Among the items the marshals logged in as her personal effects was one barbed-wire-type ring. She never wore the ring because it had a tendency to snag fine fabrics; a downside not contemplated by the men who had designed it. In the end, she wore it one final time in honor of her service to the Vatican. That service was indeed rare. She had been specifically approached and allowed to serve as an undercover agent in the normally male-dominated Roman Catholic structure because of her close proximity to the President of the United States. Her comprehensive training in clandestine communications and spy craft, that would make the CIA and KGB proud, were honed on innocent “weekend retreats” which just passed banally as the religious observance of a devout Catholic woman.
Upon Claire’s death, the whole thing evaporated into just a human drama. Her death at her own hand was accepted as a personal matter and the indictment was sealed forever by executive order. Not acknowledged, but felt throughout the upper corridors of power, was a collective sigh of relief. It all tied up nicely for everyone: the president, the Pope and the American people. The Papal Nuncio himself had an off-the-record audience with the president in his residence the next day, bringing the assurance of the Pope that the Knights of the Sepulchre were disbanded and dismissed. Then the Nuncio handed over an intelligence file, which detailed the exploits of the Knights over the last fifty years, including their role in foiling the attempted assassination of the Pope in France. Information that would fill in some blanks in the CIA and FBI’s timelines of history.
The president also accepted an invitation to meet with the Pope in Rome and have a joint press conference on efforts to help the world’s poor. The president gracefully accepted and sent his appreciation to the Pope in the form of a recently-recovered bottle of brandy from the 1800s found in the safety deposit box of a former communist dictator who secreted it away during World War II. He had the FBI lab run a special analysis of the bottle with a self-sealing needle. It proved to be non-lethal and therefore worth hundreds of thousands to collectors. The president hoped it would heal the rift between him and God’s representative on Earth prior to their first face-to-face meeting.
XXVI. RIDE 'EM COWBOY
“It’s impossible. The whole thing is totally organic, biological and doesn’t have any mechanical parts or metal machinery. So there’s nothing to ping or scan to get a return, an echo or signature. According to the plans your Agent Burrell obtained from Disney, even the batteries have minimal hard metals. Dr. Hiccock, it’s not a hole in the water; hell, it is no different than water. How can we find it in an ocean?”
Bill sat back in his chair. The head of naval warfare tactics was unloading his frustration at trying to hunt and kill a pirate whale that made less noise and generated less heat than an actual whale. They had calculated that the “whale” displaced approximately two tons of water, but the actual weight of the non-organic, mechanical/propulsion parts, batteries, signal and steering control was probably only ten pounds. That was four hundred times smaller than the faux mammal’s total mass. Another way it was described to Bill was like trying to find the insides of a single laptop — just the circuit boards and batteries without the case — floating somewhere in or under the Pacific.
Although Bill felt sympathy for the man and his futile assignment, his job wasn’t to commiserate. “Admiral, there has got to be a way, something we are overlooking.”
“We’ve run this up more flagpoles than co-ed underwear on hell night, and no one, not military, not civilian contractor, or even think-tank weenies, has a clue.”
“I know this is probably a silly question, but can our current computer-aided sonar be re-calibrated?”
“Re-calibrated to what? Water? Yeah, and you’ll get an instant, off-the-charts reading; then where are you?”
“Okay, I admit that was a little elementary, but hey, it was my first shot.” Bill tried his proven tactic of adding a smile to his demeanor, but the two-star fleet officer wasn’t biting.
“How is the whale piloted? Is it a total remote control weapon or more like a mini-sub with a driver?”
“Look, it could be a pilot whale that swallowed Minnie Driver. She or any human is just as biological as the device. Unless they make a noise like metal on metal, humans are mostly water with the trace amounts of minerals and iron in the body that don’t reflect a ping.”
Bill was just connecting the actress’ name, Minnie Driver, to the admiral’s attempt to add a smile to his demeanor.
For some stupid reason, Bill was going to add, “It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that ping!” but the decorum the conversation demanded changed his mind.
The admiral recapped the challenge facing them, “Look, without a bounce or something to bounce off of, there is no return, therefore no range and no firing solution. All we can do is waste a lot of fuel and hope to run the damn thing over.”
Bill stared for the longest time at the two five-pointed platinum stars on his desk; the Admiral was right, this was a real tough nut to crack.
Bill was really racking up the Special Air Missions frequent flier’s points. He was back in D.C. on a quick thirty-two-hour turn-around and was flying out mid-day tomorrow back to the team in Europe.
Janice had had the day from hell at work and Bill’s meeting with the admiral delayed his getting home till after eight, so they decided to go out for dinner. Mimmo’s was becoming their favorite place. “Casual and good” was how Bill thought of the bistro where Mimmo’s wife, Tina, did all the cooking, while Mimmo worked the dining room. “The no makeup place,” was how Janice defined it, in that just a little tinted foundation and lip-gloss and she was at the level of Mimmos. One didn’t go there to be seen, just to eat. Figuring that little Richie would probably nod out before they got their entrees, they passed on the sitter and brought the sassy seat.
Mimmo was his usual happy self as he seated the Hiccocks. He attached the sassy seat to the table and even took Richie from Janice and sat him in the contraption. “I got the meatballs tonight!”
“Sold!” said Bill. Tina’s meatball dish was a meal in itself. Janice scratched the itch for Shrimp Scampi and then she opened a baggie with skinned apple slices for Richie, since he had already eaten at his usual time. They both took pride in the fact that Richie was always the perfect little kid in restaurants, so they were both shocked when he let out a shriek and then began squirming, throwing apple slices, crying and trying to break free from his sassy little prison. They had never seen him like this, and they were very conscious of the disturbance they were causing in the room. No matter what they did, no matter how they tried to distract him and do the little game things that were usually good for a few minutes of quiet baby time, nothing worked.
“You know it’s past his bedtime, so he’s a little cranky,” Janice volunteered to the couple seated next to them. Their bittersweet smiles in return were of small comfort.
“Maybe we should get it to go,” Janice said in the voice that, although it sounded like a suggestion, all husbands know it is not open to discussion. “Gimme the keys, I’ll take him out to the car,” Janice said as she got up and pulled her son from his seat.
Bill started unhooking it, trying to avoid looks from the other patrons.
Mimmo came over and Bill announced in a voice a little louder than needed, “You know it’s past his bedtime and he’s a little cranky.” Just in case the rest of the diners didn’t get it the first time from Janice.