The Bridge of Bones (Vatican Knights) Page 5

  In the mirror’s reflection he could see Tolimir reaching for his cell phone. “Who are you calling?”

  “Who do you think?”

  Beauchamp whipped around. “All I’m asking is for more money to see this through. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “Fine. Then you can tell Božanović yourself. But I think you already know the answer.”

  At this moment, Reinard left the vehicle, walked a good distance away, and lit a cigarette.

  “Even your partner knows,” Tolimir told him evenly. “He’s trying to distance himself from you.”

  Beauchamp closed his eyes, sighed, and held out his hand. “Give me the money,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

  Tolimir smiled and handed him the packet. “Four days. That’s all we need.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “There is no trying. Either you do or you don’t. And you know what happens when you don’t.”

  Beauchamp knew exactly what would happen. He didn’t want to become one of Božanović’s extraordinary pieces of artwork. Beauchamp laid on the horn and beckoned Reinard to get back into the vehicle.

  After stubbing out the cigarette and getting back in the unit, things remained quiet all the way back to the city, as Beauchamp realized that he had made his deal with the devil. There was nothing he could do about it.

  Nothing at all.

  Inwardly he sighed, having no choice but to resign himself to his fate.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Shari had not said a word since they left the station, their hotel room holding a tomblike silence as Gary stood on the balcony overlooking the city of Paris. He wondered where his girls were, thinking that he should be out there looking for them.

  In the meantime, Shari had grown cold and distant with a stoic detachment about her. Her face was unemotional, the tears now gone; leaving Gary to wonder whether the fortitude of the fighter in her was beginning to die inside.

  He looked at her as she sat statue-like on the couch. Her eyes were fixed on nothing in particular. It was the look of wheels churning.

  “Honey?”

  She looked at him with indifference.

  “They’ll find them,” he told her. Even his tone lacked conviction.

  She looked away.

  We’ll find them.

  Shari suddenly moved into action by picking up the phone. She asked to be connected to Larry Johnston, who currently served as the FBI Director of Field Operations in Washington, D.C. She even provided the man’s personal number.

  On the fourth ring he picked up. “Hello.”

  “Larry, thank God you’re there.”

  “Shari… How’s Paris?”

  “They’re gone,” she told him, her voice beginning to crack. “They took my babies.”

  “What… Who?”

  “My babies,” she said. “The police think they were taken by a human trafficking ring.”

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “Larry, please. I need your help in this. The inspector overlooking the case says they’re doing all they can, but they have limited resources. And we both know what that means. Is there any way you can send a team to expedite matters?”

  “You know that answer to that, Shari. The FBI has no jurisdiction in foreign countries. The only way we can get it is if the hosting country agrees to our intervention, and it also needs to be approved by the congressional body. And for that to happen, it needs to be something cataclysmic, like a nine-eleven event.”

  Her voice began to crack. “Please, Larry.”

  “You need to contact the American Embassy,” he told her. “That’s our liaison there. I’m sure they’ll do whatever needs to be done to get this investigation off the ground with both barrels blazing.”

  “Anything, please.”

  “In fact, I’ll call them. Where are you?”

  She gave him the hotel and the room number. “They said that we have four days until their trail grows cold,” she added.

  “I’ll do what I can,” he told her. “And I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you.” She hung up the phone up by placing it gingerly onto its cradle.

  There would be no team coming, no outside help. Protocols had to be followed no matter who you were or who you knew. The marginal spark of hope that had kindled inside her was all but snuffed out. She knew the embassy had limited powers, no matter their effort to light a fire under the carcasses of foreign law enforcement. No matter what, she knew, the situation would be forgotten by day’s end, as newer and more important issues surfaced.

  She closed her eyes.

  My babies…

  …they’re gone forever.

  And then she wept long and hard, with an incredible sense of loss and emptiness.

  Božanović and Tolimir were sitting outside a Parisian eatery enjoying their cups of latte, while the surrounding patrons endeared themselves to the pages of Le Monde. As Tolimir spoke, Božanović listened as he was updated about Shari Cohen, a potential problem since she was FBI. But in the end, Tolimir offered the Croat an assurance as promised by Beauchamp, that he would give them a few days for the trail to run cold before examining the case.

  Božanović was not disturbed by this news at all. He knew that the American Embassy would get involved, but he had greased so many palms, proffered so many messages with the blade of his knife to keep law enforcement compliant to his needs, that their requests would fall on deaf ears. “And the girls?”

  “They’re fine. They’re sedated.”

  “Very good. Keep them well, Tolimir. Should they or any of my stock grow ill, I will hold you solely responsible. You know I will.”

  “I understand.” And he did, clearly. He had been there when Božanović literally butchered men before. It was a lesson about responsibility and reliability. If you wanted in, then reliable you must be. If not, then he would remove you in a way that promoted fear in others. And fear, at least in Božanović’s eyes, was a great motivator.

  “We will have our time,” he added. “Are we almost at capacity?”

  “We have fifty-five with a few more to go. We should be good in two, maybe three days. But we’ll be there.”

  Božanović nodded his approval. They would take this group and transport them to Italy by boat, where they would be joined with others who had already been prepared for delivery for the auction blocks in the Middle East and North Africa.

  And then the man with the horrifically scarred face smiled. It was genuine, at least by what Tolimir could tell, but he didn’t know for what reason.

  But Božanović said it all. “I do love my job,” he said. With his hands clasped behind the small of his back, Božanović simply walked away.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was late in Paris, and the lights rivaled those of Las Vegas, the city that never sleeps.

  Gary and Shari remained separated, sitting at opposite ends of the room, reflecting.

  The clock read 3:13 a.m.

  “Did the Embassy call?” he finally asked.

  She hesitated. Then: “No.” You know they didn’t.

  “Maybe they’ll call in the morning.”

  “We’ve already lost a day,” she told him. “We—the girls—have three days left before they’re gone.”

  Gary turned away. His ‘we’ll find them’ comment had finally run its course by growing stale and hollow, the words no longer having any meaning or weight behind them, the once hopeful tone now gone.

  “I’m going to bed,” she said unemotionally. Gary said nothing in return as she stood and went to the bedroom. Her steps were slow, like the walk of a woman making her way toward the gallows. In less than twelve hours she had aged exponentially, her once copper tone now pale and waxy, her cheeks sallow. Dark rings formed around eyes that were red and rheumy.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, the lights of the room off as Paris sparkled through the glass door of the patio. She stared at nothing specific, as everything became detached.

  The American Embassy
had not called to placate them, or to inform them that they had done everything within the scope of their political power to assure that everything was being done to find their children. Had not called to tell them that they had flexed their muscles to the fullest capacity to get local law enforcement to ‘step it up.’

  Their efforts, she knew, were as listless as the crawl of a snail. There was no cavalry.

  She closed her eyes, her mind searching for the hope that had dwindled to the glow of an ember.

  Suddenly her eyes snapped to the size of communion wafers.

  She turned on the lamp, grabbed her purse, and dumped the contents onto the bedcover. Chap Stick, emery boards, loose change—everything littered the bed. She then spread the items out with quick sweeps of her hand, dividing everything up.

  And there it was.

  A business card, which had been handed to her by Pope Pius XIII after she had assisted in his rescue, alongside the Vatican Knights several years ago. Pius had given her the card as an exclusive invitation to contact him via liaisons at the Vatican, as a token of his gratitude and a lifelong hand toward friendship. When Pius XIII eventually succumbed to cancer, the mantle of power was eventually handed to Bonasero Vessucci, now Pius XIV, who had orchestrated his predecessor’s rescue along with Shari’s stalwart support, when he had served as the Vatican’s secretary of state. Though they had grown close, she had never contacted the Vatican for one reason: Kimball Hayden.

  The man she had been falling in love with while she was married to another.

  She tilted the card, knowing that the number was not a direct line to the papal chamber but to a switchboard liaison, who would monitor incoming calls and cull those of non importance and disregard them. Those judged with validity would be sent forward.

  She tried to smooth out the card, which had formed deep creases. The card itself was essentially nondescript, with nothing but numerical characters on its face side—no names, no addresses. Just numbers that were delicately styled in cursive.

  An ember of hope began to simmer and glow, the spark inside her resuscitating to a flame of renewed vigor.

  She immediately grabbed the phone, checked the number once again, and dialed.

  The phone rang six times before it was answered.

  The person on the other end spoke in Italian, the voice fresh despite the early morning hour.

  “Do you speak English?” she asked him.

  “I do.”

  “My name is Shari Cohen,” she told him. “And I need to get a message to Pope Pius. Shari…Cohen.”

  The man on the other end did not question her validity or comment on the unusual time of the call. He simply acted accordingly to his post, taking the message in earnest, reading it back to confirm its accuracy, and writing down her contact number. “The message will be forwarded to the proper authority,” he stated.

  “Authority? No-no-no, you don’t understand. I need Bonasero Vessucci to contact me as soon as possible! Please! I’m a very good friend of his—a very good friend! So please, I beg you since time is of the essence here! Please let him know that Shari…Cohen is trying to contact him! That’s Shari—”

  The liaison cut her off. “Yes, Signora, I have your name. I assure you that the message will be forwarded to the proper authority,” he said, and then he hung up.

  The sound after the disconnect droned , as she allowed the phone to hang close to her ear for a long moment. Is there no one who will help me? She then laid the fancy French receiver onto its cradle, as her eyes and soul once again became disconnected by hopelessness. She shut off the lamp. In the darkness, as she sat silhouetted against the backdrop of Paris shining through the glass doors that led to the patio, as the hand of the clock loudly ticked off seconds that seemed eternal, she waited.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The bare bulb hanging freely from the ceiling glowed feebly.

  The grungy walls.

  The closed-in space.

  The spartan surroundings of two cots—one for her sister, one for herself.

  And nothing more.

  Stephanie woke to a world caught within a cataract fog. Everything appeared hazy. And when she tried to raise her head from the pillow, she found it impossible. The pain was so crippling that it caused darkness to close in from the edges of her eyesight, nearly causing her to black out.

  The bulb above her cast an aura of light that was barely strong enough to tell her that she was not alone.

  A man—a blur, really—with his head and face distorted in a funhouse mirror sort of way, spoke in a voice that sounded distant and hollow.

  He then leaned forward and downward. And despite her hazy vision, as if she was looking through a veil, she could see that his horribly maimed face appeared something less than human. The scar, the downturned eye, the edge of an upturned lip—made him look as if he was pieced together in a horrific way.

  And then she felt the painful jab of a needle in her forearm.

  The man slowly turned his head back and forth in study. “She should fetch a high price, yes?”

  “No doubt. She is a classic beauty.”

  There was a second person in the room, the phantom voice sounding equally distant, as he stood somewhere beyond her periphery of vision.

  “And she’s to stay that way. If anyone tries to sample the goods, then they will answer to me. Is that understood?”

  “Clearly.”

  “A taken woman is worth far less on the market.” The man stood upright, his features undulating—the raw effects of the sedation beginning to take hold. “And that goes for this one too.” He pointed to her sister lying on the adjacent bunk.

  And then they were gone, a door slamming, which was then followed with the sound of a deadbolt locking.

  Her eyes shifted ceilingward as spreading coldness coursed through her veins. The sedative was working hard to pinch out the last of the overhead light, as a purple darkness began to spread inward from the edges of her vision. The illumination of the bulb began to dim to a pinprick, the light becoming a flickering mote.

  And then it was gone.

  As darkness poured over her, she questioned who this man—this malformed creature—was.

  Was it the Devil?

  As the thought faded, as a quick chill traced up her spine in a final shiver, darkness consumed her.

  Vatican City

  The Papal Chamber

  Warm morning light spread across St. Peter’s Square, as people began to mill about. The semi-circle design of the Colonnades in the piazza and the Egyptian obelisk, which stood in the center of the ovato tondo, served as marquee focal points, as Bernini statues dotted the plaza. The Basilica stood completely majestic in its entirety, the structure breathtaking. And though Vatican City was the smallest country in the world at roughly the size of an eighteen-hole golf course, in Pius’s mind it was the most beautiful and the most striking.

  When he awoke he cleansed himself, adorned his papal aprons, and blessed the new day with prayer. His bed chamber was spacious with scarlet drapery that was scalloped with gold fringes. The space had marble flooring and ornamental furniture that bore the images of cherubs and angels.

  Just as he was about to head for the papal office, there was a knock at his door.

  It was a bishop from the Holy See. In his hand were three memos. After he handed Pius the messages, the pope kindly thanked the man and lightly closed the door after him. The first memo was regarding a skirmish in the Philippines with a Catholic church coming under the trespasses and vandalism of roving gangs in the south. They were becoming increasingly hostile toward Christians, as radical Muslims were beginning to take root there. It would be a subject to address at a future session with his contemporaries, should hostilities continue in that region.

  The second was a memorandum communicating that a cardinal serving in Northern Africa had grown quite ill. Pius would send his blessings.

  But it was the third memo that caused a breath to hitch in his chest.

>   It was from Shari Cohen, the message received more than five hours ago. The old man took the letter and sat on the edge of the papal bed, reading and re-reading the page until the urgency of its content finally settled. Her children had fallen prey to a human trafficking ring in France. And now she was imploring the pontiff for aid that only he could provide.

  She was calling upon the Vatican Knights.

  Pope Pius XIV, Bonasero Vessucci, held the assistance of the Knights to three criteria: To protect the sovereignty of the Church, to protect the interests of the Church, and to defend the welfare of its citizenry.

  Shari would normally come under the third criterion; however, she was a woman of Jewish faith, which barred her from that particular article. Nevertheless, she had been instrumental in securing Pope Pius XIII from the United States, after rogue American forces had taken him hostage, under the guise of a terrorist faction. Without her, the former pope would have died, the woman nearly sacrificing her life and the life of her family to see that he was secured.

  Yet the criteria were set, the protocols unyielding. For Vessucci, who acted as the head of the Society of Seven, a clandestine group of cardinals who decided whether or not a situation met the criteria to move the Knights into battle, he would have to lobby hard for their support, since Shari met none of the above.

  He stood and went to the phone. Then, after dialing an extension and receiving an answer, he issued a single command: “Tell the Order to meet in the Lower Chamber.”

  Nothing more was said as he laid the phone down.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Society of Seven was a secretive sect made up of the pope, the Vatican’s secretary of state, and five of the pope’s most trusted cardinals. They were gathered around an oval table made of veined marble with legs shaped like Roman columns for study support. The surrounding walls were made of castle stone, the rock gray, with ancient tortures continuing to serve as reminders of a time when electricity was not even a consideration in the minds of men. The ceiling was high and domed, now with recessed lighting. And in the center of the room’s floor set in mosaic tiles was the symbol of the Vatican Knights, a Silver Cross Pattée positioned against a powder-blue background with two lions holding up a heraldic shield.