Veil - 02 - The Hammer of God

by Reginald Cook

  When Father Kong finished, he gave the letter to Robert. “It’s from the Holy Father.” Robert took the folded paper, but didn’t open it. Father Kong took a deep breath. “Cardinal Maximilian informed him that the time was at hand, and he wanted to offer a few words of support.” Robert unfolded the note and read it to himself as everybody watched in silence. The longer he read, the harder his heart pounded. His eyes narrowed, his forehead wrinkled. The Pope’s words ignited his spirit. When he finished, as the note instructed, Robert pulled a lighter from his pocket, set the paper on fire, placed it in an ashtray, and then faced everyone in the room.

  “Tonight, we must be at our best. Many lives are at stake; ours, three little boys, and possibly untold millions. Be brave, courageous, and let’s have everybody come home alive,” said Robert.

  Father Kong stood, serious, panning the room. “Those of you with Il Martello di Dio know our charge. First Peter, Chapter Five, Verse Eight.

  We are hard pressed on every side, yet not crushed. We are perplexed, but not in despair, persecuted, but not forsaken.” He then lowered his head and prayed.

  When he finished, Robert nodded to Thorne, who barked out last minute instructions. Everyone gathered up their equipment and went outside. Detective Reynolds pulled Thorne to the side, gave her a long, passionate kiss then joined his team in one of the vans.

  Robert, Thorne, Father Kong, and two others piled inside a black SUV. Each squad left in fifteen-minute intervals, Robert not wanting a parade. When they reached the main rode out of Rome, Robert relaxed and let his mind go. For ten miles nobody spoke. Father Kong’s cell phone broke the silence. Ten seconds into his conversation, the priest’s face went flush with horror.

  “My God!” he cried, tears in his eyes. Robert’s back straightened.

  Father Kong put his head in his hands. “My God, my God!” he bellowed and sobbed.

  “What is it?” asked Robert, anxious.

  Father Kong lifted his head, eyes red, bottom lip trembling. “It’s the Holy Father, the Pope. He’s dead.”

  65

  Cardinal Polletto gave the procession assembling inside the Hall of the Caesars last minute instructions, carefully looking them over forty-five minutes before the midnight hour. Outside, members of The Order of Asmodeus were gathering from all over the world, taking their seats in the makeshift stadium behind the castle, next to the stage and wooden deck they’d be standing on shortly, all watching history change before their eyes.

  Sister Bravo and Father Sin were tending to Samuel, Felipe and Eduardo, gently securing their hands and taping their mouths. Samuel glared at the cardinal, a murderous scowl on his face that Cardinal Polletto brushed aside. Soon, you’ll thank me for making you ruler of the world. Each boy was lifted up and placed in a small, shiny black coffin, with three slits cut in the top for them to breath. To the cardinal’s surprise, none of the boys flinched or struggled. Maybe it’s sinking in.

  Maybe now they’re starting to realize.

  The coffins were closed tight, and two black-hooded priests were assigned to guard and carry each coffin. In front of the coffins, gagged, blindfolded and tied to a wide wooden board, lay Father Tolbert. The angry priest squirmed and fought, almost tearing free several times. Only after a generous dose of heroin filled his blood stream, administered by Father Ortega, did he settle down.

  “You’ll burn. You’ll burn,” Father Tolbert mumbled, eyes rolling up in his head.

  Cardinal Polletto had received word an hour earlier that the Pope had died a solemn death in his sleep earlier that night. After the ritual, Cardinal Polletto would rush to the Vatican with all of the other cardinals, where they’d plan and perform the Pope’s funeral, then be locked in conclave inside the Sistine Chapel, away from the public eye until they all agreed on the new Bishop of Rome, a position guaranteed to him by veiled forces more powerful than any known to the world. The Black Pope, old, frail, and a supremely powerful man, had also promised the cardinal certain death if he failed.

  The extra security the cardinal set up in and around the castle, in light of the attack on Rinaldo and Dianora, gave him some comfort that the ritual wouldn’t be disturbed. But it bothered him that his people hadn’t been able to find any sign of Robert Veil, his partner, or The Hammer of God anywhere. He was certain they were responsible for Rinaldo’s death, and Dianora’s coma. Cardinal Polletto’s snitch, Bishop Ruini, had jumped to his death at the hospital, the villa where Il Martello di Dio had been hiding was now empty. To add insult to an already tenuous situation, Cardinal Maximilian was still alive.

  Cardinal Polletto began to chant in Latin, a signal to everybody in the room that the procession was about to begin. All of The Order’s members, each draped in long black, hooded robes, took up their positions, bodies racked with nervous energy, eyes wide with anticipation. The cardinal nodded.

  The three small caskets were lifted in the air, along with a near comatose Father Tolbert. Two hooded clerics stood in front of the cardinal, one holding a three prong, gold candelabra with the candles lit, and the other an upside down crucifix with their leader, Asmodeus, looking down on a suffering Jesus, and Lucifer looking down on them all.

  The cardinal continued to chant, raising his voice an octave, to signal the men in front of him to begin the march downstairs. Along the way, members of The Order lined the route, faces hidden behind hoods, a single candle in their hands. The castle, pitch black except for the candlelight, took on an ominous, foreboding atmosphere, a dark calm before a new day.

  Outside, the midnight sky draped the gathering with a clear, star-studded cloak of night. A windless, easy calm enveloped them, as if Lucifer himself held back any intrusion or interruption. The dead stillness caused Cardinal Polletto’s voice to boom through the night like thunder, and as they entered the stadium and slowly marched toward the stage, everyone sitting stood, holding a single lit candle in their hands.

  Cardinal Polletto stopped in front of a long table, covered with a dark red tablecloth, as the others took their positions. Father Tolbert to his right, the coffins on the wooden deck directly behind him, where twenty-five children, bound and gagged, lay shivering and shaking on the deck, eyes filled with fear. Cardinal Polletto motioned for everybody to take their seats and finished the chant. Everything fell silent.

  “Tonight is a night of triumph,” he told the crowd, loud and confident. “A night we will all bear witness to history, a night when the world will be born anew.”

  In the front row of the stadium, Cardinal Polletto spotted the Black Pope, his pasty face and black smile camouflaged behind his black hood.

  Sitting next to him, dressed as all the others, sat Alison Napier, nervous and fidgeting, unaware that tonight would be her last night on earth.

  The rest of the followers in the stands were some of the most powerful men and women in the world. Cabinet members, generals, heads of state, the influential, rich and powerful from every walk of life, were all ready to bow down and dedicate their lives to the boy who would rule every inch of the earth.

  “Tonight, the old will give way to something new. A new way the world will grasp as its lifeline, and we, the ones chosen to serve and lead, will tonight bear witness to this rebirth,” stated Cardinal Polletto.

  He began to chant again, this time paying homage to Lucifer, hands held high in the air, eyes to the heavens. The members in the stands blew out their candles and launched into the same chant, hands high, heads to the sky, some smiling, others dead serious, their voices filling the night like a harmonious choir.

  “Curse you! Curse every last one of you!” the cardinal heard Father Tolbert scream. He looked over and saw the priest, head up, spewing and spitting, cursing and crying. “Hell is waiting for all of you! I swear it!” Cardinal Polletto continued to chant. Father Ortega approached Father Tolbert, a long silver knife in his hand. Two priests hurried over and lifted Father Tolbert’s feet high in the air. Father Ortega braced to cut his throat and drain the blood into a s
ilver trough on the deck, just below the struggling priest.

  Father Tolbert caught a glimpse of the knife. “No, get away from me!” he screamed.

  As Father Ortega moved closer, Father Tolbert screamed louder. The crowd raised their voices higher, drowning him out.

  Cardinal Polletto looked behind him. Sister Bravo opened the three caskets. Hooded men lifted each boy out and gently stood them up on the deck. The cardinal locked his eyes on Samuel, who looked over at Eduardo and Felipe, their eyes wide, their bodies trembling. But one look from Samuel and the boys seemed to steady. Samuel scanned the area, detached, unmoved by the theatrics.

  “No, Lord, help me!” Father Tolbert bellowed.

  Father Ortega now stood directly over the priest, waiting for the final signal from Cardinal Polletto. The cardinal raised his hands. Everyone fell silent. On the table in front of him was a small silver plate filled with rich black dirt. He poured water over it and walked over to the writhing, spewing Father Tolbert. Cardinal Polletto mixed the mud with his fingers, and smeared it all over Father Tolbert’s face, whose smoldering anger was now replaced with uncontrollable crying.

  “From the earth you came, the Father of our savior. To earth you shall return. Your name will forever be written in our hearts and minds.

  Your blood, your seed, gave birth to the savior of this world, and in him you shall live forever.”

  Cardinal Polletto stepped back and nodded to Father Ortega. The burly priest placed the knife to Father Tolbert’s neck.

  “Urrrrh!” Father Tolbert struggled and writhed.

  One of his hands pulled loose from the rope. He grabbed the hand in which Father Ortega held the knife and wrestled violently. Father Tolbert’s other hand tore free, his eyes on fire, his face a raging storm.

  He grabbed Father Ortega by his bulky black robe and snatched him to the ground.

  Two men rushed over to help a distressed Father Ortega, but before they could reach him, Father Tolbert had the knife in his hand, and Father Ortega lay prostrate on his back.

  The men grabbed at Father Tolbert, but were met with hard kicks and stabs, sending both to the ground. Father Tolbert, his eyes fixed on Cardinal Polletto, reached down and stabbed Father Ortega in the chest several times, to the horror of the panic stricken crowd.

  “Father Sin, get him!” cried Cardinal Polletto.

  Father Sin, already headed in that direction, pulled his own knife from under his robe. Father Tolbert’s eyes never left the cardinal. He smiled, saliva foaming around his mouth, nose flaring.

  “Stop him!” Cardinal Polletto screamed.

  Father Tolbert rushed forward, knife above his head. Cardinal Polletto braced himself, forearms in front of his face. “Arrrrh!” he cried, as the blade found his flesh.

  66

  Samuel stared down at the small black coffin in front of him, afraid, but not showing it. Sister Bravo and Father Sin tied his and his brothers’

  hands in front of them, something he had anticipated, but still dreaded. It would make their escape more difficult.

  “Ouch,” Samuel cried, wincing as Sister Bravo knotted the rope.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll loosen the rope a bit.”

  “Thank you,” answered Samuel, smiling inside.

  Sister Bravo instructed Father Sin to do the same with Eduardo and Felipe. Samuel eyed his brothers. They’re fools. We’re going to beat them.

  He watched Eduardo and Felipe fight back smiles, and looked away so he wouldn’t laugh. Sister Bravo tore a strip of wide gray tape from a roll, placed it gently over Samuel’s mouth, tossed the roll to Father Sin, who taped the mouths of his brothers. Samuel squirmed, twisted, and mustered the saddest eyes he could.

  “There’s nothing I can do about the tape,” said Sister Bravo, smiling.

  “But relax, it won’t be there long.” Samuel looked away. Sister Bravo knelt. “Samuel, I hope we can be friends. I want to be a mother to you and your brothers, but you’ll have to let me in. I’ve waited a long time for this day. I hope we can put the past behind us.” You’re not my mother, and you’ll never be! Samuel forced a smile through the tape and nodded. Sister Bravo’s eyes watered, and she stood.

  Samuel turned his head toward the front of the room, hatred throbbing in his head. His eyes fell on Cardinal Polletto, who turned and looked back at him. The longer their eyes stayed locked on each other, the hotter Samuel’s anger burned. He didn’t care who the cardinal said he was, or what his place in history would be, he’d kill them all the first chance he got. If not that day, then another, but he was going to make them pay for tearing his life apart.

  In front of the coffins lay Father Tolbert, twisting back and forth like he was in pain. Bastard! You deserve to suffer. I hope I get to see you die. Samuel never told anyone all of the horrible things Father Tolbert had done to him. He told his friends, Paul and Carla, some things, like how Father Tolbert had fondled him, but kept the worst to himself.

  Cardinal Polletto began to chant. Samuel recognized it as Latin, but had no idea what the cardinal was saying. All of the adults in the room pulled the hoods of their black robes over their heads. Two men approached Samuel, lifted him up and placed him in the coffin. Samuel caught one last glimpse of his brothers, who looked horrified. Stay strong. Don’t break. We can do this.

  Inside, the coffin smelled like a fresh Christmas tree. Samuel relaxed. Rest, save your energy. He closed his eyes and tried to block out the sound of Cardinal Polletto’s grating tone. He focused on the task before them. Escape.

  Samuel felt the coffin lift in the air and move forward. He opened his eyes, and stared up through the slits cut in the top of the box, barely able to make out the ceiling because of the dim light. He tested the rope tied around his wrists. It wasn’t tight, but firm. He pulled and twisted, careful not to knock around or shift his weight. He felt the rope loosen, not much, but enough to spur him on. He closed his eyes again, and told his brothers to do the same.

  Samuel felt the coffin tip downward. We’re going a flight of stairs..

  Soon, he saw the stars up through the slits, and smelled the dampness of the lake in the night air. His ears picked up murmuring, and he imagined that the stadium Cardinal Polletto showed them the day before was filled with more jerks like the ones he’d already met.

  Bright beams from the stadium lights streamed down into the coffin.

  The murmurs and buzzing grew louder, and he could tell from the sound of shoes clopping wood, that they were being carried across the stage.

  Samuel closed his eyes again. This time he conjured up the layout around the castle in his mind, imagining their exact location as they moved along. A few minutes later, they stopped, and his coffin touched down softly on what he knew was the extended deck. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard the sound of children whimpering and crying.

  “Tonight is a night of triumph,” Samuel heard Cardinal Polletto bellow. “A night we all will bear witness to history, a night when the world will be born anew.”

  Samuel worked harder to loosen the rope, straining as hard as he could, sweat burning his eyes, the rope cutting into his skin. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. The blood seeping from small cuts around his wrists lubricated the rope, enabling him to pull free. Tears streamed down his face from the pain. He quickly rolled his head from one shoulder to the next, wiping his face dry. He retied his hands, but left them loose enough to break free when the time came.

  “Curse you, curse every last one of you!” Samuel heard Father Tolbert scream. “Hell is waiting for all of you! I swear it!” Samuel heard more chanting. Words he didn’t understand. A few moments later, Father Tolbert let out a terrifying shriek.

  “No, get away from me, no!” screamed Father Tolbert.

  67

  Robert and Thorne waited in a small, cliff-side house in Trevignano, across the lake from a well-lit Bracciano Castle, visible in the distance.

  When all was clear, the shops closed, and th
e streets empty, they crept across the street, through a brief section of woods to the beach, where one of Father Kong’s men, Father Timothy Pastuer, a young Frenchman who resembled the long-haired surfers Robert had seen riding waves along the shores of Australia, waited with their underwater gear.

  They both undressed and slipped into black wetsuits. Robert saw Father Pastuer almost gasp at the sight of Thorne’s chiseled frame, perfect breasts and tight ass. Robert smiled. I wonder how many Hail Mary’s this will cost you.

  Thorne never gave either of them so much as a glance. It wasn’t the first time they’d gone through this drill, and Robert had long ago immunized himself from Thorne’s exotic looks, although every now and them she still managed to catch him off guard. Robert’s radio cackled.

  He and Thorne pressed their earpieces. It was Father Kong.

  “Everybody’s in position,” the priest said clearly. “Signal us when you’re inside.”

  Robert affirmed the message, and he and Thorne went back to their preparations. Once inside his wet suit, Robert checked the air tanks, fins, laser, and underwater scooters they’d use to pull them through the lake.

  Thorne handed him a waterproof sack. Inside were two nine-millimeter automatics, plenty of ammunition, a set of night vision binoculars, and a Bowie knife. Robert removed his earpiece and radio and placed them inside.

  “I’m all set,” said Thorne, handing him a large, yellow underwater light that he attached to the top of his scooter. “We’ll fire these up once we’re ten feet under, so we don’t give ourselves away.” Robert strapped the underwater laser to his shoulder. Thorne carried their weapons. They gave Father Pastuer the thumbs-up as he prayed, then slowly waded into the icy water, surrounded by complete darkness and the stars above.

  Under the pitch-black water, Robert barely saw Thorne in front of him. Ten feet later, they turned on their lights. Fish and eels scrambled to get out of their way, several crashing into Robert as he swam. He moved to Thorne’s left and fired up his underwater scooter. Silent, the scooter pulled him through the water with ease, snatching him past Thorne until she started hers and caught up with him. They sliced through the water like dolphins, diving down two hundred feet, gliding toward the castle at twenty-five miles an hour.