Pandora's Ark (Vatican Knights)

by Jones, Rick

  They followed.

  As they rounded the corner the men were gone, which was impossible since the stretch of the alley was at least seventy meters in length. They should have been less than halfway down the corridor, the Arabs within sight.

  But they weren’t.

  The two Polizia Municipale picked up their pace into a slow jog to catch up.

  Less than halfway down an Arab slid out from behind a Dumpster and slashed his blade across the throat of the first officer, the Polizia Municipale going to his knees with his hands clutching his throat, blood pulsating through the gaps of his fingers, his ever-widening eyes staring disbelievingly into open space, obviously surprised at his own mortality as his life rushed out of him.

  The second officer fumbled for his weapon. But one of Sayyid’s teammates came up from behind, crooked a forearm around the man’s throat, pulled the officer close, and stabbed him repeatedly, thrust after thrust, the knife mincing the man’s innards.

  As both officers lay dead Sayyid stood over them, his jaw working.

  They had seen the officers inside the café. And Sayyid saw one take a photo with a hidden assemblage, dooming their fate.

  Al-Ghazi would not be pleased since they had been ordered to lay low, he knew that. And now they had been compromised.

  “We must return to the hotel and get Shareed,” said Sayyid. “It appears that Arabs are being profiled.”

  They raced back to the hotel.

  #

  The two Polizia Municipale were off the communications grid without explanation until a backup team found their bodies in an alleyway, the lead Polizia Municipale describing their current state as ‘butchery.’

  This galvanized additional forces to invade the hotel and kick in the door, the elite team of specialty officers holding their weapons forward as they breached the suite, yelling introductions as to who they were and further instructed for whoever was in the suite to ‘hit the floor.’

  Shareed’s response was to return fire with his firearm, which invited a volley of gunshots that chopped and destroyed the wall leading to the bedroom of the suite where Shareed was taking refuge.

  When Shared exhausted his clip he closed his eyes, prayed to Allah, ran to the balcony, and launched himself over the side, his arms pin wheeling until he hit the pavement below.

  From a distance Sayyid and his team watched Shareed’s descent. Heard the body hit. They were now a team of three.

  Plans would have to be altered.

  With the laptop firmly within Sayyid’s grasp, the entire team disappeared within the gathering masses.

  #

  Pope Pius had learned through the SIV that a terrorist faction had checked into a Rome hotel on the previous day. During a Polizia Municipale sweep two officers were killed, but not until they were able to help identify members of the cell.

  Why the cell was in Rome was still up for speculation. But Bonasero knew better. The timing was too coincidental, he thought. There was no doubt that the unveiling somehow played a role in their plans.

  Leaning forward, Father Auciello slid a series of photos across the papal desk toward Bonasero. Kimball sat next to the Jesuit, taking everything in.

  “These were taken by the officers at a café in Rome,” he said. “Facial recognition software quickly deciphered as to who these men were.”

  Bonasero examined the photos. And then he looked at additional pictures of the men taken from the Watch-List Base.

  “The main character is Sayyid Bashir,” said the Jesuit, “a former militant with ties to extremely violent regimes in the Middle East. The others have minimal history, but are linked to al-Qaeda and presumed to have been involved with factions in Afghanistan and Iraq during Iraq’s transitional period to a democratic state.”

  “So the question begs to be asked: Why are they here?”

  “There was nothing in their suite providing any clues or indications. The suite was sterile,” he said. “However, in this photo,” Auciello flipped through the glossies on the pope’s desk and placed his finger on one in particular. It was a photo of Sayyid and his laptop. “You can see that Sayyid is in possession of a laptop. He took the laptop with him but didn’t use it. And that leads us to believe that whatever mission they’re on is on that computer.”

  “And do we know the location of Sayyid and his team?”

  “They’re nowhere to be found.”

  Bonasero stared at the photos. “Do you believe that the imam is involved in this?”

  Auciello nodded. “No, Bonasero, not at all. And that’s why we can’t afford to make the wrong speculations at this time.”

  “Two policemen lay a dead and a man deemed to be a terrorist also lies dead—throwing himself off a balcony to protect a secret. There is no other rational explanation.”

  Auciello had to agree. And so did Kimball.

  “The Polizia Municipale have done their job,” said Bonasero. “Now we must follow through and do ours since political and religious dignitaries have arrived for tomorrow’s unveiling, and we must protect them at all costs. But tell me this Father Auciello, how do we know that there isn’t another cell involved in this matter?”

  “We don’t. But the Polizia Municipale and Italian Intelligence are all over this. So far: nothing.”

  The pope pushed the photos toward Kimball. “The Ark is sanitized, that much we know,” he said. “The unveiling will go on as scheduled, since there is no absolute indication as to the intent of this cell. Since they have been compromised, then their mission may have been aborted, if they had a mission devised at all. Nevertheless . . .” His words trailed as he pointed to the pictures. And then to Kimball, who grabbed the glossies. “Commit those faces to memory, just in case,” he said. “Make sure every Vatican Knight, every Swiss Guard, and everyone within Vatican Security learns every line on those faces. Should they attempt to cross into Vatican City, then they are to be arrested and held accordingly. Since the unveiling is to be held in the Basilica to a selected few, I want insurances provided that these men will not be within the vicinity of the Church or the dignitaries. Nevertheless, I want all corridors thoroughly inspected for explosive devices or anything anomalous. Search the old tunnels. I want every possible access into Vatican City gone over with a fine-toothed comb. Employ whatever means necessary to protect this city up until the last possible moment.”

  Kimball was looking at the photos, already committing the faces to memory.

  “This event will go on as scheduled,” added Bonasero, but his tone seemed to be wilting. “And the doors leading into the Basilica will be locked. We will be protected.”

  But a thought occurred to him: Do you truly believe that, Bonasero?

  The pope labored to his feet and went to the balcony that overlooked the City. People were there about by the thousands.

  And then that thought flashed through his mind once again, adamant for a response: Do you truly believe that?

  Bonasero, however, could not bring himself to answer.

  #

  Sayyid prayed with the laptop beside him. The death of Shareed mattered little. He still had his team intact. But that didn’t detract from the situation that his mission had been made more difficult. Obviously the Italian authorities had been directed to provide security and intel prior to their arrival, which was to be expected. What wasn’t expected was to be placed in a position of compromise, for which they now found themselves in.

  “Nothing has changed,” he said out loud and to no one in particular.

  Sayyid stood over the rim of a bathtub, the laptop on the toilet seat beside him as he shaved in preparation for Paradise. His team would follow by shaving, and then cleanse themselves with rose water, a form of purification.

  Their beards would be gone, their faces different. And by wearing Polizia Municipale uniforms recently purchased through the underground, they had allowed themselves the advantage of hiding in plain sight to those looking for insurgents in plain dress, rather than those wearing
official attire.

  What was more advantageous was that he wouldn’t have to enter Vatican City, as long as he was able to situate himself somewhere along the fringe of the city’s border and keep the Basilica within sight. Frequencies, after all, traveled through space. But the laptop’s range was limited.

  After Shareed’s dying plunge, Sayyid and his team did some recon, finding the rooftop of a hotel across from the Vatican Museum a suitable observation post to initiate the nano program. Although the hotel was located within 400 meters of the Basilica, it was still beyond the city’s border and beyond Vatican jurisdiction. But with such a clear view of the heart of the Catholic Church, there was no doubt in Sayyid’s mind that snipers would be posted there. But his team was adept at killing. And with little or no contest they would take them out quickly, quietly, and with flawless execution.

  Yes, he thought, Shareed’s death posed no threat to the mission at all. His death proving insignificant in the scheme of things since there was, after all, a solution to everything.

  Tomorrow he would enter Paradise along with his teammates. And Vatican City all but destroyed.

  Beneath the soft glow of a single light bulb, Sayyid continued to bathe and purify himself with the laptop by his side.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Vatican City, The Day of the Unveiling

  The day was a glorious one with scarce cloud cover and a bright, hot sun. Throngs of people filled St. Peter’s Square, a sea of heads bobbing and weaving to get a better look at the doors leading into the Basilica, which were closed.

  Wading through the masses looking for suspicious activity wearing plain clothes was the Vatican Security Team, who maintained constant contact with the SIV, who in turn were in contact with Kimball Hayden. The Polizia Municipale maintained the lines at the city’s borders. And Italy’s elite police squads and sniper units held positional vantage points on rooftops and elevated posts that overlooked the Square.

  All teams fell under the same umbrella of communiqué with the SIV Command Post, which was manned by Farther Auciello and his team of Jesuits. Should a team fail to forward their rendezvous code by radio every five minutes, Auciello would then communicate to Kimball of team failure, requiring possible backup from the Vatican Knights.

  Before the papal alter inside the Basilica, dignitaries from all over the world—political and religious—ranging from presidents to vice presidents to prime ministers, most notably Vice President John Phippen of the United States and Prime Minister Cameron from Great Britain, along with world leaders from Europe and South America, religious icons ranging from Imam Qusim Abul to the elite rabbi faction of Israel, who sat with the Catholic representative of the pontiff, Pope Pius XIV, with each man each lending a hand of friendship to the other, biases and prejudices forgotten.

  Sitting before the altar covered with a scarlet fabric with scalloped hemline draped over it, sat the crate containing the Ark of the Covenant.

  Voices rose in anticipation.

  And Bonasero Vessucci couldn’t have been more pleased. Not so much with the unveiling of the Ark, but of the congregation of people from all walks of life with different beliefs and agendas who came together under the banner of friendship and peace. The smiles, the acceptances and tolerances of one another, were completely genuine.

  The pope excused himself and went to the rear of the Basilica where Kimball and his team manned the monitors form the Baldacchino, out of sight. They were in full gear, however, wearing the clerics’ shirts, Roman Catholic collar, military boots and pants.

  “The unveiling is going to happen in fifteen minutes,” the pope told him. “Are there any issues thus far?”

  Kimball nodded. “Everything appears copasetic,” he told him. “All teams are communicating. Other than a few skirmishes breaking out in the square from people jockeying for position to get a better view of the Basilica, everything looks fine.”

  “That’s what I want to hear.”

  Kimball shot him a thumbs-up. “Everything’s going to be OK, Bonasero. Everything’s going to be just fine.”

  #

  Sayyid and his two brothers of Jihad stood in front of the Vatican Museum wearing Polizia Municipale uniforms. Across the Viale Vaticano was the hotel of their choice to set up shop. From where they stood they could see a sniper and his teammate, which wasn’t surprising since the observation post gave a direct view of the Basilica.

  Since they were on the city’s border and the masses were inside the square hoping to catch a glimpse of the holy relic, the street was marginally deserted. Yet Sayyid and his team lay low and close to the shadows. More so, they had shaved. And by wearing the uniforms of the Italian police, they appeared less like their photos from the Watch List.

  Sayyid turned to his teammates, the laptop in his hand but within a soft case, and said, “You know what to do,” he told them. “Make it happen.”

  The two men walked across the street and entered the hotel.

  #

  The two Arabs entered the hotel’s lobby and were greeted by the clerk, who raised his hands in gesticulation informing them that the upper levels of the hotel were off limits until after the Ark’s unveiling, even to the Polizia Municipale.

  One of the Arab’s closed in and leaned against the desk. “Is that so?” he said in fluent Italian.

  “I’m afraid the upper levels are cordoned off by Special Forces.”

  “Special Forces? How many?”

  “Four.”

  Four. It was more than they had anticipated.

  “Thank you,” he said. And then he removed a pistol with a suppressor from under his jacket and shot the clerk in the head, a hole magically appearing between the man’s eyes as he fell dead behind the counter.

  The two men then began to climb the steps.

  #

  Two officers of Italy’s elite NAS police team stood post at the top of the stairwell that led to the roof. As one of Sayyid’s teammate took the steps, he was halted by one of the officers who raised a hand to stop the Arab from taking another step.

  “Stop right there,” he ordered. “I’m afraid the upper levels are off limits for another hour or two.”

  “But I am from the Polizia Municipale—”

  “I’m afraid the upper levels are off limits,” he repeated sternly. “Even to the Polizia Municipale.”

  “I see.”

  The Arab turned and began to descend. And then he stopped on a lower step before facing the officer once again. “You are NAS, yes?”

  “Please move along, Officer. I won’t ask you again.” By this time the second NAS officer joined his teammate, a small assault weapon in his hands.

  Two on the roof, two in the hallway leading to the roof, for a total of four, considered the Arab. The entire NAS team was accounted for.

  The Arab smiled. Neither officer held the point of his weapon at him, but downward, an act of complacency.

  “For elite soldiers,” the Arab said, still smiling, “you never would have made my team.”

  The Arab stepped aside, allowing the second Arab to round the bend of the stairwell, his pistol already drawn, the point of the laser light finding its mark of the first officer. Tap! Tap! Two shots to the man’s throat, throwing wads of meat and gristle into the background, the officer falling backward to the floor, eyes already at half-mast, his life extinguished as he landed hard on the floor.

  The second target was bringing up his weapon, fast, the mouth of the barrel rising, rising. Tap! Tap! Two more shots, loud spits in quick succession through the suppressor as the bullets scored, shearing off the left side of the officer’s head as blood, gore and gray matter marked the wall next to him in a macabre Pollock design.

  The Arabs raced up the stairs, their guns ready.

  #

  Sayyid checked his watch. There were thirteen minutes left for the unveiling, give another five to lift the lid from the Ark, a total of eighteen minutes.

  He checked his watch. His team had already b
een in the hotel for two minutes and the sniper team was still manning their posts.

  What’s taking them so long?

  There were twelve minutes left.

  #

  The NAS sniper examined the grounds surrounding the Basilica through the lens of his Leupold scope, the crosshairs bouncing from person to person in St. Peters Square. Everything appeared fine.

  His NAS partner stood looking through binoculars. In his ear was a communication bud. Every five minutes he reported his call sign, which was ‘Kill Shot One-O-One.’ He checked his watch. He had two minutes to go before calling in his sign to SIV.

  #

  The two Arabs were quiet when they opened the door leading to the roof, the sunlight slanting into the stairwell as the door slowly opened, the beam getting wider.

  They moved softly and quietly, their guns holding steady.

  Footfall after footfall, with the gravel beneath their feet failing to yield a noise, they neared the NAS team.

  The Arab on the left aimed his weapon, the red dot finding the base of the skull of the sniper, and pulled the trigger. The officer snapped backward, his spine arcing, the point of his rifle aiming upward, and then he fell backward onto the roof, hard, the rifle skating freely across the gravel.

  The second NAS officer stood in awe, his mind not appearing to register the moment or the reality of his partner’s death. He was unarmed, the binocular in his hands a useless weapon.

  “Come here,” said the Arab, beckoning the man closer with his free hand, the pistol in the other. “I won’t hurt you.”

  The NAS officer maintained a nonplussed look, noting their uniforms. And then revelation that was horribly dark and ugly struck him like a hammer blow. “Please,” he said, raising his hands slowly, “I have three children.”

  Once the NAS officer moved away from the edge, the Arab shot him in the forehead.