Counterplay bkamc-18

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  31

  After her husband left for the office, Marlene spent most of the rest of the afternoon pacing and occasionally scowling at the rooftop of the building across the street where she could from time to time see the guys from the Homeland Security sniper team. Two more feds from the agency were stationed on the street outside the loft and another on the landing outside her door.

  Jon Ellis had stopped by personally to ask that she and the rest of the family remain inside until it was time for her to go to the cathedral. “My guys have a lot on their hands today and, well, I’ve heard you’re more than capable of taking care of yourself,” he said. “But having you on the streets with the kids will make it that much tougher.”

  Marlene had reluctantly agreed. The weather wasn’t so nice anyway. Indian summer had for the day anyway turned overcast and drizzly with wet gusts of wind blowing north from the harbor. Still, she didn’t like being kept like a tethered goat waiting for the tiger to show while the hunters sat in their blinds.

  Whenever she got tired of pacing, she watched the pageantry leading up to the arrival of the Pope at St. Patrick’s Cathedral at about noon on the television. The twins had watched with her for a bit but quickly had grown tired of it, whined about not getting to go out, and retreated to their bedroom when she snapped at them to “quit driving me nuts.”

  The ceremony wasn’t scheduled to begin until seven o’clock that evening, and the Pope was said to be resting in the archbishop’s residence attached to the rear of the cathedral. However, that didn’t deter the networks from wall-to-wall coverage of “The Pope Visits America.” They’d filmed every foot of his movements after he’d transferred into his bulletproof “Pope Mobile” following the initial drive in from LaGuardia so that he could wave to the faithful already lining the streets leading up to the police barricades several blocks from the cathedral. The white space between his arrival at St. Patrick’s and the evening’s event they were breathlessly filling with interviews with tourists and cuts to talking heads discussing various church issues, such as the impact the conservative Pope’s visit would have on wayward American Catholics who supported abortion rights and the ordination of female priests.

  Some dignitaries-ranging from politicians, to stars of stage and screen, to the fabulously wealthy-began arriving in midafternoon. Perhaps thinking they might get a private audience with His Holiness if they arrived a bit earlier than the others. Their arrival gave the bored television reporters, who treated each occasion of a recognizable celebrity pulling up like Oscar night, something to do.

  Marlene wondered if Lucy and Ned got in okay, but she hadn’t heard anything to the contrary. She was sure Father Dugan wouldn’t have a problem; he was resourceful that way. And she wished again that her father had been willing to get dressed up and attend.

  Father Mike could get you in with Lucy and Ned, she’d told him the day before. Your one and only chance of a lifetime to get that close to the Pope.

  Mariano Ciampi had been a good Catholic his entire life, rarely missing a mass, going to confession at least once a week, and arguing with his youngest daughter, Marlene, about being a pick-and-choose Catholic.

  We aren’t Methodists…or New Agers. You don’t get to dabble a toe here and a toe there to see how you like the water. Being Catholic is jumping in feet first, he’d lectured her once during her college days. You don’t get to say, “I like the pretty music, so I’ll go to church, but I don’t like what the Pope says about premarital sex, so I’ll sleep around.”

  Marlene had known better than to argue with him-though in her younger, self-righteous years she’d done plenty of that, as her mother, Concetta, clucked around, asking her to not rile your father. Later, she’d discovered the benefit of keeping her mouth shut on matters of religion, especially as it intersected secular issues like abortion rights. But as she’d grown older, she’d also found comfort in the steadfast, unbending, principles of her church.

  In things secular, Mariano was a patriot. Even if he didn’t vote for him, the president of the United States was to be respected-at least the office, if not the man. But in things spiritual, the Pope was infallible. So she was surprised when he turned down the offer to see the pontiff in person.

  Nah, it’s too much trouble, he said. I’m going to stay here with your mother.

  Mom’s gone, Pops, Marlene said gently.

  I know that, the old man scowled. I meant with her…memory. I think maybe she’d be jealous if I got to go see the Pope without her.

  I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, Marlene said. Come on, I’ll stop by and help you get ready and you can sit with Lucy and-

  No! I don’t want to go, Mariano said, standing up out of his easy chair, suddenly angry, or panicked, she couldn’t tell. I don’t deserve to go without your mother.

  Okay. Okay, calm down, Marlene said, taking him by his shaking shoulders and easing him back into the chair. It’s going to be on television anyway. You’ll probably see more.

  Yeah, yeah, we’ll be more comfortable here, Mariano said. He’d settled down then, but as she turned to leave, he’d grabbed her by the hand, which he kissed and held next to his cheek. Please, if you get the chance to speak to him privately, would you ask him to say a prayer for your mother…and for me.

  She leaned over and kissed him on top of his head. Yeah, sure, Pops. A special prayer for Mariano and Concetta Ciampi…a special place for them to be together in heaven.

  Mariano had laughed at the image. A small home in Queens with your mother when she and I were young, and all of you were babies…that’s what I’d call heaven.

  Marlene managed to get to her car before she broke down and started crying. Recalling the discussion the next afternoon, she had to catch herself to prevent the tears from falling again. She turned back to the television where a reporter was describing all the extra-ordinary security precautions-helicopters overhead, police officers on horseback, plainclothes police officers working the crowds around the barricades, metal detectors for anyone going into the cathedral. “Even Russian president Vladimir Putin’s appearance at the United Nations later next week won’t be seeing this kind of attention,” the reporter gushed as he turned to a tall priest with a pitted, scarred face while the camera followed.

  “I’m speaking with Father Aidan Clary, who is normally responsible for securing St. Patrick’s,” the reporter said. “A little different scenario today, eh, Father?”

  The priest looked uncomfortable, like he didn’t want to look in the camera. “I’m really not supposed to talk about it, but yes, it’s different. Today will be different.”

  Today will be different. Something about the way the man said it made Marlene take notice. The scarred face. Tall. Wasn’t that the description of the killer priest who’d murdered Fey and Flanagan?

  Her mind raced ahead. So the plan is to kill Butch and me at the cathedral? The white king and white queen. She thought about calling her husband or Jaxon. But what? Tell them a priest who’d once had bad acne as a teenager and now spent his life as the custodian of a cathedral might be an assassin? Even if he was-and maybe whatever Kane or Azzam had planned was already in place-her daughter was in St. Patrick’s, and if something went down, Marlene was going to be there.

  She picked up the telephone and dialed a number. “I need to talk to him,” was all she said to the man who answered.

  A half hour later, the Homeland Security agent on the landing stood up as Marlene appeared at the door with her dog. “I know I’m not supposed to go outside until my husband arrives to take me to the cathedral, so would you mind giving Gilgamesh a quick walk before his bladder bursts?”

  The agent looked at the dog like he’d just been asked to handle a rattlesnake. He was a big man, and well armed, but it was the biggest canine he’d ever seen in his life. Damn thing could take my arm off with one chomp, he thought.

  Marlene noticed the hesitation and smiled. “Don’t worry, he’s well trained and really just a big baby. Come on, give h
im a pet.”

  Nervously, the agent put out his hand and gave the dog a scratch behind the ears. Gilgamesh responded by leaning against the agent and moaning with pleasure.

  Marlene smiled sweetly. “Please.”

  “Sure, why not,” the agent said taking the leash. “Come on, boy, let’s go for a walk.”

  As soon as the agent got on the elevator and it started down, Marlene rapped lightly on the door with a spoon. A moment later the door sprang open, a hanging ladder appeared, and then Tran pulled himself up onto the landing, followed by Yvgeny. Someone on the floor below removed the ladder as the three quickly slipped into the loft and shut the door.

  Tran had formerly owned the Chinese restaurant food and equipment store on the first floor of the loft building, as well as the space on the second, third, and fourth floors. He’d used it as both a front for some of his nefarious activities, but more as a way of keeping an eye on his friends in the loft. He still owned the building but had moved in a new tenant on the bottom floor, an import company that did very little importing-at least nothing much that was reported to U.S. Customs. It came in handy when he wanted to use a secret way into the building from the basement and then up to the fourth floor below the loft.

  After the twins had greeted the “guests,” Marlene had sent them grumbling back to their room. Then she explained to Tran and Yvgeny why she’d suddenly focused on the ceremony at the cathedral as the most likely time for an assassin to try to kill Butch and herself. “It might not be more than a woman’s intuition, but I want to get inside but stay in the background until I can figure out what’s going on…. I know it’s asking a lot, but I’d like some company if I can arrange this.”

  Tran smiled. “I didn’t have anything better to do today.” He shrugged. It was the unspoken truth that he had a crush on Marlene and would have walked into the fires of hell if she was going.

  Yvgeny nodded, too. “I have-how do you put it-a dog in this fight, too,” he said. “However, I have been troubled by how Kane was playing his game, and you might not be correct on who they plan to target.”

  “What do you mean?” Marlene asked.

  “Andrew Kane is supposed to be something of a chess master, no?” he began. “He buys elaborate chess sets and prides himself on his game.”

  “Yeah, so?” Marlene said.

  “Well, I was asking myself recently, Why is he playing like such a rank amateur game?”

  “You’re losing me,” Tran said.

  “Let me explain. Chess is not about how many of your opponent’s pieces you can take,” Yvgeny said. “The object is to place the other’s king in checkmate in as few moves as possible. Great players take pride in piercing to the heart of the enemy’s defenses without making it a war of attrition. And for the truly great players, taking your opponent’s king when the other side did not see you coming is an even more satisfying achievement.”

  “I know you just said something important,” Marlene said. “But I still don’t get it.”

  Ivgeney laughed. “Kane, who may or may not still be running the show, has played like a beginner. He kills the black bishop. He kills the black knight. He tries to kill the white bishop, kills a white knight, and tries to kill another. Then all those pawns, black and white. It’s sort of a ‘last man standing’ strategy that no chess master would pride himself on, unless-”

  “Unless what?” Marlene and Tran said together.

  “Unless he is using the Naranja gambit…once used by the Spanish chess master, Orlando Naranja, in a world championship match,” Yvgeny said. “Essentially, it entails sort of an all-out attack, a war of attrition in which he even sacrificed his queen. But it was meant to distract the opponent and force him to defend against, while Naranja’s real purpose was a simple three-move strike from another direction.”

  “So what we think Kane or someone is trying to accomplish-the assassination of the district attorney of New York and his pesky wife,” Marlene said, “is really a distraction for the true purpose, which is to-”

  “-place in checkmate the real white king, the Pope,” Tran finished. “And the white queen?”

  Marlene looked at the television set. “Lucy,” she said.

  Ten minutes later, the Homeland Security agent knocked on the door of the loft. “Sit, boy,” he said, pleased that the dog had followed his every command.

  The door opened and Zak poked his head out. “Yes?”

  “Oh, hi, where’s your mother?” the agent asked. “I brought her dog back.”

  “She’s napping,” Zak replied, “and doesn’t want to be disturbed.” He took the leash from the agent and pulled the dog inside. “Thank you,” he said and shut the door on the bemused agent.

  32

  Andrew Kane approached the short, compact man with the tidy black mustache and held out his hand. “Colonel Grolsch,” he said to the head of the Swiss Guard security team. “Good to see you again.”

  “Ah, Senore Hodges,” the man replied, shaking his hand. “Your people are in place, I assume?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Kane said with a smile. “My people are in place. And yours?”

  “Si…yes, two here in the back,” Grolsch said, pointing to each of two men at the back of the cathedral near the main doors where guests were passing through metal detectors and having their bags searched. “Plus two along the sides. And there will be two more up beyond the altar, along with myself, out of sight, but ready. Oh, and, of course, the two you can see standing behind where the pontiff will be seated, dressed in our traditional uniforms.”

  Kane looked to where Grolsch indicated the two men clad in Renaissance helmets and blue, red, and yellow tunics. He knew from the Catholic history books he’d been forced to read as a child that the colors were those of the Medici family and the uniforms supposedly designed by Michelangelo. The men were armed with swords and halberds-a combination spear and battle-ax. Not much of a threat, he thought.

  “It is a small group”-Grolsch shrugged-“but with all the other security efforts outside and inside, I am comfortable. And your people?”

  “Similar placement,” Kane said. “But also two-females-among the nuns in the choir.”

  “But can they sing?” Grolsch asked.

  It took Kane a moment to realize the man had made a joke. “You know, I’ve never asked,” he said and did his best to chuckle.

  “And where will you be, Senore Hodges?”

  Kane smiled. “Why, right next to you. Just in case the unthinkable happens, we will be able to coordinate our response.”

  “Buono,” Grolsch replied. “His Holiness would prefer no guards at all. Alas, we live in a world in which the man who represents peace and God’s love to so many must be defended from men of violence…. Now, if you will excuse me, I must speak with my people before I take my place.”

  Kane returned the man’s small bow and watched him walk off. Thanks to Grolsch’s candidness, he was aware that the four men in the cathedral proper carried SIG P-210 pistols beneath their suit coats, and the two men out of sight behind the altar were also armed with Heckler amp; Koch submachine guns.

  Not that it will matter, Kane thought, suppressing a giggle behind his hand. His plan was marching forward swimmingly with its twin purposes coming together at the appointed hour-soon the Pope, as well as Karp, his bitch wife, Marlene…and dear Lucy…would be in his grasp. He’d been told the twin boys wouldn’t be attending, which was a small disappointment-he’d hoped to kill them in front of their parents. But no matter. He’d make sure the parents understood that they were dead before the evening’s festivities were over.

  He was so happy, in fact, with the way his plan had worked, he wished he could give himself a hug. The plan had been a masterful work of art, and he’d tinkered with it throughout. Even the death of the terrorist Akhmed Kadyrov during his escape had worked to his advantage when he had the number to the Iranian ambassador-who everyone knew was a tool of the Russians-placed in his pocket. Even the attempt on the old R
ussian gangster and his son, both known to be sympathetic to the Chechen nationalists, was meant as much for distraction as retribution.

  Fey died for his treason, but also because it had been the former archbishop who’d told him the secret last fall that the Pope intended to visit New York to counter the bad publicity of the sexual offenses by priests. If Fey had been questioned about what Kane was up to, he might have given it away. And Flanagan could have recalled hearing the news from him as well.

  There’d been a moment of rage and fear when Ellis told him about the king and queen chess pieces arriving at the Karp residence. Who was the traitor? Who was trying to warn Karp? Could Bandar have staggered the arrival of the pieces before his death? Was it the Russian, Malovo? He didn’t trust her-the Russians were always full of intrigue and playing one party against another for their own ends. How about Ellis? Was the cooperation of the two just a lie to get what they wanted while preparing to sacrifice him? But no, he’d made sure that they understood that if something went wrong due to betrayal, he’d salted away plenty of evidence to take them down with him.

  Who then? he wondered as he watched the guests enter and take their seats. Behind his smile, he was sneering at their excited faces and small talk as they soaked up being among the chosen. Once they’d shown him those same smiles, talked the small talk, when they arrived at his dinner parties, flattering him with their empty compliments and contributions to his campaign when they thought that he was going to be the next mayor of their precious city. They’d disappeared after his arrest, quickly distancing themselves before he’d even been tried and convicted. Now, he could hardly wait to see their faces when he revealed himself and they realized that their lives were in his hands.