by Rick Jones
“And the schematics of the building?” asked Isaiah. “Any surprises?”
“Not that I know of,” said Kimball. “Mustafa’s team managed to take down the central nervous system that governed the building. Everything’s dead with the tower nothing more than a shell. We go in, clear the floors, take new ground, and make our way to the hostages. We operate as we have in the past; our procedures do not change.”
Kimball spoke for the duration of the trip by making clear that they had a tight window of opportunity lasting four hours to achieve the mission on two fronts: to bring back the Cardinal Secretary of State unharmed, and to retrieve the Spear of Destiny. After that, then the operational jurisdiction is handed back over to the Austrian government and its Einsatzkommando force, who will work under the strict command of the Federal Ministry of the Interior.
Four hours, however, to clear the floors of a seventy-five-story building in order to achieve the means was asking a lot. Nevertheless, it was agreed upon by the liaisons between the Vatican and the Federal Ministry of the Interior.
Plans and strategies were discussed, as well as the teams remaining in constant communication throughout the operation, with everyone needing to be on the same page. This, above all else, was paramount.
Just as the Cessna started to make its descent into the Vienna International Airport, everyone buckled in. Kimball retrieved his cellphone from his shirt pocket to examine the call log. Outside of a few robocalls, his slate was clear. Shari had yet to return his calls or text. With concern beginning to weigh on him regarding her welfare, Kimball stared out the window of the plane and began to tap his foot nervously against the floor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Vienna, Austria
Ali Mustafa was sitting before his dead computer with the Holy Lance held within the grip of his enclosed hand. Wearing his lip mic, he remained in constant communication with Ghazi, who was standing sentinel on the rooftop next to the helipad, and to Zamir and Talib, who were shoring up the defenses on the floors below. Qusay had finalized the suicide vests. And with the aid of Abd-al-Mumin, they were fitting the garments on the cardinal and the judge while under the watchful eye of Abd-al-Mumin’s gun.
Mustafa continued to glance at his watch trying to determine when to make his demands. Right now, he knew that his enemy was trying to get into his mind, perhaps even creating a psychological profile. But he knew exactly what he was doing by calculating everything down to a precise moment. While his opponents tried to determine their next plan of action, these costly wastes of time only benefited Mustafa. In the time it was taking the Austrian faction to decide upon their next actionable measure, Mustafa was taking countermeasures to bolster his defenses from top to bottom. Of course, it was rudimentary thinking that his opponents had three points of entry to choose from: the two stairwells and the helipad.
Looking at his watch, he then contacted Ghazi, who was topside. “Ghazi, anything?”
“Negative.”
“Remember, any approach is considered hostile. In other words, shoot now and don’t ask questions later.”
“Copy that.”
Then Mustafa tapped his earbud for a second time. “Zamir.”
“Go.”
“Location?”
“Inside the restaurant.”
“Inventory?”
“We discovered a pair of culinary torches. Not much else, I’m afraid.”
“The torches, are they functional?”
Ali Mustafa could hear what sounded like gas leaking, and then the ignition of fire over his earbud.
“They are,” said Zamir.
Mustafa looked at his watch. Though they were behind schedule, he knew that the authorities were trying their best to evacuate the lower levels, which helped Mustafa since the process was proving to be time consuming. “Excellent,” he said. “Now, listen closely, Zamir. I want you and Talib to go to the fiftieth level, the restaurant, and find the gas lines . . . Once found, this is what I want you to do.”
For the next three minutes, Ali Mustafa outlined his wishes in detail.
Zamir listened before he probed Mustafa’s intentions with a single question, which was a mistake. “Are you sure, Mustafa?”
“Question me not, Zamir, or I’ll order Talib to toss you through a window. There’s a reason for everything I do, a motive behind my thinking. It’s the only way. Soon, the authorities will gather their forces to make another run at us the moment I make my demands clear, only for them to stall us for hours as they decide upon a mission plan. What I’m doing, Zamir, is taking away their ability to delay us by forcing them to act quickly. They will have no other choice but to do exactly as I tell them. The advantage is for us to take.”
“Mustafa, it’s not that I question your cleverness or your ability to plan.”
“Then what?”
“The action . . . There would be no escape if the Austrian authorities refuse.”
“They won’t refuse, Zamir. Not when we hold the hostages.”
“I understand.”
“Zamir, should the strategy fail to pay off, remember that Allah will embrace us. Don’t forget that we are the vessels of His choosing. He, along with the Holy Lance, will see us through.”
“Yes, Mustafa.”
“Now, do as I ask . . . And light the wick to this candle.”
“Yes, Mustafa.”
* * *
Abd-al-Mumin was standing on the thin landing of the balcony that surrounded what used to be the glass-bottom pool, though he was careful as a slight wind buffeted him. Seventy stories below, people were being systematically evacuated and the building cleared.
Raising his weapon over the railing and then directing his aim at the masses, he bounced from target to target within his sight thinking how easy it would be to take them down in sport. He even made a few sounds as though he was pulling the trigger with rounds being spent. But it was all in malicious play—that he was the hunter and they his quarry.
He turned and carefully walked along the walkway and into the suite. “The building is being cleared,” he said to Mustafa.
“Good,” he said. “The time it takes to do so only grants us additional time to perform what is necessary for us to do.”
“Mustafa—” He cut himself off.
“What? Something still worries you?”
Abd-al-Mumin nodded. “We’re not going to get out of here, are we? Be truthful.”
Ali Mustafa held the Spear of Destiny directly in front of Abd-al-Mumin in display, as though the relic was some sort of a magical talisman. “Do you see this?” he asked him curtly. “Do you not understand the power it holds?”
“What I understand, Mustafa, is that we’re trapped inside a building with nowhere to go.”
“And that, Abd-al-Mumin, is why you will never lead. It’s because you lack vision.” Mustafa lowered the artifact. “Whereas you question what Allah has bestowed upon us, I embrace it. I know that the Einsatzkommando won’t stay idle for long. But by the grace of Allah, He has given me the insight to see what has to be done. Tonight, Abd-al-Mumin, believe me when I say that we will be hailed as heroes within the community we keep in Syria.”
“You honestly believe you can pull this off?”
Ali Mustafa looked at the Holy Lance with adoring eyes. “I know I can. And as we speak, Abd-al-Mumin, trust me when I say that the flame is about to burn bright.”
Abd-al-Mumin had no idea what Ali Mustafa was talking about.
* * *
The purpose of a culinary torch, which is a high-powered butane lighter, is to brown-baked meringues, melt cheese or to roast small peppers. When Zamir and Talib scavenged through the kitchen of the five-star restaurant and discovered the torches, they also found the master valve for the gas line.
With the stock end of his rifle, Talib knocked the handle free from the first of four valves. Gas hissed, the restaurant now becoming a tinderbox. As gas whistled through the open valves, Zamir and Talib placed the lit torche
s in the center of the restaurant as the means to light the fuse. As soon as the gas reached the flames, the entire floor would erupt with explosive ruin. And since Talib and Zamir would have no time to admire their handiwork, they knew that they had to withdraw immediately to a safer haven above the restaurant.
Zamir tapped his earbud. “Mustafa.”
“Go.”
“It’s done.”
“Hurry,” Mustafa told him, “before the level erupts.”
“Yes, Mustafa.”
Zamir shut off his lip mic and stared at Talib.
Then from Talib who appeared genuinely frightened, perhaps his devotion waning, he said, “Mustafa is martyring us. He drives us into a corner with no escape.”
“If that’s what he believes to be best, then it is not for us to agree or disagree. He has already been embraced by Allah. Soon, we will all dine together in Paradise if that’s our destiny.”
“But to die by fire . . .” Though Talib allowed his words to drift away, the indication had been made quite clear by his tone. To brave a painful death by fire gave him pause, even if the reward was Paradise.
It was also something that Zamir intuited. “A moment of agony for a lifetime of indescribable peace,” he reasoned. “Remember that.”
As the pair headed for the stairwell, gas continued to fill the level as the torches awaited to light up the Kristallpalast into a towering inferno.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Medstar Washington Hospital Center
Washington, DC
The bank of overhead lights with faint illumination faded in and out.
The masked faces of strangers.
The gleam of a scalpel and the glimmer of light along its scimitar-shaped blade.
The call to her from a strange voice, distant and hollow, the words for the most part nonsensical.
“. . . Ms. Cohen . . . ruptured . . . malignant . . . tissue . . . discovered . . . mail delivery.”
Shari’s world moved with an awful slowness to it. And her limbs appeared weighted and leaden, her body numb.
The lights overhead, all orbs, continued to fade in and out from her vision. And then the light was gone altogether.
Inside this darkness she could hear her breathing and her heartbeat, both coming in even measures.
Her breathing . . .
Her heartbeat . . .
Inside this darkness . . .
Nothing else existed.
And then there was nothing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Vienna, Austria
Ali Mustafa was beside himself and gleefully so. A raging fire was about to wage below with the wick of the candle soon to be lit, perhaps within minutes, he thought, as he sat at his desk with the Holy Lance within his grasp. Now that all means of entry were about to be stolen from Müller, he could now fully concentrate his efforts and give his undivided attention to the Cardinal Secretary of State and the supreme court judge, who had been forced to their knees before him. Neither looked Mustafa in the eye as they wore the suicide vests that had been crafted by Qusay.
“You,” Mustafa said to Cardinal Favino. “Priest. Look at me.”
Favino lifted his head, a slow rise, and looked the terrorist in the eyes.
“You’re afraid, yes? You don’t want to die.”
“No one wants to die,” he replied.
“Yet, it’s a stop we all have to make. And unlike you, priest, I’m ready to embrace it.”
Cardinal Favino cast his eyes to the floor.
And then to the supreme court judge, he said, “And you. Jew. Look at me.”
Judge Rosenberg looked directly at Mustafa and they locked eyes.
Mustafa cocked his head like a baffled dog. “You are not afraid. You’re not like the priest.”
“I’ve had my share of adversity in life.”
“Which has toughened you, yes?”
“I have come to learn that quarrelsome individuals, such as yourself, will never have a hold on me, psychologically or otherwise. I have made my peace with God long ago. There’s nothing you can say or do that will change that. If nothing more, I am part of a people with resolve.”
Mustafa leaned forward in his seat and directed the point of the Holy Lance at the judge. “Yes, I can see that within your eyes. Your will, which is much stronger than the priest who kneels beside you, holds the conviction of your people who have suffered over long periods.” Then Mustafa pointed the Spear of Destiny at the suicide vest worn by the judge. “Does that not disturb you? To die a violent death.”
“We have stopped fearing about our fates long ago,” stated the judge.
Mustafa leaned back into his seat with his eyes still focused on Judge Rosenberg. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose you have.” His eyes then shifted to the cardinal, who kept his eyes downward. “Perhaps, priest, you’ve lived too long inside a protective bubble to understand the trials and tribulations of both Arab and Jew. Perhaps I should teach you a lesson of true hardship. Perhaps I should set off your vest and watch you be torn to pieces.”
Cardinal Favino finally broke, the man sobbing, which brought a smile to Ali Mustafa’s face.
The others in Mustafa’s team, including Abd-al-Mumin, were beginning to wonder about Mustafa’s game plan. Soon, a fire would wage below and begin to mount the stories. But Mustafa appeared to be a man without care, or perhaps someone who believed too much in the power of the Holy Lance. Either way, time was running short and the man had yet to define his actions or his plans. He simply sat there being amused and entertained by the differences of the two men kneeling before him.
Abd-al-Mumin started to shift his weight from one leg to the other, which caught Mustafa’s attention from the corner of his eye. Though Mustafa maintained his gaze upon the two kneeling at his feet, he spoke directly to Abd-al-Mumin. “Relax,” he told him.
“Mustafa, none of this makes sense. You told me that we would be amongst our own in Syria within hours.”
Mustafa, who kept his one-sided smile, said, “And I stay true to what I told you, Abd-al-Mumin, right down to the last word.”
But Abd-al-Mumin looked at the faces of the others in the room and could see that they were all thinking the same thing: that Mustafa’s logic had abandoned him. Yet no one had the courage to challenge him either.
Then from Mustafa, who kept wearing that malicious grin while staring at the hostages, stated to everyone, “In a few minutes, everything will be made quite clear. All I ask for is your patience.”
But Mustafa’s lack of emotion and his overwhelming calm had disturbed everyone who was within earshot.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Vienna International Airport
Vienna, Austria
After the Vatican Knights arrived at the Vienna International Airport, they were met at the gate by the liaisons and driven directly to the site of the Kristallpalast Hotel via a convoy of official vehicles. Lanes and streets had been cleared, the journey a quick one without obstacles.
As the van containing the Vatican Knights rounded the corner, Müller was waiting along with Zeller, who was just a marginal player at this point and more of an observer.
As the doors to the van parted, Kimball led his unit to Müller, who waved them forward. The Vatican Knights were dressed and prepared for an all-out assault. Though they wore the battle attire of most special forces, that of composite gear, Kevlar vests, gloves, boots and wartime gadgetry, the one stark reminder that they were different from most military brand of fighters were the Roman Catholic collars each man wore around his neck. On the breastplates of their vests was a stenciled emblem of their team, that of a shield being supported by two heraldic lions who stood on their hindlegs with their forepaws steadying the shield. Inside the shield was the image of the silver cross pattée.
Müller, who remained in gear but sported a crusted-over laceration on his cheek that looked more like rust than blood, greeted Kimball. “Father Hayden.”
“I’m not a priest,” he told him
. “Nor is anyone on my team. Do you have anything additional to give me outside of the cell’s biographical records?”
“Off the record?”
“Sure.”
“I’m not too crazy about the idea that the Vatican Knights have jurisdictional command over the Einsatzkommando. You do know that this is strictly a political move on the parts of our two governments.”
Kimball suspected that it was. If not for the Spear of Destiny, he was sure that Pope Clement XV would never have dispatched the unit. It was, as Müller suggested, a political move with the primary objective to attain the relic of the Holy Lance. Cardinal Favino was simply the justifiable defense for the Vatican Knights to usurp Müller’s role as team leader. In fact, Kimball believed that the cardinal was nothing more than a pawn whose death would merely serve as a postscript in history to the pontiff, should Favino be mortally wounded. Pope Clement had no emotional ties to the man at all, only to the relic and the power it wielded.
“It is what it is,” Kimball told him. “You know the routine. We both accept orders from our principals without question.”
Müller nodded. Then: “There’s a limit to your operation. Four hours, which started the moment you exited the van.”
“Four hours.” Kimball looked at the tower and its seventy-five floors.
“The elevators have been disabled, as was the building’s nerve center,” stated Müller. “Now, she may stand tall but she’s also dead.”
“Entirely?”
“Entirely.”
“And you expect us to clear the floors in four hours?”
“Not my call or care. I’m only transferring the orders that have been handed to me over to you. Four hours. What I can tell you is that Ali Mustafa is located in a suite on the seventieth level. Whether he’s still there or not is unknown.”
