Papal Justice (14 page)

“We land in Calexico, California, in the morning and then move across the border to Mexicali, Mexico, once the proper overtures have been made to a select handful of Mexican officials.”

So this wasn’t going to be an official visit. Even so, Zimmer wondered how incognito the Pope and his men could really be. It was one thing to walk unnoticed through the labyrinth of tunnels beneath Rome. It was something else completely to hop across a border with minimal interruption, especially for a man of the Pope’s stature.

“What reason will you give the Mexicans for coming?”

The Pope chuckled. “Although I would like to say that men like us do not need a reason, I was thinking that a request to see the displaced orphans who are being shipped to your country might be sufficient.”

Immigration
. The word flared in Zimmer’s brain. It was one of many thorns in the president’s side. There didn’t seem to be a good answer. And even while American politicians quibbled about the merits of amnesty versus tighter border security, more and more illegals were flowing across the border. That gave Zimmer an idea.

“How about this? The rest of my week is pretty light. Let me fly down and meet you. That way, if reporters start snooping around, we can say it was a mutual decision on our part.”

“I would not want to inconvenience you.”

“I’ve been meaning to get down to the border for some time. Maybe you can help me come up with a solution to our immigration problem.” He said it as a joke, but cringed when he realized what he’d just said. The Pope was a man of open arms. If it were up to him, the border barriers would probably be torn down. That wouldn’t go over well with even the most vocal amnesty proponents.

Luckily the Pope picked up on his joke and said, “In exchange, I would only ask that you give me a lesson in appeasing your constituents.”

The two men laughed, Zimmer more from relief that his slip hadn’t moved the needle of U.S. immigration policy.

“I’ll get my people to work, and see what we can do to keep this under the radar,” Zimmer said, already smiling at the thought of the look his Chief of Staff was about to give him.

“Very good. I look forward to seeing you.”

The warmth in the Pope’s tone came through the phone like a father’s warm embrace. Zimmer found it hard not to get a little bit emotional. This was the Pope after all. With only a few words, the man had the ability to make him feel like a trusted friend.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Zimmer ended the call and walked to the bedroom door. When he opened it, the Secret Service agent was waiting.

“I need you to get Mr. Haden up. I’m sure it won’t make him happy, but tell him the boss said so.”

The agent grinned and took the phone from the president.

“I’ll use my kid gloves, Sir.”

Chapter 19

Acapulco, Mexico

12:02am, March 15
^th

They had disposed of the priests’s bodies after a short prayer led by Brother Hendrik. That was hours ago. Now they were waiting for word from one of Ruiz’s informants. Not only had El Moreno slipped through their trap, he’d also apparently slipped out of the city. Ruiz’s network couldn’t find him.

Gaucho’s uncle didn’t seem perturbed. Cal watched as the drug lord monitored his impressive collection of cell phones, laptops and police scanners. His Spartan hideout reminded Cal of a scene from
The Godfather
, when the Corleone family goes to war with other families of New York. They even had the mattresses to match the famous line “going to the mattresses.” All they needed was fat Uncle Paulie cooking up a big pot of pasta sauce on the one burner.

Once again, The Jefferson Group operators were relegated to a supporting role. No, not supporting, waiting, something Cal did poorly. At least this time he had something to think about. The President had called earlier, informing Cal of the Pope’s travel plans as well as his own. Cal could tell by his boss’s voice that he would not be convinced to do otherwise. Brandon had explained it simply enough, saying, “It is technically my Spring Break after all.” The only thing Cal had made him promise was that he’d stay on the U.S. side of the border. Encircled by his ever-present Secret Service cordon, the President would be one less thing for Cal to worry about.

The problem now was who to tell about the Pope. Daniel knew, of course, but Cal was having trouble deciding who else should know. Definitely not Ruiz. While Cal respected the man’s leadership skills, the guy was still a crook. No, Ruiz would be the last to know, if at all.

But he had to tell the monks. They hadn’t said a thing to Cal about the Pope’s visit, so they must not already know. Cal had to tell them.

He made his way over to where they sat. Their conversation died when he approached.

“Brother Hendrik, I was wondering if I could speak with you for a minute,” Cal said.

Brother Hendrik nodded and unfolded his large frame from the floor, his weapon coming up with him. He followed Cal to a quiet corner away from the chatter.

“I just got word that the Pope is flying into the U.S.,” Cal whispered, always keeping an eye on Ruiz’s men.

“I know.”

Anger sparked in Cal’s stomach. He searched Brother Hendrik’s face for any shred of remorse. There was none.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would you have told me if your president was doing the same, even if his closest advisors did not know?”

The monk was right. Technically the Pope’s trip shouldn’t interfere with their operation, just like President Zimmer.

“Well it just so happens that the Pope called my president, and he’s on his way too.”

Brother Hendrik’s eyes widened for a split second.

“That I did not know.”

So the Pope wasn’t telling his men everything. He wondered what else the pontiff was keeping to himself.

“Look, I told my boss to stay out of the way. I sure hope you told yours to do the same thing,” Cal said.

“I do not tell the Holy Father where he should and should not go. He is guided by a higher power.”

That was all Cal needed, for the monks to bring religion into the picture and screw up every shred of operational security they had. Cal respected them and their church, but he wasn’t about to let their spiritual leanings dictate how things were being run.

Just as he went to say something back, Gaucho interrupted, “Hey, I think they’ve got something.”

Cal threw one last warning look at Brother Hendrik and the two men followed Gaucho over to his uncle’s hasty command post. Ruiz was muttering something in Spanish into one of his many phones. He looked up when his guests approached.

“We found him,” Ruiz mouthed, motioning that he’d only be another minute on the phone.

Cal waited impatiently, wishing that he spoke more Spanish than he did. He was pretty much limited to “Una cerveza, por favor” (One beer, please) and “Buenas noches” (Good night).

Ruiz set down the phone and pulled out a brand new map of Mexico. He’d used it earlier to show them the mostly likely routes he thought El Moreno would take to the border.

“Well, I was wrong. He boarded a large fishing vessel yesterday,” Ruiz said, flattening the map with his hands. “The boat is most likely heading up through the Gulf of California.”

“Most likely?” Gaucho asked.

“That’s what they told the harbormaster, but they could have lied.”

“So we really don’t know where they’re going. They could be halfway to San Diego by now.”

“Not necessarily,” Ruiz traced a finger up the Mexican coast and north through the Gulf of California that split the Baja Peninsula off from the rest of mainland Mexico. “This isn’t news to your DEA, so I’ll tell you. The best ports to bring anything in through the west side of Mexico are all along here, not on the Baja Peninsula.”

“Why is that?” Cal asked, thinking that a more direct approach to the U.S. might make more sense.

“Various factors,” Ruiz explained. “Two of the best reasons are the surf and weather conditions. The Gulf of California is naturally protected. That makes it much easier to travel and enter port.”

“So where do you think he’ll go? I see three or four places they could dock, and that’s assuming they don’t pick a random landing spot that doesn’t even have a name on it,” Cal said, trying to picture the terrain in his head.

Ruiz shook his head. “My gut tells me that he’s short on time. If it were me, I’d either hit the port here in Guaymas, or make the run all the way up to Puerto Peñasco.”

“And if you had to choose?”

“Puerto Peñasco,” Ruiz answered without hesitation. “It’s a newer version of Cancun and less than one hundred miles to the Arizona border.”

Cal scanned the map and figured it was as good a choice as they were going to get. With no good ports north of Puerto Peñasco, at least they could use it as a chokepoint. There looked to be one major road going in and out. The other piece of good news was that Calexico (where the president told him the Pope was headed) and its sister city of Mexicali were well west of the Arizona border crossing. That would keep the Pope out of the picture.

“Okay,” Cal said. “How do we get there?”

“We own a few planes. They’ll be ready to go when we get to the airstrip.”

At least they had Ruiz’s assets at their disposal. Nodding his agreement to Gaucho’s uncle, Cal wondered how long it would take before those assets might be turned on TJG and the monks. They needed to be prepared if that occasion arose. After all, if Ruiz found out who Cal and the robed warriors worked for, all hell would undoubtedly break loose.

+++

Father Pietro had spent most of the preceding hours in prayer. He hadn’t been there to see the scene at the factory, but he’d been with the Brothers of St. Longinus when they laid the murdered priests to rest. Their faces were covered, and he was glad of that. There were at least two brothers from his parish lying under the old paint-stained tarps. He did not know them well, and that fact shamed him.

If he had been a good priest, he would have taken the time to share a life with his fellow priests, to understand their joint mission to reach the people of Acapulco. But that hadn’t happened. Since his talk with Daniel, Father Pietro had come to see what had become of his life. In no way did he believe he’d changed, but at least now he could see.

There was much that he was not proud of. More than the drink and his lackluster performance as a leader in the church, it was his cowardice that shamed him the most. He’d run to the church to hide, when, in fact, he should have dealt with his demons like a man. There’d been more than one occasion when he’d had the chance to confess, or just open up to someone, anyone, but he’d kept it covered instead.

Coward
, he thought. He prayed that God give him the courage to take those first steps. Then he realized he already had, that God had placed men in his path that could help him see. The Brothers of St. Longinus and their storied pasts, who’d redeemed their old lives and forged ahead as anointed warriors for the Pope himself. Then there was Daniel and his quiet confidence. In a way it reminded Father Pietro of his old self, when he’d stood on a hill with his hands on his hips and dared the world to challenge his talents. It seemed that Daniel did the same in a humbler way, not with his talents, but with his faith.

Father Pietro did not know where his path would lead, but when the word came that they would be leaving in minutes, he rose without hesitation. For the first time in years, he looked forward to the adventure ahead, that there could be a new life for him yet. He grabbed his pack and followed the small army out the door.

Chapter 20

Calexico, California

3:27am, March 15
^th

His security team wasn’t happy, but they weren’t about to fight him on this. With only eight men available for the last minute excursion, the Swiss Guards were tense. The Pope could see it in their eyes, the way they glanced at him half like he was crazy and half like there must be something else going on in order for him to break protocol.

The part of him that was still human, and not the leader of millions of Catholics around the world, almost lost his patience. He was not simply a figurehead to be toted around in a bulletproof box for all the world to see, like some strange circus exhibit. He was the Pope, appointed by the Cardinals of the church and God himself to tend to his flock.

As they’d flown over oceans and continents, he’d had to remind himself of that fact, a fact that many couldn’t seem to grasp: He was a simple priest elevated to the highest holy position. There were days when he wished for nothing more than to wander the streets of Rome again, conversing with beggars, smiling at the vendors, and enjoying a shot of espresso in peace.

But that would never again happen. He was the Pope, and most Popes only left their lofty position by dying.

“Your Holiness, it is time,” said the leader of their expedition, a clean cut Swiss Guard in his early fifties. The man was on a short list to take over the guard when the current chief retired. He was a good man, a soldier who had thwarted his fair share of attempts on the pontiff’s life. In short, the Pope trusted him completely.

“Should I change?” the Pope asked. One of the concessions he’d had to make for the antsy team was that he would go incognito, leaving his normal attire in the aircraft.

“Yes, Holy Father,” the Swiss Guard said respectfully. The Pope remembered that the man’s name was Angelo. How fitting.

Five minutes later, the Pope emerged from the private restroom. He wore a dusty gray suit over an off-white button-down shirt, more casual than formal. Topping off the disguise were a pair of non-prescription gold wire rimmed glasses and a navy blue flat cap.

“How do I look?” he asked Angelo, who had looked up from another briefing with his men.