“Your Holiness.”
The Pope lifted his head from his hands. “It’s all right, Giancarlo. I am not sleeping.”
Giancarlo Mettler stepped into the room, gliding across the carpet. Giancarlo was skinny and balding, with watery brown eyes and a weak chin, the very image of an anonymous mid-level Vatican functionary. Only that fluid, catlike glide revealed him as the highly trained Swiss Guard that he was. Among all the many, many layers of security that surrounded the Holy Father, Giancarlo was the last and greatest, save for God alone. Only divine grace lay closer to the Pope’s skin than Giancarlo Mettler.
“There’s been a disturbance in the rectory, Holy Father,” the Swiss Guard said quietly. “Local law enforcement agents are investigating.”
The Pope slowly climbed up from his kneeling position beside the bed. Giancarlo politely took his arm, politely ignoring the loud creaking of his knees. “Do we need to evacuate?” the Pope asked.
“Not yet, Holy Father,” Giancarlo said. “But I wanted you prepared in case that becomes necessary.”
“The disturbance?”
Giancarlo hesitated. “Sadly, a murder. A priest.”
John Paul crossed himself. “You’re sure there is no danger…?”
“Not sure, Your Holiness. There was an eyewitness. We are certain the killer has come and gone. The grounds have been thoroughly searched. We believe it has nothing to do with your presence here.”
A soft knock interrupted them. Giancarlo frowned irritably. “Cardinal Mulrooney, Your Holiness. Security will have let him through. He insists on seeing you. I have not said you are available. I can send him—”
The Pope patted Giancarlo on the shoulder. “I could not sleep anyway, Giancarlo. Let him in, please.”
John Paul arranged himself on a stool at the foot of his bed as Giancarlo opened the door and stepped aside, becoming instantly invisible as Cardinal Mulrooney swept into the room. He knelt perfunctorily and stood quickly. “Your Holiness, you have been informed?”
The Pope nodded. “I understand there is no danger.”
“Not of that kind,” Mulrooney said. He glanced back at Giancarlo, aware of him despite the guard’s ability to fade into the background. “May we speak privately?”
Ever alert, Giancarlo stepped forward, his face a question. John Paul nodded, and Giancarlo departed without a word.
Mulrooney said, “Your Holiness, the murder is terrible, but the danger is not to your body. I believe…” He hesitated, reluctant to speak of the topic, even in the most circumspect terms. “I believe this murder may have something to do with… the
The Pope did not immediately take his meaning. “Issue?”
“Yes, Your Holiness,” Mulrooney snapped, annoyed at the man’s thickness. “The issue. The one that we had hoped would never become a problem. A very serious, very public problem.”
John Paul was still for a moment, his mind scrolling through a list of possible problems, the vastness of which only he could know. Then he trembled ever so slightly as he summoned, from some locked place in his mind, one of the greatest of fears. “How could it possibly… oh.” John Paul was much quicker than Mulrooney wished to admit. In a flash, he grasped the possibilities: discovery, a vengeance killing, the police, capture, a trial, exposure, a suspect on trial beyond the reach of the church, embarrassment beyond measure.
“Was this one of the priests that was relocated?” the Pope asked.
“Twice, Your Holiness,” Mulrooney said. “And… it seems the police discovered a book of some kind. Written by one of the children. The killer was the father.”
Big cities were sometimes the best places to hide. Andre Farrigian operated a small import/export business out of a nondescript warehouse on Pico Boulevard just a few blocks west of the 405 Freeway. His warehouse was a mile away from Sony Pictures, a few miles west of UCLA, and only a few blocks from a police station, but no one noticed him. Who cared about one more gray and blue building surrounded by a plastic-sheath and chain-link fence?
Farrigian’s import business was legitimate, but it was a loser, and had operated in the red for all three years of its existence. Neither Andre nor his two brothers cared. The business offered plenty of cover for their more profitable hobby — small-scale arms dealing. They were small-scale because they were smart enough to realize that they weren’t smart enough to get bigger. A bigger operation meant greater danger and more watchful eyes. A bigger operation required better contacts among various governments, and bolder action to secure both equipment and customers. The Farrigians were neither bold nor well-connected. Besides, they made a decent enough profit distributing small quantities of automatic weapons to local gangs, snatching up explosives for the mob, and sending the occasional ordnance overseas to a few Palestinian and Lebanese organizations they had come to know. Big business just sounded like big trouble, a thing that Andre had avoided with an almost religious devotion.
So when the man called saying he was named Stockton and using Dog Smithies’s name as a reference and giving out Dog’s cell phone number, Andre was only a little suspicious. He told the man he’d call back, then he dialed Dog’s number, which he already knew, of course. No answer. This didn’t surprise Andre since he knew the motorhead usually parked his carcass at the Killabrew around this time of night.
Farrigian called over to the bar.
“Killabrew,” said a gruff, vaguely feminine voice.
“Hey, it’s Andre Farrigian,” he said, not remembering her name. “Dog there?”
The bartender lady snorted. “What’s left of him. Drunk out of his gourd. Can’t get him off the floor. Sure can’t get him to the phone.”
Farrigian frowned. He didn’t know the bartender well, but Dog had told him that they moved in the same circles, so he thought the risk was minimal. “You ever hear Dog talk about a guy named Stockton?”
The bartender lady hesitated… but maybe it was the usual thief’s hesitation before speaking on a telephone. The untrustworthy trusted no one. “Maybe,” she said at last. “Kind of blondie. Raspy voice.”
Farrigian nodded. “Thanks. Gaby,” he added, remembering her name at last.
Gaby hung up the phone and turned to the Federal agent standing next to her. “Okay?” “Good enough,” the man said, already walking out.
“Just don’t take my liquor license!” she yelled.
“We’ll be in touch.”
The blond man and the skinny chick walked into his warehouse at about a quarter after midnight. Farrigian was sitting at the steel desk in his cramped, frosted-glass office in a corner of the warehouse. The desk was piled high with invoices, customs forms, shipping manifests, and other assorted documents. All of it was as real as it was neglected. Andre hated paperwork. He stood up and moved toward the door as they approached.
“Hey there,” Andre said. His English was perfect and his slang very American, but he could still hear traces of that clipped Armenian accent he cursed his parents for. “No sense going in there,” he said. “Not even room to fart.”
“Glad you could see us,” the blond man said, holding out his hand. “Stockton. This is Danni.”
Farrigian smiled. Smiles seemed to relax people and cost nothing, so he doled them out freely. “How’s Dog?”
“Drunk, last time I saw him,” Stockton said.
“Most of the time.” Farrigian laughed. “So, what can I do for you two?”
The blond one, Stockton, said, “I’m looking to buy something kind of like what you sold to Dog.”
Andre kept the big, friendly grin on his face, which was easy. He was the jovial type. But he wasn’t stupid. “Hmm, I guess I sold some stuff to Dog. I sell a lot of stuff, you can see. We talking about imports here? I got these great office decorations. It’s like a crystal ball, but there’s a Chinese scroll inside, all decorated.”
The woman spoke up. She was hot by American standards, but Andre liked his woman with more hips and ass. “We’re talking about something a little more interesting. Some people are throwing a party. We’re looking for something that will make a big bang.”
That was corny, Farrigian thought, but he was used to it. Truth was, he’d spoken more than a few corny lines
