The Hand of Christ

by Joseph Nagle

  Jimmy was flabbergasted as he looked at the thin page of vellum, “Is that actually Christ’s hand print?”

  “It is. This document matches a second hand print, one that is on a parchment that the Pope has. That document is an Apocryphal of Paul and outlines Jesus’ life and his family’s. It listed who his children were.”

  “So you are saying that there is proof that He wasn’t crucified?” Jimmy appeared floored and almost bewildered.

  “Correct. That's what I'm saying, but more importantly, proof that his family owns the rights to lead the Church and is the true owner all of its wealth. At one point, the Church quietly recognized the family and crowned one of the members, Clovis I, as Holy Roman Emperor. Later, the Church conspired to assassinate Clovis’s descendent and effectively ended the rightful return to the throne by any surviving member of Christ’s bloodline.”

  “And you think from this was born The Order.”

  Michael could see that Jimmy was still having a hard time with what he was hearing, “Yes, that’s right. They became devoted to ruling quietly. Over the years, there was a growing dissent amongst them; eventually, they split into two groups. In every powerful government, one of those groups has sought to instill their people in places of authority and influence.”

  Jimmy sat back, “Including Hezbollah and the CIA.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Michael, if The Order wants complete control, why would they risk starting a world war by assassinating the holy leaders of the two religions that hate each other the most?”

  “For the same reason they attacked the Mosque in Syria. They cannot allow any efforts at progress and peace to go too far. You want to know why they want to kill the Pope, why they killed the Ayatollah?” Michael pointed emphatically at the image of the new Security Leader of Hezbollah on the computer screen, “How did he rise to power, Jimmy?”

  Jimmy thought for a moment, his face was blank. A few seconds later and that look changed to one of clear understanding, “Shit, Michael! They are going to replace the Pope with one of their own people.”

  “Bingo! Now tell me what you found out about Iran; are they continuing with their war cry?”

  “Michael, you might want to take a seat, I got some really bad news.”

  “Just give it to me; do they still want my head on a platter?”

  “Yep, and the head of every other person in the US, too.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “I couldn’t find much of anything on my own; it looks like the White House is really keeping a tight lid on this. So I made a couple of calls while you were making the coffee. Michael, my guy on the inside told me that Iran has nukes and they are threatening to use them.”

  Michael couldn’t believe what he was hearing and matter-of-factly stated, “Bullshit, Jimmy, Iran isn’t nuclear capable.”

  “I wish that were the case but I double-checked with another one of my contacts. He is the assistant to a highly placed Admiral. Apparently, Iran got their hands on the plans for nukes from you guys; the DCI briefed the President earlier.”

  “What! From us, how the hell is that possible?”

  “A botched mission called Merlin, he didn’t have too many details, but they’ve got ‘em. My guy told me to me the nukes were caught on satellite by the NRO.”

  Jimmy turned back to the keyboard and typed in a couple of commands and hit the enter key. On the screen was a photo of a satellite image.

  “When my contact told me that the NRO had live footage of the nukes, I went into their database and found these. What you see here is a whole bunch of fucking nukes sitting on the western border of Iran.”

  The images had been marked up with red circles around the warheads next to which the words “nuclear signature confirmed” were written.

  “Holy Christ, Jimmy, we’ve got to stop this!”

  “Aren’t you really glad I tagged along now?”

  Michael didn’t answer but commanded Jimmy, “Let’s get moving.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  St. Peter’s Square

  Rome, Italy

  Jimmy drove the Porsche GT2 toward the Vatican, but much more conservatively then earlier, as the former Special Operations team mates made there way to the Pope’s home.

  Stopping the car on a narrow side street, Jimmy turned off the impressive sounding motor, and informed Michael, “We are a short walk to the entrance of St. Peter’s Square. We’ll leave the car here. No reason to draw more attention then necessary.”

  The two men exited the climate controlled comfort of the German machine and were met with the stinging morning cold of Rome. Michael pulled his coat tighter to seal himself from the crisp air; he ignored the small throb in his leg where the stitches were as the two men made their way closer to the entrance of the Vatican.

  Heading down Via delle Conciliazione, they stopped just short of the entrance to the Holy City. Tourism was slow this time of year but not absent, and the streets reflected as much. It was still early; many of the locals were nowhere to be seen except for those willing to cater to the city’s early rising foreign visitors. A small number of eager tourists were being checked by the Vatican Police as they entered the square.

  The relative quiet of the Roman streets would change in about an hour as the street-side cafes brewed the day’s fresh roast and the stores opened their doors.

  Jimmy reached into his pocket and pulled out two small earpieces. He shoved one of them into his ear, it was barely visible. He handed the other to Michael and said, “Here, put this in. There are two channels. The first channel allows us to communicate only with one another, and the second is programmed to scan local police frequencies and lets us listen in on them, but is automatically muted. Hope you brushed up on your Italian.”

  Michael pushed the earpiece into his ear and was surprised at how comfortable it was, and asked, “Jimmy, How do I switch the channels?”

  Jimmy turned his head showing Michael the earpiece in his own ear, “See that tiny hole on the side? It’s a pressure sensor. Just tap it twice to scan between channels, tap it three times to get back to our secured line.”

  Michael tapped the earpiece just as Jimmy had instructed and was met with the unseen voices of two Italian Polizias; they were discussing a minor auto accident between a tourist driving a rental car and cab driver nearby, he could hear the shouting cabbie in the background. He tapped it again - two times - and it went straight to another conversation on a different police frequency. He could make out the gist of what they were saying.

  “Jimmy, I’ve picked up a conversation about the assassin! They have put out his description, some guy named Camini just came on the line, he’s asking for a Detective Dante.”

  “Camini, Colonel Camini?”

  “Yeah, you know him?”

  “Michael, he’s the head of the Swiss Guard. Do you think they know this guy is VEVAK?”

  “There’s a good chance they do. They probably ran the same check we did with Interpol.” Michael held his hand up, “Hold on, Jimmy, Dante just came on the line; he and Camini are speaking now.”

  Michael listened for a few moments his face starting to twist.

  “Crap! Jimmy, we are going to have company. They are staking out the Square as we speak.”

  No sooner had Michael told Jimmy this when four powder blue and white fiats whizzed by. Each car held four heavily armed Carabinieri.

  “Camini is instructing them to post outside of the Vatican; they are checking every person that walks in. He’s telling Dante that the Swiss Guard and Vatican Police will handle the interior. He’s ordering an entire company of men into St. Peter’s Square.”

  Jimmy shouted out, “Shit! They’re going to scare this guy off, Michael! There’s no way this guy can just walk right through the front door and into the Square if all of this firepower is looking for him.”

  Michael stood frozen on the sidewalk transfixed in his thoughts. Time crept slowly by as Jimmy waited for him to spea
k. Think Michael, think! There’s always three ways to solve a problem! Then it hit him:

  “Jimmy you are right, there is no way he can just walk in. He’s won’t need to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s not going to do this alone; he has help on the inside.”

  Chapter Fifty

  Viale Vaticano

  Rome, Italy

  The assassin stole through the streets during the early morning hours. It was of no surprise to him that they were nearly empty; Italians shunned rising too early preferring to sleep in until well past the rise of the sun. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, and his strides were powerful and long as he covered the distance to the Vatican.

  His heart raced in anticipation; today he would bring the change prayed for by his brotherhood for centuries, change for which many willingly had fought and, with pride, had died.

  Oppressive in the skyline, he used the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica as his guide. Walking toward it, he found Viale Vaticano on the North side of the Vatican’s exterior wall; the same road the taxi driver had taken the day before. The assassin stopped and reached into his inside pocket and pulled out the manila envelope. He extracted a small piece of paper from the envelope and opened it. Reading through the brief instructions one more time, he was relieved to see that he was standing directly in front of the place he was supposed to be.

  The assassin looked from the instructions to a door that stood in front of him. The door was set into the Vatican’s outer wall; over its entrance was the stone Pietro Melandri sculpture of Raphael and Michelangelo, which straddled the Papal coat of arms of Pius XI. Holding up the piece of paper, the assassin matched the hand drawn version of the stone carving that was drawn on his instructions with the actual one. They matched; this was the spot.

  The small entrance to the Vatican museums had been easy to find, this comforted the assassin. He looked at his wristwatch; the time said that he still had eighteen minutes, he was early. Patiently, he waited near the door.

  At the appropriate moment the assassin heard three slight taps coming from inside of the door. The assassin knocked back slowly, five times as instructed. The metal gears of the modern locks turned as each created a low metallic grating sound. The assassin stepped back as the door cracked opened slightly. From within, Geoffrey whispered, “Come in, hurry!”

  The assassin followed Geoffrey without saying a word.

  The Monsignor’s black cassock flowed as he spun around. He moved quickly and spoke over his shoulder as the two men moved down the hall. “There isn’t much time; the Swiss Guards are starting to mobilize. Keep quiet and try not to be seen!”

  The assassin did as he was told. Overhead, the massive glass covered atrium of the museum precariously enveloped the broad width of the ceiling. The two men hurriedly walked beneath the double-helix stairwells of the museum; the staircase spiraled around both sides of them and was wrapped ornamentally in a classical, bronze balustrade.

  “Quickly now!” ordered Geoffrey

  The assassin detected the increase in the Monsignor’s pace along with the stress in his voice.

  They passed the Fountain of Galera and the Stairway of Bramante, and then walked down Via dei Pelligrini. The streets of the small state showed no signs of life; the assassin didn’t care, only one thought consumed his mind.

  “Inside here! Come quickly!”

  The two men were standing in front of a baroque influenced and oval shaped church. Carvings of Lictorial eagles gazed with anger and off into the distance from atop the church’s pillars. Presumably, they were perched there to somehow (albeit symbolically) keep the bell towers safe from pilfering criminals.

  Inside of the Parish Church of St. Anne, Geoffrey pushed the assassin into one of its side chapels. Frescoes rained down upon the assassin while the numerous paintings of Christian Saints scorned him for being there. He hated their ugly and rich artwork and the way it reminded him of their pompous nature and greedy manners. He only had one thought:

  “When?”

  The assassin’s voice was deep and bounced repeatedly through the empty Church named for Christ’s Grandmother.

  “Quiet! Do you want us to be found out? Keep your voice down!”

  The assassin’s eyes narrowed, he stepped closer to the ambitious priest. Geoffrey felt the bitter breath of the killer fall onto his face as an instinctive bout of fear swarmed over him. The assassin reached out and put his powerful meaty hand under Geoffrey’s chin. Geoffrey’s felt his feet lose contact with the ground as he was lifted by the assassin.

  “I asked you a question, priest,” was all that the assassin said.

  Geoffrey squeezed out his answer through what little air and sounds that he could push through his constricted throat and barely said, “12 – 12 - 12:30.”

  The assassin didn’t put him down right away, he watched as the young priest’s face turned bright red and then into a deep shade of purple. Geoffrey felt his vision fade to black as his eyes rolled deep into their sockets. The assassin thought how easy it would be to hold him like this until the priest met death, it would be just one more apostate dead.

  Dropping him he thought, not today.

  Geoffrey fell to his hands and knees and coughed terribly. The muscles in his neck began to relax and his lungs begged for air. A spasmodic cough erupted from his throat. After a few moments, Geoffrey meekly said, “Go out to the Square at 12:30, and try to blend in with the tourists, but be careful.” Geoffrey stood and held one hand to his throat and leaned on the wall with the other.

  Coughing a bit more, he repeated, “Be – be careful. Outside of this door is an iron gate,” another cough, “there will be a guard. Don’t be seen. The Pope will walk through the Square sometime after 12:30, after his lunch. This will be your opportunity.”

  Fully recovered from the crushing grip of the assassin, Geoffrey slowly and carefully sidestepped the angry gaze of the man and ensured that he was further then an arm’s length from him when he did. He left the Church without saying another word.

  Finally alone, the assassin stood in the church. Looking around, he studied the grotesque features of the building. Every feature, painting, and mixture of colors disgusted him. It didn’t surprise him when he started to sweat cold. He was used to it by now.

  I am hours away from their end, he thought. Kneeling, he cared not that he was in their Church. He would pray until it was time, he would pray to be shown his path.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Getting In

  St. Peter’s Square

  “Jimmy, we need to get inside but there’s now way we will get past those Carabinieri with all of this firepower that we are carrying.”

  Michael could feel the barely perceptible weight of the two Kel-tec P32 pistols in his pockets along with the short blades in his sleeves. Before the two men left the safe house, Jimmy had strapped a 9mm center-fire Ruger pistol to his side and under his coat.

  Michael was right, it would be impossible for the two men to get past the officers.

  “We could try to find a different entrance, a back door. The Vatican has a railway station; we might be able to get in that way.”

  “No, Jimmy, it’s too risky. We’re going to go through the front door.”

  “What? How the hell do you propose that? You just said we couldn’t do it!”

  No sooner had Jimmy finished the sentence when he noticed Michael staring at two Polizia milling about the sidewalk next to where Jimmy had parked. The officers were admiring the white Porsche GT2.

  It took Jimmy a moment, but he recognized the look on Michael’s face, “Oh, hell no, Michael! You think finding a back door is too risky, what you’re thinking is foolish. That would draw to much attention to…”

  Jimmy stopped speaking; Michael wasn’t listening and had taken off in a sprint toward the officers.

  “Aw, shit!” Jimmy knew what Michael was up to. He sprinted after Michael instantly in character shouting, “Stop, thief! S
omebody help!”

  Michael raced past the two surprised Polizia with Jimmy close behind. “Help me, he stole my wallet!”

  Quickly, the two officers ran after Michael. Michael suddenly turned into a narrow alleyway between two buildings and the two Polizia followed, but were met with the small barrels of Michael’s two Kel-tec pistols pointed at each of their faces.

  “Do not touch your weapons, put your hands out to the side with your palms facing me, and get on your knees!” Michael commanded in marginal Italian.

  The two officers complied without complaint just as Jimmy ran up behind them and with his own weapon drawn. He took the pistols that were strapped to their sides and effortlessly separated the sliding barrels from the body of the guns. He released the clip of ammunition from each and threw the separated portions of the guns onto the roof that straddled the alley. Then, he threw the barrels and bullets into the sewer.

  One of the two Polizia bravely asked, “What do you want, are you going to kill us?”

  “Do as we say and you will be fine. Give me your badges,” the two men did as they were told and then Jimmy cuffed them together.

  “Listen to me closely; we know you are trying to find a killer. We are trying to find him too; we are on your side.”

  The Polizia’s bravery continued to rise, “You are Americans, no? If you are here to help why have you done this?”

  Neither Jimmy nor Michael answered his questions only pushing the two men toward a large square dumpster.

  “Climb in,” instructed Michael.

  “You can’t put us in there!” protested the same officer.

  Jimmy cocked the barrel of his weapon indicating no desire to negotiate, “Do as he says, and get in the fucking trash can!”