by Rick Jones
“Your organization runs deep with people from all walks of life: politicians, physicians, CEOs and captains of industry, military specialists. I think you would be able to cobble together a military unit to serve the needs of the church.” The pope leaned forward as though to emphasize a point. “The devil walks the hallways of the Vatican,” he told her, “proud and untouched. He is a blighted soul who has the ability to bring with him overwhelming Darkness. If that happens, Sister Jennifer, then the church will flounder.” He eased back into his chair. “Do you or do you not agree, given the nature of this man?”
“Of course, I agree. But that’s not the cause for my hesitation. Please remember, Your Holiness, that I saw this man’s handiwork up close and personal. I know what he’s capable of doing.”
“As I said, he will be one man alone. And as I just stated, I’m sure you can piece together a formidable group of fighters. Can you do that, Sister Jennifer . . . in the name of the church?”
After a pause, she said, “I know of four men. Two ex-Seals, an ex-Ranger and a former Delta. I’ll contact them as soon as possible.”
“Excellent. How soon can you gather your team?”
“Within a day or two.”
“Nice. Kimball Hayden is moving to Rome with the woman he covets more than his own life, an agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Perhaps, Sister Jennifer, she can come into play as a pawn.”
“Perhaps. But would it be prudent to use such a pawn, when the man who loves her more than his own life, be a wise decision? Sometimes, such a maneuver can prove disastrous because it often wakes a sleeping giant. And in Kimball Hayden’s case, such an action might open up a Pandora’s Box against us.”
“Your team, are they not skilled warriors as you suggest?”
“They’re excellent. And they believe in the old ideologies of the church.”
“Then you should be looking at this with relish instead of caution. A threat to the church looms and walks these hallways with a soul so dark that it blots out the Light within him. I need your team to be the crusaders to stem the flow of approaching Darkness that is Kimball Hayden. You need to stop him and the coming of Eternal Nightfall.”
Jennifer Antle bowed her head. “I am deeply gratified, Your Holiness, of your trust in me,” she said.
“Fail me not, Sister.”
“I won’t.”
Donning her wimple and setting it properly, and though she was not really a nun but addressed as one by the pontiff, the disguise allowed her passage without question from the Swiss Guards.
Standing with her hands clasped together in an attitude of prayer, she bowed her head. “Thank you, Your Holiness. It is a true honor to serve you.”
“Then serve me well, Sister.” After that, he directed his hand to the chamber door, an invite for her to leave.
When he was alone, Pope Clement XV could not hold back the inward grin. He was about to purge his greatest enemy from the ranks of the Vatican. And upon Kimball’s passing, he would lead the Vatican Knights as their sole commander who would neither be contested nor questioned by the unit. For his word, he knew, would be accepted as gospel, once Kimball was no longer their sitting king.
CHAPTER SIX
Paris, France
Later That Evening
The moon was in its gibbous phase and waxing towards its full stage when a dark sedan pulled onto a winding dirt road. The trees lining both sides were so heavy that the overhead canopy of intertwining limbs impeded any possible breach of lunar beams, the pathway now ominously dark.
When the sedan approached the house at the top of the hill, it appeared disheveled and unkempt. Tiles from the roof were missing to give it a mottled look. Several window shutters hung drunkenly to one side; the hinges having rusted long ago. And the gray castle-stone walls of the house were covered with wild and unruly vines.
When Ahmed Jaziri got out of the car to look at the home, he wondered if he had the right address. When he asked his driver if he had the right location, his chauffer confirmed that the coordinates listed in the GPS were the same as the address given to him by the Bangladeshi. But all questions were answered when the Bangladeshi greeted him from the shadows, the man appearing silhouetted against the backdrop of the house.
“Ahmed,” he said. “As promised, not a second too soon or too late.”
The man known as the Financier pointed to the house. “Are you that financially hopeless?”
“I chose the property because it was out of sight and mind. I’m alone here without prying eyes.”
“A safehouse,” said Jaziri.
“For the moment. The item we’ve spoken about is nearby. So, Ahmed, tell me, are you ready to look inside the crypt of the Unholy Trinity?”
“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to see such treasures. I’ve heard that Abesh Faruk was in possession of such items, but it was never confirmed.”
After Ahmed Jaziri informed his driver to stand by, the Bangladeshi escorted him along the driveway and inside the tumble-down estate. When they entered, the home had a bitter and overpowering stench to it, that of mold and mildew. Old furniture had graced the rooms with most either torn or broken. And the windows had either been boarded over, or the panes were being held together with strands of duct tape.
Moving from the front of the home to the rear, a back door led into a courtyard whose landscape had been conquered long ago by tall weeds and wild creepers. Sitting idle in the undergrowth was a truck. And to the left of the truck was an old pulley-and-chain system that had been welded together from rusted hoist poles, though the structure appeared strong enough to lift and move heavy objects.
As they waded through the unkempt thicket, they came to the shed whose handles were tied together by rusty links of chain. After the Bangladeshi removed the lock, he parted the doors and flipped on the light switch.
Ahmed Jaziri sucked in a breath of air, a sharp intake. He was amazed and enthralled by the sight of the Goliath Chamber, which was made up of stone that illustrated the bas-relief carvings of demons and creatures of ancient lore.
Walking to the sarcophagus-looking container, he placed his hands against the face of a carving, a devil. The stone was cold to the touch.
“We must open it,” said Jaziri. “And we must do so quickly.” He turned to the Bangladeshi. “But tell me, will we be safe once we push the lid aside?”
“I believe so.”
“But you don’t know for sure?”
“What’s inside has been locked away for a long time. In order to know, we must see for ourselves.”
Jaziri balked at this for a brief moment until his enthusiasm became too great to control. And then: “I’ll grab one end and you the other, and then we’ll slide the lid aside.”
The Bangladeshi placed the palms of his hands along the edges of the lid at one end, with Ahmed Jaziri doing the same on the other.
“On the count of three,” said the Bangladeshi. “One . . . Two . . . Three.”
Both men started to push their weight against the stone cap, the two grimacing and straining as the cords along their necks stood out with their efforts.
The cap started to move and slide away with stone grating against stone. There was a sliver of an opening, but the darkness within remained absolute and impenetrable. The two continued to push and heave and throw their weight behind their exertions with the laws of physics working in their favor in the battle between force working against force, their combined power greater than that of the tomb’s weighted cap. Then as the stone top finally reached its tipping point at the edge of the vault, it fell against the concrete floor where it shattered.
Then came the vague sound of a lengthy sigh after a ghostly intake of breath, an awakening.
With an abundance of caution knowing that the Unholy Trinity had the power to reach out and kill, Ahmed Jaziri and the Bangladeshi looked over the edge of the tomb to look inside. Beneath the weak illumination of a bulb
that hung overhead on a slim chain, both men could see the brushed surfaces of aluminum suitcases.
“Intact,” the Bangladeshi murmured.
Reaching inside, the Bangladeshi discovered a keypad. After typing in a four-number code and then hitting the hashtag symbol, fluorescent lights that had been powered by lithium batteries within the vault batted on and hummed to life. Inside were three suitcases, all which were equal partners of mass destruction. On top of each case was a unique symbol to identify the Unholy Trinity.
On the first aluminum suitcase was the character that was represented by an oval shape with two curved outcroppings that depicted horns. Then from the Bangladeshi, as his fingertips traced over the symbol, he said: “Satan.” Then he placed a hand over the numeric symbols of three sixes on the second suitcase, and whispered, “The Antichrist.” On the symbol of the last suitcase, he placed his hand over the image of an angel-like figure with demonic wings and a halo, and stated, “The False Prophet.”
Softly, Ahmed Jaziri started to stroke the suitcases as though they were loving pets. He was both enamored and frightened at the same time. “D.C., Tel Aviv and Vatican City, all sites that I have dreamed of as scorched ruins,” he stated dreamily. “What I could achieve with a unified strike. People throughout the Middle East will be praising the name of Allah.”
Falling back in admiration, the weapons appeared as pristine as the day when Abesh Faruk purchased the nuclear warheads and packed them inside the underground chamber after updating the parts with Israeli components.
“Can I properly assume that they’re safe?” Jaziri asked him. “Now that the lid is open.”
“The lead shields inside remain intact. Radiation output is well within acceptable ranges.” He pointed to a meter built within the chamber whose needle barely wavered within the green zone. “See.”
“I’m talking about their ability to detonate at this moment.”
The Bangladeshi nodded. “No. The units have to be programmed and enabled. Right now, they’re dormant. The only danger would be if a crack existed in any of the hulls, which you can clearly see that there are none. The units are perfect.”
“So, we’re safe?”
“As I stated, we’re in no danger unless the units have been programmed and then enabled, which has to be done onsite. Once the units are in place, my men will bring the units online and set the timers.”
Ahmed Jaziri appeared reassured. And then: “Tell me about the devices—the details. Tell me what I need to know.”
The Bangladeshi, with his eyes remaining fixed on the warheads as though they were glorious articles of worship, started to speak. “Abesh Faruk purchased these from a client—though I’m unsure as to who, but I assume it was a Russian confidante from the Cold War Era since nuclear suitcases were commodities at the time—and had them modified with top-tier components from Israel. He then had this stockpile placed beneath the estate knowing it would be safe from those who continuously surveyed his stockpiles in the Philippines, Colombia and Tunisia. In fact, the stockpile in Tunisia was seized by an Israeli military force who was looking for the warheads, but they obviously came up empty. Faruk believed it was best to store the items in plain sight. They were under his feet all the time.”
“Kiloton yields?”
“Each suitcase possesses a one-kiloton yield.”
“That’s it? A single kiloton?”
The Bangladeshi turned to Jaziri. “Do you have any idea how powerful a one-kiloton nuclear weapon is?” he asked rhetorically. “When strategically placed, it has the power to completely destroy Vatican City. In Tel Aviv, the same. When properly placed, the device will take out Mossad Headquarters. And in the United States, perhaps the White House or the Capitol, the choice is yours to make.”
Ahmed Jaziri looked at the suitcases. To most they appeared nondescript and boring, the aluminum shell a façade for the lead shielding inside, which made the cases heavier to carry at forty-two pounds.
“And you will place the Unholy Trinity at the locations we’ve discussed earlier?”
“They have always been the locations of your desire, Ahmed. I know. Striking a triple blow to areas of critical targeting would only be a boost to your jihad. Imagine the chaos when the power stations of the world—that of Tel Aviv, Washington, D.C., and Vatican City—all fall with a timely blow. Surely your ties with certain organizations would appreciate the outcome of great cities falling in the name of Allah.”
Jaziri knew that the Bangladeshi was posing as a businessman who was trying to entice him by building up his sense of romanticism. To see cities razed and burned in his mind’s eye was detailed and explicit. The fires. The pillars of black smoke. The harmony in all this madness.
In a final push to assure a sale, the Bangladeshi added, “Imagine the recruits, Ahmed, perhaps numbering in the tens, if not in the hundreds of thousands.”
Jaziri did see the pluses involved. Washington, D.C., Tel Aviv, and Vatican City all becoming smoldering ruins along with undermining their political infrastructures. They would be floundering under such devastating conditions, he considered. But he was also a businessman.
“Three hundred million for the three,” he said. “One hundred million apiece. That’s a fair value.”
The Bangladeshi stared at Jaziri with a blank expression for a long moment as though considering the offer. But then he reached inside the tomb and switched off the light, the suitcases once again sitting within shadows, then said, “Thank you for coming, Ahmed. I’m sorry to have wasted your time . . . or you mine. I will walk you back to your vehicle.”
“Wait a minute,” Jaziri said, while patting the air. “I’ll move it up to four hundred—still a good price.”
“Not good enough,” stated the Bangladeshi. “I gave you first opportunity to accept the products in good faith. I can certainly sell them on the black market for the price I’m asking, though it would take time. You know this as well as I do.”
Ahmed Jaziri did know this. What he didn’t know was if the Bangladeshi was willing to fall back on his price. “Look,” Jaziri said, “A number of things can go wrong. Perhaps a nuke does not go off or discharge. Perhaps your team is intercepted by certain authorities before they can program the unit for operation. Either way, I lose.”
“There are always chances to be taken in this business and things we can never plan for. That was something Abesh Faruk taught me. He also taught me that warfare was the greatest business on the planet. And where there’s war, there’s a buyer.”
“Then he’s taught you well. Perhaps too well.”
“If the suitcases go off as they should, then you would benefit. Your coffers will be enriched by the recruits who take new territory. They will canvas and control the oil fields and your power on the black market strengthens.”
“Four-fifty then. Just in case the devices are defective.”
“They’re not.”
“And you know this how?”
“They’ve been refurbished with Israeli technology, the best. And Abesh Faruk always provided the best.”
Once Ahmed Jaziri realized that he had been bested, his desire to have such specialized weapons would be the final advantage that extremists had always dreamed of possessing. He was about to make it a reality.
“Five hundred million then,” he caved. “Done. But listen to me carefully, Bangladeshi, and I will repeat what I said earlier. This better go off without a hitch. Any failure on the part of your team, your strategy, or anything else, even if one weapon does not perform as it should, then I will hold you entirely responsible. Do you hear me?”
“I do.”
“But do you understand me?”
“I do.”
“Washington, D.C., Tel Aviv, and Vatican City . . . I want to see them burning and laid to waste within the week, maybe two depending on certain conditions. That’s more than enough time for you to design plans and move your team into position. In the meantime, I will for
ward the amount of five-hundred-million dollars into your account. From there it will disappear, I’m sure.”
“The conversion into cryptocurrency will take less than a minute. Once done, then the amount will transfer out and the account will be closed.”
Jaziri nodded. “Keep me posted of everything that’s happening. For half a billion dollars, I’ve earned the right to know everything about my investment.”
“Agreed.”
Ahmed Jaziri raised his hand. “No need to see me to my driver,” he said. “I know the way.”
“Please, be careful and watch out for the wild brambles.”
After Jaziri left, the Bangladeshi turned on the lights inside the stone vault. The suitcases were magnificent, he thought. Small things in small packages with large results. In the days to come, he would create a two-man team based on their mercenary needs by paying each member enough that would carry them through several lifetimes, a healthy wage. Then, and in order to keep his anonymity, he would hunt them down in sport to assure that there would be no loose ends. It had always been his mode of operation, and one that had worked well for him over the years.
After running a caressing hand over the images that represented each suitcase—that of Satan, the Antichrist, and the False Prophet—the Bangladeshi eventually shut off the light, locked the shed, and retired for the night.
Within a day or two, he would be a half-billion dollars richer.
Within the days to come, Tel Aviv, Washington, D.C., and Vatican City would all be charred remains.
The Bangladeshi smiled inwardly with everything moving along perfectly.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rome, Italy
Three Days Later
Shari Cohen and Kimball Hayden were jubilant and fatigued at the same time. Reaching Rome to start a new life together had been exciting because they would no longer be worlds apart, since she would be employed by the U.S. Embassy in Rome and Kimball at the Vatican.
