Vatican Knights

by Jones, Rick

  Murdock had to agree. “Yeah, well—”

  “Give me Yahweh.”

  “I can’t. It’s my only leverage.”

  For now, thought Johnston. There was no way Murdock was going to live once all information was gleaned. After that, the man was as good as dead regardless of whatever good faith deal he thought he had arranged. Murdock was simply buying time. For the most part, death was the panacea for all problems, the unwritten rule for those who have no chance of redemption in the eyes of the government. Murdock was a doomed man, and both men knew it.

  “Have it your way, Murdock. If the pope dies—”

  “Yeah-yeah, I know, so does the man who wields the secret. You already told me.”

  Johnston exited the room and met Shari waiting in the hallway.

  “I know why you made me leave,” she said.

  “Really?”

  “There’s truth in what he said, isn’t there?”

  “About what?”

  “About his concern of being taken out because he knows about the involvement of our government in this situation, and perhaps that information getting out to the world community.”

  Johnston sighed. “Shari, the man has a viable fear because of the Force Elite. He sees this one organization and now all of a sudden the government is loaded with them. Don’t start looking in shadows for something that’s not there.”

  “I looked in one shadow and found the Force Elite.”

  “Yes, you did. And you did a fine job on this, believe me. You really made this agency shine. But don’t take the yammering of one insurgent and start believing that there are assassins hiding around every corner.”

  “Then why did you make me leave?”

  “I told you, so I could reason with him and assure him of his safety.”

  “And you couldn’t do that while I was standing there?”

  “Shari, you shot the man’s leg off! You think I can make a promise like that with you standing two feet away from him?”

  Shari wasn’t convinced, but decided to drop it nonetheless. Deep inside she knew the truth—Murdock was as good as dead. All of a sudden she wasn’t so sure she wanted to be part of a government entity. Johnston picked up on this.

  “Look,” he said, “it’s a big government in a big land with big responsibilities, okay? It’s not perfect and sometimes things have to be adjusted right, wrong or indifferent, and sometimes against moral idealizations. It may not be ideal; Shari, but you, I or any citizen in this country wouldn’t give it up knowing this is probably the best government in the world. And yes, the Force Elite is apparently active. And we’ll get to the bottom of that, but you have to understand that things like this will happen, and when they do, we’ll correct it.”

  “And by correcting it, you mean by erasing somebody?”

  “Of course. You know that something like the Force Elite can’t get out. But if you’re talking about Murdock, yes. What he knows could prove costly to this government and you know it. So again, yes. His erasure will come in the form of a lifetime sentence in solitary confinement in a federal pen until the day he dies,” he lied, and started to walk down the hallway with Shari in tow.

  “Sir?”

  He turned to her. “What?”

  “Are you going to have Murdock killed?”

  Johnston’s features didn’t flinch. “Absolutely not.”

  He’s no different than those involved on either side, she considered. As far as she was concerned, they all shared the same core.

  Without saying anything more, Shari exited through the door at the opposite end of the hallway.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Washington, D.C. Washington Archdiocese

  September 28, Early Morning

  Below the Vault within the archdiocese where the temperature is naturally cool, Kimball laid the body of Nehemiah onto a rectangular marbled block, a slab every bit as cold and immovable as the body that lay upon it. Kimball placed one hand on Nehemiah’s heart and the other over Nehemiah’s forehead. Closing his eyes and bowing his head, Kimball moved his lips wordlessly as he recited prayer after prayer from words of his own choosing. Twice, when his cell phone rang, he continued with prayer, refusing to acknowledge the call, even though he knew it was Shari.

  Nehemiah’s body lay stiff. The fabric on his legs glistened with blood beneath the pool of feeble lighting. His throat was horribly slashed and his eyes pale.

  Behind Kimball on stainless steel gurneys lay the bodies of the Force Elite, their tactical masks removed, their faces also carrying identical expressionless stares. Kimball recognized none of them.

  Each would be given a proper burial provided by Cardinal Medeiros under covert conditions. Nehemiah, on the other hand, would be flown back to the Vatican and given a stately sacrament by the Society of Seven, then be interred within the catacombs beneath the City.

  When the phone rang a third time he answered. “Yes?”

  “Kimball, I’ve been trying to call you,” said Shari.

  “I’m in the prep chamber with Nehemiah,” he told her. Silence followed.

  “I’m sorry,” she finally said. “It can’t be easy.”

  “It never is. So what did you find out?” Kimball moved away from Nehemiah and closer to the gurneys, hardly acknowledging the bodies.

  “Murdock gave us two names involved with the cause. This will hopefully lead us to the top officials involved.”

  “Did he tell you where the pope was?”

  “No. He says the only one who truly knows the location is a man going by the name of Yahweh. Apparently he’s the one spearheading the cause.”

  “Did he tell you who this Yahweh is?”

  “No. Murdock won’t give us any more information unless he has a guarantee by the government that his life won’t be placed in jeopardy.”

  “Does he have a guarantee?”

  “It was given to him by my director, and I’m sure the attorney general will—”

  “He’s a dead man,” Kimball interjected. “He knows it and he’s just playing for time.”

  Shari knew he was right. Murdock was a desperate man playing whatever hand he had to prolong the inevitable. If he had given up the identity of Yahweh, then he would have conveniently disappeared. “We’ll find him,” she told Kimball. “We’ll find Yahweh.”

  “Shari, we’re running out of time. Whoever this guy is, then we better find him fast. And if Yahweh also happens to be Obadiah, then forget about it. We’ll never find him.”

  The thought never occurred to Shari that Yahweh and Obadiah could be one and the same. Obadiah didn’t have the credentials to motivate or recruit the backing of members from Capitol Hill. It had to be somebody with a strong and influential presence, somebody of top ranking. “I don’t think so,” she said, and told him why.

  “Well, I hope you’re right. But if we’re going to find the pope in time, we’ll need to know who Yahweh is as soon as possible.”

  “Trust me, Kimball. The director’s working on it.”

  “So long as he doesn’t drag his feet.”

  Shari smiled. “Knowing Larry the way I do . . . he’s not.”

  #

  George Pappandopolous was perfecting the length of his tie tying when his phone rang. “Yeah?”

  “Have you heard?”

  Pappandopolous immediately recognized Yahweh’s voice. His tone took on a more respectful manner. “Heard what?”

  “Omega Team has been eliminated and Judas is in the hands of hostiles, alive.”

  Pappandopolous remained silent; he knew what would come next.

  “You and Paxton are the last line of defense,” said Yahweh. “Either you, or Paxton, or both, I don’t care which, take him out before he has the opportunity to flip on us. Both of you have clearance, so clean up the mess.”

  “Where is he?”

  Yahweh gave him the information in a rattled, fast-paced tempo. Pappandopolous thought he seemed extremely nervous since his primary strength was maintaini
ng grace under pressure.

  Pappandopolous had barely pulled the phone away from his ear when he heard multiple telltale clicks. Suddenly his face went as white as alabaster. His line was tapped.

  He dropped the phone onto the bed, went into the closet, grabbed a carry-on bag, dove deeper, and came up with a shoebox containing wads of bills and two pistols. As far as he was concerned the gig was up. With more than seventy thousand dollars he was sure he could hide out in the South American jungles for a long time. After all, taking on malaria was a far better option than taking a bullet to the brain.

  He threw some clothes into the carry-on and hastened from the bedroom to the living area. Two men stood in the shadows, each a clone of the other—same height, same weight, same build. Both wore the same long coat and both held similar weapons with attached suppressors.

  Pappandopolous immediately dropped the carry-on and instinctively held his hands out, as if this action would ward off what he knew was coming. The guns flashed in muted, rapid succession, lighting up the room long enough for Pappandopolous to note the almost waxy appearance of his executioners’ faces.

  He felt himself falling, and his world slowed to a surreal level of movement much like being under water. With every passing moment the beat of his heart decelerated, the drumming in his ears slowing to the point where the next beat might be the last. And in his throes he was surprised that his life hadn’t passed before his eyes, nor was he granted the opportunity to look into the Great Light. In fact, he was disappointed, wanting to believe there was so much more than approaching confusion and unbearable coldness.

  Casually, one of the assassins walked to Pappandopolous, took position over him, and aimed his weapon for a clear headshot. Without hesitation he pulled the trigger.

  #

  Paxton took the stairway from his D.C. apartment to the parking lot, his morning coffee in hand, unlocked the door, and slid into the driver’s seat. After he lowered his cup into the beverage receptacle, he checked his appearance in the mirror and raked a hand through his hair. After blowing himself a kiss, he inserted the key into the ignition and turned the switch. When the engine caught, a wall of flame surged through the dashboard, followed immediately by an explosion. The car leapt upward nearly two stories before twisting over and crashing onto its roof.

  Paxton never knew what hit him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Boston, Massachusetts

  “Now you know,” said Team Leader, walking into the pope’s chamber and standing over the body of Bishop Angelo. “Now you endure the pain of having a loved one deposited at your feet just like my people have endured over a lifetime.”

  Pope Pius reached for Bishop Angelo’s body and tried to pull him close, but lacked the strength to do so.

  “Look at me,” said Team Leader. “Look at me and tell me you don’t hate me for what I’ve done.”

  The pope acted like he didn’t hear Team Leader at all. He simply caressed what was left of Angelo’s hair like a despondent father.

  Team Leader reached out and grabbed the pope’s wrist, demanding his attention. “Tell me you understand,” he stated firmly. “Tell me that you now see the madness behind what I’m doing. Tell me you can no longer turn the other cheek now that I’ve brought this to you.” He released the pope’s wrist. “Tell me that you’re not a hypocrite and that hatred, true hatred, has consumed you . . . Tell me that you understand me!”

  The pope shook his head. “What I understand is that your hatred runs so deep and is so corrupt, that no matter how well you think your vision may be, you’ll never see beyond your own contempt, which is the only part of you that is pure. And for that I pity you . . . I don’t hate you.”

  Team Leader stood up. “Then you are a hypocrite,” he told him. “There’s no man on this earth who can honestly sit there and tell the murderer of a loved one that he doesn’t hate him, not even you.”

  The pope went back to caressing Angelo’s hair and then the tears, the sobbing, came. Team Leader felt he had won a moral victory. He had, in essence, broken a man who was the showcase of moral fortitude and a pillar of strength.

  “As a reminder of your own stubborn will to refuse to acknowledge what makes us human, I’ll let your bishop sit beside you and rot. Maybe with each passing moment you’ll grow to understand further what my people have gone through for years.”

  After Team Leader left, the pope wept and prayed and asked for forgiveness. What the man in black had said was true. For the first time in Pope Pius’s life he felt the pressure of hatred and understood the need for retribution by a hand other than that of God. Even worse, he understood the man’s embitterment and saw the reasoning behind his lunacy.

  I won’t give in to your way of thinking, he pressed upon himself. I will not. But Pope Pius knew he couldn’t bury the truth deep enough. And if he couldn’t hide the truth from himself, there was no way he could deceive God. The truth was he did hate the man for what he did to Bishop Angelo. And as much as he tried to find forgiveness in his heart, he could not.

  The pope bowed his head and pleaded for His understanding. Forgive me, Lord. Please, forgive me.

  The old man wept.

  #

  Washington, D.C., Southeast Washington Hospital

  September 28, Morning

  Punch Murdock lay in a quasi-daze pumped up on morphine. Incessantly, like an army of ants crawling over his flesh, he often reached to scratch away the itch, but the itch was a phantom, the leg no longer there. Often he would depress the button, self-injecting morphine whenever he felt the beginnings of a throbbing ache budding from the stump of his leg. Then he would sleep, dreaming of images he forgot about the moment he awoke. On one occasion he awoke to find FBI Director Larry Johnston standing beside his bed, his face bearing the same unyielding features as before.

  “Man, don’t you ever smile?”

  Johnston tossed a photo onto Murdock’s chest. It was a picture of Pappandopolous after the hit. “What you said panned out,” he said.

  “And Paxton?”

  “Too messy to show.”

  Murdock handed the photo back. “Now I suppose you want Yahweh?”

  “That was the deal, but I’m not here to pay you a courtesy visit. I’m here to tell you that through the simplicity of technology, you gave us more than we expected from our deal.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that we tapped the lines to Pappandopolous’ and Paxton’s residence and we intercepted a call from Yahweh. A voice print proved who the caller was. We know who Yahweh is.”

  Murdock’s mouth opened with mechanical slowness, his trump card gone.

  “Just thought you’d like to know that,” said Johnston.

  Suddenly Murdock understood the mockery behind Johnston’s tone, behind his visit. It was something akin to the Grim Reaper taunting him with a slight brush of his bony talons across his cheek before the final fall of the scythe. “Now wait a minute,” Murdock said. “You gave me your word! You agreed to give me life with a courtyard!”

  Johnston turned and headed for the door.

  “You gave me your word!” Murdock shouted, struggling against the cuff that held him to the rail. “YOU . . . GAVE . . . ME . . . YOUR . . . WORD!”

  Although the door closed behind him, Murdock’s shouts could be heard all the way down the hall.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  The White House

  Noon

  Alan Thornton reached up and straightened Shari’s collar. They were standing in the presidential hallway leading to the Oval Office. With them stood Attorney General Dean Hamilton, FBI Director Larry Johnston, and a force of the president’s own security detail.

  “You’ve done an outstanding job so far,” Thornton told her. “You really have. Whether or not we get the pope back safely, at least it couldn’t be said that Shari Cohen didn’t do her best.” He smiled at her.

  “And thank you, Alan, for following through. I’m ashamed to say t
hat I thought you were a part of it.”

  After their last discussion, Thornton had waded through heavy political water to find the truth about the Force Elite, and whether the group had been dispatched by executive command without knowledge of select administrators. But he found nothing. Tension was so high on Capitol Hill most officials refused to say anything for fear the ‘accusing finger’ would tie them to the cause. Political careers were on the chopping block. But when the FBI produced the tape of Yahweh’s call to Pappandopolous, it was as good as a written admission from the perpetrator himself. Political futures would be eliminated later under certain conditions.

  “This is your game,” Thornton told her. “And the right to do this belongs to you.” He handed her a manila envelope containing a digital recorder, transcripts and records. The evidence was literally in hand. “You ready to do his?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Good girl.”

  Thornton took the initiative and knocked on the door leading into the Oval Office. Once inside he stood directly on the Presidential Seal with Shari and the entourage alongside. Vice President Bohlmer sat in a high back chair looking over documents and President Burroughs was looking out the window, his hands deep within his pockets.

  “Mr. President,” said the attorney general.

  The president gradually turned around, the movement a statement in itself as to what he was feeling at the moment. There was no surprise on his face, no features that betrayed his thoughts. When he finally stepped forward he stared directly at Shari. “Special Agent Cohen,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Mr. President,” her tone lacked any note of sincerity. “You know why I’m here?”

  “I’ve been informed.”

  “Then you know we’re running out of time.”

  “We’ve been running out of time since this began.” He made his way back to the window, his disposition more melancholy than angry. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Shari opened the manila envelope and laid the contents on the president’s desk. “What I have here, sir,” she said, picking up the digital recorder, “is a conversation between two parties plotting the assassination of an official of this office. An official captured in the compromising position of putting this government in jeopardy, should the truth about the pope’s kidnapping be known to the world community.”