Vatican Knights (14 page)
Authors: Rick Jones
As a
government official, it was Yahweh’s duty to understand the enemy and its
mindset. However, it truly escaped him why the enemy was so willing to surrender
its life for its god, without fear or hesitation.
Was the enemy’s belief in the
afterlife so strong, so rooted, that it considered the corporeal life less
substantial than the spiritual one? Was the true reward death? It was amazing
how cultures viewed the difference between the virtues of living and dying.
Yahweh had watched the video
repeatedly. The tape made it apparent that the governor did not share the same
convictions as his Arab enemies, the fear of his impending murder evident. He
was clearly unwilling to die for an afterlife that he may or may not have
believed in. The governor, in fact, was representative of the weak principles
of faith in this country.
After placing the video in an
envelope, he sealed it using a wet sponge and had Judas drop it off at an
affiliate station of CNN shortly after the governor’s discovery.
Once done, Judas made a call to
the station and played a taped recording, first in Arabic, then in accented
English, advising that the Soldiers of Islam were claiming responsibility for
the governor’s death. Further statements demanded that their conditions be met
or the pope would soon be lying beside the governor. End of message.
When Judas clicked off the tape,
he calmly hung up the receiver and walked away with a ten-million-dollar
smile.
#
“Ms.
Cohen?” The
tall man emerged seemingly
from nowhere. “Shari Cohen?”
Shari looked up into the face of a
man who, by her estimate, stood a full foot taller than her, and she was
five-six. He was wearing black tactical pants that blossomed at the top of
military boots and a cleric’s shirt bearing a starch-white Roman collar. “Yes,
Father.”
He offered his hand and gave her a
genuine and pleasing smile, which heightened his handsome features. “My name is
Kimball Hayden.”
For some reason that name struck a
chord with her, but she couldn’t quite match the name with the face. “What can
I do for you, Father Hayden?”
“To begin with, ma’am, I’m not a
priest. I think it’s important that you know that.”
She looked at the Roman collar.
“It’s part of our uniform,” he
answered.
“What exactly do you want, Mr.
Hayden?”
“Your help.”
She got the key into the lock and
turned it. The door lock popped up. “And what help might that be?”
“I understand you’re the one
spearheading the investigation into the kidnapping of Pope Pius the Thirteenth,
and that Mr. Paxton is simply following your lead.”
She now felt uneasy and gave a
quick glance over to the police presence along the basin.
“Ms. Cohen, please. It’s
important you understand that I’m an emissary sent from the Vatican. You can
check this out with the archdiocese in Washington. Cardinal Medeiros will
verify who I am.”
“How do you know me?”
“I don’t. I just know what your
role is.”
“Then how do you know that?”
“Ms. Cohen, the arms of the
Vatican are long and wide, even within your own political branches. I’m not
going to reveal your secret. I’m simply here to earn your trust so we can work
together to achieve our mutual aim—to bring home our pope.”
Shari cocked her head slightly.
“Are you a Swiss Guard?”
“No, ma’am. I’m part of a group of
operatives known only to the pope and a few others. Our job is to preserve the
lives of the innocent. I can’t tell you too much more than that, I’m
afraid.”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t help
you.” She opened the door to her Lexus. “Good day, Mr. Hayden.”
“Ms. Cohen, please. Call the
archdiocese. They’ll confirm who I am and the nature of my visit.” He gave her
Cardinal Medeiros’ business card. “Please.”
Shari got into her vehicle,
started the engine and cocked her head out the window. “I don’t know who you
are, Mr. Hayden, but this is strictly a federal matter. Misguided vigilante
groups like yours, well-intentioned as they may be, only make matters worse. So
stay away.”
“All I’m asking is for you call
the archdiocese and confirm who I am. You’ll be able to contact me through
them.”
“I’m a busy person, Mr. Hayden.
Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
As she drove away, she quickly
crumpled the card and tossed it into the recess of the ashtray. Her only
thought at the moment was to see Abraham Obadiah.
#
Boston, Massachusetts
September 25, Morning
Kodiak
had sent
King Snake and Boa to check the
perimeter for possible breaches in the system. Lasers had been installed along
the first floor of the abandoned building in a series of intertwining networks;
a single line broken would automatically trigger a warning to the bank of
security monitors situated on the third floor. So far the system did the job;
the amber light on the monitor flashed occasionally when a rat crossed the eye
of the laser and broke the beam. They had prepared the building well.
After examining the monitors,
Kodiak checked on the bishops of the Holy See, who cowered in his presence. Not
a single man dared to look him in the eye. At the end of the row lay the empty
mattress of the governor. The bishops could guess why the governor had never
returned. And soon, they feared, the whole row would be empty.
Walking down the hallway, the
cadence of his footfalls casting a hollow, foreboding echo, Kodiak entered the
pope’s room, removed his pistol, engaged the laser sight, and placed the red
dot in the center of the pope’s forehead. He then bounced the dot from one eye
to the other in a malicious game of eenie-meenie-minie-moe. But the pope
refused to flinch.
Tiring of the large man’s game,
the pope faced him. “Do what you must and be done with it.”
Kodiak stopped the taunting and
holstered his weapon. “Just a tune-up before the real thing, Padre.”
Pope Pius XIII leaned forward, his
aged face caught half in light and half in shadow. “Will you be the brave soul
that kills a defenseless old man chained to a wall?”
The muscles in the back of
Kodiak’s jaw tensed. “I’m afraid that privilege is for somebody else.”
“The man who speaks with an
accent?”
Kodiak remained silent.
“I see that you have no such
accent. In fact, you sound American. Why would that be?”
Kodiak leaned forward as if to
step up to a challenge. The size discrepancy between the two made the pope look
like a small child within the larger man’s presence. But somehow the smaller
man seemed to bear unimaginable strength.
Kodiak knelt until he could
clearly see the weathered face of the old man. “You really think this is about
meeting certain conditions to gain your release?” He leaned forward and beckoned
the pope into closer counsel. “When the bullet finally penetrates your skull,”
he whispered as if sharing a secret, “the Arab world will fall in the wake of
your death.”
The dark truth dawned on the old
man like a sudden epiphany. His jaw dropped and his eyes held sudden
recognition.
“That’s right,” said Kodiak, a
smile forming on his grotesquely scarred face. “Now you’re getting the whole
picture, aren’t you?”
When Kodiak refused to retreat,
the pope drew his hands to his face and recalled the cryptic words of the man
with the accent:
whereas your Christ was the King of Kings who readily
embraced the world, Pope Pius XIII shall become the Martyr of Martyrs who will
divide it.
The meaning was all too clear.
“That’s right, Padre. You’re the
best weapon the twenty-first century has to offer.”
The old man wept.
The White House
September 25, Noon
While on
her way to the Embassy of Israel, Shari received a text message from Chief
Advisor Alan Thornton, requesting her immediate presence at the White House
Situation Room. There was no further explanation.
Upon her arrival Shari sat with
the president, vice president, attorney general, FBI director and key advisors,
including Alan Thornton. The discomfort was palpable.
“This morning,” said President
Burroughs, “we received word that the Soldiers of Islam had made contact with
CNN’s affiliate station, providing them with a tape of the governor’s
execution. We immediately issued a warrant to get the tape into our possession,
but not before the station had broadcast snippets of the tape on the air. By
now it’s probably on every website throughout the world.” He turned to Alan
Thornton. “Damage assessment?”
Thornton glanced briefly at the
contents of a single sheet of paper in front of him. “According to Aljazeera,
terrorist groups in the Middle East are targeting foreign nationals in homage
to the Soldiers of Islam. The CIA is picking up messages from chat rooms of
potential plots to kidnap foreign dignitaries aligned with the United States
and its allies. There are reports of hate crimes being perpetrated against Arab
citizens throughout this nation. And predominantly Catholic nations, especially
those in Europe and South America, are burning you in effigy, Mr. President,
for allowing this to happen.”
President Burroughs sighed. “Has
the tape at least provided us with anything we can use? Anything at all?”
Attorney General Dean Hamilton
proffered what he knew. “The executioner on the tape called himself
Abdul-Aliyy, which is a pseudonym. We already know the names of the six
remaining Soldiers of Islam, and Abdul-Aliyy is not one of them. In fact,
Abdul-Aliyy in Arabic means ‘Server of the Most High.’”
“A religious moniker that would
motivate the Arab world into a frenzy, since they’ve captured the so-called
apostle to the Great Satan,” stated the president.
“Exactly, sir.”
“Calling himself Abdul-Aliyy
indicates that the tape may have been made prior to the media exposing their
identities,” added the president. “They obviously couldn’t doctor the tape at
that point because they had already committed the execution. But why provide a
false name if the world already knows who you are?”
“For martyrdom,” said Shari. “In
Arab culture religion is everything. By giving themselves a moniker such as
Abdul-Aliyy, they’re anointing themselves as martyrs. In the Arab world,
martyrs are heroic fighters of Allah who are promised eternal heaven. But from
a practical standpoint, it also incites the Arab public into a zealous passion,
cultivated by millennia of religious beliefs.”
The president rubbed the fatigue
from his eyes. “What else have we got?”
Hamilton spoke. “The tape is in
fluent Arabic. And, of course, there are the demands.”
President Burroughs closed his raw
eyes once again; his tension headache was coming on like a bull. Hamilton
continued his summation of the video, citing the demands. All occupation by
American and Allied forces was to cease immediately, all Arab prisoners held by
the occupying forces were to be released, and Israel was to be removed from
Arab soil.
“They’re not asking for much, are
they?” the vice president offered sarcastically. “And I’m sure Israel will just
get up and leave in a heartbeat.”
“They know we can’t meet their
demands,” said the president.
“What about the tape itself?”
asked Bohlmer. The vice president leaned forward. “Has anything been determined
from the background noise, or perhaps the visual background?”
“The lab is still working on it,
sir. But right now—”
“But right now we have nothing,”
the president interrupted angrily.
“All we can do, Mr. President, is
beef up law enforcement in this area to keep them from slipping in and out like
they did last night.”
“They won’t follow up their
actions with a repeat performance,” said Shari. “What they did last night was
in return for showing the world their identities. It’s point-counterpoint. Even
though we tagged them, they still came into our front yard and placed the
governor right on our doorstep. They’re showing the world that they’re still in
control. And now that they’ve achieved their objective, they know that the net
will tighten. They’ll be much more careful next time.”
The president slapped an open palm
against the tabletop. “There will
be
no next time,
people, which
means I want answers! Not guesses!” He released a frustrated sigh before
regaining composure. “What I want to hear,” he said evenly, “what I want to
know is what we’re doing right now to find these people.”
“Mr. President, if I may,” said Attorney General Hamilton. “As Mr. Johnston
already pointed out, we are
examining the tape further. However, given
that the tape seems to show a background consistent with an abandoned building,
we’ve engaged the services of county and state law enforcement to search all
vacant buildings within a hundred-mile radius.”
“That may take forever,” the
president commented.
“Yes, sir, but we have nothing
else to go on.”
The president’s headache came on
in a rush. “Ms. Cohen, you know these people, their culture. What do you expect
to happen next?”
Shari held nothing back. “I
expect, Mr. President, that they will kill a member of the Holy See.”
“Not the pope?”
“No, sir. I believe the Soldiers
of Islam are trying to build momentum. They want to push this country into a
state of panic. Their dominance is fostering pride within Arab nations who are
uniting against a common enemy, which happens to be the most powerful nation on
earth. They are, Mr. President, trying to create their own sense of
invincibility.”
The president had never felt so
impotent. “God forgive me, but I really don’t know what to do at this point.”
He turned to Thornton. “Al?”
Thornton shook his head. “For the
moment, Mr. President, you need to address the world and tell them what they
want to hear.”
“What? That the pope is going to
die unless we get a break?”
“No, sir. You need to tell the
world in an official statement that we are working with the nations of the
world in a unified effort to secure the release of the pontiff.”
“They already know that!”
“Yes, sir, but the world needs to
be reassured that every possible effort is being made.”
“I agree,” said the vice
president. “Right, wrong or indifferent, Jim, we need to show the world that
we’re still a pillar of strength.”
The president turned to Shari.
“Ms. Cohen?”
“Right now the Soldiers of Islam
definitely have the upper hand. But the image we project to the world must be
one of confidence and unity.”
The president chewed his lower
lip. “How long do you think I can play this game, Ms. Cohen, until the
international community figures out our strategy?”
“As long as it takes to buy us
some time.”
“Does that mean you’re confident
in your ability to find this cell?”
“It means, Mr. President, I need
time to look deeper into the matter.”
The president remained silent. The
whole room was silent.
“Ms. Cohen, we’re running out of
time, and the world is running out of patience. What can you tell me that would
be fact rather than conjecture?”
“I can safely say, Mr. President,
that there’ll be more executions before we get a handle on this.”
It was not what the president
wanted to hear. “Have the staff draw up a positive news release,” he said. “And
let’s hope the world buys it hook, line and sinker. And, Ms. Cohen?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Your expertise in this matter
hasn’t impressed me much, thus far. I need facts.”
“Yes, sir, I’m working on it.”
He leaned forward. “Work faster.”
