The Insider Threat

by Brad Taylor

  The Holy Father mounted the papal altar, then stood for a moment, surveying the audience. He said a few words, but Jacob was too far back to hear. Everyone bowed their heads and he realized it was a prayer. He copied, hearing the audience murmur a liturgy. They raised their heads, and the Holy Father said a few more words, then came down from the alter, taking a seat in the center chair of a row placed in front of the confessional at the base of the altar. The first line of boys stood, walking up to him one by one, each kissing his ring and moving aside.

  Like a snake uncoiling, the line moved forward. Quicker than he’d imagined, their row stood up. Jacob looked at Carlos and Devon.

  “It’s time.”

  90

  Omar crossed the bridge for Tiber Island, moving at a leisurely pace. He checked his watch, seeing he still had at least forty minutes before he would attack. He knew the Israelis were on to them, knew they understood an event was imminent, but also fully believed they had no idea where.

  He honestly didn’t care if he killed a single soul, but knew he would have to in order to convince the authorities the attack had occurred. An explosion on an empty street wouldn’t do it. No, someone would have to die. Probably a great many someones.

  The pope’s ceremony was set for 10:00 A.M., which meant the receiving line would be around nine thirty. All he had to do was set the explosives off before that time, and he could think of no better place than in the line of cattle trying to enter the Roman Colosseum. A hundred people or more, all waiting to feel the sting of his vest.

  Omar walked past the obese, slovenly infidels, some taking pictures and others just sitting on benches because they were sick of dragging their bellies through the street. He couldn’t wait to make them taste fire. He foresaw a glorious future. The Islamic State was on the rise, and he intended to be a leader of it.

  Passing across the island, he realized he couldn’t cut straight to the Colosseum, but instead would have to bypass the massive Roman Forum, adding time to his journey. He took a left on Via del Teatro di Marcello, picking up his pace.

  * * *

  Racing down the road in our little Fiat clown car, bouncing back and forth from Brett’s attempts at avoiding traffic, I was having a hard time holding the phone to my ear, but at least I was in the shotgun seat instead of crammed in the back. Not that it would have been a big deal now, since only Aaron was back there.

  I said, “So you got someone to meet us? Someone who can get us in?”

  Kurt said, “Yeah, I think so. You have to remember, this is going through cutouts. They think you’re Department of State, so don’t go Neanderthal on them. We still have the cover to think about.”

  “Sir, really. We’re toting weapons, and we’re going to storm the shit out of that place. Can this guy coordinate with their security?”

  “Yeah, yeah, they think you’re from the diplomatic security service for the ambassador. You can have the guns, but you don’t get the asshole attitude.”

  I didn’t say what I was thinking. Only, “That’s fine. Where are we meeting him?”

  “Right on Saint Peter’s Square. He’ll be standing by with an American flag on a stick.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “No. Best we could do. There are about ten thousand people in that square.”

  “We’re coming around the circle now. Did you get the word to the Vatican?”

  “Yeah, we did, but it was slow. The ambassador is supposed to have a Vatican representative with him, but I’m not sure how much got through. They know there’s a threat, but that’s all I’ll promise.”

  “Great.”

  I saw a policeman waving us over and said, “We’re here. Gotta go.”

  I hung up, telling Brett to pull over. I boiled out of the car and said, “I’m with the Department of State Bureau of Diplomatic Security. Looking for the US ambassador, because we’ve had a threat against our embassy.”

  In no way did I want to mention a threat against the pope. That would guarantee I went nowhere. The cop’s eyes went wide, and he said, “I donno, I donno.”

  On the outskirts of the square, outside of the barriers, I saw someone waving a US flag. I said, “That’s my contact. You can follow me, but I’m going there.”

  Brett and Aaron exited, and we started walking, the cop talking into his radio. I saw he was Italian police, which meant he wasn’t part of the Vatican.

  I reached the flag-waver, a young guy of about thirty. He said, “You Nephilim Logan? DSS?”

  I said, “Yes. That’s me. Where’s the ambassador?”

  “He’s inside. What’s the trouble?”

  “I need to get into the ceremony, right now. I don’t have time to explain. Do you have identification or a badge that can do that?”

  “Well, yeah, but I need to know why.”

  I started to tell him why—namely that it would save him from an ass-kicking—when two distinct thumps came from the basilica.

  And then the people started screaming.

  91

  Jacob got in line behind Carlos and Devon, the Holy Father less than thirty meters away. The Lost Boys began shuffling forward like a row of condemned men walking to their final resting place.

  He watched the Father, ignoring the men around him. Watched him smile, small glasses on his face, joy in his manner. He wondered if the man could feel death coming. Wondered if he knew it and yet did nothing because of his stature. He’d read about previous attacks, with each pope declaring divine intervention that they lived, with one saying, “My defense is my cross.” Did they really believe that? Did they honestly think that they were above death?

  They crept closer and Jacob whispered into the ear of Carlos, “Remember the delay of the detonator. You must time it. Two seconds after release.”

  Carlos nodded.

  The Holy Father continued to meet the line, and Jacob saw real happiness. Not make-believe political posturing because he had to be there. He felt a twinge of guilt and reflexively looked for Father Brimm. He was nowhere to be found.

  They were now twenty people back, and one of the suited men with an earpiece came forward, whispering into the Holy Father’s ear. He nodded, but didn’t break his connection with the boys visiting. Another came forward, whispering to a prelate on the side. Then a third. Then a man with an earpiece came toward the line. Searching.

  We’ve been discovered.

  He said, “Carlos, this is it. Go now. You first, to kill the line of defense, then Devon, to kill the pope.”

  The kid behind him poked him in the back, saying, “Quiet. You’re not supposed to be talking.” Never even hearing the words.

  Carlos and Devon separated from the line and began walking forward in a rapid manner. Jacob caught movement from the security, but knew it would be too late to do anything. They were too close.

  Carlos saw the protective detail closing in and darted forward, screaming, “Allahu Akbar!” The security men coalesced like flies to sugar, beating him to the ground. He waited until all were on him, then detonated.

  A huge explosion rent the air, and body parts were flung throughout the cathedral, the noise stunning everyone. Devon began running straight at the Holy Father, his hand held high, shouting the same Arabic phrase.

  The remaining security men leapt on the Holy Father, three pulling him to the ground and two standing in front, shooting small submachine guns they’d produced from under their jackets. Devon took a staggering amount of rounds, but remained on his feet, still moving forward. His device detonated fifteen feet away, disintegrating his body and shredding the men surrounding the target.

  On the ground with everyone else, Jacob realized instantly what had happened. Devon had mistimed the chemicals, expecting to reach the pope on the run. The bullets had slowed him enough to cause it to fire early. Among the screaming and crying, he stared at the mass of flesh of his friend, split neatly in half, his upper torso remarkably intact, his head looking back at Jacob, eyes open.

  Jaco
b stood, preparing to run screaming out of the basilica with everyone else. He took one last look at the altar, surveying the carnage.

  And saw the Holy Father move.

  * * *

  Shoshana was running flat-out, retracing the path that Omar had taken out of Trastevere. Jennifer matched her stride for stride, two steps back.

  They ran down the sidewalk next to the Tiber River, reaching the bridge for the island and sprinting forward, keeping a pace that made Jennifer’s lungs burn.

  Moving across the spit of land, drawing stares from the tourists mingling about, Jennifer held up on the north side of the river, seeing a highway paralleling it, but nothing going into the interior.

  Shoshana said, “Why are we stopping? Get us to the Colosseum.”

  Jennifer manipulated her phone, saying, “Trying to find a shortcut. Last contact was at Via dei Fori Imperiali, the road leading to the Colosseum. He’s gone the long way around the Forum and is now headed east. We follow and we’ll never reach him in time.”

  Exasperated, Shoshana said, “We’ll never reach him sitting here. He’s walking. We’re running.”

  Jennifer put away her phone and said, “Yeah, you’re right. He took the long way because there is no short way. The Forum stretches through this area. No roads. Let’s go.”

  Shoshana said, “Wait, he’s walking around the Forum because there’s no road through it? And if we find a way, we can beat him?”

  “Yes, but I just told you, there isn’t a road that does that.”

  “There isn’t one for someone carrying a bomb. Plenty of ways for people who run like deer. Show me the phone.”

  Jennifer did, and Shoshana said, “Satellite. Like you did before.”

  Jennifer manipulated the application, waiting on the resolution to come through. When it did, Shoshana said, “Right through there. We go straight up into that neighborhood. The road ends, which means it butts up into the Forum. We get into that area, it’s wide-open. We start running, and we can cut him off.”

  Jennifer said, “It’ll be fenced off. Protected.”

  Shoshana said, “Are you kidding me? You don’t think we can get over?”

  Jennifer said, “Well, yeah, I can climb it, but we don’t have a ticket. . . .” Her voice trailed off as she realized how stupid that sounded.

  Shoshana grinned at her. “We’ll buy a ticket later, to make you feel better. Let’s go.”

  They took off, loping forward at the same pace, chewing up the ground, running south, away from the path of Omar. They passed a park and cut east, now running directly toward the Forum, the Colosseum beyond. They eventually hit the outskirts and found it wasn’t a simple fence. It was a brick wall reaching ten feet, covered in vines.

  Shoshana ran down it for a hundred meters, then darted into a piazza, seeing benches and families enjoying the sunshine, a church on the end.

  She stopped, hands on her hips, breathing heavily. “Shit. We can’t get over that. Can’t your phone tell us when we’re stupid?” She paced a bit, then said, “We’re committed now. We keep going deeper. Find a gap.”

  Jennifer looked at the wall and said, “I can get you over that.”

  “You mean you hoist me, leaving you here?”

  Jennifer smiled. “No, Carrie. I mean I’ll follow after I hoist you up.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? No way can you climb that.”

  Jennifer looked left and right, seeing a couple of pedestrians, but no cops. She moved to the wall and knelt down, lacing her hands together. “Let’s go.”

  Shoshana shook her head, then sprinted to the wall, planting her foot in Jennifer’s hands and leaping up. Jennifer exploded off the ground, throwing her higher, bearing the brunt of Shoshana’s weight. She felt it lighten and watched Shoshana pull herself over the top and flip to the other side.

  A teenager to the left, eyes wide, said, “What are you doing?”

  Jennifer darted away from the wall, then faced it, coiling her legs, her arms swinging back and forth with an unconscious count.

  She took two breaths and said, “I’m saving the world.”

  She sprinted as fast as she could, hitting the wall full-on, catching the rough brick with the ball of her foot and toe-kipping higher. She snagged the vines draping from the top, pulling herself up until she could muscle her way over. She paused on the apex, catching her breath, and saw the teenager below giving her a thumbs-up, beaming.

  She rolled over to the other side and dropped. With an amazed expression, Shoshana said, “So that’s why they call you Koko?”

  Jennifer said, “There’s always a little truth in a callsign, Carrie.”

  Shoshana grinned and took off running. Now inside the fabled Roman Forum, they had unimpeded access to reach the Colosseum. Beating the merchant of death to his destination.

  92

  Jacob stood, his ears ringing, the blood coating the teenagers in front of him and the screams filling the chamber. He shook his head and focused on the altar. The few unwounded Vatican prelates were slowly getting their wits about them. The security was in disarray, one staggering about, his face a bloody mess. Another was leaning over the Holy Father, pulling him to his feet. Alive.

  Shocked, Jacob was momentarily immobilized at the sight. Devon and Carlos were split apart, their blood and body parts dripping down the marble pillars, and the pope lived. His two friends had sacrificed themselves for nothing. He couldn’t believe the injustice. No, no, no. A bloodlust rage filled him, blotting out everything but the desire to slaughter the target. His mission came into focus. He was to be the shahid.

  He pushed a kid out of the way, staggering toward the altar. He slipped in Devon’s blood, but didn’t even register the fact. He gathered steam, charging toward the confusion.

  He crossed a torn body wearing a suit, the man’s earpiece now askew, his eyes looking skyward, unseeing. He pulled the submachine gun from his grasp and kept going. He reached the Holy Father and put the barrel against the security man trying to help him to his feet. He pulled the trigger. The man’s head exploded, and he dropped, collapsing on the floor like his skeleton had turned to Jell-O.

  Jacob stared into the eyes of the pope and said, “Time to pay the piper.”

  The Holy Father did nothing but look back at him, showing absolutely no fear.

  Jacob heard a pounding of feet and saw an avalanche of security running toward him, all with weapons drawn. He reached the moment of decision. Kill the pope right now. Do the mission. Take the pain, just as he had in the past, when the Christian monsters had tortured him in the white house.

  The lead man saw the situation and screamed at the others to halt. They did, in a ragged line, all weapons aimed at him. Jacob held the gun to the Holy Father’s head. He felt the tension in the trigger.

  He pulled the Father’s head up, and all that he’d done and seen went through his mind. All that he wanted to be, and all that had been taken from him.

  The Kurd he’d killed burst forth. His neck. The knife. Cutting through the tendons. The blood. The twitching. The absolute control over life and death.

  Ringo had been right. That killing was different. It had been his introduction to hell, and now he was on an inexorable path to eat the brimstone. All because of his commitment to the Islamic State.

  It was too late to stop the slide.

  Remember Devon. Remember Carlos. Pull the trigger.

  His life was decided. He started to squeeze, then paused.

  Enough.

  Devon and Carlos had chosen their path, but he didn’t have to follow. No way would he be a shahid. He wasn’t dying for the Islamic State. He wasn’t sacrificing himself for some sick bastards who burned people alive.

  Fuck them.

  He wasn’t dying at all. He jerked the Holy Father to his feet, snarling, “Tell them to back off.”

  They stood, the security detail surrounding them watching in shock. The Holy Father was in disarray, his head now shorn of the famous papal atti
re, the blood from the men that protected him coating his official robes, but he was calm. He said, “Lower your weapons.”

  The men did. Jacob jabbed the submachine gun against the pope’s back and said, “Walk.”

  His Holiness looked at Jacob and said, “Where? Where are we to go? You can’t escape from in here. Look at the men. Look at the weapons. Give up.”

  Jacob snarled, “Start moving.”

  He hid behind the pope’s body and shouted, “Back the fuck up!”

  The security men stumbled backward. At that moment, Jacob knew nobody was in charge. He was looking at a phalanx of individuals, all afraid to make a decision.

  He pushed the Holy Father forward and turned in a circle, searching for what he’d seen on the Internet. The statue of Saint Longinus. The man who’d put the spear into Jesus Christ as he’d hung nailed to the cross.

  He didn’t reflect on the irony of his search, only that the sculpture of Saint Longinus, carved into the pillar holding the dome aloft in Saint Peter’s Basilica, held the stairwell to the grottoes below. A means of escape.

  He found it and said, “Get moving, old man. We’re leaving now.”

  * * *

  Walking at a brisk pace down Via dei Fori Imperiali, Omar saw the Colosseum ahead, the skyline it presented unmistakable. He checked his watch, and knew he was late. Doing the attack after the one in the Vatican would accomplish nothing. He began skipping forward, almost running, the duffel bag slapping his leg.

  As he got closer, paralleling the Forum, he was accosted every step of the way by bloodsuckers looking to sell him tours. He brushed them off and kept moving. He saw the chaos around the road surrounding the Colosseum and began searching for the entrance. Looking for the means to kill the largest number possible.

  He jogged forward, crossing the street, the ancient columns from the past towering above him, a creation he knew the Islamic State could never replicate.