Vatican Knights

by Jones, Rick

  “Do what you have to do,” he said dourly.

  She pressed the ‘ON’ button of the recorder.

  #

  Yeah.

  Have you heard?

  Heard what?

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

  Silence.

  You and Paxton are the last line of defense. 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?

  He’s in the Southeast Washington Hospital, room two-twenty-four. There’ll be guards there, of course, but you have clearance. Just be subtle about it.

  Is the whole Force Elite gone?

  Except for those pulling duty in the north.

  The voice was clear and distinct, even to those listening from across the room.

  Shari shut off the recorder. “We were also able to obtain warrants for telephone records. Ma Bell gave us a printout of the phone numbers, and the time the call was placed based on the legal tapping. The time corresponds exactly to the addresses of the parties involved.” She pulled out another document. “And this, Mr. President,” she said, holding up a sheet with spike-line etchings, “is a printout confirming the voice of the speaker based on tone patterns. In other words . . . we know who the lead conspirator is.”

  The president rounded the desk and reached for the printout. “Well, Ms. Cohen, it seems that you’ve covered all your bases after all. I must say that’s impressive.” He took the printout and examined it. The recognized name and the voice probability of over ninety-nine percent were printed at the page’s bottom. He handed the printout back to her. “Is this indisputable?”

  “In a court of law, I believe so, sir. Absolutely.”

  The president sat on the edge of his desk. “Go ahead,” he told her, “finish this off.”

  Shari thanked him and stood with confidence before the vice president. “Mr. Vice President, I have one question and one question only. And the question is: Are you Yahweh?”

  Vice President Bohlmer didn’t answer. His eyes darted about, his mind searching for a practical response. But he could only remain silent.

  “Mr. Vice President. I’ll ask you again: Are . . . you . . . Yahweh?”

  The vice president’s shoulders fell in defeat.

  “I take that as a yes,” Shari said.

  “Take it however you want,” said Bohlmer. “I don’t think it matters much anymore.”

  The president lifted himself off the edge of the desk. “Why, Jonas? Why place this entire administration under the strain of impropriety in the eyes of the world community? The United States is supposed to set an example of credibility and trust, not backdoor thuggery!”

  The vice president turned to the president, the shame of getting caught evident on his face. “I’ll tell you why I did it,” he began. “I did it because your administration had grown weak. I did it because we need to take a step forward and renegotiate our standing as a lead nation rather than being held hostage by accords with countries tied to terrorist regimes. Whoever has the oil holds the scepter of rule. And we can shift that balance of power by changing the geopolitical landscape. Within ten years, Jim, this economy would flourish without the dependency of the Middle East. And history would record the people of this administration as the chief principals who implemented change.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about reevaluating how we think about the accords that hold this nation hostage to foreign fuels. We need to change the current situation, Jim. We need to regain our foothold that’s been slipping in the world community for some time now.”

  The president could only stare incredulously. “You mean to tell me you were willing to start a war and kill millions of people by using the pope as a catalyst?” He leaned back, his face flushing. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe, fossil fuel may not be readily available after our separation from the Arab states? That fossil fuel may skyrocket in price before it has a chance to stabilize? And by that time economies may be ruined, including our own? Did you ever think about those contingencies?”

  “We considered all of those scenarios,” he returned. “As far as we were concerned, the rewards outweighed the risks.”

  President Burroughs gazed at him with eyes that seemed sorrowful rather than judgmental. “You had me second-guessing myself,” he told him. “You wanted me to believe that Special Agent Cohen was the wrong person for the job because of her faith. But you knew if I kept her on, and if given the time, she would have discovered the truth as to the governing force behind all this. Thank God I didn’t listen to you.”

  “What I did—I did for the future of this country.”

  The president closed his eyes in disgust. “I chose you, Jonas, because I thought you would be a good successor with a good head on your shoulders. Apparently I misjudged you.”

  The president walked back to the window and stared outside for a while before speaking again. “Of course you understand we’ll have to keep the Oversight Committee out of this.”

  Vice President Bohlmer closed his eyes. In so many words, the president had just given him the death sentence. The vice president nodded. “I’m not beyond insight, Mr. President. I realized the ax had fallen on my career when Ms. Cohen played that tape.”

  “Before you leave, Jonas,” he said, turning and placing the flats of his palms on top of his desk. “Tell us where he is.”

  The vice president turned away.

  “Jonas, where is he?” the president repeated.

  The vice president turned back, his eyes vacant and unreadable, the lack of expression behind them denoting that he was not about to crack.

  In turn the president pressed him with a stare that was clear, if not determined.

  Then finally, after a whittling away of perseverance, the vice president conceded. “In Boston,” he finally said, his tone weighted with defeat. “The pope’s in Boston.”

  “Boston? Where in Boston?”

  “Behind the Granary Burying Ground. There’s a depository there that has been abandoned and marked for demolition years ago, but never was. We knew that as soon as the news got out about the kidnapping, a dragnet would have been sent for hundreds of miles from the epicenter of D.C., which is why the operation was moved north. We even went as far as to place the body of the governor here in D.C. as a red herring to keep the search limited to this area.”

  Shari stepped forward. “The Granary Burying Ground—that’s part of the Freedom Trail.”

  “It’s an old section of Boston managed by the historical society where Paul Revere and Samuel Adams are buried,” said the vice president. “Most of the buildings surrounding that particular site are either condemned or too far gone for revitalization, which means activity in that area is minimal. You’ll find him on the third floor,” he added.

  “And how long before they kill the pope?”

  The vice president hesitated, as if his conscious was vacillating on whether or not he wanted to continue. Then in the same defeatist tone, he relented. “They’re going to kill him today,” he said.

  The president stood there looking nonplussed. “Today?”

  The vice president nodded.

  “Then we’ll negotiate a peaceful surrender. And you, Jonas, will be the negotiator.”

  “That’s unlikely,” he said. “I already tried to abort the mission once Murdock was in custody. But the Boston faction refused to hear me out.”

  “Then contact him again.”

  “You don’t seem to understand,” said the vice president. “They’re in a win-win situation. If you try to compromise their position by trying to negotiate a peaceful solution, they know the media will be all over this like a pack of dogs on a three-legged cat, which the United States can’t afford. On the other hand, if the cause runs its course, then the accusing finger is pointed directly at the A
rab world and the United States isn’t labeled as the culprit, since the truth is unbeknownst to the worldwide public. Our image is maintained.”

  The president looked at Alan Thornton, then to Shari. “Is what he says true?”

  “It all depends upon the Boston faction,” said Thornton. “It depends if their command leader is willing to hold this country hostage by calling upon the media. If that’s the case, then it would be devastating to this country.”

  President Burroughs began to pace the room, his eyes cast to the carpeted floor, thinking. “Obviously this can’t get out,” he said. “Is there any way we can quash this without the media knowing? Anything we can do?”

  “Unfortunately, Mr. President, we’re at the mercy of the Boston faction. Who knows what they have, or what equipment or contingencies they planned for.”

  The president turned toward the vice president, who sat unmoving in his seat. “Jonas, tell me, tell us, what they have?”

  “I can’t help you,” he said. “All I know is what I told you—what the Boston commander has already informed me of. He stated quote-unquote, that there will be no discussions, no debates and no negotiations. The cause will go on.”

  The president slapped an open palm against his desk. “Dammit, Jonas!”

  The vice president didn’t even flinch.

  Once again the president addressed Thornton. “Alan, what’s your stance on trying to negotiate a peaceful solution to all this?”

  Thornton’s face screwed into a semblance of wrinkles, seams of complete loss. “Perhaps, Mr. President, you should ask Special Agent Cohen.”

  “Ms. Cohen?”

  “I don’t know the commander of this Boston faction or his capabilities of what he can or cannot do. But I do know that he’s in a win-win situation as the vice president states. If he knows that we suspect his location and try to negotiate a deal, all this does is allow him time to strategize and defend his position.”

  “But?”

  Shari hesitated before speaking. “I believe, Mr. President, that a surgical strike is needed. We need to catch them off guard and take away their advantage.”

  “I still think we need to try to negotiate a peaceful solution to this.”

  “Mr. President, we don’t have time. They’re going to execute the pope today. So we need to act accordingly.”

  The President turned back to the vice president. “Jonas, is there any way—any way at all, to negotiate this without anyone getting harmed?”

  “As sure as the sun sets,” he said, “this man will follow through and kill the pope. If you interfere, then he will retaliate by bringing this country down . . . a win-win situation.”

  The president stood straight. And everyone in the room could tell that the man was calculating. “Then we have no choice,” he finally said. “We strike.”

  The president was then quick to direct orders. “Contact Boston’s FBI field office immediately,” he told Johnston. “I want them to set a perimeter around the district with trained law enforcement personnel and assault teams. I want our team from Quantico to conduct the mission. You do agree, director, the Quantico Team is the best we have to offer?”

  Johnston nodded. The Quantico CIRG Team, the Critical Incident Response Group, trains for hours on end for such scenarios. “They can do it in their sleep. It’ll take an hour, maybe an hour and a half to get the team assembled, and perhaps another two for transport.”

  “Too long,” piped Shari. “I have a CIRG Team already assembled and willing to go as soon as transportation is ready.”

  Johnston looked at her quizzically, not sure what she was talking about. The CIRG Team is always posted at Quantico until called to duty.

  She continued. “Mr. President, as far as I’m concerned, this team is the best in the world. If they can’t pull off this mission, nobody can.”

  For a brief moment the president looked at her in an appraising manner, neither good nor bad. And Shari had to question him.

  “What is it this time, Mr. President? I know it’s not because I’m Jewish, so is it because I’m a woman? You don’t think I have the capabilities of a man to put forward the effort of a combat-trained soldier?”

  “Forgive me, Ms. Cohen. I’m simply old school. Perhaps my own prejudices have tainted my insight a bit.”

  “I understand, Mr. President. But old school or not, what is your answer?”

  “Do it,” he said. And then, “You’ve surprised me, Ms. Cohen. I might have been hard on you in the beginning, but you’ve made a believer of me. I have complete faith in your abilities.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Just bring the pope back to us.”

  “I will.”

  “How long do you think it will take for your CIRG Team to be ready?”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  “We’ll have transport ready.” He turned to the vice president. “As for you,” he said, “you’re under house arrest until we can figure out what to do with you.” The president motioned to his detail to escort the vice president to his residence at the Naval Academy. “I’m sorry it has to be like this, Jonas. I really am. And it’s for mismanagement reasons like this that the Force Elite has to be disbanded . . . and it will be.”

  The vice president remained seated while the president’s detail surrounded him. When he was ready he stood, straightened his tie, and tried to walk out of the office with dignity. It would be the last time he would ever see any of them again. And he wanted to be remembered as someone who went out stoically rather than cowardly.

  As the vice president passed his former allies, many refused to acknowledge his existence.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  “Kimball?” Shari asked over the phone.

  “Yeah.”

  “Yahweh confessed to the whereabouts of the pope.”

  “Where?”

  Even though he couldn’t see her, he could envision her gesticulating with hand motions on her end of the line as if he was standing in front of her. “He’s in an abandoned depository in Boston.”

  “Boston!”

  “They moved their operations to avoid the dragnet,” she said. “The president wanted a Quantico Team to move in and do the chore immediately, but it would take too long to assemble a team and get them ready for transport. So as of right now, Kimball, you’re it. You and the rest of the Vatican Knights. I need you pressed into duty and ready to go.”

  “We’re ready now.”

  “I know you are. I already informed the administration that I have a team who’s prepped. But as far as they know,” she told him, “they think it’s a Quantico squad. So you’ll need to lose the Roman collars to avoid questions.”

  “Understood. Where’s the depart point?”

  She told him. Within twenty minutes they had met at the point of departure, and in twenty-five minutes they were airborne and heading for Boston.

  #

  Vice President Bohlmer sat in his study, his eyes vacant, but his mind toiled. Before him lay shelves of books he’d collected over his lifetime. There were law books dealing with torts, corporate and criminal law; biographies of every politician and statesman ever published; and books about political theories of this country and almost every other nation with a respectable government. In the process of growing in a political entity as an official, he had learned from these books, studied them and even gleaned theories to make the political machine run more efficient. Ironically enough, he was now shelved like them.

  A fire was burning in the fireplace, the wood snapping every so often and sending sparks up the flue. But the vice president found no comfort in such warmth.

  His cause was dead, taken by the cancer of his own aggression, his politics forever gone.

  In self admonishment the vice president released a regrettable sigh, not for what he did, but for getting caught. He had shamed himself before the eyes of his peers and was thankful his wife, having been dead six years, did not have to suffer the pang of being branded a polit
ical pariah.

  After getting to his feet, the vice president walked to the foyer and checked on the Secret Service detail posted there by the president.

  An agent stepped forward, his face as rigid as his posture, his professionalism forced. “Is there anything I can help you with . . . sir?”

  Sir? An hour ago it was Mr. Vice President.

  “No. I’m fine,” he said. “Thank you.” Brandishing a false smile, he closed the door to the study with a soft click and returned to his chair.

  Beneath the nightstand by the lounge chair laid a .38 caliber revolver hidden within a drawer, its chambers loaded. Its chrome-plated barrel shimmered in hues of red and orange and yellow, the colors of the burning fire. He picked up the pistol and examined his reflection in the chrome, turning his head to the left, and then to the right, his image warped in a funhouse mirror sort of way. And then in a quick and fluid motion, as if without considering the consequences, he brought the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

  #

  Boston, Massachusetts

  September 28, Late Morning

  The distance between Washington D.C. and Boston is exactly four hundred and forty-eight miles. The time it took for the Vatican Knights and Shari Cohen to arrive at Logan Airport took just over an hour. Since the confession of the vice president, the Response Team had been assembled and transported to their debark-point in less than ninety minutes.

  During their flight they had gone over the schematics of the depository, committing every nuance of the floor plans to memory. They drew up plans for entry and engagement and theorized the location of the pope and the bishops of the Holy See. But no matter what, they knew the Force Elite had prepared for every conceivable contingency regarding a breach of hostile forces and counterattack. This would not be an easy assignment since the pope would most likely be heavily guarded.