by Gar Wilson
Another terrorist was busy spraying the lilac bushes with 9 mm rounds in an effort to blow Calvin James away. Trent unwound the shoge from his waist and returned the sword to its scabbard. He held the twelve-foot cord of the shoge in his left hand and the knife in his right. The ninja darted closer to his target and raised his arm.
The terrorist saw movement and turned toward Trent, but he held his fire to avoid shooting one of his comrades. Trent hurled the shoge. The knife pierced a pectoral muscle in the terrorist's chest. He screamed in agony, but still attempted to aim his Beretta M-12 at the ninja.
Trent yanked the shoge cord. The knife was suddenly ripped from the man's chest. The hook at the base of the center blade caught the terrorist's wrist. Trent pulled the shoge cord again. The hook tore flesh, and the terrorist's machine pistol fell from his trembling grasp.
Trent quickly whirled the shoge overhead and then suddenly stepped forward and dropped to one knee. The blade whistled in a fast, low arch. The shoge caught his opponent around the ankles. The cord curled around his legs, and the hook stabbed the calf muscle. A hard tug yanked the man's feet out from under him, and the terrorist crashed on his back.
The remaining members of the terrorist patrol opened fire from the cover of their Jeep. Gary Manning had already turned his attention on the group and was blasting volleys at the terrorists to keep them pinned down. Calvin James came to the Canadian's assistance. The black warrior ended the battle with his M-203 grenade launcher. He triggered the mighty weapon and lobbed a 40 mm shell into the figurative laps of the terrorist team. The explosion blew apart both the Jeep and the terrorists stationed there.
"Is everyone all right?" Katz shouted as he shoved a fresh magazine into the well of his Uzi.
"I think everybody on our team is okay," Encizo replied.
"Any prisoners?" the Israeli inquired.
"Calvin sure didn't take any," Manning commented, gazing at the burning wreckage of what had once been a Jeep and about a half-dozen terrorists.
"Didn't seem prudent at the time," the black commando said with a shrug.
"I hit one of them," Trent announced. "I don't think he's dead. The fellow at the end of my shoge is still alive, too."
"I caught us a Basque," McCarter announced proudly. "Hope I didn't break the bloke's jaw..."
Suddenly the terrorist Trent had taken out with the shoge sat up. He had taken a hand grenade from his belt and was about to pull the pin. The Iranian fanatic's face glowed as he prepared to take the infidels with him to the afterlife.
McCarter's Browning Hi-Power roared at the same split second as James's M-16. One 9 mm flat-nosed projectile and two 5.56 mm rounds blasted the Iranian's skull to pieces before he could yank the pin. Encizo grabbed the hands of the grisly, almost decapitated corpse to be certain a muscle spasm did not complete the terrorist's last wish. However, the body hardly twitched. Encizo plucked the grenade from the dead man's hands.
"Maybe we'd better search the other two," the Cuban suggested with a deep sigh of relief.
"Yeah," James agreed. "And let's take them somewhere else. This garden party got a little out of hand."
12
"I tell you, I hear shooting and what sounds like bombs exploding," Fulvio Salvia rasped as he pressed his ear against a wall. "What's going on out there?"
Salvia worked as a printer for l'Osservatore Romano, the official Vatican newspaper. He was tired, middle-aged and cynical about life because his hopes and ambitions had failed to materialize. Salvia had found comfort only in his religion. He had often wished he had become a priest. His job with the Vatican newspaper was as close as he would ever get to realizing that dream. Salvia did not want much out of life except to live without turmoil or hardships. His current hopes and ambitions were that God would look upon him with favor and allow him into heaven.
Yet, like all men who fear life, Salvia also feared death. Monsignor Giovanni Cellini felt sorry for the printer. Poor Fulvio had never done much with his life. Even his faith was without substance. Fulvio Salvia went to Mass and made confessions. He had learned to say prayers in fluent Latin like a gifted parrot. Yet Salvia did not have the heart of a Christian. He did not become involved in the world or with people. Instead, he hid in the Vatican printing press.
But the terrorists had dragged Salvia from his little sanctuary and had added him to the other hostages. They had been herded to the Museo Pio-Clementino and placed in the Vestibolo Rotondo. The beautiful artwork, which included some of the finest sculptures, busts and reliefs of ancient Rome, did little to make their confinement more pleasant.
Iranian terrorists stood guard at the exits. The ringleaders had made certain that none of the Basque members of the terror army spent more than a few minutes with the hostages. Most of the Basques called themselves Christians, and they had expressed concern about the welfare of the priests among the captives. The Basques were especially upset that Monsignor Cellini had been injured by a stray bullet during the terrorist takeover.
There were four doctors among the 507 hostages. Cellini's wound had been treated, and all four medical men had assured him that the bullet had done no serious damage. There had been no internal bleeding, and the bullet had passed cleanly through his arm. At least the terrorists had allowed the doctors adequate supplies with which to treat their patients. Cellini was not the only injured party among the hostages.
Captain Helmut Jacobi, an officer of the Swiss Guards, had been beaten about the head and shoulders by an assailant armed with a wooden flail — a chain that connected two sticks. Jacobi said it was some sort of oriental weapon. His attacker had worn a gray costume with a hood and mask, identical to the man who had killed two of the Swiss Guards in front of Cellini when the terrorists had first seized control.
Although Jacobi's head was wrapped in bandages, his mind seemed clear. The Swiss officer had helped calm the frightened hostages. Most of the tourists, Vatican employees and some of the clergy were close to panic. The captain reminded them that their captors wanted them alive in order to bargain with whatever government for whatever reason. They had been given food and medical supplies. The terrorists had not threatened to torture them, and the women and children had already been released.
"Monsignor," Salvia insisted. "I'm certain that I heard gunshots. Perhaps the terrorists lied about releasing some of our people. Perhaps they are shooting them..."
"That's not very likely," Captain Jacobi assured him. "What point would it serve? It's possible a rescue attempt was launched. The terrorists might be battling with police and soldiers at this very moment."
"Rescue team?" Cellini looked hopeful. "I want to see these kidnappers arrested and not rewarded or paid off for what they've done."
"Don't get too excited just yet, Father," Jacobi warned. "Those gunshots and explosions don't sound very close. That probably means the terrorists are fighting the rescue crew. Since we haven't been rescued, we have to assume the enemy has them at bay."
"Those idiots are going to get us all killed!" Salvia cried, wringing his hands in despair.
"Keep your voice down," Jacobi said sharply. "They haven't killed us, and that means we've still got a chance."
"The captain is correct," Cellini agreed. "The best thing we can do is wait here and pray for the safety of our rescuers and ask God to allow them to liberate us before any more harm befalls us."
"By all means," Jacobi began. "I believe we should all pray for the best, but God's will seems to work better if one takes a direct hand in changing the nature of current events."
"That sounded like something a diplomat might say," Cellini said with a faint smile.
"We Swiss are a nation of diplomats," Jacobi replied. "What I'm suggesting, Father, is that we shouldn't rely on someone else to rescue us. We might have to take matters into our own hands."
"You're mad!" Salvia declared, glaring at the captain as if he had grown two satanic horns.
"I don't think survival is insane, my friend/' the Swiss offi
cer stated. "If you want to die a martyr, fine. Do it sometime when over five hundred other people don't have to die with you."
"Captain," Cellini began, glancing about at the tourists, clergy and shopworkers in the hall. "We don't exactly have a collection of great warriors here."
"Neither are they," Jacobi replied, pointing at two terrorists stationed near one of the exits. The Iranians held Beretta machine pistols and carried pistols in hip holsters as well.
"They're armed and accustomed to violence," Cellini replied. "The same can't be said about any of us, Captain. Including you."
"They're hoodlums with few brains," Jacobi insisted. "They're not supermen, and they're not as eager to die for Allah as they claim. If they were, they would have already set off that earthquake bomb, provided they've even got the damn thing."
"If you thought they would be so easy to overpower, why didn't you suggest we fight them before?" Salvia questioned the captain.
"I don't mean to suggest it would be easy," Jacobi explained. "But it might be necessary. I didn't say anything before because I thought it best for us to stay calm and to try not to incite the anger of the terrorists. I had hoped the situation would resolve itself."
"Why have you changed your mind?" Cellini inquired.
"Unless the terrorists have started fighting with one another, the bastards are either trading shots with a rescue team or they're using the troops beyond the wall for target practice," Jacobi explained. "Either way, the situation is going to get very hot, very soon. And we're in the middle of this mess. That means we'll get burned."
"You know more about these things than I do, Captain," Cellini admitted. His wounded arm itched. The monsignor rubbed the sling that cradled the damaged limb. "Then again, almost anyone knows more about these things than I."
"Father," Salvia said gently. "You are a man of God. You know the scriptures. That is more important than knowing how to fight and kill. You're a holy man. Everyone here looks to you for strength in this hour of peril."
"I'm afraid they might be looking to the wrong source," Cellini confessed. "I'm a priest. Not God, not a great sage or a prophet with unlimited wisdom. I'm just a priest. Until now, I would have said violence is never an answer to anything. If you had asked me why God allows war, I would have quoted some Biblical passage about 'war among nations' in response." Cellini shook his head and continued, "I can't participate in violence, Captain Jacobi."
"I wouldn't ask you to," the Swiss officer assured him.
"Then I'd be a hypocrite if I told you to do so," Cellini declared. "I just don't know what should or shouldn't be done."
"It might be a matter of what can be done," Jacobi mused. "I'm going to try to talk to some of the hostages. Perhaps I can find some men with a bit of experience in this sort of thing. We could use a couple of combat veterans, some police officers on vacation, a judo instructor or two."
"Just be careful," Cellini urged.
"Careful might not be enough," the Swiss captain replied.
13
Gary Manning poured water from his canteen into the cap and then tossed it into the face of the Basque terrorist. The prisoner had already moaned as consciousness began to return. His eyes opened to see the wicked blade of Rafael Encizo's Tanto knife inches from his face.
"Buenos noches," the Cuban greeted.
"Bonjour," Manning said. "Pariez-vous français? How about English?"
The Basque did not reply.
"If you don't understand us, my friend will have to cut your throat," Manning said with a shrug.
The Canadian began to repeat the threat in French. Encizo then translated it into Spanish. Of course, they did not intend to murder the Basque because they could not communicate, but the threat was a good way to learn his linguistic skills.
"Je parte français!" the Basque announced. "English little."
"Très bien, monsieur," Yakov Katzenelenbogen told him. "Qui êtes-vous?"
"My name is Benot Le Larunbat," the Basque replied.
"Monsieur Le Larunbat," Katz began, "we need some information. If you're wise, you'll give it to us."
"You fuck yourself. Oui?" Le Larunbat growled.
"We don't have much time to spare, Le Larunbat," Gary Manning warned. "If you don't cooperate, we'll cut the tendons in both your arms and legs. Maybe we'll cut out your tongue, too. Then you can crawl around on your belly like a big worm until your friends find you. Of course, you might bleed to death before then."
"We're in a desperate situation, and we're prepared to take drastic action," Katz added. "Of course, we're also willing to make a deal if you cooperate."
"What sort of deal?" the Basque asked, frowning.
"You tell us where the hostages are being held, where we can find your leader and where they've got the earthquake explosives set up," Manning answered. "In return, we'll see about getting the courts to go easy on you and your Basque comrades."
"I'm certain this Vatican business doesn't appeal to you," Katz added. "You Basques want your own sovereign nation. I'm Jewish. I fought for the independence of Israel. I understand what your people want, but this won't help you achieve that goal. You're working with a gang of Shiite Muslim fanatics. How much respect do you think they'll show for a Christian institution like the Vatican? Do you want to help destroy the Roman Catholic Church, Le Larunbat?"
"Radmeni and the Syrian promised us that wouldn't happen," Le Larunbat declared, but the tone of his voice suggested that he was beginning to lose confidence in their claim.
"Syrian?" Katz raised his eyebrows. "What Syrian?"
"I don't know what his name is," the Basque replied. "But I know he's a Syrian. He's suppose to be Radmeni's lieutenant, but I think he's really Radmeni's silent partner or perhaps even the real leader. The Syrian is very clever, very intelligent. He speaks several languages, including French and Italian. We Basques get most of our orders directly from the Syrian."
"Interesting," Katz mused. "This Syrian speaks Italian, yet Radmeni has been handling all negotiations in English, The Italians have had to use bilingual personnel to communicate with him. The Syrian could have communicated with them directly in Italian."
"But he doesn't want the Italian government or anyone else to know about him," Manning deduced. "This Syrian might indeed be the real leader. I bet he's pulling the Iranians' strings. Okay, Le Larunbat. Where do we find this mysterious Arab and Radmeni?"
"Their headquarters is in the Sala Regia," the Basque answered. "Past the Vatican Library near the Borgia Rooms."
"And the hostages?" Katz asked.
"You promise amnesty if I cooperate?" Le Larunbat inquired.
"I can only promise we'll do what we can to help you in court," Katz replied honestly. "We don't often make promises, but when we do we never break them."
"So you say," the Basque said dryly.
"If we were going to lie, we would offer you more than amnesty," Manning declared. "We could promise to let you go after this business is finished, but that wouldn't serve justice. Legally or morally."
"After all," Katz stated. "You and your Basque friends aren't robots. You agreed to join the other terrorists on this insane mission against the Vatican. And — make no mistake about this — we still consider you to be a terrorist."
"I'm not in a position to bargain," Le Larunbat admitted with a sigh of defeat. "The hostages are being kept in a single room. A great hall, actually. They're holding more than five hundred people in the Museo Pio-Clementino."
"And the earthquake device?" Manning inquired. "Is that real, or did they make it up?"
"Radmeni and the Syrian claim it's real," the Basque answered with a shrug. "I don't think that they really know if it will work, but they still drilled at least forty meters into the ground."
"Where did they drill?" Katz asked, taking a pack of Camels from his pocket. He offered a cigarette to the Basque.
"Merci," Le Larunbat said, accepting the offer. "They drilled near the radio station. Supposedly, when t
he building was constructed back in the late 1920s, a minor quake occurred there. The Syrian is convinced there's a large fissure under the Vatican radio station, and that it's directly connected to the main fault line."
"What sort of explosives are in the tunnel?" Manning asked.
"I have no idea," the Basque answered with a shrug. "The drilling and demolitions were handled by Iranians who once worked for the Shah's oil company. They're supposed to be very good, very professional. They certainly accomplished the task much faster than I thought possible."
"What do you think, Mr. Green?" Katz asked Manning, using the Canadian's current cover name.
"I think we'd better assume the Syrian has guessed correctly," Manning replied. "Although I'm not convinced the guy is terribly bright."
"He's managed to pull this off so far," Katz reminded his friend and fellow Phoenix warrior.
"Yeah," the Canadian said, nodding. "But has he got a logical plan about getting out of here? Vatican City is in the heart of Rome. The terrorists can't just stroll out of the place. There's no way anybody could land a plane big enough to take all the terrorists in one trip. What can he do?"
"The Syrian plans to use trucks," the Basque explained. "He wants the Italian government to give him more than a hundred large vehicles. Then he plans to load up the trucks with hostages. Only one or two in each truck. Dozens of the most valuable sculptures and paintings will also be loaded into the vehicles. Naturally all of the revolutionaries will be in the trucks. Then we go to the airport where a pair of large cargo planes will be waiting to fly us to Teheran."
"Would they release the hostages at the airport?" Manning asked. He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Of course, they could release the hostages. They'd still have the artwork. Nobody would want to force down a plane loaded with billions of dollars worth of famous artwork."
"The art from the Vatican is irreplaceable," Katz agreed. "La Pieta, Michelangelo's sculpture of Mary holding the slain body of Christ in her arms, would be worth millions to any collector willing to buy on the black market. But no price tag can be placed on the loss to the world if such a historical masterpiece is hidden from the public or destroyed by rash action."
