by Jones, Rick
And Hakam addressed him. “Make sure you stay that way,” he said.
Enzio did not reply.
Within moments Hakam was online and staring into the unaffected face of President Burroughs. It appeared to Hakam that the president was playing the same card of showing little emotion, since the power behind it was to never allow your opponent the advantage of knowing what you were truly thinking. It was the classic wear of a poker face.
“Yes, Hakam, what do you want?”
Hakam wanted to smile. But that would be giving too much away.
#
“My sources tell me that you haven’t even begun to move on the target, Mr. President. And time is running out.”
“Be assured, Hakam, even though we may not be moving at the pace that pleases you, we are moving. Taking out an esteemed agent of the Lohamah Psichlogit is a delicate matter, which is why I requested five hours.”
“Your delicate matters, Mr. President, are of no concern to me. We both know you’re pushing for additional time, which I’m not allowing. If Ms. Rokach is not dead within the hour, then as a consequence, we will kill the pope.”
The room went completely silent as President Burroughs features continued to register little as he stared directly at the monitor.
“Think about it, Mr. President. You’re on the clock with less than one hour to obligate your half of the bargain, and my associates are watching very closely. I strongly suggest that you do not fail the pontiff. But before I go, I would like to leave you with something.” Everybody at Raven Rock watched Hakam tap several buttons before hesitating, then, after letting his finger hover over the keypad, and then looking steely-eyed into the webcam, tapped the final button with emphasis.
What came on the screen was Arabic script.
الفنّ من يستعمل قوات هذا:
عندما يحيطه عشرة إلى العدوات واحدة;
عندما يهاجمه خمسة في قوته;
إن ضعف قوته, يقسمه;
إن بالتّساوي تلاءم أنت يمكن شبكته;
إن ضعيفة عدديّا, قادرة من ينسحب;
وإن كلّ يحترم غير متساو, قادرة من يتملّصه;
لقوة صغيرة غير أنّ غنيمة لواحدة أكثر قوّيّة
“Is Hakam still online?” asked the president.
“No, sir. He cancelled the transmission.”
Burroughs looked at the screen. “And what the hell is this?”
“It’s Arabic,” said Craner.
“I know its Arabic. I want to know what it says.”
Doug Craner made his way next to the president and began to translate word per word until the finish.
The president nodded. “It’s from The Art of War by Sun Tzu,” he said. “He’s letting us know that no matter what we throw at him, he will defeat us. Right now he’s at the point of the quote that states: ‘if double his strength, divide him,’ which is what he’s trying to do between us and Mossad.”
“And the death of the pope,” added Craner, “would only serve to muster Islamic militant faith. If the pope dies, militants may view that as a twisted moral victory, now that the so-called ‘False Prophet’ is dead, and organize an insurgent rise on both shores.”
The president recited from memory of the book. “When ten to the enemies one, surround him.”
Craner sighed. “Whenever we get a step closer, Hakam always seems to get two steps ahead.”
“What you neglect to see, Doug, is that The Art of War can work both ways as well.”
“I hardly see our advantage in this, Mr. President.”
“I’m not talking about us. I’m talking about Father Kimball. This man alone took out three opponents. So consider this, although unequal he still eluded them. But because he was incapable of withdrawing, he engaged them and halved the team. The more he reduces Hakam’s assassins, the more it reduces the quantity of the opposition.”
“Nevertheless, Mr. President, he’s still outnumbered,” stated Thornton, moving beside them with his arms crossed.
“If Father Kimball took out three men, then that tells me he can take out another three. Maybe two; Hakam hardly looks like the warrior type to me.”
“Mr. President.” Thornton looked at his watch. “We have fifty-four minutes before Hakam follows through with his threat to kill the pontiff. So do we go forward and take out Rokach? Or do we begin with our efforts to clear out LA?”
The president closed his eyes. Whenever he got one step ahead, Hakam always countered by doubling the distance between them.
“Mr. President, we need to act decisively.”
He was right. The entire team was right. For the past few hours Burroughs was banking on a solvable solution without throwing Los Angeles into a state of panic. And by going against supreme odds and if he failed, his decisions could cost hundreds of thousands of lives.
“What do we do, Mr. President?”
Burroughs turned to his CIA Director. “Doug, contact Langley and target Rokach. But do not engage her until the last possible moment. If there is no hope of resolution, then we’ll have to take her out.” He turned back to the screen. “We’ll see if Hakam is true to his word and disables a nuclear weapon as promised.”
“Understood.”
“And what about the other matter, Mr. President?” asked Thornton. “What about the people in Los Angeles?”
When he was on the verge of conceding and about to commit to the evacuation, someone inside the chamber hollered ‘incoming.’
It was a message from Father Kimball.
#
SHEPHERD ONE: I found a way topside.
RAVEN ROCK: Father Kimball, the major principal on board has informed us that he will kill the pope within the hour if his demand is not met.
SHEPHERD ONE: Will it be met?
RAVEN ROCK: Unknown. There may not be enough time to complete the task.
SHEPHERD ONE: Then I will engage the remaining faction.
RAVEN ROCK: When?
SHEPHERD ONE: Within fifteen minutes.
RAVEN ROCK: We were about to order the evacuation of Los Angeles.
SHEPHERD ONE: Do what you want. I have problems of my own.
RAVEN ROCK: My point is: How confident are you in succeeding in your task?
SHEPHERD ONE: Confident enough. This is not my first time at the rodeo.
RAVEN ROCK: Good enough. All we can hope for is that you accomplish your goal.
SHEPHERD ONE: My goal is the safety of the pope.
RAVEN ROCK: Understood . . . Good luck!
. . . COMMUNICATION TERMINATED. . .
#
Basilio did not know how long it had been dark, the light coming through the holes having been snuffed hours ago. During the day the box had become sweltering hot, the temperature rising until the juices of his body ran dry. His muscles cramped into agonizing moments of torture, each tenuous fiber knotting beneath his flesh with little promise of relief.
His screams also went unheard, unheeded, nothing but an echo within his death chamber. After a while he began to lose cognition, the world beneath his feet appearing to spiral in the maelstrom of darkness, as confusion reigned. The demons of the netherworld reaching up through the shadows, waiting to pull him down.
What have I done that I deserve to go to Hell?
In time, he unwittingly soiled himself and his pleas for help became nothing more than a string of incoherent babble and words. And now Basilio, a onetime soccer star and son to Enzio and Vittoria Pastore, was dying by the inches.
If he did not get hydrated within the next two hours, then his freefall into maelstrom would come to a crashing halt the instant his heart stopped beating.
#
The distance to Perugia from Rome is approximately 190 kilometers, or 120 miles. And the deployment of the Vatican Knights was about to commence as the papal van neared the old factories that had once served as a munitions dep
ot during World War II.
In the rear of the van, Leviticus stared at nothing in particular as his mind envisioned his unit moving through the old factory with all the precision of a seasoned force. There was no one better than his team of four . . . And no one better than the Vatican Knights.
They had taken their names from the Books of the Old Testament with the exception of Kimball Hayden, who held the moniker of Archangel but never used it. Danny Keaton had taken the name of Leviticus and fell as second-in-command, Steven Hathaway took the name of Jonah, Johnny Nazorine became Jeremiah, and Christian Placentia the name of Isaiah.
After years of growing up behind Vatican walls, these men had developed into a band of brothers groomed to be the Crusaders of a new age. They had trained to be the best in the world and had mastered much more than the martial art techniques of aikido and Chinese Kenpo. They also studied the eclectic philosophies from such men as Epicurus and Plotinus with an emphasis of study on the works The Enneads and The Confessions. Art also had its place in the teachings of such men with certain works serving to develop insight by interpreting the artistic encryptions of Da Vinci, Michelangelo and Peter Paul Rubens. And for a Vatican Knight, it was believed that the consummate development of the mind was equally as important as consummate development of the body. Together they formed a combination that fashioned men of impervious will, staunch character, and the mindset that loyalty was above all else, with the exception of honor.
These were the Vatican Knights.
Closing his eyes, Leviticus fell into prayer and asked for the safety of his unit. It was quick, however, as the van slowed to a stop.
Approximately 200 feet to the south lay a cluster of abandoned buildings. Even in obscure lighting they could see that the windows had been boarded over and the walls had aged to crumbling brick and mortar. It was also fortified by a ten-foot-tall fence.
“All right,” said Leviticus. “There are a total of four buildings. We’ll enter from the north side and work our way south. Isaiah and I will recon the second-level tiers; Jonah and Jeremiah will negotiate the first levels. If you see a tango, then you know what to do. Just make sure you do it quickly, quietly and efficiently. We don’t want to give anyone the opportunity to alert the others and make our job harder. Is that understood?”
It was.
“All right then. Weapons check.”
Every Knight examined his weapon, an MP-5 with an attached suppressor, and made sure the magazines were properly seated and the weapon action smooth. When everything appeared fitting, each man gave Leviticus a thumbs-up in approval.
“Godspeed to all,” he finalized.
Under the cover of night they exited the van and made their way to the perimeter. Each Knight wearing his assigned assault gear. In the darkness they were nothing more than a part of the shadow itself, their black uniforms and unpolished boots blending in nicely. Exposed on the breastplate of their armor was the insignia of their clan, the emblem of the Silver Pattée. And as always, and as required, each man wore a cleric’s collar as a proud attachment to his uniform.
When they reached the fence line Leviticus removed a small canister and sprayed its liquefied contents onto the chain link, the metal bubbling until it melted and gave way, opening a point of entry.
With incredible silence and speed the Vatican Knights maneuvered through the darkness and took position along the sides of the building, communicating with hand gestures. With a closed fist and then pointing to the north access doorway, Leviticus was spelling out the entry point for his team to enter as a concerted group before branching out. Counting down his fingers from four to three to two to one until he reached zero—the point of a closed fist—they entered the building.
Leviticus and Isaiah took the stairway to the second level. Jonah and Jeremiah remained below with their heads on a swivel—the points of their assault rifles ready to engage and destroy.
The pungent air of raw sewage was thick and soupy, the nauseating stench as heavy as a wet comforter. Beneath their soft laden footfalls rats scattered into the dark recesses upon their approach. Rancid pools of greasy water marked the concrete as puddles. And moonlight the color of whey poured in through the open ceiling, giving them the benefit of light when everything around them appeared to be steeped in darkness. But as they neared the building’s rear they observed an illumination not proffered by the sky at all, but of incandescent lighting.
Moments later they heard voices of distant conversation, the male tones vacillating from excitement to calm, the dialogue unmistakably Arab.
The Vatican Knights pressed on.
#
Three terrorists were gathered around a small table beneath the feeble glow of a bulb playing Tarneeb, a card game, when one of the Arabs stood, stretched, and checked his watch. From their vantage point the Knights observed the terrorists wearing military fatigues and the red-and-white checkered keffiyeh. Their faces were heavily bearded, an indication they had not been marked for martyrdom. And they were mightily armed with AK-47’s.
The standing terrorist made a comment in Arabic, which drew quick laughter from the two at the table as they continued to toy with their cards, then veered off down the second tier walkway and into the shadows.
As he fumbled for the zipper of his pants, the Arab continued to talk over his shoulder as he relieved himself, adding to the already stagnant puddle before him. When he returned to the table his words trailed and faltered in his step.
His two comrades sat at the table with their arms limp beside them, both staring skyward with slack-jawed surprise, as smoke curled lazily from a single bloodless gunshot wound to their foreheads.
The terrorist looked up and appeared flummoxed as he searched the surrounding shadows but spotted nothing, heard nothing. But knew someone was there.
In sudden reflex the terrorist went for his AK-47 that leaned against the table when several bullets suddenly stitched across his chest and knocked him to the floor, the body skating a few feet along the surface before coming to a full stop.
The only evidence proposing that the Vatican Knights were even there was the marginal odor of cordite, which lasted a brief moment before the natural air of pungency once again enveloped the section.
They were not seen.
They were not heard.
In the darkness, the Vatican Knights became one with the shadows.
#
President Burroughs was informed by Doug Craner that Imelda Rokach had been spotted in her favorite eatery alone, with a CIA operative a few tables away waiting for the order to dispatch her.
“We have twenty-five minutes left,” said Burroughs. “We need to see what our man on board Shepherd One can do.”
“And if he fails to commit himself within that time?” asked Thornton.
The president tuned to him, his face a detailed expression that spoke volumes. If Father Kimball fails in his attempt, then they would have no choice. “Then we follow through with the assassination,” he said.
#
Kimball Hayden worked his way to the top of the maintenance closet and pressed his palms firmly against the open space next to the water tanks that supplied the lavatory. Slowly, he began to apply pressure, the strength of his powerful arms pushing, pressing, the wall now beginning to bow and crack, the noise louder than he cared for as the fire-resistant material protested against his authority. And then a portion of the wall split and gave way, the material falling to the floor.
He immediately scrambled into the spacious bathroom and, in fluid fashion, withdrew a combat knife from its sheath. Then, placing an ear against the door, he heard nothing but the hum of the plane’s engines.
Slowly, and with marked prudence, Kimball edged the door open enough to peer down the length of the aisle leading to the fore. From his point he did not see the Garrote Assassin. The aisle was completely empty.
He moved quickly and silently, like a wraith in the plane’s aft, and made his way to the kitchen area. He looked into the
elevator shaft and noted that the cables had been cut. And then he moved to the opposite side of the area and looked down the adjacent aisle.
And there they were—the Garrote Assassin and the able-bodied terrorist. The men stood in the center of the aisle with the Garrote Assassin gesticulating and speaking, whereas the other listened and nodded. Hakam was nowhere to be seen, which meant he was probably in the cockpit. That left the two disabled terrorists who were most likely posted by the trapdoor, which would put the entire faction in front of him. And this is why he chose the closet in the plane’s aft. Now there was no chance of being flanked or surprised from behind.
Kimball pulled back, his mind formulating a plan of assault. It would be easier to attempt a takedown separately, he considered, than it would to take out two insurgents in a single action.
But he had no choice. Even if protocol required patience, since the two would eventually have to separate, he was simply running out of time. He had to engage them now.
With his back against the wall he silently withdrew his second blade, the two knives now equaling his chances.
And then he self-meditated.
Slowing his breathing, Kimball peeked around the corner to gauge their location before the assault. And just as he was about to commit himself, the Garrote Assassin patted his associate on the shoulder and pointed toward the plane’s aft. With a nod the acolyte accepted whatever he was told and began to make his round of Shepherd One, starting in the rear section. In his hand was a firearm, which he held by his side as he made his way down the aisle.
Kimball, liking his odds, pulled back, firmly gripped the handles of his weapons . . . And waited.
The party was about to begin.
#
Two terrorists stood before the makeshift room fashioned from corrugated tin, each man relishing a cigarette, one seemingly more so than the other. Unlike the crew manning the point of entry, these two appeared alert and focused, neither of them taking anything for granted.
Between their whispers something else floated dreamily across the air. It was the soft, lilting sound of a cherub singing, its sweet resonance a peaceful melody that carried like the flow of milk and honey. It, however, ended abruptly when one of the Arabs banged on the tin wall, ordering an immediate desistance of the child’s singing.