What if the US Central Intelligence Agency and the Vatican knew there was secret advanced technology from an alien civilization in Iraq before the United States invaded it? What if the invasion and its “Weapons of Mass Destruction” excuse was a ruse? What if this technology is needed to save the Earth? What if our planet has barely twenty-five years left before mankind has to face an ancient race of awesome and terrible power?
Katrina and I rip out of Oak Grove’s main gate like a bat outta’ Hell. The yellow Porsche gleams in the morning sun as I work through the gears and my brain overloads on that distinctive jet-engine whine of a supercharged, opposed-cylinder racing six. The car is a marvel – an almost suicidal, paradoxical blend of raw power and sophisticated handling. I struggle to get a handle on it and keep the motor revolutions per minute inside a conservative range lest my intoxication with the machine gets out of hand and we wind up wrapped around a tree or road abutment. It’s automotive Viagra. A little blue pill on wheels. Three turns out of Southampton and we’re on Sunrise Highway heading to Hicksville and St. Ignatius Loyola Church. We can taste salty foam off the Atlantic Ocean through our open windows and the cold winds that buffet us are bracing. In the rear view mirror I can see a black BMW at a discrete distance – Franco and three soldatos are never far away, just in case. Katrina’s idea, naturally.
Soon we’re pulling onto the grounds of St. Ignatius Loyola Church, a beautiful white-faced stucco edifice with perfectly manicured lawns and shrubbery. It’s movie set for wedding scenes – just driving up to the front double doors you can just imagine how many optimistic young couples walked out of them and were pelted with handfuls of rice and cheers of well wishes. It’s got an old-timey, comforting look about it. A resolute and traditional place where God might visit now and again.
I’ve called ahead. Monsignor Aherne was delighted to hear that some – in his mind – rich lawyer from Southampton is wanting to make a thousand dollar donation to his parish. He sounds like a typical Jesuit – a hail-fellow-well-met type that’s worldly in ways the Dominicans could never comprehend. His course voice probably signals an over-fondness for scotch whisky and tobacco. Aherne jumps all over himself saying he’ll be “available all morning”. Yes, the good Monsignor is just the man I want to see.
We park the Porsche right in front of the church steps – and sure enough, there’s Monsignor Aherne standing on the worn stone slabs chain smoking Marlboros. He’s kind of stooped over and bedraggled – looking every inch a Jesuit Priest that’s lived a fast life. Thinning white hair. Big, florid and pockmarked face. He’s not wearing a cassock, or a stole, or a chasuble……….just rumpled black pants, broke-down business shoes and a wrinkled black suit jacket. At least he’s wearing his “Roman Collar” shirt with the little white patch poking out. If not for that one formality, I’d think he was a door-to-door salesman who’d just been given the bum’s rush. I exit the car and walk around to get Katrina’s door – she looks so special, I can’t help myself. We head towards Father Aherne and I extend my hand,
“Monsignor Aherne!! Thank you so very much for meeting us here today!!” I rather raucously bellow, grabbing hold of his hand. I’ve been to enough Irish bars to know the greeting voice this guy is gonna’ respond to. Katrina just smiles.
“I’m Jon Croft – may we speak inside your lovely Church?”
He leads the way. The doors open up to a magnificently appointed church at least a hundred years old or more. Dark wooden carved surfaces are everywhere as well as splendid oaken columns supporting a ceiling of lattice-work beams. Priceless stained-glass windows surround the congregation and an impressive main isle leads up to a traditional heavy Roman altar draped in regal-red eucharistic linens. It’s a place of worship built in a more pious time for Long Islanders that were probably immigrants from Europe. People of pride and faith, true believers who brought their freshly scrubbed children to make their First Holy Communions and Confirmations, get married and confess their all too banal sins.
I notice Confessionals to the left and start wandering – hand-in-hand with Katrina – in that direction, commenting on the beauty and majesty of the whole structure. Father Aherne is overwhelmed by my admiration of his Church, but he’s a wily ‘cuss and his curiousity about why our meeting is so “Urgent” has piqued his curiousity. I reach in my pocket and produce my money envelope. His Irish eyes are smiling….
“Monsignor Aherne, might I offer this meager gift of one thousand dollars to your fine Parish – to be used in your absolute discretion…..no receipts are necessary.”
The Priest stops walking and accepts my gift with aplomb, breaking into an impish grin and once again clasping my hand. But I can tell this shrewd Mick smells a quid-pro-quo.
“Why thank you! St. Ignatius Loyola Parish can certainly use your gift for God’s work…..perhaps, there is something I can do for you?”
Our voices are reverberating throughout the impressive church – which itself is redolent with years of Holy Mass candles, incense and that certain something that remains behind when men and women pray fervently and desperately for deliverance from tragedy and want. There’s an almost palpable spiritual essence in the place that bears down on us like a mantle. I consider my words carefully. It is, after all, God’s House.
We wander a bit more, appreciating the sights and smells of the place. Then I stop and gently touch Aherne’s elbow. He’s still holding the envelope I’ve given him.
“I’m so sorry!! How clumsy of me! Have I introduced you to my lovely Katrina……”
She’s standing right next to me. I gently lift Katrina’s left hand to my lips, careful to showcase her Varang tatoo – a distinctive, Byzantine-ornate Orthodox crucifix – to the Monsignor.
His eyes instantly open wide as he takes notice of the mark. He seems to waver but then collects himself a bit and tries to act gracious. I sense a veiled disdain, a whiff of ridicule for the Orthodox crucifix – bringing back memories of snarky comments a couple of Dominican clergy professors made to me back when I attended a very Roman Catholic University Law School in New Jersey. Knowing I was Russian Orthodox they’d call on me to answer a question, broadcasting to the full lecture hall of students, “Ahhhh, yes! Let’s see what our Orthodox schismatic – our heretic friend here has to say!!!” Even the Jewish guys got a chuckle outta’ that one. A Muslim student was appalled.
“Ah….yes….Katrina. How very nice to meet you…” His hands are now visibly shaking. He knows who Varang are. And he’s scared.
I dive right in. I’m hoping to buy this guy’s voluntary help – I’d hate to get more insistent.
“Monsignor Aherne. In January of this year Katrina and I attended a black-tie event at old St. Joseph’s Church in Philadelphia – which is, as you know, the oldest Jesuit Church in the United States. It’s Jesuit Superior, Monsignor Devereau, spent quite some time with us – and he made a special point of introducing us to a very important guest – The Comte de la Mer, Aziel Pindar.
I pause for effect and to see if my mention of Pindar’s name has any impact. Sure enough – his hands are now shaking even more noticeably. He’s scowling. Offended. His eyes scream “How dare you…..?” but his lips are pasted shut.
Will my meager donation to your parish allow me one favor? Will you get word to Monsignor Devereau – confidentially, of course. Tell him that Jon Croft must obtain from the Comte de la Mer, Monsieur Pindar, a medicine called Mahfooseh. Eleven vials are needed. A life is at stake. Here is my card – I can be reached at this private number. Time is short. Will you help save a life, Monsignor? A child of the Creator is in your hands.”
Aherne’s red face is now even redder. Bordering on iridescent. A four-alarm fire. There are beads of sweat dripping over his jagged eyebrows. He’s angry – but squirming in place because he’s aware of what is expected of him as a Jesuit in his Chain of Command. Everybody’s got a boss. This is bigger than him – and he knows it. He finally nods and thrusts the envelope I handed him into his rumpled jacket pocket.
He stares at Katrina for a moment then turns to me.
“I’ll make the call. I can’t guarantee what Devereau will do.”
With that, the Priest walks off, up the long isle to the red-draped marble church altar and disappears behind it.
I take Katrina’s hand and walk her outside the church.
“Time for lunch” I say. “I know a old-timey combined fish market and restaurant in Oyster Bay – not for Hamptons fancy-asses but for people who want the best seafood on Long Island. Called Vincent’s. What do you say?”
For the next few hours, it’s just me, Katrina and Hack’s glorious Porsche. Great food and twisty-turning roads, all the while buffeted by that salt water air wafting in off the Atlantic. Fishing boats in the distance and her delightful smile. All the same I’m thankful for our not-too distant escort of Franco and the boys in that BMW. We’re involved in some high strangeness. Katrina says we’ve fallen down the rabbit hole. I agree.
We’ve had a great day. Too good to last. As soon as we get the Porsche back inside the Oak Grove Estate garage and lock up, my phone vibrates. Looks like Monsignor Aherne was very pursuasive……
I’m looking at a text.
“LEAVING FOR LONDON TONIGHT. MAY I CALL UPON YOU AT OAK GROVE THIS EVENING AT MIDNIGHT. I WILL BRING ELEVEN VIALS OF MAHFOOSEH. IT IS CRITICAL I EXAMINE THE PATIENT. DOSAGE MUST BE EXACT AND OTHER FACTORS CONSIDERED. PINDAR.”
Katrina has her own surprise. She’s staring at her phone, too.
“I’ve just gotten an email – my contacts tell me that Jack-In-The-Box is to be transferred to Alamagordo tomorrow night. A Heavy Lift Chinook and an escort of three Blackhawk gun ships will arrive tomorrow night, 2400 Hours ETA and start the transhipment trip to McGuire AFB in New Jersey. From there a C130 Hercules transport will take him to New Mexico. They’ll be at Camp Hero twelve o’clock midnight tomorrow. Doesn’t give us much time. ”
“Alright…….” I’m ready to get our plan in motion. “Let’s invite Pindar to Oak Grove – with the “Mahfooseh” . Before he gets there – send a team to pick up Lorcan at Camp Hero AND Jack’s precious boxes. We’ll introduce Lorcan to Pindar in the Library at Oak Grove and have him ready for Pindar to examine. After that’s done the boys can secure Lorcan in his new bunker at Hill Grove across the street. We gotta’ get the boxes – and Lorcan – out of Camp Hero as soon as posssible.”
Katrina nods in agreement. “I thinking we send two teams tonight – two unmarked Vans, to get the job done. As soon as it gets dark, they move. Full tactical gear and weapons. Go in HOT in case Vampires – or some CIA dickheads – get wind of Jack’s transfer. I’ve heard Vampires want Jack – bad – but they probably don’t know shit about the boxes Jack was buried with. I’ll get Henri Bouchard, our wino computer wizard, to screw with whatever surveillance camera gauntlets the teams will have to get through up at Hero while they’re making the extraction.
I return Pindar’s text.
“WILL EXPECT YOU AT OAK GROVE THIS EVENING. PATIENT WILL BE WAITING”.
Katrina and I both agree that Special Teams – probably coordinated by Franco, her Second in Command – will henceforth go out on “missions” or assignments as they come in from our Varang or NordTurVerein security contacts. We are the paramilitary arm of groups, who – although bristling with more than enough weapons and talent to mount an armed takeover of a small country – provide a plausible deniability buffer for them. The Ansuz Group is a their convenient “One Stop Shop” for all manner of muscle and ass-kickery that the tribes need now and again. But muscle is one thing and Katrina and I are now management.
Accordingly, the “Commander” and “Consigliere” will remain behind-the-scenes in the “War Room and Coms Center” monitoring everything that goes down. In this age of real-time helmet cams, gun cams, video and audio links – it’s possible to micromanage the broad strokes of any mission, leaving the shooting, bleeding and dying to the guys on site. Sounds harsh, but Spetsnaz-trained hard-asses know the drill. They respond best to their unit commanders – guys like Franco – who might not have impressive rank patches but know more about hands-on fighting than echelon officers.
So – it’s the “War Room” for Katrina and me. And what a War Room it is. Rows of monitors, coms links, video screens, a supercomputer, patch-in capability to most known security algorithms, real time cell-phone tracking, microphone eavesdropping and video capture, fingerprint ID and projection for on-site mission use at thumbprint access scanners, virtual signal de-encription and infra-red and ultra-violent color spectrum capability. Stuff that our wino-stoner computer genius Henri Bouchard even has a hard time explaining to us. Bouchard’s got seven technicians working with him – all trained at Kaspersky Cybersecurity Labs in Moscow – to follow through on his relentless, stream-of-consciousness commands. All have Doctorates in their field. All are Varang – vetted and true-believers. Meaning? their loyalty to us is primary. They know the consequences of betrayal. A bullet in the head. They’ll be chum floating off Montauk point. No trial. No bullshit. This ain’t no rose garden we’re running here. Katrina’s mettle was forged in the brutal battles of Bosnia and Afghanistan by Spetsnaz experts who tolerated no weakness. She’s a Spartan. The real deal.
We’ve agreed to meet Pindar tonight with all the formality befitting our new stature. His Excellence, Monsieur Comte de la Mer Aziel Pindar will be received by the Commander and Consigliere of The Ansuz Group, the paramilitary arm of NordTurVerein and the Varang. Evening dress. Black tie and all. “Oowgoost” the Valet is getting everything ready. Rauol the Chef is preparing something heavenly – primarily for Katrina and I because I’m presuming the dessicated old fart Pindar will decline our invitation to stuff his festering pie-hole with our resplendent fare.
I want him to know – to see with his own eyes – who he’s dealing with. Security will be lurking inside and outside the Estate House, withdrawn into the shadows and unobtrusive. Just noticeable enough for all understand that the place is an armed camp – and only a fool should underestimate us. If Monsieur Comte de la Mer, Aziel Pindar talks to anyone after tonight about The Ansuz Group, I want him to convey a serious and sober message – stay away. Far away.
To pass the remaining hours of daylight, Katrina and I repair to the deck and share the beautiful sunset and a taste of Cutty Sark. Although the cabinets are full of single-malts, I prefer the bite and smokiness of Cutty at time like this. Nothing sophisticated – it’s a “thinking” whisky that somebody with a lot on their mind can savor. The creaminess of Johnny Walker Black lulls me to sleep like a bedtime lullaby. Cutty kicks me in the ass and gets my motor runnin’.
Katrina just wants “one”. She’s antsy to get herself together and all “formal like” for tonight. She also wants to give some pointers to August and Raoul about the food and arrangements. She’s the “woman of the house”.
Finally, Katrina gets the text from Franco. “LIBRARY GUEST READY FOR MIDNIGHT MEETING. HE WILL BE PRESENTABLE. VERY WEAK BUT ALIVE. NO INCIDENTS OR COMPLICATIONS. BOXES ARE SECURE.”
“Everything’s ready…..no surprises”. She says, visibly relaxing back into our chaise couch chair.
As the sun reddens and dips below the Atlantic Ocean horizon, she sits close by me and shares her wrap against the drop in temperature and wind.
“Can I ask you a question?” I tread carefully. Katrina obviously isn’t a gal that “shares” easily. People who’ve lived hard lives tend to be close-mouthed about their past. Perhaps they think that opening-up is a sign of weakness or vulnerability.
She looks down – avoiding my eyes – and says one word. “Sure”.
“Who were your parents? I mean – if it’s painful, you don’t have to say anything – but I know so little about you……yet here we are connected at the hip in so many ways – wonderful ways, don’t get me wrong – and……..I……..just……..wonder……..”
She looks at me and smiles. “You’re like a little boy, Jon Croft. Wide-eyed and hopeful…….yet always afraid of something…….that’s what I like about you.”
“My father was a Soviet Military Attache’ at the Czechoslovakian Embassy. Back in those days, Soviet Bloc countries all had Russian Officers as liaisons and so-called “Diplomatic Advisors” . He was a Major. My mother was a Serbian farmgirl my father fell hopelessly in love with and married. He was later killed in Afghanistan. My mother died soon afterwards of cancer in Belgrade. My brother and I were born in what is now known as the Czech Republic. It was just him and me – until recently. I supported us both by fighting as a mercenary for the Varang – then was inducted. The Varang became my family.”
“So – your father was Russian?” I ask, surprised.
“Yes – but because he was assigned to Czechoslovakia and we spent our early lives there we didn’t really consider ourselves Russian. We lived like Czechs, ate like Czechs, went to school with Czechs, played with Czech children……….when you’re a child such things as national origin don’t matter all that much. The one thing that did set us apart – however – was my mother’s insistance that we worship in the Russian Orthodox faith. She said it was the True Religion. I used to think she meant that it was the only true religion in the world – but NO…..she meant that Russian Orthodoxy was the truest, most accurate message of Christ. My father’s brother – Sergei Kremenskov – is a with the Russian Federation Ministry of Defense. I rarely speak of him…..but I miss him. Uncle Sergei, I’m certain, was my Guardian Angel hovering over me my whole life. I saw him last year in Budapest. He’s a not a man to be taken lightly in today’s Russia. He has offices in the Kremlin. I love him, so. ”
Katrina sips her scotch and takes in the last gasp of red sunset in the distance. She finally nudges me, good naturedly. She’s now snuggled in quite nice and we’re gettin’ toasty under that wrap.
“Will you do me a favor? I accompanied you to a Jesuit Church………will you accompany me to a Russian Orthodox Church here – in Long Island?”
It was wonderful how she easily she shared her story with me. I feel special.
“Sure” I said. “I’d be delighted to accompany you to Church……..perhaps you can teach me all the right responses and words to say in the Divine Liturgy this Sunday. I only know a few – and fumble about trying to anticipate when I’m supposed to bless myself and kneel. I get all out of cadence. I’m a mess. At least I bless myself correctly – from right to left”.
“It’s a date then….” Katrina says. “Divine Liturgy. This Sunday, 10:00AM at The Monestery of Saint Dionysios the Areopagite in Saint James Hamlet, Long Island. Follow my lead and you’ll do just fine”.
“One more question?” I don’t want to push our moment of openess, but I’ve got to know.
“Your name……Kozub……..”
Before I can finish my last question, Katrina laughs out loud and slaps my thigh.
“Kozub is my mother’s maiden name! A good, solid Serbian family. Don’t worry…….no husbands, ex-husbands, no kids……I’m as unattached as I can be. Satisfied?”
We clink our heavy lead crystal glasses and drain them. Time to get tonight’s show on the road. It’s gonna’ be epic.
Raoul’s cooking aromas are driving me crazy. He’s selected Duck Breast in Bordeaux Wine Sauce – and Lyonnaise Potatoes, Salad Nicoise………I’m sure Katrina will prefer a Margaux, Malbec or even a spicy Australian Shiraz wine. Perhaps a Pinot Noir. All are fine. It’s hearty fare – and calls for a hearty wine. Besides, our wine slections are almost always iconoclastic. We drink what we like – and damn the critics. I’m waiting on cracking open Rauol’s homemade baguettes. He insists on whole wheat flour and pure olive oil. Old school. Buttered up, Rauol’s baguettes are a meal in and of themselves. Add some pate’ and you’ve got a lunch to kill for. I think it’s Creme caramel for dessert.
Hopefully, Pindar will remove his cadaverous visage from our company sooner rather than later so Katrina and I can truly enjoy this feast. As far as I’m concerned, once we get our business out of the way Pindar can piss off. Literally.
Around Eleven o’clock, Katrina makes her entrance down the center staircase of the Mansion. She’s breathaking. She’s wearing a silver mermaid-hem seguin Couture evening gown from Tom Ford – I know because I saw the box from Bergdorf-Goodman just as it was delivered an hour ago. She’s rockin’ some serious Jimmy Choo heels and her blonde hair is pinned up – showing just a sexy bit of her facial scar. She looks knock-down gorgeous and dangerous at the same time.
I’m wearing a traditional Brioni tux. Plain front shirt and a GUCCI silk bow tie – which I almost forgot how to knot. It’s been a long time since I’ve dressed like this. I’ve got on these formal, polished , tassled loafer thingies – that I don’t particularly like because they’re uncomfortable as Hell, but what can I say? This dressing up stuff is serious business.
I meet Katrina at the bottom of the stairs and lightly kiss her on the lips. It’s probably too forward a gesture but to Hell with that……..looking at her in that dress makes me throw caution to the winds. I can only imagine the lingerie she’s wearing. It’s a bad combination – I’ve got this spectacular woman in front of me, I’m hungry as hell and I’ve already had a few anticipatory glasses of Shiraz. My ethnic Russian juices are boiling.
I’ve got some light swing tunes being piped in – Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Sam Cooke, Nat King Cole – and it fits with the ambiance of the house now. Once most of Doc Sarkisian’s Iraq treasures, sculptures and bas reliefs were moved out, Katrina did a great job transforming the living quarters of the Estate into a more traditional domestic environment, complete with tasteful maritime portraits, seascapes and landscapes. Her taste suits me. Nothing overbearing – just a rich melange of current and not-to-distant historical paintings and objets d’art to remind everyone who looks at them that serious people live here. We left the library – laden with historical volumes and priceless tomes – largely undisturbed with the exception of a few free standing statues that were taken away. I bought an authentic medieval suit of armor for where one of the statues used to be because I’m a typical guy and I simply had to have it. It gives the library a Peter Cushing(esque) “Hammer Films” Dracula movie vibe. All the furniture, window treatments and general content of the Mansion remains. Katrina has emhasized hominess and practicality over antiquity – and it shows. Her women’s touch is a home run. His Excellency Pindar won’t recognize the place.
Sam Cooke’s “It’s Saturday Night and I Ain’t Got Nobody” comes on -and I insist on a slow dance with the Princess before me. We both laugh and enjoy the spontaneous moment. Just holding her is marvelous.
I pour Katrina some wne and we sit and talk for a while. Soon the old oaken grandfather’s clock – that looks like it’s more of a great-great-great grandfather’s clock – strikes twelve. We’ve got the front portico lights blazing and both turn in that direction to see headlights coming up the drive.
Sure enough, there’s a polished black Bentley stopping.
In the back is Monsieur Comte de la Mer, Aziel Pindar. Interlocutor General’ et Bestiat Terrible’.
Let the festivities begin.
Copyright 2023, Jon Croft
joncroft52@yahoo.com
