The Goliath Chamber - Vatican Knights 24 (2021)

by Rick Jones

  Kimball Hayden had no chance, she thought. No matter his skillset. And the church would finally be cleansed of his stain.

  He’s a cancer to the Vatican, she informed herself. A blight whose past behavior was guided by the devil’s influence. And for that, his sins are too egregious to be forgiven.

  Somewhere within the room, a clock ticked off the seconds in loud and measured beats. And as the woman stared at a fixed point beyond a curtain of shadows before her while blowing rings of smoke, she was determined to see the Vatican Knight dead.

  “It is,” she whispered, “God’s will.”

  Within the ever-expanding shadows of the room, the woman smoked her final cigarette down to its filter.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Of the longest trajectories to take from points A to B, the Man from Munich had taken a prearranged route from Paris to the eastern part of the Mexican gulf. He had been on a chartered flight through a private firm with the jet flying at a low altitude to avoid detection, until it landed on an unchartered strip that was owned by the Mexican cartel. For an exorbitant fee, the Bangladeshi had paid the principals of the cartel to see the man through to Atlanta, which was one of the cartel’s main hubs in the United States. Upon successful arrival, the cartel would receive an additional five million dollars in U.S. currency, which would be transferred into an account of their choosing, and usually as a bitcoin exchange.

  It had taken nearly a full day for the Man from Munich to arrive in Atlanta. He had taken a zigzag route with the jet having to stop and refuel, and then having to plot a course to the uncharted airstrip. And though he was beyond fatigued and feeling somewhat punch drunk, he fought to maintain his wits knowing what was at stake. The suitcase he carried, the one with the emblem of the oval shape with protruding horns, needed to get to its final destination of Washington, D.C.

  Once in Atlanta, he rented a vehicle under an assumed name with the counterfeit paperwork to back up his false identity. Then, after placing the suitcase inside the trunk, the Man from Munich set his navigation screen to begin his northbound journey to D.C. Soon, he would be in Washington where the suitcase would be strategically placed with the fallout of its explosion catastrophic. Though he did not know of its capacity, he did understand that chaos would follow.

  With the lids of his eyes growing heavy, the Man from Munich was able to stay awake as he made his way north to the target zone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Safe House

  Five Miles from Jerusalem

  Efrayim Leibowitz of the Metsada was keeping watch of the safe house that was approximately three-quarters of a mile east of his position. After his communication with the Tel Aviv Comm Center, Leibowitz mobilized his sniper unit to take position along the berm with their targets the armed guards who manned the towers.

  From his position inside the lead vehicle, Leibowitz remained uniformly patient as he prepared his Metsada team to storm the castle.

  * * *

  Sniper One took residence on a sandy ridge approximately five hundred yards east of the eastside tower. Within the crosshairs, a guard appeared less than enthused about manning his post since he was sitting on the banister with his rifle leaning against the wall. He was looking skyward as though he was in search of a particular constellation, even pointing it out upon discovery in confirmation to himself.

  “Tango One within my sights,” Sniper One stated softly over his lip mic.

  “Take him out.”

  Sniper One controlled his breathing and hooked his finger around the trigger. A moment later as the gun bucked slightly, there was a muted spit of gunfire. Through the scope, Sniper One watched the head of his target snap violently against the bullet’s impact, before falling to the tower’s floor.

  “Tango One down,” the sniper affirmed softly.

  “Copy that.”

  * * *

  Sniper Two had set his sights on the guard who stood on the upper tier of the second tower. Unlike the first guard, this one was more astute and someone who persistently checked the grounds.

  After locking onto his target within the crosshairs, Sniper Two stated lightly into his lip mic, “Tango Two within my sights.”

  “Take him out.”

  In the subsequent moments, the head of the second guard snapped back with incredible violence as a round penetrated his forehead, and then he buckled straight downward onto the tower’s landing as a boneless mass.

  “Tango Two down,” the sniper confirmed.

  “Copy that.”

  * * *

  Efrayim Leibowitz, from inside the truck, calmly commanded his Metsada forces to canvas the perimeter of the safe house for foot soldiers. Like the wraiths they were, the Metsada team used the shadows to advance on the fortress.

  * * *

  Ali Aziz was a boy who was on the cusp of becoming a man. At sixteen, he had romanticized and then embraced the ideologies associated with extremist factions who were committed to change. One Law Under the One True God—these words having rung through his mind like a mantra with the mantra his calling. He had envisioned death often with his hand the killing stroke that sliced the neck of an infidel. Though he had not yet had the opportunity to fine tune his killing skills, there had been promises made that his time would come. Be patient, they would tell him. Infidels abound, so your time will come.

  With a knife strapped to his side and an AK-47 in his hands, he walked the perimeter of the safe house recalling the moments when he informed his parents of his future. His father was proud and often puffed his chest out with pride. His mother, however, balked, believing that Ali could better serve life instead of taking it.

  But his dreams appeared to be on the slow road since he joined the group believing that happiness came from getting one’s hands slick with blood, perhaps up to the elbows. All he performed was the constant ritual of walking the perimeter of an abandoned building in the middle of nowhere. Lately, he found that his dreams did not have the quality of blood lust to them, only disappointment.

  When the sun set, Ali grabbed his rifle and performed the required rounds by circling the safe house. Everything was quiet, the silence having a calming effect. And because he was a man-child, Ali did not take life as serious as he should. His mind continued to envision a different life, a different way, with his path to Allah—

  Suddenly, a bullet hole appeared magically at the center of his forehead, the kill shot driving and exiting through the rear with the exit wound as large as a plum. Gore and gray matter erupted from his skull to create a macabre looking splash against the sandstone wall, something that was star shaped. And then Ali fell to the ground, the man-child dreaming no more.

  As Ali stared skyward with his eyes at half-mast, looming shapes stood over him that were blacker than black. And then two more muted shots were fired off into Ali’s center mass with the fabric surrounding the puncture holes of his shirt suddenly blooming like the petals of red roses.

  And then they were gone, the Metsada once again on the move.

  * * *

  Efrayim Leibowitz was sitting as still as a Roman statue inside the truck, the man as cool as the stone he emulated. When he received word from the Metsada field commander that the perimeter had been cleared, he told his team to storm the premise as planned.

  They did.

  * * *

  The first order was to take control of the two towers, so that the Metsada snipers could commandeer these vantage points to provide cover for the ground team. With the aid of grappling hooks and lines, the snipers scaled the walls to the towers and established themselves within the nest that gave a full view of the courtyard. After setting up their sniper rifles and tripods, they set their scopes to magnify the distances within the quad. Each Metsada commando confirmed four individuals from their perches: two at the northside, one to the east, and the last one to the south. The sentries were walking the area with a lack of attentiveness a
s though they were taking a leisurely stroll through a park.

  Sniper One, from his roost, set his sight on the two at the northside of the courtyard. “I’ve got two hostiles to the north. You copy Two?”

  “Yeah. Got’em.”

  “I’ll take the one on the left. You take the one on the right. On my count. From three . . . Two . . . One.”

  Double shots that were dampened by suppressors went off in unison. And both men went down quickly, the two neutralized.

  “Two tangos down,” said One. “Now drawing on the target to the east.”

  “Copy that,” returned Two. “Now drawing on the target to the south.”

  Sniper One put the center of the crosshairs to the target’s temple, controlled his breathing, then pulled the trigger. The target’s head rocked and exploded like a melon, the hostile disappearing from view almost immediately as he fell behind some wild brush. At the same time from the second tower, there was a burst of light from the point of a sniper rifle, a muzzle flash, and then the sentry to the south fell.

  Sniper One spoke evenly into his lip mic. “The courtyard’s clear,” he said. “All tangos neutralized.”

  That was when the entry door exploded from a Semtex pad. A moment later, the Metsada unit raided the courtyard with the tips of their assault weapons raised. The team was now in full-attack mode.

  * * *

  Everyone had heard the explosion, and everyone inside the safe house responded by grabbing their weapons in reflex. These men were not battle tested or proven warriors who had served in the field. These were the chest-thumping wannabes who had envisioned themselves as great fighters and the soldiers of Allah. But lessons were often taught in the field of battle. And for Baghdadi’s team, it would be a hard lesson learned.

  In the eyes of Baghdadi’s operatives, the barbarians had breached the gates. They were cloaked in garments as black as night to become one with the shadows, which they used to their advantage. The only thing that gave away their positions were the muzzle flashes from their assault rifles.

  Bullets struck Baghdadi’s teammates with the shots striking with surgical precision. Head shots, shots to center mass, every round had found its mark without a single bullet being wasted as the Metsada team drove through Baghdadi’s unit with little contest.

  Men had been lifted off their feet and carried through space from the impacts, with most of Baghdadi’s men dead before they hit the ground. Others got off a few errant shots in panic, the bullets pocking and pitting the walls and smashing glass windows that hadn’t already been broken.

  People cried out, screamed, only for their shouts of pain to die off instantly when a well-placed round stole away their lives. The courtyard, the hallways, the rooms—all lit up with flashes and staccato bursts as the Metsada pushed their way through to strike down anything that was considered a threat.

  There were additional screams of those who were suddenly eclipsed by white-hot pain and agony, only for their cries to be cut off with mercy shots to either the head or to center mass. Still, the Metsada pressed on with the presence of mind seeking not only Baghdadi for mining, but also the Man from Paris as well.

  More screams.

  More gunfire.

  And more dreams instantly shattered with the deaths of Baghdadi’s teammates.

  After the Metsada took down the extremists and cleared the main area, they continued the hunt for Baghdadi and the Man from Paris.

  * * *

  Baghdadi had heard the explosion and the subsequent gunfire of AK-47s. Then came the cries, the screams, that of pain and agony, all swiftly cut off.

  And then silence.

  Baghdadi grabbed his AK-47 that leaned against the far wall. But when he attempted to turn around to confront his enemies, the point of an assault weapon was pressed against the base of his skull from behind.

  In Arabic, the Metsada officer yelled, “Drop your weapon!”

  Baghdadi was never a brave man, but one who was subservient to a greater power than he.

  “Hands on your head!”

  Baghdadi dropped his weapon and did as commanded. After releasing the weapon to the dirt floor, Baghdadi was tossed to the ground and bound by flexcuffs. When he was turned onto his backside, he saw three shapes looming over him, all black, all menacing. From this grouping a man stepped forward, pointed what appeared to be a cellphone, and took a photo, the room lighting up with a blinding flash. Then as the shape toyed with buttons on the cellphone with Baghdadi’s frozen image in the phone’s window, he stated over his lip mic, “Image sent for analysis and confirmation.”

  Over his earbud came a reply: “Copy that.”

  * * *

  Inside the truck, Efrayim Leibowitz received a photo of Suspect One, a man he already knew to be Saheem Baghdadi, on his iPad, but needed electronic verification, nevertheless. After initiating the start-up software program for facial recognition, dots appeared on the image to measure pinpoint landmarks with lines connecting these dots to map out and identify the person. As the lines geometrically connected from point to point to measure facial distances down to a high degree of certainty, the match numbers rose exponentially. Rising from zero to 100% in less than two seconds.

  “Identification confirmed,” said Leibowitz. “Hold and maintain. Locate Suspect Two.”

  “Copy that.”

  * * *

  The sound of gunfire was all around the Man from Paris as he sat on the mattress with his knees drawn up into acute angles and his arms embracing them, the man a tight mass.

  There were cries and screams of obvious pain, not the battle cries that were meant to spur armies forward against their enemy. There was gunfire, the sound of ensuing chaos, and then a horrible silence.

  As the breathing from the Man from Paris became more erratic as though he were hyperventilating, the door to his room, having been kicked wide, flew open and a metal object was tossed inside. It bounced across the floor with the tinkling sound of metal. A flashbang. But before the Man from Paris could raise his arms to shield his eyes, the device went off. The flash was as bright as a thousand suns, blinding, and the concussion of the blast rocked his senses, the man becoming numb to his surroundings.

  A number of hands grabbed him roughly and tossed him to the mattress where he was handcuffed. And then he was turned over so that he could see the ceiling. Silhouettes stood over him, nothing but blackened shapes whose voices sounded as though they were speaking from the bottom of a well, far and distant and hollow. Then came a flash of light.

  The Man from Paris could barely make out the words which sounded like the slow-moving track of a recorder, long and drawn, though the words he recognized were definitely Hebrew.

  A moment later, as though receiving orders over his earbud with the shape who took the photo nodding, said, “Copy that.”

  Then the Man from Paris was hoisted to his feet and ushered forcibly out of the room.

  In the corner was a suitcase whose shell had a dull aluminum finish to it.

  A Metsada officer took the few steps to the suitcase, leaned over, and through his NVG goggles, he noted the emblem on the suitcase, that of three sixes. Here lying before him was the Antichrist.

  Hitting his earbud, he said, “Commander.”

  “Go.”

  “I found the package.”

  “Does it have the marking?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Copy that and stand by.”

  The Metsada officer shut off his earbud and, as ordered, stood by.

  * * *

  When Efrayim Leibowitz received the photo of the second man on his iPad, the facial recognition program wasted no time in identifying the person of interest. It appeared that the Man from Paris was a high-level courier who was adept at disappearing entirely from the grid, even when the best intel agencies had him under surveillance. He was considered to be a magician and a ghost, someone who was here today but gone tomorrow. His name was Pierre
Fabron, a suspect who partook in terrorist bombings in Dublin, Manila, Istanbul and in Ankara, with more than 300 souls lost.

  As he was reading the biographical history of Fabron, he received communication from within the safe house. “Commander.”

  “Go.”

  “I found the package.”

  “Does it have the marking?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Copy that and stand by.” Setting the iPad aside, Leibowitz said to his driver, “Let’s go.”

  Exiting the vehicle, Efrayim Leibowitz, commander of the Mossad’s Metsada group, headed for the safe house along with his armed driver.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Vatican Intelligence

  Vatican City, The Vatican

  Since this was a concerted effort between intel agencies who were uniformly trying to discover the whereabouts of the suitcases that had been labeled as ‘the nuclear stash’ within Abesh Faruk’s fabled Goliath Chamber, Fathers Auciello and Essex were keeping watch over the computer monitors for live communication feeds. So far, they’d received nothing of value from the Israeli’s who indicated a possible greenlight movement against Baghdadi. Since then, however, the communication lines from the Bangladeshi, Jaziri and Baghdadi had suddenly gone dark.

  Right now, as Rome slept, no one realized that a weapon of mass destruction was about to be seated directly in the heart of Vatican City.

  No one.

  Not even the co-directors of Vatican Intelligence.