He had spent the last half hour here in private meditation. He could have remained alone with his thoughts in the rooms Mulrooney had provided him, but truth be told, John Paul did not feel the presence of God in private. He had wished all his life for God to speak to him as he had spoken to Abraham. Instead, the Lord spoke to him through inspiration that he felt here, in the great echoing cathedrals throughout the world.
For twenty minutes he had prayed for guidance in this most delicate matter, but for once the majesty of the cathedral failed him. God’s word did not speak to him out of the echoing corners. He was truly alone with his thoughts.
Mulrooney appeared again, his face taut. As the Holy Father had ordered, Giancarlo allowed him through. Mulrooney hurried forward, discarding all pretense of humility. “Your Holiness, we must act,” he declared.
John Paul looked at him with his pale blue eyes, his gaze far away. Mulrooney nearly grabbed the man and shook him. “There is no more time.”
The Pope’s eyes hardened and focused on the Cardinal. “I’ve been thinking of it, Your Eminence. You are right. We have to do something, if there is still time. I am not happy about it.”
Mulrooney relaxed visibly. “It’s for the sake of the church.”
John Paul nodded. “We have a man who does this sort of thing. In the service of the church. I can have him here in ten hours—”
Mulrooney interrupted. “I have a man here.”
Now the Pope’s eyes turned hard as sapphires, gleaming suspiciously at Mulrooney. The Cardinal was reminded that they did not send up the white smoke for just an ordinary man. “Your Holiness,” he said appeasingly, “you and I may not agree on some things, but on this we are in accord. These accusations must not become public. Certainly there must be no trial. I have a man who can handle the job.”
John Paul did not trust Mulrooney, but he was right on this count. “Very well, Your Eminence. But I want Giancarlo to meet him.”
Mulrooney stood immediately, executed the briefest of bows, and turned away.
Jack was just walking through the now-familiar doors of CTU when his phone rang and flashed Driscoll’s number. “Jack, where are you? I need you to meet with someone right away.”
“I’m at CTU. Counter Terrorist Unit headquarters.” “Give me the address. You need to meet this guy.”
Mulrooney brushed past the Swiss Guard and out into the hallway. He knew Giancarlo had fallen into step behind him, though he could barely hear the man’s footsteps. It was a few minutes’ walk across the cathedral grounds to his private quarters, where the man he had in mind waited.
“We are on,” Mulrooney said as the man stood up. He indicated Giancarlo. “This is one of the Holy Father’s security men. He wanted to meet you.”
The man extended his hand. “You can call me Michael.”
Mulrooney watched the two men shake hands. They were similar, he thought, though they looked nothing alike. Giancarlo was gangly with thinning hair and a sunken chin. Michael was bronze-colored, with a sleek bald head and a very fit appearance. Yet both of them emitted the same aura.
“Michael has worked for me before,” Mulrooney said. Giancarlo nodded and smiled faintly, but didn’t take his eyes off the man. “He has some expertise in work that has been useful in the past.”
“I caught someone trying to break into the house of another priest,” Michael explained. “I stopped him, but he got away. I am sure he has a list of priests he wants to murder.”
“Did you know he was going after this other priest?” Giancarlo asked. “Do you already have the list?”
“No,” Michael said, glancing at Mulrooney. “I was watching that priest for other reasons.”
“Unrelated,” Mulrooney said.
Giancarlo shrugged. “You’re not from the U.S.,” he said to Michael. “Your accent is very good, but there’s a hint of something.”
“Lebanese Christian,” Michael said. “And I lived in Jerusalem for a while when I first started working with the church. But that was a long time ago. I’ve been here for a long time.”
This answer seemed to satisfy Giancarlo. “Please keep me up to date on anything, even the smallest thing. His Holiness will want to know.” Mulrooney promised, and the Swiss Guard took his leave.
“Will they check on you?” Mulrooney asked.
Michael stared at the spot where Giancarlo had stood as though he could still learn something from the invisible air, and said, “Yes. They will find a Michael Shalhoub who was born in Beirut as a Christian and moved to Jerusalem to join the Catholic Church.”
“But that’s not your real name,” the Cardinal inquired.
Now Michael turned his bronze face toward the priest. “No. You don’t want to know my real name, Your Eminence. All you need to know is that, for the moment, our goals are in alignment. I will stop this policeman’s vendetta because it’s a danger to my own plans, at least until tomorrow.”
“How can I be sure you’ll keep your promise after tomorrow?” Mulrooney fretted.
Michael looked at him disdainfully. “I am not interested in your filthy church secrets. Our deal is intact. Help us, and I will remain silent. Betray us, or get in our way, and the pittance this policeman knows will be a drop in the bucket compared to the flood of crimes that we expose.”
Mulrooney stiffened slightly. “Like you said, our paths are in alignment.”
8. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 1 A.M. AND 2 A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
Jack watched Harry Driscoll escort another man through the main doors of CTU. The bags under Harry’s eyes looked big enough to pack a lunch. Jack wondered how he looked himself. He wondered if there might be a moment or two to catch some sleep. But he stifled a yawn when he got a clear view of the man Driscoll escorted, walking with his hands cuffed behind his back and the detective’s arm firmly planted on his. He looked like someone had beaten him with a stick. That wasn’t Driscoll’s style, so Jack assumed it had happened prior to his arrest.
“What’s up, Harry?” Jack asked with more energy than he felt.
“Conference room?” Driscoll replied.
Jack led them to the empty room, and Driscoll sat his prisoner down. Jack closed the door. “What’s the story?”
“Jack, this is Don Biehn. Detective Don Biehn, by the way. I’m arresting him for murder. But he says he’s got—”
“There are terrorists in Los Angeles,” the man, Biehn, reported. “No shit,” Jack said. “We already knew that. That’s why we set up these great offices.”
“I can tell you what one of them looks like,” Biehn said. “I can tell you his real name, and his alias. I can also tell you part of what their plan is.”
Jack’s confusion and annoyance fused into a laser-like focus. “Okay, tell.”
“Two things,” Biehn said. “First, amnesty. I killed a monster tonight, there’s plenty of evidence to convict me, but I want to go free. Second, you let me finish the job I started.”
“Forget it,” Driscoll said. “I told you in the car that was—”
“They’re monsters!” Biehn snapped.
“Then put them behind bars with all the other monsters!” Driscoll shot back.
Biehn looked at Jack. “My son was being molested by priests at our church for years. I never knew it. I even made him go to Sunday school some days. He would cry about it. I figured he was being a baby. I made him go!” Biehn shuddered.
Jack felt sorry for the man, but he knew he couldn’t help. Even he was willing to bend the rules only so far. “I’m not going to release a murderer. I’m sure as hell not going to let him loose to go kill more people.”
“Abdul Rahman Yasin.”
Jack felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. “What?”
