by Rick Jones
After the connection was disconnected, Müller sighed and looked at the building. It was as Mustafa had indicated with the metaphor spot on. The fire was consuming the raw materials of the beams and supports as quickly as the intertwined wooden shoots of the Wicker Man. Soon, as the heat grew too hot, the topside weight would prove too much for the softening supports to maintain.
Zeller gave Müller a sidelong glance. Then: “Asking for the impossible, is he?”
“To a degree.” Müller pointed at the building and at the towering flames. “She’s going to come down, so we need to push back—and I mean way back—enough to assure that no one will get hurt when she does.”
“You really think she’s going to come down?”
“I can feel the heat from here.” He turned to Zeller. “What have you got for me?”
“Four choppers are on their way from the Salzburg military base,” he answered. “An 18 AW169M, and three Chinooks that were on loan for training from the United States with the Chinooks to be used for the airlift. They’ll be stationed inside the Heldenplatz where they’ll wait for the order to commence the operation of the transfer.”
“The Heldenplatz,” he said. “Where all this started.” The Heldenplatz was a public square in front of Hofburg Palace and the Imperial Treasury, with the irony not lost on the Einsatzkommando leader. Everything would begin and end from the same center, he determined. And then: “Were you able to verify the number of guests that left the hotel thus far?”
Zeller nodded. “Everyone with the exception of fifty-four people. All who were believed to be above the fiftieth floor at the time of the explosion.”
“That’s it?”
“Everyone else is accounted for. The upper tiers of the hotel are high-end rates because they’re suites, not rooms, for people with deep pockets. A lot of the suites just happened to be vacant.”
“Thank God for that,” said Müller. “The Chinooks can perform the airlifts with two runs, less than ten minutes.” Since a Chinook helicopter can hold up to thirty-six people including the crew, and with only fifty-four people to extract from the site, Müller felt somewhat confident, but not entirely. The only unknown was how fast the fire would move now that it had a life of its own.
“I can see it on your face,” Zeller told him. “The doubt.”
“There’s a good chance that the Vatican Knights didn’t make it once the building lit up. In fact, I’m leaning in the direction that there’s a good chance that they didn’t. I hope I’m wrong, though.”
“You don’t trust Mustafa?”
“Of course not. He doesn’t care about the people. He only cares about himself and his cause. Seriously, do you really believe he’s going to allow the Vatican’s Secretary of State and the judge from the Supreme Court live?”
“Maybe,” said Zeller. “I’m sure Mustafa will try to ransom off the cardinal, which the Vatican will pay for his release. And I’m sure, even though the United States claims that they don’t negotiate with terrorists, will do so for the sake of attaining the release of the judge.”
“Yeah. Maybe. But at least we’ll be able to extract the others.”
“Only if the Vatican Knights are capable of escorting the remaining guests to safety. If not, then the Chinooks will never get off the ground since there would be no reason for them to lift.”
Müller considered this a moment before saying to Zeller, “Get on the line with Command Center and inform them that the time factor has significantly changed with an ASAP deadline.”
Zeller continued to watch the rapid climb of the flames, then back to Müller. “You don’t think they’re going to make it, do you?”
Müller sidestepped this question by saying, “Tell Central Command that we’re fighting two enemies here. Ali Mustafa and the fire. The only rescue for those trapped above the fiftieth floor is now in the hands of the Vatican Knights. I just hope they made it before the gas line went off.”
Zeller, as he was walking away, added, “We can only hope.”
By the measure of their tones, however, they sounded as though they had both conceded to defeat.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Inside the Kristallpalast
Vienna, Austria
Ali Mustafa found himself alone inside the master suite as a desperate man who clung to desperate hope. The firestorm beneath him was raging and out of control, something he did not believe would happen under the mighty power of the Holy Lance. Surely it was the conduit between he and Allah, he thought, a mystical talisman that would see him directing Allah’s vast armies across a wasteland. But the Spear of Destiny seemed to promote greater challenges, greater adversities. The fire was climbing at an exponential rate. And soon, like the twin towers in New York City, it would collapse with the monolith piling at the building’s foot as mere rubble. Such horrific images continued to play through his mind like a film loop, seeing the twin towers falling in a moment he once rejoiced at, now brought him a shiver from an ice-cold trace of an unseen and bony talon that ran up along his spine. Death was approaching, and the touch was a foretelling that Death was close by.
“No. No-no-no!” Mustafa grabbed the holy relic and pressed it to his forehead. Still, there was no fantastical magic to its touch or tingling of sensation. Nor was there an absorbing heat that transmitted from the artifact to the flesh of his brow.
“Please, Allah. Gift me with the power of the Holy Lance which had once been dipped in the blood of a great and holy messenger and bestow upon me the gift of leading a great army commanded by You . . . through me.”
He closed his eyes and pleaded for the transfer. He waited. He prayed. Still, the scent of rising smoke became more acute and definitely more sinister.
“Allah . . . Pleeeaaase.”
As Ali Mustafa prayed, the world below, the fire and flames of a brewing Hell, were moving at record pace.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Inside the Kristallpalast
Vienna, Austria
The Vatican Knights knew that Mustafa’s primary base of operation was a suite on the seventieth level, an aerie to work from high above the streets of Vienna.
On the fifty-sixth level, which was an obvious killing ground, the smoke was little more than a thin veil. Bodies were lying along the floor of the corridor, the results of outright killings and executions. Some had the wounds of being strafed by gunfire. Others had the telltale sign of powder burns that surrounded the bullet wounds on their foreheads, the round having been fired from close range. And by the look of the bodies’ positions, the victims had died on their knees while pleading. There were six bodies all together, three men and three women, with no obvious consideration of gender since terrorists were equal opportunity killers.
Smoke was beginning to build within the hallway, the hazy curls thickening.
Kimball realized that time was moving quickly and that their window of opportunity was closing. “Job, clear the rooms and make sure that those still alive move upward. Keep them close and keep them safe. Move quickly. And always assume that danger exists behind every door, so use caution.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The rest of the team will clear the upper levels with the assumption that Mustafa’s people are setting up positions to hold a perimeter. We’ll break the lines and press forward until we find the hostages. Stay on your mic and listen to everything I say. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Kimball gave Job a wink and then a thumbs-up gesture. “Good man,” he told him. Then Kimball was on the move with Jeremiah and Isaiah right behind him.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Inside the Kristallpalast
Vienna, Austria
As soon as Kimball, Isaiah and Jeremiah reached the fifty-seventh level from the east stairwell, Kimball held them up. “All right,” he began. “We’re down a man. So, we separate and operate with both speed and urgency. And remember the primary objective here: find the hostages and neutralize the threat. In accordance with that directive, we wil
l forge a path for Job to take a safe passage to the topside level. Let’s hope that the Austrian authorities are up to the task of developing a means of extraction.” Kimball then placed a fisted hand over his heart, the salute of a Vatican Knight, and said, “Loyalty above all else accept honor.”
Isaiah and Jeremiah mimicked his action and in chorus said, “Loyalty above all else accept honor.”
Kimball appraised the faces of his lieutenants and recalled past memories when they had shared good times together, both on and off the battlefield. These were his brothers not by blood but by faith and kinship devotion. No matter where he was, even an ocean away, he could always feel them. And then: “Look, I don’t have to spell out what we’re up against or how difficult the situation may be, but I want you two to know that you’ve served me well.”
Jeremiah gave him a one-sided grin and said, “You’re getting me all misty-eyed here. All of a sudden you’re a sentimentalist?”
Kimball did not return a smile. And because of this, Jeremiah believed it was because Kimball had little faith in a successful outcome. Jeremiah, after laying a hand gently on Kimball Hayden’s shoulder as a show of camaraderie, said in his Aussie accent, “Look, mate, you’ve led us through the impossible before. Many times, in fact. Besides, aren’t you the one who always said that the word ‘impossible’ doesn’t mean that something can’t be done, it only measures the degree of difficulty?”
Kimball nodded. “Yeah.”
“Then why the downside of thinking? It’s not like you.”
This was true. Kimball had always been the optimist when it came to combat situations. But this was different. They were inside a flaming tower with no downward escape, the inferno an impassable barrier that was unconquerable. The steel girders, the support beams, everything had their weak spots with some areas more susceptible to being compromised due to the astonishing heat that sometimes softens metal to molten levels. Even if the flames didn’t get them, the collapse of the building would. And this didn’t take into consideration those who fought for Mustafa, which was a fighting force of military elites. If there was one thing Kimball was always sure about, it was that there was never enough time when you needed it.
“Everyone locked and loaded,” Kimball finally said. “Do whatever is necessary to blaze a trail for Job. Remove all hostile elements. Secure the assets. And then maybe we’ll talk about having a beer or two afterwards. Sound like a plan?”
Isaiah smiled. “I don’t drink.”
“Yeah,” said Jeremiah, smiling. “Neither do I.”
Kimball gave them a wink. “Yeah. Me neither. I gave it up. Club soda then.”
Kimball Hayden realized that there was no real strategy of approach given the limited number of passageways. They were about to go into the battlefield with only their ultimate training and raw instinct, though a deadly combination that had served them well over past assignments.
As smoke continued to build on the level, Kimball stated evenly to his teammates, “You know what to do.”
Dispersing, Kimball’s message was all too clear: It was now time for the Vatican Knights to go on the hunt.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Inside the Kristallpalast
Vienna, Austria
Judge Rosenberg was sitting in the corner of the room with his eye on the woman, an Asian, who appeared distraught by the way she rocked nervously. Cocking his head, he asked her, “And what is your name, my dear?”
The woman stopped rocking, then she communicated in her native tongue. Though the judge did not understand her, he did pick up a few words he recognized as Chinese.
The judge smiled at her. “I see,” he told her. “From China?”
She understood the English word for ‘China,’ but nothing else.
Judge Rosenberg chortled at this because he found the current situation oddly amusing.
“Something funny?” the cardinal asked him, the man obviously irritated.
“As a matter of fact,” he answered. “I do. The woman is from China, a Buddhist. I’m a Jew and you’re a Catholic.”
Cardinal Favino proffered the judge a quizzical look.
“Don’t you see?” the judge said to him. “Everything here has the makings of a bad joke. A man walks into a bar with three people: A Catholic, a Jew and a Buddhist—”
“Are you out of your mind,” the cardinal intervened. “This is not a joke.”
“No. It’s not,” said the judge. “But it is a moment to find hope within a terrible situation. I often see humor as the panacea to troubling times, and then I try make the best of things from worst-case scenarios.”
The cardinal, who sat with his back against the wall, continued to rake his fingers through his hair. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he simply stated.
“What? To see that the real world outside the protective bubble of the Vatican is a terrible place that’s filled with terrible people?” The judge then chuckled with a dry laugh that was brief and somewhat sarcastic. “What I don’t like about you, Cardinal, is you, being a man of the cloth and someone who is high up on the totem pole of the Vatican hierarchy, possesses such little faith.”
“Faith is not going to get us through this mess.”
“And that, Cardinal, is why you worry so . . . Because of your lack of faith. It takes more than just wearing the robes of your position or preaching words from the Bible. I understand fully the position we’re in. And I allow my faith to carry me forward knowing that no matter what happens . . . this is not the end. And you, Cardinal, of all people, should know this.”
“We wear vests that hold explosive bricks, and yet you sit there wanting to tell jokes,” the cardinal returned.
“And wallowing in self-pity, as you are, is going to change that? The only thing we can do, Cardinal, the only thing we’re in control of, is to make the best of a bad situation.”
But Cardinal Favino did not draw from the judge’s advice. Instead, he continued to rake his fingers through his hair again and again and again.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Inside the Kristallpalast
Vienna, Austria
Job was a huge man with little body fat whose contoured muscles were highly pronounced beneath the fabric of his sleeves. So, when kicking in doors, the wooden jambs immediately splintered on contact. Rooms were cleared with quickness and efficiency with his shoutouts for trapped guests going unanswered.
It wasn’t until he reached the level above that he came across the room where people had been herded inside, nearly a dozen.
The Vatican Knight held the point of his suppressed weapon steady, determining that everyone within the room was a hostile until proven otherwise. The frightened faces of men, women and children, which appeared like the faces of war-torn refugees, spoke volumes that they posed no threat to the Vatican Knight.
“Is anybody else inside the suite?” Job cried out.
A man stepped forward and pointed to the cleric collar surrounding Job’s neck. “Are you a priest?”
“Is there anybody else in the room outside of what I’m seeing?” Job repeated.
The man shook his head. “No. We’re it. But there are more. Some were killed, however. Executed. We were told to stay inside the room or suffer the same fate.”
Job lowered his weapon. These people were stuck between a fire below and with assassins above, hardly a place anyone would want to be in. Yet Job knew his primary objective, which was to see these people and others through. “You said there are others?”
The man, who spoke with a British accent, said, “In the rooms close by. Same thing: if they leave, they die. That was when two people with guns executed a couple to make their point.”
“Do you know where the rooms are? Where the others are kept?”
“On this floor? Yeah.”
“Follow me and stay close. Stay quiet. And do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”
The man nodded. Then he turned to the others within the room with his gesture corrobora
ting their understanding of the orders given by Job. They did, with everyone confirming that they were all on the same page.
Job, who then checked the hallway only to see the beginnings of a smoky haze developing, led his newfound flock to safety.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Inside the Kristallpalast
Vienna, Austria
Zamir was on the sixty-fifth level where the conference rooms were, the man parading up and down the hallways as though he was master of his terrain. With his sidearm and khanjar, it was all he needed in order to rule this kingdom.
Behind him . . . a noise, something that was as small as the creak of a floorboard and barely perceptible, but enough to trigger his imagination that it could be anything else but.
Zamir turned and listened. Nothing but silence.
Another sound, the same creak, like a loose board being disturbed, even when the floor was layered with Berber carpet.
The terrorist moved down the hallway with the point of his suppressed Glock directed in front of him. His footfalls were quiet as he moved with feline grace and silence. Then he stopped to listen, his head turning like a radar dish so that his ears could scan for sounds.
Nothing.
He continued forward, the man on high alert.
Up ahead after turning the bend of a hallway, he glimpsed what he thought to be someone entering a room. It was quick and fleeting, like catching something that hangs on the periphery of your vision, only for it to dart off the radar when you cast your sight in that direction.
Zamir was not hesitant at all. He moved down the corridor with quickness to give chase. When he reached the Conference Room door, he discovered that the door was not flush with the doorjamb. It was open but a mere crack, as though an invitation to Zamir. As he pushed it wide with the tips of his fingers, the door whined in protest on its hinges. It was a sound that made Zamir wince.
