The Maltho-Rose Plot

© Copyright 2010 R.M. Lienau.

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Contents

The Maltho-Rose Plot

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

The Maltho-Rose Plot

Prologue

Increasing problems faced humankind, and with it, an increasing awareness: pollution of the land, the atmosphere and the oceans; the depletion of minerals, arable soil, forests, sea creatures, and potable aquifers; overcrowding and the resultant lowering of the quality of life, attendant with the spread of poverty, illiteracy, ignorance and crime.

Existing institutions, such as the Union of Concerned Scientists, World Watch, the Sierra Club, as well as newly-formed organizations, both public and private, began to join forces with academicians, scientists and politicians dedicated to curbing human population growth. To a great extent, assistance consisted of little more than lip service. In some cases, however, genuine changes were effected. A small percentage of groups and individuals exerted a disproportionate effort, for their numbers, on behalf of the new awareness and direction. This trend included, at least officially, most governments and main line religions, especially in the Western world.

In contrast, there were those on the political right, mostly among fundamentalist Christian groups, including many in the Catholic Church, especially within the clergy, who were alarmed at what they saw as a looming threat to their beliefs and way of life, and determined to thwart this conservationist inclination. To that end, a sort of fundamentalist ecumenism began to coalesce. It included not only a broad spectrum of Christians, but certain Muslim and Jewish groups, all of whom leaned heavily on literal translations of the Bible, the Koran, or other religious writings. One upshot was the publication, in several languages, of a widely-disseminated tract that warned of the dangers of this latest challenge to a strictly fundamentalist, religious view of the world.

One portion of the tract declared, "… liberal-leaning media, politicians and educators are again launching a shrill attack on the rights and faith of good and free peoples everywhere to live in peace according to the dictates of good conscience and the ways of God as set forth in the great and revered books handed down to us by the Almighty and The Prophets.

These minions of Satan are distributing contraceptives in the schools, teaching our children that homosexuality, bestiality and promiscuity are acceptable alternatives to a righteous life, making animals, fish and trees more important than people, advocating the legitimization of drugs and prostitution and telling women it is permissible to interfere with the cycle of human life, even to kill their babies in the womb. Is this the way of life as prescribed by the Lord? Did not the Lord God command His children to go forth and multiply, and declare that all living creatures were put here on earth for our use? Should we listen to these profligate prophets of doom who would martyr us for their shameful and wicked ways? Or should we stand and be counted, become soldiers in the eternal battle between good and evil?

If you are righteous and dedicated to the proposition that mankind was put here on earth to glorify God, do good works for HIM, and enjoy those things put here on earth by HIM for us, then join in this crusade for truth, justice and right! Call or write to us now! We need you in this time of travail …

These pamphlets were customized by language, ethnicity and region, and each had addresses and telephone numbers where recruiters could be contacted. On the reverse of most were printed symbols of group or institution affiliation, some of which were obscure. They were top-quality publications, distributed by the millions. Interested parties were asked to donate money, time, personal skills, and sometimes risk their jobs, or even their lives, for the cause.

One

Rivulets of crimson coursed from the thorn-ringed head, the savagely punctured hands and feet, across the face and neck, onto the chest and down to the feet of the gaunt, yellowish figure of Christ on the cross. Across the huge vaulted room, distorted shadows danced from the garish glow of offertory candles flickering through blood-red glass.

Sister Beatrice, in a habit of black edged in white, sat alone in the near-dark of St. Anne’s, staring up at the life-sized crucifix. Her pretty, unlined face radiated intelligence. Her head was immobile, eyes unblinking, as she gazed at the tortured figure in wood and plaster suspended from the cold, grey stone above the altar. She crossed herself and rose, her eyes still fixed on the figure of Christ, her left hand clutching the black crucifix that hung from her neck. Then she turned and walked to the exit.

By the time the heavy wooden door of the parish church thudded home on its massive iron hinges, Sister Beatrice was ten paces into the faintly-lit courtyard inside the Porta Sant’ Anna. To her left, near the massive gate that lead to the Via Angelica, she saw two men, one a uniformed member of the Swiss guard, his imposing halberd held high. Next to him stood a smaller guard, a civilian member of the Vatican Central Office of Vigilance. She thought of the pistol concealed beneath his blue suit jacket, and turned away.

She heard only the sound of her own sturdy shoes as they met the rough-hewn pavement, then their echo, which made her feel as though she were being followed. She shuddered, and the hair on her arms stood on end as she turned halfway around, still walking, to peer back into the empty shadows. She moved closer to a wall, putting herself completely in penumbra, her head down. She walked around the corner of a large, dark building to a door set deep into a long wall. Stopping in the cone of light from a yellowish lamp above the portal, she moved back into the shadow, watching and listening. Satisfied she was alone, she lifted the latch. The wooden closure yielded without sound on well-oiled hinges.

As she stepped into the building, where only faded light greeted her, the nun turned and looked outside through the open frame and scanned the empty space between the buildings. Across the courtyard, only two windows showed muted light, those belonging to the papal apartments of the Apostolic Palace. She closed the door and moved along the hall, making a conscious effort to fix her face in a forward stare as though in a trance. In the long, stone-floored hall, her footfalls echoed, sounding again as though there were someone behind her. She desperately wanted to turn and look, but contained the impulse.

The Sister turned a corner past another hall lamp high over her head, its weak light casting long, dark shadows along the cramped passageway. She stopped at a narrow doorway, and, fumbling in a pocket hidden behind the folds of her black skirt, turned her head first left, then right, to look and listen. She heard nothing but the rustling of her own clothing. After three nervous tries with the key, the lock tumbler yielded, and she stepped into the room. She sighed and pressed her hand to her chest in the dark in an attempt to calm herself.

She felt along the wall next to the door frame and found the light switch. On a small desk across the little room, a lamp with a green glass shade came on. She crossed behind the desk and paused to look at the silver crucifix on ebony wood that hung from the blank white wall next to it. She sat in the wooden swivel chair, searched for and found another key in her robes, then unlocked the desk.

She opened the right-hand top drawer, rummaged toward the back, removed a small plastic cylinder, and put it on the desk blotter. From a second drawer, she removed a roll of white surgical tape, pulled off four inches, tore it loose, then put the cylinder roughly in the center of the sticky side of the tape. Dangling the tape with the cylinder stuck to it from one hand, she reached down under the desk and pulled at her skirts.

She locked the desk, working her mouth into a thin line as her worried eyes darted from one object to another on the desk top. Then she retrieved a valise hidden between the filing cabinet and the corner, crossed herself and whispered a Hail Mary to the crucifix on the wall.

She turned off the light and opened the door slowly, stuck her head out through the opening and looked first left, then right. Certain she was alone, she pulled the door closed, listened to the latch, then strode away in the direction from which she had come. At the outside door, she searched the courtyard. Hearing footsteps off to her right, she let the door close to a crack. She waited as two priests, engaged in animated, but muted conversation, walked by. Convinced there was no one else, she moved through the entrance, then across the open space to the next building.

Her route was circuitous as she chose a path that led her through narrow spaces between buildings and across treed open areas with little light. She stopped as she came to the edge of the Square of The First Roman Martyrs alongside the massive basilica, edging carefully past the Arch of The Bells, fearful of discovery by someone in the guard house behind it. Then she moved on to the broken circle of Bernini’s Colonnade that bounded St. Peter’s Square.

Sister Beatrice looked across it, past the centered obelisk and the fountains, to the dark street that circled the square, the Piazza Pio XII, then to her left, toward the barracks of the Swiss Guard next to the grand opening. Strolling across the square, their automatic weapons shouldered, were two uniformed Roman policemen. She noticed two more standing near the obelisk, and heard one of them talking. A red glow appeared, then dimmed, as the other policeman laughed and dragged on a cigarette. She halted, momentarily afraid to move, her heart pounding, her mouth dry. Stiffening her resolve, she sighed, sped toward the Piazza Pio, then moved quickly down the dark Via della Conciliazione to the Piazza Pia that ran along the river. There, she hailed a taxi.

Inside the stadium-like Leonardo da Vinci airport, Sister Beatrice moved through throngs of milling people and past long queues at the ticket counters. She threaded her way to the airline counter she wanted, set her valise on the floor close to her leg and folded her hands across her stomach. A small woman in front of her, finally at the counter, was assured by the agent three times that she would indeed arrive safely at her destination. Mumbling to herself, the woman gathered up her things, including two string bags with bread and flowers, and walked away, no less confused or anxious.

As Sister Beatrice conducted her business with the female ticket agent, a man walked up to the counter and took a flight timetable from a display rack. His hair was long and black, and he wore a conservative tweed jacket. A pair of dark aviator’s glasses covered his eyes above a thin, black mustache. He had a large, perfect mole below his bottom lip. He winced against the blue smoke that curled into his eyes from a cigarette in his mouth as he perused the timetable. He turned his head slowly to steal a look at the nun next to him, put the pamphlet down and moved away. Boarding pass in hand, Beatrice picked up her valise and left the counter as an impatient man behind her wedged in close. When the nun reached an open area between the ticket counters and the first gate concourse, she stopped and nervously watched the people who streamed in and out of the street doors. She glanced at her wrist watch. Two uniformed carabinieri strolled by, both with shouldered machine pistols; one holding the leash on a huge German police dog.

Behind her, the man in the tweed jacket followed, dodging people, keeping his eyes on the nun as he pulled a pair of thin, black leather gloves from his jacket pocket and put them on. When Sister Beatrice moved again, he stepped up his pace, closing on her. In another five seconds, he was alongside and settled into her stride. He turned and spoke to her as they walked. She stopped, the valise dangling from her hand, her eyes wide with shock as she turned to face the man. Both were silent, then the man spoke again, his arms at his sides, the fingers of both his gloved hands working. The nun didn’t answer, and he spoke again.

Then they both heard a muffled explosion, followed by shouting and screaming that emanated from beyond the counter where she had picked up her ticket. The crowd scattered, most in the opposite direction. Some people moved tentatively toward the commotion, and the two carabinieri turned and raced toward it, trailed by a third, who readied his weapon.

The man in the tweed jacket took the nun by the arm and steered her from the middle of the floor, through the throng, into the concourse and to a narrow hallway which led to a maintenance closet. When they had moved ten feet from the hall entrance, Beatrice pulled her arm away and turned to face him with a mixture of anger and fear. He pivoted so his back was to the lobby while she faced it. His actions thus partially hidden, the man pulled a suppressor-equipped Walther P22 semiautomatic pistol from under his left armpit. He pointed the gun at her chest, and at point-blank range, pulled the trigger once, then at her forehead, and fired again.

Sister Beatrice heard only a plopping noise as her mouth dropped open and her valise thumped to the floor. She reached for the wounds in her chest, now gushing blood. Her hands went into spasm; she staggered, then fell straight back, her head bouncing as it hit the hard floor.

The man returned his gun to the shoulder holster hidden beneath his jacket. Without looking around, he knelt next to the dead nun and felt along her body, underneath her arms, down her hips, then to her legs, where he felt along the outside and inside. He pulled her skirt up, exposing her inner thighs. Two middle-aged women pulling wheeled cases and a man carrying a baby, unsure of what they were witnessing, gaped in disbelief, but did not stop. The killer peeled away the four-inch length of surgical tape with the plastic cylinder attached, and replaced her skirt. Then he pulled a small object out of his outer jacket pocket with his gloved hand and put it inside the dead nun’s bodice. He stood, made the sign of the cross as he looked at her dull, half-open eyes, pocketed the tape and cylinder, then turned and walked calmly for the entrance.

Singly, and by twos and threes, travelers with bundles, suitcases and knapsacks, now aware that something strange and terrible had happened, crowded into the cramped space to gather around the body in black, white and red.

Two

Stanley Krakowski stood, his back against a wall, away from the undisciplined parade of tourists and businessmen who crowded toward the bottleneck at the SAS check-in counter of the Copenhagen to Newark flight. Over six feet tall, he wore an open, dark brown leather jacket over khaki pants and shirt. His intense grey eyes were hidden behind dark aviator glasses, and his reddish-brown hair was topped with a light brown cloth fedora, the brim snapped down over his forehead. His skin was fair and freckled. A nylon carry-on bag was slung over his shoulder, and he held a paperback novel up to his face, reading intermittently.

He cast his gaze over the throng as it approached along the long, wide carpeted hall, looking for anyone he might recognize, or anyone who appeared to take an interest in him, moving his head and eyes inconspicuously. Every ten seconds he looked down through the immense plate glass window that separated the gate area from the flight line. His trained eyes scanned the patchwork of concrete and tarmac, watching the uniformed support crews as they loaded baggage into the cargo hold and in-flight meals into the galley of the SAS Boeing 747. He watched a man at the front of the plane, noise abatement muffs in place over his ears, maneuver a tug near the nose wheel assembly.

Krakowski had arrived early to watch everyone who approached flight 911. Satisfied that they included no one he knew, and that no one was watching him, he placed the tear-off stub from his Amsterdam flight coupon in the book as a place marker, and joined the stragglers boarding the plane. He found his seat in tourist, in a center section aisle. There had been too much of a rush to get a better one; he had arrived only two hours earlier on the flight from Amsterdam. He preferred an aisle seat, particularly on such a long flight. Although it made little real difference, he felt claustrophobic in the center section.

A middle-aged woman, crippled with arthritis, who reminded Krakowski of his mother, came up the aisle and hobbled toward the rear of the plane. He folded his arms, closed his eyes and thought of his parents. They had emigrated to the United States from Poland after World War II. His father, a radio engineer who fought with the British, returned to Krakow only to find himself escaping from Russians instead of Germans. He and his young wife, Stanley Krakowski’s mother, made their way through Byelorussia and Estonia to the coast and escaped on a fishing smack to Sweden.

Krakowski was raised speaking Polish first and American English second, and his accent betrayed the fact. He grew up nominally Catholic and fiercely American. He joined the Army, spent three years in Special Forces, then attended Penn State, earning an engineering degree. There, the CIA recruited him.

He opened the paperback, but found himself distracted, so placed his Copenhagen-Newark coupon stub in the book next to the Amsterdam stub. Before settling in and trying to sleep, he opened his eyes and surveyed the bobbing heads around him once more; one last check. At times he feared his training and lifestyle had made him paranoid, but he rationalized that it was better to be safe. After the huge aircraft lifted off, and as he dozed, he thought of his father’s father and grandfather. Krakowskis, of noble bearing, tall and proud, all were military officers; tall Polish officers, who fought the Russians, the Prussians and the Germans, and their thirst for hegemony. Stanley, too, was tall, and an officer, but fighting something his Krakowski ancestors would most likely not have approved.

Still wearing his hat and sun glasses, and carrying the overnight bag, Krakowski stepped from a taxi onto a Washington, D.C. sidewalk. He turned away from people who stared down at him from the windows of a bus pulling away from the curb. The big vehicle accelerated, and he closed his eyes to avoid the malodorous black exhaust fumes. When he opened them, he saw the U.S. capitol dome underneath a blue sky spotted with small, fluffy white clouds.

He studied the street signs, then walked along the sidewalk opposite the flow of traffic. Scanning the buildings, he finally spotted the address he wanted: A nondescript, stuccoed four-story office structure. He continued to the end of the block and turned left. Halfway down the side street, he turned left again into an alley cluttered with bulging trash containers, used cardboard boxes and graffiti. Finding the rear of the building he sought, he opened a blank steel door with the number painted crudely on it, checked for observers, and went inside.

Krakowski made his way up a darkened set of narrow, concrete steps to the second floor, then through a fire door into an elevator lobby. From there, the old lift rattled him to the top floor. He approached a door with a frosted glass top, across which, in modest black letters, was the legend WORLD DEMOGRAPHIC INSTITUTE. He stepped into a reception area decorated with inexpensive carpet and furnishings.

A middle-aged woman sitting at a large wooden desk turned from her computer and looked up at him. A thin smile crossed her face. Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?

Krakowski set his overnight bag on the carpet, then removed his hat and his dark glasses. Afternoon. Mr. Krakowski to see Mr. Hutchings.

Of course, Mr. Krakowski. Identification, please? She raised her eyebrows.

Krakowski dug into an inside pocket of his leather jacket, came out with a small folder and flipped it open expertly for the woman to see. He glanced at a mirror on the wall. The way it was mounted, and because of the peculiar dark reflection it cast, he reckoned a video camera behind it was recording his image.

The receptionist smiled warmly at him as he put the folder away. He’s expecting you. Please go right in. She waved her hand casually toward a hallway that began behind her desk.

Krakowski picked up his bag and walked past the desk down a narrow corridor to a locked door with a small window, where he stopped and waited. The latch clicked, and he pushed his way in. Six feet beyond the opening, a black man wearing a dark suit with a neat white shirt and tie sat at a desk equipped with four video monitors, a telephone and a walkie-talkie in a charger. He was listening to one of the land-line phones and writing in a bound book as Krakowski entered. Krakowski noted the leather holster with a 9 mm semiautomatic pistol under his left armpit.

The visitor traded sober glances with the guard, who jerked his head and rolled his eyes, indicating that he should proceed. Krakowski knocked on the door at the end of the short hall, then entered without waiting for a response.

Colonel Roger Hutchings rose from the high-backed naugahyde chair behind his desk. He was tall, with piercing, intelligent green eyes. His nominally black hair was thinning and greying on the sides. He was coatless, his conservative tie pulled loose at the neck. He came around the front of his big desk, past a tennis bag with the handle of a racket extending through the zippered opening, and extended his hand. Stan! How are you?! Good flight?

Krakowski reached out and shook Hutchings’ hand. Not bad, Colonel. Not as young as I used to be, though. Those hops across the pond are getting longer.

Both men sat, the Colonel returning to his Naugahyde, Krakowski to a chair in front of the desk, where he dropped his hat onto the carry-on bag next to his feet.

Krakowski looked around. The office was a large corner room with non-opening windows from which one was able to see only onto the street below, with vertical blinds set for a half view. On either side were narrow bookcases straddling Hutchings’ desk, which was busy with brass objects, photographs and a formal pen set. A dozen framed photographs of men in combat gear hung from the wall next to the bookcases. A sofa and coffee table sat along the opposite side against the wall. The otherwise neat room had the only disordered note in six cardboard file boxes, two of which were uncovered, with open files and individual papers strewn over them and on the carpeted floor.

Hutchings rubbed his face aggressively with both hands. Yeah, I hate it. Takes me three days to recover. Especially going east. Maybe longer.

Right.

Well, it was short notice, but we couldn’t leave you out there. You might have been next. He gestured with both hands. Any problems finding us?

No. Reasonable cover. Krakowski glanced around the room again with an appreciative nod.

So far, so good.

Krakowski returned his gaze to the Colonel. I wonder why they didn’t follow her to me?

I don’t know. He sighed. Maybe their operation got out of hand. Maybe they wanted to make a point. Maybe they figured operating outside of Italy would be too difficult. Whatever their motives, we have to do something, and soon. Plenary session next week.

Krakowski nodded and grunted.

The Secretary – the jerk – is having a goddamn cow. I had to let him know what happened. The Colonel shook his head and looked off to one side. He reached out to a small, colorfully decorated metal box on the desk top, opened it and looked at the cigarettes inside, then slammed it shut in frustration.

You said there was a twist.

Hutchings vented again and firmed his mouth into a line of disgust. We think they have the film. She didn’t have it on her.

Krakowski straightened. No shit! What the hell happened?

Hutchings shook his head, took in a big breath and let it out. Sonya was supposed to be at the airport ahead of her. In her nun getup, naturally. She didn’t get there until after Sister Bea had picked up her tickets and was shot. She couldn’t check until they removed the body. Insisted on going with her. She had problems with the Italian police, but did manage a few minutes alone with the body. The cylinder was missing.

How could she tell? Maybe Bea wasn’t bringing one out this time.

Uh-uh. She found a tape burn. Hutchings looked hard at Krakowski.

You trust her?

Sonya? A hundred percent. Hutchings sat back and writhed in irritation.

She was late. It smells. Krakowski glowered.

The Colonel shook his head adamantly. Sonya’s record is flawless. You know she’s had opportunity to cross us. She’s always come through with flying colors. No. Hutchings made a visible effort to calm himself, folding his hands across his chest. I’m convinced the delay was unavoidable.

Krakowski held up his hand in apology and looked away.

Hutchings sat forward, pulled open a desk drawer and withdrew a small metallic object which he flipped onto the desk toward his visitor. Sonya found that on Bea’s body. It was tucked under her bodice. He sat back again and traced a finger idly between his chin and his mouth, waiting for the other man’s reaction.

Krakowski leaned forward, frowning, picked up the tiny object and rolled it over in the palm of his hand. He peered at the Colonel. I’ll be damned.

Yeah.

The visitor looked at it carefully, holding it up to the light. It was a small golden cross surmounted with a two-tongued red flame across the arm joint.

Hutchings supported his elbows on the desk top and peaked both hands together against his mouth. A witness said the guy crossed himself.

Witness?! Krakowski shifted his intense gaze to the Colonel.

Italians couldn’t get him to give a reliable description. All he came up with were impressions. The killer crossing himself was the one thing the guy really noticed. Hutchings breathed heavily again.

This is the symbol of the Croix d’Feu. Krakowski held the pin up as though Hutchings hadn’t seen it.

Colonel Hutchings nodded and reached for a piece of folded paper which he handed to Krakowski. Look at the bottom, rear.

Krakowski examined the high-grade, slick paper pamphlet. Damn. Same thing. This is new, no? He peered at it again. Along the bottom edge of the finely-printed, broadside were eight organizational symbols. One of them was the outline of a simple Christian cross with the two-tongued flame on the junction. He looked up.

Yep. Looks like they’re back and have joined forces with the rest of that crowd.

Nobody else made the shooter? Krakowski lowered the pamphlet to his lap.

Hutchings shook his head, blinking hard. "Italian news reports and our contacts said there was a bomb blast seconds before the murder. The shooter walked away during the panic. Has to have been a diversion, all over before anyone realized anything was wrong. A nun on the floor with bullet holes in her and blood all over, who’d make sensible observations? The police and carabinieri thought it was connected to the explosion at first."

Damn. What’d they hit her with?

Twenty-two. Point blank. Chest and head. It was quick. He took in a deep breath.

Krakowski scowled at the Colonel. That’s a wise-guy’s favorite tool.

Hutchings nodded. Right.

Mafia?

Doesn’t make sense. A professional who knows his way around firearms.

American?

Maybe. Hutchings shrugged.

Opus Dei?

Fundamentalist Catholic group? DIGOS, the Italian anti-terrorist people dismiss them. They’re harmless civilians. He shook his head, eyes closed.

Krakowski nodded, his mouth a thin, hard line.

We should have been more careful. I’m confident Sonya could’ve foiled it, if for no other reason than being with her, but hell, she wasn’t expecting anything like that. None of us were. She would have fought back. We were – I was – mislead by the notion that no one would dare harm a nun. It’s natural cover. But the real issues are, how did they know how we were getting that stuff, by whom and when?

Who else knew?

About Sister Beatrice? Only the three of us and my aide, Parsons. The Colonel jerked his head as though pointing. Only people who knew her by sight were you, Sonya and me.

Hm. Krakowski pinched the stubble under his nose.

When you debriefed Bea the last time – or any of the times before that – did she say anything that might have led you to believe she was in danger? Hutchings bit at his lip. Krakowski shook his head, eyes up, searching his memory. No. I always asked her to describe the trip. Sonya would back her up. We met at a church. I always swept the area before she came, then went in dressed as a priest. Any hint of trouble, I’d steer them away, and we’d set up a new rendezvous.

Anything different this time?

No. She contacted me the same way. No sign of anything out of the ordinary.

Did she show you the Minox each visit?

Every time. I wonder where it is now?

I suspect in her valise, Hutchings mused. Whoever gets it’ll be curious.

"The convent?

Maybe her family.

Should we try to recover it?

No. It’s untraceable. If the police have it, it won’t help them find her.

What happens to Sonya?

We pulled her in. The police talked to her, but didn’t ID her at the scene or at the station. I’m concerned, though. They might look for a nun who happened along. If they go to the Vatican or any of the local convents, and don’t locate her, they may get suspicious. And I’m worried there might have been a backup shooter at the airport. They may have spotted Sonya and decided to stay on her. She’s going to change her hair and general appearance. Right now, she’s in a safe house with a baby sitter and a debriefing team. Outside Italy. Colonel Hutchings rubbed his hands together nervously and looked away at nothing.

What’re you going to tell the Council?

As little as possible. He picked up a heavy silver cigarette lighter and fiddled with it. If they knew one of our people had been wasted, we might lose support. He put the lighter down. And then, maybe not. When they consider why they’re on the Council, maybe not. But I still don’t believe they should be told. They’re mostly scientists, not secretive politicians.

Krakowski looked hard at Hutchings. What’re our losses?

Colonel Hutchings stood up and wandered away from his desk, both hands in his pockets. Can’t say right now. With pressure on the Vatican to loosen doctrine, Beatrice must’ve run across something to do with their reaction to it.

He looked onto the street below, hands still pocketed, turned and walked slowly across the room. We need to persuade the Council to allow us to tighten up on tactics. With this turn of events, we’ve got the other side in our pants and that places us at a severe disadvantage. Somebody out there feels our activities are enough of a threat to try penetrating the organization and to even kill for.

Maybe she got careless and was detected from inside.

Hutchings stared at Krakowski, then shook his head once in a jerking motion. Christ, Stanley, you’re suggesting that an individual or group in the Vatican would be that vicious? Reacting to a nun taking out film of confidential documents by having her murdered?! Incredible!

We have an obscure nun on Vatican assignment assassinated at night in a public place. Her escort fails to show up. That’s a large coincidence. Unless an insider tipped them off. What’s your plan? Krakowski kept his eyes on Hutchings as the Colonel moved across the room.

The Colonel stopped and studied the carpet. "About two months ago, the communications security monitors detected what they thought was unauthorized computer traffic. About the time you sent a dispatch from Bea. When it was analyzed, they found that part of the data concerned Vatican business. That suggested to me that there’s a mole over there with access to the internal network who may have known of Bea’s activities. That someone could have relayed information to the Croix d’Feu or their allies, and somehow traced it to Bea.

Since you’re not safe in Holland, and you’re a new face around here, I want you to flush that mole. It’ll give me time to get you a new permanent assignment. Hutchings moved next to the sofa, pointed at nothing, one finger high, keeping his thoughts in order. "In the meantime, we can find out what Sonya knows, and poke around in Italy.

But we’re exposed, he continued. This could blow up in our faces if that Frog group is really behind the Sister Bea killing. According to Interpol, they’ve been building in strength lately, so they’re potentially dangerous. If they get too close, they could blow the lid off the Council and destroy the WDI. My greatest fear is this thing going political. So far, we’ve kept the public part of the Institute involved in the environment, economics, and statistics. If this gets political, or worse, religious, and we’re exposed, we’ll be unable to influence population reform for decades."

Krakowski