by Jones, Rick
As she stood in awe looking at the arsenal display case, Kimball grabbed her lightly by the back of her arm and escorted her into the computer lab where Leviticus danced his fingers across a keyboard with the speed of a pianist. On the twenty-one inch plasma flat screen, she recognized the dossiers and encrypted code taken from the CD. She immediately forgot the weaponry in the other room.
“Anything?” asked Kimball.
Leviticus released a long sigh as if to vent fatigue. “Well, there is some damage, and I’ve been at it all night trying not to set off the viruses.”
“Viruses?”
He nodded. “I’ve seen this before from Mossad. They set up their encryptions with pathway viruses. They’re basically a failsafe against hackers who try to appropriate data. If the hacker initiates the virus, then the information is lost.”
“So you know what you’re doing, right?” asked Kimball.
“I guess we’ll find out,” he said, his fingers moving over the keys. “Right now I’m finding openings in the most difficult routes—you know, a gate opening here, a gate opening there—but it’s more of a maze-like path that’s incredibly time consuming to decode by conventional means.”
Kimball rolled his eyes, wishing he wasn’t totally computer illiterate. But he could see Shari wasn’t lost in this communication as her eyes studied the screen without the same look of perplexity as his.
“Are you at least close to bringing this whole thing up?”
“I think so,” he said. “But I do know this. I know whatever is decoded is nothing but photos.”
“How do you know that?” Shari asked.
“Some of the pixel imprints have already come up like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle,” he answered plainly.
“I didn’t think photos could be encrypted,” she offered.
“Sure they can. Now the question is: Why would somebody encrypt photos unless they were vital to national security? And if that was true, why attach it to low-level documents such as dossiers?” He continued to type at a rapid pace.
Kimball leaned toward the screen. “Maybe they’re additional photos of the Soldiers of Islam?”
“Not likely,” said Shari. “Why would somebody encrypt some photos and not encrypt others?”
“Well, we’ll soon find out,” Leviticus said, keeping a hovering finger above the ENTER key. “I just want you both to know that one of two things is going to happen. Either the photos will load or the viruses will initiate. With this type of safeguard, I cannot guarantee success.”
“You did the best you could, Leviticus. Go ahead.”
He dropped the finger on the ENTER key and the monitor winked out. A mote of light remained alive in the screen’s center. Just as Leviticus was about to apologize for his failure, the monitor flared up and the pictures began to download. Shari celebrated his success with brief applause. Kimball clapped Leviticus on the shoulder in gratitude of work well done.
The first pictures to load were that of groupings and congregations of men in apparently warm weather climates. No one seemed to be aware their photos were being taken.
In one photograph, the wall in the Gaza Strip could clearly be seen. In another, a tropical beachfront property in which Shari recognized Hector Guerra, who was the leading principal of Venezuela’s leading oil producing conglomerate, the Petróleos de Venezuela or PDVSA, sitting inside the cabana with several foreign dignitaries. The tie between Guerra and the Soldiers of Islam, however, didn’t quite register. So in vague consideration she thought that maybe Obadiah was telling the truth. Perhaps there wasn’t a tie as he suggested. But if that was the case, why send a death squad to get the CD?
She stepped closer to the monitor as the pictures continued to download.
Faces of other dignitaries began to appear on the screen. Vladimir Ostrosky appeared in conversation with Hector Guerra standing along the surf of Guerra’s estate, a drink in each of their hands.
“I don’t get it,” she finally said.
“I don’t either,” said Kimball. “I recognize Vladimir Ostrosky from DUMA, but the other guy—”
“That’s Hector Guerra from the PDVSA.”
“The PDVSA?”
“It’s Venezuela’s oil conglomerate. Mr. Guerra is its minister.”
“So why would a guy from Venezuela’s oil producing giant meet with a man from the Russian Parliament?”
“Good question. But even more so, how does this tie in with the Soldiers of Islam?”
No one had an answer. The pictures continued to load in slow progression.
More recognizable dignitaries from Russia, Venezuela and Israel snapped in congregation. The Israeli principles were from political and military circles. Obadiah was among the gathering seated at a suit-and-tie affair with Ostrosky sitting on one side, Guerra on the other.
The second batch of pictures was that of the Soldiers of Islam in what appeared to be surveillance photos. There were pictures of them coming and going from stores and shops in Ogden, Utah, from their residences, from places of worship, but nothing that shed anything beyond the dossiers.
The third batch was even more intriguing. Maps of Russia, Venezuela, Israel and the Palestinian territories surfaced on the monitor with black amoeba-like shapes that seemed to be overlays spotting the charts.
“Now what is this?” Shari muttered. “We have photos of foreign dignitaries, photos of the terrorists, and maps of—what?”
Leviticus interjected. “I know what they are,” he said. “I’ve seen this before. They’re maps of geological surveys for tracts of oil.”
Kimball and Shari leaned closer to the monitor. “What does this have to do with the Soldiers of Islam?” he asked.
“I haven’t a clue,” she answered.
They waited in silence, watching and hoping that additional photos would provide more insight, but didn’t.
Feeling the pinch of a headache coming on, Shari took a seat and wondered what she was going to tell the president. She had photos that told her little, but in actuality, spoke volumes as to why the pope was kidnapped.
While studying the screen, her cell phone rang. The caller was Alan Thornton. She was to meet with the president and his staff inside the Oval Office within the hour. And this time, Thornton told her, the president wanted answers.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Boston, Massachusetts
Team Leader walked urgently into Pope Pius’s chamber. And in a deft move that appeared slight-of-hand, produced a key seemingly from thin air and inserted it into the lock of the shackle, undoing the metal cuff. “I want you to watch something,” he said. With little effort Team Leader yanked the pope to his feet and pulled the pontiff so close to him his lips nearly touched the old man’s ear. “Be prepared,” he whispered. “Because you’re not going to like what you’re about to see.”
The pope raised his chin in an act of defiance.
And for the first time, Team Leader noted genuine faith and strength in the man’s eyes. “Good,” he said, and then he led the pope toward the killing chamber.
#
“That was Alan Thornton,” she said, snapping the cell phone closed. “My presence is needed for an update. Apparently the president is going ‘live’ this afternoon.”
“Be careful,” Kimball said.
She turned to him. “What do I give the president? I can’t give him this,” she said, pointing to the images on the monitor.
“Why not?” said Kimball. “If the president and the Force Elite were trying to get that CD, then there will no longer be a point to further any action against you if you hand it over to the president.”
“But they could also be calling me to the meeting to find out if the data has been interpreted. If they learn it has, then they may send another response team to keep me from delving even deeper.”
“True, but why put you in a position to discover the necessary information only to put you down? It doesn’t make sense.”
“For cosmetics,” she answered. �
��The president can say that he did his best as an administrator by putting his money player to work. So if my team fails, then the accusing finger points directly at me and not at him. I’ll be the one who’ll end up the scapegoat. But now that I’m getting close, they’re apparently having second thoughts and want to undo what they did. And now that it’s all unraveling, the president needs to cover his tracks before whatever he’s hiding becomes public.”
“Which is why he sent the Force Elite after the CD,” said Kimball.
“Exactly. It also means that Obadiah is somehow connected with his administration.”
Kimball stepped away from the computer, the lines on his face registering deep thought. “Not only Obadiah but Mossad, the White House, Russia, Venezuela, Israel—they’re all connected. But how? And why?”
“Good question. What I can’t figure out, though, is how they tie in with the Soldiers of Islam and the kidnapping of the pope. Or why the White House administration would even be supporting this act.”
Kimball ran his hands across his face as if to wipe away the frustration.” All right,” he finally said, “so what do we have here?”
Shari raised her hand and began to tick off events on her fingers, starting with the thumb. “The men who tried to kill me last night were from an indigenous force. Obadiah, who happens to be from the Israeli attaché, wanted that CD. That ties him to the White House since they sent in Dark Lord. Then there are the photographs of political and big business dignitaries mixed in with the dossiers of terrorists.” She lowered her hand. “That CD, Kimball, holds more than just the profiles of terrorists.”
He nodded in agreement. “It’s also a schematic.”
“But of what? There are pieces still missing and we’re running out of time.” Shari nervously paced the room. “And in one hour I have to go see the man who’s trying to kill me. How ironic is that?”
“He’s not going to hurt you.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one he’s gunning for.”
“Shari, it’s unlikely you’re going to go missing at the White House door. If anything, they’ll wait for an opportune time, like last night—when it’s unexpected.”
“Then I’ll draw them out,” she said. “I’ll copy these photos and dangle the carrot before the mule. So if there’s anyone in that room who is part of this, and if these photos are worth killing me over to keep me from finding out the truth, then they’ll send a second attachment to finish the job. You agree?”
Kimball gave a nod. “If they think you can expose them, then they’ll come after you like the Hounds of Hell.”
“If the president and his administration are somehow involved in this, we need to know now. We’re running out of time. Just be ready to take prisoners when they come for me.”
Shari could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t too keen about her proposal.
“Look, Shari, this isn’t child’s play. These people are dangerous. And this time they’ll be waiting for me.”
“Right now I don’t see any other option.”
Kimball hesitated, his cerulean blue eyes connecting with hers. “Just be careful.”
Shari drew closer to him. “Just don’t fail me when I draw them out.”
He didn’t move. He could smell the hint of her perfume. “We’ll be there.”
“Then let’s draw the flies to the honey.”
The time was exactly 11:30 a.m.
#
Boston, Massachusetts
September 27. Late Morning
Boa was manning the camera when Kodiak carried the bishop into the room with a gloved hand across the man’s mouth. The bishop, barely cognizant, put up feeble resistance swinging a clawed hand errantly through the air.
The stage was comprised of a canvas backdrop and a splintered wooden floor. Kodiak forced the bishop to his knees on the chalk drawn X in front of the camera.
Whining and whimpering like a dog, the pain of knowing he was about to die so fundamental, the sounds issuing from his throat so primal, the members of Omega Team felt nothing but cold detachment for Bishop Angelo.
“We ready to rock?” asked Kodiak.
Boa shot a thumbs-up. “We are as soon as the main man gets here.”
Kodiak took a piece of duct tape and strapped it across the bishop’s mouth. “You won’t feel a thing,” he assured him, and added cruelly. “But then again, I’ve never been shot in the head with my brains spilling out all over the floor, either.” This brought malicious laughter from Boa, who panicked the condemned man into exposing hugely white eyes filled with terror-stricken madness.
When Team Leader entered the room with the feeble-looking pope by his side, the laughter quickly subsided. The old man looked as if his legs were about to buckle, his knees shaking and unsteady. With hardly any effort at all, and with the pope unable to provide any resistance, Team Leader forced the man to his knees. “For the man of the hour,” said Team Leader, “the best seat in the house.”
He then removed his holstered weapon and held it by his side, the Sig hardly perceptible in the shadows due to its black brushed steel. Then, without any sense of remorse or guilt or conscience, or anything that would brand him as remotely human but rather cold, said, “Let’s get this show on the road.”
The bishop began to sob uncontrollably as Team Leader approached him.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Washington, D.C.
September 27, Early Afternoon.
Shari sat in the chair located atop the Presidential Seal in the Oval Office, as Attorney General Dean Hamilton and Chief Advisor Alan Thornton quietly sat on either side of her, watching President Burroughs, who sat at the presidential desk, preparing his first address to the international community. In that moment an awkward silence fell over the room as the president quietly read from the script. Sitting on a couch against the curve of the wall were Vice President Bohlmer and two of the president’s senior advisors, each man carefully pouring over the data received from Shari’s team. The only sound was the turning of pages.
The president pitched a sigh, and then looked about as if he was the only one present in the room, until he laid the pages on the desk and rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. “All right, people,” he started. “In about an hour I have to address the world on the status of the pope. What I want from you is a plan as to how I’m supposed to address the international community without causing our alliances to find fault with the United States. In other words, I need to base my decisions on fact rather than speculation. What I need is something positive. And from this drafted garbage in front of me, I’m getting the feeling that we’re making little progress, if any at all.”
Shari took the initiative. “Mr. President, I have something, but how it relates to the Soldiers of Islam isn’t quite clear.”
“And what would that be, Special Agent?”
“I’m talking about these,” she said, producing photos from a leather briefcase. “Yesterday I was able to burn and decipher the encryptions of a CD given to me by Mossad—a CD holding the dossiers of the Soldiers of Islam and other information that I believe ties in with what’s going on. Right now the connection is thin at best, but given time, I’ll be able to figure it out. I just need a few more pieces of the puzzle.” While she spoke she looked around the room and examined the faces for micro-expressions, such as the perceptively surprised look, a nervous tic or wandering eyes, anything that would betray their sentiments. All she saw were poker faces.
“May I see those?” asked the president, extending a hand.
Shari proffered the bait. “They’re photos of high-ranking business officials, all from oil conglomerates, and politicians from Russia, Venezuela and Israel, which I assume to be clandestine meetings since they’re surveillance photos. The second and third batches are surveillance photos of the known members from the Soldiers of Islam, and photos of tracts of oil beneath these countries and the Palestinian territories. These were all tied in with pe
rtinent information regarding the terrorists.”
The president examined the photos. She carefully watched his expression unfold until he shook his head in bewilderment. “And how exactly does this tie in with the abduction of the pope?”
“On the surface, nothing,” she told him. “However, when I went to the Embassy of Israel to see the man responsible for creating the data, he wanted the CD back. I refused. Later that night . . . a team was sent to retrieve that data and they tried to take me out.”
The president’s face took on what Shari read to be guarded concern. “Take you out?”
“Someone tried to kill me over that information, Mr. President. On paper it looks like nothing, but when somebody comes into my home and tries to kill me for something that appears meaningless, that tells me there’s something damaging in those photos.”
The president continued to examine the pictures. “And what happened to the perpetrator?”
“There were three, sir. However, law enforcement got involved and they exited as quickly as they entered,” she lied. “Just mild damage committed to the home, sir, nothing else.” It was porous at best, but it was the only thing she could come up with.
“I didn’t hear anything about this.”
“It’s minor considering the issue at hand, Mr. President. Again, the matter was taken care of long before it got out of control.”
“Thank God you’re still with us then.” He shuffled from one photo to the next, giving each close scrutiny.
“Mr. President, I’m not sure how they tie in with what’s going on, but I know there’s a connection.”
The president tossed the photos on the desk. “I disagree,” he said. In Shari’s mind a contradiction was as good as an admission of guilt. The president was now trying to downplay the photos. So Kimball was right after all, she considered. The man was trying to find out what she knew.
“Special Agent Cohen, I have to address the world in less than an hour, and you want me to offer those photos of politicians, businessmen and tracts of oil to the world community as evidence of the pope’s well being? Is that what you’re asking me to do?”