by Craig Zerf
Muller walked over to the single large desk in the middle of the room, placed his hands on it as he leaned forward and demanded. ‘I need to see Kaplan Abbiati immediately.’
The man sitting behind the desk didn’t even bother to look up as he replied. ‘You knock before you enter, sergeant. And when, or if, I give you permission, you address me as Hauptmann or Captain. Is that clear?’
Muller did not bat an eye and simple repeated his request, albeit in a slightly different format. ‘It is imperative that I see the Chaplain in charge immediately.’
The captain banged his hands on his desk. ‘Sergeant, you have been warned. Show some respect or I shall order you from this room.’
Muller reached across the desk, grabbed the captain’s shirtfront and yanked him from his feet, dragging him across the desk so that his face was mere inches away. ‘Listen to me, you insignificant little penpusher,’ growled Muller as he grabbed his own collar and pushed it in front of the captain’s eyeline, bringing his attention to a tiny silver badge, so small as to be almost invisible unless viewed close up. ‘Do you see that?’
The captain nodded.
‘What is it?’ Demanded Muller.
‘Twin lightning bolts,’ answered the captain, his voice hoarse with shock.
‘And what does that stand for?’ Continued Muller.
‘Sedes Sacrorum.’
‘So what does that mean?’
‘It means that you are a Knight of the Holy See. You represent the souls of those who had been slain for the word of God.’
‘O Sovereign Lord, holy and true,’ intoned Muller. ‘How long before you will judge and avenge our blood on those who dwell on the earth?’
‘I apologize’ said the captain. ‘I had no idea. I always assumed that you were a mere sergeant.’
‘I am,’ said Muller. ‘Now tell the chaplain that I am here.’
Captain Benziger pushed his chair back, walked over to an inter-leading door, knocked and entered. Seconds later he exited. ‘The Kaplan will see you now.’
He bowed as Muller walked past and entered the Chaplain’s office, closing the door behind him.
Kaplan in charge, Chaplain Salvatore Abbiati, held the equivalent rank of a lieutenant colonel and was officially the second in charge of the Vatican’s elite Swiss Guard. In reality, however, the power that the Kaplan wielded was second only to that of His Holiness, the Pope.
He stood at six feet six, rake thin, short steel gray hair and a nose like a hatchet. His deep blue eyes were serious to the point of somber and although his face bore many wrinkles there were no laughter lines. Only lines created by stress, worry and loss.
The overriding impression was of a man who had been fighting a war for many years with no respite. A strong man who was nearing the end of his strength but not his faith.
‘I need more men,’ demanded Muller. ‘Mine are all dead.’
The Kaplan smiled. ‘Hello, Kaplan Abbiati,’ he said. ‘How are you? So good to see you after almost three months.’
Muller did a subtle double take and then stuck his hand out. ‘Sorry, Salvatore,’ he said. ‘It is good to see you, old friend. It’s just that this job…well…you know.’
Kaplan Salvatore Abbiati nodded. ‘The Lord will not give us tasks that we cannot fulfill, Dietz. Even though his road may be full of pain. Sit, please.’
The two men sat down, Salvatore Abbiati settling back into his chair with a sigh of relief while Dietz Muller perched on the edge of his seat, his body a seething bundle of barely contained anger.
‘So, Dietz, how goes the war?’
The Knight of the Sedes Sacrorum frowned. ‘Not well. There has been a recent massive surge in enemy operations. Also, there appears to be a new breed coming to the fore. Savage. Focused. Unlike anything that we have ever encountered. In fact, over the last two weeks I have lost all three of my men. They were ambushed. It was a bloodbath. I need more bodies.’
The Kaplan leaned back in his chair and sighed. ‘I am sorry to hear of their deaths, my friend,’ he said. ‘Truly I am. But replacing them is not that simple.’
‘Of course it is,’ responded Muller angrily. ‘It’s as simple as you wish it to be. You are the Kaplan. Your word is law.’
‘No,’ denied the Kaplan. ‘His Holiness is the word of the Lord. Therefore what he says is the law.’
‘And what does he say?’ Asked Muller.
‘He has made it plain that the church must no longer recognize the existence of the enemy.’
‘That’s preposterous,’ argued Muller.
‘It gets worse,’ added the Kaplan.
‘How could it?’
‘His Holiness has gone further. In fact he has informed us that, not only must we not recognize the enemy, we must actually deny all existence of it. He claims that if we acknowledge that Vampires exist we would be strengthening the perceived power of Satan.’
‘That is insane,’ blurted Muller. ‘They patently do exist. We have been at war with them for years.’
‘Not according to His Holiness.’
‘Well then his Holiness is wrong. For God’s sake, Kaplan, what does he think that my men all die from? Suicide? Rare diseases that only affect the Knights of the Holy See?’
‘Be very careful, sergeant,’ warned the Kaplan. ‘You flirt with blasphemy. His Holiness is chosen by God. He speaks with His voice. To deny him is to deny your God.’
Muller shut his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I apologize, Kaplan. I misspoke. I meant to say that, perhaps, His Holiness has not been properly informed and thus his decisions are based on faulty input.’
Kaplan Abbiati shook his head. ‘I am sorry, my friend,’ he said. ‘On the plus side, I have not been told to officially close your section down, merely that I can no longer actively support you. This is all politics,’ he continued. ‘A year, may two or three and the winds will change. Why don’t you use this time to take a break from all of the killing. The hardships. Come back to the Vatican on a permanent basis. Or, if you would prefer, I could get you a small church in a remote village. You could tend to your parishioners. Go back to your roots.’
‘I am a soldier of God,’ answered Muller. ‘A Knight of the Holy See. I live but to fight the good fight. And I cannot stress more vehemently, something bad is occurring. We are on the verge of a great happening. The brothers of darkness are multiplying as we speak. I fear for humanity, Salvatore. Truly I do.’
The Kaplan smiled. ‘Humanity is always on the verge of destruction, Dietz,’ he said. ‘Take a year off. We will revisit this after that.’
Muller stood up. ‘Kaplan, I am begging you. As a soldier of Christ and as an old friend. At least let me continue for the next few months.’
The Kaplan thought for a few seconds and then nodded. ‘Why not? I can always simply say that you are wrapping things up.’
‘Thank you, Kaplan,’ said Muller as he headed for the door. He stopped just before he opened it. ‘May I ask one last favor?’
The Kaplan nodded. ‘You are pushing your luck, sergeant. What is it?’
‘As I said, I have lost my men. I need reinforcements .’
The Kaplan shook his head. ‘Absolutely out of the question. Obviously.’
‘I cannot function alone. That truly would be suicide.’
‘Then simply do not do it,’ urged the Kaplan. ‘Take the time off as I have asked you to.’
‘You know that I must.’
The Kaplan squeezed the bridge of his nose with his right hand, his exhaustion evident on his face. ‘How many?’
‘Three.’
‘One,’ countered the Kaplan.
‘Two?’
‘No, sergeant,’ insisted the Kaplan. ‘One.’
‘Fine,’ conceded Muller. Then give me Otto Reynaud.’
The Kaplan laughed. But it was without humor. ‘The Walloon?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you truly insane, Dietz? The Walloon? You know as well as anyone that he is in jail await
ing trial for the crimes of Falsehood, Sedition and Blasphemy. As well as that he is well known for his violent and unpredictable tendencies.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Muller. ‘But have you ever seen him fight?’
‘Once,’ admitted the Kaplan.
‘And?’
‘He is most likely the deadliest human being that I have ever seen. Barring you, of course.’
‘I need him.’
The Kaplan nodded. ‘Take him then. I shall let God decide his punishment. Wait.’ He walked over to his desk, grabbed a piece of official Vatican paper and wrote his order upon it. Muller continued to wait while the Kaplan took a nub of sealing wax out of his desk, melted it using a Zippo lighter and applied his official seal. He handed the document to the sergeant. ‘Here, this will allow you to remove that madman from custody as well as give you access to your choice of weapons and permission to draw one hundred thousand Euros from the vaults. Fifty thousand in gold coin and the rest in cash.’
‘Thank you, my friend,’ said Muller as he took the document.
The Kaplan said nothing as he watched his old friend leave the room. After all, what could he say? He was convinced that he had literally just sent his friend to his death. And the fact that he had asked him to was no real consolation.
‘God give him the strength to fight this fight...Please forgive him for his sins and wash him clean from the enemy's lie. In Jesus name amen.’
He closed the door.
***
The official maps of the Vatican show that there are no dungeons, only two holding cells that are used by the internal police force prior to sending all criminals to prisons situated outside the Church State.
But then there are many things that are not on the official Vatican maps.
Sergeant Muller stood in the corridor that allowed access to the five dank rooms that made up the deep dungeon prison that lay under the floors of the cathedral. Opposite him stood the man that he had come to recruit.
Otto Reynaud. Originally of Walloon descent from Belgium although he had later assumed Swiss citizenship and joined the Swiss army so that he could qualify for incorporation into the Vatican guard. Prior to that he had fought for the French Foreign legion as well as spending a couple of years working for a South African mercenary outfit that went by the name of Executive Outcomes.
Six foot three, a shaved bullet shaped head, neck as thick as a bull’s and massive shoulders that sloped down to a barrel chest and torso. His legs were like concrete pillars. It was a body built for strength and endurance, not looks. In fact Otto had never seen the inside of a gymnasium or fitness studio. Instead he had been forged in battle and annealed in the Spartan existence of the Church.
One of the jailers opened the steel door, using old fashioned keys as opposed to modern electronic locks. His hand hovered close to his sidearm, showing his obvious fear of the man locked inside the small stone walled cell.
Otto stared at the guard with a sneer of contempt, leaned towards him and, in a normal speaking volume said, Boo!
The guard stumbled back nervously, banging into the door as he did so.
Otto shook his head. ‘Pathetic,’ he rumbled. ‘So,’ he said as he transferred his attention to Sergeant Muller. ‘What does a Knight of the Holy See need from me?’
‘What makes you think I need anything from you, private?’ Asked Muller as he dismissed the guard, sending him back to his reception area.
‘I’m a known blasphemer; you religious fanatics wouldn’t be seen dead with someone like me unless you wanted something. Who do you need killed?’
‘I’m not a religious fanatic,’ countered Muller.
Otto shrugged. ‘But you still need me for something or you wouldn’t have taken the trouble to get me sprung from here.’
‘Yes,’ admitted Muller. ‘I’ll get straight to the point, what do you know about Vampires?’
‘They don’t exist.’
‘What if I told you that they do?’
Otto laughed. ‘Not according to your big boss,’ he said.
‘He’s your boss too,’ pointed out Muller.
The big man shook his head. ‘No,’ he denied. ‘He’s simply and old man who puts doctrine before truth and expediency before faith. Anyway, I know about Vampires. When I was a small boy I lived with my grandparents in a little village outside of Rancenne. Farmers mainly, a few craftsmen. Cobbler, blacksmith, jeweler. A simple life. Probably seventy people in the whole village. And then one night the men found a young girl. Her throat had been torn out and she had been bled dry. But there was no blood around her. My grandfather knew straight away. No one believed him. Two weeks later it happened again. So the elders contacted the church. Two more young people died before three men arrived. Men like you. Sedes Sacrorum. They left before the end of the week. There were no more deaths. That was when I decided that I wanted to fight for the church. To be a soldier of God. A Vatican guard.’ Otto rolled his massive shoulders, loosening the slabs of muscle. Like a boxer before a bout. ‘As you can see,’ he gestured towards the open cell door. ‘Things didn’t go quite as well as they might have.’
Muller held up the Kaplan’s letter complete with official seal. ‘This here is permission for your release, signed by the Kaplan. In return you will need to come with me.’
‘Is it a full pardon?’ Enquired Otto.
Muller shook his head. ‘Afraid not. Simply permission to accompany me on my mission.’
The big man raised an eyebrow. ‘So, I assume that the Kaplan has little confidence in our survival.’
Muller nodded. ‘It would be remiss of me to deny that. You will be free but I do fear that it may transpire that you are simply free to die. But, on the plus side, you will be dying whilst fighting on the side of our Lord.’
‘Not according to His Holiness,’ snapped Otto. ‘He has made it plain that Vampires do not exist. And to deny him…’
‘Is to deny God. Yes, I know,’ retaliated Muller.
Otto grinned. Somehow the expression made him look even more dangerous. ‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘I’m with you. I didn’t join this outfit to languish on prison cells whilst a feeble old man dictates the survival of our holy mother church. I joined to fight the good fight.’
Muller held out his hand. The two shook and then walked from the room. Otto didn’t even pause to insult the guard on the way out.
They made their way confidently through the maze of corridors that made up the inner sanctums of the Vatican, walking in silence for many minutes before coming to a set of double doors. Muller opened them and entered without knocking.
On the other side of the doors was a large room lined with racks of clothing. Uniforms, cassocks and suits. These were the rooms of the official Vatican tailors.
A bent old man approached them. ‘Ah, signori Muller,’ he greeted. ‘We are honored to receive a Knight of the Holy See. What can we do for you?’
‘We need suits, Giuseppe. Dark, fitted for movement. Expensive enough to blend in with the wealthy but not ostentatious. Room for a shoulder holster and ammunition, the Glock 19. Also two full length overcoats capable of concealing the Heckler & Koch MP7 and two extra 30 round mags. A few silk shirts, white. Dress boots, black leather with a tactical rubber sole and provision for a boot knife. Tie, belt with concealed money pouch and a couple of Tag-Heuer Black Phantom wrist watches. You had better give us two full sets of all of the clothing items and five shirts each. Oh, and also a couple of Ultralight level IIIA bullet proof vests and do not forget the silver spurs on the boots.’
‘Silver spurs?’ Questioned Otto.
‘Later,’ answered Muller.
Giuseppe clicked his fingers and four assistants shuffled into the room and started measuring Muller and Otto, writing figures down on notepads and discussing clothes and colors with each other. Four minutes later they were done.
‘So, signori,’ said Giuseppe. ‘A rush order as usual?’
Muller nodded.
‘I will have them re
ady by tomorrow afternoon.’
The sergeant shook his head. ‘I am sorry, Giuseppe,’ he said. ‘I need them faster. Two hours.’
The old man winced. ‘You ask too much, signori,’ he said. ‘This is not Walmart. These are hand crafted Italian suits of the very best quality.’
‘I apologize, old friend,’ said Muller. ‘I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need them so soon.’
Giuseppe nodded. ‘Fine. I will drop everything. The whole team will work on them. But the shoes…they cannot be done in under three hours.’
Muller smiled. ‘Three hours then.’
The two men shook hands and Muller showed Otto out.
This time they followed steps that led down into the bowels of the Holy City, eventually arriving at a steel door. Next to the door was a button, above it a small camera. Muller pressed the button and waited. There was a short buzz and the door clicked open.
The two men entered.
Otto smiled.
The walls were lined with weapons. Hundreds of them.
This was the Vatican armory.
‘Wachmeister Muller,’ greeted a man who stood behind a large steel desk. He was eating a bowl of steaming pasta, redolent with garlic and melted butter. A large glass of chilled water sweated onto the desk, forming a pool of water. ‘What can I do for you?’
Muller handed the quartermaster the Kaplan’s note. After a cursory glance the man handed it back.
‘I need two Heckler & Koch FABARM FP6 pump shotguns, two hundred rounds of 00 shot,’ said Muller. ‘Two Heckler & Koch MP7’s with the 4.6mm hardened steel penetrator armor piercing rounds and six spare 30 round mags plus a thousand rounds of ammo. A pair of Sig SG 550 Assault rifles, five hundred rounds for same, six extra mags. A couple of Glock 19 semi auto pistols, five hundred rounds, six spare mags.’
The quartermaster nodded. ‘Anything else?’
‘Two Fox Aviation knives, two Zippo lighters. Four flash-bang grenades. Also a case of UV Bombs and two cold steel, silver plated machetes. Oh, and of course I will need all of the ammunition to be silver jacketed.’
The quartermaster looked uncomfortable.
‘What?’ Asked Muller.
