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  “Are you staying in town ’til the next game?” he asked.

  Father Paul nodded approvingly. Trust Darren to get to the point – well, at least close to the point. They really didn’t care where Tom was staying until the next game.

  Father Tom ran an index finger along the rim of the glass. “Maybe,” he said. “It depends…”

  “On what?” John ventured.

  “Depends on what Roland wants to do,” Father Tom replied, deftly providing the opening they were seeking.

  “What does Roland want to do?”

  Roland, Father Tom explained, appeared to want to stay in situ. He took another sip of whiskey.

  “When I spoke to him last Friday, he said he’d probably go to Long Island – to one of the retreat houses out there,” Father Paul said.

  “You spoke to him last Friday?” Father Tom asked, with every appearance of innocence.

  “I’m pretty sure it was last Friday,” Father Paul replied in the same guileless tone.

  “Hmm…” Father Tom took a final sip from his glass.

  “Another round?” Father Paul suggested, signaling to the bartender.

  “In any event, you’re both here!” Father Paul continued jovially.

  “Looks like it,” Father Tom said. “Looks like we’ll be here until the next game – a week from this coming Saturday.”

  “Why?” Father Darren asked with helpful directness, toying with his empty glass.

  “Why does he want to stay? Or why isn’t the next game this weekend?”

  “Both,” John Park said, polishing off the last sip of whiskey.

  They paused as a waitress brought forth fresh tumblers all round.

  Father Tom leaned forward. “There’s a new player, apparently. So the game’s been pushed back a week to give the other players time to familiarize themselves with the newcomer.” Father Tom looked at them with a self-satisfied smile, his eyes partly concealed behind the reflecting light of the dimming sun on his glasses.

  “Did someone leave?”

  “You really ought to ask Roland…” Father Tom answered coyly, toying with his glass.

  “Why don’t you tell us, Tom?” Father Paul leaned forward encouragingly.

  “It doesn’t seem right to talk behind his back,” Father Tom sniffed.

  “Believe me: I’d talk to him face to face if I could!” Father Darren said vehemently. “But he’s been incommunicado since the game. He doesn’t even eat in the dining room with the rest of us. Besides–” he added reluctantly, “I don’t really know Roland Griffith. You knew him during your regency in Colombia. All we know about him is that he was chosen by Father General to play LiGa Bridge. And he’s staying at the residence during the game – if he wants to, that is–” He turned to face Father Tom. “Of course we want to know. Everyone wants to know what’s happening during the game. And if we could, we would certainly ask Roland!”

  “So Tom, did he win the first game?” Father Paul asked.

  Father Tom nodded softly.

  “I thought so…” Father Peter said quietly. “He looked different. I wonder how he felt– the life transfer, I mean.”

  “Why is there a new player?” John asked.

  “Apparently one of the players left.”

  “Obviously, but which one?”

  Father Tom shook his head. “I really don’t know if I should tell you that.”

  “You mean you don’t know,” Father Paul smiled.

  “No! I know. Of course I know–” Father Tom paused to take a refreshing sip of whiskey. “I don’t think it’s my place to say.”

  “Don’t worry, it is,” Father Darren assured him with a pat on the back. “If you know, you owe it to us, your brothers, to tell us.”

  “How’s that, Darren?” Father Tom asked.

  Father Darren grinned, his freckled face crinkling like a bag of chips. “If our positions were reversed, wouldn’t you be asking the same questions?”

  “That’s not a very good reason,” Father Tom said primly.

  “What’s the secret anyway? We all know Roland’s playing the game. And… God forbid… if he loses…” Father Darren let the sentence hang suspended, like the dust particles upon the beam of light.

  “What if he loses?” Father Tom demanded defensively. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, put it this way–” Father Darren looked at Paul and John for support, “I know a lot of priests have been brushing up on their bridge game since it was decided that a Jesuit would be entering a LiGa Bridge tournament… Isn’t that right?”

  John nodded. “Sure. I know a bunch of guys in several of the provinces have been organizing weekly individual tournaments.”

  “Just in case…”

  “Just in case Roland loses? How do you know Father General will send someone to replace him?”

  “How could he not?” John shrugged. “If Father General decided that it is important for a Jesuit to enter a LiGa Bridge tournament, he did not mean it as a mere exercise. He intends a Jesuit to win the tournament… To win a tournament. Maybe not this one… But if Roland does not win this tournament, we can all be sure that at some point – and maybe even during this tournament – there will be another priest missioned to play LiGa Bridge. Maybe even if Roland does win…”

  “Have you been brushing up on your bridge, John?” Father Tom asked.

  Father Paul interrupted by ordering a third round of whiskey for the table.

  “I don’t play bridge,” John said levelly. “What about you, Tom?”

  Father Tom shook his head. “No.”

  “Paul does,” Father Darren said. “You’ve been practicing, haven’t you?”

  “Of course I have. As John pointed out, Father General wants someone to win a LiGa Bridge tournament.”

  Father Tom laughed. “I’ve known you for years, Paul. You never mentioned bridge to me. How long have you been playing? I only ask because Roland played when I knew him years ago in Colombia. He used to play with some of the old ones down there. They played for money. He was good. Roland grew up playing bridge.” He drained the third glass of whiskey. “You all want to know who the new player is?”

  “Get on with it, man, who is he?”

  “Her name is Catherine Trahan. She’s the former governor of Louisiana. She’s 70 years old and she’s replacing senator Frederick Heath.”

  “The WildCat!” Father Paul exclaimed after a brief pause. “That’s interesting…”

  “Why do you say that? Why is it so interesting?” Father Tom demanded.

  “Well she’s an interesting woman for a start, but I also meant in terms of the other players.”

  “Do you know who the other players are?” Father Tom asked abruptly.

  “Only by hearsay. I – we’ve – heard there’s a lawyer or maybe a judge?” he glanced questioningly at Darren and John.

  Father Tom shook his head impatiently. “Both a lawyer and a judge,” he said. “In fact, the lawyer is Bruce Saber!” He announced triumphantly only to be met with blank stares.

  “Don’t you remember? Bruce Saber was the attorney for Peter Krol!” Father Tom sighed with exasperation.

  “We don’t have the benefit of your knowledge–” Father John said meekly. “Do you want another whiskey?”

  Father Tom waved away the offer. He was already warmed by the heady power of superior knowledge, and was only just getting started…

  He sat back and began to field the outpouring of questions. Bruce Saber? Just a lawyer? Father Tom scoffed at the suggestion. They were so bewilderingly ignorant… How could they not know that Storm Drake had been a Formula One driver? Whoever had told them he drove for NASCAR?

  “I’m surprised the senator was replaced by an old woman–” Father Paul mused, wearing a puzzled expression.

  Father Tom waggled a finger conspiratorially. “No! I’ve read her biography…”

  “What did it say?”

  “First of all, that it was she who received the invitation,
and that she transferred it to him – the senator–”

  “Like Father General,” John nodded. “I’d always thought the invitation was non-transferable…”

  “LiGa Chess invitations are non transferable,” Father Tom explained, happily displaying his superior knowledge. “LiGa Bridge invitations are transferable and Cat Trahan transferred her invitation to the senator and when he left–”

  “Do you know why he left?” Father Darren interrupted.

  “No,” Father Tom admitted reluctantly.

  “Well, anyway, tell us about this woman. She must be something pretty amazing if she was invited by LiGa–” John prompted.

  “She’s the WildCat–” Father Paul interjected sharply. “You might not have heard of her while you were growing up in South Korea.”

  “Well– what about her?”

  Father Paul shook his head. “I just remember that she was the governor of Louisiana and was involved in a lot of scandals… Maybe she even went to jail? I don’t really know the details… Tom? Why don’t you fill us in?”

  Father Tom took a deep breath, and with a look that his fellow priests might, under other circumstances, have found perhaps a touch supercilious, launched into his narrative…

  “These biographies are really detailed,” he explained, referring to the information provided by LiGa on the various players.

  “The more information the better,” was the response he received from the table. “Tell us about Cat Trahan. Tell us about all of them…”

  “Cat Trahan was born Catherine Marie Voisin in Lafayette. Her father was a judge, and her mother had been queen of Carnival at twenty-one. Cat was the fifth of seven children and the only girl. But her story – in the public eye – did not begin until she married (it was her second marriage) at thirty-seven, then-governor Albert “Croc” Trahan – a man some twenty years her senior. Croc Trahan was a man with large, often unchecked appetites. He was generous too. A lovable rogue, perhaps. His governorship – given to personal excess and not renowned for its achievements – was cut short by a tragic boating accident, leaving a political void. His widow, Catherine Trahan, who had theretofore not shown an interest in politics, decided to run for her late husband’s vacant seat…

  “Against the odds, Cat succeeded, and at thirty-nine, had risen to the role of governor. She celebrated her fortieth birthday in office in a manner that would have done her late husband proud – or at least gotten a chuckle out of him.

  “As it turned out, Cat was every bit the hedonist Croc had been, but packaged with discipline where it mattered, and a large helping of political acumen.

  “And where Croc Trahan had been an egocentric – albeit charming – crook, Cat was a Louisiana-centric one, and it had made all the difference.

  “For starters – and most importantly – she had increased the state’s revenue…”

  “From gambling?” Father John laughed with disbelief. “She raised even more revenue from gambling? And the citizens were fine with that?” He shook his head.

  “Online gambling. She lobbied strongly for legislation making it legal and taxed the hell out of it. Offshore gambling. It was legal to go through Louisiana. A lot of people profited.”

  “Huh… That’s one way to make money for your state, I suppose…” Father John said dubiously, rubbing his chin.

  “She was a true populist–” Father Tom continued. “They loved their WildCat down there. She was always the first to arrive after a natural disaster and the last to leave before one. She never evacuated during a hurricane, and personally went house to house in the poorest districts making sure everyone got out. She served two consecutive terms, and then a third several years later.”

  “I thought she went to jail. At least there was some sort of criminal case, if I remember correctly, right, Tom?” Father Darren leaned forward in anticipation.

  Father Tom nodded. “Eventually… The Feds tried to bring a case against her twice but failed. Graft. Taking bribes. Nothing would stick. Until after she left office for the third time. They finally got her for extortion, but it was actually a state charge and she pled guilty. She didn’t serve any jail time. It was all probation.”

  “Lucky woman! When was that?”

  Again, their questioning faces were turned to Father Tom.

  “Her biography said the probation ended five years ago. She’s been living quietly in New Orleans since then. That must have been quite a change for her!”

  “What was she like?” Father John wanted to know. “Why was she called the Wildcat?”

  Father Paul chuckled. “Well there was the time for instance – correct me if I’m wrong, Tom – when she was supposed to have had an affair with the trade delegate from Russia to Louisiana.”

  Father Tom shook his head. “The biography does not actually list her affairs,” he conceded with obvious disappointment.

  “She had a lot?” John asked.

  Father Paul nodded vigorously, and noticing the empty glasses around the table, signaled for another round. “Several,” he laughed. “She was married three times. I remember the one about the delegate from Russia because there was a big uproar about it. It was during her first term, and it was thought at the time that it would make her a political pariah!”

  “But it didn’t? How?”

  “It would have destroyed any other woman politician, but she must have some sort of magical charisma… Also, it helped that the oligarch – that’s what he was of course – with whom she allegedly had her affair turned out to be financially beneficial for New Orleans.”

  “My understanding–” Father Darren began slowly, reaching gratefully for the full tumbler, “is that the Russian thing was more than just a diversion. If I recall correctly, that Russian delegate was a billionaire with ties to gambling in Russia.”

  “Oh yes, I think you’re right!” Father Paul responded enthusiastically.

  “And Roland’s going to play against her–” Father Darren mused. “Can you imagine if they both won? A Jesuit and a … well, the WildCat as immortals… What does that tell you about LiGa?” Father Peter chuckled. “That they have a sense of humor at the very least. What does Roland think of her?”

  “I don’t know,” Father Tom replied. “He said he had to get to know her profile.”

  “What I don’t understand is why LiGa waited so long to invite her–” Father Darren remarked thoughtfully.

  “What do you mean?” Father Tom asked.

  “Well, she must have been out of office for a good decade before LiGa decided to invite her. Why invite her now? Why not five years ago, for instance? People aren’t like wine: they don’t generally improve with age. Her cognitive abilities would decline over the years. Are we supposing she only learned to play bridge in the past five years? That seems unlikely given what we know of LiGa.”

  “No. Her profile said she’d been playing for a good 30 years or more.”

  “Exactly. So, what’s she been doing in the past ten years to merit LiGa’s attention? After all, the country is full of perfectly corrupt and venal but charming politicians. Why her? Was there anything else in her biography?”

  Father Tom frowned in an effort at remembrance. He shook his head. “I don’t remember anything else of note,” he said regretfully. He leaned back and closed his eyes, willing himself to recall the details of the biography. “No,” he said opening his eyes. “I don’t remember anything else.”

  “Maybe…it’s not that she’s done anything special since leaving office… Maybe it’s LiGa that’s changed–” Father Paul hazarded.

  “What do you mean?” Asked John sharply.

  “Well, look at what we know: all the prior LiGa players we know about – which, granted, is not a complete list – are academics–”

  “Not Diarmid Tanner–” Father John interrupted. “He was – still is, I believe – an architect.”

  “Fine,” Father Peter said with a slight note of irritation. “An architect. And a group of scientists – re
searchers and professors. Am I right?”

  “As far as we know…” John said unwilling to commit.

  “And now… look who they have invited: a Jesuit – and not just any Jesuit but the Superior General. We know he got the invitation. That’s common knowledge.

  “In fact, none of the people you mentioned – a lawyer, a judge, a racecar driver, a senator, and now a former governor – fits the profile that we are familiar with: the overachieving scientist or artist…”

  “Good point,” Father Darren said sharply. “So, why did LiGa want a Jesuit to enter the tournament, do you suppose?”

  “An immortal Jesuit…” Father Paul smiled slowly. “An immortal superior general…” He looked around him.

  “Do you think that’s what this is about?” John asked.

  “Creating an immortal superior general…” Father Paul drained his glass and leaned back against the unforgiving wooden back of his seat. “What do you think?” he asked the table at large.

  “Why stop there?” Father Darren said with a mischievous smile. “How about an immortal pope?”

  “That calls for another round, definitely!” Father Paul thumped the table with his fist.

  12

  The day before the second game, a taxi crunched to a halt in the parking lot before the LiGa headquarters. It was ten minutes past two in the afternoon.

  The driver held the door for the slight, elderly woman with the bright blue eyes. As her luggage was unloaded by two of the gray men, she looked around appraisingly. It was just as she had imagined … just as dear Fred had described.

  One of the gray men politely instructed her to follow the path to the glass cube, where, he assured her, she would be met by Peter Krol.

  “I know,” Cat said sweetly.

  The glass cube: pretty as a glittering bauble. Pretty deadly.

  Cat walked briskly along the path…

  “Mrs. Trahan,” Peter smiled before the glass wall, “welcome to LiGa.”

  “Hello, Peter,” Cat grinned. “You look just as I imagined. Very handsome,” she twinkled.