The Secret of Fatima (2 page)

This morning, Kevin had planned inter-squad drills, five-on-five, half-court. The boys, ranging in ages from thirteen to sixteen, fell in, played hard. With Father Thrall around, there could be no trash talk. That was the rule, unless the trash talk came from Father Thrall himself.

Kevin whistled at a particularly nasty foul; the play stopped.

“What the—? Sean, what was that, huh? A mugging?”

“I'm sorry, Father,” Sean said. Six feet tall and lanky, as if he hadn't quite grown into his arms and legs, the fifteen-year-old bent to help a teammate up off the concrete.

“You okay, Lamar?”

“Yep, Coach. Fine.”

Kevin whistled, and the scrimmage started anew, just as Lamar drilled a three-pointer from the corner of the court.

A minute later, Bob Mather, St. Anthony's headmaster, appeared suddenly on the edge of the court, signaling to Kevin. In his mid-fifties, Mather, partially bald, was on the heavy side. “Too many doughnuts,” he'd always say, patting his belly.

As the headmaster paced, Kevin couldn't help but notice the tension pulling on his face.
What now?
The last thing Kevin needed was a confrontation with a self-important, pain-in-the-ass administrator who thought he was running a major university, not a third-rate high school.

“Excuse me, Father Thrall,” Mather hollered. Kevin motioned for play to continue while hustling to the sideline.

Out of the earshot of the players, Mather began speaking, his finger waggling, “Listen, Kevin, I've got a problem with Sister Helen. Apparently, your team has snazzy new uniforms. Her girls' hockey team has no uniforms at all.”

Kevin grimaced. “You know where they came from, Bob? Me. I bought 'em. I'm not interested in hearing Sister Helen's complaints.”

“Yeah, well it looks real bad if some teams have 'em and others don't.”

“Listen, these kids have lousy home lives. What they need is personal pride and conviction. The uniforms provide that.” Kevin turned to the court, yelping, “Barkley, post up! Post up!” His look lingered on the lanky sophomore. What kind of world did these kids have without team sports? Most were products of single moms, drug-infested homes, poor nutrition, and the absence of paternal or spiritual guidance. Kevin wanted to help. Sometimes it was a losing battle, but when it was going well, he felt whole and satisfied. It was a special feeling, sacred, sublime joyfulness.

Mather straightened to his full stubbiness, squaring his shoulders. His face was rosy, aglow. “My decision is no new uniforms, unless all the school teams get them,” he said with as much authority as his high-pitched voice could muster. To Kevin, he looked like a squirrel with nuts stuffed in his cheeks.

Kevin glared at him. “Please, you're interrupting my practice.”

“This isn't over.”

“For now it is.” Kevin turned away.

“Not so fast, Father. You've got a visitor in my office. An emissary. From the Vatican.”

“What?” said Father Thrall, whipping his head around.

“Yessirree. Showed me his ID.” Mather grinned smugly. “Maybe some disciplinary committee from Rome. I wouldn't be surprised.”

Suddenly Kevin remembered the early morning call he'd missed.

“Sean, take over the drill!” Yanking the cord from his neck, Kevin tossed the whistle to the young man. His mind racing, he traipsed behind Mather into the school building.

At the far end of the school's main corridor, Mather's office showcased an assortment of vintage sports trophies, stacks and stacks of books, and an enormous World War II-era desk with ladder-back chairs.

The Vatican emissary stood stoically to the side, briefcase in hand. He appeared roughly the same age as Kevin, with olive skin and black eyes. His face was proud and dignified. On first impression, perhaps from his polished manner and speech, Kevin assumed this guy came from a well-heeled Italian family. He was dressed in formal priestly attire, a dark suit with the traditional white turned collar. However, he wasn't just a priest. The red buttons dotting his vest told his story: This guy was a monsignor. Standing in Mather's office, his formal appearance contrasted markedly with Kevin's, who sported a tattered gray tee, beat-up sneakers, and his couture-of-the-times, long, baggy basketball shorts.

“This is Father Kevin Thrall,” said Mather.

“Good morning,” the monsignor said with a nearly perfect American intonation. With a slightly limp wrist, he offered his hand. “I'm Monsignor Massimo Drotti from Rome. I'm sorry to intrude at such an early hour.”

“No problem. Nice to meet you,” said Kevin, shaking his hand.

“The pleasure is mine, Father Thrall,” Drotti said. “I'm here from Rome to talk to you.”

“Oh, was it you who called my cell at four this morning?”

“Indeed it was,” Drotti replied with an unapologetic smile.

“Now, please,” said Mather, interrupting the two men, pointing to the chairs in front of the desk. “Please. Have a seat.” He walked to his desk, seating himself, and opened his appointment calendar.

Watching Mather, Kevin suppressed a smile. He recognized the headmaster's behavior. He was puffing up, trying to look important.

“Are you American?” Kevin asked Drotti.

“Well, yes and no. My father is American, my mother Italian. I was educated at Boston College, but since then I've spent my time in Rome. I understand you were in Rome for a while, as well.”

“Yes, I studied at the Theologica,” Kevin replied. He was twitching in his seat, eager for the monsignor to get to the point. Whatever it was bringing him all the way from Rome, it must be mighty important.

Drotti said, “Mr. Mather, I'm here to inform you that Father Thrall has been summoned to Rome and will be taking a leave from the school.”

What?
Kevin beamed laser eyes on Drotti, then looked back at Mather.
What the hell?

Mather's eyes widened. He snapped, “Without the bishop's consent, he's not going anywhere.”

Kevin felt his fate being played, back and forth, like a ping-pong ball.

Drotti smiled, nodding. “Of course. The papal nuncio here in Washington spoke with His Excellency this morning. It's all arranged. I thank you for your attention to protocol. Now, Mr. Mather, I must speak privately with Father Thrall.”

“Hmph!” said Mather. “That's fine. Well, I have things to attend to.” Flustered, Mather busily gathered up an eclectic assortment of gewgaws from his desk.

When Mather was gone, Monsignor Massimo Drotti removed a leather attaché from his briefcase and held it on his lap. “Kevin … may I call you Kevin?”

“Of course.”

“I don't want to be overly dramatic. I'm not sure where to begin. I guess it'll be in the middle.”

“I'm all ears, monsignor.”

“Thank you. First, I know Massimo is a bit of a mouthful. Please call me ‘Max'. If you agree to what I'm about to ask of you, we'll be spending some time together.”

Kevin said nothing. Maybe his reserve would have an effect, would draw out this seriously bottled-up dude. An old CIA trick.

“The directives and information I'm about to share with you come directly from the church's highest source. If you assume that'd be His Holiness, you'd not be wrong. I say this not to get the drums rolling, but to emphasize both the urgency and the importance of our mission. In short, we're facing an immediate crisis which threatens the very core of our Catholic Church.”

“That's unquestionably dramatic,” Kevin exclaimed dryly.

“It's true, I'm afraid. You've been the subject of the most detailed and extensive investigation ever undertaken by the Church. I'm happy to report it was the right thing to do: you've been cleared. You're being reassigned to the Vatican. This'll mean dropping what you're doing here and coming to Rome immediately. Of course, you'll be held to our strict rules of confidentiality far more stringent than those in the military and the CIA.”

“I was never a direct employee of the CIA,” Kevin said.

Max looked down at his notes and continued, “Yes, I see that. You were officially employed by a paramilitary group called ‘Grey Associates' assigned to the CIA under contract, correct?”

Kevin nodded. “Correct.”

“Then—” began Max.

“Excuse me, Max. What if I were to turn down this assignment?” Kevin's head was reeling.

“Not an option, Kevin.”

Kevin couldn't argue. Not now, anyway. “What else can you tell me?”

The monsignor stroked his chin. For a moment, he was contemplative as he looked out at the barren street. Pink buds and young leaves hinted of the coming of spring. On the horizon, clusters of smoky storm clouds were congregating.

“We believe there's a serious threat to the leadership of the Church. It's coming from within. I'm afraid that's all I'll disclose now.”

“And how was I so lucky to get tapped for this special—ah, dangerous—assignment?”

“You came recommended by a highly-placed source—His Eminence, Cardinal John Porter,” Drotti said.

“When I was studying in Rome, Porter was a bishop, and my mentor.” Kevin nodded. He didn't add that Porter also happened to be his savior. After his snafu in the army had gone public, if it hadn't been for Porter, he might have been defrocked as a priest.

“Then you know he's now a cardinal. He runs the Instituto per le Opere Religiosi, the Vatican Bank. He's a powerful man and His Holiness has great confidence in him and his judgment. Besides his vote for you, our investigation into your military background also confirmed you're precisely the person we need.”

Kevin cleared his throat. “You thoroughly checked my background?”

“If you're asking if we're aware of your army court martial, the answer is yes, of course.” Drotti glanced at his notes. “According to the Code of Canon Law, Canon 1040, paragraph 4, a person who has committed voluntary homicide is considered ‘irregular' regarding receiving Holy Orders.” Drotti looked up and smiled. “The Holy See has granted you a dispensation.”

A shrill bell rang out through the halls. Terrified, the monsignor jumped at the sound as if a gun had just gone off. Kevin thought to himself the bell's timing must be a sign from heaven. He was ready to get going.

Kevin rose. His body language spelled closure. “Well, if there's nothing more to discuss, I've got a class to teach, Max. Where do we go from here?”

“First, forget about the class, Kevin. Go home, start packing. Our plane leaves Dulles at seven p.m.” Monsignor Drotti handed Kevin a single sheet of paper, confirmation of his reservation on United Flight 966 to Rome.

A chill was slithering down Kevin's spine.
What to do? What to do? Fight it or play along? Was God behind it? And what about the boys?

“I'll need time. I've got to take care of obligations,” Kevin said firmly.

“I'll see you at Dulles Airport. No later than six p.m.” Drotti smiled faintly. “You wouldn't want to disappoint His Holiness.”

It wasn't delivered as a question. Of course he wouldn't want to disappoint His Holiness. What should have been a question came off as more of an order. Before Kevin could say another word, Monsignor Max was leaving Mather's office.

Kevin stood still for a moment, clenching his jaw, watching the storm clouds converge higher in the sky. Sighing deeply, he left Mather's office. Tentatively, he headed to his classroom to bid farewell to his kids. He knew this wouldn't be easy for them. Or for him. But he also realized, for the moment, he hadn't a choice, especially if he wanted to keep his good standing in the Church. And with God.

After Kevin told the players, DeShaun, a bright junior on the team, stood up and walked to the front of the room to hug Kevin. “We're going to miss you, Padre. No one else here to kick our asses when we need it.” He was speaking for the team.

Kevin smiled. “Hey, I'll keep score; if any of you mess up while I'm gone, when I'm back I'll kick your asses twice as hard.”

“How long you gonna be gone?” asked another student.

“Don't know for sure,” Kevin answered. “But I'll be back. You guys remember what I told you. Heads high, two hours of homework every night, and stand tall.”

After a few more hugs and high fives, Kevin left, his heart heavy.
Dammit! I love these kids
.

Kevin didn't bother saying goodbye to Headmaster Mather. He wasn't in the mood to pretend he was happy about leaving. When it came to these kids, they were a different story.

Before packing, Kevin took out his checkbook and a spiral notebook, scribbled a note, ripped out the page, then wrote out a check and stuffed them both in an envelope addressed to Mather. The note was brief. “Here's for the uniforms.”

And then through the fog in his brain, he thought of his final remaining conundrum. Katie. She was an entirely different story.

Chapter Three

Washington, D.C.

The next thing Kevin did was call Katie. They'd planned a while ago on having dinner in Georgetown that very night. He opened the conversation by apologizing for having to break their date.

“Rome?” Katie asked. “They're sending you to Rome?”

“That's right.”

“And you don't know why? I mean—crazy thought—but, did you ask why?”

Hearing this, Kevin burst out laughing. Katie was completely serious. It all was happening so quickly he hadn't digested the weighty reality of it and the unintended implications. Nothing else to do but LOL—laugh out loud.

“What's so funny?” Now Katie was annoyed.

“Nothing, Katie. I wasn't laughing at you.”

“Okay, you think I'm being bossy and aggressive, the kind of girl you—”

“No, Katie. I'm laughing about Katie being Katie.”

By this time, Katie was miffed. He was pushing her buttons, not taking her seriously. Everything else in his life was deadly serious—except her.