by Rick Jones
Then Father Ferrano was upon him, the man now bringing the knife down with a diagonal sweep, the chop missing and striking the counter, which coughed up a spark as Kimball quickly ducked to the side, turned, and threw a kick to the side of Ferrano’s knee, which hobbled him. When Father Ferrano tried to stand, Kimball was on top of him. The Vatican Knight then drove the point of his elbow to the crown of Ferrano’s head, the powerful impact jamming the priest’s neck downward to cause white-hot pain to shoot down his spinal column.
But Ferrano was relentless as he tried to get to his feet. But Kimball grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted it so that Ferrano’s weight worked against him, and then he flipped the priest into a full circle through the air before he hit the floor, and hard, the knife skating a few inches free from Ferrano’s hand. Kimball, after picking up the knife and then forcing Ferrano onto his stomach, quickly placed a knee on his back to immobilize him, then forced Ferrano’s arm upward at such an awkward position that the priest barked a cry. After forcing Ferrano’s fingers apart so that it resembled a Vulcan salute, that V-shaped splay that divided the fingers equally,
Kimball placed the edge of the knife’s blade between the middle and ring fingers. “You will tell me everything I want to know,” he told Ferrano. “Or so help me, I will saw this knife through your hand, wrist, all the way down your arm until I reach your elbow, if I have to. Now talk. I want to know why you have breached the Vatican ranks as a priest.”
Father Ferrano tried to struggle free out from underneath Kimball’s weighted knee and failed.
“I’m not kidding,” he told Ferrano. “Why have you breached the Vatican ranks as a priest? What’s the purpose behind it?”
“I’ve nothing to say,” Ferrano was able to muster.
“No?”
“NO!”
Kimball started to saw the knife through the soft flesh, the blade beginning to bite deep between the bones of the knuckles. Ferrano cried out with agony.
Kimball stopped sawing. “Talk.”
The priest shook his head, refusing.
“I meant what I said, Ferrano, or Naba, or whatever, about slicing you all the way down to your elbow. Now talk.”
“You can’t do this.” Father Ferrano sounded exhausted. “You’re a Vatican Knight.”
“You said you read my biographical record. If that’s true, then you know I often move to the beat of my own drummer.”
“If that’s true, then you shouldn’t be a Vatican Knight if you choose not to follow their ethical code ...You don’t deserve to be a Vatican Knight.”
Kimball leaned over him. “You know something, Ferrano? You just might be right about that.” When he pulled away, he asked, “Now, are you going to talk to me or not?”
Ferrano didn’t say or do anything.
“Last chance, Ferrano. I won’t ask again.”
When Father Ferrano remained quiet, Kimball said, “It’s your choice,” and began to saw the blade of the knife until it was below the knuckles and nearly halfway through the hand before he stopped.
Father Ferrano bucked madly beneath Kimball’s knee to extract himself, but the actions proved futile.
“This will all stop when you tell me what I need to know. I have no wish to continue. Believe me. But I will do as I promised if you don’t. Once I cut through the rest of the hand and the wrist, there’s nothing but soft flesh between the bones of your forearm until I reach the elbow. Your choice, Ferrano. I can either stop or continue on.”
Finally, the priest relented and tapped out. In the subsequent hour that followed, Father Ferrano told Kimball everything he needed to know, which included Kattan’s faction and the hub of their activity.
When the warehouse where the terrorist faction was alleged to be was canvassed by the Vatican Knights, the area was found to be sanitized and the terrorists missing with no idea where they had moved to, which led to minimal options to find them.
Nevertheless, Kimball was working on an idea.
Chapter Fifty-One
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Cerveteri, Northern Lazio
Metropolitan City of Rome
11:06 p.m.
After sanitizing the warehouse, Abdallah Kattan had moved the hub of the operation to the town and commune of Northern Lazio, which is a region in Rome, waiting inside an abandoned depository for the moment of the final commencement. Though Fariq appeared anticipatory of what was to happen, Kattan appeared agitated. With twelve heavily armed insurgents waiting for a final jihad against Vatican City to begin, Kattan kept looking at his watch.
“You appear upset,” Fariq commented to Kattan.
“Naba was supposed to be here two hours ago with updates as to how to proceed to the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore without coming into contact with security.” He took another glance at his watch. “And time is growing increasingly dangerous as long as the timer of the device continues its march toward zero hour. My worry is that he may have been compromised.”
“He was not a soldier as we are,” Fariq told him. “He was an intelligence gatherer who worked both sides of the fence to pass along intel to our brothers in the Middle East. Now that the Vatican is about to become ruins, perhaps he no longer saw the benefit to stay behind.”
Kattan considered this already. Then he produced his cellphone and held it face forward to Fariq. “No return texts or calls. And that, Fariq, is not the Faisal Naba I know.” After tucking the cellphone into a shirt pocket, he added, “We cannot wait another minute. We need to exchange the fake relic for the real one. I have a buyer in Switzerland who is willing to pay a black-market value that’s five million in American dollars above the asking price. And that, Fariq, will finance the cause for a long time to come.” Abdullah Kattan then placed a hand on Fariq’s shoulder.
“Tell me, my brother, are you ready for Paradise?”
Fariq raised his chin and smiled with unbridled pride before pounding his chest once with his fist. “Allah will embrace me for His cause, like a father who greets a son.” Then he extended his hand out to emphasize the armed soldiers around him while saying, “All of us are ready to die for Allah, Abdallah. We’re ready.”
Abdallah Kattan, however, was not on the same page as these people and had no interest in dying or being martyred. Kattan’s interest was purely motivational by increasing the funds to keep the war going on as many fronts as possible. After Kattan patted Fariq’s shoulder a couple of times, he said, “We need to move now, since the device continues to wind down to zero hour. We have wasted too much time waiting for Naba, and we’re well beyond schedule. I need to be far from the blast site with the crucible that contains the true remnants of the fabled cradle when the weapon goes off.”
“I understand, Abdallah.”
“And your team?”
“They will set a perimeter within the shadows that surround the basilica before entering. Should there be any opposition, then it will be met with furious valor.” After a couple of more pats on Fariq’s shoulder, Abdallah Kattan lowered his hand and waved to the insurrectionists. In Arabic, the man who once dressed as Cardinal Alnasseri spurred them on with chants of Allahu Akbar.
After several cries of Allahu Akbar while raising their weapons high at every exclamation, they were then ordered into their vehicles where they would drive to the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore.
Though the basilica was not in Vatican City, it was close enough to wipe it clean from this planet. More so, there would be no opposition to contend with, such as Vatican Security or the Swiss Guard, and most especially against the Vatican Knights.
As the vehicles made their way south, Abdallah Kattan was glad to be rid of the second skin of the cardinal’s cloak, with the filth of the robe always making him feel unclean. And no more would he have to face Kimball Hayden and hide the venom in his eyes when he did so. In a couple of hours, he thought, he would avenge his brother’s death by killing his murderer.
And Kimball Hayden and the Knights who fought be
side him would be nothing more than footnotes in history the moment St. Peter’s Basilica burned to the ground.
Abdallah Kattan looked nervously at his watch.
In his mind, time was getting too close for comfort.
...02:53:28...
...02:53:27...
...02:53:26...
* * *
The Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore, Rome
12:53 a.m.
The Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore was a magnificent structure that was situated a few miles from Vatican City. The façade of the basilica faced a wide-open piazza that was cordoned off by decorative wrought-iron fencing, a minor obstacle deemed by Kattan as he watched the piazza from a distance through NVG binoculars.
Other members were watching from a distance as well to determine approachability, with every member of the team hooked up to lip mics.
Kattan looked at his watch.
...00:46:12...
...00:46:11...
...00:46:10...
Then into his lip mic, Kattan asked, “Any hostiles or targets from anyone’s vantage points?”
There were three teams already on the landscape with Fariq inside the vehicle with Abdallah Kattan. As communication came in from all units stating that the piazza was quiet and that nobody was showing up on thermal imagery, Kattan gave Fariq the order to make a pass close to the wrought-iron gate.
After making a drive-by without drawing attention, Fariq slowed the vehicle and stopped. In the back was the WMD.
“Units check in,” Kattan said into his lip mic. Still, the reporting teams caught no motions through their devices.
The piazza was clear.
“Move.”
Backing the vehicle close to the fence, Fariq opened the hatch door in the rear, and with the aid of a four-man crew that came forth from the shadows, grabbed the crucible and managed to lift it over the fence, carry it up the stairs and across the stone landing, until they reached the grand doorway of the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore. The entire operation took twenty seconds according to Kattan’s watch, as Fariq drove the vehicle into the shadows beyond the piazza. The only thing that bothered Kattan was the red brake lights that shined like beacons when Fariq parked the SUV.
On the fortieth second, they were joined on the stone landing by teams two and three. The men were wearing Kevlar and carrying suppressed automatic weapons. The door, when tried and as expected, was locked. So Kattan motioned to the team leader of Unit Two by pumping a fist toward the locking mechanism, which team leader acknowledged by nodding his head, raised his weapon, and sent off a couple of rounds into the lock. After a pair of muzzle flashes and a couple of subdued noises that sounded like loud spits, the operator pushed the door wide and entered the basilica with his head and weapon on a swivel. The team maneuvered into the church with every other man alternating their sides of entry, with even-numbered men moving to the left and the odd-numbered men moving to the right, the teams fanning out.
The basilica was empty, which Kattan found odd considering the treasure within. It wasn’t likely that the crucible containing a valued prize that was on the same level as the Shroud of Turin or the Holy Grail would go unprotected. Yet this was the case.
And a red flag to Kattan.
As the teams spread out panning their weapons from left to right, then up and across, Abdallah Kattan made his way to the center of the church with two team members carrying the fake crucible behind him.
In the center of the church and beneath the dome that was adorned with colorful frescoes, was the divine structure of two bronze angels that guarded the stairway that led down to the Reliquary of the Holy Crib.
Forcing the gate aside, Kattan ordered his topside team to keep watch as he and his team descended into the reliquary. Using their NVG goggles to guide them below, Kattan and his two-man team made their way to a short hallway whose walls were decorated with vibrant-colored frescoes. At the end of this short hallway and on display was the Sacra Culla, the holy crucible that contained the pieces of Jesus’ crib. Whereas the sight would steal away one’s breath due to exhilaration at such a sight, Kattan’s was stolen away after seeing only dollar signs. In this crucible that was filled with pieces of ancient wood, was the fortune that would see ISIS through many battles.
Speaking softly into his lip mic, Abdallah Kattan ordered his people to carefully remove the genuine relic and replace it with the false one. When the fake crucible was poised on the altar with the true Sacra Culla now sitting at his feet, Kattan lifted the heavy lid to look at the bounty within. Pieces of splintered wood, he told himself, worth a king’s fortune to someone who was willing to pay fifteen million dollars in American currency. But when the lid was removed, Kattan felt a sudden shock to his system as if his heart misfired deep inside his chest.
The crucible was empty.
Rearing back, Kattan immediately spoke into his lip mic with urgency. “Fariq!
...Fariq!”
Nothing came back but the sound of white noise.
* * *
After Fariq parked the vehicle inside the shadows west of the basilica, he grabbed his suppressed weapon, an MP7, from the passenger side seat, and closed the door until it locked with a soft click. When he rounded the van and began to make his way back to the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore, he was confronted by a tall shadow that was blacker than black. The highlighted feature that stood out from this shape was the stark white square of the Roman Catholic collar around his neck.
A priest.
The moment Fariq attempted to spin and turn his weapon on the shape, the shadow lashed out with a fist that connected with Fariq’s jaw, the Arab’s head snapping back with such violence that pinpricks of light ignited in his mind’s eye as starbursts of white embers. When he tried to gather himself, the shape was already on top of him, the black mass pummeling its way forward like a ram, beating and pounding with straight jabs and punches, the strikes landing until Fariq could stand no more.
As the Arab stumbled and lost his footing, he pulled the trigger with the point of his weapon moving vertically upward with the rounds going skyward. But in those brief muzzle flashes that seemed to explode with the slowness of a bad dream where everything inexplicably appeared to decelerate, Fariq saw within the pulsating light the face of a man who could not mask his rage, and a person who wore the garments of a priest who was capable of great brutality. Here was the priest who is not a priest, the one who worked in the Dark to serve the Light.
As Fariq hit the ground, a whoosh of air was knocked from his lungs. But as he swung his weapon at his opponent, Kimball Hayden easily kicked it aside, the weapon flying free from Fariq’s hands and into the shadows.
When Kimball reached down and grabbed the Arab by the front of his shirt until the fabric bled between the Vatican Knight’s clenched fingers, he quickly hoisted Fariq off the ground and to his feet, where he held him close and eye to eye.
Though the shadows remained deep, Fariq could still see the unforgiving eyes of Kimball Hayden. They were without mercy, or tolerance, and without godliness. Here was a man who was conceived in Darkness to rampage against his enemies.
“A demon to some,” Fariq whispered. “And an angel to others.”
When Fariq tried to raise his hand to grab one of Kimball’s wrists, the Vatican Knight slapped it away.
And then from Fariq: “Are you the one who murdered the brother of Abdallah Kattan? The one who placed the head of Mabus’ head on a pike for all to see?” Then, after cocking his head slightly to the side, he asked, “Are you the one they call the Devil’s Magician?”
But Kimball’s answer came as a series of unyielding blows to Fariq’s face, the Vatican Knight motivated by rage as his fists pounded the bones of the Arab’s face until he could feel them move and shift beneath his knuckles. When the Arab’s features appeared as a pulpy mass, though he continued to breathe through ruined nostrils as blood bubbles constantly formed and popped,
Kimball laid him against th
e brick and removed the man’s headset. Donning them so that they fitted properly over his ears, Kimball could hear Kattan’s voice: “Fariq! ...Fariq!” Removing the headset and lip mic, Kimball tossed them to the brick and crushed them beneath the heel of his boot. After resetting his earbud, Kimball said, “Tango neutralized. All factions are inside the basilica. Close in and remain within the shadows.”
As soon as Kimball’s teams acknowledged his orders through his earpiece, the Vatican Knight stood over Fariq. The Arab’s breathing was irregular as the pull of his chest started to make wheezing and whistling sounds, not quite a death rattle but close. From the corner of one nostril a blood bubble continued to inflate and pop with the rhythm of his breathing. The man was a mess, his face a mash of clay-like flesh and smashed bones.
“You’re lucky I didn’t kill you,” Kimball commented softly. Then he stepped over Fariq and used the shadows as his ally, as he pressed onward to the basilica.
* * *
“We’ve been compromised,” Kattan said as he lowered the stem of his lip mic.
“Now I know why Faisal Naba never showed.” He turned to his two acolytes. “He betrayed us. And because he did, certain principals within the Vatican removed the real crucible containing the Holy Crib and replaced it with a false one.” In frustration, Abdallah Kattan kicked the fake receptacle. Then: “They know we’re here. Right now, they’re closing in from all sides and from all fronts. And we have nowhere to go.” Kattan leaned against the fresco-painted wall within the Reliquary of the Holy Crib, thinking. Fariq had been erased from the equation, Kattan’s team already down by one.
That left eleven others, including himself. The last thing Abdallah Kattan wanted to do was to die, despite the cause. He wanted to lead others into martyrdom but not himself. Yet here he was, corralled into a position with no other alternative. Then to one of the two acolytes, the one known as Salim and a youth in his late teens, he said, “Check the device. And tell me what it reads.”
