The Crimson Dagger - Vatican Knights Series 23 (2020)

by Rick Jones

  “So, we’re going in blind?”

  “Yeah. Pretty much.”

  “Anything else?”

  Müller nodded. “No. I think that pretty much wraps it up. You know about Mustafa, I’ve been told, and the company of those he keeps—all commandos from different Middle Eastern forces, not really your typical brand of ISIS fighters.”

  “No. Not typically.”

  People were still trickling from the front entryway, the building being evacuated without any recorded casualties, which was a good sign.

  “All right,” Kimball said. “Four hours.”

  “Good luck.”

  As soon as the word ‘luck’ left Müller’s lips, the world suddenly shook as concussive blasts rocked the area. Windows on the fiftieth level exploded outward with the trajectory of glass and debris taking flight for as far as one-half mile in every direction. Flames billowed out with fiery blooms that turned into black smoke. And licks of flame started to lap at the exterior of the building, the fire now beginning its upward climb.

  Everyone below ducked as the building rocked from the resounding blast.

  Kimball looked up to take review of this newfound obstacle, then asked, “Semtex?”

  Müller nodded. “No. I don’t think so. That’s the fiftieth floor, the restaurant. The entire level is a five-star establishment that gives a 360-degree view of the city. All the floors above it are considered luxury suites. I’m guessing that Mustafa used the gas lines to the kitchen as a means to separate the upper levels from the lower tiers.” He turned to Kimball. “I have no idea how you plan to move your team through now that the stairwells have been taken out.”

  Kimball studied the building. And then: “I do.”

  Addressing his team of Vatican Knights to follow, Kimball led the charge inside the Kristallpalast.

  As smoke and fire billowed from the openings on the fiftieth floor, Müller could only shake his head and wonder if, perhaps, it was best for the Vatican Knights to take charge. Apparently, Ali Mustafa was operating within a league of his own.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Vienna, Austria

  ORF 1 broadcasting is a brilliant and innovative news reporting network and one of Austria’s lead reporting centers. One of ORF 1’s lead journalists, Adolphus Hoorn, was known to be ambitious and sometimes overly committed by skirting the rule of law after claiming ‘freedom of the press.’ His scoops had frequently triggered warranted investigations into corrupt findings. And because of this, journalistic accolades were usually not too far behind.

  From his desk as he watched the Kristallpalast online from ground teams, Adolphus could feel the tingling sensation that often prickled his scalp, that sense of brewing urgency that had catapulted him to the top of the journalistic food chain. He wanted to be there and to be a part of the overall scheme, which was to be front and center. He would break all the rules and standing regulations to promote himself, even with his arrest becoming a certainty. He had been incarcerated before with his antics of defying the law which put him within the glow of the public spotlight. He was a rock star in the industry, a virtuoso whiz kid who reported without fear of consequence because his gift was to provide the masses with ‘unadulterated public knowledge.’ In Adolphus Hoorn’s mind, rules did not apply to him.

  Reporting news from ground level were the acts of novices, he considered, with boring anecdotes having been woven from so-called witnesses. Lines were established and a perimeter cordoned off with reels of yellow tape and managing police officers. And the masses had gathered religiously behind these boundaries as their macabre fascination kicked in.

  And then it happened, something wonderful, stupendous and newsworthy at the same time, something that would enable him to adorn his wall with one more accolade for journalistic reporting.

  A tier of the hotel exploded outward from all four sides with the level belching flame and smashing windows. Broken glass flew with the trajectory that carried far and wide. The camera within the cameraman’s grip wobbled tremendously from the concussive blasts. And when the camera readjusted and refocused on the building, the hull of the Kristallpalast was being consumed by fire and smoke.

  There was a gleam in both of Adolphus Hoorn’s eyes, those star-point glimmers of light that silently stated that rules were not made for him because the shield of ‘freedom of the press’ had its advantages.

  He watched the flames as they climbed and lapped at the building, charring it.

  His pulse raced to the point where he thought his heart would misfire and his excitement unmanageable.

  Rules were not made for me, he thought.

  Grabbing his cap, Adolphus Hoorn raced from his office to look for Wilhelm Heickert, the channel’s chopper pilot, and found him sitting on the toilet in the stall with the door closed, the man doing his business.

  “Come on, Wilhelm. An opportunity awaits.”

  “There is no opportunity because the airspace around the hotel is restricted.”

  “Wilhelm, we’re the press. We have leeway.”

  “Look, Adolphus, I know you’re excited because you see an advantage in the storyline, so I’ll say this again: the airspace around the hotel is restricted.”

  “If you aid me in this, Wilhelm, if you take me up, I’ll pay you one thousand euros.” When Wilhelm Heickert did not respond, Adolphus upped the ante. “All right, two thousand euros.”

  “And if I get arrested?”

  “I’ll pay your bail, as well.”

  “On top of the agreed-upon euros?”

  “Yes.”

  There was movement behind the stall’s door, the flush of a toilet, and then the door opened. Wilhelm Heickert was a small and nondescript man, but his piloting skills were stellar since he had served as part of Austria’s Kommando Luftstreitkräfte. Though he was an elite flyer, he was also known to be quite mercenary.

  Moving past Adolphus and to the sink basin, and then after washing and drying his hands, he said, “What are you waiting for? We have a story to cover.”

  Both men quickly made haste towards the chopper’s launch pad.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The Kristallpalast

  Vienna, Austria

  The gas explosion had taken out three floors including the stairwells, but not enough to compromise the beams or supports. The buttresses had held firm.

  When the gas on the restaurant level ignited with the upsurge sending waves and shivers throughout the building after the explosion, Ali Mustafa appeared calm and reserved with one leg crossed over the other as though in leisure, while holding the Spear of Destiny in both hands. The others, however, appeared disturbed that their surroundings had shuddered. Pictures hanging on the walls had fallen from their moorings. Vases and desktop items fell to the floor, some breaking. And cracks appeared in the walls and ceiling, the fissures snaking across the surfaces with incredible speed.

  When the shaking stopped, Mustafa, in the same state of calm, set aside the Holy Lance.

  But it was Abd-al-Mumin who stepped up in challenge. “Have you resolved to burn us alive in Allah’s name and martyr us before we have a chance to serve? You said that we’d be in Syria within hours! And yet you do this!”

  Mustafa patted the air, the gesture telling Abd-al-Mumin to calm down. “In warfare, Abd-al-Mumin, you anticipate the move of the enemy and counter with a move of your own. I have taken away every possible advantage of the enemy’s approach from above and below. People are now trapped on the upper levels, meaning that the Austrian government’s new priority is to save their lives. I will grant them this opportunity to do so—to save their lives—but only when my demands have been met. What you do not realize, my friend, is that I have taken away the enemy’s ability to stall for time. The building burns, like a candle, limiting their time to act.” He turned to examine those faces around him—at Zamir, Talib, Qusay and Abd-al-Mumin—all who appeared doubtful. Ghazi remained topside by the helipad, though Mustafa could picture him wearing the same
incredulous look. “Trust me,” Ali Mustafa added calmly. “I have merely separated our enemy from all their advantages. Now . . . all their advantages belong to me.”

  Ali Mustafa looked at the Holy Lance and traced his fingers lovingly over the relic. “The power of Allah is strong,” he stated evenly. “Do you not feel it? Do you continue to question His might?”

  No one answered.

  Mustafa then picked up the cellphone, hit the number 9 on the pad, and put the phone to his ear. “In a moment,” he said to everyone in general, “you’ll understand everything.”

  The phone rang once, twice, three times before someone on the other end answered.

  * * *

  After the Vatican Knights began their operation by entering the Kristallpalast, Müller’s cellphone rang. Zeller, whose face betrayed no emotion even though his partner, the man with the olive complexion, had become blanched over the hours, had merely stood by as a silent equal.

  Müller looked at the number on the screen and recognized it. He placed the phone by his ear after tapping the receive button. “What the hell did you do, Mustafa?”

  “Simple,” he told him. “I have stolen away your advantages and placed these opportunities within my grasp.”

  Müller looked up at the flames, which were climbing alongside the building. “There are people still inside the building,” he told Mustafa.

  “That’s right. Those from the fiftieth floor up. Your priority now, Müller, is to save their lives. But in order to do that, then you must comply with the demands that I’m about to summarize to you in detail.” There was a beat. And then: “Are you ready?” When Müller did not respond, Ali Mustafa went ahead with his strategy. “One: the stairwells are gone, meaning that there’s no way up or down from the fiftieth floor, which neutralizes your unit. Two: the building will burn which limits your time to respond, meaning that I have taken away your ability to stall. If you want to save the people trapped inside, then you of all people know that time is not a luxury. Follow my demands precisely, then you will have enough time to manage a rescue to evacuate those remaining few who are trapped inside. Do you understand me so far, Müller?”

  “I hear you.”

  “Excellent. Now, I want you to send a chopper to the helipad. One large enough to hold my team and the hostages. If something happens that shouldn’t, if you plan something that would play out militarily on your part, then the hostages will die. And so that you understand me, Müller, the Vatican’s Cardinal Secretary of State and the associate judge from the United States Supreme Court have both been fitted with suicide vests. Are we still on the same page?”

  “We are.”

  “I prefer an 18 AW169M helicopter, one that seats ten and flies at one hundred seventy-five miles per hour, according to its online specifications. You can locate one at the military base in Salzburg, which is one hundred fifty miles west of our position. Given the vehicle’s rate of speed and flight time, the aircraft should be here within the hour. I will allow time to gather a flight crew and fueling, say ninety minutes from now. Not one second after or the hostages and the guests trapped below will burn. Do you understand?”

  “A chopper from Salzburg military base, an 18 AW169M, in ninety minutes.”

  “Excellent. Now, and listen carefully, stage two of the operation is that the chopper will take my team and the hostages to Vienna International Airport. There, I want a plane fueled up and ready to go to a destination that I will hold secret. One pilot and co-pilot. So, I repeat: if you plan something that would play out militarily on your part, then the hostages will die as will the pilots. Is this clear?”

  “It is.”

  “Repeat what I just told you.”

  “You are to be transported via chopper to Vienna International Airport. There, a plane will be fueled up and ready to go to a destination that you hold secret, with just a pilot and co-pilot. If Austrian military or law enforcement intervenes, then the hostages and the pilots will die.”

  “Excellent. Once the plane takes off, there will be no military escort, since I’m assuming that you’ll be following us on radar anyway. If I see any military aircraft, just one, I will assume it to be a threat and kill the hostages. Even in flight.” A beat: “Do you understand?”

  “I do. But now I have questions.”

  “The longer you stall, Müller, the more the building burns. The more the building burns, the quicker people will die.”

  “How do I know you will release the hostages when you get to your destination point?”

  “You don’t. But you don’t have either a choice or the advantage, do you?”

  Müller nibbled on his lower lip. Then: “Can you guarantee me that you’ll release them once you reach your destination?”

  “Ninety minutes from this point, Müller. Not one second more. If you’re late, not only will the hostages die when you could have prevented it, but those trapped on the upper levels as well. How many people do you think we’re talking about here, Müller? Twenty-five? Fifty? More? You now have eighty-nine minutes.”

  There was a click, the connection cut on the part of Mustafa.

  Müller stared at the phone and wanted to dash it against the pavement. He was angry because he had been shoved into a corner with no way out. Mustafa had taken away every possible advantage, including time. The building was now a melting candle, the wick burning. It would take three, maybe four hours for the flames to reach the upper most level of the seventy-fifth floor. Mustafa wanted the chopper there in ninety minutes, leaving the Austrian authorities anywhere between ninety minutes and two hours to extract maybe a hundred people who remained trapped.

  Mustafa had played his hand well, even though the gamble was high. What if the Kristallpalast burned at a greater rate than anticipated, like within two hours instead of four, especially when the sprinkler system had been downed the moment the building’s Central Command had been destroyed.

  Müller looked upward to see the flames climbing at a driven rate, the fire voracious in its appetite.

  Then as he shook his head begrudgingly, he thought: We’re not going to make this. The fire’s moving too fast.

  Then he looked at the door that led into the lobby. The Vatican Knights, he considered, better be everything they’re alleged to be. And I mean everything.

  Once again, he looked skyward at the flames, sighed, then said to Zeller: “Two things. First, find someone to turn off the gas lines before that building turns into a complete bonfire.”

  “And the other?”

  After a pause, Müller added, “Get me Central Command.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Vienna, Austria

  As the tower continued to burn while black smoke billowed and rose from the level of broken windows, the news chopper containing Wilhelm Heickert and Adolphus Hoorn flew the distance between two points, that of a straight line, from the station to the Kristallpalast. While police choppers tried to intercept them and with bullhorn warnings demanding that they divert their course, these orders apparently fell upon deaf ears as Hoorn remained fixed on adjusting his camera in order to catch live images of those who were trapped 500 feet above the city streets. As the police choppers drew dangerously close, Heickert expertly maneuvered his aircraft to create distance.

  Up ahead, Heickert’s chopper continued to close in on the tower as curls of black smoke rolled heavily from the fiftieth story. Licks of flames in hues of orange and red and yellow continued to lap at the building’s exterior, climbing and blackening the glass on the upper tiers. Behind them, the police choppers began to peel back and move away.

  “Ah-ha,” said Heickert. “The boys finally fell back.”

  “You do know we’ll be jailed for this, right?” Hoorn said as he continued to toy with his camera.

  “Just an overnighter,” Heickert replied. “I’ve spent more time inside the ol’ dungeon sleeping off a drunken binge after getting into a fight or two. Company will bail us out come morning on their dime, as long a
s we have the footage.”

  As their chopper approached, they could see the state-of-the-art skyscraper that was surrounded by the Baroque architecture that dated back centuries, with this blend of the new construction versus the old appearing strangely odd and out of place. And in the eyes of some, it was a blight on the landscape. But it was even more so as ribbons of smoke drifted lazily skyward while the flames on the fiftieth level burned uncontrollably from natural gas fuel.

  “Not too close, now,” Hoorn cautioned. Then he raised the camera to eye level to catch a live feed. The exterior of the Kristallpalast was beginning to char with grimy scales wherever the fire scorched the surface. But Adolphus Hoorn could not catch anyone beyond the darkened glass, the smoke too thick, too heavy.

  Hoorn then turned to Heickert, and with his thumb he began to jab it skyward as a gesture to the pilot to take an upward path. Nodding, Heickert pulled back on the cyclic stick and started his climb to the building’s tallest reach.

  * * *

  Ghazi was a man who tried everything in his power to appeal to his father. No matter what he did, no matter the strides he made or the goals he achieved, it was never enough. His father had treated him like a pariah, the outcast who never measured up. When Ghazi had been accepted into the King Abdullah ll Special Forces Group, he thought his father would finally beam enough to open up his heart. But his father remained cold and distant, giving his son a disinterested harrumph as though to clear his throat, before walking away. Ghazi had never been so crushed or so defeated, knowing that his father would never see him in a greater light.

  When his stint with the special forces group was over, Ghazi quickly discovered his calling with the Islamic State, who embraced him like a brother and gave him the family he always wanted. Within this newfound band of brothers, Ghazi had never felt so needed or wanted, the man finally discovering his self-worth. Here, I am the light in the eyes of those that my father has never shown me. Here, I am respected as any man can be. Here . . . I am somebody. When Abd-al-Mumin and Ali Mustafa accepted him as part of the brotherhood, that was the day Ghazi offered his mind and soul to the Islamic State. Now, less than a year later and not having spoken a word to his father since, Ghazi was a true warrior whose value was far greater than when he served with the King Abdullah ll Special Forces Group. And with a lingering and thoughtful smile, he thought: To serve Ali Mustafa is to serve Allah.