Father Benicio Valori’s trip to the Phnom Penh airport was rough and wild. The men who found him in Prasat had excitedly pushed and prodded him through the streets toward a waiting moto, the traditional motorcycle taxi of Cambodia, and shoved him onto the back of the bike. The driver turned to him and announced, “I am Mook. I get you airport very fast.”
After nearly fifty minutes of hard driving, the bike screeched to a stop in front of the airport, a modern facility full of angles and recessed lighting. Benicio got off the bike and reached in his pocket to pay the bill, but when he looked up Mook and the moto were gone. Benicio shrugged and entered the front lobby, which looked as if it belonged in a hotel. He had been told to go to the Silk Air check-in.
He found the counter and leaned on it heavily as he tried to catch his breath.
“Can I help you, sir?” a beautiful clerk asked. Her voice had the slight clicking of an accent. She’d not bothered to attempt a greeting in Khmer.
“Si, grazie, I’m checking in for a flight. My name’s Benicio Valori.”
“Destination?” she asked automatically as her fingers flicked over a keyboard.
“The United States.” He paused, realizing he didn’t know exactly where he was going. “I’m sorry but I don’t —”
“Oh, my apologies, Father Valori.” She nodded and smiled. “We’re expecting you — we’re actually holding the aircraft. Here is your boarding pass.”
Holding the aircraft? He took the pass.
“We also have your passport.” She held out an envelope. “We’ve already cleared you through customs on this end. Please take a seat on the cart behind you. We’ll drive you to the departure gate.”
Benicio stared at the clerk then took the envelope. He was sure he’d left his passport in the hotel safe in Phnom Penh. He turned and saw an airport attendant in a golf cart. The attendant nodded and pointed at the seat on the back. “I take you.”
Within moments Benicio was through the gate and walking down the ramp to the plane. He stopped at the door, where a flight attendant stood, and held out his boarding pass.
After a quick scrutiny the flight attendant said, “Mr. Valori, we’re glad you’ve arrived. Your seat is three rows back on the left. We’ve already placed your carry-on luggage in the overhead compartment.”
“My carry-on luggage?”
“Yes,” she said and smiled broadly. “It was all arranged. Have a wonderful flight.”
In a daze, Benicio found his first-class seat and dropped into it. My carry-on luggage?
Within minutes the plane took off, and Benicio finally breathed a sigh of relief. He’d known the church to act with urgency, but this was extreme. Being pulled off an important assignment and rushed to the airport was a new experience for him. Moreover, the church had obviously used its enormous pull either by way of its status or by paying handsomely. As the plane climbed into the air he reviewed his ticket. He was flying to Singapore then boarding a United Airways flight to Philadelphia, followed by a short hop to New Haven, Connecticut. The total flight time was more than thirty hours.
He couldn’t imagine what was going on in New Haven. He knew Yale University was in New Haven, but didn’t remember it having anything to do with the Holy Church.
Except … He thought for a moment, then dismissed the idea. It can’t be that. He vaguely remembered a rumor about a book in the Yale library, a book the church had long suspected was part of a terrible scandal from Old Testament times. It couldn’t be that.
The plane finally reached its cruising altitude and the captain switched off the seat-belt sign. Benicio unbuckled and stood, eager to see what was in his carry-on bag. He opened the overhead compartment and found only one small piece of luggage. Must be mine, he thought, and opened it. He found some basic toiletry items and a change of clothing — a not-so-subtle suggestion from the church to get cleaned up. If there was one thing he’d learned about working with the Vatican it was that image was everything. He retreated to the first-class washroom to wash away the Cambodian slums.
He squeezed into the tight confines of the washroom, shut the lid of the toilet and set the bag down. He peered into the mirror. Streaks of black stretched across the stubble on his face. The moto ride and his work in the slums had left him looking miserable and dirty. He rubbed his rough chin before punching the water on.
He washed and shaved, then nodded at his reflection. A little better, he thought. He reached into the carry-on bag for the shirt and pants. He slipped out of his dirty black Khmer shirt and trousers and put on the new outfit, which included a sport coat. He found no traditional religious accoutrements, so he assumed his new assignment was not for broadcast.
He slipped the sport coat on and smoothed down the sides, then felt a bulge in the right pocket. He reached in and pulled out an id badge and a wallet.
Dr. Benicio Valori, he read. Yale–New Haven Children’s Hospital. It was an employee badge.
Very interesting, he thought and dropped the id in the pocket. The wallet contained about a thousand dollars American and a valid driver’s license and credit card in his name. He tucked the wallet into his trousers’ back pocket. Finally, he gathered up his Cambodian clothes and shoved them into the bag then left the washroom.
He stretched out in his leather seat, aware only that he had a long flight ahead of him and this might be his last chance for rest.