Hostaged Vatican

by Gar Wilson

  "I'm not sure it was wise to send those adventurers in," Galleo remarked. "Why did you tell Radmeni there are eight of them when there are only six?"

  "I didn't give him a definite number," Bianco replied. "I'm not suppose to know about them. He seemed pretty sure there had to be at least eight, and I didn't see any reason to tell him otherwise. From the sound of the battle at the northwest wall, Radmeni probably thought an entire company of soldiers had gotten in. Whoever those fellows are, they're very good at their job."

  "You don't know who they are?" the cardinal asked in astonishment. "I thought that was just another lie you told Radmeni."

  "That's about the only truth I told him," Bianco said, smiling. "It's a very mysterious group. Isn't it, Mr. Gardener?"

  "They're impossible," Gardener replied gruffly. "I find it hard to believe that the President trusts them. They don't work within the system. They have no respect for the chain of command, established procedures or public relations within the international community."

  "That isn't exactly a vote of confidence," Galleo sighed.

  "Mr. Gardener isn't a soldier," Bianco stated. "The best fighting men are always a bit maverick in their behavior. I think those six men are probably the best choices for the job."

  "And yet you told the Iranian to kill them," the cardinal remarked.

  "He'd try to do that anyway," Bianco said with a shrug. "We can only pray he doesn't succeed."

  10

  Mohammed Radmeni paced across the ornate designs on the floor of the Sala Regia. The great hall was magnificent. Its walls were lined with priceless paintings, tapestries and sculptures. The Sala Regia was the location of some of the most sacred services of the Roman Catholic Church, including the inauguration of a new pope.

  The terrorists had turned the hall into their military headquarters. A field desk with a radiotelephone had been set up near the throne at the end of the hall. Racks of weapons lined the walls. A large picture of the Ayatollah hung above the throne between breathtaking tapestries of archangels.

  Ali Hussan Kamal was worried about the Iranians, and about Radmeni in particular. Some of the men had wanted to vandalize every piece of Christian art in the Vatican. They wanted to burn and smash the priceless paintings, tapestries and sculptures. Kamal had reminded the fanatics that they needed the artwork. It could be ransomed back to the Catholics or sold to private dealers. Trying to sell stolen works of art was difficult, but Kamal had connections with black market syndicates that could handle it.

  Kamal had insisted that they needed those sales to earn money for the Islamic revolution. Besides, many of the works of art had religious significance to Muslims as well as Christians.

  Kamal had planned the Vatican operation for a number of years. It was potentially the single richest target on earth next to the national treasuries of the major world powers. Kamal had been certain he could manipulate Radmeni and the other Iranian zealots, but he had not counted on Radmeni panicking. As Kamal watched the Iranian ringleader march up and down the hall of the Sala Regia, he realized how very unstable Radmeni was.

  "Mohammed, the situation isn't desperate," the Syrian began, trying to calm his Iranian partner. "We still have the hostages. We still have the earthquake device..."

  "And a team of commandos have managed to break through our defenses," Radmeni declared.

  "Six or eight men," Kamal sighed. "Not six or eight hundred."

  "Do you remember reading about the Mardarajian embassy in London?" Radmeni inquired. "Mardaraja was a small African nation that had just built an embassy in England."

  "I remember," Kamal sighed. "Somebody inside the embassy shot a couple of British police officers and a member of Parliament. Apparently they thought they could claim diplomatic immunity and just stroll out of the embassy and return home the way the Libyans had after a similar incident. In fact, wasn't Khaddafi involved with that Mardarajian mess, too?"

  "But don't you remember what happened?" Radmeni demanded. "Five men launched a raid on the embassy. Just five men took the building and killed almost everyone inside. The place was full of Mardarajian troops and hired mercenaries, but those five devils went through them like a knife through goat cheese."

  "And you think this is the same commando team?" Kamal sighed. "That's absurd. Even if it is, the circumstances are entirely different. We've got far more trained men and women than those Mardarajians had. Besides, they just stepped out of the jungle."

  "We've got to find them and kill those butchers," Radmeni said, shaking his head in dispair.

  "We will," the Syrian assured him. "There are patrols stalking the invaders at this very moment. Better yet, Fukuda and his ninja are hunting them as well. Those Japanese are the best shadow warriors in the world. No one can hide from them."

  "You'd better be right," Radmeni replied glumly.

  Kamal decided there was no point in continuing the conversation. Radmeni was going to fret about the mystery strike team until the dead bodies of the invaders were shown to him.

  The Syrian left the Sala Regia and stepped into a long corridor. A dark shape suddenly appeared beside him. Kamal gasped and nearly cried with surprise. The hard dark eyes of the man who called himself Fukuda stared at him.

  "Good evening, Kamal-san," Fukuda announced softly.

  "It's not necessary to creep up behind me," the Syrian said, his heart racing. "You don't have to impress me. Why aren't you looking for the men who infiltrated the Vatican? I'm sure they'd enjoy your sneaky tricks."

  "I sent out most of my men to take care of that," the ninja replied. "That's not a problem, even if Radmeni thinks it is."

  "So you were in the room and heard our conversation," Kamal said, glaring at Fukuda. "Then you know Radmeni is upset about this band of commandos. He'd probably be more upset if I told him that you had sent out six of your ninja armed only with swords."

  "They aren't really ninja yet," Fukuda explained. "They're trainees. Young recruits who are still learning the fundamental martial arts of ninjutsu. I don't teach my men to handle firearms until they master certain other skills. They only know a little karate and some basic kenjutsu. If you gave them guns, they'd probably just shoot one another."

  "Why did you bring them in the first place?" Kamal asked in disgust. He liked the ninja less every time he spoke with him.

  "Oh," Fukuda chuckled. "I thought some cannon fodder might be useful for this mission. Since we're going to gather up the wealth of the Vatican, we don't want to split the profits with too many individuals. That would not be a wise business move, would it?"

  "I should have expected this from you," Kamal muttered. "How large a percentage do you want, Fukuda-san?"

  "I promise not to be greedy," the ninja replied. "As long as you remain generous."

  "I think we understand each other," the Syrian said reluctantly. "What about Radmeni and the Iranians?"

  "They're your cannon fodder, not mine," Fukuda replied. "I'm sure you already plan to let them take the credit for this adventure while you claim the bulk of the financial gain. That satisfies me. But may I give you some advice, Kamal-san? Do not double-cross me."

  11

  Crouching in the rosebushes in one of the Vatican's many gardens, Phoenix Force saw the patrol approach. The terrorist hunting party was more cautious than the first group had been. They did not cluster together, but moved in a wide pattern to cover more area and to provide less of a target. A Jeep crept along the street. The headlights were not on. No one wanted to be a shining advertisement in the sights of an unseen opponent's weapon.

  "We need to take a couple of them alive," Yakov Katzenelenbogen whispered to his teammates.

  "They might not be very obliging," Garry Manning said softly, gazing at the terrorists through the Starlite scope. "These guys are armed to the teeth."

  "So are we," David McCarter said with a shrug.

  "We only need a couple, right?" Encizo inquired. "Remember, they're going to be trying to kill us, too."

>   "If we catch some of these guys, it won't be easy to get them to talk," Calvin James remarked. "I didn't pack any scopolamine, and I don't see how we could use it effectively anyway. Truth serum takes time to use properly."

  "Torture is also time-consuming," John Trent added.

  "Victims tend to be a bit loud... At least that's what I've read in books."

  "We don't use those methods, John," Katz told him.

  "I realize that," Trent assured him. "And I wouldn't agree to it anyway. Torture is contrary to the principles of ninjutsu."

  "I wonder if the enemy ninja feel the same way," Encizo wondered aloud. Torture was not an abstract fear to the Cuban. He had been the victim of hours of painful persecution.

  "They're obviously mercenaries," Trent replied. "It's difficult to say what sort of principles they have, if any."

  "The Iranians are probably religious and political fanatics," Katz mused. "I doubt that we can get one of them to talk. The Basques might be more obliging. After all, this isn't directly connected with any cause of interest to them."

  "Wonderful," Manning muttered. "Does anyone happen to speak Basque fluently?"

  "Most of them probably understand either Spanish or French," Encizo stated. "Do you think the ninja would talk, John?"

  "I thought you said we shouldn't take any chances with the ninja, Rafael," James reminded the Cuban. "'Don't even think about taking them alive,' you said."

  "Wise suggestion," Trent said with a nod. "Traditionally ninja were seldom taken alive. Capture meant death by slow torture in the days of the samurai and the daimyo."

  "Traditionally they didn't run about with terrorists, either," McCarter commented. "You figure one of these corrupt ninja might talk if we offer him a chance to live and possibly a reduced sentence for cooperating with us?"

  "That's possible," Trent answered. "But I doubt it."

  "We might not have much choice," James remarked. "We'll probably have to grab whoever we can get..."

  James's sentence was cut off abruptly by the muffled report of Katzenelenbogen's Uzi. Bullets coughed rapidly from the silenced weapon as the Israeli opened fire on a trio of terrorists who had entered the garden behind Phoenix Force. Fortunately Katz had been watching the entrance while the others had concentrated on the enemy in the street.

  Three 9 mm rounds punched into one terrorist's solar plexus and traveled upward to obliterate his heart. Katz shifted the aim of his Uzi and sliced another trio of parabellums into the chest of another Iranian. The third man had heard the subdued chatter of the silenced subgun and saw his comrades convulse as the bullets crashed into their bodies. He cried out with alarm and swung his M-3 grease-gun toward the muzzle flash of Katz's weapon.

  Encizo's silenced H&K machine pistol slammed a volley of 9 mm lead into the terrorist's torso. The impact hurtled him backward. Manning's FAL coughed once through its sound suppressor and drilled a 7.62 mm round into the man's throat. He was very, very dead by the time he hit the ground. "So much for camouflage," James rasped sourly.

  The main patrol of terrorists had heard their comrade scream. Excited voices exploded in at least three languages, although the terrorists approached the garden slowly. They had not seen or heard enough to be certain where the enemy was lurking.

  The terrorists fanned out. Three men took the most dangerous position as point for the group. The others followed. Sixteen terrorists advanced while eight men remained with the Jeep on the street.

  Booted feet trampled flower beds. The terrorists peered among the shadows of the garden. They held their weapons ready to open fire on anything that moved. Every rosebush and lilac tree was examined carefully. They even regarded a bed of buttercups with suspicion. But nothing moved in the garden except some tall tulips swaying in the breeze.

  One of the point men gasped and aimed his AK-47 at a figure that stood motionless on a stone pedestal. He held his fire when he realized that two intricately carved marble wings extended from the figure's back. He sighed with relief and lowered his weapon.

  "It is bad luck to shoot an angel, Ahmed," another Iranian gunman whispered, amused that his comrade had nearly opened fire on the statue.

  "The infidels must have fled," Ahmed replied, glancing toward a pair of apple trees. He half expected to see someone lurking by the trunk.

  "How could they have gotten away so quickly?" the other man wondered aloud. "They couldn't... Ahmed, look!"

  He pointed at the bullet-torn corpses of the three terrorists who had been slain in the garden only a few minutes earlier. Both men stiffened with anger. The dead men had been their comrades, their brothers. The Iranians believed their Islamic Jihad was a just and holy war. They believed they alone followed the righteous cause of Allah and that the rest of the world was wrong. This belief made the bond among the terrorists very strong.

  "We shall avenge them," Ahmed vowed.

  "We must find their killers," his comrade replied. "Where are the scum? Why don't they show themselves and fight like men?"

  Three terrorists approached one of the apple trees. One man stepped closer and stared up into the branches. Rafael Encizo stared back at him. The terrorist's lower jaw dropped as he raised his M-16 assault rifle.

  Encizo triggered his MP-5. A three-round burst smashed into the Iranian's face, punched his brain into oblivion and shattered the back of his skull. Encizo leaped from the branches and dropped to one knee beside the trunk of the apple tree. He immediately aimed his H&K machine pistol at the other two terrorists and opened fire.

  Parabellums ripped into the chests and abdomens of the startled pair. Their bodies hopped and contorted in a hideous dance of death. Other terrorists swung their weapons toward Encizo's position and fired a murderous salvo at the Cuban warrior. Bullets splintered bark from the trunk of the apple tree and chewed into the branches overhead. Encizo ducked and used the thick trunk for cover.

  The flame from a rifle barrel streaked from a lilac tree. Calvin James blasted two terrorists with M-16 rounds before the patrol knew where the shots were coming from. Another man spun to face James and received a chestful of 5.56 mm missiles.

  Ahmed and his companion aimed their Kalashnikov rifles at James's position. They did not see Yakov Katzenelenbogen move behind the statue of Archangel Michael. The Israeli commando aimed his Uzi and sprayed the pair with parabellum destruction. High velocity slugs tore into their backs and severed their spinal cords. The terrorists collapsed. They were dead before they could realize they had been shot.

  Gary Manning's FAL erupted from the tulip bed. The Canadian marksman lay in a prone position as he expertly fired controlled bursts into the enemy patrol. The projectiles chopped into a terrorist's chest. Another trio of copper-jacketed hornets split a man's forehead.

  David McCarter was stationed in the branches of the second apple tree. He held his Barnett Commando crossbow in one fist and the Ingram M-10 in the other. The SAS veteran thrived on action, and he was eager to plunge into the battle. He prepared to fire the crossbow bolt into the terrorist who stood less than a yard from the tree.

  McCarter's finger froze before he could trigger the Barnett. The man below carried a shepherd's staff and wore a red beret. The British war machine realized the terrorist was a Basque. There would not be many opportunities to capture one of them. The chance might not come again.

  He aimed the crossbow at a different target and launched the bolt. The deadly missile struck a terrorist in the side of the neck. The point pierced muscle and burst vertebrae. The guy tumbled forward with the shaft of the quarrel jutting from his neck.

  McCarter promptly pounced from the branches and swung the hard metal stock of the Barnett at the Basque terrorist's head. The Basque turned sharply before McCarter could strike. The crossbow hit the frame of the Beretta machine pistol in the Basque gunman's fist. The blow knocked the chopper from his grasp. McCarter whipped the M-10 at his opponent's face in an effort to knock the Basque out cold.

  The shepherd's staff blocked the M-10. T
he Basque yanked the staff and caught McCarter's forearm with the crook. The Briton pulled away, but the hook ripped the Ingram from his fingers. The Basque shouted something, probably a battle cry, and whipped the shaft of his weapon at McCarter's skull. The British ace raised the Barnett to block the blow. The impact of the staff sent the crossbow sailing from his hand.

  "Oh, hell," McCarter growled, barely dodging the Basque fighting stick as his opponent thrust the butt like a lance.

  The Basque was good. He suddenly altered the stroke to a low sweep. The staff clipped McCarter across the ankles and knocked him to the ground. The breath rushed from McCarter's lungs. The Basque swung his staff at the fallen Briton to complete the job.

  McCarter dodged his head to one side. The crook of the staff struck earth near the Phoenix pro's left ear. The Briton quickly seized the shaft and pulled forcibly. The Basque terrorist stumbled forward. McCarter thrust both feet into his opponent's abdomen. The kick hurled the man backward. His fingers slipped from the shaft, and he tumbled to the ground.

  Unfamiliar with the staff, McCarter discarded the stick and quickly rose. The Basque climbed to one knee, his right hand reaching for the hilt of a knife sheathed in his boot. McCarter rushed forward as the knife cleared leather. He kicked the Basque as hard as he could in the face. The man's head snapped back from the blow, then his body slumped to the ground.

  Two terrorists stumbled backward, firing weapons at Katz and Encizo. Bullets slammed into the tree and statue that the Phoenix warriors were using for cover, but none of the projectiles struck flesh. Neither terrorist realized that they had turned their backs on the buttercup bed, so neither man saw the tall black shape rise from the flowers.

  John Trent drew his sword as he attacked. He raised the ninja-do high and stamped the butt of the pommel between the shoulder blades of the closest opponent. The terrorist groaned and fell on his face as the other man turned. He saw a flash of steel and then felt something strike the crown of his head. They were the last sensations the terrorist would ever experience on earth. Trent's sword had split open the man's skull.