The Golgotha Pursuit

by Rick Jones

  “Mehmoud Atwa,” he said.

  Atwa remained unmoving, not sure if the man was friend or foe.

  “Mr. Atwa,” the operator added, “you’re quite safe. Mr. Beckett extends to you his personal welcome to the United Kingdom. Now if you’ll follow me to the second vehicle, we really need to get moving.”

  The driver to the Citroën began to protest. “I had orders to bring Atwa to the compound.”

  “The orders have changed,” the militant said harshly. “You are to follow and stay close. Is that clear?”

  The driver, though looking angered because the great Atwa was being seized from his company, nodded, though he did so with reluctance.

  Atwa got out of the Citroën without looking at the driver and entered the statelier looking vehicle. As soon as the doors closed to the SUVs, they moved quickly to the south. The Citroën, though it kept pace, looked oddly out of place.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  London

  As soon as Kimball’s plane landed, he, along with Leviticus and Isaiah, were accompanied to the offices of MI5 in London by leading security forces.

  The building itself was an office development in Millbank, London, on the Westminster bank of the River Thames between Lambeth Bridge and Millbank Tower. The complex was created of gold-hued brick with traditional window settings, along with wraparound balconies just beneath the penthouse tier.

  The hallways appeared endless to Kimball, with one corridor looking as much as any other with countless doors that led into offices where secrets were discussed, dissected, and stowed away for future reference. At the end of one hallway was a bullet-shaped door of thick and sturdy wood, perhaps walnut. When the escorting agent opened the door for the Vatican Knights, he elegantly gestured with a fluid sweep of his hand for them to enter.

  The conference area had floor-to-ceiling decorative wood panels throughout. On a single wall myriad rows of shelves bore hardcover volumes with bindings that were old and dusty looking, ancient-looking texts dealing with Parliamentary law that most assuredly had been transcribed to disc. In the center of the room was a large, oval-shaped table made of mahogany wood, which was surrounded by wingbacks chairs. On one side sat Director General George Henry. On the other side sat Thomas Brown, MI5’s Director General Capability. When the Vatican Knights entered the room the Brits got to their feet. The first place their eyes immediately went to in appraisal were to the clerics’ band around their collars, and then to the military garments of BDUs and combat-styled boots.

  George Henry gestured to the open seats around the table. “Please,” he said.

  After the Vatican Knights took their seats, the Director General introduced himself and Thomas Brown, then quickly went into conversation without any further preamble. “Let me start by saying that this is quite unorthodox to be working with members of the Vatican directly, though we have worked with the SIV in the past on certain operations. But since you’re here you need to understand one thing: We’re not allies … We only have common interests. You’re here because you seek a man by the name of Mehmoud Atwa who is believed to be in the possession of the True Cross, something the Vatican covets. I seek Atwa because we believe that he’s in bed with a man by the name of Oliver Beckett, an arms dealer. Further belief based on evidence provided us by the Vatican and our own resources believes that an exchange for an indeterminate amount of smart weapons for the True Cross is about to go down. But if Beckett does not get the True Cross, then Atwa does not get the weapons. And if we can prove that Beckett is colluding with a terrorist faction, then Beckett Industries will be shut down and Beckett himself will never see the light of day ever again, believe me.”

  Kimball leaned forward with a half-smile on his face. He’d been here before, having been dressed down by a man who thought he was bigger, tougher and in far more command because they read into the clerics’ collar as men who were pacifists, not warriors. “So that you understand and that we’re on the same page here, we are allies with common interests because the Islamic State is marching on all of us. You don’t have an exclusive franchise of maintaining or holding intel that’s vital to our security, or to the security of neighboring countries.” He pointed to his cleric’s band. “And don’t let this fool you, either,” he said. “We’re not priests. But we serve the church in a capacity that allows us to use our very particular skill sets.”

  “Skill sets,” Henry returned somewhat cynically that was close to scoffing. “So tell me, you … Knights, are you an attachment to the Swiss Guard?”

  Kimball nodded. No, not quite. “We’re Special Forces for the Vatican. We protect the Church, its sovereignty, and the welfare of its citizenry.”

  “So you’ve been in combat before? In the field, I mean?”

  “More times than you can count.”

  “So you’ve killed.”

  “Is this a test?”

  “I’d like to know who I’m dealing with since intel on your group appears non-existent.”

  “You’re on a need-to-know basis as to who we are and what we do. You know that we’re from the Vatican. You know that we’re commandos serving to protect those who cannot protect themselves. And you know that we’re here to stop a possible transaction of the True Cross for state-of-the-art weaponry between a man named Beckett and the two men I seek: Atwa and Mabus.”

  Both Brown and Henry remained quiet as they sized up the Vatican Knights. Then from Director General George Henry: “One of the men you seek, Mehmoud Atwa, is here, presumably heading for Beckett’s compound north of London. He came in through Edinburgh on a false passport. And then he was given passage into the United Kingdom with a number of MI5 agents and a surveillance helicopter on his trail.”

  “And?”

  “We had plans to perform reconnaissance proving that Atwa was going to meet with Beckett, and that a transaction was going to take place for the bartering of illegal weapons involving a terrorist state which would have shut down Beckett’s operations overnight.”

  “But?”

  “It appears that MI5 was intercepted by an unknown faction, presumably mercenaries hired by Beckett, with most of the team, unfortunately, taken out of the equation.”

  “And Atwa?”

  “Missing.”

  “So now you’re back to square one.”

  “We have operatives close to the compound.”

  “Don’t you think people like Beckett already know this? He’s a billionaire because he’s always a step or two in front of the guy trying to catch him. He knows you’ll be watching.” Kimball leaned back into the chair. “Atwa is not going to the compound. Beckett wanted you to believe that. He’s going to meet Atwa in a secured location.”

  Henry and Brown already knew this. Beckett had paid off local officials in Edinburgh to turn a blind eye to Atwa’s arrival into the country, which was all right by MI5 because it was a sanctioned operation to maintain a keen eye on Atwa. Once Atwa left the terminal, it was up to MI5 to track and trace Atwa to Beckett in order to establish illegal ties. The payoff would have been a perfect takedown with Atwa and Beckett serving stints at an undisclosed site. Everything looked great on paper, the mission flawless and textbook in its planning. But what happened under the Director General’s direction proved to be nothing less than a colossal failure. MI5 agents were dead. Atwa was missing. And a deal between two men to see that the infiltration of terrorist actions reaching new heights on the European Front was moving forward.

  “We’ll find him,” said Director General George Henry.

  “I’m sure you will,” said Kimball. “But in the meantime, and if the transaction for the True Cross for the M600 rifle goes through, if Atwa and Mabus succeed in this, the Islamic State will see that the national psyches throughout Europe fracture and maybe even break.” Kimball hesitated a moment. “Do you have any idea how this particular weapon can impact the movement of the Islamic
State? What it can do?”

  “We’re not bloody daft,” said the Director General. “Of course we do.”

  “I mean outside of the rifle’s capabilities.”

  Unfortunately they did. The M600 rifle was a smart weapon capable of killing its target with a single shot from up to 600 yards away, or approximately 550 meters, with an 87% chance of succeeding once the trigger had been pulled. All the operator had to do was point the weapon in the general direction of the target, lock onto its mark with the sight designator, which allowed the computer to talk to other components inside the weapon, and pull the trigger. The weapon did the rest.

  If the mark is moving less than fifteen miles per hour then the bullet adjusts, reacquires the target, and punches its way home for the kill shot. And just like that everyone becomes an expert with the pull of a trigger for up to a third of a mile. Its single fault, however, is that it runs on batteries with a lifespan of three hours. With a spare its usefulness could be extended to six, maybe seven hours at the most.

  “Then if you understand its capabilities,” Kimball went on. “Then you know that Mabus has no intention of using these weapons for desert warfare. That show of desert warfare has passed. The attacks in Belgium and Paris have proved that.”

  “We know this,” said Director General Capability Brown. “Believe me, we know. That’s why we sent units to intercept Beckett and Atwa. To achieve undeniable cause that would shut down Beckett’s operation before it had a chance to make good on the transaction. However—” He let his words trail.

  “However what?”

  “When Atwa arrived in Edinburgh … he was not in possession of the True Cross.”

  “Then that means Mabus still has it.”

  “And he’s most likely in Syria.”

  “Then I need to get to Atwa.”

  “He’s a very dangerous man,” said Henry.

  For the first time Leviticus spoke. “We can be very dangerous people.”

  Henry gave him a sidelong glance. “Again: This is an MI5 operation. Your job is to secure the True Cross and return it to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Terrorist activity within our boundaries is our jurisdiction, not the Vatican’s.”

  “Atwa does not have the True Cross, but he knows where it is. I need to prospect him for information.”

  Henry raised his hand and snapped his fingers. “Just like that, huh? You’re just going to walk up to a man like Mehmoud Atwa and ask him for your bloody relic? I understand that you have your needs, sir. But the United Kingdom will not allow you to compromise our position over a few remnants of a cross that’s most likely counterfeit to begin with.”

  “Hardly,” responded Kimball. “This particular cross never left Golgotha.”

  “So you say.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” said Kimball. “Your operation to shut down this entire transaction did not succeed. Some of your people are dead. Atwa is roaming about with detailed orders from Mabus to set up a trade to take place inside, most likely, an ISIS-held territory with promises to be hashed out between the parties before it happens. That’s what Atwa is. He’s a courier. A word-of-mouth transmitter. Your team made the effort to quash the attempt and failed. Now it’s time to regroup, reposition, and make things right.”

  “And you and your little band of priests here are going to do this?”

  Kimball’s tone was beginning to elevate. “Let’s get something straight here. If Atwa gives Beckett the message he needs in order to secure the True Cross, and if this transaction follows through, Europe is going to be devastated. Cells and members of the Islamic State already inside your borders–if they get a hold of these weapons–will situate themselves in tenements and take out soft targets from 550 meters away. ”

  “I understand–”

  “Then understand this as well.” Kimball leaned forward with a hard look. “I don’t know how many weapons are being talked about in this transaction, but you have to assume that it’s a fairly high number. Do you agree with this?”

  He did.

  “If the Islamic State gets these rifles inside Europe, they’ll be taking out soft targets in London, Brussels, Paris, Rome, Vatican City, Barcelona, Florence–and nobody will know where the shots are coming from because the sniper will be completely unexposed. People won’t leave their homes. National psyches will be crushed. All because of a pull of a trigger from a gun that never misses.”

  “Believe me, we know this.”

  “Then let us work with your field operatives. Forget this jurisdiction crap. A terrorist threat of this magnitude transcends everything, even obtaining the True Cross. Should the weapons be exchanged, then it’ll be too late. Men, women and children will be shot down in the streets by members of the Islamic State that have already taken root in Europe. The time is coming,”

  “And your mission to find the True Cross?”

  “I’ll find it all right. I’ll definitely find it.” And when I find the man who’s in possession of it, when I find Mabus, I will steal from him his final breath for what he did to little Yara and Sister Patty.

  … I will find him …

  … I will kill him …

  … And for this fall into blackness there would be no rescue, not even from the Light, that would absolve me …

  “My operatives are skilled tacticians,” Henry stated evenly. “Quite skilled, in fact.” Then: “In the business you’re in, I’m sure that you’ve heard of Group Thirteen.”

  Of course Kimball did. Like the Vatican Knights, Group 13 was rumored to be a secret corps of specialized forces made up of select operatives from the SAS and military intelligence who were formed as a shadow group to carry out undeniable missions for the Secret Intelligence Service, or in better terms, the MI6.

  “I have,” Kimball finally answered.

  “The attack on MI5 by a paramilitary faction has bumped this up to a military operation,” Henry said as he tented his hands before him and bounced his fingertips off his chin. “Despite what you have said earlier about disregarding jurisdiction, I cannot. The measures are clearly spelled out, Mr. Hayden. Jurisdiction is paramount in the United Kingdom where MI5 is designed to counter acts of terrorism against the crown. Not the Vatican. Group Thirteen will take lead in this matter. Your team will serve as backup. Is that clear?”

  Kimball had no intentions of being backup to anybody.

  “Mr. Hayden … is that clear?”

  “Yeah. Right. Whatever.”

  “We can’t afford mistakes on the part of the Vatican Knights.”

  “Trust me. There’ll be none.”

  Henry and Brown exchanged uneasy glances, with Brown eventually nodding in agreement, and George Henry finally giving in. “I’ll contact the team leader on this matter. His name is John Moreland. Former SAS … Your three-man team will operate alongside his unit.”

  “Set it up,” said Kimball.

  The Director General did.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  John Moreland was a former SAS and special operative now serving as team leader for the Special Field Operations Unit, a counterterrorism taskforce specifically designed for covert military operations in and outside of UK borders, a shadow group labeled as Group 13. Apparently a co-op mission was underway and approved by certain political principals, since common interests between the Vatican and MI5 involved mutual targets they both sought.

  Moreland stood at six-two and carried 210 pounds of lean meat, all muscle and little body-fat. When he walked he did so with a gait of a man who was bold and confident. Anyone who crossed him could be brought down immediately with something as simple as a wicked gleam to his eye.

  He had been team leader of Group 13 for two years now, having appropriated the unit when the former leader had been taken out by a sniper’s bullet in, of all places, Ireland, while he was enjoying a pint when a bullet pierced
the window and lodged in his head.

  The assassin was never found.

  Now he commanded a team of three. There was Twelve-Gauge, a man who was as large as he was broad with eyes so close together that his pupils resembled, figuratively speaking, the twin holes of a shotgun, though this was a stretch. He simply liked the call sign of Twelve-Gauge.

  The second in command was a man by the name of Hammerhead, also a former SAS, who had no real outstanding features other than he looked like a learned man or an Oxford professor, someone who was refined and gentile, only to be anything but.

  The last within the group simply went by his real name of Chance. There was no first, middle or last name or call sign–just Chance. Like Cher or Fabio or Liberace.

  Inside his flat in East London, John Moreland hung up the phone after the principal on the other end severed the call. Moreland had received his orders. He was to meet with the team leader of an elite fighting force sent by the Vatican. A man by the name of Kimball Hayden, commander of the Vatican Knights. No questions were asked since orders by the principals were never to be questioned. Group 13 would respond as required and without demands.

  It was very early morning, 0430 hours, when Moreland entered a small pub on Oxford Street in London. Sitting in a booth against the far wall and nursing a half-filled pint of lager sat a very large man whose muscles appeared to stretch the fabric of his cleric’s shirt to the point of tearing at the seams. Around his neck was the white band of a cleric’s collar.

  Moreland stood at the end of the table with a unbiased look. “Hayden?”