by Rick Jones
Leaning his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes, the Bangladeshi knew that he had to come up with a means to get inside Vatican City to lay the device close to the city’s highest throne, whether it be the St. Peter’s Basilica or the Apostolic Palace.
I will not be denied, he told himself. And then he sighed.
When the door of a nearby car opened and closed as its owner got inside the vehicle, it was enough to spur the Bangladeshi to move as well. Starting his vehicle and letting the engine idle, the Bangladeshi began to ponder ways to get the False Prophet inside Vatican territory. It would not be an easy undertaking, he considered. Especially when the border had been closed off and remained regimentally manned by Vatican Security, the Swiss Guard, and members of Italy’s Arma dei Carabinieri.
But if there was one thing the Bangladeshi was good at, what he excelled at, was being able to find that crack in the wall that was wide enough to slip through.
Looking at the suitcase and the image of the False Prophet stenciled upon its aluminum shell, the Bangladeshi knew that if he annihilated Vatican City in its entirety, Ahmed Jaziri would still cash in his chips that was the Bangladeshi’s life.
After putting the vehicle into gear with the cogs ratcheting, the Bangladeshi realized that the only way to prolong his life was to turn the table against Jaziri. After detonating the device, he would hunt down Ahmed Jaziri before the financier could assemble a team designated to terminate him.
Taking his foot off the brake, the Bangladeshi started to drive out of the parking lot, and then he made his way onto the avenues with a plan brewing inside his mind.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Saint Peter’s Basilica
Rome, Italy
Kimball Hayden found it absolutely odd to see the Basilica vacant, with he as its only occupant. He had searched behind the bronze statue of St. Peter and its foundation. He looked behind, around and examined every inch of Michelangelo’s Pietà, the Spiritual Statues between Columns, the Shrine to St. Helena, the Statue of St. Philip Neri, and many more. Earlier—along with Isaiah, Nehemiah and Vatican Security—they had checked the grottos and the monuments; scoured the transepts and the nave; combed through the Sacristy, the Baptistry and the Museo Storico Artistico, only to come up empty. The False Prophet, as of yet, had not taken up lodging within the church.
Now that the others had fanned out to continue the search, Kimball found himself alone before the Papal Altar, which was situated on top of several older altars. In his view, he had never seen anything that was as beautiful and ornate with its most outstanding feature the ninety-five-foot canopy that rose above the altar, this being the Baldacchino, which was Bernini's masterpiece and his first work inside of St. Peter's Basilica. Directly beneath this canopy lies the ancient tomb of St. Peter.
Kimball began to feel a sudden chill sweeping through him, perhaps the sensation that of cleansing away any dark residuals that clung to him such as wanting to exact rage against his enemies or his need to exercise violence, only to be eclipsed by a sudden warmth of absolute peace.
In that moment of perfect comfort, he closed his eyes.
And there upon the altar he stood before, a hand fell upon his shoulder. It was warm and paternal with the touch providing him with the reassurance of being safe. And then the Voice behind the hand, a tone that was filled with compassion and power and authority, spoke in a mixture of voices of those he had been closest to. He could hear his mother, soft and soothing. He could hear Leviticus, the one he was closest to as a Vatican Knight, with his tone sincere. And, of course, the voice of Bonasero Vessucci who spoke with paternal comfort. But there was another who spoke to Kimball with an air of Ethereal Authority, with the weight of the Voice’s deep pitch heavy with compassion and indescribable love.
“I can feel you,” Kimball whispered. And though his words came across as a hush, they echoed across the Basilica, nevertheless.
And now hear me, said the Voice. Your purpose, Kimball, is to walk the fine line that divides the Light from the Darkness. Your mission is to stand within the Gray that divides the Two, and to make choices as a man who is both a sinner and a saint. And the free will for you to choose your battle is yours and yours alone.
Kimball thought: How does one fight a man who sits upon the highest religious seat in the land and possesses the ears of those who are unwilling to see him for what he truly is: a menace to the papacy.
The man you speak about mapped his course long ago, and for his choices he will stand or fall by the decisions he has made in the course of his life.
Like me?
Like everyone who is judged by life’s choices.
I want to stay within the Light, thought Kimball, where there’s peace of mind.
The hand’s warmth upon Kimball’s shoulder remained with the sensation growing within him like the spreading ripples of a pond after a cast stone had broken the water’s surface.
And then: The Light, Kimball, is an eternity of bliss that comes to those in time. However, it’s equally necessary that people like you who use the Dark to serve the Light must remain within the Gray . . . until all men are good.
Kimball shook his head. I’m tired.
And yet, you continue to be drawn back by your own free will. Why do you think that is?
Kimball shrugged inwardly. I’m not sure.
Perhaps, Kimball, you have been wired to do what you do . . . because it was meant to be. Until all men are good, then we must keep our sword sharp and ready. And you, Kimball, are that sword. Worry not of the one who sees himself aligned with false spiritualism. For his Light has dimmed greatly while claiming to do the bidding of God as he wears the mask of a righteous man, only to cover his true face that is the False Prophet.
Kimball sighed. Tell me, have I achieved the Light?
Your Day of Judgment has yet to be fully written.
And should the church fall in the aftermath of one man’s coming?
Since the future has yet to be written, the Voice stated evenly, it’s the telltale signs that always lead to the insights of possible conclusions. The Light does not stand idle as Darkness pervades. Now, as one who stands within the Gray, Kimball, perhaps these signs will provide you with the necessary insight to see ahead in time to deflect a preordained darkness.
I’m not a soothsayer.
No. But you have reason and logic. You see things as they fall into place. You know what’s going to happen before they do. As I said, you were wired to be different.
And if I fail?
To give at a time when time requires you to give all, and should you give all, do you deserve to be condemned?
Given my past . . . I’m not sure it matters since I kill people. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at. I’ve killed women and children to promote agendas. I’ve done terrible things.
Is not the guilt of your past actions a sign of self-lamenting? Do you not feel shame for these actions? And if you do, are these not the signs of a man who is in repentance? And is not repentance the beginnings of one’s moral realignment as he views his wrongs and wishes to amend himself through improvement? Deliverance, Kimball, is the final outcome of an individual who feels totally absolved from his sins . . . even as he walks within the Gray.
It seems that whenever I take one step forward, then I do something and take two steps back. I can’t seem to get ahead—the Light growing dimmer, not brighter.
It’s not a race, Kimball. What you do, you do because you believe it’s right. You think it’s the cure to what’s ailing the moment. There was a pause, a moment that was engulfed with indescribable peace, and then the Voice continued. If the shadows continue to grow as they appear to be without intervention to impede their efforts of doing so, a great danger will encompass the Vatican. A pall will linger above the city as the False Prophet sits upon his throne allowing Darkness to take spiritualism away instead of giving. It will punish instead of reward. And there will come a
time, Kimball, where you may have to decide between the love of the woman you covet, or the safety of the church which has provided you with a chance at redemption.
Kimball shook his head. I don’t understand.
If the shadows remain, you will.
As soon as the hand lifted from Kimball’s shoulder, the Vatican Knight opened his eyes. The calm, the peace and the warmth that had eclipsed him were all gone. Suddenly, Kimball realized that he was standing within the cool, blue shadow that had been cast by the Baldacchino.
Turning, Kimball knew that he would not see the man behind the Voice, but only the emptiness of the Basilica. It was quiet and he was alone. The Voice, always coming at moments of deep stress, had disappeared as magically as it had appeared once inspiration had been granted.
. . . You may have to decide between the love of the woman you covet, or the safety of the church which has provided you a chance at redemption . . .
. . . I don’t understand . . .
. . . If the shadows remain, you will . . .
Along the floor as the shadows of the Baldacchino appeared to be lengthening, Kimball reached inside his pocket, grabbed his phone, and within the shadow of the altar, he placed a call.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Rome, Italy
Shari Cohen was heading for her apartment on Via Sistina the moment the horizon began to show dimming hues of orange and yellow. But by the time she rounded the corner of her street, the streetlamps winked on to fully declare nightfall. As soon as her apartment came within view, her cellphone rang with the incoming call from Kimball.
She enabled the phone and said, “Hey.”
“I’m sure you’ve received the related intel,” he said.
“And then some,” she answered. “D.C. was able to neutralize the threat on their front, but the Bangladeshi remains hidden from view after he absconded with the WMD from his last known location. He knows he’s the subject of a manhunt. And that’s what worries me most. He’ll remain off the grid until an opportunity rises.”
“I’ve dealt with him before,” Kimball stated. “On Mount Sinai. And I’ve seen the current photos that have been downloaded into the systems after his surgical alterations. The man’s a chameleon, Shari. And he’s intelligent. If given the slimmest chance to succeed with this mission, he’ll use it to full benefit.”
“The people within the government are highly nervous, Kimball. They’ve been told to evacuate to areas considered well beyond the presumed blast zone.”
“Meaning areas close to Vatican City.”
“Not only that, but we’ve also been told to evacuate the American Embassy and set up a Comm Center from a satellite station outside of Rome.”
“Are you at the Embassy?”
“No. I’m heading home to grab a few things. This is going to take a while. And it scares me to know that something like this could actually happen—the detonation of a nuclear weapon.”
“The principals are doing the right thing, Shari. You need to get out.”
“What about you?”
Kimball paused. Then: “I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t sound overly confident.”
“Shari, we’ve combed the entirety of Vatican City,” he told her. “Every inch. Every centimeter. And so far, nothing. Vatican Security, the Swiss Guard, Isaiah and Nehemiah, we’re all performing constant sweeps of the grounds. And as of right now, we don’t believe the unit’s here in Vatican City.”
“But there are a number of places close to the Vatican that would have the same effect, should the device detonate.”
“That’s why the Italian authorities are canvasing the perimeter around the Vatican from a mile or two away.”
“We both know that that amount of territory is too much to examine with the range too broad, no matter how many people are involved with the search.” After there was a gap of silence between them, she added, “Please come home.”
“I can’t and you know that. So, try not to worry—even though it’s easier said than done, I know.”
“I’m worried for you.”
“I know. But I’m glad that the Embassy has decided to do the right thing. Get away from the blast zone, Shari. Work from a safe haven.”
“If something happened to you, I’d be devastated.”
“We’ll find him, Shari, long before he has a chance to set off the device.”
Shari wanted to believe Kimball and to believe that the nightmare that was Bangladeshi would be over. But the Bangladeshi was military elite who could prognosticate situations and act accordingly to what was available to him. Rome was a big city with too many buildings and structures to count, too many hiding places for something as small as a suitcase. The odds definitely favored the assassin, this she understood.
“I love you,” she told him.
“I love you, too.”
“Promise me you’ll come home.”
“Of course. Don’t believe for one moment that the Bangladeshi is going to win. He’s not.”
Shari wanted to believe this, but she also had her doubts. “When I get to the satellite station,” she told him, “I’ll contact you.”
Hearing the concern on her voice, Kimball said, “It’s going to be all right.”
Wanting to respond with ‘I hope so,’ she instead said, “I love you.” And then she hung up as tears began to sting her eyes. Kimball was her rock as she was his, the two as stalwart as a loving couple could be. But life had a way of contesting such strength and commitments as though to truly challenge the power of the bond between them, which she believed was indominable. Still, as powerful as they’d become as a pair, she also realized that there were forces strong enough to drive a wedge between them as well. In the case of the Bangladeshi, his strength lay within the device he carried, a suitcase that served as the crucible containing the False Prophet.
Reeling in her emotions enough for the sting of tears to dissolve, Shari found the entry key on her keyring, inserted it inside the lock, and opened the door to her apartment. The hallway possessed both Renaissance and Baroque touches to the décor that were feebly lit from banks of incandescent lighting. Taking the elevator to the upper level of her floor, which was meagerly lit from the overhang of aged lightbulbs, Shari undid the lock to her apartment, opened the door, and stepped inside. Turning on the wall switch, the lights failed to come on, which drew an exasperated sigh from Shari.
. . . click . . . click . . . click . . .
After several tries, Shari gave up with the intent to contact maintenance as soon as she returned from the satellite station, if the residence still stood. Going to the window, she parted the drapes to allow light from the streetlamps to filter into the room. Realizing that she was working on limited time to gather essentials such as clothing and toiletries, she wondered if she would ever see the Swiss clock that sat upon the mantel of an artificial fireplace, or the plants that bloomed by the power of her green thumb, or the Italian-styled furniture, things she had never given much thought to before and had taken for granted. How odd it was, she considered, to truly give thought to these surroundings.
Going to her bedroom and parting the louvered doors to the closet, and with little light coming through the window, she was able to pull a small suitcase from within. Taking it to the bed and opening the lid, she went to the dresser and, just as she placed her hands on the rungs to open the drawer, she froze.
Silence.
Every good cop had something embedded deep inside them, a sixth sense that was often referred to as the ‘blue sense.’
Reaching behind her with a slow hand and to a holster hidden underneath her coat, she was able to grab the firearm’s grip and thumb off the safety, the click a soft, but perceptible, tick. Moving with precision, she was able to point the weapon in front of her using the two-handed method.
I’m not alone, she thought.
She moved away from the dresser and into the center of the bedroom
in order to grant her an unobstructed view of the living room, the area she had just came from.
She moved slowly from one room to the next with her weapon leveled.
Then she stopped.
And she listened.
Nothing.
I know you’re here. I can feel you.
With the room vaguely lit by the outside source of a streetlamp, unmoving shadows remained.
She pointed her weapon towards places that were at their darkest.
Nothing moved.
Nothing sounded.
And then the hairs on the back of her neck started to rise in the same way a dog raises its hackles when sensing great danger. The threat to her welfare, she knew, was becoming greater.
Suddenly, the room started to come alive. Shadows and shapes emerged from the blackened veils and converged on Shari as though she was the centerpiece of some dark orgy. And with the same slow and deliberate act of a terrible nightmare as hands immobilized her, she could not get off a single shot with the gun being knocked away from her grip and to the floor. Suddenly, Shari found herself staring into the face of Death. With the bony outline of its features and the would-be maniacal grin of its jawline if not for the circular speaker, she gazed into the flaring green orbs that were set deep within the hollows of its eyes. Around her, this pair of eyes had been joined by others.
From Death who stood before her, a metallic voice said, “Don’t give me cause to hurt you.”
With quick examination while in the grasp of others, she noted that the intruder was wearing body armor and carried an assault rifle.
Then once again from the operator who stood before her, and with the same metallic voice, he asked, “Do you understand?”
Her understanding came by way of attempting to kick the operator in the groin, only to have her attempt easily deflected. In response, Death raised his weapon and with the butt of his rifle, he rammed it forward, a hard strike.