Chapter IV

The mirrored sides of the Hotel Americana reflected the greyish-pink rays of early morning light.

THE HOTEL AMERICANA IS AS TALL and intimidating as the country for which it derives its namesake. The hotel is set just off of the main drag with a wide, Vegas-style carport that is sunk into the first floor of the large structure. It reminds one of a large plastic lighter that might come free with a pack of cigarettes. All sides, from the ground floor to the penthouses, were covered in reflective windows that were so crisp and clean that one might think they were the product of satellite telescope technology. Sparkly.

Dimitri walked from the fire exit to the door of the Pope’s room on the seventh floor. It was almost artificial how quiet the hotel was. There was a rather dark and sultry mood throughout the hotel that was reminiscent of the late ’40s and ’50s. Back when people were still allowed to keep a secret or two without catching a federal indictment. As Dimitri walked he sensed this confortable, yet dangerous mood. But it started to melt and change into something altogether different—it was the sense of impending doom. Almost like something unnatural was just outside his grasp, just around the next corner . . . or in a closet perhaps. As he nodded to the guards that were posted at the Pope’s room door he made as delicate an entrance as possible. He was fairly certain that his holiness would still be sleeping.

As he closed the door behind him he continued down a short hallway with a bathroom on his left. The room then opened up into a large, but sensible floor plan. A huge rectangular bed sat at the far right, to the left were a series of small desks for business. A fax machine, encrypted telephone system, and a laptop computer were sleeping—doing whatever it is those clever things do when we turn them off, yet don’t unplug them.

A large window, running from burgundy carpet, to off white ceiling, extended the length of the hotel room. Dark red venetian blinds kept the room dark and modern, chopping the incoming light into little economical slices that splayed out across the thick carpet.

Resting quietly on the large bed, slightly rolling to increase his comfort, was the Pope. In a chair, a couple of feet from the bed, was Andrew. That was quite a relief to Dimitri.

He nodded to Andrew, who looked calm and collected—as he normally did.

He was as trustworthy and reliable as the rising sun. He was sometimes soft-spoken, often times strict to the smallest details, and always diligent and aware. For these and many other reasons he had been assigned to the Pope for this leg of their protection detail.

This was especially convenient for Dimitri because he had implicit faith in Andrew’s abilities; and it was especially convenient for Mavet, who needed some time alone with the Man.

“Everything is quiet,” Dimitri whispered reassuringly, “just thought I’d check in on him.” He looked thoughtfully down on the Pope. He did not envy the man. That was a difficult job, no matter how you considered it.

Political strife, mixed with religious sentiment, with a side order of conspiracy theories around every corner. It seemed like three angry wrestlers, jockeying for position until they throw away the script: unraveling chaos. And this frail man was as close to God as any human could be. No, Dimitri didn’t want to trade his job with John Paul III, not for anything.

“Even the clouds in the sky protect this man,” Mavet reassured Dimitri. He motioned his head toward the window where, outside, the only cloud in the sky had moved in front of the sun so as to shade the hotel, and in particular the 6th, 7th, and 8th floors. For a short time the lava-like heat would be contained.

Dimitri smiled and then patted Andrew/Mavet on the shoulder. Mavet considered jumping, but he still had a few questions that needed to be answered. Besides, he was starting to get comfortable in this body.

Dimitri walked silently out of the room, through the connecting hallway, and to the door. He rapped gently on the door and then spoke softly into his lapel mic. “Dimitri leaving the Book’s chamber, over.”

“Roger that,” the voice squelched, “one coming out.”

The Pope started to wake about twenty minutes after Dimitri had gone. He turned side to side in the bed for a couple of minutes more. Finally, he sat up and yawned, covering his mouth with his hand. While his slumber looked peaceful enough, Mavet could sense that there was turmoil deeply seeded behind the Pope’s eyes.

“Some coffee, your Holiness?” Mavet offered.

The Pope dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “No,” he said, his voice almost as scratch as an old vinyl record. “On days like this I’d fancy something stronger.”

Mavet smiled. All political affiliations aside, this man seemed like a good person, not like that last Pope—Pope Jonathan. “I didn’t take you for a drinker, sir.”

John Paul laughed as he scooted to the side of the plush bed, slowly lowering his legs over the side. He was wearing a light green robe that looked to be the same color as a nurse’s scrubs. It had some fancy embroidery on it and was probably christened by the death of many virgins; no doubt a gift from some foreign dignitary who was trying to win grace through gifts.

The fools way to Heaven.

“I’m Irish, son . . .” the Pope explained with a hint of nostalgia in his voice. “I lost a little when they replaced the Guinness in my veins with blood.

But, to be human such sacrifices must be made.”

Mavet laughed to himself. The Pope stared out of the wide window as he slowly went through the cascade of half stretches, yawns, and crackles that older men must. “Age is a relentless, tireless beast that tears at your body while imparting wisdom in your soul . . . it is for that reason that we can never slay him.”

“Can I get you anything, sir?” Mavet asked.

The Pope scratched his hand for a moment, noticing how old he’d become, and yet how young he still felt, inside his mind. “I’m a young man, trapped in this shell,” he said with a tired laugh. It was only a short time ago that he was just a college student, looking for guidance and direction.

He stood slowly and walked towards the thick glass—which the hotel had promised was bulletproof. Right. As he stood perfectly still, letting the ambient sounds permeate the room from outside. Though he couldn’t see them, the sounds of birds chirping and preening, and doing whatever birds do, was audible.

“Have we made any progress on De Silva’s attacker?”

Mavet considered his words, “Well, sir . . . I’m probably not the man to ask about such things. Peter and Dimitri are liaising with the policia—”

“I’m not asking for a report, Andrew,” the Pope interrupted, “I want to know the scuttlebutt . . . the rumors. What do you whisper in the hallways and elevators that you don’t want everyone to hear?”

Mavet considered his options. Now would be an excellent time to find out exactly what the Pope knew, but the other guard—sitting quietly in the far corner of the room would certainly report the conversation. Until now he had not spoken, but Je was certainly aware of what was being said. This system of keeping the men in alternating pairs kept everyone honest . . . or at least, as honest as can be expected. Sure, it would be a simple enough matter to just kill the other guard, or at the very least to incapacitate him during the interrogation. But no, that would raise too many red flags.

The last thing that Mavet wanted to do was to give away his hand before he had flushed out all of them. He needed to know what they knew before disposing of any more of the upper echelon. De Silva, after all, had proven to be less talkative than Mavet had hoped.

“Come on, Andrew,” the Pope prodded as he stared out over the city. “Just your gut feelings on all of this.” He turned toward Mavet. “People are always sugar coating everything. So quick to assume that my frailty and strength will wither if they tell me the complete, cold truth. Protect me from bullets, not information.” He then gave Mavet an ‘I’m not dead, yet’ smile.

“My gut feeling,” Mavet repeated softly.

“That’s all I want,” the Pope responded.

Mavet reached down and rubbed Andrew’s left knee—an old rugby injury.

“I believe,” Mavet said slowly, “that there are men out there that have committed crimes against God.” He studied the Pope’s face, but the man was stolid. “I think that they are the recipients of the vengeance that they brought upon themselves when they turned away from the Word . . . or whatever else they did.”

That was always one of the downsides of using the humans’ bodies: if they had an injury . . . then so did he while he was in charge of the vehicle. Like buying a used car and inheriting an oil leak.

“This will hurt the Vatican, no matter how it is eventually resolved, don’t you agree?”

Mavet nodded, glanced back at the other guard, and then said, “I don’t think it is my place to consider the political fall-out, I but if I were to venture a guess, I’d say . . . certainly. How could it not? I will keep these monsters away from you. Beyond that . . . the future holds untold mysteries.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” the Pope said, causing Mavet to cock his head to the side, like a curious hound. The Pope continued, and as he did his eyes focused out into the smog-choked abyss, beyond the window.

“Andrew, I think the Vatican needs to be cleansed.”

“Sir?” Mavet said, curious as to the Pope’s inference. Was he making the fires, or was he just smelling the smoke from afar?

The Pope turned toward Mavet and walked a few steps nearer. “There is a quiet power struggle going on. It’s been raging for nearly three decades, now. I inherited the problems, really. They weren’t my doing, but they must be undone by me.” He tilted his head back and took a deep pull of sanitized, mechanically filtered and cleansed air.

Mavet remained calm and speechless, urging the Pope with his body language and gesture to continue his thoughts.

“The world is not the same place any more. Motivations are different. The incredible boom in science and technologies that we couldn’t have even imagined were we living with Da Vinci . . . they’ve replaced our beliefs.” For the first time Mavet could remember, he was spellbound.

The Pope continued, “Instead of all of these remarkable advances bringing us, it has had the opposite effect. It has created a world of single people who live their lives through their home computers, their DVDs,” he said almost despotically, “and antisocial behavior. You can be half way around the world in half a day. You could visit your relatives in London, be in Spain later that day, and have dinner in Atlanta . . . if you were so inclined.”

He signed, shaking his head, “But, why do all of that when you can just send an e-mail? Or a quick text? Or, heaven forbid . . . a tweet. And look at all the money you will save. You can use it to buy other material possessions that will claim to simplify your life, but assuredly complicate it.”

He wasn’t really talking to Andrew, or Mavet, or anyone in particular.

Mavet imagined that this was probably the choked back sermon that the Pope would have loved to give. Every word wasn’t legislated and censored before delivery. Even the Vatican is a bureaucracy

“And,” he pressed on, “as all of this continues to spiral into loneliness, religion—normally the savior of amoral society—has been perverted by a few who wish to spoil themselves, and turn rotten everything and everybody else.”

The Pope closed his eyes, as if summoning the strength to continue. “I do not, nor have I ever condoned death or killings. Life, above all else, is the most valuable commodity we can ever possess. But . . . having said that, I think some of the men, recently, who have met with unfortunate circumstances,” he glanced at Mavet and continued, “they were . . . well, they were paid in full for their past transgressions. And I believe that there will be more blood letting.”

“So what is it that you are trying to tell me, your holiness?”

“I think that when we return to Rome, we will be entering into a pack of wolves, dressed as diplomatic sheep. We’re not escaping some mad assassin here in Brazil, because this fight never ends.”

“Out of the frying pan . . .” Mavet offered.

“. . . and into the oven,” the Pope finished.

“We won’t let anyone get close enough to hurt you,” Mavet said delicately. There was something about this old man that he respected. He was an honest man. Theories and views aside . . . he was a sincere soul, and a servant of God.

A true protector of the Roman Catholic beliefs. Right or wrong, it was commendable.

“Can you protect me from the inhumanity of ourselves?”

Mavet didn’t answer. It wasn’t the kind of question you dare to respond to. He now knew what he needed: There were other serpents in the Vatican.

This would mean that Mavet would have to be patient, let the demons slither their way out from the details. This, of course, meant that Heaven would have more time to find him. This was going to be very tricky.

They looked at each other, silently acknowledging that the truth was becoming more opaque than its previous transparency. At the same time, the water was getting murky . . . The inhumanity of ourselves.

“It’s right over there, past the bridge,” the vendor said as he pointed Deegan towards the front entrance of the Hotel Americana.

Over the tops of several other buildings Deegan found his query gleaming in the morning light, the air melting and folding from the heat. He turned to the short, bald man, “Muito bem, obrigado.”

Very good, thanks.