Sean Chercover - The Trinity Game

They’d been good together. Really good. Her girlfriends thought it a bit creepy, a woman in her twenties taking up with a teenager, and she had her own moments of doubt and discomfort over the age difference, but Danny was not your average teenager. In ways that mattered, he was more of a man than most of her friends’ boyfriends, and he was certainly more mature than Luc had been.

Still, however grown up Danny presented himself, he was only eighteen, and the relationship always felt star-crossed, fated to end on his next birthday, and she forced herself not to push too hard. It would do neither of them any good if Danny chose her over the priesthood only to resent her for it later.

All she could do, in the end, was let him go.

And now he was back. Not as a lover, but there was no denying the sexual spark—still alive for both of them, she knew—and he’d grown into quite a handsome man. And when she’d hugged him hello, she couldn’t help but notice the muscles of his arms, tight and defined through the cotton shirt—

Snap out of it, girl—he’s a priest.

“I believe in God,” he said last night in the bar, “but I’m starting to think my religion doesn’t describe Him very well.” Might that mean…

Stop. You are not going to seduce a priest. Shut it down, and focus on the job.

Andrew Thibodeaux stopped at the tollbooth, paid his dollar, and chugged on up the Greater New Orleans Bridge. The old pickup backfired, protesting the climb, her payload piled high with the sum total of Andrew’s life—at least, all he intended to keep—a blue nylon tarp tied down over everything, its corners flapping in the briny breeze, waving good-bye to the Crescent City. He had $357 in his pocket, another thousand in the bank, no job, and no idea what lay ahead.

None of that mattered. Through Reverend Tim, God had saved Andrew. Reverend Tim was in Atlanta, so God wanted Andrew in Atlanta.

It was that simple.

He pressed down on the accelerator, patted the cracked dashboard.

“You’re a good old girl,” he said. “You’ll make it.”

Rome, Italy…

Daniel deplaned and crossed the tarmac in the dark, feeling energized but slightly disconnected from his body, not quite like watching himself in a movie, but as if his consciousness were hovering along, about a foot above his head.

Not unreasonable. The last week had been an emotional whirlwind, and he’d just slept through the flight—the first full night he’d gotten since the girl in Nigeria with the holes in her hands. But it hadn’t been night—he’d actually slept through the day—and with the six-hour time difference, he now felt as though he were living in a parallel world of perpetual nighttime.

Even blindfolded, he’d have known he was back in Rome. The air here was softer than Atlanta, and carried a distinctly vegetal base note. Like New Orleans, Rome was (for good and ill) a proudly aromatic city, and that fertile base note was the constant denominator, never letting you forget that the city is a living thing.

He collected his motorcycle from long-term parking and headed up A91, through the warm Italian night, toward the bright lights of the city, leaning into the curves, gunning the throttle on the straightaways, feeling more alive than he had in years. In no time at all, he was in front of the Vatican, pushing down the kickstand, wading through waves of tourists, passing the Swiss Guard sentries, cartoon colorful but deadly as coral snakes, and bounding up the ancient marble steps.

“Oh, hello, Daniel.” Nick’s secretary, George, was standing in the outer office. He spoke in a rough Belfast brogue and his smile showed gaps where a few teeth had been knocked out over the years. “Father Nick’s been tied up in meetings, and it’s getting on. He said go home, get a good night’s rest, and he’ll meet with you in the morning.”

“I slept on the plane.”

“Well, he didn’t.”

Daniel moved to go around, and George sidestepped to intercept. “Not so fast, boyo.”

He was in his late forties, a little thick around the middle, but there was hard muscle under the padding. Rumor among the priests was George had been a Provisional IRA thug in his youth, and Daniel had no reason to disbelieve it. And boxing skills don’t often tip the scales against a seasoned Provo street fighter.

“I need to see him, George. Now.”

George put his hand gently on Daniel’s shoulder and spoke soft menace. “The man said ‘tomorrow.’”

Daniel spun, pivoting around George, bolted for the oak door, ripped it open, and said, “I gotta see you, Nick.” As he crossed the threshold, Father Nick dropped a file folder on his desk blotter, removed his reading glasses, and stood.

From behind, George clamped Daniel’s shoulder in a vise, found the pressure point on the joint, and dug in with a thumb that felt like an ice pick. He spoke into Daniel’s right ear. “You investigators think the sun shines from yer arseholes. Got news for ya: It don’t. So you can quit acting like you’re fucking Bono .” Then, to Nick, “Father Nick, if I may be so bold: Perhaps it’s time you let me take our little rock star downstairs, teach him some manners.”

“Appreciate the offer, George, but I’ll take the meeting.” He nodded assurance. “I’ll be fine, please close the door on your way out.”

The pain in Daniel’s shoulder eased into a dull throb as George let go. The door clicked shut behind him.

“Didn’t you get my message?” Daniel said.

“Which one?”

Daniel now heard the sharpness in Nick’s tone, saw the anger behind his eyes.

“Way I see it,” Nick went on, “you’ve been sending very mixed messages. And here’s one that confuses me: Under orders to stand down , you instead call a member of the press ? Who happens to be your ex-girlfriend ?”

“Are you spying on me?”

“Looking out for you. And starting to have serious doubts. This isn’t just a job, Daniel, we take an oath.”

“OK, look, it’s—well, complicated.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“Not what you’re thinking.” Daniel raised his hands, took a slow breath. “I know, I disobeyed a direct order, and I’m sorry, but there were exigent circumstances, and the thing is, you’ll understand once you hear my report.” He pulled his notebook from the breast pocket of his jacket, flipped it open. “The thing is, Nick, we’ve got a real miracle on our hands.”

Nick sighed, ran a hand over his head. “Holy Mother of God. I didn’t send you to find a miracle. I sent you to debunk a cheap, gaudy Holy Roller, who you already know is a con man. And not only did you blow it—he converted you.”

“It’s not like that. In fact, I’m angry at God for choosing him. But I can’t deny the evidence of my eyes, and they’ve seen the impossible. Did you even read my e-mail?”

Nick nodded. “And I think you’ve been played for a sucker. Trinity’s got tons of cash, he could’ve paid the trucker to take out the billboard at a pre-arranged time.”

“Not possible. You weren’t there, you didn’t see how it went down.”

“And quite conveniently, there’s no videotape.”

“The chip blew in the camera. That’s why the accident happened.”

“Or that’s the way it was staged. Did you check the camera?”