by Jones, Rick
“Such technology exists?”
“It’s been around since the eighties,” he said. “It’s just been perfected by Sakharov.”
“And how is this implemented,” asked the Prime Minister.
“We’re not sure,” he told him. “But there has to be a source to stimulate these bots into action.”
“Stimulate? You mean these things are alive?”
“Yes, sir. They’re living molecular chains programmed to perform accordingly. It’s like designing a DNA link directly into their system to perform according to the desire of its programming. A driving instinct, as you will.”
“Yitzhak, do we know how far along they are with this technology?”
“Unfortunately, no. Our man on the inside did not expound on that issue. But the fact remains the same, gentlemen. Regardless of the advancement, of whether or not the technology has been completed or near completion, I believe we need to act accordingly despite the wishes of our allies.”
The Prime Minister mulled this over. “They know they have been compromised,” he finally said. “So of course they’ll act on their end by denying culpability and, most likely, move their resources elsewhere.”
“And that’s why, Mr. Prime Minister, we need to act as quickly as possible.”
“Your thoughts, Ehud.”
The Defense Minister piped up. “Whether or not they have completed the program, are close to completing the program, or nowhere near completing the program, is immaterial. The fact is that they are devising a weapon of mass destruction with no other intention but to destroy—plain and simple. They can manage a leg to stand on by claiming that their nuclear program is geared toward energy needs. But if we attack this facility based on a single encrypted message, and if it doesn’t pan out to be true, then we put Israel in a very precarious position.”
“But if it is true?” asked the Prime Minister.
“Then we act accordingly. We take out this facility with a sortie. We attack the fuel cells, which will implode the facility, and take out its resources. It’s a simple resolution to the problem. But in retaliation Iran will rattle its saber, condemn the state of Israel by declaring war, and then call upon its Arab brothers.” On the monitor the Defense Minister leaned forward, his image looming large. “Yitzhak, based on this encryption, how sure are you regarding this technology?”
“Aryeh Levine was one of our supreme assets,” he told him. “The message was a quick feed, so we believe that his time was limited, so he got off enough hoping that we could decipher the materials he presented to us.”
“And if you deciphered wrongly?”
“I strongly believe that Levine got enough of the message across to state the purpose of the facility’s intent. They are building a weapon of mass destruction. And given how they feel about Israel, they will use it against us.”
The Defense Minister fell back into his seat. “The president of the United States is not on board for a full-on strike, even though their CIA has verified the location of the facility in the Alborz. This proposes another problem.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Prime Minister, if we should strike then oil prices will rise, putting America’s economy at risk. This is not about the American economy, which is their sole concern. This is about Israeli sovereignty.”
The Prime Minister had to concur.
And then: “I believe a strike is warranted,” said Netanyahu. “I will contact the U.S. and inform them of our intentions. Ehud, alert the command center and inform the Ramatkal at the IDF to prepare for a strike. Tell them to remain on alert status waiting for the go.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Yitzhak.”
“Yes, Mr. Prime Minister.”
“Your man better be right. If not, then we may be on the verge of a World War once this is said and done.”
“I understand.”
“Then let’s make this work.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Vatican City
Cardinal Angullo had received word that he was being reassigned within a three-day window, even though a venue had yet to be set or a new secretary of state chosen to succeed his position.
He stood before the window of his residence looking out at the forming clouds that were sliding closer to the Vatican, dark ominous clouds, storm clouds, the type of clouds that brought torrential rains and celestial staircases of lightning that were bright and angry in their staccato flashes.
He felt the same type of seething, the anger building within the pit of his soul. He had positioned himself perfectly to usurp the papal throne, only to fall short by a thin margin within the conclave.
With his hand he grabbed the fabric of his garment and balled it within his fist, turning, twisting, like his soul. It was as if his anger was something alive and writhing, something working its way to the surface.
Within three days. That’s all he had: three days.
But Angullo knew that he couldn’t wait until the last day or risk drawing undue intention. He had to act quickly, intelligently, and with great prudence.
He would go undetected, like last time; on the night he pushed Gregory over the balcony’s edge by slipping through the hallways where there were no cameras, no spying eyes. He would enter the chamber like last time, quietly, like a wraith, unheard and undetected until it was too late. But how to achieve the means was left up in the air.
No poisons. No sense of duplicating the last scenario with a simple shove to the pavement below—too risky a scenario coming so close on the heels of Gregory. No, mix it up, change the stage with a dazzling performance by adding a sense of mystery.
Angullo’s mind toiled for hours, the clouds moving in until the sky was black, the rain coming down in sheets, the lightning strikes as brilliant as the sun.
It was two o’clock in the morning, the weather abating little, the possibility of the lightning posing a problem, which may give up his position within the papal chamber before he could finish his attempt upon the pontiff’s life.
He had no choice—none whatsoever. Not only was the window closing, but it was slamming shut.
But how to do the deed? That was the question. No knives or blunt weapons, nothing that would leave a mark or cause suspicion that would draw investigators to the scene like flies to honey.
That left the pillow, hardly a weapon of choice but weapon enough. He would take the pillow and apply it to the pontiff’s face, smothering him, then set the stage that Pius had died in his sleep. This he could manage, having the vantage point of standing over the weaker man and pressing down until he extinguished his life.
But there was a problem even with this application, the act leaving telltale signs of murder. When a person is smothered by this method the capillaries in the whites of the victim’s eyes burst from pressure, leaving the whites mottled with patches of red.
The window was lowering, and quickly.
And he could feel the rush of blood course through his veins, the surge of adrenaline fueling him, prompting him to make the move, which was now, before the sun rose.
He took the same route to the papal chamber as he did on the night of Gregory’s passing by taking the tunnels beneath the Basilica, the ancient hallways that had been abandoned for years as the musty, old-time smells assaulted him. He carried a lamp with him, the fringe of light barely strong enough to direct his way to the ancient doorways leading to the levels above. The ceilings of the corridors were low, causing him to stoop as he walked, and the surrounding bricks of the walls were made of stone the color of desert sand. The earth beneath his feet was as fine as moon dust as he kicked up small plumes with his footfalls, leaving clear and precise prints in his wake.
Once he reached the stairwell he lifted the lamp, the light casting a feeble glow that revealed an uneven rise of steps. Lifting the hem of his garment, Cardinal Angullo began his climb to the upper level.
Since he had bypassed all the cameras, he would not be seen by any security guards watching the monitor
s. He was a ghost.
Feeling slightly winded at the top of the stairwell, he came upon a wooden door that was held together by black steel bands and rivets, something from medieval lore, and used a key to open it. It was the only way to open the passage from his side, the side of the ancient hallway.
The door opened, the hinges protesting lightly, and used the light as a wedge to keep the door open for his escape back to the sanctuary of the Domus Sanctæ Marthæ.
He moved quietly down the hallway, which was a dead end except for the door that was presumed locked and inaccessible. At the mouth of the hallway, at the opposite end where Angullo entered, stood a Swiss Guard. Not a problem for the cardinal, since the guard stood thirty meters away and had his attention focused elsewhere.
The cardinal moved cautiously, silently, his movement fluid and fleeting. If the man was seen through the lens of a camera, those watching would have sworn that the cleric was gliding on air like something phantasmal, eerie or supernatural.
When he reached the pontiff’s door he placed an ear against the panel, and listened.
Like on the night of Gregory’s death he heard nothing but the stillness of night, a good omen, and entered the chamber with not even the sound of a whisper of wind.
He stood there, listening. And then he moved closer to the walls where the shadows pooled, becoming a part of them. He moved slowly, gracefully, using the darkness as his ally.
And then a flash of lightning, giving light and pushing back the darkness, exposing him. But it also granted him the necessary vision to see that the pontiff was lying in bed with the blanket drawn to his chin and halfway across his face.
There was another quick flash, proposing enough light to see the man shift beneath the covers and turned his back to him.
Angullo smiled, God presenting him with the moment. He saw an unused pillow next to the pontiff’s head, the means and necessity within reach. It was as if God was sending his divine light to show him the way. He moved closer, quietly, his footfalls unheard.
And then he stood still, his senses suddenly kicking in.
Something was wrong. The air suddenly seemed oppressive and heavy, a viable threat lingering close by. In reaction the cardinal assessed the situation, feeling an unease that drove him away from the bed and back into the shadows.
As he glided back towards the darkness, a black mass shot up from the bed. In the cardinal’s eyes it appeared impossibly large, the shadow rising, the blanket flaring upward and outward like a frill, the thing beneath it reaching for him, grabbing him, the strength of its grip clutching his throat in a choking embrace, crushing his windpipe, and forcing him against the wall.
The cardinal’s heart raced with uncontrollable panic. The thing before him was massive, large, and in the subsequent pulse of lightning he witnessed the murderous rage in the man’s eyes, saw the hateful intent and the willingness to gladly snuff out his life with a twist of his hand and snapping his neck where he stood.
Only it was not the pontiff.
This man was large and bulky with broad shoulders and thick arms. His face was angular and sharp. And his teeth gritted as he pressed his hand across the cardinal’s throat, as if he was trying to force the man’s neck through the wall.
The cardinal grunted, then gasped, his world starting to go black as pinpricks of light started to shoot off in his field of vision.
Suddenly the light came on. In the background stood Bonasero Vessucci wearing a sleeping garment that covered him from neck to toe. Beside him stood the man he had seen earlier, the security guard. But this time he was wearing different garb. He wore a cleric’s shirt and Roman Catholic collar. His pants were of military fashion, as were the boots—a weird display of uniform. And then he focused on the man who pressed him tightly against the wall, noting the same outfit.
“Ease up, Kimball,” said the pontiff.
But Kimball held tight, fighting off the urge to push the man through the marble wall, if that was possible.
“Kimball, enough.”
The Vatican Knight eased off and let the cardinal regain his breath, but stood close by to engineer another thorough choking, if necessary.
Bonasero Vessucci advanced slowly, his saddened eyes set on Angullo. “You truly are a lost soul, Giuseppe; can’t you see that by your attempt tonight?”
Angullo stared up at Kimball for a brief moment before sidestepping him. “Attempt?”
“Why are you here at so early an hour?”
“To try to talk you out of my reassignment,” he answered.
“It couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
“My apologies,” he said. “But the idea of such an assignment has been eating away at me. I was hoping to conclude the matter as quickly as possible. I have to admit, Your Holiness, that my actions were not thought out and premature, allowing my impulse to react rather than my patience.”
The pontiff sighed. “Do you think I really believe that, Giuseppe?”
“It is the truth.”
Vessucci stared at him for a brief moment before a rebuttal. “No, Giuseppe, it’s not. I gave specific orders to the guard not to allow anyone in this hallway. No one. Yet here you are.” He cocked his head questioningly to the side. “So tell me, how did you get here?”
Angullo remained quiet, the microexpression of his eyes flaring with animalistic fear.
“How did you get here?” he repeated.
Silence.
“Did you use the same route the night you visited Pope Gregory?”
The walls were closing in on Angullo and he knew it, feeling dangerously oppressed.
“If I view the security cameras, will I see you? Or did you use a route not within the scope of the cameras eyes?”
“Is there such a passageway?” asked Kimball.
“An ancient one,” said Bonasero. He took a step closer to the cardinal. “Did you take the ancient tunnels, Giuseppe? Did you purposely use the tunnels to avoid the cameras?”
Angullo closed in on himself, drawing his shoulders inward as if imploding, making him smaller.
Kimball reached out and grabbed the man by the collar, setting him straight. “The pontiff asked you a question. Don’t you think you better answer him?”
Angullo held his hands out imploringly. “Please, Bonasero, my intentions were sincere.”
“Then why take the old passageway? It only confirms what I thought,” he said, “since we could not locate you on the cameras on the night of Gregory’s death. And now you come into my chamber using the same course with perhaps the same intent in your heart? Does the power of supreme leadership mean so much to you that you’re willing to kill for it?”
“Your Holiness, my intent was to plea for your forgiveness and to entreat you to maintain my position here at the Vatican, since a secretary of state has yet to be chosen.”
“In the eyes of God, Giuseppe, you lie . . . In the eyes of God. Do you think when it’s your time of Judgment that God will roll out the red carpet for you?”
Angullo swallowed.
“I feel sorry for you, Giuseppe. I’m not sure that your soul can be saved. I pray it can. But I doubt it.”
“What I say is true.”
“Stop it!” yelled the pontiff. “Every time you tell a lie, you take one step closer to Hell. Lying is not the way of absolution, Giuseppe, but truth is.”
The cardinal measured the Knights, turning his gaze to Kimball, to Leviticus, then back to Bonasero Vessucci. “I see,” he said. “I see that you reinstated the Vatican Knights, yes? Your personal army of killers, correct?”
Kimball’s grip tightened on the cardinal’s collar, causing the cleric to gasp.
And then, with an uplifting and sardonic grin, the cardinal went on. “How easy it is to justify your needs, assembling murderers to achieve the means. Tell me, Bonasero, do you think that God will roll out the red carpet for you on the Day of Judgment?” His smile widened. “It’s a stop we all have to make someday.”
“My inten
tions are good, Giuseppe. What is in my heart, what is in the hearts of these men, bear nothing but good intentions. These killers, as you call them, work abroad saving the lives of those who cannot protect themselves. Women, children, those who are feeble minded or incapable of raising a voice in fear of fatal reprisals, such as having a knife driven across their throat, or perhaps a child tries to run away from someone who wants to incorporate them into their dark legions by placing a gun in their hands, and tells them to kill or be killed, like in Uganda or Burma.”
“And you really think that these men can alter destiny?”
“These men provide salvation when salvation is all but lost. In your case, Giuseppe, these men can do nothing for you.” And then: “Kimball.”
It was Kimball’s cue to let the man go. He did, the cardinal’s collar settling as bunched fabric along his left shoulder.
“So now what?” asked the cardinal. “Obviously you do not intend to hear my pleas or take into consideration my request to remain here at the Vatican.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” Bonasero took a step closer, intent on driving his point home. “You’re lucky, Giuseppe, that I don’t take further action against you. Your blatant trespass into the papal chamber is criminal enough. But let it be known that you will be watched. These men will maintain constant vigil over you. No matter where you are. No matter what you do. Believe me when I say that your every move is being watched. You won’t see them. But trust me, they will see you.”
“And if I divulge your little secret society?”
Kimball placed his hand on the cardinal’s shoulder, twisting the fabric until the collar tightened.
“I see,” said the cardinal. “You will keep me in line with physical threats. How holy of you to allow this, Bonasero. How holy, indeed.”
“You’re a man of dark means, Giuseppe. And you don’t deserve to wear the shrouds you don. I will not judge you. That’s not my right. That right belongs to the Lord. And I pray that He can somehow forgive you for what you have done.” Bonasero held out his hand. “Now give me the key,” he ordered. “Return to the dormitory and never use the ancient corridors again. You will be assigned soon, Giuseppe, very soon. And may God have mercy on your soul.” The pontiff then flexed his fingers quickly, a gesture that he was ready to accept the key.
