Incognito

Prologue

The cockroach peered into Pope Gregoire’s nostrils, its feelers twitching wildly. His nose flared in reaction, sending the creature scurrying frantically into a corner. The old man opened his left eye wider, then his right. If this was purgatory, he’d expected to see the wings of an angel, at least—not that of a filthy insect.

He felt his own heartbeat in the throb of his palm. Clearly, the Angel of Death had not visited him yet. So where was he?

Confusion swirled about his head as he tracked the smell of earth amidst concrete. He couldn’t tell whether it was day or night. The two fluorescent tubes on the ceiling manipulated the hour. There were no windows, and scarcely any air was admitted except through the slit under the metal door. He could hear nothing but his own breathing. He looked around in a daze, then dragged himself up slowly against the wall.

He saw into his blurry memory. Two black vans pulled up on a quiet street under the dark fabric of the sky. More than a dozen armed masked men in black jumped out. Bodies of his escorts, including several cardinals, members of the Swiss Guards and secret service men, began hitting the ground as muffled thumps sounded repeatedly around him. Screams and moans of pain accompanied columns of dark red blood thrown into the air.

His anxiety surged when a gunman aimed his weapon at him. First thought: Why would anyone want to harm a leader of peace, a man whose sole mission on earth was to distribute goodness and alleviate the sorrow and pain of others? Second thought: Fear. In the dark clouds of doubt, he questioned his own faith; what if he died and did not meet God? What if he had spent his entire life serving the wrong religion? Third thought: Fight back. If there was ever a time to retaliate, even if it meant killing someone, this would be the appropriate moment. Pope or no pope, he was a human being whose life was being threatened.

He saw into the gunman’s cold eyes. His prayer for strength was interrupted by a sharp, stinging pain on his left cheek. A dart. As he pulled it out, two masked men rushed forward and grabbed his arms. He felt his mind tumbling, burrowing deeper and deeper into the chasm of despair. That’s all he remembered.

As his senses grew more alert, he realized that he was in a cell. He looked down at his attire. He was still wearing the black cassock from the previous night. His body ached with fatigue, and he didn’t feel clean. The world must not see him this way. He held the Pectoral Cross around his neck tightly. Who dared kidnap the Servant of the Servants of God? Whoever was holding him against his will wanted him alive for some reason—at least for now. God knows best.

Heavy footsteps sounded outside, and he glanced up as the metal door flung open. A man in a black mask and desert camouflage appeared and stood at the door.

Your Holiness, said an Eastern European voice behind the mask.

Your words don’t match your hospitality, the old man said, feeling his throat dry. Who’re you? Why am I here?

The masked man slipped both hands into his pants pockets and took several steps forward. I just wanted to check on you. Do you require anything?

I need water, the old man said. I also want to clean myself.

The masked man nodded. I’m sorry for the discomfort. It was the best we could do given the circumstances. Are you hungry?

No, I’m not. The least you could’ve done is to prepare a bed for an old man. I’ll be very sick in a few days if I continue to sleep on this miserable floor. How long do you plan to keep me here?

The cockroach ran past the mysterious host.

It depends on whether the Vatican accepts our ultimatum or not, the masked man said, crushing the insect under his boot.

What is it that you want? the old man asked.

Something bigger than the Vatican, the masked man replied. You’re like the cheese on the mouse trap.

I don’t understand.

We’re doing the thinking for you, so there’s nothing for you to understand. But we expect the Vatican to comply.

Expect? And if we don’t?

Let’s not think that far. Besides, a man of God shouldn’t be afraid of anything.

I can control my fear. It’s time that defeats me. I have responsibilities. There are things I must do. The old man placed a hand on his left cheek and felt some swelling.

It’s the effect from the tranquilizer gun, the masked man said, removing his pale hands from his pockets. The swelling will disappear in a few days.

How did you know where I would be that night? The old man removed the Pectoral Cross from his around his neck and held it with both hands.

The masked man grunted. Do you honestly think your disguise could fool me? Surely you’re not naïve enough to believe the Vatican is devoid of traitors. He pointed to the Pectoral Cross. We’ll need that cross as proof we have you.

What happened to my escorts? the old man asked.

Most are dead. Maybe in the future, a modern-day Homer will write a story about it.

May God forgive you, the old man said, staring at the frigid eyes peering out though the holes in the mask.

Thanks for putting in a good word for me.

There was stillness between them.

You have an Eastern European accent, but I can’t detect your origin, the old man said.

The masked man turned and stepped out the door. Without looking back, he said, If I wanted you to know who I am, why wear a mask? Get some rest; my men will attend to your needs. By the way, the media has gone crazy. They’re all asking the same question: where in the world is the pope?

So am I.

Part I

Chapter One

The Pope is Missing

The emblazoned headline ran across the front page of the Times. Ayden Tanner read the corresponding article on his iPad as he sat in the departure lounge overlooking the tarmac at Heathrow Airport. The pope’s mysterious disappearance had thrown the world into shock and confusion ever since news broke a day ago. He was last seen at his window waving to the crowd in Saint Peter’s Square. A state of emergency had been declared in Italy. World leaders had offered any necessary support to find him.

On the row of seats in front of Ayden, several passengers watched segments of the Vatican press conference on a wall mounted flat-screen TV. A BBC female anchor was speaking to a male reporter standing outside the gates of Saint Peter’s Square. Behind him, paramedics were carrying people out on stretchers as police acted to maintain calm. The reporter responded to the anchor’s questions, while also offering his own assessment of the situation. He analyzed phrases and words used by Vatican officials during the press conference earlier.

The news ticker at the bottom of the screen streamed the latest developments: street protests; marches taking place around the world; soldiers deployed across Europe to cordon off kilometers of area; special dog units, helicopters and drones being used for search and rescue operations; candlelight vigils in various cities and towns from Latin America to the Philippines.

The foreign press, hungry for more information, swarmed the pope’s birthplace, Annecy, France, in search of diverse angles and perspectives to boost their ratings. Interviews extended to the pope’s siblings, relatives, and old friends.

Already ranked among the top global newsmakers, the news coverage of Pope Gregoire’s disappearance had tripled his popularity. The pope had stolen the show. Like everyone else, Ayden had some questions on his mind. Did terrorists kidnap him? Had demands been made? Was it murder driven by internal Vatican politics? How could a world-famous man with a tight security detail simply vanish? Was it a gimmick to restore faith in the Church?

God help us all.

But Ayden Tanner…he didn’t believe in God.

Ayden didn’t expect to find a gun stashed in the aircraft lavatory compartment as he stood outside waiting for his turn. He didn’t need it until later, so he expected his assignment partner, usually someone familiar with the ins and outs of the destination, to supply him with the necessary equipment upon landing. Unless hijacking the plane was in order. In those rare circumstances, a gun and other accessories would be made available on board. Such assignments could happen. But he wasn’t a terrorist. He was just different—he didn’t exist.

Finding the pope would be Ayden’s seventh mission since joining the League of Invisible Knights. The secret organization functioned under the auspices of Anonymous, the international network of activists and hacktivists. Anonymous had set up this covert unit to bring about the triumph of good over evil. Despite its roguish reputation, Anonymous had gained popularity around the world as the power-giving voice to the silenced. It offered a new form of protest, preventing governments from absolute control.

Gossip and casual small talk filled his ears, rising even above the pilot’s announcement that the plane would land shortly. All flights would be grounded until further notice due to the current weather conditions in Geneva. Inside the tight lavatory cubicle, Ayden ruminated about the pope. Unlike everyone else, he kept his theories to himself, eschewing the cheap talk from the facts. No good came from blurring truth and fiction.

The mirror reflected a thirty-five-year-old, reserved Englishman with jet-black hair. Once upon a time he was a blond. He would be again in a couple of weeks if he didn’t re-dye his hair. He studied the stubble across the taut jawline of his pale, angular face. He was lucky to be breathing after his last assignment, five days ago. The mission in Myanmar was successful—the terrorist Buddhist monk was now dead—but Ayden came that close to death.

Dark circles had formed around his watery eyes. He felt his nose starting to get stuffy. A common cold on its way; nothing an aspirin couldn’t cure.

The captain’s voice came though the intercom again. Passengers and the cabin crew were advised to return to their seats and belt up.

Ayden walked across the aisle back to his seat. He hated taking off and landing moments. In fact, he hated the whole experience of flying, period. The increase in airport security amid fears of a terrorist attack made the experience of flying worse. Fear of the plane blowing up was the least of his worries. You die, you die. It was the hassle of screening that irked him most. But it made him a savvier traveler. He had learned to wear zipper boots to expedite through security. He never kept coins in his pockets. Who enjoyed walking back and forth through the screening machine? Travel light, travel smart. That was the new motto.

The plane landed smoothly. The immigration control officer didn’t give him a second look. Ayden’s fake passport was top of the line.

Ayden passed through the barrier and walked out into the reception hall. Outside, his eyes searched for a limo driver holding a fictitious Greek name on a signboard: Demetrious Mallas.

Second row…a lean, pepper-haired man somewhere in his forties in an old, faded leather jacket and jeans. Ayden approached him.

That’s me. Ayden pointed to the signboard above the man’s head.

Welcome to Geneva, the limo driver said, pushing his way to the front. Which hotel are you staying at?

"Les Hauts de Rive." Ayden gave the name of the small establishment.

I know it. The limo driver stared at Ayden’s carry-on bag. No other luggage?

I travel light. As if it was against the law.

Please wait near the taxi stand and I’ll bring the car around, the limo driver said as he led Ayden toward the exit.

Outside, a cold draft of air blew across Ayden’s face. His winter jacket offered mild protection against the bone-chilling winds. He put on his watch cap and gloves. He felt a bit of comfort wearing them despite his nasal congestion. Above him, the semi-dark skies swirled. Darker than England? No way.

Two middle-aged men who stood nearby were discussing the pope in French. It was a hot topic in Europe whether one was Catholic or not. The pope had gone into self-imposed exile, fed up with the Vatican’s chicanery, one man said. He was murdered, the other said. It went on and on.

A woman standing outside one of the exit doors stared at Ayden. She reminded him of Mrs. Baylock, Damien Thorn’s evil governess in the old movie The Omen. Satan’s Nanny.

Satan’s Nanny wore a starched and pallid face, with straight black hair sticking out from under her hat. Her eyes were hollow and black, including the white parts. He was imagining things.

Heavyset, she stood about five feet eight inches tall and wore a felt hat and a herringbone coat over a sweater with a scarf. Her tweed skirt fell below her knees.

Satan’s Nanny cast a passing glance as she walked past him, then disappeared through one of the terminal’s entrances. Weird bitch.

The taxi pulled up to the curb. Ayden opened the back passenger door and climbed in, placing his bag on the floor. The limo driver shifted gears as he pulled out and drove at a cautious speed, keeping the vehicle steady on the slippery road. Halfway out of the airport, he turned on the radio. Static interrupted the French-language news broadcast: the road would be snow-packed and icy, making everywhere impassable. Airborne debris would accompany high winds. A hailstorm could cause structural damage. Ayden understood French, just one of the many languages he spoke.

You understand French? The limo driver looked at Ayden through the rear mirror.

No, Ayden lied.

The weather is going to be very bad for a few days, the limo driver translated the radio broadcast. Not a good time for a holiday. No skiing or other winter sports allowed.

Was the Swiss driver fishing for information? Every foreigner should know it was not a good time to visit Geneva. So why did Ayden come?

Ayden certainly wasn’t about to volunteer that he’d come to meet a Vatican proxy, who was expected to brief him further about what happened to the pope. The proxy was sent on behalf of a cardinal whose identity should be protected, and thus could not be named.

A song played after the news.

Mind turning off the radio, mate? Ayden asked, unable to tolerate the static crackling sound.

The limo driver reached out to switch it off.

Ayden picked up the black duffel bag, unzipped it, and pulled out his iPad. He removed his gloves and began scrolling on the tablet, relying on his personal and untraceable Wi-Fi device. He read the latest news updates on the pope on several news sites. Pictures showed a medium-size old man with cotton thin hair with a wrinkled and puffy face. The dark patches around the cheeks were overshadowed by his button nose, which gave him a cheerful disposition even though the man was reputed to be tough.

Pope Gregoire was born to a French cheese-making family. As a young man, he had rescued a couple in a burning car. He graduated from Sorbonne University, Paris, with a master’s degree in art and museum studies. He commenced clergy training at the Seminary of Saint Marie Majeure in Strasbourg. Later, ordained a priest, he served in South America and the Philippines. In later years he was made bishop and then the archbishop of Paris, where he subsequently vied for the papacy. The pope had a penchant for chocolate and enjoyed landscape painting. He had been trained to decipher Morse code as a boy after joining the French resistance against the Nazis. He spoke English, Italian, German, and Latin.

The limousine traveled along Cours de Rive. The shops were closed, the place deserted. According to the GPS on Ayden’s tactical watch, the car appeared to be taking a longer route than necessary.

Why are we taking a longer route to the hotel? Ayden asked, pretending to be familiar with the direction. He looked into the rear mirror. Their eyes met in reflection.

Sorry, I forgot to tell you—there is a road accident along the usual way and traffic is bad down there. The driver pointed to the message board on the dashboard. He wasn’t lying.

Okay, no worries, Ayden said, putting the iPad away.

Snow crunched under the tires as the vehicle moved along the deserted street. Ayden became conscious of a faint sound of bells. Was it the public clock or a tram’s bell? He ruled out the latter. The city was in a lockdown. No tram service today. It must’ve been the clock. Plenty of clocks and watches in this city.

The view looked the same everywhere: frost and snow covered the backdrop, even coating the spidery overhead tram wires. The groaning wind continuously brushed snow against the sidewalk. Rime clung on a bicycle chained to a street barrier outside a shop.

The sky grew darker and the driver turned on the headlights. He switched on the radio again, and they heard Andrea Bocelli’s "Con Te Partiro." The static crackling had gone away.

The vehicle stopped at a traffic light.

No other cars on the road, why even bother?

The limo driver began to cough wildly, then leaned forward and rested his head against the steering wheel, his arms flopping to the seat. He became lifeless.

Hey, what’s wrong? Ayden leaned forward and nudged the man. No response.

Ayden climbed over into the front passenger seat. He pulled the limo driver back. Hey mister—

The limo driver opened his eyes wide and turned to look at Ayden. Eyes gleaming with malice, he jabbed a syringe into Ayden’s neck.

Ayden’s shock turned to anger. He put his hand on the driver’s face and shoved hard against the door. The assailant’s head hit the window, but the impact didn’t subdue him. As they struggled, Ayden felt his eyelids grow heavy, his limbs weaker. He slumped back against the passenger door, staring at the driver. The sound of Bocelli’s song seemed to echo in his head as the world went dark.

Chapter Two

Isabelle Gaugler entered her room, closed the door, and snapped on the light. Her booking at Les Hauts de Rive had also been arranged by the mysterious Mr. Somebody . She had read about the hotel on the net. Located along Boulevard des Tranchees , it was once a family lodge. With about twenty rooms, the hotel featured a light brown exterior with green shutters closed over its arch windows. The split foyer entryway led to a curvy staircase beside an ancient traction elevator with frames, trims, and controls. From the entrance, the left side of the foyer led to a corridor with more guestrooms. The right side corridor led to the reception parlor, the kitchen, and a small washroom. The owner’s office was located opposite the reception parlor. The dining room, along the same side as the owner’s office, occupied most of the space.

Isabelle tossed her bags on the bed, unzipped her leather jacket, and hung it on the back of a chair. A single strum of the harp signaled a text message on her cell phone. She took it out from her jeans’ pocket and saw a video message. She sat on the edge of the bed and opened the file. A figure appeared wearing a Guy Fawkes mask with a hood over his head. Isabelle recognized Mr. Somebody’s voice as the message started to play.

Greetings Isabelle. You have been assigned to find the pope. The Vatican has arranged for someone to meet Ayden Tanner, your assignment partner, in Geneva. You will also be assisted by Guy Cisse. They should have checked into your hotel by now. Please liaise with them. As usual, please delete this message even though your phone is hack-proof.

She deleted the video, then sent a message to Ayden and Guy Cisse announcing her arrival and room number. Guy replied. No response from Ayden. Isabelle and Guy agreed to wait for Ayden before deciding the next step to take.

Isabelle put her cell phone on the bedside table and removed her boots before pulling the bed covers back and climbing in. Resting against the headboard, she reflected on the message from Mr. Somebody. She had a personal interest in this assignment. Born a Catholic, her faith had been shaky at times. People needed hope or they’d die. She was not ready to perish. More importantly, she needed a strong blessing. She felt dirty on the inside, and ashamed of her past. By rescuing the pope, perhaps God would forgive her.

She slid down, pulling a pillow over her head to allow blackness