The Bombmaker: A Michael Thomas Thriller Read online

  May 6, 07:32am

  Private Learjet. 20,504 feet above France.

  Dressed in a black belt, slacks, and dress shoes to accompany a dark gray button-down dress shirt, Michael had chosen the monochromatic attire to better blend in with the Parisian population. It’s so ironic for the city to be one of the world’s fashion capitals while most of its citizens dress in colors more befitting their morose national mood.

  When he felt it descend, Michael looked outside the lavishly appointed aircraft and scanned the northern French countryside below. The idyllic mix of farm fields, green forests, and small country roads reminded Michael of his childhood on his family’s ranch outside Santa Fe. All the alfalfa and grain crops should almost be ready for their first cut. The growing season might not be long enough here to give farmers all four cuts we’re used to back home. The cockpit door unexpectedly opened, and Michael nonchalantly unbuckled his seatbelt to defend himself.

  The copilot emerged, apparently unaware of Michael’s reflexive reaction. He closed the door and passed over a locked, black case that Michael had expected to receive earlier. Bright red paint displayed “Diplomatic Pouch—Internationally Protected Contents” on both its sides.

  “John sends his regards,” the copilot explained in his thick Italian accent. “We normally give this when you first arrive, but John wanted a procedure change for this flight. I hope you understand.”

  “Of course.” Michael accepted the hardened case and inspected its numerical locks. Just as the other times he’d flown on covert assignments for his anonymous hierarchy within the Vatican, Michael saw the case had a two-digit numerical combination lock near each side of its handle. Seems legit. He looked back up at the copilot. “Thank you for your help.”

  “Prego, Father Andrew. We will have you on the ground in a few minutes. Please tell us if you require anything else.”

  Michael nodded as the copilot retreated into the cockpit. Father Andrew. I’m still not used to the pseudonym, even though Saint Andrew is one of my namesakes. Once he was again alone, Michael retrieved a pair of medical exam gloves from his duffel bag and put them on. He input the combination John had specified in his email. 22-97. The case opened and revealed the usual sealed manila envelope. Michael removed it and scanned the familiar dark red letters printed on the envelope’s exterior:

  “Diplomatic Pouch – Property of the Holy See Consulate – Internationally Protected Contents – Sachetto Diplomatico – Proprietá della nazione della Santa Sede”

  Michael smirked as he considered the reality that most people don’t understand Vatican City was the primary municipality within the nation of the Holy See. Almost everyone says, ‘the Vatican,’ so even the most famous structure in Vatican City takes blame and credit for all manner of things that involve the actions of its nation, the Church, the Pope, or Catholics at-large well outside its walls.

  Additional legalese appeared below the English and Italian language headings. Michael turned the envelope over and saw a two-inch, intricate red wax seal over each of its flaps. The Seal of the Holy See appeared in the upper half, with its cross centered beneath a large papal crown and between a sword and olive branch. Beneath that complex seal, a simple transverse cross, an X-like symbol, appeared in the wax. Together, they confirmed the envelope’s origin within the Holy See and Michael as its intended recipient. Every time he authenticated one of these envelopes, the X reminded Michael what he risked on behalf of God and His Church. The Greeks martyred Saint Andrew by crucifying him on such a cross. Ever since John assigned me to use ‘Father Andrew’ as my apostolic pseudonym, I’ve feared meeting such a fate. That kinda death makes third-world prison seem like recess.

  After the envelope passed his initial security confirmations, Michael retrieved a pocketknife and carefully cut into the wax seals. A concealed piece of parchment appeared, and he inspected the tiny numbers typed on it. 2297. 2302-8. 2268. That matches what John sent over in the second email. Everything’s authenticated and legitimate. He opened the envelope and found only a single sheet of paper. Curious, Michael read its typed message:

  “Welcome to Paris, shithead. Time to re-up your membership dues to The Merry Union of Snake Hunters & Gravediggers. This assignment’s got different operational security protocols from what they usually do. Wait inside the aircraft until the crew tells you it’s safe to proceed. You’ve got a room reserved at The Oremus hotel in central Paris. Check in with your Holy See passport. Further details await in your room. Safe opens with the same combo. This investigation’s a damned sight more dangerous than all the others, so keep your wits about you. Stay frosty. – John”

  Michael checked again to make sure the envelope was empty. Nothing. He put the paper back into the envelope, which he then carefully secured in a hidden flap at the bottom of the duffel bag. Gotta preserve any latent prints that might still be there, just in case...

  Apprehension filled his heart and grew more intense as the plane approached its destination. The only two things I truly hate are ‘change’ and ‘the way things are.’ I still don’t implicitly trust John as I should, and any change he makes to our protocols makes me question why he’s doing it. He could be isolating me because he knows the secrets I’m keeping from him, or some negative external force might have compromised me or one of the other Absolvers. Either way, I’ve lost my element of surprise and anonymity because John knows exactly where to find me and when I should arrive. Even worse, if he already knows the exact room I’m staying in, then, well, anything’s possible. Anything or anyone could be waiting for me inside.

  Michael pondered what Paris held in store for him, along with his inability to avoid it. Whether John and the anonymous, scared old men who give his orders are doing this for my safety or to isolate and eliminate me as a perceived threat, I probably won’t know until it’s too late to stop it. I wouldn’t be the first priest they’ve made disappear in the past nine months. Regardless of their intentions or the reasons for them, I’ve gotta stay one step ahead. His past successes buoyed his spirits, despite the difference in the risk he now felt. I need creative solutions, just like I’ve found ever since I started John’s training camp.

  The plane lightly thumped down on an asphalt runway as Michael formulated a plan. He knew one of his first priorities had to be contacting Sergio, his old clerical partner and clandestine ally within the Absolvers organization. He might be somewhere out on assignment himself, but I have to let someone know where I’m going. If things go far enough sideways, I won’t have that opportunity later.

  Michael’s thoughts logically turned to “Thomas,” the apostolic pseudonym for Father Shawn Moore, a former colleague who’d started the covert training camp with Michael and Sergio. That guy ran himself so far off the rails they locked him up in a secret asylum. I haven’t betrayed the Church and the Absolvers like he did, but that might not matter if they learn my secrets and lies.

  The in-cabin intercom speakers came on. “Welcome to Le Bourget Airport, Father, and to the north side of Paris. We will taxi for a little while and have you inside a hangar in just a few minutes. I will advise you when it is safe to depart the aircraft.”

  “Thank you.” Michael never knew if the crew could hear him, but civility dictated his response. He watched the lush green fields and black runways and tarmac pass by the small window, all the while scanning for escape routes and nearby highways. Not a large airport, must be a smaller, private operation. The aircraft slowed and rolled to a stop inside an expansive hangar. Despite his internal turmoil, Michael patiently sat inside the unmarked Vatican jet. He hoped the directive to wait for the flight crew to release him had to do with their efforts to bypass a customs inspection, but no one had bothered to explain that. This could work for or against me. If French customs has no record of my arrival, it helps me avoid being associated with any crime scenes later. However, if I’ve become a target or perceived liability, it also makes it easier for John and his minders to make me disappear now.

 
May 6, 07:38am

  20 Rue de Thorigny, #103. Paris, France.

  Gerard Antlé trudged up the interior stairs to his expensive two-bedroom apartment in Paris’ Third Arrondissement. Well, it’s now her apartment, even if my name remains on the lease. Dressed in all black clothing and a black beret atop his head, Gerard had promised to join his daughter for breakfast, but he was late again. And, again, because of the job that his soon-to-be ex-wife hated so much.

  His highly coveted assignment to the nation’s elite counterterrorism task force, the Anti-Terrorism Sub-Directorate commonly known as “SDAT,” dictated that he wore normal civilian clothes. Gerard had to blend in well with the rest of the population, at all times and in all places. This reality had made him something of a chameleon, and he commonly toted three or four very different outfits in the trunk of whatever undercover police vehicle he had. The investigations of late had compelled him to spend many of his days moving about in Seine-Saint-Denis, a predominantly Muslim immigrant and refugee enclave with a recent history of ethnic isolation, violence, and terrorism. Gerard and his Anglo partners struggled to blend into the homogenous environment, so he’d chosen to present himself as a taxi driver today.

  He stopped at the front door to apartment 103 and reached for its doorknob. Only after a second thought did Gerard stop himself, knock, and wait. It’s bullshit to ask to enter my own doorway, but she’s probably already changed the damned locks.

  Footsteps approached and the door opened to reveal Claudette, who looked as annoyed as Gerard had expected. “You’re late, so all must be normal, yes?”

  “Claudette.” He only nodded to her and stepped into the compact living room. Even though it measured only 55 square meters, they paid an exorbitant monthly lease for the apartment’s location. After Claudette accepted the position of Conservateur Principal at the nearby Museé Picasso, the apartment allowed her a short, two-block walk to work and greater presence for their daughter. Like Gerard, Claudette’s work often demanded long hours, but allowed much greater flexibility to tend to Marie’s needs. There is no true emergency in the world of art museums, after all. None of this had been a problem until Claudette doubted her happiness as Mrs. Antlé.

  The front door clicked closed behind Gerard, and he looked about the living areas to his left and the hallway to his right. He neither heard nor saw his daughter. “Where’s Marie?”

  Gerard turned around and realized Claudette hadn’t moved from behind the front door and now stood with her arms crossed. “She left when it became clear that you again did not have time for her.”

  “No one could call to tell me not to bother coming over?”

  She shrugged. “You could not bother being on time, or, for that matter, calling to tell your daughter you were late? You want us to stand around waiting for the incomparable Gerard The Great to magically appear whenever it suits him?”

  He raised his voice in response to her cutting sarcasm. “You know it’s not like that, Claudette! You know what my job is like, and you know that I try damned hard to balance--”

  “I know I haven’t felt like the most important part of your life since you put on that goddamned badge, that’s what I know, and I know, too, that Marie is starting to see and feel the same second-place treatment from you! All she wants is your time, and all you can deliver is disappointment! That’s your specialty, you know!”

  “You know what I do for work, how much my job matters to the city and to France, Claudette! I have obligations, liabilities you can never understand, and not just to you and Marie! I’m doing this job, sacrificing my time and parts of my relationships for you, so that--”

  “Yes, I know, Gerard, you’re suffering so we can be safe, but it’s not that simple! That’s not even the whole truth! You could take another assignment, you could be around at night and on normal days off, but you choose to keep doing what you do, and you never once asked what Marie or I thought--”

  “I fight terrorists, Claudette, monsters, that wanna see people like you and Marie dead and bleeding out in the streets because of their perverted idea of God! I can’t do that and work flexible hours like you can! There’s no such thing as a crisis at your museum, right?”

  “That’s not fair, Gerard, you don’t get to make yourself feel better for being a shitty husband and father by demeaning my life’s work! I do what I do for me and my family, and you do what you do in spite of us!”

  Gerard incredulously stared at his wife. “I don’t understand how you know so little about me. I’m working a major case right now, and I still made time to come by to see my family, only to find you’re working to make sure our daughter takes your lead and abandons me, as well.”

  “Well, congratulations, you’ll get to be the hero again for all the other people of France. I keep hearing it’s always lonely at the top.”

  He shook his head and stared at the floor in front of his unpolished dress shoes. “Actually, I’m likely being compelled to close the case. The politicians at the top of the agency forced a new supervisor into the unit, and he’s been busy shuttering all our investigations into anything that even smells Muslim. I don’t know what will happen if he does that, how high I can go to get to do my job--”

  “Goddammit, Gerard! Your job is not to make waves! Keep your boss happy! That’s what you’re supposed to be doing, making certain you keep a paycheck that supports your family! But, no, that hasn’t ever been good enough for you! You have to spend all your time pointing out everything that’s wrong with everything and everyone else! To tell all the rest of us what we’re fucking up! Just once, Gerard, I beg you, try to smile and be goddamned happy, even if only for a few hours!”

  “But, I--”

  Claudette waved a hand to cut him off. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack and your daughter will have to grow up without you, never mind what happens between us! Grow up and think about what you’re doing to everyone around you! You always say principles are expensive things to own, well, you’re damned right they are, especially yours, and I guess we’re about to find out what you’re willing to pay for them. So, go ahead, tell your boss’ boss what he’s doing wrong and then come back here to tell me what your next plan is to take care of your daughter.”

  “I have to do what’s right, Claudette! What about Marie, do you think she wants a father who gives up his principles when they were no longer easy and convenient?”

  “I think she won’t give a damn when you lose your job and your car, and our home, and we’re all living out on the streets because you had to ‘do the right thing,’ again! I think she would rather that you did what you had to do to provide for her and for us, to keep a roof over our heads and let us stay living indoors like people. When she lives in the gutter with the animals, no, I don’t think she’ll give a damn what your principles are!”

  “Is that why you’re seeing Alexandre?! You’ve already given up your principles?!” Gerard hadn’t planned on confronting her about the affair, but he no longer cared about tact or timing.

  Claudette showed her surprise for only a moment, but then shrugged and folded her arms across her chest. “No. I’m seeing him because he has his priorities right. I know that if the three of us ever find ourselves living in the gutter, he won’t hesitate to steal food instead of wading through the dumpsters for thrown-out scraps. He puts us first, always, and I love that about him!”

  Gerard felt his rage boiling up and walked toward the door before they broke anything. “Tell Marie--”

  “No! I won’t do your dirty work for you! You tell your daughter whatever you want her to know, but you should expect that she will believe your actions far more than your words.” Claudette stepped in front of him and leaned back against the door. “Do you have your half of the rent money? The lease payment’s going to be late again if you don’t.”

  He stopped and shook his head in disbelief. “You know what my paydays are, and you know I’m always broke! I won’t have the money until Friday! Does it make you fe
el good to do this to me?!”

  She flashed a coy smile. “Do what, Gerard? You agreed to pay half the expenses when we moved here, and you agreed it was important because of my work and our daughter, and--”

  “I’ve always respected your need to keep our affairs separate and not mix our money and finances, but you’re bloodletting me, Claudette! We both agreed to the separation, but you’ve done nothing but demand more and more from me for the last nine months, and I see no effort from you to fix us so I can come home. If you don’t intend for me to return with you and Marie, then just have the goddamned decency to tell me! I treat my terror suspects better than you’re treating me right now, at least those assholes always know where they stand with me!”

  His wife’s demeanor became even calmer, and her words bit him all the harder. “I thought you would want to do the honorable thing and continue to meet your obligations.”

  Gerard balled up both fists up in front of his chest, the rage building up pressure there. “That was before you decided I had to move out, Claudette! You know how much I bring home, and you know what you take from me every month so that you and Marie can stay here in leisure and luxury while I eat dinner out of a fucking can in that shithole where I have to lay my head at night!” Gerard clenched his teeth and hissed at his wife. “You’re going to drive me mad before you find the decency to divorce me!”

  Claudette had gotten the exact reaction she’d hoped for, and her expression showed it. “How will that work for you and your sacred church, when you’re divorced and can no longer accept communion? If I abandon you, the precious Roman Catholic Church will leave you, as well. Do you finally realize that’s a one-way relationship? Just like your goddamned job with the police, the church doesn’t love you ba--”