by Tom Haase
"Do you speak any English?" he asked.
"A little," came the answer from the middle-aged lady, slightly chubby, wearing a white apron.
"A cup of soup, some bread, and hot tea."
The waitress nodded and walked off. He pulled out the English language newspaper purchased that morning on his walk. After he put on his glasses, he read. In a few minutes his soup arrived. He put down the paper and started to indulge in his meal. The first time he looked up from his soup, he noticed a group of four men sitting slightly off to his right against the back wall. They all wore black leather jackets and looked to be what he would consider gangster types. None of his business he thought, and continued eating his meal.
Suddenly he noticed the front door of the restaurant fly open. Five men, looking similarly dressed to the four sitting in the corner, rushed into the restaurant. The first man pulled out a pistol.
Msgr. O’Neill almost had a heart attack on seeing this, being that his heart was not in great shape at seventy years of age. He didn't need this. He watched as if in slow motion as the other men who had entered drew their weapons. Glancing to his right, he noticed the four men sitting at the table were now rapidly diving for cover and producing their weapons. This must be a local gang fight, he thought, and grabbed the tabletop not knowing what to do.
The sound of gunfire reached his ears as he started to pull on the tabletop to turn it over. Adrenaline coursing through his body gave him the necessary energy to quickly turn over the table, tea spilling on his face, which he didn’t even notice, and then curled on his side on the floor. The cacophony of many calibers of weapons firing in close proximity inside of the small restaurant created a deafening effect. He put his hands over his ears, but this didn't seem to help much. He heard footsteps running and a man's body suddenly slumped over the top of his overturned table.
O’Neill looked up in time to see the man's hand slide a bag over the top and it landed right between his curled up knees and his stomach. The man stared at him through blood streaming down over his eyes. He must've seen the Roman collar. With his last breath, he pushed the bag into O’Neill's hands.
The gun battle decreased in intensity, and based on the sounds he heard, he believed the gunmen had left the restaurant. O’Neill's heart still pounded so loudly he thought it would explode. When he stuck his head a few inches above the tabletop, he breathed in the acidic smell of the gunpowder. Silence permeated the place. He slowly got to his knees and looked at the dead man sprawled over his table. He blessed him and prayed for him.
Then the noise, the shouts, and the race to the exit began. Chaos reigned everywhere in the restaurant. O’Neill looked around and saw patrons and employees pushing one another aside to get out faster. He also decided that a quick exit would be the smart thing to do. He grabbed the bag the man thrust at him and walked toward the exit, the last person out. No one stopped him outside, but the sound of the police sirens reached his ears. He walked as fast as he could back to his ship and this time did not notice the cold.
On reaching his stateroom, he dropped the bag on a chair and collapsed on his bed. What should he do? In his mind, he went over the horrific events that transpired in the bloodbath at the restaurant. He remembered that as he made for the door to get away from that restaurant, he saw three other bodies lying in different grotesque positions on the floor. It had been a massacre at close range.
After walking all morning and then all the excitement of the events at the restaurant he felt exhausted. He easily dozed off and the short nap lasted only ten minutes. When he awoke, he decided to look at whatever the man had thrust at him. He was curious earlier but to tired and still scared to really care.
He picked up the bag and opened it. In his excitement at the time, he hadn’t noticed the weight of the bag, but now he did. He estimated it probably weighed three to four kilos. His hand moved inside and he thought he felt what could be an object wrapped in cloth. He pulled it out, placed it on the bed, and started to unwrap the burlap material that encased the object.
To his amazement, a beautiful icon appeared. It looked like an image of St. John the Baptist as he baptized Jesus. A gem-encrusted halo surrounded Jesus’s head and the Cyrillic annotation of Son of God adorned the top. He realized the metal used in the construction of the icon must be gold. That would account for the weight.
The monsignor stared at the beauty of this icon and started to wonder why such a beautiful religious symbol had been present in a shoot-out in a restaurant in the middle of St. Petersburg. It made no sense to him. He would give it to the authorities in a few minutes and explain how he possessed such a valuable piece of artwork. He didn’t believe he could give it to a church, as it surely comprised part of what the police would need for their investigation of that crime scene. He picked it up and moved to place it on the small desk in his cabin. As he did so, he turned it over and looked at the backside.
Etched in the wood on the backside, down on the rightmost corner, he saw something that made him stop. He put on his glasses to clearly see and observed a paper backing on the icon that bulged. He decided not to take it off, but his eyes opened fully with what he read in the inscription on the bottom of the back.
"Vatican #13366/1252.”
O’Neill didn’t know what this meant, but he decided to do some research on the Internet. After forty minutes, he discovered the Vatican employed a system of marking its exhibits with a number and the year acquired. That appeared to be exactly what the etching on the back of the icon signified. In his mind, this meant this icon, at some time, rested in the Vatican archives. How the hell did it get in the middle of a gangland shoot-out in Russia?
O’Neill would finish with this cruise when it reached Copenhagen in three days. He had scheduled himself to be in Rome for a six-week course on modern church architecture in two weeks. He would just move that timeframe up and go by train from Copenhagen to Rome to visit his old friend from their days at the Irish College in the Vatican. He had more recently spoken to him in connection to the Crown of Thorns recovery in Florida. In Rome, with his friend’s help, he could find the answers to this emerging mystery.
He would keep the icon in his personal possession. He wouldn’t have to go through any security checks on the train that might set off alarms that could happen in any airport because of the metal on the icon. If he didn’t use any type of checked baggage on his trip, there should not be any fear of losing it. Once in Rome, he might be able to investigate and perhaps to solve this mystery. He hadn’t seen his friend since he became the new special assistant to the Vatican Secretary of State.
12
Present Day
Washington, D.C.
Matt reached his apartment, went to the condo’s refrigerator, and pulled out a beer. He used this time to contemplate his future or the total lack of it. He felt fatigued after being up all night, but he wanted to relax and unwind for a few minutes. He walked out onto his balcony, sat down, and started to drink his beer. His cell phone rang.
He glanced at the number on the cell face but didn’t recognize it. What the hell, he might as well see who would be calling him on this line, probably somebody trying to do a survey.
"Matt Higgins?" came a voice he thought he recognized.
"Yes. Who is this?"
"This is Tom Eastwood. Do you have a minute?"
The director of the FBI is on my phone asking me if I have a minute.
"Yes, sir. What can I do for you?" Matt asked.
"Can you meet me at the Old Ebbitt Grill, as soon as possible?"
This came as a complete shock. What the heck? Why would the director want to meet him somewhere other than his office? His curiosity peaked. He wanted to find out what the director had on his mind that could possibly concern him.
"I'll be there in an hour," Matt said.
The director hung up.
Matt arrived at the appointed place a few minutes early. On entering, he did not see the director. He asked the receptionist
for a booth and he escorted him to one. Five minutes later the director slid onto the seat opposite him.
"I'm sure you're curious what the hell this is about. I’m aware of what happened this morning in the deputy director's office. I want to congratulate you on what you did during the arms bust in Virginia. In my opinion, you did the correct thing." The director relaxed back into his seat and looked at Matt.
"Thank you, but I don't think everyone sees it that way. Why meet here instead of in your office?"
"At the President’s direction, I have a highly classified proposal for you. The president called me after your short conversation with him earlier today. He has an idea that I totally concur with. With your approval we can make this happen," the director said.
"My future is completely open at this point," Matt said.
"As you know, most of the letter agencies — CIA, DIA, NSA, etc. — all possess what in the jargon is known as black ops capability. They are able to conduct operations completely off book. The FBI has no such capability. I am proposing with your help that we create one."
A waiter appeared and they both ordered a drink. Matt watched the director to see if he intended to laugh and this meeting was a joke. His mind didn’t comprehend in any detail the director’s proposal.
"I'm sorry, sir. I think you're going to have to break this down and explain in specific terms that I can get my head around. You’ve obviously thought it through and I'm coming in on the end of that process."
"You are right, Matt, very perceptive and quite correct. Let me spell it out," the director said.
He stopped talking when the waiter placed the beers down on the table. He waited for the man to leave. Afterwards, he instinctively surveyed the area, he continued.
"I want you to set up a team of people we can call upon to do jobs that would not be possible in the ordinary and regular channels of operation in the FBI. I’ll give you back your gun and your badge. You will be a full-fledged agent who will report only to me. Now, I'm not always available and you worked quite well with an agent in that case of the terrorist on the Metro. I have moved Special Agent Liz Garcia to be my special assistant. She will be your contact and the person you will report to for whatever assets you need.”
Matt remembered Liz, a beautiful woman with alluring jet-black hair and perfectly shaped shoulders over an eye-candy body — and an attitude that could stop a charging bull.
The director interrupted his recollection. “I want you to concentrate on the homegrown terrorists and the arms they’re receiving. You will have a specific mission given to you for each new operation. Don’t use bureau personnel for your ops.”
Matt remained absolutely astounded at this proposal. The uniqueness of it appealed to him. His mind raced to find the right questions to ask. This actually provided a better opportunity to serve his country than what the president offered him those years ago.
"As you can see, my mind is working overtime to comprehend the significance of what you’re saying. I’m supposed to get my team together, none of them to be in the FBI, and go after these guys who are providing arms to our homegrown terrorists. I’ll have all the assets of the FBI available to me going through your office. Is that correct?"
"Correct. I want to be very clear that I am not giving you a 007 license to kill, but if for some reason you manage to get them to shoot at you first, I hope we’re not going to have any trials," the director said, then took a big sip of his beer. “I want you to keep your connection with the FBI secret. Only you have the access. Don’t use your badge unless absolutely necessary. This is an off-book operation. I’ll make a note in your file about your new duties, but it will be in Garcia’s hands preventing anyone from personnel or any other snooper from finding it. I heard you thought the guys in Roanoke said there must be a leak somewhere. I believe it is most likely in the supplier’s organization, but I don’t want to take any chances. Are you with me?”
“Yes, I think so.”
Matt calculated what he would have to do, what kind of team he might put together, and the timeframe he would need. He needed to switch back into his military operational mode for the organization part and rely on the vast FBI bureaucracy to supply him with the items he believed he might need. His detailed knowledge of all the assets in the bureau would be invaluable in this operation. Yes, a great challenge loomed before him.
"Are you agreeable?" the director asked and waited for an answer.
"Yes."
“Your first mission is to bring to justice that Russian you encountered in Roanoke.” The director opened a briefcase, which rested on the bench beside him, took out Matt's gun and badge, and passed them to him. Along with those items, he passed a single sheet of paper with the private numbers Matt would need, then closed the briefcase and reached over to shake Matt’s hand.
"Welcome to the special operations executive that we just created," the director said.”
“You mean like the old S.O.E. from the Second World War. The precursor to the CIA?”
“Yes, sorta like that. I hadn’t connected it but a good catch on your part. We now have a modern day clandestine S.O.E. operating within the FBI.”
13
Squamish B.C.
Canada
Brackendale is in the Squamish Valley, in British Columbia, which contained the breeding ground for a large portion of the American bald eagle population, located about an hour and a half drive north of Vancouver. In the fall, the temperatures hovered near freezing at night and were only in the low fifties during the day.
Mike arrived at Dmitri Alexandrovitch’s resort home in Brackendale, the adjoining town to Squamish, in the early evening. He’d stopped by the Sea and Sky Hotel to freshen up before going to see his uncle. The best thing about that location was the liquor store located beside the hotel. On examining the inventory there, Mike found the premium vodka he wanted to take to his uncle. He thought this present might soften the old guy up.
When Dmitri’s opened his front door, he grabbed Mike and gave him a bear hug. Mike could feel the air rushing out of his lungs as a great man gave him what he would consider a love cuddle. Dmitri stood about six foot five and hovered near 300 pounds, while clean-shaven Mike stretched just shy of six feet but only at 180 pounds.
"Come in, I've been waiting for you. I want to hear all the news. What happened on the last business transaction?" Dmitri grabbed Mike by the arm and escorted him into the massive parlor, which had deer heads mounted on the wall and a large fire warming the room. He led him straight to the well-stocked bar. There, Dmitri poured them both a double shot of vodka. They toasted and downed the liquor. After pouring another into each glass, Dmitri ushered his nephew over to the plush chairs in front of the fireplace.
"There’s not a lot to tell. I had the weapons delivered and they accepted them. I received the money and then all hell broke loose. It was an FBI operation." Mike took a small sip from his drink.
"Didn’t you have any warning from our contact? We pay him enough," Dmitri said. “I was disappointed at the result of that transaction.”
"I talked to the source myself. He informed me the FBI only sent observers on the case, not an interdiction team, which is what happened. The FBI came out with guns blazing. I barely escaped with my life. I did get the money and I recovered my good luck charm afterwards. I think one of the agents got hurt and the other took him to the hospital. I can’t be sure of that. The news later said an FBI agent died in that operation. They confiscated the weapons but we have the money. I talked to our buyers and told them they would get a slight discount on the next shipment. I insisted the responsibility rested with them for everything once we transferred ownership of the weapons to them."
“Speaking of your good luck charm, I need to know it’s safe.”
"It is. Right now it's sitting on my mantelpiece in my apartment in Savannah. Before I forget, I called our contact and got more information. I’ve taken action on his info,” Mike said and downed the rest of his vodka.
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br /> “Do you know how our family came into possession of that icon?” Dmitri asked.
"I've heard stories, but not really,” Mike said. “I've just had it as long as I can remember. My father gave it to me in my teens."
"Well, in the old days, the old Soviet days I mean, your grandfather held a position on the politburo of the Central Committee of the Communist Party. Somehow, none of us know exactly how, he managed to get possession of two precious icons during the war. It’s rumored a family member actually acquired them for your grandfather who wanted them taken from the Vatican on the day Rome became liberated. He kept them until he neared death. The Soviet Union still survived and there existed no way for him to get out of Russia. He gave one to your father and the other to me. Did you know that?" Dmitri asked.
"No, I didn't."
"I understand that on his deathbed he wanted to make sure both of these icons stayed in our family. He told your father the icons held a great secret but he died before he could tell anyone about it. Anyhow, we now have a small problem." Dmitri stood up, walked over to the front of the fireplace, and turned around to warm his backside.
"What problem?" Mike asked.
"A few weeks ago, when I visited Moscow, I left instructions with some of my men to move the contents of my small apartment into a new mansion I’d purchased on the outskirts of St. Petersburg. I specifically ordered one of them to take the icon in his possession and make sure it reached my new home in safety. Somehow, a rival gang ambushed them and the icon went missing. All of my men were killed."
"Damn, do you know who has it?"
"I have no idea at present, but we're trying to find all the people who were in the restaurant at the time to see if anyone saw, heard, or took anything. So far the only thing someone reported was a tourist in the restaurant who might know something. One person reported he wore a priest collar, but others couldn’t confirm that. We assume he disappeared that day on one of the tour ships."