by Joseph Nagle
The two Polizia obliged and climbed into a square bin that was just large enough to accommodate the two of them. The trash bin belonged to a restaurant and was full of bits of vegetables, discarded cutlets, and unconsumed table scraps. It reeked of rotten food.
Michael looked at the two officers and offered a simple apology, “Sorry to have to do this to you, but it’s necessary. When you get out of here, tell your boss that we know who the Iranian is and why he is in Rome. Tell him that we are here to stop him from killing the Pope,” he looked at Jimmy. Both men cracked the two officers atop their foreheads with the butts of their respective pistols rendering them both instantly unconscious.
Jimmy slammed the lid over the bin and turned its fastener. He sealed the officers in the bin, “That will keep them for awhile; how soon do you think before someone finds them?”
“Probably sometime after the breakfast rush; let’s go.”
It only took a few minutes for Michael and Jeffrey to arrive at the entrance to St. Peter’s Square. The Vatican Police had set up wooden barricades that funneled visitors toward a narrow break in the barriers. They were manned by half a dozen hardened and well armed men. Already, a small line of annoyed tourists had formed as the Carabinieri searched each one meticulously before they would let them in the square.
Taking a breath, Michael whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “Pull out the badge as we walk by them. Say nothing. Act like a cop. Don’t smile.”
Authoritatively, the two faux Italian Polizias walked past the irritated line of tourists flipping open their wallets to show the armed men who they purported to be. The cadre of Carabinieri pushed aside the tourists and waved them into the square.
Once safely out of earshot Jimmy said, “I can’t believe that worked! What now?”
“Let’s split up, I’ll take the North side of the Square, you take the South. Keep your eyes open for the guy and try not to look like a spook.”
Walking away from one another, they were split apart by the large obelisk at the center of the Square, “Jimmy, can you hear me?” Michael said quietly into the air.
The radios embedded into their ears were working perfectly, and Jimmy responded, “I read you like you were standing next to me.”
“Good, be careful. You’ve got a bunch of Vatican Police coming up on your six.”
Jimmy stopped talking and started walking toward the center of the ellipse shaped Square. He neared the stone obelisk as if admiring it. He saw at the base of the red, nearly pink, granite obelisk – really a solar symbol – inscriptions written by Cardinal Silvio Antoniani and pretended to read them. The Vatican Police strolled by him not paying the “tourist” a second thought. They were instructed to look for a large Persian man, each having been given a copy of the photo of the assassin.
Chapter Fifty-Two
The Parish Church of St. Anne
The Vatican
Hours had passed and the assassin was growing anxious as the time neared. His prayers had flowed through him diligently and now it was the moment to have them answered. He rose from the floor. His knees ached from being pressed for so long into the cold marble, but he didn’t care; his pain was of no consequence.
Stepping out of the side chapel and into the main hall of the Church, he slowly stared at the circular nature of the interior. With futility, the Baroque style façade loudly attempted to blend in with the dome above and paneling over the door. It was a reminder to him of how these people attempted to dominate their dominion in every possible fashion. He felt a twinge of disgust.
On top of the table at the front of the Church, an ornate golden cross stood; looking at it, he spat on it, and then knocked it over.
Outside of the Church, the guard that the priest had promised was nowhere in sight. Pulling the hood of his jacket over his newly shaved head, the assassin made his way to the Square.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Papal Apartment
Apostolic Palace
Pope Leo XIV sat with Monsignor Geoffrey Hauptmann in the Pope’s apartment; together they were enjoying their lunch; the young priest had hardly touched his food. The Pope’s private chef had prepared a simple and boring meal of unseasoned, broiled chicken breast, steamed carrots and plain corkscrew shaped fusilli. The Pope’s personal doctor had been concerned with the health of Leo’s Papal heart and had ordered him to stay away from the heavy sausages and kraut that Leo so enjoyed.
Geoffrey glanced frequently at the large Roman clock that hung over the upright piano pushed against the wall. It read 12:15. He was anxious and did everything that he could to hide it from the Pontiff.
The Pope looked at his personal assistant and stated, “You seem a bit troubled, Geoffrey.”
“What makes you say that, Your Holiness?”
“You haven’t said more than three words during the entire meal, a meal that you have not even touched. I have always looked forward to our conversations, but today your gaze has you somewhere else. What troubles you?”
The young Monsignor exhaled slowly and said, “There have been some horrible occurrences in Rome; nearby. They have had me quite concerned.”
“Is that so? What sort of occurrences?”
“I didn’t want to worry you, but there have been some murders, Your Holiness. Colonel Camini informed me of them this morning. He is quite worried and has been included in the investigation with the local authorities.”
The Pope stood in the manner that an old man usually does – slow and deliberate – and placed his hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder before saying, “The crimes of men are difficult to understand. I will pray for the lost souls and for the soul of the killer. Now, help me into my coat, I would like to take my walk now.”
Geoffrey rose; it took all of his efforts to contain his smile, “Yes, Your Holiness; as you wish.”
We are only minutes away, he thought, barely able to believe it was about to happen. The anticipation was choking.
Chapter Fifty-Four
St. Peter’s Square
The Vatican
Leo walked through the door of his newly refurbished apartment as Geoffrey held it open for him. Colonel Camini and Detective Dante were on the other side flanked by a quite capable looking contingent of the Pope’s security. When they saw the Pope, the Colonel’s chin immediately fell to his chest in reverence.
“Good afternoon, Your Holiness, I understand that you plan to take your walk into St. Peter’s Square now?”
“Yes, Colonel, I do.”
“Your Holiness, I would respectfully ask that you not do so today. There are some security concerns that I am dealing with at the moment. It would be safer for you to stay inside until they are settled.”
“Colonel, Monsignor Hauptmann has informed me of the troubles in Rome, but they are not to be a concern of the Vatican. It is up to the Polizia to manage Roman affairs, not the Swiss Guard.”
“But, Your Holiness, the man that has committed these crimes is dangerous; I have reason to believe that you are in danger!”
The ancient man stepped closer to Colonel Camini and looked up at the towering officer and spoke in his typical soft voice, “Colonel, I will not be a prisoner in my home. Those days for the Pope ended over seventy years ago. I will not sit behind these walls and cower in fear. If this man poses a danger inside the boundaries of our nation, I trust you and your men will do your best to protect me. My fate has already been determined by God, as has yours; I leave it in His hands. Please excuse me, Colonel: these old legs need some exercise and the people their Pope.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
St. Peter’s Square
The Vatican
The assassin strolled slowly through the crowd and watched with the disciplined eyes of a trained predator; patiently he waited for the Pope to appear. The Vatican Police were everywhere, uniformed and in street clothes. The assassin squinted and slowly reconnoitered the square; they were easy to spot regardless of their dress.
All around the sides of
the Square, halberd and sword wielding Swiss Guards stood stoic in their yellow, orange, blue, and red renaissance uniforms complete with black beret. The ceremonially dressed men were surrounded by tourists that eagerly took their pictures. These men would not be a threat.
As if by some unseen commandment, the crowd of foreigners shifted their movements in unison. Like the inexplicable movements of a thick school of silver-backed ocean fish that suddenly changes direction, the tourists uniformly swarmed their attention away from the Square and toward the Apostolic Palace. A thick buzz filled the air.
A young Australian man roughly brushed past the assassin in a fit of excitement, his camera at the ready, and shouted, “It’s him! Oh my God, it’s the Pope! Come on, Mom, hurry!”
The assassin turned and with his dark eyes peered in the direction of Pope Leo XIV. The old man was moving slowly and methodically in front of the growing crowd separated only by waist level wooden barricades; he was surrounded by ranks of security. They looked nervous. A sea of hands were reaching forward to touch him and to be blessed by him. Some were holding out pens and begged for his autograph.
Amidst the plain clothed guards that protected the Pontiff, and a short distance behind him, the assassin saw the black robed priest that had secreted him into the confines of the Vatican earlier in the day. The two men made eye contact. Geoffrey’s soul pierced cold as a wave of nauseating anxiety swept through him. For the first time, he felt the subtle signs of pity. The assassin grinned slightly as if he had sensed the priest’s struggle with morality; Geoffrey slowed his gait, falling a few paces back.
The earpiece in Jimmy’s ear crackled and Michael spoke, “Do you see what’s happening?”
“Yeah, I see the Pope and his entourage. Any sign of our guy?”
“None, let’s get closer. Take the left flank of the Pope, I’ll take the right.”
“Affirmative, moving now.”
Jimmy quickly took his position as did Michael. Both men were scanning the crowd for any sign of the assassin.
The masses grew as the number of people swelled around the Pope. Colonel Camini was growing anxious as was Detective Dante.
“Colonel, this is ridiculous, we’ve got to get him back inside!” Dante said.
“Just keep your eyes open, Dante!” Camini snapped back.
The assassin moved closer to the Pope; reaching into his pocket he removed the pen. With it now in his hand, the assassin raised it slightly before him. As he did, an unannounced break in the clouds overhead allowed in a short burst of sunlight; with seemingly divine intervention, the pen caught a few errant rays and glistened sharply.
The glare caught Michael’s attention; he turned toward it, but saw nothing. The sun struck again and cast off a second flash of reflected light; then Michael saw him. A large hooded man was moving close to the Pope, he held something in his hand, it was a silver pen. The man pulled down his hood exposing his freshly shaven scalp. Michael was looking at him from the side and almost didn’t give him a second thought, thinking of the man as another autograph seeking tourist. But the way he moved, different than the others; the man glided with strength and a planned purpose, as if each step were carefully thought out. Instinct fired up, Michael focused in on him.
Quietly he belted out into the air not taking his eyes off the bald man, “Jimmy!”
“Go ahead, Michael, what is it?”
“Whistle!”
Jimmy didn’t understand Michael’s command, and quizzically replied, “What? What did you say?”
Slowly Michael articulated his command, “Put your two fingers between your lips and blow. I want you to whistle like you are at the Rose Bowl and Michigan State just upset Notre Dame in overtime.”
Jimmy did as he was told and blew out a high pitched whistle startling everyone close by. Heads turned instantly his way including the assassin’s.
Then Michael saw it. On the back of the bald man’s head was a long row of fresh stitches. The assassin! “Jimmy, at your twelve o’clock, the big, bald guy staring right at you, that’s him!”
Michael was already sprinting toward the assassin.
Jimmy said nothing and was frozen in his tracks; the assassin was glaring directly at Jimmy and sent a bolt of fear through his body.
Colonel Camini heard the whistle and ordered a couple of his men toward the perpetrator. “Check him out, don’t make a scene.”
The two plain clothed Swiss Guard nearest the Colonel complied, immediately Jimmy found two large Italian men on either side of him politely but firmly leading him quickly from the crowd.
The assassin turned his attention back to the Pope, he moved closer. Leo had his hand cupped onto a woman’s cheek; tears were filling her eyes readying to stream down her plump red cheeks as he blessed her.
The assassin was behind the woman and within inches of the Pontiff; he was raising the pen, Geoffrey’s body tensed, Dante saw him and instantly knew that the man they were looking for was this one. He screamed out and reached for the Pope to pull him away.
Michael bolted toward the assassin pushing his way roughly through the crowd; one of the plain clothed Swiss Guard lunged at Michael. Michael spun around as he was about to be tackled and tripped the Guard sending the man awkwardly to the pavement along with a few other tourists.
Immediately three more of the Pope’s security force joined in the chase after Michael, Michael was running straight at the assassin, but it was too late, he wasn’t close enough.
The assassin depressed the tip of the pen; a mist of fine white spray was coming fast out of it. Michael reached for one of his knives and pulled it out of his sleeve. While still running in a sprint, Michael cocked his arm and threw the knife at the assassin.
A loud scream pierced the air as the knife penetrated through the assassin’s hand and to the hilt of the blade; he dropped the pen reeling from the pain and turned toward the attacking CIA Officer.
Screams permeated through the air as the Pope fell to his knees. Slumping to the earth, the Pope’s eyes looked skyward in an unheard prayer to God and then rolled into the back of his head. The woman whose cheek he had been touching was on her side convulsing forcibly. Foam had formed upon her lips as the skin of her face turned an odd pink with slight green spots. Her life violently slipped away. Next to the Pope one of the Swiss Guards was on his hands and knees vomiting amidst horrendous and body contorting coughs.
The Zyklon B chalk like pellets were fast acting, having a near instantaneous effect. The cyanide based poison pellets were constructed partly of naturally occurring diatomaceous earth and inserted lengthwise into the pen in an airtight cylinder. When the assassin depressed the top of the pen, the seal of the cylinder was broken and had exposed the small but deadly material to air. A second and smaller chamber held a miniscule C02 capsule that propelled the cyanide mist out of the pen’s tip.
The gaseous hydrogen cyanide fueled device used the same toxic gas preferred by the Nazi’s at the Aushwitz-Birkenau and Majdanek extermination camps. The small cyanide pills in the assassin’s pen were produced at a factory in the Czech Republic with a purpose designed for eradicating insects; it would have been satisfyingly poetic to the killer had he known.
Michael bore down on the assassin and reached into his other sleeve pulling out the second knife. There were too many people around; he couldn’t risk their lives by using his guns. The assassin thought differently and pulled the policeman’s pistol from his pocket and fired as Michael jumped through the air. Michael planted both of his feet into the chest of the killer causing the assassin to stumble a number of steps backward. At that same moment, the bullet from the assassin’s gun hit Michael sending the second knife through the air and Michael lifeless to the ground.
The assassin didn’t fall. He grasped the handle of the knife that was still stuck through his hand and pulled on it letting out a deeply baritone and massive blood curdling groan as he freed it from his hand. He was now holding it by its serrated blade and eyeing Michael wh
o lay prostrate on the travertine.
Surrounding the assassin in a semi-circle were no less than a dozen Swiss Guards and Carabinieri with their weapons trained upon him. Behind the assassin, a handful of Vatican Police were hurrying away bystanders. Colonel Camini held his pistol in both hands and stepped forward with the weapon trained onto the assassin.
The large killer eyed the throngs of men in front of him slowly; his left arm was hanging at his side, in the dangling hand he held the gun; smoke oozed from its bore. In his right hand was the knife. He had no intention to run.
“Drop the gun and the knife!” shouted the Colonel.
He didn’t move.
“I said drop them, do it NOW!”
There the large Persian stood, defiant in his disobedience. He looked at the knife in one hand and the pistol in the other. Raising both arms slowly out to the side he dropped the gun. He then looked at the blood running down his arm from the hole in his hand and held it up for everyone to see.
The assassin spoke. His voice was strangely calm, “This is the last time the blood of a Muslim will fall to the earth at the hands of an infidel. Your Pope is dead; your time to reign is over.”
A few seconds went by, but to all it felt as if the world had stopped, and those few seconds passed like long drawn out minutes. It was quiet; the visitors to the square were on the ground, some dared to peek at the bloodied man. The moments moved excruciatingly slow.
Then the assassin screamed out, his voice escalating with every word, “It is the duty of every Muslim to make war upon every infidel! Send me to Paradise!”
Without warning the assassin flipped the knife over so that the grip was in his hand. His well trained movements were so fast that they were a blur to the naked eye. With the expertise of a professional killer, he flung the weighted knife through the air at the Colonel burying it deep into the man’s chest. The Colonel was able to fire one shot before dropping to the ground, the blade sunk to its hilt in the center of his breast.
