The Vatican's Last Secret

by Francis Joseph Smith

  To most, Mikel was a plain man; diminutive, with tanned skin, deep-blue eyes, a forgettable face with a full beard, neatly trimmed but speckled with gray, this off set with a receding hairline. Known as a brilliant business man and speculator, most had no idea where his money had originated. Some thought family ties, most, the Russian mob. If they were to know the truth, within days the present German government would fold like a house of cards.

  The Gossamer Bank was only too happy to open its doors at such an early hour to one of Berlin’s richest men, and its largest depositor— with over $1.2 Billion in his portfolio. The bank was also aware of his long deceased father, Mikel Drunz, senior, and his WWII role as Vatican Emissary of Pope Pius XII to Hitler’s Germany. Having worked with Hitler still presented opportunities in Berlin for some; others considered him a pariah linked to a bloody past. Balancing somewhere between the two, Mikel was able to arrange the visit at such an early hour.

  Everything he owned depended upon it.

  Wisely, his aides had spread enough ‘bestechen geld’ or bribes around to the local Berlin Police and Court Justices to penetrate to just the right levels. It paid off when a local magistrate on his payroll called in the early morning hours to inform Mikel that he was under investigation and about to be served with a Subpoena for Suspicion of Tax Evasion. When would they ever learn? This was the government’s third attempt in five years. Each time they found nothing suspicious. Mikel politely thanked her. His ‘bestechen geld’ had returned monumental dividends. The phone call had provided him with the time he so desperately needed to empty the contents of his safety deposit boxes. He realized his safety deposit boxes would the first of his possessions to be searched. Second would be the house. Not that they would find anything, it was the first place he ‘sanitized’.

  One thing that did present a concern; the local magistrates call came right after Maria Celnoleni of the Vatican Bank had called him, she informing him of “some issues with his dormant accounts.” The very same accounts set up by his father for top Nazis during WWII. Accounts that now contained monies in the billions of dollars, the same accounts that he ‘tapped’ to establish his own empire. And she called him only hours before her murder in Rome. He felt as though he was being set-up by someone or something. He would have to deal with them at a later time.

  His driver sped down Wilhelm Strasse hoping to avoid the morning traffic that would soon appear. Mikel wanted to be back at his estate in Brandenburg when the police arrived with a subpoena. The last thing he wanted to do was arouse suspicion as to his whereabouts at such an early hour.

  In the seat opposite of Mikel, his bodyguard sat with his arms crossed, cradling an Uzi. The man was in his early forties, taller than Mikel, and very lean. Mikal, himself a retired professional army officer with Special Forces experience, had talent scouted the man and brought him into his fold. To many “crackpots” wanted Mikel dead due to his family’s link to Germany’s past. With the latest incident happening only two weeks ago at the opening of his latest venture, a microchip processing plant in Bavaria. As Mikel walked the line shaking hands with local dignitaries, a man burst through the line wielding a 10-inch butcher’s knife, thrusting it at Mikel. Luckily for Mikel, his bodyguard saw the man first and effortlessly tossed the man to the ground, where he was able to easily disarm him.

  Mikel leaned back in his cars Moroccan leather seating before speaking softly to his bodyguard. “Are you sure your friend is in control of the situation?”

  The bodyguard nodded curtly. “Yes, sir. My friend has many talents.”

  “But is he someone we can trust? I’m talking 100% trust?”

  The bodyguard nodded once more before looking out the window, his eyes constantly sweeping the area for potential threats before choosing to respond. “I’ve known him for five years. In Afghanistan, he was on my ops team. I entrusted the man with my life on many a mission.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Mikel said before he reached into his breast pocket for a cigar, offering one to the bodyguard, him declining.

  He bit off the end of his cigar, spitting the piece of tobacco onto the carpeted floor of his limousine before his bodyguard produced a lighter, lighting it for him. Mikel nodded his thanks. He allowed his mind to wander for a moment. What if he could somehow turn back the clock and undue his father’s past deeds? Would he still be a hunted man?

  “He will have to dress the part,” Mikel said, sending small ringlets of smoke into the air around him. “Suit, tie and such — not much unlike yourself.” Mikel making reference to the bodyguards’ attire. Mikel demanded all of his employees dress as he did; semi-formally. He had no time for the dot com, X-generation who dressed as if they were going to paint someone’s house.

  A smile graced the bodyguards face. “Have no worries. He’s a gentleman when he has to be, and he can be a bastard when needed.”

  “That’s just what I wanted to hear.”

  For the moment, everything was quiet. Their exchange had been brief but fulfilling.

  Mikel reached for his black leather briefcase, placing it on his lap before he opened it. The briefcase contained documents with assorted colored tabs. He fingered through them before finding one in particular, pulling it out. From within the folder he extracted an ornately engraved invitation and handed it to the bodyguard. “That will get you in to the little gala. And I want you both armed. Something light, nothing fancy. Just the bulge of the weapon should be enough of a deterrent.”

  The bodyguard sat staring at his employer for a few seconds, thinking. Something was bothering him. A mental alarm was sounding off. “Isn’t this considered a friendly party, sir?”

  “Of course it is. But according to my sources there may be some unexpected guests who may drop by.”

  His bodyguard looked worried at the unexpected disclosure. “Do we have an idea who they might be, sir? At least a description so we can prepare to receive them?”

  Mikel smiled as he opened the folder once more before handing across an 8 x 11 black and white photo of what looked to be a couple, arm-in-arm, strolling along the waterfront. “They are our unexpected guests. Subjects include one male and one female. They arrived by private jet last night from Tel Aviv. My sources at immigration tell me they intend to fly back tomorrow afternoon. So whatever they hope to accomplish will most likely be done today or tonight.”

  “And you are their target, sir?”

  “Let’s just say my family name isn’t the best in the business. So I guess I have a big, red bulls-eye painted on my back for some past deeds of my father.”

  PETER MANHEIM FIRST became Mikel’s driver when he retired from GSG-9, Germany’s equivalent of Britain’s SAS, after 20 years’ service. Small and heavyset, he was formally known as The Bulldog for his exploits on foreign battlefields. But that was a few years ago. Now he needed money to pay off some loan sharks for a failed business venture with his wife. Former wife. She took everything he owned in the divorce. He knew his boss dabbled in some shady areas but he paid well enough to keep his mouth shut and hopefully the gig would help him pay off the loans.

  On the drive back to Mikel’s Brandenburg estate, Peter took several standard evasive measures to possibly lose any tails that might be following. Driving down some narrow alleys and then speeding up on the roadway before suddenly stopping on the side of the road. Eyeing his rearview mirror he noticed nothing out of the ordinary. But he realized with his prestigious passenger, you could never be too cautious. The entire security detail was becoming overly protective of their boss since the last incident in Bavaria.

  Peter slowed for a traffic signal. He noticed the morning traffic was starting to pick-up since they had left the bank. Suddenly a motorcycle roared up and alongside the limousine, stopping by the driver’s side rear door. The passenger on the BMW 570 reached over to the limousine and stuck something to the outside of the limousines door, a loud metallic click signaled its adherence before its driver sped off, its engine whining loudly as he
did.

  Peter’s eyes went wide as he realized what was transpiring. He yelled back for them to get out of the limo before it blows.

  Mikel was the first to hear the metallic click, then his bodyguard. Both instantly realized what was about to happen as they raced for the door handle opposite the bomb.

  One block away, the driver of the BMW screeched to a stop, its passenger turned with cell phone in hand, camera mode on, ready to document the ensuing action. She smiled as the bodyguard shoved Mikel out just as the bomb detonated with a large consuming fireball, lifting the limousine three meters in the air before it came crashing down in large pieces on the street. A steady succession of blasts rippled through the downtown streets as the gas tank was next to explode

  The BMW passenger tapped the driver on his shoulder signaling that she had everything they needed. Both smiled as the driver sped off.

  One more Nazi bastard eliminated.

  A LARGE GROUP of reporters and television crews surrounded Berlin’s Police Chief, Willy Neff, each firing question after question at the portly man. In the background, a tow truck busily pulled at the wreckage of Mikel’s limousine, beside the tow truck an ambulance competed for space with the coroner’s Mercedes station wagon. Amazingly, only 30 minutes had elapsed since the explosion; it happening in the center of town might have had something to do with the quick response.

  The Police Chief held up his hands in order to silence the crowd, waiting several minutes until they complied. “Allow me to say a few words, please.” He adjusted his steel rimmed glasses and glanced at his hastily prepared notes. “We will not allow terrorists to strike in the heart of Berlin nor allow them to get away with their crimes unpunished. The perpetrators of this cowardly act will be found and brought to justice — German justice.” He looked up from his notes, wondering how news of the attack had broken so quickly, a buzzing of his phone on his belt reminded him of the electronic age they lived in. Now anyone could be a newscaster provided they had a cell phone and the capability to upload its contents. He continued. “From several witness’ statements we have been able to uncover that a motorcycle drove up beside the car in question and placed a bomb on its door before speeding off. A large explosion soon followed. This was no accident, it was deliberate.”

  Camera flashes went off, bright lights from television cameras completely bathed the area surrounding the Police Chief. Towards the rear of the crowd, just out of range of the bright lights, a clean-shaven man, his hair short, dressed in a dark business suit, expensive camera in hand, walked around the group, angling for shots of the wreckage. He had changed from his motorcycle attire only moments before. Now he required additional proof of his accomplishments in order to send them back to Mossad Headquarters.

  “I don’t believe it! That man is Mikel,” he said aloud, shaking his head. His long range tele-photo lens focused on the back of the ambulance, its doors open to its well-lit interior.

  Bewilderment gave way to astonishment. “I don’t understand,” mumbled the man. “He should have died in the explosion.” He withdrew his cell phone from his jacket pocket, dialing a number from memory. After two rings a woman’s voice spoke, “Is it done?” she inquired. “Did you……?”

  “If you’re asking me whether or not he’s dead,” he said. “Then no…… he’s not. I’m looking at him sitting in the back of an ambulance as we speak.” With his free hand he refocused the lens for a better shot.” He’s being attended to by a Para-medic. Looks like nothing serious, just minor wounds. The driver and the bodyguard are both dead. This I can confirm.”

  “Okay,” replied the woman. “I need you to implement the alternate plan. Remember, it has to be today.”

  CHAPTER 67

  PRESENT DAY, EGYPT

  Gale force winds streaked in from the Sinai’s eastern deserts, depositing silica that stood meters high on each side of the Suez canal, appearing as if it would come crashing down on a moment’s notice. But the winds and shifting sands were of minor concern to the crew of the MS Musara, a 2,500-ton rusting coastal hugger as it traversed the passage the canal offered them. They had a schedule to meet, one that provided little time to spare.

  The ships first officer, Muhammad Hiqam, an able young Palestinian seaman, shifted his gaze between the ships florescent radar screen and his well-worn binoculars, viewing the close confines of the Suez Canal that lay before him. Tall and lean, jet black hair matted to his head, brown skin aged beyond his 34 years of age, he had an air of desperation about him. With only two years of formal seamanship training under his belt, Muhammad was still learning his craft on the job. Under normal circumstances it was a position that should have required four years of Marine Academy Schooling, not 24 months. This coupled with an additional five to ten years of actual experience under the tutorage of an experienced sea-going officer would be highly recommended. But Muhammad was no stranger to the sea, he plied his craft on much smaller vessels; fishing boats that slipped in and out of the Gaza Strip’s ports to ply the Mediterranean’s lucrative deep blue waters for its bounty. The work enabled him to crew as a fisherman, his meager pay supporting a wife and four children. It also allowed him a home comprised of stone with indoor facilities. Something of a rarity in his village of fabric tents and mud brick homes. But he was always looking for something better. This was the rationale for his taking the job over the stern objections of his wife; she wisely realized the dangers were far too great versus the benefits he could potentially reap. Muhammad viewed it as a stepping-stone, one to his venture as a fishing boat owner, not just a crewman. He tired of being just one of the crew, for once in his life he wanted to be in control.

  This one trip would enrich Muhammad pockets with $8,000 American dollars — more money than he had earned in three years of fishing the Mediterranean. It would also be the easiest two months of work he had ever accomplished. But he also realized that his pay was a pittance compared to what the English Captain could expect, the rumor of $50,000 American dollars circulating among the five Filipino crewmen, they splitting only $10,000 amongst themselves.

  Their sole passenger, an older European man who spoke or chose to speak only German was their benefactor. He shuffled about the decks, his wooden cane banging against the ships pipes and decking. Muhammad had his reservations about the man, especially one who kept to himself for most of their journey, seeking solace in his spartanly furnished cabin, only emerging at mealtime, acting as though he were actually doing them a favor by choosing to dine with them.

  The old man had been overheard in his assurances to the Captain, repeating over and over again that this mission was a “milk run.” If it were such a milk run how come he was being paid the equivalent of three years’ salary?

  Muhammad’s education may have stopped at the 11th grade level but he was smart enough to realize the dangers associated with a mission of this type, one that was not smuggling the normal foodstuffs or toiletries. No, this was different. They had loaded a military cargo consisting of heavy weapons and munitions at the Kor Island docks, 10 kilometers off the coast of Iran.

  Their arduous journey required them to sail under the very nose of both the Israeli and US Navies around the countries of Oman and Yemen before journeying into the Suez Canal. With Allah on their side, they would soon offload their cargo into speedboats under the cover of darkness five kilometers off the Gaza Strip.

  That was, if everything went according to plan.

  Kilometer Marker 28, Suez Canal, Egypt

  A GROUP OF WHAT APPEARED TO BE BEDOUIN tribesmen, their traditional white and gray ‘tobs’ or flowing robes pulled tightly against them, moved about a tented encampment on the eastern banks of the Suez Canal, struggling against the winds that constantly battered them. Only a fellow Bedouin would have noticed that they lacked the traditional tan fabric tents of a true Bedouin camp. Bedouin were known as the nomads of the desert for their constant wandering, bearing allegiance to no country. But these particular men conspicuously lacked camel transpor
t, a necessity for this unforgiving environment.

  It would also provide a perfect cover for the Israeli Special Forces.

  On a sand berm located just above his camps perimeter, one man stood oblivious to the blowing sands streaking by him. Lieutenant Benjamin Silverman pulled his white tob tight about him as peered through his infrared binoculars, scouting the canals traffic for their prey. The storm would only aid him in achieving his objective.

  A veteran of numerous Israeli military incursions both in and out of country, all highly sensitive and classified, Silverman was all too familiar with the Suez Canal and its constraints. Silverman and his five-member team were only one of many Israeli Special Forces teams who missions were based on the creed of the British Army’s infamous “Desert Rats” of WWII fame. To strike deep and fast into enemy territory, hitting vital assets before regrouping to strike at yet another high profile target, constantly keeping the enemy on the defensive and off-balance. In the event of renewed conflict with Egypt, Silverman’s particular mission would be to disable the canal’s lucrative shipping lanes for many months or years after.

  Silverman’s team were activated shortly after the Israeli Mossad, Israel’s intelligence arm, received a tip from the American’s National Reconnaissance Office (NRO). An American PATH-NINE military satellite detected a known Palestinian ship taking on product at a military base off the coast of Iran. The ship displacement was light going in and heavy sailing out, indicating they had taken on some type of cargo and not dropped off. An informant working the docks verified the products in question possessed Iranian military markings. The American Navy steered clear of the suspect ship, allowing it to proceed into the hands of the Israelis.

  No stranger to the canal, this would be Silverman’s third undercover foray into Egypt in the past year. Usually his team were dispatched to perform periodic checks on Israeli pre-positioned weapons catches secreted in the Sinai Desert during the early 1990’s. It was part of an Israeli vow to never be caught unprepared again. The stashes contained enough weapons, ammunition, food and bottled water for his special-forces unit to fight and live on for a month.