by Joseph Nagle
“Please, take a seat.” Yousef commanded. Ron didn’t argue.
“What is the plan?” asked Ron.
Yousef couldn’t answer; behind the two leaders of The Order, the sound of shuffling footsteps caught their attention. Both men jumped to their feet and turned. A small old man wearing a gray suit and a black vest was walking toward them. His hair was silver, combed straight back, and worn just below his color. In his left hand, he held a formal top-hat; his right hand was stiffly pressed into the small of his lower back. He stood erect with a slightly forced curvature of his spine that accentuated his refined demeanor.
He spoke, his accent was British, “Gentlemen, now that I am here shall we begin? There is much to discuss. First, please tell me, where is the book?”
The three men stood as a triumvirate in the room and stared upon one another until Yousef broke the silence. “Primitus, the American CIA Officer that we spoke of, he still has it. He is here in Rome.”
“And what are your plans to retrieve it?”
“At the moment, one of my men is in the Vatican with him. I have full confidence that he will be able to get it.”
“You speak of Monsignor Hauptmann, an interesting fellow that one. The last time that we spoke, Yousef, you had delivered the horrible news of the loss of our book. The implication of that news gave foundation to a traitor within our organization.”
The old man set down his hat, and moved with care toward the fire holding out his hands to feel its warmth. He spoke to Ron without looking at him, “Mr. Director, how is it that one of your men, a CIA Officer, was in Umayyad and the only one to survive the attack by Hezbollah?”
Ron was shook and lashed out, “You accuse me!”
His response was calm, “Please, Mr. Director, lower your voice. These old ears cannot tolerate such screaming." He then stated matter-of-factly, "I do not accuse just you, I accuse you both.”
Yousef threw his hands up as if to say “why?” but the old man wouldn’t have it. He held up his hand as a signal for Yousef to stop his phony plea of ignorance, “You are my two highest ranking commanders. You,” he pointed to Ron, “are in control of Book II and one half of our Treasure,” he looked at Yousef and continued. “And you had Book I. Gentlemen, the heads of The Order are never fools. The events that have transpired smell wretchedly of a foul collusion.”
Yousef moved closer to the Primitus, but Ron’s feet were planted firmly where he stood. He looked at Yousef with knowing eyes, and as if to send the message: this is the right moment, kill him now!
The silver haired man continued to speak, “Hezbollah attacked the mosque on your order, Yousef. They were your men and led by your Second. You passed off our book to a CIA Officer; a man who is one of the Director’s men. Together, you two have conspired against this organization! You both wear your greed and hunger for wealth and power on your sleeves. You two have become that which we loathe!”
“Shut up old man! I have heard enough!” Yousef was pointing his Russian made .380 caliber pistol toward him.
“Do it, Yousef, finish this!” Ron was anxious. He needed to get back to the US; he wanted this to be over.
There were no more words between them. Yousef smiled and pulled the trigger. The recoil from the bullet shot from the Baikal IJ-70 threw Yousef’s arm backward. It was a powerful pistol for its caliber. The round penetrated the old man’s chest and exited out of his back lodging into the wooden mantle of the fireplace. His small and light body flew backward from the bullet’s impact and onto the large fire. The flames lapped around his body as they began to snap louder and more wildly. His death was violent.
The sight before him sickened the Deputy Director, his legs nearly gave out. Had he not reached out and grabbed hold of one of the large chairs, he would have fallen.
“Director!” Yousef’s voice was measured but firm. “Look at me.”
Ron’s eyes traced a path from the fire along the marble floor until they met Yousef’s feet. Tilting his head up to look at Yousef, Ron’s legs suddenly did give out. The barrel of the Russian pistol was aimed directly at his forehead.
Yousef had an evil grin stretched across his face.
Deputy Director Ron Willis pleaded from his knees, “Please, Yousef, no!” They would be his last words.
The shot rang out and was nearly muffled by the raging fire.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Papal Apartment
The Vatican
Geoffrey was grinning widely. Michael’s face was sharp with scorn.
Reaching into his pocket, Geoffrey retrieved a cell phone and dialed a phone number. In his ear, Geoffrey could hear the ringing on the other end, and he waited for an answer.
A man picked up, and with a refined, accent-laced French, the man that answered said, “Bonjour, Monsignor, were you successful?”
Geoffrey was relieved to hear his voice; it still just might work. “I was,” replied Geoffrey.
“Good. Bring them to me.”
“I am on my way.” Geoffrey closed the cell phone and dropped it into the front pocket of his dark cassock along with the two codes.
The gun was still in his hand. Slowly, the priest raised it and pointed it at Michael’s face.
“Wait! What about my wife! You have what you want, I did my part! Please leave her out of this!”
Geoffrey seemed to think for a moment and then said, “You have a point, Dr. Sterling. I suppose that it doesn’t matter, she will soon be dead anyway.”
Geoffrey pushed another button on the cell phone. A few seconds later he said, “You services are no longer required.”
Still in Michael’s cabin, the Sheriff snapped shut his cell phone and stood. He took another long pull on his cigarette and then dropped it onto the dirt floor of the basement. Smashing it into the dirt, he let out a long plume of smoke from his lungs. If he hurried, he thought, he could get his deputy's body into the old, boarded up mineshaft, and still be home in time for dinner.
In the Papal Apartment, Geoffrey hung up and raised the gun toward Michael’s face once more.
All noise vacated the room. Michael has bore witness to a great number of shots fired in anger. Many of those shots had come from his gun. He has taken the lives of thirty-nine men. He keeps track.
On his back, stomach, both legs, and one arm are the scarred remnants of a number of battles. The fear that one would expect when a gun is pointed directly at the face wasn’t there. Michael has just simply seen death one too many times. He looked down the barrel of the priest’s gun and wondered if he would see a glimpse of the bullet as it exited the front end of the weapon. He wondered if he would see it before it entered his head.
He thought of Sonia. He would miss her. He knew that she would miss him; this was his only source of pain.
The sound of the shot was deafening, for a moment it caused a ringing in his ears.
Michael didn’t fall.
Before him stood the priest with his hand still outstretched. The image was confusing. The gun was no longer in his hand, and where three of his fingers should have been attached was nothing. Blood was dripping fast from the places where the Monsignor’s digits had been. A look of horror was draped across Geoffrey’s face and he was having trouble staying on his feet. Geoffrey yanked the purple sash that was tied around his waste and with difficulty he wrapped the bloody mess.
Michael looked to his left, on the floor crouched in a kneeling position was Colonel Camini, and in his hand was his Swiss Guard issued 9mm pistol. Without any semblance of success, the Colonel tried to stand but fell. The pistol crashed to the floor and slid away from the Colonel.
Michael ran across the room past the Colonel and picked up the weapon. He spun quickly around to re-aim at the Monsignor, but the priest was already gone. Michael looked left and right, but saw no signs of the Monsignor. He ran through the apartment, but there were too many rooms, each with multiple exits. The trail of blood was sporadic and then vanished. He couldn’t find the priest, and ran
back to the Colonel.
“He’s gone!” Michael squatted next to the Colonel, “Are you okay?”
The Colonel’s voice was weak but controlled, “Most of the shots hit my vest. Some of my ribs are broken. One bullet made it through.”
Michael was looking for the entry wound, “The bullet went in just above your armpit. There is an exit wound behind your shoulder; you are bleeding quite a bit.”
“Dr. Sterling, do not worry about me, I will be okay. How is the Pope?”
Michael had nearly forgotten about Leo; glancing back he saw that the Pope was still passed out, but his heart rate pulsed steady and even on the machine, and his breathing seemed strong. “He is unconscious but looks to be okay.”
The Colonel grimaced as he tried to get up.
“Here, let me help you up.” Michael pulled the Colonel into a seated position. He nearly fell over; Michael grabbed and supported the Colonel’s body until he was fully righted. The Colonel’s golden medallion fell through the exposed neckline of his shirt.
“Thank you, I will be okay now. I am just a bit woozy from losing some blood. Go and check on James.”
There was a banging on the door of the apartment.
“Quickly, Michael, my men heard the shot and will soon get in.”
Michael did as he was told and ran to Jimmy. He touched his friend on the shoulder.
Nothing.
Michael rolled Jimmy’s body onto his back. The obvious was painful; Jimmy’s eyes were rolled deep into his head, he wasn’t breathing. The well aimed shot perforated Jimmy’s chest directly over his heart. Jimmy was dead. Michael grabbed Jimmy’s hand and held it close for a moment. The thick golden ring that Jimmy always wore on his middle finger was cold as it pressed against his cheek.
The Colonel saw this and closed his eyes. He knew Jimmy was dead and whispered, “Rest well, James.”
Michael started to set his hand down but stopped; he recognized the engraved golden bee that was on the ring. He couldn’t take his eyes off of the little insect, it was too familiar. Where had he seen it before?
The Piazza! That’s it - it was the same one that he saw in Piazza Mincio just out front of Jimmy’s safe house!
He had seen the bee somewhere else, too. He put his friend’s hand back down and folded it with the other across his chest. He rose and returned to the Colonel.
Michael’s voice was measured, almost cold, and he asked, “Why do you call him James?”
The question startled the Colonel, and he replied, “That is his name.”
“Yes, it is his name, but I call him ‘Jimmy.’ Back in St. Peter’s Square, I thought that you knew who we were because you were monitoring our communications. You grabbed the earpiece from my ear and called me by my name and Jimmy by his. But, you didn’t say ‘Jimmy’ then, you said ‘James,’ just as you did a moment ago. I have never called him James, not once, not ever!”
Michael reached into the Colonel’s shirts and snatched the medallion from his neck. Camini was too slow to stop him, “What the hell are you doing, give that back!”
Michael looked at the medallion. On it was the same engraving in gold as the one on Jimmy’s ring and the same as the carvings he had seen at Piazza Mincio – it was a bee. “You both are wearing the same symbol. I saw this on you earlier, out in the square. This symbol is also carved into the walls near Jimmy’s safe house and he is wearing a ring that has this symbol on it!”
Michael remembered the conversation he had with his father and shouted, “This is a Merovingian bee! Tell me what the hell is going on, Colonel!”
The Colonel let out a difficult breath, “I suppose it wouldn’t work if I just said I don’t know?”
“No, Colonel, it would not.”
“Given how deeply involved you are in this, you have earned the right to know.”
Colonel Camini looked at Jimmy with sad eyes, “James has been my friend for more than forty years. He grew up here, he grew up in Rome. We are from the same neighborhood.”
“Jimmy’s Italian?”
“Yes, he is. We belong to a group of men, the same group that our fathers belonged to, and their fathers. We have had the same responsibility for centuries. That bee is our symbol.”
Michael now understood why Jimmy was able to so easily get into DESIST, Interpol, and the Italian airport and police databases. He understood how Jimmy had known so much about Piazza Mincio, and why his safe house was adorned with priceless works of art: Picassos, Renoirs, and that rare Michelangelo. They were real!
“Your jobs have been to stop The Order hasn’t it?”
“You are almost correct, Dr. Sterling. Nearly nine centuries ago, we were all part of the same group, with the same mission. But men are inherently weak, and, well…, let’s just say that there was a divisive fracture in the wood from which our roots were attached. Like the lonely and mighty elm in the middle of a field struck by lightning, we were destroyed.”
“You split into two halves?”
The banging was getting louder; Michael could hear shouts from the Swiss Guard.
“Yes, Dr. Sterling, yes we did. Over time there were attempts at reconciliation but they were never successful. Our rift is deep and with fundamental differences. James and I, we are nothing more than Watchmen. I was assigned to the Vatican and James to the CIA. Our jobs are not to change anything or to interfere, but only to keep a watchful eye on The Order and to stop them when they surface. As you have uncovered, one lie has given rise to the foundations on which we stand. We do not seek to change this. Far too much time has passed for that.”
“You are Knights Templar aren’t you?”
The Colonel sighed heavily, “No, we are not. Years ago, our beginnings can be found with the Knights but the splitting between the two arguing halves led to two distinct groups; those groups are different from the Knights. The Knights are dead.”
“1307?”
Colonel Camini looked to Dr. Sterling and offered a small smile, “You know your history. After that horrible period, many of the Knights were killed, but their legacy lived on.”
“It has survived through both groups; through The Order and The Watchmen?”
“Yes, Michael, through us both; The Order seeks to create an empire, a holy empire, but not in the traditional sense. They do this by infiltrating governments and industry, by gaining control. They are extremely egotistical men; with no faith whatsoever in mankind. This is where we, The Watchmen, disagree with them. While certainly history has shown mankind to be violent and warring by nature, our half believes in the inherent goodness of man, in man’s ability to progress. Simply put, Dr. Sterling, we only seek to have mankind be allowed to grow and develop on its own, and without interference from The Order.”
The Colonel grimaced as a wave of pain shot through him and caused him to double over.
Michael grabbed him again, “You need help!”
“Do not worry about me; my men will soon get inside. I have lost too much blood. You must go – you have to get those codes, Dr. Sterling! The Monsignor cannot be allowed to use them!”
“How can I get out of here, your men will be everywhere?”
The Colonel pointed to the bookshelf, “There is a small bible on the uppermost shelf to the right. Pull it out and open it. In it, you will find a key. In the Pope’s kitchen is a pantry, inside, and behind the shelf on the right side of the pantry, is a hidden door with a keyhole. Unlock it and take the stairs behind it. It is the Pope’s secret staircase, used only for emergencies, and will lead you directly to the street.”
Michael ran to the bookcase. He grabbed a nearby wooden chair and jumped onto it. The bible was easy to find. He opened it. The hollowed out pages held a small bronze key.
He ran back to the Colonel. From his pocket, he pulled out the cell phone that he had taken from his locker at the Colorado Athletic Club and gave it to the Colonel, and said, "This is programmed for a European cell network. You can contact me by using the speed dial under the numb
er one. Just hold it down, it will automatically dial me.”
Michael put a hand on the Colonel’s shoulder and stood to leave.
The Colonel shouted out one last question, “How will you find the Monsignor?”
Michael pulled out his CIA issued phone from the inside of his jacket and then reached into his pants where he found the SIM card he had removed earlier. He put it back into the phone, and said, “I am going to call a friend.”
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Calling NORAD
Rome, Italy
Michael had to run through four rooms to get to the kitchen. Once there, he saw drops of blood splattered in a thin trail through the newly remodeled room leading into the pantry; Michael had not seen these before. The Monsignor must have been hiding inside the apartment! Michael was holding the Colonel’s pistol at the ready not sure what he would find.
Before going in, he quietly released the clip and counted the bullets – seven left. Taking a deep breath he sprang into the pantry pointing the weapon left and then to the right. Inside, it was a mess. Cans of food covered the floor and more than one shelf was overturned. A bag of flour had burst and its white floury contents were strewn everywhere about the fairly large food closet. Michael could see smears of blood. Behind one of the overturned shelves was the Pope’s secret escape door; it was already open. A bloody handprint was on it. Geoffrey had made his own key.
Michael reached into his pocket and retrieved his small Motorola ear bud and CIA issued cell phone. He shoved the wireless device into his ear. Tapping the screen, his phone illuminated to life. The stairs were steep and covered with the white footprints of the Monsignor. The copper railing was thin and Michael grabbed on to it for support as he rushed down the stairs. Barely ten steps had passed when his hand brushed over something wet. He looked at his hand; it was covered with blood, the Monsignor’s blood.
