by Declan Finn
“Al-Husseini was installed by the English,” Sadiq answered. “In the 1920s, as a prize of World War I, Palestine was a mandate of Britain; they ran it and everything in it. Hajj al-Husseini was the recognized leader of the Palestinians, and in 1922, was made Grand Mufti.”
“Al-Husseini called for an anti-Jewish jihad in Palestine, saying, quote, ‘Murder the Jews! Murder them all!’, starting riots in 1929 and from 1936 to1939.” the Pope revealed.
Sadiq shifted in his chair. “I am unfamiliar with those.”
“He would later move on to Berlin radio, wouldn’t he? In fact, in one statement didn’t he say, ‘Kill the Jews, Kill them with your hands, kill them with your teeth! This is well pleasing to Allah!’?”
“I am unaware of this,” Sadiq said without any emotion whatsoever.
“During World War II, al-Husseini collaborated with Hitler, became friends with Adolf Eichmann, even pushed the extermination of Jews to go faster yes? Even recruit a Muslim SS unit?”
“I am not even certain where you are going with all of this.”
Kutjok shrugged. “It’s just that I hear so much about Hitler’s Pope. I’m wondering why I rarely hear about Hitler’s Mufti.”
The prosecutor said, “Your honor, I object! This is just a glorified delay tactic.”
Pius smiled. “Why, of course it is. It’s a show trial, so I should put on a show.” He turned away from Sadiq, as though to let him go, and said, “Finally: what is Hadith Malik 511:1588?”
Sadiq sighed. “Hadith is a reliably transmitted report of what the Prophet said, did, or approved.”
“And many—not all, but many—in Islam tend to treat Hadith as importantly as Koran?”
“Yes.”
“What is Hadith Malik 511:1588?”
“‘O Lord, perish the Jews and Christians. They made churches of the graves of their prophets. There shall be no two faiths in Arabia.’”
The Pope smiled sadly. “In which case, I hope sincerely that no one of your faith takes that Hadith seriously.”
* * *
Hashim Abasi blanched at what he was viewing, and fought the urge to leap out of bed. “The fallout from this will be terrible.”
* * *
The news talk show host named Bill didn’t bother with asking questions to either Matthew Kovach or his opponent. They signed off for the day.
The young author thought for a moment about what would happen next. He looked at Fr. Williams. “I’m going to have to start digging out materials for tomorrow—after this, they’re going to wind up for a Pius XII attack. Could you get me Gerrity’s materials?”
Chapter XXIII
Abbatoir
Undisclosed Location
6:00 PM
Manana Shushurin glared at the fat slob who held her captive, and contemplated everything she had to look forward to, and thought, Oh, the hell with that. I’m getting out of here.
Manana let her voice drop half an octave into something more seductive. “Why can’t we start now?”
The large, heavy man paused as he laid down the automatic bone saw. He then straightened properly as he turned to her. “What did you say?”
“I said,” she practically purred, “why don’t you start now? Rape is standard, isn’t it?”
His eyes narrowed, confused. “Of course.”
“Well, if you need me to scream for the camera, I’ll be happy to.” She looked at his dazed expression and giggled. “Come on, Boris, we grew up together. I always liked you, even in school…I was a kid and couldn’t figure out how to express it.” Her voice became softer. “I’m all grown up now.”
Boris nodded slowly, thinking it over. After all, he was going to do it anyway, only with a partner, when he showed up. Not to mention that she was offering—and if this was some sort of trap, not only was he exceptionally well trained, Manana was in chains.
He reached out and grabbed her breast, kneading it like it was bread.
Manana’s patience was nonexistent at that point. As soon as she was certain he was into the idea, she jerked her legs up to wrap them around Boris’s shoulders and pull him in. She pushed off him, using him for elevation, bringing her chest and his hand closer to her own bound hands. Manana clapped her hands against his trapped hand, pinning it to her breastbone. She locked her legs together and arched her back, yanking his arm right out of its socket.
It must have hurt, but Boris didn’t even scream.
Manana was prepared for that, and she twisted against the chains, spinning in the air—and taking Boris’s arm with her, his arm bone grating against the socket.
Then he screamed.
She pushed off with both of her feet, snapping his neck.
Manana Shushurin dangled there for a moment, holding his body up. She slowly slid one leg down his chest, to his shirt pocket, and dipped in with her toes, grabbing hold of the keys. She lifted them up and drew her knee to her chest, swinging the foot to her hands. She grabbed hold of the keys and dropped the body.
“Goodnight, Boris.”
* * *
The French doctor torturing Sean cursed and stopped. He had had other people pass out from the pain before, so he had the entire drill down to a science. He removed his instruments—it would hurt more to start the process from scratch again anyway—and slapped the man’s face a few times.
Ryan’s eyes stayed closed, and his body still, no matter how many times he was struck. After five minutes of this, the doctor checked his pulse, then turned to his medical tray, picking up a needle and a swab.
The French doctor leaned into Ryan, the swab moving for the crook of his elbow.
Unfortunately for him, his slaps had worked. Ryan had kept his eyes closed from the moment he awoke, and took the time to gather himself together, despite the continuous blows to his face.
Ryan suddenly came alive and pushed off the hands cuffed behind his back, sending his forehead smashing into the doctor’s nose. The deceptively-firm cartilage shattered, and the doctor swiped with the needle, hoping to catch his assailant.
Ryan had already moved on. After colliding with the doctor, Ryan threw his body to one side, off the exam table, landing on his shoulder in a roll. Then, with practiced ease—ease that only came after the first hundred hours of practice—Ryan jerked his knees to his shoulders, folding his legs down, and whipping the cuffed hands in front of him, pulling them over his feet. He kicked up, driving both feet into the oncoming doctor. Instead of retracting his legs, he swung them over his head so that he could tumble to his feet.
The doctor stumbled back, falling into a small rack of equipment that Ryan didn’t even want to think about. The former stuntman waited for the Frenchman to get back up, but after ten seconds of listening to naught but his own heart pounding in his ears, Ryan leaned forward, looking around the bed, to see that the doctor had his own needle sticking out of his heart.
Ryan started at the loud metallic creaks from the door. He briefly considered playing dead, or even taking them on directly, but both ideas were more stupid than he wanted to admit, and he was running out of options.
When the door opened, both men swept cautiously into the room, guns drawn. After a brief once over inside the room, one stood at the door, and the other moved to check on the prone doctor.
Neither one had looked up at the dangling hooks from the ceiling, where Sean Ryan was suspended directly over the door like a sprig of mistletoe.
He dropped straight down, his arms coming around the gunman’s neck. The gunman was dead before Ryan’s feet even touched the floor.
The other gunman looked up from the doctor as his friend collapsed to the floor. The body hid Ryan completely, so the second gunman never saw it coming when Ryan drew a combat knife from his victim’s belt and hurled it into his throat.
Ryan drew in a few breaths, hoping to relax a moment to focus before someone else came through the door. He reached down and grabbed the gun out of his human shield’s hand, and rolled, moving the body off him.
>
He moved the body out of the way of the door, then used his legs to get the door closed. Five minutes later, he had both hands free, as well as two guns, six magazines of ammunition—
And I’m still buck naked, blast it.
Ryan looked over the clothing again. He had stripped both commandos naked, and examined their outfits. To start with, they were both more than half a foot taller than Ryan, not to mention wider built, with enough muscle in their bodies to supply a large dinosaur. He considered jury-rigging the clothing that he had, but all he could imagine was a clown costume—pants and shirt too large, shoes that threatened to come off at any moment. Even if he poked a few holes into the belt and duct taped the cuffs, there was still no guarantee that the pants wouldn’t literally trip him up at the worst possible moment.
Ryan could at least still avail himself of the vests from the two gunmen, they would be loose, but they had enough pockets for ammunition, and were designed to be stealthy and soundless.
Ryan had only just assembled the vests into a condensed package for his travels when the door began to creak open once more.
* * *
Meanwhile, in Belgium, the abandoned complex was positioned at the top of a hill. All one needed was the image of a blockade consisting of a jeep with a mounted machine gun, and one could imagine it as a border guard post in Northern Ireland.
The stark, bunker-like stone building was surrounded by a perimeter of old barbed wire fence. The abandoned building now stood dark and dead. The place had been practically gutted of all that had made it intimidating except its overbearing presence. There was, however, one spark of life still left inside. The eerie white glow of portable lamps could be seen at night. Unless one actually looked at the guard post, their light was indistinguishable from the moonlight.
The last traces of sunlight had long disappeared by six o’clock, casting the roadside trees at the foot of the hill into darkness. It was at this time that a shadow began to move around the building, blending in with the night.
It wore the latest in terrorist fashion: a form-fitting black ensemble of ski mask, lightweight turtleneck, gloves, and thin, rubber-soled shoes.
Let’s just hope they don’t have ground sensors. Otherwise, this will be a very short trip.
The black form stopped inside the edge of trees, dropping to one knee. There was a scan of the rooftop with a set of binoculars—one monocle was set for thermal vision, the other for ultraviolet sight (who trusted night vision? One bad flash bang throw and it was all over). No one seemed to have surveillance duty—at least, not on the outside of the building.
This is stupid… unless I’ve missed something.
The binoculars dipped, looking around the barbed wire perimeter, and saw the source of their cockiness: two jumper cables clamped onto the links of the fence, both of the wires running invisibly close to the ground.
The shadow pushed off the ground into a dead run up the hill toward the fence, then leapt, grabbing the fence with rubber gloves and rubber soled shoes. This would be fine as long as the form didn’t touch both the fence and the ground at the same time—it wouldn’t be grounded then. The dark form quickly pulled itself up and over the fence, then leapt off. The shape landed without a sound, then exploded toward the complex, a hundred feet away. It disappeared again when it flattened against the wall. The lowest windows were ten yards up.
Several feet away, there was yet another fence, along with at least three guards. Just beyond the guards was a trash bin next to a shorter, brick wall—and part of that brick wall ended in a guardhouse. So, possible entry points over the wall or go through the guard’s position…
One thing at a time, get through the guards first.
Three guards, no waiting. They all patrolled a poorly lit field that was about 30x90, so it wasn’t that hard a distance to cross, but security made up for it by being heavily armed.
And the first shot would mean the end of the entire expedition. After that, it was game over.
One wrong move…
The shadow waited by the gate, in the dark, pressed against the fence, and hoped that the guard wasn’t too far out of reach when he came back on his rounds.
Minutes ticked by, five of them spent observing the guards. So far, the only weakness was the mindless routine. Their continuous pacing was like clockwork. The only problem in taking advantage of the weakness was finding a point to start from. Above, an intense, streetlamp-like light shined. Each time the guard came back, he stopped directly in the light each time.
The guard came closer. His opposite number on the other end of the fence did as well. That second guard always stopped about ten feet away from the first, each and every time.
The guard stepped into the light, facing away from the shadow, which was a little behind, and four feet away. The second guard drowsily looked at his comrade and yawned. There were maybe five more seconds for the first guard to linger.
Come on. Turn.
The second guard turned, just as his comrade did. The first guard started to walk toward, and quickly past, the dark form, when an arm wrapped around the man’s neck and pressed the muzzle of a gun behind his ear. The guard was smart enough to make no noise at all as he was led back into the shadows. He was clubbed and thrown against the wall, out of sight.
The second guard turned around, and noticed that his comrade was missing. He unslung his rifle and came out past the fence.
Off to his left he found a wisp of smoke. Damn Henri, always taking a cigarette break.
The second guard marched off into the darkness, completely unaware that he was being hunted. He still didn’t know when the butt of his friend’s rifle cracked behind his ear.
The third one didn’t even have a chance. A combat knife from one of the fallen guards flashed through the air with unerring precision, so that the knife handle struck him squarely between the eyes.
Once the bodies were hidden, the living shadow flashed over the wall and into more shadows. It led to another barbed-wire fence and a field well-lit by two roving spotlights. There was a spotlight on a balcony next to him, and one on the perpendicular side of the courtyard.
There was one figure on the side of the field, just looking outwards, his back to the fence. “Idiot!” screamed the balcony watcher. “Get out of there. That’s the minefield!”
The other man shouted back, “Oh, come on! I know where they are.” After a brief exchange of insulting French, the man on the ground grumbled and went back inside the guard post.
The shadow waited a moment, then quietly climbed the fence, staying underneath the balcony and the spotlight, and slowly reached up to grab the floor of the balcony. Once it had a good grip on the stone work, it let go of the fence and grabbed on with both hands. The shadow hung there for a moment in the darkness, a spider handing in the night, and wondered why none of them had thought to simply put up strings of lights all over the place to prevent problems like this. Probably to keep it as a lower profile hideout.
There was the crunch and slide of shoes as the guard paced the ledge, pivoted and moved another way.
After another moment, there was another crunch and slide, and the shadow pulled up the rest of the way, crouching behind the spotlight on one side, the guard in front. It was tempting to rush him and push him off into the minefield, but that would gather far too much attention.
A quick pistol-whipping later, the guard crumpled, falling to the balcony floor with ease.
The shadow moved back into a crouch, invisible behind the spotlight, and took a look out across the minefield to the other spotlight. That guard was a long way off, and unlikely to be hit with anything less than a bullet. The shadow stayed perfectly still, then looked down at the fallen rifle. The shadow ejected the banana clip and stood up, then hurled it like a boomerang. The clip caught the other guard in the back of the head, and he toppled to the floor of his walkway.
All that was left was to get past the minefield, which could be navigated with a thermal scope.
The shadow reached up and touched the communications unit. “We’re in,” purred an Irish brogue.
At the other end, Deaglan Lynch nodded to himself, his wide mouth stretched in a smile. “Good. We’re coming to you. Let me know when you have a location on the target.” He hefted his Uzi in one hand, his cane tucked underneath his gun arm. “We’ll come in right behind you.”
Lynch signed off, and looked back over his gunmen. He had over a dozen men, all of whom had been members of the Provisional Irish Republican Army for years. And while they were not good men, some by any stretch of the definition, they each had some ideas of right and wrong.
Kidnapping the Pope fell under the “obviously wrong” column.
And if governments wouldn’t let the Pope go, well then, it wasn’t something that would put off a couple of the lads, now would it? And of course, what else is there for a bunch of gunmen to do when there’s a peace on? Rob banks? Hire out as mercenaries?
Or, perhaps, break out a prisoner.
* * *
The Pope was led to his cell, only to find Ioseph Mikhailov waiting for him. Next to him was a large television set. The Pope smiled and nodded. “Good day, Ioseph. Have you come to bear witness at my trial for being a party to the plot against me? Or would you like to give testimony to the actions of my noble predecessor against your father and his Nazi employers?”
Mikhailov shook his head. “No, Mr. Pius, not that.” He patted the television set. “In a few minutes, you’ll be subjected to an interesting treat. As I show you two friends being tortured to death.”
Pius XIII’s mouth hardened into a hard line. “Who are they?”
“My lovely daughter, and your faithful bodyguard, Mr. Ryan.”
The Pope’s eyes blazed for a moment, and Ioseph thought for a moment that he was going to have to drop the Pope and put him in chains. Then, slowly, his eyes softened, and his mouth broke into a grin. “You will fail, sir, and then you are going to die.”
* * *