A Pius Man: A Holy Thriller (The Pius Trilogy Book 1)

by Declan Finn

  She smiled gently. “That’s all right, I’ll protect you.”

  He laughed. “You mean from the evil super-spooks Ryan was talking about?”

  Shushurin frowned slightly. “I’ve been giving some thought about that. Don’t you find it convenient that Sean had that conversation, only to be attacked soon after?”

  Murphy nodded. “Hell yes. What do you think it means? That there’s an insider?”

  She nodded. “Who would you lay money on?”

  He thought a moment. “I’d rather not try to guess, but I can exclude a few people — mainly everyone from out of town.”

  She furrowed her pretty brows. “You mean you want to leave out Abasi? Why?”

  He reached to the nightstand and picked up a pipe, already stuffed with tobacco, and bit down, lit up with a match. “My Office is familiar with Abasi’s family,” he said formally. “While we never preclude the possibility of an Egyptian cop as a terrorist, Abasi was raised more by his mother than by his father, and we had… an understanding with her.”

  Shushurin smiled, slightly surprised. “Okay. And I can see why you’d leave off Ryan, they really do seem to want to kill him. But then, they wanted to kill everyone on the Spanish Steps yesterday.”

  He nodded. “And we’re running out of suspects. Unless there’s someone we missed. I’m a good chess player, but damn, this is complicated.”

  “I think we’re covered,” Shushurin said with a smile.

  Murphy cocked his head and thought a moment, chewing on the pipe stem a little. “Well, I’m not going to question your professional memory.”

  The BND spy smiled. “Yes, but you’ve at least experienced my skills firsthand.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you have more skills than I’ve seen.”

  She leaned forward, patting his cheek. Her voice dropped to a seductive hush as she said, “You have no idea.” She then grinned and chuckled. “Come. Let’s get ready for the day. I suspect we’ll need to find and track Father Williams.”

  “He’s first on my list.”

  * * *

  Hashim Abasi slowly walked into Giovanni Figlia’s office, coffee in hand. He was more casual than the day before. His tan suit jacket was thrown over one shoulder, his tie was missing, and his top two shirt buttons were open. His reading glasses stuck out of his shirt pocket, absentmindedly stuffed inside. He chose the couch and laid the jacket on the back before settling in. He nodded at Figlia — already seated at his desk, dressed in a black suit and shirt combination, collar open — and Figlia nodded back before turning to his paperwork.

  Maureen McGrail and Wilhelmina Goldberg entered, and Sean Ryan after. The Irish Interpol agent wore her loose white blouse and black suit pants, Goldberg had another black turtle neck and pin-striped pants. Sean wore a dark blue polo shirt and black pants.

  The Secret Service agent smiled at Abasi. “You look like an academic.”

  “Technically, I am. I’m a part of…” he paused to think of the English acronym. “MEMRI.”

  McGrail sat down in a chair in a corner of the room. “MEMRI? I haven’t heard of it.”

  “The Middle East Media Research Institute,” Goldberg answered as she sat next to Abasi. “I didn’t know you were a part of the Middle East think tank.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Most people do not even know of it. I am surprised you do.”

  “It’s an Egyptian program. Egypt is next door to Israel.”

  Abasi smiled. “Most Arabs do not know it — then again, in my part of the world, we do not even have philosophers between 1500 and 1900. There are occasions where my religion has a tendency to put the sources of wisdom as the Koran first, imams second, and reason is somewhere around fourth or fifth on the list.”

  Sean Ryan leaned against the wall next to McGrail, crossing his arms. Goldberg spared a moment to look over his surprisingly impressive muscles.

  Sean smiled at Abasi. “And you turned out sane how?”

  He chuckled from somewhere deep in his throat. “When I took courses in England, I realized that, outside of oil, Arab nations have contributed nothing to the world for the last 500 years. We make nothing, we produce nothing, and unless we modernize and stop fighting the west and each other, we will be nothing. Soon, Americans will probably have your precious hydrogen-cars, and that will be the start of the end. Europe would soon follow. And my people will have no choice but to move to Detroit, become a place of outsourcing, or blow themselves up. Once oil fields are outdated, no one will need to put up with terrorist governments anymore. Many of those countries, I fear, will all be bombed out of existence by either the Israelis or the Americans.”

  “We can hope not,” said the soft voice from the doorway, the doors closed behind him.

  Goldberg and Abasi nearly jumped, while the others merely turned to look at him.

  “Nice to see you, Father,” Sean said calmly.

  Father Frank Williams smiled gently and stepped further into the room, stopping at the lamp table by Abasi’s arm. “I’ve told the Pope of your request to see the Pius XII archives. He has no problem. Hopefully, you don’t mind having to sort some of the materials.”

  Goldberg raised a brow. “What’s the catch?”

  “That is the catch.” Father Frank allowed himself to grin slightly. “The archives were closed in part because they had not yet been organized. Even though scholars are allowed to examine them, they still have not been totally sorted. So, who wishes to go in?”

  Wilhelmina Goldberg and Maureen McGrail looked at each other before they nodded. Abasi said, “I will be happy to.”

  Sean smiled. “Do you happen to have a book written by Pinchas Lapide floating around? I hear that he was looking into this topic.”

  Father Frank reached under the table next to him, and pulled out a copy of the book Three Popes and the Jews, by Pinchas Lapide. He crossed over and handed it to Sean, who merely smiled. Sean caught a brief glimpse of the priest’s ring — gold with a gold cross, two swords crossing behind it, set on a red background.

  “Journalist and diplomat Pinchas Lapide,” Father Frank recited from the brief biography, “served with the British army in World War Two, and liberated one or two camps in Italy. Later a diplomat for Israel to the Vatican.”

  Figlia raised a brow. “You broke into my office for your little trick?”

  “No. I asked for the keys,” Frank replied. “I wanted to recommend it in any case. I had to dig it out of the library.”

  Figlia sighed. “I’m sorry to say this, but I cannot be bothered con che right now.” He leaned forward in his chair, pulling himself closer to the desk. “I’ve an office to run, I’m a day behind, and I’ve problems from yesterday to fix.”

  Sean flipped open the table of contents, scanned through them, then said, “Unless you need to throw me out, I’ll read here.”

  Figlia narrowed his eyes at him. “I’d suggest reading outside in the square.”

  Sean frowned. “Great. I should’ve told the gunmen last night they just could’ve nailed me with a sniper rifle this morning. Ah well, what the hell.” He raised the book in a salute. “I’ll see you all later today. Have fun.”

  * * *

  Sean Ryan settled into St. Peter’s Square, making certain to hide himself within the columns, weaving between them as he read. He wanted the fresh air, and would have welcomed being attacked again by these twerps, especially the prick who threw him off the roof. He didn’t really mind being shot at – if he did mind, he wouldn’t be in this job – but he didn’t like to lose.

  As he read, his curiosity was peaked, and his brows furrowed deeper. Something had been wrong, and nagging at him, and he couldn’t tell what. It had been something about the book, and the attack the evening before. What would the story of the book tell? It was the same story from the archives David Gerrity and Ashid Yousef had both seen--the archives that had almost certainly gotten them killed. But what had it to do with the persons constantly trying to kill Sean and company?

>   “Mr. Ryan.”

  Sean jumped, turned and nearly killed him, but Scott Murphy was lucky. Sean relaxed , looking at the Mossad agent with a glare. Murphy was dressed in a light blue corduroy shirt and matching jeans.

  “What is it?”

  Murphy leaned forward and quietly said, “I wanted to know if you’ve noticed anything on Father Williams that might mean something more to a Catholic than to a Jew. A symbol for an order, things like that?”

  Sean raised an eyebrow. “Well, he is wearing a ring for the Order of the Knights Templar. Then again, I bought one of those from a catalog. Why?”

  Murphy raised his eyebrows. “Thanks, happy reading.”

  Sean stared as the spy darted off. What the hell was that about? He shook his head, and was about to bury his head back into the book as a voice interrupted his reading.

  “Where have you been?” a voice boomed. Sean looked over at the oncoming mass of swirling red cloak. It was Cardinal Cannella again, this time on a cell phone. The corrupt Boston priest didn’t seem to go away. “And what about Boston?” the Cardinal continued in the open air, assuming that everyone around him could not understand English. “You promised me it would be settled by now.” Cannella paused. “How about the rest of it? How have you been handling the other thing?” Another pause. “I’ll get in contact with you later.”

  Sean only raised a brow, then got back to his reading.

  * * *

  Giovanni Figlia looked over his desk, glancing at all of the papers and reports that had piled up over the course of yesterday, with more coming in by the hour.

  Some days, he thought, murders might be more interesting to investigate if they weren’t so hooked into Vatican politics.

  But then again, how likely was it that I could have co-opted a murder investigation of a man in the Vatican archives? It was practically impossible.

  He massaged his throbbing temple. Bull. Of course, it was possible. Easily believable — the hotel was across the street from the Vatican, where else would an elderly archivist stay in Rome?

  He blinked, thinking about his wife and children being in danger because of this stupid, idiotic case, just because he was bored.

  From now on, after this, Lord, the most dangerous thing I will ever do is go to my in-laws, he thought darkly. Hell, I haven’t even seen my kids since the day before yesterday, and we’re within a hundred meters of each other.

  He looked at his watch, then to the pile of papers he had dealt with, and then to the slightly lower pile of papers he had yet to get to.

  He frowned a moment, thinking it over. To heck with it.Tthe outbox has more papers than the inbox — victory has happened.

  Time to find Ronnie and the kids.

  Chapter XVII: A Pius Man

  Several hours later, Goldberg sighed over all of the paperwork sprawled over the table. The people who worked at that Vatican archives had come in for only brief periods, almost pained by the way much of the articles were scattered about.

  “This is annoying.”

  McGrail looked up, and blinked firmly to clear her eyes. “How so?”

  Goldberg grabbed a piece of paper, checked the date, and said, “December 24, 1939, Pius XII’s Christmas address called upon the memory of his predecessor against the Nazis, complaining about human rights violations, and calling for the return of peace — defining peace as, among other things, ‘respecting ethnic minorities’.”

  Goldberg looked down at the papers and grabbed another at random. “May 13th, 1940, after a few thousand priests were massacred in Poland, he laments that he can’t say anything, lest the Nazis speed up the process. And this one, from Berlin, September ’41, about a Cardinal von Galen pissing off the Germans, and having churches closed and ransacked by Hitlerjungen after each sermon. Another letter, ten days later, from Vichy France, warns that Hitler considers Pius XII his ‘personal enemy.’”

  Goldberg’s hazel eyes flitted around the papers about her. “I’m not even sure where to go next.”

  Abasi smiled, his teeth a bright white against his skin, raising a sheet of paper. “Then allow me. April, 1939, Budapest, the Bishops opposed the first racial laws. In June, the Vatican had a request for three thousand visas, and six days later there was a complaint from Bern, Switzerland about the difficulty of emigration to Latin America.” Abasi shifted to another folder. “It makes no sense until you see the note a few days later. The Vatican had approved three thousand Brazilian visas.”

  Goldberg blinked. “But Latin America?” She thought a moment. “Oh, right, the U.S. closed off Jewish emigration from Europe. Canada wasn’t any better.”

  Abasi nodded. “Oh, and in July, the Pope blessed all ‘works of mercy’ given to Jewish refugees. There’s also a thank-you letter for agents of the Holy See giving help to Jews.”

  McGrail’s eyes were grateful for the rest. She closed them tightly and recalled items from memory. “Aye. There’re notes discussing papal aid to prisoners in camps intervention for Croatian Jews, Jewish Slavs, Slovakian Jews , Albanian Jews… the list just doesn’t stop. And that’s just 1939.”

  Goldberg nodded reluctantly. “Not to mention that half of this paperwork is bureaucratic redundancy.”

  McGrail smiled, despite her aching eyes. “Och, ’tis better. February, 1944, Rabbi Herzog thanked the Church for help it gave Jews. And in August, for saving the lives of thousands of Roman Jews.”

  Goldberg cocked her brows. “What? Let me see that one.”

  She did. “Follow that with a letter from the Vatican demanding that they stop massacring prisoners in Auschwitz,” McGrail added, handing that letter over as well. “Dated September 26, and 30, 1944.”

  Goldberg leaned back in the chair, hands folded together in front of her face like a fist. “I had family in Auschwitz and Krakow, and I’ve never heard of this. All I hear in the community is ‘Pius did nothing,’ ‘Catholics did nothing, said nothing.’ Now there’s all of these little official protests with diplomats and governments fighting on a local level — and by the paperwork, with either the blessings or near ordering of the Pope.”

  McGrail smiled. “Cute trick. I haven’t seen a letter like that anywhere.”

  Goldberg smiled. “I know Italians, and I’ve dealt with New York politicians. Trust me, these letters are direct orders to meddle in the affairs of Nazis, and drive them nuts — or indirect orders, considering that everything’s in bureaucrat-ese. I know it’s impossible, but I’ve never heard of any of this — any. I mean, this can’t get worse, can it?”

  * * *

  Figlia stepped out of his office, assuming that the day couldn’t get any worse if he joined his family for siesta, and found them in the Borgia Gardens. Possibly best recognized by most human beings as the place where Michael Corleone confessed his sins in Godfather III. He shook his head with a smile. While Figlia had no problem with the idea that anyone could be redeemed, he had problems with the concept that the Mafia were men of class. In some dictionaries, mafioso translated as “gaudy dresser.”

  Figlia’s children were playing in the garden, kicking the soccer ball around, Fisher having already joined them on the grass. He just watched them for a moment, smiling as they played together. His family. He loved them more then he knew how to express. He might have been smarter than the average police officer, especially to have gone so far, but his vocabulary could not contain his passion for his wife and his adoration of his two children.

  “Joshua and Raphael are adorable,” said a voice to his left and a little behind.

  Figlia smiled, catching a whiff of cigar smoke. “Run out of cigarettes, Your eminenzia?”

  Xavier O’Brien smiled. “No. I only smoke those indoors. Believe it or not, that’s only to hold me over until I get outside. They find it harder to get cigar smoke out of the walls.”

  He nodded. “I hope no one minds my children being here.”

  XO laughed. “You must be kidding, Commandatore. You may have noticed, most of those who work here,
we are old men. Grandfatherly instinct works on the same level as paternal instinct. So far, your children have been babysat by the Cardinals of Chicago, Spain, and Florence. Your kids may well start speaking Latin before we’re done.”

  Figlia chuckled. “They have already picked up street Latin — mostly from priests traveling in from New York.”

  XO contemplated the scene of family before him, then took a sip of scotch from the glass in his other hand. “Why did you take on this case, Figlia? You didn’t have to. And I thought we kept you busy enough around here.”

  “Oh, you do, do not fret about that. I am just… you know soccer, si?”

  The Bishop laughed. “I’ve lived in Rome over a decade, Gianni, I’ve seen soccer.”

  “Do you ever watch the players who do not have the ball?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “They never stop moving. Even when the ball is at the other end of the court, they continue to move, jogging pede-a-pede, foot to foot. They always keep moving. They may slow, but never stop. Even the game is continuous, no breaks, no pauses.”

  “No mercy on the audience for bathroom breaks,” XO continued with a smile. “I know, that’s why American sports channels hate it — no chances for commercials.”

  “That as well.” He smiled ruefully. “Even Agent Goldberg’s Secret Service only allows their agents to protection duty for ten years. After that, they fret that the job becomes routine. Routine leads to death. In my case… I am more restless, I suppose.” He finally turned to the American. “By the way, when exactly did the priesthood require so much paper?”

  O’Brien laughed. “Come, Gianni, your family awaits. They wanted to have dinner with you fifteen minutes ago.”

  * * *

  Scott Murphy smiled at the sight of Father Frank walking along the bridge. “He’s stopped to talk with someone else.”

  Shushurin stood at the mouth of the bridge, staying out of sight to avoid attention. “Who?”

  Murphy stood at the other side of the bridge, trying to observe. “I can’t tell. Williams is blocking his face. For all I know, this guy could be a cardinal.”