by Rick Jones
“Nice move,” Mustafa answered. “About killing the cameras.”
Zeller remained quiet.
Then from Mustafa, “The commando, the one with the cut cheek, the brazen one, what’s his name?”
“Müller.”
“I wish to speak to him.”
A moment later, Müller answered the line. “Müller.”
“I think I like you, Müller. You have what I believe what the Americans call . . . moxie. Is that what you have, Müller? Moxie?”
“What do you want, Mustafa?”
“In time, plenty. Right now, I want you to look up.” A moment later, he asked, “Are you looking up, Müller?”
“I am.”
“I want you to know that this is because you disregarded Zeller after I informed him of my demands. Instead, you led your team into a situation I was fully prepared for.”
“Trust me, Mustafa. It won’t happen again.”
“What won’t happen again? Your team getting caught within a situation they didn’t see coming? Or once again trying to storm the hotel?”
Müller remained silent.
“In any case, the consequence of your action, Müller, as promised, now falls on your shoulders. Are you still looking up? I hope so because the show’s about to begin.”
Ali Mustafa summarily killed the call with a tap of his thumb.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Alexander Hoffman was a CEO for Cyber Dynamic Corporation, which was located in the heart of Bonn, Germany. It was a center that developed the software programs of artificial intelligence that were to be integrated with the advanced hardware of the robotics industry. Their main benefactors were Japan and the United States. Being a CEO for such a mushrooming commerce had its perks as well, such as an annual pay that amounted to an eight-digit salary.
As Hoffman was being dragged into the master suite by two of Mustafa’s men, he was ready to spew out a few figures to pay for his release. Start low, buy high, make Mustafa believe that he was getting the better of the deal, make him feel like ‘the man.’
Tossed to his knees before Mustafa, who maintained a neutral appearance as though he lorded over the CEO, Hoffman clasped his hands together in an attitude of prayer and held them imploringly before the master terrorist. Mustafa lifted a corner of his lip into a one-sided grin that indicated malicious delight.
Hoffman, with his clasped hands shaking, said, “Please, I can give you money. A lot of money. Do you know who I am or who I work for? My company will pay a lot of money for my release, believe me. I’m a man of importance where I come from.”
“Your name is Alexander Hoffman,” said Mustafa. “And you are the chief executive officer for Cyber Dynamic Corporation, which deals with artificial intelligence.”
Hoffman smiled at this because he accepted this as a measure of hope. “Then you know who I am?”
“Not really. I got your name from the hotel’s guest list.” Mustafa pointed to the computer monitor, which showed nothing but snow. “Before the network went down,” he added, “I simply looked up your history.”
“Then you confirmed who I am?”
“I did.”
“Now we can talk numbers, yes?”
“Numbers? You think this is about money?”
“Everything’s about money.”
“Really.”
“Isn’t that what you people are all about?”
Mustafa gave Hoffman a quizzical look. “You people?”
“Yeah. Terrorists. Isn’t that how you bankroll your causes? By ransoming high-profile assets.”
Mustafa shook his head disbelievingly. “We’re crusaders, not terrorists. And for a CEO, Mr. Hoffman, you are far from being an intelligent man.” Then with a tilt of his chin towards the balcony-pool area, which was a predetermined gesture, Hoffman was dragged to the glass-bottom pool that hung seventy stories over the street, and tossed him in. Mustafa, who moved along the cement walkway that surrounded the pool, eventually stood along its edge with his hands to his hips. With his tongue-in-cheek habit, Mustafa watched Hoffman tread water. Then to the CEO, Mustafa asked, “How’s the pool? Warm? It’s supposed to be with the latest and greatest in solar energy.”
Hoffman, while treading water, looked underneath. The glass-bottom gave him an eerie feeling of being suspended seventy stories above the street without a safety net. He saw the swirls of lights, the cruisers, and the gathering of masses, all beneath him. Then he looked into Mustafa’s eyes where nothing existed outside of a man who operated with the cold fortitude of a machine.
“I can pay you a lot of money to support your cause,” he said to Mustafa with panic in his voice. “What? Ten million? Twenty? Thirty? That’s a lot of money to support a lot of causes.”
Mustafa held out a hand and snapped his fingers. A moment later, an AK-47 was slapped into his palm as though it were a surgeon’s scalpel. Then the Arab, while listening to Hoffman’s exhaustive pleas, pulled back on the bolt to see if a round was chambered. It was. Then he held the weapon by his side. “You think money is the panacea to all causes and the cure-all situation to any problem? It’s not, Mr. Hoffman. At least not to me. My conviction to see Allah’s plan come to fruition comes from here.” He tapped the area over his heart. “And it shall, seeing that I now hold the Holy Lance and the power of Allah. You, I’m afraid, are nothing more than a pawn in the scheme of things. You’re nothing but an example.”
“Oh God, please! You don’t have to do this!”
When Hoffman swam to the pool’s edge and tried to lift himself onto the walkway, Zamir kicked Hoffman back into the pool.
“Goodbye, Mr. Hoffman. Thank you for being an illustration of what it’s like when someone does not obey the strict commands given them, and the consequences that follow.” Mustafa lifted the point of his assault rifle and directed it into the pool.
As Hoffman continued to plead and wade, Ali Mustafa pulled the trigger. Rounds pierced through the surface of the water, and though buffeted by the liquid, the impacting rounds still had enough impact to cause spiderweb cracks along the pool’s bottom. After he ejected the empty magazine and reseated another, he unleashed additional rounds as the reports carried across Vienna in sounds of pop-pop-pop.
Cracks and fissures started to spread from one impact site to another, connecting. The circular wounds in the glass-bottom started to weaken and give, the glass starting to bow.
Hoffman continued to cry out while desperately trying to exit the pool, only to be cast backward from a kick or a push. Escape was impossible. And those who looked down on him did so with smiles of relish, the entire exercise a game of malicious amusement.
More cracking; like thin ice shattering beneath one’s footfalls.
And then the bottom gave way as shards of glass and tons of water fell into open space, with Hoffman tumbling and pinwheeling his way downward within a flume of wetness, a seventy-story-drop where the flashing lights rushed at him with incredible speed, the swirls now growing brighter, even blinding, all the way to the moment of impact where everything suddenly went dark.
* * *
Everyone below had heard the multiple shots from a high-end assault rifle high above, the rat-a-tat-tat that never seemed to end. From seventy stories below, as cracks raced from one side of the pool to the other until the glass-bottom was fully compromised, the fracture and collapse sounded like the rumble of a fast-moving train. Water spilled from the unit as a single torrent which swept a man who pinwheeled uncontrollably and found himself at the mercy of gravity, eventually impacted along with tons of splashing water. Rooftops to cruisers buckled beneath the water’s crashing weight. Broken glass flew everywhere causing people to duck. And for those few who were incapable of moving in time, they sustained extensive wounds that would require immediate medical attention.
But in the end where lessons were taught and learned, the CEO who once earned multiple figures now lay as a gelatinous heap of smashed bones and tissue, with the man hardly recognizable
as human.
Zeller, Müller, along with his team of Einsatzkommando’s who had seen everything in warfare and those who were standing beyond the perimeter line, were numbed. If not by the cruelty of Ali Mustafa, then by the violence involved. Mustafa had made his message clear.
. . . I am power . . .
. . . Now . . . see my display . . .
Everything witnessed was prevailing and brutal and demonstrative at the same time.
To defeat Mustafa, Müller considered, it would take someone who was just as cruel and powerful—a tit-for-tat monster of darkness—who could compete against him.
Luckily, there was one man—an unlikely savior who worked in Darkness to better serve the Light.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Point made,” Mustafa said.
The hollow where ten-thousand gallons of water once served as the pool, was now a hole seventy-stories above the street.
Returning to the master suite and placing his AK-47 aside, he turned to his team. “What just happened only bought us time. So, we need to take that time and use it to our advantage.” He turned to Qusay. “Inventory of our supplies?”
“Two bricks of C-4, no claymores, and we’re running low on ammo.”
“How low?”
“Not enough to hold back the Einsatzkommando for too much longer, unless you want us to do battle against them with our khanjars.”
“Put together a pair of vests and place a brick inside each one. One will go to the judge, and the other will be worn by the Cardinal Secretary. Then we’ll remind Müller about our leverage. Should he decide to make another hard run, then we’ll set off the human charges. It’s that easy.”
“Mustafa,” this came from Ghazi who was clearly worried, “even if we hold them off and buy time as you say, there’s no way out. We can’t go down.”
“No. But we can go up,” he answered, pointing skyward. “There’s a helipad on the rooftop, something the authorities will no doubt try to use to attempt a top-ward approach. But we’ll be waiting, Ghazi, as we did before. And we will show the world the power of Allah.”
Ali Mustafa grabbed the Spear of Destiny and held it tight within his grasp. “This will soon be the crowing point of a jeweled staff that will rule Allah’s kingdom. This is going to be the key to any and all future victories, beginning on this day.” He lowered the Holy Lance. “There are three ways for the authorities to advance on our position. From the two stairwells and from the helipad. Ghazi will take position above to keep the helipad clear. Qusay will put together the vests while guarding the infidels.” Then Mustafa turned to Talib and Zamir, then said, “There is a restaurant on the fiftieth floor. We need to turn everything within our power into an advantage. You two will follow my orders accordingly and question nothing, for the coming measures I will propose to you will be extreme but necessary.”
Zamir bowed his head. “Yes, Mustafa.”
“Move quickly. All of you. I’m about to make my demands to the authorities. After I do so, they will try to stall by gathering their troops and decide upon a plan of action. But I will force them to work within a time limit, while at the same time cut off their approach.” Mustafa then pointed to his lip mic. “Stay on channel.”
Zamir and Talib, with assault rifles in hand and dwindling ammo supplies, exited the suite. Qusay went to put together a pair of suicide vests. And Ghazi went topside to keep the helipad clear of airborne approaches.
Mustafa returned to the seat before the desktop computer and buckled into the chair, as though he was fatigued. Then he placed the Holy Lance on the console and eased back into his seat to stare at a screen of snow and listened to white noise.
“You do understand, Mustafa, that we’re trapped inside this building as Ghazi had mentioned,” said Abd-al-Mumin.
But Abd-al-Mumin’s words were mere drones to Mustafa who smiled and dreamily so. While considering that the degree of difficulty involved with their escape was monumentally high, and perhaps even insurmountable in the thoughts of others, such as with Abd-al-Mumin, Mustafa was confident that the structural designs of his plan would see him as the victor. Already the wheels and cogs were in motion with people like Ghazi and Talib and Zamir and Qusay working at his behest. And within his mind’s eye, Mustafa could see himself sitting upon a gemmed throne in the heart of the Middle East, while holding the golden scepter that was tipped with the Holy Lance. For years this had been the dream of madmen, to rule and lord over others until society eventually conformed to their principles that would establish a utopian way of life. But to achieve such a kingdom often took away freedoms and individual thoughts, with the cost of lives too many to count and the final result absolute destruction.
“Mustafa . . . did you hear me?”
“Yes, Abd-al-Mumin, I heard you.” Mustafa’s smile drifted away with that dreamlike quality eventually disappearing, his reality once again becoming stark and darkly genuine. After sighing through his nostrils, he repeated, “Yes, Abd-al-Mumin, I did hear you.”
Standing, Ali Mustafa placed a hand on Abd-al-Mumin’s shoulder. “Listen, my friend, we came into this knowing the risks and we weighed the consequences. I also believe that this is happening by the will of Allah to show the world His divine power. We will get through this. Qusay, Zamir, Talib and Ghazi . . . They’re all servicing a purpose as we speak. The plan is in motion.”
“What plan?”
Even though Mustafa smiled, it appeared more artificial than real. “Trust me, my friend. The game’s just getting started.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Vatican
Vatican City
In Vienna, the BBC, CNN International, Al Jazeera, CNBC, and Germany’s DW were piecing together news based on eye-witness accounts to grab international headlines. Since ratings were always king, stories had been ‘slightly’ embellished to create enough drama to trump rivaling networks.
The mention of terrorists, executions and explosions, all touched upon the sense of the macabre as a means to drive up core interests. Blood always took lead in the storylines, as did chaos and mayhem. Darkness always seemed to grip entire nations instead of stories that were filled with joyous content. Since it was human nature to be primeval in regard to such events, and since these primordial interests often overwhelmed our sense of civility, human decency often took a backseat to such a powerful uprising of darker deeds.
As dawn approached, the airwaves monopolized every channel, every station, and every waking moment. People were riveted with everyone from politicians to layman, or to anyone who had cast a personal ballot of thought. Some had voiced their opinion openly, claiming that it was either al-Qaida, the Islamic State, or even a conspiracy theory that had been made up by a deep-state organization, with some ideas promoting lunacy.
But deep inside the Vatican, the leading principals of the Austrian state had contacted a bishop of the Holy See who acted as liaison between the country’s political leaders and the pope. As the bishop listened on the line while theories and media fallacies were easily cast aside by the Austrian leadership, the full truth had been outlined in great detail. A terrorist cell had taken hostages inside of the Kristallpalast in Vienna, and casualties had mounted as a result to storm the stronghold.
Apparently, the Holy Lance had been stolen from the Imperial Treasury in a well-planned robbery. Now, the holy relic was in the hands of a man named Ali Mustafa, a leader of the Islamic State who was attempting to reestablish a caliphate in the Middle East.
Though the first try to take command had failed, efforts were underway to retake the building once again. But the caveat was that the Vatican’s Cardinal Secretary of State was one of the high-profile hostages, and one of six taken. But a victim who was believed to have been purely classified as an example, had been executed as a show of force.
The bishop, whose role was to keep the pope apprised of all the interests of the church, walked through the dark warrens of the Apostolic Palace until he came upon the door of the pont
iff’s chamber. Two Swiss Guards who were minding the doorway with their decorative halberds held tight, though their sidearms and holsters were clearly visible, had stepped aside. Rapping his knuckles lightly against the chamber door three times, the door finally opened.
Pope Clement XV, whose white hair was caught up in wild tangles, peeked through the opening enough to expose his hatchet-thin face. “Yes.”
The bishop remained silent as he handed a scroll to the pontiff, who quickly accepted it and closed the door immediately. Stepping inside his room and hastily making his way to his desk, he clicked on the light, which provided feeble illumination, and undid the scroll.
After reading it, he set the scroll aside, took his seat, and deliberated with his eyes staring fixedly to a point on a distant wall.
The interests of the church had been jeopardized by the actions of a terrorist group, as was the welfare of the Vatican’s Cardinal Secretary of State.
As his eyes shifted to the phone on his desk, he realized that he needed to involve the Vatican Knights. But in order to do so and in his Machiavellian way, he would make demands on the Austrian government. The Einsatzkommando Cobra unit would have to stand back and stand by and allow the Vatican Knights to do what they did best. In turn, he would dismiss all culpability in the actions of the Austrian government, should the Vatican Knights fail in safely securing the Cardinal Secretary.
Pope Clement XV tented his fingers before him. In truth, he cared little for the Cardinal Secretary. What he wanted was the Holy Lance and the alleged power that came with it. Cardinal Favino was just an excuse for the Vatican Knights to take lead on this mission.
A moment later, he hit the speakerphone button.
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“Contact the Austrian government. I know the jurisdiction belongs to them, but as a courtesy, I would like to send in my own team. Inform the governing principals that if the Vatican’s Cardinal Secretary of State is killed, then the Vatican will not hold the government culpable for his death. If they disagree, however, then the Vatican will file a grievance against the principals of the government.”
