Read Online The Brotherhood of the Rose by David Morrell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Morrell
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Crime, Espionage, Adventure stories, Assassins, Special Forces (Military Science)
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crocodiles, or else to boat him across to the jungle.
Friend, Chris thought. His throat felt tight. He clutched his Mauser.
Father Janin made the sign of the cross. In the church, he'd been kneeling at the altar rail, reciting his daily prayers. He stared at the votive candles he'd lit, enveloped by the fragrance of beeswax and frankincense. They flickered in the dark.
5 A.m. The church was quiet. Sanctuary. Pushing from the altar rail, the old priest stood and genuflected to the tabernacle. He had prayed for God's forgiveness. Having vowed to guard this safe house, he believed he'd lose his soul if he didn't fulfill his obligations. Though the KGB had recruited him, he felt allegiance to every network. Every operative in the world was his parishioner. Their differences in politics-or religion, or lack of it-didn't matter. Even atheists had souls. Cold, tired men came here for refuge. As a priest, he had to offer them the corporal works of mercy. If he had to kill to protect the sanctity of this safe house, then he prayed for God to understand. What justification could be more compelling? In the dark, the candles flickered in commemoration of the dead.
The old priest turned from the altar, stiffening as he saw a shadow move.
From the dark of the nearest pew, a man stood, walking toward him.
The American. The priest reached through the slit in the side of his surplice, pulling the pistol from his belt, aiming it under the loose folds of his garment.
The American stopped at a careful distance. "I didn't hear you come down the aisle," the priest said. "I tried to be quiet, to respect your prayers,"
"You came to pray as well?"
"The habit dies hard. You must have been told by now that I too was a Cistercian."
"And your friend?
You feel no need for retribution?"
"He did what he had to. So did you. We know the rules."
Nodding, the priest clutched the pistol beneath his surplice. "Did you get the name of the dentist?" the American said. "Not long ago. I have it written down for you." The priest set his prayer book in a pew. With his free hand, he reached through the other slit in his surplice, pulling out a piece of paper. After setting it on the prayer book, he stepped carefully back.
The church was still. The American smiled and picked up the message. In the dark, he didn't try to read it. "The man you seek lives far away," the old priest said. "So much the better." The American smiled again. "What makes you say that?"
But the American didn't answer. Turning, he-walked silently toward the back of the church, his shadow disappearing. Father Janin heard the creak of a door being opened. He saw the gray of early dawn outside. The American's figure blocked the gray. The door abruptly closed, its rumble eerie in the stillness.
He'd been holding his breath. Exhaling, he put the pistol back in his belt, his forehead slick with sweat. Frowning, he glanced at the stained glass window beneath the peak-at the back of the church. Pale light filtered through, emphasizing the silhouette of the galvanized steel sickle moon.
The Russian, Chris thought. He didn't blame the priest. What he'd told the priest was true. The priest had only been obeying the rules. More than authorized, the priest was obligated to insure the safety of a guest, even if he had to kill another guest who attempted to violate the sanction.
The Russian, though. As Chris left the church, skirting the pools of water in the morning twilight, heading toward the rectory in back, he thought about him, seething without showing it. From habit, he seemed more relaxed the more determined he became. His pace appeared leisurely, a stroll at dawn to appreciate the stillness, admiring the birds.
The Russian, he kept thinking. He reached the back, pausing in half light, pretending to enjoy the view of the river, debating. For years, Chan had fought against the Russian, becoming so obsessed he sacrificed his life for this chance to kill him. Back in '65, Chris as well had
Friend, Chris thought. His throat felt tight. He clutched his Mauser.
Father Janin made the sign of the cross. In the church, he'd been kneeling at the altar rail, reciting his daily prayers. He stared at the votive candles he'd lit, enveloped by the fragrance of beeswax and frankincense. They flickered in the dark.
5 A.m. The church was quiet. Sanctuary. Pushing from the altar rail, the old priest stood and genuflected to the tabernacle. He had prayed for God's forgiveness. Having vowed to guard this safe house, he believed he'd lose his soul if he didn't fulfill his obligations. Though the KGB had recruited him, he felt allegiance to every network. Every operative in the world was his parishioner. Their differences in politics-or religion, or lack of it-didn't matter. Even atheists had souls. Cold, tired men came here for refuge. As a priest, he had to offer them the corporal works of mercy. If he had to kill to protect the sanctity of this safe house, then he prayed for God to understand. What justification could be more compelling? In the dark, the candles flickered in commemoration of the dead.
The old priest turned from the altar, stiffening as he saw a shadow move.
From the dark of the nearest pew, a man stood, walking toward him.
The American. The priest reached through the slit in the side of his surplice, pulling the pistol from his belt, aiming it under the loose folds of his garment.
The American stopped at a careful distance. "I didn't hear you come down the aisle," the priest said. "I tried to be quiet, to respect your prayers,"
"You came to pray as well?"
"The habit dies hard. You must have been told by now that I too was a Cistercian."
"And your friend?
You feel no need for retribution?"
"He did what he had to. So did you. We know the rules."
Nodding, the priest clutched the pistol beneath his surplice. "Did you get the name of the dentist?" the American said. "Not long ago. I have it written down for you." The priest set his prayer book in a pew. With his free hand, he reached through the other slit in his surplice, pulling out a piece of paper. After setting it on the prayer book, he stepped carefully back.
The church was still. The American smiled and picked up the message. In the dark, he didn't try to read it. "The man you seek lives far away," the old priest said. "So much the better." The American smiled again. "What makes you say that?"
But the American didn't answer. Turning, he-walked silently toward the back of the church, his shadow disappearing. Father Janin heard the creak of a door being opened. He saw the gray of early dawn outside. The American's figure blocked the gray. The door abruptly closed, its rumble eerie in the stillness.
He'd been holding his breath. Exhaling, he put the pistol back in his belt, his forehead slick with sweat. Frowning, he glanced at the stained glass window beneath the peak-at the back of the church. Pale light filtered through, emphasizing the silhouette of the galvanized steel sickle moon.
The Russian, Chris thought. He didn't blame the priest. What he'd told the priest was true. The priest had only been obeying the rules. More than authorized, the priest was obligated to insure the safety of a guest, even if he had to kill another guest who attempted to violate the sanction.
The Russian, though. As Chris left the church, skirting the pools of water in the morning twilight, heading toward the rectory in back, he thought about him, seething without showing it. From habit, he seemed more relaxed the more determined he became. His pace appeared leisurely, a stroll at dawn to appreciate the stillness, admiring the birds.
The Russian, he kept thinking. He reached the back, pausing in half light, pretending to enjoy the view of the river, debating. For years, Chan had fought against the Russian, becoming so obsessed he sacrificed his life for this chance to kill him. Back in '65, Chris as well had
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