The Trinity Game

the happy horseshit, for starters. Just got some very disturbing news from Nigeria.”
    “Yes, I heard about that,” said Conrad. “Very sad. Poor girl. A hit-and-run is what I heard.”
    “And you’re the one who benefits.”
    “Actually her entire country benefits,” countered Conrad. “The locals are celebrating the girl as a miracle, too good for this world, called home by God. Thousands are turning away from radical Islam and coming to us.”
    “You’ll go to hell for this, Conrad.”
    Conrad stiffened. “Don’t be absurd. I realize we do things in Outreach that you academics in the ODA find distasteful, but you can’t
possibly
think I would
ever
sanction the death of a child.” He downed the rest of his drink. “I may go to hell, Nick, but not for this, which of course—
of course
—I had
no
part in. Am I makingmyself clear? It was just a tragic accident. Given the situation in Nigeria, I can’t say I’m sorry it happened—and I refuse to pretend it isn’t good for us—but that doesn’t make me the monster you imagine me to be. And if you don’t believe me, if you
really
think I had anything to do with it, I suggest you file a report with Cardinal Allodi.
Asshole
.”
    Conrad hung up, put the cell phone on the bar, and picked up his drink, overwhelmed by a bone-deep sadness. The girl in Nigeria would now be remembered as a miracle and no longer needed the Vatican’s official stamp. Daniel wouldn’t certify her, so she had to die. Regrettable, but necessary.
    No, it was much worse than regrettable, it was horrible, it was monstrous.
    But still necessary.
    And Conrad might very well go to hell for it, among other things. But the world was at war, with the fate of humanity quite literally hanging in the balance. And war makes monsters, even on God’s side. So he made that choice, a long time ago. To become a monster, to willingly sacrifice himself to hell, in order to win the war for God. People like Nick and Daniel would never understand. They’d only thank him when the war was won.
    And Conrad believed that, when his time came, God might give him a dispensation for his service to the cause.
    He
had
to believe that.
    Anyway, the girl’s death was having the desired effect, slowing the tide, buying time for the council to move their tin soldiers and weapons to where they were needed, and the Nigerian oil would keep flowing. For now.
    And Conrad couldn’t afford to think about it—he had more pressing concerns. Ever since the Trinity Anomaly broke public,he’d been expecting the Fleur-de-Lis Foundation to rear its hypocritical head, and he’d gotten confirmation last night from a council operative in New York City. A one-line e-mail that read:
Carter Ames leaving on foundation jet. Destination: Atlanta.
    The director’s words echoed in Conrad’s ears.
Carter Ames is the most dangerous man you will ever meet.
The director was not given to hyperbole, and Conrad would be careful not to underestimate Ames. But the challenge sent a thrill through him just the same.
    Conrad’s phone buzzed, this time with the text message he’d been anticipating:
    ELEVATOR ACCESS CODE—018992
    He paid the bill and headed for the lobby.

T here was an envelope waiting for Daniel at the Westin’s front desk when he returned. No wax seal, but the stationery was every bit as fine quality as any used in the Vatican. Cream colored, 100 percent cotton, heavy stock, and it took fountain pen ink without a trace of feathering. A broad and flexible nib had laid down the emerald-green ink. The script told of a masculine hand, properly trained in penmanship. Boarding school educated, perhaps. The note said:
    Daniel:
    The Vatican’s response, while unfortunate, was expected. We are heartened that your loyalty is to the truth. You have chosen well; Trinity is the path.
    Walk the path, find the truth.
    But beware: There are thieves in the temple and mortal danger lurks nearby.
    Be very careful whom you trust.
    —PapaLegba
    Whoever he was, PapaLegba certainly had flair. Daniel put the note away and returned to Trinity’s hotel suite. This time he drank his uncle’s bourbon.
    “First, some ground rules,” he said, counting them off on his fingers, “One: I don’t work for you, so don’t treat me like an employee, and I don’t follow you, so don’t treat me like one of your flock.”
    “Agreed.”
    “Two: Don’t ever lie to me.”
    Trinity raised his oath hand. “I swear. I want your help, lying