Reaching beneath his jacket, hauling out the TEC-9s in their homemade shoulder harnesses, Dubois was grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
He thanked Jesus for the moment as he opened fire.
Alopronia, Sikinos
“BUT WHY SICILY?” Halloran asked, as they were docking, tying up the boat and jogging back to where their pilot waited with the freshly fueled aircraft. “The Keepers have no temple there, as far as I know.”
“Maybe that’s the reason,” Bolan said. “To throw us off. Or maybe they decided it’s a safer way to reach the mainland, if the major ports are covered.”
Bolan was already thinking ahead as Ekrem Arikan revved the engines and taxied away from the dock, nosing seaward and gathering speed. There’d been no sign of police so far, no warnings via radio to interrupt their takeoff. No one back on Ios would have recognized the seaplane. If they managed to get airborne, he believed that they were in the clear.
For now.
But Sicily...
He couldn’t think about that island—rocky football that it was, to the Italian boot on maps—without recalling that it spawned the Mafia and still remained in thrall to brutal godfathers of the so-called Honored Society. Successive waves of prosecution, from the Fascist era of the 1920s to the “Maxi Trial” six decades later had done little to break Cosa Nostra’s grip on the island. Of 470 defendants charged in the 1980s show trial, 360 were convicted. Nineteen received life terms, with the remainder drawing sentences that totaled 2,665 years, but only sixty remained in prison two years after those sentences were pronounced.
And how had that happened, while law-abiding Sicilians demanded an end to the Mafia’s rule? A judge suspected of collusion with the Mob, nicknamed “The Sentence Killer” by reporters, threw out some of the convictions based on technicalities, then ceded control over the remaining appeals to Salvatore Lima, ex-mayor of Palermo, widely regarded as a Mafia associate. That judgment was confirmed by Lima’s drive-by murder in March 1992, after he granted early release to most of the defendants convicted at the Maxi Trial. Why kill him, then? According to the mafioso who confessed to giving the order, Lima hadn’t overturned the verdicts fast enough to please some of the mobsters who had greased his palm.
And once again: why Sicily?
Had Custodes Foederis, based in Rome, reached some accommodation for safe passage with the Mafia? Most mafiosi made a point of showing off their dedication to the Catholic Church, but Bolan chalked that up to lip service, a hypocritical facade. To him, Sicilian gangsters were no more “Christian,” whatever that entailed, than members of the Russian Mafiya were true Eastern Orthodox worshippers or Japanese Yakuza soldiers were spokesmen for Shintoism. Religion masked their crimes without absolving them or cleansing the accumulated filth from rotten souls.
So, would the Mafia be willing to assist the Keepers in transporting their illicit cargo, for a price? Of course. And would they even bother asking what was in the van, beyond negotiation of a fee based on the risks involved? Hell, no.
Which meant, if it was true, that Bolan could be facing opposition that was more determined, more experienced and deadly, than the members of Custodes Foederis had proved themselves so far. How many men and guns, in theory? That depended on the Family and its commitment to the job, which would in turn be measured by the money paid up front.
It was something to think about, while they were airborne.
And to live or die with, when they touched down on Sicilian soil.
Custodes Foederis Headquarters, Rome
UGO TROISI SPOTTED Marco Gianotti walking toward the cafeteria, his head down as if he was immersed in thought, and called out to him, “Marco! May I steal a moment of your time?”
Turning to face him, Gianotti seemed distracted—or was that a flicker of annoyance in his eyes? Troisi forced a smile, refusing to be snared and led astray by supposition when he needed facts. Besides, if his suspicions were correct, he needed to tread softly in his dealings with the man in charge of church security.
“How may I help, Your Grace?” Gianotti asked, answering Troisi’s smile with one that seemed a trifle strained.
“No need for such formality between us,” Troisi said. “We’re alone here, after all.”
“In that case, Ugo, how may I assist you?”
“It’s a matter of some delicacy.”
“Ah. My specialty,” Gianotti replied.
“Indeed. And you would be aware, no doubt, if there were any problems with security surrounding the Concilium?”
“Of course.”
Troisi frowned, lowered his voice another notch and said, “Perhaps it’s nothing, but I have to ask. Salvo believes that he may be under surveillance.”
Meaning Salvo Deodato, a Concilium member and the sect’s treasurer. He was a little ferret of a man, with shifty eyes and lobeless ears, whose wiry, thinning hair resembled a moth-eaten fright wig.
“What sort of surveillance?” Gianotti asked, all innocence.
“It’s difficult to say,” Troisi answered. “It may be a suspicion of surveillance. He’s excitable, you know. In fact, I might have called it paranoia, if it weren’t for Federico.”
Federico Comencini, secretary of Custodes Foederis and another Concilium member. He was the very opposite of Deodato, corpulent and florid-faced, with straight hair slicked back from a high forehead.
“He has the same suspicion?” Gianotti asked, concerned about the clumsiness of his appointed watchers. Lord, if two of their three targets had already tumbled to the fact that they were being watched, he needed new investigators.
“Not the same, exactly,” Troisi said. “He thinks he’s heard a clicking on his office phone line that suggests a tap in place.”
Gianotti feigned shock, blinking twice for effect. “A wiretap?”
“So he thinks,” Troisi said.
He had assigned the bugs and taps to Corradino Noli, and would certainly be ripping him a new one before another hour had passed.
“It’s most improbable, but I’ll look into it at once,” Gianotti said.
“And report to me if anything is found?”
“To you, and to the Pontifex. This matter, if substantiated, will most certainly concern him.”
Troisi glanced around, as if confirming they were still alone, then said, “I thought he might already be aware of it.”
“How so?”
“If he had ordered the surveillance, let us say. No doubt he would have reasons for whatever actions have been taken. All I ask is to be kept informed of any matters that affect my closest aides.”
“And so you would be, Ugo,” Gianotti lied, “if such an order had been given.”
“Then I have your word?”
“On what?”
“That you are not investigating the Concilium.”
A prompt reply was critical. “You have my word,” Gianotti said without missing a beat.
Troisi seemed relieved. “It may be nothing, after all,” he said. “The pressure of our progress toward the Final Days, tension before the Ark arrives in Rome. It’s only natural.”
“Find strength in faith and rectitude,” Gianotti suggested.
“Sound advice, brother. I’ll pass it on.”
“And I’ll check on the phones,” Gianotti said. “Just in case.”
Catania, Sicily
TO CLAUDIO BRANCA, all seas looked alike. He knew from charts when the Oceanus had left the Aegean and entered the Ionian Sea, but nothing in the water’s hue, the sky above or on the distant rocky shores that he could see through his binoculars suggested they were making any progress. He’d grown anxious near the end of their protracted journey, and was now relieved as Captain Anatolakis brought them into port beneath the shadow of Mount Etna.
That volcano, Branca knew, was Europe’
s tallest and still active, growing sixty-nine feet higher in the past three decades, with accumulated lava from its various eruptions. A full-scale detonation could destroy Catania at any time, engulfing the metropolitan area’s 750,000 inhabitants in smothering ash, yet life went on from day to day as if the threat didn’t exist. High-tech industry thrived in Catania, earning it a reputation as “Europe’s Silicon Valley.”
All for nothing, Branca thought. None of the infidels bustling around their hive like insects were aware that Fate had dealt the death card in their endless game of chase-the-euro. Who among them realized that life as they knew it would be ending in another day or two at most, their lust for wealth and adoration of the Scarlet Whore consigned to ashes?
Not a one.
He watched his team securing their vehicles, preparing for the moment when they disembarked. The Oceanus would be docking in the company of cruise ships, fishing boats and pleasure craft of all varieties, with nothing to distinguish it from any other vessel in the harbor.
Not unless the infidels were waiting.
Strike that. Some would certainly be waiting, if the mafiosi he’d employed were waiting to perform the function they’d been paid for. He had specified a dozen men, which meant at least two cars, more likely three. All armed, of course, like any self-respecting gangsters. They should have the wheels of customs greased before the Oceanus docked, the normal fees and bribes paid. From there, it ought to be a routine drive along the Autostrada A18, no more than fifty miles to reach Messina in the north.
Routine, if they weren’t ambushed along the way.
And it could happen, Branca knew. Aside from being hunted by commandos of the Scarlet Whore, in Sicily he had to think about the rivalries that split the Mafia into a dozen warring factions, not to mention generations of hostility with the Camorra, based on the Italian mainland. If the Family that he’d recruited sprang a leak, and rivals learned that something valuable was under escort from Catania to Messina, they might try to hijack Branca’s cargo on the highway. Maybe hold the Ark for ransom, or destroy it just to irritate their enemies.
Just what he needed as they neared their goal: more threats to guard against, further distraction for his soldiers as they carried out their duty to their Pontifex and to Almighty God.
As they approached the dock, the Oceanus slowed to a crawl, its captain starting the maneuvers that would bring them safely to a pier. Whatever waited for them there, or once they got back on the road again, Branca promised himself that nothing would prevent the execution of his duty. He had come too far and sacrificed too much to let the Scarlet Whore or anybody else defeat him now.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Over the Mediterranean Sea
Ekrem Arikan advised remaining over water as they exited Greek territory, and Mack Bolan didn’t argue with the pilot’s judgment. From his window seat, the soldier watched Crete appear and pass below them to his left, six hundred thousand people on the largest and most populous of all Greek islands unaware that death was winging overhead, westbound in search of other prey.
Including their diversion to avoid the Greek mainland, he estimated that the flight from Sikinos to Sicily should take about three hours. Twenty minutes out, there’d still been no attempts to call back the Piaggio seaplane, nothing on Arikan’s radio news channel about the firefight on Ios. The boat they’d rented would be found, of course, but no ID had been demanded when they hired it, so the trail might end there, with descriptions of what cops back in the States once called a salt-and-pepper team.
One white, one black. No longer quite politically correct.
There was a chance that someone would connect Arikan’s plane to the events, but was it likely anyone had memorized its registration number? And if so, what could be done about it once the Turkish pilot had returned to Çorlu? Greek police could make inquiries, seek permission for an interview with Arikan, but centuries of diplomatic conflict would obstruct them, as would Turkish bitterness at ostracism from the European Union. Even if an interview was granted, it would be on Turkish terms, and Arikan could simply, honestly, plead ignorance of where his charter passengers had gone, and what they’d done, while he was fueling up at Sikinos.
Case closed.
But Sicily...that might be something else entirely.
If the Mafia had signed on to provide safe passage for his targets, Bolan knew the risks he’d face with Halloran would increase exponentially. Mobsters aside, he’d also have to think about police, bearing in mind that Italy employed twice as many law-enforcement officers as all of Great Britain, boasting the highest number of lawmen and women of any EU nation. Contenders included the Arma dei Carabinieri, the Polizia di Stato and the Guardia di Finanza, with specific anti-Mafia and antiterrorist units on tap.
Bad news all around, if they turned out in force.
This wouldn’t be Bolan’s first visit to Sicily, and each time he stepped onto its soil he stretched his luck a little thinner. He’d begun his private war fighting alone against the Mafia, and now he was returning once more to the monster’s birthplace, not with any plan to challenge a specific godfather, but ready to include them on his hit list if they meddled in his business.
Would it have made a difference if he’d had someone to contact in the councils of the Mafia, alerting them that his intended targets wanted to annihilate the Church of Rome? Would any ranking mafioso lift a hand to save the pope, if there was money to be made from sheltering his enemies? It was a moot point, since Bolan had no such connections to the Syndicate, and likely would have balked at asking for their help in any case.
What he needed was a starting point. Someplace on Sicily’s 9,927 square miles where he could start his search with a reasonable prospect of success. Assuming that the Keepers he was tracking meant to cross at the Messina Strait and thereby reach the mainland, he could narrow down the hunt to eastern Sicily, but where exactly would they be when he and Halloran arrived?
Bolan’s best hope for pegging that location was Kurtzman, assuming that the runners had their sat phone up and running when he closed to striking range. If not...well, then, he’d have to improvise.
And hope they weren’t too late.
Acireale, Sicily
CLAUDIO BRANCA’S CONVOY reached Acireale, at the foot of Mount Etna, in good time after clearing the toll barrier at Catania Nord. The city, he’d been told, was famous for its churches, including Saint Peter’s Basilica, Saint Sebastian’s Basilica and the Acireale Cathedral, but none of that interested Branca. He had come to destroy the Scarlet Whore of Babylon, not praise her temples of Mammon.
Their Mafia escorts were rough men of few words, dressed like low-rent ambulance chasers, disinclined to fraternize with Branca’s soldiers. It was just as well, since being in proximity to them made Branca feel unclean, but he was satisfied to use them for the moment, when it served his purpose. Two cars traveled out in front of Branca’s van, a third behind his other vehicles, four men in each. All came equipped with submachine guns, shotguns, pistols, but their foremost weapon seemed to be their attitude and reputation, which made people look away, some even reaching up to cross themselves as the convoy passed by.
They would lose the escort at Messina, and Branca had made no similar arrangement for protection on the mainland, trusting speed and his own men to protect the Ark on its last lap to Rome, northbound on Autostrada A22, also known as the southern portion of European route E45. Stopping for petrol only, or to change drivers along the way, Branca hoped they could cover the final 465 miles in under eight hours, arriving in time to find Saint Peter’s Square packed with pilgrims and tourists.
It was too much to hope that The Beast himself would make a personal appearance, perhaps, but once the power of the Ark had been unleashed, there would be nowhere in the Holy See—or on the globe—for him to hide. Judgment would find the man no matter where he scurried to conceal him
self.
Branca wondered how the Ark would channel God’s almighty wrath, and whether he’d survive to see its work completed. Granted, scripture warned that any man who touched it would immediately die, but Janus Marcellus and Mania Justina claimed a later revelation from the Holy Spirit, granting leave for dedicated soldiers of the Lord to wield His weapon in defense of the abiding One True Faith. It felt like blasphemy to think they might be wrong, but Branca had prepared himself to die in Rome, a sacrificial lamb.
Or lion, as the case might be.
And if the Ark did nothing? If its power had evaporated somehow over the millennia...then what?
Branca had planned for that eventuality as well. He was prepared to lead his team against the Scarlet Whore without God’s help, if He denied them aid. In that case, Branca knew, they’d likely be cut down before they breached Vatican City, but at least they would have seen their mission through, against all odds. Success was sometimes measured by a warrior’s courage and determination, rather than the outcome of a given battle.
Someday, somehow, Branca’s fellow Keepers would taste victory and share the bountiful rewards laid by for them in paradise. They would be honored for their valor, for their sacrifice on God’s behalf. That much, at least, was certain.
Otherwise, why even try?
As for the hunters coming on behind him, if they hadn’t lost his trail yet, Branca hoped that he would have a chance to meet them, too, before the end. He felt invincible today, perhaps a vain conceit, but it was still uplifting for the moment.
There’d be time enough tomorrow to lie down and die.
Washington, D.C.
HAL BROGNOLA’S PRIVATE line to Stony Man rang twice before he picked it up, distracted by the images that CNN was beaming to his office from the latest atrocity scene. He snared the receiver without taking his eyes from the TV screen, where grim-faced ambulance attendants carried sheet-draped stretchers across blood-slick pavement.
“Brognola.”
“It’s me,” Aaron Kurtzman advised.
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