The Hand of Christ

by Joseph Nagle

  It was too predictable, too dangerous; it was a security and logistics nightmare for the Swiss Guard and the Vatican Police.

  The protective forces of the Pope were always on edge, especially Colonel Camini, the head of the elite unit, until the Pope made his way back into the safe confines of those parts of the Vatican off limits to the public. But the Pope insisted.

  “God will protect me should He so choose,” Leo had said to the nervous Colonel of the Swiss Guard. Colonel Camini had nodded in submission, but silently cursed an approach so void of pragmatism. The world is full of lunatics and extremists; it would be a matter of time before one of them used the Pope’s repetitious schedule to his advantage.

  In front of the Pope’s living quarters, and out of habit, Geoffrey knocked on the door of the Papal Apartment knowing full well that there would be no reply. Better to be safe, he thought.

  Entering the living quarters, he moved swiftly to the Pope’s writing table and opened the small rectangular wooden box that was perched on the table’s edge. From the red-velvet lined wooden container – the writing utensil’s resting place – he picked up the Visconti pen.

  Made of two-toned 18k, white-gold, the Ripple H.R.H. limited edition Visconti was encrusted with tiny diamonds in the shape of the Papal Seal. It had a double reservoir filling system that was initially designed for a fountain pen.

  Geoffrey had convinced the makers of the hand-crafted, ornate writing utensil to customize its tip for use as a ball-point pen, contrary to tradition. He had argued with the artisans at Visconti that his Holiness – the Pope – had wanted it this way. The total cost of the pen, which included the painstaking customization, was over $72,000; one of the most expensive writing devices in the world, and had been quietly paid through Catholic Action. Thought to have been dissolved, the group was once the loud arm of the Vatican that helped Mussolini to power, a calculated move that gave the Church more power and more wealth. It still exists.

  Geoffrey had presented privately the custom pen to Leo; the pen was neatly laid in the non-descript rosewood box. He told Leo that each Pope had been presented with a gift from his personal assistant and that he would be honored in knowing that his Holiness used it whenever writing; that it was a tradition.

  Leo had been thrilled. Never one to offend tradition, Leo faithfully used the ornate gift whenever he wrote in his private diary. He would have no doubt raised his objections had he known how much the gift had cost or its hidden purpose.

  Geoffrey set down the box and removed a tiny piece of metal from his pocket. There had been one additional custom request made of an artisan, but not to one of Visconti’s. The diminutive piece of metal was really a small key. Geoffrey inserted the key underneath one of the diamonds that surrounded the top of the pen. Once inside of the pen, the key triggered a tiny system of tumblers that would work to unlock the pen’s top.

  Struggling with the key surprised Geoffrey, it didn’t seem to fit properly. He removed the key and placed the pen under the low wattage of the lamp that sat near the edge of the Pope’s writing table and inspected the pen’s top.

  Strange, he thought, what is this?

  Geoffrey could clearly make out a number of rough scratches; the shape of the pen’s top was slightly distorted.

  Unsure what to make of the damage, Geoffrey carefully reinserted the key and willed it into position. The key was now fully plunged into the pen; again he started to turn it, but was met with the same difficulty as before. Praying that he wouldn’t snap the miniature key in half, he forced the turn harder.

  With a muted click, the top of the pen blossomed much like the petals of an opening fleur-de-lis.

  Geoffrey let out a breath of relief and removed the unlocked piece from the top of the pen. Inside of the top was a small digital chip. From the side pocket of his purple-trimmed, black cassock, he pulled out a set of tweezers. Pinching the chip with just the right amount of force, he carefully extracted it and placed the tiny piece of micro-technology into a small felt padded box. Slipping it into his pocket, he pulled another small container from his pocket that contained a new chip. With a bit of focus and precision he was soon finished.

  Geoffrey quickly snapped closed the pen’s top and carefully returned the utensil back to its resting place.

  The digital chip that Geoffrey removed and replaced was an effort of remarkable genius. Through a series of finely threaded copper and silicone wiring that ran the length of the pen, movements of the ballpoint would be recorded by the digital chip. When uploaded, the digital recordings that were saved into the memory of the chip would be able to reproduce the exact movements of the ball. Put another way, Geoffrey would now be able to see exactly what the Pope had been writing in his private diary.

  Before leaving the Papal Apartment, Geoffrey moved the ornate Tiffany table lamp closer to the wooden box that held the pen, a necessary act for the device to work.

  Chapter Nine

  Cheyenne Mountain, CO

  NORAD

  “CPT Scott, sir!” The HUMINT Officer, nearly running from the secured terminal with the TOP SECRET printout in hand, shouted from across the room, “HUMINT received, assets confirmed on the ground!”

  Scott turned abruptly to the fast moving 1st Lieutenant. He reached out with his hand to take the document and simultaneously asked, “What? We have US assets in place, in Syria?”

  “Yes, sir,” came the Lieutenant’s reply, “There is a US Ambassador in Syria. Sir, there’s another US asset, too. There is also a CIA Officer – code named Professor – on the ground in Damascus. Last known coordinates of his position place him and the Ambassador in the center of the attack!”

  “Jesus Christ, we’ve got a spook and an Ambassador in the middle of an attack, and together in Damascus? This day just gets better. I wonder what the hell they did!”

  “Sir, there’s more… We have to call them.”

  With this new information, Captain Scott gave the Lieutenant a quizzical look and said, “Excuse me, we have to what?”

  “Call them, sir, we have to call them. The Professor’s secure cell phone number is in the document.” The Lieutenant was pointing at the piece of paper in CPT Scott’s hand.

  Captain Scott eyed the Lieutenant in disbelief then looked at the TOP SECRET paper in his hand and scanned it; he found what the Lieutenant was referring to. On the document was Michael’s phone number, and was listed amongst a number of other personal details. Next to the phone number was a photo of Michael and another of his retinal scan.

  Captain Scott’s entire demeanor seemed to shift. With a calm but authoritative voice, he raised his head from the document and barked out orders to his team, “PFC York, get the NRO images on the main screens.” Handing the TOP SECRET document to Master Sergeant (MSGT) Bryan, Captain Scott ordered, “Give me black communication to the following number, use line Delta; we have some phone calls to make.”

  MSGT Bryan was a big man, the result of good genetics, too many protein shakes, steaks, and a whole lot of weightlifting. He had closely cropped extremely blond hair and look like the real life version of Captain America. On his shoulder, like Captain Scott, he wore the tabs of Special Forces and Ranger.

  Complementing the hard earned elite forces tabs was a Combat Infantryman Badge (CIB) affixed to the left breast of his uniform; the badge was adorned with a wreath and star. MSGT Bryan had seen live combat and more than once. He was not the kind of soldier one typically found staring at computer screens for a living.

  MSGT Bryan was Captain Scott’s ex-team leader before CPT Scott had become an officer. They always worked together; unusual for the military.

  “MSGT Bryan, confirm line Delta is open. When confirmed, open line Omega.”

  That would explain why CPT Scott had said ‘we have phone calls to make,’ thought MSGT Bryan.

  CPT Scott’s recent order caused every head in the CORe Center to turn in his direction, every head except for one. MSGT Bryan was not accustomed to belaying an order
from his commanding officer, or any officer. Without removing his attention from the communication terminal, he pushed a series of numbers on his keypad with his extraordinarily thick fingers, and responded, “Sir, line Delta open and ready for use, line Omega online in ten-seconds; awaiting your next order, sir.”

  MSGT Bryan was nearly as smart as he was huge; this was his passive aggressive way of saying, “What the fuck, sir, line Omega?”

  Line Delta is a “black” communications line, used for the 1024 bit digital encryption of conversations meant only to be heard by the people on either end of the line. Using a non-repeating algorithm that cycled new digital encryption every 1/10 of 1 second of a never to be released classified computer language, line Delta was rarely used. In fact, this would be the first time NORAD would turn it on outside of a test environment. It could not be tapped nor intercepted.

  As unbelievable as it seemed that line Delta was about to be used to place a phone call, it was even more unbelievable that line Omega was to be used in the next few seconds. This line had one use only, an exact technological replica of the Delta version with one exception: there was only one button to press, and no phone numbers to dial. When the single button was pushed, line Omega connected directly to the Oval Office; to the President of the United States.

  PFC York said out loud what MSGT Bryan and everyone else on the CORe team was thinking: “We are going to call the President?”

  No sooner than the words had come out of York’s mouth, Captain Scott ordered MSGT Bryan to press the sole illuminated red light for the Omega line.

  It only rang once.

  Omnipotent and omniscient all at once, the voice boomed, “This is the President, with whom am I speaking?”

  CPT Scott cleared his throat and said, “Sir, this is Captain Scott, Duty Officer and XO of the CORe Center at NORAD.”

  “CPT Scott, I am standing here with my Director of Central Intelligence (DCI), Director Fundamen of the Central Intelligence Agency. We are aware of the disturbance in Syria.”

  How did he know that, I thought his intelligence came from us? CPT Scott silently wondered.

  In the Oval Office, the President looked over to the Director and, with a nod unseen by the CORe team, the Director stood and walked closer to the speaker phone.

  “CPT Scott, this is Director Fundamen. I presume by now you have received and reviewed our classified transmittal to your HUMINT Officer?”

  “Yes, sir, I have, sir. Line Delta is open and ready for use.”

  “Good. Patch line Omega to Delta. Call the Professor, get him out of there.”

  “Sir, get him to where, sir?”

  At the same moment that CPT Scott finished his sentence the secured printer jumped to life once more. The HUMINT Officer grabbed the document and raced to the Captain. “Sir, here are the coordinates. There is a Delta Force Team securing a perimeter just south of the Professor’s position. Two Blackhawks will be waiting to extract him.”

  Both the Director and the President heard this; the President commanded, “Make the call, Captain.”

  MSGT Bryan didn’t need to hear the order from CPT Scott. He dialed the Professor’s number.

  Chapter Ten

  Umayyad Mosque

  Damascus, Syria

  Michael raced barefoot through the Mosque. Earlier, upon entering Umayyad to begin negotiations, all of the delegates had observed the strict Muslim guidance that no footwear was worn inside Mosques and had taken off their shoes.

  Running at a hobbling full sprint, Michael jumped over the body of an injured, but still alive, Hezbollah soldier. The unconscious man was lying on his side over the uneven stones of the corridor. A small trickle of blood was coming out from underneath his face. The man’s weapon was at his side.

  Michael headed toward the North Entrance and away from the shelling and gun fire. He fled out of the corridor and was on the eastern side of the internal square of the Mosque and nearly ran into the Dome of the Clocks. Quickly, he exited the square and ran through the gardens that were near the red-domed mausoleum for Saladin, the revered one-time sultan of Egypt and Syria.

  Michael could hear the shouts in indecipherable Lebanese of the nearby Hezbollah soldiers. Holding his pistol at the ready, he realized that he had already expelled all nine bullets of the nine-round magazine. With no additional clip he would need to find more fire power than what an emptied gun could provide.

  Wanting to kick himself for being such an idiot, Michael stopped in his tracks and did an about face. He should have grabbed the injured Hezbollah soldier’s AK-47 when he had the chance. Michael turned around and started to race back to the man’s body when a sudden crack of gunfire pierced the air and blew apart a nearby flower pot. Plaster and dirt exploded around him.

  Michael sprinted back from the way he had just come and dove into Saladin’s mausoleum. Rolling into a firing position he suddenly felt claustrophobic; he realized that he was nearly confined between two opposing sarcophagi in the mausoleum: one was built of marble; the other was made of walnut. Looking down at the .45 caliber pistol in his hand, he was reminded that he had no ammunition and that his predicament had just become even more precarious. The soldier that had fired the shot at Michael was already on top of him with the muzzle of his rifle buried into Michael’s cheek. Michael didn’t have enough time to raise his empty weapon, not that it mattered, as the soldier squeezed the trigger.

  Just moments before the rounds left the muzzle the Hezbollah soldier had grinned in his apparent victory over the infidel. It was a fatal mistake of lost time, even if it was just a fraction of a moment.

  Michael was able to shift instinctively just enough to his right so that the fired rounds barely missed his head and only burned his cheek as they sizzled by. The soldier, in his haste, had been too close to Michael, too impetuous. He was unable to re-aim the weapon before Michael counterattacked.

  With his left hand, Michael grabbed the AK-47 as the soldier began firing again. Newly fired bullets ricocheted off of the green and white marble walls of the mausoleum’s interior.

  Holding the barrel, Michael ignored the pain searing the palm of his hand from the heat created by the rounds that blazed through the barrel of the automatic rifle. Standing straight up, he expertly placed his left knee into the groin of the soldier. Not enough force to permanently debilitate him, but certainly enough to stop the soldier from firing.

  Swinging his right arm around, Michael swung fiercely across the soldier’s jaw with his elbow and followed it with a second blow across the bridge of the man’s nose from the butt of his chrome-plated CIA issued, custom handgun. The soldier was instantly thrown backward and crashed violently through the cover of the wooden sarcophagi; he fell on top of the skeletal remains of the long deceased sultan.

  Having disarmed the man, Michael spun the rifle around, pulled its trigger, and put three quick rounds into the man’s chest. He then grabbed an extra clip for the AK-47 from the dead man’s weapon belt. Michael now had more firepower and the skeletal remains of Saladin had some company.

  He needed to get moving. AK-47’s make a horrifically distinctive sound when fired, especially when in the confines of a marble encrusted mausoleum. Michael didn’t think the attacking Muslims would take too kindly to an American CIA Officer that had just killed six of their own. He didn’t plan on waiting around to see how they also felt about the newly defiled remains of their ancient and revered leader. The dead body of Michael’s last kill was now lying on top of the crushed sarcophagi, on the bones of the Muslim leader that ended the Third Crusade and the man who was responsible for the recapture of Palestine from the kingdom of Jerusalem.

  From a crouched position, Michael peered around the entrance of the mausoleum. While checking the gardens for activity, he was surprised by a vibration that was coming from the inside pocket of his jacket. Someone was calling him.

  “What the hell,” Michael quietly uttered, as he reached for the phone.

  His phone had been turned
off for the meeting. The only way it could be remotely activated was by the Company. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the flat mobile device. The front of the phone had no buttons or visible numbers, just a black screen.

  In about a year, the first version of this phone would be released to the public by Computer Tree, Inc., albeit, without the CIA specific capabilities, including the ability to be tracked real time by satellite when activated.

  The civilian version of the phone would be heralded as a revolution of mobile phones rather than an evolution. The one in Michael’s hand was the fourth iteration of that phone. American kids were going to stand in line for days for its first version. They would pay three times as much than they would if they had just waited a couple of months. People are rarely patient when it comes to buying the next best gadgets.

  The Company often worked in collaboration with some of the most innovative and brilliant minds in the private sector. In return for their work, the government worked to secure certain “rights” for the makers of such innovations. This phone would be granted exclusive patent protection to ensure the competition would not be a serious threat to profits for the next twenty years.

  In addition, the Company would procure a certain percentage of the revenue derived from the sales of such inventions. The revenue helped to supplement the black budget of the intelligence organization, and further insulated the Company from the unnecessary questions asked during congressional budget hearings. Politicians are just a bunch of circling vultures looking for road-kill – for easy pickings – and unreported revenue streams afforded the Company the ability to fund nearly all of its black projects, and without the requirement to justify their costs, or the mission, to the self-serving, temporary workers in Congress.

  With the phone still vibrating, Michael took a Motorola wireless ear bud from his pocket that, when inserted directly into his ear canal, was nearly invisible. Michael tapped the screen of the phone, and instantly the LCD screen illuminated and displayed the incoming secured Delta line call.