Chapter 64
CHAPTER 64
T HOMAS HAD WATCHED AS TWO CARS ENTERED S ANTA M ARIA DI Castello. He’d stayed at his post, as ordered, rifle nearby, back propped against the tree. There was a feeling of comfort here in the blackened woods, a velvet sky overhead, only the stars watching him. A three-quarters moon hung in a western sky that did little to dissolve the darkness.
He’d been at the church’s disposal for the past nine years, working assignments around the world. Nigeria had been his first, where Christians were targeted by the Boko Haram insurgency, Fulani herders, and the local bandits. In the diocese of Minna a priest was burned to death and another injured. He’d been sent to extract a measure of retribution and had with the assassination of several key officials. He’d slipped in and out of the country, wreaking havoc, with none the wiser as to his identity.
In India, a Hindu nationalist government had curtailed the rights of all Christian faiths. Thousands of Catholics were being arrested and held without trial. Open harassment was common with more subtle pressures, including daily abuses at workplaces, schools, and public facilities. He’d been dispatched to apply some reverse pressure—five unexpected deaths—that helped persuade a few important officials that a change in policy might be in order.
In the Middle East and the Sahel region in Africa, due to jihadist insurgencies, Christians were in constant jeopardy. He’d helped there some, but the extent of the persecution was too much to effect any meaningful change. In Myanmar, thanks to a military coup, the ruling junta’s army had been targeting churches, especially Catholic ones. He’d been sent to the diocese of Mandalay where the Tatmadaw burned down a historic church. After the arsonists were identified, and nothing was done to them, he killed three.
Many other places had required his attention and he’d visited Burkina Faso, Mozambique, Colombia, Comoros, and Nicaragua. Two passages from Corinthians were his mantra. No believer should suffer alone and if one part suffers, every part suffers with it, if one part is honored every part rejoices with it.
Amen.
A few minutes passed in silence.
More engines could be heard in the distance.
He turned.
Three more cars were coming down the road, headed for the monastery. They passed by at a high speed and kept going, also disappearing inside the gate in the wall.
Plenty of visitors tonight.
Still no further instructions.
So he stood.
And waited.
S TEFANO CLIMBED FROM THE CAR WITH A SCOLANI.
The prior emerged with four more Carthusians from the other two vehicles. None of them wore white robes, as the fathers normally were required to do. All were dressed in street clothes.
Which was telling.
They were now inside the walls of Santa Maria di Castello. Ascolani had explained on the trip from San Gimignano how the Carthusians lived by an old maxim. Cartusia sanctos facit, sed non patefacit. The charterhouse makes saints, but does not make them known. Which clearly enunciated the low profile the order had always maintained. Ascolani also explained how Santa Maria was suppressed by Napoleon in 1809, closed off, but that it returned later in the nineteenth century. Its greatest challenge came in 1944 when German troops broke in to arrest thirty-two partisans and Jews being sheltered by the fathers. Some were able to escape, but six monks and six lay brothers were arrested, tortured, and killed by firing squad. None of which had even been widely known until the past decade. More of that low profile. By all accounts the Carthusians were men of honor who cared little for the outside world, other than to profit from it through their liqueurs. So what were they doing in the middle of this fray?
Three other cars were parked in the courtyard.
The prior marched off into the night. Not toward the church, but to another gate that was open. Before heading off with the rest of them, Stefano checked the hoods of the other three vehicles. Warm. Apparently, the information about an unauthorized intrusion was true. They walked a concrete path that led to another door, which the prior opened with a key from his pocket. Inside was an office equipped with three desks. No phones. No computers. But there were several wooden filling cabinets. One of the men reached for a light switch on the wall.
“No,” the prior said. “Leave them off.”
Windows filled the wall opposite the entrance door. Stefano assumed those looked out into the dimly lit cloister.
A pop disturbed the silence.
Muffled.
From outside.
Gunshot?