Comes a Horseman by Robert Liparulo

breath—a mistake, since she managed only to fill her sinuses and lungs with the heavy odor of blood. “It’s off.”
    â€œThank God,” he said and released a dazzling example of volcanic flatulence.
    Just what she needed. Alicia spun on her heels and strode away.

10
    Ben-Gurion Airport
Near Tel Aviv, Israel
    A s usual, the big, black Mercedes limousine was waiting on the tarmac for the Gulfstream IV bearing Fr. Adalberto Randall. He eyed it through a porthole as he waited for the pilot to open the door, lower the steps, and offer a hand. He was old, too old for this. His back was bent and his knees were shot and he no longer possessed the muscle mass that would have compensated for these deficiencies in a younger man. At least he did not have to fly commercial.
    The limo’s back door opened as he approached. Leaning out, Pippino Farago grazed him with his eyes before disappearing back into the cool darkness of the car’s interior.
    Climbing in wrenched Randall’s back even more.
    The passenger compartment was laid out like a living room, with two plush bench seats facing each other—one directly behind the driver’s seat and one at the rear. Pip and his boss, Luco Scaramuzzi, lounged in the rear seat, so Randall fell back into the one facing them.
    Luco smiled warmly. He leaned forward to extend his hand, and Father Randall shook it.
    â€œGood to see you again, Father,” Luco said. He was one of the handsomest men the priest had ever seen, on-screen or off—he could have been George Clooney’s Italian brother. He was lithe, muscular, and tall. At forty-two, his thick salt-and-pepper hair had not receded one centimeter off his forehead.
    And God had not denied the man any trappings to make the most out of his good looks. If charm were a poker hand, Luco came up with a royal flush every time. Children adored him, men wanted to be him, and women . . . well, whoever coined the phrase “God’s gift to women” must have had Luco Scaramuzzi in mind.
    Randall smiled inwardly at the gaudiness of his description. You’d think he was the man’s press agent instead of his theologian. But he offered no apologies. It was all true; bless him, it was.
    Randall supposed Luco required every one of his superior genes to achieve the goals he had set for himself. And that reminded him of another of Luco’s qualities: he was a hard worker. He never seemed to sleep. When he wasn’t tending to his duties as ambassador of Italy to Israel, he was planning world domination . . . really. Or toning his muscles in his workout room, scuba diving off the Lipari Islands, skiing on St. Moritz . . . or doing whatever seemed strenuous and fun.
    So with all that going for him, it was a shame the man was also the embodiment of pure evil. His history of bad deeds included the deflowering of young girls, sexual affairs for the sole purpose of breaking a husband’s heart, robbery, embezzlement, extortion, arson, battery. And murder; don’t forget murder.
    In fact, it was his assassination of a politician five years ago in the Asia House—the very building from which he now conducted his own politicking—that secured his position as ambassador.
    If someone asked Randall what he was doing with such a despicable person, he’d lie. But he had his reasons, and he was able to look at himself in the mirror at night. Most nights.
    â€œFather, you want something to drink?” Luco asked. He pulled a bottle of springwater from the limo’s small refrigerator for himself.
    â€œWine, please.”
    Luco slid a bottle out enough to read the label.
    â€œBrunello di Montalcino?”
    â€œSplendid.”
    Luco uncorked the bottle, poured a taste into a Riedel Vinum wineglass, and offered it to Randall.
    He held up his hand. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
    Luco poured half a glass and handed it to him.
    â€œPip?”
    Luco’s assistant raised his