Veil - 02 - The Hammer of God (15 page)

“He’s dead.’

“I
’m glad to hear you have Samuel back in your hands,” Cardinal Polletto told Sister Bravo, the phone pressed to his ear. “Give Rinaldo and Dianora my best, and see that they get one hundred thousand dollars for their troubles.”

“There was a casualty,” Sister Bravo informed him. “A body is in need of disposal. It couldn’t be helped.” Cardinal Polletto pondered for a moment. “Give them one hundred fifty thousand instead, and tell them to make sure the body is never found.” Sister Bravo gave her assurances. Cardinal Polletto hung up without a goodbye, relieved.

Samuel was back in their custody, faster than he had expected, but he wasn’t really surprised. Rinaldo did a lot of work for him in the past, and the old man always prided himself on having the tightest network of ears on the street. Barely a fart happened in Rome and he didn’t get wind of it right away.

Cardinal Polletto poured himself a small brandy, downed it, then stared up at his bedroom door on the second floor, and smiled. The phone rang.

“It’s done,” a gruff voice said on the other end.

“Good,” the cardinal told Father Ortega. “Get back here as soon as it’s convenient.” Click. Another brandy, this one larger, and Cardinal Polletto felt himself fully relax. He turned out the light in his den and climbed the stairs to his room, the brandy taking more control, warmth blanketing his body.

Inside his bedroom, a woman, the object of his desire for the past three years, lay naked on top of the covers. Her breasts showed very little sign of her forty plus years, all natural, which he examined himself many times.

The cardinal sat down next to her. She tried to speak, but he placed a finger to her lips, and kissed her deeply. He placed a hand on her thigh and felt the dewy wetness that moistened her skin. She moaned at his touch, and his hardness pressed against his clothing, tight and firm. Her mouth, warm and soft like cotton, slid down to his ear lobe and gently sucked and kissed. This time
he
moaned.

A heavy-handed knock on the door snapped them out of the momentary foray into carnal bliss.

“Yes,” the cardinal said firmly.

“It’s me,” said Father Ortega. “I just wanted you to know that I’m back.”

“Good,” the cardinal answered. “I’ll speak with you later.” He heard Father Ortega’s bedroom door close and turned his attention back to his mistress.

“I don’t think he likes me,” she said.

“True,” said Cardinal Polletto, “but he doesn’t like anyone.” They laughed. He stood and peeled away his clothing. His body long, withered from the years, was still firm in the right place. He gently pushed her back and hovered over her body, kissing her breasts and stomach. She took his manhood in both hands, and stroked it like a fine antique, which made him purr. She knew exactly what he liked.

“Now, be a good boy and give mommy what she wants,” she asked, sly and sultry.

“I’m not ready,” he told her, more an order than an answer.

She slapped him hard and fast across his face. “I said give to me now!”

Rage swelled in the cardinal. “I recommend you not do that again,” he said, through gritted teeth.

This time the slap cupped his ear, which popped at impact. Tears welled-up in his eyes. His bottom lip quivered.

“Don’t make me ask again,” she sneered, in complete command.

The cardinal struggled to regain control, his member harder, and opened his mouth to speak. This time, she dug her fingers into his back, and he plunged inside her, whimpering like a child.

“That’s it,” she said, as he pumped. “Harder!” she ordered, digging her nails deeper into his back.

“Ahhhh!” he cried out. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” His pleading and full surrender seemed only to egg her on. She cursed in his ear, calling him names born from the pit of hell. He bit his lip, about to cum. She sensed it and ordered him not to.

“I can’t hold it!” he shouted.

“I’ll beat your ass if you do,” she answered, slapping him again.

The cardinal heard faint pounding. He couldn’t hold it and came hard, tears running down his cheeks, and snot running from his nose. She laughed, and on cue, both of them drenched in sweat, quaked in a simultaneous orgasm.

The pounding grew louder.

“Your Eminence,” called Father Ortega, “someone’s at the door.”

“Who is it?” he gasped.

“It’s Robert Veil and his partner.”

Cardinal Polletto caught his breath. “You better get dressed,” he told Alison Napier, who already had half her clothes on.

“I can’t let them find me here,” she said, panicked. “If Donovan gets wind, I…”

The cardinal walked over and stared her in the eye. “Donovan is dead,” he told her.

Alison swallowed hard. “How? When?”

“Tonight,” he told her, “right before I came upstairs.” Alison’s hands shook as she tried to fasten the buttons on her blouse.

He took both her hands.

“We talked about this,” he said. “I told you it might be necessary.”

“I know, but it’s still a shock. I thought you’d warn me before you killed him.”

Cardinal Polletto wiped her eyes and kissed her forehead. “Does it really matter?” He smiled, stroking her cheek. “One day I’ll be Pope, and you’ll be Queen. Let’s keep our eyes on the goal, on us.” Alison stood up straight, renewed, buttoned her blouse and gathered her things. “What about Robert and Thorne?” The cardinal opened the bedroom door, still nude. “Tell Mr. Veil I’m unavailable,” he told Father Ortega, who didn’t seem the slightest bit startled by Cardinal Polletto in the buff. “Mrs. Napier’s car is in the garage in back, so we’re safe. Inform them that I’m in prayer, and that I’ll receive them in the morning.” The priest nodded and left. Cardinal Polletto closed the door.

Alison checked her cell phone, which had been on silent. “They’ve been trying to reach me,” she said, frantic.

He stroked her hair. “Don’t worry.” He took her phone and battered it on the dresser, breaking it in pieces. “Tell them you lost it. We’ll come up with the rest of the story.”

Alison smiled, walked over and kissed him. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he lied. “We’ll be together forever.” Alison beamed

Cardinal Polletto led her to the bed and they sat. “Now here’s what I want you to do.”

R
obert and Thorne’s recollection of the accident, at least what they agreed to tell police, changed. The new version involved two vehicles, one a Ford Excursion, the other a two-ton Silverado. They decided that the authorities would only get in the way, and that finding Donovan’s killers was best left up to them. So they sent the police in another direction.

“Both trucks hit Donavon simultaneously and left the scene in a hurry, with damage to their front ends,” Robert told them. “And no, we didn’t get a license plate number.”

“The truck was red, the Excursion black,” Thorne added. “It happened so fast we didn’t get a look at the drivers.” The police eyed them with suspicion. Robert didn’t give a shit.

The paramedics pronounced Donovan dead at the scene, an easy task. His body was so twisted and mangled, it looked more like butcher shop leftovers than human remains. When they pulled him out, every cop and paramedic winced.

Robert laid the blame for his friend’s death at the feet of The Order, but didn’t rule out the CIA. Samuel, if not the Anti-Christ, was at a minimum the greatest scientific achievement in history, and worth a government treasury to anyone holding him. Robert didn’t care how he came into the world, he wanted him back. And the storm brewing in his gut said he’d do anything, kill anyone, and cross any line to bring him home.

After the police finished with them at the scene, Robert and Thorne went by Cardinal Polletto’s home to question him. Robert had his suspicions about the cardinal after he had intentionally shuttled Father Tolbert out of town suspiciously, a hunch confirmed by Cardinal Maximilian. Now, they stood outside listening to Father Ortega feed them bullshit about why Cardinal Polletto couldn’t see them. Robert fumed as the rotund priest eased the door closed and turned off the overhead light.

“We’ll see him later,” said Thorne. “He’s not going anywhere.” Robert barely heard his partner; seething because Cardinal Polletto had not seen them, and frustrated that they hadn’t been able to reach Alison at the house or on her cell phone. The FBI and police didn’t have a clue as to her whereabouts either. Robert imagined the worst. They decided to go to Alison’s house when a call came in from the police station.

“We need you to come in and finish your statement,” said the detective. “Tonight.”

“We’ve given you all we have,” Robert snapped.

“Then we’ll have you picked up,” the detective told him, with a hint of
it’s your ass not mine
in his voice.

Robert swung through the station, where he and Thorne spent an hour repeating their story. Detective Reynolds showed up and sat in, easing the tension in the room.

“They found Mrs. Napier,” Detective Reynolds told the other detective. “She’s at home. Apparently she lost her cell phone. They told her what happened. She’s devastated.” His eyes fell on Robert and Thorne, the true object of his announcement. Robert asked if there was anything else they could help with. “Not at this time, but don’t go far,” the detective said, stroking his chin. Robert and Thorne abruptly stood and headed for the door. “Yes, we’ll be in touch,” he added, a smile barely detectable.

“You do that,” answered Thorne. “I’ll be waiting.” Her smile was obvious.

The other detective’s head went back and forth on a swivel, confused.

Robert sped through Chicago, ignoring the rules of the road. Twenty-five minutes later, he pounded on the Napier’s front door, which opened abruptly.

“We’re here to see Alison Napier,” he told a crew cut wearing FBI agent with black bulldog eyes.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Veil, but as you can imagine, she’s pretty torn up, and doesn’t want to see anyone,” the agent told them.

“We’re family,” snapped Thorne. “So move your ass back, before I do it for you.”

Another agent, listening from across the room, stepped to the door.

“Miss, he said no visitors. Now move off the steps and try again in the morning.”

Robert pushed past the two, Thorne right behind him.

The crew cut agent grabbed Robert, the other Thorne.

“Stop!” ordered Agent Baxter, as two more agents rushed to the aid of their partners, both of whom were now flat on their backs staring up at the ceiling. Robert and Thorne braced themselves to give the next two agents more of the same.

“I said enough!” Agent Baxter shouted again, walking up face-to-face with Robert.

The front hallway filled up with additional agents and police officers, who rushed in from outside. Robert also spotted a few individuals he pegged as Intelligence Agents, posing as FBI. In back of the crowd a tall black man smiled. It was Agent Maxwell, who Robert had met during his impromptu meeting with Director Thompson. The CIA agent backed away from the crowd and disappeared.

Angry, Agent Baxter pointed at Robert and Thorne. “In the den, now!”

Robert, hot and frothing at the mouth, stomped toward the den.

Thorne followed, looking back at the agents rubbing their jaws. She winked and blew them a kiss.

“What the hell do you two think you’re doing, attacking federal agents? I could have you both thrown in jail!” Agent Baxter yelled.

“Throw away,” sneered Robert. “We’re tired of fucking around with government bullshit on this case. We want to know what’s going on, or you can kiss our ass.”

“You don’t have any authority here,” shot the agent.

“Donovan Napier’s dead,” Thorne fired back. “That’s all the authority we need.”

Agent Baxter took a few steps back, head down. When he looked up, his eyes were still red, but his face calm. “There’s not much I can tell you. I have my orders. I will say that this is the strangest kidnapping I’ve ever worked, and I’ve seen more than a few.” Robert relaxed. “How so?”

Baxter took a deep breath. “First, we can’t find a motive. Usually, there’s a ransom demand of some kind.”

“So, there hasn’t been a demand?” asked Thorne.

“Not quite, but we did receive a note Fed Ex’d from a dead end address.”

Robert sat down on one of the burgundy Rockefeller leather chairs and crossed his legs. “What did they ask for?”

“Nothing,” answered Agent Baxter, a sullen look on his face. “They said we should stop looking for Samuel. That we’ll never see him again, and if we keep looking, it could cost the boy his life.”

“Then obviously they took him for some other reason,” said Thorne.

“Any ideas?”

“You tell me,” said Agent Baxter. “I’m sure you spotted The Company boys and girls outside. I’d bet my house they know more than they’ve shared.”

Robert and Thorne’s eyes met. “That’s not unusual,” said Thorne.

“They’re not big on sharing.”

Agent Baxter eyed them suspiciously, as if he were aware they knew more. “How about you two? Want to tell us your angle on this?”

“We’re as baffled as you are,” said Robert, hesitant and shaken. His eyes dropped to the floor. “And now, Donavon’s death has added to the weight.”

Agent Baxter sat down in the chair across from Robert. “That’s another thing. I talked to the police about the accident, and it just doesn’t jive. What’s going on?”

“It’s just as we told them,” said Thorne. “A freak accident.”

“But we know that kind of shit just doesn’t happen,” said Agent Baxter. “Together with the kidnapping, it adds up to something major and I know you know what. So, please spare me the bullshit. You and Donovan go way back in the CIA, we know that.” Robert stared Agent Baxter in the eyes, but could only see the faces of Donovan and Samuel. He wanted to tell Agent Baxter more, but again remembered his promise to Cardinal Maximilian.

“It’s just as we said, nothing more or less,” said Robert.

Exasperated, Agent Baxter leaned back in the chair and rubbed his eyes. “Okay,” he said. “But don’t expect help from me if you need it.

The door’s closed until you decide to let us in on what you know.”