He stood to go get another pot of coffee and heard Bully emit a low growl through clenched teeth. Bully got to his feet and walked to the opening of the breezeway where they sat. He sniffed the air, and the rumble in his throat rose, becoming a clear warning.
Zack walked to where Bully stood and studied the now almost empty dining area. A number of leather-clad boys had entered from the parking lot, and, at first impression, Zack did not think they had come for coffee.
They were all cut from the same mold, with long hair, tats, piercings, and leather jackets or pants. Zack had the impression of dirt and decay. The leader, a little taller and more self-assured than the rank and file of the pack, looked directly at Zack from across the coffee shop and smiled a wicked, greasy smile of recognition.
He and his leather troop advanced on the group like a phalanx of Roman soldiers of ancient times. Halfway across the open space, the chant began, a chant in a tongue so foreign it did not sound human. Zack could not say what it was, only that he hated it. Bully had gone dead quiet.
“What’s that sound?” cried Mel, hands on her ears.
The women at the table were now standing. Zoe grabbed Robby and held him tight.
The newcomers were advancing toward the breezeway sanctuary. The chant rose in volume. Bully moved toward the menace, quiet as a midnight cat.
The leather boys and Bully stopped about ten feet from each other near the entrance. The unholy mantra lowered in volume but did not fully stop. Bully sat and stared at the group of young men, continuing to sniff the air.
Zack swallowed and stepped alongside Bully.
“Zack!” whispered Mel.
“What do you want?” yelled Zack, betraying his nervousness.
“We have come for you,” said the leader in a high, strange voice. “This is not your place or your time.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Zack asked.
“It is our day,” said the leader. “One thousand years we have waited.”
“Are you out of your mind?” stammered Zack, clearly unnerved by the strangeness of the group and sensing the growing discomfort of his cohorts. “We don’t know you!”
“Ah, but we know you and your friends, and you will never accomplish your mission,” said the leader of the gang of youths. “The master will not be defeated. Today you die.”
With that, the toughs pulled knives, box cutters, and pipes. Zack prepared himself for the fight with his bare hands.
“Zack!” screamed Mel. “Run!”
But there was nowhere to run. Zack stepped up to brace against the charge of the leather kids. He glanced at Bully. The dog appeared bigger than he remembered.
“Grrrrr,” came the howl from Bully, louder than Zack could believe was possible. The cavernous mouth had expanded to basketball size, and the teeth were innumerable. Two huge incisors protruded from the corners of Bully’s mouth, curving upward. Zack thought that this was what the mouth of a Saber-tooth tiger must have looked like. Bully rose on hind legs and fixed upon the leader at eye level. The leader took an involuntary step backward.
Zack glanced to his left. Louie had joined the line. On the other side of Bully, Rey now stood. Rey had a chair in his hands, ready to swing it into action. Louie stood with a wicked-looking switchblade in his left hand and a crooked smile on his face. No one uttered a word except Bully, whose howl had become a fierce, guttural growl.
The chant from the dirty boys arose again as they voiced their anger and lust. Bully’s cry rose to a frenzied level. The dog was going berserk; he would clearly tear apart anyone in his path.
Zack felt a soft, small hand grab his own. He looked down at Robby.
“Zack, what do they want?” asked the child.
“I don’t know, but you run back by the table with Mel,” Zack said.
“No,” he said and reached out for Rey’s hand.
Zack could not say why he did it, but he grabbed Louie’s hand, the one without the knife. Immediately, he felt … what? Strength? Courage?
“Well, ain’t that sweet!” laughed the leader, and he took a step forward.
Zack knew the charge was imminent. He held Louie’s and Robby’s hands tighter and braced for the attack.
Just then, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He glanced back and saw Mel. Next to her were Zoe and Anna, holding hands. Anna’s other hand was on Rey’s shoulder. Power surged through Zack. What the hell is this? He felt he could fight a legion of Romans.
As the circle closed, the chant ceased, and Bully became quiet. There was not a sound. The two forces eyed each other. A fight to the death was inevitable. Zack had time to wonder if he would die never knowing why he was here.
As the tension strained to the breaking point, Robby knelt and began, “Our Father …”
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Cloe told J.E. to steer the small boat to the north, thinking that if the Maltese authorities came for them, they might be able to escape into one of the coves that formed the eastern edge of the island. Going toward the south would be moving in the general direction of the potentate and his headquarters. She continued to work on Valent, trying to comfort and revive him. Shortly he began to moan.
“J.E., it’s pitch black out here. How do you know where you’re going?” the curator called out over the noise of the engine.
“The main island of Malta is on my left, and there are a few lights there that I can see. Plus, good old Polaris, the North Star, is up there to help guide us. So, I don’t know where I’m going—but I’m not lost,” J.E. replied.
Cloe chuckled at her son’s humor despite the dire circumstances. Somehow, she had to get Valent awake and alert. They needed him now. She looked in the bottom of the medical kit and found a pack of smelling salts. Quickly, she broke into the package and held it under Valent’s nose.
“What …” Valent coughed, the pain of his wound exacerbated by the raw edge of the stimulant.
“What happened?” he asked as he tried to pull himself up into a sitting position.
“Whoa!” said Cloe. “You’ve been shot. I’ve stopped the bleeding and bandaged the wound, but you need to stay as still as possible.”
“Valent, we need you to tell us where to go,” said the monsignor gently. “We are headed north, but we don’t know if that’s right.”
“North?” asked Valent, confused. He shook his head to clear it and said, “Yes, yes. North. That’s right. Look for a light off the starboard bow that blinks thrice on the quarter hour.”
Everyone looked at their watches and then began to scan the right side of the boat.
Soon, the monsignor said, “Look! Almost ninety degrees off the bow—there it is.”
“Now what?” asked Cloe.
“Take my flashlight and answer with five flashes,” said Valent, with fatigue in his voice.
Cloe grabbed the light and made the answering signal. The distant light flashed four times in answer.
“Head toward the location where you last saw the light,” said Valent. “They will come to us.”
***
Ten minutes later, they were aboard a large fishing vessel. Their small boat had been secured on deck. The ship’s mate had given Valent an antibiotic and pain medication and served hot coffee to the others. They were now in the captain’s tiny quarters.
“Who are you? To whom do we owe our thanks?” asked Cloe.
“We are a small group of patriots who do not like the direction of things,” said the captain simply. The captain looked, in the low light, to be about sixty, with a weathered face and sprigs of white hair peeking from under his fisherman’s cap. “We will see you back to the pope.”
“How do you know where we came from, and how can you possibly get us back there?” asked J.E. “We appreciate being freed, but we are a long way from Castel Gandolfo, and with all respect, this is a
slow boat. The Maltese Coast Guard is sure to find us in the morning.”
“Ah, the young sir has taken stock of our tactical situation,” replied the captain. “As to how we know you are from His Holiness, we have our sources. You must be J.E., the young military officer.”
“Yes, sir, I’m a ranger with the US Army, Captain J.E. Lejeune,” said J.E., extending his hand.
Cloe smiled at her son’s immediate connection with the man as the boat captain took J.E.’s hand and gave it a firm shake.
“Well, that means you must be Dr. Lejeune,” he said, looking at Cloe. “And you must be Monsignor Roques, and you, the father curator. Do I have everyone?”
“Quite so,” said the curator. “And who might you be?”
He paused before he replied. “The less we know about each other the better. You may call me ‘Captain,’ but I’m also Val’s father. No one else here has a name.”
“All right, what do we do?” asked Cloe, realizing the captain and his cohorts were some sort of underground resistance.
“Well, the fastest way back to the pope is by air, is it not?” said the captain.
“Absolutely,” said J.E.
“Then, we take you to your airplane,” said the captain.
“But our airplane is at the Malta airport and is sure to be guarded. The pilot and copilot are likely prisoners of the potentate,” said J.E.
“Yes.” The captain grinned. That was all he said.
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Two hours later, they had circumnavigated the north and northeastern edges of Malta and arrived at a secluded cove not far from the airport. What appeared at first look to be a slow, weathered fishing vessel proved to have twin modern diesels, a planning hull, and a very respectable wide-open throttle. The captain and his crew, now dressed all in black, carried automatic weapons and a serious attitude. Cloe and her group were similarly garbed, and J.E. and the monsignor had been given pistols. The captain sent a scout to reconnoiter the airport, and a rendezvous was arranged.
Cloe lay in the predawn dampness of the weeds near the airport. She could just see their jet silhouetted in the distance. It was close to the general aviation office. She studied what she could see of the airport and its buildings by the illumination from the overhead stanchion lights.
A dark form appeared in front of them and gave a birdlike whistle.
“Unless I’m mistaken, that is the speckled-belly Maltese patriot,” quipped the monsignor.
Sure enough, it was the scout, and he was welcomed into the midst of the assault team to make his report. The air, heavy with moisture, began to congeal into fog as the temperature dropped slightly. The distant outline of the airport grew indistinct. The lights, which had only a few minutes before provided some clarity, became diffuse.
As the men talked, Cloe whispered, “Who are these people?”
“They say they are Maltese partisans,” responded the monsignor.
“They are well armed and well disciplined,” observed J.E. “They are certainly not tough guys off the streets. They are some kind of paramilitary.”
“What about those short swords they carry?” questioned Cloe, thinking of the Sicarii. “Have you seen that before?”
“No,” said J.E.
“No,” agreed the monsignor.
The curator was silent.
“Father Curator, do you know something?” asked Cloe, now focused on the old man.
“I’m not sure,” he responded.
“But what do you think?” asked J.E.
“I think the Knights of Malta are not as extinct as many people believe.”
***
The captain came to their group and reported what the scout had found. The pilots were being held in a room in the general aviation terminal. Their Swiss guards were there as well, including the two soldiers who had accompanied them to Fort St. Elmo. It was deserted at that hour except for a guard near the jet. There were also guards outside the building. The plan was to liberate the pilots, the Swiss, and to incapacitate the guards as swiftly as possible. If anyone sounded the alarm, it could turn deadly. J.E. and the captain, along with his six crewmen, would dispatch the guards and free the captives. The monsignor would stand guard in case they were somehow flanked.
They all synchronized their watches. Cloe watched from her nest in the reeds for the all-clear signal of three flashes. At that they were to run as fast as possible to the jet. Cloe lay watching the men crawl off in various directions to get some advantage on the guards. The fog had thickened, and she wondered if any signal could be seen from where they were.
All was quiet and dark as a graveyard at midnight. The fog absorbed all sound. The lights had a sunset effect in the growing mist. It was more show than illumination. As the seconds and minutes ticked by, Cloe began to sweat. Her heart beat faster, and her skin prickled. The sweat chilled, and she was cold.
“My God, how long?” she whispered to the curator.
The old man rolled toward her in the weeds and said, “It’s only been a few minutes. Have faith.”
“Can you see J.E.?” she asked.
Just then, she saw the flashing lights.
“Come on! Let’s go!” cried the monsignor. “Run!”
They ran for the jet as planned, stumbling here and there in the reeds and on the uneven ground. By the time they arrived, the now liberated pilots had opened the airplane and were going through their checklist. Cloe glimpsed the slumped bodies of the guards on the tarmac near the office.
As she jumped on the steps to board the plane, J.E. appeared behind her.
“J.E.!” she yelled as the engines roared to life.
“I’m fine, Mom.” He smiled. “Get aboard. I have to speak to the captain.”
The monsignor and the curator came aboard and strapped themselves into their seats. Nobody knew how rough this takeoff would be. Cloe could barely see J.E. and the captain outside her window because of the fog.
The copilot went to the door and called to J.E., “We’ve got to go! If the fog gets any worse, we won’t be able to find the runway.”
J.E. and the captain exchanged a few more words, and then J.E. grabbed his hand, shook it, and bolted for the jet. The doorway was wrapped up and secured, even as the pilot began taxiing the aircraft.
“Everyone, strap in as tight as possible,” came the voice of Sky over the intercom. “One of the guards has come to and is about to sound the alarm.”
Sure enough, as Cloe looked out her port, she saw the guard running toward the tower building. Thank God J.E. and the captain took all the weapons, she thought, or the man would be shooting at us right now.
Sky dropped all decorum as the jet roared over the tarmac. The advantage of surprise had been lost with the guard’s early recovery. There was no need for stealth or secrecy. Now, it was all about escape.
Lights came on, and sirens screamed to life. Cloe could see people moving at the terminal building. Shots rang out, and at least one hit the plane with a deadly thud. This is going to be close.
Sky applied more thrust, and the plane leapt forward on the taxiway. Through the swirls of fog, men climbed aboard trucks and Jeeps and headed toward them. A light drizzle started and cleared some of the heavier fog. Soon they would be sitting ducks. More shots were fired, including from a machine gun mounted on top of one of the Jeeps.
Tracer rounds from the machine gun flew above the jet as the gunner apparently failed to correct for the lift of the muzzle blast. It would be only a matter of seconds before the shooter corrected and the plane was hit. Two seconds later, the commuter jet reached the south end of the runway and pirouetted to the north. The rain quickened. Sky firewalled the throttles on the Rolls-Royce engines, and the plane jumped like a scalded dog down the runway. The engines screamed, and the jet shook. Machine-gun and rifle fire trailed behind it.
&
nbsp; Cloe looked out the porthole next to her and saw the trucks and Jeeps rushing after them. They would never catch up. Even now they were slipping back into the distance and the rain. Still, bullets sprayed the area around the jet, and some hit the fuselage. How much damage has been done?
The plane continued rushing down the runway as the fog further dissipated. The rain was now heavier and slammed into the plane as it rolled. She had no idea how Sky could see anything without the usual runway lights, much less pilot the winged missile to lift off. Just as she began to think they were locked into some middle-earth universe with nothing else but dark, rain, and regrets, the plane rotated and departed Malta into the safety of the atmosphere. Thank God, she prayed.
As the plane gathered altitude over the bay, Cloe looked for the captain and his crew, but she could see nothing. She hoped they had escaped. Surely, God would be with them.
CHAPTER
36
Sky put the plane into the hands of his copilot. He slid from the controls and headed back to Cloe and the others to brief them on the flight. He was whip-thin, with long hair and a handlebar mustache.
“It’s a short flight to Castel Gandolfo—no more than thirty minutes,” he said. “We will land at a strip south of Rome so we don’t have to run the gauntlet of the mob.”
“Is the plane okay?” asked J.E. “We did take some fire.”
“I think so,” said Sky. “Nothing is leaking, and the instruments are good. Thing is everything’s always good until it isn’t.”
Cloe chuckled at the man’s fatalism.
“We will see the pope shortly,” said the monsignor. “There’s a great deal ahead of us. Cloe, I know you are very tired, but we need to talk about the translation.”
“Yes, Albert,” she said over the jet engines.
“What can you tell me?” asked the monsignor.
He listened intently as she filled him in, waiting until she had finished for his questions.
“Have you determined who wrote it?” asked the monsignor.
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