The Brotherhood of the Rose by David Morrell Read Free Book Online Page B

he was an American. Though he traveled under many identities, his real name was Chris Kilmoonie. He was thirty-six. His scars had been disguised by plastic surgery. Indeed, his face had been reconstructed several times. He'd cut the labels from his clothes. He'd stitched the equivalent of five thousand dollars in large bills of various currencies beneath the lining of his jacket. The rest of his fifteenthousand-dollar emergency fund had been converted into gold and gems-an eighteen-karat Rolex watch, for example, and a precious necklace-which he wore out of sight. He had to be able to move from country to country as quickly as possible, freed from dependence on banks. He didn't worry that a thief who suspected his wealth would try to take it from him. Beneath his jacket, behind the belt at his spine, he carried a Mauser HSC, 7.65-mm automatic pistol. But more than the weapon, Chris's eyes discouraged confrontation. Deep within them, past their shifting colors, lurked a warning confidence that made a stranger want to keep his distance.
    Halfway down the street, Chris paused among bambooawninged stalls where vendors shouted to be heard above one another, waving elaborate kites, silk scarves, and teak statuettes. Ignoring a pushcart salesman who offered him a piece of roasted monkey, he glanced beyond the cacophonous rush of bicycles and mopeds toward a thin, peaked, two-story church, enmeshed with vines, between the Oriental Hotel and a mission. From this angle, he saw the rectory, a two-story bungalow attached to the rear of the church. Beyond it he saw the graveyard and the pepper garden that sloped down to the muddy, crocodile-infested river. In the distance, rice paddies merged with the jungle. What interested him most, though, was the six-foot stained glass window beneath the church's peak. He knew that years before, a one-foot slice of glass had been broken during a storm. Because this parish in Sawang Kaniwat, old town, Bangkok, was poor, the slice-which resembled a crescent moon-had been replaced by a cheap piece of galvanized steel. The crescent, stark beneath the peak, accounted for the nickname: Church of the Moon.
    Chris also knew that, at the request of the Russian KGB, the church had been converted into an Abelard-sanctioned safe house in 1959, available for use by operatives from any agency, no matter their differences in politics. As he waited for a break in traffic, then crossed the street, he took for granted that agents from various intelligence networks watched from nearby buildings. They didn't matter. Within the church and the surrounding area, he was guaranteed immunity.
    He opened a listing wooden gate and walked along a soggy gravel path beside the church. In back, the blare of the street was muffled. He tugged his shirt away from his sweaty chest, the temperature ninety-five, the humidity smothering. Though the rains weren't due for another month, thick black clouds loomed over the jungle.
    He walked up the creaky unpainted steps and knocked on the rectory door. An Oriental servant answered. Speaking Thai, Chris asked to see the priest. A minute passed. The old priest came and studied him.
    Phonetically, Chris said, "Eye bain Thai, this phrase is an expletive, referring to a dirty or large monkey. It can also mean guerrilla. It was all Chris had to say to gain asylum here.
    The priest stepped back and nodded. Chris went in, squinting while his eyes adjusted to the shadows in the hallway. He smelled pepper. "You speak- "English," Chris replied. "Are you familiar with our arrangements?"
    "Yes, I've been here once before."
    "I don't recall."
    "In 1965."
    "I still don't-2' "I looked different then. My face was crushed."
    The old priest hesitated. "Ruptured appendix? Fractured spine?"
    Chris nodded. "I remember now," the old priest said. "Your agency should be complimented. Its surgeons were meticulous."
    Chris waited. "But you're not here to recall old times," the priest continued. "My office is more