The Absolver: Rome (Saint Michael Thriller Series Book 1)

by Gavin Reese

  “We are, naturally, the peacemakers,” Alpha explained, “for we help ensure the future peace of God’s children from the actions of the evil ones. Ultimately, if we are found, discovered, or betrayed, I expect we will then become the persecuted, for I cannot see that the secular government of any nation will understand or excuse our righteous actions. If that is to be, then we, the ones targeted for serving God in this manner, will enjoy our time in the kingdom of heaven.”

  John looked around the room, his arms still crossed. “Good, Alpha, I like it. Anybody else?”

  Michael nodded when John met his gaze and offered his assessment. “Adding on to Alpha’s thoughts, I kinda now think the Proverbs verses deal with the evils we’re going out to absolve. The scoundrel, the villain, that’s obviously our ‘bad guy,’ but the sins we’re called to offer for final absolution are laid out there. He’s spilled innocent blood, he’s arrogant to think he can victimize God’s children without consequence, that he can escape the vengeance of God’s wrath. His heart plots ways to commit these acts and not answer for them, long before he goes through with them, right? He’s rushing to commit his acts of evil, bearing false witness against God and against his own victims. The more important part, for me, though, is in verse fifteen, which I think is definitely us.”

  “Oh, yeah,” John asked and stepped around to read that specific line.

  “A-ffirm. We will fulfill God’s word and become the disaster that immediately overtakes evil and destroy it without remedy.”

  “I like the way you two think,” John offered as he uncrossed his arms and nodded approval to both of them.

  “So, between the two series of verses,” Sergio added, “we’ve got the most basic underlying foundations of our very existence and purpose. Each section requires the other for completion and context.”

  “Father Harry, it looks like your job is done here,” John proudly announced. “These boys are all my problem. At least for now.”

  “It has been a pleasure working with all of you,” the monsignor offered. “I bid you farewell, and I’ll be praying for each of you. Peace be with you.”

  “And with your spirit,” the four men responded.

  “Phillip,” John called out. “Meet us in the main house upstairs. All the rest of you can head down to the basement, gather all your stuff, and wait your turn. Keep our operational security needs in mind as you’re saying your goodbyes, gentlemen. Unless God wills it otherwise, this is the last time you’ll ever see each other.”

  The lead instructor somberly looked around at the group. Michael saw purpose in his eyes and expression. “Playtime’s over, gentlemen. You all got important work to do now.”

  SIXTY-ONE

  Monday, 0814 hours.

  Piazza del Risorgimento. Rome, Italy.

  An official Holy See-owned Learjet had delivered Michael to Ciampino–G. B. Pastine International Airport more than four hours ago, but he’d had to devote time to his morning prayers, allow the priests at his destination to do the same, and ensure his operational security hadn’t been compromised. After leaving the Ottaviano metro stop four-hundred yards away, Michael walked through the Piazza del Risorgimento in the shadow of Vatican City. He’d been riding Rome’s subway system for the past two hours to ensure that no one had followed or expressed an interest in him. Never thought I’d be doing my own ‘heat runs’ when I worked as a cop, yet, here I am. How things have changed...

  After he entered the perpetually busy square and hid himself among its crowds, Michael turned left and strode toward his destination: Santi Michele e Magno, The Church of Saint Michael and Magnus. A sense of excitement and history about the city and its relationship with his faith put him in awe, despite concerns about his present assignment.

  Michael had never been to Rome or Vatican City before, but had traveled so extensively as a college student and then again as a South American priest that he would’ve felt comfortable and excited even without this morning’s errand. Although it wasn’t the intended destination of his business trip, the church he needed to call upon stood at 21/41 Borgo Santo Spirito, just a few buildings east of Saint Peter’s Square. As he walked through the vibrant, frenzied morning Roman traffic, Michael couldn’t help but feel a sense of familiarity, of comfort. Home. This is where my heart is.

  As Michael walked south on Via del Porta Angelica, the amazingly tall block wall that separated Vatican City from Rome stood just across the narrow street. Another priest exited a small cafe at the intersection with Borgo Vittorio. He smiled pleasantly at Michael and nodded in recognition. Not of Michael or his person, but of the black Cossack and collarino that Michael wore. This has got to be one of the only places in the world where working priests see other priests they don’t know personally.

  “Bonjourno, Padre,” the young Italian priest called out.

  “Bonjourno,” Michael replied in heavily accented Italian. He’d taken a few semesters in college and had used some of his flight time over the Atlantic to brush up on vocabulary and phrases. That’s one of the great things about the Italians, he thought, they love the language so much they even appreciate you trying to use it. “Come sta il caffè lì dentro?” How’s the coffee in there?

  “È il migliore fuori dal Vaticano.” It’s the best outside the Vatican.

  “Il migliore a Roma?” The best in Rome?

  “No, il migliore del mondo esterno, lo prometto.” No, the best in the outside world, I promise.

  The younger priest held the café door open, accurately assuming Michael would act on such a strong recommendation.

  “Grazie,” Michael offered as he stepped inside. “La pace sia con te.”

  “E con il tuo spirito.” The younger priest turned and walked toward the Vatican City entrance, just a few blocks south of the café on the west side of the street.

  Michael stood for a moment and watched him walk away. How great it must be to work in the Vatican, especially at such a young age. Amazing opportunities await that man. It’s entirely possible I just got coffee advice from a future pope. He looked at his watch and saw he still had time before his intended arrival. As he stepped up to the counter to order his doppio Americano, Michael noticed a stack of laminated Vatican maps for sale. He grabbed one and paid for both items, even when the clerk tried to insist priests can’t buy coffee in their café. The argument only settled when Michael left cash and a generous tip on the counter and walked to a table near the front glass that allowed him to watch the street outside. May as well practice good tradecraft and be alert for any carabinieri out on patrol this morning. He unfolded the map and quickly found his destination. Using that as his epicenter, he circled out from the church in search of new intelligence, information he hadn’t yet gleaned from his hasty research since learning of this assignment. Wait, that can’t be right…

  Michael’s first impulse was to ask the clerk for help to ensure his translation was accurate, but that carried too much risk. She’s already gonna remember the priest who refused free coffee, if only for a little while. If I go up there and ask her to confirm there’s a Russian business next to my church, and something about that site makes the news, that’ll for sure be the first thing she thinks about. Instead of drawing more attention to himself, Michael chose to solve his problem like an adult: he Googled it. Dammit, the business next door to the church is La Cucina Della Russia. The Russian Kitchen. I may be paranoid, but anything Russian means cameras, security officers, people paid to pay attention and remember anomalies. Especially across the street from Saint Peter’s and the Vatican. He exhaled and thought about his options. Just gonna have to be as anonymous as possible. Can’t put on a hat, especially a tourist hat with my garbs, that’ll stand out to the next few hundred people I pass and make memories for all of them, probably more than a couple photos, too. Bet your ass they’ll end up on social media with a searchable hashtag to make sure the authorities can have a face to go with their hunt. Nope, just gotta be nonchalant and hope the business owners are
n’t being paid to turn over info to the Kremlin, and that they didn’t opt for the unlimited data storage plan on their security system’s D-V-R.

  Michael realized he had to leave, right then, to allow him time to walk the extra dozen blocks to approach the church from the east, away from the entrance to The Russian Kitchen. Any security staff worth its salt is gonna have that whole area covered, but I’m much better off if I can avoid walking right past their front door.

  When he finally walked west on Borgo Santo Spirito, Michael recognized the front of the church well before he arrived there. In addition to the familiar rooftop architecture, Michael had done extensive research on the church during his overseas flight. I should’ve done more checking on the neighbors. Let that be a lesson to me. He’d learned the church had been dedicated to both Saint Michael and Bishop Saint Magnus of Anagni, and that it was granted to Rome’s Dutch community in 1689. The Church of the Frisians, if I remember right. The priests who serve there are almost guaranteed to be descended from the Dutch or imported directly from the Netherlands, even if the name I got is some kinda pseudonym.

  Michael strode confidently through the narrow walkway that led from Borgo Santi Spirito to the front of the church. The front, exterior wall was painted in light cream and tan, and contrasted nicely with the surrounding rust-orange walls. A Dutch flag hung over the stairs that led to the entrance. Seems legit. Michael entered the church and its familiar smells, sounds, and relative darkness comforted him. A priest slowly strolled behind the last row of pews near him.

  “Scusami,” Michael offered in Italian.

  “Si, padre,” the priest asked.

  “Parli inglese?”

  “How can I help you, Father,” he asked with a distinct Dutch accent.

  “Thank you, Father,” Michael replied. “I’m hoping to speak with Father DeVries.”

  “That’s me, I’m Levi DeVries.”

  “I’m Father Andrew. I need to hear your confession.” Much like he’d done in Texas, he watched the priest for his reaction. The man showed none and responded immediately.

  “I can’t imagine what I would need to confess.”

  “I can’t either,” Michael cautiously offered. “I won’t know until you tell me. I’m here to offer absolution.” How now brown cow?

  “Perhaps I am in need of absolution, Father Andrew. Will you follow me, please?”

  Michael breathed a sigh of relief. At least that’s confirmation that John’s network has twice delivered intel that I was coming. Still holding out judgment on the rest of his operation. He fell into step just behind Father DeVries and to his left.

  “Have you been to Kerk van de Friezen before, Father Andrew?” As he led Michael toward the back of the church, DeVries spoke quietly to avoid disturbing the thin crowds of tourists and parishioners.

  “No, this is my first time.”

  “The Dutch, the Friezen, or Frisians,” he explained, “we began worshipping on this site more than a thousand years ago, and ours is the Netherlands’ national church. The current building, although it’s since been renovated, was among the only ones not lost in this area to the construction of the Basilica. Among other artifacts permanently housed here, we’re temporarily hosting two important relics: a stone from Christ’s dedication at the Temple, and another stone upon which Abraham bound his son, Isaac.”

  “That’s incredible,” Michael offered. “It must be amazing to work among so much history every day.”

  “It is,” DeVries replied as he slowed and cast a glance at two teen tourists that exceeded his idea of respectful volume. Both lowered their voices. “And, it is not, at times. A double-edged sword, as I suspect you might say?”

  “I might, yes.”

  “If you’ll follow me, we maintain a private area in the rectory. It will be less public there.”

  Once they reached the priests’ private living quarters, DeVries led Michael to a small anteroom and closed the door behind them. He retrieved a familiar manila envelope from beneath the cushions of a chair and handed it over.

  Michael accepted the envelope and confirmed the expected wax seals were in place and authentic. His pocket knife and another minute freed the concealed parchment paper. He read the same numbers he expected to see there: 2356.2284-5,7.2290-1.

  “Go ahead, Father.”

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” DeVries began. “It has been one day since my last confession.”

  Michael listened to all the details that Father Levi DeVries could provide about his new target, Pietro Isadore. The man was alleged to be a serial rapist who kept personal trophies, such as locks of hair, barrettes, and IDs, and blackmailed and extorted his victims afterward. If the priest and this intel packet are accurate, Michael thought, this man desperately needs to realize the error of his ways. God willing, he’ll not take another victim in this lifetime.

  SIXTY-TWO

  Monday, 2237 hours.

  43 Via del Colosseo. Rome, Italy.

  Rain poured down through the nighttime darkness and thudded hard against the van's roof and windshield. Michael had parked in the small lot just after ten-pm, and he’d been fortunate enough to find a spot that allowed him to easily surveil the only entrance to 17 Via del Cardello. Despite his preferred tradecraft, he’d faced his small rented Fiat van toward the target doorway, which allowed the Coliseum to fill his rear- and side-view mirrors. Even through the rain, it’s beautifully lit at night.

  As with the rest of the ancient city, this area hadn’t been designed with cars in mind, and the generations of its recent inhabitants hadn’t ever seen fit to forcibly inject such conveniences. The “lot” in which he’d parked had space only for about ten small cars, and the Italian “street” Michael watched in wait for the target was little more than an American alley. A one SmartCar alley, he corrected himself, certainly not a one Cadillac alley. It’s no wonder the cops have to drive such small cars here. They’d be better off in motorcycles with sidecars for the arrestee.

  The cobblestone street before him glistened beneath a small, underpowered streetlight that stood between him and the target. Few cars had passed by since his arrival, despite his proximity to the Coliseum and the relatively early hour. Especially in Italy’s dense metropolitan areas, many of the restaurants would still be busy. The lack of traffic oughta make my job much easier. There is no immediate crowd for Pietro Isadore to hide behind.

  Michael maintained an intent watch over the front entrance to the mustard yellow apartment building. Perhaps two dozen yards stood between them, but his small binoculars easily erased that distance. The autumn sun had long ago set over Rome, and Michael occasionally struggled to see clearly through the heavy rainfall on the poorly lit residential street. He wanted to use the van’s wipers to momentarily clear the glass but knew doing so would risk being spotted. No one can know I’m in here, it’s too odd a behavior for this neighborhood at this hour. People remember ‘odd.’ Having left both front windows open just slightly, he hoped the cooling night air would keep the van’s interior glass from fogging. Unavoidable, cold droplets pelted the right side of his face, neck, and shoulder, and dampened the right sleeve of his dark blue, one-piece worker’s uniform.

  Michael inhaled a deep calming breath, which smelled of the rain and the intoxicating aroma of a nearby café. After silently reaffirming his need for continued patience, he turned the radio volume up just enough to hear the replay of the Pope’s homily from yesterday’s celebration and remembrance of Saint Simon and Saint Jude. Luckily, I found a station broadcasting an English translation. Although fluent in Spanish, his Italian wouldn’t have done justice to the Pope’s holy words.

  “Or to put it in complete context, Jesus sought to explain to all people the true will of God. He conveyed the righteousness that all must exhibit if they are to repent and ultimately enter His Kingdom. And so, the theme of the Sermon from the Mount is the righteous standard of conduct of God’s Kingdom.”

  The seasonal rain continued fa
lling hard and heavy on the Italian capital city despite earlier weather reports that it would be short-lived. Michael glanced at a Doppler radar app on his phone that showed no obvious, predictable end. This decidedly works to my advantage, as uncomfortable as it is. Better to drown out the sounds of confession and absolution, when and if it comes to that. He glanced at his new smartwatch to check the time and noticed the date displayed on the background. It’s dad’s birthday today. Wonder how he’s doing. I should have time to call after this, with the eight-hour time difference. Gotta put that away for now and focus on the task at hand. Michael returned his attention to the apartment building.

  “The sermon begins with the Beatitudes, which tell us the character of the virtuous people of God, those who have a place in His kingdom and can expect the full blessings of His love. In total, they describe the perfect Christian disciple but do not reveal how to become so. Christ, of course, provides that to us at a later time.”

  He should be along any time now, Michael thought.

  Beneath an overhead light above the apartment building’s entrance, a man emerged and stood in place, apparently seeking brief protection from the downpour. Michael lifted his binoculars to confirm the man’s identity. Buonasera, Pietro. He’d just had time to identify his target before he pulled his rain jacket hood up over his head. Stepping out into the deluge, Isadore hurriedly walked uphill, away from Michael and his van. Abnormal evening wear for Rome, unless you’re going to the gym. No one works out in jeans, though, especially not wet jeans. He’s probably on the hunt for a new victim. Hopefully nothing more than reconnaissance tonight.

  As Michael intently watched Isadore trudge away, he recited Saint Michael’s prayer. “O Glorious Prince of the Heavenly hosts, Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle...” Isadore slowly disappeared from sight as he continued the recitation. By either fate or subconscious timing, Michael saw his target turn right at the top of the small hill just as he closed his prayer. “Amen.”