The Secret of Fatima (14 page)

And then there was nothing.

Kevin opened his eyes, peering from slits into the darkness. Henchman number two was untying him from the chair, working methodically.

Kevin looked to see if he could make anything out about the man. As near as he could tell, his eyes seemed blank, devoid of emotion. As he finished untying the knots, Kevin noticed he was middle-aged, although fit and agile. He put his finger to his lips and whispered, “
Shhh
.”

When Kevin was free, he stood up from the chair and faced the man. Now he was pointing a handgun at him.

“Leave through that door,” the man said, waving the pistol at a door on the far end of the room. “There is a bicycle for you.”

Kevin scrutinized the man, not getting what was happening.
Was he a friend or foe? Was this a trap?
For a couple of minutes, Kevin stared blankly. In a barely audible whisper, he asked simply, “Why?”

“Do you remember the young Ali Recip who was in your home?”

Kevin nodded.

“I am his father. He is my son. Please go.”

Then he pointed in the direction of the other door.

Chapter Sixteen

Rome, Italy

The room was still. Kevin hadn't moved in hours. The only sound was the insistent hiss from the air conditioning grill until a cell phone buzzed. It woke Kevin from a long, dreamy nap. Opening his eyes, he took a few seconds to realize he was lying on the sofa at his Vatican apartment in the Villa Domenica. He remembered that not long ago he'd had a narrow escape. He'd bicycled to escape his captors to the Porta Maggiore on the east side of Rome, abandoned the bicycle, and then checked his pockets for money. His cash was still there. After a taxi ride to the Vatican gate, he'd staggered to the apartment.

Kevin had made a mental note to call Vatican authorities, and request that a security system with video surveillance be installed. The thugs knew where he lived and had gotten to him easily. Come to think of it, he'd have Cardinal Porter's office get on the case, thereby ensuring it'd get done pronto. But his first priority was to shower and get some sleep. A helluva night.

Now he was alert enough to worry about the buzzing phone. Kevin's pulse quickened, wondering if it was Katie. It wasn't. Area code was 703. Virginia. Toby Beck.

“Hey, Toby.”

“Not so good news for ya, buddy,” Toby said. “I've had no less than six crypto guys go over your secret of Fatima. We found nothing. Not a threat, not a message, not anything.”

Kevin shook his head. “Toby, I know there's something there. How could this be?”

“Maybe Opus Mundi is just plain cockamamie. There's nothing here, buddy.”

“OK, thanks, Toby. We'll deal with it. Talk to you later.”

Kevin still wasn't convinced. He got up, went to the bathroom, and downed three Advil. A part of him was dejected, feeling like he'd hit a dead end. Yet there was hope. He must be missing something. He wished he had an Opus Mundi operative on hand. He'd beat the answer out of him.

Kevin pressed the TV remote, clicking on CNN. The United States had positioned two aircraft carriers in the Persian Gulf awaiting the Iranian response to the Israeli attack. Oil had jumped to over $180 a barrel and citizens and politicians were screaming for relief at the pump. The stock market had plummeted. Now, somber talking heads were speculating about a nuclear holocaust.

A loud rapping at the door dashed his thoughts.

With the searing memory of the last time he'd opened this door, Kevin moved cautiously, picking up one of the pistols from his bedside table, and moving toward the door.

“Who is it?”

“Kevin, it's Max.

Kevin opened the door a crack. There stood Monsignor Drotti, dressed in his clerical garb. He was looking disgruntled.

Drotti spoke quickly, gesturing nervously with his hands. “Look, I know you don't want to see me, but I need to talk to you.”

Kevin nodded, gesturing toward the living room. He walked over and laid the pistol down on the table.

“I know you're upset with me, Kevin. But I couldn't tell you everything. I had my orders, too.”

“Yeah, sure,” Kevin said, as they sat down in the only two armchairs in the apartment.

“The test of your abilities was important, Kevin, because the next assignment—the one you're on now—is really, really serious.”

“More serious than a nuclear war?” Kevin asked.

“Yes,” Drotti said. “At the moment, I don't know much more. I came to see you because I knew you were upset with me. Please accept my apology. I'll understand if you'd prefer not to work with me.”

“It's about trust, Max, it's—”

Buzzzzzzzz
. Kevin glanced at his ringing cell, perplexed. He didn't recognize the number.

“Excuse me, Max,” he said.

“Father Thrall?” the tentative voice asked in a thick accent. “This is Ali Recip. I remembered your number.”

Kevin smiled. “Ali, small world. Yesterday your father saved my life.”

“Well, my father is dead, sir. That must have been just before they killed him.”

Kevin's jaw dropped and his stomach was churning.
That must have been because of me
.

“I'm so sorry, Ali. Oh my God!” Kevin cried out. He was horrified. He was responsible for the man's death.

“Thank you, sir. I'm calling you because he wanted me to tell you something in the event of … in case he was no longer here.”

“Sure … please continue.” Kevin looked over at Max, who was frowning with worry.

“My father said to tell you Operation Delorgio will happen today at noon.”

“Operation Delorgio? What does that mean, Ali?” Kevin asked.

“I do not know, sir.… I … I … must go now.” The phone went dead.

Kevin looked at Max, shaking his head.

“What is it?” Max asked.

Kevin explained what had happened to him yesterday and what Ali had just told him.

“I … I … feel so guilty. It's my fault the kid's father was killed. Now, he's given me a secret message about Operation Delorgio. What does it mean?”

“Operation Delorgio is a code name for an Opus Mundi event, but we don't know exactly what it might be,” said Max.

“Ali said ‘noon today.'”

Max looked as though he'd been struck by lightning. “My God!”

“What?”

“Today is Sunday. The pontiff will be giving his blessing from the window above St. Peter's Square. At noon exactly. He addresses the crowds every Sunday!”

Kevin checked his watch. “Oh my God! That's a half hour from now. Call Vatican security!”

Monsignor Drotti shrugged. “Certainly. But to do what? Protect the pope from half a million Catholics in the Square? No way His Holiness will skip his Sunday blessing.”

Kevin went into the bedroom and withdrew the other pistol. “If they're going to take a shot at him, it won't be from the Square up at the window,” he said. “The pope speaks from his window on the top floor of the Apostolic Palace. They'll need an expert marksman with a powerful rifle. That wouldn't happen if the assassin is on the ground, in the crowd.”

Max looked at the pistols Kevin was cradling. “What are you saying?”

“The assassin has to have a better vantage point.” Kevin was pointing at a large framed photo of St. Peter's on the bedroom wall. The color aerial shot showed St. Peter's with the semi-circle of Bernini columns framing the square, in front of the Basilica. To the right of the colonnade stood the Apostolic Palace.

“There,” Kevin said, pointing at the photo. He pointed to the top of the semi-circle of columns, fingering a spot closest to the window of the Apostolic Palace. This is where the pope addresses the crowd. “It's the best vantage point for an assassin.”

Drotti studied the picture. “They'd have great difficulty accessing that building,” he said, pointing to the same spot. “The Vatican police know the top of the colonnade would be an assassin's best vantage point.”

Tapping his finger on the photograph, Kevin reflected for a moment. “They're right. That spot would be the easiest shot for a good marksman.”

“And that's why you can't get up there,” Drotti added.

Kevin looked again at the picture of the Square and the columns. “Wait,” he said, pointing at the other side of the semi-circle of columns. He tapped on the image at the top of the semi-circle, this time at the roof of the colonnade farthest from the Apostolic Palace, on the other side of the esplanade.

“What?” Drotti asked.

Kevin was still tapping. “I figure about eight hundred yards. An expert sniper with the right equipment could make a shot from here. It wouldn't be easy, but it's feasible. How secure is that side of the colonnade?”

Drotti shrugged. “It's indisputably a controlled access, but not as closely watched as the other side.”

“Could someone sneak up there at night?”

“Well, I guess so …”

Kevin pocketed the guns. “Let's get going, Max.”

Drotti swallowed hard. “Kevin, we're just speculating … we don't know anything will happen!”

“Would you rather sit here watching television?”

Max shook his head and stood up.

“C'mon,” said Kevin.

Both men raced from the apartment, Kevin dressed in the jeans and polo shirt he'd put on after returning from his kidnapping, Drotti in his black clerical garb. In calculation of a measured run to the center of the Square, they estimated about six minutes. But they couldn't factor into their calculation the variable of the crowds. How much would the crowds slow them down?

Exiting the Vatican gate to the left of St. Peter's, throngs of people were gathered, awaiting the pontiff's blessing. The sun shone brightly, illuminating the Square, creating a kaleidoscopic blur of colors and shapes against the crowd. Thousands upon thousands of pilgrims and tourists were milling about, some singing, others clicking photos with cell phones and cameras. The constant hum of anticipation was ominous. It hung over the Square.

“This way,” Drotti directed. The two fought their way through the dense crowd, peering upward occasionally at the window where the pope was due to appear.

“Scusi, scusi,” the men shouted as they muscled their way through the throngs. Drotti led the way, aiming for the guard station at the foot of the far columns. A wood shack, just big enough for one guard, protected the entrance to a stairway that led to the roof of the colonnade. The roof connected the Bernini columns at the top, completing the semi-circle of the colonnade. Amidst bursts of laughter, chatter, and songs, the din of the crowd grew louder. A gentle breeze elevated everyone's mood.

The pope's window was open, the microphone in place, and the red papal banner, which had just been unfurled beneath the open window, was slapping against the side of the building. The crowd roared, knowing this red banner signaled that the pontiff would soon appear.

Kevin and Drotti clawed their way to the sealed and guarded stairway under the colonnade. Drotti addressed the guard who was checking his credentials.

Drotti explained as calmly as he could what was happening. Kevin saw the guard's eyes widen in alarm. Kevin breathed heavily, impatient with small talk. His mind was roaming back to Iraq, which was the last time he felt this kind of pressure in his chest. Adrenaline was pumping throughout his body.
What was this elation he was feeling? Was it fervor over the prospect of meeting death? Or, was it because he was rabidly determined to win this battle?

Impatient, Kevin brushed the guard aside and rushed to the top of the stairs. Drotti followed. The guard hollered into the intercom, summoning help. Kevin checked his watch: three minutes to twelve.

On top of the colonnade was a slanted roof, forcing the men to go along the bottom edge by the railing. From this vantage point, the crowd below had morphed into a cluster of milling insects.

Locating the papal quarters where the pontiff would appear, Kevin stopped to orient himself. The window was open, the banner beneath it. Mentally, Kevin measured the distance from the papal window to the columns, calculating he was roughly 800 yards from the optimum spot from this side of the colonnade to shoot.

Over on the other side, Kevin now saw security guards on top of the columns, fully armed, ready to ensure the pope's safety. Kevin recalled the many hours he'd spent in Iraq talking shop with some of the expert sharpshooters in his battalion about similar situations. He had no idea then that some of that banter would one day become so important. Perhaps God had prepared him for this moment. But no time to think about God now.

He motioned for Max to crouch down and follow him along the railing. They had to go slowly; every few feet, statues of saints stood in their way.

Kevin pointed to the far extension of the columns. “Over there is a shooter's best vantage point.” He reached into his pocket and handed one of the pistols to Max. “You want to be my partner? Take this.” Before giving it to him, Kevin cocked the pistol and chambered a round. “It's like a Kodak Instamatic: Just point and shoot.”

Max took the pistol, making sure to keep his finger away from the trigger. He was nervous, having never held a gun in his hand before.

Crouching all the way down, the men made their way around the curve of the colonnade. The tin roof crunched, making metallic clatter with every step, but the din of the crowd drowned it out.

Suddenly, as trumpets blared, the all-white figure of Pope Quintus II appeared in the window, hands extended. His figure was visible only from the waist up. The roar of the crowd was deafening.

Kevin motioned for Drotti to stop. They got down on their hands and knees and crawled around the roof of the colonnade, searching for the shooter.

Nothing.

Crawling a bit farther for a better view, Kevin motioned for Drotti to follow. They crawled ten yards ahead and looked up.