Counterplay

32

Andrew Kane approached the short, compact man with the tidy black mustache and held out his hand. “Colonel Grolsch,” he said to the head of the Swiss Guard security team. “Good to see you again.”

“Ah, Senore Hodges,” the man replied, shaking his hand. “Your people are in place, I assume?”

“Yes, indeed,” Kane said with a smile. “My people are in place. And yours?”

“Si…yes, two here in the back,” Grolsch said, pointing to each of two men at the back of the cathedral near the main doors where guests were passing through metal detectors and having their bags searched. “Plus two along the sides. And there will be two more up beyond the altar, along with myself, out of sight, but ready. Oh, and, of course, the two you can see standing behind where the pontiff will be seated, dressed in our traditional uniforms.”

Kane looked to where Grolsch indicated the two men clad in Renaissance helmets and blue, red, and yellow tunics. He knew from the Catholic history books he’d been forced to read as a child that the colors were those of the Medici family and the uniforms supposedly designed by Michelangelo. The men were armed with swords and halberds-a combination spear and battle-ax. Not much of a threat, he thought.

“It is a small group”-Grolsch shrugged-“but with all the other security efforts outside and inside, I am comfortable. And your people?”

“Similar placement,” Kane said. “But also two-females-among the nuns in the choir.”

“But can they sing?” Grolsch asked.

It took Kane a moment to realize the man had made a joke. “You know, I’ve never asked,” he said and did his best to chuckle.

“And where will you be, Senore Hodges?”

Kane smiled. “Why, right next to you. Just in case the unthinkable happens, we will be able to coordinate our response.”

“Buono,” Grolsch replied. “His Holiness would prefer no guards at all. Alas, we live in a world in which the man who represents peace and God’s love to so many must be defended from men of violence…. Now, if you will excuse me, I must speak with my people before I take my place.”

Kane returned the man’s small bow and watched him walk off. Thanks to Grolsch’s candidness, he was aware that the four men in the cathedral proper carried SIG P-210 pistols beneath their suit coats, and the two men out of sight behind the altar were also armed with Heckler amp; Koch submachine guns.

Not that it will matter, Kane thought, suppressing a giggle behind his hand. His plan was marching forward swimmingly with its twin purposes coming together at the appointed hour-soon the Pope, as well as Karp, his bitch wife, Marlene…and dear Lucy…would be in his grasp. He’d been told the twin boys wouldn’t be attending, which was a small disappointment-he’d hoped to kill them in front of their parents. But no matter. He’d make sure the parents understood that they were dead before the evening’s festivities were over.

He was so happy, in fact, with the way his plan had worked, he wished he could give himself a hug. The plan had been a masterful work of art, and he’d tinkered with it throughout. Even the death of the terrorist Akhmed Kadyrov during his escape had worked to his advantage when he had the number to the Iranian ambassador-who everyone knew was a tool of the Russians-placed in his pocket. Even the attempt on the old Russian gangster and his son, both known to be sympathetic to the Chechen nationalists, was meant as much for distraction as retribution.

Fey died for his treason, but also because it had been the former archbishop who’d told him the secret last fall that the Pope intended to visit New York to counter the bad publicity of the sexual offenses by priests. If Fey had been questioned about what Kane was up to, he might have given it away. And Flanagan could have recalled hearing the news from him as well.

There’d been a moment of rage and fear when Ellis told him about the king and queen chess pieces arriving at the Karp residence. Who was the traitor? Who was trying to warn Karp? Could Bandar have staggered the arrival of the pieces before his death? Was it the Russian, Malovo? He didn’t trust her-the Russians were always full of intrigue and playing one party against another for their own ends. How about Ellis? Was the cooperation of the two just a lie to get what they wanted while preparing to sacrifice him? But no, he’d made sure that they understood that if something went wrong due to betrayal, he’d salted away plenty of evidence to take them down with him.

Who then? he wondered as he watched the guests enter and take their seats. Behind his smile, he was sneering at their excited faces and small talk as they soaked up being among the chosen. Once they’d shown him those same smiles, talked the small talk, when they arrived at his dinner parties, flattering him with their empty compliments and contributions to his campaign when they thought that he was going to be the next mayor of their precious city. They’d disappeared after his arrest, quickly distancing themselves before he’d even been tried and convicted. Now, he could hardly wait to see their faces when he revealed himself and they realized that their lives were in his hands.

Samira was the most logical choice for the traitor. But that didn’t make sense either. When he last saw her with Malovo-both of them dressed as nuns and mixing in with the choir, who’d been told they were there for the Pope’s protection-her eyes glittered like black diamonds with the knowledge that at last she would become a martyr, striking a blow for Islam that would never be forgotten. He couldn’t imagine her risking the operation…unless her purpose was to ruin the personal aspects of his plan.

But then, Kane thought, what if it really is Samira playing a little game as a way of getting back at him? His fear, after Ellis informed him of the king and queen, was that Karp and Ciampi, along with Lucy, would remain home or locked away in some safe house. It wouldn’t have ruined the larger focus of the plan, but it would have taken a good chunk of the fun out of it. Just what Samira might enjoy.

Wouldn’t have mattered in the long run, Kane thought as he took out his cell phone. I would have killed them someday in some other manner. And as it turned out, they were going to attend despite the threat, or warning, or whatever it was.

Kane was honest enough with himself to recognize that he feared Karp and Ciampi, as well as their odd assortment of friends. It was like some book from his childhood where a group of unlikely heroes comes together to battle the forces of darkness.

From the first moment he’d seen Karp, he’d recognized the man as the proverbial nemesis. He was the leader, the moral center around which the others gathered and found strength.

Marlene Ciampi was dangerous because she was so unpredictable, and as fully capable of using violence as he was without worrying about the niceties when doing what needed to be done. She was like the repentent gunslinger in Western movies who had given up the life until forced into one last showdown to save the townspeople from the bad men.

Superstitious and aware that there were forces at play he didn’t understand, Kane wondered how such a fellowship of Goody Two-shoeses had ever come together. Take the Indian. He’d never met the man but recognized that he drew strength through his spirituality and was as fully cognizant of the play between light and dark as he was. The Indian’s death had been a great relief.

And what about the cowboy? A seemingly insignificant hick from the sticks, and yet weren’t cowboys the American equivalent of the knights-errant? It troubled him that the boy had survived the attack and saved Lucy from falling into his clutches sooner, causing him to slightly revamp his plan for the evening. Doesn’t matter, the cowboy’s ride is over tonight as well, he thought.

After this, though, I want to get the hell out of Dodge. Some unknown presence stalked him in Manhattan. His spies quavered when they talked about a shadow, or shadows, that watched and sometimes did more than watch, slitting throats and carting bodies off into the dark places. The two men assigned to follow the Karp brats had disappeared. Others left the apartment complex across from Baker Field to purchase a pack of cigarettes or scout the neighborhood to watch for the presence of federal agents or the NYPD and never returned. Even Samira, who didn’t seem to fear anyone, was uneasy. But the scouts who did return had shrugged and said they’d seen nothing on the streets and in the park near the apartment except university students, harmless residents, and the usual assortment of homeless bums, including an obnoxious drunk Indian who had been hanging around, rummaging in the building’s Dumpster, and begging for handouts.

There was one person who frightened him more than Karp, or Ciampi, their friends, or even nameless shadows. The most unlikely source of fear: Lucy Karp. He was both fascinated by her and afraid of her because she seemed to sense that he was something other than what he portrayed. He imagined that she could see beneath his skin and knew what squirmed there in the dark recesses of his mind. He was sure she’d seen through him in Aspen and almost waited for the feds to pull their guns and arrest him, laughing at how he’d been done in by a twenty-one-year-old girl. That was why she now figured so prominently in his plans.

He’d seen her when she and her cowboy entered the cathedral. In fact, he’d turned around and found her looking directly at him from thirty feet away. His first inclination had been to turn and run. But he’d managed to smile and nod. Instead of returning the greeting, she’d leaned toward her boyfriend and whispered something, then they’d headed for their seats in the sixth row of pews.

The sooner this is over and I’m back to living the life to which I am accustomed, the better, Kane thought as he punched in the number for another cell phone and stepped into a corner of the cathedral where he could talk privately.

“Emil,” he said when it was answered. “Is everything ready?”

Five blocks away at his bank on Fifth Avenue, Emil Stavros sat in the international wire room on the twenty-fifth floor with Dante Coletta. The bank was, of course, closed on Saturday, but the guard at the desk downstairs had hardly bothered to make Stavros and his chauffeur sign in.

Stavros was sweating bullets. The monitoring device set up in his home would have already sent a signal to the cops when the electronic bracelet he wore moved out of the prescribed range. However, that wasn’t what had his stomach all tied up in knots.

After all, there was a plan in place to clear him. After he’d done what he was supposed to do, Coletta would tie him up with phone cords and duct tape his mouth shut before going back to the lobby, shooting the guard, and leaving.

Stavros’s story would be that he’d been forced to cooperate with Kane or face death for himself and Amarie, who was already home and tied up on the bed. The whole murder case would be portrayed as a setup to blackmail him with a taped confession of Dante Coletta admitting to the murder. Poor Coletta, who thought he would be escaping the country with Kane, didn’t know that the plan was for Kane’s terrorist friends to shoot him and make it look like a suicide with the tape on the bed next to him.

Better him than me, Stavros thought as he’d waited for Kane’s call.

He hadn’t meant to kill Teresa that night. But when she refused to help him with his gambing debts, something clicked and the next thing he knew, his hands were around her throat and he’d choked her into unconsciousness. His first thought had been to call an ambulance. But then Coletta had appeared out of nowhere.

If you call an ambulance, the chauffeur said, they’ll call the cops. It will at least be attempted murder, and if she dies, you’ll go away for life…if they don’t give you the death penalty.

What do I do? he’d pleaded.

Let me make a call, Coletta said. Then when he returned he said, You’re going to have to finish this. Shoot her and then we’ll bury her and make it look like she got tired of you fucking around on her and left.

I couldn’t, he’d stammered.

It’s that or the electric chair. The chauffeur had shrugged.

Then the gun was in his hand, and he was leaning over with the muzzle a foot from his wife’s head. Closer, Emil, the chauffeur had whispered. Put it right on her fucking skull and pull the trigger. You don’t want to miss.

Stavros had looked at his wife and was struck by how beautiful she was; there was a moment’s regret, a thought of returning to the first option of calling for an ambulance. But then there was Coletta whispering again, Shoot her, Emil. Or your life is over.

He didn’t remember pulling the trigger, or whether he shot once or a dozen times. The next thing he knew, he was on his knees throwing up with Coletta patting him sympathetically on the back. “You did what you had to do, Emil,” he said.

They’d pulled up the rosebushes and buried her. After replacing the plants, Coletta had told him to sit tight for a couple of days and then report his wife as missing. Everything will be taken care of, the chauffeur said. Just remember, you are indebted to Mr. Andrew Kane from this day on.

Fourteen years later, Stavros had been angry when he learned that Kane had set him up in order to force him to cooperate with his plan. But there was nothing he could do-Kane had the gun with his fingerprints locked away in a safe deposit box.

The plan to absolve him of the murder should work, Stavros thought. Plus, Karp will be dead, and there will be a mistrial. If I’m worried about it, I’ll leave the country. I’ll have plenty of money from my share of this.

No, what really frightened him-as a Catholic who on occasion gave some thought to the hereafter-was Kane’s plans for the Pope. The first time he heard about the plan, he’d been staggered by its audacity. You’re insane, he’d said.

The blow from Kane, who’d been standing in front of him, had knocked him from the chair on which he’d sat. You ever call me insane again, and I’ll really show you what happens when I’m feeling a little crazy, you little motherfucker, Kane snarled.

Stavros had never questioned him again. Nor did he now when Kane asked if he was ready. “Yes, Andy.”

There was a moment when Stavros wondered if he’d lost the connection. Then Kane said quietly, coldly, “Emil, if you don’t want me to rip your tongue out and feed it to a dog the next time I see you, don’t ever call me Andy, again.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Kane. Sorry. Yes, everything is ready.”

“Good. Now just sit tight and wait for the transfer. You know what to do after that.”

Kane laughed as he closed the cell phone. What an idiot, he thought. He thinks he’s going to live? But he did love hearing fear in men’s voices when he spoke to them. It made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

A voice suddenly spoke in the radio receiver in his ear. “Yes,” he said.

“This is Gregor at the back of the cathedral. We have three priests and a nun who say they are with the Pope’s medical team.”

“You check them over with a wand?”

“ Da, they’re clean. No guns.”

“Then let them in. We don’t want to do anything that might cause a fuss.”

At the back of the cathedral where it joined with the building that held the archbishop’s living quarters, as well as some of the archdiocese’s offices, the Chechen terrorist posing as a Homeland Security agent allowed the four late arrivals to pass.

He hardly glanced at the men: an older priest he’d seen in the cathedral directing other priests and nuns to their places for the ceremony; and two men he’d not seen before. One of them was a short, middle-aged Asian, the other a tall, rugged priest with a patch over one eye and a scarred face. However, as the nun went past, he got a good look at her face and thought, What a waste of a fine woman to make her a nun. Too bad there is no time for rape, or I would choose this one. But who cares? After tonight, I will be in paradise with my every need fulfilled by virgins.