The Secret of Fatima (15 page)

Nothing.

They repeated the maneuver. Their crawling became more rapid and proficient. They looked up again.

Nothing.

Had he overreacted? Had he miscalculated?
Nervously, Kevin focused on what he'd concluded was the optimal spot to take a shot, the closest point to the window from the far side of the columns. Straightening up, his head was poking again above the steep roof of the colonnade.

Then the target came into full sight.

Further ahead on the roof, the figure was sleek and elongated, clothed in a muddy jumpsuit camouflaged to match the brown color of the plaster, with a ski mask of the same color to cover his face. He was hard to spot just a few yards away, more difficult from above. This guy was a pro. Beside the sharpshooter lay a long cloth case where his rifle was stored.

His Holiness began with a papal blessing. The crowd quieted.

Deliberately, the assassin unzipped the case by his side and took out a sleek rifle with a telescope. The rifle rested on a small tripod attached to the barrel. He crouched into position.

His finger to his lips, Kevin signaled Max to follow him up the slanted roof. The shooter's attention was entirely on the Apostolic Palace. He checked the rifle sights, clicked a knob, and then positioned himself, looking into the telescope sight.

The time had come. More than 700 yards away, the pope's voice was loud and clear echoing over loudspeakers in the Square below, invoking the words of Jesus.

Kevin now had two options and he had to pick one fast. He could try a shot at the assassin from here, but with only a pistol, he might miss. Even if he hit the target, the man might still get a shot off with his rifle. The other option was to get closer for a better shot, and in the process create a distraction to keep the shooter from firing at the papal window. Only this option meant Kevin was substituting himself as the target. Or at least, the shooter's first one.

Kevin's decision came swiftly and his movements turned automatic. Conjuring skills learned years ago, he jumped on the roof, careening down the other side toward the shooter. In a split second, the shooter saw Kevin, sprang up and whipped his rifle around, pointing the barrel straight at Kevin.

Like a cheetah, Kevin dove to the ground and slid down the roof toward the assassin. Behind him, Max's clumsy footsteps were lacking subtlety, inviting disaster. “Down, Max!” Kevin shouted while aiming his pistol at the assassin. In this game, whoever fires first, fires last.

The assassin got off the first shot. But in this one, things were playing out differently. His aim was off. He missed. The bullet whizzed over Kevin's head, close enough to make his hair stand on end.

Kevin pointed his gun and squeezed the trigger.
Nothing
. The pistol jammed. He banged it on the tiles, as the sharpshooter positioned for another round.

Another shot rang out, but this time it wasn't from the assassin. It was from Drotti.
Thank God for Drotti!

Drotti jumped down next to Kevin on the tiles, shaking, gun in hand, ready to take another shot.

“Give it to me, Max,” Kevin said.

“Gladly,” said Drotti.

The assassin was wounded, but still standing. He readied his rifle again, aiming it at Kevin and Max, but was now moving too slowly. Kevin rose. Holding his pistol straight in front of him, he shot the assassin in the chest.

Kevin remained standing, anticipating the man's collapse, but he didn't. Instead, the shooter grimaced. Kevin realized he must be wearing a Kevlar bulletproof vest. A wicked smile plastered across his face, the guy was aiming the rifle at Kevin, but his smile was fading. Mustering his wartime
sang froid
, Kevin held the pistol steady with both hands and shot first, emptying his cartridge into the assassin's skull. The assassin's eyes grew wide, then closed as he collapsed into a heap on the roof, blood oozing out of both sides of his head. A dozen security men with guns rushed to the scene, pounding the tin roof toward Kevin and Drotti.

“Monsignor, what happened here?” asked a security guard.

By the way he took control, Drotti assumed the guard was the leader of the security team. Drotti signaled to the leader, “All under control!” Drotti explained that they'd gotten a heads up on a possible assassination attempt against his Holiness. He motioned toward Kevin, explaining that he was a special U.S. Emissary to the Vatican.

The security guard looked at Kevin, nodded, and matter-of-factly asked where the clerics had happened upon the guns.

Puffing up his chest further, Drotti said, “Inspector sir, this matter must remain top secret. Am I making myself quite clear?”

The man nodded, saying, “As you wish, monsignor. I'll handle this thing appropriately. We'll remove the body discreetly.”

“Good,” Drotti said. “Further instructions will follow from the Vatican.”

After additional cautious words from Drotti, the security men headed toward the assassin's body.

“Thanks, partner,” Kevin said.

“No problem,” said Drotti.

Drotti had some balls, after all
, thought Kevin.
Sometimes he comes across like a donkey, but under pressure, he looked like a Triple Crown race horse
.

Chapter Seventeen

Rome, Italy

Exhausted, Kevin and Drotti pushed through the crowds, heading back to Kevin's apartment. As they collapsed in armchairs, Drotti was wailing, “I'm having a heart attack.”

“How do you know?” asked Kevin.

“Throbbing in my chest.”

“I can fix that, Max,” said Kevin. He got up, went to the kitchen and poured two glasses of Scotch. He handed one to Drotti. “This is what the doctor ordered.”

Drotti took the glass, downed a swig. “I never imagined I'd do such a thing.”

“What? Drink Scotch?”

“No, shoot a man.”

“Well, you only wounded him. I was the one who killed him. I did what I had to do and my conscience will deal. I've been there before.”

“Want to talk about it?” Drotti asked.

“I don't want you as my confessor, if that's what you mean.”

“No, no, that's not what I meant. I meant talking helps …”

“My faith is deep, Max. It's the one thing I'm certain about. But there's this other side to me that's harder to quantify. I believe in justice and—”

“Was it justice, Kevin,” interrupted Drotti, “or revenge?”

The comment stung. Kevin didn't like to admit some things about himself.

“To be honest, I've been told I have an anger problem, Max. And maybe it's true. When I was stationed in Iraq, I killed a man. I was put on trial for it.”

Drotti nodded, looking away.

“I deserved to be tried,” Kevin continued, avoiding eye contact. “Not only did I kill him, but also I made sure that he suffered while dying … and …”

Drotti's mouth was wide open.

“Look, Max, this is hard to talk about,” said Kevin, noticing the stunned expression on Drotti's face. Waiting for Drotti to respond, Kevin took a big gulp of Scotch.

“I know it's important to let it out,” Drotti finally said. “Did you confess this sin, Kevin?”

“Sure … yes.” Kevin nodded. “Cardinal Porter, who was then a bishop, absolved me. But, you know what? If I had to do it over again, it wouldn't be different. I'd do it all over. That man deserved what he got.”

“I've never met a man who killed another man … on purpose,” Drotti said. “Are you are suggesting you have no remorse?”

“You don't know the whole story,” said Kevin.

“But Kevin, you're a priest. You took solemn vows. It's a mortal sin.”

“So is missing Mass on Sunday. Back off,” said Kevin. “You don't understand.”

“You're frightening me with this kind of talk.”

Kevin shot up from his chair, shouting, “The man I killed had raped a young girl, Max!Judge that, will ya? What would you have done? Grant him absolution and tell him to say three Our Father's and three Hail Mary's?” Kevin's face was beet red. He looked away from Drotti. “Max, every night I see her face. I've never seen such fear and hopelessness.” Kevin's eyes were moist. “And after it was all over, she found the strength to look at me and thank me.”

“I'm sorry,” said Drotti. “I didn't know any of this. I can see this must have been an impossibly difficult situation for you.”

“Yeah, it was hell. A kind of hell you had to be there to understand.”

“I can't begin to imagine,” said Drotti.

“I wonder what you'd have done, monsignor?”

“I don't know,” Drotti said slowly. “I honestly can't say.” Drotti paused for a second. “But you aren't God.”

“I'll deal with God,” said Kevin.

“Look, I didn't mean to make you angry, Kevin,” Drotti said. “Clearly, this is not easy for you.”

“No, it's not,” said Kevin. “And since I wasn't an ordained priest then, the situation was different. Still, I stand by my actions.”

“Why don't we just leave this subject, discuss it another time?” asked Drotti.

“Sure,” said Kevin. “Sorry I got so angry”

Drotti stood up. “Look, Kev, I need to go. I'm saying Mass tonight at 5:00.”

“OK”

“Why don't we have dinner later after you've had some time to rest?” asked Drotti. “I know a great little trattoria not far away.”

“Sure.”

After Drotti gave him directions, Kevin sat in his apartment alone, nursing a Scotch. He wasn't sure why he still got so upset about his time in Iraq. Perhaps one never gets over something like that. Not even with absolution and the gift of priesthood.

Chapter Eighteen

Rome, Italy

At eight p.m., Kevin waited at the bar of San Angelo, not far from St. Peter's. This was the kind of place which tourists all hoped to stumble upon. It was an old-fashioned trattoria with only a few tables, and lots of wall-mounted photographs showing its steadfast celebrity clientele. There were lively young Italians three deep at the bar, noisily chatting it up, drinking.

Waiting for Drotti, Kevin ordered a Scotch at the bar. When he joined Kevin, Drotti was a half hour late and was huffing and puffing. “Sorry I'm late.”

“It's OK, Max,” Kevin said. “I just fended off a beehive of great looking women.”

Max caught his breath. “Just before I left, I received a call from Cardinal Gianni Serrano. You met him in the pontiff's office, remember? He told me he was taking charge of the ‘incident' that happened today, as he called it, and news of it mustn't leak out. He said it'd be handled internally.”

“Fine with me,” Kevin said, gulping the last slug of his Scotch. “C'mon, let's sit down. I'm hungry.”

Kevin was beginning to like Drotti. He'd relaxed and was more accessible and understanding. He knew his way around the Vatican and had insight into the circle that counted. But there were rules Kevin wanted to discuss.

The two men got up and secured a quieter corner table so they could hear themselves talk over the noise.

A waiter approached them and asked, “
Un po di antipastino per cominciare
?”

The waiter ran through a litany of antipasti appetizers to start. Kevin's stock answer was no, because a first course would spoil his appetite. But tonight he was ravenous. “
Che cos'e
?
Affettati
?” he asked.

“No, no,” said the waiter. “
Un po di questo, un po di quello, tutto caldo
. It's a little of this, a little of that, and all of it is warm.”

“OK,” said Kevin. “Sound good to you, Max?”

Max nodded good-naturedly, happy Kevin was no longer dispirited from their earlier conversation.

As the little plates started arriving, there were two small crostini—made of
pane di lariano
and topped with whipped ricotta, drizzled with freshly pressed extra virgin olive oil. Then a wooden trencher full of steaming
sugo
-topped polenta with a sprinkling of fragrant parmesan. After a stressful day, it was just what they needed.

After Kevin and Drotti made small talk, Kevin got serious, clearing his throat. “Max, I'd like to designate you as my good friend. My best listening friend, if that's all right with you.”

“Of course.” Max nodded while munching on a piece of bread.

“And as my friend, I'll talk to you about things that I wouldn't discuss with anyone else, you understand?”

“Of course.”

“First, complete honesty. No backhanded deals or divided loyalties. OK?”

“Agreed.”

“Good. Then let's start with the real reason I'm here.”

“I don't understand. What do you mean?” asked Drotti.

“Don't play games, Max. If we're going to be friends, you can't be evasive with me.”

Drotti put down his fork, and looked Kevin straight in the eye. “It's true that we didn't tell you everything at the beginning, but now you know the real reason. I understand His Holiness himself told you about the secret of Fatima. We believe there's something in the message that we're not getting—that we don't fully understand—which may ultimately destroy the Church.”

Kevin shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Look, I believe in the Church and its mission. But this hokey fairytale of secrets told to children by the Virgin Mary appearing all over the place for them, is far-fetched.”

“Well, I do believe in miracles,” Drotti said. “Don't you?”

Kevin hesitated. “Not sure.”

“My beliefs come from deep faith and from hard evidence. Kevin, remember, at Lourdes, Bernadette came back with the phrase, ‘the Immaculate Conception'. A fourteen-year-old peasant girl wouldn't have known such a phrase.”

Kevin nodded. “I know. I know. I'm not saying I don't believe in miracles—I do. But not all of them. Fatima is about as real as it gets for me. There were 70,000 witnesses to the miracle of the sun. It's the so-called ‘secrets' Mary supposedly voiced that I take issue with. These were a bunch of kids. They might have misunderstood.”