James Acton 04 - The Templar's Relic (31 page)

Then he had a clear shot.

He raised his weapon and opened fire, as did Laura.

The bike was hit first, causing its two riders to turn to the new threat, then the shots found their marks, taking out both riders. The second and third motorcycles skidded to halts as the now cleared square provided them with little protection, most people either dead, lying on the ground in fear, or escaped by now.

Another burst of gunfire from their right. Acton took a quick glance and saw Reading and Chaney advancing along the wall, as Acton and Laura rushed forward, pouring bullets on their targets. It only took seconds, but it felt like an eternity to Acton, before the terrorists were neutralized, but Acton knew their mission had already been accomplished.

The Pope had been shot.

And there was no way he was going to survive, not with what Acton had seen. He jumped up on the platform, as did Chaney, as Reading and Laura covered them, making sure the terrorists were dead.

Acton dropped to his knees beside the body of the Pope, who lay atop the Imam. Three bullet holes were visible in the back of his robe, red circles highlighting their successful penetration of this man’s armor of faith, an armor that had failed to protect him today, but had so many times just so few months ago.

Acton and Chaney rolled the old man off of the Imam. The pontiff gasped in pain. Suddenly a microphone was shoved in the old man’s face, and Acton looked over his shoulder to see the press corps rushing back toward the stage, swarming it with their cameras and microphones.

The old man looked up at the camera pointed in his ashen face, and whispered, “My children, do not retaliate. Peace must once again reign.” Reading and Laura, along with several of the surviving security, jumped on the stage and began to clear the press off. Acton paid no attention, focusing on the Pontiff he had been through so much with, when the old man reached up and pulled Acton closer to him. “Retrieve the skull. You know where it is.”

Acton nodded with a smile. “Don’t worry about it, Your Holiness. You’re going to be okay.”

The old man patted Acton’s cheek. “Thank you, my child, but I feel God’s warmth already enveloping me like a blanket. It is my time, I just pray that my death doesn’t lead to more violence. Enough have died on my watch, that even if I prayed an eternity for forgiveness, I’m afraid it would not be enough.”

He winced.

“Take it easy, sir.”

The Imam, now on his knees, shuffled to the Pontiff’s side.

“Do not worry my friend. We have the case, and your sacrifice will not go unnoticed.” He rested a hand on the old man’s forehead, and began to say a prayer in Turkish, the only word Acton understanding was the repeated use of Allah. He wondered for a moment if it was appropriate, but when he looked down at the Pontiff, he had a smile on his face, his eyes closed, and a look of serenity, as if he were one with his God, or his Allah, and prepared for whatever fate He had in store for him.

A last gasp, more of a sigh, then nothing. Chaney checked the old man’s pulse. “Weak, but alive.” He pointed at several of the surviving security entourage. “Get him inside.” Acton bowed his head, and said a silent prayer, then he heard the squelch of a microphone, and opened his eyes. The Imam was standing in front of the dais. Acton looked over his shoulder and saw all the cameras and microphones aimed at the stage, as the old man cleared his throat.

Acton felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Laura. Her face was streaked with tears, and she fell onto his shoulder, hugging him as she sobbed. Acton himself felt his chest heave a few times, as the stress of the past days slowly released, and the frustration of it all, the futility of it all, was realized. After all they had been through, the Pope is gunned down for no reason other than hate. It was sickening.

The world would be better off without Islam.

He hated to think it, but it was a conclusion he was coming to. Were Christians perfect? By no means, Edison Cole and New Slate had proven that, but were they out actively trying to kill Muslims? No.

He sighed, and found himself listening to the Imam saying something impassioned in Arabic, then he paused.

“And now I will repeat what I have said in English. This man”—Acton looked up to see the Imam pointing at the Pontiff as he was carried inside the mosque, Chaney and Reading accompanying him—“represents the Catholic Church. He could have jumped off the platform and saved himself, leaving me to die, but instead, he threw himself in front of the bullets, allowing me to live another day.

“Would I have done the same for him? I would like to think yes, if the roles were reversed, perhaps I would have. But can I say it for certain? No. And what is that reason? Why am I uncertain? Is it because I am a Muslim, and he is a Christian? I am ashamed to say it may just be so. Is it because I am inferior, because I am a Muslim? Absolutely not, I don’t believe that for an instant.

“Or is it because I feel I am superior, because I am a Muslim? That, I can’t say with all honesty that I don’t believe. For it is the way I was raised. It is the way I have raised my children, and it is the way I have taught many children. Islam is the way. Islam is the future. Islam is the one and true faith. All religions probably teach similar things, but there is a difference. While other religions may preach similar things, they don’t preach intolerance as a principal. The Catholic Church was once a horribly intolerant, violent organization. But they had their enlightenment, their reformation, and now are peaceful.

“We Muslims are accused of being stuck in the dark ages. We were once leaders in the world, spreading knowledge and science. But now look at us. We are the poorest of the poor. And rather than try to improve ourselves, too many of us prefer to bring everyone else down to our level.”

The old man took a deep breath and sighed as tears rolled down his cheeks.

“It breaks my heart to say what I am about to say.” He squeezed his eyes shut and gasped out the words. “Too many of us hate.” He gripped the edge of the dais, his knuckles turning white. “Too many of us hate. We hate the infidel. We hate what they represent. We hate their way of life. And we want to destroy that way of life.

“I could ask why, but I know why. Because too many of us are taught this way of thinking from the moment we are born. But the more important question to ask, is how? How will those who hate so much ever achieve their goals? There are over two billion Christians in the world. There are one and a half billion Muslims. On top of that, there are three and a half billion others on this planet that don’t believe in Islam, and never will. What do you propose? To kill five and a half billion people, just to fulfill Allah’s will? How could it possibly be Allah’s will to kill five and a half billion people?”

He lowered his voice, staring out at the gathering crowd.

“Over the past days we have witnessed atrocities on both sides, around the world. These atrocities continue as I speak. They have occurred here”—he gestured toward the stage—“and they must stop. We have seen what hate and intolerance, on both sides, can accomplish—more hate, and more intolerance.”

His voice began to rise, and Acton stood, with Laura, watching the Imam speak, Acton feeling the hair begin to stand on end as goose bumps spread across his body.

“The era of hate, the era of intolerance must come to an end. It is time for Islam’s reformation. If Islam wishes to be great, it must learn to live within the world it finds itself. If Islam is indeed a religion of peace, then it must prove it by laying down its arms, and living in peace with those who don’t believe as we do.

“It is time for the hate, the fear, the intolerance, all of it, to end. And to that end, I call on all my brothers and sisters around the world, and especially to those within the walls of Vatican City, to lay down their arms, and go home. Fill your heart with the love and joy that Allah demands, and go home. Clear your heads and your hearts of the hatred of the past, then go to your Mosque, and fill your empty cups with the word of Allah, the word of God, for they are one. We all believe in the same God, the same loving Allah who loves us all. And should your teacher, your Imam, continue to teach you to hate those who are different, those who don’t believe, then rise up, and denounce him. Shake your fist in the air at
him
, not at your neighbor.

“It is time for those who hate, and those who preach it, to leave and lie down in the bed of snakes from which they came. It is time for us all to follow the example that this man, the Pope, showed us. He may yet die, having saved someone of a different religion, of a religion of which many of its adherents have demanded the death of his kind. And until each of us, Muslim and Christian alike, can say honestly to ourselves that we too would lay our lives down for our fellow man, no matter what their beliefs, than we are no better than those who would lay their lives down to kill someone who doesn’t believe, like these wretched souls who lie before us today.”

The cameras dipped to look at the bodies of the gunmen, before returning to the podium, but the old man had turned away, and now walked toward the mosque.

Acton and Laura followed in silence, laying their weapons on the ground as they entered the holy place, the doors closing behind them. Reading approached.

“They’ve taken him out the back, an ambulance is already on its way.”

“Martin?” asked Laura.

“He went with them since he’s the closest thing to a doctor here right now.”

The Imam turned to face them, then shook each of their hands in turn.

“I thank you all for what you have done here today. Without you, I fear things could have been much worse.”

“I can’t see how,” muttered Reading.

“Indeed. His Holiness being shot is a tragedy, and I pray he recovers. But these gunmen were after me, not him. They were here to kill the one who would cooperate with the Christian, who would accept delivery of the one thing they had finally found that might trigger the apocalypse, and the return of the Mahdi. Your Pope, His Holiness, may yet die a martyr, sacrificing himself on holy soil, to save a man who just yesterday wouldn’t take his phone call, instead content to see the world descend into chaos to achieve my own selfish dreams of the Mahdi’s return.

“But instead, here I stand, a changed man. I now realize my ways were wrong. Am I any less of a Muslim? No! I am even more of a Muslim, for now I actually realize what Islam is. It
is
a religion of peace, if one takes the struggle, the Jihad, within, and wrestles those demons that consume each of us; demons that belch forth hate and intolerance. Yesterday I could have cared less if this man had died, but today, I feel a great sadness. Should he die, I will mourn his passing, and I will rejoice in the fact he will take his place beside God in Heaven.

“And from this day forth, this changed man, will preach the true Islam. That of peace, of love, of tolerance. And hopefully the seed planted here today, will blossom the world over, taking its place not as a weed that must be eradicated, or must eradicate in order to survive, but as a flower, living in harmony with those other flowers on this wonderful planet of ours. Perhaps the Mahdi will return, with Jesus at his side, not after an Armageddon of war and pestilence brought on by the weapons of man, but after an internal war within ourselves. Perhaps each of us has his own Armageddon within, that we must fight, and win, and once won, we are then worthy of entrance to paradise. Perhaps paradise, Jannah as we call it, Heaven as you call it, is gained through winning the battle within, rather than without. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Armageddon was merely a metaphor for a struggle within men, rather than between men?”

Acton eyed the case the Imam now held containing the scroll that had caused all of the days’ chaos, and nodded.

Yes, wouldn’t it.

In Front of Saint Peter’s Square

Vatican City

Acton stepped out of the car the Vatican had sent to pick them up, then extended a hand to help Laura out. He had asked the driver to let them off in front of the square, rather than inside the grounds—he wanted to see for himself the damage.

But it was almost anticlimactic.

Though there was a heavy police presence still, they weren’t in riot gear, and were mostly away from the main gate. Vatican security was heavy inside, but trying to keep as unobtrusive as possible. Gawkers lined the half-height fence, tourists denied access until the grounds were cleaned up. The police barricades were gone, no evidence remained they had ever been there. The blood and debris both within and out had been hosed down, forever forgotten in a storm sewer somewhere, or swept up and tossed in some mob run landfill, to someday find itself on eBay.

And the praying continued.

They had been in Turkey for two days after the attack, interviewed by various authorities since they had killed Turkish citizens, but after a strong word from the Vatican, Italian, British and American governments, they had all been released and flown on a chartered Alitalia plane to Rome.

During their “interviews”, the Imam’s speech had had a remarkable effect. People stayed home, and people went home. No more incidents had been reported, and the Vatican occupiers had lost their will to fight. The original text of the Surah had been released to the public, and it had been immediately denounced as fraudulent by many, but some were reserving judgment. Progress, perhaps. The Pope remained in hospital in Istanbul, too weak to move, his prognosis positive.

“Excuse me, sir, but would you mind taking our picture?”

Acton spun, recognizing the voice instantly, but when he saw the man holding out a camera, he decided to play dumb.

“Sure, no problem.”

The man and his friend positioned themselves in front of the gates, with the dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica in view behind them, and Acton held up the camera, taking several shots of the two very familiar men.

“What brings you to Rome?” asked Acton as the men approached for their camera.