Hostaged Vatican

by Gar Wilson

  "Heaven forbid that you should be uncomfortable," Encizo remarked dryly. The quiver in his voice betrayed his nonchalant attitude.

  "I'm going to teach you all about discomfort," the fat man warned. He turned to the two guards and spoke to them in Farsi, gesturing at the corpses of the Iranians and Basque renegades that still littered the floor. The guards nodded. They seemed relieved by whatever Abdul had told them.

  "I've instructed them to take the bodies out of my work area," Abdul explained. "I hate clutter when I'm trying to concentrate on business. Besides, there may have been weapons on those corpses. Just a precaution. I also told those two that they are to stay out of the room while I'm working. I think they're rather glad of that."

  Abdul glanced at the two Iranians who remained. Both were young, muscular and dirty. It was obvious that neither man had bathed recently or used a comb. However, their expressions were quite different. One man brooded. The other man seemed unable to stop grinning. He displayed discolored half-rotted teeth as he smiled at James and Encizo.

  "Of course," Abdul announced proudly. "These are my assistants. My students of the art, you might say. Saddam and Reza are accustomed to this sort of work. They enjoy it, although Saddam expresses his pleasure more than Reza."

  "Always nice to meet guys who like what they do for a living," Calvin James commented, managing a feeble smile.

  "Now that we've all been introduced, it is time to get down to business," Abdul stated as he took the pliers from the hot coals in the dish.

  19

  "I'm worried about this plan, Captain," Bishop Juan Castillo confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "If anything goes wrong, dozens of us will be slaughtered."

  "The terrorists have already killed ten hostages," Captain Jacobi replied. The Swiss officer glanced over the heads of hundreds of fellow prisoners. The Iranian gunmen were still posted at the exits of the Vestibolo Rotondo, although there were no more than there had been the last time he had counted. "Monsignor Cellini was one of the victims. We've got about fifteen more minutes before they come for ten more of us."

  "But we've heard so much shooting and so many explosions," Castillo remarked. "That surely means the terrorists are still fighting the rescue team sent to save us..."

  "That rescue team hasn't succeeded yet," Jacobi insisted. "We can't wait for them, Father. Try to look at this the way the strike force has to. First, they have to concentrate on neutralizing the earthquake device. That's the greatest potential threat. It could destroy the whole of the Vatican and thousands of lives. Besides, they've got to find out where we're being held. If it's true that only about eight commandos managed to get over the wall, they're pitted against enormous odds. There are over two hundred terrorists to deal with. We've got to take action, and if we do it before Radmeni comes to pick out the next ten hostages for the firing squad, we'll have only the guards that are already here to deal with."

  "Are you forgetting about all the other terrorists beyond the Vestibolo?" Castillo inquired.

  "No," Jacobi assured him. "But at least we'll be armed when we go up against them. At least we can fight like men instead of being led to the slaughter like cattle."

  "Killing is wrong, my son," the bishop said, frowning.

  "Father Cellini told me to do what I must," the captain replied. "It's my duty to protect the lives and property of the Vatican. I haven't done a very good job of that so far. Now it's time I start acting more like a soldier and less like a prisoner. If I have to take the lives of a few wicked men to save the lives of many innocent people, I don't imagine God will be too upset with me."

  "My prayers are with you, my son," Castillo said, smiling thinly. "Take care, and may God be with you."

  "Grazie, il padre," Jacobi answered. "Everybody should be in position and ready for us to make our move. With a little luck we ought to..."

  "Signor Guardia!" Fulvio Salvia exclaimed as he rushed toward a pair of terrorist sentries. "I must speak to you. It is most urgent."

  "Non mi secchi!" an Iranian who spoke a smattering of Italian gruffly replied, ordering Salvia to keep his distance.

  "Un momento," the portly newspaper printer urged. "I am trying to warn you of danger, signor."

  "Calma," the bilingual Iranian replied with a sigh. "Che vuole, il cane?"

  "That man, the captain of the Swiss Guards," Salvia said, pointing toward Jacobi, "is trying to convince some of the others to revolt."

  "Revolt?" the Iranian frowned. "How? What has he planned?"

  "I'm not certain," Salvia answered. "But I'm certain he intends to cause trouble for you. I don't want any trouble. You'll be sure to tell Signor Radmeni how I helped you?"

  "Shut up, you fat coward," the terrorist snorted as he shoved Salvia aside with the barrel of his AK-47 and walked toward the captain. "You are Captain Jacobi?"

  "I am Jacobi/' the Swiss officer admitted as he approached the guards. "What do you want? What's Salvia been telling you? You know he's just a printer at the Vatican newspaper, don't you?"

  "He tells me you intend to cause some trouble for us, Jacobi," the Iranian stated. "He tells me you're trying to form some sort of revolt."

  "What the hell are you talking about?" Jacobi demanded. He glared at Salvia. "Damn you, Fulvio! What did you tell them?"

  "Nothing, Captain," Salvia replied, shaking his head as he tried to back away from the Swiss officer. "Nothing at all."

  "You misbegotten son of a sow!" Jacobi shouted. "You're going to ruin everything!"

  He lunged forward and seized Salvia's shirt front. The captain shook Salvia and snarled obscenities in a couple of languages. Two other Swiss Guardsmen rushed forward and pulled their commander away from the printer.

  "He isn't worth it, sir!" a young sergeant declared.

  "That fool ruined everything," Jacobi said bitterly.

  "Very entertaining," the Italian-speaking Iranian chuckled. "But now we have a few questions to ask you. Captain. And if you're wise, you'll answer us before we take you to see Radmeni's interrogation experts and..."

  Suddenly groups of hostages attacked guards at each exit to the Vestibolo Rotondo. Three or more prisoners went after each Iranian sentry. Some of them wielded shoes as clubs, others used their fists. A former United States Marine lashed out with the buckle of his belt, which was wrapped around his fist.

  The guards who had been amused by the confrontation between Jacobi and Salvia, were no longer laughing. Both men raised their AK-47 rifles. Jacobi and the other two Swiss soldiers rammed into the terrorists. The captain and the sergeant drove their opponent to the floor. Jacobi wrenched the Kalashnikov from the terrorist's grasp while the NCO hammered his fist into the Iranian's face.

  The other Swiss Guardsman was not as lucky. His opponent whipped the butt of his AK-47 across the soldier's skull before the Swiss could grapple with the terrorist. The trooper fell with a groan as the Iranian swung the barrel of his weapon toward Jacobi and the printer. Pudgy hands grabbed the rifle and shoved it toward the ceiling. The Iranian cursed as he glared into the round face of Fulvio Salvia.

  The printer tried to push the terrorist off-balance, but the Iranian was younger and stronger than the portly Italian. He held on to the rifle and rammed a knee between Salvia's legs. The printer wheezed in agony and collapsed to the floor as both his hands moved to his genitals.

  Suddenly two fists hammered the terrorist's forearms, striking the rifle from his grasp. He stared into the face of Bishop Juan Castillo. The priest swung a hard right cross at the Iranian's jaw, followed by a quick left hook. Castillo plowed an uppercut to the terrorist's solar plexus. His left arm snaked around the man's neck into a headlock while his right fist slammed into the Iranian's face.

  "God forgive me," the bishop hissed through clenched teeth as he punched the man between the eyes.

  Castillo released his opponent. The terrorist dropped senseless to the floor. Captain Jacobi blinked in surprise as his mouth fell open. Castillo shrugged his shoulders in an emb
arrassed gesture of reluctant acceptance.

  "I... I used to do some boxing when I was younger," the bishop admitted. "At one time I trained for the Olympics, middleweight division."

  "I believe you," Jacobi assured him. "Don't be upset, Father. I think you broke the terrorist's nose, but he certainly isn't dead. I probably would be if you hadn't stopped him. I owe you my life, Father."

  "Fulvio deserves most of the credit," Castillo declared as he helped Salvia rise from the floor. "The gunman would have shot you before I could reach him, but Fulvio risked his life to protect you."

  "Are you all right, Fulvio?" Jacobi inquired, placing a hand on the printer's shoulder.

  "I have had better days," Salvia croaked. "Did the plan work, Captain?"

  "So far," Jacobi confirmed. He glanced across the Vestibolo and saw several men waving weapons they had taken from the subdued terrorists. Many cheered, but others realized that loud voices would carry to the enemies beyond the hall. A few were obviously fearful of retaliation by the terrorists.

  "You played your role very well, Fulvio," Castillo told the printer. "You and the captain supplied an excellent diversion that allowed the others to catch the terrorists off guard."

  "It wasn't difficult for me to act as a coward," Salvio confessed. "I was terrified."

  "So was I," Jacobi said. "Don't tell me you're a coward, Fulvio. It takes a great deal of courage to do something when you are frightened. If you're not afraid, taking action doesn't require any courage. You were very brave, my friend."

  "The corporal took a nasty blow on the head," Castillo remarked, referring to the Swiss Guardsman who had been butt-stroked during the fight. "Better have a doctor take a look at him."

  "I will," Jacobi assured him. "But we've got some other matters to take care of, too. The confiscated guns must be put in the hands of people who know how to use them. We've also got to..."

  Suddenly ten terrorists appeared at the main entrance of the Vestibolo Rotondo. The enemy had sent another squad to pick out the next group of hostages to be executed. Jacobi cursed under his breath for not posting a lookout at each doorway. The hostages were not prepared for a firefight, and resistance would mean that dozens would be slaughtered.

  Captain Jacobi was not a combat commander. He hesitated, unsure if they should surrender or fight. The latter was the only logical choice, despite the high probability of a bloodbath in which the hostages would make up the majority of the body count. They had finally organized and fought back. If they quit now, their spirit to fight and to survive would be broken.

  Several terrorists at the rear of the group began to convulse in a bizarre, uncoordinated dance. Their bodies jerked and twitched as blood and brain matter splurted from their bullet-shattered skulls. The subdued chatter of a silenced machine pistol was barely noticeable amid the startled cries of the surviving terrorists.

  David McCarter and John Trent had attacked the terrorists from the rear. The Briton's M-10 Ingram blasted a volley of parabellums into the necks and skulls of three opponents while Trent hurled the blade of his shoge at the back of another terrorist. The double-edged steel pierced the Iranian's spine between his shoulder blades.

  The man screamed as Trent yanked the shoge cord to pull the knife from the terrorist's back. Another Iranian turned toward the American ninja before Trent could prepare the knife for another throw. Trent's left arm snapped toward the second opponent as he swung the steel ring at the other end of the shoge cord. Hard metal struck the terrorist across the face. The terrorist fell back against a wall with blood pouring from his nostrils.

  A third opponent charged at Trent, but the ninja had gripped the shoge by its handle again and threw it at the terrorist. The blade's point struck the Iranian in the chest. Sharp steel pierced flesh, although it did not stab deeply enough to inflict a mortal wound.

  Trent lunged forward, drawing the ninja-do. He jumped between the three wounded opponents and swung the sword. The ninja pivoted, increasing the force and speed of the sword stroke. The blade slashed the dazed terrorist across the chest. The arch continued and cut the throat of the Iranian who still wore the shoge knife in his chest. The sword completed its revolution and sliced the neck of the terrorist with the punctured spine.

  John Trent raised his sword, ready to deliver another stroke if needed. Three dead terrorists collapsed in a semicircle around him.

  The remaining terrorists battled David McCarter. The British fighting machine hit the enemy with another salvo of 9 mm fire. Bullets raked the chests of two terrorists, bursting their hearts as the impact drove them backward into another Iranian gunsel. All three men fell to the floor.

  The last terrorist aimed a Skorpion machine pistol at McCarter. Trent's right arm flashed as he hurled a shaken throwing star at the gunman's head. Steel points hit the terrorist behind the right ear. The blades pierced the mastoid bone. The terrorist dropped his rifle as he fell forward.

  "Get out from under those corpses, you bastard!" McCarter shouted at the man who was buried under the bodies of three of his comrades. "Now, or I'll kill you, too!"

  The Iranian may not have understood English, but he did not need a translator to tell him what McCarter wanted. The terrorist crawled away from his slain friends and rose to his knees with both hands clamped on top of his head.

  "Guess this bloke isn't ready to meet Allah in person just yet," the Briton commented. He kept his eyes trained on the terrorist as he called to the hostages, "Do any of you speak English?"

  "I'm an American, pal," a voice replied.

  "Close enough," McCarter said with a shrug. He kept the Ingram pointed at the Iranian as he pulled a set of riot cuffs from his belt. "Come here and bind his wrists and ankles. But no rough stuff. He's surrendered, so there's no need to take out any frustrations on him."

  "I'm Captain Jacobi of the Swiss Guards," the officer introduced himself as he approached McCarter. He stared at Trent, surprised to see that one of the rescuers was dressed as a ninja.

  "Don't worry," the Briton assured him. "He's a friend. We're bloody lucky he's on our side. Tell your mates not to get trigger-happy when they see him."

  "How did you find us?" Jacobi inquired.

  "We knew the terrorists planned to execute more hostages," McCarter explained. "When we saw this gang headed for the museum, we figured they'd lead us right to you blokes. We thought we'd have some guards to deal with, but it looks like you've already taken care of that."

  "We decided we'd rather die like rams than sheep." the Swiss officer confirmed.

  "Couldn't agree with you more," McCarter said with a wolfish grin. "Be careful. This sort of experience can become habit-forming... if you're lucky."

  "Don't pay too much attention to anything he says," Trent told Jacobi. "The guy's nuts."

  "You use a sword against men armed with submachine guns and you call me nuts?" the Briton scoffed.

  "We wanted to take out the enemy with a minimum of noise," Trent said with a shrug. "I don't have a silencer for my pistol."

  "Do you gentlemen have a plan for getting us out of here?" Bishop Castillo inquired as he approached the pair.

  "Actually a couple of our mates were suppose to rescue you," McCarter explained as he inserted a fresh magazine into the well of his Ingram. "But they must have tried to save the hostages who were executed in the courtyard. From the sounds of gunfire and explosions, I'd say our friends must have run into some solid opposition. We don't know if they're dead or alive. Another team planned to take out the earthquake device by the radio station."

  "If they succeed, they should be heading back here to join up with us so we can hit enemy headquarters."

  "Some of us will help," Jacobi declared. "Most of these people are civilians and they'd just get in the way, but a few of us have some experience."

  "Actually," McCarter explained. "We were supposed to send up a flare to signal the Italian antiterrorist squad to charge the Vatican. After the earthquake threat was neutralized and the hostages
freed, we planned to call for reinforcements to mop up what's left of the terrorists. I don't know how many of the bastards are left, but we've killed quite a lot of them. There shouldn't be enough to put up a major fight."

  "That's wishful thinking," Trent commented dryly.

  "Maybe," the Briton admitted. "But for all of our sakes it had better come true."

  20

  "I'm afraid we don't have much time/' Abdul the torturer remarked as he clamped the pliers onto the edge of a red-hot coin and raised it from the dish of burning coals. "So I'm going to have to move directly to some of my more unpleasant forms of extracting information."

  Rafael Encizo could not repress a tremble of fear when the fat man approached him. Abdul held the pliers high. The coin glowed as if it were an amulet of supernatural evil. Encizo reminded himself that the torturer wanted information. Regardless of his remark, Abdul would not use a technique that might throw a victim into shock or that could possibly cause a heart attack. He would use those only if no other method seemed to work.

  The Cuban curled the fingers of his right hand against his palm and awkwardly rubbed the cartridge case against the belt buckle that bound his wrist to the arm of the chair. Abdul and his assistants had not discovered the tiny brass object that Encizo had turned into a crude chisel. But it was small comfort, since the cartridge casing did not seem sharp enough to cut through leather.

  Abdul stepped around the chair. He avoided approaching Encizo from the front because he realized the Cuban's legs were not restrained. Abdul was familiar with desperate, frightened men. He did not care to get kicked in the groin by a panicking victim. The torturer moved behind Encizo and leaned toward his ear.

  "Pain is fascinating," Abdul whispered. "I never tire of watching the effects of pain on individuals. Everybody reacts differently at first. Some cry, some curse, some don't even groan. Yet, in the end, they all react the same. They betray their friends, denounce their causes, deny their gods. They will do anything to stop the pain."