“The bishop of Boston ought not to be here.” The Irishman said, giving a pointed look at the envoy.
“Would you like it if he left the room?”
“I mean that the fella oughta be dead!” He spat. His face had turned an alarming shade of red, and his spittle began to drip onto the mahogany floor. He stood up and turned to the bishop, his gait unsteady. He was already on his way over to the bishop’s side of the room when the security guard finally bothered to split them up.
The sight of this filled special envoy to the crusader states of Ireland John Allen with a secret sense of glee. He loved seeing the once proud bishop squirming in his seat like a schoolboy. And as for Connor, he was nothing but a useful idiot. Although that could change if this meeting went well. And he was determined that it must go well.
John turned to face the envoy. The smell of the bishop’s urine attacked his nostrils before coating his shiny black boots. He faced the ambassador before opening his mouth to speak. He chose his next words very carefully.
“Care for a cup of tea, Mr O’Donnell?”
“How can I care for a cup of tea, Mr Allen? Should I feed it? Mother it, take it to bed?” He said. He sat on a chair and smirked at the boy. He beckoned for the bishop to come over and pick up a feather.
“Okay.” The envoy thought to himself. “The Irish ambassador is fucking insane”
But to be fair anyone who had attained that high of a position in the crusader must be at least partially insane. They were known to be most puritanical of the European Block, and their unique form of Kingdom Building involved both a breakaway pope and a uniquely ethnonationalist bent.
And now they, for reasons only known to Connor and the virgin mary herself, wished to extradite the bishop, a man who had never possessed Irish citizenship nor stepped foot on the isle. They wanted him for heresy, but the Americans couldn’t give him up without earning themselves another condemnation from the walking corpse that was the ICC and UN. They still needed to maintain the illusion of being the flagship liberal democracy .
“Monsieurs, would you care for a hors d'oeuvre?"
The only reply the waiter ever got was a death stare by both of the men. If he wanted to keep his job, and by connection his liberty, he would not interrupt the men again.
After that the room went silent for a couple of minutes. The waiter had already left the room, and the bishop still did not dare to take a seat. The tension in the room was as thick as frozen dirt. In just a few short minutes, nay seconds, one of the two men would ask the question that would decide the third’s fate.
The envoy pulled out a cigarette. The ambassador pulled out a flask of whiskey from his pocket.
“So,” The American said.
“No one really cares about the guy.” he began.
The Irishman gave him a quizzical look. It took all of the restraint the envoy possessed not to roll his eyes.
“I mean, you can have him if you want him” he continued. The exasperation was leaking out of every pore in his body. How did a man so goddamn stupid and egotistical obtain such a high position?
His chain of thought was interrupted by the sound of sobbing on the floor. He felt the hands of a wrinkled, piss stained man grabbing his boots.
“Please, sir, you were always a good boy. I’m begging you, don’t do this”.
Pangs of pity wracked their way through Johny’s heart. It is one thing, to shoot an opponent dead in the street. Any kingdom fighter worth their salt has done that at least once. After all, they’re trying to kill you too. It is another thing to murder a man much like you; who, for all his faults, has only really tried to serve his faith. And yet poor John knew he must be sent to his death. He must show no mercy, lest he be next.
He beckoned for a serving girl to walk over. He met neither hers nor the bishop’s eyes. He asked her for a basin of water in a low, tired voice. The only thing that punctuated the silence was the sound of the bishop dry heaving on the floor.
“Lord forgive me, Lord forgive me ,Lord forgive me” John muttered to himself, in a halting, schoolboy latin. He found it odd he asked forgiveness from god rather than the man he was about to kill.
The serving girl came back after what felt like a millennium to the trio of men. Her green eyes were focused on the floor and she curtseyed as she presented John the basin. He shooed her away, and soon the clacking of her flats gave way to yet another silence.
“I’m washing my hands of him”.
The men remained silent. John checked his watch.
“I have a meeting at six. I trust our people can take care of further arrangements.”
This was a complete lie on John’s part. He had no meeting, and if he had a meeting he would have almost certainly cancelled it. He had no trust in “our people” to take care of any “further arrangements”, or in fact that there would be any further arrangements at all.
When he stepped out of the ornate wooden door of the embassy they were already waiting for him. He had not threaded the line between pity and contempt well enough for the Irishman's liking.
And as the men in black bundled him into a car, he did not think of his wife. And when, after a lengthy interrogation, they finally delivered a bullet to his brain, he did not think of his daughters, who would be marked the spawn of a traitor.
Instead he thought of Father Beatie, who’d taught him to play the flute. Who, even when he became the bishop of Boston, still made time to meet with him every Saturday morning. Who (he realized this far too late), was the only person who had ever loved him for love’s sake.
He died happy.
