Pandora's Ark (Vatican Knights)

by Jones, Rick

  More bullets passed around him in waspy zips, prompting him to take the leap.

  Although he performed admirably by bending his knees and rolling with the motion of the flow upon landing, twenty feet was too much and the impact too great. Levine struck hard, rolled, the snap of his ankles sounding out like gunshots, the bones shattering to the degree that his feet hung at awkward angles.

  Gritting his teeth in agonizing pain, Levine refused to cry out. His weapons skated across the floor beyond his reach.

  At least, he thought, I gave a valiant effort. Long live Israel!

  As he lay there shadows poured over him. When he looked up he noted multiple barrels of assault weapons directed at him.

  Within moments al-Sherrod made his way until he stood over Levine.

  For a long moment he looked at Levine with a searching and calculating look. “Who are you?” he asked. “Who are you really?”

  Levine remained silent.

  “You are not al-Qaeda, are you?”

  More silence.

  “It appears that al-Ghazi has made a grave misjudgment in your character.”

  Levine lowered his head to the floor. His life was over and he knew it.

  A Quds officer burst through the line. “Al-Sherrod, the techs in the Comm Center are dead. And it appears that a message was sent.”

  “Find the point of contact,” he ordered.

  “Yes, al-Sherrod.” The soldier was gone.

  Al-Sherrod bent over Levine. “Umar is not your real name, is it?”

  Levine wanted to spit in the man’s face.

  “Are you Mossad?”

  No reply.

  “Is that what you did?” he asked. “Did you contact Mossad?”

  Levine finally groaned, his nerves becoming a tabernacle of pain. Al-Sherrod smiled and then set a foot upon one of the operative’s broken ankle, causing Levine to bark out in exquisite pain. “I can do this all night,” he told him. He ground his foot and the injury, causing Levine to clench his jaw and tears to course from the corners of his eyes. “What did you send to Mossad?”

  Levine’s breathing was becoming erratic, the man slipping into shock.

  Al-Sherrod once again ground his foot against Levine’s injury, driving another cry from Levine. “What did you send to Mossad? I will not ask again.”

  “Then don’t . . . ask. You’re just wasting . . . your time.”

  Al-Sherrod sighed, and then looked at the man with contempt. “Your pathetic life is over. You know that, don’t you?” And then to his team: “Close the vault and secure the facility,” he said. And then he looked at the man’s broken ankles with a measure of admiration at the awkward way the feet were turned backwards. “Prepare the vacuum chamber and carry this man inside,” he ordered. “Let’s see firsthand how the good doctor’s discoveries work against the organic matter of a man’s flesh.”

  Levine was lifted harshly off the floor, his seemingly boneless ankles flopping horribly against the tile as he was dragged away.

  “Keep him alive for another day,” he said. “I may need to mine him for information.” The truth was, however, that he wanted Levine to suffer pain beyond endurance, beyond human comprehension, and then snuff out his life with a simple order.

  Al-Sherrod, the Devil’s Companion, did all he could to suppress a smile of satisfaction.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Tel Aviv, Israel, Mossad Headquarters

  Yitzhak Paled stood in the Comm Center watching the screen with his arms folded defensively across his chest. The large man, Benyamin Kastenbaum, stood beside him maintaining the same pose, his colossal frame dwarfing Paled’s.

  The room was dark, their forms silhouetted before the high-definition screen as encrypted notes downloaded from coordinates in the Alborz Mountain region, specifically from Mount Damavand, an odd point since there had never been verification of activity there.

  “Aryeh’s alive,” Benyamin commented.

  “From Mount Damavand in northern Iran . . . Of all places.”

  “What’s he doing there?”

  “I guess we’re about to find out.”

  They watched the screen load up with rune-like characters, letters, numbers and symbols, the techs playing the keyboards to decipher the codes. The data coming forward in five different segments:

  2BEL4o69Zvwb45I1PyFVXr2nnebQliV53ZDboAv1Miat±Av%2Fy%2BFYQTxb9aonEsWDeRHwZBd73Jf%0AoCgOklgcitM90βM1iVifu%2Bftv≥€∞pJhQkVRRuLascUEzrgGz5F%2B34EibZQZUoUkfaVrmvcPcHIXbq12D%0ATrq5d6Wlµ

  GQDPfLFnAzafwKeNI0Aixcn12twrk7baXja7dDEJpBO9tbsl2QI3b%0AtHbbABZgmRBBGk44an02VRlhcv%2FFWNg7jum1%π%2BON2sERIyla55%2FVp%2BvH2VX368%2F7M5nf%0AGYQ3LnJAxdjLRp%2BEYSknuWFO£∑πα≠×ĂĂ¥ǚ

  1pwyG%2Bj3D5uu69ee4QB0xAzdLQctkIf8X%0Aj4HZuiGuxrsn9CbliKMSOecwUEiNs5Z4pV4sM0%2Bk%2Bg%2Bt%2FaY3T5qc8%2FpaGPRitLV1QZFx4Bu5Ta4Z%0AjmYlUWQt2Sg8fGbMiB3Wu7aGS3MSnsCETQ1u6TkMfoWK2RN

  %2FXPgm%0Ax50TAUhWpn4v3epCVw4jCMJcAu8yHsuRoJqaaAf1%2Bk2xGcQ72dpsLxvT2ForGKD6dJzT9QowA%0AhnumrRZUvy%2BLV1DjnylkV0vf7KCdPKwVtq5jsDmg7hHuBWZYcx4clAT%2B%2FNCpEJnWgNsAz6GL10qW%

  2FpaGPRitLV1QZFx4Bu5Ta4Z%0AjmYlUWQt2Sg8fGbMiB3Wu7aGS3MSnsCETQ1u6TkMfoWK2RNybls232BXrLsmkKy%2BON2sERIyla55f48rgI%0APlwfdZTHQiWnWji1beBt18RiJYYJFdIRYg5%2FyETojJr33t%2FqkDMQbdUFZiJvE

  The encryptions became clear, the markings and symbols conforming to Yiddish text. There was no doubt. Aryeh Levine was alive in a complex hidden deep within Iran’s Alborz region inside a covert facility near the base of Mount Damavand. The exact coordinates were given for a preemptive strike.

  The second verse touched upon a technology more devastating than nuclear weaponry, a nano device capable of destroying organic material while leaving the infrastructure intact with no way to combat it. Israel was now within the crosshairs.

  Other segments appeared scattered, the messages themselves needing to be determined as to what Levine was trying to express. Apparently the man was in a rush.

  Inside the facility next to the lab lies the true Ark of the Covenant. What it was meant to be used for wasn’t quite clear, the codes indecipherable. But it was apparent that it had meaning in the scheme of things to come. What that was, however, would remain a mystery since some of the data was corrupted.

  “It’s not uniform,” said Benyamin.

  Paled had to agree. “That means Aryeh was pressed for time. Not a good sign, I’m afraid. As much as I want to hope for his safety, I believe that I may be hoping for too much.”

  “The Alborz are cold at this time—too cold for any man to survive.”

  “But he did what was required of him,” said Paled. The man bent over the console, the light of the monitor glowing against the sharp features of his face. He scrutinized the screen, the messages, and read into them. “Nanotechnology,” he said. “There’s a name attached to this: A Doctor Leonid Sakharov.” He turned to Benyamin. “Find out what you can about this man and get back to me. If Aryeh has requested an immediate and illegal incursion to these coordinates, then it is with good reason that we must take it seriously.”

  “Of course there will be fallout from the international community.”

  “When the life of Israel is at stake, then the voice of the international community means little . . . Doctor Leonid Sakharov. Find out what you can about this man while we consider a strike against Iran. And quickly, Benyamin, time may be limited, so a decision will have to be made soon.”

  “Yes, Yitzhak, I’ll do so right away.” The large man was gone, leaving Yitzhak Paled to gnaw unknowingly on his lower lip in concentration as his mind formulated the beginnings of a strike mission.

  Of course he would have to contact the proper authorities by moving up the chain of command, which obviously ended with Prime Minister Netanyahu. But Israel’s previous strikes and assassinations against Iran’s nuclear scientists to retard their so-called facilities that “produce the peaceful means of nuclear power” drew the ire of the international community, as Benyamin had said. But here was confirmation from a stellar operative sending a transmission from a covert facility hidden a
way from the scrupulous eyes of Mossad and the CIA. Such an operation was obviously meant to be concealed. And when an operation is meant to be concealed, then that operation is normally classified as the creation of a WMD, which, in this case, is nanotechnology, a weapon geared to destroy organic matter while leaving the infrastructure unmolested.

  “You did well, my friend,” he whispered. He then drew the tips of his fingers over the monitor screen, over the data. “You got your message across.”

  #

  In less than an hour, Benyamin returned with a dossier on Leonid J. Sakharov, and sat at a table with Yitzhak Paled and held counsel.

  Benyamin opened the file. “Doctor Leonid J. Sakharov was a leading scientist in Russia during the Cold War and a short time thereafter. His primary field of study was in the field of nanotechnology from the mid- to late eighties. According to our data, the man was years beyond other scientists in his field with this type of technology. And it appears, even as the Wall fell, that the Russian government continued to fund his program into the nineties.” He slid a black-and-white glossy photo of a much younger Sakharov to Paled, who examined the man in the picture with a keen eye, studying everything about the man’s hardened features, his mind to never forget the man’s face.

  “There was a purported accident in one of the labs, the data not quite clear. But it appears that Dr. Sakharov initiated a test of his findings prematurely, causing the deaths of his technicians. With Russia being the way it was at the time, they saw this as a step forward and allowed him to go on, the deaths of the techs serving as an example of what his experiments can do, rather than to see the tragedy of their demise. Apparently Sakharov sobered to the idea of what his research was capable of and destroyed the data, earning him a long stint in Vladimir Central Prison.”

  “So he’s incarcerated?”

  Benyamin shook his head. “Not anymore. He was released after the principals running Vladimir were allegedly in negotiations with this man to release him.” He slid another photo across the table. It was a photo of a Middle Eastern man in elegant dress. “Several months ago Sakharov was visited by this man. His name is Adham al-Ghazi. And we believe him to be a high-ranking member of al-Qaeda. Information on this guy is very limited. But we’re trying to learn as much as we can about him.”

  “This doesn’t make sense.”

  “It gets better,” added Benyamin. “Sakharov was living on a small government stipend in Moscow until a few weeks ago.”

  “And?”

  Another photo slid across the table, one that was appropriated from the memory files of a digital security camera near the Kremlin. “This is al-Ghazi a day or two before Sakharov disappeared,” he continued. “We believe that al-Ghazi was there for Sakharov. And ironically, after this picture was taken, Doctor Sakharov was on a flight to Tehran within days. So tell me, Yitzhak, why would a man of age, a man like Sakharov, whose only roots lie within Russia, go to Tehran?”

  Paled nodded. “Because, my friend, sometimes when a man grows old and begins to feel left behind and forgotten, he needs to feel useful. In this case I believe Doctor Sakharov was given the opportunity to feel useful once again, a second chance at life rather than to sit back, exist, then die without anyone knowing your name.”

  “So he’s in Tehran.”

  “No,” he answered. “He’s in this covert facility at Mount Damavand. Otherwise Aryeh never would have known him. Doctor Sakharov, nanotechnology, it all fits. Sakharov has completed what he started years ago in Russia. And somehow al-Ghazi and the Iranian government have colluded to benefit by sharing a common goal, despite their suspicion of one another. It’s no secret that Ahmadinejad has been recruiting these factions over that past few years to carry out their deeds, so they can sit back and deny culpability by pointing the accusing finger at a scapegoat.”

  He leaned back in his chair and gazed into Benyamin’s eyes. “They have perfected a weapon to take out Israel,” he told him. “Aryeh got enough across to tell us that. He also told us that they were in possession of the true Ark of the Covenant. By telling us the exact location and the purpose of this facility, I see no choice but to destroy it in its entirety.”

  “We’ll need to contact the Prime Minister.”

  “Who will then inform our allies of our findings. The CIA will then use their satellites to zone in on the position and confirm this facility as we did. On the ridgeline are numerous fuel cells maintaining the power of the complex—a target that should aid in its fall.”

  “The United States may want further proof than just a few encryptions.”

  “It’s not their choice. The United States needs to think less about how they can profit from this and make their economy swing better. Because if they allow this to continue, if Iran and al-Qaeda go forward with this technology, then Israel, the United States, and their allies may not have an economy withstanding at all.”

  “And the Ark?”

  Paled’s eyes went soft. “It will be lost forever, I’m afraid.”

  “Such a treasure for the world to behold.”

  “If we don’t do this, Benyamin, then there will be no world to treasure.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Rome, Italy

  Leviticus was sitting at his desk wearing slacks, a white shirt and black tie, which was far from the uniform he was accustomed to as a Vatican Knight. For the past six months he’d been working as a security analyst working for an Italian investment firm with interests abroad.

  Although Leviticus was not his proper name, it was the moniker he bore as a Vatican Knight. His true name was Danny Keaton, a man who was born, bred and raised in Brooklyn, New York.

  While carefully perusing over documents regarding the recent hacking attempts against a billion-dollar investment firm in Belize, a country with a company tie, came a light tapping against the door.

  He looked up and laid the papers aside on the desktop. “Come in.”

  An unattractive woman with dishwater-brown hair tied up into a bun opened the door. Her smile, however, was quite becoming and electric. “Mr. Keaton, there’s a priest here to see you.”

  A priest?

  “You can send him in. Thank you.”

  She stepped back and allowed the priest to enter the office, then closed the door softly behind him. For a long moment the priest stood there looking through glasses that magnified his eyes, the man suffering from some clinical form of visual degeneration. On the pocket of his clerical shirt was the symbol of the SIV. In his hand an aluminum suitcase. “Mr. Keaton,” he said, coming forward and offering his free hand. “I’m Father Domicelli of the Servicio de Inteligencia del Vaticano.”

  “The SIV. I know. I saw the emblem on your shirt.” Leviticus gestured to the seat in front of his desk as an invitation for the Jesuit to sit. “How can I help you?”

  “You can help us,” he said, “by servicing the needs of the Church.”

  “You knew my place within the Church?”

  “I do. It is within the scope of our knowledge under the exclusive sponsorship of the pope to know so.” Then with cool evenness and little hesitation, he said, “You were a Vatican Knight.”

  Leviticus fell back into his seat. “Again: How can I help you?”

  The Jesuit’s smile never left him. “Of course you know the result of the conclave.”

  He nodded. “The good Cardinal Vessucci has taken the papal throne. A good man in a deserving position.”

  “And in turn the pontiff has requested your assistance,” he returned. Father Domicelli then raised the aluminum suitcase for show and pointed to the desktop. “May I?”

  Leviticus swept the papers aside. “Yes, of course.”

  The Jesuit laid the suitcase on the desktop, undid the clasps, and lifted the lid. Inside were crisp, clean clerical shirts and clerical collars as pristine as snow, the shirts neatly folded. Beneath them were military-style pants with cargo pockets and freshly glossed military boots. On the shirt pocket was the logo of the Vatican Knigh
ts, a blue and gray shield with a Pattée cross as its center point and two Heraldic lions standing on their hind legs holding the shield stable with their forepaws. Upon seeing this Leviticus worked his lip into a minor tic, a micro-expression of pride over the embroidery that meant so much.

  In slow reaction he reached for one of the shirts and held it within his hands as if the fabric was as fragile as threadbare silk. And with either caution or homage or perhaps even both, he brushed his fingertips over the embroidered shield. “I remember,” he simply said.

  “The shirt is set to specifics,” he told him. “Pope Pius the Fourteenth has decided to reinstate the Vatican Knights, and he needs your efforts, should you accept his proposal, to serve the Church once again.”

  Leviticus never took his eyes off the shirt. “I still have my old uniforms,” he said in a dreamy, almost distant tone. “I have all of them.”

  “Would you be interested in reprising the role as second lieutenant of the Vatican Knights?”

  He looked at the priest and nodded. “It would be my absolute honor.”

  Father Domicelli extended his hand. “Welcome back, Leviticus.”

  #

  The Temapache Orphanage, Mexico

  The Mexican desert was dry and arid at the site of the mission where Isaiah had been adopted from by Cardinal Vessucci all those years ago and then taken to Vatican City. The structural body of the orphanage hardly changed—although the cracks were wider, longer, and the surrounding adobe walls bleached lighter than what he recalled. The rooms, the hallways, the lighted core of its essence remained the same, however. Even after all these years.

  Though his moniker was Isaiah, his given name was Christian Placentia, a child orphaned at an early age who wound up half dead at the missionary doors. Summarily taken in and nourished by a kindly nun, Christian soon caught the eye of the missionary priest who noted the child’s exemplary physical skills, high intelligence and good character. Word soon reached across the ocean to the ear of a cardinal in Vatican City—a world away—who saw in Christian the potentials required of a Vatican Knight. For years the young man trained diligently, if not fanatically, learning the skills of an elite fighter, as well as the philosophies regarding the differences between right and wrong, and how to employ ‘just’ reasoning to awkward states of affairs. Philosophies, teachings and classical readings were a must. Martial arts became a discipline of self-defense not only to protect himself, but for those who could not protect themselves. Not only did the Church turn children like him into men with a particular set of combat skills, but also compounded their development by fashioning unfaltering character by embedding the mantra Loyalty above all else, except Honor, as a code of unwavering principle.