The Guardian (18 page)

He took one last look around for any nosy neighbors who might be peeking out their windows. None. Good. He took a deep breath and started up the steps, wincing with every one.

By now the leg had gone numb. He had tied the tourniquet as tight as he could get it, and the circulation had been cut off. The pain was coming from his hip and back. With every step, a sharp, knifelike stab shot through him.

At the entryway, before he could push the little black doorbell, the front door swung open to reveal a short, balding man dressed in a white lab coat and wearing square bifocals. A stethoscope hung from his neck. He looked at Jonathan without speaking then shifted his gaze to the bleeding leg. He turned around and walked back inside, leaving the door open for Jonathan to follow him.

Jonathan followed the little man down a hallway and through a set of rooms, all of which looked like some kind of medieval torture chamber. Scalpels, knives, IV tubes, and things he didn’t even want to ask about were scattered along the way. The maze ended in a room no bigger than an average bedroom at the end of the hall.

The doctor laid out a few tools and small vials of what looked like medicine along with some strips of gauze and a metal bucket. He gestured to a small cot.

Jonathan hobbled to it and sat down. He was starting to feel a little nervous about Dieter’s recommendation. “So you must be Henri Rhette.”

“Lucky for you,” said the man. He turned to face Jonathan, holding a syringe filled with something. He started to push Jonathan’s sleeve up and wipe his arm with a cotton swab.

“What, exactly, is that?” Jonathan asked.

“Just something to help with the pain, my friend.”

Jonathan was starting to get a bad feeling about this, but at this point, he didn’t have much choice.

The needle penetrated his skin, and a burning sensation ran up his arm. In seconds his head was swimming. He didn’t know what the doctor had just given him, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t a pain killer. Everything began to get blurry. The room was spinning. He felt like he was going to pass out. He could hear the little man start to laugh, even though the voice sounded like it was coming from far away. Something was definitely not right. Dieter had set him up.

Jonathan was a professional assassin. He should have known better than to let someone inject him with something without checking it out first. Now he was in trouble.

The little man began to tie him down with straps. He’d already gotten Jonathan’s legs and now nearly had his arms. He had to think fast, which was nearly impossible with his head swimming like this. He tried to force his eyes open and look around. Where was his gun? In his bag, halfway across the room. That wasn’t going to work. What else? There! On the table beside him was some kind of metal bar. It was about two feet in length and a quarter inch thick. He had no idea what it was. A torture device, more likely than not.

He only had a few more seconds. The little man was almost done with his left arm. He would be coming around the table for the right one any second now.

He tried to lift his free arm. It was so heavy. What had this guy given him? He gritted his teeth and willed every last ounce of strength he had. He watched with blurred vision as his hand fumbled around on the table, trying to grasp the steel bar. There! He had it. He took a deep breath and grunted as he swung his arm over his shoulder, trying to put all of the force he could into the blow.

The doctor, who had been finishing up tightening the strap on his left arm, saw the steel bar too late. He tried to lift his own arm up to cushion the blow to his head but never made it. There was a loud
thwack
as he blacked out and slumped heavily to the floor.

Jonathan’s breathing became labored now. He felt like he was going to pass out. He couldn’t. Not yet. He wasn’t sure exactly how hard he hit the little man. Obviously enough to knock him out. But for all he knew, the little man was merely stunned. He needed to make sure the fat, little fellow wouldn’t come around anytime soon.

It took him another three minutes just to untie himself from the straps. Dexterity wasn’t exactly his strong suit right now. Whatever the doc gave him was pretty powerful.

With the last strap hanging loosely, he tried to stand up. That was a mistake. As soon as his feet hit the ground, the whole floor turned upside down on him. The brown, shag carpet came at him like a semitruck, smacking him in the forehead as he fell. He was now lying down, his eyes inches from the doctor’s motionless body.

He placed his hands, palm down, on the carpet and took another deep breath. With all the strength he could muster, he pushed himself up onto his knees. He reached for the cot and slowly pulled himself up once again.

He took a second for his equilibrium to stabilize. Then using the cot as a crutch, he moved himself around to the other side of the room, where the counter with all of the medicine vials was. He picked each one up, reading the label, until he found what he was looking for. Adrenaline. He had done enough interrogations to know that no matter how doped up someone was, a good shot of adrenaline could bring them around to at least a semi-coherent state.

He found an unused syringe, still in the plastic wrapping, and opened it. He turned around and stole a glance at the unconscious Henri Rhette. Still not moving. Good. He stuck the needle in his arm and injected himself with the thick liquid.

By the time he pulled the needle out of his arm, he could already feel his senses coming around. He wasn’t completely sober, but it was enough to do what he had to do.

He walked back around the cot to where the doctor lay. He grabbed him by his hair and dragged him up onto the cot. One by one, he fastened the straps, just as the man had tried to do to him. Only then did he check for a pulse. There was one, however very faint.

Now, to dress his own wounds. He found a hemostat and a scalpel. He doused his leg with alcohol and slammed his fist down hard on the counter as the pain of the disinfectant washed over his leg. He searched the counter for some morphine. He didn’t see any. There was probably something else there that would help the pain, but he was no doctor himself. He didn’t recognize any other labels. He’d just have to do it the hard way.

He sat down in a chair and propped his leg up on a little footstool that sat beside the cot. He took the scalpel and made a small incision just above the bullet hole in order to have enough room to maneuver the hemostat around.

With gritting teeth, he sucked in a deep breath and dug the hemostat into his leg. Instantly, more blood started flowing. The pain was almost enough to make him pass out. He blinked his eyes a couple of times and shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. He reached for some gauze and wiped away the blood.

The hemostat found the bullet. Luckily, it wasn’t buried too deep. It seemed to have lodged itself just above the muscle. That was good. No permanent damage. He’d be really sore for a few weeks, but that was about the extent of it, barring an infection.

His hands shook as he maneuvered the tool around to get a grip on the tiny piece of shrapnel. Finally, he had it. Once again he gritted his teeth as he pulled the bullet out. He looked at it for a second, studying the size. It seemed like a small caliber. Probably a .38.

He threw the small bullet into the metal pan sitting beside him. Then he reached for the needle and thread. Now this was something he was familiar with. On more than one occasion he had given himself stitches. Being a professional hit man, he couldn’t afford to go to the hospital frequently. They would accumulate too many records on him, and eventually he would be found. Given his job, he was always hiding out in some dank, dark, and usually dangerous place. Accidents such as cuts and scrapes were frequent. For that reason, he learned at a young age how to do a few necessary things, one of which was giving himself stitches.

It took him all of five minutes to sew up the gash. He cleaned and dressed the newly patched wound. Now he could turn his attention back to the so-called doctor.

Henri Rhette was about to wish he’d never opened his front door.

C
ardinal Joseph McCoy sat at his new desk in his new office in the papal apartment building. Wickham had worked fast—lunch, meeting, new office. No one questioned the move. No one ever questioned anything ordered or approved by Wickham. They merely went about their daily business as if nothing had changed.

Joseph had just finished straightening some loose papers on his desk when the door to his new office swung open.

“Joseph,” Cardinal Wickham said, striding into the office, “what do you think?” Wickham swept his arms in a big arc around the room.

“I like it rather well. Thank you.”

“My pleasure. It seems that your moving in here has caused quite a buzz.”

“I don’t know about that. But I have, however, heard numerous quips about some letter the pope gave you to circulate around to the senior cardinals.” He smiled.

“The delightful part is that no one has even seen the letter yet.

There is only rumor of the letter. And everybody already assumes that Paul wrote it. I didn’t even have to tell them. Which, by the way, is perfect, because when I tell them the pope did, indeed, write it, they’ll just take it as fact. There won’t be any question. My word is gold around here. You know that.” “So when will you unveil the letter?”

“I actually have a meeting with the senior staff in about two hours. I will stop off to see Paul, have him sign it, then go to my meeting, where I will show them the letter. After that, we wait.”

“For what?”

Even to Joseph, Wickham’s smile seemed particularly nasty. “For the obvious.” “You mean …”

“It shouldn’t be more than a couple more days. He’s very sick. And the doctors haven’t got a clue as to what’s going on. They still think it’s the flu. Poor man. If only he’d listened to me ten years ago when I told him the medical staff here wasn’t what they should be, he wouldn’t be in this predicament.”

Joseph sat quietly for a moment. It was really happening. Louis was actually going to kill the most beloved religious figure in all the world. And then he, Cardinal Joseph McCoy, would become the next pope. He was filled with a mix of emotions—excited, nervous, and scared all at the same time. He sat back in his chair, folded his hands, and rested them under his chin. He looked up at Louis, who was standing on the other side of his desk, arms folded, wearing a menacing-looking grin. This was it. No turning back. “Well then,” he said, “I guess you’d better be going to see the pope.”

Pope Paul VII was sound asleep when Wickham entered his room. There were a few doctors and nurses milling about but doing nothing really. They were only there in case the pontiff woke up and decided he needed something.

He asked them if he could be alone with the patient for a few minutes to discuss church business. The medical staff filed out of the room, one by one.

When the door closed, Wickham reached into his pocket and brought out the small cylinder that carried the killer liquid. He unscrewed the lid and put a few drops of the agent into the already hanging IV drip. It was the fourth method this week. He was being smart by changing it up. A cup of tea here, a spiked IV there. No one would be able to pinpoint one definite source of the poison were they ever to discover it at all. Once he finished, he placed the cylinder back inside his pocket. He waited a few seconds then gently nudged the arm of the sleeping pope.

“Paul,” he said. The pope’s eyes fluttered. “Paul, it’s me, Louis. Do you feel like waking up for a few minutes? There are a few things I need to discuss with you. Very important.”

Pope Paul VII’s eyes opened fully now. Without moving his head, he scanned the room to see what was going on. He noticed that no one, other than he and Wickham, were in the room. He licked his dry, cracked lips and mumbled, “Water.”

Wickham took the pitcher of water and two paper cups from the bedside table and poured. He figured he could use one as well. He reached his hand behind the old man’s neck and helped him into a sitting position, then handed him the cup of water.

“Thank you,” the raspy voice replied.

“My pleasure.”

“I’m so tired, Louis.”

“I know. You need to rest.”

“This flu … I’ve always been in good health. Perhaps it is something else that is wrong.”

“While I’m certainly no doctor, I think everything will be fine. Just do what they tell you, and you’ll be up and about in no time.”

Pope Paul covered his mouth and began to cough. His breaths were coming in short gasps. “What was it you needed? Church business, did you say?”

Wickham nodded his head and leaned over to the side to grab his briefcase. He reached inside and pulled out a stack of papers. “I just need your signature on some end-of-month statements and a couple of requisition forms. It should only take a couple of seconds.”

Pope Paul VII began coughing again and nodded his head. He motioned with his hand for Wickham to hand him the papers. “Could you hand me my glasses over there?” He pointed to an end table.

Wickham turned around in his chair and saw the glasses sitting on top of the wooden table. He looked to see where the pope was focusing his attention. The barely lucid man seemed to be staring into outer space. He stood up and walked behind his chair, swiftly palmed the reading glasses, and stuck them in his pocket. Then, moving a few magazines and loose papers aside, he said, “I’m afraid I don’t see your glasses. Maybe one of the nurses put them away so that they don’t get broken. Why don’t I just put your hand on the line that you need to sign, and you can write. Surely you don’t need them for just that. Do you?” He tried to sound as polite and caring as he could.

“I suppose not.”

Wickham tried not to laugh. If this were any easier, he might get bored.

He put the ink pen in the pope’s hand and grabbed the old man’s frail wrist to move it to the bottom of the first page. “There you go. Now just sign right here.”

With a shaky hand, the pope scratched out his signature. Wickham removed the top sheet and repeated the process. The first four documents actually were requisition forms for one thing or another. The fifth and final one was the letter. And Pope Paul, by his own admission of not being able to read anything without his glasses, didn’t even bat an eye when Wickham stuck it in front of him. He just waited for the cardinal to move his hand until it was in the proper position. Then he signed his name.