The Secret of Fatima (13 page)

Kevin zeroed in on the famous passage about the “bishop in white” being “killed by a group of soldiers.” The Church had interpreted this passage as forecasting an assassination attempt on John Paul II in St. Peter's Square on May 13, 1981, the sixty-fourth anniversary to the day of the first apparition at Fatima.

Eerie
, Kevin thought.
Coincidence? Maybe. Maybe not
.

As Kevin read and reread the secret, he could find absolutely nothing that might be suggestive of a threat or prophecy. After a couple of frustrating hours, Kevin stretched out on the sofa and did what was becoming a habit—he called Toby Beck at CIA.

“Let's see,” Toby said playfully answering the phone, “So, kid. Another shoelace needing help?”

“How'd you guess?”

Toby chuckled.

“Toby, I'm going to send you a link to a document. Since you're Catholic, you'll know what this is about. It's the secret of Fatima as transcribed by Sister Lucia in 1944. Now here's what you don't know. There's a rebel group within the church who thinks the message contains an apocalyptic foreboding of some catastrophe. A doom and gloom message from the grim reaper. The problem is that no one else looking at it sees that or can figure out what they're talking about.”

“I'll resist asking if you've been drinking. Maybe you spent too much time reading
The Da Vinci Code
. You know, Tom Hanks was great in that role and the scene—”

“Toby, please.”

“Sorry, pal. Okay, we'll have a look.”

“Thanks,” Kevin said, relieved. “And dare I say it's urgent?”

“Isn't it always? I'll get back to you ASAP.”

Kevin sent Toby the link and passcodes and asked him to find something, anything, in the secret that might prompt someone to see an apocalyptic prediction, no matter how far-fetched.

As he ended his conversation with Toby, Kevin heard a knock on the door. He rose from the couch, asking who was there.

“A message from Cardinal Porter,” the man said.

Kevin opened the door. He felt the jolt of thousands of electrical volts zapping his body. A gun was jammed into his stomach.

Chapter Fifteen

Fallujah, Iraq

September 2006

Another hazy, infernally hot day in the desert meant another series of patrols. Today, Captain Kevin Thrall knew his mission would be the toughest one of his tour. He was to lead his men on a cleanup mission to a nearby Iraqi village, where reports of a massacre had reached the base.
Just another day at the office
, Kevin thought.

Upon arrival, Kevin's patrol validated the earlier report. The Iraqi village had been viciously plundered by forces sympathetic to al Qaeda. The ravaged village now consisted of a dozen small houses, a street with two small stores, and smoldering fires. No one had been spared.

Kevin ordered his platoon to break into a destitute house. The men smashed the wooden door and entered to acrid smells of sweat and rotting garbage. Kevin led the way, his rifle pointing straight ahead, his goggles partially clouded with sand. It was dark and hazy inside with only a small window above a sink filled with dirty dishes.

Cautiously, Kevin traipsed through the house, motioning for his men to follow. Hearing moans on the other side of a cardboard wall, he moved in the direction of the sounds. He and his men came upon a group of bearded, shabbily-dressed men torturing women.

When the American soldiers had entered the small clay house, most of the torturers had fled. But one of them remained, still raping a young girl who looked no older than twelve, maybe thirteen. Her attacker was holding her by force against the wall. She was staring up at the ceiling, her brown eyes glazed over, while the bearded bastard finished with her. Kevin went ballistic. He grabbed the rapist by the hair and smashed the butt of his rifle into his throat. The man fell. Kevin stomped his boot on his chest.

As she slumped forward, Kevin caught the young girl. He would never forget the fear and hopelessness in her eyes. When one of his men came in, Kevin said, “Here, please get her out of here.”

Her lips mouthed, “Shukran.” He knew it was Arabic for “thank you.” His teammate picked her up and carried her out.

Kevin turned to the assailant, who was lying flat on his back. As he started to get up, a knife in his hand, Kevin kicked the hand, and the knife spun out. He grabbed the man by the neck and raised him up against the wall.

“Who the hell are you?” Kevin shouted.

“Ahmed,” the bearded man replied. Blood trickled from his lip. “Look, I want revenge, justice.”

“Really? You call this justice?”

“I know my rights,” he said.

Staring into the man's eyes, he punched him in the face. “Your rights, asshole? You just better hope the girl lives.”

Kevin's team searched the house for other combatants and survivors. Finding none, they went outside to secure a perimeter around the house. Kevin followed, dragging the rapist, now his prisoner.

Two other soldiers also dragged corpses outside—a man, a woman, and a boy—the young girl's family. Kevin gagged at the sight of the bodies. The rape victim was lying outside on a makeshift cot.

Another American soldier, Kevin's friend and roommate, Toby Beck, sensed what was happening and approached Kevin. “Take it easy, Kevin,” he said.

“Look at that poor girl, Toby,” Kevin hissed as he kept his hands wrapped around the rapist's neck. “I'm not done here.”

The girl was eyeing both men, tears streaming down her face as she looked at the bodies around her. She was sobbing inconsolably.

Toby reached for Kevin to restrain him. Ahmed, the perpetrator, sensing his chance, shoved Kevin and broke loose. Kevin pushed Toby aside and raced after Ahmed, grabbed him, and slammed him back against the wall.

“This is war. I know my rights,” Ahmed said.

“You have no rights!” Kevin shouted.

Kevin grabbed the knife he'd taken from the rapist and pointed it at Ahmed. “Look at her!” Kevin shouted.

The man smirked. “This is war.”

“Yes, I get it. It certainly is.”

Kevin lifted the knife, placing it before the man's eyes, while holding him securely against the wall with his other hand. “This is what you deserve.”

The man smiled. “I know the rules, Captain. I've surrendered. You can't touch me.”

“Try this rule,” Kevin said. He stabbed Ahmed in the leg. Ahmed buckled over and screamed.

“Help me!” Ahmed cried. “This man is insane!”

“Insane? Oh, how right you are.” Kevin plunged the knife again, this time into the man's abdomen. “You feel that, you sicko?”

The rapist's eyes widened. For the first time, Kevin saw terror in his eyes. But Kevin was too enraged to care.

“You know what's coming, don't you?”

“No!” he cried, just as Kevin thrust the knife into his abdomen again. Blood was everywhere.

“That will hurt for a long time,” Kevin said, teeth clenching, “and in the end, you will die.” With that, Kevin retracted the knife and kicked him to the ground in a pool of blood.

The young girl witnessed the killing. If she felt any revulsion or horror, it didn't show. “Shukran,” she said again to Kevin. And for the first time, he saw defiant hope in her brown eyes. He knew he'd never regret what he'd done.

Two soldiers from Kevin's patrol ran over. “Leave him,” Kevin ordered. “Take care of the girl.”

At the court martial, most of the soldiers in Kevin's detail claimed he'd acted in self-defense, while others reported that Kevin had murdered the man.

Secretly the military judges were relieved to acquit Kevin of the charges. But when the court martial was over, the presiding judge requested to confer privately with Captain Kevin Thrall. His message was simple and direct. “Son, you've got anger management issues.”

“I know,” Kevin said humbly.

“Get help,” said the judge.

The press statement that followed the court marital reported that the slain man was a local militia member, and Captain Kevin Thrall had acted in self-defense.

Rome, Italy

Present Day

The nightmare was back. Kevin's eyes shot open to complete darkness. What'd happened? His memory was returning slowly. He was now remembering. An ambush outside his apartment in the Vatican. A stun gun zapping him.

Kevin tried shaking off the grogginess. His head was foggy. He could see he was in a room without windows, poorly lit by a suspended lightbulb dangling on a coarse string. The foul stench of urine permeated the air.

The room also had a couple of wooden chairs and a small, rickety card table. Kevin's arms and legs were tightly bound by ropes to the legs and the back of a chair. His mouth felt rough like sandpaper and parched. He ached for water.

Minutes later, a door opened and blinding bright light flooded into the dark space. A tall, spectral silhouette loomed on the threshold of the doorway. It moved closer. The hair was dark. It was dressed in a suit with no tie, its eyebrows furrowed and forming creases in the forehead. Its mouth was thin-lipped, giving its weathered complexion a somber expression.

The man, it was a man, set about untying one of Kevin's arms. When he'd freed the arm, he handed him a bottle of water. Clutching it, Kevin started gulping. When he'd finished, the man retied the hand to the chair.

“What do you want?” Kevin asked.

“
Shhhhh
,” the man whispered in English with a thick Italian accent. Smiling, he put his forefinger to his lips. “We ask the questions, not you.” Whereupon he turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Kevin assessed his situation. He couldn't tell how long he'd been out, but his numbness, along with his parched mouth and scratchy throat, suggested he'd been unconscious for several hours. One at a time, he moved his limbs. Everything was working. He was unarmed, of course, but if the guy came into the room again he could probably take him.
How many more of them were there? And what did they want from him?

Of the knots binding him to the chair, he figured with time and fidgeting, he could slip out of them. Wriggling his hands through the knots, his wrists were raw and bloody. After what felt like an hour, he was making progress with one hand and figured it'd be free in a short while. The rest would be easy. He prayed to God for help.

The door opened again and banged shut. Three men stormed in.
Another pair of thugs
, Kevin thought.
Where do they get these guys?
Two of them appeared to be in their mid-forties, in slacks and tee shirts. The third looked monk-like in a long brown robe, the head veiled in a hood. Kevin guessed he was the leader. He spoke first. “Father Thrall, we hope you'll choose the easy path.”

A sly, crooked smile crossed the monk's dark face. He appeared older than the others. A shiver shot up Kevin's spine. One didn't want to cross this man.

“What'd you want to know?” Kevin asked. Out of the line of vision of the intruders he was continuing to twist slowly and gently. His one hand was now almost free.

The monk's head was bent forward, the hood shading his face. “Tell us about your Vatican activities, Father. We'd like to know what it is you're looking for.”

“Oh, not much. Spiritual renewal.”

As Kevin spoke, his hand wriggled free, but he wasn't ready to make his move.

The monk nodded ponderously. “I suppose we'll have to do this the hard way, Father,” he said, “much to my regret.”

The monk eyed one of his henchmen, who promptly scuttled over to Kevin and punched him hard in the face. A trickle of blood, warm and salty, flowed from Kevin's mouth.
Ouch!Dammit!

Kevin now freed his other hand. He grabbed the man by his shirt, slamming his head against the wall. His legs were still roped to the chair legs, so he just dragged it along.

With his hands clasped in front of him, the monk stood calmly at a short distance as the second henchman sprang to his cohort's rescue. Reaching into his pocket, the monk withdrew a small knife, a sliver of light glinting off it from the light of the hanging bulb.

Again Kevin hurled the thug's face against the wall, twisting and slamming his chair against the body. Just as he was readying to throw the knife, Kevin saw the monk out of the corner of his eye. With perfect timing, Kevin pulled the man away from the wall, positioning the thug in front of him as a shield. The knife whizzed through the air with deadly aim toward Kevin. Instead, it struck the thug Kevin was holding in front of him in the back. As moans filled the air, blood gushed from his wound.

Kevin held him upright, by his throat.

How many knives did the brother have, anyway?

Now henchman number two tried grabbing Kevin.

The hooded man stood calmly, another knife at the ready, while the second seized Kevin, who was still roped to the chair.

“Sit still,” the second thug shouted, locking his arm around Kevin's neck and shoving his chair to the floor. He smelled of cheap cologne. His breath was hot and putrid on Kevin's neck.

Kevin let go of the wounded man, who crumpled to the floor in a pool of blood.

The monk put the knife back into his pocket and smiled again, a sly, crooked smile. The other henchman retied Kevin's arms to the chair. This time, the knot was tight; Kevin's hand went numb. At that moment, Kevin knew he'd been defeated.

Henchman number two then examined his cohort lying on the floor. Rising slowly, he looked at the monk.

“He's dead,” he said.

“You're armed, correct?” the monk asked.

The man nodded.

“Then finish it.” The hooded man went to the door, opened it, and slammed it behind him.

Kevin braced himself. His time had come. He prayed the man would do it, execute him mercifully. “Dear Lord, lift me to your eternal embrace. I am your faithful servant.”