by Jones, Rick
And he drank.
Pulling from the bottle long enough for a drunken stupor to overtake him, with the images of the coastline remaining on his mind as he fell asleep, the bottle finally slipped from his hand and to the floor, the contents spilling onto the threadbare carpet.
#
Vatican City
Inside the Sistine Chapel another ballot was taking place, the second partaking on the third day.
For the past two days the people standing within Vatican City saw only black smoke spiraling from the chimney, the color meaning that an elected had not been chosen. However, the cardinals had congregated between ballots and refocused their thoughts as to who shall lead them. Names of the Preferiti were bandied about, each man providing the pros and cons of the four main candidates, the arguments between liberal and conservatism, a judicial gathering of thoughts finally reducing four to two.
On the day of the ballot the cardinals voted, the votes casted then presented to the first of the three Scrutineers. Raising the container high, he shook it, and then passed the ballots among the three of them to be counted with the last Scrutineer writing the name down, and then calling the name out loud.
. . . Cardinal Giuseppe Angullo . . .
. . . Cardinal Giuseppe Angullo . . .
. . . Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci . . .
. . . Cardinal Giuseppe Angullo . . .
. . . Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci . . .
Both men could feel their nerves tightening, their hearts racing, palpitating, the ballots casting a final decision.
. . . Cardinal Giuseppe Angullo . . .
Bonasero closed his eyes and waited for the next name.
. . . Cardinal Giuseppe Angullo . . .
And then he began to lose confidence, knowing that two thirds of the vote was needed and Angullo’s name kept rolling.
And then:
. . . Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci . . .
. . . Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci . . .
. . . Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci . . .
. . . Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci . . .
He opened his eyes.
. . . Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci . . .
. . . Cardinal Giuseppe Angullo . . .
This was getting too close, thought Vessucci.
When he turned to face Cardinal Angullo, he could see the man looking at him with the intensity of a scalpel. His hatchet thin face was directed at him, eyes as black as onyx and a stare as cold as ice.
. . . Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci. . .
. . . Cardinal Giuseppe Angullo . . .
. . . Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci . . .
And it went on until a pope was finally chosen and white smoke billowed from the chimney.
Finally, the people in Vatican City cheered for the newly elect.
#
At the conclusion of the election, the Cardinal Dean summoned the Secretary of the College of Cardinals and the Master of Papal Liturgical Celebrations into the hallway where the Cardinal Dean asked the Pope-elect if he assented to the election by stating in Latin: "Acceptasne electionem de te canonice factam in Summum Pontificem?” Do you accept your canonical election as Supreme Pontiff?
Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci nodded in affirmation and accepted the post by citing the proper Latin phrases.
The Cardinal Dean stepped forward and asked him for his papal name. “Quo nomine vis vocari?” By what name shall you be called?
“I choose the name . . . Pope Pius the Fourteenth.”
The Cardinal Dean nodded, and then led the way back to the conclave where the Master of Pontifical Liturgical Ceremonies created a document recording the acceptance and the new name of the Pope. Once the traditional motion was complete, Bonasero was then led into the “Room of Tears,” a small area inside the Sistine Chapel where he dressed into the pontifical choir robe; the white cassock, rochet and red mozzetta before donning the gold cordedpectoral cross, a red embroidered stole, and zucchetto—all in preparation for the masses.
When Bonasero was ready, the Cardinal Protodeacon went at the main balcony of the basilica's façade with his hands held out to the people of the Square and proclaimed the new pope in a voice that was loud and projecting: “Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum: Habemus Papam! Eminentissimum ac Reverendissimum Dominum, Dominum Bonasero, Sanctae Romanae Ecclesiae Cardinalem, qui sibi nomen imposuit Pope Pius the Fourteenth.” Translated: "I announce to you a great joy: We have a Pope! The Most Eminent and Most Reverend Lord, Lord Bonasero, Cardinal of the Holy Roman Church, who takes to himself the name Pope Pius the Fourteenth.”
When Bonasero walked onto the balcony he saw the world differently. Throngs of people lined up so thickly he could barely see an inch of space between them, the cheers maddening. And somewhere, he knew, Cardinal Giuseppe Angullo was entirely livid with the outcome.
As he waved to the crowd, Bonasero knew he was now within Angullo’s crosshairs.
#
The day was done and the ceremonies were over.
As the moon traversed the sky, Cardinal Giuseppe Angullo stood before the open window of his dormitory room at the Domus Sanctæ Marthæ watching its slow trajectory. His mind, however, was detached from the reality of actually watching the moon as different images played within his mind’s eye.
He had been so sure that his campaigning on the basis that he was a man ‘bathed in old tradition,’ would garner the guaranteed ballots needed. But he was wrong. Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci won, taking the post he coveted to the point of pushing Pope Gregory over the rail because it was God’s will to have him pave the way to the papal alter, for which he was to preside over. Now with Gregory gone and Pius the Fourteenth standing in the way, Angullo could feel something alien and familiar at the same time. It was the feeling of losing control, which was buffered with the need to do something about it in order to bring that back under his rule. Unknowingly, as he considered this, he clenched his right hand slowly into a tight fist as if grabbing something tight within his hold, the courses of blue veins tightening against translucent flesh as the knuckles of his bony fingers turned white.
Control was vacating him.
And he needed to curb this loss, this emptiness.
Stepping away from the window, the moon traversing overhead at a glacially slow pace, Cardinal Giuseppe Angullo began to outline a course of action against Bonasero Vessucci. He would have to be clever and sly. And he would succeed believing that there was a solution for everything.
Standing before the bathroom mirror, Angullo studied his reflection.
For an odd moment words punctuated his thoughts, words he had never considered in the past or why he thought them. They simply came: Mirror Friend, Mirror Foe.
He examined his features further without emotion or movement. He stood as still as a Grecian statue, looking with impenetrable onyx eyes that never wavered in their sockets.
Mirror Friend, Mirror Foe.
Finally, he traced his fingertips over his image.
Mirror Friend, Mirror Foe.
Yes, Bonasero, he thought. There’s a solution for everything.
Deep down he began to feel something very familiar.
Control was beginning to seep back into his soul, something that was black and twisted, something very ugly.
In the mirror his reflection took in a deep breath and exhaled in an equally long sigh. Yes, Bonasero, there is a solution for everything.
Behind him the moon continued to move in its guided path, albeit with the slowness of a bad dream.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Mount Damavand. The Alborz Region, The Facility
Leonid Sakharov did little to acknowledge the techs or Aryeh Levine. Instead, the old man focused more on the electromechanical components and hardware, showing more adulation toward the molecular assembler, the infrasonic equipment, probe microscopes and the vacuum environments created to avoid the scattering of bots. He catered lovingly to the most advanced Electron Optical System available, rather than the living tissue tha
t surrounded him. This was his entire world—the world of science. Everything else was immaterial.
While Sakharov seemed oblivious to those around him, he walked with more spring to his gait. And Levine couldn’t help notice that the old man was sweating profusely while his hands shook with all the symptoms of a neurological disease. The old man was drying out, he thought, the spirit of his mind overcoming his constant need for alcohol.
As the lab techs worked the consoles imputing data, Levine stood back, arms crossed, watching the monitors and finding with great fascination the simulations being cast on the high-definition wall-screen. Chains of molecular nanobots were replicating and self-sustaining themselves, the program giving them the intelligence to learn from experience as they evolved, essentially giving them life.
As Levine watched the chains move in serpentine fashion on the screen, the glass door opened and al-Ghazi entered the lab with al-Sherrod behind him. Two Quds soldiers followed in their wake.
Al-Ghazi smiled when he saw Levine. He was wearing camouflaged attire and a black turban. “How are you, my friend?”
Levine greeted him, feigning a smile that looked uniquely genuine. “It’s good to see you. I had no idea that you were coming.”
“I’m here on a last minute invitation, Umar. I understand that the good doctor has performed all that was required of him, and that we are ready to proceed with the testing on live subjects.”
This was the first time Levine heard anything about this, al-Sherrod obviously keeping him in the dark.
“Testing?”
Al-Ghazi sported his dazzling white teeth in the form of a broader smile. “It appears that the good Dr. Sakharov is ahead of schedule and is excited to show us his program regarding the nanobots.”
Levine looked at the doctor, who was tapping instructions into the keyboard, noting that Sakharov chose to ignore those in the lab by remaining oblivious and cognizant of their presence at the same time.
“Doctor.” Al-Ghazi stepped toward the scientists with his hands clasped behind the small of his back. “This must be an exciting moment for you, yes?”
The doctor gave a cursory nod, nothing else, not even a flicker of emotion.
“Then let’s get started, shall we?”
One of the two techs went into one of the vacuum environments, a glassed-in room, with a canister the size of a liter bottle. It was cylindrical, the container metallic with a mirror polish. On top was a screen cap, an opening. He placed it gingerly on the table and left the room as the second tech brought a goat into the chamber tethered to a leash, the animal bleating. While removing the tie from the goat’s collar, the first tech returned with a cluster of indigent plants and placed them on the table beyond the goat’s reach. Once done they exited the room, the door closing behind them with the subsequent whisper of the seal tightening that made the room inescapable for anything living—including a single cell, virus, bacteria or nanobot.
“The canister, Doctor, will be larger for our purposes when the time comes, yes?”
“No,” he answered crustily. “The nanobots have been programmed to reproduce exponentially. But every succeeding life will have a half-time, which means that they will eventually shrink themselves to a time limit where they can do no harm. For the purposes of this experiment the bots have been given a primary lifespan of one minute, its replicated life form will be half that, thirty seconds; the third chain, fifteen seconds; and so forth until their span shrinks down to a point where they don’t exist long enough to do further damage. They will always exist since a trillionth of a trillionth of a nanosecond is still a measure of time, but too little to cause destruction. It’s a safety measure to keep the nanobots from creating Drexler’s theory of grey goo.”
“Grey goo?”
Sakharov ignored him.
And then: “But is one canister enough for our needs?”
“More than enough,” he answered. “In that one canister is a nano swarm that will act as a whole that can wipe out an entire city. So that you know, you can fit one hundred thousand nanobots on the head of a pin. It’s more than enough.”
Al-Ghazi gave off an expression denoting that he was impressed. “I see.”
Levine took everything in. His curiosity piqued.
“And what about the plants, Doctor? What’s their function?”
Sakharov set up the monitor for the final click of the button. “The bots have been programmed to attack organic matter, things that are alive or at one time were alive. Everything else—glass, metal, plastic—should remain unaffected.”
“I see. But why isn’t anything happening? I see that the container has a screen top. I assume it’s open.”
“It is.”
“Then why is nothing happening?”
“Because,” he let his finger hover over a button on the keyboard, “the nanobots are stimulated through sound waves. Once they are, then their programming kicks in and they take on a life of their own, doing what I programmed them to do: To evolve and to learn by experience.”
“Life,” he said.
Sakharov nodded. “I’m creating life.”
After a moment of silence, as the doctor held a wavering finger above the keyboard, everyone waited with childlike anticipation.
And then the finger dropped, a single button pushed, the program initiating.
The goat bleated without care or caution, pacing the glass enclosure.
And then a waspy hum sounded over the speakers, growing in sound.
“It’s activating,” commented Sakharov.
Within thirty seconds the goat began to shake its head wildly, as if buzzing flies were annoying it. Its bleating becoming more agitated, more terror-stricken. And then its coat began to ripple as if something alive was undulating beneath its skin, rolling. The creature then raised its head and wobbled upon weak legs as sores opened and pared back from its joints, exposing blood-laced bones. Its eyes bulged in terror, but only for a moment as they dissolved within their sockets, decaying. The meat of its tongue was now gone. Its flesh, disappearing. And within seconds its hide became a wild tangle of hair that appeared to move as the bots broke down every inch of the animal down to nonexistence.
On the table the plants were decaying just as quickly, the organic material breaking down like a film in fast motion, until nothing was left.
And then they waited, the glass holding, the buzzing sounding over the loud speakers in a raucous din.
But within five minutes the drone of the bots was gone, their lifespan shrinking to the point where they could no longer be effective.
Al-Ghazi smiled and clapped a hand on Sakharov’s shoulder, causing the old man to finally bring a smile to his own lips. He had achieved his goal, he thought. He had done what Mother Russia refused to give him credit for—the ability to achieve where others had failed.
“My good Doctor, you truly have an amazing mind.”
“I know.”
Levine, however, was beside himself. Here was a technology far more devastating than any nuclear device, a weapon that could be programmed to kill without impunity or conscience—entire cities, towns and populations gone without damage to the surrounding infrastructure. No doubt Israel was on that list.
“Ahmadinejad will be most pleased,” stated al-Sherrod. “Since sanctions have made Iran the largest leper colony in the world, this will provide the means of leverage should Israel decide to bomb our nuclear facilities. Its allies will also fall under Allah’s wrath—city by city, infidel by infidel.”
Levine’s fate was now clearly stated: He had no choice but to put himself in position to contact his sources. Not trying to tip off his thoughts, he nevertheless gave a cursory glance to the Comm Center on the second level and noted the wall monitors through the smoke-stained glass. He would have to be swift and efficient. First he would have to take out the two Quds soldiers that constantly shadowed him, no easy feat, then work his way to the center and send his coordinates for a military strike.
; He then closed his eyes, a thought forming. He had lived a good life, an exciting life. But he saw no way to survive this mission but by the grace of God. He would, at least, try to escape through the mountains, finding avenues to the north. But the cold of the mountains were brutal, the attempt unrealistic, if not suicidal. But it was the only course of action available.
Al-Sherrod maintained his smile. “Then we are ready to move forward?” he asked al-Ghazi.
Al-Ghazi nodded, and then he turned to Levine. “Umar, I understand that you have seen the Ark.”
“I have.”
“Then your role has become much larger.”
“How so?”
“The Ark will possess the good doctor’s discoveries. I will need you to introduce the Ark as a faith of good will to the Zionists of Israel, the Catholics, and the Muslims. Iran cannot take an active role in this because they will be targeted should it be discovered that they had an active role in promoting the good doctor’s creations. You will act as an emissary on behalf of our organization to promote a false image of good intentions. We would like a gathering of all heads of state, as well as the heads of religion denominations, to attend the opening of the Ark for the possessions within to be shared by all, since all have an interest of what’s within the Ark. Mossad already possesses the staff of Aaron and the golden pot of manna, as proof that the true Ark exists. However, we still possess the tablets containing the Ten Commandments. Such an opening of good will should be shared by all. But when they open the Ark, they will be greeted by the demons of Dr. Sakharov’s making.”
Sakharov clenched his jaw, causing the wiry muscles to work.
“But the Muslims?”
“Collateral damage,” he said with indifference. “Since Solomon was selected to maintain the Ark, then it is believed that Allah favored him. Therefore, Muslims must be present so as not to draw suspicion as to the Ark’s true intention.”
“And my position?”
“You will negotiate the trade of the Ark for the good of all religions when, in fact, the opening of the Ark is to happen at a place of my choosing, my Ground Zero. A team of onsite operatives will coordinate the attack by initiating the program at the location. Laptops and experience will be necessary. Of course their deaths with be martyred.”
