Samira was the most logical choice for the traitor. But that didn’t make sense either. When he last saw her with Malovo-both of them dressed as nuns and mixing in with the choir, who’d been told they were there for the Pope’s protection-her eyes glittered like black diamonds with the knowledge that at last she would become a martyr, striking a blow for Islam that would never be forgotten. He couldn’t imagine her risking the operation…unless her purpose was to ruin the personal aspects of his plan.
But then, Kane thought, what if it really is Samira playing a little game as a way of getting back at him? His fear, after Ellis informed him of the king and queen, was that Karp and Ciampi, along with Lucy, would remain home or locked away in some safe house. It wouldn’t have ruined the larger focus of the plan, but it would have taken a good chunk of the fun out of it. Just what Samira might enjoy.
Wouldn’t have mattered in the long run, Kane thought as he took out his cell phone. I would have killed them someday in some other manner. And as it turned out, they were going to attend despite the threat, or warning, or whatever it was.
Kane was honest enough with himself to recognize that he feared Karp and Ciampi, as well as their odd assortment of friends. It was like some book from his childhood where a group of unlikely heroes comes together to battle the forces of darkness.
From the first moment he’d seen Karp, he’d recognized the man as the proverbial nemesis. He was the leader, the moral center around which the others gathered and found strength.
Marlene Ciampi was dangerous because she was so unpredictable, and as fully capable of using violence as he was without worrying about the niceties when doing what needed to be done. She was like the repentent gunslinger in Western movies who had given up the life until forced into one last showdown to save the townspeople from the bad men.
Superstitious and aware that there were forces at play he didn’t understand, Kane wondered how such a fellowship of Goody Two-shoeses had ever come together. Take the Indian. He’d never met the man but recognized that he drew strength through his spirituality and was as fully cognizant of the play between light and dark as he was. The Indian’s death had been a great relief.
And what about the cowboy? A seemingly insignificant hick from the sticks, and yet weren’t cowboys the American equivalent of the knights-errant? It troubled him that the boy had survived the attack and saved Lucy from falling into his clutches sooner, causing him to slightly revamp his plan for the evening. Doesn’t matter, the cowboy’s ride is over tonight as well, he thought.
After this, though, I want to get the hell out of Dodge. Some unknown presence stalked him in Manhattan. His spies quavered when they talked about a shadow, or shadows, that watched and sometimes did more than watch, slitting throats and carting bodies off into the dark places. The two men assigned to follow the Karp brats had disappeared. Others left the apartment complex across from Baker Field to purchase a pack of cigarettes or scout the neighborhood to watch for the presence of federal agents or the NYPD and never returned. Even Samira, who didn’t seem to fear anyone, was uneasy. But the scouts who did return had shrugged and said they’d seen nothing on the streets and in the park near the apartment except university students, harmless residents, and the usual assortment of homeless bums, including an obnoxious drunk Indian who had been hanging around, rummaging in the building’s Dumpster, and begging for handouts.
There was one person who frightened him more than Karp, or Ciampi, their friends, or even nameless shadows. The most unlikely source of fear: Lucy Karp. He was both fascinated by her and afraid of her because she seemed to sense that he was something other than what he portrayed. He imagined that she could see beneath his skin and knew what squirmed there in the dark recesses of his mind. He was sure she’d seen through him in Aspen and almost waited for the feds to pull their guns and arrest him, laughing at how he’d been done in by a twenty-one-year-old girl. That was why she now figured so prominently in his plans.
He’d seen her when she and her cowboy entered the cathedral. In fact, he’d turned around and found her looking directly at him from thirty feet away. His first inclination had been to turn and run. But he’d managed to smile and nod. Instead of returning the greeting, she’d leaned toward her boyfriend and whispered something, then they’d headed for their seats in the sixth row of pews.
The sooner this is over and I’m back to living the life to which I am accustomed, the better, Kane thought as he punched in the number for another cell phone and stepped into a corner of the cathedral where he could talk privately.
“Emil,” he said when it was answered. “Is everything ready?”
Five blocks away at his bank on Fifth Avenue, Emil Stavros sat in the international wire room on the twenty-fifth floor with Dante Coletta. The bank was, of course, closed on Saturday, but the guard at the desk downstairs had hardly bothered to make Stavros and his chauffeur sign in.
Stavros was sweating bullets. The monitoring device set up in his home would have already sent a signal to the cops when the electronic bracelet he wore moved out of the prescribed range. However, that wasn’t what had his stomach all tied up in knots.
After all, there was a plan in place to clear him. After he’d done what he was supposed to do, Coletta would tie him up with phone cords and duct tape his mouth shut before going back to the lobby, shooting the guard, and leaving.
Stavros’s story would be that he’d been forced to cooperate with Kane or face death for himself and Amarie, who was already home and tied up on the bed. The whole murder case would be portrayed as a setup to blackmail him with a taped confession of Dante Coletta admitting to the murder. Poor Coletta, who thought he would be escaping the country with Kane, didn’t know that the plan was for Kane’s terrorist friends to shoot him and make it look like a suicide with the tape on the bed next to him.
Better him than me, Stavros thought as he’d waited for Kane’s call.
He hadn’t meant to kill Teresa that night. But when she refused to help him with his gambing debts, something clicked and the next thing he knew, his hands were around her throat and he’d choked her into unconsciousness. His first thought had been to call an ambulance. But then Coletta had appeared out of nowhere.
If you call an ambulance, the chauffeur said, they’ll call the cops. It will at least be attempted murder, and if she dies, you’ll go away for life…if they don’t give you the death penalty.
What do I do? he’d pleaded.
Let me make a call, Coletta said. Then when he returned he said, You’re going to have to finish this. Shoot her and then we’ll bury her and make it look like she got tired of you fucking around on her and left.
I couldn’t, he’d stammered.
It’s that or the electric chair. The chauffeur had shrugged.
Then the gun was in his hand, and he was leaning over with the muzzle a foot from his wife’s head. Closer, Emil, the chauffeur had whispered. Put it right on her fucking skull and pull the trigger. You don’t want to miss.
Stavros had looked at his wife and was struck by how beautiful she was; there was a moment’s regret, a thought of returning to the first option of calling for an ambulance. But then there was Coletta whispering again, Shoot her, Emil. Or your life is over.
He didn’t remember pulling the trigger, or whether he shot once or a dozen times. The next thing he knew, he was on his knees throwing up with Coletta patting him sympathetically on the back. “You did what you had to do, Emil,” he said.
They’d pulled up the rosebushes and buried her. After replacing the plants, Coletta had told him to sit tight for a couple of days and then report his wife as missing. Everything will be taken care of, the chauffeur said. Just remember, you are indebted to Mr. Andrew Kane from this day on.
Fourteen years later, Stavros had been angry when he learned that Kane had set him up in order to force him to cooperate with his plan. But there was nothing he could do-Kane had the gun with his fingerprints locked away in a safe deposit box.<
br />
The plan to absolve him of the murder should work, Stavros thought. Plus, Karp will be dead, and there will be a mistrial. If I’m worried about it, I’ll leave the country. I’ll have plenty of money from my share of this.
No, what really frightened him-as a Catholic who on occasion gave some thought to the hereafter-was Kane’s plans for the Pope. The first time he heard about the plan, he’d been staggered by its audacity. You’re insane, he’d said.
The blow from Kane, who’d been standing in front of him, had knocked him from the chair on which he’d sat. You ever call me insane again, and I’ll really show you what happens when I’m feeling a little crazy, you little motherfucker, Kane snarled.
Stavros had never questioned him again. Nor did he now when Kane asked if he was ready. “Yes, Andy.”
There was a moment when Stavros wondered if he’d lost the connection. Then Kane said quietly, coldly, “Emil, if you don’t want me to rip your tongue out and feed it to a dog the next time I see you, don’t ever call me Andy, again.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Kane. Sorry. Yes, everything is ready.”
“Good. Now just sit tight and wait for the transfer. You know what to do after that.”
Kane laughed as he closed the cell phone. What an idiot, he thought. He thinks he’s going to live? But he did love hearing fear in men’s voices when he spoke to them. It made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
A voice suddenly spoke in the radio receiver in his ear. “Yes,” he said.
“This is Gregor at the back of the cathedral. We have three priests and a nun who say they are with the Pope’s medical team.”
“You check them over with a wand?”
“ Da, they’re clean. No guns.”
“Then let them in. We don’t want to do anything that might cause a fuss.”
At the back of the cathedral where it joined with the building that held the archbishop’s living quarters, as well as some of the archdiocese’s offices, the Chechen terrorist posing as a Homeland Security agent allowed the four late arrivals to pass.
He hardly glanced at the men: an older priest he’d seen in the cathedral directing other priests and nuns to their places for the ceremony; and two men he’d not seen before. One of them was a short, middle-aged Asian, the other a tall, rugged priest with a patch over one eye and a scarred face. However, as the nun went past, he got a good look at her face and thought, What a waste of a fine woman to make her a nun. Too bad there is no time for rape, or I would choose this one. But who cares? After tonight, I will be in paradise with my every need fulfilled by virgins.
33
As Marlene surveyed the cathedral from her place among a crowd of nuns who’d assembled behind the altar near the Stations of the Cross sculptures, she wondered if she’d been mistaken. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. She’d spotted the security detail-four back near her and others scattered throughout the cathedral-who she assumed to be a mix of the pontiff’s private force and federal agents. But they seemed to be relaxed, calmly chatting as they watched the last of the spectators hurrying in to take their seats.
While still in the loft, she’d called Dugan. I need you to help me and two friends get into the cathedral without anybody knowing I’m there, she told him, explaining her reasons.
Dugan was alarmed. If you think there’s a danger to the Pope, I should tell the authorities.
Well, I don’t know if there is a danger to the Pope, she’d replied. This is all guesswork. And to be honest, I’m not sure which authorities you can trust. Definitely not the feds, unless you see Espey Jaxon. I just want to be able to watch for any danger to my daughter, and I might be able to spot trouble and give a warning to the security teams without alarming anyone.
Although still not happy with the plan, Dugan agreed to meet the threesome at St. Malachy’s; he knew Marlene well enough to trust her instincts. Before leaving the cathedral to pick up the Pope’s medical team, as he told the police captain at the security checkpoint, he’d asked two trusted priests and a nun to borrow their security clearance cards, which they’d given with arched eyebrows but no questions.
At St. Malachy’s he’d found enough extra clothing for Marlene, Tran, and Yvgeny to pass as a nun and two priests, though the Russian’s pants rode up three inches above his ankles. I don’t think you’re going to get past the metal detectors with any weapons, he’d said.
Thanks, Father Mike, Marlene said. We’ll have to deal with that if and when the time comes.
Back at the police checkpoint, the three had presented their passes while Dugan explained. Father Karchovski, he said, nodding to Yvgeny, is a Jesuit and a physician. The smaller priest, Father Tran, a visitor from Vietnam, treats the Pope with acupuncture for his arthritis. The sister is a registered nurse who will be assisting Father Karchovski.
Then at the rear of the cathedral, they’d been stopped by the federal agent, who’d at first refused to let them in. No one told me of these people, the man said in accented English.
That’s all very well and good, young man, Dugan said. But I am responsible for the Holy Father’s comfort and safety. Do you want to risk him having a health problem…causing an international incident?
The man decided to call in on his radio. Apparently, whomever he reported to told him to let them pass.
After that, Dugan left them to attend to his tasks. Which left Marlene and her comrades faced with a problem of what to do next. The cathedral would hold more than two thousand visitors and there were a couple hundred more priests, nuns, and other church dignitaries wandering about or receiving last-minute instructions on their roles in the ceremony.
Marlene could no longer see Tran, who’d moved off to stand near the main entrance to the cathedral, or Yvgeny, who’d gone back toward the rear to see if he could spot anything out of the ordinary. However, she could see her husband, Butch, who’d entered the cathedral with the mayor, looked around-obviously trying to find his wife-then sat next to his daughter and her boyfriend. They had not spotted her yet.
She also saw Agent Vic Hodges, standing in a small alcove off to the side of the altar with a dark-haired, dark-mustachioed man where they were out of sight of most spectators but close to where the pontiff would be sitting. Hodges had turned toward her once before she could duck, but he hadn’t seemed to recognize her in the habit of a Carmelite nun.
Marlene glanced at the acolytes who were standing behind the Swiss Guards positioned at the sides of the pontiff’s seats. Then she did a double take as she locked eyes with one, who seemed a bit older than the others. Alejandro Garcia gave her a quick smile, then went back to imitating the actions of his fellow altar boys.
Marlene was thinking about finding a room and changing back into the civilian clothes she was wearing beneath the habit and then taking her seat with her family, when suddenly the nun’s choir began to sing. They were facing away from her, otherwise she might have noticed that two were not singing and that one of the two had a recognizable mole on her cheek.
Too late, she thought, then got caught up in the murmur of excitement among her fellow “sisters” as the pontiff and the soon-to-be new Archbishop of New York passed by. The Pope raised his hand and blessed them, his merry blue eyes for a moment resting on Marlene’s face so that she momentarily forgot why she was there and joined the others, as well as the spectators in the cathedral, in applauding the Holy Father.
The Pope stood before the crowd for a minute, making the sign of the cross and blessing those assembled. He then took his seat and the crowd grew quiet as a priest began the mass in Latin. However, he was almost immediately interrupted when two nuns stepped from the choir, brandishing handguns with silencers attached from beneath the sleeves of their robes.
The first walked up to the Pope with the gun pointing at his head, while with the other hand she pulled off the headdress of her habit. With shock, Marlene recognized Samira Azzam, who shouted at the Pope, “You are my prisoner in the name of the Islamic Jihad and al Qaeda in Ch
echnya!”
Several things then happened at once. Marlene saw the man with Hodges rush forward pulling his gun. But the second false nun had anticipated this and calmly shot the man in the forehead. She then held her gun on Hodges, who made no attempt to draw his own gun but raised his hands instead.
The two traditionally dressed Swiss Guards next to the Pope attempted to place themselves between Azzam and the pontiff. But she shot them dead, their halberds clattering to the floor in front of the stunned altar boys.
Marlene turned at the sound of two more pops behind her and saw that two of the four security detail members, who’d been waiting in the background, were on the ground with the other two standing above them with their guns drawn. The killers then walked forward, training their guns on the priests and nuns.
We knew it, and we still got caught, Marlene thought ruefully. But this was too easy. Who was the traitor? Her first inclination was to go to the Pope’s aid as well, but she knew that to do so would be to die and that would be of no use to anyone. Wait, she told herself, at the moment, they want him as a hostage.
Elsewhere in the cathedral, the remaining four members of the Swiss Guard had been shot by the “federal agents” standing near them. The television crew swung their camera to the terrorist with the gun on the pontiff but was ordered to shut it off by another terrorist who came toward them with his gun pointed. When the reporter, a well-known broadcaster who’d pulled rank to do the live shots from inside the cathedral, complained, the gunman shot him through the eye. He was dead before his body crumpled to the floor.
Meanwhile, two more faux agents had swung the doors of the cathedral shut and locked them. Then they picked up the automatic rifles with the folding stocks they’d secreted behind curtains early that morning when the traitor priest-the one with the scarred face-let them in.
As the stunned spectators reacted with screams and cries, and by standing as if to flee, Azzam removed the silencer from her gun and shot a man who’d stepped into the aisle. “Sit down and listen,” she shouted, pointing her gun back at the Pope’s head, “or the leader of the Crusaders will die first, and then the rest of you…. Listen to my instructions if you wish to live. They are: you will not attempt to use cell phones, or you will die. You will remain seated and quiet, or you will die.”
Counterplay bkamc-18 Page 39