They stood at the front steps to the Immaculate Conception Catholic Church, a cathedral near their motel and a focal point to the main part of town. It was a massive stone structure with a bell tower and had an arched entry of double wooden doors with an impressive stained glass display over the doorway.
“Do you think we should split up when we get inside?” she asked as she stared up at the stained glass. “If lightning strikes, both of us won’t get whacked.”
He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. “Just give up the idea of salvation and embrace the dark side, Princess Leia. Works for me.”
“That explains a lot, Kinkaid.”
When they entered the church, Alexa felt the weight of her .45-caliber H&K MK23 at the small of her back under her T-shirt. And even though none of the parishioners paid them much attention, she still knew she didn’t belong. She felt like there was a sign over her head in flashing neon that read—
“What are we doing here, Kinkaid?” she whispered.
No matter how quietly she walked, her footsteps echoed on the tile floor, but her companion didn’t bother with subtlety. He stomped down the center aisle as if he had a perfect right to be there. He headed for the altar, his eyes searching for something.
“I’m looking for a priest. Just follow my lead.”
“Have at ’er, big guy. I’m not sayin’ a word.”
“That’ll be a nice change of pace,” he sniped.
Before she could slay him with a clever comeback, a priest came through a side entrance and walked toward the confessionals with his head bowed. He was short and pudgy with full cheeks and thinning gray hair. He wore the usual uniform, black with white collar. When Kinkaid called to him in Spanish, the man stopped and greeted them in his native tongue.
Kinkaid introduced them both and launched into his usual banter in a language she didn’t understand. And as he and the priest spoke, she watched the other parishioners. The priest must have noticed her lack of attention, because he eventually stopped his conversation with Kinkaid and focused on her.
“You do not speak Spanish?” he asked in English. When he smiled warmly, she did the same.
“Unfortunately, no,” she replied.
“My name is Father Ignatius. Welcome to my church.” He extended his arm down the side aisle. “Please… come to my private office. We can talk more and not disturb my parishioners.”
When they both nodded, the priest ushered them back the way he’d come. He took them into a cozy room that was more of an antechamber to a private residence than an office.
The room had a desk with stacks of dog-eared papers on it and a basket piled high with old magazines on the floor. A wall of bookshelves was behind the desk and along one of the walls. Alexa expected to find religious books, and there were plenty of those, but it surprised her to see so many books on cooking, art, and architecture. And there were original oil paintings displayed on one wall under special lighting—landscapes, still lifes, and monastic settings.
Father Ignatius was a true Renaissance man.
“Are these your paintings, Father?” she asked.
“Yes, I find painting relaxes me. It’s a hobby.”
“You’re quite good.” Alexa admired the artwork up close. “Very impressive.”
Before they sat, a petite woman with gray hair and striking blue eyes joined them. Under her apron, she wore dark slacks, a pink blouse, and had a string of pearls around her neck.
“Can I get anything to drink for you and your guests, Father? Coffee?” she offered with a sweet smile. “And I have gingersnaps.”
“This is Mrs. Torres, my housekeeper.” Father Ignatius made the introductions. “She’s an excellent cook,” He patted his stomach. “…as you can see.”
“I’d like coffee if you don’t mind,” Alexa said.
“Nothing for me.” Kinkaid shook his head and flashed a rare smile.
When the little woman disappeared into the next room, she left the door ajar, revealing the private residence of Father Ignatius. Alexa wouldn’t have been so nosey, but when she saw a home theater with a big-screen TV, she almost burst out laughing.
After Mrs. Torres served coffee and a plate of gingersnaps, the woman closed the doors to give them privacy, allowing Kinkaid to take over.
“I’ve had to resort to some colorful ways to find information on a local man. We don’t know whom we can trust, but I won’t lie to you, Father,” he began.
As he paused for effect, she wasn’t sure what he’d say next.
“We’re freelance reporters. And we’re looking for a despicable man,” he told the priest.
Alexa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. And she clenched her jaw, waiting for lightning to strike as he lied to a priest.
“You don’t say. Please…tell me more.” Father Ignatius steepled his hands and narrowed his eyes, completely enthralled by Kinkaid’s story.
“This man is taking advantage of those devastated by the hurricane. He takes money from desperate people and has no intention of fulfilling his obligations to salvage and rebuild their homes. And we believe he should be held accountable for his actions.”
“How terrible. Do you believe this man is part of my church? Is that why you’ve come to me?”
“No, he’s Muslim, Father. He wouldn’t belong to your church,” Kinkaid reassured the priest. “Right now, he’s hiding from the press. And we think he’s staying with a local man, someone perhaps with criminal connections himself or links to terrorist organizations. His benefactor might even be a weapons or drug dealer. Can you help us find anyone who might harbor this man?”
Before the priest answered, Mrs. Torres entered the room. In her hand she held a piece of paper. She avoided looking at them this time and handed the page to Father Ignatius, then left the room without a word. The priest seemed to expect her interruption and stared down at the paper in his hands, reading what was printed on the page.
“How curious,” the priest remarked, before he pursed his lips and looked at Kinkaid, giving his request full consideration. The man remained silent for a long time, with only the steady tick of a clock filling the void. When he finally opened his mouth, what Father Ignatius said surprised Alexa.
“I might be able to help you. I have been in Baracoa for many years, but I am curious.” The priest shifted his gaze toward her. “You’ve been very quiet, my dear. What do you have to say about all this, Martini One?”
When the priest used her call sign—the one she’d been assigned specifically for this mission, a name known only to those at Sentinels headquarters in New York City—it was as if he’d struck her in the face with a two-by- four.
“Father, pardon my language, but…” She stood and leaned across his desk. “…what the hell did you just call me?”
CHAPTER 19
Immaculate Conception Catholic Church
Baracoa, Cuba
“I’m rather partial to martinis myself. I give them up for Lent, but I can assure you I will explain all this cloak-and-dagger business straightaway. Please. Sit, my dear.” With a benevolent pious face, the so-called priest gestured with a hand.
Alexa noticed his English had improved, and his pronounced Hispanic accent had faded. And although he used British terms, like “straightaway,” she couldn’t be sure if that wasn’t another diversion. The man was an imposter and a damned chameleon.
“If you don’t mind me asking, what did Mrs. Torres bring you?” Alexa asked.
