It was an older, double-ended ferry, on the small side, capable of hauling two trucks or half a dozen compact cars, with forty passengers at maximum capacity. For this run, it would carry only Branca’s team and their three vehicles, explained to other would-be passengers at dockside as a private party bound for Alonnisos in the Sporades. No one would question that in Feres—nor in Alonnisos, since the Oceanus was not stopping there. None of the island’s twenty-seven hundred residents expected it, nor would they miss it when the ferry passed them by.
Branca was prone to seasickness, but he wore a scopolamine patch behind his left ear to hold the nausea at bay. Once they were well at sea, he let himself relax a little, still not backing off from full alert, but resting on a bench beside the starboard railing with the blue Aegean spread before him. He imagined those who stalked his party hastening to overtake them, unaware that they’d already lost the race. And by the time they worked it out...
Where would he be? In Sicily? On the Italian mainland, burning up the Autostrada A3 from Reggio Calabria to Naples? Perhaps already on the Grande Raccordo Anulare, circling Rome?
It was a grave mistake to be too confident, he realized. Pride ranked among the deadly sins and could betray the boldest, most experienced of warriors if it got the upper hand. It led to taking reckless chances, letting down one’s guard, and thereby falling prey to enemies who watched and waited for an opportunity to strike.
Instead of celebrating his escape, he thought ahead to what awaited him in Rome, as they approached Vatican City. Officially, the sovereign city-state of 832 year-round inhabitants was defended by 135 members of the Pontifical Swiss Guard in their flamboyant medieval uniforms, plus 130 police officers of the Corps of Gendarmeria, attached to the Vatican’s Security and Civil Defense Services Department. Sixteen guns against 265 would be a losing battle in itself, but the papacy also relied upon regular Italian troops for its military defense.
How many thousands, then? Branca couldn’t begin to guess.
Nor did he care.
God’s power, channeled through the Holy Ark, could vanquish any force on earth in seconds flat, provided that the soldiers wielding it had faith.
European Route E80, Approaching Çorlu
ÇORLU COULDN’T COMPETE with Istanbul for size, but it was growing rapidly. Its population had nearly tripled between 1990 and 2000, leaping from 75,000 to 206,000, mostly drawn to work in the city’s three hundred textile factories and outlet centers.
It was a modern boomtown, with all that implied. Large blocks of public housing and fast-foot restaurants crowded downtown Çorlu, with little to show in the way of culture besides movie theaters and multiple large halls hired out for wedding receptions. Crime was an increasing problem, fueled in equal parts by the town’s thriving red-light district and easy availability of drugs. A leading heroin producer in its own right, modern Turkey also served as a conduit for much of the Afghan smack moving westward, to feed addictions in Europe and North Africa.
None of which was Mack Bolan’s concern, as he and Brother Halloran approached the city close to dusk. Halloran said, “The Temple of the Resurrection is on the east side of town. The area around it is...unsavory, I think you’d say.”
“Expect police, then,” Bolan said.
From prior visits he recalled their navy-blue uniforms, silver stars on the shoulders for lieutenants and captains, gold stars for higher ranks. Patrol cars were blue-and-white, with POLIS stenciled on the hood and doors. The cops were armed, and in a pinch could call on Turkish SWAT teams. Outside city limits, law enforcement fell to the green-clad paramilitary Jandarma, schooled in suppression of terrorism.
“They will respond, of course,” Halloran granted, “but we have two points in our favor. First, the district’s crime rate keeps them fairly busy. Second, Custodes Foederis is unpopular in Turkey, with the huge Muslim majority. Police may drag their feet to rescue members of the cult.”
“Or hurry over, hoping for a bust to shut them down,” Bolan replied.
“That’s possible,” Halloran acknowledged.
“So, we’re still trying to bag a bishop?” Bolan asked.
“Indeed. Although this Mehmet Akdemir may be what you would call a tough nut, eh?”
“That’s what we call it,” Bolan agreed. “Among other things.”
“If nothing else, perhaps we can interrogate a lesser member of the church, to learn if those we seek have visited the temple and, if so, obtain a time frame.”
“Knowing where they’re going next would be a help,” Bolan observed. “Or we could always skip ahead to Rome and meet them there.”
Halloran frowned and shook his head at that. “Allowing them to reach Vatican City is a grave risk. Even if we take for granted that the Ark is powerless, or a manufactured hoax, the very fact of an assault upon the Holy See might well be catastrophic. At the least, it would encourage other members of the cult to strike worldwide.”
“From what I’m hearing,” Bolan answered, “that’s already happening.”
“I understand. But picture the remaining members of the cult—say, even half the thirty thousand that they claim—waiting for a specific sign to tell them that the moment has arrived. Picture the damage they could do.”
“I’d rather not,” Bolan replied, but images of mayhem were already spooling through his head unbidden, like the trailers for a horror film.
And he had seen it all before.
CHAPTER NINE
Vatican City, Rome
Cardinal Luis Bouchet dreaded his upcoming audience with Cardinal Bishop Jerome Saldana. As prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, Bouchet was free to operate with near autonomy as long as things ran smoothly, but, like any other cleric of the church except the Pope himself, he ultimately answered to superiors.
And now he had a serious infraction to report.
The violence was one thing, not a standard tactic of the CDF in modern times, although it couldn’t hold a candle to the fury of the sixteenth-century Roman Inquisition. Officially, that early purge of heretics had claimed 1,250 lives, but Protestant historians sometimes confused it with the longer, harsher Spanish Inquisition that had spanned 354 years and killed thousands, or the witch trials of 1450 to 1750 that witnessed 60,000 executions throughout Europe.
All ancient history.
Bouchet’s task on this evening was threefold. First, he had to persuade Cardinal Bishop Saldana that the bloodshed was both necessary and controlled, with no risk of blowback to tarnish the church. Second, he had to assure Saldana that his agents still had time and opportunity to frustrate any headline-grabbing strike against the Vatican. And finally, he had to explain what he had learned only brief moments earlier, concerning Brother Halloran’s unauthorized collaboration with a stranger to the faith.
Bouchet was expected at Saldana’s office, on Viale dell Osservatorio near the Pontifical Ethiopian College. He found that ironic, given that his present troubles had begun in Ethiopia, but he found no amusement in the odd coincidence.
The prefect was formally dressed for his meeting with Saldana in a scarlet cassock with thirty-three buttons, symbolizing the years of Christ’s life on earth. His skullcap and shoulder cape were likewise sewn from scarlet watered silk. The large pectoral cross suspended from a chain around his neck was another reminder, of his Lord and Savior’s suffering.
A Swiss Guard met Bouchet outside the cardinal bishop’s office and checked his name off a list on the clipboard he carried. Beyond the door, Bouchet passed inspection by Saldana’s secretary—a young priest from Argentina, still awestruck by the trappings of the Holy See—and was shown into the cardinal bishop’s private office.
Saldana was a large man, six foot four and well over two hundred pounds, most of it muscle judging from the way he moved and held himself when standing still. His face re
sembled something carved from marble, stained an olive hue by long exposure to the elements. His eyes were chips of flint beneath imposing, woolly brows. There was a rumor that he never smiled, and Bouchet couldn’t dispute it from his personal encounters with the man.
Before he could speak, Saldana said, “I understand you’ve had some difficulties, Luis.”
“That is unfortunately true, Your Eminence,” Bouchet replied.
“The violence in Africa was...unavoidable?”
“According to my understanding, yes, Your Eminence.”
“But we have nothing yet to show for it.”
“Regrettably...”
“There’s something else, I think.” When Bouchet blinked at him, Saldana said, “No, I’m not psychic. It is plainly written on your face.”
Unable to postpone it any longer, Bouchet took a deep breath and began. “It is my agent in the field. In Africa. You won’t have met him.”
“Brother Halloran?”
“Yes, sir. It seems he’s met someone, American, pursuing the same mission as his own.”
“On our behalf?” Saldana asked.
“No, sir. That’s hardly possible.”
“A spy, then.”
“Yes, or something similar.”
“When you say that they’ve met...”
“It seems that Brother Halloran, without informing me, has reached some kind of an accommodation with this person to proceed and function as...a team.”
“I see.” And for the first time in Bouchet’s experience, he saw Saldana smile. “That may be helpful, eh?”
“Pardon?”
“If Brother Halloran succeeds, we are delivered. If he fails, let the American be held responsible.”
“Of course!”
“And in the meantime,” Saldana said, his smile evaporating, “keep a close eye on your man.”
Aboard the Oceanus
CLAUDIO BRANCA SIPPED a cup of bitter coffee, scanning the southern horizon while sunset turned the waves to lapping flames. They were passing now between the Sporades and the Northeast Aegean Islands. Turkey in the distance on their left, Greece to their right, and open water dead ahead until they neared the Cyclades. Up on the ferry’s bridge, Captain Anatolakis and his first mate steered the vessel, manned its radio and huddled over charts to keep the Oceanus on course.
Branca disliked the coffee, but at least it kept him warm to some extent, against the chill wind off the water. Huddled in a fleece-lined jacket that he never would have worn in Africa, Glock prodding him from where he had it tucked inside his belt, he wished that he possessed the gift of prophecy, as Janus and Mania did. If he could only see the final moments of his mission, know that he’d succeed and that the struggle had not been in vain....
But no such consolation was permitted to him. Branca reckoned he would have to wait and find what happened next, trusting his faith in God and his superiors to see him through whatever trials awaited him between his next stop and the Holy See. He couldn’t let his courage and determination fail him, when the fate of all humankind was hanging in the balance, all of heaven trusting him to win.
Footsteps approached him on the deck. Since there were only friends and working drones aboard, he didn’t bother glancing up as Franco Arieti settled on the bench beside him. He waited while the locksmith put his thoughts in order and began to speak.
“You think they’re still behind us?” Arieti asked.
“Somewhere,” Branca replied. “But they won’t find us on the highways, eh?”
“We’ve beaten them,” Arieti said, more as if he wanted to convince himself.
“For now, at least.”
“Why don’t they just go wait for us in Rome?”
“Some will, I’m sure.” Branca imagined ranks of armored vehicles, soldiers with automatic weapons, and the gaudy Swiss Guards somewhere at the rear of the assembly, armed with pikes and daggers. “It won’t matter, though.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Aren’t you?”
The challenge to his faith produced a grunt from Arieti, meaningless. He paused to light a pungent cigarette, then spoke again through little puffs of smoke. “I know I should believe that God will help us, eh? But what if He sits back and watches, just to test us? Say He doesn’t activate the Ark as planned. What then?”
Almost by rote, Branca replied, “If you don’t trust Him, He will certainly forsake you, Franco.”
“Ah. Perhaps I should be praying, then.”
“It can’t do any harm.”
“I’ll see you later,” Arieti said. He rose and shuffled off, still trailing smoke.
“Later,” Branca replied, his own doubts nagging at him like satanic imps, inviting him to trade his faith for fear.
“Get thee behind me,” he advised them, echoing his Savior from the gospels, and the voices in his head were stilled. At least for now.
Tomorrow, Branca thought, would take care of itself.
Çorlu, Turkey
FROM THE E80, Halloran drove south into the city proper, turning west from there through streets that seemed as scrambled as spaghetti in a bowl. Clearly, there’d been no master plan for routing traffic over any kind of grid that made the slightest bit of sense. Halloran did all right, though, navigating with a steady hand while his companion memorized landmarks and street signs that he couldn’t translate, correlating his surroundings to a guidebook map that might just save their lives, in the event they had to cut and run.
Çorlu was new to Bolan, despite his previous campaigns in Turkey, but he had a near eidetic memory for battlefield terrain. And everywhere he went was a potential battleground.
A haze of pollution from Çorlu’s many factories hung overhead like a permanent storm cloud, lit from below by the city’s own lights to give it a hellish aspect as night fell. En route to their intended target, Halloran passed by a huge shopping center, then wound through a neighborhood that seemed foreign to the rest of the city.
“These are all Romani,” Halloran explained. “You might know them as Gypsies. Though settled here, at least for now, they still confound authorities. Depending who you ask, their population in the country ranges from thirty-five thousand to nearly five million.”
“That’s quite a discrepancy,” Bolan observed.
“Perhaps by design. You know that they were major targets of the Holocaust? It’s safer for them to remain—how would you say? Below the radar?”
“Right.”
“Another mile or so,” Halloran said, “until we reach the Temple of the Resurrection.”
Bolan watched for police cars as they tooled along, but saw none. He guessed that they would likely have their hands full in the city’s red-light zone, but wondered if the global rash of terrorist attacks by members of Custodes Foederis might have placed surveillance teams around the church they sought.
That was a problem to confront when it arose, he decided, and let it go.
At least the shift to Turkey had resolved a racial issue for the moment. Bolan noted various black faces on the streets they passed along, perhaps descendants of historic immigrants from Africa, and was relieved that neither he nor Halloran would stand out like a proverbial sore thumb. If anything, the priestly garb they both wore would likely draw more notice than their skin tones, as they moved among the city’s mostly Muslim populace.
But Bolan didn’t plan on staying long, or mingling with the masses. He had only one goal in mind, and once that was accomplished, they would be on their way—if and when they had sufficient intel to continue their pursuit.
Where to?
Halloran had his money on Greece, and another outpost in the chain of temples they’d been following. But trying to anticipate the movements of their quarry was a risk they couldn’t take. If they’d gone on to Gr
eece and missed the Ark in Turkey, or the team they hunted chose another route, it might be too late to catch up before the Ark rolled into Rome.
And then what?
Bolan didn’t buy the Indiana Jones mythology, but he agreed with Halloran that heading off their enemies before they reached the Holy See would be their best bet for avoiding panic and catastrophe. If there was any kind of real-life magic in the air, he’d be as much surprised as anybody else.
And it would be a whole new ball game for the Executioner.
International Spy Museum, Washington, D.C.
HAL BROGNOLA EMERGED from the Gallery Place Metro Station and walked south on F Street Northwest, automatically checking for tails, sadly aware that with the press of office staff and tourists in the neighborhood it would require a very clumsy follower indeed to stand out from the crowd. Besides, since he had been invited to this meet on neutral ground, security should be in place.
Established in July 2002 at a cost of $40 million, the International Spy Museum was a monument to espionage through the ages and one of the few museums in Washington that charged an admission fee. Brognola had a free pass in his pocket, faxed from Langley after he’d agreed to keep the date and find out what was agitating his sometime connection at the Company.
Officially, the CIA wasn’t involved in running the museum, but several “former” agents sat on the board of directors, and critics had panned the facility for whitewashing agency blunders and generally romanticizing covert operations. That didn’t bother Brognola—half of life in Wonderland was blowing smoke one way or another—but he kept in mind that every aspect of the meeting would be stage-managed by Langley.
The big Fed made it past the box office and theater-style marquee, into a lobby where the museum’s layout was explained and diagrammed. A familiar face appeared at once, sparing Brognola the rigmarole of choosing a cover and proceeding through the exhibits where phony guards might stop and question him at random intervals, demanding papers or an explanation for his presence.
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