The Hand of Christ

by Joseph Nagle

  Michael had been sent to Georgetown to kill two birds with one stone: finish his own doctoral studies and to turn Yousef into a CIA asset. Both missions were accomplished. Yousef had been more than willing – as if he had been waiting for the chance.

  Flashing back to Damascus, Yousef’s eagerness to work for the CIA seemed clearer with his haunting words, “You didn’t turn me Michael. I came to you Michael – for you. You were my assignment.”

  A number of questions troubled him even more: was Yousef feeding me bad intelligence? Did the Order really exist? Were they really behind the assassination of the Ayatollah and planning to kill the Pope? His head was swirling from a deluge of things that yesterday he would have thought were ridiculous.

  None of this makes any sense! Think, Michael, think!

  The attack on the Mosque could certainly be explained. When it comes to relations in the Middle East, history has nearly recreated the meaning of “cease-fire” and “peace negotiations” as quasi oxy-morons when it comes to ending non-secular violence in the region. Michael and Yousef often joked about this. Such is the method often employed by humans to combat frustration.

  Too many times has the world woke to a newspaper headline of a truce between nations in the Middle East only to be followed by an article two pages later on the suicide bombing by the terrorist of one country against the country where the supposed truce applied.

  Wars between the fundamentalist sects of religions have been a part of the accepted norm. It has become akin to breathing.

  Social engineering, one of their trademarks, thought Michael.

  Rightfully so, the world had become desensitized to such violence and expected it as not just history, but both in the present and the future.

  The trip to Syria had ended with the same futile expectations; the fighting would continue. If both the Ayatollah and the Pope were assassinated it would lead to chaos, and put a number of countries on the path toward the next world war!

  Iran would no doubt be expected to retaliate for the assassination of the Ayatollah; killing the Pope would be viewed as that retaliation. The US and Israel would have no choice but to respond.

  Jesus, thought Michael, the Order is creating a full-scale war in the Middle East!

  Chapter Twenty-One

  24 Rue de St. Germain

  Paris, France

  “Oui?” answered the Novice.

  “Je voudrais parler avec le Messenger.”

  “Monsieur,” recognizing the accented but impeccable French by the man on the other end of the phone, the Novice switched to English and asked, “may I tell him who is calling, si vous plait?”

  “You may tell the Messenger that it is Monsieur Primitus.”

  This response clearly had the man taken a bit by surprise. The Novice nervously thought, the Primitus – the first among them? During the many years that he has served as a Novice for the organization, he had never answered the phone with the Primitus calling on the other end. No one dared even utter the title.

  He composed himself. The Novice’s response was simple, “Yes, of course, Monsieur, one moment please while I raise the Messenger.”

  The Novice had one role with the organization, to connect the different members with one another. It was a fairly easy job; weeks would often pass where the Novice would spend his time reading classic American novels without interruption. Lately, the volume of work had grown tremendously, interfering with his love of Melville and Steinbeck.

  Placing the call on hold, the Novice entered a sequence of commands on the keyboard of the terminal in front of him. The first command initiated a security program that would verify the authenticity of the caller; it would only allow the Novice to engage the next level of security if it recognized the Primitus’s unique digital signature. Once the caller’s identity was confirmed, the next command entered would create a secure connection between the Primitus and the Messenger.

  It was him, the Primitus. The Novice felt his heart rate rise slightly.

  There was a sharp click followed by the rough sound of static, a moment later the Messenger was on the line. One of only two people holding the rank, and the second highest rank of the organization, the Messenger was not accustomed to having his after dinner port interrupted by a Novice, much less, receiving an order from one, but this night was different: he had expected the call.

  When the Messenger had picked up the phone, the Novice had simply said to hold the line for the Primitus. Without any question asked of the Novice, he waited patiently on the line fairly certain as to what prompted the Primitus to call him directly.

  With an obviously condescending tone, the Primitus spit at the Messenger two very direct questions, “Was this your operation; is this how you protect our most prized possession?”

  Mendacious in his response, he said, “No, sir, it was not, it is not. I am unsure to what has just transpired.” Having the sudden urge to feel a bit more comfortable, the Messenger took of his stifling hat, rubbed his cheeks and chin, loosened his collar and continued, “I have some of my people looking into the attack right now and I expect to receive information within a day or two.”

  He hoped that the lie would buy him just the time he needed for this part of the plan.

  The Primitus was frustrated and the Messenger could sense it, his next series of questions confirmed this, “From what I understand, it was an attack by Hezbollah. How can you not have known of it? Isn’t that one of your many responsibilities as the new Security Leader of Hezbollah: to coordinate the movement of your troops, to ensure the defense of Lebanon, and to conduct strategic operations? This can be no coincidence, I do not believe in them. I ask you again, Monsieur, how could you not have known of the attack? These were your men, no?”

  The Messenger had to choose his words carefully here, he was not wholly unprepared for the present interrogatives from the Primitus; he had expected them and responded, “As you just now mentioned, I am the new Security Leader of Hezbollah. I suspect that many of my late predecessor’s men are still loyal to his plans. As I said, I am having some of my people look into what exactly transpired in Damascus and why. When I am confident that I understand the situation, I will most assuredly inform you as soon as feasible.”

  A moment of silence crept by; the Primitus carefully thought over what the Messenger had just said. The Messenger waited.

  “Of course, Monsieur, I trust that the moment you have any confirmation whatsoever you will contact me, not when feasible, but immediately.”

  Of course I will.

  “Now, Monsieur Messenger, what of our book, is it still safe? Was there any damage to the Mosque that would expose the Aramaen vault? I need not remind you of the implications to this organization, to our mission, should it become lost and fall into the hands of the wrong people. That book is your responsibility, Monsieur.”

  “Sir, I am very aware of the implications and of my responsibility.” The Messenger paused, what he had scripted for the past seven years was finally in action readying for fruition. What he would say next, how he would say it was a critical component to the next stage of the plan; he would have only one opportunity to deliver it right.

  He remembered the time the Primitus had told him of the book, of its value. At that time, he had been the Primitus’s Second and had been recommended for leadership by the Other. He was being readied and tested for that leadership.

  While holding the book in his hands for the first time, the Messenger had marveled at the intense feeling generated from the knowledge and power that it possessed. Fingering its rich and uneven leather cover, tracing the letters of the book’s title, he had silently wondered if Nostradamus had felt the same way when he held the book.

  The intricate instructions that he had been given in order to find the book had been a test, one that took more than a year of intense decoding. The Messenger had toiled tirelessly each day and into most nights until he had solved the puzzle. It had led him to the medieval ruins of the Abbey of Orval in
the Gaume region of Belgium. There, in the midst of the ruins, he had stood holding the book, and there he had become the newest custodian of the ancient book of their knowledge, of their right, and of their power.

  The book had been secreted to the location, and there it had rested in an unassuming fashion. Another set of handwritten instructions were with the book. After having removed the plastic covering, and following the instructions, the Messenger had opened the book; it was the most guarded secret in history, a secret simply known as the Hand of Christ. Set on the inside cover, in a fitting and faded blood-maroon, was a handprint: Christ’s handprint. He remembered feeling absolutely numb when he had gazed upon and touched the handprint for the first time.

  The set of instructions that came with the book had guided him to the section aptly titled, “Obtineo,” Latin for “to hold,” or “Holder.” The section bore the handwritten names of all those before him that had been entrusted with the fantastic burden of the world’s greatest lie, a burden that was now his.

  There, in the section, the new Messenger placed his name at the bottom of the list, the freshest amongst them. Three-pages prior, he had found the name of Nostradamus, it had made him shiver with pride. The final command had been to carry the book to its new home; the Aramaen vault under the Minaret of Jesus, a fitting resting place for it.

  The Primitus was angered by the unnecessary silence from the Messenger, but was forcing himself to maintain his composure and patiently asked, “Monsieur, is the book safe, does it still reside at Umayyad?”

  And so, the plan begins, thought the Messenger.

  The Messenger’s declaration was purposefully simple, “No, it does not.”

  The Messenger, with a tested discipline, had waited patiently for years to feel the pompousness deflate from the Primitus. He had grown to despise the old man’s restrictive hold on the power that The Order controlled, and for the lack of its use. It had increasingly disgusted him that the old man did nothing for the advancement of The Order. He could only imagine the look on the man’s face as he had heard the answer just delivered, but imagine was all that he could do; the Messenger had never seen the face of the Primitus.

  He thought of Sun Tzu, the presumed author of the Art of War and great military strategist. The Messenger recalled words that Sun Tzu was believed to have written, words appropriate for the situation:

  All warfare is based on deception. When able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must seem inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away, when far away, we must make the enemy think we are near: Hold out bait to entice the enemy, feign disorder, and crush him.

  Hold out the bait:

  “Sir, that is not all. I fear that there is something more to the disappearance of the book. It has to do with the Roman Church, with the Pope; I fear that he may soon learn of us. He found a parchment; it was the missing Revelation of Paul, it was the Apocryphal. Sir, the Pope has found our parchment and proof. I have received information that he has plans to share it with the rest of the Church’s Bishops, and with the world.”

  Upon hearing this, the Primitus was nearly speechless. Meekly he stammered, “Our parchment, the parchment and the book? I don’t understand, the book is gone and our parchment has been found? I suppose you are now going to tell me that the Pope has found the body of King Sebastian, too!”

  Feign disorder:

  The Messenger continued in a controlled and calculated fashion, “Monsieur, the Pope has found the lost Apocryphal. It has been confirmed by one of our men inside the Vatican.”

  The old man felt his grip intensely tighten on the phone in his hands. The flesh between his knuckles turned ghostly white at the sudden void of his blood having been forced from the spaces between his joints. “This is most - most distressing, Monsieur. When? When was the Apocryphal found?”

  “Approximately two weeks ago, Monsieur.”

  “What!” Now, shaking and nearly screaming, “He found it two weeks ago! Why did you not tell me of this, do you have any idea what this means?”

  “Excuse me, Monsieur Primitus, but of course I am aware.” Pausing, he gathered himself before saying to the fuming leader, “What I meant was that the confirmation that the parchment found by the Pope was our parchment occurred only two weeks ago.” Pausing again, and taking a breath, the Messenger slowly meted out, “The Pope found our parchment nearly three months ago, after the renovation of his apartment, after the Conclave. I had to be sure that it was the Apocryphal that we have long searched for before informing you.”

  The Messenger was enjoying this.

  He continued, “I could only confirm two weeks ago that it was the parchment lost during the sack of Constantinople. I did not want to make any mistakes, I needed to be sure. One of our followers is inside the Vatican. He has worked to confirm what I already know to be true. The Pope has found it; indeed, it was our Apocryphal.”

  “You mean Monsignor Hauptmann?” The Primitus was clearly distressed; his voice was quivering when he said, “It was found three months ago? You have known for this long and have withheld this from me?”

  “As I said, I had to…”

  The Primitus cut him off and interjected, “The Pope, he still has it, where?”

  Smirking slightly now, the Messenger could sense that his plan was working, the geriatric bastard was losing the usual steadfast control of his emotions. He responded to the question, “Yes, he does still have it, but I do not yet know where he has been keeping it. Our man is working to find it, but it is a difficult task. One cannot simply nose around the Vatican or the private quarters of the Pope unabated and unquestioned.”

  The Primitus’s painful grasp of the phone radiated up his arm; he forced himself to relax, and he loosened his grip on the phone and closed his eyes. He needed to take a moment to process what he had just heard. The lost Apocryphal of Paul had been found, and by none other than the Pope. The Primitus before him had warned him of this moment just as each was warned by the one before him. But each had always reassured the next man in line that the potential devastation caused by someone other than a member of The Order holding it meant little without the proof that the book would bring. Now, the book was gone and the parchment found, the odds of this seemed incalculable.

  The Primitus suddenly felt like the chamber’s decorated amber panels within which he sat were closing in on him. The artistic and architectural marvel that surrounded him was a playful design by Wolffram, the 18th century amber master. The Primitus’s feet seemed heavy on the parquet flooring, as if they couldn’t possibly move. Casting his eyes upward, he stared momentarily at the massive painting that covered the ceiling; it seemed to stare angrily back at him, mocking him. This room has always been his favorite, a gift to his lineage in 1945, and, on its own, worth a massive fortune. Stolen from the Russians by Nazi soldiers, many still search for the so-called “Eighth Wonder.” This is the place that the Primitus would go to find solace, at this moment he could find no peace.

  The Primitus returned his focus to the telephone and to the Messenger and asked, “How did the book come to be missing, you didn’t answer my question, was the vault damaged and exposed in the attack?”

  “No, the Aramaen vault is still intact and unknown to anyone. I had sent my Second to retrieve the book.” The Primitus wouldn’t like this.

  “What! You told your Second? How could you so carelessly tell another man of the book’s location! It is your charge to guard that book. No one else was to know of it! You fool! You have violated that which keeps us bound to our mission! The centuries of protocol, abandoned!”

  The Primitus felt his control beginning to evaporate once more, but at a much faster rate, he felt drained of it. His voice trembled with the ripples of rage as he leaped quickly onto his aged feet, and before he completely lost his grasp of what little control he had left, screamed his orders to the Messenger, “Monsieur, I will have no choice but to trust you with these tasks, you must recover
our parchment. You must find the book immediately; you must recover both items! It would seem that there is much to be concerned with this evening, what else can you tell me, do you have any idea where the book may be? Where is your Second now?”

  “I am sorry to report that he is dead, Monsieur, he was killed in the attack at Umayyad,” the Messenger lied, but continued, “The book’s resting place in the vault was empty; he had checked to be sure and was able to inform me of this before he was killed. The book was not in the mosque. But I believe that I know who has it.”

  “Who?”

  “Monsieur, only one man made it out of the attack at Umayyad alive. He was last seen being extracted from Damascus by a team of men; they were a U.S. Special Operations Team.”

  “US Special Operations?”

  “Yes Monsieur, they conducted the extrication with the same methods used by Navy Seals or Delta Force but it is hard to say for sure which. They evacuated the man on two Blackhawk Attack Helicopters that had been scrubbed of their markings. I have satellite photos of this.

  He was carried to the Mediterranean and put on board of a US Aircraft carrier, but only for a short time. An unknown aircraft was catapulted from the deck. It disappeared from RADAR but I was able to get a satellite photo before it did. It is an unidentified but obviously black aircraft with stealth and high mach capabilities.

  “High mach capabilities? You mean hypersonic?”

  “Yes, but faster.”

  “What do you mean faster? How can you be certain? I thought you lost it on satellite and RADAR?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. But the satellite photo clearly shows a high mach contrail that, until now, had been only theoretical: it is unique, very faint, and completely atypical in shape. This suggests that theory is now real; it would indicate that this is a high mach, top-secret aircraft, the first and only of its kind I suspect. It was the last image I received before the aircraft completely disappeared.