Papal Justice Page 2

  The bar owner glanced at his watch, then back at the priest.

  “I do have some paperwork to do before tomorrow. Twenty minutes?”

  “Thank you, Ignacio.”

  Father Pietro sat at the sticky bar and stared at the bottle of vodka sitting next to his half-full glass. He’d heard the sirens in the distance, but resisted turning on the television. He didn’t want to disturb the owner, who sat at the end of the bar, no doubt keeping tabs on how much his late night patron was drinking.

  The sullen priest’s mind wandered back to Italy, to his days on the soccer fields around Naples, along the Amalfi Coast and then finally in Rome. He’d been a gifted athlete. His parents hoped and prayed he would become a professional footballer, maybe even playing for their native Società Sportiva Calcio Napoli. Back then he’d been Gabriel Fusconi, the treasured oldest son. But the Fusconi dreams of soccer stardom came to an end when sixteen year old Gabriel came out of a routine knee operation with unexpected complications. Apparently the surgeon, Gabriel would later find out, had obtained his so-called license through the help of a certain powerful Mafiosi. Such practice was common in Italy. Why work hard in school when you can do a few favors and get a law or medical degree in the process just for having the right connections?

  Recuperation from the complications took over two years, and by that time Gabriel’s window to play his favorite sport had passed. Those were dark days for the entire Fusconi clan. His parents didn’t have much, but they worked long hours to see their beloved son through painful physical therapy, all in the hope that he might strap on his cleats again and take his rightful place on the field.

  That never happened. The teams that had once been so anxious to sign him now saw him as a liability. Soon phone calls were not returned, and Gabriel was struggling to complete his final year of school. It was on one of those dark days that he happened to pass by a local coffee shop. There were a handful of Carabinieri cruisers and a military troop transport outside, along with a growing crowd of onlookers.

  It didn’t take long until two men, obviously Mafiosi, were escorted out not by the police, but by six grim faced soldiers in all black military gear. Gabriel couldn’t take his eyes off of the scene as the two men were placed into the back of the troop transport by five of the soldiers.

  The final soldier, who Gabriel now saw was an officer (although he didn’t understand the rank), went back to talk to the head Carabinieri. Something inside Gabriel stirred. Thoughts of the crooked doctor, images of his mother going to mass every night to pray for his healing, the sound of his father beating his hand on the kitchen table as he tried to figure out how they’d pay all their monthly bills… Gabriel pushed his way through the crowd, somehow slipping through the rest of the gawkers. He waited for the burly soldier to finish, and then cut him off before he reached the gray transport.

  “Excuse me, sir. How can I do what you do?”

  The soldier stopped and looked at Gabriel.

  “What makes you think you could do what I do?”

  Gabriel didn’t back down. He was almost as tall as the man, just over six feet according to his last doctor’s visit.

  “I used to play soccer. I’m a good athlete. I work hard.”

  The soldier’s eyes narrowed. “It takes more than hard work to do what I do. Go home and play soccer, boy.” The soldier continued on his way.

  Gabriel felt his world slipping away again.

  “I can’t play anymore, sir! A Mafiosi doctor messed up my knee in surgery. But I’m better now. See!”

  Gabriel squatted down to the ground and jumped as high as he could. The solder turned around again. There was something in his eyes. Compassion, maybe?

  “If you really want to do what I do, enlist in the army, and prove yourself.”

  “But how do I—”

  The soldier cut him off with the shake of his head.

  “You’ll have to figure the rest out on your own. If you want it, you’ll figure it out.”

  And the soldier had been right. With a renewed sense of purpose, Gabriel edged by with his grades and managed to graduate. The same day he went to the local army recruiting station and enlisted. It would be three long years of trials and training before he would get to the elite special forces unit of the 9th Parachute Assault Regiment (also known as Col. Moschin, or “Moschin Hill”), and their recently formed anti-terror squad. It was a natural fit for the young Italian, and soon he was leading his own secret raids across Italy.

  But he didn’t want to think about those now. He’d lost himself in that world, and was afraid that he’d somehow get sucked back in. The hate and violence were no longer who he was, except in his nightmares.

  Father Pietro shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. What he needed was time. Time to think. Time to come up with a plan. Time to somehow get out of Mexico. Then an idea came to him.

  “Ignacio, may I use your phone?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Ignacio set his cell phone on the bar and slid it down to the priest. Father Pietro scooped it up and said, “Do you mind if I take it outside? Just for a moment.”

  The owner waved him to the door and went back to his work.

  Father Pietro dialed the number from memory, a long ago promise for aid giving him hope for the first time that night. He waited through two rings, then a third. Maybe he’d dialed wrong? Maybe his old friend was no longer alive? Maybe…

  Just when his hope seemed as if it would fade into the night, someone answered.

  “Yes?”

  Despite the one word answer, Father Pietro recognized the raspy voice immediately.

  “My friend, I need your help,” Pietro whispered.

  “Gabriel?”

  The priest almost didn’t answer.

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  A grunt and a chain smoker’s wet cough came through the phone before the voice replied, “Tell me how I can help.”

  Chapter 3

  The Vatican

  Rome, Italy

  10:49am, March 11th

  The Pope stepped into the private waiting room without his normal retinue. His snow white cassock swept over the threshold, and all five robed men in the room went to their knees.

  “Rise, my most cherished brothers. Please.”

  One by one they rose, taking their cues from the smallest form in front, a hunched man in a brown monk’s robe. His eyes glistened when he looked up.

  “Holy Father,” the monk said, punctuated by a wet cough.

  The pontiff embraced the old man and whispered into his ear, “I see time is catching up with you as well, old friend. We are a long way from our running days in Argentina.”

  The man nodded and stifled another cough. “I apologize for disturbing you, Holy Father.”

  The Pope smiled and waved the apology away. “Who better than a beloved friend to excuse me from the babbling of Vatican accountants?” He chuckled but his eyes were searching the old man’s face. He waved the five visitors into seats at a simple round wooden table. “Now, why was it you wanted to see me?”

  The head of the Brotherhood of St. Longinus clasped his hands in his lap, his eyes hard, like he’d just remembered who he was.

  “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 sacre
d 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 11th

  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.