Vatican Knights

by Jones, Rick

  “But that wouldn’t make sense,” she told him. “Why tip us off to his whereabouts unless it was some kind of red herring, which would make better sense.”

  “That’s why I called you,” he said. “You need to see the writing.”

  Shari picked up the undertone of heavy sadness, of burden. “Punch, why are you even there to begin with?”

  Another pause, lengthy, and then: “Because you know as well as I do that there’s no such thing as the perfect crime, Ms. Cohen. There is always that something that is overlooked. And I believe I may have found it.”

  His burden seemed to grow with every subsequent word spoken. So she had to ask: “Are you all right?”

  There was another pause, and then she could hear him sigh over the line, a sigh that was overly exhaustive. “I guess what I’m really looking for, Ms. Cohen, is closure. My team was murdered—my friends, people I’ve come to know as family, people I have come to share my privacies with. And here I am left standing with this incapability to do nothing about it.”

  “We already had this discussion, Punch. It’s not your fault.” She could almost picture him feigning a smile on the other end as he spoke.

  “It’s something you’ll never understand,” he told her, “unless it happens to you. And I pray that it never will. I can’t retire with this hanging over my head, Ms. Cohen. I need to close this any way possible. It’s just something I have to do. Does this make sense? To want closure on something like this?”

  She didn’t have to think before answering. Everyone wanted closure for peace of mind. “Of course not,” she said.

  “I don’t want to be as ‘good as I was the day before,’” he added. “I want to be a part of this and not be retired to the sidelines because the brass has lost faith in my abilities.”

  “How long are you going to be there?”

  “For a while,” he said. “I’m hoping this globe will lead me to something else, like the first breadcrumb in a trail of breadcrumbs. But I can’t decipher what’s written on the bottom of the base.”

  “I’ll do that for you,” she said. “Keep looking, but compromise nothing. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “I’ll be here,” he returned. And then he hung up, leaving her standing there with her cell phone droning in her ear.

  #

  Judas stood in the shadows of old abandoned buildings with chicken-wire windows, most of them smashed and indented with the constant pounding of thrown stones, and charged his Glock semi-automatic pistol.

  The sun had fallen, and in the pool of darkness he was surrounded by members of Omega Team whose faces were concealed with grease paint. They were heavily armed and donning black military fatigues, becoming shadows within shadows, things blacker than black.

  “All right, gentlemen,” said Judas, “the objective is clear. We’re here to take out Target Red. And FYI, the guy who took out half of Omega Team last night is no novice to the game. He’s ruthless. He’s deadly. And one man alone doesn’t stand a chance against him. I’m assuming he’s now a part of Cohen’s protective detail, so he’s a number-one priority for takedown. You will find them, and maintain a constant visual on both targets. You will also be in constant communication with one another through your lip mics to alert your position to supporting team members at all times. If a unit member does not respond, then I want you to assume that Target Red has compromised Omega Team. I need you to be prepared, people. I need you to keep your heads up because this guy is serious business and not to be taken lightly.”

  One of the commandos charged his weapon, a testosterone gesture that he was more than ready to take on all competitors.

  “Do your job, gentlemen, and you’ll all be rich men living off the coast of Belize. If not, then you’ll be keeping company with Dark Lord in whatever hole Hayden pitched him in. Happy hunting.”

  Omega Team instantly gathered inside of a van of dark gray primer to blend in with the surrounding darkness, started the engine, made its way out of the complex of aged buildings, and began their journey to the interception point to take out Target Red.

  When the van was out of site, Judas entered his vehicle with an agenda of his own.

  #

  Shari was displeased, if not disgusted, with the savagery behind the highly doctored video aired over CNN and other stations. There were sidebar videos of the aftermath regarding Muslim and Islamic populations being tormented, abused and harangued in predominantly Christian nations, even when devout Muslims and Islamists believed peace was the true virtue, whereas violence an abomination in the eyes of God. It was totally unfair to the sincere religious practitioners, she thought. They didn’t deserve this.

  What was even worse was to show the world in chronic repetition the pope’s ordeal. Showing these pictures repetitively played into the hands of the terrorists. The media knew this, but Shari realized that macabre events such as this appeased the insatiable appetite of the public for news as entertainment.

  After getting off the phone with Murdock, Shari checked her watch and couldn’t help the light stirring of anxiety creeping up like the trace of a cold finger down her spine. There was no doubt in her mind that the Force Elite was going to make a move soon, if not tonight.

  Shari flipped back the screen of her cell phone and dialed a quick-dial number.

  “Yeah, Shari.” It was Kimball.

  “I’m leaving the building,” she told him. “Through the West End gate.”

  “We’ll be there.”

  “Kimball?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Please, stay close. I’m really scared.”

  “We’re here for you,” he assured her. “You’ll be fine.”

  “I’m heading to the governor’s mansion.”

  “The governor’s mansion?”

  “I got a call from Special Agent Murdock,” she told him. “He may have found something that would benefit our cause to find the pope. But I think it’s a red herring.”

  “Be careful.”

  “You think they’re following me?”

  “To some degree, I’m sure. Just because we can’t see them doesn’t mean that they’re not there. They’re nowhere and everywhere at the same time. Does that make sense?”

  “In an odd way, yes.”

  “Don’t worry. My team will be riding dark behind you. Isaiah will be wearing the NVG headgear that night pilot’s wear while flying nighttime missions. No one will see us. So if there’s anyone following you, then we’ll get them.”

  “We need the insurgents alive, Kimball. I need to mine them for information.”

  “Then cross your fingers and hope they’ll comply.”

  Shari sighed, but there was no relief as her stomach clenched into a slick fist.

  “If we’re not alone, Kimball, if they are following me, remember that this is for all the chips. So make sure they become compliant. Their death will serve us no purpose. We have to learn the location of the pope.”

  “Shari, this is not a game. My team will do what they can to preserve the lives of the opposition. Preserving lives is what we do. But you have to understand that we’re working with a mentality in which there is no option other than to kill or be killed. I know the consequences if we fail, and my team knows the consequences, too. If we fail, we at least did all we could. You did all you could . . . Just don’t expect miracles because I don’t believe in them.”

  “Kimball?”

  “Yes.”

  “You need to have faith.” She hung up.

  #

  Boston, Massachusetts

  September 27, Evening

  Team Leader was rejuvenated and in full command after watching the video of the execution on television. Despite the progress of Shari Cohen, there was no doubt the cause waxed toward the ultimate goal to create an absolute schism between the Middle East and the rest of the world. He knew hatred, like fear, was a great motivator if used wisely. And if used wisely enough, hatred could reshape the balance of world power.


  Team Leader moved down the dank corridor, pompous as an athlete who considers himself unbeatable, his arrogance laying the groundwork of invincibility. He had nursed this seed of thought to fruition. With huge tracts of oil beneath the soil he walked upon in his native Israel, as well as huge tracts in Russia, Venezuela and the Palestinian territories, there was no telling how rich their economies would become. OPEC dependency by wealthy nations would vanish once non-OPEC nations produced more products for less money. There would no longer be $120 barrels of oil.

  Using Pope Pius XIII was certainly the tool of propaganda that had moved mountains in ways Team Leader never dreamed of. Political landscapes were on the verge of rising or falling, the balances of power were being manipulated by the prejudices of people of all countries by tapping into their fragile national psyches: all due to the use of a religious icon in the shape of an old man.

  These thoughts massaged Team Leader’s ego as he congratulated himself and was proud he was able to use the hatred buried in his heart to such magnificent advantage. After all, he just happened to be the one to promote it since he was a realist and not an idealist. Peace in the Middle East was never more than a pipe dream. Why not precipitate the inevitable?

  His face didn’t betray his inner smile as he walked past the four remaining members of the Holy See who huddled solemnly on their mattresses, their heads bowed in fear of the man who held the decision over life or death.

  When Team Leader entered the pope’s room a vague scent of blood, copper and bodily waste wafted like something tangible, like something dead but floating freely. But Team Leader had the scents pinpointed for what they were, prerequisites for decay and body rot. It had been several hours since Bishop Angelo had been murdered, his body placed at the foot of the pope. And somewhere within the darkness flies alit, buzzing in incessant drone.

  Team Leader engaged his night-vision monocular and the room took on a clear and phosphorous hue. Vague shapes were no longer mere images or shadows, but held depth and width and height. And Team Leader, no longer feeling detached from the darkness, was now a part of it as he gazed down at the pope.

  The old man lay beneath two layers of blankets. The contours of his body poked like broomsticks through the fabric, thin and wispy. Beside him, Bishop Angelo lay beneath a blanket, the pulp of his head barely exposed as a black mass of flies assembled to lay their eggs. Team Leader guessed the pope had covered him for the sake of reverence.

  “I owe you an apology, Your Holiness, but the killing was absolutely necessary to the cause. I hope the pain is not too considerable.”

  “What kind of a person murders an innocent man?” the pope asked from underneath the covers.

  “A person with an agenda,” he stated. His voice was calm, reserved and full of confidence. “A person who is going to change the world one government at a time.”

  Team Leader rounded the mattress and looked down at the pope, who was laboring to rise from beneath his blankets.

  “You think what you are about to do is salvation for the world?” the pope asked, the blankets falling to his waist. In the green cast of the NVG lighting, the man looked impossibly emaciated.

  “No, not at all,” he said. “But I do believe it will be salvation for my people.”

  “With my death you will get what you want—a war that will cost millions of lives and burden your conscience and soul.”

  “What I see, Your Holiness is the means to achieve the effect. There are always sacrifices in causes, you know that. Think of your own history and the Crusades.”

  “What you’re doing will only foster rage to the point of hatred so great that it could generate a new world holocaust. It’s not worth it.”

  “In my eyes, Your Holiness, it is. Your eyes have not seen what mine has. Your eyes didn’t witness your family murdered. Your eyes didn’t cast themselves upon a loving, gentle father who died a slow death because of one man’s deep-rooted hatred for Jews one sunny day in Ramallah. You speak, but you know nothing. You live in a world where your tea may be too hot to sip or perhaps the air is a little too humid for your comfort. But in my world, having blood on your hands is the norm. And I’m going to stop it.”

  The pope shook his head. “I feel sorry for you,” he said.

  “Why? Because my ideologies are not in line with yours?”

  The pope closed his eyes and shook his head. “It’s because you’re damning your soul for all eternity.”

  “Maybe, but when that day comes, at least I know I did all I could to make a change. And perhaps my God will understand that.”

  “We have the same God,” he said, “The God of Allah, of Mohammed, of Yahweh—they’re all the same, and I doubt that God will look upon you favorably.”

  “My God is not the God Allah,” Team Leader said, the pitch of his voice rising. “My God will favor me for my actions against the transgressions of others.”

  “By killing innocent people?”

  “If that’s His will.”

  “Then if that is the case, you pray to a false God. Because there is no God who would condone the killing of men.”

  “And if that is the case, then Allah is a false God since men kill openly in His name.”

  “Men kill openly because they are ignorant. Not because they believe their God is astringent.”

  “My God is not the same as theirs.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, my son. Although God has many faces, He has but one voice.” The pope released a rattled cough of phlegm from deep within his lungs.

  “Your war will not come out the way you plan it,” he added. “There will be awful consequences on both sides, and your people will suffer like no other. Can you live with that? Can you live knowing that your actions may cause other children to watch their families die? Just like you did one sunny day in Ramallah?”

  Team Leader turned livid. The veins in his neck stuck out like cords. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to stop. And I’ll succeed.”

  “God won’t let you,” muttered the pope. He lay back down, pulled the blankets over him, and whispered, “God . . . won’t

  . . . let you.”

  We’ll see. Tomorrow, when you die, we’ll see which of us is right.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Washington, D.C.

  September 27, Evening

  Shari mustered the courage to set herself in motion. She took deep breaths and released them as if in a Lamaze class. When her mind calmed to the point of clear cognizance, she called Alan Thornton, the presidential advisor.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “That‘s not important.”

  “Shari, what‘s wrong? You don‘t sound right.”

  “Alan, please, I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “What?”

  Shari confided with him about the Soldiers of Islam having been identified from the Clark County Coroner’s Office in Nevada, and about the CD being a covert schematic of war involving US and allied interests. Thornton remained quiet, taking in every word as Shari spoke in a quick clip.

  Then Shari dropped the bomb shell. “I know about the Force Elite, Alan. I just didn’t think that after what we’ve been through together that you would support my eradication.”

  “Eradication? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “My attackers. The ones I told the president about as he was looking over the photos in his office just before he went on the air. They were the Force Elite.”

  The line was silent a moment. “Are you telling me that you were attacked by the Force Elite in your home?”

  “Then you acknowledge that they exist?”

  Thornton paused again. He sighed. “I won’t deny it, Shari. They’ve existed since the CIA was no longer granted permission to commit assassinations after the Ford Administration, but I’m sure you already know that. But to send them to your house to eradicate you, that’s absolutely out of the question. The top guns in this administration, me included, have to come to
a mutual agreement to dispatch them. And believe me, nobody would be in agreement to eradicate you. In fact, the team is dormant.”

  “What about the president? Could he dispatch them without your knowledge?”

  “Possibly, but I doubt it.”

  “How would you know?”

  There was another pause. “I guess I wouldn’t.”

  “Then it could be possible that he’s working in collusion with others without your knowledge, knowing that some of you may disagree with his, shall we say, illegal machinations, perhaps putting his trust only in those he knows will support him unconditionally.”

  “I would hate to think that of our president.”

  “Is it possible, Alan?”

  “Anything is possible.”

  “I think he had something to do with the kidnapping of the pope.” She outlined the theory of his disappearance, of how it colluded with the contents of the CD, the execution murders of the Soldiers of Islam, the connection between Abraham Obadiah and the sudden attack against her life by the Force Elite. In an odd way, Thornton thought, it made sense now that she had pieced it together for him.

  “If what you say is true, then you have to be careful.”

  “I am.”

  “You can’t fight this alone.”

  “Then fight with me.”

  Thornton mulled this over. “I’ll get on it,” he finally said. “There are people on Capitol Hill I can trust. Honest people. But I pray to God you’re wrong, Shari. I really do. President Burroughs is a good man.”

  “That you know of, anyway. But I guess we’ll both see. And Alan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t screw me because I have friends in high places too. And to get to me, you’ll have to go through them. And I don’t think you’ll want to do that.”

  “Shari, I’m on your side, believe me. If there are improprieties going on in this administration, I want to know about them just as much as you do.”

  “We’ll see.” She hung up, staring at the phone and wondering if she had done the right thing. Either Thornton will send forth the Force Elite or he’ll examine the truth with a clear conscience. Either way, the ball was rolling.