Omar closed the door and said, “My identification? Do you have it?”

Devon appeared, holding an American passport. Omar opened it, seeing the name Chris Fulbright next to his picture. Looking closely, he could ascertain the damage to the passport, but it was slight. Something that might be noticed by a close examination, but he didn’t expect that. The bigger issue was that the name wouldn’t match his accent in any way whatsoever. He would have to hope for the blessed ignorance of the United States citizen, something he’d find out in the next thirty minutes.

Carlos said, “You want to clean up from your trip? We have hot water. It’s not much, but it’ll work for a single shower.”

Omar said, “That can wait. We have to be at a rehearsal in twenty minutes. Are you two ready?”

They both nodded. Puppy dogs wanting to please the master. He said, “Put on a button-up shirt and slacks. It’s time to start acting like altar boys.”

Twenty minutes later they had taken a cab to Vatican City. They passed by the entrance to Piazza San Pietro, Saint Peter’s Basilica off in the distance, and Omar saw the chairs being placed in the square. The preparations for the ceremony, and the Lost Boys’ rendezvous with destiny. It made him smile.

The cab continued on, stopping in front of what looked like a small theater, the doors out front solid and large, but the paint old. A line of young men milled about in front.

Omar waited until the driver had pulled away before saying, “You know the church, correct? You can speak like a Catholic?”

Carlos said, “Yes, yes. We’ve memorized the mass. We know when to cross ourselves and when to kneel. We’ve memorized all of the canonical rites.”

“Well, don’t try to prove you’re a genius at it. Just follow along. And whatever you do, let me speak. Don’t try to outdo anybody. We’re from a small parish in Florida. Act like that.”

Devon said, “What about Jacob? What will we say?”

“He’s at the hotel, sick. Let me handle that.”

They crossed the street and Omar walked up to the first adult he could find, a priest with a clipboard shouting names. Omar introduced himself as Chris Fulbright, and the priest looked at his clipboard, confused. He went down it, then said, “Florida? Sacred Heart? That Chris Fulbright?”

“Yes. That’s us.”

The priest smiled, saying, “Sorry. You don’t sound like you’re from Florida.”

Omar matched his grin, hoping it came out sincere. “I’m from Russia, but I’m an American citizen now.”

“No worries. We weren’t sure you guys were coming.” He stuck out his hand, “Father Patrick Brimm, from New York. I’m the guy who’s been put in charge of the American representatives for the ceremony, and we couldn’t get you on the phone. You were supposed to check in yesterday. Almost scratched you. I’ve got twelve different parishes represented, and didn’t have time to track you down.”

Omar said, “I apologize. I dropped my cell phone into the water in Venice. I bought a new one, but didn’t know I needed to pass the number. The schedule I had said today was the first day. We could have cut short our trip there if I’d have known.”

Father Brimm waved his hand, dismissing the problem. “You aren’t the only one. I’m still missing Alabama and Connecticut. They don’t make this rehearsal, and their church paid for a trip to Italy for nothing.”

Omar said, “So what do we need to do to catch up?”

“I need the passports for you and your boys. Need a photocopy of the page so Vatican security can run a background check.”

“That’s easy. There a copy machine around?”

“One inside.”

Omar turned to go, then snapped his fingers. “Father, one of my boys is sick. He’s in bed right now, at our hotel. I don’t have his passport and didn’t know you needed it.”

“He’s a no-go, then. Sorry. Security is an absolute. Crazies have threatened the Holy Father on a number of occasions. They won’t bend the rules. This ceremony has people coming from all over the world, even members from the Archdiocese of Kirkuk in Iraq and parishes from Jordan and Lebanon. You can see why the security would be harsh.”

Omar said, “You just need his information, right? You don’t need an actual photocopy, do you? I can call him. I can get the information and give it to you with our photocopies. Please. He’s traveled a long way. This is a special mission for him.”

Father Brimm pursed his lips for a moment. He said, “If he’s not here for the rehearsal, he can’t go anyway. My rules. It wouldn’t be fair to the others.”

“We’re here. How hard can it be? They conduct the ceremony, then we go single file up to the basilica, right? I could see if you had no one from the parish here, but we’ll put him in between my other boys. Monkey see, monkey do.”

Father Brimm relented, “Okay, okay. Stay for the rehearsal. If you get me the information before we leave today, I’ll turn it in, but I can’t promise they’ll grant him approval. I don’t know if the copy of the passport is a necessary requirement.”

Omar let out his breath in relief. “Thank you. Venice was fun, but tomorrow’s ceremony is the only reason he came.”

Father Brimm smiled and said, “I don’t suppose they’ll be too afraid of an American from Florida. He hasn’t been to Syria in the past six months, has he?”

Omar laughed and clapped the priest on the back. “Not that his passport shows.”

76

Sir, I don’t know where they are. My gut tells me they’ve left Venice.”

The VPN connection on our laptop made Kurt Hale look a little like Max Headroom, with the small delay in the synchronization of the sound of his voice and the movement of his mouth adding to the effect. Behind him, I could see George Wolffe pacing back and forth. He was the deputy commander of the Taskforce, and an old CIA hand. It took a lot to ruffle his feathers, which wasn’t a good sign.

Drily, Kurt said, “Your gut is not exactly something I can take back to the Council. Tell me you’ve got some thread to follow. Airline tickets, cell phone trace, something.”

“I’ve got the woman. What’s her story?”

“Christine Spalding. A copy girl at a Staples in a one-light town in Florida. That’s it.”

“Florida? Just like the Lost Boys?”

“Yeah, we thought the same thing, but there’s no connection. She’s East Coast, they’re West Coast, up near the panhandle. We dug through her life six ways to Sunday. There is absolutely nothing connecting them other than being from the same state. I have a complete packet for you. Driver’s license, credit reports, past residences, mother, father, the works. The only unique thing is she applied for the passport she’s using less than six months ago. Before that, she’d never left the country.”

“Same as the Lost Boys. That’s an indicator. Anything on the man she was with?”

“No. We got nothing on him. We ran his surveillance picture through every database we have, and it didn’t trigger. The credit card used for Christine’s room was a pay-as-you-go. Nothing we can trace back; all we know is it’s holding about a thousand dollars. Might be his, might be hers.”

“She’s got something to do with the Lost Boys. We’re just missing the connection. If I leave right now, I can beat her train to Rome.”

“Pike, we have a full-court press on them. Their passports are in every port of call and police station in Europe, and they haven’t triggered. They’re still within the scope of your team, and our assessment is that Venice is the endgame. I need you to stay in Venice, at least until the reservation runs out on the room. I need you to find them.”

“Sir, we’ve been on it since we got here. I’m telling you they’ve left. They don’t need to show a passport to travel throughout the EU by train.”

“They came to Venice for a reason, and it wasn’t to shop. We know that Omar al-Khatami was facilitating their attack, and we assess he intends to conduct a linkup in Venice.”