Papal Justice Page 3

  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.

  “No. This is my private garden. Soon I will plant tomatoes, some flowers and peppers that a friend from Argentina has promised to send.”

  Zimmer nodded. He could see the Pope as a gardener, as content on his hands and knees in the dirt as he was amongst the poorest of the poor.

  “Was there something you wanted to speak to me about?”

  The Pope’s eyes drifted from his visitor to the mounds of dirt waiting for springtime planting.

  “I am told that you are a man of your word, Mr. President, that you are someone to be trusted.”

  For some reason, those words seemed foreign coming from the Pope’s mouth, like he’d shifted into another role, into a negotiator.

  Zimmer nodded. “And I have heard the same thing about you.”

  Where is he going with this? Zimmer thought.

  “I do not know how much you know about our history, but were you aware that, centuries ago, popes were conquerors, warriors of the Catholic faith?”

  “I am. Don’t they call Julius the Second the Warrior Pope?”

  The Pope chuckled. “Ah, yes. Some days I wish I could know him, see him both in his armor and in the Sistine Chapel yelling up at Michelangelo.”

  Zimmer laughed. “That would be something to see.”

  “Yes, yes it would.” The Pope went silent, and then folded his hands together. “I was wondering, do you have men at your disposal, men that you absolutely trust, who help you in times of crisis?”

  Alarms bells clanged in Zimmer’s head. “I’m happy to say that I do. Our military has proven itself on numerous occasions, even during my short time in office.”

  A slow nod from the Pope. “Perhaps I should have asked the question differently. Are there men at your disposal who possibly only you know about? I believe they call them operatives in the modern world, silent warriors who do your bidding?”

  Zimmer resisted the urge to frown. He’d been sucked in like a rookie councilman. It was time to cut this off. “Is there something I can help you with? Has something happened?”

  The Pope took a moment to respond. When he did, his eyes had lost a little bit of their luster. “Just before you arrived, I received word that a small Catholic parish was attacked. Half of them were murdered, the other half have been kidnapped.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Where did it happen?”

  “In Acapulco, Mexico.”

  “Do you know who did it?”

  “I have been led to believe that it may be jihadists.”

  Zimmer’s throat tightened. He’d been receiving reports of increased terrorist activity in Mexico. So far they’d kept to the shadows, only playing an occasional hand. Zimmer always had the feeling they were being tested, like an enemy probing the defensive perimeter to find weaknesses. Nobody had to tell the president about his country’s weaknesses. He’d been to the border. He’d flown over the hundreds of miles of separation between the U.S. and Mexico. So far, no one had come up with a good solution for the problem, and that was something that concerned Zimmer every single day.

  “Have you confirmed this?” Zimmer asked, now understanding a bit more why the Pope had brought up the attack.

  “I have not, but a trusted advisor gave me the information.”

  “Are you planning on letting the media know?”

  “I had hoped you could give me the answer to that question, Mr. President.”

  So there it was. The Pope was telling him about the snake slithering in America’s backyard, and without the means to do anything about it directly, he was asking Zimmer if he could do something. It wasn’t the first time a foreign entity had asked for covert assistance, but it was the last thing he’d expected coming to Rome.

  “I would recommend keeping any mention of terrorists out of the media, at least for the time being.”

  “I thought the same. But the next question would be how do we deal with the situation at hand?”

  “I’m sure my people can help. Off the top of my head, I can think of a number of units that can—”

  “I am not asking you to do it alone, Mr. President. I am not without my own resources.”

  At least that was something.

  “You mean like contacts in Mexico?”

  The Pope shook his head, a smile reappearing.

  “You mentioned the warrior pope a moment ago. What if I told you that although I do not have the ability to strap on a suit o
f armor or jump from a helicopter, I too have a group of men specifically suited for this task?”

  The first thing that came to Zimmer’s mind was the Swiss Guard. They were one helluva fighting force, but they were far from elite Special Forces.

  “Who are they?” Zimmer asked.

  “Have you ever heard of Saint Longinus?”

  Zimmer’s mind searched through the creaky cupboard of childhood Sunday school memories.

  “He was Roman.” After another second to think, he added, “He was at the crucifixion.”

  The Pope nodded. “Yes. He drove his spear into Jesus’s side. From there, the story is different depending on who is telling the tale. According to official Papal records, Saint Longinus left the Roman military and started his own order. He recruited fellow warriors who had converted to the Christian faith. Eventually they found St. Peter, the first Pope of what was to become the Catholic Church. They swore loyalty to the papacy, and thus, the Brotherhood of Saint Longinus was born. Saint Longinus would die soon after, murdered for his beliefs, but the brotherhood lived on, as it still does today. Every member of the brotherhood was once part of one of the world’s elite paramilitary organizations. They are carefully selected, and it takes years before a new member is given the opportunity to serve. For many, this was their last resort. But they are unquestioning in their loyalty, and boundless in their faith.”

  This was all news to Zimmer. For a man who could find out almost anything about almost anybody, it surprised the American that there were secrets still left in the world.

  “And what does this brotherhood do?”

  The Pope shrugged. “They are loyal to the Pope, and the Pope alone. I only learned of their existence when I came to Rome. I’m sure that at times they have been put to ill use. I won’t pretend that we Catholics have a perfect reputation. I can assure you that this will not happen as long as I live within these walls. But I understand the wisdom of having such warriors on hand. There is only so much that prayer and loving words can do. Am I wrong in saying that where evil men lurk, only the shining glint of the sword can light the way?”

  President Zimmer nodded, his mind spinning.

  “What do you plan to do?”

  “I will send these warriors to Mexico. They are, after all, Catholic monks. They know how to blend in, in their own way. We have contacts in Mexico who can help them in their search. We could use your assistance, should you be able to do so.”

  Zimmer didn’t have to think long. He had just the outfit that could not only deal with the terrorist threat, but could blend in as well as the Pope’s secret brotherhood. Probably better.

  “Your Holiness, I think I have just the men who can help.”

  Chapter 5

  Seaside, Florida

  11:47am, March 13th

  It was the perfect day. The midday sun cast down a welcome warmth, elevating the spring air to a gracious seventy-two degrees. Children threw footballs and sprinted up and down the green grass of the outdoor amphitheater in the middle of the small Florida panhandle town. Lines of patrons snaked past each of the silver bullet food trucks that crafted everything from gourmet grilled cheese sandwiches to organic smoothies. The murmur of walkers and the rumble of passing motorcycles blended together to make what Cal Stokes thought of as the ideal spring break cacophony.

  The former Marine looked up at the sky and wondered what life would be like if he could stay on vacation permanently. Unlike most men his age, the ruggedly handsome warrior could afford it. His father had started Stokes Security International (SSI), and the company had grown into a security and consulting powerhouse. Cal was no longer working with his deceased father’s corporation, but he was still the official owner.

  But the Marine in Cal didn’t really care about the money. It afforded him the ability to come and go as he pleased, but he’d also ensured that the majority of SSI’s profits were either reinvested or distributed to its hard-working employees.

  Besides, Cal was having too much fun in his new gig. As founder of The Jefferson Group, Cal Stokes was beholden to only one man: his good friend Brandon Zimmer, the President of the United States of America. The two still kidded each other about what an unlikely pairing they’d once been. But time and bloodshed have a way of bringing men like them together. Once polar opposites, Cal now considered the president to be one of his best friends.

  So when the president had called on his friend to become his back pocket asset, Cal hadn’t hesitated. Well, at least not much. He didn’t give anyone the satisfaction of saying yes right away. It wasn’t how his Marine colonel father had brought him up, and it certainly wasn’t part of his, at times, stubborn personality.

  A content smile made its way onto his face as he closed his eyes and enjoyed the sun’s soothing rays, a nap coming on before long.

  “Get up, sleepy head, it’s time for lunch.”

  Cal rolled over and looked up at Diane Mayer, his girlfriend, and one of the best things he had going. She was wearing a teal knee-length cover-up over her bathing suit, and he couldn’t see her eyes through her oversized sunglasses. That didn’t matter. The same thought came flashing to his mind as quick as her playful smile. She is beautiful.

  “Do we have to? It’s so nice down here.”

  Cal reached up and grabbed her hand, trying to pull her down to the ground.

  “I’m serious, Cal, I got a table.”

  He groaned and got to his feet. If there was anything he didn’t need right now, it was more food. The CEO of The Jefferson Group (TJG), Jonas Layton, who also happened to be a billionaire, had rented a beachfront home for all of TJG’s employees to stay in. The ten bedroom house was perched on the edge of the Gulf. The view of the emerald and aqua water was amazing, and the food was right on par with the best restaurants on the coast. Their secret? TJG’s resident professionally trained chef and former Marine, Master Sergeant Willy Trent. From shrimp boils on the beach to oyster po’boys on the deck, the nearly seven foot tall former Marine stuffed his friends the only way he knew how, first class.

  Cal and Diane were almost to the popular Shrimp Shack, where Diane had already declared that they would be ordering a dozen raw oysters and one of their famous lobster rolls, when the phone in Cal’s pocket buzzed. He pulled it out and Diane nudged him with her elbow.

  “I thought you left that at the house,” she said.

  “You know I can’t do that, babe.” He looked down at the caller ID. “I have to take this. Put in our order, okay? This should only take a minute.”

  Diane sighed, but she nodded and stepped into the tiny restaurant to place their order. Cal walked toward the beach and answered his phone.

  “Yes, your highness?”

  “Cal, I told you only to call me that when we’re in the presence of ladies,” President Zimmer answered immediately, completely serious.

  Cal chuckled. “I apologize. I’ll have to remember to grovel a little more when we go out clubbing next time.”

  The president returned the laugh. “I’m sorry to call. I know it’s the first vacation you’ve had in a while.”

  “No problem. What’s up?”

  “I’m at Eglin, paying my respects. I was wondering if you might have time to drive over.”

  An Army Blackhawk helicopter had gone down two days earlier in a training accident near Santa Rosa Beach. Seven Marine Raiders and four National Guardsmen were killed. Cal and his TJG team had hoisted more than a few drinks to their memory.

  “How long will you be there?”

  “We’re leaving tonight.”

  Cal did the math in his head. Eglin Air Force Base was just over an hour from Seaside, but with spring break traffic it might take longer.

  “How about I leave right after lunch? See you just after two o’clock?”

  “Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

  Cal ended the call and went to find Diane. She was sitting under a white pavilion gazing out over the beach, her blond hair dancing in the breeze. Despite his rec
ent disinterest in eating, he sat down next to her and attacked the raw oysters that Diane was sprinkling with lemon juice.

  “I thought you weren’t hungry,” she smirked.

  Cal could only shrug as he forked a pinch of horseradish and stabbed another oyster. “These are really good.”

  “Mmmhmm. So, was that the boss?”

  Cal nodded. He didn’t like to admit it, but he was growing more comfortable with the notion that Diane knew what he did for a living. She still loved him despite the fact that he disappeared for weeks at a time and plunged headlong into gunfire whenever he could.

  “I have to drive over to Eglin after lunch.”

  She didn’t look surprised.

  “Can I come?”

  It had been Brandon who’d suggested that Cal bring Diane into the loop. She’d even been part of TJG’s last two operations, serving in a supporting role where she utilized her impressive talents from her days as an enlisted Naval Intelligence analyst. They’d even talked about making the arrangement permanent, at least after Diane completed her last semester at the University of Virginia.

  “Sure, why not? If he gets mad, you get to explain that you wouldn’t stop crying until I let you come.”

  Diane huffed and rolled her eyes. “You are impossible, you know that?” She smiled when she said it, entirely used to the constant ribbing from Cal and his friends.

  Cal shrugged. “I am who I am.”

  Two hours later, they drove through the main gate at Eglin AFB, the American flag waving at half mast as they pulled past security.

  “Is that for the downed Blackhawk?” Diane asked, pointing at the flag.

  “Yeah.”

  Cal had read the bios on all the fallen Marines. What a loss. They were good men, some of the finest warriors America had. One had even received the Silver Star a week earlier. Tragic that so much talent should go down in a training exercise. But that was life in the military. You never knew which day was going to be your last. So far, Cal and the majority of his companions had dodged fate’s cruel aim, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.