Church Militant has a fascinating story, the stuff of novels.
THE HUNT FOR VIGANÒ: VATICAN SPIES TRACKING WHISTLEBLOWER
By Rev. Michael X., JCL
Vatican officials are on the hunt for Abp. Carlo Maria Viganò.
According to sources within the Vatican, the Secretariat of State of the Holy See — under the direction of Pietro Cardinal Parolin — has communicated an instruction to its internal and external security services to use its “intelligence resources” to locate the physical whereabouts of Abp. Viganò. This request has been communicated not only in order to prevent more unpredictable damage to the image of Pope Francis and the Holy See on the world stage, but also to “prepare the terrain” for the former apostolic nuncio-turned-whistleblower to be prosecuted for alleged multiple crimes against Vatican and Church law.
The urgency with which the location of Abp. Viganò is being sought is all the more palpable since, according to canon 1507 of the Code of Canon Law and other procedural and penal norms of the Holy See and Vatican City State, Abp. Viganò cannot be prosecuted or even punished unless he first be given the opportunity to be officially notified in writing of the specific canonical and Vatican crimes he is alleged to have committed and be given the opportunity to defend himself against them.
News of the Vatican deploying its vast international resources to track down and prosecute Abp. Viganò are consistent with his assertions made to Aldo Maria Valli on their final encounter: that Viganò had “purchased a plane ticket,” that he was “traveling abroad,” that he “could not tell [Valli] where,” that Valli “should not try to find him,” that “his old cellular number will no longer be functioning,” and that they “saluted each other one last time.”
There’s more over there.
It is truly the stuff of novels.
Tracer Bullet writhed himself awake in the wreckage of the diner. His head felt like the smashed blue plate special he pulled his face out of. With a pull on the edge of the round counter stool he got to his feet with a groan, grabbed napkins and swabbed at the red-stained potatoes.
He looked for his hat. Kicking plates, trays and a few inert bodies, he found it crown up in the corner. Strange. He strained against the pain in his punched in kidneys and throbbing head to fish it off the floor. Raising it, Tracer froze in mid lift.
On the floor under the hat was his emptied .357 and a mobile phone, the old flip kind that hadn’t been used since he used to see that one dame, the golf ball tee empire heiress. Problem was, it wasn’t his phone.
Wind blew through the broken windows and threw shadows from the thrashing curtains and blinds.
Tracer opened the phone and hit the button to see the last number.
Shifting his eyes to the inside of his hat, there was a note tucked in the band. With the phone in his hand, he plucked it up and opened it with his blood-stained teeth. The letters slashed across the order pad sheet.
Find him before they do. – Z
The sound of the sirens lanced through the fog in his skull. A lunging stagger took him through the kitchen and into the alley and the night.