The Guardian (16 page)

He left the office and headed for the papal apartment. On the way, he pulled out his cell phone and called Jonathan. He didn’t like making these kinds of calls where someone could overhear, but this was important. He needed to tell Jonathan about Agent Hale’s call.

He was finishing his conversation as he approached the door to the pope’s room. He closed the phone and nodded to the Swiss guard as he entered. The guard quickly acknowledged him. He was the second highest official in the hierarchy, after all. Next to the pope, he was probably the most known figure in all of Vatican City.

He walked over to where the pope lay and placed a hand on the sick man’s shoulder. A doctor, two nurses, and the pope’s personal assistant were all in the room. Wickham asked if they would all give him and the pope a minute of personal time. He said he needed to discuss a matter of extreme importance. Everyone nodded and stood to leave. The doctor explained that he would need to give the pontiff another round of antibiotics in a few minutes. Wickham assured him that he would be quick.

Wickham walked everyone to the door and closed it behind them. He turned the latch to the dead bolt lock. Pouring two cups of tea from the kettle on the bedside table, he reached inside his pocket and brought out the vial that contained the untraceable liquid. He unscrewed the top and let two drops fall into one of the mugs. He took a spoon and stirred the mixture. It was the third time in as many days. The poison, just as he was told, was doing its job. And the best part was that no one was the wiser. As far as anyone knew, Pope Paul VII had the flu.

He took a seat beside the bed and grabbed a hand towel that had been sitting next to the teakettle. He wiped the sweat from the pope’s brow. Pope Paul VII slowly opened his eyes. A faint smile formed on his lips.

“Louis,” he wheezed. “So good to see you. How is everything, my friend?”

“Everything is fine, Your Holiness.” Wickham set the towel back on the table. “How are you feeling today?”

“I’m afraid, not too good.” He coughed. “I’ve never felt like this with the flu.”

“Yes, the doctor says it’s a very rare strain. I’m sure you’ll be back on your feet in a couple of days. Here, drink this. It will make you feel better.” He handed him the mug of tea.

The pope took the hot mug and sipped it. “This is very good tea, Louis. Did you make it?”

“No.” He chuckled. “I’m afraid I can’t take credit for it. I think one of the nurses made it for you. I’ll be sure and tell her how much you like it.”

“Yes, do that. Very good tea, indeed. So, did you come just to visit? I’m sure that there is something important you could be doing. No use wasting your time sitting with a sick old man.” He tried to laugh, which led to another coughing fit.

“Actually, Your Holiness, I did come here on business.” He sat up in his seat and tried to look as innocent as he could. “I was in your office a little while ago. I needed to get some order form for something.” He waved his hand, as if dismissing what he’d just said. “While I was in there, the gray phone in your desk rang.” He waited for a reaction. Just as he thought, the pope immediately took interest.

Pope Paul VII sat up a little bit. He had a concerned look on his face. “I’m not sure what phone you’re talking about, Louis. Gray phone?”

“Yes, you know. The one sitting on your desk. In your private study. It looks just like the one in your prayer room over there.” Wickham pointed to the closed door across the way.

“Oh, that one.” Pope Paul tried to act as if it were nothing.

“I went ahead and answered it since I was in there. I mean, you are obviously not in any kind of shape to be receiving calls. I thought it may be important. So I answered it.”

“You did?”

“Anyway, an Agent Hale called to tell you that he and his team will be—what did he say?” He moved his hand in a circle, as if trying to recall. “Ah yes. Code three? I believe that’s what it was. Yes. Code three.”

“I see.” Pope Paul VII now sat completely up in his bed. He had a concerned look on his face.

“Is something wrong?”

“Did he say anything else?”

“No. That was it. Just code three.”

Wickham watched as the concerned look turned to one of fear. Obviously the pontiff was worried. And he should be. He tried hard to stifle his excitement. “Is there something you need to tell me about, Paul?”

Pope Paul VII slid back down in his bed. How could this have happened? How could Father Vin be so careless? Code three was bad. Really bad. Never in his term as pope had the guardian been code three. Actually, since the whole “code” system had been in place, no guardian had been code three.

Something was wrong. Code three meant that the protector, Father Vin in this case, was dead. It also meant that the guardian, Anna, was headed to a safe house. Hale, he knew, would see to it that Anna was safe and secure. As soon as she was, the pilot would then return to the Vatican and brief him. Hopefully Hale would get here soon and explain everything.

He knew that since the arrival of the scroll two thousand years ago, people had been trying to get their hands on it. Some got close. Some had even come close to seeing it. But no one had ever caused this much havoc in such a short amount of time. Lately it seemed that everywhere that scroll went, someone got hurt, ended up dead, or both. And now two of his closest friends, Thomas and Vin, were gone. Something was definitely wrong. Whoever was trying to get the scroll this time was serious. They knew too much about too many things. He wasn’t naive. There had to be a leak.

Louis had asked him something.
Is there anything you need to tell me, Paul?
He studied the cardinal’s face. Louis looked at him expectantly, like a child waiting for his mother to tell him it was okay to go outside and play. Did he know? Surely not. How could he? Then again, how could anyone? But someone
did
know. Someone close to him, no doubt. Better safe than sorry.

“No, Louis. Everything is fine. Just fine.”

He watched as the cardinal’s look of anticipation faded. Louis showed no sign of betrayal. That was good, though it didn’t prove anything. He would still keep a tight lip on the situation.

Cardinal Wickham stood up and moved to his bedside. He patted him on the shoulder again and said, “Take care, my friend. If there is anything I can do for you, let me know. I’ll be in my office.”

“Louis, there is one thing.”

“Yes?”

“Hand me my tea, please.”

Wickham grabbed the mug from the bedside table and handed it to him. “Here, Your Holiness. I pray you feel better soon.”

He thanked the cardinal and watched him walk out of the room. For the first time he could remember, Louis seemed annoyed with him. He needed to do something. But what? What could he do, lying here in this bed sick? He could only think of one thing. He reached for the cable that was draped over the side of his bed. He pushed the little red button and waited. Seconds later, the door opened up. A pretty, young nurse, the same one who had been at his bedside for the last two days, came in. She had a soothing smile and treated him like a normal patient. She was feisty, telling him to take his medicine—she didn’t care if he
was
the pope, she was the nurse, and he was going to do what she said—even if he didn’t want to! He definitely liked her. “Yes, Your Holiness?” she asked.

“There is a key over there on my desk.” He pointed. “It unlocks my door over there. Would you get it and unlock that door?” “Certainly.”

He directed her to the cell phone, and she brought it to him. After dismissing her, he punched in the number and waited for the other end to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Hale?” He sat up again and tried to clear his throat.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Hale, this is Pope Paul VII.”

“Your Holiness, this is not a secure line.”

“Yes, yes. I know. Listen. We need to keep this quick. I have become very sick. They say it is the flu. I’m not so sure. I may not have much time.”

“Please, sir, don’t say that. I’m sure you will be—”

“Listen carefully, please. Everything that has happened in the last couple of weeks—it cannot all be coincidental. Something is wrong. I suspect that someone here is helping whoever is trying to get the package. I don’t know who it may be, but if someone here is involved in this, you and your whole team are in even more danger than before. Take the appropriate precautions.”

“I will.”

“Good. I’ll call you if I learn anything else.” “Thank you, Your Holiness.”

“No, thank you, Hale. Thank you for all you do. Get back here and brief me as soon as you can.”

“I will.”

He ended the call and reached for the nurse’s button again. His head was pounding. His vision was blurring. He felt hot. He kicked the blanket off. He reached for his small leather-bound Bible and began fanning himself. He saw the door open, but the whole scene was blurry. He felt light-headed. He heard the nurse shout for the doctor and the rest of the staff just as everything went dark.

J
onathan flipped on his turn signal and pulled the rental car off the main road. Dust and gravel were kicking up behind him. This little side road wasn’t even on the map, and he’d almost missed it. Good thing he hadn’t.

The bullet wound in his leg was seeping blood. He needed to get out of the car and get to the trunk. He always carried an emergency first-aid kit. It wasn’t enough to treat a gunshot, but the kit did have some gauze, antibiotic cream, and pain medicine. It should hold him over until he could get it properly looked at.

He pulled the car to a stop, far enough off the main road that he was sure no one could see him. He slammed the door shut as he limped back to the trunk. The lid popped, and the dust that had settled on the surface from the little back road flew up into his nostrils. He sneezed.

The pain from the gunshot was killing him. He sifted through the bag until he found what he was looking for. He unscrewed the lid to the little bottle and popped three of the little blue pills into his mouth. He had no water, so he swallowed hard, forcing the little pills down. There was an old shirt in his bag as well. He unstrapped his knife and cut it into long strips. He took two of them and twisted one around the other, creating a kind of cloth rope. He propped his leg up on the bumper and tied the rope off a few inches above the bloody hole in his leg. Fortunately, the bullet missed any major artery. Had it not, he would have already bled out. He set his leg down, put the bag back, and returned to the driver’s seat. He started the engine and put the car in gear.

The little back road was just wide enough for him to be able to make a U-turn. He stomped on the gas hard and watched the gravel shoot from the rear of the car. He slammed his fist on the dash just for good measure. He couldn’t remember when he’d been this mad.

His cell phone was sitting on the seat beside him. He grabbed it, flipped it open, and punched in a number.

The voice was scratchy and deep. The German accent was deep and thick. “Hullo? What do you want?”

“Dieter, it’s Jonathan.”

“I know this. What do you want?”

“I need a favor.”

“Imagine that.”

“I’ve had an incident. I need a
cutter
. I’m in Pau, France.” “Go to the hospital.”

“If I could go to the hospital, do you think I would be calling you?”

“Give me ten minutes. I will call you back.”

He hated having to call him, but this was about staying alive. Surely Dieter would know that and not leave him hanging, even though there was no love lost between them.

At one time he and Dieter were partners. They were the most feared hit man team in all of Europe. Their reputation even found its way across the Atlantic and into the West. They had made it a contest between themselves to see who could end up wanted on more charges in the most countries. Jonathan was in the lead by eight counts and two countries—it was the way it should be, no offense to Dieter. They had been the closest thing to best friends that hit men could ask for. They’d been inseparable. Until Prague.

It was a simple hit. Two shots from two different angles, scheduled to fire at the same time. Jonathan was on a rooftop on the south side of the street, while Dieter was in an apartment window on the west side. The target, a US diplomat, walked out of the embassy just as scheduled. Both men lined up their shots. Each had his watch synchronized to sound an alarm, a simple three beeps. On the third beep, they would pull the triggers. It was a routine that had been performed many times, each without incident.

Two bullet holes from two different angles was enough to stall even the best security detail. The mere fact that two shots were taken would confuse the security long enough for them to get out before it could be determined what direction the shots came from. That was the plan.

On the third beep, Jonathan squeezed his index finger. Nothing. He squeezed again. Still nothing. The gun was jammed. He looked through his scope to see a half dozen US Secret Service agents sweeping their arms, guns in hand, in circular motions throughout the street. The target was down, lying in a pool of crimson. Jonathan disassembled his rifle as quickly as he could and ran. He later found out that Dieter was captured. Somehow, after two days of interrogation, Dieter escaped. It was reported that six American agents were hospitalized with life-threatening injuries, while two more were found dead. Dieter wasn’t someone you let your guard down with.

Jonathan never tried to contact Dieter after that. Word made its way back to him that Dieter held him responsible. Dieter thought he had sold him out. It took two years for the dust to settle. Jonathan finally tried talking to him. They met in a public place at a time of day when it would be crowded. Safety first. After two hours of cold coffee and stale bread, Jonathan finally convinced Dieter that he hadn’t sold him out. Dieter accepted his explanation but felt it would be better if they just continued to work separately. Jonathan paid the check and left without even a good-bye. That was three years ago. They hadn’t spoken until just now.