left side that was seeping all the way through his heavy coat.
“You don’t understand,” said Leonard. He was gently patting his side faster and faster.
“You’re okay, you’re okay,” said Fred, trying to get him to cooperate and work with him or at least stop resisting his help. “Tell me about it when we’re in a safer zone.”
“No, no, wait,” said Leonard, trying to pull them both back in the direction of the bench. He was still trying to get his hand inside of his coat, searching for something.
“We can’t stay here,” hissed Fred.
“You don’t understand. We can’t leave it there. It can’t be found. It’s what we needed.”
“What the hell?”
“Go back, go back,” said Leonard, desperately wheeling around, falling to his knees trying to crawl back in the direction of the bench. “I can’t find it,” he said, his voice growing louder. “I must have dropped it.”
A flashlight shone across the benches in their direction and Fred shoved Leonard to the ground. “Quiet, there’s someone in the park,” he said, flattening himself against the ground, keeping an arm across Leonard’s back. “Not a word,” he said in a menacing tone.
He needed him to listen or at least stay quiet.
A woman walked swiftly by the benches scanning from side to side with the flashlight.
“You were followed,” Fred whispered into Leonard’s ear, angry at how the night was unfolding. He pushed down, hard, as Leonard tried to lift his head to say something.
The woman seemed to hesitate just past where they were lying, her head tilted to one side, listening for something.
“This way!” A child yelled in delight, running through the middle of the park with her friends trying to keep up with her. They were all dressed in costumes, their trick or treat bags waving at their sides as they ran, laughing and yelling, “Wait up!”
The woman shined her flashlight on them and kept the beam moving across the benches as a small group of adults quickly followed the children into the park.
“We said no running!” a man called out.
“They’re fine,” said a woman, walking quickly behind him.
The woman with the flashlight smiled and nodded before walking out of the park, still scanning the sides.
“Stay down,” said Fred. “They’re still watching. We’ll have to find another way out of here.”
“I’m not leaving without the notebook,” said Leonard through gritted teeth. “It’s the only copy.”
“Stay here,” said Fred. He removed his arm from Leonard’s back and crawled over to the bench where the dead drop was supposed to be made. Lying in the leaves just behind the bench was a long brown envelope with small drops of blood staining the paper. Fred could feel a small notebook inside. He slid it into the inside pocket of his coat and crawled back to Leonard.
“I found it. It must have fallen out of your pocket when you were sitting on the bench. Why did you move away from there in the first place?”
“That’s when someone shot me,” said Leonard, between short gulps of air.
Fred lifted his head and looked into the darkness of the park
beyond the other side of the wide path. A sniper could still be lurking out there, cutting off yet another exit for them. They were running out of options.
“Who did you tell about this meeting?” asked Fred, emphasizing every word.
“I left a message for some people in the Butterfly Project. They can be trusted. There’s no way the intel was shared.”
“Well, this bullet hole says you’re wrong. What were you delivering?”
“It’s not possible. I only told one person,” he winced, trying to get to his knees. “I told the man who gave me what’s in that envelope. It’s a notebook and a birth certificate.”
Fred slowly stood to his knees, reaching into his cassock for the nine mm Glock 43 he had brought along with him.
“A priest carries a gun,” said Leonard, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain as he tried to stand.
“Looks can be deceiving,” said Fred. He grabbed Leonard under the arm and lifted him to his feet as Leonard let out a low moan. Fred wanted to tell him to be quiet just as he saw the edge of a Circle army ranger tattoo, the large curling wings around a parachute, on the man’s neck.
“You were on Haskill Mountain?” asked Fred, hesitating.
“I was the only one from my unit who made it all the way up the mountain,” said Leonard. “Sua Sponte.”
“Of their own accord,” said Fred, translating the ranger motto. “I heard you saved the Keeper.”
“Not to distract from you finally gaining a little respect for me but I think I’m slowly bleeding out,” said Leonard. His breathing sounded shallow to Fred. “Even though this would be a fitting place to die. Didn’t you know? Thousands of soldiers were buried here during the first American Revolution.,” he said, trying to smile. “This park is one large graveyard. I’d be in good company, the best.”
“We’re not in the middle of another revolution,” said Fred, “This is more of a witch hunt.”
“They wouldn’t hunt us if they weren’t afraid.”
“Or pissed off enough.”
“Are we sure it’s Management?” asked Leonard, who was slowing down. Fred was having to hold him up more and more.
“Not at all, and right now it doesn’t really matter. The bullet will kill you just the same,” said Fred. “This is also a potter’s field. The entire park was a burial ground for different generations of the poor. Let’s not add another body.”
“Point taken. Son of a bitch,” swore Leonard. “Hurts like a mother,” he said, almost falling over. “We need to get that envelope to Father Michael, where it belongs,” he said, holding on to Fred, sounding like he was pleading. “Someone sacrificed almost everything to make sure it gets to him.”
“Whose birth certificate is it?” asked Fred, as he put Leonard’s arm over his shoulder and helped him slowly cross through the grass, staying to the darker parts of the park. There was no way to know if the sniper that had shot Leonard was still on the far side or had moved his position but they had to get going and there weren’t many choices.
Fred stayed behind the tree line and abandoned the pathway, working his way across the grass. He stumbled over an old tree root almost sending them both to the ground and managed to keep his feet under him, trying to get them both out of the park.
“It’s George Clemente’s son,” said Leonard, “but George doesn’t know he exists. The only proof that it’s true is this birth certificate. The rest is a notebook that belonged to George. Proof of what’s coming next.”
“Who gave that to you?” Fred could see they were passing near the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier from the American Revolution. It made it easier for him to get his bearings in the darkness. He was grateful for the new moon that helped them cross over the large park in the darkness and onto the narrow streets.
“I told you, Clemente’s son. He’s a friend of mine from the Butterfly Project,” said Leonard, lifting his head to get a better look at Fred’s reaction. “He’s my best friend. His mother was a Circle member and was smart enough to never tell George Clemente he was going to be a father.”
“No one has ever known much about Clemente,” said Fred, as they reached the tall stone pillars at one of the entrances to the park. “We’re almost there,” he said, dragging Leonard quickly across Walnut Street to a building at the corner of South Seventh Street.
“What are we doing over here?” asked Leonard, trying to look around as he leaned on Fred, doing more of a shuffle than a run.
A bullet whizzed past Fred’s head close enough to make him shudder before it exploded in a cloud of red dust as it hit the corner of the storefront facing Walnut Street. He lifted Leonard off his feet for a moment and helped him move as fast as he could down the side of the building to the back alley. He reached for the door that was supposed to be propped open.
Fred felt a moment of relief when he saw the shim sticking out of the bottom of the door.
He helped Leonard down the stairs to the basement and across the basement to the far brick wall where there was a low opening with a steel door that was being held open by a pipe jammed under the handle, leaning against the floor.
“Where are we going?”
“Too many questions, soldier. We’re taking a safer route back to the church. This runs underground, beneath Jeweler’s Row.” Fred grunted, tiring under the weight of carrying most of Leonard’s weight. “They’re still used by some of the shop owners right above us to carry gems in and out. Occasionally, we get to borrow it. I have to tell you though, Leonard, I’ve had a lifetime’s worth of tunnels.”
“There’s a lot of these?” asked Leonard, putting out a hand to balance himself against the concrete wall.
“They were as common as the roads above ground a couple hundred years ago,” said Fred. “The Order had a particular affection for them. They seemed to know they would be useful for a long time to come.”
“Must be something to do with always helping the underdog. Look,” said Leonard, stopping to lean against a wall, breathing hard. “I know it wasn’t my friend. He didn’t tell anyone. He wouldn’t do it.”
“Who’s your friend?”
“It’s Ned Weiskopf, the Keeper’s nephew. He gave this to me while looking me in the eye. He said the Order needed to know about it and to hand deliver it. Isn’t that what your generation is big on?” asked Leonard, trying to smile.
“We need to get you to the safety of the church,” said Fred. “Remember, it’s the old guy carrying your ass.”
“Somebody higher up in the food chain needs to know what Clemente is doing. He’s planning to take out a lot of people.”
Fred stopped at a T in the tunnel and wiped his face on his sleeve.
“Little warmer down here,” said Leonard, a sheen of sweat on his face. He was breathing hard and the pain showed on his face.
“How is Clemente planning to take out a lot of people?”
“Germ warfare. Worst part is, it doesn’t appear to be his main plan. But we couldn’t find any detail on that one. At least not yet.”
“Come on,” said Fred. He put his shoulder underneath Leonard’s right arm. “Hold on to me, we have to keep moving as fast as we can. Can’t afford to take any chances.”
“Were those Watchers back there shooting at us,” asked Leonard, “or Clemente’s goons?
“These days it’s hard to know,” said Fred, grunting as he practically carried Leonard who only got every second or third step.
“You have made a lot of people angry,” said Leonard, his head starting to droop.
“Do not die on me,” said Fred. “I don’t do well with that.”
“Yeah, that’s the rumor. I will do my best. Aw, God,” screamed Leonard as he tried to double over. Fred turned and lifted him in his arms and kept moving.
“Who’s the old guy now,” he said, his arms straining under the weight.
“Where the hell are we? We’ve been down here too long. Feel like a damn mole,” said Leonard, his words starting to slur.
“We
should be passing under the Liberty Bell right about now. Not too much further and we will come out right underneath the building across from Christ Church.”
Fred’s eyes drifted shut as Fred lifted him into a fireman’s carry.
Fred heard movement in the tunnel up ahead and hesitated, wondering if he should put Leonard down and check to see if something horrible had happened. But Leonard had lost consciousness and there wasn’t much time left if he was going to live.
If there were invaders in the tunnels then the Order was seriously hurt, thought Fred and there wasn’t much chance of his escape anyway.
The sounds became louder and he could tell they were running toward him but no one was calling out to him. It was a bad sign.
He started to lay Leonard down and at least try to defend them when he saw Father Michael’s face in the glow of a flashlight.
“We heard there were problems,” said Father Michael. “We decided we needed to try and meet you. Is he still alive?” he asked, moving quickly back toward the way that he came.
Another priest came up behind Father Michael and reached out for Leonard, lifting him from Fred’s shoulders.
“We need to talk,” said Fred. “He was trying to get this to you,” he said, as he pulled out the blood-stained envelope. “Clemente has a weak point and we may be able to use it.”
“A son, I already know,” said Father Michael, helping Fred through the last part of the tunnel. “There will come a day when you will start to understand how well the Order carries out its mission.”
“Did you know about the germ warfare?” asked Fred, as they finally got to the door that would lead them up stairs that were over two hundred years old and into the Order’s offices.
“Now, that is news,” said the Father, hesitating. “I wish I had killed him when I had the chance thirty years ago.”
“I wish you had too,” said Fred, his mood growing even darker. “I’m getting a little tired of running through underground mazes like a rat and dodging bullets. Someone was shooting at us up there. They managed to pick off the Sergeant in the park.”