Pandora's Ark (Vatican Knights)

by Jones, Rick

  They then went to the rail overlooking the Vatican Museum. Sayyid was still standing where they left him, and then waved him up.

  After looking both ways along the Vaile Vaticano, Sayyid crossed the street.

  #

  Two minutes passed and Father Auciello did not hear from ‘Kill Shot One-O-One.’ He allowed another minute to lapse before calling the team.

  “Kill Shot One-O-One, this is Command Center. Do you read me?”

  Silence.

  Then: “Kill Shot One-O-One, this is Command Center. Do you read me?”

  Still no answer other than the white noise that continued to sound over the speakers, an obvious red flag since NAS was impeccably anal about communication protocol.

  “Kill Shot One-O-One, this is Command Center. Are you reading me? Come in, Kill Shot One-O-One”

  When there was no answer Father Auciello contacted Kimball inside the Basilica. “Kimball.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re not getting a response from Kill Shot One-O-One.”

  “What’s their twenty?”

  “The rooftop of the hotel across the street from the Vatican Museum.”

  “Copy that. Any teams in the area?”

  “Negative. They’re 400 meters out and on the borderline of VC. They’re looking for suspicious activity of vehicles, such as vans and trucks taking the Vaile Vaticano when the street has been restricted.”

  “Copy that.”

  “I hope everything’s Code Five.”

  “I’m sure it is. Out.”

  #

  Sayyid stood at the rail overlooking the street and the front of the museum across the way, and then stared at the magnificent structure of the Basilica’s dome. He saw the people standing about the square, noted that the doors leading to the Basilica were closed and locked, a force of Swiss Guards maintaining vigilance at the gates.

  The good thing about nanotechnology, he thought, was that it did not possess any smell or emit radiation, hold any biological or chemical traces, or tip its hand that it even existed at all until it was too late. It was the perfect weapon of non-detection. And it didn’t matter if they were behind closed doors. Frequencies were capable of passing through walls and windows, at least enough to stimulate the bots into action. So by locking the doors of the Basilica, they have all but sealed their own fate.

  And the fate of those within the plaza was just as bleak, the openings beneath the locked doors of the Basilica causeways for the bots to enter the open forum of St. Peters Square.

  Sayyid removed the laptop from his padded case and placed it on the flat part of the railing. He then lifted the lid and booted up, the laptop whirring to life.

  “I want one downstairs manning the lobby,” he told them. “I don’t care which one. You decide. The other I want manning the top of the stairway to make sure that no one gets by, should the man in the lobby fail to hold back the infidels.”

  One of the Arabs stepped forward, waving the point of his weapon at the Basilica. “It’s quite a ways,” he commented. “Perhaps we’re too far from the bots when they escape, yes? Perhaps we have a chance?”

  Sayyid nodded. “They will last long enough to enter parts of Rome. Still, we will be too close.”

  The Arab seemed disappointed in this, which was indicated by his weapon hand falling to his side.

  “You are disappointed?” asked Sayyid.

  “I was just wondering,” he answered.

  “Then wonder no more,” he told him harshly. “You have chosen to martyr yourself. Do you think Allah will favor a man who is second guessing his decision?”

  “No, Sayyid.”

  “Then get below and prepare yourself for Glory,” he said. He looked at his watch. “In less than fifteen minutes you will be in Paradise.”

  “Yes, Sayyid.”

  The terrorist was gone.

  #

  Moments before the unveiling Kimball called upon a bishop to have Bonasero Vessucci return to the Baldacchino.

  “I got a call from SIV,” he told the pope; there was a slight urgency in his tone. “It appears that an NAS team has not responded according to protocol, so I’m heading to their position with Leviticus and Isaiah.”

  “We’re moments away from the unveiling, Kimball.”

  “I know that. But I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

  “Where?”

  “They’re on a rooftop directly across from the Vatican Museum.”

  “That’s quite a ways off.”

  “But still within sniper range.”

  “But the dignitaries are inside.”

  “Who’s to say that they’re the targets? If someone is there, perhaps they have another agenda.”

  “Please be careful,” he returned.

  “I plan to.” Kimball removed his ear buds and motioned to Leviticus and Isaiah to follow. The good thing about Kill Shot’s position was that it was opposite the square and through Vatican grounds, where the public was not allowed. It was nothing but open fields, gardens and walkways, a straight an unimpeded path. They would be there within minutes.

  #

  When Pius returned to the dignitaries he did so as the emcee. He stood next to the guarded crate, a hand on the fabric.

  Looking over the audience and seeing the almost child-like anticipation they harbored, he waited no longer. With the aid of accompanying bishops he removed the fabric, pulling it away from a Plexiglas enclosure.

  The Ark of the Covenant, even in its casing, glowed with such radiance it was almost too much to believe or comprehend that gold could cast such light. It was astounding, the ethereal glow reaching outward as if trying to touch the audience, to accept them within the warmth of its magnificent aura.

  The dignitaries stood in paralytic awe, mouths suspended. From some tears slipped from the corners of their eyes, the moment overwhelming.

  “What I show you,” began Bonasero, “is more than the true Ark of the Covenant. What I offer you is the beginning of the healing process where all religions, all faiths, and all denominations can share and enjoy the true meaning this relic provides to all of us.”

  The Plexiglas was then removed with great effort, allowing the Ark to stand alone before the Basilica’s altar. Dignitaries and religious leaders bandied around, touching it, bathing in its glory, its aura, swearing upon their souls that they could feel an indescribable elation. More people wept, including political principals suddenly enlightened by their misguided values, hoping that God would forgive them for their wayward follies. For some this was an epiphany. For others it was an awakening that the power of the Ark was real and beyond anything manmade.

  There was no doubt that this was the true Ark of the Covenant.

  The imam was the first to inquire. “And when can we open the lid, Your Holiness?”

  Pope Pius returned the imam’s smile with one of his own. “Now,” he said. “We can open the lid now.” With a motion of his hand he gestured for the bishops to carefully lift the lid and set it aside, which they did.

  When the seat of the Ark was carefully placed down, the masses crept forward for a view of what lie within.

  The first word spoken: Amazing.

  #

  Kimball, Leviticus and Isaiah hastened across the grounds, sighting the back of the museum. When they reached the Viale Vaticano, they remained hidden behind the concrete columns until they could verify Kill Shot’s team and move forward.

  The street was quiet. Even from this distance they could hear the cheers of the crowd.

  The team could see a single man standing at the edge of the hotel’s railing obviously working a laptop. No one else was in sight.

  “Is that NAS?” asked Leviticus.

  Kimball held his hand out to Leviticus. “Got a scope?”

  “No, but Isaiah does.”

  Isaiah handed Kimball a long monocular, which Kimball used to zoom in on the man at the railing. It was the man he had seen in the photos. Although he was clean shaven, he had no
doubt that it was Sayyid. He handed the monocular back.

  “Kill Shot’s dead,” he told them lightly. “That’s Sayyid, which means his two goons are somewhere close. One in the lobby, for sure. Maybe both.” Kimball handed the scope back to Isaiah. “Sayyid’s wearing a police uniform,” he added, “which is how they got by. I’m sure the others are doing the same, so make positive confirmation before you engage them.”

  “And the laptop?”

  Kimball nodded. It could have been used for anything. “Maybe to set off an explosive somewhere.” When he said this it sounded more like a question than a statement.

  “We checked everywhere, Kimball, with bomb-sniffing dogs and tech devices. There’s nothing out there.”

  “What about the nanotechnology?” asked Isaiah.

  Kimball shook his head again. “The Ark is clean. The entire city has been swept numerous times.”

  “Maybe the Ark is a deterrent to throw us off from what they’re really planning to do. Obviously they’re here for a reason.”

  Kimball’s glanced at his watch. According to schedule, the lid of the Ark had been removed. And then he returned his gaze to the terrorist. “I’d say we go ask Sayyid and find out. What do you think?”

  Both men concurred with ‘hoo-rahs.’

  “All right then: Ready up.”

  They were going in cold and without firearms. But they checked their blades. Each man had two combat knives, very sharp, very deadly, and precisely balanced for throw shots.

  “Leviticus, Isaiah, go in the back. I’ll take the front and draw their fire. And be quick,” he added. “I’m not too crazy about going to a gunfight with a knife.”

  “Don’t worry about us,” said Isaiah. “You just keep your head down.”

  They looked up at Sayyid, who seemed to be lost in whatever he was doing.

  “Then let’s move,” said Kimball.

  The team began to maneuver into position.

  #

  The man in the lobby thought he saw movement, a vague shadow passing quickly across the frosted-stain glass of the front door, then gone.

  The Arab took position behind the clerk’s desk, taking careful aim with his firearm in a two-handed stance. The clerk was lying dead at his feet, staring at the ceiling, his eyes beginning to glaze over with the milky sheen of blindness.

  In a fluid motion the door swung open and someone, or something, tumbled into the lobby and took refuge behind a low-level wall that was waist high and topped with vases containing fresh-cut roses.

  The Arab fired his weapon in quick succession. The suppressor muting the rapid sounds of fire as the doors shattered into tempered chips of glass, the bullets stitching across the low wall, taking out the vases, rose petals flying everywhere in a riot of colors. Plumes of dust and drywall erupted as the bullets decimated the wall, the assassin hoping to find his mark.

  When he emptied the clip he deftly loaded another, took aim, and waited.

  The lobby was quiet.

  His target stilled.

  The Arab moved away from his post and stepped over the clerk with his pistol drawn in front of him, a keen eye holding steady as to what lie beyond the wall, his trigger finger applying four of the five pounds of pressure necessary to discharge his weapon.

  He stepped forward, cautiously, the point of his gun leading the way, the wall getting closer.

  An image appeared.

  Kimball lay on his back as the haze of the drywall began to settle, his black uniform becoming laden with dust.

  The assassin smiled and raised his weapon. “Allahu Ak—”

  The Arab’s eyes went wide, his mouth opening, and then he fell to his knees, his eyes then rolling upward, and then fell forward, hard, the man taking the teeth-first approach with a knife sticking out at the base of his skull.

  Kimball gained his feet and attempted to brush away the dust with futile swipes of his hands. “You were cutting it close,” he said. “Too close.”

  “Had to make sure my aim was true,” said Isaiah. He removed the knife from the Arab, the blade extracting wetly, and wiped it clean across the Arab’s clothing.

  “Eyes peeled,” whispered Kimball, pointing to the stairwell. “Now we have to work our way up.” And moving up was never easy, the advantage always belonging to those who maintain the high ground.

  Kimball, grabbing the assassin’s gun, and then extracting the clip and checking to see if it was full, reseated it.

  The Knights moved forward.

  #

  There was no mistaking that the lobby had been breached, thought the Arab maintaining the upper level. With the two NAS officers lying dead at his feet, he stacked one on top of the other to provide a marginal barrier as he hunkered behind them. If his teammate didn’t stop the incoming wave, then it was up to him to impede them long enough for Sayyid to complete the mission.

  There was an unsettling quiet, a disconcerting hush.

  He wanted to call out his comrade’s name, but didn’t want to give his position away.

  He held the pistol firmly within his grip, using the bodies of the NAS officers to steady his aim.

  The stairway was quiet.

  And sweat was beginning to surface on the Arab’s brow, causing him to sweep his arm across his forehead.

  The air was stifling, and the minutes seemed to drag on for hours, the Arab wondering if Sayyid had tooled the laptop to initiate the program.

  He looked at his watch. His heart palpitating. Giving his life to Allah was not as spectacular as he thought it would be. The act of martyrdom was overrated, he considered, the thought of Paradise no longer alluring.

  He wanted to run, to live. His mind raced feverishly like a desperate animal trapped against the corner of two walls with nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, his killer edging closer with the intent to kill, emblazoned in his eyes.

  Although his killer went unseen, he could sense him coming closer.

  He swallowed, looked at his watch. Sweat was coursing profusely along his face. And then self-preservation took over. The Arab stood, yelled, his eyes going feral, and descended the steps shooting blindly at the shadows, at anything that appeared to move, striking nothing but wall, pocking them. When his clip emptied he fumbled to seat another, the time wasted a fatal one. A bullet found its mark, a shot to the center of body mass, rupturing the man’s heart.

  The Arab fell like a stone, dead the instant his knees began to buckle and before falling down the stairwell in a tumble.

  Leviticus took the man’s weapon, grabbed the remaining clip, seated it, and along with Kimball and Isaiah, climbed the last leg of the staircase.

  #

  Sayyid was unaware of what had taken place inside the hotel, since the weapons were geared with suppressors. But he was not totally without the perception that the hotel had been breached, since he saw glimpses of shadows attempting to maneuver across the Viale Vaticano in clandestine manner. It was like sighting something at the edge of his periphery vision, but not quite seeing it in its totality.

  But it was there no matter how obscure it may have appeared.

  He ratcheted up his agenda, his fingers dancing, typing, the encrypted runes becoming letters, the letters becoming commands, the commands initiating the program.

  He typed faster, sensing that he was not alone. Something was coming closer—up on his backside.

  “Stop right there, Sayyid.”

  The Arab stared at the monitor. His mission was all but complete. The encryptions were completely deciphered, the program waiting to be initialized with a single push of the ENTER button. His finger hovered over the key and hung there.

  “I’m afraid that you are too late,” he said. “What will be, will be. And there’s nothing you can do to stop this from happening.”

  “It will if I put a bullet in your brain.”

  This time the voice sounded nearer, which meant to Sayyid that they were edging closer to his position. So he slowly lowered his finger, but not touching down. />
  “If you take another step, I will initiate the program. I may not have eyes in the back of my head, but my hearing is exceptional.” The Arab turned to face his attackers. He noted the odd configuration of uniform; saw the black clerics’ shirts and Roman Catholic collars, the incongruous combination of military wear, and the attached sheaths with combat knives.

  “You are not Swiss Guard or Vatican Security, are you?”

  They said nothing, their weapons poised.

  “Step away from the computer,” said Kimball. “It’s not our intention to harm you.”

  The Arab chortled. “I have already resigned to my fate and gladly offer my life in the name of Allah,” he said. The tip of his finger now touched the button. “Should you fire off your weapon, then I will push this button by reaction.”

  Kimball aimed the firearm at the man’s head.

  And the Arab saw the directed aim. “Head shot or not, my body will react all the same.”

  Kimball drew in a breath. The Arab was right.

  So in a quick and fluid motion, Kimball directed his aim and shot the computer.

  Unfortunately, his aim was not true.

  #

  Sayyid saw the quickness of Kimball’s motion and immediately realized his intention. The Arab quickly shifted his footing, his body acting as a shield as he turned into the bullet’s path, taking the strike, the computer untouched as the bullet entered his body and ricocheted until it lodged in his lung, causing considerable damage but not the killing blow.

  Before falling to his knees, Sayyid depressed the button.

  #

  Kimball had taken the gamble and lost.

  Stepping to the laptop, he watched the commands on the screen scroll downward.

  And then he leaned over Sayyid, grabbed him roughly by the collar, and yanked the man so close that their faces were inches apart. “What have you initiated?” he asked fiercely. “What have you done?”

  The Arab laughed. And when he did so blood bubbles formed and burst at the corners of his lips. “You’ll find out within minutes,” he told him. “Within . . . minutes.”