Papal Justice (15 page)

For the first time since they’d boarded, the Swiss Guard smiled. “You look like a businessman, Holy Father. A good disguise.”

The Pope returned the smile and adjusted the blazer. It had been decades since he’d worn anything but what was prescribed for Catholic clergy. It felt foreign, but not in a bad way. A prickle of adventure ran down his arms as he went to find his seat. It had been too long since he’d felt so alive, so young.

He looked out the window as the pilot made his final approach. It was dark on the ground, so it was easy to see the well-lit line marking the U.S./Mexico border running east to west. There were the lights coming from Mexicali on the Mexican side of the fence, and far fewer lights coming from their destination, Calexico, California. He’d never been to the border town, and wondered again why he’d felt the compelling pull to make the impromptu visit.

The landing was perfect. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember ever feeling a bump in any of his flights as Pope. He wondered if that had more to do with the caliber of pilots or the importance of the cargo. Probably a little of both.

They taxied to the end of the small receiving area and the aircraft stopped. From what he could see from the window, there wasn’t much of a terminal. Even though it was called the Calexico International Airport, it looked to be no more than a private landing strip for smaller planes.

Angelo was the first to the door. The Pope could feel the tension in the air, as if the moment the door opened the Swiss Guard expected a swarm of attackers to converge. They’d instructed the Pope to remain in his seat until the security team had a chance to check the area, and then they would all move to the registration building to procure the rental vehicles that were supposed to be waiting.

Seven men hurried out the door. One man stayed behind, a grizzled veteran who’d said little on the journey over. Angelo had instructed the man to stay no farther than an arm’s length away from their charge. The Pope could see that the man was taking his task seriously. There was barely a hand’s distance between them.

Angelo poked his head back in the cabin a couple minutes later and said, “It’s clear.”

The Pope wasn’t an ancient man, but he still needed help getting down the ladder’s steps. It was warm outside, a welcome change to the cold weather they had in Rome hours earlier. It reminded him of home, of days on the beach in Buenos Aires. He breathed in a flood of air as his guard guided him toward the short row of buildings up ahead. The airport itself was well lit, but the area beyond was an impenetrable dark.

The crack in the distance startled him even though he’d heard many gunshots in the past. It sounded like it had come from the border, too far off to be of concern. But when he turned to see Angelo’s reaction, he saw the Swiss Guard on the ground, blood gushing from a hole in his neck.

The Swiss Guard assigned to watch the Pope dropped all sense of propriety, half dragging and half carrying the Pope to safety. They headed back toward the plane.

There were shouts and the sudden explosion of more gunfire and the Swiss Guard fired at targets the Pope could not see. When they were maybe one hundred feet from the plane that was revving its engines, something streaked overhead, causing both men to duck.

The Pope fell to his knees, scraping them through his new garments. But the pain was nothing compared to the blast that followed, as whatever had been fired slammed into their only way out, sending the aircraft up in flames. The force of the explosion rolled over them, and his protector did his best to shield him from debris.

“We must go,” the guard said, hoisting the Pope to his feet even as the gunfire intensified all around them. He heard screams of pain and confusion, like the Swiss Guard was fighting an invisible foe.

He tried to put it out of his mind as they hurried away, the Swiss Guard grunting as he pulled the old man along. When they finally got to a small shed, the Pope was completely out of breath. His heart pounded and his lungs ached. His vision blurred in and out of focus.

“Stay here. I must check on the others,” said the guard, who didn’t stop to hear if the Pope might protest.

When the man left, the Pope strained to hear what was happening, but his inexperienced ears couldn’t make out the balance of the ongoing gun battle. Another explosion rocked the once quiet airport, followed by screams and shouts, some in Italian, and others in Spanish.

The Pope felt weak and hopeless. At least if he had been younger he could have run. But now he was left to wait, an old man past his physical prime. What could he do? What
would
he do?

His hand slipped down to where he normally had his old rosary, a gift from a blind woman he’d once met in Buenos Aires. The beads were made of seashells and the crucifix was carved from a piece of driftwood. It was one of his most cherished possessions, a reminder that God could be found in the humblest of places.

But he’d left that gift in the airplane that was now burning at the end of the runway. Instead of finding the rosary, his hand tapped against something rectangular. At first he couldn’t remember what it was, but then he realized it was the cellular phone Brother Luca had given him before leaving. There were only two numbers programmed in the secure phone. Luca was too far away to be of any help, so the Pope opted for the second number. He pressed the call button, and waited for an answer.

+++

The President was finally dozing off when his personal cell phone rang. He was immediately awake. Maybe half a dozen people had that number, and none of them would be calling if it weren’t a catastrophic emergency. But when he picked up the phone, he didn’t recognize the number. He answered the call.

“Yes?”

There was a pause and then the sound of heavy breathing.

“Mr. President?”

President Zimmer couldn’t make out the voice through the background noise.

“Who is this, please?”

“It is your friend from Rome.”

“Your Holiness?”

“Yes. Mr. President, I do not have much time. To be brief, we are under attack. We landed in Calexico minutes ago, and almost immediately came under fire.”

“Are you okay? Where’s your security team?”

Zimmer heard the Pope cough. “They are engaging the enemy.”

“Okay, listen. Let me get on the phone. I’ll have my military there in no time. Yuma isn’t far away, and the Marines—”

“Mr. President,” the Pope interrupted, “there is not time for that. You must listen to me.”

Zimmer gritted his teeth and cursed every extremist nut job the world had ever birthed. Trying to kill an American president was one thing. To kill a holy man like the Pope took a twisted soul and heaping helping of “I don’t give a fuck.”

“Tell me what I can do,” Zimmer said, rising from bed and switching on the light.

“Trust in our men.”

“What men?”

“The men we sent to Mexico. It is their mission that is most important.”

“But you could be captured. They could—”

“I am well aware of what they could do to me. I put my faith in God, you, and our men. Will you do the same?”

What the Pope was asking him to do was ludicrous. In less than an hour, Zimmer could have the best special operations troops in the country swooping in for the rescue. Part of him wanted to ignore the pontiff’s request, but for some reason he didn’t. Maybe it was the certainty in the Pope’s tone, or the fact that the possibility of otherworldly intervention had slowly crept into the president’s mind.

So against his better judgment, he said, “I’ll do it.”

“Good. Now I must discard this phone before they realize what I have done. God bless you, Mr. President. I am sure we will see each other soon.”

There wasn’t time for Zimmer to respond before the line went dead. He stared at the phone in his hand for a second, praying that something miraculous would happen, or that the Swiss Guard would win the day. By the Pope’s choice of words, the second option didn’t seem likely.

After slipping on his robe and formulating his thoughts, he left his Air Force One bedroom suite to alert the team. 

+++

The Pope turned off the phone and dropped it into an old oil drum. He heard it plop into whatever liquid the vessel now contained.

The gunfire had faded, and now there was only the crackling of the burning plane. Somewhere in the distance he heard sirens. Maybe the American police would make it in time.

He did his best to find a hiding spot in the back of the shed, but there was little to shield him from view. Besides, as soon as he’d gotten comfortable, he heard the sound of footsteps running in his direction.

The first one around the corner was his protector, the gruff Swiss Guard who’d been tasked to stay with the Pope.

“There he is,” the man said, pointing to where the pontiff’s shoes were visible behind a stack of wood pallets.

Two other men, both masked and carrying assault rifles, came around the corner and eyed their prize before moving to pick him up off the ground.

“You are my Judas,” the Pope said to the Swiss Guard, who no longer harbored any visible concern. He wondered if the traitor had killed his former comrades along with the masked attackers. “I will pray for you, my son.”

The man’s mouth stretched into a sneer. “I don’t need your prayers.”

Whatever fueled this man’s hate ran deep.

“I will still pray for you,” the Pope said as he was hoisted to his feet. And he did say a prayer for the man, that he might one day find peace. In his next prayer, as they stuffed him into the back of a van and placed a hood over his head, the Pope prayed that President Zimmer would keep his word, and that the warriors they’d sent to Mexico would fulfill their mission. He knew his time on Earth was not yet over. His only hope now was that God would give him the strength to do what he must. There was still a soul crying out for help, and he had to find it.

Chapter 21

Aboard Air Force One

3:39am, March 15
^th

Travis Haden peeled his eyes from the latest report on Iran. The Iranian government was talking a good game, but it didn’t look like their puppeteering was letting up in other Middle Eastern countries. When would it end?

“Trav,” the President said, one foot outside his stateroom door.

Travis nodded and took the folder with him, shaking the stiffness out of his legs as he walked.

“What’s up?” Travis asked, tucking the red file under his arm.

The President didn’t say anything, just motioned to his office. Travis nodded and followed his boss in. They had a minimal crew on the plane. Besides the Air Force personnel and the Secret Service, he and Zimmer were the only ones aboard. A rarity, but natural considering the last minute arrangements. The Chief of Staff hadn’t been happy about getting the late night call, but he jumped at the chance to get out of D.C.

“The Pope called.”

The President’s eyes were doing that shifty thing. It was a small tell that he only showed among friends. Travis frowned.

“What happened?”

Travis was one of the few people who knew about the covert Mexican operation. Hell, his cousin was leading the U.S. delegation. For a second, Travis had the gut-gripping feeling that Cal was hurt.

“I think the Pope was just kidnapped.”

Travis couldn’t hide his surprise.

“You’ve gotta be kidding. What the hell happened?”

Zimmer told him what he knew, about the attack and that the Pope thought the fight was tilting the other way.

“And you’re sure he wasn’t killed?”

“I don’t know.”

“We need to call our people. They can get the SEALs in quick, maybe even some Delta. I’ve got a buddy that—”

The President held up his hand.

“We can’t do that.”

Travis thought that maybe he’d misunderstood.

“Don’t worry, it’ll all be hush-hush. These guys know—”

“No,” Zimmer interrupted again, shaking his head, his eyes set. “We can’t call anyone in.”

“What? That’s crazy. This is the Pope we’re talking about!”

What could Brandon be thinking? If he was attacked, every American with a gun would probably be called in.

“I know.” The words came out with reluctance, Travis could see that. “He said to let things play out, to let our guys in Mexico do their jobs.”

Disbelief surged in Travis’s chest.

“Look, I know Cal’s boys are good, hell, I trained some of them myself, but this thing is bigger than any of us. If word leaks out that the Pope’s been killed, can you imagine what would happen?”

He searched the president’s face for comprehension. All he found was unease.

“I can’t explain it, Trav. The way he said it…he knows what’s going to happen. Even though there was gunfire on the call, he sounded levelheaded, like he understood where things were headed.”

“I don’t care how levelheaded he sounded, Brandon! That’s the Pope! I’m going to make some calls, get the ball rolling. You stay here and I’ll—”

“No.”

The word felt like a slap in the face. Since going to D.C. at the President’s behest, the two men had rarely disagreed. Despite the fact that the Commander in Chief was a Democrat from Massachusetts and Travis was a staunch conservative former Navy SEAL, they’d found common ground and forged an ironclad working relationship based on trust and mutual respect.

All Travis could do was stare at the man he now considered a friend.

“What if he’s right, Trav? What if this is out of our hands? What if God wanted this to happen?”

That shook Travis more than he would ever admit. While he wasn’t a practicing Christian, he did have a deep respect for God. Few who’d seen the scourge of war hadn’t turned to God at some point, whether for comfort or that last ounce of bravery. But saying that circumstances should be allowed to roll despite the arsenal at their disposal was pure insanity.

“I’m telling you this as your friend and as your Chief of Staff. If the Pope dies, and the public finds out that you didn’t lift a finger to help him, do you think they’re going to listen about the last conversation the two of you had?”