The Secret of Fatima (6 page)

Kevin opened the car window to take in the air, the smell, the aura of this place he'd once called home while training for the priesthood. There was something about being here. Even with his eyes closed he knew exactly where he was, and he liked it. As a city, the entirety of Rome was sacred: just being here lifted his spirits.

From time to time, Kevin noticed Drotti looking at him quizzically. Kevin knew Drotti was still ruffled by the skirmish with the thugs. To a shielded soul like Drotti, the incident must have been upsetting. Every time Kevin looked at Drotti, he'd see that question on his face.
How does a man like you become a priest?

Drotti drove to the side of the columns, through the gates to the Vatican, and stopped at an administrative building. The two men said little. When they stopped, Drotti got out. “I'll pick up the keys to your apartment; be right back,” he said. “Stay out of trouble while I'm gone?”

“I didn't start the trouble,” said Kevin defensively.

“I know,” Drotti said. He was stiff and slow, with a wise, all-knowing look on his face, as if he knew more than he was telling.

Drotti went to the villa's gated reception area. Kevin watched him, thinking,
Why had he been brought here?

When Drotti returned, he climbed back into the driver's seat and started up the engine.

“Everything OK?” asked Kevin.

“Sure. I got your key. No messages from the thugs.” He looked at Kevin, smirking.

Kevin allowed a half smile, knowing their scuffle with the thugs was only the beginning. This wasn't a pleasure trip.

Drotti drove the Alfa Romeo up a hill lined with towering pines. Kevin rolled down his window, relishing the fragrance of the pines and the freshness of the morning air, a welcome contrast to the smog and hustle-bustle of the city. The Sistine Chapel's steepled roof was on his left, the Vatican Museum on his right.

Slowing in front of a four-story brick building, the Villa Domenica, a Romanesque villa with manicured gardens, Kevin recalled it was the one he was looking for. They stopped. Kevin wondered why he'd be staying in such splendor. This place was for VIPs, like diplomats, celebrities, or high-ranking church officials.

“Welcome to your home away from home,” Drotti said dryly.

“I'm staying here?”

“I think you'll like it.” Drotti nodded.

“You think it's secure?” asked Kevin.

“As secure as anywhere here,” Drotti said. “Best we can do.”

The men left the Alfa Romeo and Drotti led Kevin through the villa's reception area to his apartment on the first floor. Kevin whistled. “This is a welcome surprise.”

“Pretty luxurious, isn't it?”

It was far more than Kevin had expected. A VIP setup with a living room and flat screen TV, separate bedrooms, outfitted in modern furniture, and a fully stocked refrigerator and bar with whiskey, beer, and vodka.
Mmm
, thought Kevin.
Drinking is one of the vices tolerated in the priesthood
. He was grateful for that.

“Try to get some rest. I will too,” Drotti said, his face drawn. “I'll be by for you at five o'clock. We have a meeting.”

“Who with?”

“Tell you later. Make yourself comfortable. Please, no shootings or gangsta-like shenanigans.”

“Duly noted.” Kevin beamed, grinning from ear to ear.

“If you need anything, you have my number. But my offer is good for emergencies only,” said Drotti.

“Don't worry, I'll be fine.”

When Drotti had left, Kevin unpacked quickly, finding ample room in a walk-in closet and dresser for storing his things. He plugged in his laptop, placing it on the desk, and was relieved to see a card offering Wi-Fi with a password. The apartment had all the office equipment a guest might need, including a copy machine and a fax.

Once everything was put away, Kevin laid his breviary, the liturgical book of the Latin rites of the Catholic Church, on the bedside table. He never traveled without this little book. Exhausted, he flopped onto the bed. He had a throbbing headache. The jet lag, plus the charade with the thugs, had done him in.

“
Colombo
,” the thugs had said.
What did that mean?
Kevin had no idea. At least, by the end of it, Kevin had gotten his hands on a couple of pistols. He'd need to figure out how to get ammunition. That shouldn't be too difficult. Maybe he wouldn't need it, but his experience told him otherwise. Later on, he'd search the SIM cards.

Kevin's iPhone beeped. A text message from Katie:

“Going to Brussels next week. Afterwards shall I come to Rome for a couple of days?”

Kevin had no idea of his itinerary—he'd just gotten here. A visit from a woman might be problematic. But then it was Katie. The thought of her warmed him.

“Sure,” he texted.

Chapter Six

Seville, Spain

Carlos Alameda's shabby one-room apartment was nestled among rows and rows of same-size houses in the poorest section of Seville. The paint on the buildings was peeling, exposing rotting wood beneath. The apartment was ascetic. Simple. A rickety metal cot covered with a thin blanket, a small wooden table and chair, and a light bulb hanging from the ceiling on a string. Once upon a time, the walls may have been washed in white, but now were gray.

Wet from a shower, Carlos Alameda stood in his underwear facing the window. This was his home. Carlos was interested in utility only, not comfort. This bare-bones décor was what he needed. Standing at the window, he noticed the sun hovering over the buildings in the distance, ushering in the dawn of the day.

Carlos's trim body and taut muscles glistened from his shower. If there'd ever been an ounce of fat on him, there was no trace of it on this body that had been muscled and toned years earlier under the expert training of the Franco Youth Brigade. Carlos often prayed to the founder of the brigade, his own grandfather who, during the Spanish Civil War, had fought alongside Generalissimo Franco as part of the ultranationalist movement in the thirties.

Falling to his knees, he prayed out loud in his native Spanish. At fifty-four, Alameda was the trusted and obedient servant of the Visitor, the leader of Opus Mundi. He'd been working for the Visitor for more than thirty-five years.

The morning's quiet was broken by the sonorous clang of bells from Seville's cathedral. The bells reminded Alameda of his start with Opus Mundi. It was after he'd completed his studies for the priesthood. He'd been given the mission of violence with Opus Mundi. Should he get ordained? It seemed pointless. He never had.

Back in 1980, the Visitor had taken notice of him and his talents. Alameda was special. He was recruited to train a contemporary, Mehmet Ali Agca. The young Turk being trained by Carlos was determined to do whatever he could to save his family from starvation and penury. They told Agca he could also retain his farm for his parents and siblings in Yozgat. But the deal was that he must do as they ordered, without question. Agca agreed, of course. But he didn't realize he was selling his soul.

At about the time he was thinking of being ordained, Alameda trained the young Turk to be an assassin. His mission: to assassinate Pope John Paul II.

Finishing his prayers, Alameda dressed in black trousers and shirt, as was his custom. Now it was time for another ritual. In a small bowl on the table were six shiny steel knives, each with a short handle and a six-inch blade. Once thrown, the knife would spin twice, then level out, blade first, on its trajectory to the target.

No one was better at throwing knives than Alameda. This morning, he grabbed the knives and placed his target on the wall with a piece of tape. It was a recent photo of His Holiness Quintus II.

Alameda backed up ten meters, spun around, and in a fluid, practiced motion of speed and balance, launched a dagger. The knife sailed through the air, striking the target in the forehead. Alameda performed the same motion twice more, striking the target precisely in each eye. He was a master.

Alameda smiled, remembering how he'd trained young Mehmet Agca for his day with the pope. But when the day had come, the attempt had failed. On May 13, 1981, he shot Pope John Paul II in St. Peter's Square. The pope fell, but hadn't died. Instead, Agca was captured and imprisoned. The Opus Mundi had upheld their end of the bargain. While Agca was sentenced to life in prison, his family survived, though modestly.

The bells were now tolling again. Alameda checked his wristwatch. Time to get to work.

Chapter Seven

Kevin's Mission, Vatican City

Monsignor Max Drotti arrived at Kevin's executive suite promptly at five p.m. Drotti was clean-shaven, looking eager. Kevin, too, was refreshed. He'd grabbed a nap, showered, and downed a beer. Ready to go.

“Did you find everything here satisfactory?” asked Drotti.

“Perfect. Everything was great.”

“No visitors or shootings?”

“Well, well,” said Kevin. “The monsignor has a sense of humor!” Kevin slapped him on the back good-naturedly.

“Just looking out for you,” said Drotti, dryly. “I hadn't realized you were one of those rambunctious American cowboys.”

“Oh, you ain't seen nothin' yet,” said Kevin. He smiled at the monsignor.
Maybe they'd be friends, after all
. “So, who're we meeting?”

“Your good friend, Cardinal John Porter,” Drotti said. “If you're ready, let's go.”

Kevin relished the idea of seeing his old friend Porter, but he knew the meeting wasn't because Porter was missing him.

Kevin grabbed his watch and key and locked the door, following Drotti outside. Together, they walked through the damp chill of the late spring afternoon around St. Peter's Basilica. Kevin loved the history of the place. It seemed uncanny that since the fourth century there'd been a church on this site. Since Caligula was the Emperor, a granite Egyptian obelisk had stood in Rome. And then there was the
power
of this place. An indisputable lingering and mysterious
energy
which couldn't be ignored.

A pope's responsibilities are staggering—leading a church of more than one billion souls. And with the Curia, overseeing 2,500 dioceses, more than 150 Cardinals, 5,000 bishops and 400,000 priests. Kevin himself was one of those 400,000 priests. Probably the only one who'd been in the CIA. Maybe not, but thinking about it made him feel special.

In addition, there were over a million clerical brothers and nuns, plus 500 citizens, all living in this inner circle, a one hundred-acre area called Vatican City. And of course, there were museums and administrative offices and colleges, tucked around and behind the Grand Central Piazza, stone buildings marked by bronze plaques.

Cardinal Porter's office was on the second floor of the
Governatorato
, the Palace of the Governatorate, a tall, boxy building in the heart of the formal Vatican Gardens. Though it wasn't as well-known as the Apostolic Palace, where the Constantinian Basilica of St. Peter's was constructed in the first half of the 4th century, this was where the serious business was orchestrated. The most important behind-the-scenes management of Vatican City happened here, and the city's 1,500 employees were hired and managed from these offices.

“Please, this way,” said a uniformed attendant as he opened the door to Cardinal John Porter's office. As Drotti and Kevin walked into the room, Kevin let out a low whistle, but checked himself, remembering where he was. Things here were tighter, more reserved than where he came from.

Kevin and Drotti found themselves enveloped by the creation of a medieval ambience. Tall ceilings and walls of filigreed gold statues. Italian Renaissance furniture glistening with gold trim. Three period chairs faced the antique desk where His Eminence stood, smiling. Porter looked to be around sixty years old and stood six feet tall. He was slim with beautifully groomed silver hair, blue eyes, and a movie star sculpted face. If Hollywood ever needed a senior cleric for films, Porter would fit the bill.

Kevin was genuinely pleased to see his old friend again.

“It's great to see you, Kevin!” Cardinal Porter said, hugging him. He turned and shook Drotti's hand. “Nice to see you, as well. I wish the circumstances were different, of course. Come, let's sit at the conference table where we'll be more comfortable.”

“So, how have you been?” asked Kevin once they were seated on forest green velvet-covered chairs around an oval oak table. Kevin thought the place was truly regal.

“I'm doing well. May have put on a few pounds.” Cardinal Porter patted his stomach. “I have to tell you, I really miss our training sessions in the gym, Kev. Can't get any of my colleagues to work out with me.”

“The extra pounds come with age,” Kevin said. He smiled. “I'm starting to feel it, too.”

“Maybe we can get in a game of racquetball while you're here?”

“I'd like that,” Kevin said, “and my game is a lot better than it used to be.”

“Really? You're telling me I'm not going to win this time around?”

Kevin shook his head. “Sorry to tell you, Eminence, you haven't got a chance.”

“We'll settle that later.” Cardinal Porter smiled. “But back to the present reality. Kevin, you're here because we need somebody with your special skills. For a major crisis.”

“So I gather,” said Kevin. “I'm surprised I was chosen. You're one of the few who really know me—and the truth about my background.”

“We considered your background carefully, Kevin, and to tell you the truth, that's precisely why we need you.” The cardinal smiled, settled in his chair, folded his hands, and took a deep breath. “I trust you, Kevin.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Kevin. “I appreciate that.”

“I suppose you've been following the international news. There's a risk of war between Iran and Israel. The Israelis might strike at any time.”