If Angels Burn
Page 32

Richard had seen most of the world five times over, but the sight of it from the air never ceased to fascinate him.
The private jet flew from Ireland to Rome, where it landed ostensibly for refueling. As always, Richard remained on board while his contact was brought to the plane. His pilot was a former pilot for the Israel Air Force and could take off under any conditions, while Richard's guards stood armed and ready every moment they spent on the ground. The risk was very minimal, but if by some chance the plane was taken, Richard had stowed an ample amount of plastic explosive in a satchel under his seat, and the detonator for it in the armrest of his seat. All he had to do was press one button, and he, his entourage, and anyone on the plane or within five hundred yards of it would be vaporized.
Long ago, Richard Tremayne had been imprisoned in La Lucemaria, and subjected to treatment that had resulted in the unique condition slowly altering his body. He would never allow the Brethren to take him again.
"My lord," one of the guards looking through the boarding-door window said, "he comes."
Richard rested what had once been a hand over the detonator button. "Search him as soon as he steps inside."
The man who came to the plane had dressed as an attorney, and carried a briefcase that was filled with authentic legal documents. Once inside the plane, he submitted silently to a metal detector and transmitter sweep, and then the guards' painstaking search of his person. Only when they felt satisfied that the man carried no devices or weapons did the guards allow him into the cabin where Richard waited.
"My lord." Tacassi bowed. "I am honored and gratified by your presence."
Brother Cesare Tacassi had been a teenager when Richard had first recruited him to infiltrate the Brethren. Tacassi's uncle was a minor archivist within the order, and had happily sponsored his nephew, never realizing that Cesare was one of Richard's tresori.
"Your message indicated it was of some importance, Cesare." Richard gestured to one of the empty rows far enough away to keep the priest from seeing too much of his face. "Sit down and tell me what has happened."
Tacassi opened his briefcase and removed a file. "This is all the information the Brethren have collected on Alexandra Keller's brother, John."
"I know about the priest." Richard made no move to take the file from Tacassi.
The priest handed the file to one of the guards. "Father Keller came to Rome two months ago, when his sister disappeared. He was persuaded by his mentor—Archbishop Hightower—and Cardinal Viktor Stoss to undergo training to join the Brethren. Presently he is recovering from his ordeal in La Lucemaria." Tacassi stared at the floor. "They intend to recruit Dr. Keller through him, I believe. She is their ultimate goal."
"The plastic surgeon?" Richard thought this over. "Why would our old friend Cardinal Stoss sully his hands with such a minor affair?"
"I do not know," Tacassi admitted. "I have tried to discover more, but he refuses to speak of it, and too much pressure on my part will make him suspicious."
"This priest, Keller, is their only conduit. You will return and kill him."
Tacassi nodded. "And the sister?"
Richard leaned forward and watched the color drain from the priest's skin. "I will deal with Dr. Keller."
Chapter Fourteen
John barely remembered his first days in La Lucemaria's infirmary. He was taken to a room where his torn feet and wounds were treated, and then another where he was helped out of his ragged robe, dressed in striped pajamas like a young boy, and put to bed. None of the monks who helped him said more than was necessary, but their expressions were kind.
After the monks left him, he slept, and was visited by an angel.
The angel was a summer sunrise, all the colors of dawn in her golden hair, fair skin, and blue, blue eyes. Her voice was clear and mellow, like a bell. She placed her soft, cool hands on his brow and face. She fed him manna from a silver spoon. She sang hymns that made his heart swell until he thought it might burst. She rocked him, massaging the sore muscles of his back and legs, her white wings fluttering around him. He blessed her over and over before he slipped back into the healing darkness.
John was sure the angel had been sent by God to watch over him.
On the fourth day he woke to find himself in a cell not unlike the one he had left behind at St. Luke's rectory. A female nurse in a tidy white uniform was removing a blood pressure cuff from his arm.
"You're awake," the nurse said. She wasn't his dream angel, not with her dark hair and eyes. She spoke with a light Italian accent. "I am Sister Gelina, and I have been taking care of you. How are you feeling today?"
"Better." He moved to sit up and was astonished to find himself too weak to make it past a propped elbow. "How long have I been unconscious?"
The big curls around her face bounced as she checked the sturdy watch on her wrist. "About three days."
She wore no habit, and no covering on her hair, but her mouth and long fingernails were painted bright red. Unable to reconcile this woman with the angel of his dreams, John asked, "Are you a Catholic nun?"
Gelina giggled. "Oh, no, Father. I trained in England, and all nurses there are called Sister." She came over and helped him to sit up before she arranged his pillows. She touched him with a casual familiarity that put him immediately on guard. "Are you hungry?"
He was starved, and naked under the thin sheet covering him from the waist down, and this female was touching him. "Yes, but I would like to dress first, please."
"After your bath." Sister Gelina indicated the small adjoining room. "I will send one of the brothers to help you."
He saw a clean bedpan on the floor beside the bed and felt even more embarrassed. Had she taken care of those needs, as well? "That is not necessary."
"It is if you become dizzy and fall and crack your head open," the nurse warned as she checked his pulse. "Ah, sixty-one, and on top of the blood pressure of an Olympian. You are in very good shape, Father." She gave him a sly smile before she noted his vitals on his chart and left the room.
A monk came back a few minutes later—without Sister Gelina, John was relieved to see—and helped him bathe and take care of his basic needs. John was shocked by how much weight he had lost, and how sore his body felt. The monk brought him a robe to wear, and when John emerged from the bathroom, it was to find Gelina making his bed. She was bent over, and her white uniform skirt was stretched over her tight, heart-shaped bottom.
"You don't have to do that," John said, automatically looking in another direction.
The nurse straightened. "These sheets smell almost as bad as you did." She handed the bundle of dirty linens to the monk who had brought his clothes, who took them from the room. "Now, Father, I have your dinner tray. Your stomach is not used to solid food, so you must eat slowly and carefully, or it will all come back up." She took his arm to help him back into the bed.
"I will be fine." He tried to extricate himself from her grasp without being obvious about it. The simple food on the tray smelled delicious, and he was eager to fill the bottomless, hollow space inside him. Almost as eager as he was to see Sister Gelina leave.
"Be a good boy and eat everything, now." Sister Gelina gave him a slightly hurt look when he didn't respond, but then she left the room.
The food tasted better than the manna he remembered from his dreams, and John ate until his stomach balked. It wasn't nausea, however, that made him feel so sluggish. I'm still wiped out from the training. He pushed the tray aside and curled over, and waited for the room to stop spinning.
The last thing John wanted to do was sleep, but he couldn't fight his way out of the dark. He managed to remain conscious, but only just. He couldn't call out, however, and his body wouldn't move. Being helpless and in the dark was the script of his worst nightmares, and he wondered if he was asleep and simply didn't know it.
Someone came and moved the tray table away. It was another monk, one John had not seen before. He took one of the pillows from behind John's head and muttered something. John's eyes widened when the monk pressed the pillow down hard over his face. He tried to shout, but his throat wouldn't work, and his arms remained limp and paralyzed.
It wasn't a dream. He had been drugged, and he couldn't do anything to stop the monk or to defend himself. I'm going to die. God in heaven, not like this.
As if in answer to his prayer, the pillow went away. John coughed and choked, and looked up to see his nurse standing behind the monk, who was clawing at her hands around his neck. There was a low pop, and the monk's body jerked and stiffened before it toppled over.
"He—he tried—" John couldn't stop coughing long enough to get the words out.
"I know, my poor brother." Cool hands cradled his face. "I am sorry. He will not hurt you again." She smiled as she produced a needle, and plunged it into the side of his neck. "I will always protect you, as long as you ask nicely."
More drugs, John thought as the room stopped spinning and started melting around him. Someone rolled him onto his side as he vomited, and wiped his face after. Flames danced around the bed. Lightning flashed, but there was no boom of thunder to go with it.
Am I deaf? John thought, confused.
The room slowly stopped melting. He was able to move again, but his head pounded and there was a terrible taste in his mouth.
Sister Gelina was sitting in a chair beside the bed, watching him.
"Was it all a dream?" John asked her.
"I don't know what you mean, Padre." Gelina stood, and he saw her white uniform darken and tighten until it was a cheap silk blouse and frayed miniskirt.
It wasn't her. It couldn't be. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you." She snapped the gum she was chewing. "Why are you looking at me like that, Padre? You see something you like?"
"I'm sick." John turned his head away. "I'm not in my right mind."