Crosses to Bear (Vatican Knights Book 6)

by Rick Jones

  “For what reason?”

  “They didn’t give one.”

  Burroughs returned his questions back to Johnston. “Any visuals from the field operatives watching the Dearborn mosque?”

  “No, sir. It’s possible—and most probable—that the Fourth Man may have been notified of the breach and has been redirected to a different location to make the transfer. Dearborn knows that they’re under a watchful eye. So we can only assume that the Canadian League also knows. I believe that this fourth man is now working his way to a backup cell.”

  President Burroughs sighed. He had never felt so impotent. “Doug, what does Israel plan to do on the international front?”

  “The buzz, Mr. President, is that they want to strike known locations inside of Iran, more specifically the nuclear power plants. They think this sudden rush of information regarding the appropriation of the Omega Strain and the intercepted transmissions, now gives them the right to commit to sorties to neutralize the situation.”

  “Neutralize my ass. If they commit sorties in that region, they could bring the world to the edge of World War Three. However, if they’re right, if Iran’s intentions are to take the Omega Strain and use it against them—against us—then they have every right to protect their sovereignty, just as we do.” He then addressed Alan Thornton, his Chief Advisor. “Al, advice?”

  Alan Thornton bit on his lower lip in deep thought a moment before answering. “Mr. President, it’s obvious that we must unequivocally prove that these transmissions are real, and that they, without a doubt, pose a serious threat to Israel and to the United States. This will have to be done immediately through all intel channels—Mossad, CIA, MI6, everyone. The more groups that can discern the validity of these transmission, the more ammunition we have to put Iran in the worldwide crosshairs. We need global backup. And we need it as soon as possible. Who knows what this fourth man will be advised to do, since his mission has been compromised and he’s on American soil.”

  “And that’s the problem, Al. They may just tell him to open up the vials and let it ride, if Israel attacks. So we, gentlemen, are in a lose-lose situation. I think we need to open up dialogue with Iran. If they continue to deny the allegations, inform them that any hostile action would be considered an act of war, and that actions will be taken accordingly.”

  “But what about Israel?” asked Craner. “Given the nature of the situation and the high-degree of probability, they will send in fighters to take out their nuclear plants.”

  “Which is something they’ve been wanting to do for years, and now have just cause. Stall them,” he added. “Tell the Prime Minister that this action may prove to be a detriment to American interests since we believe that the Fourth Man is still on American soil. Tell them that we’re trying to apprehend him. Once he’s in custody, then give Israel a thumbs-up in support. Iran has proven to the world that they do not have the confidence from the global theater that they can manage nuclear or biological capabilities with the mindset they have exposed themselves to. In the meantime, confirm with one-hundred percent validity that these communications have been generated by all hostile factions. Most notably from Dearborn, Canada and Iran.”

  “Consider it done, Mr. President,” stated Craner.

  When the Oval Office cleared out, President Burroughs got to his feet and stared out the window. The sky was overcast with slate-gray clouds, a color to match his mood. And as he stood there a number of thoughts raced through his mind. But one thought in particular seemed to fuel his worries more than others. He thought about the Fourth Man, asking himself the same question over and over again.

  Where . . . are . . . you?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Benito Juarez International Airport

  Mexico City

  Ezekiel and Abraham Obadiah were able to bypass all significant checkpoints due to the Lohamah Psichlogit running interference by having posted agents allow them to pass, even though a photo of the Fourth Man was posted on the Watch List.

  Even with that consideration, Ezekiel managed to use facial prosthetics and adhesives to alter his appearance in an attempt to fool the NSA’s ThinThread program. With higher elevation to his cheekbones, a thicker bridge to his nose and facial hair dyed gray, it was enough to fool the design of the agency’s program writing.

  With the first leg of the journey from Mexico City to Spain with Madrid as their only layover before heading off to Rome, communication was slight between the two as they sat in the first-class section. Ezekiel reclined his seat, closed his eyes, and relaxed while en route, the hours moving along at a glacial pace.

  In the lining of his suit coat was a pocket specifically designed to hold the biohazard tube, which felt as much a part of him as a limb. He could feel its weight and design against his skin, could feel the coolness of the titanium-lead covered steel through the fabric of his shirt. And more than anything else, he was in complete control despite the presence of Abraham Obadiah.

  While riding over the Atlantic on a beautiful day as the waves of the ocean glimmered like tinsel and glass against the reflection of the sun’s rays, Ezekiel deliberated over thoughts and began to outline his actions from A to Z.

  When Abraham Obadiah first approached him in Paris with an offer to join his organization, and with both men sharing an equal enemy in Kimball Hayden, he instantly recognized the fact that Obadiah also didn’t do anything unless he had ulterior motives. And by enlisting Ezekiel into a program that was not his own, the former Vatican Knight knew that he was recruited only for the means to achieve the impossible, since Obadiah had been crippled by Kimball Hayden. With his dominant arm now weighted with rods and pins that retard his skills as an elite combatant, and with the bar of Ezekiel’s skill-set far above all others in Obadiah’s league, he could not pass up the opportunity to appropriate a deadly pathogen and behold its power. So Ezekiel agreed to join forces with the promise that Abraham Obadiah would, in turn, aid him in his quest to kill Kimball Hayden, which Obadiah gladly offered to do in exchange for the vials.

  So here they were, in a plane five miles above the ocean, both men keeping their promises to one another even though the relationship between them had always been awkward.

  And if Kimball Hayden taught him one thing, it was never to take anything at face value or for granted. Always look deeper than what you see on the surface. And there you shall find the truth.

  And the truth was this: Ezekiel was expendable.

  Now that the goal of obtaining the virus was achieved and the accusing finger now pointed in the direction of Iran and its undercover connections within the U.S. and Canada, he knew that his knowledge of the truth was too much of a liability to Obadiah and the Lohamah Psichlogit.

  But he would not be deterred and disappear from radar.

  He would remain astute by watching and calculating Abraham Obadiah’s every move, then decide where and when the man would most likely strike. The moment, he considered, would probably come after they killed the great white whale of Kimball Hayden, since it would take both men to bring him down for good.

  And since both men shared a vengeance that was bliss, the edges of Ezekiel’s lip edged into a rare smile. Since Kimball Hayden was highly regarded in the eyes of the Vatican, it sat well with Ezekiel that the Vatican should pay the ultimate price. Once the vial inside of St. Peter’s Square was opened, he knew that this little pocket of humanity would be laid to ruin. And Vatican City would become a wasteland with Abraham Obadiah’s body serving as the city’s centerpiece of the dead.

  His smile never wavered as the plane flew on to Madrid.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Las Vegas, NV

  Kimball quickly followed the route taken by Sister Abigail, the large man running with speed and agility that seemed impossible for a man of his size.

  He rounded the bend leading into the alley, then ran a good length before he came upon a mass lying between two Dumpsters. For the briefest of moments, in that time of confusion
where raw feelings collided with reality, the inconceivable pain could only be described as a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

  Sister Abigail lay on the ground unmoving, her habit and wimple covered with blood. Her gray dress was saturated and stained whereas the gray fabric appeared more like a canvas to a mad artist’s rendering, his use of red overpowering, her blood becoming the dominant color. Her face was badly beaten and swollen, her once beautiful face unrecognizable as her eyes swelled beneath blackened lids, her lips split and bloodied, and her nose severely broken.

  Kimball grabbed her and pulled her close, crying and stroking her hair with a loving hand, begging her to come back not only to the world, but also to him.

  “Please, Abby, please don’t leave me.” His tears flowed freely, the tracks wetting his cheeks and his lips before falling onto her bloodied gown. He then pulled her tight until his cheek rested on the crown of her head, often turning to kiss her, his words begging and pleading as his mind began to run toward chaos. “Please, God. Not her. Not Abigail.”

  And then he tried to console her by rocking her gently within his arms, and continued to entreat his wishes upon a higher power to make everything that was wrong right.

  But the only answer he received was the reality of the moment as Sister Abigail bled out with her arms lying listlessly by her side.

  Please, God! Pleeeaaase!

  A man once considered to have the cold fortitude of a machine, a man deemed to have no conscious by White House brass, seemed anything but as his emotions got the best of him, the man feeling completely empty and lost.

  Then: “Heeeellllp!” His vocalization was loud and booming, the cry bringing a crowd as he lay on the ground rocking the nun, his eyes red and raw, the man crying profusely as he cried for help. “Someone, please call an ambulance. Please help Abby. Pleeeaaase.”

  A calm hand rested on his shoulder. “I’ll take care of her,” a kind voice said.

  Kimball looked up and saw the face of a man that was serenely kind and gentle. His eyes shined like sapphires. But there was something about them that gave off an indescribable warmth, a peace Kimball never knew existed. His hair was long and curled in magnificent locks. His beard was trimmed and well-maintained. And his voice was soft and soothing. This man, he thought, was beautiful in the sense that he was good and kind and that Sister Abigail would be fine in his care.

  “I’ll take good care of her,” he reiterated, bending down and taking Sister Abigail into his grasp. “I promise.”

  Kimball fell back onto his hind side, watching the man lift Abigail as if she was weightless, the man himself slight in build but powerful in action.

  And the beautiful man turned to him. “She’ll be at UMC Hospital,” he told Kimball, “where she will continue to give to those who need it most.”

  Kimball wasn’t quite sure what he was talking about. “She’s alive?”

  “She needs hospitalization,” said the beautiful man. He then turned with Sister Abigail in his arms and walked towards the Freemont Experience, where security and medical staff would be waiting.

  Kimball got to his feet and swept a forearm across his face to wipe away the tears. As his shoulders slumped with the crookedness of an Indian’s bow, he began to find his way toward the warmth of Saint Viator’s.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Yoqneam, Israel

  As the beautiful man carried Sister Abigail to help, half way across the world a courier entered a biohazard lab in Yoqneam, Israel with a refrigerated suitcase specially designed to hold and maintain its contents at exactly 28°F.

  In a glass-encased room with floor-to-ceiling panes of glass four-inches thick, the man set the case down on a stainless steel table situated in the room’s center. Next to him stood the head of Mossad’s Lohamah Psichlogit, Yitzhak Paled, having traveled all the way from Tel Aviv for this coordinated rendezvous.

  Though thin and wiry and looking less like the warrior-type, Paled was both keen of judgment and analytically wise for Mossad’s purpose to help shape the public and global perception of Israel’s enemies through tactics of deception, which were often engineered by Abraham Obadiah, his deepest undercover op. Though Obadiah directed field and cyber ops, it was Yitzhak Paled who would develop the intricate steps from the mission’s beginning to its end, always making sure that Abraham Obadiah followed through with the details in between.

  After the courier thumbed the rolling dials of the combination lock and opened the hood, eleven biohazard vials were neatly seated inside foam molding. One spot remained empty, the twelfth vial missing from its packing recess.

  Paled sighed inwardly. As much as he respected Abraham Obadiah as a field marshal, he detested the fact that Obadiah often went offline and committed himself to personal operations. But this time Obadiah had exceeded his authority by possessing a virulent contagion not yet understood or the limits of its kill zone, even when mandated by Mossad principals to return the asset intact. The vial was not, and was never intended to be, used as a tool of coercion or personal gain.

  And regardless how valuable an asset Obadiah had been over the years, this time he had overstepped his boundaries and consequences would follow.

  “He never said where he was going with the vial,” the courier intuited and answered before Paled could ask him the question.

  Paled nodded, closed the lid, and stared at the biohazard sign on the case’s aluminum surface for a long moment, the symbol in bright red. Then, after rolling the combination lock with his thumbs and securing the lid, he picked the case up and handed it back to the courier. “Duly note in the chain-of-evidence that the twelfth vial of the Omega Strain is believed to be in the possession of Abraham Obadiah. Location currently unknown. And that all possible efforts are being made to locate him. In the meantime, I will notify Patriarch and inform him that the disavowal protocol is to be initiated, and that Abraham Obadiah is to be terminated with extreme prejudice. The vial is to be returned to Mossad immediately.” Yitzhak had long known that the patience of Lohamah leadership had worn thin with Obadiah’s non-approved exploits. And now that he was in possession of a prized asset labeled as a WMD with unknown potential, the leadership was deeply concerned. But Yitzhak was confident that he could allay their worries within forty-eight hours.

  The courier read what he considered to be deep sorrow in Paled’s face, and the toughness behind making such a decision. “I know,” he told him, the suitcase by his side. “I know he’s a friend of yours and an asset to this agency. And I know that your decision was not an easy one to make. But in the end it is what it is, and protocol is protocol. It’s sad to see someone like Abraham Obadiah lose his way.”

  Yitzhak Paled placed a hand on the courier’s shoulder and offered him a feigned smile. Thank you.

  After the courier left the chamber, Paled was immediately on a secured line with the Patriarch, Mossad’s leading principal, and outlined in detail all the information regarding the missing vial, he had no choice but to disavow Obadiah and retrieve the vial by any and all means necessary.

  “Yes, sir,” Paled told the Patriarch. “It happens sometimes. People we sometimes hold in the highest regard sometimes go rogue. I’m confident that he will be found within forty-eight hours.” He listened further, nodding as if agreeing with what the Patriarch was saying. “Yes, sir,” he added. “I see no other alternative.”

  And then the connection was severed, the Patriarch ending the conversation.

  It took Paled a minute to realize that he was still holding the phone in the ‘on’ position, the screen saver that of his family staring back at him.

  He smiled, closed the phone, and tucked it away.

  And then he thought: Everything I do is about protecting Israel.

  Everything.

  #

  Shifra Mattiyahu’s real name was Jessica Tannenbaum, a Company plant who was born in a suburb of Boston and, by the time she graduated from Harvard, was highly recruited by Langley for her knowledge regarding bioh
azard management and virology, as well as her high-tech ability to hack and retrieve information without leaving so much as a cyber-print that could be readily traced.

  She was one of several deep-cover operatives planted by the CIA, who spied as diligently on their allies as they did their enemies, with Shifra Mattiyahu working the Yoqneam region to maintain eyes and ears on Israeli’s bio-hazard program. By corporate understanding she was the daughter of Israeli parents now deceased. What they didn’t know was that the Company expertly designed a fictitious background and transplanted the information through networks and databases, the information breathing life into someone who never truly existed. When Mossad did a thorough examination on her, they discovered a birth certificate from Bet Dagan, a suburb of Tel Aviv. And with no other family, there was no other way to confirm familial ties. She was alone. Records for academic achievements existed in the archives of Tel Aviv University with Shifra excelling in the field of virology, as well as to speak many languages, which made her most appealing to the leaders of Mossad nation.

  As soon as the courier arrived with the aluminum case with the biohazard sign etched on its side and entered the glass chamber, she quietly flipped the switch from her station and engaged the room’s corner-mounted camera, the lens dialing in with high-definition clarity to capture the opened case and its contents, as well as the audio portion.

  —He never said where he was going with the vial—

  As the conversation continued with Yitzhak Paled outlining the necessary course of action to take regarding the breach in protocol, they spoke of a name she recognized, that of Abraham Obadiah, a deep operative once believed to be a member of Mossad’s Lohamah Psichlogit who was planted in the United States years ago, then summarily disappeared. Apparently he was the one to pull off the theft, not the faction originating from Dearborn as theorized.