by Rick Jones
“Your Holiness,” this coming from Father Essex whose British accent was strong, “the yield may be powerful enough to destroy the city, even from Rome.”
“Then, I’ll have to assume that you performed your required duties by contacting the Polizia di Stato and the Nucleo Operativo Centrale di Sicurezza?”
“Of course.”
“Then we have protection not only on the Vatican front, but on Rome’s as well. I have faith that the good Lord will intervene, should the intel prove true. But as leader of the holiest seat in the land, I will not vacate my throne until I have positive proof that such a plan is in motion. I know the value of Vatican Intelligence and its ability to locate people across the globe with the use of the best available technology and communications system. If these men exist, the Bangladeshi and—who’s the other?”
“The Man from Munich.”
“And the Man from Munich will be found. Use every possible resource available. If they do exist, then Vatican Intelligence, along with the aid of the Polizia di Stato and its Nucleo Operativo Centrale di Sicurezza group, should be able to defuse the situation long before it gets its footing, yes?”
“Your Holiness, and with all due respect, what if the Bangladeshi has already infiltrated the city’s borders?” Father Auciello asked him. “Certainly, your faith would surely be weakened by the possibility of this happening already.”
“Which is why I set forth the order to have Vatican Security comb the area until every stone is lifted and turned. Until then, secure the borders.”
After a moment of hesitation, Father Auciello said, “Yes, Your Holiness.”
“You have the technological capabilities, or so I’m told, to see that Vatican City is adequately protected. Make sure you use them wisely.”
Both priests bowed their head in respect and got to their feet. That was when the pontiff offered his hand for them to take, which they did with Father Auciello first accepting the hand, and then kissing the Fisherman’s Ring in reverence. Father Essex followed up with the same routine of accepting the hand and kissing the ring. Once the priests were gone, the pontiff was left alone inside his chamber with his own considerations. Tenting his hands, he then bounced his fingertips against his chin in deep thought, a habit of his whenever he became anxious.
At the moment, his city was under siege, or so it was believed, by a madman who possessed a weapon of mass destruction. But he believed in divine intervention, too. Would God allow such a person to render the city as a blackened hole upon the landscape? Would He allow His greatest devotee of the pope to die within its ruins? But I have so much to do. So much to achieve. And because he believed himself to be too important to be in harm’s way, the pontiff genuinely believed that God would intervene by way of divine magic and interference. In some way, he knew he would be spared, especially when he was doing God’s work, with Kimball Hayden a big part of his agenda.
All he needed was time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Rome, Italy
Following Morning
The Bangladeshi had gone without sleep for two days, even as fatigue weighed him down. As he lay in bed with his eyes staring ceilingward, sleep would not come to him as his mind continued to race with stark images. He envisioned plumes of mushroom clouds igniting blackened hearts across the Middle East, with the Unholy Trinity serving as the catalyst to unite hundreds of thousands against a common foe. The success of the mission would also catapult him to the top of the arms dealers’ echelon. Now with a half billion dollars in untraceable funds hidden in his virtual wallet; he now had the capital to start his own arms company. His market, of course, would be the Middle East where the Taliban, the Islamic State and al-Qaeda would be climbing over one another to purchase his wares. The way the Bangladeshi envisioned his future, he saw it as a win-win situation. His half-billion account in bitcoins would immediately triple and grow from there.
Sighing in frustration over his inability to fall asleep, the Bangladeshi turned to the suitcase which sat alongside the bed. Reaching out his hand, he traced his fingertips over the image emblazoned in red upon the aluminum shell—that of the angel with demonic wings, the False Prophet. Then he considered the surrealness of the moment and quickly realized that this was going to happen, that the weapon was going to detonate. Until recently, everything was a raw plan that had been spelled out on paper, a mission in the making. But as he remained holed up inside a hostel in Rome with the target less than two miles away, it seemed all too real.
As he continued to caress the image with the points of his fingertips, the alarm of his watch went off. He had set it under the belief that he would sleep, and that the alarm would awaken him. As he hit the alarm-kill switch on his watch, the Bangladeshi swept his legs out from under the sheets and planted his feet on the floor. While sitting motionless along the edge of the bed, his eyes shifted and came to rest on the burner cellphone that was lying on the nightstand. Grabbing it, he knew that the next stage of the operation needed to commence. So, after dialing a registered number with a single tap of a button, the Bangladeshi placed the phone to his ear.
After the phone rang a dozen times without an answer, he hung up and tried again. And like before no one had answered, which went against communications protocol. The burners were to be active at all times with the cellphone clinging to the operator as though it was an appendage. Then after the third attempt, the Bangladeshi realized that the Man from Paris had either gone rogue, or his position had been compromised. He thought the latter, which automatically had put him at odds with Jaziri. If the Mossad had run interference to corral the Man from Paris, then that action had most likely been reported to other intel agencies. And if this was the case, then the difficulty of the operation had just been ratcheted up a few notches.
After rubbing the fatigue from his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, he dialed a second number. Unlike his attempt with the Man from Paris, the Man from Munich picked up on the second ring.
“Yes,” he said.
“I find the weather in Greenland particularly nice this time of year.”
“And the winter landscape never prettier under the gaze of the full moon.”
These predetermined lines of communication were simply relay statements that the campaign was moving accordingly to the designed plans. If the Man from Munich believed that he was being surveyed, then the response would have been different to indicate a threat.
“Excellent,” said the Bangladeshi. And then: “Are you in position?”
“I’m close enough to the location ready to make a difference.”
“Understood.” After a pause, the Bangladeshi then asked, “Have you received communication from the Man from Paris?’
“No.”
“He’s not answering his phone.”
“You think he was compromised?”
“That’s a possibility. And if that’s the case, then I can safely assume that intel agencies across the globe may be alerted to our actions. We may no longer be under the radar. In fact, there may be a dragnet going on as we speak.”
“This is only speculation.”
“He knows the protocols of communication,” the Bangladeshi fired back. “He has no excuse. Either he has gone rogue, in which case his life will be forfeited, or he fell into the hands of intel operatives who forced from him our agenda. Since I’m inclined to believe that the Mossad is involved, perhaps we should alter our planning as well.”
“To what?”
“Keep an open eye. Survey your surroundings. If the perimeter surrounding the White House or the Capitol appears overly manned, that means our intentions have been compromised. If this is the case, then we’ll have no choice but to shift venues.”
“Understood.”
“You’re in Washington, so survey the area and get back to me.”
“Will do. Give me five hours.”
“You have three.”
After the Bangladeshi hung up, he
fixed his gaze on an imaginary point on the far wall. The Man from Paris was incommunicado, meaning that the operation, as it stood, had been reduced by a third. Still, with the targets of Washington, D.C. and Vatican City still within the crosshairs, the destruction of both states would still achieve the means. The Middle East would see this as a divine triumph, even as Tel Aviv remained standing.
But there was another problem, one with grave overtones. He had promised Jaziri the trifecta of all three weapons going off—Satan, the Antichrist and the False Prophet—with the end result the demolition of key cities with collateral damage off the charts. Instead, with the Man from Paris either dead or under containment, his guarantee would fall short of his goal of destroying all three locations. And the price for his failure? His life.
The Bangladeshi began to rake his long and bony fingers through his raven hair. Ahmed Jaziri had not only laid down the law, but he was also precise about the Bangladeshi’s future should he fail. One mishap, one mistake, one misfire—was failure enough in the eyes of Ahmed Jaziri that was not redeemable in any way. No matter what, the Bangladeshi knew there would be no discussions, debates or negotiations. Ahmed Jaziri had paid his bundle and clearly outlined what he wanted. There were no hidden clauses or in-between-the-line phrases. In fact, Jaziri was quite frank with the Bangladeshi who now, in reflection, regretted not having the insight to see that difficulties could develop along the way. As he sat thinking, he now wished that he had negotiated a wiser deal in such a way that his life would not be the final payoff. But his ego, as he now saw it, turned out to be his downfall. His confidence was so overwhelming that he had been blinded to his own follies.
Still, he would look at the moment as a learning experience. In the future, he would be far more cautious with his planning. Once he set off two devices knowing that Ahmed Jaziri would be true to his word about the Bangladeshi’s failure of setting off the third, the Bangladeshi would have to go on the offensive and hunt down Jaziri before the financier had a chance to send out a kill squad.
Closing his eyes, the Bangladeshi took in deep breaths, then he let them out with equally long sighs. Right now, his main focus was on the targeted locations and the repositioning of those under his authority. Assuming that the Man from Paris was no longer in the equation, the Man from Munich clearly was. And so was he, the Bangladeshi, who was but a stone’s throw away from Vatican City.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Headquarters of the Mossad
Tel Aviv, Israel
A ‘burner’ cellphone works on the same principles and concepts as a regular cellphone. When a call from a burner pings off a tower, a record is automatically created to specify which area the cell phone pinged from. Should a cellphone ping off a tower somewhere in the northern sector, then the records will show that the call’s direction was north of the receiving cell tower. It also acts as a tracking measure which narrows down the phone’s exact location. So, when Pierre Fabron’s burner ultimately rang inside of the Mossad’s Tel Aviv’s tech center, the agency was prepared to trace the incoming call. With the use of geospatial satellites and a number of cell towers, the Mossad was able to triangulate the caller’s origin point, which came from Rome. A second call placed moments later after the initial call had been traced from the origin number to another unregistered phone in Washington, D.C. Though the phones had predetermined numbers but no registered owner to either account, it was assumed that the Bangladeshi attempted to contact the Man from Paris to set the next stage of the operation, but failed to connect, then subsequently linked up with the Man from Munich with the record showing a timed conversation that lasted for nearly three minutes.
Calls were immediately made to the FBI’s Counterterrorist Division (the CTD), and with the primary principals of Vatican Intelligence, that being Fathers Essex and Auciello, to share pertinent data between the respective nations.
In the United States, the CTD downloaded the Mossad’s communique to establish a link with the geospatial satellites to triangulate the outgoing and incoming calls between the burners. The outgoing call had come from Rome, whereas the receiving line was three miles outside of Washington, D.C. Though depicting the precise location of the calls was not an exact science, both agencies were able to home in on locations to within a quarter of a mile of the sources, both receiving and transmitting.
In Rome, the outgoing source was confirmed to be inside a 450-yard circumference, meaning that the Bangladeshi was operating from within a range that was nearly 1.4 million square feet, which was a lot of terrain. In Washington, D.C., that range had been limited to a 300-yard circumference, or 636,000 square feet of area.
The second process was to assign ownership to the burners. According to Pierre Labron, the Bangladeshi was the key operator who moved his technicians into place. And a person who went by the particular callsign the ‘Man from Munich,’ was no stranger to either agency. The Man from Munich was Maxwell Gruber, a suspected terrorist who was believed to be responsible for a recent bombing in Lyon, France, as well as other parts of western Europe. He was a mercenary who transported and planted explosive devices for nothing less than six-figures per operation, meaning that he only worked for high-end controllers with deep financial pockets. How he was able to get by the FBI watchlist and into the United States undetected was a question that the FBI and the NSA would have to deal with later in order to shore up the national borders.
After downloading current images of the Bangladeshi and the Man from Munich into their respective facial recognition software programs (FRP), CCTV cameras began to canvas the corresponding areas. Within minutes, onscreen images came and went as the FRP system dotted the landmarks on numerous faces to measure their features. Images flashed as glimpses on the monitors, only to be summarily dismissed.
But within the hour and with a confirmed hit of 100%, the Man from Munich was spotted along Pennsylvania Avenue and appeared to be surveying the White House.
In Rome, however, the Bangladeshi had yet to be discovered.
And the clock was ticking.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Rome, Italy
The Nocturnal Saints, along with the woman who commanded with absolute power, were inside a small room going over the details of Shari Cohen’s abduction and the subsequent undertaking that would be Kimball Hayden’s downfall.
“Again!” the woman said in her gravelly voice. She had gone over the details repeatedly as outlined, and had the team recite the particulars until they had been imbedded to memory. After a while, their tones became dry and flat and monotonous, a collective drone.
“Again!”
Chance Stallworth, Shonn McKinley, Carl Mannix and Dave Bienemy continued to narrate what the woman had listed on paper as the mission protocols.
“Again!”
The plan was once again repeated in chorus from a seemingly bored choir.
“Again!”
This back and forth went on for exactly one hour, and not one second too soon or too late, with the lesson itself that of perfect timing, which meant everything.
After everyone checked their weapons and donned their Kevlar masks that appeared like human skulls, outside of the emerald-green lenses for eyes and a circular mouthpiece, each operator powered up their bony-looking façades to operational standards. After the whirring of the masks upcycling along with the NVG lenses first dilating and then contracting like human irises, each member tried his mouthpiece which proffered a metallic, yet articulate, sound.
Everything appeared to work smoothly, at least on paper. But the woman knew that battles were not fought on paper but on the battlefield. And with Kimball Hayden as the focal point of the mission, this one man alone, she considered, would not be an easy opponent. Animals that are often driven by volcanic rage were often the most dangerous and the most violent, especially when they were pushed into a corner with the only way forward was through the battle line.
As the Nocturnal Saints went over the plans
without the woman’s additional input, she allowed them to converse about the finest points and left the room. In a separate area, though she could still hear their muffled voices behind closed doors, Antle decided that she wanted to be alone.
As she sat within the shadows thinking, and with her eyes hypnotically riveted to a point on the far wall, her mind envisioned with vivid clarity the images of her only confrontation with Kimball Hayden and his team of Vatican Knights. They were elite and a team unlike any other. And as much as she wanted to believe in her team, no matter how many times she tried to make herself believe that Kimball was one man against four and that he bled like other men, she could not deny the underlying sensation that her team may not be good enough.
Using the woman as enticement did not sit well with her. The pontiff clearly disagreed and saw it as a measure that would bring the Vatican Knight to his knees in defeat, as he begged for the life of the woman. But people like Kimball Hayden did not cower before his enemies. He struck them down. So, did the pontiff really believe that Kimball Hayden would enter the picture without a backup plan? Maybe, she thought. But in all likelihood, Kimball Hayden would go into the situation like the beast that he was—a creature who had been spawned from the flames of the underworld and one who would fight with the powers of Legion.
Antle sighed.
As much as she wanted to believe in her team and appeal to the good side of the pope, she now realized that well-developed details would not be enough to stop Kimball Hayden. Hopefully, her team would have enough of a skillset to prove her wrong.
She looked at the wall clock. Time appeared to be moving along with indescribable slowness with a single second seeming as long as three or four.
