by John Lyman
“Uh, no ... I’ll take it from here.” Leo reached beneath his red cassock and handed the man a ten-dollar bill before grabbing his bag from the seat beside him and slowly making his way into the crowded terminal. Above his head, he saw the words Now Boarding flashing on the screen next to his flight number, prompting him to step up his pace. He was always running late for flights, and here in New York there were no Swiss Guards to hurry him through security.
Bounding up a flight of steps, he sighed in dismay when he saw a long line of bored-looking people winding their way through a seemingly endless maze of roped-off lanes. The pope was dead ... he had to make this flight. For a moment, Leo stood in the crowded area and weighed his options. He disliked pulling rank to bypass lines others had to wait in, but this was an emergency.
Pulling his suitcase behind him, he approached the TSA security office and presented his diplomatic credentials to the unsmiling man behind the counter. The unsmiling man suddenly became the smiling man as he looked up at Leo and motioned for him to follow. “This way, Cardinal, but you’ll still have to go through the metal detector. What flight are you on?”
“Italian Airlines flight 668.”
“Oh ... we better hurry then.”
“Thank, you. I’ve got to catch that flight.”
“It’s been quite a day,” the security man said, walking ahead of Leo through the checkpoint and out into the long, glassed-in area that wrapped around the departure gates. “How bout that speech at the UN? That Acerbi guy really sounds like he knows what he’s doing. You must have seen him in person.”
“Uh, yes, I saw him,” Leo mumbled. Evidently news of the pope’s death hadn’t been made public yet.
“How come you didn’t fly in on a private jet like all the other bigwigs?” the man prattled on.
“Unfortunately, the Vatican doesn’t have the equivalent of Air Force One, so we usually fly on commercial aircraft.”
“Really? Huh, who knew? Anyway, you’re good to go now, Cardinal. Have a nice flight.” The TSA man smiled as he turned around and walked away, leaving Leo alone to search for his gate.
Stepping up his pace, Leo walked into an empty departure lounge just as the ticket agents were locking the doors, while behind them, through the tall, floor-to-ceiling windows, he could see his plane being pushed back away from the gate. Unbelievable! He had just missed his flight, and he knew from experience that no amount of begging or pleading on his part would hold the plane. As an airline employee had once explained to him, air traffic control worked on a strict timetable, and once a plane had backed away from a gate there was no bringing it back, no matter how important the passenger was.
Standing in the middle of the now-empty gate area, Leo thought about looking for a place where he could sit in a corner and drink a cup of coffee while he waited for the next flight. He needed to be alone right now, but first he wanted to change into civilian clothes. Spotting a men’s room, he darted in and changed into his standard jeans and black turtleneck shirt before packing his red cassock away in his suitcase. Now he could blend in with the crowd without drawing any attention to himself.
After purchasing a large cup of coffee, he wandered into a deserted gate area and settled back to say a few prayers for the soul of Pope Michael. Although he knew that his good friend had just taken a journey that he had been preparing to make for his entire adult life, Leo would miss his intelligent mind and surprising sense of humor, but even more, he would miss the company of his dear friend, for the two had grown close over the past two years.
Thumbing his rosary, Leo stared out through the expansive wall of glass at a parade of descending lights in the sky that marked the descent path of a line of jets queuing up among the clouds for a landing at one of the busiest airports in the nation. For some reason he began to think about his family in Pennsylvania. His mother and father had been gone for years, but he still had five brothers and one sister, plus all the attendant nephews and nieces. He missed the big family gatherings, especially now, sitting all alone in an airport terminal waiting to fly back to an uncertain future.
Just as he was raising his cup to take a sip of coffee, a jarring thump shook the building and rattled the glass. A millisecond later the sound of a huge explosion was accompanied by a bright orange flash that lit up the eastern sky. Suddenly people were screaming, and as Leo looked out over the airport he could see a line of emergency vehicles racing along the tarmac, their sirens blaring. Running to the window he pressed his face against the glass, but the sight that greeted him made him step back. There, at the end of the main runway, he saw a billowing cloud of black smoke rising into the sky above a scattered field of twisted, flaming metal.
A plane had crashed ... but which one? Leo’s mind was racing as an announcement crackled over the public address system. Would the families of those aboard Italian Airlines flight 668 bound for Rome please report to the information desk.
Leo felt his legs grow weak. That was my flight! All of those people! Events were beginning to spin out of control. A sudden feeling of vulnerability crept into the back of his mind as he looked around the deserted gate area and tried to think. That crash was meant for him! Leo was sure of it. If Acerbi was trying to interrupt the succession of the papacy, a convenient plane crash would be a quick and expedient method. The entire chain of events began to crystallize in Leo’s mind. First Acerbi’s failed attempt to bring Leo onboard, and then the sudden death of the pope followed by the downing of an aircraft Leo was supposed to be on. Acerbi had released his dogs, and the hunt for those who opposed him was on.
Leo had to move, but if he tried to catch another flight he would be named on the passenger manifest—a chance he couldn’t afford to take. The more he thought about it the more certain he became that the crash was no accident. He wouldn’t be responsible for putting other lives at risk. Someone believed he would be on that aircraft, and they had heartlessly taken out a plane full of people just to get to him. He had to think, but first he knew he had to run.
Holding his head down, Leo darted into a souvenir shop and purchased a pair of dark glasses and a baseball hat with a big red heart that had I Love NY printed over the visor. At least he had taken the time to change into plain clothes earlier. Checking the ceiling for surveillance cameras, he kept his head down and walked over to the same gate area the doomed plane had departed from. Pulling his hat down over his eyes, he looked around before throwing his smart phone under a row of seats and walked away. Now, if anyone traced his phone, they would find it at the gate and assume he had forgotten it before he boarded the plane. Better they think I was onboard for now, he thought. They won’t be looking for a dead man.
Looking back over his shoulder at all the crying people gathered around the airline ticket counter, he thought of Morelli and Francois as he bolted from the terminal. He hated the thought of making them think he had died in the crash, but any call coming from his phone would surely be picked up by Acerbi’s worldwide computer network.
Jerking open the back door of a yellow cab parked along the curb, Leo tossed his bag into the seat and slid in beside it.
“Where to, buddy?” the heavy-set driver asked through teeth that clenched a fat cigar.
“Is there a bar nearby?”
“Yeah ... lots of ‘em.”
“Can you take me to one?”
“That bad, uh bud? I don’t blame you for not wanting to fly. We all saw the smoke from the crash. Probably won’t be much flying going on anyway ... at least not out of here. They just closed the airport.”
“Any word on what happened?” Leo asked.
“They haven’t said yet, but I just heard on the radio that President Simon is refusing to follow this Acerbi guy, and they’re saying he’ll probably turn the power off unless we get ourselves a new president. Damn shame too. I really liked Simon. Lots of people did. He was a good, upstanding Christian sort of man ... know what I mean?”
Leo nodded from the back seat. “I know exactly what
you mean. It is a damn shame.”
Pulling back out onto the exit road, the cab passed several large hangars next to a row of corporate and freight-hauling jets parked out on the tarmac, and as they passed the last hangar, he noticed a corporate logo stenciled over the door. It read: Carlton Oil Company – Aircraft Division.
Leo leaned over the front seat and pointed. “Pull in there!”
“I thought you wanted to go to a bar?”
“I did, but I just remembered something.”
The driver frowned in the mirror. “We’ve only driven half a mile, buddy. You’ll still have to pay a minimum charge of five bucks.”
“No problem,” Leo said, tossing a ten over the seat. “Thanks for the ride.” Leo grabbed his bag and hopped out into the parking lot, and after pausing to watch the smoke rising in the distance, he walked into the hangar office and set his bag next to the counter.
A pretty freckle-faced girl turned away from the window and looked up at him through tear-filled eyes. “First this crash ... and then the pope. What’s happening in the world, mister?”
“I wish I knew,” Leo said. “When did you hear about the pope?”
“It was on TV a few minutes ago. Terrible ... just terrible. I’m a Catholic and we all loved the pope.”
“So did I.” Leo removed his dark glasses, prompting the girl to stare into his green eyes with just a hint of recognition.
“Anybody ever tell you that you resemble a very important cardinal?”
“All the time.” Leo tried to smile. “Listen, I hate to bother you, but I need to get hold of Jeb Carlton. Can you help me?”
“Sure. He just happens to be in town. Flew in this morning on that new Gulfstream jet parked out there. Had some business at a refinery in New Jersey, but he should be back any minute.”
“Great. Mind if I wait around?”
“Not at all, hon. There’s coffee over there if you want some.”
Leo smiled again. It had been a long time since anyone had called him hon, and finding Jeb Carlton’s hanger and had been a stroke of good luck on a day he was wishing had never happened. Leo had only met Carlton once. He was a wealthy Texas oil man who had befriended Lev Wasserman when he and his crew had been searching for oil in the Negev Desert a few years back. Not only that, but Daniel’s wife Sarah had once worked for him as a flight attendant, and he had loaned private jets to Lev in the past when the members of the Bible Code Team needed to get somewhere in a hurry.
Bursting through the front doors, the bigger-than-life figure of Jeb Carlton walked into the office and poured a cup of coffee. “Damn, did y’all see that crash out there? All of those poor people!”
“I know, boss,” the red-haired girl said. “I’ve been praying for them. They say the airport’s gonna be closed for a while.”
“Well, that suits me just fine. I’ll just grab a hotel room and fly out in the morning. Maybe there’s something we can do for those folks over there who just lost loved ones.”
The girl nodded in Leo’s direction. “That gentleman over there said he needs to speak with you.”
Turning around, Carlton’s eyes widened. “Cardinal Amodeo! What in the hell ... I mean, what are you doin’ here?”
The girl behind the counter looked like she was about to faint as Leo stood and shook Carlton’s hand. “Hello, Mr. Carlton. It’s good to see you again. I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a jam.”
“How can I help?”
“I need to get back to Europe.”
“Uh, I heard about the pope, Cardinal. I’m real sorry to hear about that. Seems like the news just keeps gettin’ worse by the minute. You can take that G5 sittin’ out there. As soon as they open up the airport my pilots will fly you to Rome.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir, but I’m not going to Rome.”
“Not going to Rome?” Carlton laid his white cowboy hat on the counter and looked Leo right in the eyes. “OK, Cardinal. You just tell me where you need to go and we’ll make sure you get there.”
“France, Mr. Carlton. I need to get to France.”
CHAPTER 50
The gleaming white jet whistled between two snow-capped mountain peaks on the French side of the Pyrenees before turning north for its final descent to the small private airstrip near the town of Foix. Seated near the front of the cabin, Leo looked down at the green, bucolic-looking countryside and wondered if he had made the right decision. He felt like an outcast— a fugitive on the run—but from what? For all practical purposes he was now the de facto leader of the Catholic Church and should be in Rome, but to return to Rome now would serve only to mirror the fate that awaited Caesar when he walked toward the Forum on that fateful day in March two thousand years before.
As soon as the jet’s engines whined to a stop, Leo ducked his head into the cockpit to thank the pilots before descending the stairs and walking toward an empty-looking office attached to a dilapidated metal hangar. Trying the door, he found it locked, so he decided to walk up a dirt road to the highway where he could thumb a ride.
With autumn in the air a chill had already descended on this part of the country, prompting Leo to pull on an old worn sweater he always packed when he traveled. At least that would keep him warm until he reached the cabin, he thought. Looking up the highway toward Foix, he noticed that there was practically no traffic on the road, but after waiting only five minutes a small, rusty truck pulled to the side and stopped.
Waving Leo into the passenger seat, the middle-aged driver straightened his black beret over his head and paused to relight a long, carved pipe before pulling back onto the highway without speaking.
“Parlez-vous anglais?” Leo asked.
The man’s intelligent eyes blinked back from behind a pair of round, rimless glasses. “Oui.”
“Thank you for picking me up. Are you headed to Foix?”
“Oui.” The man smiled. Leo was beginning to wonder if Oui was the only word the man knew as he watched the smoke curling off his pipe.
“What are you doing back in Foix, Cardinal?”
Leo felt his hand gripping the door handle. “I beg your pardon?”
The man laughed. “Everyone in Foix knows the face of the famous Cardinal Amodeo. My name is Albert Cousteau, and no, I’m not related to the famous sea explorer. My wife and I have a small farm just over the hill. When that jet flew over my house and landed at the old airstrip, it made me curious. Not many planes land there anymore. They all fly into the new airport in Foix now. I was on my way into town to buy some feed for my truffle pig when I saw you and your suitcase sitting by the side of the road. Then I had to ask myself. How is it that a man who just arrived in a private jet doesn’t even have a ride into town? The answer seems obvious. No one is expecting you ... n’est-ce pas?”
Leo watched the man’s thin moustache twitch as he clamped his teeth down on his pipe. “You’re very astute, Albert.”
“Then please allow me to go one step further, Cardinal. You’d like to keep your arrival a secret.”
Leo shrugged his shoulders. “Let’s just say that I’d like to keep my visit from drawing any unwanted attention for now.”
“I think it would draw more than a little attention. Apparently I’m talking to a ghost, because the press is reporting that you were killed in that plane crash in New York after you attended a meeting at the UN.”
“Oh ... you’ve heard about that.”
Albert removed his pipe and tapped the ashes out the open window. “My wife and I thought it was a little strange, especially coming on the heels of the death of the pope.” Albert glanced sideways at Leo. “My condolences, Cardinal. Pope Michael was very popular around here.”
“He was a great man.” Leo turned away to look out the side window. “His loss is not only a great tragedy for the Church, but for the entire world.”
Leo looked back inside the truck at the mysterious man who claimed to be a farmer although his eyes told a different story. Somehow his presence had had a calming effect
on Leo, and from his manner of speech, it was evident that Albert was well-educated. But there was something else—something Leo couldn’t quite put his finger on. There was something special about this man, and the fact that he had chosen to live a life of relative obscurity with his wife on a small farm at the base of the Pyrenees reminded Leo of another old man from Foix.
“I’ve heard you have a cabin in the mountains nearby,” Albert said, startling Leo with his knowledge of the cardinal’s affairs. This man knew way too much.
Without waiting for Leo to answer, Albert slowed the truck as they approached a crossroads. “Would you like me to take you there?”
“Who are you?”
“A friend, Cardinal. Don’t worry. No one will know you are there ... at least not from me. You have many friends in this part of the world, and your secret is safe with us.”
“You’re a Cathar, aren’t you?”
Albert winked at Leo as he swung the wheel all the way over and turned the truck around. “Let’s go back to my farm. My wife can make you something to eat while I gather up some supplies for you before we head up there. The snows come early in the mountains this time of year.”
CHAPTER 51
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Still wearing pajamas that covered his thin frame, President Blake Simon was eating breakfast and reading the New York Times by the early morning light that filtered in through the grand palladian window on the east side of the upstairs living quarters. The headlines were bleak. It seemed as if Acerbi’s PR machine had already mounted an attack on the president’s decision to walk out of the meeting at the UN, and they were now appealing directly to the American people to rally to Acerbi’s cause by demanding the president’s resignation.
Sipping his coffee, the president looked around the table at his aides. “What do they expect? Do they really think we’re going to let some corporate big wig from Europe come in here and dictate terms to us? He’s obviously a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I mean, doesn’t anyone find it odd that he’s using threats to offer world peace?”