by Jones, Rick
“And what will your role be in all this?”
“My position will be minimal, since it is my continuing duty to direct cells to perform certain missions throughout the regions. Therefore, I must remain covert. Iran, however, will deny culpability in this matter to keep sanctions from crippling them further. It is our intention to test this technology before we take it one step further.”
“And that would be?”
Al-Ghazi nodded. “Should the doctor’s finding prove as fruitful as to the events we have just seen, then we will place a canister in every major city in Israel, the United States, the United Kingdom, and to anyone who does not relinquish to our rule. Sanctions will and must be lifted from Iran. The infidels will give in to our demands. If not . . .” He let his words trail.
“And where will Ground Zero be for the initial run?”
Al-Ghazi’s smile lifted into a sardonic grin. “In a most appropriate place,” he told him. “We will open the Ark in the heart of Vatican City.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Vatican City, Three Days after the Conclave
Inside the papal chamber, Jesuit priests Gino Auciello and John Essex from the Servizio Informazioni del Vaticano sat before Bonasero Vessucci, the newly appointed Pope Pius XIV.
Both men sat with their knees crossed in leisure while the pontiff sat more stiffly, more agitated, his hands tented as he rested the points of his fingertips against the bottom of his chin, as if in thought.
“This is good,” said Essex, his London accent quite apparent. “Your position here is deserving and long overdue.”
“Thank you, John. I feel where I need to be,” he said. “But I do have concerns.”
“And they would be, Your Holiness?”
“I have reason to believe that Pope Gregory may have been murdered.”
The Jesuits stared at him incredulously.
“The last time I visited you in the SIV chamber, the day you were watching the Temple Mount on the monitors, do you remember?”
“Of course,” answered Father Auciello.
“I had my suspicions even then.”
“But you said nothing.”
Bonasero nodded. “At that time it was just a notion,” he said. “But now . . .”
Father Essex’s face maintained the look of incredulity. “But why? And who?”
Bonasero Vessucci hesitated a brief moment as if choosing his words carefully. And then: “Cardinal Angullo,” he finally said.
“Angullo.” The simple word came from Auciello’s lips as a whisper, almost too light for anyone to hear. He leaned forward in his chair. “Your Holiness, do you understand the magnitude of what you’re saying?”
“Clearly,” he stated. “The rule of the pope not coming under the guidelines of an autopsy is due to the very reality that popes have been murdered in the past, and that said proof would divulge the unbelievable corruption that exists within the shadows of the Basilica. Centuries ago there were outward signs that poisons were used, but never spoken of.”
“You think Cardinal Angullo poisoned Pope Gregory?”
“I think Cardinal Angullo is a very ambitious man with a very aggressive agenda,” he said. “I believe the man’s life has become a monstrous corruption whose soul has been lost, his sense of morality shattered. I believe that he has allowed his ambitions to take him away from the true nature of God.”
“And you have proof of this?”
Another hesitation: “No.”
“With all due respect, Your Holiness,” said Essex, “may I ask what is prompting this suspicion?”
“Intuition. Observation. This man conspired to usurp my position as secretary of state to position himself for the papal throne upon the expiration of Pope Gregory. Six months later Gregory is gone, setting him up as lead Preferiti.”
“Again, Your Holiness,” said Auciello, “other than intuition, what is there?”
“Gregory was a strong man. When another man’s ambition turns to impatience, then he makes his own path to Glory.”
“But surely Pope Gregory would have defended himself. He was a powerful man.”
“Not if he was sick or knew his murderer, placing him in a position of vulnerability or complacency.”
“I don’t know,” said Farther Essex. “Cardinal Angullo may be a man of moral questioning, but murder?”
“On the night of Pope Gregory’s death, did you check the monitors of someone, anyone, moving through the hallways in the early morning hours around the time of the pope’s death?”
Auciello nodded. “We did, Your Holiness, thoroughly. But there was nothing with the exception of Vatican Security stationed down at the entrance of the hallway. And they maintained their position throughout their shift.”
Bonasero sighed, his eyes searching for thought as if it was imprinted in open space. “The old tunnels,” he finally said. “Are there cameras situated in those passageways?”
“No.”
“So someone with the knowledge of Vatican schematics, someone who knows where the security cameras are positioned, could possibly pass unseen?”
The Jesuits nodded. However, it was Essex who spoke.
“The passageways are all but known to a few—mostly by Vatican Security and the SIV.”
“And also to those within the Vatican hierarchy such as the secretary of state,” he added. “Those tunnels are historic and excavations are providing us with a history as new discoveries are made. But they’re there and Cardinal Angullo is clearly a cunning man.”
“Again, Your Holiness, and with all due respect, everything is speculation on your part.”
Bonasero had to agree. No images on the cameras, nothing to alert the guards standing post that someone had unlawfully breached the corridors leading to the pope’s chambers, nothing to indicate that Cardinal Angullo was even there. It was as Father Essex had said: pure speculation.
“Regardless,” he said, “I may be in a place of position to fear for my life.”
“If you wish, we can double the efforts of security.”
“I have something better,” he said. “I will give the cardinal the chance to prove me wrong. He will either act on his compulsion, or surrender to it and do nothing. But most men who have lost their way often give to their temptations.”
“And what is it you propose?”
“Before I left for Boston I asked you to do me a favor. Do you remember what it was?”
Essex nodded. “You asked us to maintain the whereabouts of the Vatican Knights.”
The pope nodded. “And where is Leviticus?”
“In Rome,” said Auciello. “He’s a civilian working with an Italian security agency specializing in measures dealing with identity theft for companies abroad.”
“And Isaiah?”
“He’s in Mexico working with the mission you adopted him from.”
Bonasero nodded. Then: “What about Kimball?”
There was a hesitation on the parts of the Jesuits.
“Kimball?” he repeated.
“He’s living in Las Vegas,” said Essex. “He’s working in a casino under the alias of J.J. Doetsch.”
“As?”
“A janitor,” said Auciello. “The man’s a janitor.”
Bonasero did not judge Kimball for what he was, which was a man seeking a simple life after living an incredible life of hardship. Perhaps it was the best thing for him, he considered.
“And there’s something else,” said Father Auciello.
“And that would be?”
“He’s involved with cage fighting,” he said.
“What?”
“There are fighting venues in Las Vegas where men fight against men for money. Kimball has been involved in three fights . . . He nearly killed the last man.”
Bonasero closed his eyes, feeling the encroachment of a certain sadness creep over him. Some people cannot run from their fate, he considered. No matter how hard they try.
And then: “You are SIV and what w
e say here is confidential, yes?”
“Of course.”
“I want you to contact Leviticus and Isaiah,” he said. “I want them to find Kimball and bring him back.”
“And if Kimball decides not to return?”
“Then he does so with the decision of his own choosing? But I want to afford Kimball every opportunity to make his decision based on free will. Make sure he knows that my need for him is paramount. Tell him of my concerns.”
“Of course, Your Holiness.”
“But the ultimate decision is his obviously.”
After a congenial valediction, the Jesuits left the chamber. Bonasero then went to the balcony and traced a hand over the smooth railing where Gregory took his fall. There was no doubt that everything he considered was based on intuition. But it was intuition that guided him all these years, intuition of how to handle each person differently based on his convictions regarding God and religion, and the intuition to promote the Vatican Knights as a unit to save the lives of those who could not save themselves.
The air was sweet like honeydew, the breeze soft and caressing, the day clear and the sky blue, but as magnificent as everything appeared to be, he couldn’t help the feeling that dark clouds were brewing and that a terrible storm was on the horizon.
It was his intuition that told him this—a voice he had come to trust and recognize, a voice that never failed him.
Under the canvas of an immaculately blue sky, he sighed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Mount Damavand. The Alborz Region, The Facility
Three days after Levine was informed of his future role in the scheme of Sakharov’s discovery, he’d been deciding on the course of action to take, working the steps through his mind. The Quds that shadowed his every move had to go, quick and efficient kills. Then he would have to make his way to the Comm Center on the second tier, forward Sakharov’s findings, the facility’s coordinates for an illegal sortie into Iran, and take out the facility using the fuel cells as triggering mechanisms to implode the lab and turn it into a coffin.
Secondly, he was not about to be so cavalier to do this at the sacrifice of his own life. The Comm Center was also the monitoring station and a means to open and close facility doors. He would open the vault door to the outside, during darkness when the shadows would become his ally, and hope that the machinegun nests wouldn’t cut him down during his flight to freedom.
Feeling his heart palpitate with the reality of the moment, he took in deep breaths and released them as a reaction to settle his nerves. Getting into the proper mindset, he left his residential capsule and entered the hallway.
The trailing Quds soldiers were there wearing their prescribed tan uniforms of the elite force, their berets set to specs at the proper tilt, their eyes filled with disdain and suspicion, staring him down.
Levine gave a nod that went unacknowledged and walked past the soldiers. As expected they followed, trailing ten meters behind, which posed a problem since he needed to get up close and personal and take them out with his particular set of skills.
As he passed the lab he saw the Quds reflections mirrored against the glass, watching and carefully maintaining their distance.
He continued to walk as if in leisure, entering tubes and taking bends, listening to their footfalls as they followed, whereas he wore soft-sole footwear to mask his.
Rounding another bend he finally took to a wall, his body rigid, waiting.
And when they rounded the corner he acted.
Levine came across with the blade of his hand, chopping the first Quds soldier across the throat, the man’s eyes widening in surprise as he fell to his knees clutching his neck. The second soldier went for his firearm, his hand falling on the stock as Levine forced the heel of his hand into the blade of his nose, forcing the bone into his brain and killing the man instantly.
The first soldier got to his feet, wobbled, and tried to recalibrate his stance. But Levine was on him within the second, grabbed the soldier by placing a hand at the point of his jaw, another hand at the base of his neck, and wrenched the man’s head with such incredible force that his neck broke with an audible snap.
And then silence, Levine listening for backup of more Quds. But no one appeared.
Levine then dragged the bodies to a nearby capsule that stocked supplies and piled them into the given space. He then took their weapons, placing one firearm within the waistline of his pants while managing the other with a tight grip.
Now to the Comm Center.
Levine did not hesitate in his approach, but moved quickly.
Running along the landing of the second tier he could see the monitors through the smoke-screened glass, could see the myriad of blinking lights—the nerve center of the facility.
The two techs never saw him enter, but heard the whoosh of the door opening. When the first turned to see who entered, a well-placed bullet struck him in the forward, throwing him against the console, blood and gore exploding from the back of his head and against the wall in a wide fan, the bullet exiting into the background monitor, shattering the glass and causing a cascade of sparks to fly, dance and die out.
The second tech put up his hand as if to ward off the blow of the coming shot, a feeble attempt at self-preservation as the weapon went off, the first bullet taking off two fingers, the second shot finding its mark of the tech’s left eye, the man’s head snapping violently backward, his good eye flaring with the surprise a moment before sliding off his chair and to the floor.
In a fleeting move he took to the chair, keyed up the board with typing commands to accept verbal instructions, put on the headgear, and spoke quickly and articulately. As he spoke, words appeared on the screen as code-red data requiring an immediate incursion into enemy territory with the intent to annihilate the facility with extreme force. Coordinates were given, the intentions of the use of nanotechnology forwarded, as well as the location of the Ark.
Time was limited, he knew, so the data proffered had to be minimal with the confidence that the information given could be deciphered by Mossad. He did not state what the Ark was going to be used for—no time to expound on that fact. He figured that the Ark could not be saved since the technology, the data, and the facility needed to be leveled.
As he spoke, it was always on the back of his mind that time was running short. There was no doubt that the reports of his gunfire galvanized others to react.
And then the sirens went off in a shrill that told him that time had run out.
#
Al-Sherrod raised his head from his pillow, unsure if what he heard was the report of gunfire, three in total, or if it was some obscure dream for which he could not remember.
With his head slightly raised, he listened.
Silence.
And then the wild keen of internal sirens sounded off.
Al-Sherrod shot up from the bed bleary-eyed, his heart pounding, and quickly threw on a shirt and grabbed his firearm. Stepping into the hallway, bullet-shaped lights mounted above the doors blinked in calibrated flashes as sirens blared loudly.
Quds soldiers stood in the hallway looking disheveled and lost, their shirts buttoned incorrectly as they rushed to get into uniform.
“Where’s it coming from?” yelled al-Sherrod.
“We don’t know,” said a soldier.
“Then find out!”
The Quds grouped together and branched out, the points of their weapons forward, searching. Al-Sherrod took the rear with his head on a swivel, purposely hanging back, the man’s true courage lacking since he was more of a politician than a warrior. The gun in his hand was a simple prop that made him feel secure and nothing more. It was also unlikely that he possessed the skills to hit a target of any kind, even one that was stationary. But the weapon was far better than an empty hand.
“Find the problem! Quickly!”
The Quds fanned out, searching, their weapons poised to kill.
#
Levine spoke quickly, giving a
s much information as he could, checked the screen before forwarding the information, deemed it proper, and then hit the SEND button.
With the speed of cyberspace, data was downloading at another point. His mission was done.
Now it was time for self-preservation.
Levine checked the console, the instructions written in Farsi.
No problem.
He noted the monitor giving a specific view to the cavern’s vaulted entrance and tapped the quick instructions labeled on the keyboard beneath the screen. With another tap of the SEND button, the vault-like door leading to the outside began to open with a horrible slowness that was almost too much to comprehend at such a moment.
Grabbing his firearm from the console, Levine left the room and began to make his way out of the facility.
#
The Quds quickly converged, seeking the source of the warning.
From the second tier Levine peered over the edge, a gun in his hand. Quds were moving with due diligence, searching.
And then they saw Levine with a firearm in his hand, a serious breach of his right to possess one inside the facility. As Levine fell back out of sight, bullets stitched across the wall where he just been standing, decimating it.
He ran down the hallway as the Quds took the steps to the second tier, nearing.
More gunfire, the report of the assault weapons outmatching his firepower at an unimaginable scale, the bullets missing as he took a bend, the floor and the walls of where he had just been taking on additional damage, the air chalked with dust.
Levine could sense that the air was noticeably cooler, the door of the vault opening enough to allow the cold mountain air in, and an aperture of escape.
He ran.
At the end of the corridor he saw a glass partition that overlooked the first tier, a twenty-foot drop. Fifty meters beyond that was the Alborz region.
He lifted his pistol and shot the glass, the tempered chips falling like a cache of diamonds to the floor below. Standing along the edge of the upper tier, the floor below looked more like a hundred-foot drop rather than twenty, he gauged his landing.