Hostaged Vatican

by Gar Wilson

  He threw his opponent across the desk. The ninja's lower back struck the corner. The lumbar vertebrae cracked, and the ninja uttered a short, shrill scream before falling in his final bow to the floor. Manning had broken the man's back.

  The Canadian staggered away from the dead ninja. He panted heavily as he retrieved his Eagle .357 pistol. His head throbbed and his side ached, but nothing seemed to be broken or ruptured. Manning walked unsteadily to the desk and leaned against it before climbing on top of it. He slipped off his backpack and removed a packet of C-4 plastic explosives.

  Manning jammed the doughlike substance into a corner of the ceiling. The Canadian demolitions expert inserted a pencil detonator and set the timer for twenty seconds. He stepped down from the desk and hurried from the room, slamming the door shut and dragging the unconscious Syrian down the corridor.

  Yakov Katzenelenbogen had mounted the stairs to the third floor. He tossed a concussion grenade into the upstairs hall before advancing to the top step.

  The grenade exploded, and Katz charged over the top, his Uzi ready for action. Two terrorists stumbled about the corridor with their hands clamped over their ears. Three others sprawled on the floor, moving slowly like half-crushed beetles. Katz could not afford to take any chances with wounded yet still potentially dangerous opponents. He opened fire, blasting the injured and disabled terrorists.

  Phoenix Force was at war with the terrorists. Katz had killed many men in combat. He had killed German soldiers who had been ordered into battle by a government that many of them had never wanted. He had killed Egyptians and Palestinians who believed they were fighting for their homeland. Right and wrong largely depended on which side of the conflict one happened to be on.

  The terrorists at the Vatican were not soldiers fighting for their country or land that they felt they had a claim to. They were committed to a cause that they no doubt believed to be righteous and proper. But then most people believe they are generally right, although most people do not kill innocent civilians or resort to blackmail and threaten to slaughter thousands of lives if their demands are not met.

  The mentality of a terrorist may not be evil, but it is fanatical and extreme to a level bordering madness. It lacks compassion or sympathy. Katz had no doubt that the war against terrorism was just and moral. Drastic measures were often necessary, but Katz and the other men of Phoenix Force were never ruthless without reason.

  At the moment Katz had a reason — his personal survival and the survival of hundreds of others if Phoenix Force failed. He stepped past the bodies of the five slain terrorists and approached the single door at the end of the hall. Glass windows on both sides of the door revealed the radio control center and sound stage within. The latter was clearly unoccupied, but Katz noticed that a rifle barrel jutted from behind a console unit in the control room.

  One terrorist was probably lurking behind the machine, and where one terrorist was there were usually others. Katz considered lobbing a grenade through the window, but the glass was thick and probably soundproof. If the grenade failed to break through, it would bounce right back at the Phoenix Force commander. A burst of Uzi slugs would certainly take out the window. Of course, if he shot out the glass the terrorists would open fire, and they had better cover than Katz.

  The Israeli had several options, but the most logical was simply to wait. If the terrorists made the next move, they might leave themselves open to counterattack. The enemy obviously did not have a transmitter for the earthquake device or they would have used it or at least threatened to use it by now. Katz could afford to wait.

  Besides, Manning had promised to provide a distraction. Unless something had happened to the Canadian, Manning's surprise ought to occur at any second...

  The explosion erupted from the ceiling of the office beneath the control room. The blast tore open the floor. The console unit burst apart and sparks flew from severed wires. Three terrorists were annihilated by the explosion. What remained of their bodies was splattered across the walls and windows of the control room.

  "Well, Gary," Katz sighed as he lowered his Uzi. 'That was one hell of a distraction."

  17

  Monsignor Giovanni Cellini gazed up at the cruel smile on the face of Mohammed Radmeni. The Iranian terrorist leader had just selected nine hostages for the execution. He would choose one more. Radmeni's eyes were fixed on the gold cross that hung from Cellini's neck.

  "Do you understand English, priest?" Radmeni inquired. "You know what I am doing here?"

  "Yes," the monsignor replied. "I understand English and I realize you are planning to take ten of us from this room to be murdered."

  "It is not murder when one kills to fulfill the will of Allah," Radmeni declared.

  "Are you so sure you represent the will of your god?" Cellini began as he rose to his feet. "Isn't it possible you use the name of Allah to excuse your own wickedness?"

  The other hostages within the Vestibolo Rotondo tensely watched the confrontation between the terrorist leader and the monsignor. Fulvio Salvia trembled with fear. He had been terrified since the moment he had first learned the terrorists intended to execute hostages. The Vatican newspaper printer had prayed to God for mercy. He had begged the All Mighty to spare him from being chosen to die at the hands of the butchers.

  Salvia had closed his eyes when Radmeni and his escort of a dozen armed terrorists had entered the hall. He had whimpered under his breath and had held his hands interlocked in prayer as he had continued to beg God for protection. He had nearly fainted with relief when he had opened his eyes to discover that all but one choice for the firing squad had been made.

  Captain Helmut Jacobi had been unable to organize the other members of the Swiss Guards and tourists with military or police experience to take action against the terrorists. He had found a number of willing recruits, but there had not been time to plan any type of strategy before Radmeni and the others had arrived.

  The terrorist leader had selected three Swiss Guards to be executed. Jacobi had vainly protested and had received a rifle butt in the gut for his efforts. The Swiss officer wondered why he had not been selected. Probably because Radmeni assumed he would restrain the younger soldiers from taking any rash form of action.

  Five Americans had also been chosen to die, including two Vietnam veterans whom Jacobi had hoped would help fight the terrorists. One Briton had been added to the list, a London bicycle shop owner who had saved money for many years to fulfill his dream to worship at St. Peter's Basilica.

  Only one choice remained, and Jacobi feared the terrorists had decided to take Monsignor Cellini. If Radmeni had hoped to see the monsignor cower in fear, he had been very disappointed. Cellini stood erect and looked directly into the face of the terrorist as he spoke.

  "Are you so certain Allah regards the slaughter of helpless people as a holy act?" Cellini demanded.

  "How dare you talk to me in such a manner, you Christian pig," Radmeni hissed softly. "I would cut off your testicles, priest, but I doubt that you have any. They probably shriveled up from lack of use."

  "The lives of these people shouldn't be ended because you're frustrated, Mr. Radmeni," Cellini stated. "Can't you see that murder is not the will of God? Your god or mine?"

  "That's what you say now, priest," Radmeni sneered.

  But that is because Catholics are about to die, not Muslims. When Christian militia slaughtered more than seven hundred Muslims in Beirut in September of 1982, your Vatican was not outraged. Seven hundred Muslims, many women and children among them. Yet you priests in your private little kingdom here at the Vatican did not object."

  "That isn't true," Cellini insisted. "The pope publicly condemned that incident. Murder is not more acceptable when it is committed by Christians. In fact, that probably makes the act even more horrendous because it violates one of God's most important Commandments, 'thou shalt not kill.'"

  "Words, priest," Radmeni scoffed. "Only words. You are a priest and you are supposed to repres
ent the Christian god on earth. So I will allow your god or whatever idiot saints you worship to decide a matter of life and death. Since you are their instrument on earth, you shall decide who the tenth hostage shall be."

  "I refuse," Cellini replied. "I can't condemn any human being to death. God gives life, and only He should take it away."

  "If you do not choose someone, then you shall face the firing squad, priest," the Iranian said with a shrug.

  "No!" Captain Jacobi said sharply. "The monsignor is the sosituto, the assistant to the cardinal secretary of the State of the Vatican. He is part of the very heart of the church. To kill such a man would be an international crime that would only turn more people against your Islamic Jihad and all that it stands for!"

  "Christians will turn against us," Radmeni laughed. "Christians who are already our sworn enemies. They hate us and plot against us already. But the people of Islam will applaud us for striking down a leader of the infidel faith. It will be a symbol of strength and power if the Jihad executes such an enemy."

  "I doubt that, Radmeni," Cellini replied, shaking his head slowly. "Most followers of Islam don't approve of murder any more than most Christians. You no more represent them than you represent Allah. You're just a fanatic, Radmeni. You represent only hatred."

  "I will give you one last chance, priest," Radmeni hissed through clenched teeth. "Choose the tenth person for execution, or you will accompany the other nine to the firing squad."

  "If nine innocent people are to die," Cellini replied, "then they should have the benefit of last rites and final confession. I shall join them."

  "And I thought suicide was against the Catholic religion," Radmeni chuckled.

  He suddenly lashed the barrel of his AK-47 across Cellini's wounded arm. The monsignor gasped and cradled the damaged limb in his other arm. Cellini groaned in pain as he dropped to one knee. A scarlet stain appeared on the white cloth of the sling.

  "Damn you, you Iranian bastard!" Jacobi snarled, his hands clenched in fists of helpless rage. "I..."

  "Go on, toy soldier," Radmeni invited, raising the barrel of his rifle to point its muzzle at Jacobi's face. "What will you do? Were you about to say you intend to kill me? Please try, Captain. I'd be delighted to put a bullet between your eyes. Come, now. You can commit suicide the same as this idiot priest."

  "Captain," Cellini urged, his voice weak as he gulped air into his lungs. "Think of the others. They need you. I'll be all right."

  "You'll be dead, priest," Radmeni sneered. "Come with me. We have an execution to attend."

  Radmeni turned and walked toward the escort and the nine other hostages who had been selected for execution. Several prisoners had reacted in the same manner as Jacobi when they had seen Radmeni strike the monsignor. However, the guns of the terrorists kept the hostages helpless and in their place. At bay.

  "Monsignor," Bishop Juan Castillo began as he approached Cellini. Castillo was an assistant to the cardinal of Madrid. He had been sent to represent the cardinal at what had become a poorly timed meeting with the Curia. "Monsignor, do not do this. Por favor. Let me go instead..."

  "No, Juan," Cellini insisted. "This responsibility has been placed on my shoulders. I've lived a full life, and I've little reason to complain if it is now to come to an end. Perhaps God has chosen this final path for me. It is similar to the path our Lord Jesus walked. A priest has a duty to live as He did, so it is not inappropriate to die in that manner as well."

  "Monsignor..." Castillo said helplessly.

  "You stay here and comfort our flock, Juan," Cellini urged with a gentle smile. "They face a difficult ordeal and they need spiritual guidance. That's really what being a priest is all about."

  "But you are the sosituto," the Spanish bishop stated. "You should remain with the prisoners and allow a lesser priest, like myself, to go in your place."

  "No man is less than another," Cellini told him. "Yes. I am the sosituto. There have been many men with that title before me and there will probably be many more in the future. When a pope dies, the church does not close its doors. The world does not stop on its axis and wail for another to take his place. I am no more important than you or any other man in this room. And I certainly can't have another man die for me. That is something everyone must do for himself"

  "I don't know what to say," Castillo admitted.

  "May God be with you, Juan," Cellini turned to Captain Jacobi. "And with you, my son."

  "Father," Jacobi began. "I can't just stay here and let you go to your death."

  "I am doing what I must," Cellini replied. "You must do likewise. Captain."

  Two terrorists seized Cellini's arms and escorted him the rest of the way to the group of doomed hostages. Numerous voices shouted in outrage as the ten chosen men were escorted from the Vestibolo Rotondo. The remaining hostages could do little against the well-armed terrorists. Monsignor Cellini looked over his shoulder as the captors marched him through the doorway.

  "Captain Jacobi," Fulvio Salvia began. "I don't understand English. Why is Monsignor Cellini leaving with those men?"

  "Why do you think, you idiot?" the Swiss officer snapped.

  "The monsignor?" Salvia stared at Jacobi. "But they can't kill him. That is madness!"

  "What the hell has been sane about any of this?" Jacobi asked sharply. "Those bastards are going to kill Cellini, and they'll kill the rest of us if we don't do something to stop them."

  * * *

  Rafael Encizo and Calvin James crept along the rooftop of the Vatican Library. They had just checked on the Pigna Courtyard from the roof of the Museo Chiaramonti and had found no evidence that a mass execution was planned for that area. The commando pair had moved to the library to get a clear view of the Belvedere Courtyard.

  James and Encizo crawled to the peak of the roof and peered down into the courtyard. Terrorists were lined along the walls, forming a great horseshoe pattern around ten figures who were approximately twenty feet from the enemy gunmen.

  Monsignor Cellini stood before the other nine hostages. He recited last rites in Latin as he gestured with his right arm toward each of the nine condemned men. The other hostages knelt before the monsignor and solemnly crossed themselves. Cellini took a small vial of holy water from a pocket and sprinkled a few drops on each man's head.

  "Your M-16 has a longer range than my H&K," Encizo whispered to James. "You pick off the members of the firing squad. I'll try to pin down the rest of the terrorists."

  "Okay," the black warrior agreed, putting the stock of the M-16 to his shoulder. "But how do I know which of these dudes are in the firing squad?"

  There were at least thirty terrorists in the courtyard. All carried automatic weapons, but none pointed their guns at the condemned hostages. They simply watched Cellini conduct final services for the other nine captives. Several of the enemy troop fidgeted; they were either eager to get the task over with or simply eager to spill more blood. Encizo and James knew that the latter was more likely than the former.

  "Looks like they're letting the hostages receive their last rites," Encizo commented. "The members of the firing squad will take aim and wait for the order to fire."

  Without ceremony the terrorists opened fire on the hostages. A burst of full-auto lead struck Monsignor Cellini in the spine as he was about to make the sign of the cross. His bullet-riddled body fell forward. Other hostages were shot in the chest and lower torso. Several prisoners' heads recoiled as slugs ripped through their faces and blasted exits at the backs of their skulls.

  James and Encizo fired down at the terrorists. They realized their mistake the moment they felt the recoil of their weapons. The Phoenix pair had reacted from gut instinct when they had witnessed the cold-blooded murder of the ten unarmed hostages. Yet it was the wrong move. The hostages were already dead. The attempt to rescue them had failed, and the logical tactic would have been to avoid attracting attention. The terrorists probably would not have known the commandos were in the area if James and Enciz
o had held their fire.

  However, a man does not always do what is logical. Encizo and James could not recall the slugs. Eight terrorists were cut down before the enemy knew where the shots were coming from. Bodies dropped among the startled terrorists. Survivors scrambled for cover. A few returned fire in the general direction of the Phoenix pair.

  "I think we'd better boogie, man," James commented, taking an M-26 frag grenade from his belt.

  "Words to live by," Encizo replied as he ducked his head.

  Several enemy bullets chewed at the eaves of the roof near their position. The bastards were getting too close for comfort, although none of them had scored a direct hit. James pulled the pin from his grenade and hurled it into the courtyard. The explosion turned four terrorists into mangled corpses, and the shrapnel wounded half a dozen others. The remaining terrorists hit the dirt and kept their heads down.

  Encizo and James retreated to the opposite side of the peak. They crawled along the roof on all fours, scrambling across the tiles like a pair of desperate animals. Another salvo of full-auto rounds pelted the roof and tore chips from the summit. More terrorists appeared at the entrance to the museum, although they were obviously unsure of the battle's location.

  Surrounded by enemies, the Phoenix crusaders stopped moving and clung to the roof. They remained perfectly still, their black shapes blending with the night shadows. Terrorists darted about below them. Voices shouted in languages neither James nor Encizo understood.

  "I think we fucked up royally," James rasped in a voice barely audible to Encizo. "We sure can't lie around on this roof and expect to get away with playing lizard-on-a-rock all night."

  "If we can find a drain extending from a rain gutter, then we could shimmy down to one of the windows below," Encizo suggested.