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Episode Five Ghosts of Gehenna
Midnight had crossed over the Texas plains. The hustle and bustle of the night life of Dallas remained inside on this clear, chilly November night. Within a few hours the bars would empty and the Metroplex law enforcement would face their daily routine of ferreting out the drunk drivers before their weakness took life and limb on the Lone Star highways and biways.
One who was safely home, but still laboring after a long day and evening at the Metroplex Mirror, was Victor Van Wess. He had finally called it a day regardless of what repercussion his boss Edwin Blix would render. As usual he had missed dinner with his loyal spouse Amy. Expected around six, he hadn't arrived until 11:30. His temperament was already frayed and Amy quietly prepared a barbeque rib sandwich for him before retiring to the bedroom to leave Vic time to unwind.
Not only unwind, but hope to God Pat Gallagher was still alive. That possibility lessened with every news report.
Dateline: Dallas - Vic Van Wess Mesquite home - November 4, 12:20 A.M.
The TV flickered in the Van Wess living room as Vic stretched his 5' 10" aging frame on the couch. With his aching leg elevated on the arm, he munched on the sandwich while swigging down a Dr. Pepper.
"Unrest continues in the mideast," a reporter on the cable news channel intoned in true cookie cutter fashion. No doubt the same newscast that had been repeated constantly for the past four or five hours. "Details of the latest bombing of the Kuwait Medical Examiner's home yesterday evening are still sketchy. Shiite Moslem authorities in Basra blame the Israelis while a Jewish spokesman in Tel Aviv calls it a 'smokescreen.' "
"Got that right," Vic snapped as the reporter droned on.
"And in Tel Aviv officials are investigating a mysterious fire last night that erupted on the upscale west side where two apartments were gutted; one belonging to Israeli government official Helene Shenneker. Three bodies were found in one. In Shenneker's there was no trace of the woman though observers swore she was in her apartment."
"It's the Legion. I know it," Vic lamented.
"In a related story," the anchor took the cue, "the ashes of the slain Roman pontiff have been flown back to Rome. Preparations are underway tomorrow morning in St. Peter's for mourners to pay their respects. His casket, and those of all important Vatican officials will lie in state for 36 hours before the funeral in Rome."
Vic pushed his right hand over his forehead through his wavy gray hair. "Well, Pat, if you're still alive you're on your own now. I just hope to God Stephen can help you."
He watched with special interest as the other anchor picked up on the next story.
"Meanwhile, the small majority of the College of Cardinals have arrived for the funeral and conclave, scheduled to commence in less than three days. The frontrunners now seem to be Cardinal Mendoza of Spain, Cardinal Peignot of Quebec, Cardinal Vendhem of Germany, and American Cardinal Gregory Zachmunn. The head of the St. Louis Archdiocese arrived in Rome earlier today where our news correspondent Cheryl Ascot caught up with him."
The wind was whipping up gusts on Ascot's tan raincoat. The reporter had one hand firmly on her head to hold down her rain hood, with the other she faced the camera giving a quick intro. "I'm here at Fiumicino Airport with Gregory Cardinal Zachmunn, the most prominently mentioned successor to the late pope. He has just arrived. Your Eminence, how do you feel about being the odds-on favorite to be the first-ever American pope?"
"TV journalism," Vic snickered, "No substance."
The Cardinal took it all in stride. "You make this sound like a horse race. I'm afraid I don't share the media's enthusiasm in the same way."
"From that do I take it you know something we don't?" was the inane response of this young reporter.
Gregory just smiled. "No. Just that we...my esteemed colleagues in the College of Cardinals will look to the Holy Ghost for guidance."
Vic thrust his fist upward, "Touché, Gregory. Where do they get these puff pushers anyway?"
Nevertheless this 'puff-pusher' wasn't about to give up. "Isn't it unusual the proceedings are being stepped up so rapidly?"
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"Yes it is," the prelate responded patiently as the wind continued to swirl. "But we live in perilous times. We must take every precaution that what happened in New Nasiyirah does not take place here."
Dateline: Dallas - Turtle Creek Mansion - November 4, 12:22 A.M.
"Oh, but it will. It will!"
The voice was not Vic's, but that of his boss Edwin Blix, who was stirring himself into a frenzy in his Oriental study within his secluded Turtle Creek Mansion across town, while watching the same interview on the cable news. Obviously with quite a different reaction. Such is the behavior of those who freely, though fatefully choose to follow Mammon. On the juice-splashed plate on his desk, orange peels barely covered an exquisite jade etched symbol - one of power and to which Blix had sold his soul. The symbol: a reptilian, satanic basilisk.
Dateline: Rome - Vatican City - November 4, 7:25 A.M.
The shadows of the Bernini Columns in St. Peter's Square stretched to the west, quickly shrinking as the morning sun rose higher in the east. The rays were a welcome respite from the cold drizzle that had peppered Romans the day before. Now a warm front from the Mediterranean had settled on the seven hills and already tens of thousands of mourners were shedding their raincoats and umbrellas, soaking up the morning rays on this unusually mild November day. They were there in droves, waiting patiently in line to view the caskets of the prelates and pope,paying their respects to the head of the Church and the vast number in the hierarchy, as well as the noble Swiss Guards who had been senselessly slain in Iraq.
Outside the Basilica, the Square was already full, spilling through the colonade into the streets. Inside the cavernous St. Peter's there were less than 100, all cleared through security because they were either Vatican personnel or clergy. The small remnant of cardinals eligible for conclave began to gather, some to say Mass at side altars or in the crypt, others to pay their own respects before the public would be admitted at ten.
For now they were sheltered from the outside stirrings and the voracious press, camped out in their strategic broadcasting posts for the past two days in preparation for the funeral and in speculation of the pending conclave.
The ranks of the College of Cardinals had been greatly reduced from 105 to 24 due to the horrendous holocaust in Iraq four days ago; a global tragedy that took the lives of 81 cardinals, including all curia cardinals save, by design, for Macelli and Vendhem. Yet despite their terribly thinning ranks, already the political lobbying had begun, very evident even amidst the pall that had set on the Holy See. Those who had been papabile - the Romanita term for frontrunners or odds-on favorites to be elected the next Sovereign Pontiff - had all been eliminated on the Field of Abraham, forever now referred to as the Field of Death. In various sectors of the Holy See small groups of the princes of the Church were already recruiting votes for the pending conclave.
The practical needs of housing these prelates and their aids fell to the Papal Household staff, which meant that Mother Agnes de Christi, Sister Bridget McCullough and Sister Teresa Barimcalli were in the midst of the massive effort. With only two dozen cardinals eligible and four of them already with quarters, plus the available quarters of the deceased, there would be room but much preparation had to be made swiftly. Nothing like short notice for the hard-working nuns. Vendhem had issued an emergency waiver late yesterday afternoon to allow all cardinals to be housed in the Apostolic Palace. The reasoning made sense, if not the motive. From the funeral they would proceed immediately to the Sistine Chapel where quarters had been established for them and their secretaries. The total with guards and personnel would come to only 98 with 24 actual cardinals voting in Conclave.
Yet a contingency was being prepared by one group of progressives who hoped to curry a vote to open the conclave to 50 more bishops who had been on the list as potential recipients of the coveted red birettas. They were lobbying heavily for votes but they were not in the majority. Vendhem, playing it close to the vest, was careful not to get involved in the overt politics for his intentions were not to tip his hand, but to overwhelm them with his opening address at the Conclave. Perhaps he trusted too much in the Master, but he assumed the greater part of those 50 were already locked in. Part of the twenty cardinals he could manipulate for they had been forewarned by clever communiqués not to attend the ecumenical ceremonies in Iraq. They were already in the Legion's ranks. The hope of the Resistance was, though they were not aware at the moment, that the Legion was a bit overconfident this day for Vendhem would need 18 solid votes to garner a 2/3 majority.
Votes were not on the mind of Sister Bridie as she helped the other two sisters with the necessary chores. Though the Irish nun had been banned by Macelli from her duties in the Papal quarters, she was still assisting her fellow sisters to meet the various deadlines. Each cardinal's room was prepared along with special menus for many required special diets.
"Why not all eat good Italian food?" Sister Teresa Barimcalli protested in her broken English with a noticeable Bari dialect.
"We be meetin' the needs of each, Sister" Sister Bridie assuaged. "We be makin' them feel at home, we be."
"That be the problem with today's hierarchy, Sister," the Italian nun bellowed, espousing her traditional beliefs. "Too many comforts, not enough self-sacrifice and penance."
"Ah, n' you've got a point, Sister Teresa," Sister Bridie agreed. "They be pandering to worldly things while so many be foresaking heavenly gains."
"Si, the reason for so much collapse of doctrines, no?"
"You speak truth, Sister, just as our dear Lord said in the gospel that no man can serve two masters, either he be loving the one and hating the other."
"Capisco, Sorella, too much politics and power seekers. Dear St. Francis and St. Jean Vianney, now they were men who lived what Jesus preached."
Sister Bridie agreed, but realized she was getting baited into a long polemics with this older nun who knew her faith and was aghast at the flippancy and unpractice of it by so many within the Curia, not to mention those who tended to the confused flocks out there in the pastures of the world. Few had a clue what skeletons lurked inside Vatican City. Sister Bridie had seen more than her share of things that would scandalize the most seasoned sailor, but she kept it to herself, saying a prayer of redemption for the poor sinners who posed in shepherd's clothing.
All her fears had become reality over the past three days and now there seemed no one to confide in, no confessor she could trust except a mere handful within these hallowed halls. She would remain silent during her duties, but she had to contact the one she hoped to God she could trust. If he had gone over to the other side, then all was lost. Sister Bridie refused to accept that scenario. Hope kept her going.
And the hope of finishing her chores in time prompted her to push these concerns into the background. Sister Bridie hadn't even confided in Sister Teresa, a rock-solid religious whose most grievous sin was snarling if something wasn't done right. For these minute transgressions, the Italian nun was forever mortifying herself in seeking sanctity.
As much as Sister Bridie enjoyed the no-nonsense, traditional discussions with Sister Teresa, the Irish nun realized little work would get done and at this point that was paramount. Pillow-cases needed to be fluffed, sheets made, bathrooms scrubbed in preparation for the privileged Conclave contingent that would soon occupy these quarters which had not seen activity since the dark days of World War II when Pius XII had authorized these rooms for the sole purpose of secretly hiding Jewish families from the Nazis during the German Occupation of Rome. Trying times not unlike these times, thought Sister Bridie.
Mother Agnes' body language said all Sisters Bridie and Teresa needed to understand. Because of both nuns' adherence to the Evangelical Counsel of Obedience, they picked up the pace on cue, continuing the rest of their work in silence. Because of these nuns' thoroughness, all would be in readiness by noon.
Sister Bridget McCullough welcomed the contemplative labor, but pangs of her banishment from the Papal Quarters were still stinging her memories as she recounted Macelli's stern and hard-hearted rebuke of her. Certainly it was not merited. Yet she suffered in silence offering all to her divine Bridegroom - the Man-God to Whom she had devoted her life. These latest obstacles were part of her cross and she willingly accepted it. Such religious as these three nuns - the cream of the crop, so to speak - were a rarity in these times. In fact, any kind of religious zeal or adherence to piety was even rarer as the coals of the world, the flesh and the devil stoked the egos of those who were supposed to be dedicated to the Divine Will. With every malpractice, violation or even lukewarm acceptance of the rationalization of sin, their souls and the souls they were responsible for - in many cases thousands, even millions - crept closer to the abyss. The Legion of the Basilisk was a mere conductor, augering them into the furnace of futility.
* * * * * * *
Dateline: Rome - Castel Sant'Angelo - November 4, 12:00 P.M.
The Angeles bells throughout the eternal city rang clear, awakening the sensibilities of a weakened Riage Benziger, slumped against the stone-cold, ancient, rock-hewn wall high in the medieval stronghold of the Castle of the Angel which had been closed for the past year to the public.
The loyal, but discouraged Swiss Guard had hoped to regain his strength with rest inside the dank corridor, lighted during daylight only by the deep turret slits in the rock. Instead he had been further depleted because of the frigid conditions through the night. Huddled next to the comatose pontiff, the warmth of the noon rays - narrow though they were - surged through his body. He prayed it would be a catalyst to strengthen his fallen Vicar of Christ to whom he had pledged his very life. Now he would do anything he could to protect the Holy Father. Anything but get help - for his own body could not yet respond. He was still partially paralyzed by the poison which had somehow attacked his nervous system that fateful night as he stood vigilance at the pope's front door. What happened? How? Someone had to have penetrated at least five other guard posts to reach his watch. He was the last line of defense for protecting the sovereign pontiff. Now he was the only defense.
The hazy events of that night seemed eons ago, yet the guilt ate at him. Riage felt he had betrayed his leader and now, he prayed he could regain the necessary strength to make amends by somehow summoning help. With all the modern technology, he was literally no better off than those guards who had stolen Pope Clement VII away in these very same climes five centuries ago. Benziger was truly in a medieval state and little did he know that preparations were being made a mile away in St. Peter's to bury the man who, though failing fast, was still alive.
Little did Benziger know of the horrendous holocaust on the Field of Death.
Little did this dehydrated Swiss Guard realize the battle was just heating up. If only the blood in his veins would react the same way, he might be able to contact someone, anyone in his valiant effort to save his holiness.
Little did Benziger, or for that matter, most of the world, realize that the sense of sanctity and decency had been under attack for several decades.
Little did he or anyone else realize that the molten lava which visually erupted over the globe on All Saints Day was the magma hell had prepared for these apocalyptic times.
The gray sky beyond these walls wrapped itself around the city of Rome as a mourning shroud, and shed tears from leaden clouds that hovered low to the ground, creating a mist of fog and steam rising from the warm pavement. Indian Summer was about to pass and winter was just around the corner. It was surrealistic. Unreal. Just the proper setting for the events taking place, for all of Heaven wept for the devastation that man had wrought.
To the faithful mourners pouring into St. Peter's and those watching on global TV around the world, the symbolism was much more Heaven-sent, as if the angels were crying for the bodies of prelates who laid in state near their fallen pontiff. But the real pope was not interred in the coffin draped in white; the real pope, elected less than a year before, was slumped against the dank stone of a hidden corridor leading into the now-abandoned Castel Sant'Angelo bastion that had stood sentinel above the Tiber for centuries.
* * * * * * *
If one were listening attentively, one might possibly have heard the hiss - the same horrific hiss that clawed at Pat's psyche, which was now struggling helplessly in unsettled sleep in Makuta Ogidi's apartment. The sun was just making its debut for the day as it peeked between the cyprus trees on the eastern hills of Rome above the Doctor's humble apartment. But Pat remained in total darkness. Not even the brightness of the day could free Pat's battered body from this sonambulent madness. No matter how much he tried to free himself from the nightmarish maze, the American reporter was haunted by the image of the vile, unspeakable lizard. No matter where he turned, he found himself floating, hanging, grappling, kicking, yet totally lost in a vortex of hopelessness. Unreal images surrealistically toyed with his dreams - his worst nightmares. Glowing red eyes glared from all directions and none. Gallagher's world in this altered state, enhanced by the medicinal effects of the drugs, was turned into a virtual vacuum of no escape. Explosions, blood bursting everywhere, a literal hell - all grew more intense as the hissing morphed into shards of fiery darts projected with great force into bottomless chasms, black holes of despair and destruction.
* * * * * * *
Dateline: Rome - Ogidi's Flat - November 4, 3:50 P.M.
On the single bed in the room where Pat tossed and turned, his face was bathed in sweat. Suddenly, he began to moan aloud and at once Niki Andriopoulos was up and across the room a few steps to his side. Yet, before Niki could get there Pat let out a scream that would terrify the Italian mother retrieving her laundry from the line outside her window a block away. Despite his wrapped ribs and bruised flesh, Pat bolted upright in bed, sitting as if he had seen a ghost.
"Patrick, are you okay? It's me, Niki."
Pat's eyes sprung open wide, the pupils dilated. A nightmare! God, what a nightmare! Gallagher breathed heavily as if he'd run the whole length of the dream, and the reminder and reality of pain seared through his chest. "Owwwh."
Niki placed his hand gently on Pat's forehead, concerned for the fever. "You make a lot of noise when you sleep, my friend," the kind Andriopoulos gently teased.
"Niki! My God, I'm glad to see you."
"Twenty-four hours no less," Niki quipped. "Well at least I serve some purpose, no?"
"Yes and no." Pat shot back, the pain subsiding but still rattling the rib cage.
"What, my friend, does that remark imply," Niki queried.
"Yes, you're here to help me, but if I hadn't met you I wouldn't be in this goddamn state of..."
"I see even sleep has not cured you of your cursing, Patrick."
"Well if you knew how much pain I..."
"God does and that suffices, my American adventurer."
"Well tell Him to take it away, will ya? In case you hadn't noticed, it hurts like hell."
"You've been through hell, my friend. In fact, if I may be so bold to say, you look like you are still there. Please, tell me of this nightmare and allow it to be washed away in the Precious Blood of Christ."
"Ah, the priest in you, Niki. Gotta admit it's comfortin' at a time like this." Pat looked around the room. "Where's Ogidi? What time is it?"
"He'll be back shortly, Patrick. Don't concern yourself. He went out quite early to see what he could learn. Also, he wished to make contact with another member of the Resistance."
"Ogidi's learned from you already, huh, Nik? Always have a friend in your hip pocket."
"And why not? It's certainly better than having a dirty handkerchief. And, Pat Gallagher, you're avoiding the issue. I wish to hear of your nightmare so that it can be vanished and you can be of use to us."
"You're too thoughtful," Pat growled the pain searing through his upper body as he tried to sit back against the rumpled, sweat-soaked pillows and bed clothes. Niki made no effort to assist him for he knew Pat had to use his body, to the make the muscles perform no matter the pain. His very life depended on it.
"Alright," Pat sighed, closing his eyes only momentarily, then popping them open fearful he'd have to face his horrors alone in the dark space of his own mind. "I dreamed," he began in a somber tone, "first of Corrie...someone I left back in Dallas. Haven't talked to her since the night I dropped her off before flying to Iraq. I couldn't even get through to her by phone or e-mail to tell her I was going or where I am."
"I'm sure by now she has an idea, no?" Niki opined as he retrieved the chair by the table and moved it closer to the bed. "Please, continue."
"Anyway, other things began to intrude in the dream. You, for one, Niki. And Fasif, Karel..."
Here his voice grew emotional, shaking, Niki remained silent.
"I was in the alleyway. I could see Karel as she was in death. Only, as I watched she began to sway and move as if motivated by an unseen hand, and she changed, Nik. Suddenly, it wasn't Karel's body I was looking at, but Corrie's. I rushed forward, screaming over and over that it couldn't be. Corrie couldn't be dead. I wanted to untie the bounds, hold her in my arms, anything to convince myself that I was dreaming."
"It is a common sensation when one is in a deep altered state, especially when recovering from a concussion," Niki consoled.
Pat continued rapidly as if not hearing Niki's voice. "But as I got near, she turned her head to me. And those great staring eyes belonged neither to Corrie or Karel. They were the eyes Fasif spoke of, the eyes I saw upon this Ezerbet. Evil, Niki. Pure evil. It's hard to describe."
"I understand, Patrick. You need go no further."
"No, I do, Nik. I tried to back away, fear clutching at me like a vise. I could feel the pain in my guts, and I couldn't get enough air into my lungs. The 'thing' which hung from the sign above the shop transformed." Pat was getting more animated. He knew instinctively this nightmare would never leave him. He knew it was a part of him now, engraved upon his soul, forever to haunt him.
"And what did this 'thing' become, my friend?"
"A...lizard. Human, yet not human," answered Gallagher in a strangled voice. "It slithered free from the wires which restrained the human body, and stood erect. God, it was tall. I - I know it's not possible but it appeared in my dream to be taller than even Shaq O'Neal. And the eyes! Pools of sickly green-black that seethed and pulsed as I watched. The pupils. They were black vortexes that wanted to devour me, draw me into a nothingness from which there was no escape."
"It truly sounds like you were in hell, Patrick."
"That's not the half of it, Nik. I turned to run, but the thing came after me. It was swift. Very swift. I couldn't outrun it. My legs wouldn't move. I heard its movements, a hissing, reptilian rush of putrid air and sound that made me sick. Suddenly, I knew I had no choice. I had to face it. I had to die, but I'd die staring the devil down itself if I did nothing else."
"Your faith is still there, Patrick, don't suppress it. Express it."
"Well, when I turned around it was only several feet from me, close enough that if I reached out I could touch it. It wanted me to touch it, to feel its 'flesh' that was inhuman. Instead, I looked at it, willing myself not to succumb to the horrid, hypnotic stare it shot back at me."
"Sounds like Satan personified, my friend. You are blessed to have awakened from such scene."
"You telling me!? Then, just when I knew I couldn't hold out any longer the 'thing' opened its mouth. By now it had transformed its face into a more human form, and the lips curled back in a grimace of rage, revealing a dark orifice more horrible than the pupils of the seething eyes. It laughed, Nik. A gruesome, victorious laughter that echoed throughout the alleyway, and, I felt, beyond to the whole world. It rocked me. Made me lose my balance. I fell to my knees, forced down by the sound that came from deep within the 'thing' that stood over me, gloating, mocking. It wanted to destroy me. Nothing could stop it. I screamed then. Screamed and screamed...and woke to find you standing beside me."
"Thank God it was only a nightmare. In reality, Patrick, Karel is at peace. I removed the body and saw to the burial."
A ponderous silence kept them company in this small room, an awkward stillness that wanted no words to fill the gap.
After a few moments that seemed an eternity, Gallagher sighed weakly, and leaned back against the pillow, utterly exhausted. He didn't even look to see what Niki was thinking. It didn't matter, not really. The fiendish dream had been his and he'd have to learn to deal with it. Little did he notice at the time that Niki was already dealing with it, having blessed Pat with holy water and praying for deliverance from these images emblazoned on his psyche.
Then Niki, retrieved a plate containing thick slices of fresh baked bread, more cheese and fruit, and a mug of hot tea. "My friend, you must eat," handing the tray to Pat. "It' not much, but for now it will suffice."
"You believe me, don't you, Nik?" Gallagher sought assurance after he'd taken a few bites.
"Of course. It doesn't really surprise me, Patrick. Yesterday you heard Makuta and I speak of the Basiliskos. The same thing Fasif told you that day in the sunlit breakfast room of his home. And now you have seen first hand something of what this hellish Basiliskos is. Its power was partially revealed to you. Its ability to transform, to devour, to take unto itself whatever it needs in order to gain power. You looked into the face of hell, Pat Gallagher. You were lucky it was only a dream. Before you have to face hell in reality, we must arm you with the proper weapons."
"There aren't any weapons against something like that, Nik." Pat shook his head, sipping on the hot tea and enjoying the warmth it gave his aching body and battered mind. "It's not some movie fantasy, Nik. Not those ancient celluloids where the army can be called out, a few rockets launched, and 'boom' end of the enemy. This Basilisk isn't going to be subdued that easily, buddy."
"No that is true," Niki agreed. "But there are weapons, Pat. Though they may not appear to be effective, it is your faith in them that will make them so. You comprehend, no?"
"I don't really understand anything, Niki. Not right now." Wearily Pat set aside the plate and the cup of tea and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, a process that was slow and painful. But now the pain cleared his mind. "I thought I was a pretty level-headed guy. Thought I'd made all the right decisions in my life. No regrets, no reason to look back. Now I don't even have that assurance."
"We all have gone through that, my friend."
Pat would not be patronized as he continued, "Here I am, Mr. Macho, yet in the face of this Basilisk I've begun to doubt my very sanity, much less my reason for being alive. No, Niki. It's not easy. The answers you cling to...hey, they're alien to me right now. I'm lost, floating in a limbo of fear and uncertainty."
"Very reminiscent of the dark night of the soul which St. John of the Cross wrote of," Niki tried to reassure his American friend.
"Well, whatever. Maybe it'd be best if I finish this assignment alone. I might be a liability."
"Makuta and I will not permit that, Patrick Gallagher. Don't dwell on the natural doubts of your mind. Rather, concentrate on the resources in your soul, those resources that you have allowed to lie dormant for a long time. Yes, my friend?"
Gallagher knew he was right, but refrained from commenting immediately. He wasn't anywhere near ready to face those hidden coves of his soul. He had buried all that a long time ago, or so he thought. Now glimpses of his Catholic training flashed through his mind. It was as if he could hear his grandmother prompting him on. A flush came over him.
"Nik, don't tell anyone but I gotta admit...I'm scared."
"You are not alone, my friend."
"God, Niki, it's a nightmare whether I'm asleep or awake.
"Considering the time you've been away from the sacraments, you should be, my friend." The sacerdotal nature of Niki was now coming through. "It is God's way of reminding the prodigal son that He waits patiently for the sinner to return. Do you comprehend?"
"It' all Greek to me. No offense. I'm still a little weak," Pat gestured toward his chest and legs, "here, here and here."
Niki sensed Pat was getting ready to confide in him as a confessor, but the Greek priest also sensed an interloper outside and realized this was not the time for confession, for soon their sanctuary would be interrupted. Quickly Niki adapted, changing the mood.
"What you need is nourishment," Niki laughed, "plenty of pasta."
"Pizza?"
"That too."
"Well, who delivers in this area, Nik?"
"Not someone we should trust, I fear. But, as you Americans would say 'not to worry', for we, my friend, are eating out tonight."
"Great, but if they're looking for us..?"
"Ah yes, if they can recognize us."
Two more raps and then silence, followed by one more rap on the wood. Both Pat and Niki froze. Then Niki quickly crossed to the locked portal. "Yes?" He whispered cautiously, ear pressed against the door.
"Makuta," answered a voice and Niki immediately slid the bolt free. Gallagher had heard him say Ogidi's name, but this individual who hobbled into the room wasn't Makuta Ogidi. The man who came into the center of the room awash in opaque light was a withered, bent old man with a beard long and unkempt, and a back rounded with the ravages of age and malnutrition. The hand clutching a cane was gnarled. Pat felt the urge to hop from his bed and put a chair under this man before he toppled over.
The old man turned to stare at Gallagher, and it was Pat's turn to feel foolish and look in astonishment at a disguise so perfect he marveled at it. Ogidi was certainly not his conventional idea of a doctor, thought Pat. More of a black Sherlock Holmes. The only thing about this human being that gave this person away, which Pat instinctively knew, were the eyes. There was no age there. No infirmity. Beyond that, he'd not have known this old man was the stately Ogidi.
"So, you're awake. Good," said Makuta matter of factly, sitting down easily enough. "Sorry if I startled you. I've been out and about seeking information, making what I think will prove a particularly important contact. I did not think it wise to show myself in the streets where the Legion could easily spot me."
As he spoke Ogidi began to peel off the beard, to strip from his face and hands a latex covering which had given him the appearance of aging. He stood up, removed the heavy overcoat and withdrew a skin-colored lump of material which had created a hump-back effect.
As Gallagher fumbled for a cigarette, his interior feelings of guilt and humble repentance faded fast with the entrance of Ogidi. His macho, confident, albeit cocky side returned to the surface. "You learn that in med school?" Pat cracked trying to cover his sensitive side.
"No. But it mightn't be a bad course to add to the curriculum, do you not think?" answered Ogidi with a grin.
"Makuta," Niki interjected, "what is it like out there? Were you followed? Did you see the person you went to contact?" Niki was getting down to basics.
Ogidi replied as he pulled off the remaining vestiges of latex. "It's miserable outside," he sighed, stretching out his legs to uncramp feet which had been stuffed into too-tight shoes in order to perpetrate a limp. "The warmth is waning. The rain is growing colder and steadier. The crowds are thick and somber at St. Peter's. I don't think I was followed, but who can be certain when it comes to the Legion? I took every precaution. The disguise helped, no?"
"Yes," Gallagher answered, then asked, "Who'd you go to meet?"
"Someone who works for our cause, though we've never before met. Fasif told me of him... An added precaution. I was not able to get to him personally this time. He is rather occupied at the moment. But I left a discreet message for him. He will respond. Of that I am sure."
"You still haven't told us who---", Pat was getting consternated again.
"You will meet him soon, Mr. Gallagher. Along with Niki and me. Until then, content yourself to read these." With that Ogidi retrieved from beneath his coat the morning newspaper, English version. "Tomorrow the pope will be buried...and you can be sure the Legion will strike again. I just know they will."
He was deadly serious.
"If only we knew where and when," Niki moaned.
"Shouldn't we be out and about, mingling with the people, the mourners? Trying to get clues?" Pat's journalistic side was taking over again.
"No," was Makuta's firm reply. "We risk only death by being so foolish. The Legion has marked us for certain death. That is a fact."
"Makuta is right, Patrick. Why make ourselves an easy target?"
"Yes, Mr. Gallagher," Ogidi chimed in, "Think what little we'd really learn from the common people. All they know right now is that it is a time of mourning for a slain pope and prelates. They do not fully comprehend the seriousness of the situation which has created a vacancy in the most powerful office in the world. Even now they weep and pray and seek God's mercy on His Church, but do not see or hear the evil that walks beside them and pretends to pray. Only we, my friends, can sense the evil."
"Do you see his logic, my friend," Niki asked Pat, "It is real to us, and we are very real to it. No, we will bide our time and wait for darkness which will be here within the hour, and then do as Makuta has already arranged. Sometimes, Patrick, victories are won by waiting and letting the enemy make a move first. Not by impetuosity."
"Well spoken like a wise philosopher," praised Ogidi.
"Why not? He's Greek," quipped Pat.
Gallagher had to agree. Though it pained him to think that he still hadn't conquered his impatience or, as he recently discovered, his fears, he knew he was going to have to take a crash course in dealing with these monsters in his mind. He took another cigarette from the pack on the bedside table, lit it and scanned the newspaper, feeling a tinge of regret that his byline was not on any of the stories.
As he inhaled deeply, Pat thought about Niki's words. Niki had a damnable habit of being right.
Too right.
"Mr. Gallagher, can you please sit here?" Ogidi beckoned.
Pat slumbered over to the table and plopped down on the chair, letting out a suppressed growl of pain. Makuta had laid out a palette of makeup on the table.
"Man, this is ridiculous," Pat complained while sitting upright in a wooden chair near the table as Ogidi quickly began applying a base makeup to Pat's face. To Makuta's side his bag which contained a plethora of theater makeup and old tattered clothes.
"I can work much better, Mr. Gallagher, if you are quiet and cooperative," Makuta intoned in an authoritative voice.
"He wants to make you older, much older, Patrick," Niki added, trying to get Pat to sit still and cooperate.
"Man, I'm already gittin' old just sittin' here."
Makuta reprimanded, "Be patient, my impatient American, especially if you want to, as you say, 'grow old gracefully.'
Niki couldn't resist, "If you think you look bad now, Patrick. Wait until the good doctor is through with you."
Ogidi's sense of humor came to the fore. He emitted a grin. Regaining his decorum, he decided to get down to basics, "We will meet at the Ristorante Romano at precisely eight o'clock. A table has been reserved for four in the name of Christiano."
"Appropriate, no?" Niki opined.
"Who's the fourth individual?" Pat inquired.
"We will know him by the same pin Fasif gave you. He will know us by the disguises," answered Niki.
"...and I thought Halloween was over," Pat moaned facetiously.
Niki warned, "the goblins are still out there, my friend."
"They'll be looking for a virile, healthy American. Not an old miser," said Ogidi as he handed Pat a small mirror, "I'm not finished yet, but perhaps you'll realize the goal I am trying to achieve."
Pat's eyes bulged. "Well, I'll be damned."
Dateline: Rome - Vatican City - November 4, 5:30 P.M.
Returning from his office on the other side of St. Peter's, Monsignor Stephen Navarro, the Oblate head of the Social Communications Council still had not been able to meet with Cardinal Gregory Zachmunn. He had confided what he knew by phone, but no opportunity to meet with him privately. Despite the privacy of Vatican City, there were very few places of privacy within this smallest of sovereign nations. The link between Cardinal Zachmunn and Stephen was their mutual dear friend Victor Van Wess. Pat's crusty boss was a key component of Stephen's vocation for he would not be a priest today if had not been for Victor.
Now he would be the contact with the few remaining resisters of the Basilisk. He had to clear his schedule for the evening so Macelli or Vendhem would not be the wiser. Stephen had wanted to see Cardinal Zachmunn this evening, but the St. Louis prelate had already been committed by Macelli to a social gathering of several of the papabili with the Romanita benefactors. As much as Gregory despised such pandering, he had no choice. Thus Stephen had to make alternative plans, and come up with a cover so he could steal away undetected from the Vatican.
With possibilities bouncing about inside his head with the boundless energy of a young child, Navarro wasn't immediately aware of another sensation that had crept into his system. Still in the main corridor, halfway to his room on the third floor, he paused, turned around and stared back along a corridor which led to the side entrance to the Sistine Chapel.
He frowned. He didn't stop to think why, but he turned and went back down the other corridor; this time at a faster pace and laid his hand against the handle of the side doorway.
He was getting to be a bundle of nerves! At the moment his entire system seemed to be out of kilter.
Very carefully, knowing only that he wanted to be unseen, undetected, Stephen eased open the door, thankful that the hinges were well-oiled and no sound seeped into the air. Only a small crack was necessary. Enough to let him see into the Sistine Chapel.
Everything was in order. Just as it should be as visible preparations for the next conclave were easily identifiable. The multi-level dias platforms were set up, chairs set in place. The bunting was arranged around the walls and covering the bases of the platforms. Desks were in position for the secretaries of each eligible cardinal.
Shaking his head as if to say, "I must be crazy," Stephen closed the door behind him and then he felt it again, near him... Something he wanted to swat away, whatever 'it' was it was shadowing him. He looked about and finally up.
No! It couldn't be possible! He was permitting his imagination to run wild. Common enough after the strain of the last days, the call from Van Wess, the endless questions from the press, the stress of knowing his every move was being watched. What a ridiculous notion that he was allowing his mind to play tricks on him. There could be nothing in the Vatican except God Himself, and there was certainly no cause to be afraid of the Almighty.
But Stephen was afraid. The fear came to sneer at him as he gazed upward. Part of him wanted to run. He stood his ground. He was a man of God. A priest. Not a person given to fancies. But... The blackness above appeared to be moving, gathering in upon itself, seething, roiling, as giant thunderheads roll and mass before a storm. There was an oily quality to it, a gelatinous texture and nauseating odor.
He forced himself to look away from the black mass to the outer areas of the corridor, hoping to see someone and call their attention to this phenomena. No one was there. No one saw the 'thing' forming
except Navarro.
Stephen didn't want to see it. Yet, he couldn't move. Unbridled terror took hold of his heart, squeezing the blood from it till he felt pain in his chest. He couldn't tear his eyes away as he saw, quite clearly, a face forming in that oily black smoke, and he wanted to scream.
The hideous face seemed to float nearer to him. With the strength of grace Stephen found the fortitude he needed. Heedless of any noise he might make, Navarro ran, cassock flying as he clutched his Oblate Cross tucked into his cincture, the tassels waving in the wind of his flight.
Several times he glanced back over his shoulder, expecting that the floating black mass would be right behind him. Almost out of breath he veered to his right, to a common area off the corridor. He was alone. He would make his last stand here. He waited for the oily mass to slither into his sight. He waited. And then he could breathe again. Was he going insane? He felt utterly alone in a world gone insane.
Quickly he regained strength and hightailed it to his room, taking two steps at a time until he was safely behind the locked door of his room. He leaned heavily against its strong wood and sighed deeply.
Dear God, he was losing his mind! He tried to make his breathing slow down along with his heartbeat. It was impossible what he'd just witnessed. This was a place of holiness; not a house of evil. Evil could not abide this place. Yet he had seen it. And, as certainly as he knew there was a God, Stephen Navarro knew that he'd looked into the face of God's enemy.
He went immediately to his priedieu and bowed his head, burying it in his upraised hands. He cried silently, but with sobs that shook his entire frame. If he was right, then the evil within these hallowed halls was already permeating this citadel of holiness that had stood for centuries as the vanguard of Heaven.
What was he going to do? How could this evil have penetrated so deeply? How was he or anyone going to rid this place of it? He sobbed anew, knowing no answers. The tears streamed down upon the open bible on the ledge of his kneeler, soaking into the open page of the Gospel, and onto the passage of Matthew 19: 26 where Christ, after blessing the children in Judea, had assured His frightened disciples, "With men this is impossible, but with God all things are possible."
"White Smoke, Black Fire!" is an original work, registered with the Writers' Guild and all rights are the exclusive rights of The Daily Catholic who owns the copyright. Because of the nature of the internet and the importance of sharing, we hereby give the reader permission to collect and disseminate by e-mail each episode as it is presented in each issue of The Daily Catholic, provided that one includes this 1986, 2001, 2005 copyright statement and source - www.DailyCatholic.org - and take nothing out of context, nor reproduce it for profit. This work, nineteen years in the making, is a work of fiction that replicates the reality of today in many ways. Each day the fiction of this novel is shockingly becoming fact. However names, characters, places and incidents are used fictionally and any resemblance to actual persons and events, except those recorded in history, are purely coincidental. We have been retooling and bringing everything up to date since its second release in 2001. Because of the times, we are most interested in publishing this work and are open to any help anyone can provide in seeing this become a reality.
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