by Rick Jones
With the blessing of al-Sazeem, Ezekiel was transplanted to Dearborn where he became a trusted officer within the ranks and team manager of U.S.-born radicals who had found Allah as their saving grace. With the infiltration of data being purposely fed to al-Sazeem by the Lohamah Psichlogit, who were masking themselves as a radical group from Yemen, regarding a lethal strain held inside a lab of minimal security in Galveston, Texas, which provided an opportunity too good to pass up for al-Sazeem who wanted to seize the moment.
. . . Click . . .
When al-Sazeem communicated with his contacts in Canada and Iran, it opened up traceable channels to terrorist organizations as well as the routes to their communication grid. They were falling right into the Lohamah Psichlogit’s hands. The encrypted communications were intercepted and translated, condemning the factions by their own admissions that the virus was to be used as a WMD against the sovereign nations of the United States and Israel. And once the asset was obtained, then it would be given off to the Canadian handler, who would then proffer it to couriers from the Middle East.
Abraham Obadiah had superbly spun a web and quickly snared al-Sazeem, deceiving the man to take steps that would ultimately galvanize the world to condemn Iran and its associated ties with terrorists. The NSA and CIA would look at these messages as fundamentally sound. Nor would the agencies realize that the true catalyst in all this was secretly their deeply committed ally in Israel.
Israel had played everyone well on several fronts. And won.
. . . Click . . .
As team leader, Ezekiel’s first mission as a member of the Islamic Revolutionary Front, was to govern a team into the lab and secure the Omega Strain. Once completed, then he would return to Dearborn and hand it off to al-Sazeem, who would remove a number of vials targeted for U.S. locations, and then send the remaining vials to Tehran for further examination and propagation of the strain.
. . . Click . . .
But al-Sazeem would never get the vials since Ezekiel had completed what he was groomed to do: to infiltrate a known terrorist group, commit a crime on their behalf, and then point an accusing finger at al-Sazeem, who sealed his own fate with over-brimming confidence that Ezekiel would return and put the glory of life and death directly into his hands, which, of course, he did not do. Everything had worked according to Obadiah’s mastery.
Instead of al-Sazeem being the sole bearer of the Omega Strain, Obadiah was in control of the pathogen. And he would somehow get it to Israel through covert channels where virologists would attempt to break it down to its basic components. That is to say, with the exception of a single tube that was under the strict authority of Ezekiel, who had an agenda of his own.
. . . Click . . .
Ezekiel sat up and threw his legs over the edge of the bed, the bottoms of his feet touching the floor. The material of his tank-top clung to him, all sweaty and wet as if he had been a participant in a wet T-shirt contest. After wiping his brow with a sweep of his forearm, he put the gun down on the nightstand and grabbed a cigar-shaped tube that was made of burnished nickel. At the top end of the tube was a small LED window that read 28 °, the cool temperature a constant. And then he brought he tube to his cheek and closed his eyes, feeling the coldness against his skin, which felt good to the touch.
Yes, he thought endearingly. I have my own agenda.
Not only was Bensenville a testing ground, it was also the beginning of the end of Vatican City.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Vatican
Pope Pius XIV had called to order the Society of Seven, a group of cardinals responsible for deciding the clandestine operations of the Vatican Knights. In order for the Knights to be sent on a mission, the criteria of one of three possibilities have to be met: One, to protect the interests of the Church; Two, to protect the sovereignty of the Church; and Three, to protect the citizenry of the Church. Since it was Ezekiel who stole the Omega Strain and presumably tested it on Bensenville, a town precisely the size of Vatican City, with the assumptions being that (A) Ezekiel was making a statement, and (B) he was testing the pathogen to see the extent of its reach on such a community of equal size to Vatican City. This was hardly coincidence.
Cardinals Sambini and Gardenzio led the cast alongside Pope Pius and four others. At the moment they were discussing their options regarding Vatican safety while sitting at a table reminiscent of medieval times, the wood held together with metal bands and rivets. Along the walls were ancient torches that had gone unused for centuries. Above them, and sitting within the stone recesses of the ceiling, a series of incandescent bulbs cast a feeble glow over the table.
“Assumptions,” stated Cardinal Sambini. “That’s all they are. Mere . . . assumptions. There is nothing to indicate that Ezekiel would ever target the Vatican.”
“So do we just turn a blind eye to what has happened to the town of Bensenville?” returned the pope, his measure even. “Do we just make another assumption that Ezekiel will not use the virus against Vatican interests simply because he was once a Vatican Knight?”
“With all due respect, Your Holiness, Ezekiel has no reason to attack Vatican City whatsoever. None. His only reason to war against the Vatican was Kimball Hayden, who is no longer with us.”
“But does he know this? Does he know that Kimball is no longer with us?”
Cardinal Sambini appeared to think this over, the big man falling back into his chair, his eyes reflecting.
“Gentlemen,” began the pope, “the truth to the matter is this: Ezekiel was a Vatican Knight, which means that we bear responsibility to what happened to those people in New Mexico. Eighty people have lost their lives due to the actions of a single man trained within the shadows of St. Peter’s church. Whether or not he knows that Kimball is only with us in spirit, it doesn’t take away the fact that he chose Bensenville for a specific purpose. If the purpose is to eventually target Vatican City, then it is our duty to respond. If he intends to use the pathogen for purposes outside the holy city, is this not equally our responsibility to protect those who cannot protect themselves since Ezekiel is a product of the church?”
Cardinal Gardenzio concurred. “I agree,” he said. “The actions of Ezekiel, I believe, shows us that his objectives are the intentions of a man with no conscience. I also believe, that his actions were done with a specific purpose in mind. To what that purpose is remains vague to me. However, with that said, we cannot simply cast aside the fact that Ezekiel has a certain plan for this particular strain. Whether it be against the citizenry or against the Vatican, it makes no difference. We have a responsibility to counterbalance the situation, to make right something that has gone horribly wrong. Not only is it our duty, is also our responsibility. We should not take for granted that Ezekiel will not cast his vengeance upon the church because Kimball is no longer among us. Just as the pontiff said, Ezekiel may not know of Kimball’s passing. And if this is the case, then we must fortify Vatican City on all fronts.”
Pius agreed. “Ezekiel will come to us. And when he does, then we will be prepared. I want Leviticus and Isaiah to captain the Swiss Guard and Vatican Security. Should a hostile rebellion suddenly jeopardize the church from abroad, then Jeremiah will have to mobilize his unit to wherever that skirmish may be. But right now it’s imperative that we strengthen the boundaries of the city any way we can. Leviticus will deploy the Swiss Guard wherever necessary in order for them to utilize their skills of marksmanship. Isaiah will act as lead principal for Vatican Security and canvas the Square and the city’s borders. In the meantime, I will assemble a team from the SIV to track down Ezekiel. Should they find him, then I will dispatch a team of Vatican Knights to bring him in.”
Cardinal Mancini was a short and rotund man with doughy features and a deep cleft his chin. He was also a bespectacled man whose eyes loomed large behind the lenses of his glasses, and a man of articulate intelligence. When he spoke he did so with an air of refined aristocracy, with every syllable of every word clearly articulated. “If I may,” he
added. “Let’s not forget that Ezekiel was Kimball’s protégé, which places him on a skill-level high above most. When the SIV goes after him, their hands will be more than full. Ezekiel will not simply hand himself over to the SIV or the Vatican Knights.”
Pope Pius remained quiet as he reflected on his thoughts, noting that Mancini intuited correctly that the takedown would not be an easy one, but a war. One that would be rife with a lot of bodies left behind.
“Have we any other choice,” stated the pontiff, “then I’m willing to listen. Nothing would suit me better than to entertain solutions to would lead to a peaceful resolution. But with things being as they are, with reality being what it is, sacrifices will have to be made in order to save the many.” Bonasero Vessucci labored to his feet, the pope growing older and feeble by the day, and walked around the table placing a comforting hand on the shoulders of each and every cardinal. The touch was one of reassurance. “There will be salvation in this,” he finally said to all. “Ezekiel will not succeed. He cannot succeed. And he won’t.”
“Perhaps,” Cardinal Manetti began, a wispy-thin man, “perhaps the American authorities will catch him first.”
Pope Pius nodded, disagreeing. “Ezekiel knows enough to elude them with ease,” he said. “He knows he’s on the grid because he made no attempt to disguise himself. He knew that the information would get to the SIV by using the NSA as a conduit. He knew that we’d be standing here today discussing matters regarding the safety of the Vatican. And he wanted us to know that he’s coming right at us with a vengeance. He’s simply playing a game.”
The room quieted to a tomblike silence. Not even a whisper of wind could be heard slipping through the old seams between the ancient stone walls.
Bonasero thought once again, looking ceilingward and beyond, wishing that his crutch in such matters was still by his side. He wished that Kimball was beside him to hold him up and keep him strong at such given moments. What he felt instead was a great vacancy. Vessucci then lowered his head and looked to his right, the side where Kimball always stood, seeing nothing but open space, a vacuum that sucked at his emotions until he was becoming dry and empty. From the corner edge of his eye, a single tear struggled free and coursed down his cheek, trailing a lone path. How I miss Kimball, he thought. How I miss my son.
Without saying anything further, Pope Pius left the chamber and the Society of Seven behind.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Saint Viator’s
Las Vegas, NV
Kimball was applying his handyman skills by removing the broken drywall, cutting and piecing another in its place, taping the seams and then spackling the areas where it appeared flawless. The painting would follow.
“What happened here?” asked Father Donavan, standing within the doorframe of the entryway. His shadow stretched all the way across the floor from the light of the sun that was shining behind him. “More vandalism?”
Yes and no, thought Kimball. You see, Father Donavan, I tried to throw this guy through the wall. Didn’t work, though. His momentum was stopped by the two studs inside the wall. “Um,” Kimball struggled to find the correct words. “I’m just doing some light sprucing,” he said. “That’s all.”
“I see.” Father Donavan looked at the donation box. It was untouched, which marginally surprised him. “Everything appears in order.”
Kimball stood to his full height and looked down at the much smaller man. His eyes were deeply intense, searching. Whatever kindness was once there had dissolved, leaving behind that smoldering matter that Father Donavan understood to be the capability that could drive Seth to commit great violence. “I need to throw a name at you,” he told him.
“OK.”
“Ferret.”
Father Donavan’s mouth dropped a bit. He then looked at the patchwork in the wall behind Kimball. Now it was becoming all too clear. “What happened here, Seth? What happened to the wall? Did you do something?”
“I didn’t do a thing.”
“The wall.”
“Oh, that,” he answered. “I didn’t do that.”
“But you know who did.”
“Yeah. It was the guy I threw to see how far he could fly. The wall just happened to be in his way.”
Father Donavan’s expression fell not out of sadness, but of unbridled terror. “Seth, what have you done?”
“Ferret,” was all Kimball said. His tone was stern and even, the former Knight refusing to back down until he got what he wanted out of Donavan.
Father Donavan stepped inside the hallway with his hands inside the pockets of his pants. “Seth,” his voice was smooth, almost like a father trying to calmly express a lesson to his son. “There’s an understanding between us and them.”
“Them?”
Donavan nodded. “Ferret leads an underground community of lost souls. The people there are wayward.”
“They’re criminals preying on those who can’t protect themselves.”
“Seth, what they do they do out of necessity. They need the money to feed those who can’t afford to feed themselves.”
“By breaking into the church?”
Father Donavan stepped deeper inside. “They only take the money. Nothing more. But now that they have been disallowed to do so by you, I’m afraid that Ferret will retaliate. This parish, Seth, may one day be burned to its foundation because of what you did.”
Kimball appeared agitated, which caught Father Donavan off guard. “Because of what I did? Let me tell you something. There’s no point of having a church if you’re going to allow criminal activity to be its basis of its existence. The message you’re sending forth, Father Donavan, and with all due respect, is not the message the Vatican would approve of. What this guy Ferret is doing is sucking your soul dry with fear. And he gets away with it because he knows he can.”
Father Donavan’s face began to crack. “I don’t know what to do, Seth. The police can only do so much. I’m alone in all this, bearing the threats. And certainly Sister Abigail can do nothing to stop them.”
Kimball’s face softened, watching the man on the verge of tears. Donavan was right, he considered. He was one man alone, a man who was lonely and scared and without the tools to protect the sanctity of Saint Viator’s. Kimball walked over and placed his hands on the shoulders of Father Donavan. “It’s all right,” he told him, his voice genuinely soft. “It’s going to be all right. Saint Viator’s will not be burned to the ground, Father. I assure you.”
Father Donavan looked at Kimball through eyes that were red and glassy. “I’m tired,” he finally said. “Just . . . tired. I’ve tried with surveillance cameras, which they took down. I called the police. I’ve done everything in my power to keep this parish going, to keep it alive.”
“It may be alive, Father, but anemically so. This can’t go on. You can’t keep putting out donation boxes for this Ferret guy to come and take at will.”
“And what am I to do, Seth?”
“Do you trust me?”
“You’re a good man.”
“That’s not what I asked you. Do you trust me?”
“Seth, what are you planning to do? You can’t take on the Community. It’s too big, too large and with so many.”
Kimball smiled, the corner of his lip lifting into a crooked grin. “You just leave that to me.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Cuidad Obregón, Mexico
Abraham Obadiah was sitting outside a small café sipping a mild blend of Peruvian coffee, when a man wearing a flower-patterned shirt and neatly pressed Dockers sat opposite him at the table without invitation. He was slender with a tanned complexion and conservative haircut. Behind amber-tinted sunglasses were eyes that were keen with the power of great observance, his eyes always looking for anything anomalous.
For a long moment he sat there with a leg crossed over the other, his eyes wandering as he casually his chewed gum. Then: “The package,” he said without glancing at Obadiah. “Twelve vials.”
; Obadiah sat idle a moment before bringing the coffee cup to his lips. After taking a gingerly sip, he returned the cup to its saucer. “Eleven,” he said.
The clean-cut operative turned to Obadiah and tried to pin him with a hard stare. “Come again?”
“You heard me,” he said evenly. “There are only eleven.”
“And the missing one?” the op asked.
Obadiah inclined his chin in the direction of Ezekiel, who was sitting at an adjacent table but out of earshot. “He has his own agenda,” he answered, then went back to his coffee.
“His agenda is of no interest to the Lohamah Psichlogit.”
“His agenda is of interest to me.” Obadiah faced the operative with such a fierce glare that the man retreated by falling back into his chair. But Obadiah wasn’t finished. “And I am the Lohamah Psichlogit,” he added.
“Yeah, well, Yitzhak Paled may have something to say about that,” he returned.
Yitzhak Paled was the face of the Lohamah Psichlogit, a man who sat at the pinnacle of the organization, whereas Abraham Obadiah was the faceless field op. But the Lohamah Psichlogit could not operate efficiently without Obadiah on missions of delicacy such as spreading the net of global deception. And Obadiah knew it.
“You worry about your mission,” Obadiah said. “And I’ll worry about Paled. Your undertaking will be difficult enough.” Obadiah reached to his side where a canvas bag sat, placed it on the table, and slid it across the table.
The Lohamah operative raised the flap and noted the cooling box. The red LED numbers read 28°F. He then released the flap so that it hid the bag’s contents. He then turned to Ezekiel, who sat looking at the milling crowd with his shirt unbuttoned to his naval, and a leg crossed over the other in leisure. In his hand was a bottle of the local brew.
The operative appeared concerned. “Paled will not like the fact that your little pet over there is in possession of one of the vials. For what purpose does he keep such a deadly contagion?”
