Papal Justice (3 page)

“Holy Father, word has reached me that there was an attack against one of our parishes in Mexico.”

“I hadn’t heard.” The Pope’s face scrunched in concern. He leaned closer, putting both hands on the table.

“The news will most likely come to your attention soon.”

“And how do you know of this attack?”

The hunched form shrugged. “I received a call from an old friend, someone who helped me in the past.”

“Is he trustworthy, this man? Who is he?”

“When I knew him, his name was Gabriel. Now he goes by Father Pietro.”

“He’s a priest?”

“He is, Holy Father.”

“Why did he contact you, why not his diocese, or his bishop?”

“I think he believed I could help.”

The Pope sat back and digested the news. It was a moment before he replied.

“Does he know about your brotherhood?”

“He does not, Holy Father.”

The Pope nodded. “Good. Now, tell me what happened.”

The robed man retold Father Pietro’s story, along with the priest’s description of his attackers, and what he’d done in the apartment next to the church.

The Pope’s eyes went just perceptibly wide.

“Let us say a prayer for our brothers and sisters,” the Pope said, bowing his head. The others did the same. After a short blessing for those lost and those gone missing, the head of the Roman Catholic Church looked up again. “This is grave, my friend. Do you believe this Father Pietro? How was it that he was able to do what he did?”

There was no accusation in the Pope’s tone, just curiosity.

“Father Pietro was a special forces soldier in the Italian army. He saved my life on one of his operations. I owe him a great debt.”

“This Father Pietro sounds like more of a man who should be part of your order, no?”

The old man nodded. “He would have made a good brother, but he wanted a break from his old life. There was an…incident that brought him to The Church.”

“Ah. God’s plans.”

Both men nodded as if they’d had this same conversation many times in the past, the mysteries of God’s plan and what it meant for humankind.

“He has a good heart, but his past still weighs heavily on his conscience. Even after almost a decade, I could hear the remorse in his voice.”

“And you would like to go to him?” the Pope asked.

“As much as it pains me to say it, Your Holiness, my health now keeps me from such a journey. My brothers are more than capable of handling the situation.”

“Very well. You know my trust resides with you. You have my blessing to investigate this further. I will do what I can to get you any help you need.”

The Pope rose from his seat, the others rising with him.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must inform my advisors of our loss.”

+++

As soon as the Pope closed the door, Brother Luca eased himself back down into his chair. His face was slick with sweat.

“Can we assist you, Brother?” asked another monk, this one a full head taller than Luca.

“I’m fine. Just let me catch my breath.”

Brother Luca knew his time was coming. The doctors had given him six months to live, but that was eight months ago. So far he’d done what he’d always done, defied the odds. He hadn’t expected the well of emotion to hit him when he saw the pontiff, but the sight of his old friend, the holiest man he’d ever met, filled his weakened body with a relief so profound that he’d almost forgotten why they’d come.

His mind was clearing, and now that he had the blessing of the only man who could put the brotherhood in action, he went back to analyzing what the jihadi’s motives might be. The first thing that had come to mind when Father Pietro had told him about the massacre was that this wouldn’t be the last. That issue worried the old warrior. If there was one thing he’d learned about this new breed of terror, it was that random acts rarely occurred. No, there was something more insidious happening. He could feel it in his crumbling bones.

With more than a little effort, he stood again and said, “Come, brothers, we have preparations to make.”

+++

The Pope thumbed his rosary as he walked. It was an old habit from his days in Buenos Aires, when he’d walk the barrios and talk with the poor children as they played in the hot Argentine sun. Seeing Brother Luca brought those memories back in a flood of color.

When he’d first met Luca, the Pope had been a young priest, a child really. His heart was full and his mind constantly thought of ways to help the people of Buenos Aires. It was on one of those long walks that he’d encountered a policeman roughly his age. Back then Luca was a strapping young man, a favorite with the ladies in the neighborhood. He had a penchant for being more than a little full of himself, but the instant they met, they both saw the goodness in each other.

But while Luca might have been a kind and generous man, he was conversely a misguided public servant. He had no problem looking the other way in exchange for crisp bills slipped into his pocket.

He’d asked Luca about it one day, and the policeman had said, “It’s no big deal. Part of the job.” With a shrug and a smile he’d continued the patrol, his carefree spirit trailing behind him like a superhero’s cloak.

But the good times did not last. As both men ascended the steps of their chosen professions, they went their separate ways. The future pope spent time in faraway lands like Israel, Ireland, and Germany. It was only when he returned as the new Archbishop of Buenos Aires that the two men met again.

By that time, Luca was head of the special operations branch of the Buenos Aires police force. He’d made quite a name for himself since his friend had left, taking down a fair share of thugs, counterfeiters and had even made a dent in the growing number of fledgling drug organizations.

But the Archbishop knew as soon as he embraced his friend in Luca’s lavish penthouse apartment that Luca was still living his old life, dipping his beak in countless wells to afford such luxury.

They spent the occasional dinner together, the Archbishop always slipping a subtle warning to his friend, but Luca chuckled it away, obviously enjoying his duplicitous life.

Then, eighteen months after arriving back in his home town, he’d received a hurried call from Luca.

“I think I’m in trouble. They’re outside and they’ve brought many men.”

There was a banging sound in the background that made it hard to hear what the policeman was saying.

“Who’s there, Luca? What’s happening?”

Suddenly, a loud crash erupted through the receiver and he heard a scream followed by gunshots. The phone went dead. He called the police and told them what happened. They promised to check on the situation.

Two hours later, he got a call from a policeman who’d been tasked with informing the popular Archbishop about the situation.

“The lieutenant is in critical condition, Your Excellency.”

“Please, tell me where he is.”

He could tell that the lowly messenger had been told not to say, but he was the Archbishop after all. The policeman told him where to find Luca, and after saying his thanks, he rushed to find his driver, and made the journey to see his friend.

Luca remained in a medically-induced coma for almost a month. During that time, the Archbishop made daily visits to the hospital, always smiling at the grim-faced policemen that stood guard outside the patient’s room. Word had spread. Luca was a dirty cop. That was fine when it was kept out of the papers and when he took care of the citizens of Buenos Aires, but now he’d gotten his due. His nefarious business dealings had finally caught up with him.

When he awoke, Luca would only speak with his old friend. So while the Argentine police commissioner wanted Luca’s neck, the Archbishop pleaded for mercy.

It was finally decided that the substantial wealth Luca had amassed, including a villa, a penthouse and several businesses, would be sold and the proceeds would be given to the underfunded police force. Luca would be out of a job, but the future Pope had faith that a solution would present itself. And it did.

Only days after Luca signed away his rights to his property, the Archbishop’s office got a call from Rome. They wouldn’t say why, but the Vatican was searching for former elite military who might consider a new life in Rome.

It didn’t take much to convince Luca, whose normally cheerful countenance had turned into a dour shell. When he’d last seen Luca all those years ago, it was on the tarmac saying farewell to his friend, bidding him Godspeed in his new life.

It wasn’t until the day he’d been anointed Pope and was given the secrets that so many pontiffs before him had kept sacred that he found out about the Brotherhood of St. Longinus, and its current head, Brother Luca, his old friend from Buenos Aires.

This was the first time he’d had occasion to use the secret brotherhood, but he knew they were well up to the task. Named for the Roman Centurion who’d thrust his lance into Jesus’s side upon crucifixion and later converted to Christianity and a life of service, the Brothers of St. Longinus came from elite organizations all over the world, most broken until the brotherhood rebuilt them.

A thought came to the Pope as he neared where his Secretariat of State stood waiting. They were due to meet with the American president within the hour. There was much to discuss, including the spread of radical Islam. The Pope wondered what the president would think if he knew that a new group of radicals was operating south of his own porous border.

He said a silent prayer of thanks for the revelation, and carefully thought about how he could orchestrate a quiet moment alone with the increasingly popular President Brandon Zimmer.

Chapter 4

The Vatican

Rome, Italy

12:49pm, March 11
^th

President Brandon Zimmer offered the flashing cameras a smile as the Pope shifted in the chair next to him. The initial meeting between the Vatican staff and his own administration had gone well. This being his first trip to Rome as president, Zimmer’s intent was to not make waves. While he didn’t necessarily agree with everything the Catholics did, he did respect the man sitting in the chair next to him. His public persona seemed accurate, humble, honest, and straight to the point.

Zimmer’s life had always revolved around politics. From the time he was in diapers, he’d been on one campaign trail or another, first for his father, the late Senator Richard Zimmer (D-Massachusettes), and then for himself. His first year as president had been anything but smooth-sailing. There wasn’t much he hadn’t seen, from dark negotiating rooms to international crises. It was like getting a PhD in human psychology through a fire hose. He often joked with his chief of staff, former SEAL Travis Haden, that their days were divided between
The Good
,
The Bad
, and
The Ugly
.

And through it all, the good-looking American president had honed his skills as an observer, always taking in his opponents and his friends alike. His father had always said, “If anyone ever wanted to hone their bullshit detector, I’d tell them to go into politics.” It was true. The actors on the political stage were exceptional in their craft. Zimmer had learned to look past the facade, to see the truth of what lay beneath.

But more than uncovering an unsavory character or pinpointing the true motives of a career politico, Zimmer enjoyed meeting a person who was absolutely genuine in his positive outlook of the world and his place in it. The president knew that the pontiff was such a man. The whole world knew of the man’s history, knew of his life of giving, his quest to help the impoverished and persecuted. Zimmer and Haden had agreed: say what you want about the institution, but the heart of the man was what you could really respect.

Zimmer watched as the Pope joked with the cameramen and even poked fun at an Italian journalist. They laughed back, and their response wasn’t forced. They loved this man. And why shouldn’t they? There was something otherworldly about him, like a glowing orb of pure love surrounded him. Zimmer felt drawn to it. He wanted to step inside and see what it felt like.

A bell rang somewhere in the distance and the Pope raised a finger.

“Gentlemen, I believe that is our cue to adjourn.”

The reporters looked disappointed, like they wanted to stay with the man who’d captured the attention of Catholics around the world. As the camera crews packed up their things, the joint contingent of Secret Service and plainclothes Swiss Guard escorted the two heads of state from the room. The president and the Pope walked side by side, the latter chatting away about the reporter he’d joked with, apparently a former critic who had for some reason come around.

“I was hoping to speak with you alone, if you have the time,” the Pope said, still following the security.

Zimmer tried not to let his surprise show. The Vatican had been very specific about their timeline. Whoever was in charge of scheduling had the strict discipline of a drill instructor. They’d told their American guests that the Pope was to have lunch with the Sultan of Brunei, or was it Oman?

“I would be honored,” Zimmer replied. He didn’t have much left on his schedule other than what little sightseeing the leader of the free world could take in. What he wouldn’t give for a quiet day of strolling along the streets of Rome like a common tourist.

The Pope touched one of the Swiss Guards on the sleeve and said, “Please take us to my garden.”

The man nodded and spoke into his sleeve mike.

It was a simple garden, well-tended, but far from the extravagance of the others he’d seen since entering the Papal Palace. The Pope made his way to a plain wooden bench and sat down. Zimmer did the same, breathing in the fresh March air mingled with the smell of freshly cut grass and damp earth.

“I assume this isn’t on the public tour,” Zimmer said, marveling at the way the emerald ivy made its way up the steep stone walls.