The man took a second look at Boxers. “An American private citizen with many guns and a bodyguard.”
“If I could speak with Father Peron, I-”
“I am Father Peron,” the man said.
Jonathan cocked his head. “Really?” as soon as the word left his throat, he knew that he’d insulted the man, but good Lord, he looked like a college student.
“Loyola University,” Peron said in English. “I assure you that I look younger than I feel.”
Jonathan felt himself blush. “I meant no offense.”
“None was taken. Yet you still have guns in my church. I don’t allow that.”
This was a tough spot for Jonathan. There’s a cliche that covers moments like this that involves the phrase,
Peron put his hands on his hips and considered the request. He nodded with his chin. “We’ll talk outside.”
The note was written in a woman’s hand on a plain piece of white paper:
Including the fifteen-minute delay in the beginning, and the long interval between trains at this time of day, it took nearly an hour to make his rendezvous with the chauffeur, who was standard-issue FBI, from the glossy shoes to the gray suit that was cut a bit too large in order to accommodate his gun. The only difference was that this guy was a little older than most. He held an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch piece of white paper with
Dom approached cautiously, unsure of the protocol. Should he call himself Father Carlino? How far was he supposed to carry the charade? He decided to walk with confidence and let his collar speak for him.
As it turned out, the guy knew exactly who he was waiting for. When Dom closed to within a few feet, the chauffeur lowered the sign and closed the distance with an outstretched hand. “Hi, Father,” he said. “I’m Paul Boersky. I’ve worked with the director for a long time. Follow me.”
Boersky led the way out the front of the station and across two lanes of traffic picking up and delivering passengers. As they closed in on a Lincoln Town Car, the vehicle beeped as it unlocked, and Boersky opened the right rear passenger door for Dom.
The priest stopped short. “We’ve never met, and this feels suspiciously like a slow-motion kidnapping. Do you have ID?”
Boersky smiled. “Was wondering when you’d get to that.” He produced a creds case from his suit coat pocket and flashed his gold badge. “Really, I’m a good guy.”
As he slid into the offered seat, Dom tried not to think about how many times Jonathan had used false credentials to get his way.
During the drive through progressively more frightening city streets, Dom fought the urge to ask questions. Given the cloak-and-dagger prelude, he harbored no hope for straight answers anyway.
The trip ended after ten minutes at a place that Dom knew well. “You’re kidding,” he said. “Here?”
Boersky threw the transmission into park. “No one can ever say that Director Rivers doesn’t have style,” he said. He looked at Dom through the rearview mirror. “I’ll be waiting here to drive you back to the Metro.”
St. Matthew’s Cathedral was a far cry from St. Peter’s in Rome, but it was likewise a far cry from St. Kate’s in Fisherman’s Cove. Most famous, perhaps, as the site of John F. Kennedy’s funeral Mass, St. Matthew’s had little of the golden grandeur of its Roman father. It was dwarfed in size not just by Saint Patrick’s in New York, but even the Episcopalian Washington National Cathedral just a few miles away in Upper Northwest. Still, Dom’s heart beat a little faster as he entered.
Following his final instructions from Paul Boersky, Dom turned left as he entered the nave and headed for Our Lady’s Chapel. Again, he spotted Irene’s security detail first, chiseled men in dark suits standing just outside the chapel. Once you know what to look for, these guys might as well wear T-shirts that read BODYGUARD. Only in Washington were such teams so commonplace that they were barely noticeable.
Irene sat contemplatively in a pew near the stunning sculpture of the Blessed Mother reaching down toward her children and stared straight ahead, her hands folded in her lap. She still wore her ubiquitous pantsuit, but this one was a green print instead of the monochrome navy blue she’d worn outside the Ripley Center. She wore her strawberry-blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.
Dom sat next to her. “Good afternoon,” he said. “You changed clothes quickly.”
“Hello, Father. I was going to call you if you hadn’t called me. And the last me you saw wasn’t really me. She’s my body double. It’s a security thing. Her unofficial, entirely impolitic alternative job title is my bullet catcher. May it never come to that.”
Dom didn’t know if that was highly likely or virtually impossible. Throughout her career, Irene had had a reputation for getting involved in firefights, and being named director hadn’t done anything to change it.
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little unnerved by all this,” he said.
“Join the club.” Irene moved only her head to look at him. “I have it on good authority that I’m being watched.”
“By whom?”
She shrugged. “I have my thoughts, but I was hoping perhaps that you could tell me.”
Dom recoiled. “How would I know who’s following you?”
“Call it a hunch. My security detail picks up an electronic tracking device, and then a physical shadow on me on the very day that Digger goes on an alleged shooting rampage in Mexico. As you know, our mutual friend would be the first to disavow the validity of coincidence.”
“All due respect, you’re director of the FBI. Aren’t you followed all the time?”
“Not so much as you might expect. And when Scorpion is caught in a crack, all other ancillary events take on special meaning.”
“Can’t you just arrest the followers?”
Irene laughed. “Not in the United States, you can’t. If they don’t make a threatening move, they’re within their rights to follow anyone they want.” She waved her hand, as if swiping an invisible marker board. “Enough about me. Tell me what Digger has gotten himself into.”
“It has to stay off the record,” Dom cautioned.
“As do all things Digger-related.”
Dom related all the details he knew. “Frankly,” he concluded, “our biggest shock was when we came to realize that the FBI is gunning for him.”
Irene’s jaw tightened at the mention of her Bureau; then she smiled, albeit without humor. “We’ve known each other too long for a shot like that, Dom.”
“Are you saying that you’re not out to arrest him?’
“Of course we’re out to arrest him,” Irene said. “Or at least our border field offices are. But that’s not because of anything I did. That’s because the Mexican police labeled him a mass murderer and reported him to Interpol. I have pull, but I can’t keep the country from complying with its international treaties.”
Irene steeled herself for something, and when she looked at Dom again, the sadness in her eyes pained him. “Don’t you need to put on a stole or something? I want you to hear my confession.”
The question startled him. “Oh, my goodness, Irene,” he said. “I had no idea.” They’d played the confession ruse so many times that it never occurred to him that she might be seeking absolution for real.
He pulled a leather pouch from his pocket and removed from it a square of purple cloth. When he shook it, the square fell away from itself to form a clerical stole. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to do this in a more private
