by Jones, Rick
SHEPHERD ONE
Book Two of the Vatican Knights Series
Rick Jones
© 2012 Rick Jones. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information e-mail all inquiries to: [email protected]
Visit Rick Jones on the World Wide Web at:
www.rickjonz.com
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Also by Rick Jones:
Vatican Knights Series
The Vatican Knights
Shepherd One
The Iscariot Agenda
Pandora's Ark
The Eden Series
The Crypts of Eden
The Menagerie
Familiar Stranger
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
CHAPTER ONE
Volgograd, Russia
October 25th
When it comes to selling nuclear weapons on the black market, Yorgi Perchenko holds an exclusive franchise.
Once a KGB operative who transitioned to Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service at the end of the Cold War, he quickly became the assistant director of Directorate S which included thirteen departments responsible for preparing and planting illegal agents abroad, conducting terror operations and sabotage in foreign countries, and promoting biological espionage.
Now at the age of seventy-four and with his best years behind him, Yorgi Perchenko found his forced retirement less than stimulating. The one thing that made his life tolerable was the chilled bottle of Cristall Vodka.
On a farm located on the outskirts of Volgograd, Russia, about 600 meters east of the ice-cold flow of the Volga River, Perchenko sat in a barn that had grown infirm with age. The walls canted slightly but not dangerously so, and the roof held the grand openings that allowed shafts of light to filter down onto a floor carpeted with hay. Outside, a Peregrine falcon circled high over the pines keening while Perchenko sat in an old wooden chair beneath the old junctions of the barn-house beams. On the floor beside him sat a bottle of vodka, the bottle more than half full, the glass in his hand more than half empty.
In his day he was revered and equally feared by a constituency who regarded him as an angel by some, a demon by others. It all depended upon how well an operative was able to maintain their integrity in the field. To fail him earned his wrath. Those who disappointed him were sent to a Gulag as an example to others within his ranks that failure was not an option. The action proved to be a motivator that continued to sustain the communistic principals of Mother Russia, until the moment of its collapse.
At seventy-four, the man who was once a giant among his peers had become a black marketer who lived with the fading memories of times when Russia held its chin brazenly outward in defiance against capitalistic nations. It was a time that gave him unimaginable pride that what he did validated a sense of self-worth—not the current sensation he was currently feeling as a whore plying his wares for profit and becoming the very thing he fought against: the product of capitalism.
Raising his glass high, Yorgi Perchenko prepared himself for a disheartening toast. “To Old Mother Russia,” he said. “And may she someday return to a great power.” In fluid motion he brought the glass to his lips, and downed the vodka in a single shot. Immediately he reached beside him, grabbed the bottle by its neck, and poured himself another. After pouring two fingers, he raised the glass once again in salutation. But this time to a man of Arab persuasion who sat across the table.
“And to my new friend,” he added, proposing a toast for which he was the only imbiber. “Let us pray that this transaction will be as rewarding for you as it will be for me, yes?”
The Arab said nothing, the rites of closing a deal a wasted and unnecessary ritual, at least by his principles.
“Once an enemy of the state,” added Perchenko, “you are now my comrade in arms, yes?” Perchenko drank from the glass—a quick tip that knocked back the alcohol.
The Arab sat idle without providing a gracious rejoinder. And his ongoing detachment and unmitigated calm was beginning to weigh on Perchenko, as the men calmly measured each other. Even in Russia’s cold climate, Perchenko could not see the man’s vapored breath, which conveyed to the former official that this man possessed a remarkable sense of self-control. The Arab, however, was not without his own caution, as his eyes constantly darted about and took in the number of Perchenko’s armed forces, and committed their positions to memory.
For twenty minutes neither spoke, their resolve as steely as their unflinching gazes as the air of mistrust between them became as thick as a lingering pall. Each man remained a mystery to the other, knowing only what they must in order to sustain a business arrangement between them. In this case the common thread was the tie to a middle man, an al-Qaeda operative who brokered the deal.
As seasoned as the old man was, there was something about this particular operative that unsettled him. Although small and petite, and if granted a more effeminate description due to his smooth skin and full lips, he appeared to be on the cusp of manhood. His eyes—as black and polished as onyx and seemingly without pupils—held incalculable intelligence. The only thing adult about him was the minute loops of curly hair of an unkempt beard.
When the Arab first entered the barn he said nothing, the course of the transaction already spelled out between the liaisons. As instructed, the Arab was to proffer a suitcase filled with three million dollars in American tender, then wait until the remaining balance of twenty-seven million dollars was wired to existing accounts across Europe, the Cayman Islands, the United States, and to dummy corporate accounts across Russia before transferring the items purchased.
As Perchenko studied his client, the man from al-Qaeda remained unequivocally patient to the point where Perchenko thought the man’s inaction was forced. But after gazing into his black eyes, the Russian considered the Arab’s aloofness was not borne as a tool to position himself against Perchenko’s tactics as a hardened negotiator, but that he was inwardly lost. It was something Perchenko had seen many times before on the faces of those he sent off to the Gulags. Appearances he relished just before they were ushered away from his presence.
It was the look of a man who knew he had no future.
Ten minutes later an armed contingent of men carrying three aluminum cases, each the size of a hope chest, placed them on the tabl
e that separated Perchenko from the Arab. Slung across each man’s back was an AN-94 assault weapon.
After spacing the cases apart, Perchenko’s men fell back and brandished their weapons as a show of Perchenko’s authority, which fazed the Arab little.
When Perchenko barked something in Russian, a member of his team leaned over and whispered something into the old man’s ear. The sum of three million dollars in non-counterfeit American currency had been paid in full; not a dollar more, not a dollar less, with an additional twenty-seven million dollars wired to numerous accounts throughout Europe, the United States, the Cayman Islands, and Russia.
Perchenko was pleased.
“Well,” the old man began as he labored to his feet. “Shall we see what thirty million American dollars buys on the market these days?” Perchenko approached the table. From the opposite side the Arab did the same, until client and seller fell within a cast of light provided by a single gaping hole in the rooftop.
The Russian Perchenko was an assuming six foot four and densely packed. Even at seventy-four, his body was well maintained. The Arab, at best, stood five six, but appeared to carry the size and weight of somebody more formidable than someone of his unremarkable stature. It was something Perchenko couldn’t put his finger on as to why this man possessed such great presence and command.
Reaching for the case closest to him, Perchenko undid the clasps and lifted the cover, exposing a network of boards, chips, switches and relays beneath a flat Plexiglas shield. Packed in the center supported by steel rods sat three burnished metallic spheres polished to a mirror finish.
If the Arab was enamored, he certainly didn’t show it.
Perchenko passed his hand gracefully over the display to showcase it, as he spoke. “Each case holds a three-megaton yield,” he said, “which is three times greater than the Cold War versions. Separately they would do untold damage since the three cases together yield a destructive force almost three-quarters of the Hiroshima bomb. And here’s the thing.” From the inner pocket of his jacket Perchenko produced a BlackBerry, a top-of-the-line model, brand new, and held it up for the Arab. “Each case possesses a built-in GPS receiver which is triggered by this.” He shook the device like shaking a snow globe. “Once you insert your code and press ‘enter,’ then all three cases run as a single unit. If one case triggers off, so do the others—they’re completely in sync with one another. But for this to work properly, the cases cannot be separated for more than five hundred meters. Beyond that distance, they work independent of each other.”
He laid the BlackBerry down and slid it across the tabletop between the weapons, where it came to a stop centimeters before the edge. “I’ve also made the modifications you requested,” he added.
The Arab glanced at the BlackBerry but did not pick it up.
“In each of these cases there are altimeters to measure atmospheric pressure. Once these weapons reach an altitude of twenty-five thousand feet, then all three units arm themselves with the devices working as a single component on a shared frequency. The moment they reach a descending level of ten thousand feet, then the altimeters recognize the change in atmospheric pressure, and all three units will detonate as a nine-kiloton yield. Separately, if you care to mobilize and deploy them to different locations, then each unit works separately as a three-kiloton yield. You can tool the nukes as a combination of a single major weapon, or divide them into any combination of three separate weapons to support your agenda.”
The Arab picked up the BlackBerry and placed it inside the inner pocket of his jacket. Then in perfect Russian, he said, “What about anchoring the devices, once I have them in position?”
“After you secure the weapons to whatever locations that suit your needs, then you initiate the GPS signal that enables one device to talk to the other. If any one of these devices is moved without programming the authorized code through the BlackBerry, or by someone who has no authority to move the units at all, they will detonate. You can secure their positions from one another for up to a distance of five hundred meters, and as little as one meter without disturbing their umbilical frequency. This will keep anyone not in your authority from attempting to move a unit away from the targeted location.”
The Arab nodded his appreciation.
“Can I ask you a question?” said Perchenko.
The Arab stood with a blank expression.
“Out of my own curiosity, what do you intend to do with these?”
The Arab, however, answered his question with another question. “Are there built-in decoys to block any attempts to defuse them?”
“Top-of-the-line,” Perchenko stated unequivocally with a boastful edge to his tone.
“Then you have done everything I have asked.” The Arab stood back from the table and away from the dim cast of light. “Now, would you be kind enough to have your men load these units into the back of my vehicle?”
Perchenko nodded his head, the gesture galvanizing his team to aid the Arab in his request.
“You haven’t answered my question,” Perchenko insisted. “What do you plan to do with these?”
The Arab stepped aside as Perchenko’s troops lifted the cases from the table and headed for the SUV parked beyond the barn doors, its hatch raised.
“I choose not to say,” he answered flatly. “I would think thirty million dollars grants me that right.”
Perchenko held his hands up in submission. “No harm in asking, my friend. No harm at all, right?”
Without saying a word, the Arab turned and headed for his vehicle.
“So that you know,” Perchenko called after him, “I don’t do business twice in the same place . . . Or with the same people. I find it much safer that way.”
The Arab didn’t turn around, but raised a hand in acknowledgement as he kept walking. “I’ll have no further need for future services, since I have all that I want,” he returned. And then he exited the barn.
A few moments later the SUV’s engine started and revved evenly until the vehicle faded off into the distance.
Perchenko stood within the feeble cone of light with his lips pressed together in a tight grimace wondering if he used good judgment. He also understood that certain weaponry could cause serious ramifications across the globe, until nothing was left in its wake.
But at seventy-four it was something Perchenko was willing to chance.
But underneath he knew he had tabled common sense for greed. Worse, he realized that he had given a loaded gun to a man with little or no compunction.
Perchenko closed his eyes and shook his head.
What have I put in motion?
CHAPTER TWO
Inside the Cipro Residential District, Rome, Italy
Six months later
It sounded like a child crying at the edge of her peripheral hearing. The type of sound that was distant and hollow, as if coming from the end of a long tunnel or part of a dream. Or perhaps it was something real on the cusp of waking. Either way, Vittoria Pastore heard it.
Raising her head slightly off the pillow, the mother of three listened.
The room was dark. The shadows still. Outside, a breeze stirred, animating the branches of the trees just beyond the bedroom window.
But nothing sounded.
After laying her head down onto the pillow, she once again heard the softness of voices beyond the bedroom door. The clock on the nightstand read 3:32 a.m.
Vittoria quickly set herself onto her elbows and listened, her eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness. To her left by the window stood the armoire, an exquisitely crafted antique intricately detailed with hand carvings of cherubs alighting above the doors. Directly in front of her sat its matching dresser, its mirror reflecting the image of a woman who appeared vaguely disoriented. As if to parallel her thoughts regarding the uncertainty of the moment, errant locks of hair shaped like question marks curled over the woman’s forehead, giving her a more inquisitive look. Is there somebody out there?
Her ans
wer came swiftly. The voice that called out to her sounded distant and hushed. Immediately she sat upright with her hands fisted and planted against her breasts. “Chi è là?” Who’s there? Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Silence.
She cried out once again, this time louder and more forceful. “Chi è là?”
“Mama? La mama, viene qui.” Mama? Mama, come here.
Although the voice sounded distant, she could not mistake the quality of her fifteen-year-old son, or the tone that was in transition of a boy becoming a man. “Basilio, è tre trenta di mattina. Che cosa è esso?” Basilio, it’s three-thirty in the morning. What is it?
This time Basilio’s cry held urgency to it, like a bemoaning of terror. “Per favore, mama. Per favore!” Please, mama. Please!
Suddenly the door at the opposite end of the hallway slammed shut, the reverberation felt throughout the house.
“Basilio?”
Nothing.
“Basilio?”
Vittoria tossed the covers aside and was standing at her door in less than a half dozen strides. Beyond her door the hallway remained in shadows. “Basilio?” Vittoria homed in blindly in the darkness with her hand and found the switch. Manning the lever, she played the switch—up, down, up, down—but the lights never turned on.
Slowly, she edged her way toward the children’s rooms, her arms stretched outward like a somnambulist, feeling her way.
In the daylight the walls were pastel blue, too bright for the non-European appreciative eye. But it reminded her of the brightly painted chain of houses lining the Venetian canals, her home. However, in the darkness, the color made the walls appear ominously dark.
Feeling her way down the corridor with her fingers tracing the many watercolor prints lining the walls and knocking most off balance, she gave them a drunken tilt. Something she would fix later.
Her steps were soft and quiet, the floorboards beneath her feet as cold as the pooling shadows.
