The Trinity Game

rest of his coffee, sludge and all, brought the cup down hard. “You think you’ve got the moral high ground? You don’t. We’re at war, and this girl lives on the front lines.
Thirteen
provinces have gone over to Sharia Law, soon fourteen, and it’s spreading south. You see that one girl, you want to save her. Hypocritical. What about the millions of other young girls unfortunate enough to be born in this place? What chance will they have, if the tide keeps rolling? You think God wants us to trade all their futures for that one girl, so you can wallow in your integrity?”
    “This isn’t about me.”
    “The hell it isn’t.”
    Daniel swallowed his first response. “Father Conrad,” he said, “I agree with the goal, but this is not the way to get there. The ODA is independent for a reason, and we don’t knowingly certify fake miracles.”
    “From what I hear,
you
don’t certify
any
miracles.”
    A little below the belt, but Daniel didn’t flinch. “Not yet. Still looking, though.”
    “Then step down off the cross and look a little harder at Stigmata Girl. The parish has been flooded with converts since she started manifesting.”
Manifesting.
That’s what they called it back at the Vatican. “Did you even read the Outreach brief on Nigeria before going native and eating the bush meat?”
    “It was goat.”
    “Boko Haram is acting on its promise. The head count is over a thousand and accelerating.”
    “Father Conrad, I read the report.”
    “Then consider this: despite everything, and because of this miracle, we’re winning hearts and minds up there.”
    “I wish you success in keeping them, but my orders are clear. I follow the evidence where it leads.” Daniel put back the rest of his coffee. “And I don’t work for you.”
    Conrad reached into his jacket and came up with an envelope, handed it across the table.
    Daniel turned the envelope over, and his heart sank. The flap bore the red wax seal of Cardinal Allodi, the direct superior of both Conrad and Father Nick. Daniel had long suspected Allodi favored the political mission of World Outreach over the more esoteric duties of the ODA.
    Daniel broke the seal and read the letter.
    Fr. Daniel:
    Due to departmental workload fluctuations, you are hereby on transfer status from the Office of the Devil’s Advocate to the Office of World Outreach. You will report to Fr. Conrad Winter until further notice.
    In faith, we serve.
    “Cardinal Allodi told me about Honduras,” said Conrad, “so don’t act like you’re above this.”
    Daniel’s blood rose. He pictured breaking Conrad’s nose with a hard right, followed by a hook to the ribs and an uppercut to...He reined it in, refocused on what the man was saying.
    “…you can’t just pretend it never happened. People
died
because of you. I guess we’ll never know exactly how many at your hand, but—”
    “Three,” said Daniel. “I killed three. And you already know that…or are we pretending you haven’t read the case file?”
    Conrad’s mouth tightened very slightly. “Watch yourself, Daniel.”
    Daniel nodded, not an apology but a grudging acknowledgment of his station.
    Conrad’s tone turned conversational. “You’ll enjoy your time in Outreach. We have many pencils that require sharpening, and you’re just the man for the job. We’ll cure you of your sin of pride, and you’ll be a better priest when I decide it’s time for you to return to the ODA.” He flashed Daniel a grin that said:
Checkmate.

Rome, Italy…
    D aniel picked up his Honda Shadow from long-term parking at Leonardo da Vinci Airport, hit the Autostrada, and pointed the motorcycle toward the lights of Rome, barely seeing the road, his mind replaying scenes from Nigeria.
    The obsequious parish priest, angling to parlay his local miracle into a promotion to the big city. The grandparents and parents filled with pride because “God has chosen our little Abassi to bear the wounds of Christ.” And the teenage girl with endless brown eyes, manic energy, and a handful of three-inch twisted-shank roofing nails hidden under her mattress.
    Daniel had caught her in the act. He knew she was self-mutilating, but he played dumb for a few days, interviewing the girl and her family with softball questions, lulling them into a sense of security. Every few hours, the family would contrive to leave the girl alone. “She needs to rest, this is so hard on her,” one of them would say, and all would agree with pitying