“Take his life?”
“He’s getting off easy dying. The way I see it, he killed four of my friends.”
“And nothing you can do will bring them back,” said the monsignor, adding force to his words for the first time that morning. “Do you think they would do the same for you? Pretty expensive ticket to punch.”
Simon wanted to say yes, but in truth, he didn’t know. He could only answer for himself.
“I guess, Simon, my question is, are you really here for them or are you here, suffering like this, for yourself?”
“I’m here because I have to be.”
“That may be so, but it isn’t you who made that decision.”
“What does that mean? Who else made it for me?”
The priest shrugged and Simon knew that it was his way of saying that there were mysteries in the world and that any man who thought he knew all the answers was a fool. After a moment, he drew nearer.
“You’re not here,” he said, “because you blame this man, this Coluzzi. You’re here because you blame yourself.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“‘It is mine to avenge,’ sayeth the Lord. ‘I will repay. In due time, their foot will slip. Their day of disaster is near and their doom rushes upon them.’”
“Save the Bible for the next guy.”
“I believe that’s you. How many more do you think I will have the chance to help?”
“Plenty.”
“Look at me.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
Simon cast his gaze elsewhere. In the short time they’d known each other, the priest had grown visibly weaker, his skin grayer, his shoulders more stooped.
The monsignor put his hands on Simon’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. “‘Do not repay evil with evil,’” he said slowly, meaningfully. “‘Repay evil with blessing, because to this you were called so you may inherit a blessing.’”
“You’ve got a lot of them up your sleeve this morning.”
The monsignor put back his head and smelled the air. “I have hope, Simon, and my hope is you.”
But the hours in the yard were not just for examining his soul. The monsignor had more practical advice to pass along, some of which surprised Simon, and at first even hurt him.
“Hit me.”
Another Sunday. Cold and rain instead of the spring sunshine. An atmosphere of gloom inside the yard, and outside, where no voices could be heard, no joyous cries from passing children. Just quiet, and quiet was the enemy when you spent your days locked up alone in a cell underground.
“Did you say ‘Hit me’?” asked Simon.
The monsignor nodded easily, as if this were the most normal request in the world. “In the face. Here. A jab to the cheek.”
“I will not.”
“Frightened you might hurt me?”
“You should be frightened, not me.”
“All right. Suit yourself.”
Simon enjoyed an uneasy laugh, when suddenly something slapped him in the face and his cheek smarted. “Hey!”
The monsignor had assumed a fighting stance, feet shoulder-width apart, hands raised.
“Did you just hit me?” asked Simon.
The priest nodded and motioned with his fingers for Simon to approach. “Do as I tell you. Don’t worry.”
Simon studied the priest, appraising him in a new and not entirely friendly manner. “You’re sure?”
“Go for it.”
Simon smiled at such juvenile words coming from the smartest man he’d ever met. He raised his fists and threw a tentative punch. The monsignor batted it away. Simon tried again, harder this time. Again the priest blocked it, redirecting the blow in a manner that caused Simon to lose his balance and stumble.
Retaking his position, Simon decided to let the priest have one, a real haymaker, the results be damned. He hadn’t figured the monsignor to be a big mouth, but, hey, if he wanted to get punched, Simon was willing to oblige.
He shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet. He moved this way and that, shoulders bobbing, then threw a punch, restraint leaving him as he struck out, putting all his muscle behind it.
His wrist snapped and the punch hit nothing but air. This time the priest took hold of his fist and tossed him over his hip and onto the dirt, where he landed flat on his back.
Simon scrambled to his feet. “How?” he asked, winded. “What…”
“I wasn’t always a man of the cloth,” said the monsignor.
“Where did you learn that? I mean, whatever that is that you just did. Karate or kung fu or—”
“Not karate. Something I picked up in Mozambique.”
“Where?”
“A country in Africa. Lots of jungle. Beautiful beaches. And the women…” The monsignor caught himself. “Anyway, it’s Portuguese and Brazilian and a mix of some others. I don’t know that it has a name. Would you like to learn?”
Simon answered in a heartbeat. “Absolutely.”
Simon shook himself awake. He’d been dozing.
He rose from the bed and opened his laptop, typing in “Le Galleon Rouge.” A map showed its location on a side street not far from the Place des Vosges. There was a picture of the bar, too. A sign above the door advertised its name. Otherwise, there was no indication what was inside. Le Galleon Rouge was not trawling for customers.
He closed the laptop and went to the closet. He didn’t need Nikki Perez to tell him how to dress. Black V-neck T-shirt, jeans, and ankle boots with zippers. Crucifix and braided chain around the neck. Pinkie ring with amethyst. Pomade for his hair. He’d come prepared. But the clothing was only window dressing. His entry card to Le Galleon Rouge was inked on his forearm. The tattoo designating him as a member of La Brise de Mer.
Two tasks remained before he could go. First, he accessed an app on his laptop, checked that the wireless connection was robust, and set it to record. Then he opened his metal briefcase—or as he liked to think of it, his “bag of tricks”—and removed his newest addition. The StingRay was the size and shape of a fat pack of cigarettes, made of black metal. The only visible controls were an on/off switch and a tiny bulb that burned green to indicate the unit was activated. Originally, it had been designed to allow law enforcement authorities to locate and track cellular phones, and it worked by mimicking a wireless carrier’s cell tower in order to force all nearby mobile phones to connect to it instead of the real tower. Simon had opted to purchase the latest version, code-named Hailstorm. Hailstorm attracted all calls in a given location, recorded their conversations, and, by a trick of wizardry, collected all data stored on those phones. Emails, texts, call logs, photographs—everything. It was an indiscriminate beast that cared as much about an individual’s privacy as a Peeping Tom. At twenty thousand dollars a copy, it had better be.
Satisfied he was giving the enemy as little chance as possible, Simon slipped the StingRay unit into his jacket pocket and turned to his last bit of business. The sardines.
He ate them with plenty of toast and butter and didn’t bother brushing his teeth when he’d finished.
When in Rome…
On the way out of the room, he passed a full-length mirror. A low-class, street-smart hoodlum stared back. He froze, shaken by the image. He was looking at the man he’d almost become.
Somewhere—in heaven or in hell—Monsignor Paul was smiling.