Veil - 02 - The Hammer of God (11 page)

Carlo signaled to one of the boys behind Samuel, who proceeded to rifle through his pockets. He found the money the young couple gave him earlier. Smiling at his apparent discovery, the black-toothed boy with a pug nose handed the money to Carlo, who examined it, then stared hard at Samuel.

“What is this?” asked Carlo.

“I forgot about that. A man gave it to me earlier.” Carlo slapped Samuel back to the ground. “Bastardo!” Samuel, flat on his back, closed his eyes tight and balled up his fists, teeth grinding. Tired, frustration turned to anger. He pushed himself up so fast, and with such force, the boys all jumped several steps back.

“Leave me alone,” he bellowed, meaning every word of it.

“Look, its John Wayne,” scoffed Carlo, laughing. “Bang, bang, he’s going to get us all.”

The boys all laughed, several grabbing their sides. Samuel fists tightened. He rushed Carlo, growling like a mad dog, tackled the older boy, and wailed on his face with everything he had left. The others, momentarily stunned, snapped out of it and jumped Samuel, pulling him off their leader. They tossed him to the concrete, pounding and kicking his face and body.

“Stop!” ordered Carlo, now on his feet, wiping his bloody nose.

“Hold him up.”

The boys lifted up Samuel, battered and beaten. They had to hold him up to keep him from toppling over. Carlo pulled a knife from his sock.

“So, Mr. John Wayne, let’s see how you like the blade.” Samuel struggled to break free, but with each strain and pull his energy drained away. Carlo stepped forward. Samuel lifted his head, snot running from his nose, face blazed over with rage, and with all his strength, smashed his foot into Carlo’s groin. The Italian boy dropped the knife, curled over, and crashed back to the ground. The others loosened their grip. Samuel broke free and ran. He heard fast footsteps behind him but didn’t turn around. The closer he got to the street, the harder he pressed. Ten feet from his goal, two strong arms wrapped around his waist and snatched him to the ground.

Samuel rolled over onto his back and looked up at a chubby, round-faced boy with bushy brown hair and elephant ears. He wanted to fight back, but could barely breathe because of the boy’s full weight pressing down on his chest. Samuel turned his head. Down the alley, he watched Carlo, assisted by the others, limp toward him, demon possessed. The fat kid on top of him picked up a fist-sized rock and raised it over Samuel’s head.

“Close your eyes American cowboy,” he said.

Samuel relaxed, resigned to his fate. Tears swelled from under his eyelids and he cried like a newborn. Suddenly, the weight lifted off of him, and he heard the sound of a grainy Italian voice, screaming and yelling in Italian. Barely able to move, Samuel peered down the alley and saw all of the boys running in the other direction. Samuel rested his head back on the asphalt. When he looked up, he saw the face of a large man with a scraggly salt and pepper beard and a long ponytail.

“Get up, my friend,” said the man, reaching down and lifting Samuel with little effort. “What are you doing here this time of night?” Samuel, exhausted and confused, could barely speak.

“I’m…trying…to…get home,” he finally stammered, exasperated. “I need…to get to…the American…Em…bassy.” He bent over. His head and the alley swirled all around, and then his legs gave away. The giant caught Samuel and lifted him up like a new bride.

“No, no, my friend, Luciano will take you home where you can rest.

We’ll deal with your problems tomorrow.” Samuel wanted to protest, but didn’t have the strength. Luciano’s kind eyes told him he was in good hands for the moment, so Samuel let his body go limp, and collapsed into a deep sleep.

C
ardinal Polletto sat behind his immaculate glass-top desk, phone glued to his ear, sipping a Brazilian espresso. He’d just finished thanking Bishop Niccolo at the Vatican Archives for overriding Cardinal Maximilian’s request that Father Tolbert be brought back to Chicago for questioning. The bishop told Cardinal Maximilian that he didn’t have a ready replacement, and that he was already shorthanded. The cardinal didn’t put up much fuss. Maintaining the precious heirlooms and artifacts in the archives was a priority at the Holy See, so Cardinal Maximilian agreed to conduct any needed interviews over the phone via conference calls.

However, as Cardinal Polletto listened to the bad news being reported to him by Sister Bravo, the temporary victory evaporated, and the knot in his stomach cramped.

“How? When?” asked Cardinal Polletto, his voice stern and angry, fist wrapped tight around the secure satellite phone.

“We’ve been looking for over an hour,” answered Sister Bravo, cool and steady. “He jumped out of a parked car and ran into a crowd, but we’ll find him. I have a team on it.”

“How many?”

“Sin, Murphy, and two others. They’re scouring the streets in plainclothes, around the clock. ”

“It’s not enough. Put everybody on the streets. Make it an all out effort. I want him found quickly.”

Sister Bravo cleared her throat. “We should keep the effort small, but deliberate. I want him found too, and I take full responsibility for losing him in the first place, but we don’t want to attract unwanted attention.”

“If he’s not found quickly, and the Americans get hold of him, what kind of attention do you think that will attract?”

“I understand, Cardinal. I was just thinking that he’s in Rome, and knows no one. We have the advantage.”

“Sooner or later somebody will point him to, or take him to the American Embassy. So I don’t think our advantage will last very long.” Sister Bravo fell silent. After a few seconds, she cleared her throat again. “You’re right. I’ll add a few more bodies on the street, but I still think a full scale effort is too dangerous.” Cardinal Polletto leaned back and rubbed his eyes. “Very well,” he finally said. “But remember, Rome can be dangerous, even for those who know the streets. If something should happen to Samuel, we’ll pay the price.”

“Forgive me, Cardinal, but if Samuel Napier is who you say he his, nothing will happen to him.”

Cardinal Polletto smiled.
True, very true.
“You’re correct, Sister, but that won’t stop him from falling into the wrong hands. Contact Captain Merced at the Vatican Secret Service, and have him put two men loyal to us on it quietly.”

“Very well, Cardinal. But there is one other matter.”

“Yes.”

“If we don’t find the boy within the next twelve hours, I must notify the tribunal at The Order. He’s my responsibility, and I won’t burn for this without them knowing.”

The cardinal stroked his chin. “Very well, twelve hours, then we’ll notify the tribunal, but not before.”

The line went dead. Cardinal Polletto stumbled over to a locked cabinet, opened it, poured himself a glass of wine and sat back down. He drained one glass, then another.
Stupid, stupid fools! How could they lose
the boy?

The last thing Cardinal Polletto wanted was to irritate the tribunal at The Order of Asmodeus. For centuries, The Order had worked every angle to torment The Church, watching and waiting for the opportunity to deliver the death blow. With that day in sight, he had managed to fumble The Order’s golden opportunity, a mistake that would certainly not go unpunished. Even he, leader of The Order, was not above its precepts, and his enemies on the tribunal wouldn’t hesitate to take his head.

The cardinal agreed with Sister Bravo on one point. Samuel Napier was no ordinary boy, and any fear of his untimely demise was unfounded. The setback, although catastrophic, couldn’t stop the boy’s destiny. However,
his
destiny was another story. He paced the room.
I
need to act. I need to do something.
A Machiavellian smile crept across his face.

He rushed to his desk and rifled through his drawers until he found an old, torn address book, its pages stained from age, and located names he hadn’t called on in years. He hesitated, rocking back and forth in the chair.
If The Order finds out Samuel’s gone, I’ll be killed. I must get him
back.

He stared down at names of men and women loyal to him, but not The Order. Using outsiders was frowned upon, but this was no ordinary predicament. He had to find the boy, and his old friends in Rome were the best in the business.

Cardinal Polletto dialed the leader of the group. A gruff, male voice answered.

“It’s me,” said Cardinal Polletto.

“Ahhh, Your Eminence,” said a voice on the other end. “So nice to hear from you, it’s been a long time. We’ve been waiting for your call.” Cardinal Polletto sat up straight. “Oh?”

“Yes, we understand you’ve lost a little boy.”

A
light rain burst into a torrential shower, as Robert trailed a black Ford Excursion with dark tinted windows through the wet Chicago streets. Cardinal Maximilian had refused to talk to Robert and Thorne in the parking deck under Detective Reynolds’ apartment building, so they agreed to follow them to a more secure location.

“This keeps getting weirder by the second,” said Thorne, loading extra shells into her shotgun. “Are you sure these are the guys who tried to help save Samuel?”

Robert wasn’t sure about the others, but recognized Cardinal Maximilian’s distinct voice. “I’m sure,” he answered. “The cardinal was definitely there, so he knows something.”

”I’ve never known priests to carry Mac-10’s and shotguns. They look more like mercenaries.”

“Well, I plan to get answers. Right now, they’re the best lead we’ve got.”

Thorne checked the clip in her Glock 20 10mm automatic.

Robert looked over at her. “Think we’ll need all of that?” he asked.

“A girl’s got to be ready when she goes out. Besides, like I said, they’re priests carrying shotguns. At this point, anything’s possible.” The SUV rolled south down Halsted to 49th Street, made a left, and parked in front of a large dilapidated warehouse on Wallace. The area, formally home to the stockyards that made Chicago’s meat industry famous, was now called Back of the Yards, and most of the old meat and slaughterhouses were a long gone memory.

One of Cardinal Maximilian’s people jumped out and disappeared inside the condemned, windowless tomb. A few moments later, a signal from the front door said it was safe for everyone to come inside.

The warehouse reminded Robert of several he’d held similar meetings in around the world. Most notably, a haunting structure in Frankfurt, Germany, where he and Thorne ended up shooting it out with a group of pissed-off Nazis dealing black market munitions to the Middle East. They barely made it out alive.

Robert followed Cardinal Maximilian in silence. Thorne brought up the rear behind the five others, whose faces remained hidden behind ski masks. The warehouse, cold, rank and wet, held nothing more than a few rows of rusted shelving and stacks of rotted wooden pallets. Even in the shadows, Robert spied several rats the size of big cats scurrying overhead along the steel beamed rafters. They reached a far corner and stopped.

One of the cardinal’s people turned on a fluorescent lantern and sat it on a stack of wooden crates. Thorne moved to the right side of the group, expressionless, both hands on the pistol grip, her eyes coolly scanning back and forth.

“So, Mr. Veil, tell us how much you know so far?” asked Cardinal Maximilian.

“Let’s see, my godson’s been kidnapped. One of my oldest friends doesn’t want me involved, and somehow the Church has a hand in it,” he responded.

Cardinal Maximilian took a deep breath. “I was hoping to hear more about what you’ve learned so far.”

Robert stared hard at the cardinal. “Forgive me, but I still don’t know who you are. You say you’re a priest?”

Cardinal Maximilian looked over at his compatriots, then back at Robert and Thorne. “Yes, I’m a cardinal in the Roman Catholic Church.”

“Since when do clerics run around in ski masks carrying guns?”

“Since 1853,” said Cardinal Maximilian. “Of course, the weapons of choice have changed, but our mandate remains the same.” Thorne took a step forward. “Mandate?”

The cardinal placed his hands behind his back and paced, deep in thought. After a moment, he lifted his head. “Before I explain, allow me to introduce you to my people.” The four men and one woman stood erect at Cardinal Maximilian’s words. “First, there’s Sister Isabella Cacciavillian.”

One of the five, carrying a shoulder strapped Uzi, stepped forward and removed her ski mask. A dark haired, no nonsense woman with cat-like gray eyes, smiled and shook out her hair. “Ciao! It’s a blessing to meet you. Please call me Sister Isabella.” The nun bowed her head, smiled at Thorne, then stepped back in line with the others. Her posture, head high, standing tall, reminded Robert of his partner. He sensed a power behind Sister Isabella’s gentile manner and mesmerizing Italian accent.

The next in the group slowly walked over to Robert, one hand extended, the other removing his mask. The gentle, smiling face of a handsome Chinese man with shoulder length jet-black hair lit up the warehouse.

“I am Father Shan Rui Kong,” he said, head bowing slightly, eyes never leaving Robert’s. The priest’s smile widened. He grasped Robert’s hand gently with both of his, bowed again, this time his eyes to the ground, then turned to Thorne and did the same.

The next in line rushed forward and snatched off his mask so fast, Robert thought Thorne might shoot him. But one look at the toothy grin of Father Nicholas O’Conner and Robert knew they were in no danger at all. The priest introduced himself, and gave Robert a strong hug. Father O’Conner’s salt and pepper hair and beard beamed an almost grandfatherly look, but the rock hard muscles Robert noticed during the hug told a much different story.

Next, the smallest of the group, Monsignor Fernandes Falco removed his mask and stepped forward, his hard, chiseled face and pronounced features more monster than man. He shook Robert’s hand without a word, glared at Thorne then resumed his place.

Finally, Bishop Nicholas Lantern, young, handsome and obviously athletic, greeted both Robert and Thorne with a hint of disdain. He barely made eye contact, and abruptly rejoined his comrades, jaws clinched, eyes narrow.