Vatican Knights

by Jones, Rick

  “Mr. President, I’m not offering a solution as to what you should present to the world. I’m saying that this is a key to what happened—why it happened.”

  “Special Agent, we know why it happened. They’re holding the pope so that certain demands can be met. And these photos have nothing to do with that.”

  Vice President Jonas Bohlmer walked quietly to the president’s desk and held his hand out. “Can I look at those, Jim?”

  The president nodded and turned his attention back to Shari. “I don’t know if it’s your lack of progress in this situation, Special Agent, but I cannot afford to have my time wasted by someone who’s grasping at straws. What I want to know is if you have anything besides these pictures?”

  “I also have a report from CSI stating that the Governor’s mansion was sanitized.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means the Soldiers of Islam purposely left no trace evidence, yet they leave behind two members whom they knew were traceable and would tie them in anyway. So if that was the case, why sanitize the area? It’s a contradiction of actions, Mr. President, which tells me the Governor’s mansion was staged to provide us with a red herring, so we won’t look beyond the box.”

  “And why the red herring?” asked the vice president.

  Shari turned to him. “I don’t know.”

  The vice president shook his head in admonishment. “Ms. Cohen, you seem to have more questions than answers. That’s not why you were put into this position.”

  “I understand that, Mr. Vice President, but I’m doing the best I can with what I have.”

  The vice president turned to the photos, then back to Shari. “Special Agent Cohen, I’m going to be candid with you,” he said. “From the beginning I was against you being a part of this at all. And now you’re proving me right.”

  “How so?”

  At first the vice president said nothing, his glaring demeanor saying it all. “For the fact, Ms. Cohen, that you are a Jewish counterpart in a situation that can be deadly should the Soldiers of Islam find out that a woman of Jewish faith is manning the helm.”

  “Mr. Vice President, with all due respect, I am quite qualified to perform my duties . . . whether or not I’m Jewish or a woman.”

  “You know better than I do, Ms. Cohen, that you’re a lethal combination when dealing with such people. Not only are you failing in your tasks, however, but if these terrorists should ever gain the truth that you’re the one spearheading this charge, then that only compounds the difficulty. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Shari was seething. Her grandmother was right. In some peculiar way, in a land where freedom was paramount, she was still being persecuted on some infinitesimal level, even with impeccable credentials to back her up. And then her grandmother’s voice rang true in her head, a prophetic aphorism she recalled as a child, then later in the Holocaust Museum. Because you’re a Jew you’ll always be persecuted. But never forget who you are and always be proud, because one day you will be reminded of what you are and you’ll need to fight back to survive. Never forget that, my littlest one.

  Shari started to rebut. “Mr. Vice President—”

  “These photos, Ms. Cohen, with all due respect, are worthless. And I agree with the president that you’re grasping at straws.” He returned the photos to Shari. “We’ve no use for these. Keep them.”

  Remaining composed, she took them without hesitation. At least the bait had been laid.

  With time the discussion took a new direction: Global hate crimes against those of the Arab population, riots in South American countries, murders within the States. Shari knew her diligence was about to be met with deadly force, regardless that the photos were being cast off as worthless. The president’s tactic of demonstrating indifference was simply a cosmetic cover. She knew this. What they didn’t know was she was thoroughly prepared to take them on.

  As Alan Thornton and the vice president prescribed their recommendations for addressing the world, Shari glanced at the photos again, as if finding enlightenment. She nodded, as if perceiving something of importance about them. If somebody in this office was involved with the pope’s abduction, she was sure her actions were under scrutiny.

  While the president readied himself to go on air with nothing more than an overview rather than gospel, she sat quietly. She considered she was pretty much invisible to the administration at the moment as the principals discussed the image of the United States in the eyes of the world. The welfare of the pope wasn’t mentioned at all. And this, she told herself, was politics at its worse.

  Once in awhile the president asked Shari a question, but only because she was the counterterrorism expert, of which she responded appropriately. She noted the president was creating a mental script of half-truths with her aid, which also made her feel dirty. After all, this is the world of politics in which truths are often woven into fables and fables woven into truths.

  As time drew near for the president’s address, Shari appraised the faces around her one last time and spotted nothing.

  The only thing she could do now was to wait for someone to kill her.

  #

  Boston, Massachusetts

  The dampness of the New England air had seeped into the marrow of the pope’s bones. Wearing only his undergarments, he embraced himself against the chill, and waited for the inhumanities against his bishop to unfold before his eyes.

  Team Leader stood before the camera at center stage and spoke in Arabic. “To the people of this country, and to your allies: It is unfortunate that the world of Islam must endure the political machinations of a government motivated by corruption rather than do what is right, such as to stop the oppression of Arab nations by your needless occupation. If you think this is a unique situation, think again. The political machine that drives your country is stimulated by those who have the finances to maintain political camps in other nations and bullies allied support.” Team Leader then placed his hands behind the small of his back and stood at ease.

  “It has come to our knowledge that the United States has no intention to abide by our demands, but continues to fight for the support of allied nations who do not have the courage to stand against them. Therefore, since the Great Satan has not met our demands, we will take the life of a bishop as an action praised in the eyes of Allah.” Team Leader hesitated, chose his next words carefully, and continued. “Those on Capitol Hill, those in the White House, those in American democracy, must understand that your way is not the Islamic way.”

  Beside him the bishop began to beg for his life in earnest.

  Team Leader ignored him and spoke over his cries.

  “We will continue to maintain our edict that there are to be no discussions, no debates and no negotiations. The death of your bishop will serve to motivate the politicians of the world to see things differently and to work accordingly with the demands offered by the authority of the Soldiers of Islam.”

  Team Leader removed his hands from behind the small of his back until the Sig was in full view of the camera. “Under the watchful eye of Allah, it is with honor that I kill a minion of Satan before Satan’s own eyes.”

  Team Leader beckoned for someone off stage.

  Kodiak jerked the pope up and dragged him to the stage and forced him to the floor next to Bishop Angelo. The pope winced when sharp splinters of wood bit into his knees. On the monitor, the pope appeared emaciated and disheveled, his garments soiled, his limbs wispy thin. The wrinkles on his face were deep, long and more profound. To view him on tape, many would consider the man who was king to look more like a skid row bum.

  The pope turned to Bishop Angelo, held his hand out to him and wrapped his fingers around Angelo’s, whose movement was made minimal by the cuffs. He received the contact, a conduit tapping into the pope’s power.

  “Be not afraid,” he told him. “For God holds a special place for you in His kingdom.”

  For a brief moment their eyes met. And for that concise passage of
time, Bishop Angelo seemed suddenly at peace. His faith was no longer alien.

  The pope squeezed his hand, a gesture that everything was fine—would be fine, and Bishop Angelo gave a nod of perception.

  “Allah is great,” cried Team Leader. In a deft move he pointed the pistol at the base of the bishop’s skull and pulled the trigger. The bishop slumped forward, dead, a quick and merciful kill. At the same time blood sprayed against the pope’s face, warm and wet, the fluid causing the pope to flinch, as if in pain.

  Boa turned off the camera.

  Team Leader immediately pulled the stunned pope to his feet and pushed him toward Kodiak. “After you hook him up, return for the bishop’s body and lay him at the feet of the pope to rot.”

  Temporarily lobotomized by the trauma, the pope was guided from the room.

  After holstering his pistol, Team Leader removed the videotape and examined it by turning it over in his gloved hand. “We must move quickly,” he said, then handed the tape back to Boa. “Make sure this gets to Yahweh.”

  “Understood.”

  When Boa left the room, Team Leader stood alone in silence. With the smell of cordite still in the air, he drew in the scent as if it were intoxicating, and then expelled it with an equally long exhale. He then turned to view the bishop who sat there with the back of his head pared open like petals of a rose. Gore and blood lay everywhere.

  With his hands clasped behind the small of his back, Team Leader left the room.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Washington, D.C.

  September 27, Mid-noon

  Shari appeared pale when she reached her Lexus. Since being dismissed from the Oval Office, she had looked over her shoulder for someone following her. All she saw were people coming and going, never the same face, not a single person even looking in her direction, as everyone seemed preoccupied by their own circumstances.

  With her hands shaking, the keys jingled as she started the car. But when her cell phone rang she jumped before picking it up. “Yes?”

  “You’re clear,” the voice said. “There’s no tag behind you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No doubt about it.”

  Shari’s shoulders slumped as if a great weight was lifted, but the painful muscle strain at the base of her skull continued. After pulling out of the parking space she placed the phone on speaker.

  “So how’d it go?”

  She set the phone on the opposite seat; her practiced eye glancing often into the rearview mirror looking for something the Vatican Knights may have missed. “I’m not sure,” she told Kimball. “Of course they dismissed it, which we knew they would. But at least the chum is in the water.”

  “So who was there?”

  “The norm: The president, the vice president, the attorney general, the chief advisor and two senior advisors.”

  “All of whom would know about the existence of the Force Elite.”

  “So it could be any one of them?”

  “Or all of them.”

  Shari looked into the rearview mirror and saw a van pull in behind her. “I hope that’s you.”

  “It is.”

  Her tension headache eased. “Let’s hope they bite, Kimball, because I’m fresh out of answers, theories and pieces of the puzzle.”

  “Trust me,” he said. “If there’s a chance of exposure, they’ll send somebody and send them fast. I’m a little surprised they didn’t send along a tag.”

  “Maybe they did—maybe you just don’t know it.”

  “I’ve got Isaiah and Micah following me. There’s no tag.”

  “Then I hope I’m not wrong about this,” she told him.

  “After what happened last night, I doubt it.”

  They drove on for a minute. Neither spoke. Shari looked into the rearview mirror and noted Kimball’s chiseled features, the movie-star looks. In return Kimball smiled and waved. And like a school girl caught looking at a boy she had a crush on, she immediately turned away and chided herself for making the act so obvious. She was, after all, a married woman with two children. Nevertheless, through the corner of her eye, she stole another peek.

  “Kimball?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How safe is my home?”

  “I’m thinking it’s still a hot spot.”

  “Good,” she said. “Because I want them to know where they can find me.”

  “It’ll be dangerous.”

  “I know. But at least you’ll be there.”

  “We’ll all be there. Leviticus is already at the house with Nehemiah keeping it under surveillance. So far it’s clear. The audio bugs are picking up nothing inside.”

  She hesitated, looked into the mirror again, then wondered if a man like him, a man considered to be without any semblance of conscience or soul or morality, had the capability of loving anybody. Was there anything remotely and truly human about him? “Kimball?”

  “Yeah.”

  She wanted to ask, Are you capable of loving someone? but thought against it. “Never mind,” she said, and cancelled the call.

  #

  “She was obviously lying as to what happened last night,” said Yahweh over the phone. “All this crap about law enforcement showing up at her house at the most opportune time. Bullshit. And she failed to mention this Kimball Hayden.”

  “I can tell you he’s a man you don’t want to mess with. Three elite members were taken out last night by this guy alone . . . Enough said.”

  “I know about last night. I want to know about him.”

  Judas was surprised to receive a call from Yahweh. He had always worked through his conduit, George Pappandopolous. “His code name was the Professor,” he began, “because no matter how good anybody else was as an assassin, they were nothing but students compared to this guy. At that time he was the most lethal weapon the White House had to offer in its day—a solo black op whose skills were far superior to anyone else.”

  “And?”

  “In 1991, during the outbreak of the Gulf War, George Bush sent Hayden to dispatch Saddam Hussein hoping to cause turmoil within the ranks of the Republican Guard, so they would vacate Kuwait before the United States and its allies moved in. But the guy dropped off the grid. And it was believed that he was killed during the mission.”

  “Yet he surfaces at the doorstep of an FBI agent years later. How very interesting. Was he alone?”

  “I saw only one man, just a shadow—big, tall.”

  “Then take him out.”

  Judas could feel his scrotum crawl. Asking him to take out Kimball Hayden was like asking to wrestle a full grown bull to the ground with just your bare hands—a huge feat. “I don’t think you understand—”

  “What I understand, Judas, is that you’re getting a large sum for your services. Special Agent Cohen is getting dangerously close to the truth, which is evident by the materials presented today at the Oval Office. If she gets any closer, the cause will falter and your money will be pissed away because you, me and half of Capitol Hill will be in Club Fed or worse.”

  “I can’t do this alone. And I’m not sure the remaining members of Omega Team can do it either.”

  “For chrissakes, Judas, Hayden isn’t a god. He’s one man.”

  Judas shifted uncomfortably from one leg to the other. Normally he was seldom rattled, but he met Kimball Hayden personally and unlike Yahweh, was not blind to the man’s deadly skills.

  “You’re the field general in this cause. See that the job gets done. Take out Cohen. And if Hayden is there, take him out as well. Start earning your money!” The call concluded with the definite click of disconnection.

  #

  The pope hardly looked like the man whom kings and queens bowed before. His face was partially crusted with blood, and the one-time sparkle of life and hope in his eyes, all but gone.

  Sometime within the last half hour, he didn’t know when, Kodiak had laid the body of Bishop Angelo beside him. The pulp and gore of his wound was a disturbing sight
to the pontiff, enough to feel a twinge of fading hope.

  Reaching for the bishop’s hand, which was still warm to the touch, the pope embraced it with both of his. “There was nothing I could do,” he told him. “Nothing at all.” He closed his eyes and prayed, his lips moving silently.

  For the first time in his life Pope Pius wondered if God had abandoned them, then admonished himself for even considering such a notion. After all, He always had a design. But whatever it was, Pope Pius didn’t have a clue.

  #

  While Shari was at JEH working under the watchful eye of her staff, Kimball was at the archdiocese recharging his strength by catching a quick catnap, a two-hour respite to wash away the fatigue that been accumulating for several hours.

  For the first time in a long time he didn’t dream of his own demons surfacing from the sands of Iraq, but envisioned the lovely and almost too perfect face of Shari Cohen as she smiled to him, her face surrounded by a nimbus of light. When she spoke he couldn’t hear her, although her lips moved gracefully. And her smile, above all else, intoxicating.

  She would try to communicate with him, her hands held out in invitation for Kimball to come forward. But he found it impossible to approach, his feet riveted by the force of his own cowardice, as he stood there damning himself for not acting on her encouragement. And then she began to retreat into a light that was all-consuming, Kimball watching with regret as she moved on without him.

  It was here that Kimball awoke with his mouth cotton dry. Staring at the ceiling, his tongue lapping his parched lips, Kimball found himself admitting that he was becoming deeply infatuated with her, a married woman, and another sin in the eyes of God.

  But he believed she forgave him for what he was and what he did, of which he was grateful for. So he gravitated toward her, feeling a pull unlike any he had ever felt before. She embraced him with her mercy.