The Crimson Dagger - Vatican Knights Series 23 (2020)

by Rick Jones

  “How do I know that nine is not the detonation code?”

  “You don’t. But I’m to hand the phone over to the one in charge and dial nine.”

  The tall officer hesitated. Then he ran a tongue along the inside of his cheek as though pondering his next move. “All right,” he finally said, then he walked to Hartwig until they were within arm’s reach of each other. “Now what?”

  Hartwig’s hand shook with a severe tremble, but he managed to bring up the numeric pad and thumbed the number 9. Then he extended the phone for the tall officer to take, which he did, and hesitantly placed it against his ear wondering if the device was set to explode and take away half his head.

  Sighing, he said, “Yes.”

  “Good morning,” Mustafa answered. “I’m curious as to how you discovered our whereabouts so quickly.”

  “In the age of technology, Mustafa, no one, not even you, is beyond our reach.”

  “I see you know my name.”

  “You murdered a lot of people tonight, Mustafa. Did you really think that you were going to get away?”

  “I did. And I still do. Not only do I have the high ground, officer, but I also hold the bargaining chips in which to barter with.”

  “Bargaining chips?”

  “Yes. The man who stands before you, his name is Hartwig Klein, who also happens to be a political chieftain of Germany’s Bundestag.”

  The tall officer narrowed his eyes. The man called Hartwig looked vaguely familiar to him, but someone he did not readily recognize until now. “And you’ll kill him if I don’t agree to your demands, is that it?”

  “Partially,” Mustafa returned. “There are other dignitaries I’m keeping close by, such as an Associate Judge from the Supreme Court of the Great Satan, and four captains of industry. But the windfall, officer, is the Vatican’s Cardinal Secretary of State. Surely, his death would serve to cause a rift between Vienna and the Vatican State, should you fail to follow my demands. The power to save his life remains in your hands, depending upon your compliance. To fail me is to fail him. To fail him is to fail the Vatican.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe that you’re just going to hand him over, and the others, as long as we cooperate?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. As I said, the power to save his life remains in your hands. Comply with my needs, then you have nothing to worry about. Decline my needs, then you understand the mindset of those who see Allah as their guide. We have no fear when it comes to martyring ourselves.”

  After a pause, Mustafa continued.

  “Keep the phone, officer, or do you prefer to be called by your given name since we will be in constant communication?”

  “Officer Zeller.”

  “Officer Zeller, carry the phone with you at all times. And know this: should you decide to storm the upper levels with elite units, please be aware that I will know. To do so would be foolish. In fact, I have a little demonstration of our dedication to our cause and to Allah. Now, step away from the man wearing the vest.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, Zeller. Step away from the man wearing the vest.”

  “Oh God, you don’t have to do this.”

  “Officer Zeller, everything from here on in will be done on a timely basis. Timing is key. With that being stated, you have seven seconds to draw distance from the Mr. Klein . . . Six . . .”

  “No!”

  “. . . Five . . .”

  Zeller turned and started waving his hands wildly at the members of his force, telling them to get back.

  “. . . Four . . . Three . . .”

  “Everyone back!”

  Hartwig appeared confused, then overly dumbfounded.

  “. . . Two . . . One.”

  The brick that had been secured to Hartwig Klein’s chest erupted, the plastique destroying flesh and bone and parting the man into pieces of bite-sized chum from the waist up. As his lower body was tossed wide by the explosion, human morsels no larger than a nickel blew outward in a perfect circumference, the tissue adhering to walls and glass and to wood surfaces. The bodies of absconding officers were heaved and pitched through the air, though none would be killed, only wounded. And Zeller was lifted and dropped to the floor, his body skating across the marble surface until he came to a complete stop with the phone still in his hand.

  As others groaned in measures of shock and pain, Zeller lifted the phone to his ear. Though he could not find the words to speak, his heavy breathing was enough to inform Mustafa that the officer was listening.

  “Remember, you are my liaison in this matter and no one else. And do not forget those bargaining chips I have within my power. I’ll call you when I have something to pass on. And keep the phone with you at all times. When I call, you answer. It’s that simple. Do not delay answering, either. Now, clear the lobby. If you enter the building again, keep in mind that I will not hesitate to kill another.” And then the call was severed.

  Zeller stared at the phone as though the object was something alien to him. Then he examined his surroundings. The plastique did not set off any smoke, just an acrid scent. But gore rested upon the glass walls and the floor with the obscenity of a Pollock painting, nothing but incoherent splashes.

  Getting to his feet and then aiding his partner back to his, Zeller, along with his team, ushered everyone who had been inside the lobby out of the building.

  It was all too clear to Zeller: Ali Mustafa had full control of the situation.

  * * *

  Zamir had heard everything over his earbud and responded accordingly to the countdown. It had already been a prearranged scenario for Zamir to detonate the C-4 remotely. Making examples was a powerful tool. And making powerful statements often had the desired effect. When Ali Mustafa began to count down the moments of Hartwig Klein’s life, Zamir held the remote high inside the elevator cab with his thumb on the toggle switch. On the cued moment, Zamir flipped the toggle switch. Directly thereafter, he felt a slight tremor inside the cab that lasted less than a second. Then in the subsequent moments he heard the exchange between Mustafa and a man called Zeller, a back and forth conversation where both men jockeyed for power and positioning. But in the end with Hartwig Klein serving as a mere prop, Ali Mustafa had won the battle in a war that had yet to be fully waged.

  Then: “The building’s clear, Zamir. You know what to do.”

  Every movement had been decided upon in haste, though the planning was sound: Take the high ground, attain assets, cut off breach-ports-of-entry by making them impassable, and then return to base.

  While others in Mustafa’s group were executing their duties to establish a stronghold, Zamir moved from the hallway and into the lobby with caution. He panned his weapon from left to right, then from right to left. The pieces and remnants of Hartwig Klein were everywhere—the walls, the glass, the mahogany veneer of the registration counter, the tiled floor—the plastique ever so powerful.

  Taking the moment to assure that the area had been cleared, Zamir made his way to the hotel’s nerve center located in a high-tech chamber behind the registration area. The door had been locked—the area restricted. But a pair of rounds quickly rectified that problem after they destroyed the entryway keypad. Using the brunt of his shoulder to burst his way in, the door swung wide.

  The room was sophisticated with high-end technology. There was an advanced computer system, monitors, high-definition wall screens, Plexiglas boards, everything that kept the hotel’s heartbeat going. The area, however, had been vacated, the playground his to do as he wished.

  Zamir looked over the console. Everything was so state-of-the-art it was unrecognizable. In some respects, the evolution and speed of new technologies was passing him by.

  Zamir hit his earbud. “Mustafa, are you getting this?”

  “Adjust your bodycam.”

  Zamir did. Then: “Now?”

  There was a pause, something Zamir thought to be a moment where Mustafa was examining the setup. Then: “Si
t at the main console to your left. Do exactly as I say.”

  Zamir followed Mustafa’s commands. He took his seat, laid his Glock to the right of him, then placed his fingers along the keyboard. “Ready.”

  Mustafa talked him through the measures, beginning with disabling the elevators. After typing in the proper codes to incapacitate the lifts, he hit the ENTER button. Numerals and odd-looking symbols began to scroll along the screen. Then the screen read in bold red letters:

  * * * ELEVATORS OFFLINE * * *

  Beyond the breached doorway, Zamir could hear the approach of sirens, which was no doubt the advancing unit of the elite Einsatzkommando.

  Zamir spoke into his earbud mic. “Mustafa, we’ve got company.”

  “Stay calm, Zamir. Zeller has his orders. You still have time.”

  “Zeller may not have the control you think over the Einsatzkommando.”

  “He’ll have enough to hold up the unit long enough for you to follow through with what I’m about to tell you. You need to finish the process, Zamir. Don’t worry about the Einsatzkommando. Concentrate.”

  “I’m ready.”

  Mustafa walked Zamir through the second phase of the operation. Though Zamir was not as quick with his fingers along the keyboard as Mustafa, he was able to enter the sequence of codes that had been given to him.

  Numeric values and odd symbols once again appeared on the screen, the characters scrolling with the even numbered rows moving from top to bottom, and the odd numbered rows moving from the bottom to top. After the characters locked into place, the screen winked off.

  “Mustafa, something’s wrong. The screen went blank.”

  “Nothing’s wrong, Zamir. Everything is as it should be.”

  Suddenly, as though on cue, the screen reactivated. The words on the monitor, which was accompanied by a synthetic female voice that was flat in its measure, read and said:

  . . . ALL SYSTEMS IN SECTION ONE . . . DISABLED . . .

  . . . ALL SYSTEMS IN SECTION TWO . . . DISABLED . . .

  . . . ALL SYSTEMS IN SECTION THREE . . . DISABLED . . .

  . . . ALL SYSTEMS IN SECTION FOUR . . . DISABLED . . .

  Zamir grabbed his firearm from the console and eased back into his seat.

  . . . ALL SYSTEMS IN SECTION FIVE . . . DISABLED . . .

  . . . ALL SYSTEMS IN SECTION SIX . . . DISABLED . . .

  From where he sat, Zamir was watching the Kristallpalast die a slow death. Mustafa was shutting off her brain and disabling its capacities to defend itself on any level.

  Finally, the female synthetic voice stated:

  . . . ALL SYSTEMS DISABLED . . .

  “Excellent, Zamir. Now, onto the next stage of the operation.”

  Zamir, without hesitation, responded accordingly knowing that time was limited.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The cube van belonging to the Einsatzkommando Cobra unit was as black as a midnight sky. After the vehicle was given a wide berth to enter the circle of police cars, the rear doors swung wide and a dozen heavily armored commandos jumped down from the bay. Every man on the team was wearing the Robocop attire of shin, knee, forearm and elbow guards that were constructed from a special composite, and a Kevlar helmet that held the boon of gadgetry that ran along the top of their helmets like a Mohawk. The operational commander of this unit, a man by the name of Roland Müller, did not operate under the jurisdiction of the Austrian Federal Police, but he did come under the control of the Federal Ministry of the Interior and had the right to usurp authority.

  Müller approached a man who was rail-thin and smartly dressed, and asked, “You the officer in charge of securing the scene?”

  Zeller raised his hand which continued to tremble. Though a vet, he was not built to take on such a high degree of adversity as a first responder. This was strictly for the mindset of those who prepare daily for such scenarios, like the Einsatzkommando Cobra.

  Müller noticed the tremble of the officer’s hand. “Are you all right?”

  “I could be better.”

  “I’ve been briefed along the way by Central Command,” Müller told him. “Apparently, Ali Mustafa’s cell has absconded with the Holy Lance from the Austrian Imperial Treasury, killing nearly a dozen people. And now, he and his cell have taken refuge inside the Kristallpalast, at least five men not including Mustafa. Obviously armed with military-grade explosives, C-4, and firearms.”

  Zeller nodded. “The others involved are—”

  “Ghazi; Zamir; Talib; Qusay; Abd-al-Mumin, Mustafa’s first lieutenant; and Mustafa himself, a chief principal who is trying to reestablish a caliphate in Syria.”

  “Apparently, you’ve been briefed quite well.”

  “I’ve also been informed that high-profile dignitaries may have been taken hostage. Is this accurate?”

  “According to Mustafa.”

  “Did they say who exactly?”

  Zeller nodded. “One, Hartwig Klein, who was a member of the German Bundestag, is lying scattered all over the hotel lobby. The others he mentioned I didn’t recognize with the exception of the Vatican’s Cardinal Secretary of State.”

  Müller’s face did not betray any emotion. “Cardinal Antonio Favino.”

  “If that’s his name.”

  Müller stepped away and gave the building a once over with his eyes scaling the tall building as though he was watching the slow trajectory of a rocket. Then: “They’re housed on the seventieth level? Is this also accurate?”

  “If that’s what you’ve been told, then I’m sure your information is quite precise—better than mine, in fact.”

  Müller continued to look over the building. “The lobby,” he began, “is it still a point of entry?”

  Zeller shrugged. “All I know is that Mustafa has set the terms of the condition. No one is to step inside that building or, as he put it, there will be consequences.”

  “I’m sure. But we don’t cater to the demands of terrorists. The more time they’re granted, the more difficult it becomes to storm the castle. Right now, they’re fortifying their position inside the hotel.”

  “That may be true,” said Zeller, “but they also made it known that they would not hesitate to kill a dignitary, should an advancement of any kind be made. They established that fact by blowing a man up right in front of me. It wasn’t a pretty sight.”

  “In some cases,” returned Müller, “there’s the unfortunate incident of collateral damage.”

  “Tell that to the Vatican. I’m sure they’d appreciate that the life of the church’s second in command is somewhat meaningless in the scheme of all things.”

  Müller turned on Zeller, though his features remained unreadable. But Zeller could clearly see the sizzle within the man’s eyes.

  “I’m just saying,” Zeller finished up.

  Continuing to draw a bead on Zeller, Müller cried out. “Ready up!” to his team.

  “You’re actually going to do it, even after Mustafa has outlined his promises.”

  “My team wasn’t called here to be spectators.”

  “Then, perhaps, you should talk to the man yourself.” Zeller removed the cellphone that was given to him by Klein, then he tried to hand it over to Müller. “A direct line to Mustafa. Dial nine and you’ll be connected. I want nothing to do with this operation if it goes sideways. I know the jurisdiction of the scene is assumed by the command of the Federal Ministry of the Interior. Have at it.”

  Müller, however, refused the phone. Instead, he echoed his call for his team to ‘ready up.’ They were going to raid the Kristallpalast.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Zamir moved like a man with purpose, with his call to Allah a summoning of servitude and obedience. Inside his backpack was a C-4 brick, three claymores and a pair of det cords. After setting the plastique underneath the computer’s console and then wiring the cords, Zamir strategically placed the claymores per Mustafa’s specifications.

  “Predictably,” he told Zamir through his earbud, “the
y will go to the heart of the operation. As soon as they discover their oversight, they will come together to reestablish themselves and decide upon another point of entry. We will not be able to hold them off forever, but this will buy us the time necessary to see us through. It’s all about creating the advantage of time, Zamir, something we don’t have much of, but something we must create.”

  “Understood.”

  “Stay close, Zamir, and be patient. Set your bodycam on the console so that I can see all that goes on. On my command, do exactly as I tell you. If there are lessons to be learned today, then it will be I who will be the teacher.”

  Performing his duties as instructed by Ali Mustafa, Zamir also believed that he was a vessel of Allah’s mighty hand if not the hand itself. As he was tactically placing the claymores and then stringing them together, he knew that time was running short. Soon, the Einsatzkommando Cobra would make a hard entry into the hotel, fan out, then try to commandeer the Kristallpalast’s heart of operations. But since the process of warfare was often predictable, common reasoning would suggest that the Einsatzkommando unit’s primary objective would be to take absolute control of the nerve center, which was the mainframe that controlled just about everything inside the hotel. So how do you countermand the Einsatzkommando Cobra advancement team? By deactivating the building’s mainframe to take away every possible advantage of the commando unit.

  Into his earbud mic, Zamir said, “Done.”

  “Take refuge, my friend, and wait for my command.”

  “Yes, Mustafa.”

  As directed, Zamir found a safe haven just as the Einsatzkommando Cobra team started to storm the building.

  * * *

  Müller was a skilled practitioner when it came to the art of war. He had fought in several excursions as part of the Allied Forces when in the Middle East, with the taste of battle still fresh in his heart. He had seen terror and watched his friends either killed or maimed. War had its exhilarations, he thought. But it had its downside, too. Still, an indescribable hatred continued to bubble and brew like hot lava mud deep in his gut. He hated the fact that he had left the Middle East with unfinished business, as cabals and regimes and caliphates once again started to shape themselves to create a league of terrorists.