A Pius Legacy

by Declan Finn

  “Because I think we’re going to have company.”

  * * *

  8:00 PM

  Ryan looked over the newly acquired equipment, courtesy of Ioseph Mikhailov’s men. The array of supplies was impressive. There were all sorts of high technology weapons, including a Steyr ACR, an XM29 OICW, and an HK G11.

  Ryan’s eyes glittered as he looked over the cache. “I think I’m in love with their weapons supplier.”

  Deaglan Lynch smiled slightly. “How so?”

  Ryan pointed to both weapons. “The Steyr and the XM29, both prototypes. The G11, really good weapon, but limited production.”

  The Commandant chuckled. “You’re talking to an old-school warrior, lad. I don’t know about these fancy toys.”

  He sighed lightly, tapping the XM29’s top piece, a bulky telescopic sight. “This has a video camera, laser rangefinder, and a fire control computer.”

  Lynch leaned in, leaning on his cane for once. “Fire control? For what?”

  “This.” He tapped the piece next to it, which fit over a normal-looking automatic rifle, wrapped around the stock, and replacing the rifle butt. The butt of the top piece had a long and wide slot for a magazine ammunition feed. “Fires .20mm HE rounds.”

  Lynch’s eyes narrowed. “High explosive?”

  “And,” Ryan continued, “the XM29 became separated into two projects: the XM8 rifle, and the XM25 grenade launcher.”

  Lynch took a step back. “Ah. Nice toy. How do you know all of this? Weren’t you a stuntman before you were a bodyguard?”

  Ryan grinned, heaving the XM-29. “Yes, but I always made certain I got along well with the prop department. Besides, I’m in a line of work where I need the latest toys.”

  The older man smiled slightly and shook his head. “The joys of youth. If you’re such a good man at this, how come I’ve never heard of you?”

  “One, my clients are usually celebrities, because I work only by word-of-mouth, and I get paid a lot of cash. Second, some people value discretion.”

  Deaglan Lynch studied him a moment. “Obviously, you’re not one of them.”

  Ryan chuckled, slapping a cartridge into the automatic rifle. “What are you talking about?” he asked, grabbing a cartridge of HE rounds. “Aside from the airport hangar, I haven’t blown anything up in months.” He jammed in that magazine, checked the chamber and worked the slide, locking everything into place. “I have to make up for lost time.”

  Lynch was about to respond, when the image from the CNN feed caught his eye. “Lad, in which case, I hope you hurry.”

  “Why, what’s the matter?”

  Ryan glanced over, and blanched. The news showed a large crowd rampaging on a church, trying to break in the doors, and throwing rocks at the stained glass windows. Underneath, the caption said that it was footage live from Turkey.

  The scene switched to an aerial shot of Notre Dame Cathedral, in Paris, showing the island in the middle of the city locked down. The eight bridges getting to the island with the Cathedral on it were locked off, closed by the French police.

  Ryan smirked. “I see that they’re protecting their investment.”

  Lynch barely gave him a glance. “Hmm?”

  He gestured to the screen with a Glock 9. “The French nationalized Notre Dame years ago as a landmark. But now, they’re in this for the potential money they can get out of Church real estate. Imagine what Notre Dame can fetch if you sold pieces of it retail.”

  “A hefty sum, I imagine.”

  “Aye. But if it’s broken, it’s not worth as much.”

  Lynch nodded. “But what set them off this time?”

  “The Pope defended himself.”

  * * *

  Vatican City

  9:00 PM

  Scott ran towards the helicopter at a rate of speed that Bishop Xavier “XO” O’Brien, SJ, could have only called ramming speed. The head of Vatican Intelligence was almost impressed at the Mossad agent’s pace. He never struck Xavier as a track runner—perhaps a sprinter on a good day, if a whole hoard of adversaries were coming after him with knives.

  Then again, that cannot be considered a good day, now can it? he pondered as Scott nearly leapt onto the helicopter, tackling Manana. The operative caught him and pulled him into a kiss so deep, the Bishop looked around for any other priests so they wouldn’t be embarrassed.

  Maureen McGrail tapped Scott Murphy upside the head as she passed. “Down, kids,” she chided gently. “There are still grownups around.”

  Captain Wayne Williams smirked, glancing at the Jesuit. “I can only assume she means you.”

  XO arched a brow and looked up at the Captain’s graying silver-and-gold hair. “And you are simply prematurely gray?”

  The American nodded. “Yup. Hell, I’m a vet of Vietnam. So I’m considered either a little crazy, or very crazy.”

  The Jesuit thought a moment, searching his memory. “I assume you were not drafted, if you stayed in long enough to be promoted.”

  He waved it off. “Heck no, I volunteered. I even lied about my age to join up early.” He looked back towards the helicopter. “Hey, are you two going to tell us what happened?” he called to them. “All I know is Sean called us, and my son vanished.”

  Manana, with one arm wrapped around Scott, walked towards him, saying, “All I know is that Sean mentioned something about construction equipment, and Catherine of Siena.”

  “Hey, fellas!” a voice cried out. Everyone turned to see Villie Goldberg running at them, open laptop in hand. “I just got an email from Lansing, the Fed. You’re not going to believe this.”

  XO lit a cigarette, inhaled, and let little bits of smoke curl out his nose. “One thing at a time, my dear, we need to get everyone up to speed before we start introducing new elements.”

  “What in God’s name is so urgent I had to be dragged out of the Archives?” another voice called out.

  XO looked over at Matthew Kovach, clutching a windbreaker around his body as the helicopter rotors died down. Inna Petraro was marching right behind him, a shepherd leading a wayward sheep back into position.

  “I see you are with us at long last.”

  “I didn’t have any choice.” Kovach glanced back at his agent. The author rolled his eyes, then paused a few yards away from the helicopter. “Wow, when did you get back?” he asked, looking at Manana.

  Maureen leaned against the nose of the helicopter. “We just arrived.”

  Petraro’s eyes brightened. “Did you get Sean?”

  Manana shook her head. “He stayed behind. I think he’s going after the Pope.”

  She nodded, and sighed with a smile. “That sounds like him.”

  Manana looked around. “What is so urgent that I need to be told before Agent Goldberg can open her mouth?”

  XO drifted next to the Secret Service agent, casually taking the slip of paper out of her hand. He glanced as he said, “It seems that someone on al-Jazeera has taken a dislike to the way that His Holiness had defended himself on international television.” He paused for another moment, then slipped the piece of paper into his inner jacket pocket. He came out with another cigarette, took a deep drag on the one in his mouth, then chain-lit it before moving on. “Are you aware, Ms. Shushurin, about the way the Bible is broken down?”

  “You mean Genesis, Exodus, like that?”

  “I mean J, E, P and D.”

  She blinked. “I can kill everyone here with my bare hands, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “There are Jahwist, Elohist, Priestly, Deuteronomist. With the Torah, there is also the R—redactor, when it was edited in the late first millennium. Essentially, there are theories about which parts of the Bible were written down and codified by different authors at different times.”

  “I follow you.”

  The Vatican spymaster nodded, and moved back towards the basilica. “Then follow me back to…Gianni’s office.” They started walking, and he kept talking. “In large parts of th
e Muslim world, to do the same sort of thing with the Koran would earn you a death sentence. Everything came from the mouth of Mohammed as dictated to him first by Gabriel. When His Holiness decided to point out that Jesus’s miracles in the Koran were plagiarized from Christian apocrypha, they did not react well.”

  Manana arched a brow. “Truly?”

  Kovach smiled faintly. “I suppose that they did not like it when he started talking about Nazis.”

  “No,” Xavier O’Brien agreed. “The Syrians and Egyptians were, in particular, most annoyed.”

  Manana blinked. “He called them Nazis?”

  “Actually,” the priest said, “they were more offended at the implication that they would need any help from Christian foreigners.”

  She raised a brow. “Christian?”

  “The Nazis were Westerners,” XO told her. “A lot of the locals don’t distinguish. Mentioning that the first jihadists to meet Europe had been defeated by, of all things, the French, also did not go over well.”

  XO shrugged. “And when he asked about what would happen if Islamic symbols were desecrated by urine or animal dung, some interpreted his question as more of a recommended plan of action. It went downhill from there.”

  Manana blinked, worried. “Should we be expecting a small mob?”

  “No.” XO took another drag on the cigarette. “More a mid-range mob…with a large mob being the Visigoths sacking Rome. The Imam of Rome is busy whipping them up into an unholy fervor—then again, he’s paid by the Saudis. They should be here in about an hour. Any ideas?”

  This time, Scott Murphy smiled. “I think I have a way. I’m going to need a few things.”

  XO arched a brow, but didn’t express doubt—in fact, a corner of his lips turned up. “I am somehow not surprised. I will need Manana and Agent Goldberg, though.”

  Scott cocked his head. “Why, was that part of the paper Goldberg slipped you?”

  “Let’s say I need to make a phone call to Poland. What will you need?”

  “A makeup kit and a visit to the hospital…and, do you have an extra Papal robe lying around?”

  Chapter XXV

  Riot

  Day 8. 9:15 PM

  The temporary head of the Swiss Guard, a blond Swiss who Murphy couldn’t remember to save his life, drove. He had apparently stayed in Rome long enough to learn how to drive.

  And the police escort helped.

  Scott looked funny, he knew. His boss, XO, had given him a Papal robe that fit him perfectly. Apparently, after Pope John XXIII had to have a set of robes with a slit up the back just to make it fit when he was elected, the Papal tailors were prepared with various shapes and sizes for any possible size Pontiff.

  That part was easy. He had one of the other Swiss Guards sent out to grab something for his hat, and he was already halfway done with his makeup.

  The vehicle stopped at the emergency room of the hospital. He leapt out before it had come to a stop, and three other guards easily kept ahead of him.

  By the time they reached the fifth floor, Scott and the guards had attracted most of the attention in the hospital.

  And Hashim Abasi was waiting outside of his hospital room, being supported by a physical therapist. “Might I help you?” He blinked a few times. “Scott?”

  “Mr. Abasi, you’re needed.”

  Abasi looked down at his body. “I suppose I can get my coat, and my wheelchair...”

  “Don’t bother. We’ll carry you.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To stop a riot.”

  “You have an Imam in your back pocket?” Hashim Abasi asked.

  “Yes, one who spoke at the Dome of the Rock a few months ago.”

  * * *

  Ryan watched the television a bit as he slipped into the commando outfit he had borrowed from Deaglan Lynch…purchased from a mail-order catalog. They had decided to go for dark green instead of traditional black, mainly because black was darker than night.

  Ryan had just stopped short of using his control unit on his wrist—essentially a satellite-connected iPhone—when he saw the mob scene leaving the local Mosque in Rome. After CNN had cataloged the rioters passing two churches along the way, they predicted an intercept course for the Vatican.

  “Aw crap.” He glanced around, most of Deaglan’s fellow IRA guys had disappeared, leaving Ryan alone in the basement of an apartment complex not too far from the target.

  He looked around, hoping for some kind of communications device, but all that was left behind was a password-protected laptop. All that was left for him to do was sit here and wait. Possibly as rioters broke up the Vatican. Or as the Swiss Guards open fire on the mob, or as the local police force arrive to crack some heads open, or whatever other disaster happened.

  Ryan sighed and slowly slid into one of the metal folding chairs they had brought along with them. This wouldn’t all be for nothing, but it would certainly be an anti-climax to survive all of this, only to have the Vatican invaded and broken up by a bunch of locals who were pissed off over … who knows if they even knew. Mobs tended to have the IQ of herd animals.

  This was useless. Then again, so was he. He could probably disburse the crowd easily enough—breaking out a few of Giovanni Figlia’s microwave guns would have most of the rioters fleeing in pain. It would look strange on the evening news, but no one would die…

  And it wouldn’t guarantee that they wouldn’t move on and wreck a different church, or break up the next street over, or something equally mob-like.

  Ryan shifted in his chair, uncomfortable. Since he had been broken out, he made certain to drink enough fluids to wash out his kidneys twice, and it still felt like his insides were burning. Nobody had noticed, but he had to bite the inside of his cheek so hard at several points that more often than not he tasted blood. The pain was manageable—for him, anyway. For anyone who hadn’t been repeatedly set on fire, they would probably need more than Advil and Tylenol with codeine…

  And he was going to save the Pope in a few hours? He had to put in a serious effort to get through the pain.

  On the news, the crowd reached the last leg of its trip to the Vatican, marching towards the colonnade that marked the entryway to the centuries old city.

  The only two people at the mouth of the colonnade were a thoroughly wrecked Hashim Abasi, and an Imam… Blink. Imam? I thought an Imam called these people to battle?

  The Imam lifted a bullhorn to his beard—hopefully to his lips, Ryan couldn’t tell—and began to speak. Obviously, the CNN Arabic translator had been on standby, because his words were instantly translated by a man with a neat British accent. “I am Imam Habib Marwan, and next to me is Hashim Abasi, of the Egyptian police department. I hear that you have some concerns to express over the Pope’s performance in court.”

  The mob had slowed to a stop, and spread out, filling the opening of the colonnade from end to end, shoulder to shoulder.

  Ryan blinked at the name. Imam Habib Marwan? The name sounded familiar to Ryan, and he would swear the man looked familiar, but still…

  “My question is,” the Imam said, “what are you concerned about?”

  After several shouts that the translator couldn’t make out, the Imam said, “You say that the Pope has blasphemed our religion? He is not of Islam, how can he blaspheme, that is for heretics! He has offended us? By doing what? Quoting the Prophet Muhammed (peace be upon him)?”

  Hashim, in a wheelchair next to the Imam, reached for the bullhorn with his good arm. “How many of you have read the Koran? Koran says that the Prophet is the sole model for action, but has it not shown how many times the Prophet has erred himself? Even Aisha, his own wife, said how convenient some of Muhammad’s own revelations were—and this woman had been quoted in Hadith snarking ‘Truly thy Lord makes haste to do thy bidding.’ The Prophet broke deals when he ‘believed’ the other party would break faith. Good is become what benefits ‘Islam’ and evil is anything that ‘harms’ it. Is that truly how you think
Allah wants it to be? Or has it been what others have twisted it to mean? Do you think that the model man chooses expediency over what is right? Or is it more likely that you have been deceived?

  “Koran, 33:36, has even denied you the right to hold your own opinions.” Hashim looked to one man in the crowd. “And if that is the case, where is your beard?” He looked to the others. “And it is said by Allah—‘Fight them so that there be no more seduction, and the religion is God’s.’ It used to say that you, you, are to fight until the only religion is Islam, that infidels should be converted, subjected as dhimmis, or dead. Why are you here with only rocks and sticks?” He looked over his shoulder at St. Peter’s. “Will you level this place with such weapons? Will you make this a Mosque like the Hagia Sofia? Why have you not done so already? Are you unbelievers?”

  The crowd quieted down completely now, befuddled. Was Hashim trying to goad them to all-out war or turn them away? “Hadith says Jews are liars. It says that Jibril is the enemy of the Jews. And Koran 2:97 has said that ‘Allah is an enemy to those who reject faith.’ Yet a synagogue still stands on this planet. Why?

  “Could it be that some Hadith are wrong? That Allah does not want warfare with unbelievers anymore? That things have changed? Otherwise, why is Islam not the primary religion on the planet?”

  The Imam thanked Hashim, then took the bullhorn back. “The Pope criticized Koran and Hadith as it has been given to us! But how has it been given?

  ” The Imam looked at the others around him. They now started to look angry again. Really angry.

  “And now, you are weapons for their agenda! Who does the Pope’s words hurt? You, or the Saudi Princes who pay your Imam? You, or those who would rather have you fighting against the West than against those who have reduced your families to living in the desert, no better than dhimmis? Does the Pope hurt you, or the people who have treated our people worse than the infidels have?”

  The Imam’s anger poured over into the crowd, the people enraged and calling for the blood of those would treat them worse than the infidels. “Now is the time for us to stand up and say that they have betrayed Allah! How can we support those who want us dead? And how can we, who live for Allah, help them achieve this? Do we live for Allah, or for those who merely want power due only to him!”