was also there. It was Mulrooney who spoke next.
“Your Holiness,” he said in delicate English, “I can only guess what His Eminence has said, but I suspect he’s urging you to postpone the Unity Conference. I am afraid I must agree.”
“Postpone, yes!” Walesa said, seizing on the word. “Postpone but not cancel. That is the word for it.”
Cardinal Rausch from Germany, an old and dear friend from John Paul’s days as a cardinal, put his own hand over the Pope’s. “It might be best, Your Holiness. No one would question the reason. The media would be sympathetic.”
John Paul looked for help from an unlikely source — Father Martino, his press secretary. As a calculating politician, John Paul had made use of Martino many times, but he did not have much affection for the man. Now, however, he thought Martino might come in useful once again. “Father Martino, what are your thoughts?”
Martino, perennially out of favor, was surprised to be consulted. He looked wide-eyed from cardinal to cardinal before stammering, “Well, Your — Your Holiness, on the one hand, His Eminence Cardinal Rausch is correct. The media would write a sympathetic story—”
“There!” Rausch said, patting John Paul’s wrist. “You see?”
“—but, on the other hand,” Martino continued, “on the other hand, the Holy Father has made a great effort, in many public statements, to define the importance of this first Unity Conference. If… if he were to stay, despite recent events, the media would talk about it for days. It would be a media coup.”
The small congregation of cardinals murmured disapprovingly, and a few scoffed openly. Rausch turned pink. “These aren’t ‘recent events.’ We’re talking about murder! Right here!”
“But the conference will not be here,” John Paul said firmly. “And murders take place every day, all around the world, in the name of religion. We must not be deterred.”
He dismissed them with a nod. Only when they were gone did Giancarlo materialize out of the shadows. “Your thoughts, Giancarlo?”
The capable protector deliberated a moment. “My thoughts are always for your safety, Holy Father. My advice is obvious.”
“And yet we cannot always do God’s work and be safe.” Giancarlo shrugged. “The cardinals agree with me.” John Paul waved his words away. “Rausch is too
good a friend. His fear is for the flesh, when his mind should be on the church’s mission. Mulrooney never supported the conference. Wait for me a moment, Giancarlo.”
The Pope was too old to kneel comfortably, so in private he would pray in a comfortable chair. He did so now. His eyes closed gently, but the lids and lashes flickered ever so slightly like the tiny flashes of electricity pulsing in a radio. The security man was sure that the Holy Father was receiving some signal from heaven. Giancarlo had watched this many times. In these moments, the old Pope seemed both intimately vulnerable and utterly intangible, a holy relic that could not be harmed. Giancarlo, however, knew that was not true.
The old man sat there for more than a moment. Several minutes passed, but Giancarlo did not move. Though he felt like a traitor, he prayed that the Pope would open his eyes and decide to postpone the Unity Conference. Neither he nor the police could find any connection between the violence at St. Monica’s and the Pope himself, but the murder was far too close to home for his own comfort. The prudent thing was to return immediately to the Vatican, where all the power of the church was assembled to protect the Holy Father.
Five minutes passed, then ten. Giancarlo stood, motionless. In his early years, in moments like these, he had said Ave Marias. Lately, though, he had taken to repeating to himself the poem “On His Blindness” by John Milton (even if Milton was a Protestant). It ended with the line, “They also serve who only stand and wait.”
Finally, the Pope’s eyes opened slowly and peacefully. He looked at Giancarlo with his keen eyes. “I will go forward, Giancarlo. If some violence should occur, will you be there for me?”
Giancarlo’s expression, like his faith, never wavered.
14. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7 A.M. AND 8 A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
Harry had been down Mission Road, where the coroner’s office was located, many times during his career. But there was something creepy about this trip, because he didn’t usually follow right behind the bodies. He felt like a scavenger circling a carcass.
But he couldn’t help it. As if being shot at wasn’t enough motivation, Harry was obsessed with the driver’s last words:
What kind of assassins shot you up and then wanted to keep the remains? What was it about the body? Something telltale about the rounds? No, there were plenty of rounds in and around Harry’s car, which now looked like Swiss cheese. To make sure he was dead? Probably not.
It had to be evidence. The killers assumed that Collins was in possession of something incriminating and they wanted it. If that was true, then this case was turning into something much larger than a widespread child abuse ring. Whoever was involved was willing to kill to keep their secrets.
Harry’s driver — a uniform who’d offered to give him a lift, thinking he was heading toward Parker Center — pulled into 1104 North Mission and stared white-faced at the building that housed the city’s dead.
“You think they order lunch in?” the uniform said. “Who’d deliver?” “They get plenty of deliveries,” Harry said as he got out.
He showed his badge to the clerk at the front desk and waited until a coroner’s assistant came out. In a city the size of Los Angeles, the coroner’s office was open twenty-four hours a day, but even they had their off-peak hours. The man who appeared was young, with big curly hair that had been fashionable when Harry was this kid’s age. The coroner looked sleepy, and was obviously just finishing the night shift.
“You’re the detective?” he asked lazily. “Driscoll,” Harry said, flashing his badge. “I’m on the case with a body being delivered right now.” “Jason Keane,” said the other. “Can we help with something? I mean, besides the obvious.” “I just want to have that body examined as soon as possible. Like, immediately,” Harry underscored, a little dubious of the mop-headed kid’s attention span. “Can you start now?”
Keane shook his head. “I’m not the guy. Just the assistant. The coroner left early because it was slow.”
“And the morning guy—”
“Called in late,” Keane said. “’S why I’m stuck here at almost quarter after.”
Driscoll frowned. “Sounds like government work to me. Who’s his supervisor?”
Marwan al-Hassan had finished the morning salaat and was sipping tea in his brother’s breakfast nook. His left arm hurt, but he didn’t care. The day he had committed himself to was now at hand, by the will of Allah. Not only would the pain in his arm vanish, but he would be gathered into paradise. And he would strike a blow against the infidels. Such a blow! Perhaps not the greatest blow, but a decisive one, like the stab of a dagger that leaves no great hole, but penetrates deep.
Yasin had explained to him the importance of the blow, especially to deal it here, on American soil. The fear it would cause, the chasms it would create between their enemies, would be significant. Marwan would be a hero, and his name would be praised.
Marwan decided to make another cup of tea.
Jack hadn’t felt this tired in a long time. There was a part of him that wanted to be pissed off at Christopher Henderson, or Ryan Chappelle, or both, for not providing him the backup he needed up at Castaic. Where had the surveillance been? Where was the cavalry?
These were legitimate questions, but Jack knew the answers would not satisfy him. CTU was an infant, disorganized, with unclear lines of communication. When Jack had gone after Dog Smithies, it had been with the help of Harry Driscoll and the LAPD. The Dean thing had been done strictly through CTU, and CTU definitely did not have its act together yet.
But Jack was too tired to chew anyone out, so when he staggered in the door and saw Christopher
