Name of the Devil (32 page)

“
T
HE
D
EAD
M
AN
Walks,” I say out loud to the room of Secret Service agents. They're looking at me like they looked at Ratner after his “monkey balls” outburst. “That's what we have to do.” I'm speaking more to myself than to them as I frantically work out the details in my mind.

“We have to let Marta think she has a chance of killing the pope. Putting him inside some obvious bulletproof cage will only cause her to change her attempt to some other opportune time. While our lives would be easier if we knew this assassination attempt wasn't going to happen on US soil, that only passes the buck on to some other foreign government who, I'm almost certain, will be even less equipped to stop it from happening.

“Paradoxically, the only way I can see us stopping her is by letting her proceed, but under conditions we carefully control, with safeguards that are invisible to Marta and her people.”

“‘The Dead Man Walks'?” Carver is still confused.

“My grandfather is a stage magician. He wanted to perform the most dangerous illusion in magic. Not an illusion that
looks
dangerous, like escaping from a straitjacket while dangling from a burning rope, but an illusion that's actually killed more magicians than any other.”

“The bullet catch?” Carver asks.

“Yes. Precisely. Grandfather figured out a very dramatic
presentation that, to this day, no one has replicated or even fully explained. Even the gunman had no idea how it worked. The curtains would go up on Grandfather standing off to the side of the stage, blindfolded, with his back to a post. Like a third-world execution. A paper target would be suspended a few feet in front of his body.

“The marksman he used for this illusion was a celebrated Korean War sniper who had something like two hundred confirmed kills. He would load and secure his own rifle. He brought the bullet himself. He would even sign it in front of the audience.

“Grandfather would stand there in his tuxedo, puffing away on his cigar, and count down from ten. You could see the beads of sweat on the sniper's forehead. The entire theater was silent. Nobody even breathed.

“The marksman would aim and at the count of one, squeeze the trigger. The rifle would fire, the target would puncture, and Grandfather would stagger offstage as if he'd been mortally wounded. He did this every single night of a European tour. Each audience was sure they'd seen the last of him. The curtains would fall to the sound of their stunned gasps. Moments later, the curtain would rise, and he'd come back onstage unharmed. The crowd would leap to their feet, relieved he was alive. To prove the bullet passed through him, he'd hand his shooter a knife and ask him to carve the bullet out of the wooden post.

“Grandfather never touched the gun or the bullet. But somehow the bullet went through the target, and his body, to lodge in the post. It was in a sense, a perfect illusion.”

“Sounds dangerous as hell,” says Hamed.

“It was. But never for Grandfather. The one thing he counted on was the sniper not missing. Even then, though, Grandfather would have been fine.”

“Sounds like a great trick. How does that help our situation?” Ratner protests. He's still fighting with me and unhappy with the attention I'm getting.

“The trick came about after my grandfather got into a discussion with someone about Lincoln's assassination. He declared he could create the perfect bullet-catch illusion, one where even the man pulling the trigger would have no idea how it was pulled off. The rifle, the bullet, they really were all the sniper's. He was more baffled than anyone else. He knew he'd shot my grandfather, yet every night, after the bullet was fired, Grandfather would stumble offstage then walk back on unharmed.

“I think we can adopt the idea behind the Dead Man Walks here. We want the illusion of vulnerability. Certainly we'll need to make it look like we're taking some precautions. If Marta doesn't see some security people in obvious positions, proof that we're treating this like a potential conventional assassination attempt, her suspicions may be raised, causing her to call off the attempt.”

“What would be so bad about that?” Trust Ratner to try and pass the buck down the line.

“She can get him anytime she wants. The safest thing is to let her try when we're prepared. Remember, she was willing to kill a hundred people in my building to cover up her plans. If she can't get the pope by himself, she might do something later when people aren't expecting it, involving much more collateral damage.”

“So how do we set this up?” replies Carver. I'm glad not all the team leaders are like Ratner.

“We need to bring in the expert himself.” I had hoped to come up with a different solution, but there doesn't seem to be any other choice. “I can get my grandfather to come in and help us out. If we show him the staging arrangements, I think he can give us some advice on how to pull this off.”

“Hold up,” Ratner interrupts. “You're assuming the pope will even go for this?”

I'm sure Oberst will be onboard. “I think they'll go along with
this. I've already been contacted by someone affiliated with the Swiss Guard. They'd very much like an expedient end to this situation.”

I continue, “But even with this solution, we still have two more problems: protecting the crowd and catching Rodriguez. I have a hunch she's going to want to be here for this. I think she wants to see this firsthand to get the closure she needs.

“We're going to need to evacuate people as quickly as we can if something happens. And if we don't catch her entering the stadium, finding her as she leaves will be a nightmare. Ideally, we find her beforehand.”

“We've got almost nothing on her,” Carver complains.

“True, but we're working on getting more information from someone who was inside her organization. One thing I think we should track down is the whereabouts of her yacht. It was registered under the name
Marty
, but likely has a different one by now. This could be her base of operations. It's mobile and can go out of jurisdictions quickly. Find the yacht, we might find her.”

“I'll get someone on it,” offers Ratner. Like it, or not, advance work is his wheelhouse. I just hope he takes it seriously.

“That brings us back to the crowd. We need to protect a quarter-million people from whatever takes place. If we save the pope but lose one life to a stampede we could have prevented, we've failed.”

“
S
OMETIMES THEY'RE NAKED,”
the odd little girl confided to me as I sat at her play table reading
The Marvelous Land of Oz
, which I found on her shelf. Two years older than me, she was eager to tell me all the things that happened under that roof.

She whispered this to me, revealing the strange world of adults as one child does with another. My house had its own secrets, although nothing as sensational as naked moonlight rituals on the lawn.

Grandfather was in the study with Dad, Devalo, Basso and several other men who'd come for the spiritual session. I was squirreled away in the attic room with the mysterious girl. We both were happy to have someone to talk to who was close to our own age. But we were also equally shy around strangers.

Her hair jet black like my own, she had pale skin and seemed thinner than I was. Her room was immaculate, with each doll and book in its precise location on her shelf. I would find out much later she was Father Devalo's illegitimate daughter, presented as his niece.

“They go into the room and place their hands on the table and hold hands. Even the men,” she continued. “They dim the lights and light a candle. That's when it happens.”

“What happens?” I wasn't sure if this was play mysterious, like the dancing skeletons in our stage show, or like the spooky stories kids shared at sleepovers.

“Voices. Lots of funny voices.”

“What kind of voices?” I asked, in my head conjuring up cartoon voices.

“Dead people. They go in there to talk to dead people.”

This was definitely the spooky kind of story, but even at seven I was a hard scare. I focused on the part of the story that was more disturbing to me. “Naked?”

She gave me a knowing look. “Not when it's just the men. That's the other times.” She points out of her window. “They form a circle out there in the dark under the stars. They all get naked. And then they do stuff.” She smirks at the ridiculousness of adults.

I didn't want to know what kind of stuff. “Have you ever been there when the voices spoke?”

At that age, ghosts were more interesting to me than naked, cavorting adults. Now that I think of it, they still are.

“Lots of times. Sometimes they speak to me when I'm all alone,” she replied in a hushed tone. “They often bring me presents. Want to see?” She walked over to a shelf and pulled down a small, colored-glass teddy bear. “You like?”

I took it from her hands and pretended to admire it, but even as a kid I didn't have much patience for silly toys. A bookshelf contained far more treasures for me.

“Do you have one like it?” She watched my face for envy.

“Like what?” I replied as I vanished it from my closed fist. I'd mastered the red sponge ball trick when I was five. I was not expert at seven, but I was good enough to fool a nine-year-old.

The girl's eyes widened and she took several steps back, mouth gaping. “You have the gift,” she murmured.

“No, I don't.” I thought she meant the bear.

I stepped toward her to complete the trick, but she flung her hands out to protect herself. “Don't touch me!” she hissed.

I reached behind her ear to produce the bear. “It's just a trick.”

She jumped back into the corner of her bed, staring down at me like I was a giant spider. I tried to hand her the bear, but she wouldn't take it. I walked over to her shelf and returned it to where it came from. Her eyes followed me all the way, waiting for something else to happen.

“It's just a magic trick,” I explained again as I sat down at the small table.

She remained cowering on her bed. “It's black magic. It's evil.”

“No, it's not. There's no such thing.” I was getting tired of defending myself. I'd seen strange outbursts before and was beginning to think she might be “special.”

The girl made a strange hand gesture with her outstretched first finger and pinky in my direction. At that same moment the lights flickered. Someone downstairs let out a loud scream. She pulled herself even more tightly into the corner.

Footsteps came pounding down the hall and the door flung open. “Jessica! We're leaving,” shouted Dad as he grabbed my arm.

From outside I heard tires squealing as a car raced away. In the house below there was yelling. Grandfather's voice was loudest, but I couldn't understand what he was saying.

Dad led me down the stairs and into the hallway. Devalo was yelling at Grandfather and pointing to the séance room, his hands contorted into the same frantic gesture the little girl had made.

“You swore to me you wouldn't bring your black magic here!” he roared. “Now! Now! Look what you've done!”

Grandfather swore under his breath and turned toward us. “Let's go.”

Inside our car, he gunned the accelerator, tearing down the driveway. I turned to look back, and saw the silhouette of the little girl watching from her attic window.

“Think it worked?” asked Dad.

“The way he tore out of there?” replied Grandfather. “I don't think they'll be fucking with us again.”

“I thought you were just going to produce the ring on the table.”

“I figured the hand and the dress would get the point across.”

“I never saw it coming,” Dad admitted.

“Of course you didn't. If you knew what was going to happen, it would have killed the whole thing. The dumb, superstitious bastards.” Grandfather lodged a cigar in his mouth, lit it, then cocked his arm across the back of the passenger seat. He tossed me a wink over his shoulder. “Never fuck with wolves.”

O
VER TWO DECADES
later I watch the wolf order a crew around the festival stage in Miami. The gates are about to open and the pope is due to land in an hour. Time is running out.

“Will it work?” Lives are riding on us. Grandfather, to his credit, took this very seriously. Whatever drama there is between us was set aside to pull this off.

“Have I ever disappointed you?” he asks with mock exasperation.

I let out a small cough and fold my arms.

“Yeah, I guess I don't come out looking good on that one. It'll work. Magic, I take seriously.”

“It's a little more involved than grave robbing and smuggling a corpse out of Sicily so you can drop its hand on a table in a blackout.”

Grandfather looks up from the blueprints on the table in front of him and narrows his eyes at me. “I always said you saw everything.” It's more a compliment than a dig for being nosey.

“Did you guys do what I thought you did?”

Grandfather nods. “If it's as bad as you think.”

“Why?” I ask as he motions for me to join him offstage.

“Long version or short version?”

“Short version.”

“I was broke.”

“Okay. Long version,” I reply.

“They fucked with us. They threatened you.” Grandfather stops and leans against the steps on the side of the stage. “I'm a shitty grandfather. Just telling you that doesn't change things, it only makes them worse; I'm telling you I see the problem, but also saying I ain't going to do anything about it. But understand this, as horrible as I may be at that, you're as dear to me as a daughter. More so than my fuck-up sons. I'd have slit Basso's throat if he hadn't promised to lay off. I'd have cut it right there on the séance table. I would have shoved his dead cunt of a mother's hand down his throat and choked him with the burial gown.”

He's an old man now, but his skin still flushes, his eyes filling with rage at the memory.

“These were mobsters, who kill people and make threats all day long,” I point out, trying to understand why he went to such great lengths to not just get Basso to lay off, but to scare him.

“They were superstitious, Jessica. They were stupid. I exploited that.” He waves his hands, which are now weathered but still possess their dramatic elegance, around the stage. “Sometimes we can use our powers for good. Sometimes we use them for good to protect bastards too, I guess.”

I stare at the stage as he gestures and pray that our plan will work. Then I glance across the empty field, hoping we've done everything we can to protect the people that are soon going to be filling the stadium.

Grandfather sees where I'm looking. He puts a light hand on my shoulder. “The only reason these people stand a chance is because of you.”

“I just wish there was another way to draw her out,” I persist. “There will be so many people here.”

“You said it yourself. If she doesn't think she got him here, next time there'll be a lot more collateral damage. We have the advantage now. Next time it will be too late.”

“I hope you're right.”

“Me too. I don't need the death of the pope and all these people on my conscience. If you need me, I'll be back at the hotel getting drunk.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze.

“I wish I could join you.”

“No you don't.” Grandfather takes a deep breath. “You belong out here. This is what you were meant to do, I guess. I wish it paid more.”

There's no mention of our discussion at the airport. In my family, life is a freight train that keeps moving forward. You simply acknowledge that it's moving and charge ahead.

I give him a kiss on his cheek, trying to dodge the thin mustache that always tickled me as a child. And failing.

“You're the man I always wanted to be,” he jokes.