by Rick Jones
“Yes,” Shari said out loud in the living room.
But she had slipped. Her grandmother’s strength that had been so deeply embedded in her on her sixteenth birthday had escaped her, even for a slight moment of weakness. When the pain of losing her family had been at its greatest, Shari had placed the point of her weapon beneath the soft underside of her chin and pulled the trigger. A dry click. She had forgotten her grandmother’s strength, her words, even when her grandmother lost her entire family with the flick of a Nazi’s cane, the simple motion sending her mother, father and siblings to their deaths. But her grandmother adhered to an iron will that got her through days where she continuously witnessed brutality after brutality, and never flagged.
Shari brought the photo album to her chest. “Forgive me, Grandmama. I forgot your gift. And I slipped.” I nearly took my life rather than finding the power to move on.
And though the house was empty, though the residence was a shell of what it once was, a happy place with happy memories, she would move on.
She continued to go through the pages and smiled with each turn of the page as she remembered a remarkable woman who lived on in her heart.
When she closed the photo album and set it aside, she reveled in the fact that she now had purpose. She would find Mohammad Allawi and hunt him down. And she would start at the source of Allawi’s shift to radicalism, at the Brockbridge Correctional Facility. She would find the head of the snake, the recruiter, and prospect him until there was nothing left to mine.
She reached over and glanced her fingers lovingly over the album. Thank you, Grandmama, for reminding me as to who I am.
In the adjoining hallway, the grandfather clock chimed the midnight hour.
#
Vatican City
Kimball Hayden could not sleep. With daylight beginning to show through the lone window of his chamber, the stained-glass image of the Virgin Mary reaching her arms out in invitation, Kimball was thinking about many things. He thought about Bonasero Vessucci, his friend and surrogate father; he thought of Shari and the emptiness she must be feeling; and he thought about Mabus and Chahine, and how he was going to put an end to their lives.
He continued to stare at the ceiling as he laid there with his forearm across his forehead, considering his options. As he shifted his eyes, he noted the amber light that started to filter through the stained glass and into the room like a Biblical beam. Mother Mary was calling out to him, ready to take him fully.
Kimball closed his eyes.
I’m not worthy, he told himself.
So he laid there, thinking how the Light of Loving Spirits would expel him if they knew what he was thinking. For his entire life he had walked inside the Gray searching for the Light, sometimes skirting the border of Darkness due to the things he had done, for the things he will continue to do. He would defy the teachings of the church and of the new pope, believing that law and justice to be two totally separate philosophies. The church was steeped in goodness. But real life had dark truths that needed to be neutralized. So until all men were like the pontiff and had a pure heart, then there would always be a need for people like Kimball who would set things right when all appeared wrong. And because of this he knew the Light would be far beyond his reach. He was choosing damnation over salvation in order to protect those who could not protect themselves. And sometimes, due to necessity, his methods to accomplish the means were just as brutal as his enemies.
He opened his eyes.
Shari.
He at one time loved her. And maybe he still did. But she was a person of a different animal who, in the end, chose her husband’s kindness over Kimball’s savageness. Now her husband was gone. Her children were gone. And now she was left alone. When he offered to come and stand by her side to help her through this she rejected him … still.
Kimball never felt so alone, so abandoned, with the losses of Bonasero and the distancing of Shari Cohen. So his motivations began to abandon him, the man feeling empty and depressed, with a feeling of him possessing no value.
By eight o’clock, just as Shari was going to bed at midnight in D.C., there was a knock on the chamber door. When Kimball opened it a bishop kindly informed Kimball that he had been summoned by the pontiff, who was requesting a meeting with Kimball at the Apostolic Palace.
Kimball nodded and closed the door.
He then went to the mirror and stared at his image. The top of his shirt was unbuttoned and the cleric’s collar was missing, the collar itself sitting on the nightstand by his cot. At one time he revered the collar as his most prized possession and was never without it. But as of late his dedications to the church seemed to be floundering. He knew he had to be there for the church, was obligated by honor. But his feelings appeared to be dragging him down to a very dark place.
Grabbing the collar and then looking at it, the band pristine white, he wanted to feel good about wearing it once again. He wanted to feel the pride of donning it. But he felt nothing.
Placing the cleric’s band within the collar, then making sure it was precise, he left the chamber and headed for the Apostolic Palace.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Office of MI5
London, United Kingdom
MI5 is the United Kingdom’s domestic counter-intelligence and security agency that is part of its intelligence system alongside MI6, the Secret Intelligence Service. Their particular role is to cover a number of areas which include investigations, languages, technology, surveillance, communications, information and protective security, while placing a key emphasis that is directed to protect British Parliamentary democracy and economic interests by conducting counter terrorism and espionage within the UK. But when communication was received by Beth Earl from the NBIS, the operative who summarily disappeared after the intel was sent regarding information that Beckett Industries may be working with the Islamic State, about the possible transfer of state-of-the-art weaponry from designs that may have been appropriated from a DOD contractor in the United States three years earlier, intel agencies listened. And since Beckett Industries housed a major facility in the United Kingdom, one of many across the world, this particular site became a top-priority interest, since Oliver Beckett chaired the UK Board in MI5’s jurisdiction.
Sitting at a long, rectangular desk inside one of MI5’s boardrooms was Director General George Henry. With him sat members of his MI5 staff, which included the Deputy Director General, the Director General Capability, and a company of Legal Advisors.
Henry was rather doughy looking with soft, puffy features. His snow-white hair was constantly in wild tangles and tufts, always unmanageable no matter how many times he tried to run a comb through it. But his eyes were highly alert and intelligent, always darting around and taking everything in with absorption. “Any news regarding the disappearance of Ms. Earl?” he asked openly.
“’Fraid not.” Thomas Brown was MI5’s Director General Capability who was responsible for overseeing all operations regarding technical operations, surveillance, analysis and technology, and information. The intel they received from Beth Earl–though nominal with cryptic mention of Atwa, Beckett and the True Cross–was enough to establish probable cause for an in-depth investigation into Beckett’s activities, past and present. “Seems she disappeared right off the bloody planet,” he added. “With that being said, however, Ms. Earl did present us with military-grade encrypted information indicating that Beckett Industries may be dealing with members of the Islamic State, with a possible trade agreement such as bartering for products instead of a executing a financial deal that would leave a paper trail. Right now Beckett appears to be abiding by all the standards of the industry and holds legal contracts with countries in Africa, Iraq and Afghanistan. But according to Earl’s submitting intel, it appears that Beckett might be trading his wares in the black market as well. But this has yet to be established outside of speculation, thus far.
And since the encryptions are military grade, they’re still being broken down by the Capability.”
The floor moved to the Director General Capability, Thomas Brown, who was in his mid-fifties, bespectacled and balding. The man pointed a remote to a large screen against the far wall and powered up the PowerPoint program. The wall monitor lit up with deciphered text and remaining encryptions. “The text as you see here,” he began, “appear to be discussions between Oliver Beckett and a man by the name of Abbad Chahine, a man suspected to be a low-level operative for the Islamic State.” He clicked the button. Another image appeared on the screen. It was a photograph of Chahine. “We recently obtained this photo from the Vatican,” he said.
The Director General cocked his head inquisitively. “The SIV?”
Cooper nodded. “There’s reason to believe by the SIV that this man, Abbad Chahine, may be a very close associate of Mabus.” Everyone knew who Mabus was and the history he was creating within the ranks of the Islamic State, so no questions were asked. “Recently Chahine, who we know now to be the man communicating with Beckett, was seen with this man.” Another click of the PowerPoint program, which brought up an additional photo of Chahine and a man by the name of Mehmoud Atwa, meeting in Raqqa. “The Vatican further believes that this man, Mehmoud Atwa, a confirmed member of the Islamic State, was the one who raided the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and stole the True Cross.”
“And that action took place a few nights ago, yes?” asked the Director General.
“It did, Mr. Director.” Another click of the button. This time a page of military-grade encryptions surfaced on the screen. Then with another click, the coded symbols were clarified with the text translated to English regarding communications between Chahine and Beckett. “Now this appears to be somewhat of a vague negotiation for a particular weapon that Beckett Industries has not registered for manufacture. Nor does it exist on any contracts to develop or manufacture by the corporation in the future,” Cooper continued. “What these particular texts appear to be are negotiations of trade between the parties for the M600 SR Squad-Level Precision Guided 5.56 Service Rifle … for the True Cross. Approximately three years ago the M600 SR Squad-Level Precision Guided 5.56 Service Rifle was in its prototype stage of development by a company outside of Boston, Massachusetts, and contracted for production by the Department of Defense. The lead engineer, a man by the name of Calvin Locke, downloaded information against department protocol. What happened to that download remained a mystery because Locke and his entire family had been executed within a day of its appropriation. All information regarding the M600 disappeared, presumably into the hands of a competitor. But the trail went cold upon Locke’s death. And since everything began and ended with him–” He let the words hang.
“And these decrypted texts between Beckett and Abbad Chahine gives us the legal means to press forward with an investigation? In other words: we’ve allowed for no mistake that’ll cause any type of legal blowback against our agency by Beckett?” asked the Director.
“He can try to slow us down with his legal team,” he answered. “But we’re good to go with enough probable cause to look into Beckett Industries for high-end misconduct charges.”
The Director reviewed the text on the monitor. “And what exactly is this weapon capable of doing?”
“Well,” began Cooper, “it would definitely revolutionize ground warfare for the Islamic State, which is their strength and fighting technique.”
“And it would do this how?”
“It’s a smart weapon,” he said simply. “The M600 is capable of locking onto a target from 550 meters away, and as long as the target doesn’t move faster than twenty-four kilometers per hour, it has an eighty-seven percent kill-rate. Currently, the kill-rate of a non-smart weapon is one in 37,000. The closer the target the higher the percentage. Anyone with this weapon can become a sniper no matter their skill level the moment they lay their hands on the rifle. Should a bullet veer off course, and since it’s precision guided, it will automatically correct itself in flight and strike its target.”
“Bloody hell.”
“This particular email thread hints at an exchange of this particular weaponry in trade for the True Cross, with a meeting to take place between Mehmoud Atwa and Oliver Beckett. When this meeting is to take place and where is somewhat vague. But we’re assuming that it’ll take place in the near future, since Atwa and Mabus have possession of the relic.”
“So you believe with a great measure of probability that Atwa wants to trade the True Cross for the M600 rifle. But we don’t know why they want this particular weapon other than it will transform the ground game, correct?”
Cooper nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The Director leaned back in his chair and began to toy with the waddle of flesh that was his double chin. Then: “These are mainly assumptions based on partial decryptions. The emails between Chahine and Beckett don’t spell it out clearly enough where or when this is to take place.”
“Not definitively enough, I’m afraid.”
The Director then consulted his advisors and legal teams, asking them about courses of legal actions based on presumptions rather than concrete facts. Beckett was consorting with a known terrorist, low-level or not, which, by itself, is against the legal edict of gun manufacturing. Other assurances of taking legal steps didn’t matter beyond this point. They just needed to take defensive measures. And it all began by shoring up the borders.
“All right,” he started. “Notify all ports–ships, airlines, vehicle passage points into the country–to be vigilant with one eye on the watch-list at all times. If Atwa enters the country, then we’ll decide on the course of action to take. If Beckett leaves the country, then we’ll contact MI6 and the CIA and have Beckett trailed to the point of negotiation. If the decrypted portion of these texts prove to have any merit to them at all, we’ll compile the data proving that Oliver Beckett has somehow obtained the designs to the M600, and is mass producing this weapon for the black market. He’ll never see the bloody light of day again.”
“Won’t be easy to prove in the United Kingdom,” said the General Director Capability. “Beckett’s careful. He has locations throughout the world. And it would be prudent of him to manufacture the weapons in a facility outside of the UK. Probably a Third-World country where authorities are willing to turn a blind eye, after having their bloody palms greased with a payoff.”
“MI6 will deal with that.”
“The CIA wants to get involved as well, since they and the DOD want to know where the designs of the M600 went. They also want to know if Beckett is selling out to the Islamic State through their abroad channels. And FYI … the SIV wants to get involved by sending field operatives. ”
“The SIV gathers intel. Now they want to send clergy for a field operation? They’re bloody kidding, right?”
Cooper shrugged. “From what I understand, Mr. Director, they want to send in their own paramilitary unit to obtain the True Cross from Atwa … And return it to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.”
“Members of the Swiss Guard?”
Cooper nodded. No. “This particular unit is called the Vatican Knights. Apparently they’re an elite group of warriors serving the Vatican to protect the interests of the church and the welfare of its citizenry. And from what I’ve been told … they’re not to be messed with.”
“Special forces?”
Cooper shrugged. “We know little about them.”
“Let the Vatican know that we have an agenda to fulfill for the sake of national security. We will not baby-sit or be disempowered by this group if they don’t uphold their skill set in the field.”
“Understood. If Beckett is trying to trade for the True Cross, then we need to strike before Mehmoud Atwa and Mr. Beckett meet for the transfer. These weapons cannot get in the hands of the Islamic State.”
The Director nodded. “Agreed.”
“So that you know, Mr. Director, the Vatican is sending their Vatican Knights here for a briefing, where they will exchange additional information regarding Mabus, Atwa and Chahine, and will assist in all matters regarding the True Cross and the takedown of Oliver Beckett.”
“I don’t feel good about the involvement of the church,” said the director. “I’m afraid these bloody Knights will only get in the way. How tough can a few priests be?”
“From what I’ve been told by the SIV,” Cooper said, “they’re not actually priests. But they do serve the church. In fact, I’ve been told how surprised you and I might be by their very particular skill sets in battle operations.”
The Director of MI5 nodded with skepticism. Yeah, whatever, he thought.
We’ll see.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Pontiff’s Chambers
The Apostolic Palace, Vatican City
Whenever Kimball Hayden entered the pontiff’s chambers inside the Apostolic Palace, nothing appeared or feel the same. Bonasero was gone, his life having been snuffed out here in this very room from a man wearing a Semtex vest. The room had been renovated and redone. Everything was new and pristine. But everything that was Bonasero, like the curtains he admired or the way he loved things a certain way, was gone. It was as if he had been completely washed away.
Pope John Paul III was sitting behind the papal desk, smiling. Then he stood to greet Kimball and gestured to a seat in front of the desk. “Please,” he said.
Kimball took the seat, the feel of the leather was cold beneath him.
“Thank you for coming,” said the pontiff.
Kimball nodded.
“Look, Kimball, I know the passing of Bonasero was hard on you–probably still is,” the pontiff said. “But please be assured that your presence here is of the utmost importance to the Vatican. You are the cornerstone of the Vatican Knights. But I need to know where your heart lies.”