The Sacred Weapon (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 1)

by M. C. Roberts

  “What do you mean, you watched the Pope get blown up? He was here the whole time. Tom’s nuns have taken him to safety. By the way, where’s your earpiece?”

  Hellen shook her head helplessly.

  “I lost it.” She leaned on one arm of Noah’s wheelchair and snapped at him, “Don’t change the subject. Where. Is. Tom?”

  Noah pointed to the south. Hellen straightened up and looked in the direction he was pointing. It hit her like a wrecking ball. “But that’s where we—” Without finishing her sentence, she ran off.

  “Hellen, wait! What are you going to do?” Noah called after her.

  “Les femmes,” said Cloutard, looking at Noah and shaking his head.

  It took Tom a few minutes to reach his destination. With all the excitement, the assassination attempt and the bomb threats at the basilica, chaos still reigned on the streets. Even the policemen who had been standing guard by the plane were gone. Tom’s progress carrying the bomb was slow, and Hellen caught up with him at the Cessna.

  “What are you going to do, Tom?” said Hellen when she reached the plane parked on Avinguda Diagonal. He was already lifting the bomb into the plane.

  “I’m going to fly this thing as far away from here as I can.”

  “Are you trying to kill yourself? You can’t just . . . I—I don’t want to lose you. Not again.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I’ll come with you! I’m sure I can help you somehow,” she said with determination, wiping away her tears.

  Tom backed out of the plane. He turned to Hellen and took her by the shoulders.

  “Out of the question. I can’t let this bomb kill hundreds of thousands of people. And you least of all. There’s no other way.” He looked at the countdown:

  9:16

  9:15

  9:14

  “I have to do this alone, and I don’t have the time to discuss it.”

  He pulled her to him and kissed her fervently. Then he let her go and jumped into the plane, closing the door behind him.

  He fired up the engine, catching the attention of people around the machine. Hellen had to accept his decision. She could only watch as Tom turned the Cessna around for take-off. Tears running down her cheeks, she began to shoo the onlookers away from Tom’s “runway.” It was not a difficult task: the noise and the trundling Cessna made it clear what Tom was up to. As the plane took off, Tom pulled the nose up hard and steered it toward the Mediterranean. Hellen, fearful, watched him fly away.

  72

  Cessna 172 over the Mediterranean, not far from Barcelona

  The Cessna’s engine roared as Tom opened the throttle, pushing the plane to its maximum speed. He wanted to get as high as possible and as far from Barcelona as possible, and to do so as fast as possible. He had no desire at all to die that day, certainly not for a plan cooked up by Guerra, Ossana and Palffy. His body was pumping adrenaline and his pulse and breath were racing, but he forced himself to run through his options with relative calm.

  Okay, you can’t drop the bomb into the Med. You’d contaminate it for decades. Besides, the tsunami would probably wash away half of Barcelona.

  He could forget about that.

  And there’s no way you’re going to die with this fucking thing.

  That was also not an option for him. He looked back and saw the numbers on the countdown: 03:37

  The seconds were slipping away. Then he looked a short way beyond the suitcase nuke, and a smile started to cross his face. Maybe Noah’s stupid joke from that morning hadn’t been so stupid after all. He reached for the radio.

  “This is Niner Hotel Mike Charlie Romeo Foxtrot calling USS Ronald Reagan. Come in. We met this morning.”

  The radio operator on the USS Ronald Reagan grimaced. “Goddamn it, Wagner, how many times do you want your uncle to save your ass?”

  “Okay, listen up. You must have heard by now what just went down with the Pope at the Sagrada Familia. Well, the brains behind their little kill-the-Pope plot also planted a nuclear bomb under the Sagrada Familia. I repeat, a nuclear bomb.”

  The radio operator put Tom on speaker.

  “Sir, you need to hear this. It’s Admiral Wagner’s nephew again. He’s saying something about an nuclear bomb in Barcelona.”

  “It’s not in Barcelona anymore. I’ve got the damn thing here with me. I’m trying to stop Barcelona from blowing up. I need your help to get rid of it.”

  “You have a primed nuclear weapon in your plane?” The radio operator nearly choked.

  The CO came on the line. “I’m all ears, son.”

  “It’s on a timer and it’s got just over two minutes left. You can help. Get those two F/A-18s that were so nice to me this morning in the air ASAP. They can dig us all out of a pile of shit.”

  Tom put the Cessna on autopilot and turned around to the bomb. The countdown was at 01:42. This was going to be as tight as hell. Tom hastily dug out the emergency flares stuffed in a sports bag with all kinds of other junk on the rear seats. He tore open the sports bag and tried to stuff the bomb inside it. Impossible. The thing was too big.

  “Think, dammit!” he said aloud to himself. He found an old Stanley knife in the bag, which gave him an idea. He cut away one of the seat belts and used it to tie the flares to the bomb. Then it occurred to him that the flares could be ancient and might not burn at all. He was anything but a religious man, but he said a silent prayer to any gods listening that the torches would still ignite.

  On the aircraft carrier, flags waved: clear for take-off. The two pilots could hardly believe that Wagner and the Cessna were responsible for them returning to the air. In quick succession, the two F/A-18s took off from the aircraft carrier. This time, though, they had already had their orders: they had one shot, and not much time to take it. The lives of everyone within hundreds of miles depended on them.

  00:48

  00:47

  00:46

  Tom scraped the striker built into the cap against the ignition surface of the flares. He let out a whoop when the first one began to burn, then hastily repeated the process with the second torch. His fear of fire and flame had been exorcized down in the crypt, but now he knew for sure that he was over it.

  On the radio, he heard both pilots confirm that they were in position. He took the burning bundle and glanced at the countdown one last time:

  00:13

  00:12

  00:11

  He hurled the bomb out of the Cessna. He looked down after it, watching as it got closer and closer to the surface of the sea. The first F/A-18 launched a missile at the package, but it shot past, missing by a fraction of an inch. Tom’s heart nearly gave out. Were the flares not hot enough to attract the missiles’ attention? The second F/A-18 launched, and he held his breath.

  A moment later, the case evaporated in a ball of fire.

  He took a deep breath as he watched the smoke and debris below. It was a few seconds before he truly realized that the danger had been averted for good.

  “WOOOHOOO!!!!” Tom could hold himself back no longer. He pounded his fists against the roof of the machine.

  He heard cheering from the radio, too. Shorty, who’d been flying that morning when Tom had almost been blown out of the sky, had launched the missile that brought down the bomb.

  “Good shooting, sir!” said Tom.

  He watched as a Seahawk helicopter took off from the aircraft carrier. That would be the recovery team sent to collect the remains of the case, especially the radioactive material, he thought. Thank God his plan had worked. At some point in his training, he had learned that a nuclear weapon could only be triggered by its own detonator. If an external explosion destroys the detonator, no nuclear fission can take place. He smiled, happy to have that responsibility off his shoulders. His job was done.

  “USS Ronald Reagan, come in, over,” said Tom.

  The CO was back on the line. “Go ahead, soldier.”

  “I’m signing off now. I promise not to disturb your airspace anymore. Over and o
ut.” Tom smiled as he turned the plane onto a course for Barcelona, but this time he had no intention of landing in the middle of the city.

  He started his descent and brought the Cessna down safely on the water close to Port Olympic. A motorboat was already on its way to meet him and take him ashore. When Tom stepped out of the boat, Hellen was waiting. She ran to him and threw her arms around his neck.

  “You are truly insane sometimes,” she said. She looked deep into his eyes and kissed him. “Wagner, we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  Tom looked around and saw his boss, Captain Maierhofer, standing next to Noah. His face was as lemony-sour as usual, but even he managed to twist a grin out of it.

  “Your methods are awfully unorthodox, Wagner . . . but good work.”

  With Hellen in his arms, Tom didn’t even care that Maierhofer had mispronounced his name.

  People standing around the harbor broke into applause and Tom turned to Hellen again.

  “I’ve never kissed a nun in my life,” he said, eyeing the habit she was still wearing. He wrapped her firmly in his arms and kissed her again. And this time, he wasn’t about to let anyone interrupt.

  73

  The Holy Father’s private chambers, Vatican City

  “Please come in.” The Pope’s camerlengo, Monsignor Girotti, led them past the two Swiss Guards and into the Pope’s private rooms. “The Holy Father never receives visitors here,” Girotti added, apparently to emphasize the exceptional nature of their visit.

  Tom, Hellen, François and Noah looked around the barren room. They had expected pomp and opulence, but this was just the opposite. Apart from a simple bed and an equally simple wardrobe, all that stood in the large room—about 1000 square feet in size—was a plain desk by the window, which afforded a breathtaking view over the Vatican Gardens. In one corner was an unadorned fireplace, in which a fire crackled. Even summer nights in the Vatican could be chilly, it seemed. The Pope rose from his desk and approached his four visitors.

  “The Lord be with you,” he greeted them.

  “It is a great honor, Your Holiness, to have you receive us,” said Tom.

  Tom, Hellen and François bowed before the head of the Catholic Church and kissed the Ring of the Fisherman on his hand. Noah, who was Jewish, refrained.

  “There are, in truth, no words that can properly repay the debt of gratitude that I—and of course the entire Catholic Church—owe you,” the Pope said. “You not only saved my life and recovered our holy relics, you have also averted a human catastrophe of terrible scope. And, of course, you found and recovered the sacred weapon, the Sword of Saint Peter. For these things, I thank you.”

  The Pope bowed slightly before the group, and the camerlengo’s eyes widened considerably at the gesture.

  “But that is not enough, not at all,” said the Holy Father. “I would like you to be present when the sword is laid in its final resting place.”

  Hellen inhaled sharply. She could already guess what he meant.

  Minutes later, they were following the Pope, the camerlengo and eight Swiss Guards into the catacombs below St. Peter’s. Four of the guardsmen carried Noah’s wheelchair. The Pope himself carried the chest with the sword as they made their way to the Vatican Necropolis.

  The Vatican Necropolis is a large burial site directly under the grottoes of St. Peter’s Basilica. Originally a burial site built by Emperor Caligula next to a Roman circus on the southern slope of the Vatican Hill, tradition holds that the Apostle Peter was buried there after being martyred by Nero in AD 64 or 67. In AD 324, Emperor Constantine I began construction of the first basilica dedicated to Saint Peter, located directly over the presumed site of the Apostle’s tomb. The necropolis has only been accessible again since its excavation in the 1950s; the “Peter Campus” is the small area where Peter’s tomb is thought to be located, and is among the holiest sites of the Catholic Church.

  The Pope handed the chest to Tom, then crossed himself and lowered himself to his knees in front of the tomb of Saint Peter. He prayed in silence for a few minutes. When he was finished, the camerlengo helped him back to his feet. The Holy Father placed the chest containing the sword on top of Peter’s sarcophagus, and they stood in silence for a few minutes. Each of them could feel the magic emanating from the sacred weapon, and the uniqueness of the moment.

  74

  A small café not far from St. Peter’s Basilica, Rome

  “Astounding how expensive a piccolo espresso can be.” Cloutard sipped at his tiny cup. “And then it is not even very good. We French make better coffee.”

  He looked around the little place where the four of them were now sitting, just a stone’s throw from St. Peter’s Square. The walls were hung with historical representations of Rome and an old map of Vatican City in a kitschy gold frame. Cloutard, as a precaution, had not ordered food. The odors wafting out from the kitchen told him he would be wiser not to. In a tourist trap like this, he could only be disappointed.

  “The French make good coffee?” Tom said. “Hmm. If you want really good coffee, come to Vienna and we’ll go to Hawelka,” Tom said.

  “Hawelka? Never heard of it, I’m afraid. I only know your classics: Landtmann’s, Café Central . . .”

  Tom rolled his eyes. “ François, next time you’re in Vienna, I’ll take you on a coffee-house tour—off the beaten track.”

  “I’d prefer a bar crawl.” Noah took a swig of his Campari soda.

  “Just as easily arranged. Pity we all live in different parts of the world,” Tom said. He became a little melancholy. “You’re really sure you want to go back to Israel?” he asked Noah.

  Noah nodded. “My mind’s made up,” he said. Tom decided not to probe any deeper into his friend’s decision.

  “It will be some time before I can come to Vienna,” said Cloutard. “I have to rebuild my business first.”

  Tom and Noah put their hands over their ears and chorused, “La-la-la-la-la-la!”

  “We don’t want to hear anything about it,” said Tom. “We don’t know anything about anyone wanting to rebuild any organization, do we?”

  Noah shook his head. “I haven’t got the faintest clue what you’re blathering about,” he said, grinning mischievously, and the three of them laughed. Hellen sat quietly, absorbed in her own thoughts.

  “Then I’ll just sit here and drink my . . .” Cloutard pulled a face and peered into the tiny cup. “. . . whatever-it-is.”

  “The whole two-popes question has been cleared up, by the way. Our surveillance cameras in the basilica showed that Palffy had a double sitting next to him, hence the mix-up. But there’s one thing I still don’t understand: What did those clumsy hijackers have to do with the whole thing?” Noah asked and looked around his companions.

  “Those were my people,” said Cloutard casually.

  Tom, Noah and Hellen looked at him, dumbfounded. “More information, please,” said Tom.

  “A few months ago, Guerra came to my place in Tabarka and presented me with a dossier of evidence. It was solid, too, the kind of evidence that would put me behind bars for a very long time. All he wanted from me was a couple of favors to make the dossier disappear. I did not trust him in the least, of course, and began to do a little research of my own. That was when I stumbled across AF. What I did not realize was that Ossana was infiltrating my organization at the same time.

  “AF?” Noah said. “Never heard of it.”

  “I cannot tell you exactly who or what is behind it. But the more research I did, the more curious I became,” said Cloutard.

  75

  One month earlier. A small, nameless mountain village in Sicily

  François Cloutard guided the Fiat Cinquecento he had rented at the airport up the narrow mountain road. He had left the village proper behind half a mile below, and now there were no more houses beside the road. He knew that every Sunday the village inhabitants walked up that same road to attend mass in the small mountain church. Cloutard had been here many times
before and had walked the same route many times himself. Today, however, he was uncertain whether his journey would prove to be completely in vain.

  He hoped that the man he had come to see still offered his daily audiences in the small trattoria beside the church. The Fiat groaned around the last turn, and when Cloutard had completed the final ascent, the vista he knew so well opened before him.

  Cloutard turned off the engine. First, he entered the small church. He moistened his fingers with holy water from the stoup, knelt before the altar and made the sign of the cross. There were only five pews. He sat down in the last of them and prayed, “Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee . . .” Only when he came to the end of the prayer did he sense the presence of another person in the church.

  “So I was not mistaken. We have not seen each other for a long time”, said the old, quavering voice, all too familiar.

  Cloutard stood. He took a few steps toward the old man and embraced him warmly. He looked into the old man’s tired eyes. His frayed, gray cotton trousers and old but well-starched shirt, the waistcoat he always wore open so that it wouldn’t pull too tight across his belly, and his worn and scratched walking stick offered no clue that he was one of the most important Mafia leaders in all of Italy. For decades, from his trattoria there on the mountain next to the church, he had guided the destinies of several crime families. People came to seek audience with him not only from throughout Italy, but from all over the world. In the trattoria, problems were solved, orders given and favors requested, just as it had been in the Cosa Nostra for more than a hundred years.

  “Let us go across the street and drink a grappa,” the old man said. He had already turned around and was shuffling slowly out of the church. “You know if I can help you with whatever is on your mind, I’m going to ask a favor of you in return?” The old man’s voice turned cold and resolute for a moment, then regained its usual warmth. “So what is bothering you?”