by Lynn Sholes
“It’s an honor,” Cotten said shaking his hand.
“My dear Ms. Stone,” Fazio said. “I was privileged to be in attendance in the Great Hall of Constantine on that glorious day when you presented the Cup of Christ to the Universal Church. I know what you did in order to rescue our most precious relic from the grasp of darkness. In my seventy-three years of service to God, I have never come face-to-face with pure evil as you did. I am sincerely blessed to be in your presence.”
For a moment, Cotten was speechless. It was incredible anyone, much less a man of this stature in the Church, would feel blessed to be in her presence. “Thank you,” she finally managed to say.
“Please,” Cardinal Fazio said, motioning to a grouping of chairs off to the side of his desk. He indicated to Montiagro to join her. When they were all seated, the cardinal gave a heavy sigh and interlocked his fingers, resting them in his lap. “These are trying times, my dear friends. Our Lord tests us each moment, but in these past days, he has outdone himself.”
“Can you tell me the latest news?” Cotten asked.
“It goes without saying, Ms. Stone,” the cardinal said, “that what we discuss is to remain in this room. My words are spoken with total anonymity.”
“I understand. For now, I am here as John Tyler’s friend, not as a reporter.”
“Cardinal Tyler, Archbishop Roberti, and Father Michael Burns, Roberti’s assistant, are being held for one hundred million dollars ransom.”
“So the Church will pay it, and we’ll get them back safe?” Cotten said. “Right?”
Fazio looked away for a moment as if fighting an inner turmoil. Then he said, “Ms. Stone, the Vatican does not negotiate with kidnappers and terrorists. I’m afraid there will be no payment.”
night visitor
There was a small fireplace in John’s room that gave off a minimum amount of heat, but the night was bitter cold despite the fire. Even though the walls were extremely thick, the wind seemed to find its way inside.
His bare mattress was uncomfortable, but at least they had provided a wool blanket, musty as it was. With the bedside lamp out, he lay watching the fire cast undulating shadows across the ceiling.
As he listened to the creaks and moans of the aging fortress, he wondered what it must have been like when Count Dracula walked the halls of the castle. Bram Stoker and Hollywood had done a great job of glorifying the legendary figure.
John reviewed all the day’s events in his head but nothing seemed to make sense. These men were bold and reckless in kidnapping diplomats. It was as if they didn’t care about the political ramifications. If nothing else, this would bring condemnation from most other nations. One of the oldest and most honored practices between countries, even those at war, was the exchange of diplomats and the assurance of their safety. The sanctity of diplomats had been observed for centuries, going back to the standards set by Genghis Khan who strongly insisted on the rights of diplomats and would take horrific vengeance against any states violating the codes of honor. Diplomatic immunity was understood and accepted by virtually every nation on earth—agreed upon and ratified according to the Vienna Convention of Diplomatic Relations. What was happening here was against every code of diplomacy.
The constantly moving patterns shimmering across the ceiling became hypnotic. Even when John closed his eyes, he still saw them. The howl of the wind mixed with the crackle and pop of the fire produced an eerie, uncomfortable feeling as John fought to try to fall asleep.
Soon, the fire died and the room fell dark—only the soft glow of embers cast off a faint light. Finally, he relaxed and drifted off.
He hadn’t been asleep long when a noise—a creaking footstep on the wooden floor—roused him. Confused about where he was at first, John tried to get his bearings. When he caught the low light of the burning embers, he remembered his room in the castle. That’s when he saw a shadow move in front of the fireplace’s glow. Silently, it swept across the room, coming toward him.
John sat up. “Who’s there? Who is it?”
Still groggy from sleep, he felt icy fingers upon his skin as if the grip of winter rode the wind into his room and wrapped around his neck.
the photo
“What do you mean you won’t meet the demands and pay the ransom?” Cotten said. “You’re risking their lives if you don’t.”
Cardinal Fazio leaned forward. “First, the Church doesn’t have that kind of—”
Cotten rose and paced. “Spare me.” She turned in a circle and waved her hand at the grandeur of the room. “Don’t even start with you don’t have the money. Give me a break.”
“Ms. Stone, I understand your frustration,” Cardinal Fazio said. “The main assets of the Church are in art treasures, antiquities, and property holdings. Liquid assets—cash—that is a different matter. Please calm yourself and be rational. If we negotiate with these men, we set precedence for an endless stream of the same. You know why El Al is never hijacked and why there aren’t thousands of Israelis being kidnapped every year? Because Israel refuses to negotiate with terrorists under any circumstances. The Vatican must take the same stance.”
Cotten felt her breathing come hard and fast. She understood the principle, but this was John. How different it is when something like this hits home—when someone you love is in jeopardy. Intellectually, she understood the cardinal’s point, but in her heart …
“I’m trying to be rational,” she said. “Really I am. But these are priests, for heaven’s sake. Good men. They have dedicated their lives to God. Can’t God give a little back?”
She dropped into the chair. “Damn.”
“We will do what we can, but negotiations are out of the question,” Fazio said.
Montiagro reached to touch her shoulder. “I know you understand our position, but that doesn’t take the sting out of it.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Cotten wiped the budding tears from her eyes. “But didn’t I hear there were security men with them. Members of the Swiss Guard? Why weren’t they able to stop this from happening?”
Fazio glanced at his hands. “There were two bodyguards with them, that is correct, but …”
“But what?” Cotten shoved her hair away from her face.
“They were executed,” Montiagro said.
“Executed? How do you know that? What are you keeping from me? Please, tell me everything.”
Fazio rose and walked to his desk. He opened a drawer, took out a brown envelope, and removed its contents. “We received these digital images. Nothing you would want to see. Just take my word for it.”
“Trust me, as a network journalist, I’ve seen just about everything. Show me what you have.” She held out her hand.
“Be warned, this one is graphic,” the cardinal said. “Actually, barbaric. Are you sure?”
Cotten’s throat felt closed, and so instead of speaking she nodded.
The cardinal handed her the first photo.
The image almost sucked her breath from her. The heads of two men she assumed were the guards were impaled on metal stakes sticking up from the ground, a stark winter forest their backdrop.
Cotten studied the picture. “And you are sure these are the men who accompanied John and the others?”
“Yes,” Fazio said.
She slumped in the chair. “But you don’t have pictures like this of John?” She didn’t want to ask that question, because she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer. Cotten held her breath waiting for the response.
“No, not like those,” Fazio said.
Cotten picked up on his hesitation. “But you do have a picture of John?”
“Yes,” Fazio said.
She stared into his dark brown eyes, her hand outstretched.
The cardinal handed her the other photo.
A huge, deep sigh involuntarily escaped her as she looked at the
photograph. “John is alive,” she said, tears choking her. She studied the color laser printout of John along with two other priests.
“He was alive when the photo was taken. That’s all that we know,” Fazio said.
The photo was of John and the other two standing in front of a stone wall. Snow covered the ground. Other than the wall and the snow, there were no details to help identify their location.
“What do you make of the wall?” she asked.
Fazio shrugged. “It could be anywhere.”
“But there’s snow,” she said. “Where is it snowing right now?”
The cardinal shook his head. “Most of the mountains of Eastern Europe are under an early winter blizzard. The area covers massive amounts of land.”
“So we know they’re in the mountains?”
“Perhaps.”
“The wall looks old,” she said. “Maybe a fort or castle?”
Fazio spread his hands apart. “All of Europe is old.”
Montiagro spoke up. “The point is, Cotten, we really have little to go on. It’s obvious the kidnappers chose a location for the photo that offered no concrete information. Same thing as in terrorist’s videos, like those of Bin Laden. Very generic.”
“What about the other photo? The one of the dead guards?” she asked. “Did you notice any clues?”
“Even less information,” Fazio said. “You saw it. Just the winter forest backdrop—a bit of snow on the ground.”
Cotten scrutinized the picture of the three priests again. The shortest of the trio stood with his hands buried in his overcoat pockets, his gaze was away from the camera. In the middle, the other priest appeared uncomfortable with his arms folded against his chest as he looked at the ground. Beside him, John stared into the camera. One hand was in the pocket of his coat, the other resting on the side of his neck. He seemed a bit awkward. Something about it niggled at her. Finally she broke her gaze away from the photo. “Would you make me a copy? I’d like to study it again later. There’s just something … Actually,” she said, “I’d like a copy of both.”
“The Swiss Guards?” Montiagro asked.
“There might be some clue—something we haven’t seen yet.”
Montiagro looked at Fazio. The cardinal finally gave his approval by handing the images to the archbishop. “Felipe, please go to my secretary’s office and make color photocopies for Ms. Stone. Make sure no one else sees them.”
Montiagro took the images and left the room.
“Thank you,” Cotten said.
“But they are for your eyes only,” Fazio said. “We are agreed? If they suddenly appeared on broadcast news or in the newspaper it might be cause for great harm to come to Cardinal Tyler and the others.”
“My eyes only,” she said.
As the archbishop’s footsteps echoed away, Cotten asked, “So what do you intend to do, Eminence? And more importantly, how can I help?”
“We are working with the governments of Moldova and the Ukraine to try to locate the three men. But those countries are embroiled in this escalating border conflict with Transnistria and have little time or resources to assist us. To be honest with you, Ms. Stone, I’m not sure they even care. They want our help when they need it, but are reluctant to return the favor.”
“What about the Transnistrian government? Can’t you get them to do anything?”
Montiagro returned, handing Cotten an envelope. “Your copies,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Transnistria is just barely a government,” Cardinal Fazio said. “Technically, Transnistria is a breakaway territory within the established borders of Moldova. But they’re not officially recognized by any state or international organization. We’re having little luck in communicating with them or gaining their cooperation.”
Cotten’s face flushed, and she made a conscious effort to keep her voice from trembling. “So basically, you’re just giving up? That’s what I’m hearing. You won’t negotiate. You have no idea where they are, and you aren’t going to do anything about it because you fear more kidnappings, more ransoms. What about the value of a single God-given life? Why isn’t that at the top of your agenda? I can’t believe you are just going to sit back and risk their lives. And you call yourself a man of God?”
Cardinal Fazio rocked back in his chair, and Montiagro grasped Cotten’s forearm as if wanting to still her. But it was to no avail.
“You aren’t going to do anything … nothing? You might be able to live with yourself if John dies, but I can’t. I can’t justify in my heart or my head sacrificing even one single life even if it might save thousands. I don’t think it is about the numbers. And to tell you the truth, I don’t think God thinks in terms of numbers either. God is a father, the Father, and I can’t imagine Him abandoning any one of his children. There is no Grace shining on the Church right now. So, if you’re not going to do anything to save John, then you leave me only one choice. I’ll have to do it.”
desert heat and sandstorms
Cotten could still feel the anger burning inside her as she left Cardinal Fazio’s office.
Felipe Montiagro followed her. “Cotten, wait up.”
She didn’t look back, but heard his footsteps as he trotted down the hall until he was beside her.
“I’m sorry you didn’t hear what you wanted to hear. But it is the only stance the Holy See can take. You understand that. I know you must.”
Cotten stopped. “No. That’s the position that politicians and governments take. And what about the Venatori? Why doesn’t the Church send in a team?” She waved the envelope containing the photos in the air. “If this super secret spy agency is so freaking powerful, why aren’t they saving one of their own?”
“The Venatori is an intelligence gathering organization, not a combat or SWAT team. It’s made up almost entirely of priests, not commandos.”
Cotten resumed her course down the hall, the archbishop beside her. “Well, maybe it’s something they should consider. What good is the intelligence if you don’t have any way of—”
“You’re wasting your energy. It is what it is, and that’s where we are. You can’t change that.”
She stopped again and looked him straight in the eye. “Then just where do you suggest I focus my energy? In prayer? That’s your job. Yours and the cardinal’s. I’m no good at that.” Cotten pinched the bridge of her nose. “Listen, I appreciate you being my friend and trying to make me feel better, but I’m not going to rest until John is safe and home again.” She paused a moment then said, “I’ve gotta go.” She turned away from Montiagro.
“Don’t do anything foolish,” he called. “John wouldn’t want it.”
___
Moon leaned over a microscope in her lab and peered through it one last time before shutting down the diagnostic systems and preparing to lock up. The past few days had been difficult physically, the tremors often interfering with her work. Her doctor advised her to rest, but that was not an option. Not at this point. She was so close to completing her work, a work that would bring the Americans and their allies to their knees, as helpless as flopping fish in the bottom of a boat. At first they would not understand, just as they had not understood the pings. But when the day came that they did …
It was late and the wind outside made the building moan. The night sounds of creaking and snapping were different from those during the day. In the sunlight she never noticed the noises. But at night the howl of the wind made her edgy.
As she switched the last of the computers off, she heard the door to the lab whine open. Moon turned around, clutching her chest as she saw a figure in the doorway.
“Good evening,” the Old Man said. “You are working late, Dr. Chung.”
Moon let out a long breath. “I am sorry. You startled me.”
“Then I am the one to apologize.” He walked into the
room. “How is your work progressing?”
“Good,” she answered, wondering why the late-night visit. “Everything is in its place.”
“How much more time do you need?”
Moon shifted her weight to her other foot. She wasn’t sure exactly how to answer how many more days it would take to confirm the virus would work as she had engineered it. So far all tests were positive. None of the different ethnic groups tested appeared to harbor primitive genes or mutations that would interfere. All the pings had been successful. There was still one left to complete, one that would test a group of people who had the same genetic make-up of primitive man 8,000 years ago—and that would mean that whatever genes they had were probably from the dawn of man and shared at some level by billions. If that one proved positive, then nothing would stand in her way.
Still there was the final work to be done in the medical labs, preparing the new generation of zealots who would give their lives for the cause. And that was going to be testy. They would probably lose a few. But she didn’t want to reveal too many details to the Old Man. Not now. Soon she would present her final report to Dear Leader, and with his blessing they would launch the three waves of attacks. For now, all the Old Man needed to know was that they were progressing as expected, perhaps even a little ahead of the predicted schedule.
“A day?” he asked. “A week, a month?”
“Two weeks at the most. There is a strong likelihood we may be ready before that.”
“Good,” he said with a wide smile. “That is what I like to hear. The distraction I have designed is working. No one will be following up on Calderon or T-Kup for a while.”
“Not even that woman reporter?” Moon asked.
“No.”
“Has she been eliminated?”
The Old Man laughed. “I am afraid not. That would be a complicated endeavor. But I have arranged to divert her attention.”
“You can be certain? If there is an investigation into T-Kup it will lead directly to us.”