Authors: Rick Jones
Vatican Knights (13 page)
After he closed the door she
opened the flap and took out a manuscript at least seventy pages thick.
She began to read. The report
covered every aspect of the crime scene testing.
Only indigenous prints had been
found; however, there was absolute proof that some areas had been sanitized.
She had to wonder why the Soldiers of Islam had concealed some facets of the
slaughter and then deliberately left behind the bodies of al-Hashrie and
al-Bashrah as a calling card.
She then cross-referenced the
dossiers with the assassins’ methods. The president’s men had been murdered
either by garrote or by well-placed kill shots, methods of specially-trained
assassins. Yet the dossiers of the Soldiers of Islam stated that they had gone
through nothing more than basic training. Even if she assumed that their basic
training was a precursor to more specialized military training, the facts did
not add up. According to the timeline, after their basic training was
completed, they were immediately shipped off to the States to become computer
jockeys for recruitment purposes and cyber spying. They were not soldiers of
elite status.
Yet they were.
She closed her eyes. Nothing
seemed to make sense. After reading the report in its entirety and finding
other evidence of sanitation, all she could do was nibble on her lower lip in
bewilderment.
The
wrapped body of the governor had been placed in the false bottom of the cargo
hold. Team Leader drove the vehicle southbound on Route 1 without complication.
The roadblocks had thinned considerably since their northward trip, the troops
having been redistributed to more centralized positions near D.C.
Apparently, that was where the
body politic assumed the Soldiers of Islam to be. Team Leader found himself
unable to dispel the preamble of a smile that was forming on his face.
By nightfall he reached the
outskirts of Washington, D.C., and drove the vehicle into a storage unit large
enough to hold the truck and a sedan. Team Leader lifted the corpse from the
hold and placed the body in the trunk of the diplomat-registered car. Once
done, he checked the packaged video of the governor’s execution to make sure
everything was neat and untraceable then drove away from the facility.
Since D.C.’s populace is strictly
a workforce, the streets had emptied by eight o’clock. By ten o’clock it was a
ghost town.
Team Leader then drove the sedan
to M Street where he parked on the top floor of a parking garage, tucked the
video into an inner pocket of his combat fatigues, and took the stairs to the
entrance to rendezvous with his contact.
As he waited in darkness, police
cruisers made their rounds, which was why he hadn’t parked the sedan outside. A
car bearing diplomatic tags parked along M street at such a late hour would
only draw suspicion.
“You’re getting sloppy,” a voice
said.
Team Leader turned and drew a
stiletto with the quickness and agility of a cat. An eight-inch blade shot from
the hilt, the point directed at Judas’ throat.
“Take it easy,” Judas said,
throwing up his hands. “No need to get your bowels in an uproar.”
Team Leader pressed the knifepoint
into Judas’ throat and indented the flesh. “Do that again, Judas, and I will
kill you. I don’t care what your position is or what Yahweh will think when I
tell him why I cut your throat.”
Judas backed away from the knife.
“Relax.”
“You’re a lucky man.” The blade
fell back into the hilt and Team Leader packed it away.
“You’re still getting sloppy,”
Judas told him. “Letting an old man like me creep up on you.”
Team Leader curbed his anger and
removed the keys to the sedan from his pocket. “You know where the car is,” he
said. “You know what to do.”
“How come I get all the crap
jobs?”
Team Leader couldn’t see Judas’
face, obscured as it was by the brim of his hat and the deep shadows. “You do
it for ten million reasons. I do it for only one. And in this case, my one
outweighs your ten million.”
Judas accepted the keys. “What
about the video?”
“Yahweh wants to see it before we
send it off to the proper authorities.”
“That’s macabre-ish of him.” Judas
slowly backed into the shadows and was gone, silent, quick, and wraithlike.
Team Leader worked the muscles in
the back of his jaw, admonishing himself for letting a man like Judas sneak up
on him.
Washington, D.C. Tidal Basin
September 25, Early Morning
Unlocking
the sedan and opening the door, Judas was met by the faint odor of body rot. As
he descended the levels of the garage, he decided on his route to the Tidal
Basin, the path of least resistance. He wanted to scope the area to see if it
was heavy with law enforcement.
He paid the garage fee and drove
west, then north, making sure he kept below the posted speed limit and used his
blinker at every turn. Driving along South Capitol Street to Independence
Avenue, he turned east, then north, passing the Library of Congress and the
Supreme Court. After making a single pass and sighting no one, he moved south
to Independence, then west to the Tidal Basin.
The time was now 2:17 a.m.
Judas drove to the Basin and
parked the vehicle right at the water’s edge.
After placing the vehicle in PARK,
he moved quickly to the rear of the sedan, opened the trunk, and pulled the
governor’s body to the ground. With adrenaline coursing through his veins,
Judas feverishly peeled away the plastic wrap that covered the governor. As he
pulled back the plastic, his nostrils were assaulted by the stench of death.
Disgusted, he tossed the materials back into the trunk.
Standing over the exposed body,
Judas hardly recognized the man. The governor’s pajamas stretched too tight
across his flesh, the methane gas build-up beneath the tissues bloating the
body. The fluid in his skull provided pressure so great that the eyes bulged
fantastically from their orbital sockets. And his skin, having marbled, held
the purple arterial lines of lividity, marking the regions where the blood had
ceased to circulate. To Judas, the governor didn’t even come close to
resembling the person he was when he was alive.
Cupping his gloved hands beneath
the governor’s arms, Judas dragged him to the edge of the Tidal Basin and set
him sailing across the water, the body floating dreamily across the surface
from the gases still trapped in his lungs and tissue.
After checking the area thoroughly
for anything he may have left behind, Judas got into the vehicle and worked his
way northbound.
#
Yahweh
sat at
the upper echelon of the American
political pecking order, one of the most powerful men in the world. In the
light of day, he was beloved by the people, devoted to his country, and willing
to fight for the cause of justice. But in the darkness he was corrupt and vile,
willing to do anything necessary to achieve his own aims, even if that meant
bypassing the laws he was sworn to protect and killing innocent people.
As far as Yahweh was concerned,
the pope was a pawn in his scheme—a man whose death would usher out the ways of
old and serve as a new beginning. Regrettably, he saw no other way.
Yahweh was a man who catered to
the public and reveled in their cheer. He found no excitement in the obscurity
of clandestine meetings. But Team Leader insisted that all matters pertaining
to the cause be discussed in a sterilized environment, free of any type of
surveillance. A federal limo in constant motion apparently fit the bill.
Yahweh’s chauffer drove his black
Fleetwood to the front of the M Street garage and stopped. The limo’s door
opened in invitation, and Team Leader stepped inside, taking a seat opposite
Yahweh in the darkness.
“Is it done?” asked Yahweh.
Team Leader nodded. “Judas is
dealing with the governor’s body as we speak.”
“Good.” Yahweh’s voice remained
impassive. “And was it quick?”
“What?”
“The killing.”
“Of course.”
“Did you look in his eyes before
you killed him?”
“I did.”
“And what did you see?”
Team Leader leaned forward. “I saw
in him what I have seen in the eyes of all men,” he said. “I saw a man who was
terrified of dying—someone who didn’t believe in anything beyond the moment of
his pathetic life.”
Yahweh nodded, then turned to view
the passing terrain outside the window.
While the limo continued through
the empty streets, a moment of silence passed between them before Yahweh spoke
again. “I do believe you have something for me.”
Team Leader reached into the inner
pocket of his combat fatigues and produced the videotape. “When will the proper
authorities get this?”
Yahweh took the tape and held it
close. “After I view this for myself and after they find the governor’s body.
I’ll distribute the tape to a CNN affiliate. And then the world will cry like
frightened children, knowing there is no hope for the Holy One.”
Team Leader tried to look through
the tinted windows, but could only see the faintly glowing orbs of the street
lamps as they passed. “And the world will finally be divided.”
Yahweh leaned forward. “When you
return to the holding ground, I want you to kill off the members of the Holy
See quickly, at least one a day. Build the world into a fast and furious
frenzy. Let them know the end is near.”
“You need to be patient.”
“Patience is a virtue I can’t
afford. Get it done.”
Although Team Leader couldn’t see
the man’s eyes, he knew Yahweh was measuring him.
The limo continued on.
Washington, D.C.
September 25, Morning
Kimball
Hayden had followed Shari Cohen home from the JEH Building the night before, in
a sedan borrowed from Cardinal Medeiros. While Kimball tailed Shari, the rest
of the Vatican Knights rested at the archdiocese.
He recognized the white Lexus and
the federal tags leaving the parking garage and followed her to a leafy,
upscale neighborhood north of D.C., where she lived in a two-story brownstone
with wrought-iron railings leading to the double doors and a picture window
that offered a perfect view of the park across the street. Often he looked at
her dossier, especially at the black and white glossy photo that resembled a
Hollywood headshot.
He knew he had to gain her trust,
but to do that he would have to violate the trust of the Vatican. To draw her
into an alliance he would have to tell her who he was and where he came from,
which was against the policies of the Vatican who wished the Knights to remain
anonymous. But Hayden saw no other way. If he wanted to gain the trust of Shari
Cohen, he would have to tell her the truth.
He could only pray she would keep
his secret.
#
Shari’s
phone rang
several times before she picked
up, her hand searching blindly for the receiver. She finally lifted it from its
cradle and pressed it to her ear. “Hello?”
“They found the governor’s body.”
Shari recognized Pappandopolous’
voice. “Where?”
“At the Tidal Basin. They’re
pulling the body out now.”
She shot up in bed, disturbing her
husband, who raised himself onto an elbow. “I’m on my way,” she told him.
Pappandopolous hung up. Without so
much as a word to Gary, she got dressed as fast as she could. Within five
minutes she was hopping toward the front door, trying to put on her last shoe.
#
By the
time
Shari arrived on the scene, the
governor’s body had already been pulled from the Tidal Basin. A perimeter had
been established along the shoreline. Behind the tape, the police were holding
the media at bay. Shari flashed her credentials, and an officer lifted the
yellow strip to allow her passage.
The weather was mild, the sky
blue. Before her the surface of the Tidal Basin rippled with the course of a
light wind, the motion calm and soothing. But Shari noticed none of this as she
made her way to the coroner’s van.
The vehicle’s rear was parked at
the basin’s edge, the doors open, a sealed body bag inside. When Shari got
there she badged the medical examiner.
“Show me what you’ve got.”
The examiner unzipped the body bag
to expose the governor’s face.
“Single gunshot wound to the
head,” he said. “By the size of the exit wound I would have to say it was a
medium to large caliber. The amount of antimony, barium and lead will help us
determine what type of weapon was used when we do a gunshot residue analysis.”
The medical examiner pointed to the entry wound, to the burns circling the
hole. “Definitely execution style,” he added. “Up close and neat. The mouth of
the barrel couldn’t have been more than two inches away when it went off.” He
turned to Shari. “Anything else you need to know before we get him on the
table?”
Shari examined the governor’s
face. It was severely swollen and unrecognizable, his skin marbled to a
purple-gray. “This is the governor?”
“Yeah, it’s him all right,” he
said, zipping up the bag. “We did a cursory identification through body
symbols: scars, moles, and so forth. Of course we’ll leave the official ID up
to the examination, but there’s no doubt in my mind that this is the governor.”
“He looks kind of . . . well—”
The examiner nodded, intuiting her
question. “Methane gas build-up,” he answered, “which bloats the skin. There’s
really nothing anomalous about it. But it’s him.” He closed the door to the
van. “Anything else?”
Shari looked across the basin.
“Could the water throw off the timeframe of the murder?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “The body
normally cools about one-point-five degrees per hour. As cold as this water is,
it’s my guess he was sent adrift to corrupt our findings. We’re really not
going to be able to pinpoint a time of death with any true accuracy on this
one. Hopefully we can learn more by examining trace elements, if they haven’t
been washed away.”
Shari closed her eyes, her mind
working. The same question kept surfacing at every turn of the investigation:
why were the Soldiers of Islam sanitizing their actions when the authorities
already knew their identities?
She opened her eyes. “You know who
found him?”
“A jogger,” he said, pointing to
the edge of the basin where a young woman wearing a spandex suit stood speaking
with three officers. “The one wearing the outfit that looks like it’s been
painted on.”
“Thanks. I’ll be in contact for
the autopsy results.”
Shari moved through the group of CSI investigators and made her way to the water’s edge where the jogger was nervously ringing her
hands. “Excuse me,” said Shari, presenting her badge, “I’m Special Agent Cohen
of the FBI. I understand that you’re the one who found the body?”
She nodded. “I am.”
The three officers didn’t
relinquish their territory as they stood with pens and pads in hand,
scrutinizing Shari as an intruder. But after ten minutes of questioning the
jogger, Shari concluded that nothing of value could be deduced from the witness
and thanked her, letting the officers re-stake their claim.
She then questioned the crime
scene investigators and learned that there was no perceptible sign as to when
the governor’s body was set adrift. The area was clean. This brought her back
to the question of why the Soldiers of Islam would leave the two bodies behind
in the Governor’s Mansion, letting the world know who they were, only to turn
around and cover their actions as if trying to protect their identities?
It just didn’t make sense.
After scribbling a few notes, she
checked her watch.
It was time to see a man about a
CD.
#
Kimball
Hayden watched
from the sidelines as Shari
Cohen held a brief discussion with the medical examiner. Then, after moving on
to talk to the witness and the crime scene investigators, she returned to her
Lexus. Just as she was about to insert the key into the door lock, Kimball
Hayden intercepted her.
