Dark Savior. Don Pendleton

      Brognola forged ahead. “You know the rules surrounding sanctuary?”

      “It’s political,” Bolan said.

      “Not in this case. Think medieval, as in pilgrims fleeing persecution.”

      “So, religious.”

      “Bingo.”

      “I’m no lawyer, but I’ve never heard of a statute in the States that recognizes any church’s right to harbor fugitives.”

      “Because there isn’t one. We have a free press, though, and when you think about the Bureau’s history with sieges, going back to Ruby Ridge and Waco, down to Cliven Bundy in Nevada...well, let’s say nobody wants a repetition in the spotlight.”

      “That’s a problem,” Bolan granted.

      “Plus, if we know where he is, the hunters know. They’re well-financed and well-connected, through their sponsors.”

      “Let me guess. The folks your witness planned to put away.”

      “The very same.”

      “Can’t say I like his odds.”

      “He needs a hand, no question. I was thinking, maybe yours.”

      “You think the monks will pass him off to me?”

      “They’re brothers, technically. And no. You’d have to go in uninvited. Try to make them see the light.”

      “Because that’s so much better than a siege.”

      “I hope so, anyway.”

      Bolan stopped short and faced Brognola. “Rewind. I need to hear it from the top.”

      Brognola launched into how it all began. The missing witness was a CPA, one Arthur Watson, thirty-one and never married, formerly employed by a low-profile megabank, U.S. Global Finance. Bolan had not heard of them before and said so.

      “That’s no accident,” Hal told him. “The outfit is privately owned by some billionaire types—three Americans, one Saudi and a Russian autocrat. There are no other shareholders, so you won’t find them on the New York Stock Exchange, NASDAQ or any of the rest. They specialize in large commercial deals worldwide, taking in money from depositors and then recycling it as low-interest loans.”

      “In other words, a money laundry,” Bolan said.

      “Big time. Justice has tracked connections to Colombian and Mexican cartels, the Russian mob, the Yakuza, a couple dozen shady government officials from the Balkans and on across the Middle East to Africa. And that’s without our homegrown filthy rich—owners of two casino chains, some Wall Street sharks, plus a fellow in Atlanta who just beat a human trafficking indictment when the prosecution’s witnesses went belly-up.”

      “The DOJ knows this, but can’t put anything together?”

      “Couldn’t,” Brognola corrected him, “until this Arthur Watson suffered an attack of conscience after five years of cooking their books. From what I hear, he never managed to explain the change of heart. Just tumbled out of bed one morning and decided he should do something about it. He approached the IRS in Philadelphia, where he was living at the time. They handed him to Justice. Watson spilled his guts, and two weeks back we got a sealed indictment on the top three officers at U.S. Global. Sheldon Page, the president, was on vacation in the south of France, and the FBI held off on busting the other two, CEO Cornell Dubois and CFO Reginald Manson, until Page got back Monday night.”

      “Arrests like that, I would’ve thought they’d make the news.”

      “Me, too. But U.S. Global has a ton of influential friends, as you may well imagine. Some of them are in the House and Senate, always grateful for those PAC donations at election time. A federal judge in New York City put a gag order on the proceedings until trial convenes—or was supposed to—day after tomorrow.”

      “And they’ve lost the witness.”

      “Lost and found,” Brognola said. “He’s with the Brothers of Saint Faustus at their monastery up in the Sierras.”

      “California.”

      “More precisely, Mariposa County. The brothers call their hangout Holy Trinity.”

      “And Justice found him how?”

      “He’s got a brother at the monastery,” Hal replied. “By which I mean blood brother and a full-fledged member of the order. Brother Andrew Watson, who is also Arthur’s only living kin.”

      “Well, if you found him—”

      “Others can,” Brognola said, nodding. “No doubt about it. We don’t know any of the hunters, but there’s no way they’re not on his trail by now.”

      “Has anyone communicated with the monastery?” Bolan asked.

      “Oh, sure. The honcho there—Brother Jerome, he’s called the abbot primate—took some calls and tried to plead the Fifth at first, then finally admitted that our guy has joined them as a postulant.”

      “Which is...?”

      “The lowest rung on the monk ladder,” Brognola said. “Informal training, getting used to how things work behind the walls, without a uniform or any formal vows. Apprenticeship, you might say, going on for weeks or months, depending on the candidate. If he sticks with it and the monks agree, he graduates to novice and receives his habit, taking on full duties. Make it through a year of that, then he’s a junior for the next three years, and finally a brother, if they vote to keep him on.”

      “It doesn’t sound like Watson has four years and change to spare.”

      “He may not have four days,” Brognola said. “For all we know, the shooters from Las Cruces or another crew are moving in right now. The only thing to slow them down would be the weather.”

      “Weather?”

      “Right. Did I mention they’ve got a blizzard moving in? Supposed to be the worst since 1890-something, in the mountains anyway.”

      “So the witness has a price tag on his head—”

      “Six figures, I was told.”

      “—the monks won’t give him up, the shooters likely have his twenty, and a giant storm is moving in to seal the whole place off like Christmas in the Arctic.”

      “That’s it in a nutshell.”

      “It sounds impossible,” said Bolan.

      “Well, I wouldn’t say—”

      “When do I leave?”

      * * *

      THE NEXT FLIGHT OUT of Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport took off two hours later, bound for Sacramento, California. Bolan caught a break when Brognola informed him Jack Grimaldi was in San Francisco, on some kind of surveillance gig for Stony Man. The pilot volunteered before Bolan could hint around the job’s details, although the blizzard gave him pause.

      “No sweat,” he’d said after a moment. “If they’ve still got air, we’re airborne.”

      Grimaldi would meet him when the flight landed in Sacramento, with a plane ready to go. He’d drop Bolan into the High Sierras, as close as he could get him to Holy Trinity, weather permitting, then he’d circle back at a prearranged time to pick up the soldier and, if all went well, Arthur Watson.

      While Bolan waited for his flight to board at Reagan National, he popped a USB key Brognola had given him into his laptop. He reviewed the photographs and text describing U.S. Global Finance from its inception in the early nineties to the present day, with current assets estimated in the mid twelve figures. That was property and money on the books; no telling what was tucked away in safe deposit boxes or invested overseas.

      Sheldon Page, the