Irene wore a Hillary Clinton pantsuit and sported a wide hat that sheltered her from the sun. Truthfully, it was an unusual look for her. In fact, she looked different in other ways, too, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. On either side, but separated by fifteen or twenty feet, two members of her security detail stood watch. If Irene was doing her best to remain unnoticed, the guards, with their business suits, high-and-tight haircuts, and curlicue earpieces, weren’t helping.
As Irene stood, the security guys moved in closer, and a third one materialized out of the crowd to form a kind of phalanx to escort her away from Dom and toward the black Suburban that doubled for executive limousines in these days of heightened security in Washington.
Dom stopped as he saw her leaving, and checked his watch. He was right on time. Two minutes early, in fact. She’d never stood him up before.
He raised his arm to call after her.
He stopped, though, when he was blindsided by a tourist who pushed him to the ground. Dom caught himself with his hands, but there was a good chance that he’d put a hole in the knee of his trousers.
“Oh, God, Father, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
Dom looked up to see what could only be a vacationing computer programmer. Maybe forty years old, he guy wore black-rimmed glasses, a Denver Broncos T-shirt, and cargo shorts.
“I’m so sorry. I just wasn’t watching where I was going. Here, let me help you up.” He extended a hand.
Dom waved him off as he rolled to a sitting position on the ground. “No, I’m fine. No harm done.” Good news: his trousers were still intact.
“Let me help you up, Father D’Angelo,” the man said in a barely audible voice.
Dom’s head snapped up at the sound of his name. Something changed behind the tourist’s eyes. It wasn’t frightening, exactly, but there was a look of urgency.
“Okay.” Dom grasped the man’s hand in a power grip that involved their thumbs, and as he did, he felt something pressed into his palm.
“I’m so sorry, Father,” the tourist said aloud. As Dom found his balance, the tourist dusted him off. When he was very close, he said, “Don’t look at the note till I’m gone. Wait fifteen minutes and follow the directions exactly.”
Dom just stared.
“You’re sure you’re okay, right, Father?” the tourist asked, loudly enough to be heard by others. “I really am sorry. Hope it doesn’t keep me out of Heaven.” With that, the man turned away and headed toward the Freer Gallery.
He never looked back.
CHAPTER NINE
Jonathan climbed out of the Toyota and waited for Tristan to join him. “Stick with me like a shadow,” Jonathan said. “Remember… do exactly what I say exactly when I say to do it.”
Jonathan and Boxers spread out as they exited the vehicle, allowing a distance of fifty feet between them. The separation increased the effectiveness of their surveillance while at the same time making it harder for any hidden bad guys to take them out. At this distance, a bad guy would have to be a great shot twice, and even if he hit the first target, he’d likely die while preparing to shoot the second. This game was as much about intimidation as it was about marksmanship, and the more the bad guys second-guessed themselves, the better it was for the good guys.
The residents of the village were slow to catch on to them. It started with the kids in the game. The goalie on the far end pointed and said something Jonathan couldn’t hear, and a kid from the other team booted the ball past him while he was distracted, bisecting the wheelbarrow and the tricycle that served as goal posts. The scoring team started to celebrate, but then they followed his eyes, and they, too, started to point.
The stoppage of the game drew the attention of the adults, who stood and watched.
Jonathan keyed his mike. “Watch their hands,” he said. “If they don’t go for weapons, we keep our weapons down.”
Boxers tapped his transmitter.
The villagers seemed more curious than frightened, though Jonathan noted that two of the adults held their hands out to their sides and splayed their fingers to show that they posed no danger. For their part, the children just stayed put.
“
Like the flip of a switch, the children returned to their game.
“Keep an eye on the adults,” Jonathan said into his radio. “I’ll watch the church.”
Boxers tapped again. Ultimately, the adults would be behind them, which meant that Boxers would have to walk backwards, but there really was no other way.
In thirty seconds, Jonathan was at the church door. He turned to Tristan. “Stay out here with the Big Guy,” he said. “Stick close to him.”
Jonathan considered knocking, but decided that that was unnecessary. The door swung open to a rush of cool, musty air. The sun shining through the glass on the far wall nearly blinded him. Instinctively, he looked to the left and to the right, just in case there might be a lurker in the shadows.
More a chapel than a church, with neatly aligned folding chairs taking the place of pews, the sanctuary had the look of a work in progress. Framed pictures along the outer walls depicted the suffering and crucifixion of Jesus, together defining the Stations of the Cross. Up ahead at the altar, the cross upon which a wrought-iron sculpture of the suffering Christ had been precariously mounted appeared to be hand-hewn of six-by-six lumber. It sat in what appeared to be a temporary support that had been nailed to the floor.
“How dare you bring guns into the house of God?” a voice boomed in Spanish from somewhere behind the blinding sunlight.
Also in Spanish, Jonathan answered, “I mean no harm. Please step out where I can see you.”
“You know the agreement,” the voice said. “No guns inside the sanctuary.”
A few seconds passed before Jonathan heard footsteps approaching. “I do not recognize you,” the voice said.
“That’s because I’ve never been here before.” Finally, the voice became a silhouette as its owner emerged from the backlight. He carried something long in his hands, and for an instant, Jonathan’s hand flinched toward his weapon. He stopped when he saw that the object was a candle lighter/snuffer that was nearly identical to the ones he’d used as an altar boy.
The silhouette’s features emerged as a young man of perhaps thirty. His narrow face looked narrower still under the thick mane of black hair that hung nearly to his shoulders. He wore a red T-shirt and blue shorts with flip-flops.
“No guns in my church,” he repeated.
Jonathan extended his hand. “My name is Leon Harris,” he said. A lie in church.
The young man looked at Jonathan’s hand, and then cast a glance over Jonathan’s shoulder, out to the door. “And who is that?”
Jonathan knew without looking that Boxers had taken up a position in the jamb, scanning the yard for any trouble that might arise. “He’s a friend of mine. His name is Richard Lerner. Is Father Peron here?” Jonathan opened the door wider to cast more light on the man.
“You are American,” the man said. “I can tell by your accent.”
Jonathan felt disappointed. He’d thought his Spanish was flawless. “
“
“No,” Jonathan assured. “I’m not military, and I’m not with the government. I’m just a private citizen in need of help.”
