by Joseph Nagle
“Faster? You can not rush our mission. Iran was to fall just as Iraq did; after the Fertile Crescent fell, the Persian Empire was next in our plans, but not this way! You’ve just brought into this mess the greatest super power on the planet and not as peace keepers, now what!”
The Director was seething, and continued yelling through his gritted teeth, “Listen to me you sanctimonious, ungrateful little bastard, it was I who brought you into The Order. Without me, you would still be chasing undersexed, big breasted Middle Eastern housewives so that you could get closer to their powerful husbands. I took you off the grid. I gave you the opportunity to be where you are. It was me that recommended you to our Primitus. This plan has become a disaster; you are now a liability!”
No, Director. It is you who is the liability.
The Messenger didn’t care to verbalize his thoughts and ignored the Director’s heated diatribe. Instead, he calmly proclaimed, “The game has changed, Director. I now control the pieces. My orders no longer come from you. It is the other way around; your orders come from me.”
“Game? You think this is some fucking game? How dare you. The Order has worked excruciatingly hard and with pained discipline to control the movement of the free world; we decide its destiny together. We decide on who receives what wealth, on who will be the leader of which country, the outcome of elections, of the markets. It has been our way since the beginning, for centuries. This is no game! You are risking more than you realize! This war was to stay in the Middle East. It was supposed to be between just Iran and Israel and no one else. You are risking everything that The Order has accomplished and for your own personal gain!”
The Messenger had enough with the Director’s aggrandizing of The great Order, “Director, it is simple. I am now in control. As the great Sun Tzu wrote:
“Military tactics are like unto water; for water in its natural course runs away from high places and hastens downwards. Water shapes its course according to the nature of the ground over which it flows; the soldier works out his victory in relation to the foe whom he is facing. Therefore, just as water retains no constant shape, so in warfare there are not constant conditions. He, who can modify his tactics in relation to this opponent and thereby succeed in winning, may be called a heaven born captain.”
The Director was fuming, and yelled, “You have gone mad! Can you even hear how ridiculous you sound?”
Ignoring the question, the Messenger flatly stated, “Director, I am a heaven born captain. The nature of the ground over which the waters flow has changed, so to must my tactics. I will have victory over my foe. Up to this point, you are not considered that person, but you are dangerously close to becoming him. It is up to you to be with me or to be my foe.”
The Director was irate as he spat out, “You truly have gone mad! How you dare threaten me! I gave you what you needed for this mission! I gave you the ability to make Operation Merlin a success. You presume that it shall only be you who stands alone when this is done?”
“There is no presumption, Director, only the reality.”
The arrogance of this man, thought the Director, and said, “You seem to forget, I have the remaining part of the key that unlocks the final piece of the puzzle that you need. Your half of the key is useless without mine. I will never give you the code that unlocks Iran’s missile guidance systems. Only I know where it is and how to get it, without it you have nothing, no control. Without me you cannot possibly finish this!”
“You are correct, Director. I did not expect that you would simply hand over your half of the key. The Art of War has taught me this.”
I am so sick of hearing about The Art of War! The Director was growing tired of the Messenger’s quotes and said, “You are too beholden to the poetry of an ancient and obsolete warrior. This is a new age. You will need more than a passing acquaintance with the rants of a dead warrior to succeed.”
“Director, do you not remember with whom you speak, after all, it was you that taught me the art? Are you absolutely sure that it is only you that holds the other half of the key? Why else do you think that His Holiness is now part of my plan, why Sterling lives, and why I didn’t include you in that part? There is one final document that has the key of which you speak. Soon, it will be in my hands, making you no longer necessary if you so choose.”
Instantly, the Director knew exactly to what the Messenger was referring. Snapping upright in his chair, he wanted to lash out at the Messenger, but would play his game, and, instead, replied, “The lost Apocryphal, the Pope has it? Impossible! The lost Apocryphal has not been seen for fifteen-centuries! Are you telling me that the Church had it all this time, that your man inside the Vatican knows where it is?”
“You ask me to show you my next move. Tsk, tsk, Director, this insults me. What you failed to learn as the great Other is that the parchment very much does exist. The only thing you need to know is that I am now in control; and that the parchment is under my watchful eye, its secrets will soon be revealed and Sterling will help.”
Sterling? The Director was confused by this assertion, Sterling will help? This must be why he is still alive. He said nothing of his thoughts; Sterling would be soon dealt with.
The Messenger’s tone was darkly condescending when he asked, “Director, my question to you lingers, are you still necessary to me?”
Upon hearing this, the Director jumped to his feet knocking over the Zen garden spilling shiny, round black rocks and sprawling sand across the tightly woven carpet of his office floor. He spat out, “Are you saying that you will send your filthy assassin after me if I don’t bow to you? Who in the fuck do you think you are?”
The Messenger could hear the rise in the rate of the Director’s shallow breaths and detected a slight shake in his voice; he had him right where he needed him to be: panicked.
“Quite to the contrary, Mr. Director, your destiny will be determined by your choices alone. If you so choose, you will still have control of the West, and with the fall of Iran, I will have the East. The only difference is that you will report to me, we will not be equals; I will become the new Primitus; it is your choice: choose to live and you will have wealth beyond your dreams with near-absolute power over the West.”
The Messenger closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and reveled in his own words as he thought, I have waited so long to say these things, oh, how good it feels!
Opening his eyes, the Messenger said to a speechless Director, “We will finally enjoy the complete control of both halves of the world that The Order has toiled after and died over for so many generations. That is our destiny; it has been since Yeshua, since the Church’s betrayal of Dagobert, and their torture of Sebastian.”
The Messenger paused before he asked, “Or, Mr. Director, cross me and become unnecessary. What shall it be?”
“Listen to me,” the Director appeared frantic in his words. This was precisely the appearance that he wanted to give to the Messenger. “Listen, I don’t think that I, that we should continue. That is, we should postpone.”
The Director was rambling, the Messenger enjoyed it. Preparing to continue his rant, the Director was interrupted by his new nemesis: “There will be no postponement, Director. To the contrary, we are going to speed up the plans; the war will happen. The Primitus wants to meet in the next twenty-four hours. He is already on his way to Rome. We will meet there. I will send the instructions to you on precisely when and at which location.”
The Director forced himself to find a new calm; his thoughts seemed shocked into submission. With Sterling alive and in control of the book, and the Apocryphal in the hands of the Church, the Messenger believed that he had everything. It was as the Messenger had said: he had become his pawn. They would soon meet with the Primitus and the old man would die, just as was planned.
“So soon? Are we prepared?”
“Ah, I see that your mind is starting to find a new ease with this. That pleases me. Yes, we are more than prepared. My assassin is on his way to
Rome as we speak. The death of the Pope and the Primitus will be the birth of a new life, Mr. Director. The mission of The Order will unfold as we have always planned. The old man has become too complacent, unwilling to risk his comforts for The Order’s cause. He sits each day in his mansion, entertaining the powerful men that The Order controls, enjoying the fruits of your labors, of mine, while we risk our lives with no gain.
He wanted to go to his grave having done nothing for The Order. He lazily sits back and simply enjoys what has been accomplished before him, but not by him. The Primitus is a traitor to The Order, and one thing is for certain, Director, he will go to his grave. You and I, together, will accomplish our anointed task, the one that the Primitus failed to achieve. The planet will be our kingdom. We will rid the world of those not enlightened, of those that passively stand by and cling like parasites to the backs of the elite. We will finally fulfill our destiny. Tell me, Director, are you with me?”
The Director remembered his oath; it was the sworn mission of The Order to control the reigns of the world, to have returned what was taken from them so many centuries ago by the Church, by Rome. It was the oath he was obligated to uphold. The Messenger was right: the Primitus does nothing to further the cause.
“I am not at all happy with your methods. You are holding the Pope and Sterling as leverage over me, it is not a position I am comfortable in nor should I be in it. But I cannot disagree with you about the mission of The Order. The Primitus has been an obstacle and must be dealt with as was planned; it is our duty to The Order.”
“I am glad to hear you say this, Director.”
“Perhaps, I have been hasty, but I am still not without reservations. It’s just that so much has happened so quickly and an attempt on the Pope’s life, should it succeed, could lead to all out war between the two halves of the world: a third World War. That wasn’t part of the plan; we must not forget what our history has taught us.”
“Director, it is because of our history that I am doing this; I have not forgotten.”
“But it was the failed design by The Order of the previous World Wars that taught us that such a method does not work. From chaos we cannot find control; those wars drove us backward rather than forward; killing the Pope will lead to such a war! Iran has nuclear weapons because of Operation Merlin, because of us!”
The Director’s fears were beginning to return and he shouted, “Iran will be immediately blamed for the Pope’s murder as retaliation for the Ayatollah and will be attacked. Iran will counter. We do not control Iran yet, this is suicide. It will not work!”
“That is where you are wrong Director; we do not need to control Iran, at least not yet. We only need to control her missiles. Thanks to Sterling, and thanks to Operation Merlin that control will soon be mine. As I said before, there will be war, Mr. Director. I will be in touch soon.”
With a series of metallic scratches the line went dead.
The Director knew that what the Messenger had said was true: all they needed was to have control of Iran’s missiles. Splitting the key codes for the missile guidance systems into two parts had been the Primitus’s doing, it ensured that no man would have access to too much power. The Messenger only had one part of the guidance missile codes, and had said that Sterling would help get the other part.
Impossible, Sterling knows nothing of the codes, thought the Director.
Sterling may have survived the attack on the Mosque, but the Director had plans in place to fix this. The Messenger is a resourceful man; the Director would give him that. Decades ago he had handpicked the Messenger for entry into the Order and had taught him nearly everything he knew before the Messenger had become the Primitus’s Second. But there were some things that he purposely had left out when he had instructed the future Messenger of the way – the Order’s way. No member of The Order teaches a Second everything. That only comes with time and with proven worthiness.
While his private cell phone was still in secure mode, the Director dialed a series of numbers beginning with the country code for Rome. The ringing of the phone inside the walls of the Vatican was in a distinct and uniquely broken tone, a bit like Morse code. The unusual ring let the man that would answer on the other end know who was calling even before picking up the handset. On the fifth ring, the number of rings established by protocol, the line was answered, “Hello, sir. It has been awhile.”
The Director was also familiar with Sun Tzu; smiling, he recalled an applicable quote:
“The enemy’s spies who have come to spy on us must be sought out, tempted with bribes, led away and comfortably housed. Thus they will become double agents and available for service.”
The Director was calling his new Second, a man that thus far has proved himself a capable double agent.
“Hello, Geoffrey, give me an update on your status. Have you located the parchment?”
“Yes, sir, I have. What are my orders?”
“Do nothing. Leave the Pope to his fantasies, they will keep him preoccupied and distracted. Continue to tell the Messenger you haven’t yet found where the Pope keeps the document. You have done well, Geoffrey. I will contact you soon.”
The line went dead.
Geoffrey returned the handset slowly to its cradle. This was the moment that he had waited for. He had suffered for so many years under the pompous traditions of the Vatican, and sacrificed so much of his life for The Order.
When younger, Geoffrey had spent many humbling days doing his monastic service for the Church: on his hands and knees, he scrubbed the dirt from countless floors; he cleaned the never ending layers of pigeon excrement from the window; he did the bidding of every visiting Cardinal and Bishop, and when much younger, even being forced to play parthenos and vessel for a certain vile priest. Geoffrey cringed at this thought and shouted out his next, “Hypocrites! Dirty and filthy hypocrites!”
Fueled by his hatred of the Church and sworn desires and allegiance to The Order, for years he had toiled endlessly in his theology studies, having received two well-earned doctorates along the way. The Order asked for him to be patient; he had been. They asked him to work hard; he did. He was diligent, foregoing personal freedoms, to be a rising star in the Church. His work paid off as he earned his place next to the Pope.
He did everything they asked and now he was right where they wanted him to be.
Every Cardinal that crossed his path blazed his envy upon him, all except for one – the One – the Preferred. Geoffrey could see in their eyes how much the Cardinals despised him; they looked upon him as if he were next to nothing, all except for the One.
The old Cardinal had guided Geoffrey’s career, but had instructed him to be patient, and this was exactly what Geoffrey did: patiently he had waited; patiently he did what he had been told; patiently he had complied with the One: working, waiting, and never complaining. He had waited a long time for this day, and now that day is here.
Soon I will no longer be a Second, but a Cardinal, the Preferred Cardinal! Soon I will have what I want. When he becomes the next Pope, I will no longer bow at the feet of these velvet robed men, they will bow to me.
Chapter Thirty
CIA – New Headquarters Building
Langley, VA
The Director set his cell phone on his desk and released it from his hand. He turned to the black IBM T70 laptop computer sitting atop his desk; brushing aside some of the spilled sand and black rocks from its top, he opened it and powered it on. After entering in the appropriate password, the digitally encrypted system sprung to life.
Typing furiously, he issued his next set of orders. His decision was made. By now, the two man team would be in place, their Handler’s flight would be touching down soon, and the Handler would receive the team’s further instructions within the hour.
Soon, the Messenger’s leverage would evaporate. Almost as if touched by the divine, the day felt better.
Chapter Thirty-One
Passenger Pickup
DIA – Denver,
CO
The man from the middle seat watched as Michael disappeared downward on the escalator. Michael was headed to the platform where a train would take passengers arriving at Denver International Airport to the places to claim baggage claim and find ground transportation. Turning away from the escalator, he walked to the nearest ATM and inserted his VISA card. Making sure that no one was watching, he pushed the numbers of the requisite code into the machine. He entered in the instructions telling the machine what he wanted. Humming to life, the ATM quickly gave him his money. He grabbed the twenty-dollar bill that was dispensed along with the ATM receipt. Tearing the receipt from the machine, he quickly shoved it, along with the money, into his front pocket and walked away. The line to the ATM had grown long, and he was glad that he got there first; about a dozen passengers were now waiting for their turn.
The man from the middle seat took the escalator down to the train platform. At the bottom he peered around the corner; to his relief, Michael was long gone. It only took a few minutes for the next train to arrive; its arrival signaled by a pleasant female voice overhead. The woman’s voice welcomed him to the Mile High City further cautioning him that the train for arriving passengers was about to be at the platform.
Once he was onboard, the double doors automatically closed; he sat at the back of the train in the only seating area that existed in the car. Everyone else was forced to stand and hold onto the straps that dangled from above. Fortunately, the car he chosen only had five other passengers: a father that was preoccupied with his two young giggling children, and a young and clearly amorous German couple. (They were closer to him than the father and his loud kids, but clearly not paying him any attention; the boy had his hand inside of her jacket, and was coupling one of her quite large breasts.) Neither group was close enough to be considered a problem fully involved in personal affairs of their own.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ATM receipt, reading it he could see that his instructions were simple: Eliminate subject. Locate target. Collateral damage approved. His instructions received from the Director, the Handler’s mission was quite clear: kill Michael, find the book, and no survivors.
