James Acton 03 - Broken Dove (4 page)

Giasson smiled, though slightly awkwardly. “So, he may just be an early riser?”

The Pope spread his fingers, bending his hands at the wrist, exposing his palms, and shook his head slightly. “I must admit I find it hard to believe he could take two hours for such things, but this is his private time.” His voice trailed off, as if not wanting to intrude any further on what he had just referred to.

“Had he ever been late or missed—”

“Never,” interrupted His Holiness. “In all my years, he was never a moment late. It was really quite remarkable. In fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever known him to be ill, or to have even taken a day’s vacation.”

Giasson nodded. “Routine question, of which I’m sure I already know the answer, but”—he paused, searching for the right words—“did he have any enemies that you know of, anyone who might do him harm?”

The Pontiff nodded, the slight smile creasing his face revealing his understanding of the necessity of the question. “No, none that I’m aware of. And”—he raised his finger—“before you ask, I was in my chambers, sleeping, and I do not have an alibi, except for the two Swiss Guards on either side of my door at all hours.”

Giasson felt himself flush. “I never would have asked you, of all people, that question.”

“Which is why I saved you the trouble.”

Giasson nodded. “One other thing, Your Holiness. It appears he was not murdered in his chambers, but elsewhere, then carried to his bed.”

“Really?”

Giasson looked at the Pontiff closely. If he didn’t know better, he would almost guess he seemed caught off guard.

“Yes. Can you think of any reason he might be out of his chambers late at night, or very early in the morning?”

The Pope looked at the cross on the far wall, his voice almost a whisper. “No, no I cannot.”

Giasson rose. “Thank you, Your Holiness. That’s all I have for now.”

The Pontiff continued to stare at the cross, nodding slightly. Giasson took that as his dismissal, and made for the doorway, surprised to find it swing open as he approached. Father Morris bowed slightly to him as he passed, but Giasson barely noticed, lost in his own thoughts.

Why do I get the impression I was just lied to by the Pope?

Triarii Headquarters

Fleet Street, London, England

The Proconsol of the Triarii, Derrick Kennedy, leaned back in the sumptuous leather that was his office chair. He gazed at the history the room contained, and smiled. His mind wandered back to the day they were forced to evacuate, the physical scars on the building having been repaired, but the mental ones—those would take longer.
So many friends lost.
It had been a brutal attack, but they had survived. Not all the souls, but the history. And their charges. The Oracles of Jupiter and Apollo had been saved, their history had been saved, and they were back.

And with a tantalizing new opportunity.

He sipped his 1968 Macallan scotch, the harsh bite quickly replaced by a crisp, fresh, numbing feeling as it slid down his throat and rushed through his veins. This was his reward for the end of a long day. Though things had settled down since the attack, since The Protocol had to be enacted, it was still busy. Running a two thousand year old secret organization descendent from the Roman Empire was mentally exhausting. With the large number of deaths at their headquarters, they had been forced to start bringing in members from around the world to staff the positions left vacant.

The Triarii had become a corporation of sorts. It was inevitable. Just like any army had its administration, so did the Triarii. Here at their Fleet Street headquarters they ran a worldwide organization with thousands of members, mostly made up of people whose families had been members for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. And with the meticulous records kept by the Triarii, they could trace back each and every one of them, to the beginning when Emperor Nero had sent them north, to protect the Empire from the skull.

With a dozen skulls found, tracked and protected around the world, they needed manpower. And that meant administration. Their records went back two thousand years. And that meant preservation, and, like any archive, they had their own initiatives underway, computerizing the records, scanning in the ancient scrolls, and securely backing up everything electronically. With the attack last year this project had taken on a new urgency.

And that was what vexed him now. Some had thought him a fool to return to this building, insisting that a new location be found. He had overruled them. The enemy was no more, those who knew of the location he felt could be trusted to not tell of it, and in a generation, it would have been forgotten. And with the scandal that had rocked the world after the events of that night, everyone was eager to keep details to a minimum.

And it didn’t hurt that several high placed government officials were members of the Triarii, including the head of the commission charged with investigating the incident.

They were everywhere. Pervading every level of society.

And it took an army of clerks and administrators to keep it all going.

He sighed and eyed his empty glass.

Another?

His phone beeped for his attention. He leaned forward and pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”

“Sir, urgent call for you, Line One.”

“Who is it?”

“Herr Roessel.”

Now that’s unexpected.

He hit the button for Line One, picking up the receiver. This was not a call he wanted on speaker.

“Good evening, Your Holiness.”

Corpo della Gendarmeria Office

Palazzo del Governatorato, Vatican City

Detective Inspector Martin Chaney sat in the outer office of the Vatican Chief of Security, Inspector General Mario Giasson. He could see him through the glass, and he wasn’t happy. Sweat beaded on his shaved head and ran down the back of his neck, slowly dampening the crisp white dress shirt he wore; the phone he had cradled on his shoulder while his hands slammed the keyboard in front of him continually slipped, frustrating him even more. He was speaking in Italian, leaving Chaney in the dark as to what he was yelling about.

Hope it’s not me.

There had been surprise in the Security Office when he had arrived to present his credentials as a courtesy. He hadn’t been summoned there by them. He had been summoned by their boss. And apparently he hadn’t deemed it necessary to inform them. In fact, even
he
had no idea why he was here. He had received a phone call last night from the Proconsol telling him that a leave of absence had been arranged at work, and he was to fly to the Vatican to meet with the Pope himself immediately. Less than twenty four hours later he was here, not as a police officer, but as a member of the Triarii.

And for what purpose he had no idea.

What possible business could the Triarii have with the Roman Catholic Church?

It wasn’t his position to question, especially the Proconsol. He had seen him several times at the headquarters, but had never spoken to him.
I’m a mere plebe compared to him.
But last night, when the coded message arrived, and the voice of the very man himself rumbled through the earpiece, he had trembled, intimidated by his mere position. He knew the power he exercised, and it was awesome in scope. He could, and indeed had, influenced elections,
told
elected governments what to do, freed those in jail, and in fact had put some behind bars.

His power was as absolute as you could get in what the populace thought was a free society.
We’re just fortunate he’s one of the good guys.
Had the Triarii killed? Yes, especially in the past. Hundreds if not thousands had been sent to their deaths in the two millennia since leaving Rome. But in the twenty-first century? None. Except during the events surrounding James Acton over a year ago. But that was all in self-defense.

I wonder what
he’s
doing.

Acton had saved his life, but they had never really connected. He knew Reading, his former boss at Scotland Yard had kept in touch, and become quite good friends with Acton and his now partner Laura. He knew that all three of them had been mixed up in the business with the death of the previous Pope recently, but had no idea where they were now. He made a mental note to call Reading and see how he was doing.

The phone slammed down in Giasson’s office. Chaney looked up and saw Giasson wave him in. He rose from his chair and entered the office.

“Close the door, please.”

Uh oh.

He closed the door and sat at a chair indicated by Giasson who had Chaney’s credentials sitting before him. And a frown.

“What is Scotland Yard doing here, Detective Inspector Chaney.”

Chaney smiled, trying to defuse the situation.

“It’s not, I assure you. I’m here on personal business.”

Giasson leaned back in his chair. “Personal business. Business? At the Vatican? What possible business could a London police officer have at the Holy See?”

Chaney shifted in his chair, slightly uncomfortable. “Unfortunately, I cannot say. It is”—he paused, searching for the right word—“
private
business.”

A vein pulsed a little faster on top of Giasson’s bald head.
Wrong word?

“My question stands, though slightly modified. What type of
private
business could you possibly have here?”

Chaney raised his hands in front of him, palms outward. “I’m sorry, but I can’t say. As I said, it’s
private
.”

Giasson’s frown creased his face even deeper. “And who is this
private
business with?”

“The Pope.”

Giasson’s thick eyebrows shot up. “His Holiness?”

Chaney nodded.

Giasson chuckled. “You know, millions have
private
business with His Holiness. But”—he raised a finger, pausing dramatically—“
he
doesn’t have business with
them
.”

Chaney displayed his palms, raising his shoulders, his head sinking slightly into his neck. “I assure you, I do.”

The phone on the desk rang, interrupting the awkward moment they were sharing. Giasson grabbed the phone. “Allo?” Chaney looked through the glass surrounding the office and at the dozens of staff at their desks. None too few heads whipped back to their computers, their curious stares caught. “Monsieur Reading, how are you, mon ami!”

Chaney’s head whipped around.
Reading?
Could there be more than one? Of course there could, but this was one hell of a coincidence.
Did he call Interpol to have me checked out?
That he could see. But how did he know Reading?
The bombing!

“We must get together the next time you are in our beautiful city and have some tea.”

He definitely knew Reading.
His legendary penchant for tea at all costs had apparently spanned the Continent.

“Listen, my friend, I have someone here I need you to vouch for. Do you know a Detective Inspector Chaney, of Scotland Yard?”

Chaney couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation, however he did notice Giasson drop a few shades of red, and the vein on his temple seemed to settle down as his frown disappeared, though not replaced with much, if any, of a smile.

“And he can be trusted?”

Again, Chaney was left to wonder what was being said at the other end of the line.

Giasson suddenly held out the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

Chaney slid forward and took the phone. “Hello?”

“Martin! How are you?”

“Hugh, I’m fine. You’re about the last person I expected to hear from.”

“Well, our friend Monsieur Giasson and I had some dealings recently with the attack, as I’m sure you heard. Going through something like that, dealing with the aftermath—well, you know how it is.”

Chaney nodded. He was never a soldier, but he had dealt with his fair share of horrors in his career, and the ones you went through it with were friends for life. Not necessarily friends you called every week, or even went to the pub with on a Friday. But if you needed something, they were there. If you bumped into them, even years later, it was like picking up right where you left off, as if they were family, because they knew who you were, what had created you, what had created both of you, the bond forged under fire stronger than any other.

“Yes, I understand.” He paused and looked at Giasson. “Can I assume you’ve vouched for me?”

“You, never!” Reading roared in laughter. “I said he should immediately escort you off the grounds, you could only be up to no good!”

Chaney chuckled.
I miss him.
His new senior partner was nice, and they got along quite fine, and in time he was certain they would form the same bond he and Reading had enjoyed after years of working side-by-side, however their relationship was still fresh, and that camaraderie had yet to gel.
Give it time.

Chaney looked at Giasson, but spoke to Reading. “Can I assume we’re okay?”

Giasson nodded, a slight smile on his face as Reading confirmed it. “Yes, you’re fine, mate. I told him I trusted you with my life. When you get back to London, call me, and we’ll do tea.”

“Absolutely. Good bye, Hugh.”

“Good bye, my friend. Now put that Swiss blowhard back on the line.”

Chaney handed the phone to Giasson, who took it and spun around in his chair, his back facing Chaney. He lowered his voice, but Chaney had little difficulty hearing him.

“So he is who he says he is?” A pause. “And he can be trusted.” Another pause. “That is all I needed to hear, mon ami. When you are next in Rome, we will have tea. Au revoir.” He spun his chair and dropped the phone into its cradle.

“Monsieur Reading seems to think very highly of you.”

Chaney smiled. “And I of him. We were partners for many years.”

“Hmmm. So, you claim to have an appointment with His Holiness.” He raised a finger, cutting off Chaney before he could set him straight. “Let us check.” He picked up the phone and dialed an extension. “Bonjour, c’est Giasson. J’ai un Monsieur Chaney ici qui a dit qu’il a une réunion avec le Pape.” He listened a moment, his eyebrows shooting up at one point. “Okay, merci.” He hung up then looked at Chaney. “I’m sorry I doubted you. You are requested to join His Holiness in his office as soon as is convenient for you.”