The Goliath Chamber - Vatican Knights 24 (2021)
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THE GOLIATH CHAMBER
By
Rick Jones
© 2021 Rick Jones. All rights reserved.
This is a property of EmpirePRESS & EmpireENTERTAINMENT, LLC
The Vatican Knights is a TRADEMARK property
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information e-mail all inquiries to: rick@rickjonz.com
Visit Rick Jones on the World Wide Web at: rickjonz.com
Also by Rick Jones:
Vatican Knights Series
The Vatican Knights
Shepherd One
The Iscariot Agenda
Pandora's Ark
The Bridge of Bones
Crosses to Bear
The Lost Cathedral
Dark Advent
Cabal
The Golgotha Pursuit
Targeted Killing
Sinners and Saints
The Barbed Crown
The Devil’s Magician
The Nocturnal Saints
The Brimstone Diaries
Juggernaut
Original Sins (a prequel)
In Between God and Devil
The Sinai Directive
The Barabbas Connection
The Eye of Moses
The Crimson Dagger
The Goliath Chamber
The Vladorian Keep (coming)
The Baal Manifesto (coming)
The Eden Series
The Crypts of Eden (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
The Thrones of Eden (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
City Beneath the Sea (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
The Sacred Vault (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
City Within the Clouds (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
City Beneath the Ice (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
Stand Alone Novels
The Man Who Cast Two Shadows
Jurassic Run
Mausoleum 2069
with RICK CHESLER
First Strike
Standalone ADVENTURE
The Menagerie (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
The Hunter Series
Night of the Hunter
The Black Key
Theater of Operation
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
Zurich, Switzerland
Seven Months After the Sinai Directive
Early Morning Hours
Though his name was Amal Purakayastha, those within his orbit knew him as the Bangladeshi and as the man who neither had a first nor last name. All they knew was that he was a qualified assassin who had trained with the Bangladesh Special Operations Forces. He was tall and thin and had a skinny range of emotions as someone who neither smiled nor grimaced. Though when a humorous moment or a flash of anger had been presented to him, he would only reveal his emotional state with a facial tic.
While sitting in the back of a moving truck with his four-man team, the Bangladeshi brought to mind memories of an arms dealer by the name of Abesh Faruk, his one-time handler. He recalled the moments when he served Faruk as an operator who performed with the cold fortitude of a machine. If Faruk Abesh needed an assassin, Purakayastha was there. If Faruk Abesh needed someone to transport weapons on the black market, Purakayastha was there. If Faruk Abesh needed someone he could trust under any circumstance . . . Purakayastha was there.
But seven months ago, while trying to hunt down the Golden Calf, the Bangladeshi had failed to achieve the treasure, which was something that left him with a bad aftertaste. Faruk had negotiated the terms of trading black-market weaponry to a terrorist faction in exchange for the Golden Calf, a barter agreement, so long as the Bangladeshi served as the middleman between the trade once the relic had been unearthed.
Now that the hunt was on and the terms agreed upon between the principals, it was Purakayastha who lead the guerilla unit to the top of Mount Sinai. But everything came to a crashing halt when the Vatican Knights interceded and brought down the terrorists with the exception of the Bangladeshi, who had escaped.
Though the Bangladeshi had failed Faruk, it mattered little since the arms dealer was found dead in what was believed to be a professional hit before he had been informed of the Bangladeshi’s failure. The arms dealer had been discovered sitting inside the glass chamber that was supposed to display the ancient relic with a bullet to his head and two to center mass.
As the truck hit a bump that jarred him from these memories, the Bangladeshi took inventory of his team. They were mercenaries who had been informed by the Bangladeshi that they were picking up a special load from a hidden chamber beneath Abesh Faruk’s stately mansion, in what the Bangladeshi had told them was a ‘deal maker.’
As the truck turned onto the estate, the vehicle quickly made its way along the long stretch of a driveway. At the top of the incline where the FOR-SALE sign was posted, the Bangladeshi started to see the manor that was hidden behind thick tree lines. After Faruk’s death, the estate had been placed on the market for twenty-six million dollars in American currency, an amount few could afford, but it featured a one-of-a-kind museum that displayed hard-to-fin
d artifacts. There was a movie theater; an indoor swimming pool; a pair of chefs’ kitchens, one at both ends of the house; a ballroom for entertaining; a racquetball court; twelve bedrooms; eight bathrooms; the list went on. But there was only one room that the Bangladeshi was interested in.
When the vehicle stopped before the mansion’s main entryway, the Bangladeshi jumped down from the truck’s bay along with his teammates, then ordered the driver to take the vehicle around back where he was to park it within the brambles
As the truck took the winding road to the rear, the Bangladeshi led his team to the front door, which was locked, but he had the key. Removing a suppressed firearm from his holster, he placed three muted shots that destroyed the lock’s mechanism, then pushed the door wide. Knowing that the alarm system had a twenty-second window before the distress signal would sound, he knew exactly where to go. Finding the unit’s keypad within the foyer, he typed in the recommended code by striking four numbers and then the hashtag sign. As he was stepping away, the light turned from red to green, the alarm now disabled.
The foyer was spread-out with Roman columns that were as tall as the three-story home that supported the ceiling. And the floor was tiled with Calacatta Carrara marble, richly veined, and the most expensive marble and the finest quality overlay from Italy.
As a unit with the Bangladeshi in the lead, they went down hallways and through a grand ballroom with their team leader knowing every twist and turn within this labyrinthine house, even without the use of his flashlight.
After a complex journey through this maze, they came to a wall of thick drapery that had scalloped edges and gold fringes. When the Bangladeshi parted the heavy curtains, it gave way to a massive room that was filled with a large number of display cases that had been covered over with sheets and tarps. The elegant tapestries had been removed, as were the expensive paintings whose now-empty wall spaces had left behind the faded and discolored patchwork as reminders of where the canvases had once hung.
Lifting the sheets to see inside the display cases, the Bangladeshi saw that they, too, had been emptied. Notable treasures such as the alleged skull of Vlad the Impaler was missing. In another display case where the squared trimming from the Shroud of Turin had been housed was also missing. Other articles from history such as the battle helmet worn by Hernán Cortés or the sextant used by Columbus when he navigated the seas—these, too, were missing. The museum had been entirely gutted; the items confiscated.
The Bangladeshi moved through the aisles that separated these shrouded display cases with urgency asking himself: Did they find it? Did they find the one thing that mattered most to Faruk? To me?
When he came to the tarped-over display case that was supposed to house the Golden Calf of Mount Sinai, he lashed out and ripped off the covering, causing dust to waft lazily about in slow-moving eddies. Like all the other display cases, this, too, was empty. However, there was a patch the color of dark rust in the middle of the exhibit’s floor, a stain. This was where Abesh Faruk had been murdered, he thought. A moment later, the Bangladeshi snapped out of this reverie and reacted with purpose. Reaching up to the framework of the exhibit chamber was a well-hidden panel that held archaic markings, like runes. Sliding the panel aside, he exposed a hidden keypad. He typed in a series of letters and numerals, a code he had shared with Faruk, then hit the hashtag symbol. Stepping back, he could feel his heart racing.
Beneath the display case that was the size of a Volkswagen Beetle, metal rods, cogs and wheels started to move and shift. And then the exhibit chamber lifted approximately four inches off the floor and, on a pair of rails, started to slide back on its own to reveal an opening to a subterranean passage. For the first time, the Bangladeshi used his flashlight to light the concrete stairway that led down to the underground hall.
One of his hired mercenaries, an Austrian, who whispered as though he was in a library, asked, “What’s this deal maker you’re talking about? What’s down there?”
The Bangladeshi shuddered as though the mere thought of what was below had chilled and excited him at the same time. “Something wonderful,” he whispered.
The Austrian, however, looked at the faces of his teammates who held the same look of quizzical curiosity, that of the upraised brow at the corner of one eye.
The Bangladeshi started to descend the stairway with his flashlight panning from left to right, and then from right to left, until it finally discovered the concrete floor of the lower level. The air was cool and smelled with a hint of must and mold.
About twenty feet away and within the circular beam of the flashlight stood the remarkable wonder that had laid untouched for years, causing the Bangladeshi to sigh easily since the item had not been seized. Here was a large sarcophagus made entirely of porous stone that had bas-relief carvings of demons and hellish creatures that could only have been created from the minds of madmen.
Moving to the container, the Bangladeshi gingerly placed his forehead against the stone which was ice cold to the touch. Then he closed his eyes as though he was paying homage to whatever it was inside and thought: Within this stone crate lies my future.
The others gathered around to run their hands over the stone walls and the carvings. The carved faces of the demonic legions were ugly and hideous and held all the foreboding traits symbolizing that what they protected inside was nothing of moral standing. In fact, this was evil at its highest telling. Members of the Bangladeshi’s team could sense and feel the nature of the inhabitant within, something that was purely evil.
The Austrian took up beside the Bangladeshi. Though he knew that the man did not like to be questioned, he was the only one that had the courage to do so. “What’s inside?” he asked. “What exactly are we moving?”
The Bangladeshi didn’t open his eyes or move his forehead away from the stone.
“Bangladeshi . . . what’s inside this coffin?”
A rare smile from the assassin. “Something . . . wonderful.”
“Like what?”
“This is the Goliath Chamber,” he answered. The Bangladeshi opened his eyes and stood back to admire the piece. The stone appeared rough as though weather-beaten, even though it hadn’t seen the sun, rain or been in inclement weather for years. Then in admiration, he added, “It contains the Unholy Trinity of Satan, the Antichrist, and the False Prophet. It’s right where Faruk and I left them. And they’re together, still, and ready to be unleashed . . . I can feel them.”
Everyone looked at the tomb. Though they were thieves at heart willing to earn a euro any way they could, they were also Christian men who wondered if this particular undertaking would cost them their souls. Or was the Bangladeshi simply speaking out in nonsensical terms? After resigning to realism, everyone thought the latter.
The Bangladeshi quickly examined the area with his flashlight. The tomb was sitting upon tracks that led to the opposite end of the estate through an underground channel. Since the stone weighed more than a ton, it would take all their might to push the chamber along its tracks, and then load it to the back of the truck.
With the Bangladeshi leading the way, they began to push the tomb along the rails with muscles straining and their efforts herculean. Ten minutes later and having all but exhausted themselves, the Bangladeshi came to a set of steel doors that had not been opened in years. Lifting the locking bar and with the aid of others, they were able to force the doors wide on protesting hinges. For nearly a decade, capes of vines and wild growing creepers had hidden the entryway. In fact, only two people knew of the underground channel, Abesh Faruk and the Bangladeshi. The secret of the tomb had been well guarded.
Once the vault was pushed to the end of the railway, it took another ten minutes to load the cargo into the truck’s bed with the use of mechanical pulleys and wheels, the task not as difficult when they had the proper tools for loading.
Once done, the Bangladeshi wiped his sweat-laden brow with his sleeve and blew out a hot sigh. Then he looked at
the Austrian and said, “You know the alleged history of Egyptian builders who erected the pyramids, right?”
The Austrian shook his head. “No.”
“It was said that in order for the architects to keep the secrets safe from vandals and thieves, they would kill the builders to assure anonymity.”
It took a moment for the Austrian’s eyes to flash with the stark realization as to what the Bangladeshi was trying to communicate. Although the interaction between them had been stated somewhat metaphorically from a historical point, the meaning behind the message was clear: The Bangladeshi was the architect . . .
. . . And his hired team were the builders.
As the Austrian attempted to reach for his weapon, the Bangladeshi was much quicker on the draw. He removed his sidearm with practiced speed and shot each man at center mass with direct heart shots, killing them. The area lit up with muzzle flashes, all staccato bursts of light, though the sounds had been dampened by the suppressor.
As the Bangladeshi sat on the bumper admiring his handiwork, he decided to perform his due diligence by adding another bullet to each of their heads to assure their deaths. Once done, he removed the keys from the driver’s pocket, got inside the vehicle, started it, and then drove away with the Unholy Trinity secured inside the truck’s cargo hold.
CHAPTER ONE
Lakeside Cabin in Maryland
It had been three months since Shari Cohen had been cleared of any signs of cancer, receiving a clean bill of health from her oncologist. Her hair had grown back, full-bodied and luscious. And the color of her complexion had deepened as well, going from ghostly pale to that of tanned leather.
For months, Shari had balked at making a career decision and considered it to be a back-burner issue since her health matters were first and foremost, with the CIA and the Bureau both applying for her services. But as she became stronger, healthier and more in tune with what her future should be, she decided to return to the Bureau. But there was a caveat. She would only do so under a granted condition that she be sent to Rome where she could work from the American Embassy as a counterterrorist agent. However, for an FBI operative to work away from the domestic front, the Bureau needed approval from the hosting country, which was Italy. With the support and backing of the Vatican, however, the Italian government had fully agreed.