by Rick Jones
. . . tick . . .
. . . tick . . .
. . . tick . . .
Only time will tell, she thought, as to who will win the war from the trenches. The demon in priest’s clothing? Or will it be the God-driven warriors of the Nocturnal Saints?
In the end, as always, there could only be one winner.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The American Embassy
Rome, Italy
In a multi-collusion intel universe, Shari Cohen was the professor of counterterrorism who worked alongside the Nucleo Operativo Centrale di Sicurezza, which was Italy’s tactical unit of the state police that dealt with counterterrorism. Though she was not an active player or a field actor, she did perform the essential duties as lead investigator when it came to combating radicalism. Having been notified of a high-end alert regarding a suitcase nuke that may have been smuggled into Rome with Vatican City as the designated target, she was in communication with first the Mossad, and secondly, with Fathers Essex and Auciello of Vatican Intelligence. At the moment, she was in conversation with Fathers Essex and Auciello.
Sitting before her monitor with Fathers Essex and Auciello on a split-screen, Shari was communicating with the Jesuits using an encrypted network that was surrounded by a ton of firewalls created to block data packets based on the program’s set of security rules.
“The Vatican Knights have had a run in with the Bangladeshi before,” stated Father Auciello. “And it has come to our understanding that you personally met the man when he was under the direction of Abesh Faruk.”
Shari nodded. She had met the Bangladeshi before, a man who rarely spoke. But he always performed what was asked of him whenever Abesh Faruk raised a hand or snapped his fingers, the Bangladeshi responding to his beckoning as though he did not have a will of his own. “I knew his background and that he possessed military sophistication,” she told him.
“And your operation trying to get to Faruk,” Auciello began, “you were able to confirm that the three suitcases existed?”
“I did. But I wasn’t able to get Faruk to admit to the whereabouts of the WMDs.”
“Apparently,” said Father Essex, “they were right under his feet. There was a hidden room beneath the floor of his special exhibits inside his estate. And inside that room was a crypt-like container called the Goliath Chamber, which we believe held the Unholy Trinity.” Onscreen, the priest cocked his head and narrowed an eye as he spoke. “As you already know, one of those suitcases, the Antichrist, has been commandeered by the Mossad team, which brings a heightened alert that the Bangladeshi and one other are on the move and perhaps onsite.”
“According to the Mossad’s triangulation, which we’ve already verified, the Bangladeshi is close to Vatican City. As of this moment, I’ve advised the principals of the Polizia di Stato and its Nucleo Operativo Centrale di Sicurezza units, should immediate response be necessary, to canvas the area. Since this is their jurisdiction, I’m not eligible for field duty like I would be in the United Sates.”
“You steer the rudder,” said Father Essex. “I get it.”
“To a degree,” she answered. “But in the end, it’s up to the principals of the Polizia di Stato to make the final call. But right now, what concerns me is that each unit possesses a one-kiloton yield. Even if the nuke goes off in Rome, Vatican City will still feel its effects. More importantly, the collateral damage of the people in Rome would be exceedingly high. I believe that the Bangladeshi, if he finds himself with his back against the wall, will set off the device at a location close enough for the fallout to turn Vatican City into a wasteland for years. It’ll become a dead spot like Chernobyl.”
“That’s what we believe as well,” said Father Auciello. “Problem is, with our state-of-the-art technology, even after we downloaded new images of a person who we believe to be the Bangladeshi, this guy has avoided detection.”
“And that becomes a huge issue,” she responded. “According to the Mossad, the Man from Paris informed them that the devices were to go off in unison at three different locations. Washington, D.C., Tel Aviv and Vatican City. The Tel Aviv unit has been neutralized, whereas two others remain outstanding with the clock ticking. We need to find those people, Father. We need to find the Bangladeshi.”
“As you know, Pope Clement has shut down the city and cordoned it off. The Bangladeshi isn’t stupid. Once he sees this, if he hasn’t already, he’ll know for sure that his mission has been compromised . . . He’ll find a nearby location to set off the False Prophet.”
Shari agreed with a nod. “That’s why the Polizia di Stato are combing the triangulation area, though it’s a process. But we’re trying to narrow the location down to within yards of the origin point.”
“Same here. But we’re not having much luck.”
“Neither are we. But the process is working itself out—door to door, surveillance. And we have the Nucleo Operativo Centrale di Sicurezza onsite to respond accordingly once the Bangladeshi has been located. But I’ll repeat what you just said: He’s not stupid.”
“And time’s running out,” said Father Essex. “The Bangladeshi will keep to his mission, though he’ll change the game plan.”
“And that’s what worries me,” she responded. And then: “If we’re unable to locate the Bangladeshi in time and the nuke goes off . . . what’s Kimball’s position in all of this?”
“The Vatican Knights have been sent away on missions with the exception of Isaiah, Kimball and Nehemiah, a light team. The pontiff will expect Kimball and his unit to bolster support, along with the Swiss Guard and Vatican Security. Like the rest of us, he’ll remain onsite.”
Shari’s heart leapt into her throat where it became a sour lump. She understood duty and obligation, especially when Kimball had offered his life to the church who gave him a chance at redemption. But a nuclear weapon that carried with it the capability to level one city and part of another meant that Kimball would not stand a chance when the flames spread across the landscape at supersonic speed. She, however, would have the ability to flee once the irreversible countdown to zero hour began its march with all avenues of defusing the situation having been exhausted with no upside. Unlike her, Kimball would have to call upon his faith which was in short supply. But his love for those he had stood by as a Vatican Knight had become his means to remain by their side, along with the institution that allowed him to seek the Light. Here was Kimball Hayden’s bed which he willingly made a long time ago.
“I know,” Father Auciello interjected her thoughts. “It’s a situation you don’t want to consider. But it’s a situation that becomes necessary in times when you’re a Vatican Knight. You stay true to the church until the very end. Let’s pray, Shari, that this does not happen.”
“I’ve been in positions before regarding the transport of low-grade nuclear weapons,” she responded, “but nothing this close to home.”
“Perhaps,” Father Essex told her, “with the power of prayer, which can be quite strong, can provide us with the moment of divine intervention.”
“Yeah,” she said evenly. “Perhaps.” But Shari found herself at a crossroads. She wanted to grab Kimball’s hand and take him away from all this—perhaps back to the lakeside cabin where the world seemed as though it was a galaxy away from all drawbacks. It was also a moment of personal weakness and shame, thinking that running away and leaving others behind to suffer the ultimate catastrophe was the proper thing to do. But that’s not me, she told herself. Deep down, she knew she would ride out the storm regardless of the Bangladeshi’s intentions, knowing that she would fight and dig and scratch right down to her cuticles until her fingers bled. Like Kimball, I will fight by his side with the outcome a shared one.
And then, as though shaken from reverie, she said, “I’ll keep you posted regarding the findings of the Polizia di Stato,” she informed them. “And please, contact me if you receive anything of value.”
“That goes without s
aying,” said Father Auciello. “Our channels are always open to our Jesuit team. Response time will be automatic.”
Shari nodded. Then, as her shoulders wilted in what appeared to be defeat, she asked, “Tell Kimball to call me when he gets a chance.”
“Of course,” stated the co-director. “I’ll tell Kimball as soon as we conclude our close council meeting with the pontiff regarding the current information.”
“Thank you, Father Auciello.”
“Do remember, Shari, what I said about the power of prayer. In times like these it can be an immensely powerful tool.”
Onscreen, Shari nodded.
After the connection ended, Shari knew she would pray but would that be enough? Would the power of prayer against the whims of a madman who was in pursuit to be in allegiance with the Christian devil be the hammer that finally brings him down?
She looked at her watch.
Time continued to move along toward zero hour, whenever that was. But she knew that the Bangladeshi, should he be pressed to above-stress levels, would detonate the weapon at his desired time. An hour. Two hours. A day. A week. All of these were unknowns that could only be answered by the Bangladeshi.
After switching off the live feed from the Vatican, Shari returned her screen to a bank of grids that showed people milling in the streets of Rome within the triangulated area. Narrowing her eyes, she wondered about the Bangladeshi and his mindset.
And then she whispered to herself, “Where are you?”
And then she thought about the other man, the second operative, who walked the streets of Washington, D.C. hand in hand with Satan, literally. The Man from Munich he was called, a courier of deadly goods who operated without ethics since money seemed to be the panacea to curb one’s conscience.
But this was Washington, D.C., which was the highest political seat in the land with its ruler the master of the free world. And like her, she knew that her counterparts were searching diligently to find him.
Once again, and so softly that her words came as a whisper, she asked, “Where are you?”
Her answer was silence.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Papal Chamber, The Apostolic Palace
Vatican City
Fifteen minutes after communicating with Shari Cohen, Fathers Auciello and Essex, along with Kimball Hayden, were escorted to the pontiff’s chamber by two members of the Swiss Guard who were dressed in their Renaissance-style apparel. Once inside, the pontiff stood behind his desk and offered his hand to the priests for them to kiss the Fisherman’s Ring. First, it was Father Auciello who grabbed the pontiff’s hand, leaned forward, and kissed the ring. Father Essex repeated the exercise. But it was Kimball who balked at the ritual. As Pope Clement XV remained standing with his arm extended in Kimball’s direction, the Vatican Knight knew that the practice was born from exercising personal power and had nothing to do with paying homage to the pontiff’s station. But it did have everything to do with forcing Kimball into a situation that was equal to bowing. Relenting, Kimball finally grabbed the pontiff’s hand and kissed the ring.
After the priests took the seats before the pontifical desk, Kimball was left standing between them with his hands clasped together and his fingers interlocking.
“And what have we so far?” the pontiff asked.
“The city has been cordoned off,” Father Essex stated, “as you’ve requested.”
“I see that by looking out my window. I was talking about the precarious position that the Vatican suddenly finds itself in.”
Father Auciello leaned forward in his seat. “Your Holiness, we’re working with multiple agencies regarding two people who are believed to be in motion with the WMDs. One is in Washington, D.C.—confirmed, with the second man in Rome, also confirmed.”
“But they have yet to be discovered.”
“That’s correct.”
“So, the threat continues to remain at a high level.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“Is it possible that the man transporting this device may have already breached the city perimeter before the Square was shut down?”
“That’s a possibility—yes,” said Father Auciello. “But Vatican Security has found nothing to indicate a threat.”
“That doesn’t mean that one does not exist,” the pontiff returned. “The man is in Rome, yet he remains elusive, which tells me that this man is cunning enough to strike at a time of opportunity.” Then the pontiff turned his attention to Kimball Hayden. “Your team of Vatican Knights will work hand in hand with Vatican Security,” he told him, “and will comb all areas and every dark recess. Miss nothing.”
“You left me with a small team to work with,” Kimball responded. “Only three, including myself.”
“A Vatican Knight—it is said—does the work of five men. Now you have fifteen.” The pontiff delivered this with a snap to his tone. “It is your duty,” he added, “to protect the sovereignty of the church at all costs.”
“I know my duties.”
“Then don’t question my reasons for dispatching the Vatican Knights to protect our interests across the globe for which my doing so leaves your numbers thin. I know this is what you meant by your remark of having a small crew to work with. I have reasons behind what I do. You need to remember that and question nothing.”
The tension in the chamber was syrupy thick with the animosity between them causing such discomfort to the priests that they sat unmoving with the lines of their vision cast to the floor.
“Do you understand me?” the pontiff challenged Kimball.
The Vatican Knight nodded. “I do.”
“A man runs loose in the city of Rome carrying a suitcase that has a nuclear yield equal to one kiloton, which I’m told can level Vatican City and areas beyond the state’s borders. I will not cower and vacate the throne that has been entrusted to me by God. And as God as my witness, you, Kimball Hayden, will serve God through me.”
The muscles in the back of Kimball’s jaws began to work as he fought for control.
“Is that understood?”
Kimball nodded.
“I can’t hear you,” the pontiff stated sharply.
“Yes. I understand.”
The pontiff nodded; the man satisfied with his show of power.
“Continue to work with the authorities,” the pope directed at the co-directors. “Shore up the defenses of the city. Investigate all corners, examine all security footage, use everything at your disposal to determine if this man has entered Vatican City.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.” This came from Father Essex.
“May God be with you.” The pontiff stood and extended his arm toward the priests, who accepted his hand and kissed the Fisherman’s Ring. When he extended his hand towards Kimball in invitation, the Vatican Knight followed through by ritualistically kissing the pontiff’s ring.
After they left the chamber, Fathers Auciello and Essex remained quiet. It was obvious that the pope had pushed Kimball to the edge. The best thing, they realized, was to let Kimball stew long enough to burn away his anger.
Going in separate directions after Kimball was informed by Father Auciello of Shari’s phone call, the Vatican Knight continued to simmer. The pope was purposely pushing his buttons. Whether it was to force him to surrender his position as a Vatican Knight so that Pope Clement XV could take absolute charge of his team, or maybe it was something as simple as the hatred between them being too volatile for either man to find common ground. Either way, Kimball’s orders had been delivered and duly accepted.
With darkness hanging over Vatican City like the Sword of Damocles, Kimball Hayden, as a Vatican Knight, remained firm in his conviction to abide by the principle to protect the sovereignty of the church, even as Pope Clement XV ruled from the shadows.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Washington, D.C.
The Man from Munich was standing along Pennsylvania Avenue and noted the high
volume of manpower that surrounded the White House as they set up a perimeter. Streets had been cordoned off. And Marine One, the president’s helicopter, was on the launchpad with its rotors in full swing, meaning that the president was about to be whisked off to an unknown location.
The Man from Munich was instantly on his burner to the Bangladeshi.
After two rings, the Bangladeshi picked up. “Yes.”
“I’m at the target site,” the Man from Munich responded. “Security’s all over the place and the president’s chopper is about to liftoff.”
There was a lapse of silence on the other end, and then an obvious sigh. “The mission’s been compromised,” the Bangladeshi finally said. “The Vatican, too, has closed its borders for unspecified reasons. My guess is that the Man from Paris quickly professed our cause.”
“So, what do we do now?”
“How far away is the package from the primary site?”
“Almost two miles.”
“Perhaps too far to yield the results we’re looking for,” said the Bangladeshi. And then: “Be careful and keep your head low. If we’ve been compromised, which is most likely, certain authorities will be looking for you through the CCTV cameras with the aid of facial recognition. Return to your station, retrieve the package, and place it within a range no less than a quarter of a mile from the primary target.”
“That might be difficult,” stated the Man from Munich. “It appears that security is expanding their network from the central point of the White House.”
“Do what you’ve been paid to do. Place the package within the range that I have specified from the primary target and set the timer for three minutes.”
“Three minutes?”
“We’ve no choice. The more time they have to search the grid, it gives us less time to achieve the means. Don’t call me. In fact, destroy the phone. And immediately. This needs to be done within the hour.”
Just as the Man from Munich was about to say something, there was an audible click on the other end. The Bangladeshi had hung up.
