Chapter IV
Chapter 18

On the outskirts of Barcelona, in what looked to be a small Hospital building, a gardener was kneeling towards a row of small hedges, doing what he could to maintain the facade.

IT LOOKED LIKE IT could have been a small school, or a boarding house for wayward children. The layout was simple. The building was a wide rectangle. It was two stories, with windows on both floors. There was a main entrance that was stepped out from the building by a few meters. A couple of brick columns accented the front doors, and all of it was brown and grey brick.

In each of the windows were the tiny crosshatched pieces of metal thread. That was the kind of glass that kept the visitors inside, visiting . . . even if they didn’t want to be there.

Pena drove slowly up the dirt road, gently meandering from side to side, dodging the potholes. “I would have brought the Landrover had I known what kind of roads we were . . .” he paused. “It’s a school?”

“Patience, my inquisitive friend.”

Pena brought the car to a stop as the gardener slowly turned and narrowed his eyes at the approaching vehicle. Pena noticed that the man was large and solid. He stood about six feet tall, possibly taller, with blue, faded overalls and dark tanned skin—almost like leather. He strong in that way that lumber jacks and boiler technicians are. Not steroid-big; years of bleeding hand labor big. Pena glanced down at his pistol. He hadn’t even needed to pull it out earlier, when they had questioned the fence at the travel agency.

The man had been more than cooperative. Pena had learned that there were some very expensive ‘documents’ being sold through various secretive sources. And yes, it was religious in nature.

Marco noticed his reluctance. “Bring it.” They looked at each other.

“I’m not saying that these people will give us any trouble, but . . . you know . . . God helps those who help themselves.”

Pena nodded and then went through his little drill of ejecting the magazine, adding an extra round, and then re-inserting the magazine. This allowed him to have the fifteen that were normally in the magazine, plus the extra that was currently in the chamber. Unlike in movies, you don’t wait until you are at the threshold of danger to chamber a round. That really cool ‘click-click’ sound that a slide makes when it is pulled and released can be heard from fifty yards away.

Click-click.

Pena looked up. “What are we dealing with, here?”

“This is a place where insane priests used to be,” Marco made his fingers into little ‘quotes.’ “Housed . . . for their own protection, of course.”

“Sure,” Pena remarked, “goes without saying.”

“Follow my lead.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Slowly they both got out of the car and stretched, as if they were just tourists here from a long journey. And really, that was kind of true.

The gardener stood, appraising these two trespassers. His eyes were large and wild, with an almost sky blue color to them. He had a thick mange of white, curly hair, and a rough mustache that didn’t grow evenly.

“Habeis le visto la signo, alIa?” the old man asked slowly.

Have you seen the sign over there?

Marco put on his best smile, “Si, si, but we are not trespassers, my friend. We have come to talk to Enrique.”

The gardener was silent, considering his words. “You . . . you are a friend of Mr. Anes?”

“Yes, yes. We are very close friends.”

“When was the last time you spoke to him?” The gardener asked as he set down the small plastic bucket of water he had been using to breathe life into the bushes.

Marco rounded the car, and Pena walked slowly forward, meeting him at the front of the vehicle. Pena gave Marco that ‘following-your-lead’ nod.

“It has been a couple of months, I must confess,” Marco said apologetically. The Gardner looked both of them up and down and then said, “Must have been longer than that . . .”

“Oh?”

“He died three months ago.”

Marco lowered his head. “Oh, oh God. I’m so sorry. I, nobody told me. “ Marco approached the gardener and held up his hands in surrender. Pena stayed at the car. “How long have you been working here?”

“Fifteen, almost sixteen years.”

Marco studied the gardener, and there was something familiar about him.

“I would have thought . . . I know you, don’t I?”

“Very doubtful. I would have remembered somebody like you . . .” and then the gardener seemed to have some recognition. “How did you come to know of this place, and of Enrique?”

Marco brushed his hands over his head. It was starting to get quite warm, and beads of sweat were forming allover his body. “We were here, together— Enrique and I. We were roommates, so to speak.”

The gardener stared silently, motionless. He tried to remember. There was an image in his mind, and it was getting clearer. “My name is Diego Floressa. I helped him take care of this place after it was ‘officially’ closed back in ninety-six.”

“Mr. Floressa, you used to be bigger,” Marco stuttered.

“I have always been this size. You were much smaller back then . . . Marco.” Slowly the two men embraced. “I wondered if we would ever hear from you again. It has been a long time.”

“Too long, old friend. Too long.”

The separated and Diego asked, “So, who is this that you’ve brought with you? A writer, or a journalist, perhaps?”

“No, no. This is a good friend of mine. His name is Antonio Pena. He is an investigator that has been researching the recent . . . unpleasantness.” Marco raised his eyebrows, “If you—”

“Yes, I know all too well,” Diego replied. “I think it might very well be related to Enrique’s death.”

Marco took a step back and looked Diego up and down. “You sure you haven’t lost a couple of inches . . . you looked so much bigger back then.”

“I have been doing my Pee-ninety-Ex, DVDs. The weight literally melts away.” He smiled, “Bring your friend, come inside. We’ll need to talk over some coffee. I would also like to show you something that I found in Enrique’s things.”

“What is it?”

Inside a small, grey metal, locked box Diego’s weather cured hands plunged. He was sitting at a modest wooden desk that looked like a teacher had once stacked her apples on it as the students filed into class. But there were to be no apples today.

“So what have you found, Diego?” Marco asked politely. He had remembered Diego being a large, intimidating man. One of the caretakers of the ‘inn.’

He had a heart though. It was buried beneath a gruff exterior. He had been especially protective of a few of the smaller children—the children who would eventually be brought into the church.

“I think it would be easier to show you, than to explain. If I could even explain,” he said as he layout several photographs. On each sheet of glossy paper were four smaller, brown pages. There were all sorts of strange markings on them.

Marco came forward, as did Pena. Marco lowered his face to within inches of the prints, no more than five individual sheets.

Pena shrugged. “It’s all Greek to me.”

Marco cocked his head to the left, eyeing Pena. “Closer than you think.”

“What are they . . . I mean,” Pena lowered his head, squinting, “what do they say?”

Marco looked up and his eyes met Diego’s. There was concern on his face, and on Diego’s there was bridled awe. It was as if they had stumbled onto something very important and unbelievable . . . and neither wanted to say it out loud in case that wasn’t true.

“Marco,” Pena said, slapping him on the shoulder, “what are we looking at? The suspense is killing me.”

Marco turned to Pena, and stood up strait. “These are photographs of some documents that are not supposed to exist.”

“They’re rare?”

“The nineteen fifty-three speckled owl stamp is rare,” Diego said, trying to create the level of awe that was due. “These are in a completely different class,” Marco explained, taking a deep breath. “These are the Prophesies of Jesus.” He let the words sink in.

Pena didn’t seem impressed. “The prophecies that you’ve been telling me about for the last couple of days?”

“It would seem so, yes.” Marco looked over at Diego, “Where exactly did you replace them?”

“They arrived in the mail a few days after he was . . . after he passed on.”

Diego went on to explain how Enrique died—a sudden insulin coma that was brought on by God only knows. Marco had asked if somebody might have ‘heart-attacked’ him. Diego was unsure, but it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

Pena had started asking questions from the beginning. “What is this place, exactly?”

Diego started, “The ‘inn’ as we call it was a living facility for two groups of people. The first were elderly priests—”

“Catholics, and Jesuits,” Marco interjected.

“That’s night. And they were mentally, ah . . . deficient. Nervous breakdowns, panic disorders, drug addictions. Insane men lived out their days here in an environment that respected their need for discretion.”

“Or forced that discretion?” Pena insinuated.

Diego shrugged, “That’ s probably closer to the truth. At any rate, the insane priests were brought here and cared for.”

“Were they all insane, or were some of them chemically arrested and suppressed? I mean, how many of them were put here to get them out of the way?”

“Many,” Marco said bluntly. “Many. But that is only one side of this facilities purpose. The second aim was to provide a feeder into the church, and by the church I’m saying the Jesuit order. The Alumbrados.”

“The Illuminati,” Pena said as both Marco and Diego nodded. “This ‘become a Jesuit’ program. What was it, a boarding school?”

“Explain

“In a sense, yes,” Diego confirmed. “We had children. Many gifted children. Mathematics, physics, languages . . . if they were geniuses on any number of levels they would end up here, preparing them for their eventual role in The Vatican.”

“Their parents were unaware that they were inducted into this Program,” Marco said.

“Most of them thought their children were killed in some freak accidents, or died of disease at the hospital. There were arrangements made throughout Europe. And in addition to this inn, there are three others. One in England, one in France . . . and one in Italy. There are a few smaller programs in effect throughout the world. Some are as far away as South and Central America, and even some very guarded facilities in the United States.

“And this is what you’ve been trying to tell me about?” Penal said with a tired breath.

“So,” Pena turned to Diego. “You were one of the . . . guards?”

Diego smiled thinly, and a sad look came over his face. “1 kept the children safe from the others. From the bad ones.”

“But you were in on it. You were one of the bad ones,” Pena said almost accusingly.

Diego nodded. “I was a product of the same system. I was raised here, then sent to Italy to further my studies. I had wanted to tear this place down when I initially left, but then . . . you know . . . they get inside your head, I found myself rationalizing what they were doing. I almost became a part of the machine.”

Diego looked to be near tears, and that was in stark contrast to his size and presence. “But I decided to work for another organization.

A secret organization within the Jesuits. An organization that was designed to keep the Jesuits in line. We kept tabs on all of the children. Made sure they were cared for. We watched and we waited.”

“What were you waiting for? You have a bunch of kidnapped little kids. This doesn’t sound that far off of the slavery story that you,” Pena motioned his hand over toward Marco, “were giving me last week.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Marco answered. “Nobody knows all of the locations of the ‘inns.’ Everything is compartmentalized so that there can be no leaks.”

“So where do you come in, Marco?”

“He was one of my boys. I took care of Marco, Enrique, and several other young children. I made sure that they had at least one person who knew where to replace them help. I would work with them, in private of course, explaining the realities of what was about to happen to them. They were small children, yes, but they were gifted. I would induct them into our own organization within an organization.”

“This is beginning to smell like a Russian proverb. I mean,” Pena took a breath, “how many secret groups, within secret groups can you have?”

“As many as it takes,” Diego said.

“I was originally at this location, in Spain, but I met other children who had been from other inns. One of the boys I met was possibly the most brilliant human being to walk the earth in the last two-hundred years. His name is Thomas . . .” Marco pointed to the prints or the desk. “And these are his work. He is a translator, and it is his job to take the ‘works’ as they are called, and decipher them. He works in a facility that is underneath the Vatican.”

“And how do you know that?” Pena asked, still not completely convinced. Then again, who would be?

Marco nodded. It was a fair question. “I was a part of a special group called the Ustachi. I was an, uh . . . a contractor—”

“What kind of contractor, Marco? Did you build homes, do plumbing, what?”

“Perhaps assassin is more appropriate. I was an assassin for the Jesuits . . . and indirectly for the Vatican. There were only thirteen of us, and we were trusted with all matters both horrible and breath taking. We were allowed to investigate anyone inside the Vatican, for anything.”

“Investigate what?”

“Anything. That’s the point. It was our discretion. On a whim we could enter a priest’s home and search. Without permission we would deal out the legislations of the Black Pope. The real Pope. He is the real power behind the Vatican. The Pope, John Paul the second, or third, or fiftieth . . . doesn’t matter. The Black Pope runs the Roman Catholic church on this planet.”

“Great, let’s call him, and hall his ass in,” Pena quipped.

Diego and Marco didn’t look amused.

Pena relented, “I’m kidding, obviously.”

“These are the work of Thomas . . . and I believe that these are being sold out from the Vatican. Many collectors would pay untold sums to have the original script.”

“Why do you think it’s the work of your friend, and not some other translator? Could be any of them. I assume there are others, yes?”

“Our information is that there are five or six of them, but that trey were only having success with Thomas. It’s almost as if he is plugged into the same frequency that Jesus was.” Both Marco and Diego crossed themselves.

It looked kind of fanatical and dorky to Pena. He rolled his eyes.

“You two are working together?” Pena asked.

“Both Marco and Enrique were doing similar jobs for our group. Have been for many years. They are like our intelligence bureau.”

“And how many of you are there, secret-secret-double secret agents?”

Diego bit lightly on his bottom lip. “There were five of us . . . now only four.”

Pena laughed sadly. “I suppose you don’t see the odds as being against you?”

“We are doing God’s work, Antonio,” Marco said as he stiffened. They both seemed to brighten, as if pride was coursing through their veins like a fresh shot of methamphetamine.

“So, if you two know each other . . . why didn’t you recognize each other?”

“Because we haven’t seen each other, face to face, for nearly thirty years.”

“Twenty-nine years and seven months, four days, two hours, and oh . . . forty or so minutes. Give or take,” Diego said. “It depends how long it took for us to talk out front and then walk in here, and when I started the coffee—”

Pena threw up his hands in surrender. “Ok. We’re not in court, yet.” He then considered his words, trying to be logical about this seemingly nonsensical religious babble that he was starting to replace too interesting and convenient to ignore. “So . . what do we do now?”

“We need to rescue Thomas,” Diego said matter-of-factly.

“From the Vatican?” Pena said jokingly. But they weren’t laughing.

He looked at Diego, then at Marco. “That’s your plan . . . the three of us go gallivanting across Europe to rescue some whiz-kid brainiac named Thomas?”

“Well,” Diego said, “I have to stay here. They’d recognize me in an instant. It will have to be you, Mr. Pena. But Marco will provide you with all of the information. He will go all the way to the doorstep with you. Prepare you to the fullest. But you are unknown to them. You can go places that we cannot.”

“Besides,” Marco added, “We know a back door.”

Pena looked at both of them—Marco, Diego, Marco, Diego—waiting for them to start laughing or giggle, or at least smirk. But nope. What he got were somber, expectant eyes. Somehow they weren’t kidding. This insanity was getting thicker. “You two are taking crazy pills, right? If I buy into your madness, and I’m not saying that I do, but if I did . . . it’s us against the Vatican, and you guys can’t even go the distance . . .” he turned his head from side to side. “Now way this is going to work. I can’t just take a vacation and go kidnap an employee of the Vatican. My badge only protects me so much. I’m not above the law.”

“It can work,” Diego said semi-confidently. He glanced over at Marco, they both nodded to each other. “Definitely, it can work.”

“This really seems like a terrible plan,” Pena said. “Not that it’s really a plan. More of a vision. Look, I can’t go to Rome. I have a job. I can’t be chasing down old scripts and doing all of this crazy stuff. I have responsibilities.”

“What if I gave you a reason you couldn’t ignore?” Marco posed.

Pena folded his arms across his chest, “Go on.”

“What if I told you that Thomas was your older brother?”

“I don’t have an older brother,” Pena said, rolling his eyes. They were really grasping at straws.

“Yes, but if you did . . . wouldn’t you do anything to help him?” Diego added.

Pena looked at the two of them, so much hope and desperation in their faces. “And nobody else can do this? It has to be me?”

“It must be you, Antonio,” Marco confirmed. “It has to be you.”

Pena closed his eyes, shaking his head, nodding, shaking it again, as if he was having a silent conversation with an invisible person. Suddenly his eyes opened, “How important is this in the scheme of the world?”

“This is the biggest secret. Bigger, perhaps,” Diego said with reverence.

“This will never work. I’ll be caught within minutes and end up in an Italian prison.” Pena paused, sighing, and finally he nodded.

“Will you’ll help us . . . help us save our friend?” Diego pleaded.

Pena didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, or scream. So he just said, “Sure.” He threw his hands on top of his head. This was without a doubt the craziest thing of all time. Ever.

Marco walked forward, as did Diego. They traded proud nods, and then they both shook Pena’s hand.

“Just tell me one thing,” Pena begged.

Both of the secret religious agents waited with baited breath, eager to answer anything. “What do those prophecies say? What is written about the future?”

All four of their eyes searched embarrassingly around the room.

“Marco?” Pena said.

“Ahh, well. . . . truth is that we don’t know.”

“Wait, what?” Pena said frustrated. “But you two are super-secret Einsteins, right? You guys are supposed to know all of this stuff.”

“I was an investigator,” Marco gave as his explanation.

Diego shrugged and smiled, “My specialty was numbers . . . not linguistics.”

“Well, I believe in God now,” Pena said.

Marco looked skeptical, “Why all the sudden?”

“Because you two couldn’t have made it this far without some divine intervention.”

“Thank you,” Marco replied.

“It was hardly a compliment.”

“Tomato, potato.”

And so they began. They had a great deal of planning to do. There was much more to be explained about the ‘Inns,’ their various locations, and their sordid guestbook. Pena wanted everything because, unlike them, he would still have to answer to his boss . . . and she would not be so benign with him as he had been with them.

“I’m probably going to get fired . . . and end up in a place like this.”

Marco put a gentle hand on Pena’s shoulder. Then he nodded, “Probably . . . but you’ll be doing God’s work.”

“Will, I’ve got that going for me, now don’t I?”