by Joseph Nagle
The old man looked to the CIA Officer, “Used? What do you mean?”
“This book,” Michael held the book up for the Pope to see, “contains more than just The Hand of Christ. It outlines an esoteric group that calls itself The Order. They know that Jesus survived and sought to return His descendents to the throne. It was their ancestor, and heir, that the Church killed many centuries ago. Over time they have worked to return to power by undermining and infiltrating world politics. Your Holiness, in this book is the name of the Ayatollah, under which, is your name.”
The Pope understood and responded, “They want me dead don’t they?”
“Yes, I am afraid so. If they would have been successful today, I believe that they would have put another man in your place. One of there own.”
The tears that flowed from the corner of Leo’s eyes never stopped and were leaving a salty trail down the side of his face as they dried. Quietly, he said what all in the room knew, “That means that one of the Cardinals is loyal to them.”
Michael put a calm hand on the Pontiff’s shoulder, “I am afraid that would be the case.”
The Colonel bore a gaze into Geoffrey, and flatly said, “They would need more than one man loyal to them to accomplish this.”
“Your Holiness, what did you do with it?”
“Dr. Sterling, I did nothing with the Apocryphal. I thought that I would be able to make everything right and had convinced myself to give it to the public. But I couldn’t. Instead, I put it back where I found it.”
“Where?”
The Pope started to rise in his bed but was met with difficulty. Colonel Camini helped the Pontiff with his struggle to sit upright. Once propped up, the Pope raised his hand and pointed toward the window under which was the slightly damaged slab of marble, but was shocked at what he saw. Where the thick marble tile should be was an empty spot, a dark hole. Standing next to the newly opened chasm was Geoffrey. Gripped firmly in his left hand was the parchment, and in his right was a gun with a silencer affixed to its barrel.
No one in the room had seen Geoffrey bolt the Pope’s door; they had been too preoccupied by what the Pope had said. There had been no warning of what came next. There was nothing that any one man could do. Monsignor Geoffrey Hauptmann had the advantage. The silenced shots rang out. Sound didn’t seem to exist. His aim was expert.
Michael saw the Colonel fall. Jimmy fell next.
Smoke exited from the freshly fired gun; Michael stood numb thinking that he was about to fall, too. Sound returned.
Leo cried out, “Geoffrey, what are you doing!”
Slowly the Monsignor moved toward the bedridden man never removing the gun’s aim from Michael. His look was crazed, his eyes furious. “I am doing what that fanatic, what that dirty Persian could not! I am going to finish the job!”
Out of instinct, Michael moved between Geoffrey and the Pope, shielding the Pontiff from the gun’s aim. Michael eyed the priest looking for weaknesses, trying to find the right moment to counter-attack. Geoffrey moved with a trained precision, there was no opportunity.
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen! You were supposed to die in Syria; he was supposed to die here!”
He knows about Syria!
Then it hit Michael, “You’re a Novice! You are one of them aren’t you?”
“A Novice?” Geoffrey laughed for a short moment, “I am the Second to the Messenger, next in line and not some two-bit Novice.” A look of hatred enveloped his stare the moment he uttered this.
“Take out your gun and release the ammunition clip.”
Michael reached into his right pocket and pulled out the small Kel-tec pistol, and dropped the clip as he was told.
“Release the bullet in the chamber, too, Dr. Sterling.”
Shit, Michael thought as he slid the barrel back and sent the bullet like a small projectile through the air. The bullet made a small series of metallic pings as it bounced across the marble floor and into the hole where the parchment had been.
“And the other one, Dr. Sterling. Don’t take me for a fool.”
Double-shit! Michael removed the second Kel-tec pistol from his pocket and repeated the steps.
“Throw them away.” Geoffrey commanded.
Michael complied.
Geoffrey pointed the weapon directly at Michael’s face and gruffly ordered, “Now, give me the codes!”
“Codes? What are you talking about? I don’t have any codes.”
“Don’t toy with me you God damn pawn. You’ve read the book and seen the part that talks about our treasure. In that book are the codes to it. Now give them to me!”
“Money? All of this is about money?”
Geoffrey’s lips slowly took the shape of a wicked and mocking smile. With a purely evil tone said, “You really are not as smart as the Director says you are.”
The Director, thought Michael, my Director?
Geoffrey had the face of pure evil and scowled as he said, “This isn’t about money. This is about ridding the world of the parasites and the entitled. Far too many years have gone by where the savagery of the elite along with their wretched solipsism was condoned: whips were cracked onto the backs of men in servitude while others hung from trees, or were burned in fires. Barbaric governments that rationalize torture, dismemberment, and murder through the twisting of religious dogma swirl like a rancid cesspool on this planet. We despise you small-minded lugubrious little insects. No, Dr. Sterling, this isn’t about money – money we have. This is about the return to the throne of the rightful ruler. This is about ridding the planet from the burden brought by the unworthy!”
“Geoffrey!” Leo was horrified at what he was hearing, “You have been a trusted friend, a leader in the Church. Why are you doing this?”
“Every infestation needs a pesticide, Joshua.” It was the first and only time that Geoffrey had called the Pope by his given name. Geoffrey’s declaration was simple, but one that the Pope didn’t understand; however, Michael did. What Michael would say next would nearly kill Leo:
“The codes that you want control Iran’s nuclear missiles don’t they, you intend to fire them on the United States?”
Geoffrey raised his eyebrows and offered a slight smile then said, “Bravo, Dr. Sterling. Bravo. Perhaps you are only half as stupid as I thought.” Geoffrey replied.
The machine that monitored the Pope’s heart rate began to pulsate quicker. Leo felt faint as he began to hyperventilate. He could barely speak, “Nuclear weapons, an attack? How c-c-could you? You have always, always… been s-s-such a dear friend.”
Geoffrey smiled wryly, “Old man, I am no friend of yours. You are a false leader and do not belong here! You and your kind are nothing more than an out of control swarm of bugs, a black cloud of locusts, which have infiltrated and occupied places that you have never belonged! Thieves are what you are; con men that have connived and manipulated the weak to keep yourselves in power and in wealth; you have burrowed into the fabric of the truly enlightened for so many years that you actually believe that you belong!”
Geoffrey’s arms were spread wide as he pointed at everything around him, “This destiny, this Church is not yours; it is but a mere fabrication that has been built on lies and bound by the ties of deceit. There is only one true heir to the throne, and the rest of you are just clinging on for scraps and handouts. The time for this to come to an end is at hand!”
Monsignor Hauptman’s smile was beginning to return. Shifting his attention from Leo back to Michael he commanded once more, “As I was saying, Dr. Sterling, the codes, give them to me.”
The book still in his hand, Michael extended it forward as he thought, come and get it.
Geoffrey laughed, “Do you really think that I am that stupid? Set it down onto the floor and kick it over to me.”
Michael did as he was told and then glanced at the two fallen men. Under Jimmy a pool of blood was forming, becoming larger by the moment. His skin was turning a ghostly white. It didn’t loo
k good for him. The Colonel was lying on his side, his back to the Monsignor. Both of the Colonel’s eyes were open staring without life back at Michael. Then it happened. The Colonel slowly blinked both eyes. Michael did a quick, but slight double-take, and then the Colonel did it again: he blinked.
Michael snapped back toward Geoffrey unsure if the priest had seen the same thing, but Geoffrey had picked up the book from the floor and opened it to the section titled, “Tresor.”
Too engrossed with the ancient Hand of Christ, Geoffrey didn’t notice the interchange between Michael and the Colonel. Looking at the riddle, Geoffrey’s smile became even wider as he thought, Finally! It is in my hands.
Chapter Sixty-One
28 Steps
Rome, Italy
Deputy Director Ron Willis was stiff from the flight. The cab had dropped him off near the side of San Giovanni Laterano which was shrouded by a small infestation of tourists. He didn’t pay them any attention as he stretched.
Seeing the place he needed to go, he ran across the street and stared at the simple two-story building from its front. Behind him, and a bit off to his right, was the impressive Lateran Palace. He didn’t care. Looking around he was disgusted. On this spot was one of the holiest relics of Christianity; the very stairs that Christ had walked upon. Near where he stood, an old gypsy woman was sitting under a large faded umbrella hawking fake high-end purses and Michelangelo’s David key-chains to tourists. Ten feet behind her was another make-shift storefront manned by a dirty gypsy boy that couldn’t have been more than twelve years old; presumably her son.
These people are lost, he thought.
Rising high in front of him and splitting the center of the simple edifice were twenty-eight marble steps. Each was protected by an encasing of a thick and well traveled walnut wood. He gazed up the vast and impressive staircase. The walls on either side were covered with nearly seventeen-thousand square feet of Fenzoni and Croce frescoes, and were protected overhead by a high-arched roof that was typical for Rome. At the top of the staircase, and in a dominant fashion overlooking each stair, was a large image of Jesus. In customary form, Jesus’ arms were spread wide and nailed to a cross. It is an image that was all too common.
In 1845, when Charles Dickens stood at the exact spot that Ron Willis now occupied, he had said: “I never, in my life, saw anything at once so unpleasant as this sight.”
It was this unpleasant lie that drove them.
The Director wondered if Dickens knew.
28 steps to the next – the Scala Sancta.
To either side of the twenty-eight steps were two additional staircases that were reserved for the less devoted, for those that did not have the fortitude or desire to climb the Scala Sancta properly. At the foot of the first step, Ron began his recitation but not that which every other Catholic recited. A truly devout Catholic would begin their ascension of the stairs with a standard preparatory prayer about the Passion of Christ. He did not say this one.
Finishing his short prayer, he knelt onto the first step and grimaced. For generations every Catholic that ascended these stairs did so only on their knees. Each painful step – one at a time – requires the recitation of one of twenty-eight specific prayers. The devoted start each prayer once atop each step. It would normally begin with a Hail Mary and then is followed by an invocation to their Patron Saint. The Director would do neither.
A radiating pain shot through his knees like a hot knife and drove up his extremities as it worked its way to his lower back. The pain grew with each new step that he climbed; he could feel the skin on his knees burn as his weight bore down onto the hard wood. Most people bring a cloth or small pillow to avoid the excruciating side effects, but not a member of The Order. The pain was a reminder to all of them of what each passing member has endured throughout the centuries. With each new step that he climbed, a growing wetness permeated at the spot where his knees pressed against the stairs. The blood that was coming brought him satisfaction.
He continued his devotion until the 28th step. It was atop this step that every member of The Order – since Clovis – recited nearly the same prayer that all else did omitting only certain untrue parts. Quietly, and on the final step, Director Willis prayed, “Oh my Jesus! By the condescension with which Thou truly didst permit Thy most sacred body to be placed in the arms of our Lord – have mercy on me.”
Grabbing the railing next to the 28th step, he pulled himself with some difficulty from his knees. Looking to his left and right, making sure that no one was watching, he walked past the Scala Sanctorum and entered the last remaining portion of the original Lateran Palace and into a room unknown to the public.
The voluminous chamber was darkly lit and richly appointed. In the corner, and bordered with bulbous hand-cut granite blocks, was an extremely large fireplace topped by an oversized thick and dark wooden mantel. In it, fat pieces of freshly cut timber crisply snapped and sent glowing embers floating in the air as the hot fire roared. From one of the thick, dark leather chairs positioned in front of the fireplace, a man stoked the burning wood with a large poker. With his other hand he rubbed his scalp. He sat low in the chair, partly due to its thickness, but mostly because of his stature.
Ron’s shadow cast a long silhouette against the wall throwing it next to the fireplace; the Messenger saw it but neither stood nor turned around. “Director Willis, I am so glad that you could make it.”
“Hello, Yousef, it has been a long time.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
Papal Apartment
The Vatican
For a few moments, Monsignor Hauptmann absorbed the glorious feeling that holding the book brought, a greater feeling than he had imagined. The book was lighter than he thought it would be, but the weight of its significance seemed to pull on his soul. Over and over, he read the riddle; it made no sense to him.
Looking back to Michael and from behind the barrel of the gun, he said, “Decode these documents!”
Michael was floored, “Are you out of your fucking mind? Even if I had the slightest clue about how to decode them, I wouldn’t! There is no way that I am giving you codes to the guidance system of Iranian nuclear weapons! Just put down the weapon and end this! It is over!”
“Over? Do you really think that we would go this far just to quit? Do you really believe that you have me painted into a corner? Dr. Sterling, you truly underestimate the power of The Order.”
Moving deftly and carefully out of Michael’s reach, the Monsignor was soon standing over the Pope with the wide barrel of the silencer buried deep into Leo’s temple. “Dr. Sterling, I have already killed two men today. It was much easier pulling the trigger than I had imagined. I have absolutely no problem with finishing the Persian’s job!”
The priest pushed the gun further into the Pontiff’s temple causing the old man to wince. He cocked the hammer further back and shouted so loudly that his voice echoed throughout the apartment, “Decode them now!”
Leo spoke softly to Michael, “My son, do not do as he says. Let him kill me for I have no fear, my soul will rise to Heaven. I am just one man; my life is not worth the lives of millions. Pull the trigger, Monsignor, I am ready to die. I will pray for you.” The Pope closed his eyes and did as he just said that he would: he prayed.
“Ever the fool aren’t you, Leo? I suppose I should have expected nothing less from, Your Holiness. Go ahead and pray; it won’t help you.” The Pope said nothing, his eyes remained closed, and his prayer steadfast.
Monsignor Hauptmann bent lower to Leo, the gun still shoved into his temple. He gently caressed the thinning white hair atop the Pontiff’s head, “The Pope will die and you will have saved the world, is that it, Dr. Sterling? You have decided between the lesser of two evils?” Geoffrey placed his hand over the Pope’s mouth and nose. The Pontiff began to struggle for air.
“Well then, I guess I should just give up is that it? But before I decide to just throw away the seventeen excruciating years that I have toiled in t
his prison, please allow me to present a final question to you.” The priest’s tone was condescending. Michael knew the man wouldn’t give up. He was mocking him. Leo’s face had turned a bright shade of red; his feet and legs were trembling as his body fought in desperation for oxygen.
“Would you make the same decision for your father’s life, for your wife’s? Would you have me kill them, too?” Geoffrey looked at Michael with a stare that could only belong to the devil himself while ignoring the clawing hands of the Pope. Leo fought desperately to pull the evil priest’s clamped hands from across his mouth and nose. Leo’s face had gone from red to purple.
Michael felt a vicious wave of anger coupled with fear fly through his body; the veins that ran the length of his forehead bulged out as he screamed, “If you fucking touch my father or my wife, I promise you with all that I am that I will hunt you down, and every member of your bullshit Order, and gut each and every one of you like the fucking pigs that you are!”
Michael’s outburst caused Geoffrey to release the Pope and go into a short idiotic dance of insanity. Stopping the jig, he laughed at Michael and said, “Oh, how valiant you are! I believe that I have found your soft spot, Dr. Sterling!”
The Pope let out a loud groan as the muscles around his lungs fought to bring oxygen back into his body. He shot straight up in his bed as he sucked in a loud torrent of air. His face slowly turned from the deep maroon and purple it had been and back to the pink and green shade that it was.
Geoffrey’s face of comedy instantly morphed into one of tragedy as he completely ignored the Pope’s plight and Michael’s threats; he screamed at Michael, “But die they will if you do not decode these documents! Your pretty little wife, the beautiful young doctor of Pediatrics at Mount Fairview in Colorado, and your father, the eccentric Professor of Middle Eastern Studies at the prestigious Denver University, will die if you do not sit your backside in that seat and decode those documents!”