Dom recoiled in his seat, his jaw agape.
“The first condition is that the space be used to create a school for children of incarcerated parents. I want to call it Resurrection House. There are a number of other contractual issues that we’re still hammering out, but the second major condition is that you serve in the role of counselor to the kids who come here.”
Dom’s scowl deepened as he tried to assemble the conversation in a way that would make the words sound as reasonable as Jonathan apparently thought they were.
“Tell me what you mean by counselor,” he said. Mostly, the question was a dodge for more time.
“You know, counselor. Lead psychologist, main confessor. The kids I want to build the school for are going to be damaged goods. They’re going to need help working through all the baggage. I think you’re the perfect guy.”
“We haven’t seen each other in years,” Dom reminded him.
“Doesn’t change anything. I’m an excellent judge of character. Anybody who could tame me during my college years can perform miracles.”
Dom recognized Jonathan’s Mr. Charming gambit, but effective as it was, he still wasn’t buying. “I’m honored,” he said, “that you would make such a marvelous donation in the first place, and that you have such faith in me to help the children. But I’m a priest, Jon. I’m not an entrepreneur. I don’t get to accept random job offers.”
Jonathan took a pull on the scotch. “I’m not suggesting that you’ll be working for me, Dom. You’ll still be working for God. For the Church. You’ll still be pastor of St. Kate’s.”
Just like that-with a thunk that only Dom could hear-a piece fell into place. “You arranged to have me brought to St. Katherine’s.”
Jonathan made a noncommittal rocking motion with his hand. “I had a conversation with the bishop, yes. Very reasonable guy. I pitched an idea and he accepted it.”
Another piece of the puzzle slid home, and as it did, Dom didn’t know whether to feel angry or complimented. “Is my participation one of the ‘contractual details’ in your donation of the property?”
Jonathan’s smile morphed into a look of concern. “You’re angry,” he said, shocked. “I thought this had you written all over it.”
“My God, Jon. I’m not an indentured servant. I don’t appreciate being traded for property. Did it occur to you to ask me?”
“I am asking you. Well, sort of. You have the right to refuse. I only pushed for you to be first choice, and frankly, the bishop agreed without argument. If you don’t want to do it, then that’s fine.”
Dom ended up accepting, of course, and it was the best thing he’d ever done. Since that day so many years ago, Dom had helped countless dozens of boys and girls deal with the trauma of separation from their families, and, in more than a few cases, with the horrors of reunion with their families. What continued to amaze Dom about that day, even through the filter of time, was how honestly clueless Jonathan had been about the difficulty he’d created. He’d seen a problem and a solution, and he’d married the two, fully confident that he was doing the right thing.
For those who understood the purity of Digger’s motives, it was hard to be angry with him. For the rest of the world, it was often hard not to be angry with him.
Today, as Dom rode the Metro’s Blue Line from Franconia-Springfield to the Smithsonian Station on the National Mall, he catalogued the various adventures that Jonathan Grave had gotten him into over the years. Looking back, he wouldn’t change a thing.
His mission this afternoon was to meet with Wolverine-Jonathan’s code name for FBI Director Irene Rivers-to get a handle on the Bureau’s version of this situation in Mexico. Historically, Irene had been as staunch an ally to Jonathan and Security Solutions as anyone could hope for. The fact that the FBI was one of the agencies calling for his arrest was beyond concerning. It was downright scary.
Irene had run interference for Jonathan’s adventures for years, helping to manufacture plausible deniability, and in at least one case intervening personally with the law enforcement process to keep the heat off Jonathan’s extra-legal activities. While her intentions weren’t always pure-often as not, she and her Bureau got credit for Jonathan’s successes-she’d always been a straight shooter. That she’d ordered his arrest without so much as an inquiring phone call had left them all baffled.
Dom traveled empty-handed as he always did for meetings like this. With nothing committed to paper, there were no records to steal or subpoena. As far as the world would be concerned-and in this case, the world consisted of curious passersby and nosy investigators-this would be a meeting between a woman and her priest. That the woman was the chief law enforcer in the United States wouldn’t matter. Official Washington might reject the utterance of God’s name, but they still respected individuals’ rights to commune with Him through his human emissaries.
He felt himself sweating through his black shirt as he climbed the subway station’s broken escalator into sunlight, and finally out into the stifling city air. Back in the day, Washington had been considered a hardship post for foreign diplomats, and it didn’t take more than three minutes in the August sunshine to understand why. Ninety-eight humidity-soaked degrees hung on his skin like a wet wool coat.
Like any summer afternoon in the District, the Mall teemed with tourists, moving in swarms toward the various museums that defined that part of the city.
He hadn’t walked twenty steps when he saw Irene on the far side of Jefferson Drive, SW, rising from a bench outside the Ripley Center, which sat adjacent to the Smithsonian Castle. Dom thought it an appropriate meeting place, given the nature of their conversation. The Ripley Center was itself a structure out of a spy novel, with an entrance that looked like a large information kiosk. The average tourist would have no idea that the kiosk led to cavernous gallery and teaching spaces underground.
Irene wore a Hillary Clinton pantsuit and sported a wide hat that sheltered her from the sun. Truthfully, it was an unusual look for her. In fact, she looked different in other ways, too, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. On either side, but separated by fifteen or twenty feet, two members of her security detail stood watch. If Irene was doing her best to remain unnoticed, the guards, with their business suits, high-and-tight haircuts, and curlicue earpieces, weren’t helping.
As Irene stood, the security guys moved in closer, and a third one materialized out of the crowd to form a kind of phalanx to escort her away from Dom and toward the black Suburban that doubled for executive limousines in these days of heightened security in Washington.
Dom stopped as he saw her leaving, and checked his watch. He was right on time. Two minutes early, in fact. She’d never stood him up before.
He raised his arm to call after her.
He stopped, though, when he was blindsided by a tourist who pushed him to the ground. Dom caught himself with his hands, but there was a good chance that he’d put a hole in the knee of his trousers.
“Oh, God, Father, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
Dom looked up to see what could only be a vacationing computer programmer. Maybe forty years old, he guy wore black-rimmed glasses, a Denver Broncos T-shirt, and cargo shorts.
“I’m so sorry. I just wasn’t watching where I was going. Here, let me help you up.” He extended a hand.
Dom waved him off as he rolled to a sitting position on the ground. “No, I’m fine. No harm done.” Good news: his trousers were still intact.
“Let me help you up, Father D’Angelo,” the man said in a barely audible voice.
Dom’s head snapped up at the sound of his name. Something changed behind the tourist’s eyes. It wasn’t frightening, exactly, but there was a look of urgency.