The game was fairly exciting despite the unease both Rojas and Messina felt. After depositing Presidente Parente in his box, along with the young buxom blonde who had been selected to be his distraction for the game, both men were led to seats at the center of the stadium on the home side, just twenty rows up. As usual, Parente had begun the game waving to the attendees in the stadium before ordering the mirrored glass closed. Both men could easily imagine what was really going on in the air conditioned Presidential Box. As usual, El Presidente would later ask someone who had won.
Despite the enormous stadium, Rojas and Messina were surrounded by throngs of people watching the game. People were so close there was no way to really talk, and both felt they had been placed in these seats for a purpose. At one point Rojas noticed one of the men one row forward kept glancing back at them. But it was a good game and the spirited play on the field allowed the men to relax a little. Soon they were cheering like the rest.
During the break, Rojas leaned over to Messina. “How did your son like the lacrosse gear,” he asked. The man in front turned his head slightly to listen.
Messina saw it as well. “You made his day. The very next morning he was outside in all his gear practicing. Their first scrimmage is tomorrow afternoon about 6. You should come and see how they look. I’m sure their coach would like to meet you.” He had a look in his eye that indicated this should be a part of some plan.
Rojas nodded. “I’ll try. It depends on how late Presidente Parente needs me. His is my first priority,” he said. “But even if I’m a little late I could still get there. When should it be over?”
“Sometime around 8 pm. The coach likes to huddle with the team and go over things for about half an hour at the end of a practice. So it may be just a little later,” Messina said.
“Good. Then I should be able to make it at some time. I may just try and get back into lacrosse. I loved playing in college. Just don’t ask me to run around the field like the kids. I hurt more now,” Rojas joked.
Messina let out a laugh and the two men started talking about a few more trivial things. After a minute or two they noticed the man in front had turned back toward the field. The two men glanced at each other and nodded. Now they knew they were definitely being watched and had to be extremely careful what they might do. As the game resumed, Messina thought about how they might share information. At the scrimmage, many parents would stand at the edge of the field to watch the play and talk among each other. That might offer some opportunities. In addition, his son had told him that one of the players was an American boy whose father was an engineer at a local construction firm. That in itself might be an opportunity. They could talk about it the next day.
Steven Biscotti was a communications specialist assigned to the US embassy. He had been born and raised in the Italian neighborhoods of Brooklyn, and was only the second in his family to leave the family’s restaurant business and head out on his own. Always a quiet young man, he had taken very quickly to his education and got a scholarship to the Polytechnic Institute of New York, where he earned a Bachelor of Science degree in Science and Technology Studies. As he had grown up, his family had instilled in him both a love of country and his Catholic and Italian heritage, so entering the diplomatic corps had fit him like a glove.
Biscotti was nearing his two year mark at the embassy, making a name for himself by keeping the complex communications office both up to date and operating efficiently. This included very highly technical work on the many pieces of cryptologic gear they maintained. About the only thing he didn’t oversee was the embassy’s antiquated phone system.
Living alone in a small apartment on the embassy grounds, Biscotti spent his leisure time exploring Caracas and the surrounding areas and going to church. Every Thursday he left work in the late afternoon to visit the cathedral, go to confession and attend the mass. He never understood much of the homily, since most of it was in Spanish instead of English or Italian, but just being there was enough. Luckily, the priests knew English very well and his confessions were much easier. One of the priests would actually allow him to confess in Italian, which usually made him homesick. No matter who was there, the priests knew him and would often have long conversations with him. It was like going home.
Entering the cathedral, Biscotti glanced to the right and saw there was only one person waiting at the confessional. He made his way to one of the pews next to the large and ornately carved wooden confessional and knelt to say a prayer. Only a few minutes later, the curtain was pulled back and the individual left to offer her own prayers nearby. Biscotti ended his prayer and moved into the confessional, closing the curtains behind him. After preparing himself, he waited until the screened opening between the two sitting areas opened.
Glancing through the screen, he thought he recognized Father Cardoza. Smiling to himself, he said in Italian, “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”
There was a slight pause, which was unusual for a confession. Then Cardoza spoke, also in Italian, “Not as bad as the sins I have witnessed in recent days, my friend. Would you care to hear of my confession?”
Biscotti was totally confused. This was not normal. A priest confessing to one of his flock? Biscotti looked into the other chamber. “I am not one to hear a priest’s confession, Father.”
“In normal times, I would agree, but in this case, you may be the only one I can share this particular confession with. May I share with you?”
Now Biscotti was astounded. But he could never turn away from the request of a priest — particularly Father Cardoza. “How may I be of help, Father?”
The screen lifted slightly and a small thumb drive slid through. Father Cardoza was sweating on the other side. The seriousness of what he was doing clearly weighing on him. If he were caught with these images, Biscotti would be taken as a spy and probably shot and Cardoza would not be able to live with that and remain a priest. He summoned up his strength and continued. “My friend, just three days ago, I witnessed the devil at work in this land. I watched as one of God’s children was taken up and butchered like a common steer. Unfortunately, I could not save him, although I prayed mightily for his salvation. On that drive I have placed the images of what I saw and photographed. It is my prayer that through these images this poor man’s sacrifice will not go unpunished or in vein. I confess I can find no other way to do this except to give this to you. Please help me, even though it may place you in peril. Please take this and do what you must.”
Biscotti looked down at the little thumb drive, then back at the screen. He wondered at what might be on the drive and what it may mean. Surely the Father was troubled and was trusting in him. He placed the thumb drive in his pocket. “Father, I will gladly do as you ask. It appears that this weighs far heavier than the confessions I might bring.”
There was a chuckle from the other side. ‘You are a good Catholic, Steven. Trust me when I say what you do with this may wash away the sins of a lifetime — particularly the kinds of sins you confess.” The screen slid all the way up and the Father’s hands reached through, taking Biscotti’s. “Thank you, my son. May God’s protection be with you as you do his work, and thank you for assisting this troubled priest.”
Biscotti kissed the priest’s hands. “I will let you know what happens.”
The priest’s hands tightened. “No. Do not come back except for your usual confessions. From what I have seen, I will know if your work is done easily enough. Now do not stay for mass tonight. Return to your duties and contemplate how this must be done. God be with you,” Cardoza said releasing Biscotti’s hands and giving the sign of the cross.