Chapter IV

The view from the street was obscured by the lines of trees but the Americana Hotel was a sight, none the less.

THE SECOND SECURITY TEAM WAITED near the rear entrance to the hotel. Normally, all kinds of trucks and delivery vehicles would be arriving and departing, bringing their consignments of food and other guest related consumables. But not right now. The entire shipping schedule had been thrown into a frenzy when the Swiss Guards had made their intentions known at the last minute.

That was a premeditated plan, not something off-hand. The reason behind it was simple: If nobody knows where the Pope was going to be, than nobody can make an attempt on his life. At least, that’s how the theory goes.

The Officer in charge of the protection detail was Dimitri. He would be within an arm’s length of John Paul III at all times. He would also have his five man team of specially trained men. All of them carried the latest weapons, had the most advanced tactical training, and followed orders without question.

They were prepared for anything, and could create a plausible escape scenario from even the most unyielding of circumstances. They were a force to be reckoned with.

The second team, also called the ‘Site’ team, was on the ground at the hotel. Their job was to have secured the grounds, living quarters, and all possible danger areas that were present within the realm of the Pope’s travels throughout the hotel. They had searched all three of the rooms that the Pope had booked. They would choose the one most easily secured and defended.

Nobody would ever be made aware of which room he chose, and nobody would ever see him enter. The floor that he was going to be staying on would be cleared of patrons for the afternoon. The site team was led by Peter Reddien, one of the very few Germans that were employed by the Swiss guard.

Standing at an intimidating 6-foot three, with black hair and nearly black eyes, Peter was a sight. He was a difficult man to work with. It wasn’t that he yelled a lot, or berated his men. No, it was because he had an uncompromising attention to detail. His men often joked that the soft-spoken giant was a sufferer of paranoid delusions.

In every shadow he saw danger.

In every waiter he saw a potential leak.

“Suspect everyone,” he would say flatly, with barely a smile, “and you’ll never be surprised.” He would giggle to himself as if he had really cracked a good one. Yeah, he was a laugh riot.

“Andrews,” Peter said as he approached the back loading dock. “Sir,” Andrews replied as he turned.

“They’re in route.” Peter studied his watch. “Caravan one should be arriving in the next ten minutes.”

Andrew nodded. “I’ll keep the grounds units on the parking lot, and then we’ll fall in on the vehicle, once they arrive.”

“Media circus out front. I’m going to walk the path again, make sure we didn’t miss anything.”

Andrew nodded, taking his radio from his belt and moving it over to the left. Having the earpiece felt a bit uncomfortable, at first, but you soon forgot it was even there.

Peter looked out across the parking lot. What a mess, he thought. There is no way to completely secure a place like this. Hotels are inherently dangerous for those who wish to maintain security.

Too many people.

Too many probabilities.

Not enough space to work an acceptable escape.

But, it was exactly that constant and questioning anxiety that made Peter one of the best. His team consisted of nearly nine men from the Swiss Guard, and several local police officers. To serve the interests of every officer involved, they had arranged an alternate frequency between the police and the Guards. Only a few of the Swiss Guards spoke Portuguese, and Peter wasn’t one of them.

Andrew reassured his chief, “We’ve got this . . . we’ll keep you informed.”

“Right,” he said as he took a deep, frustrated breath. “Can you contact the Brazilian police again? See if there are any problems they have located in the last couple of minutes. The lobby is starting to swell with onlookers.”

“Roger that, sir,” Andrew said. “You’ve covered all the bases, Peter. Nothing is going to happen.”

“We thought that in Sao Paulo, too.”

“Silva wasn’t our concern. Our concern is for he Pope, and the Pope only. Their men missed the bullet on that.”

Peter turned his head, clearly displeased with the fiasco of the last couple of days. “Anyone who could slip under all of our noses like that . . . he’s a very dangerous man indeed. And I believe that it is one man.”

Andrew licked his bottom lip as he considered Peter’s idea. “Sure, I suppose that it could be one man. Maybe he’s been traveling around the world for the last month, just killing every religious figure he can get his hands on. Maybe he is a brilliant assassin, the likes of which we have never been up against. Or maybe, we are all buying into the hype. But, conspiracy theories and wild hypothesis will do us no good.”

“Check with the Brazilians and call me on frequency four,” Peter said, cutting the conversation short.

Andrew was blunt, and at times frustrating to talk to, but he was intelligent. And in this particular case . . . he was right.

What difference did it make?

The past is written, the future is the only thing that Peter and his men could affect. He marched through the kitchen, again checking each and every turn they would be making.

As he left, Andrew moved the toggle button for the microphone to his right lapel. This made sense because he was left-handed. Mavet grinned.

Humans have so much to learn about faith. It was almost insulting to him that this guard thought he could have prevented him from killing Silva. Apparently, there is little or no communication among the different groups within the Vatican.

Essentially, that made sense. No reason to scare anyone with information that you had learned from your ‘secret’ project. Somebody in the Swiss Guard must know; of that Mavet was certain.

But not these men.

For now he would be Andrew. He would make sure that the Pope was nice and safe. And with each passing day, he would find out exactly what the Pope knew.

“Andrew . . .” his earpiece squelched.

He lifted his hand to his lapel, toggled the button. “Go ahead . . .”

“Black caravan is arriving in two mics.”

“Roger that. What’s the E.T.A. on the white caravan?” Mavet asked. Sounding just like the person he was occupying was always a bit of a chore.

He could listen to the thoughts of the body he was in. When he took a soul he would ‘listen’ to things inside the souls mind, almost like playing a video of their mannerisms. Unless someone was acutely aware of the person’s personality, they would have a hard time figuring out that anything was amiss.

“Roger that . . . I’ll get everyone on point. Out.”

“You should have eyeball in less than three mics,” the voice confirmed.

“Out.”

Time to meet the Pope, Mavet thought to himself. He may have to jump a couple more times to get close enough to pick the Pope’s brain. But patience was going to be his virtue, though his time was ticking. He knew that Heaven was going to respond to his previous actions. He wasn’t exactly sure how they’d do it, but he would know when he saw it. It was all a question of time. When? The where and the how were mere details. Mavet needed to know how much the Pope knew . . . and he needed to know when.

When would it happen?

As he stared out across the parking area he waited to two pairs of guards, exactly the same way Andrew would have done, were h~ not trapped inside his own body, in some distorted coma-like state. The guards nodded, sent a couple of beeps across their radios to him, recognizing the command.

“Black caravan on site,” the voice stated flatly into everyone’s radios.

Mavet watched from the large, concrete slab he had been standing on for the last twenty minutes. Two beeps rung in his hear. That meant that the guards posted in civilian clothes, out on the street, has seen the White caravan approaching. Those were the two Land Rovers that were carrying the Pope, also known as the ’book.′

“We have eyeball on the White caravan,” he said as he quickly switched to another frequency. In Portuguese, he explained to the police that they were to allow no other vehicles into the circle, or under the carport. Hopefully, he, explained, people would get enough of a glimpse of the Pope to be satisfied until later, when his address would be piped out over the local radio stations.

That was the plan, anyway.

As the two Land Rovers entered the parking lot, the guards near the entrance closed off the gate, making sure that no other vehicles entered.

Two other guards were securing the path for the trucks, as Mavet and a team of four others were securing the entrance.

Having switched back to the Swiss Guard’s primary frequency for communications he asked, “Peter, how comms, over?”

“I read you lima-charlie. I’m at your heels,” Peter answered as he walked out from the kitchen area. He nodded to Andrew. And Mavet nodded back.

“Just think,” Peter said through a nearly clenched jaw, “by tomorrow morning, we’ll be back in Rome . . . putting all the craziness back together.”

“Thank God, no,” Peter remarked as the Land Rovers stopped near the loading

“No more hotel food?” Mavet posed, feigning sadness.

Dimitri was the first to exit the vehicle. He found Peter and then nodded. Peter gave the ‘all-clear’

sign and then spoke into his radio, “Game time, gents . . . I have the book.”

And the practiced symphony of precision began.