by Joseph Nagle
Stopping in her tracks, she said, “My goodness, Michael, you clean up nicely! Did they bring you that suit?”
“Yes, and they brought that dress for you,” Michael replied as he pointed over to the bed.
Sonia eyed the dress. It mattered not how successful or educated she was or that she had spent the past forty-eight hours at the edge of death: she was still a woman. She fingered the smooth blend of the acetate, silk-lined finish of the dress and smiled with glee as she read the dress’s designer label. Then she saw the shoes and let out a small yelp of joy.
“Go ahead,” Michael said coyly as he lowered his voice a few octaves, “put them on.”
Michael sat down on the room’s lone chair and crossed his legs. Eyeing his wife devilishly, she knew what he was up to. She was more than happy to oblige, returning the same lascivious look.
Letting her towel fall to the floor, she let Michael have his moment of delight. He watched as she slipped into the dress; he traced his eyes over every line and curve of her demure body. He loved every inch of her. The dress clung to her perfectly.
Next she slipped on the shoes. Everything was a perfect fit.
Sonia found a full-length mirror in the corner of the apartment and inspected the outfit. There, she put on the cashmere sweater and enjoyed its smooth texture on her newly cleansed skin. Michael stood and walked to the bed where he picked up the smaller box and pulled out the earrings. If Sonia had had a look of glee before, the jewelry gave her a face of pure joy.
He stood behind her as she put on the earrings; once they were in, he pulled back her hair, exposing her neck, and gave it a slight nibble.
The smell from the lavender soap pleasantly filled his nostrils.
Sonia felt a cascade of electricity flow through her.
“Now, help me with mine if you would,” Michael said as he handed her another small box.
Sonia turned and removed the small box from Michael’s hand. On its cover the brand name was neatly printed: Forzieri. She pulled out the matching cufflinks and pressed them into the French cuffs of Michael’s shirt.
Sonia smiled at her handsome husband and was about to say something, but she was cut off by a knock at the door.
“Doctors,” boomed the voice of one of the Swiss Guard through the door, “it is time for you to leave.”
“Impeccable timing,” chimed in Michael.
Sonia walked to the door and opened it. The two Swiss Guard were standing at the ready, clearly anxious to escort them from Vatican City.
Michael joined Sonia at the door and gruffly asked, “Where’s York?”
The Swiss Guard’s reply was monotone and matter-of-fact. “He’s already on his way to the Vatican’s chartered plane. You and the rest of your party are cleared for departure within the hour.” Stepping to the side, the Swiss Guard made it clear that would be no more talking and that it was time to leave the world’s smallest sovereign nation.
Michael grasped Sonia’s hand; together they walked from the apartment, straddled by the two Swiss Guard.
Sonia whispered to Michael, “Plane? Where are we going?”
“Back to Paris, my dear. There’s one more thing that still needs to be done.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
ONE LAST STOP
FROM ROME TO PARIS
The Alitalia Dornier 328 sat on a cordoned-off part of the Leonardo da Vinci Fiumicino Airport. A squad of Carabinieri waved the small fleet of three black Fiats through the gates; they sped onto the tarmac, bypassing normal security protocols, in order to deliver Michael and Sonia to the waiting plane.
Surrounding the plane was another half-dozen armed members of the contracted private security firm ICTS Italia. The men were as stereotypical as could be: each of their heads had hair cut entirely too short; they were all barrelchested with thick arms, and in their hands they were holding tightly MP5 submachine guns fitted with holographic sights and under-barrel torches.
Sonia squeezed Michael’s hand and quietly smirked. “That’s a bit dramatic; don’t you think?”
Michael cocked the corner of his mouth upward in a small smile.
Ahead of them, they both saw that the plane’s dual turbo-props were already spinning, and two members of its crew anxiously awaited their arrival at the base of the plane’s stairs.
Michael leaned in toward his wife. “I guess they want us to get out of her pretty quickly.”
“Michael, honey, we scandalously snuck into the Vatican and destroyed a four-hundred-year-old wall; you broke into the Secret Archives, and people were shot and killed. Of course they want us out of here. I just wonder why we weren’t arrested and put into jail.”
The pope owes me a favor. But Michael only thought his response as he reflected briefly back to that day three years ago when he had stopped an assassin from killing the pope. I guess we’re even now.
Near the plane was a white and blue ambulance, which had started to drive away. Both Michael and Sonia knew that it must have been the vehicle used to bring York.
Bringing the car to an abrupt halt, the driver and second Swiss Guard jumped out from the front seats of the Fiat and opened the two rear doors. Without any instruction or any words spoken, the men escorted Michael and Sonia with a purpose to the base of the plane’s extended staircase.
The passenger door of the first vehicle opened, and the head of the Swiss Guard climbed out from its interior. Placing both of his meaty arms onto the roof of the car, he said nothing to Michael and stayed at the vehicle, but he stared intensely at him. Apparently, he wanted to witness firsthand, and personally, Michael’s exit from the country.
Sonia and Michael climbed the stairs and entered the plane. The moment they were inside, he crew shut and secured the door and pointed the two of them into the rear cabin.
A drape hung over the aisle, and Michael pulled it aside as Sonia passed through first and into the cabin. Michael followed her. In front of them, sitting comfortably in his own Loro Piana suit—his was black—was York.
When he saw Michael and Sonia, York smiled widely and opened his arms even wider as he said, “Welcome aboard, Docs; did ya miss me?”
Michael rolled his eyes, although he was secretly relieved that the kid was all right, and Sonia smiled.
“How are you feeling, Jonathon?” inquired Sonia as she took a seat next to him. “Any pain?”
“Pain? Pain is for those wimps in the Air Force; I’ve never felt better! I could run a marathon.” York’s eyes were slightly glazed, and his wide smile seemed to never be erased from his face.
The Dornier had been customized for its intended passengers. Most of the rows had been removed and, in their place, mahogany tables, comfortable captain’s chairs, and a long matching leather couch had been installed. The walls were lined with a caramelized wood finish and gilded trim. Each window had miniature curtains of crushed red velvet, which were secured with thickly braided gold rope.
On the far end of the plane were a large LCD flat-panel television and a well-stocked bar, replete with crystal glassware secured in foam cutouts.
Michael took one of the captain’s chairs opposite York; the two men faced one another.
“Heyyyy, Doc, how ya doin’?” York slapped Michael on the thigh and then looked at him a bit cross-eyed. He leaned in closer to Michael and swayed a bit. His voice was raspy, and his words were a bit slurred as he quietly said, “You know, I’ve meant to tell you for a while now—you can kinda be a dick!”
And then the kid laughed and fell back into his seat, where he closed his eyes tightly and looked as if he had just passed out.
“I’d say he’s as high as a kite right now. What’d you give him?”
Sonia chuckled a bit. “I prescribed fentanyl for him; it’s a bit like morphine. The anesthesia is still wearing off, too. He’ll be like this for about another twenty minutes or so.”
“Let’s hope it’s less,” replied Michael.
At that moment, one of the crew poked her head into the
cabin and said, “We are cleared to depart; please put on your seat belts. Once in the air, you will have complete use of the cabin.” As quickly as she had arrived, she was gone.
The plane started to move, and Michael bit down firmly while grabbing the armrests of his seat forcibly.
Sonia shook her head at her husband, wondering just what in the heck had caused him to have so much fear of flying.
Soon they were rumbling down the runway, and then they were in the air, leveling out at thirty-one thousand feet. An overhead chime was followed by the same pleasant voice of the flight attendant, announcing that they were now able to move about the cabin.
The moment the announcement had ended, York’s eyes snapped open, and he thrust out his long arms and stretched. Undoing his seatbelt, he stood and looked around. “Where’s the food? I’m starVing!”
Sonia gave York a concerned look. “Jonathon, you should sit back down and take it easy. I just performed surgery on you!”
York smiled at Sonia and repeated, “I’ve never felt better.” He patted his stomach where Sonia had performed the laparoscopic procedure. “You did a great job. I can’t feel a thing.”
“You will soon, if you don’t take it easy. That’s the drugs talking, Jonathon.”
Michael chimed in, “You should listen to her, kid.”
“Okay, okay. Don’t tag-team me. I’ll take it easy, I promise. Now where’s the grub?”
York walked to the bar and opened the mini-refrigerator next to it. He was happy to see a tray of cold cuts, cheeses, and an assortment of breads. Quickly, he pulled them out and went to work. Soon he had a mouthful of sandwich, but that didn’t stop him from proclaiming, “Hey, Doc, they’ve got your favorite vodka. You want me to pour you a glass?”
Michael didn’t have to look at Sonia to know she was giving him a very icy glare. “No thanks, kid. I’m good.”
“So what’s next, Doc?” asked York as he returned to his seat. Sonia looked coolly at her husband but was really anxious for the answer.
Michael sat back in his seat and waited for a moment. The silence hung heavily in the air as York and Sonia waited breathlessly for Michael to outline the next steps. After a moment, Michael began: “First, my dear,” he said to Sonia, “we are going to get you home.”
Sonia wanted to protest, but Michael held up his hand to ward off her diatribe. He knew it was a mistake the moment he did so.
“Michael, I’d suggest that you put that hand down this instant! If you think I’m going home after all that I’ve been through, then you must have taken a nice crack atop that pretty head of yours, because I’m doing no such thing!”
Shit! thought Michael. Could’ve done that better.
“Honey, listen,” added Michael.
“Don’t you honey me, Michael! Continue on with your outline of what’s next, but drop the ‘we’re going to get you home’ bullshit!”
York hadn’t heard Sonia curse before, but he knew this must be an example of the woman-scorned thing. He was enjoying watching Michael get his butt handed to him by his wife.
But Michael had one card that he could still play, and he lowered his voice into a firm baritone. “Honey,” he started. Sonia shot a piercing glare at his use of the word honey. “Sonia, what’s next is a mission to stop al-Qaeda from receiving a shipment of nuclear weapon building material as well as to prevent the presidential election from being shanghaied—”
Michael leaned forward and, with as much sternness that he would dare use on his wife, he continued, “This is my area of expertise; for the last two decades, this is what I’ve been trained to do. I make decisions on people’s lives; sometimes that requires the need to end a life. Undoubtedly, more people will die before this ridiculous situation is finished.” Michael was rather matter-of-fact with what followed. “What’s next is the need to make a decision on who will die and how; as well, I’m putting my own life in jeopardy. I’ve already made the arrangements with Danielle. Once we are in Paris, you will get on the next flight to the US. You will go home. You will wait there until I have ended this madness. You will not argue with me on this. Am I clear?”
Sonia was speechless.
So was York.
All that she could do was nod her head slightly in the affirmative. Sonia was fully aware that this was precisely what had made Michael so successful in the CIA. He knew when it was time to be political and when it was time to take a stand. She fought the urge to protest, knowing full well that it would have been futile. Besides, she knew he was right; she just wouldn’t say it.
Michael’s mind was made up, and his message had been clear. It was a rare victory for the husband over the wife; Sonia knew that she had no choice but to let him have it.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
TWENTY HOURS LATER
PARIS, FRANCE
Michael had been up all night. It was difficult saying good-bye to Sonia, but it had been the right thing to do. What would come next was not for her. Rubbing his eyes, Michael replayed the details of the plan, step by step, in his mind.
He visualized each step, each action, every moment, and detail.
And then he did it again.
Michael had been doing so all night.
Across from where he sat and on the other side of an old, hand-carved mahogany coffee table was a long, antique couch. It was upholstered in a rich blend of maroon, gold, and green; its framing came from a bulbous, single piece of darkened oak, and it fit well in the richly appointed apartment. Who was on it, however, did not. York was sprawled awkwardly in a deep sleep. His right leg was hanging over the back of the couch while his left one was planted on the floor. For some odd reason, York had shoved his right hand deep into the cushion where the back of the couch met its seat. At least there was no snoring this time—thankfully.
The morning sun was beginning to split the horizon and spilled a bit of new light into the room. Bits of dust fluttered about, in and out of the rays of light that poured in from the window to the floor.
Danielle was in the voluminous apartment’s small kitchen. Michael couldn’t see her, but he could smell the aromatic bliss of the darkly roasted coffee that she was preparing. Along with the pleasant molecules of brewing bean that diffused slowly about was the mouthwatering smell of hot, freshly rolled butter croissants.
Michael could hardly stand any longer the wait for his breakfast. Prophetically, Danielle glided into the room with a ceramic plate covered with two layers of steaming croissants in one hand and an equally hot French press in the other.
Setting them both down in front of Michael, she smiled. “I will be back in a moment with some cups for the coffee. Please start with the croissants. I hope that you like them.”
Michael smiled at her. “I know that I will,” he said as he grabbed without hesitation one of the croissants. It burned the tips of his fingers, and he shuffled the treat between both hands while blowing on it.
York woke from the smell of the freshly made breakfast. Stretching his long arms wide like a bird in flight, he never took his eyes off of the rolls. Grabbing one in each hand, he looked a bit like a child at Christmas.
This couldn’t have made Danielle any happier. “Coffee for you too, Jonathon?”
York replied, “Sure, why not? The Doc’s got me hooked.”
The two men were still recovering from the last three days; their bodies demanded calories, and the plate of croissants was emptying quickly.
Danielle returned with a tray upon which were three white porcelain coffee cups, sugar, cream, and spoons. As she set the tray down, she remarked, “Mon Dieu! I should have made more.”
Michael swallowed his final bite and wiped the butter from his fingers. “Is everything ready, Danielle?”
Danielle sat next to Michael. “Oui, Michele, it is; just as you had asked.” She picked up the last croissant before Michael or York could rob her of her breakfast.
Michael leaned in to her and kissed her forehead. Danielle closed her eyes and wore the
look of a joy-filled daughter. “Good. I knew I could count on you.”
Michael looked at his watch. His face took on a sudden appearance of seriousness. He nodded to York. “It’s time, kid.”
Both York and Danielle stood simultaneously. As Michael turned to leave, Danielle grabbed his wrist softly. She had a look of concern that couldn’t be hidden by her innocent, round eyes. Michael stared into the blacks of her pupils, silently letting her know that it would all be okay. Danielle pulled herself closer to him and, standing on the tips of her toes, kissed both of his cheeks.
There were no words. It was always this way when Michael left. He smiled at her; reaching out he squeezed both of her hands, and then caressed both of her cheeks delicately.
York was already at the door when Michael let both of her hands go.
Behind the two men, the door closed.
Danielle closed her eyes and fingered the dark grainy wood of the door; slowly, she let out the breath that she had been holding. “Please be careful… Papa.”
CHAPTER NINETY
HOT TARMAC, COLD
WORDS LE BOURGET
AIRPORT PARIS, FRANCE
The day wasn’t hot; to the contrary, in most of France, it was quite temperate. On the airport’s tarmac, however, it was quite different. The sun’s rays blistered downward to the ground only to radiate upward, amplified by the surface of the bituminous concrete. Francis Q. Door could feel the burn of the rays on his expensive, hand-cut suit and across his face; from behind, there was no relief either: the oppressive heat generated from the Gulfstream 650’s two idling Rolls-Royce turbofan engines burned his backside. Door felt the two walls of heat compressing him into nothingness; he felt flattened and more than uncomfortable. He desperately wanted to wipe away the thick film of perspiration that already lined the inside of his starched collar and now dripped down his spine. But he dared not show weakness to the hoard of press standing in front of him, nor to the world that watched.