Blood Pact (McGarvey) (26 page)

Al-Rashid pulled out the silenced Glock that he had taken from the guard at the sham Voltaire Society office and pointed it at her head from a distance of less than two feet. “With care,” he said.

“Robert, it is me,” she said. “There has been some trouble at my apartment.”

Whatever Chatelet said caused her grip to tighten on the phone.

“It is the doorman. He’s dead.”

She looked up.

“No, I’m okay, just frightened. I need your help right away.”

Again she listened.

“Now,” she said. “He’s in my apartment. Dead.”

Al-Rashid snatched the phone from her hand and brought it to his ear in time to hear the vice mayor say that he would be there in ten minutes. “No sirens.”

Switching off, he removed the back plate and took out the battery and SIM card, which he pocketed, and tossed the phone aside.

“There is no need for this,” Mme. Laurent said. She pulled the material of the shredded blouse over her bare breasts. “I do not have the key to the cipher nor do I know who has it.”

“Let’s hope that the mayor knows.”

“He’s not a member of the Society. I’ve already told you.”

“Yes, and you’ve also told me that you love him, and you would do anything for him.”

A little glimmer of understanding came into her eyes, but she shook her head. “No matter what you do to me, I cannot give you information I do not have.”

“We’ll see,” al-Rashid said.

He stuffed the pistol in his belt again then fieldstripped Mme. Laurent’s gun and that of the doorman’s and tossed the bullets and parts aside. Next he dragged the doorman’s body into the living room where he turned it over. He unbuckled the man’s belt, undid his trousers, and pulled them off along with his underwear and tossed them aside.

“You’re sick,” Mme. Laurent said.

“From your point of view, I am indeed sick. But such a judgment is relative, wouldn’t you say?”

“The Society means no harm to anyone, only good.”

“You’re a charity, is that it?” al-Rashid asked. He went to the door. “Does the vice mayor have a key?”

“No,” Mme. Laurent said.

He turned in time to see her fumbling with the lock on the French doors to the garden, and he was on her before she could get them open. Pulling her back to the couch he shoved her down, yanked her blouse away, shredding even more of the material so that there was little or nothing left to cover her breasts.

“Does Chatelet have a key?”

“Oui.”

“Very well, then we wait for him to arrive. And the moment I find out what I need I shall leave you in peace. As I said, I do not wish to harm the mayor, and be hunted for the rest of my life. As it turns out I think that he would make a fine president.”

“You bastard.”

“If you try to warn him I will kill both of you. Do you understand this?”

She looked away, but she nodded.

FORTY-EIGHT

In the office at Dahlgren Chapel, Dorestos sat facing Fr. Alvin Norman, who’d explained that he normally celebrated mass in the Thomas Moore Chapel at the Law Center. Only a few students and a couple of faculty members were out in the nave, praying or lighting candles at the Virgin Mother’s statute. Or just sitting.

“I don’t think that I can help you, my son,” the round-faced priest said. He was in a suit and tie, his hair white.

“It’s Father Dorestos, and I have come for sanctuary, perhaps for only this day and a night.”

“I’m just a chaplain.”

“Then may I suggest that you call your superior, because I have something that is extremely important to the Holy Father that cannot wait. Do you understand?”

“Yes, of course,” Fr. Norman said, and he started to get up from behind his desk.

“Telephone him.”

“He is on his morning walk, and unfortunately does not carry a cell phone with him. But it’ll be just a minute, he’s somewhere on the quad.”

“Go with God,” Dorestos said.

The chaplain was momentarily startled but he hurried out, softly closing the door behind him.

Dorestos got up and opened the door a crack in time to see the priest scurrying down the aisle to the front doors. None of the handful of people in the nave looked up. But just as he withdrew the main door opened and a man came in. He was backlit by the sun, and for a moment as he stood on the threshold his features were indistinct. But then the door closed and Dorestos shrank back.

It was Kirk McGarvey. Somehow the man had traced him this far. Dorestos leaned against the wall, trying to work out what should have been a near impossibility.

The woman still lived, and they thought that another attempt would be made on her life. Assuming that much, it meant that McGarvey would have reasoned that Dorestos was close. Someone in or near Georgetown. In a motel under an assumed identity.

Or seeking sanctuary in a church if McGarvey had made the assumption that the Vatican had become involved. The Order.

He phoned the monsignor, and explained his situation.

“Are you certain that it is Mr. McGarvey?” Msgr. Franelli asked. He sounded impatient. It was afternoon in Malta.

“Sí.”

“How did he trace you to the chapel?”

“I’m not sure unless he’s somehow discovered that I work for the Order, and that I’ve come here seeking sanctuary.”

“The Cuban woman is not dead?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Tell me everything,” Msgr. Franelli said.

Dorestos did so, leaving out no detail. “I plan on going back in this evening. They wouldn’t be expecting me to return.”

“No,” Franelli said. “It is far too late for that. All that we can do now is mitigate the damage that you have already done.”

“I am at your eternal service, Monsignor.”

“Yes, you are, Father. Give me just a moment.”

Dorestos sat back and breathed in the scent of the office, of the church. Oiled wood, mixed with the lingering odors of incense from high mass, starched surplices, maybe old books and freshly cleaned carpet runners. Places like these were the only home he’d ever known, and the scents represented order and comfort and safety to him.

Franelli was back. “The Senior Chaplain there is Fr. Carl Unger. He has his doctorate in psychology so he will be a difficult man to fool. He’ll see right through you unless you are careful.”

“What am I to do?”

“He’ll give you sanctuary, but you will have to tell him the truth, or at least enough of it to ask for his blessings and help and God’s forgiveness.”

“Confession?”

“Yes. But in such a way that McGarvey will see and hear you and yet will be confused.”

“I think I understand,” Dorestos said.

But Franelli explained it to him.

“Do you wish to speak with Father Unger?”

“No. I leave that as well as the other to you. Go with God, my son.”

“And you, Monsignor.”

McGarvey was halfway up the aisle when Fr. Norman came in with another man, who was also dressed in civilian clothes. They passed the CIA officer.

Dorestos closed the door, got down on his hands and knees beside the desk, and took a small vial from his pocket and drank its contents—less than an ounce—and instantly the somewhat diluted but still strong combination of Serrano and cayenne peppers constricted his throat.

He bowed his head, closed his eyes, and clasped his hands in front of him.

The door opened, and for a moment nothing was said.

“Leave us, Father,” a man said, and the door was shut.

Dorestos stayed in position for a full minute, but then he finally looked up into the eyes of Fr. Unger, the university’s senior chaplain. “I am in trouble,” he said. “I have come for your help.”

“Yes, I understand,” Fr. Unger said. He was a man of medium height with a sharply receding hairline, thick glasses, and a pleasant manner that made you want to tell him your sins. As a psychologist he was the perfect father confessor.

“Will you hear my confession?” It was hard for Dorestos to speak, his throat was constricted by the peppers.

“Yes, of course. But I am told that you are a priest. Is this a problem of faith?”

“I am a priest, but it is not faith.”

“What then?”

“My order is the Hospitallers. More specifically the Sacred Military Order of Malta and I need Christ’s forgiveness for what I have done.”

Fr. Unger was momentarily taken aback. “I think that I understand. You are not an American?”

“No.”

“Are you a fugitive from law enforcement?”

“Not yet, but I may be. I have killed a man who was an apostate. A true enemy of the Mother Church. I had orders, but it was a mistake nonetheless, and I don’t know what to do. It’s why I came here.” Dorestos bowed his head and closed his eyes. “Please help me, Father. I don’t want to offend my Church and yet I do not want to offend my God.”

“I will hear your confession, my son, and afterward we will decide together what your next step should be,” Fr. Unger said, and he pulled a chair around from behind the desk so he could sit near.

Dorestos looked up in anguish. “This must be outside in the confessionals. Where everyone else opens their souls.”

“It’s not necessary—”

“It is, for me. Please, Father.”

“As you wish,” Fr. Unger said.

“But I will need some help. My legs have gone numb. I think that it is probably psychosomatic. But I cannot walk. I’ll need a wheelchair.”

Fr. Unger looked at him for a beat, but then went into a back room and returned shortly with a wheelchair, which he helped Dorestos into.

Outside in the nave they turned left to a line of three confessional booths along the outer wall.

McGarvey stood two rows back from the front, and he met Dorestos’s eyes, but didn’t move.

“Here will be fine, Father,” Dorestos said, raising his ragged voice.

Fr. Unger bent over. “It’s okay, Father, you do not have to speak so loudly,” he whispered. “I will hear you and so will God.”

FORTY-NINE

“Cry out and I will kill both of you,” al-Rashid said from the short corridor, the silenced SIG Sauer in his hand. From this angle he could see Mme. Laurent sitting on the edge of the couch, and their eyes met. She was frightened, but determined.

“Leave now before it is too late for you,” she said defiantly.

“Not until I get what I came for.”

“Robert is not a member of the Society, I am. And I don’t know who has the cipher key you’re looking for. You’ve wasted your time.”

“I know where the diary is.”

“You’ve already said this. But you have to know that the book is of only historical significance to us. We have made copies.”

“Who has them?”

“I don’t have a copy, and I do not know who does.”

“We’ll see.”

Someone came down the hall from the building entrance and rapped on the door. Al-Rashid took up the same position he had before so that when the door opened he would be behind it.

Mme. Laurent sat forward and al-Rashid pointed the pistol at her and she shook her head.

A key grated in the lock and the door swung open.

“Adie?” the mayor said, and he came into the corridor. He spotted her seated on the couch, her breasts bare, and the body of the half-naked man on the floor. “My God,” he said, and he rushed toward her.

Al-Rashid had half a second to make certain that the mayor’s bodyguard had not come with him, before he shut and locked the door.

Vice Mayor Chatelet pulled up short and looked over his shoulder as al-Rashid came into the living room.

“Call for help and I will shoot you,” al-Rashid said, his tone reasonable.

Chatelet opened his mouth to speak, but then looked again at the man on the floor and at his mistress.

“The man on the floor did not rape the mademoiselle, nor did I. In fact other than a blow to her mouth, the only indignity she has suffered is a torn blouse. Now, be so kind as to sit down next to her.”

Mme. Laurent moved over and Chatelet sat down beside her. “Is this a robbery, or do you mean to embarrass me politically?”

“Neither, actually. I’m here simply for some information, that Mme. Laurent assures me that neither of you have.”

“Then go. I’ll give you twenty-four hours before I report this to the Sûreté.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I still need one piece of information.”

Chatelet turned to his mistress. “Do you know what this man is talking about?”

She nodded. “I’m a member of a secret philanthropic society. We have some historic documents that are in code. He wants to have the key to the code. But I don’t have it, nor do I know who does.”

“I don’t understand.”

Mme. Laurent laid a hand on his. “It’s not important that you do,” she said. She looked up at al-Rashid. “Your contact at the bank in Bern. Is he still alive, or have you murdered him?”

“He is alive.”

“Then return to him. He has the cipher key.”

“Only the diary was in the safety deposit box.”

“There is another box. If you give me a piece of paper and a pen or pencil I shall write the password.”

“No need to write it down, tell me, I’ll remember.”

She recited a mix of eleven numbers and letters that al-Rashid recognized.

“You have at least proved that you are a member of the Society,” he said. The password for the supposed second safety box was only two letters and one number different from the password their contact had supplied them.

“Then leave us in peace, you have what you came for.”

Chatelet was confused, it was written all over his face, but also written in the corners of his eyes and his mouth was a calculation of what damage something like this incident could do to his presidential bid, and perhaps even more important where there might be an advantage.

“Before you leave—and you have my word that I will give you a twenty-four-hour head start—what are we talking about here?” He looked at his mistress, and then back at al-Rashid. “A philanthropic society for which evidently people have lost their lives over, if I am understanding you correctly. Including the unfortunate doorman. That makes no sense.”

“It’s not what you think, Robert,” Mme. Laurent said. “Henri did nothing but try to come to my rescue.”