by Rick Jones
Now that it came to his doorstep in Austria, he was seething. His primary obligation was to neutralize the enemy. And to neutralize the enemy was all he focused on as his team mounted a silent attack against the Kristallpalast.
They entered the building as two lines, one going to the left and the other to the right, the commandos fanning out to clear the area of any possible hostiles or IED devices, while surveying the area through the scopes of their automatic weapons.
Gore and bloodied sludge lay all over the floor, the commandos unable to avoid the carnage as they stepped on the chum-like bits and tracked blood across the tiles, the team relentless with their search efforts.
Comm Central.
The entry keypad to the door had been damaged—two rounds by the look of it. And the door stood wide, as though an invitation.
Müller and his team entered with their weapons swinging about in search of a target, though the room was empty. The screens and monitors appeared dead, as was the mainframe.
“Get her back online,” Müller told his tech.
The tech made his way to the console and gave it a quick study. He knew the system, the layout, the computer classification a top-of-the-line model. When he pulled the seat away from the console, there was a definite click. A wire had been attached to the chair.
The tech knew the sound which was not alien to him. Before he could close his eyes to accept his fate, a claymore went off. The tech disappeared within licks of flame and boiling smoke, like magic, as the connecting claymores went off in succession.
Bodies were lifted and took flight. If not for their Kevlar vests, most would have been killed. As bodies pounded against the walls or skated across the chamber floor from the explosions, a brick of C-4, which was independent of the claymores, detonated. The console and the mainframe blew into myriad shards, the explosion devastating the wall monitors in the process, the room now in complete ruins.
From his position on the floor, Müller tried to wave off the thick smoke with the effort, however, one of futility. Getting to his feet to take stock of his team, three appeared severely injured with one dead.
Looking at the ceiling as though to catch a glimpse of Ali Mustafa on the floors above, he thought with unbridled fury: The war’s not over yet. Then he examined the nerve center only to realize that Mustafa had destroyed not only the system’s brain, but its heartbeat as well.
The Kristallpalast was dead in the water without any chance of resurrection. In Mustafa’s wisdom, he had leveled the playing field by taking away the advantages of his opponent.
Müller stewed.
* * *
Zamir was waiting in the shadows when he heard the claymores go off. Then in his earbud he heard Mustafa say, “Now.”
Hitting the throttle of the remote, the plastique he secured beneath the console went off, with the explosion felt as concussive waves passed through the hallways and lobby.
“Excellent, Zamir. You’ve done well. Now join your team.”
“The stairwells?”
“In time.”
“Yes, Mustafa.”
With the long climb ahead now that the elevators had been deactivated, Zamir made the upward journey with the man in peak physical form.
* * *
From his room on the seventieth level, Ali Mustafa sat in his seat before the computer monitor watching the world play out, with Abd-al-Mumin standing alongside him with his arms folded across his chest.
From the bodycam Zamir placed along the console that gave Mustafa a panoramic view of the room, he and Abd-al-Mumin watched the Einsatzkommando unit enter the chamber. They moved with poetic grave, Mustafa thought, with the team well trained by the simple flow of their movements to retake the building.
The Austrian SWAT unit moved about precisely by the protocols to clear, reestablish, and take full command. But Zamir had planted the claymores well. He had hidden them within the shadowy recesses beneath the console. As soon as the tech pulled the chair away to take command of the system, he unknowingly disengaged the cord that set off the claymores in quick succession.
On screen, there was a brilliant flash as a blooming ball of fire and boiling smoke erupted, and then the screen went dead.
Mustafa, who operated his computer through the city’s Wi-Fi system, discovered that every camera inside the Kristallpalast had been rendered inoperable, the internal system now dead. With a few typed commands, he was then able to hack into the CCTV cameras that surrounded the hotel. What he brought up on his monitor was the convoy of police vehicles sitting sentinel in front of the building.
As smoke billowed from the lobby doors, Ali Mustafa and Abd-al-Mumin watched Müller exit the Kristallpalast with his team in tow. Three wounded, one dead.
“Allah has seen to bless us with a victory,” Abd-al-Mumin said softly.
Mustafa, after looking at the Holy Lance by the computer and then caressing its length with the tips of his fingers, answered, “The victory is only a short reprieve, Abd-al-Mumin. We have only bloodied the noses of our enemy. Once the Einsatzkommando reexamines their situation, they will return tenfold.”
“So, what do we do?”
“We take countermeasures,” Mustafa simply stated. “We create barriers where there weren’t any before. We put up walls that cannot be penetrated. We make the Kristallpalast our stronghold until our demands are met.” Mustafa then picked up the cellphone and pressed number nine on the keypad. “Now,” he said, after bringing the phone to his ear, “watch the maestro in play.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Officer Zeller, along with those standing within the looming height of the Kristallpalast, had heard the explosions. Smoke billowed from the front opening of the hotel, then wafted lazily about. A moment later, Müller was escorting his team with a man draped over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry.
After handing off the wounded man to a medical personnel team, Müller, whose face had been bloodied from a fragment, refused aid and returned to Zeller’s side, with the commando obviously heated.
As Müller was about to address Zeller, Zeller’s cellphone, the one that had been given to him by Hartwig Klein, rang. Zeller raised a finger to keep Müller from speaking, then answered. “Yes.”
“The officer who led the charge, the one with the cut on his cheek, I wish to speak to him.”
Zeller handed Müller the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”
Müller accepted the phone and placed it to his ear. “What?” His tone was harsh.
“Your approach was the first act of war. I specifically informed Zeller to inform all involved that no one was supposed to breach the Kristallpalast. Yet you chose to do otherwise.” After a beat, Mustafa continued. “As previously stated, there will be consequences.”
“One of my men was killed,” Müller told him. “Three wounded.”
“It’s not the type of consequence I was talking about.”
“You can’t win this, Mustafa.”
“I think I can. Not only do I have the power of the Holy Lance behind me, but I also have the power of Allah. As you can see, the first wave you commanded barely got beyond the lobby. Believe me when I say that it won’t get easier should you decide to storm the hotel again, which I know you will attempt.”
“Trust me, Mustafa, I can deal with whatever you throw at me. We will meet face to face.”
“Then I see that lessons must be taught and learned. I will teach; you will learn. When I speak of consequences, know that this is due to your actions after given fair warning. And if I were you, officer, I’d get that cut on your cheek looked at.”
Müller rubbed the back of his hand over his face, the glove coming away slick with his blood.
“Remember, what’s about to happen is by your decision to storm the hotel.” And then: “Look up.” The connection was suddenly cut off, the cellphone droning in Müller’s ear.
Müller, as the wound on his cheek continued to bleed, did exactly as he was told. He looked skyward.
&nb
sp; Something obscene was about to happen.
* * *
Ali Mustafa calmly placed the cellphone on the desk by the computer. Without looking at Abd-al-Mumin, he said, “Choose anyone from the bargaining chips with the exception of the judge and the Cardinal Secretary. Let us show those who believe they’re in charge, as to who is really in charge.”
“Yes, Ali.”
Once Abd-al-Mumin left his side, Ali Mustafa got to his feet. Leaning against the wall was an AK-47. Grabbing it and feeling its heft, Mustafa pulled back on the bolt and checked the weapon. It was a sound rifle as were all AK-47s, being the Islamic State’s weapon of choice.
Then he went to the balcony that shared a glass-bottom pool and looked over the railing. Blue and white lights continued to swirl in their bars, a chaotic scene.
Returning to the computer station, he grabbed the Holy Lance. It remained cool to the touch. So far, there was nothing fantastical about it, nothing of magic. The relic could have been an ancient dagger dressed to be the Spear of Destiny, a facsimile, which was something he had considered. There was a spear tip inside the vault of the Vatican that had been declared as the true artifact, this he knew. But that artifact had 1,200 years of history missing, meaning that it could not be verified to be the divine article. In fact, while he was a student minoring in biblical histories at Oxford, he came upon the realization that the Bible never referred to the spearhead again after Longinus pierced the side of Christ. Nor did it hint that the spearhead had any power since there was no historical proof that it did outside of the crusade at Antioch, where the legend was first born. To the disbelievers and scholars, the entire idea would have been completely unbiblical. To people like Mustafa and to those he commanded, however, it had the power of God. Still, the relic remained cold to the touch.
Setting the item aside, Ali Mustafa returned to the balcony where the surface of the pool remained even. Then looking at the AK-47 with admiration before turning his eyes skyward, he noted the canopy of overhead stars.
“Allah be praised,” he whispered. Then he closed his eyes.
With chaos below and order above, Ali Mustafa began to pray for his divine connection with the Holy Lance, wishing above all else that he would be the conduit between Paradise and Earth.
As Ali Mustafa continued to fully pray while expecting an answer, he received nothing in return.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Behind a locked and guarded door to a room that connected with Mustafa’s suite, five men took residence from different walks of life. One was a judge who sat within the highest court in the United States. Two were CEOs from big corporations worth billions. Another was a political principal of the Italian Parliament. And the last was a chieftain of the Vatican, the Cardinal Secretary of State. They had been gathered and herded inside a room with no escape. Through the doorway, they could hear the muted banter between two guards who spoke Arabic.
Cardinal Favino paced the room while raking his fingers nervously through his thinning hair, the man exhibiting high-end concern. It wasn’t until Judge Rosenberg of the United States Supreme Court addressed him of his actions.
“Why don’t you sit down and relax?” the judge told him. “Your show of anxiety is not making things better for any of us.”
The cardinal shot the judge a glaring look that said, ‘mind your own business.’ But then from the cleric: “Do you have any idea who these people are? What they’re capable of doing? Don’t you realize the position we’re in?”
“You’re a priest, are you not?” asked the judge.
“I’m more than that,” Favino stated curtly. “I’m the Vatican’s Cardinal Secretary of State.”
“Why would I know the difference?” said the judge. “I’m Jewish. If nothing more, I should be the one to worry since Arabs don’t much care for our kind.”
“You think it’s any different being Catholic?”
“I know that as a man of God, you should be exhibiting a courageous front rather than a cowardly one.”
“Death scares all of us. Don’t try to act otherwise.”
“Yes-yes. I admit that death scares me. But I also believe that God will show me mercy. And I know this because I attend the synagogue weekly to pay my devotions, much in the same way you attend your services. In payment of worship, do you not believe in eternal reward?”
Cardinal Favino ignored him as he continued to pace and rake his fingers through his hair.
“Look,” said the judge, “all of us share the same dilemma. We’re all hostages whose fates are now within the hands of God, be it good, bad or otherwise. Perhaps it would be best to comfort one another rather than to display an agitation that only promotes a greater fear instead of harmony.”
Cardinal Favino scoffed at this. “Harmony.” Then with a barking laugh that was meant to mock, he added, “We’re all dead men.”
“I maintain hope, Cardinal, that things will turn out for the better. Perhaps you should do the same for the sake of all who sit inside this room. Instead of making yourself out to be the voice of doom, perhaps you should inspire.”
The door to the room opened. Within the frame stood Abd-al-Mumin, who studied each individual before deciding on the man sitting in the room’s corner. Pointing to the individual, he stated harshly, “You. On your feet.”
The man, who was a CEO of a multi-billion-dollar corporation which developed AI software that would be integrated with cybernetic hardware, started to sob and plead. Then he placed his arms over his head and brought his knees up into acute angles, the man making himself as small as possible.
With a simple gesture of his hand, Abd-al-Mumin ordered Qusay and Tamir to grab the individual, which they did roughly, with the two terrorists half-carrying and half-dragging the CEO out of the room. With an amplified glare that spoke of an all-consuming hatred for those inside the room, Abd-al-Mumin slammed the door shut. Thereafter, there was the sound of locking pins falling into place with the turn of a key.
Cardinal Favino turned on the judge while pointing to the door. “There goes your hope, Judge. Now tell me, do you still believe that harmony resides in tragedy?”
“If you look hard enough and deep enough, Cardinal, you’ll discover that there’s harmony in everything. As a clergyman this is something you should know. Especially one who sits so high within the Vatican’s hierarchy such as yourself.”
Cardinal Favino clenched his teeth hard enough to cause the muscles in the back of his jaw to work. Then he went back to pacing the floor like a caged animal moving from one side of the room to the other, while nervously raking his fingers through his hair.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Outside the hotel, Müller was awaiting orders from a leading principal of the Federal Ministry of Interior after they had been briefed as to the initial raid: two dead, which included Hartwig Klein, and three members of the Einsatzkommando unit injured. Hardly a successful run. But it was the death of Hartwig Klein that created tumultuous waves amongst the leadership. Klein was a leading member of Germany’s Bundestag, meaning that this was now an international incident. The media had gathered with cameras and mics and asked annoying questions that went unanswered. Police were maintaining a perimeter by creating an impenetrable human chain. And network vans with stamped logos on their sides noted which station they represented. There was CNN International, the BBC, Al Jazeera, CNBC, and Germany’s DW, with every reporter and journalist crying out for information because they, as the media, were entitled to the truth.
But Müller ignored them, as did Zeller, who stared at the tower before them. Then Müller wiped his cheek with the back of his gloved hand, which came away slick with his blood. Then he examined every nearby post and streetlamp which seemed to have a CCTV camera attached to each one, as though in overkill. Only then did it dawn on Müller about the remark Mustafa made about him getting the cut on his cheek looked at. Mustafa had been watching everything play out on the cameras with an all-points vision.
He then pointed
out the cameras to Zeller. “The son of a bitch is watching us,” he said. “That’s how he knew about the cut on my cheek.”
Zeller looked around and became duly aware of their mounts. “They’re all over the place,” he remarked. “It’s funny how you notice something like that only when it’s brought to your attention.”
“He’s watching us via a Wi-Fi linkup.” He turned to Zeller. “Cut off all Wi-Fi capability in this area. I want Mustafa as blind as we are.”
“I’ll get on it,” Zeller stated as he turned to walk away.
After Müller watched Zeller get on the mic to verbalize orders, he then turned his head skyward to look at the pools that extended outward from the luxury suites. Where are you? he asked himself. And what are you up to?
He would soon get answers to both questions.
* * *
Ali Mustafa had zeroed in on Müller and Zeller, with the two serving as the points of interest on Mustafa’s desktop monitor. Then he watched the two men speak with Müller finally pointing to the cameras, with Zeller eventually moving away and getting on the mic.
“Well-well-well,” Mustafa commented, “it appears that we’re about to have thine eyes plucked out.”
Those by his side had no idea what Mustafa meant until the grids began to turn into snowy screens, the Wi-Fi gone.
“It matters not,” Mustafa said as he grabbed the cellphone, tapped nine, then placed it against his ear.
It was Zeller who answered. “Yes.”