The Flaming Sword

by Breck England

  Sable paced the office. “But it’s a nightmare. It can be mass-produced. You realize anyone who controls those designer-atom devices can pretty much do what he wants to anyone he wants? He could destroy cities or make a single individual disappear without a trace. There may be no limit to what he could do, now that everyone in the world is dependent on their phones.”

  “Sounds like fulfillment of prophecy to me, Lam. The Tribulation is a nightmare.”

  “I’m still going to try to stop it.”

  Pastor Bob chuckled. “That’s noble of you, Lam. But it’s not really your fault, is it? Y’all didn’t invent the thing.”

  “No. It wasn’t my idea. Lawyer came to see me representing the inventors—Israeli scientists—and I got excited about it. She wanted it kept very quiet. Then I got to thinking about how this thing could be used and wanted to stop it, but it was too late. They’d already built one. So I made a few inquiries and got put in contact with a group called the Flaming Sword, some Arabs who have it in for the Israelis, and who said they’d get the thing for me. Then I’d cut off the funding and that would end it.”

  “I want to make sure I understand this,” the pastor said, amused. “You contracted with the Israelis to build the thing; then you contracted with an Arab terrorist to steal the thing.”

  “Yes. I know it sounds ridiculous.”

  “But terrorists, Lam! ‘The Flaming Sword?’ What were you thinking?”

  Sable shook his head. “I got assurances.”

  “Assurances. ‘God drags away the mighty; they have no assurances.’ That’s in the Old Testament…somewhere. Obviously, your Arab friends have stiffed you.” The pastor looked around the office. “By the way, why are you packing all this stuff up?”

  “Well, I thought I should put it in storage.”

  “For what? You’re not returning, and your little mementos aren’t likely to survive what’s coming.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  Pastor Bob fingered the tablet on the desk. “Did you see what our new friend has written about us? And to think we bought her lunch.”

  “She bought her own lunch,” Sable sighed. “And she’s made me look like an idiot.”

  The pastor stood and read paragraphs in a dramatic voice: “ ‘Sable seems completely taken in. He’s underwriting an exodus of believers to the Holy Land this weekend. Expecting never to return, he has willed his share in GeM to the ‘Left-Behind Foundation,’ which the End-of-Time Church controls.

  “ ‘The money is supposed to go to saving those of us who eat our supper without saying grace and therefore will miss out on the Rapture. Thus, Sable’s stock holdings valued at some $300 billion will fall into the hands of whoever is left behind at the Church. Presumably the Church has designated non-rapturees (lawyers, of course) prepared to carry out these terms automatically when (or if) the mass lift-off actually occurs.

  “ ‘Of course, when all the good folks are gone, only the baddies will remain—and we all know what happens when naughty folks get hold of that kind of money. Personally, I can’t wait!

  “ ‘Meanwhile, the rest of us need to watch our step come Monday. You won’t want to be caught on the freeway when all those Christian drivers get raptured. Like old Lambert Sable himself, the engine’s running, but ain’t nobody driving.’ ”

  Pastor Bob set down the tablet and laughed. “A Jew columnist in a Texas newspaper. Incredible.”

  Piazza San Giovanni, Rome, 2015h

  The great Cathedral of St. John Lateran was darkened in mourning and only security lights remained to guide passersby around the piazza. Although his line of sight was dim, Nasir was pleased—he had his quarry trapped. He knew that there were no exits from the building in front of him; the man he was following would have to come out the way he came in.

  Nasir decided to fall back a little so he could surveil the entire structure. In the center of the plaza, an obelisk rose to a point crowned by a great cross that reflected the murky yellow light. Keeping the building in sight, he strode across the intersection and took a position in a cornice of the pedestal next to a statue of a lion. It was a good place to hide and still see everything. He estimated the target at about 170 meters, well within the range of his Russian-made AS rifle.

  He repeated in his mind the vow he had made. It was serious now. He had reached the mission. The preparation, the years of training and planning, the inherited burden of the family of Ayoub—at this moment the weight of it all fell on him. He felt he might as well be trying to ward off the twilight; yet it had to be.

  Into his mind came the image of Rabia al-Adawi—the light olive skin, her morning face under a scarf like a rainbow. In his heart he had always known that there could never be a wedding, so he might as well stop thinking about her. Staring at the ring on his finger, he forced his brain into careful estimates of the elevation of the gun needed to remove this threat.

  How can there be a covenant between idolaters and God?

  A woman an idol? Unquestionably. The most compelling of idols.

  He would leave her behind for the sake of the covenant he had made. God will not call you to account for what is futile in your oaths, but He will call you to account for your deliberate oaths. He had made a deliberate oath and would live by it and die by it.

  ***

  “See where Master Cosmatus signed his name to the stonework. Eight hundred years ago. Remarkable!” Jean-Baptiste Mortimer straightened up and took a sharp breath.

  “Are you all right?” Maryse asked.

  “Shoulder feels like it took a bullet.” He laughed as he softly rubbed at his collarbone with his good right hand. The other hand was cradled in a sling. He was still dressed up as a Knight of Malta, although the silly hat had disappeared.

  “Lovely place, after all.” He looked up admiringly at the four beasts glowing on the blue ceiling. “I’m particularly fond of the winged creature—he humanizes the picture. You know, originally they had nothing to do with the Four Evangelists. The idea that Luke is the ox, John the eagle, Mark the lion, and Matthew the winged man—that’s all Medieval allegorizing. In ancient times, the four beasts were the guardians of God’s throne.”

  Maryse nodded impatiently. The Sancta Sanctorum chapel was freezing, and she was holding her arms firmly crossed inside her overcoat against the chill. Crime-scene detritus still clogged the floor; only one bright light shone from a police scaffold. Getting inside had been a bother; the guard at the top of the stairs had no respect for her Interpol ID and it had taken a call to the Commendatore to convince him to open the gate. Furthermore, she had no idea why Jean-Baptiste had wanted to leave the hospital, where he was relatively safe, and come here.

  Of course, his safety was only relative anywhere. They had taken a back exit out of the hospital and traveled in an Interpol car to get here; still, no one who really wanted to follow them would have been thrown by any of that. It was probably best to keep moving, but she became more uneasy by the minute. Mortimer had wanted to see everything. He had run his hands over the great door of the San Lorenzo chapel, carefully counted the tableaux in the fresco that circled the Sancta Sanctorum, peered closely at the blood spray on the altar, and taken the measure of the white spot in the limestone wall where the Acheropita had hung—all while she stood there trembling from fear and cold.

  “Now I see,” he murmured, still staring at the ceiling. “I’m quite sure there were only two men in this room when the Pope was shot.”

  “But the blood on the altar. You can see for yourself that Chandos couldn’t have been anywhere near the altar when he was shot, yet that’s his blood. There had to be a third person here.”

  “Then I suggest you talk to the medical examiner about time of death. For both Chandos and the Pope.”

  “Time of death?” Maryse was surprised. “Everyone knows the time of death. The video is plain—the Monsignor entered t
he chapel with the Pope. Five minutes later they were both dead.”

  “So it appears…”

  He was going to say more, but then looked at the exit as if he had heard something.

  Maryse too had an abrupt sense that someone else had come into the building. A dull hard thump—unmistakable. Someone had been hit and fallen. The guard. Her heart punched at her ribs.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” she whispered. “We’re trapped; the only exit is the way we came in.”

  “Happy to oblige you, my dear,” he whispered back. Now he looked genuinely frightened. They crept toward the open gate.

  Just outside, the guard lay as still as a toppled statue on the marble floor. Instinctively, Maryse stepped in front of Mortimer, shielding him with both arms—the vision of a side street in Dublin flared in her mind.

  The Holy Stairs receded into gloom at their feet. A staircase on either side—which to choose? Should she choose any of them? She had never felt so helpless. Someone was in the building, probably behind them now, waiting in one of the myriad alcoves to ambush them. For the first time in five years, she wished for her nine-millimeter.

  “We’ll back down the middle staircase,” Mortimer whispered in her ear almost imperceptibly. “Backs against the wall.” It was decided.

  For a fleeting second she worried about the blasphemy of going down the Holy Stairs backward, but that way the line of sight was clear. Who knew what was waiting in the side staircases?

  They backed slowly along the marble wall, eyes fixed on the illuminated gate of the Sancta Sanctorum, expecting the black-clad shooter to appear at any instant on the landing. She kept Mortimer shielded with her body and he made no protest.

  Maryse forced herself to count the stairs to keep her nerves under control. Each step took them toward the open air. There was just enough light that she could see the stormy fresco of the Crucifixion on the arch overhead; under it, the landing stayed empty.

  Icy with fear, she felt intensely the presence of ghosts, numberless ghosts toiling up these steps on their knees, hooded in penitence, climbing toward Calvary.

  When she counted step twenty-two, she began to breathe again. They were nearly there.

  Then a hand lightly touched her arm.

  “Ah, Davan. A relief to see you,” Mortimer whispered. It was Ari.

  Holding one hand tightly over his mouth, he pointed up the staircase and nodded at them. Time to move.

  Maryse grabbed Mortimer and swung him around a pillar at the base of the staircase; Ari followed, flat against the pillar, his gun ready. She glanced at it—a futuristic Tavor bullpup, a high-end Israeli weapon with homing sights.

  A statue of Christ stood between them and the piazza. Ari motioned to Maryse to get herself and the old man to safety beneath its pedestal; they crouched and crept around the base, putting it between themselves and the sanctuary.

  Breathing at last, Maryse peered over the pedestal at Ari, who stood rigid against the wall glancing from one staircase to another. He clearly knew someone was up there, but it was impossible to tell which staircase held the shooter. The two side entries were dark and the Holy Stairs barely illuminated—still, she could see more than Ari and could alert him.

  Then, stunningly, the point of a red laser appeared on the pedestal next to her head.

  Someone had her in a gunsight—someone behind her.

  She ducked instantly and pulled Mortimer down with her. She watched the laser sweep around the pedestal and disappear in Ari’s direction; he would be in plain sight.

  “Ari!” she shouted. “He’s not in the building. He’s behind us. In the square!”

  At that instant the world exploded. A single shot screamed over her head from the square—from the sound, it glanced off the Holy Stairs. She heard Ari fire again and again into the piazza at the source of the laser sight. In the corner of her eye she saw bullets sparking off the giant obelisk in the center of the traffic circle.

  The bursts stopped. A lone taxi was slowing toward the nearby traffic light.

  Fighting the urge to see what Ari was doing, she realized her first duty was to Mortimer’s safety. She hauled him up, crouched, and ran, keeping the taxi between herself and the obelisk. Grabbing the door, she snapped a quick order at the driver and pulled herself and Mortimer into the car.

  She stole a look out the back windscreen and watched as the obelisk shrank in the distance. Although grateful for the warm presence next to her, when she thought of Ari she felt cold again.

  Chapter 3

  Saturday, October 9, 2027

  Headquarters, Servizio Polizia Scientifica, Rome, 0010h

  Dr. Silvia Malemanni was disgusted at being called into the morgue at midnight. Bevo had shouted down the phone at her, forcing her out of the after-opera party she had been looking forward to for a week. The old orderly Ancona shuffled toward her with her white tunic and cap, but she elbowed him away and made her entrance in the tiara, lime opera gown, and jeweled slippers she had worn for Tosca.

  The body of Nasir al-Ayoub lay covered, except for the head, on the table in the center of the room under a knifelike white light. Sweating despite the cold, Ari Davan stood out of the way next to Bevo and the Commendatore of the Vatican Police, who were whispering violently at each other. Malemanni pronounced a few indecipherable curses and started her GeM recorder.

  With an imperious wave, she went to work with her digicam. Ari’s GeM pinged him.

  “It’s Eagle all right,” Miner’s voice came into his ear. On his GeM screen Ari could see his own texted image of Eagle’s still-handsome face imposed over a grid from a life photo—both images were of the same man. The search was over.

  “Thanks. Davan out.”

  Feeling vacant, Ari tried to gather his thoughts. He had not wanted to kill Eagle—more than anything, he had wanted to talk to him. The end of Eagle had not only failed to resolve anything, it had raised more problems.

  Although it had been tracing Eagle in the darkness and through clouds, Eros-Z had surprised Ari by losing the target. He had never known Eros-Z to fail before. Eagle was supposed to have been in the Sancta Sanctorum, not hiding nearly 200 meters away in the middle of the roundabout. The guard had been found unconscious in the north side chapel, so Eagle must have come in by one of the stairways, taken the guard down, and waited for his chance at Maryse and Mortimer; possibly Ari’s own arrival caused him to flee. Granted, the satellite could not have tracked Eagle after he entered the building, but it certainly should have signaled Ari when he left it.

  He reversed the Eros-Z recording to the moments before his arrival at the Piazza and slow-played it again. No…no signal had been given. He watched as the red dot disappeared under the loggia of the Sancta Sanctorum, but from that instant until the end of the recording it remained hidden.

  Ari shut it off and picked up the GeM he had found in Eagle’s pocket. After a minor squabble between the Vatican and the Rome police, he had been allowed to keep it long enough to download the contents to his headquarters. Bevo had fought the Commendatore on this, but while the argument proceeded, the data flowed.

  To Ari’s chagrin, the entire content was in Arabic. Toad would read it

  for him.

  But there was one unusual feature: a red-circuit button hidden in the base, like the one in Emanuel Shor’s GeM. He touched it to see what would happen.

  A recorded voice answered. It was speaking another language—not Arabic, Ari thought—it sounded French. He switched off the GeM.

  He wondered why, despite the cold, a sheet of sweat had formed over his body. The smell in the room, the light, the confusion—whatever it was, he was beginning to feel sickened by this place.

  Again his own GeM pinged and he answered. It was Toad.

  “Initial review of Eagle’s files. Not much…looks mostly to be email from PA police.”

 
“What about the red circuit?” Ari asked.

  “It rings a private number listed to the National Library of France, Rue Richelieu, Paris. A machine voice asks for a code, then switches off after thirty seconds.”

  “National Library of France,” Ari repeated. He had been there with Maryse. How many days ago? They had met a man who knew about Tarot cards. “The National Library. I was there.”

  “When?”

  “Was it Tuesday…?” Ari shook his head—he couldn’t remember.

  After a pause, Toad’s voice: “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “You met with someone.”

  “Yes. The Tarot card man. Insufferable snob.”

  At that moment, Dr. Malemanni gave a cry and held up the dead man’s hand. She was pointing at the golden ring on Ayoub’s finger.

  “Hold it,” Ari said to Toad. “It’s another of those rings.”

  “On Eagle’s finger this time.” It was not a question.

  “Yes.” Ari inspected the ring as the doctor splayed the man’s fingers for him. “DVCEI, exactly like the others. Only new. Our Eagle must have just joined the club.” Ari snapped a photo and forwarded it to Toad, who rang off.

  The door swung open and two young men in business suits came into the examining room. Ari recognized them as Interpol—just behind them were Maryse and David Kane, the President of Interpol himself.

  Maryse grabbed both of Ari’s hands. “You made it out,” she murmured, looking into his face. “But you look a fright!”

  “You’re welcome. What do you mean, I look a fright?”

  It was true, of course. He hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours, his clothes were filthy, and he hadn’t eaten since the flight…it seemed a lifetime ago.

  “You’re shaking.”

  “I suppose so.” He grinned at her. For good reason, he thought—he hadn’t been in a firefight since an encounter with a drug seller in Tel Aviv years before. That was nothing compared to the Piazza tonight.