Dropping his field pack, Bolan opened it and reached inside.
* * *
BROTHER THOMAS LOVED the snow. Its chill and silence stilled his memories of the chaotic desert hell where he had served three tours of duty among people who despised him, wished him dead and did their level best to make it so. The hush a deep snow brought to Holy Trinity was music to his ears and to his soul.
In truth, though, Brother Thomas loved all seasons at the monastery. He was pleased—not proud, worst of the deadly sins—to be a member of the small community devoted to communion with the Lord and greater understanding of His plan. The brotherhood demanded nothing of him that involved deciding who should live or die, walk free or be confined pending interrogation by the faceless men who called the shots outside the monastery’s walls.
Snow shovel duty was his lot this afternoon, a task that might seem futile with the storm still raging, but it kept him fit and served his brothers as they went about their daily tasks. It was an hour past None—one of the Little Hours, celebrated with psalms at 3:00 p.m.—and Brother Thomas had three paths to clear before Supper at half-past five. Someone else would likely have to do the job all over again before Vespers, the day’s last Major Hour, when the monks gathered to celebrate sunset.
As he began to clear a path serving the refectorium—what would have been the mess hall in his bygone military sojourn—Brother Thomas warmed from the exertion. Work was deemed a privilege at Holy Trinity, not something to be borne, but rather celebrated as a service to the brotherhood and to their Lord. It varied with the seasons, gardening from late spring into early fall, woodcutting for the stoves and fireplaces, whatever maintenance the monastery might require year-round. The best part was that none of it involved divesting any other soul of life or liberty.
The path was almost clear when Brother Thomas heard a sharp metallic clinking. It had come from somewhere to his left, in the direction of the monastery’s high west wall, and was alarming in its unfamiliarity. He stopped and listened, but the sound was not repeated. Leaning on his shovel, Brother Thomas pondered whether he should put it out of mind or go investigate.
It’s likely nothing, he decided. But what if it was something that required repair?
Taking his shovel with him, Brother Thomas moved in the direction of the sound, his boot tracks quickly fading as snow filled them up. His view of the west wall improved as he advanced, but snowy gusts still masked it. Was there something moving on the wall, descending toward the garden plot inside?
A trespasser, dressed all in white, his movements deft and spider-like.
Brother Thomas clutched his shovel like a weapon.
As the man in white touched down, boots crunching into snow, Brother Thomas called out, “Who are you?”
* * *
INSTEAD OF ANSWERING, Bolan slowly turned, his right hand drifting automatically to the Steyr AUG’s smooth pistol grip.
“You need to answer me,” the same voice said.
The man who stood before him was approximately Bolan’s height, possibly bulkier beneath his thick parka. Below the coat’s hem, Bolan saw the dark sweep of a snow-dusted robe over black rubber boots. Gloved hands clutched a broad shovel as if it were an ax. The man’s ebony face was grim but handsome.
“Names aren’t important,” Bolan said.
“Then you won’t have a problem sharing yours.”
“I’ve come to help you.”
“With your handy Steyr AUG?”
The brother knew his weapons, and he had a military bearing—feet apart, the shovel held up defensively.
“It’s for protection,” Bolan replied.
“Uh-huh. Against what, the abominable snowman?”
“Trouble’s coming.”
“Looks to me like it’s already here.”
“I’m telling you—”
“No weapons on the monastery grounds. You need to give it up.”
Bolan considered that, released the Steyr’s pistol grip and raised his free right hand. “I’ll trade it for a face-to-face,” he said. “Take me to see Brother Jerome.”
The shovel-bearer frowned. “You know the abbot primate?”
“Haven’t had the pleasure yet,” Bolan replied. “But I’ve got news he needs to hear.”
It was the monk’s turn to consider his options. Finally, he said, “I take the rifle and you walk ahead of me.”
It was a gamble, but the other choices ran against the grain. “Okay.”
“Unsling it, hold it by the telescopic with your left hand and pass it over to me. Any fancy moves, you get to sample my Paul Bunyan imitation.”
“With a shovel?”
“You’d be surprised how sharp it is, from all those years of scraping ice.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” He passed the Steyr over, and the monk received it with respect and confidence. “You know your weapons,” Bolan said.
“Used to, but I still recall enough. This way.” He gestured with the Steyr’s muzzle and Bolan preceded him across the courtyard to a path partially cleared of snow. The monk set down his shovel there, leaving both hands free for the AUG.
Two minutes later, they were standing at a massive, ironbound wooden door. “Go on,” the brother said. “It isn’t locked.”
Bolan opened the door and passed into the lobby of a stone-and-mortar building. The floor under his dripping boots was gray tile. In front of them a broad staircase ascended to the second floor.
“Upstairs,” the monk directed. “Then the first door to your right.”
Bolan began to climb the stairs. A younger brother met them halfway up and hurried on his way after he saw the gun. When Bolan reached the second floor, he turned right, stopped and waited for the monk’s next move.
He knocked, keeping his eyes on Bolan the whole time. A deep voice on the other side said, “Enter!”
“Go ahead,” the monk said.
Bolan stepped into an office with a simple desk and wooden chairs, cheap filing cabinets against one wall. The setup seemed out of place beneath a twelve-foot ceiling. Multicolored light came through a stained glass window set in stone behind the desk. Christ in a garden of olive trees. Even without a clear sky behind it, the window was impressive, ancient-looking, wrought with care.
A tall man in a drab brown habit rose from where he had been seated at the desk, examining the new arrivals through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. “What on earth is this?” he asked the brother holding Bolan’s AUG.
“He came over the wall, Father,” the monk replied. “With this.”
“A firearm.”
“Yes, Father.”
The abbot turned to Bolan. “Who are you?”
Rather than debate it, Bolan used the name printed on the ID he’d left with Jack Grimaldi. “Matthew Cooper.”
“Named for a disciple?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Brother Thomas,” said the abbot, “I’ll relieve you of your burden.”
“Father—”
“Please. And wait outside.”
It was the monk’s turn to obey, passing the Steyr to his boss, shooting a warning glance at Bolan as he left and closed the door.
Brother