The Hammer of God v-2 Page 5

  “Us too,” said Carla, struggling to look strong.

  “Yeah,” added Paul. “We hope you find Samuel okay.” Paul burst into tears and ran out of the room. Carla and Ms. Salomon followed right behind him, tears running down their cheeks too. When the door closed, Father Gakowski moved face-to-face with Robert.

  “You lied, Mr. Veil. You’re not with the FBI, or any other agency.

  Cardinal Polletto’s people said you were there this morning, and were told all we know.”

  “Those children know more,” Robert fumed. “You heard them.”

  “I’ll inform the proper authorities,” said Father Gakowski, opening the door. “Gentlemen, walk Mr. Veil to his car.” Robert felt the handle of his nine-millimeter press against his stomach. He relaxed, pushed past the guards, and stormed out of the building. Teeth grinding, he rumbled back down Interstate 94, blind with rage. Five miles down the highway, he abruptly snatched the wheel to the right, swerved off the freeway and skidded to a stop on the side of the road, car horns honking, and middle fingers up in his direction.

  Paul and Carla wanted to tell me something. Something Samuel didn’t want anybody else to know.

  Robert considered going to the Feds to get a court order, but knew his hunch wasn’t enough to get a judge to do battle with the Archdiocese, who obviously had something to hide. Besides, Robert was sure Cardinal Polletto, or whoever was pulling the strings, would see to it that neither child would be available for questioning after today. It was a long shot, but he’d run it by Thorne and Detective Reynolds anyway.

  The cobalt blue numbers on the dashboard clock beamed 10:00 a.m.

  A few more hours and Samuel would be gone for over forty-eight hours.

  A near death sentence, unless the kidnappers made contact soon. Robert eased back onto the highway and headed for the Napier’s to have a talk with Donovan, and find out if the kidnappers had sent any word.

  Head throbbing, heart pounding, Robert lowered the windows and let cool air blow through. Hold on Samuel, I’m coming.

  10

  C ardinal Polletto stepped out of his black Cadillac onto busy Superior Avenue, in front of the eight-story building that housed the Archdiocese of Chicago. As expected, he’d been summoned to account for the sudden reassignment of Father Tolbert, and use of the Vatican’s private jet. As Archbishop, it was well within his right to make use of church resources and transfer personnel, but even he was required to go through channels.

  Cardinal Maximilian, in Chicago on special assignment from the Holy See, to evaluate and audit the diocese, asked if he would come in and explain the urgent need to usurp protocol. Justifying his decisions irritated Cardinal Polletto, unless it came directly from the Vatican. “I assure you it did,” Cardinal Maximilian had told him, smug and self-assured.

  Cardinal Polletto strode through the brightly lit lobby, pious, chin high, nodding to visitors, well-wishers and staff, who bowed and greeted him as though he were the Holy Father himself. A ritual he thoroughly enjoyed.

  “Good Morning, Your Eminence,” said Father Solomon Fox, Cardinal Maximilian’s assistant, appearing at the cardinal’s side, as though out of thin air.

  Cardinal Polletto greeted the stone-faced New Yorker with a broad smile and a pat on the back. “I trust the Lord is treating you well this morning, Father,” he said.

  “Indeed he is, sir. Thank you.” Father Fox chiseled an uncomfortable smile on his cold, rocky countenance. “Cardinal Maximilian is waiting for you on the fifth floor. He sent me to ride up with you.” Aggravated, Cardinal Polletto shot the priest a quick glare out the corner of his eye. “How thoughtful, Cardinal Maximilian is always quite the gentleman.”

  The elevator door opened on the fifth floor. An instant wave of simultaneous adulation and greeting rang out in chorus. Cardinal Polletto met each salutation with a humble nod and wave.

  Father Fox led him to the large conference room and opened the door. Inside, sitting at the head of a long, ebony Gabon conference table with a black Italian marble top was Cardinal James Francis Maximilian.

  Cardinal Maximilian, the first African-American to ascend so high in the Roman Catholic Church, stood, draped from head to toe in blood red.

  Shoulders back, head held high, he almost seemed to glide over to Cardinal Polletto, hand extended. When Cardinal Polletto took his hand, Cardinal Maximilian bowed his head in a submissive pose, a move Cardinal Polletto knew to be more show than substance.

  “Thank you for coming down on such short notice,” said Cardinal Maximilian. “I know your schedule is a hectic one.”

  “That it is,” answered Cardinal Polletto, taking a seat. “But one must always understand accountability.”

  Cardinal Maximilian smiled. After a few minutes of feigned pleasantries and light gossip, Cardinal Maximilian cleared his throat. “I understand Father Tolbert has been reassigned.”

  “Correct. He’s going to intern at the Vatican Archives, a rare opportunity with a short shelf life, as you are aware. Someone was needed immediately, and he was given an immediate clearance at my request.”

  Cardinal Maximilian sat unmoved. Cardinal Polletto, prepared for the question, had his operatives at the Vatican Archives and Swiss Guard ready to confirm his cover story.

  “Why Father Tolbert?” asked Cardinal Maximilian. “What basis did you use to select him?”

  “Father Tolbert has shown intense interest in church history and artifacts over the years. He’s approached me several times, inquiring about a chance to serve there, and has made several applications to do so.

  He has an undergraduate degree in Library Science, so I made overtures on his behalf, and praise God an opening finally became available and they called me first.” Cardinal Maximilian stroked his chin. “Certainly, you must agree that such diligence and desire to serve must be rewarded,” added Cardinal Polletto.

  Cardinal Maximilian smiled. “Certainly,” he said. “It was just a bit unusual for things to move so quickly without proper notification.”

  “My apologies for not calling you in the wee hours of the morning, I assumed it would be more prudent to inform you this morning.”

  “Yet morning came, and not a word.”

  Cardinal Polletto put his hands together as if to pray. He gave a solemn nod. “Again, my apologies.”

  Cardinal Maximilian flipped open a file folder. “More disturbing than Father Tolbert’s sudden departure, is his mode of transportation.

  The Vatican jet?”

  Cardinal Polletto sat back. “As I’m sure you’re aware, the jet was used to transport a group of wealthy European dignitaries here to the states at the Holy Father’s request. I understand they made quite a healthy contribution to several of the Pontiff’s favorite causes.”

  “And that figures into Father Tolbert using it how?” asked Cardinal Maximilian.

  Cardinal Polletto smiled. “The plane was pre-scheduled to return to Rome. Why let it go to waste?”

  “How convenient.”

  “You know our Lord, Cardinal, ever ready to meet our needs.” Cardinal Maximilian continued to turn the pages in the folder. He stopped, picked up a page, then lifted his eyes. “I’m sure you’re aware of the complaints we’ve received about Father Tolbert.”

  “Oh, complaints?” asked Cardinal Polletto.

  “These are challenging times for the Church,” said Cardinal Maximilian. “The scandals concerning our children and their safety in the hands of Catholic clergy are extremely sensitive. Father Tolbert has been the focus of rumblings for the past year.”

  “The molestation of children I take very seriously,” Cardinal Polletto lied. “I too have heard the rumors, and looked into them very carefully.

  So far, I’ve found them to be nothing more than dead end gossip.”

  “If you’ve made a formal inquiry, why haven’t you filed an official report?”

  “Official reports tend to get leaked to the press, draw useless, and might I say unfair accusations to the
innocent. I see no need to stir up fodder for an already voracious press, and those who hate the Church.”

  “I’m mindful of your stern determination to protect the Church,” said Cardinal Maximilian. “In that, you’re not alone, but we must be careful not to seem eager to hide backsliders and transgressors, especially potential pedophiles. It’s a mistake far too many have made at a devastating price.”

  “True. The world is never ready to accept our view of forgiveness and repentance.”

  Cardinal Maximilian closed the folder. “It seems many of our brothers in service are more prone to forgiveness, than repenting.” Cardinal Polletto leaned forward. “Satan is ever diligent, but we mustn’t allow him to change the precepts outlined by God and the Church, must we? If so, who would we trust?”

  “Even so, the violation of children cannot be tolerated, and we can no longer look the other way,” added Cardinal Maximilian, fists clinched.

  “Certainly not, but let us be mindful that there is no hierarchy of sin.

  If we toss out a priest for one thing, why not for another…theft, lies, deception? We’re all guilty, Cardinal. Sin is sin.” Cardinal Maximilian’s eyes turned red and the muscles in his jaw flexed. “Well, I guess this is a debate for another time.”

  “Anytime,” Cardinal Polletto said, wanting to gloat. “It’s been a pleasure, Cardinal Maximilian, as always.”

  “Not that I want to dwell on only bad news this morning, Cardinal, but have you heard anything new concerning the kidnapped boy from Father Tolbert’s parish, Samuel Napier?” Cardinal Polletto gave a deep sigh. “Yes,” he said, “young Samuel.

  Unfortunately, I haven’t heard a thing. I understand the police and FBI have yet to receive any word from the kidnappers, a grave misfortune.”

  “We’ll all stay in constant prayer,” said Cardinal Maximilian. “Let’s hope the family hears something soon.”

  “Yes,” said Cardinal Polletto, “let’s continue to pray.”

  “I do have one concern,” said Cardinal Maximilian, measuring his words. “Since young Samuel was an altar boy under Father Tolbert, I’m sure the FBI will want to question him at some point.” Cardinal Polletto sat up straight. “The thought crossed my mind,” he said. “In fact, the boy’s godfather has already made an inquiry.”

  “Even so, my concern is with the authorities. We should be prepared to make Father Tolbert available if asked.”

  “I understand and share your concern, Cardinal. But unless we believe Father Tolbert was somehow involved, I don’t think the Church should go out of its way. If asked, a phone conversation should suffice.” Cardinal Maximilian rocked back and forth in his chair, all the time, his penetrating eyes never moving from Cardinal Polletto. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask that you send for Father Tolbert, Cardinal Polletto. Despite your inquiry into the rumors surrounding him, and my concurrence that we should only make him available to the authorities if asked, I want to question him myself. I’ll phone the Vatican Archives and have them hold his position. That’s only fair.” Cardinal Polletto smiled and stood. “As you wish, Cardinal. I’ll see to it myself,” he said, as they said their goodbyes.

  Cardinal Polletto rode up to his top floor office alone. Eyes closed, he fought to steady his nerves, leaning against the elevator’s back wall.

  Cardinal Maximilian’s request that he bring back Father Tolbert was impossible if he wanted to keep his plans hidden and moving forward. If he had his way, Father Tolbert would never return to the States. The priest’s uncontrollable urge for children had been useful, but was now an inconvenience. The rumors Cardinal Maximilian spoke of were far more than true. In fact, they were the crumbs of something far more pervasive.

  A well-orchestrated effort, and if Cardinal Polletto had his way, would significantly cripple and destroy the Church.

  I must keep Father Tolbert in Rome. By the time the world discovers who Samuel Napier really is, it’ll be too late.

  The elevator door opened. Cardinal Polletto, his anxiety now abated, was met by his assistant, Father Gerald Volken.

  “I need you to get Bishop Niccolo at the Vatican Archives on the phone immediately,” he told the boyish-faced thirty-five year old.

  “Yes, Cardinal, right away. I’ve placed your itinerary on your desk, including a list of people you need to call today and their phone numbers.

  There’s one at the top of the list that requires your immediate attention,” said Father Volken, following the cardinal into his office.

  Cardinal Polletto picked up the list of scheduled phone calls. At the top it read: Call Chicago office, FBI, Agent Baxter, and included a phone number and extension.

  Cardinal Polletto looked out over Chicago through his large, pane glass window. “Get me Bishop Niccolo at the Vatican as I requested, immediately.”

  12

  R obert parked at the curb across the street from the Napier’s estate.

  Except for two unmarked federal sedans out front, and a black SUV with dark tinted windows in the circular driveway, things looked much quieter than the day before. Gone were the black and whites, flashing lights, heavy police presence, television trucks and reporters.

  Robert sat a few minutes to calm himself, then got out and walked through the gate entrance, making a beeline for the front door. He was only a few feet away from the house when the front door opened, and an FBI lumberjack, wearing a dark blue suit, emerged and blocked his path.

  “May I help you, sir?” the agent asked.

  Robert didn’t like the idea of having to account for his presence at Donavon’s house, but suppressed his emotions, not wanting to upset Alison further by causing a scene. He explained the reason for his visit, that he was a close friend of Donovan’s, hoping the agent would speak to his friend, not Alison.

  “You’re the boy’s godfather, correct?” asked the agent, more polite than Robert anticipated. Robert nodded. The agent’s eyes softened. “One moment, Mr. Veil. Please stay here, I’ll see what I can do.” Robert said thanks, and a few minutes later, Donovan appeared at the side of the house. “Robert, follow me around back.” Robert opened his mouth to speak, but Donovan held up a hand, and motioned for him to remain quiet.

  Donovan’s limp looked more pronounced. Dark circles outlined his now sunken eyes, and salt-and-pepper stubble crusted his leathery, basset hound face. Once they reached the guesthouse, Donovan went straight to the couch in the living room and collapsed into the Indian embroidery, exhausted. Robert had never seen his friend so distraught, not even when their lives were on the line out in the field when they worked for the CIA. Robert sat down, but only stared in silence, giving Donovan a chance to gather himself. After a little more than five minutes, the beaten down father sat up and wiped his eyes. Robert did the same.

  “I’m sorry, but I haven’t slept much,” said Donovan. “Alison’s out cold right now, thanks to Dr. Vicodin.”

  “Looks like you should swallow a few yourself,” said Robert, knowing it would take a cocked pistol to the head to get so much as an aspirin down Donovan’s throat.

  Donovan stretched. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it. This is more brutal than you know.”

  Robert cleared his throat. “Donovan, have they…have they called, made contact?”

  “No, nothing,” he answered, rubbing his eyes. “It’s got us twisted in knots. If the bastards would just tell us what they want, anything, it doesn’t matter. Nothing would be too much.” A jarring bolt zipped down Robert’s spine, but he held fast. “The boys at Quantico have any ideas? It’s what we pay them for.”

  “No,” said Donovan, struggling to his feet. “They’re as much in the dark as we are.”

  Donovan walked to the front window, leaned forward until his forehead touched it, and closed his eyes, his breath morphing into a deep fog on the glass.

  Robert eased up behind his friend. “Thorne and I have been trying to chase down leads of our own.” Donovan straightened up and turned around. “I know you and
Alison asked us to stay out of it,” Robert continued. “But did you really think we would? He’s as much of a son to me as he is to you.”

  Donovan forced a smile, which looked out of place with the swollen sacks under his eyes, and heavily wrinkled brow. “I know you mean well, but I have to ask you and Thorne to stand down.” The words took Robert aback. “Obviously there’s something going on I don’t know about. Now, you know me. You know what I can do.

  Why won’t you let me help?”

  Donovan’s eyes widened. He gritted his teeth, made a fist, and lightly tapped it against Robert’s chest. Catching himself, Donovan relaxed and went back to the couch. Robert sat down next to him.

  “I went by Samuel’s school today,” said Robert. “I talked to several of his friends. When I asked them if there was anything going on with Samuel, anything out of place, they both broke down in tears.” Donovan furrowed his brow. “What did they say was wrong?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to finish questioning them. I was escorted out before I could find out.”

  “Who were the children you spoke with?” Robert gave him Paul and Carla’s names. Donovan looked even more puzzled. “They’re Samuel’s best friends. They didn’t mention anything when the FBI talked to them.”

  “The FBI?” asked Robert, surprised.

  “Yes. A couple of agents went to their houses to see if they noticed anything out of place over the last couple of weeks. They spoke to several of Samuel’s teachers and the school staff.” Strange, why didn’t they tell me? Robert clenched his fists, but resisted banging them on the coffee table. “Donovan, what the hell is going on?”

  “I wish I knew,” he answered. “That doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  “I mean, what’s going on with Samuel that you’re not telling me?” Donovan hesitated. “I can’t say.”

  “You mean you won’t say.”

  “It’s for Samuel’s protection, and probably has nothing to do with the kidnapping.”

  “Probably?” Robert bit his tongue. “Does the FBI know?” Donovan squinted, as though measuring his words. “No, they don’t.” Robert sprang to his feet. “Goddamnit, I don’t get this! Samuel’s out there, stolen from us by God only knows who, and you’re holding back!”