The Vatican's Last Secret

by Francis Joseph Smith

  It was a matter of pure, old-fashioned luck. If he hadn’t lied to the old Nazi when he asked what day it was, him purposely informing the Nazi of the wrong day and time, they might never have known about the weapon. Never the less even found the weapon. The only reason the old Nazi even disclosed the details of his plot were because he assumed everything was already in place. He decided to antagonize his captors a bit more by releasing the information on the second bomb. Little did he know that Silverman had already screwed him.

  Silverman then called the Prime Minister; together they would have the last laugh.

  CHAPTER 74

  JERUSALEM

  Benny Machaim paced the spartan confines of his office, at least spartan by Israeli definition. As head of Mossad, Israeli intelligences equivalent of the CIA, he could have kept the antique English furniture his predecessor had left behind or chosen new from the Department of State catalog. He chose neither; a simple gunmetal desk, small wooden conference table that sat five, and a large coffee pot would do him. Anything more meant extravagance. The room was complimented by two pictures hung on the wall detailing his prior exploits as a Shayetet 13 commando, an elite naval commando unit of the Israeli Navy, often compared to the U.S. Navy SEAL’s. Standing five foot five he was lucky to have passed the minimum height requirements of the commando. With his barrel chest and head shaven bald he was frequently compared to the American actor, Yul Brenner.

  Benny looked to his subordinate, Moshe Eisen, a young man in his thirties who had served with him in the Lebanese border wars. “Is it possible our man has been turned?” he said in a low voice.

  “It’s possible, Sir. But not likely,” Moshe replied. “As you already know, we employ a series of pre-arranged code phrases which would warn us of potential trouble. In this case we received only positive feedback. So I would say he is still good-to-go.”

  “Okay, Moshe. It might be best to make some discreet inquires through our Jordanian network, and I want you to back-door the Saudi’s. I know they have someone deep cover on the King’s staff. You can’t make this happen through the old-boy network. At this level you have to make a real effort to ferret out any additional info.”

  Moshe nodded. “I understand. Give me some time to run this to ground.” He held up a cigarette. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “I thought you quit after our last little exercise in Lebanon.”

  “I did quit. But since you hired me as your Deputy……..”

  Benny laughed aloud in response. “I should have warned you before you took the position.”

  Moshe laughed in-turn, exhaling smoke as he did.

  “You know,” Benny said, pondering his response as he looked out his window, turning back to look at Moshe, “there is the possibility of German government involvement. Those bastards put this whole event in motion some 70 years ago with that damn Gold Train. Stealing everything they could from our people.”

  “That is a distinct possibility,” Moshe admitted, his grandfather having died at Buchenwald Concentration Camp.

  “We may want to turn over any rock, look at it from all possible angles. We can send someone from our embassy in Berlin to meet with our German Bundestag contact. We still have those pictures and film of him with the other woman. Blackmail is always an open possibility.”

  Moshe nodded once more. He knew his boss to be a brilliant man and not to disturb him when he was on a roll, his thought process flowing.

  “And then our team missed on the Berlin hit. They thought they had that Mikel bastard twice in their sights but he somehow managed to escape. They did manage to kill his driver and bodyguard. We think Mikel may have escaped to Lebanon to meet with his contact.” He paused for a moment, holding up his index finger. “Correction, one of his father’s old contacts, his father at one time being Hitler’s banker. I want this information confirmed any way you can, and as quickly as you can.”

  “Yes, Benny,” Moshe replied, resigning himself to yet another late night.

  ON A COOL SUMMER evening at his Mount of Olives estate, with the shimmering golden Dome of the Rock on the Temple Mount in the background, Benny Machaim hosted his American friends, including Nora Robinson, of the Chicago Tribune, to a traditional meal of barbecue lamb, pan-fried rice, local breads, and homemade red wine, lots of homemade red wine.

  For Nora, such diplomacy represented a significant part of her job. Even with a friendly, willing government like Israel, winning trust from sources could take years. After all, what she was asking for was somewhat impudent – information on the next possible President of the US. Information that could get someone banished from further discussions or possibly win them a Pulitzer Prize. Of course, Nora was hoping for the later. But she had to run with the information she had on Myers. And she knew if anybody had dirt on the man, it had to be the Israelis. Especially if Myers fathers Nazi past were true.

  Understandably, it can take someone like Nora years just to convince government officials that she was not a spy and that she just wanted the facts. Harsh as they may be. But she knew from her past travels to Israel that her background was checked before she even arrived. That and the fact her hotel room was searched on a daily basis by the hotels maid, no doubt an employee of Shin Bet, Israel’s organization responsible for internal security. But not unlike any of the other 52 countries she had traveled to for business. Nobody trusted a newspaper reporter until they got to know them. And when they did, they never let them out of their sight.

  Nora walked with her host Benny through the estates formal gardens. Four foot-high copper torches lit the path they strolled on as they approached what appeared to be a small outbuilding. When Benny reached the building’s door, he pulled an ancient skeleton key from his pocket, holding it aloft for Nora to appreciate before he placed it into the lock, unlocking the door and walking in. Nora followed. Once inside she was astonished at the plushness of what could only be construed as his office.

  Benny nodded. “Yes, my home office,” he said, a smile creasing his face. “I use this for more personal matters.”

  Nora admired the heavy oak panels and antiquities spread about the 10-by-10 foot room.

  Benny pointed to the oak walls. “I can assure you they are real. Each individual panel is six inches by eight foot and then slotted together. They can be very expensive in a country without a forest.” Benny spread his arms in welcome. “When I want to keep things away from my government minders and their listening devices, this is the room I choose. You can speak freely in here. Nothing will come back to, as you Americans are so fond of saying, bite you on the ass. Please sit down,” pointing to a leather armchair by his desk. After she sat down, he opened the top draw of his desk to reveal a collection of small airline-sized liquor bottles, the bottles clinking together as he searched.

  “I’m having Bourbon,” he said, holding up a miniature bottle of Jim Beam. “What can I get for you?”

  Nora smiles at the hidden assortment. “Same for me,” she announced without hesitation. Now this is the way to conduct business, she thought.

  After emptying a single bottle into each crystal glass, Benny hands one to Nora before raising his in toast. “To the many bastards we seek, may they die a timely death after we get our information from them,” he said, his smile a serious one, his eyes never leaving Nora’s.

  After placing his half-empty glass on the desk in front of him, He looked to Nora for a moment, and then shrugs. “You know the bodyguard of Myers works for us, don’t you?”

  Nora looked surprised. “I had no idea,” she replied honestly. “He did say he used to work as a bodyguard for your president.”

  “Yes, Myers only thinks he works for him. Our man keeps us informed on all Myers activities.”

  Nora could only shrug, then smile.

  “Okay, enough of the pleasantries. Are you ready for the information you seek?” Benny said. “It may not be what you want to hear.”

  Nora nods. “You talk, I’ll listen.”

  Benny
takes a sip of his drink before he begins. “To start let me say this: the first topic is strictly, as you Americans say, off the record, but I am giving it to you as a sign of goodwill.”

  Nora looks on a bit perplexed, but nods once more. “Okay.”

  “Sheik Hassan Nasrallah of Hezbollah is aligned with us, not against us,” Benny said a matter-of-factly.

  “Get the hell out of here, Benny!” Nora interrupted. “That guy has killed more Americans and Israelis then any known terrorist out there.”

  Benny held up his hand before continuing. “He loves two things more than his religion: money and women. For women; big breasted, small breasted, red head, blonde, he doesn’t discriminate as long as it’s not his three hundred pound wife. For money: gold, silver, bonds, cash, again he does not care. As long as it is deposited in his Swiss bank account, he provides us with the information we require. For a man of such religious conviction, he was easily bought. In addition, his little witch hunt over the past year did expose a lot of our spy network but we were finished with those people anyway. We would have gotten rid of those people in our own way. He saved us the trouble. However, it also solidified his position with his people, those within his political party. Now he has no equal.” He pulled a thick red file from his desk, opening it to the first page, the words Top Secret emblazoned across it in Hebrew. He hands the file across to her. “Nora, look for yourself. The Sheik provides us with more intelligence than a dozen satellites could ever possibly deliver.”

  Nora looks to Benny and then the file. “Are you sure?” She asks. “I am a newspaper reporter after all.”

  Benny smiles. “Just read it,” he replies.

  Nora opens the document. After several seconds she mumbles aloud, “Oh shit,” upon reading the first paragraph.”

  Benny nods. “How do you think we are able to strike so many targets with such success? The man is a damn gold mine. That is, as long as he continues to provide, he continues to live.”

  “Can I print any of this?” Nora says coyly. “My boss would have a field day putting this on the front page.”

  “Not if you want to live,” replies Benny, the seriousness in his voice apparent. “This is just a professional courtesy between the two of us.”

  “I thought as much,” she answers in understanding. “You can’t blame a girl for trying.”

  He nods before continuing. “Did you enjoy reading the package that was dropped at your door last week?” A smile graced his face.

  “That was you?” she replies, astonished for a split second. “Of course, it could only have been you.”

  Benny grins. “Today, I have had the unfortunate opportunity to speak about two old Nazi’s from the past and their siblings; Mikel Drunz and your Myers fellow. But, I have the funny feeling that over the course of the next few weeks both will be meeting with some of their dead relatives.”

  AFTER 30 MINUTES, they exit his office, heading back the same way they came, and returning to Benny’s guests.

  As the sun sets, there are many toasts; to families, to the US, to Israel, to safe travels. More wine is poured. Nora drinks dutifully, keeping pace with her host.

  Nora and Benny discuss their relationship, one that has slowly evolved over the years into a friendship of sorts. She feeds him information and he in turn feeds some back. This, even though she realized Benny’s people, or his counterparts, searched her hotel room every time she left for the day. Nora recognized that no matter which country she visited, all intelligence agencies proceeded in a similar fashion.

  As night falls, Benny thanks Nora once again for her support in the articles she had written favorably towards Israel.

  Nora started to feel a little tipsy. “No problem,” she says. "Let me know if I can help you with anything else."

  Benny nods deliberately. He holds up one finger, as if to say ‘I’m glad you asked.’ He hands folded pages to Nora, who scans them bleary-eyed. The text runs two pages.

  When done, Nora shakes her head. “Son of a bitch. This can’t be,” she says. “Are you 100 percent sure about this?”

  Benny nods once more. “After you go to Beirut, publish the truth,” he says before pouring more wine.

  “Publish the truth.”

  CHAPTER 75

  TEL AVIV – MOSSAD HQ

  Captain Silverman paced around his prisoner, a smile gracing his face. “Do you realize if your little plan came to fruition and your dirty bomb had gone off, both you and I would most likely be dead?”

  A look of shock spread across Manfred Heber’s face. “What do you mean if they had….”

  Silverman cut him off. “We killed your team. We have your crude bomb.”

  “But they were…,” Heber said haltingly, a blank look upon his face.

  “You ignorant, Nazi bastard,” spat out Silverman, “You provided us with just enough information to stop yet another senseless tragedy from happening.”

  Heber’s eyes went wide.

  Using only one hand, Silverman forcefully pulled Heber up from his chair, pushing him towards the closed door, Heber’s feet scuffling along the tile floor due to the ankle cuffs that bound his feet. Silverman pounded on the interrogation room door, the guard in the hallway opening it in response. Silverman drug Heber through the open door and down a fluorescent-lit hallway, choosing to stop at the first window that afforded him a view outside, albeit with vertical steel bars impeding the view. He drops Heber to the floor and then motions for him to stand up and look out at the Tel Aviv skyline, the sunlight reflecting off its modern, shimmering glass buildings.

  Heber sits up but refuses to stand.

  Silverman grabs Heber and forcefully pulls him up, shoving his face against the steel bars. “Still there isn’t it?” He smiles. “Take a look.” He strongly holds Heber’s head with both of his hands positioning his face forward, obliging him to look, and holding it there for several seconds before he chooses to release him. “Enjoy your last look outside,” Silverman says, kicking him in his ass, now pushing him down the hallway back towards the cellblock. “You are in a dark hole for the rest of your life.”

  CHAPTER 76

  BEIRUT, LEBANON

  Jim Dieter and Dan Flaherty were driving a 30-year old Yugo, a generic version of the old Fiat 127, it straining to navigate the valleys steep but lush hills 15 kilometers east of Beirut. The Yugo was best known in car circles as poorly engineered, ugly, and cheap. Unfortunately for Jim and Dan, it was the only vehicle left in the SIXT Rental Car lot when they checked in.

  “I still have the strange feeling we are being followed,” Jim said to Dan above the din of their car’s wailing motor. “I’ve had it ever since we left the city.” Jim suddenly curses aloud as he avoids yet another pothole. “These potholes will swallow a car, whole.”

  “Yes, but potholes can’t kill you,” replied Dan, accentuating his point by placing his index finger in one of several bullet holes in the passenger window. The bullet holes a gift as they scrambled out of the old “green section” of Beirut chased by two men on motorbikes. Jim had tried to purchase a 9mm from an innocent enough looking man selling prepaid phone cards, the man referred to him by the hotel manager. When the man found out he was an American an argument soon ensued. The man soon called for the local street militia who chased them and their car out of Beirut, bullets firing in many directions as if they were in the old west.

  Other than that, their morning was typical.

  Upon leaving Beirut, they encountered a variety of typical Lebanese morning scenes — fruit sellers hawking cherries at a crowded outdoor market; a woman scrubbing her front steps; cyclists running errands or heading to work.

  Following Hamieh Boulevard, they exited Beirut. The road marked a steady and fascinating progression from urban to rural country. Their journey began skirting high-rises, train yards and old, bombed out factories from the Lebanese civil war now splashed with graffiti “art” before traversing tidy suburban parks and finally, a landscape that can feel little chang
ed from a century ago.

  The road slipped deeper into the countryside. No more houses and almost no people. For the next 20 minutes, time seemed to have skipped a century as they rolled through a tunnel of green formed by overarching trees.

  “Going to have a hard time returning this baby to the airport,” said Jim sarcastically.

  Dan nodded in agreement. “It’s going to need some body work.”

  “This shit happens all the time over here,” said Jim, him speaking from experience, having spent many weeks in Beirut in the disguise of a typical tourist when he was a Navy SEAL. “The front desk notifies the local militia that Americans are in town and they take it from there. It’s mostly just bravado; makes them feel better about themselves.”

  “Still don’t like being threatened,” said Dan, “Especially when I don’t have a weapon to defend myself. I feel naked.”

  Rows of soldier-straight poplars lined the narrow road they zipped along in greeting, their leaves rustling in a breeze that tempered the warm May air. The surrounding woods smelled heavy and green, and on a river’s bank, dark waters reflected the slender poles of a few anglers on its grassy banks.

  A smile graced Dan’s face as he once again broke the silence. “I hate this damn car,” he said in a soft Irish brogue, as the car once again struggled up another hill.

  Jim shook his head and laughed. They had been on the go since flying in from Austria two days before, and ever since, they had the strange feeling as though they were being followed. The telephoned death threat they received in their hotel room and the early morning shootout with thieves did not help with their paranoia.