by Jones, Rick
Whenever he did this he could see relief fall over al-Ghazi’s face. At least for now, Ahmadinejad was keeping to the agreement that the data should be shared between alliances, even with marginal distrust between them.
“Good,” al-Ghazi said from the other end. “It appears he’s making incredible strides.”
“Sakharov knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s done it before.”
“And you, Umar?”
“I know little of his project,” he told him. “But the techs he’s working with seem to be grasping his theories quite well.”
“How much longer do you think it will take?’
Levine shrugged. “If I was to hazard a guess, I’d say maybe two weeks, three at the most.”
“Excellent. Is that what he told you?”
“In so many words, yes.”
“Al-Sherrod must be pleased.”
“He is. So is President Ahmadinejad.”
“With UN sanctions crippling his nation, he will now have some leverage against Israel should they commit to a military strike against their facilities. But it’s not the nuclear programs they should be worried about, but the program of Doctor Sakharov.”
Levine fell back in his chair. The room was dark all around him with the occasional glow from the monitor screens and blinking lights from the surrounding computer modules. He had to get word to his contacts, that a bunker not within the eyes of his country’s satellite system is developing a weapon of mass destruction far more devastating than a nuclear device.
“Umar?”
He snapped aware. “Yes, al-Ghazi.”
“I will speak with you again tomorrow, same time.”
“Yes, al-Ghazi.”
“And watch over the good doctor, yes?”
“I will.”
From his end al-Ghazi gave him a cursory salute. “Allahu Akbar.”
“Allahu Akbar.”
The monitor winked off.
In a dash of a moment before he stood, he took quick note of the other monitor screens, taking in that they were surveillance monitors of areas within the facility and outside with NVG cameras watching the areas surrounding the MG nests, paths leading to the facility, the helipad, and the banks of fuel cells lining the ridge, the power source for the facility. Fuel cells, he knew, were extremely volatile. Explosions by themselves might not destroy the facility. But coupled with a military strike from Israeli fighter planes, the missiles would certainly cause the bunker to collapse.
Since he was constantly being watched he knew he would have to act sometime before Sakharov finished his project. But if he killed the doctor, then he would have no way to contact his sources since he would no doubt be executed. Worse, the doctor had finished enough of the process for the Iranian scientists to pick up where he left off. Now he had no choice but to compromise his position and order a strike to destroy the bunker and the data, quashing the project and the minds contained within.
And then there was al-Ghazi. He knew where he was and the threat he had become now that he possessed much of the unfinished data.
It was time to make a move. But first he would need to fathom a plan rather than to act hastily.
A rough hand touched down on his shoulder, the hand of a Quds soldier. In Farsi he barked an order. It was time to leave the Comm Center.
Standing, Aryeh Levine knew that his time was limited on this planet. But he also understood that the romance of being an operative was over. He had done his job and done it well. Now it was time to cash out and he would do so in a very large way, in a blaze of fiery glory.
After all, he was saving Israel. More likely other parts of the world, as well.
Therefore Sakharov must not finish.
The bunker cannot stand.
And al-Ghazi cannot survive the week.
Being directed toward the exit by the rough hand of a Quds soldier, Aryeh Levine’s mind was already working.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Vatican City, The Start of the Conclave
Before the election the cardinals hear two sermons: one before entering the conclave, the other once they are inside the Sistine Chapel. The sermons are basically intended to spell out the current state of the Church, and to further suggest the qualities necessary for a pope to possess at that particular time.
Over the past few days leading up to the conclave, Cardinal Angullo had worked his silver tongue and once again garnered the favors of those who had once gravitated away from his camp back into his pull, placing himself as a favorite within the Preferiti alongside Cardinal Vessucci.
As the first sermon was coming to an end, Cardinal Angullo viewed Cardinal Vessucci with a long and calculating look. The cardinal was kneeling with his hands tented in prayer with an onyx-beaded rosary and silver crucifix dangling from his fingers, the crucifix reflecting a diamond spangle of light whenever it spun pendulously from side to side.
Closing his eyes and tenting his fingers in his own sense of prayer, Cardinal Angullo went back to his own entreaty to God, his lips moving wordlessly until the final moment of the Eucharist.
At noontime, on a day with a uniform blue sky and white-hot sun, the cardinals gathered in the Pauline Chapel of the Palace of the Vatican, and then proceeded to the Sistine Chapel singing “Veni Creator Spiritus.”
Cardinal Vessucci was at the head of the procession, singing in chorus. Behind him Cardinal Angullo also sang and did so in accord, the overall melody between the cardinals sounding more like a harmonious Gregorian chant.
Once inside the Sistine Chapel, the cardinals took an oath to observe the measures set down by the apostolic constitutions that upon election, should he be elected, understand that his optimum duty was to protect the liberty of the Holy See; disregard the instructions of secular authorities on voting; and above all else, maintain secrecy.
In keeping with age-old practices, the Cardinal Dean, the president of the College of Cardinals, then read the oath out loud in order of precedence, while the other cardinal electors stated—while touching the Gospels—that they promise, pledge and swear to uphold the policies of the Church.
Cardinal Angullo was most vociferous.
After the cardinals had taken the oath, the Master of the Papal Liturgical Celebrations then ordered everyone other than the cardinals and conclave participants to leave the Chapel, a very slow progression as if in mourning, leaving behind the cardinals, the Master of the Papal Liturgical Celebrations, and an ecclesiastic designated by the Congregations prior to the commencement of the election to make a speech concerning the problems facing the Church, and once more on the qualities the new pope needed to possess.
The ecclesiastic was an aged old man with deeply wizened crow’s feet who hunched inwardly at the shoulders, his gray eyes held innumerable intelligence, and the tone of his voice remained honey smooth as he spoke words learned verbatim from script.
As he spoke Cardinal Angullo decided that he had all the qualities and tools required, had all the solutions to the problems plaguing the Church, ticking them off in his mind as the Vatican’s new savior. Cardinal Vessucci, on the other hand, appeared studious and rapt, hinging on the ecclesiastic’s every word, imbibing everything he said.
When the ecclesiastic finished, he moved with a shuffling gait beyond the Chapel doors, leaving behind the Master of the Papal Liturgical Celebrations to stand sentinel. Once the cardinals of the conclave were ready to proceed, the Master of the Papal Liturgical Celebrations closed the door before them and wrapped a chain with a papal seal on its lock around the door handles from the opposite side, locking the cardinals within the Sistine Chapel.
The click of the lock resonated throughout the chapel in echoing cadence, like the gunshot sound of finality, the galvanizing shot marking the start of the procedure of electing a new pope.
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In voting, the cardinals use simple note cards for ballots with the words "I elect as Supreme Pontiff ___" printed on them, the open space to be filled in with the name of the elec
tor’s choosing.
By afternoon the first ballot was held. However, no one garnered enough votes to win the pontifical seat, including Angullo or Vessucci, neither one getting the required two-thirds of the assembly’s vote to win the papal throne. How much was received by Angullo, Vessucci or the other two cardinals of the Preferiti remained unknown.
It was also the only ballot of the day.
On the subsequent morning, as a battleship-gray sky threatened to open with torrential rain, the conclave continued with two additional votes, both failing to come to a clear and decisive decision as to who should lead the Church.
As each day passed, Bonasero Vessucci was beginning to lose hope. Whereas Cardinal Angullo smiled with all the pompous glory of a victor by the way the edges of his lips curled with the smug and anticipatory grin of someone who believed that the throne was well within his grasp. With every passing ballot things were beginning to look very bleak, whereas things were starting to look golden for Cardinal Angullo.
During the day’s recess between the second ballot and the beginning of the third ballot, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci stood alone, musing, his eyes obviously detached from the moment until Cardinal Angullo invaded his space.
“Bonasero,” he said.
Vessucci’s eyes settled on the cardinal who held a smile. “It’s becoming quite obvious that the throne is under the strong union of those who wish to see the most qualified to receive the papal station.”
“Isn’t that always the way?”
Angullo leaned forward, his smile widening, but marginally—more of a vindictive smirk than a gentle grin of congeniality. “Yes,” he finally said. “But it appears that your camp has weakened significantly over the past few days. Since you were the alleged lead in the Preferiti, then the casted votes should have marked you as the pontiff within the first three ballots. That means, my Dear Cardinal, that something else is in the wind, wouldn’t you agree? People are perhaps considering other factors.”
“Like you perhaps?”
Angullo closed his eyes and gave a small tilt of his chin in acknowledgement. “Perhaps,” he said. “But I am the Vatican secretary of state, which would serve others well if they should cast their votes on my behalf.”
“So you offered favors to those in order to bolster your camp?”
“No. Never. People see that I am a man of position. And who does not want to be in the same circle as a man of position? No, Bonasero. People by nature are self-centered, even if it’s to the smallest degree. They’re ambitious and they have the need, and the right, to excel to the next level. People, Bonasero, like to be in a circle with those in power, those within position, those who can help promote.” And then: “Whose circle are you in?”
Bonasero Vessucci simply stared at him. Not a glare, just a studious look in which he was seeing Angullo as a man of true Machiavellian conviction.
“I see,” he finally answered. “But keep in mind, Giuseppe, that it takes two-thirds of the votes to secure the position. There are others in the Preferiti whose votes may be diluting the overall percentage. It doesn’t necessarily mean that you, I, or anyone else in the Preferiti has an advantage over the other. It simply means patience should be an exhibited virtue.”
“An exhibited virtue,” he repeated. His smile broadened. “Yes, Bonasero, exhibit your virtue should it give you comfort.” He then stood back and smiled in a way that was truly Machiavellian in nature by the simple curvature of his lips.
“Don’t cast your shadow upon the papal throne yet, Giuseppe. The votes may not be in your favor.”
“Perhaps not,” he said. He then backed off, turned, and began to walk away. “But then again,” he added over his shoulder, “perhaps they are.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Las Vegas, Nevada, The Following Day
The night before Kimball Hayden fought at another venue, his third fight in ten days. His second bout was all about a quick execution of his skills with a flurry of blows and a roundhouse kick to the jaw, leaving his opponent on the mat as a complex heap in less than two minutes. After two fights the crowd loved him. By the third fight they hailed him as the Second Coming.
But it was Louie who told him to slow down the pace and make the fights last longer, draw them in and “Make them love you more than they already do. And then give them what they want, a total annihilation of your opponent.”
Kimball sat in the quasi-darkness of his apartment drinking straight from a bottle of Jack. Behind him the drapes were closed with marginal light slipping in through the seams where they met, and the air was hot and humid and stale with the smell of dirty laundry hanging in the air.
Make them love you more than they already do. And then give them what they want, a total annihilation of your opponent.
Is that what people want, Louie? A total annihilation of somebody else?
That’s the bottom line, buddy. That and the money, of course. But when you think about it, it all comes down to human nature. It’s what they want, J.J. And you’re the machine that drives them. Louie then turned toward the crazed and applauding crowd like an emcee and opened his arms, the downed opponent at his feet beginning to come to. Look at what you brought, J.J. Take a good look around and see what you’ve done.
A day later, the words continued to echo throughout his mind as if they were spoken from the end of a long and hollow tunnel.
Look at what you brought, J.J. Take a good look around and see what you’ve done.
Kimball took another swig, a long pull until a bubble surfaced inside the bottle, and then laid it on the armchair of the seat and stared straight ahead into darkness.
Last night was his third fight with the promise of more to come. His opponent was short and stocky with a bull-like neck and blunt limbs with tree-trunk thickness. It was obvious to Kimball that he fought his battles up close and personal due to his strike range being limited. So he thought that this was going to be a quick and clean kill like the other two. But his opponent was tough and mean and could take mind-numbing punches as if they were glancing blows. His lips were split and parted, a cut slashed over his eye, bleeding profusely. But he kept coming, defying Kimball’s well placed jabs, his punches, and his many scored kicks to the facial and chest regions.
The crowd was going crazy.
And his opponent kept coming, throwing quick jabs with undeniable power behind each blow, landing, scoring, and often driving Kimball off balance. And then a right-cross to Kimball’s face, a bruising blow which raised a knot above his eye, the bright light of intense pain soon following.
This guy was good.
Either that or Kimball was losing his edge.
Trading blow after blow, strike after strike, the fight waged on until the third round when Kimball found an brief opening and took it, driving a straight-on power punch like a pile driver into his opponent’s jaw, the bone shifting horribly to the left, breaking, the snap audible over the din of the crowd.
And then his world seemed to move with the slowness of a bad dream.
The raucous cry of the crowd moved in a slow drift as if the cries were weighted down, the shouts deep, long and drawn out, becoming a sigh of tragedy and awe.
For a brief moment his opponent wavered and teetered as his eyes went to half mast, his face horribly disfigured with the crook of his jaw threatening to punch through his skin. And then he fell, hard, the fighter landing in a grotesque shape, his knees bent in oddly acute angles.
And then Kimball’s world hastened, catching back up to the light of reality. The crowd cheered wildly as people applauded and raised their thumbs high. The decibels of their ovation carried across the air in concussive waves, the atmosphere moving, shaking, the walls closing in from all points of the arena, the effect finally striking him as a maddening drumbeat of cheers.
Look at what you brought, J.J. Take a good look around and see what you’ve done.
He looked down at the man on the mat, who was now receiving critical aid. And then he l
ooked at his fist, at the glove, and then slowly unclenched his hand. He never realized that Louie was standing beside him, didn’t realize that the ref had raised his other hand in victory. Kimball Hayden had lost himself in the moment and blotted out the noise, the crowd, becoming detached.
Within thirty minutes he received his pay, a thirty-five hundred dollar bonanza for less than ten minutes of work.
But Kimball remained somewhat vacant; Louie’s words nothing more than a distant drone whenever he spoke, the money doing little to bolster his emotions as the bills lay curled in his hand.
He took another swig.
On the counter were leafs of hundred dollar denominations. Between his three fights he earned just over six grand. Not a bad take for less than two weeks. Maybe within a month, he thought, maybe two, he would have enough to start elsewhere, to be somebody with a remote future.
Forget Montana. Too cold.
What about Myrtle Beach? And in the darkness the corners of his lips edged up into a dreamy smile.
I always wanted to live by the beach—to have my own business. Start anew.
He then lifted his hand and let his fingertips run over the knot above his left eye, a vestige of his fight from the night before.
A few more fights, he told himself, to build the till. And then I’m gone. Like that.
After a sigh, and with the images of beachscapes and waves pounding the surf, the noise alive in his ears as he closed his eyes, Kimball dreamed.
