Sanctuary of Sins Read online

  Sanctuary of Sins

  Roger Kazanowski

  Copyright © 2019 Roger Kazanowski

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781677245550

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to the people in our lives who sacrificed to give others opportunities not always afforded to themselves. To Busia and Honest John — you’ll always be missed and loved.

  Prologue

  Dressed in a black tailored sport jacket, white silk blouse and jeans, blonde hair flowing over her sculpted shoulders, she caught many eyes as she approached the Vatican. While most tourists entered the basilica casually, Anne Lawrence was ushered in through a gate protected by royal guards.

  She followed the guards down a narrow, dimly lit hallway. Though she’d had a versatile career, she’d never been in a building like this one. The walls were adorned with regal-looking paintings in intricately carved gold frames, a marble bust placed on a gleaming pedestal every few yards. In its way, it was beautiful. But aside from the tinny echoing of footsteps, a spectral quietness haunted the halls.

  Anne was silently escorted into a room that seemed unusually stark by Vatican standards. There were no windows—just two small lamps in the corners. With only a table and two chairs, it reminded Anne of the interrogation rooms she was familiar with from her past career. She took a calming breath. It was a discomfort she was strangely comfortable with.

  Her instincts automatically had her calculating exit options. With a background in intelligence work, Anne had been trained to remain acutely aware of the space around her—a skill that prevented her from relaxing much. Her colleagues had always remarked that when she sat down, her back was as stiff as a board. She sat in an armchair and crossed her legs. Her back was ramrod straight, her hands perfectly still.

  The guards left the room and closed the door. Anne glanced around for something to fix her attention on, but there was nothing. Nothing but her own thoughts. It was a move she knew well. Whoever she was meeting with today was keeping her waiting on purpose—a power play. Well, she could wait.

  Though this contract carried with it a significant sum, Anne was beginning to think maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. She had been offered large contracts in the past, and they always spelled out the same serious risks and controversy. Their tactic was working, she realized—the longer she waited, the more uneasy she became. After all, what could the Catholic Church need a professional of her capabilities for? Something scandalous. Something… dangerous.

  She straightened her back even more, to the very brink, and tried to think positively; even if this meeting didn’t go according to plan, at least she was flown first class to Rome and booked at an upscale hotel. If nothing else, the trip would be a nice break from her demanding routine. She could look at it as a vacation of sorts. If the job fell through, maybe she’d even do some shopping. See a movie. Did people still see movies in Rome?

  The door creaked open. Slowly stepping into the room was a middle-aged man in a black priest’s robe with thinning gray hair and dark rimmed glasses. He took the chair in front of Anne, his forehead creased with permanent lines of concern.

  “Hello, Ms. Lawrence,” he said with a curt nod.

  Anne shifted in her chair. “Hello, sir.”

  “You were selected after many discussions and reviews by certain members of the U.S. security services. Your background certainly verifies your capabilities. Frankly, you seem perfect for what it is you’ll be tasked with.”

  How could a background of Anne’s nature possibly be “perfect” for the headquarters of the Roman Catholic Church, a religion founded on mercy and peace?

  “Is that so,” she said calmly.

  The priest looked down at some papers on the table. “Anne Lawrence: One of the top special forces commanders before her time with the CIA and most recently the International Terrorism Agency, where she was one of eight women who reported directly to Director Brett Paterson. Her philosophy is to verify the problem, reverify the problem, then eliminate the problem.” He glanced back up at Anne. “This is all true, I presume.”

  Anne stiffened. “Yes.”

  “I’ll be your only contact throughout this program. I can assure you; these very skills will be essential going forward.”

  Anne frowned. “Father—if that’s what you are—what exactly does my contract entail?”

  He drew a sharp breath. “As I’m sure you’re aware, the Church lost two female priests by assassination a couple of years ago. Since that time almost 1,200 new female priests have been ordained, with many more now in seminaries. There are still those within these sacred walls who believe women should never have entered the priesthood.” He paused for dramatic effect. “A plan is being put in place to murder female priests in hopes it will make others quit. Your background indicates you can help put a stop to this… situation.”

  The priest glanced up at Anne with anxious eyes, but she remained unresponsive. She needed to hear more before she agreed to anything. “It’ll be your responsibility to find out who’s planning this and put a stop to it,” continued the priest. “On the face of it, you’ll be a consultant appointed by the papal office handling international marketing strategies with regard to the pedophile problems. Of course, due to the delicate nature of the actual issue, you’ll have access to all Vatican offices and affairs. How you eventually deal with these individuals will be solely up to you. You have the support of the highest levels of the Church. Any ill-wanted exposure will be denied by the clergy, of course.”

  “Of course,” Anne repeated.

  Anne had “dealt with” her fair share of criminal masterminds. The process itself was actually quite simple. Verify. Reverify. Eliminate. No emotions involved. But the idea of someone plotting the brutal murders of hardworking, revolutionary women… Anne couldn’t quite suppress her emotions. Anger rose like bile in her throat, hot and urgent and painful. She leveled her eyes on the priest. “How many?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “How many female priests do these people intend to kill?”

  He lifted his hands, whispered, “Hundreds.”

  Anne nodded silently. Terrorists, then. Of the highest order. Considered one of the most respected experts in the field, Anne was compensated well. By all accounts, she was successful—career-wise, at least. She had no need to take on such a risky, high-profile case as this one. She could pass, go back to her comfortable apartment in the States, and wait for a less risky assignment. She looked up. “When do I begin?”

  CHAPTER one

  Since her appointment as the archbishop of the Detroit diocese five years earlier, Charlotte’s international reputation had turned her into a religious rock star. There hadn’t been so much attention paid to a Catholic priest since Pope John Paul took his oath many years earlier.

  Her popularity had its upsides—it meant increased attendance and revenue across the diocese. But it also had its downsides—the old boys’ club of bishops and cardinals remained worried that female priests could one day dominate the decision-making processes in Rome, a breaking of tradition they refused to accept.

  Archbishop Kotlinski’s day started like most others: Early morning prayer, breakfast, and mass services at The Sweetest Heart of Mary’s cathedral in Detroit. The cathedral was her personal favorite, as it was her first-ever assignment in the Church. Built in the late 1800s by Polish immigrants, the structure was impressive, with gold leaf pillars, marble altars, ornate stained-glass windows and high vaulted callings. A visitor would think themselves in Europe. But Charlotte knew better; all this splendor was home.

  As she completed mass, her assistant Monsignor Kay hurriedly approached her. “Your excellency, we just received a call from Bishop Sanche
z in Rome. He requested you call him as soon as possible.” Though her voice was low, her blue eyes were worried. “He wouldn’t tell me the reason for the call.”

  Charlotte frowned at the news. She had visited Pope Peter Paul, now in his 80s, a few months earlier and knew he wasn’t in good health. Her heart dropped—perhaps something had happened. The world was expecting it, but still, the news would be devastating.

  “Thanks. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” Charlotte said.

  Kay smiled weakly and nodded as Charlotte headed for her office, where Kay promptly patched her through to the pope’s assistant.

  “Good morning, Bishop Sanchez,” Charlotte said, loosening her white collar. “How are you?”

  It was 4:00 p.m. in Rome; Charlotte knew the bishop had already had a full day. “Your excellency, I know you were just here a few months ago for a papal visit, but His Holiness would like to know if you could come back at your convenience for another visit.”

  Charlotte’s heart sank. She knew this was code for Catch the next flight to Rome.

  “I’ll be on tonight’s flight. Let His Holiness know he’s in all our prayers.”

  Her stomach tightened as she set the phone down. His heart. It must be his heart. His Holiness was not only her biggest supporter, but that of all the female priests. With a new pontiff in office, the politics could change virtually overnight.

  Charlotte stood and grabbed her jacket—she had to hurry home and pack for what may be her last visit with Peter Paul, the man who changed her life—and the world—forever.

  That evening, Charlotte was chauffeured to the Metropolitan Detroit Airport. Dressed in layman’s clothes to stay as anonymous as possible, she leaned back in her seat on the plane, eager to catch up on some rest. Before her eyes closed, she thought again of Peter Paul. She recalled the day he appointed her to Vicar so long ago, his smile genuine, his eyes trusting. He took a huge risk for her, put his own life at stake. No one had ever trusted her that way before. No one had ever believed in her that way.

  No one except John.

  CHAPTER two

  At the Neumann Gallery located in the posh town of Birmingham, James Neumann was preparing for an opening night exhibit of ornate glass pieces provided by some of the country’s top artists. As he adjusted them on their pedestals, the small figurines held gingerly in his fingers, a voice came from behind him.

  “Wow, James. It’s probably been a long time since you’ve been on your knees doing anything!”

  Recognizing the voice, James smiled and twisted around. “I don’t believe it. Look who’s here honoring me with his presence. Mr. Adams, how the hell are you, my dear friend? It’s been months since this world-famous artist has been here!”

  John grinned, leaning close to examine the art as James got to his feet and dusted himself off. With threads of color suspended within the clear glass, the pieces were pretty, though John didn’t quite understand sculpture. He doubted the artist could possibly experience the same freedom in creating such precise, delicate shapes that John did while painting, the tangled cords of his mind coming loose on the canvas. “The last gallery I’d ever forget about is yours, James. How are you doing? Any fun things going on here at the Neumann?”

  John was James’ prized client, now one of the world’s premier artists, with his pieces selling in the seven-figure range. With a rare Sunday afternoon to himself, John knew he had to go see James. It had been far too long.

  James shoved his hands in his pockets and shook his head, his face still creased with a wide smile. “Just keeping myself involved in the great art markets of the world. How are Maria and the girls?”

  John examined the other pieces as he spoke. “Oh, life’s good… very good. Alka and Kayla are growing like weeds. Maria’s wonderful. Besides playing wife and mom, she’s still at Gardelli Produce. Tony’s getting older, but like any Italian businessman, they’ll find him dead at his desk one day, a glass of scotch balanced on his knee.”

  James chuckled. “I assume he’s still involved in the Italian, eh, Social Club? Thank God—just think what could’ve happened to the pope, and Catholicism!—if it weren’t for Tony and his contacts. Things do seem to be a bit calmer in Rome, though Peter Paul’s getting up there.”

  John nodded. “As far as I know, everybody is doing just fine.” He clapped his hands together. He hated talking about those days, so full of hatred and fear.

  “Spoken to Charlotte lately?” James asked.

  John hesitated. “No, I haven’t, and I feel terrible saying so. Between the family and exhibits, I’ve been pulled in too many directions. All good though. I’ll find some time to go see her; I certainly owe it to her.”

  “Not to change the subject, but how many pieces are they expecting at the Hilgers?”

  John grinned. He knew James couldn’t help talking about his real passion: Art. “They requested 14, but we settled on 12. Ten are completed and the last two almost done.” John took a deep breath and leaned against the wall behind him, taking in this old gallery where it all started. “James, and I want to say this as humbly as possible: would you have ever believed what my paintings are selling for now? Way over the top. But most importantly, people seem to really enjoy the work I’m creating.” John shook his head, still in awe of his success. “I don’t get it. Some artists spend their entire lives crafting masterpieces, but they die penniless. Why me? How come I got…. discovered?”

  “Because your work is different, John. It speaks to people.”

  “So does the next guy’s.”

  James eyed him thoughtfully. “This is precisely the conversation you should have with Charlotte. Or with God. But always remember that without your old buddy Michael forcing your work down my throat, I’d be kicking myself for the rest of my gallery career. I could never apologize enough for being so naive.”

  “Oh, don’t ever worry about that.” John waved his hand. “Finding a new talent is truly finding a needle in a haystack, and until Charlotte stimulated me in a new direction, I may have starved by now.” He chuckled. “You had every right to avoid my work—I didn’t even like it. By the way, how’s Frank doing?” Frank McGann was John’s first art collector.

  “I just had dinner with him and his wife last week at Orchard Lake. He asked about you and would love to get together when you’re available. I’d invite you to tomorrow’s opening, but with your popularity, I’m afraid you’d distract from the exhibiting artists!”

  John snickered.

  “Don’t worry, I’m taking the girls over to the Gardellis’ for dinner. It’s hard keeping the grandparents away from the girls, and vice versa. Once I get them all together, I just sit back and enjoy the show.”

  James extended his hand, and John shook it firmly.

  “You’ve got yourself a wonderful family,” James said. “Enjoy it.”

  ✽✽✽

  When Charlotte’s flight landed at Leonardo da Vinci International Airport, she was met at the gate by an unsmiling Bishop Sanchez. His dark, thinning hair was flattened to his head, his eyes low and serious.

  Charlotte’s heart began to pound in her throat.

  “Bishop, what are you doing here? I mean, it’s a pleasant surprise, but—”

  “Your excellency, I’m afraid His Holiness isn’t well. He’d like to see you as soon as possible.”

  “Now?”

  Bishop Sanchez grabbed her bags and hurried off, gesturing her to follow.

  A Vatican City limousine was waiting outside, along with two Carabinieri motorcycles. Charlotte would have preferred a cab. She ran her fingers through her dry, knotty hair during the ride and tried to rub the sleep from her eyes. Rome flashed by the windows, all around her the cacophony of honking horns.

  Immediately upon entering the Vatican gates, Charlotte was escorted to the papal chambers, where Pope Peter Paul was sitting at his desk, waiting for her. Charlotte could immediately see the frailty in his body and his tired eyes. He sat slumped over the desk, writin
g signatures with cramped, gnarled hands. But even his pain could not prevent him from smiling when he saw Charlotte standing in the doorway.

  “Your Holiness, it’s so good to see you,” she panted after the brisk walk. “You’ve been in my daily prayers.” Charlotte bent to one knee and reached for the pope’s hand, lightly kissing the papal ring.

  “Please, Charlotte,” Peter Paul said with a warm smile, “sit down. I apologize for such short notice. However, I felt this was important. Things seem to be very quiet on the western front with regard to our female priests.”

  Charlotte nodded; she could see that the pope knew more than he was letting on. She sat down across from him, her mind buzzing with questions. If it wasn’t his health, then what? What could it possibly be this time?

  “I requested you fly in overnight for a specific reason. It’s no secret that my health is declining; I’m an old man. Quite honestly, I’d be surprised if you and I have this same opportunity to meet a year from now.”