by Rick Jones
“Allahu Akbar.”
Just then, the acolyte returned carrying a container which appeared heavy by the way the cords of his muscles stuck out in his arm. After placing the lead-lined box on the desk, Houshmand gestured to him with a quick sweep of hand to open the lid. Flipping the clasps and raising the top, Fariq became enamored as his eyes lit up at the burnished sphere that sat inside its foam cushion.
“Three kilotons of Allah’s might,” said Houshmand. “The box is lined with lead, so it’ll be safe to transport. Once it arrives in Rome, your man will know what to do with it.” Then another wave from Houshmand which told the acolyte to secure the lid, which he did after snapping the clasps in place with two audible clicks.
“Questions?” Houshmand asked Fariq.
“No.”
“Very good, then. May Allah see you to Glory.”
Fariq smiled and nodded. “A few days from now,” he said, “Vatican City and half of Rome will be reduced to ashes. This ...I know will happen.”
Then from Houshmand, who would never see Fariq again, said “Allahu Akbar.”
Fariq’s smile blossomed. “Allahu Akbar.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
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Heathrow Airport
London
It was late evening when the Vatican Knights and Father Ferrano returned to Rome with Robert Bowman in a chartered jet. Though Bowman continued to offer his theories about God and Nature as a unified spiritual force to Father Ferrano and the rest of the Knights who sat in the front of the plane, Kimball tuned them out as he sat in the rear.
His thoughts centered on Shari Cohen, whom he had thought often about over the past few months. In his mind’s eye he could see the glimmer of light that sparked off a tooth when she parted her lips to smile at him. He saw the same sparkle in her eyes that were the color of newly minted pennies. And he wondered what life would be like if she embraced him and accepted him into her life, rather than to be indifferent about his advances.
Closing his eyes, he smiled and dreamed of a life away from the Vatican, where he could develop a relationship with someone he cared about, like Shari Cohen— his love, his life, his dream. He envisioned a home on a plot of land with hills of green grass surrounding it. He saw flower beds blooming with a riot of colors. And he watched Shari tend to them with a small spade, until she drove a hand across her sweaty brow only to streak it with soil. Then she turned to Kimball and smiled, the two laughing. In the background their children played, a boy and a girl, along with a dog, a yellow lab, who bounded and played and loved their children as much as he and Shari did. Here, inside his mind, life was good. There was no more killing, no more bloodshed, there was only this home inside of a rural area that was surrounded by indescribable beauty and love. In his mind was Heaven. In his mind—
“You mind? I hope you’re weren’t sleeping,” said Bowman. “It seems like you were thinking about something pleasant. I hope I’m not bothering you.”
Kimball opened his eyes and took a long pull of air into his lungs, only to release it as a sigh through his nostrils. “No,” he said. “Please ...take a seat.”
Bowman sat next to Kimball but didn’t say anything for a minute or so. But then: “Tell me, what’s it like to be a Vatican Knight? How do you commit yourself fully to a God whom you’ve never seen or heard? I’m curious, since there’s no evidence of God’s existence outside of blind faith.”
Kimball remained quiet.
“Is it because you fear something? And you believe in Him because you’re hoping that God will forgive you for the things you’ve done, just in case?”
“Just in case of what?”
“Just in case God does exist.”
“Why are we talking about this?”
Bowman crossed his arms over his chest. “Because I think of the same thing,” he admitted.
“Do you?”
Bowman nodded as he looked straight ahead to the fore of the plane. “I truly believe in a spiritual and a natural divineness that controls everything to perfection through Nature, since Nature is an absolutely perfect machine. And because my thinking is not conventional, I wonder from time to time if I’m wrong, perhaps thinking that if God does exist in a conventional manner, will He damn me for my conformist beliefs and send me to Hell.”
When Kimball turned to him, he saw that Bowman’s eyes remained forward. It was odd, Kimball thought, that a man who made his living as a religious conformist held similar fears as he did, about whether God would forgive somebody who lived their lives beyond the framework teachings of the Bible. Turning and leaning his head against the headrest of his seat until he, too, was looking forward, Kimball said, “Not a day goes by without me thinking about whether I’ll be forgiven or not. Not a day goes by where I don’t fear the consequences of my actions.”
“Then why do you do it?” Bowman asked him.
“I do what I do,” said Kimball, “thinking that if He does exist, then He’ll forgive me and bless me with a life that I want ...Instead of the life I have.”
“So, you’re unhappy at the Vatican?”
“No. But I believe there has to be something better. Something I can wrap my arms around and embrace it wholly.”
Bowman nodded. Then: “You’re talking about happiness.”
Kimball remained silent.
After a few bumps in the air from turbulence, Bowman quietly got up and returned to the front of the plane, leaving Kimball alone once again.
The Vatican Knight, who closed his eyes so that he could dream of another life in another time, saw nothing but darkness within his mind’s eye.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
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The Warehouse District
The Outskirts of Rome
The Following Day
Inside of a warehouse located on the outskirts of Rome, Master Kang was examining the pieces necessary to fabricate an WMD. Each piece had been couriered in by members of Kattan’s ISIS unit for a total number of twenty-pieces, from twenty-six different insurgents.
The warehouse was vast with an open floor that had myriad stations for the processing of general assembly goods and commodities, like military-grade hardware. But the warehouse had shut down at the end of the Second World War due to the end of the conflict. Now the building was an aged fossil whose windows had broken long ago and its roof showing signs of buckling.
In the center of the warehouse was Master Kang’s workstation, which was a series of tables pieced together like one long table at a medieval feast. On top were the separated pieces with some as small as a thumbnail. By themselves they would not draw inquiries if discovered by border or security agents, which is why Kattan asked for each piece to be delivered individually through safe channels, with all the pieces gathered except for one, which was en route from Damascus.
As Master Kang spread the pieces across the tables, he took extensive time to study every article. A digital timer, the grades of wiring, the primary and secondary triggers, the harness, explosive lenses, everything to nuclearize a weapon that was greater than a dirty bomb, but capable of driving a mushroom cloud from the hypocenter of the blast, which would be the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome. Upon detonation, with the bomb resembling Russia’s Cold War units that were about the size of a five-gallon bucket, Rome and Vatican City would become wastelands for thousands of years to come.
While Master Kang examined the products, Kattan entered the facility wearing a smart-looking suit surrounded by the members of his brewing army and took position next to the North Korean.
“Master Kang,” he said. “Good to see you again. I assume that you’re happy with the articles you see before you.”
“High quality,” was all he stated in a clipped manner.
“Of course,” said Kattan.
“And the crucible?”
“But a few moments away,” answered Kattan. “It’ll be here very shortly, which is why I’m here. I would like
to see it as much as you do.”
The North Korean gave Kattan a sidelong look. “You do understand that the device you asked me to create will not have as much impact as you think it might.” “Master Kang, the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore is roughly five kilometers from Vatican City. All I need to know is if the device, even in its crudest form, is capable of destroying half of Rome and Vatican City, on a three-kiloton yield.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then there’s nothing more to discuss. You’ve been paid. The pieces are as you requested, nothing but top quality. And the final two pieces to this puzzle you’re about to piece together are on the way. Now my question to you, Master Kang, since everything is time sensitive, is how long will it take you to manufacture the device once all the pieces are in place.”
“Two days,” he answered. “The most difficult part will be assembling the sphere into the case.”
“The sphere you speak of, Master Kang, as we speak, has arrived in Serbia and will be here within two days. So, everything appears to be moving along nicely.”
At the other end of the building, a cargo door was lifted manually by an insurgent who had an AK-47 festooned across his back like a bandolier and was allowing an SUV to enter the warehouse. With a gesture of his hand and with few words exchanged, the driver then sped across the open floor until he came upon Kattan and Master Kang. Getting out of the vehicle and opening the hatch, the driver removed an item covered with a chamois cloth from the rear and labored to place it on the table before Master Kang.
“Remove the cloth,” ordered Kattan.
The driver did as he was told, the Syrian stripping the cloth from the crucible like a magician who whips a tablecloth out from under glassware and crockery. The crucible glowed with an aura of gold. The angels that adorned it were magnificent. The craftsmanship was undeniably pure and precise, the vessel an exact replica where untrained eyes could not determine the counterfeit from the genuine artifact.
“Perfect,” Kattan whispered in awe as he went to the crucible to trace his fingers softly over its surface, which was as smooth as ice and just as cold. “Magnificent.” And then to the driver, “Remove the lid and be careful.”
The driver, whose muscles strained because the lid was heavy, placed it on the table next to a few of Kang’s wares. Looking inside, Kang and Kattan studied the interior fixtures that had been soldered on by the Craftsman to secure the pieces like mounting rods and brackets.
“Is it up to standards, Master Kang?” asked Kattan.
The North Korean, however, didn’t appear to hear him as he reached inside and started to feel for looseness of any welded pieces. Finding everything proper and to specs, Master Kang said, “It’s perfect.”
Kattan nodded his approval at this. “Excellent. Then we can proceed, yes?”
“All depends,” said Master Kang. “Unless we have the final piece, it’s useless.”
“That piece, Master Kang, as I told you before, is on its way from Serbia. From now until it gets here, you can begin the phases of manufacture now that you have all that you need in front of you.”
The North Korean nodded. “Understood.”
“Very well, then. Have at it, Master Kang. I’m sure you’ll do a wonderful job given your classification of knowledge and skills.”
Saying nothing to Kattan, Master Kang went immediately to work.
* * *
Just outside the warehouse, Abdallah Kattan was standing by the SUV with one of his ISIS lieutenants, a man by the name of Hussein Massan. In the distance was the magnificent city of Rome, which, as far as Kattan was concerned, was an empire about to fall for a second time.
“Allah has blessed us,” Hussein Massan told him. “Everything is falling into place without opposition.”
Kattan held a hand up at that, the gesture telling Massan not to get his hopes too high. “Do not get overly excited, Hussein. The crucible is nothing more than a crucible, until it is fitted with the final piece. Anything can happen between here and Serbia. Let us pray that Allah guides Fariq safely through the channels.”
“And the team?”
Kattan thought about this. For years he’d been planning to breach the ranks of the Vatican and to kill it like a cancer from the inside out. So far, he had established the breach as Cardinal Alnasseri, but he was also sensing a rising suspicion within the ranks. After Cardinal Restucci’s disappearance, he was wondering if the suspicions he was detecting had been drawn from his own sense of paranoia.
Though cardinals had little acknowledgement of one another outside of the diocese they captained in faraway lands, it was only the Conclave that brought them together. Other times they would gather upon the orders of the pontiff to discuss clerical matters of grave importance, which were far and few between. Nevertheless, the disappearance of Cardinal Restucci was giving rise to conspiracy theories within the circle of clerics. Would talk finally fall back on him? he wondered. Would accusing fingers begin to point his way? Would Vatican officials begin to wonder and ask questions? Would his true background as an ISIS commander be exposed?
Kattan closed his eyes to collect himself. But the sense of paranoia remained, prompting him to say, “The team will move and see this through,” he told Hussein. “They will cut a swatch through the land as the sword of Allah and bring down the false prophets once and for all.”
“They will be pleased to hear this.”
“They will be more pleased when they reach Paradise,” he returned.
“So, your plans for the team?”
“When the time comes, Hussein, each man in my unit will know what to do. The primary objective here is to see that the replica is exchanged for the real crucible. The remnants of Jesus’ crib will sell on the black market that will not only pay for this mission, but for future missions as well. In the meantime, half of Rome and the entirety of Vatican City will be nothing more than a smoldering crater upon the landscape. This I have seen for many years through visions granted to me by Allah. And in three days’ time, Hussein, those visions will finally come true.”
“Then I will have the men pray unto Allah until then.”
Kattan nodded. Then: “Let them understand that Allah will embrace them all.”
“I will, Kattan.”
Then Abdallah said, “Now go, Hussein, and see to the men. Prepare them for the final battle against the king of false prophets.”
After Hussein bowed and walked away, Abdallah Kattan continued to look over the vista of a distant Rome. The city which sits upon the Seven Hills, he thought, will once again come to ruins.
His army was gathering.
His weapon of mass destruction was being pieced together. And his agenda that he’d been planning for years of destroying his enemy from within was about to come to fruition.
Three days, he told himself. That’s all I need. Just three days.
But if there was one thing he had learned over time, anything at all, it was that anything can happen. Especially when the Vatican Knights were always an arm’s length away. But if he should be exposed and fail in his endeavors, should that accusing finger finally fall on him as the insurrectionist that he is, Abdallah Kattan had little concerns.
Inside the Vatican, should he fail, another would not, because inside the Vatican there was another like him.
Abdallah Kattan, who slowly raised one corner of his lip, smiled.
Allahu Akbar.
Chapter Forty
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Rome
The Brimstone Diaries had never left Rome, the tome whose pages had been started by the hand of Saint Peter and added to over the ages by Vatican scribes. Now, as Martin Gemini traced his fingertips over sheets that were as delicate as dry parchment, he recalled the moments when his war was fought by his brother’s side. Though he was not the field operator like his brother Walton, he was by far the more cerebral of the two. But he was just as dangerous, if not more so, as his twin due to his volcanic nature.
Pressing his palms against his temples to calm the pain, Martin could hear his father’s voice crying out with a fire-and-brimstone rage of such an atrocity, and that the blessed line should have ended on the cross with the Messiah’s crucifixion. “Those born from the womb of sin shall carry sin in the name of Satan!”
Martin grimaced as the pain of his father’s voice screamed inside his head.
“And those who continue to spread Satan’s seed shall eventually inherit the Earth, if the soldiers of God do not rise up with holy conviction to stop Satan’s reach!”
The white-hot pain in Martin’s skull was so crippling that it dropped him to his knees. “Stop!” he yelled, the large man now cradling his head. “No more, Papa, please!”
“And there you kneel,” he heard his father say from the grave. “There you are upon your knees when you are supposed to be a servant of God. You disgust me, Martin. You’ve always been a great disappointment to me. At least your brother served God until his sacrifice unto Him was complete.”
“I said stop it!”
“Get up,” he could hear his father say. “Get off your knees and take up the scepter of battle that your brother had carried and use it to smite down the wicked!”
“I don’t know where Bowman is!”
“Then by God’s direction, Martin, seek him out! Seek them all out and let God decide their fates. If you sit there and do nothing, then in the eyes of the Lord you are nothing but a useless soul who will burn in the Eternal Lakes of Fire!”
