When he reached the portico, he turned his chair to watch the thousands of people around him. How many were in his position? He watched the men, women, old, young, all colors and nationalities. Most were white, but the mix of nonwhites demonstrated the reach and power of this Church. He knew he would soon see God. But how many of these others were in a similar situation? How many would welcome it? How many would run from it? Ah, can’t outrun the hand of God.
He passed through the portico, and just inside the Door of Good and Evil, he gave his ticket to a guard who gingerly held it by the edges while he looked it over. “This way, Sir,” said the guard who led Ibrahim up the nave, the main aisle of the church. St. Peter’s didn’t actually have aisles since its huge interior had neither pews nor permanent seating. But ropes and barricades divided the floor space into different areas so the crowds of worshippers could be accommodated in an orderly manner.
Ibrahim edged into a state of religious excitement he had never experienced. He could hear his heartbeat, feel his body merging with the mystical. The position and privilege his location in the church gave him was unbelievable. He was directly behind the VIP section and no more than forty feet from the papal altar under its huge canopy where the mass would be celebrated. The Pope had ordered this special section for the handicapped since they were God’s most beloved.
He calmed himself by repeating a series of prayers he had known since childhood. Over and over he prayed until he had some control over his physical and mental processes.
Now there were other wheelchairs in the special section and the rest of the church had filled to capacity. Sixty-thousand people were waiting for the procession that would bring the Pope and the most important cardinals of the Roman church. This was Easter, and Easter was their day. The day Christ rose from the dead was the day their church was born. The risen Christ. The risen Church. Without Easter, it was all nothing. What good was a dead God?
A trumpet fanfare and the bellowing organ pipes announced the start of the procession. The choir joined in, the music rose, and all heads turned back to glimpse the beginning of the procession. Ibrahim was next to the rope that separated his section from the aisle down which the princes of the Holy Roman Catholic Church would come. Since his neck no longer turned, he moved his joystick to spin his chair in place.
A large, frowning cardinal in red robes led the group into the church. A very well fed cardinal, thought Ibrahim. He was surprised the man could actually clasp his hands in front of his stomach. Behind him, fourteen young men in black cassocks, white surplices, and gold collars carried candles mounted in gold stands. Another eight red cardinals followed, then six priests carrying incense burners on long chains.
The Pope’s palanquin followed behind them, surrounded by identically dressed security men whose jackets were cut to conceal anything from an Uzi to a broadsword. Ibrahim figured there must be at least thirty of them. And the bearers of the palanquin itself were giants. Each man looked like he could carry the whole thing alone. They have learned to take the threats seriously, he thought, but how seriously? Ibrahim knew God protected his servants. He said so.
When the Pope passed by Ibrahim, he could have easily reached out and touched the giant bearers. He could barely glimpse the Pope by bending himself to the side so his eyes might look where his bent neck couldn’t point his head. He locked eyes with the Pope for a moment and saw the Pope quickly move his hand in a cross directed at Ibrahim. He had received a papal blessing. Ibrahim bowed his head.
For the next hour Ibrahim was locked inside himself in solitary prayer, noticing little around him, and ignoring the music and pageantry cascading through the church. He failed to notice the cardinals and bishops who helped the little Pope celebrate the mass. He ignored the Pope’s sermon on peace among all nations and religions, redistribution of wealth, global warming, and an end to all immigration barriers. He paid no attention to the arcane pecking order around the altar. And he dismissed the thirty gray-clad security men who surrounded the altar. He figured there were probably a couple hundred mixed in with the crowd, so why fixate on the obvious ones?
In the middle of sixty-thousand people, Ibrahim was alone with God. God spoke to him.
* * *
When Bishop Santini felt the cart stop, he twisted the handle and pushed on the door. It shook, but wouldn’t open. He kicked it. Nothing. Santini mashed his head sideways against the truck’s small window and saw they were in a maintenance garage beneath one of the buildings. He watched the man peel off his coveralls and stuff them in a suitcase on the floor. Now he was dressed in the clerical garb of a Roman Catholic priest, black suit, black shirt, Roman collar, and black shoes. He pulled a gold Rolex from his pocket and slipped it on. For such a large man, the suit was well tailored and fit surprisingly well.
The man shut the overhead garage door, then opened the back door of the van.
“Get out and shut up,” said the man. “Now, listen carefully. My name is Hammid. Let’s try to be civilized. I tell you what to do, and you do it. It’s that simple.” He opened the van door and stood back, pointing a long-barreled pistol at the bishop. “What we have to do will be done. We can do it the hard way, or we can do it the easy way. The choice is yours. Now, think before you start talking.” His speech was no longer broken Italian and English. The English was fluent and British, but there was something else there.
A third person sat whimpering on a small bench, blind-folded and gagged, her wrists and ankles tied with duct tape. He couldn’t make out her face. She wore the modified habit of Catholic nuns, a simple blue dress, white head scarf, and a silver cross around her neck.
“Please put this on one wrist.” He tossed Santini a pair of handcuffs. “And then secure the other around that pole with Sister Jeanette.”
Nobody ever talked to him like that, but he was sure he was the intellectual superior, so he had to remain calm. Santini silently fumed, but cuffed himself to the pole, laid a hand on Sister Jeanette’s shoulder, and whispered, “It will all be alright, Sister. Let’s be calm. The Lord is with us.”
Then he faced Hammid and drew himself to his full height, in spite of the shooting pain in his back. “And you have trapped me here for some purpose, I presume?” He looked around and saw the normal clutter of a maintenance shed. Tool boxes, pipes, lumber, electrical wiring, and a riding lawn mower sat around in no particular order. Light came from two bare bulbs dangling from ceiling cords. The place smelled like fertilizer, and the floor was covered with small wood chips.
Hammid laid the gun on a workbench and leaned back against it. He said nothing, sure Santini would speak first. The pompous fool thought he was in charge.
“You have kidnapped me.” Santini broke first. “You should know I am to celebrate Easter Mass with the Holy Father today. People will be looking for me.” The instant he said that, he felt like a fool.
And Hammid regarded him as a fool. “Shut up, bishop,” snapped Hammid. “Sister Jeanette is under death sentence, and she will die. She has one chance.” He pointed at Santini. “You.”
“Me?” said Santini. “What are you talking about?”
Hammid took a large folding knife from a front pocket and flicked it open with his thumb. “But, her death will be quite a show, bishop, and you will watch, piece by piece…” He stuck the knife in the bench just out of Santini’s reach.
“She’s really a well put-together woman, wouldn’t you say?” He leered at Santini. “Why don’t you just slide a hand up under her skirt, bishop? Nobody’s here but us. Maybe it would pass the time?” Sister Jeanette’s whimpers rose in pitch. “Never felt the gentle caress of a bishop, Sister?”
Santini recoiled. “No. No. I’ll do whatever you want. Just tell me what you want me to do.”
“Excellent, bishop. It’s really very simple. The three of us will go to the Vatican Library. You will let us in. You will take me where I want to go. I will take what I choose. Then I will leave you and Sister Jeanette alive and in the library wh
ile I leave.”
The man was mad, thought Santini. He couldn’t possibly get away with this. Santini reviewed the procedures the security experts had set up for just this situation. His job was to cooperate, use the proper code words with the guards, let the thief take whatever he wanted, let him leave, and allow security to handle him. Don’t antagonize him. Cooperate. Stay calm.
“Do you understand the situation, Bishop Santini?”
Santini slid the handcuff down on the pole and sat on the bench next to Sister Jeanette. “Yes. I understand. You’re in charge, you have the gun, you have us at your mercy.”
“Correct. I agree. In that case, can we just sit quietly until it’s time to go?”
* * *
Ibrahim roused himself from his prayers and panicked, afraid that he had missed the most important part of the mass, the consecration, when the Pope would transform bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ. No, he relaxed a bit. God was with him. He hadn’t missed it, but it was coming soon.
* * *
Mancini’s voice crackled in Callahan’s ear. “Callahan, meet me by the handicapped security check. On the far south side. No rush. Take a walk by all the checkpoints on the way.”
“See you there.”
He left his stone companions, descended from his perch on the colonnade, and ambled slowly through the Easter crowd. He heard agents barking at each other through the tiny earpiece he wore. It was so hi-tech, it didn’t even have a cord dangling from his ear into his jacket. He controlled channels with a tiny remote device in his hand, and spoke into a microphone concealed under his collar. With his sport shirt, baseball cap, baggy pants, and lightweight coat covering a nine-millimeter Smith & Wesson, he looked like a thousand other guys.
He made his way to the end of the line of security stations and walked from one station to another. Most people just walked through, unaware of the high-tech scanning aimed at them. But each was x-rayed, bomb sniffed, heat-scanned, and photographed coming through the gates. The pictures were instantly digitized and matched against a database of known terrorists, criminals, and anyone who might have a grudge against the church. Some were asked to leave, however, they had never caught a known terrorist this way.
Callahan just watched. If there was an improvement to be made, he noted it, and would take it up later with Mancini. Nothing was to be gained by tinkering in the middle of a major operation.
Mancini was already waiting when Callahan arrived at the handicapped station, and the guards were laughing and motioning for Paulo, one of the Vatican guards, to keep his distance.
“Looks like your men have a problem with personal hygiene,” said Callahan, jerking his head toward Paulo.
Paulo shrugged and gave a somewhat helpless look. Mancini walked over to Paulo and started to ask what he had done to deserve such treatment. But he didn’t have to ask. It was obvious.
“My God, Paulo, you sleep in a dumpster? You smell like crap.”
Mancini backed up and motioned for Paulo to keep his distance. The other guards laughed even more.
“Hey, what can I say?” said Paulo. “I’m doing my job as usual, in my normal exemplary manner, and this little guy in a chair barfs all over me. Look at these pants. They’re ruined. And you better believe I’m putting in for the cost. These pants aren’t cheap. And the shoes?” He lifted one foot up and slightly tilted the shoe. “How can I ever wear them again?”
Mancini joined the guards in their laughter. “Ah, you obviously are especially gifted in dealing with the public,” he responded.
“I thought I knew this guy,” Paulo said. “He always seemed harmless. What I didn’t know is that he eats barf beans for breakfast. God, I stink.”
“Get out of here.” Mancini waved a hand in front of his nose. “And go back to the locker room. Change your clothes. Take a shower. If the captain says anything, tell him I ordered you. You’re scaring away the faithful. Go.”
“Thanks. I won’t be gone long.” Paulo gathered up his things and started toward the barracks.
“Wait a minute.” Callahan looked around and motioned Paulo to him. This time he didn’t flinch when the guard approached. “This guy who did this? You knew him?”
“Yes, Sir,” said Paulo. “He came through here just about every morning I was on duty for the last year or so.”
“Did he ever have this kind of problem before?” Callahan asked.
“No. He was all messed up. You know? All bent and crippled. But he never went on a puking rampage before.”
“Italian?”
Paulo paused. “No, I don’t think so. But his voice is all messed up and he uses one of those gizmos you hold up to your throat.”
“Hair color?”
“Black.”
“Complexion?”
“Caucasian, but on the darker side. Like maybe Greece, Sicily, or… maybe an Arab?”
“Did you give the guy the full treatment today? Did you check him out?” Callahan waited while Paulo looked around nervously.
“Well, I started to check him then he let loose on me. I mean, look at me. The nurse sort of cleaned him. I guess. Then he sort of…” Paulo stammered.
“Did you check him or not?” Callahan demanded, remembering what the Hashashin in Costa Rica told them. Then he turned his scowl on the other guards, who had suddenly become serious. “Did anyone check this guy?”
Their faces gave him the answer.
Mancini was already running and trying to give orders into his lapel mic at the same time. Callahan easily passed him.
Mancini shouted into his microphone, running between the south Piazza fountain and knots of slow moving tourists. “Code RED RED RED. Mancini. Handicapped section Basilica. Wheelchair suspect. Older male. Surround and immobilize. Bomb threat.” The central radio dispatcher picked up the emergency call, punched a programmed button alerting all units, and immediately passed the details to the Pope’s personal protection detail. But by then they were acting.
The Vatican Security Chief grabbed a blast blanket hidden under an ornate bench and sprinted toward the Pope, thirty feet away. At the same time, other units started well-rehearsed emergency procedures. Rooftop snipers scanned sectors, gates to St. Peter’s Piazza rolled shut, and rough men staged in buildings grabbed weapons and headed for doors.
Callahan had his gun drawn, cleared the top of the first set of steps leading into the portico of the great church, and motioned for the plainclothes guards at the entrance to follow. Mancini was one flight of steps below him, with nearly fifty armed guards sprinting behind him.
* * *
The Pope solemnly moved to the center of the altar to begin the consecration phase of the mass. Ibrahim knew what was coming and his joy was unbounded. Feeling nearer to God than he had ever been, he began to loudly cough, rasp, and strangle in huge gasps of air. Bloody flecks dotted the clean towel the nurse had given him and a stream of saliva ran from a corner of his mouth. People around him leaned away, but since they too were confined to wheelchairs, there wasn’t much they could do.
Ibrahim turned his chair toward the aisle and became entangled with the velvet rope that set off the wheelchair section. An usher came down the aisle and asked if he could help. Ibrahim held the voice amplifier to his throat, coughed, nodded, and pointed down the aisle to the doors at the front of the Basilica. The usher unclipped the velvet rope and moved it out of Ibrahim’s path. He moved his chair into the aisle. The front door lay to his left, and the altar to his right. The Pope had begun the consecration.
Ibrahim held up a hand to the usher and pushed the joystick to rotate the chair toward the Pope. The usher understood. Even though the poor man was in distress, he did not want to miss the consecration and elevation of the body of Christ. It was a papal mass after all, and Easter too. The usher went down on one knee as the Pope bent over the sacred bread and said the words of consecration that would transform the bread into the body of Christ.
Ibrahim’s coughs and gasps were now silent
. With a cardinal assisting on each side, the Pope elevated the round white wafer of unleavened bread, the body of Christ, above his head. And Ibrahim felt God flow through his body as he too elevated his arms. But he held not a sliver of bread, not the body of Christ, but his two oxygen tanks.
The guards needed no radio alert. They moved as a single, well-trained unit.
Ibrahim saw four large guards rushing toward him, and felt more behind him crashing through the crowd. A man with a heavy blanket fixed his eyes on the Pope and smashed through Cardinals and archbishops clustered tightly on the altar. It was only seconds since Mancini had sounded the alarm, seconds to reach the Pope, seconds to reach Ibrahim, seconds to live, and seconds too late. He saw a gun swinging toward him. Then another. Everything moved in slow motion. But it, too, was too late.
God transfused him. He had God’s strength. His broken body was God’s body. He was whole again. He could feel it. He heard a familiar voice crying out clearly for the first time in years, his voice. His voice speaking for God. His voice filling the entire giant Basilica. His voice rebuking the unbelievers, infidels, and enemies of God.
The Templar Concordat Page 7