by Rick Jones
With the burner still in his hand, the Man from Munich watched as Marine One lifted, banked, then started its westward journey with the president of the United States.
* * *
The Bangladeshi was sitting along the edge of the bed watching TV with the burner still in his hand. As he was talking to the Man from Munich, the news was airing recent concerns that provided theories as to why Vatican City had suddenly closed its borders. Everything listed as the causal reasons behind the closure had ranged from illness to terrorism, but nothing that could be pinned down as fact.
We’ve been compromised, the Bangladeshi considered. Without a doubt.
Then a realization came over him. Burner cellphones were intended to be untraceable so its owner could remain anonymous. But the Bangladeshi also knew that there were circumstances that pushed aside that veil of anonymity to reveal a breadcrumb trail that led directly to the burner’s owner. The Man from Paris had been caught and mined for details, which in turn prompted the targeted areas to become saturated with overwhelming numbers of security. It also meant that the cellphone from the Man from Paris had been confiscated and employed for triangulation. Though the purpose behind the use of a burner was to maintain anonymity, the Bangladeshi knew that his team had been exposed by the Man from Paris.
Looking at his phone as though it was something mysterious, he weighed the fact that burners emitted the IMEI number as well as the SIM’s serial number to a nearby cell tower. The phones were no longer a means of remaining nameless and faceless during times of communication. They were now tracking devices, or the breadcrumb trail.
The Bangladeshi snapped the cellphone in half. Then he removed the SIM card and snapped it like a wafer before he tossed the burner into a nearby trash container.
Realizing that time was limited, the Bangladeshi grabbed his hat, his sunglasses, an overly sized coat to hide his frame, and did whatever he could to mask his identity from CCTV cameras.
Moving with urgency, he opened the louvered doors to his closet. Inside was the aluminum suitcase with the emblem of Satan emblazoned upon its dull shell in bright red. Grabbing the case, the Bangladeshi laid it on top of the bed. Opening its lid, he exposed the keypad that needed two sets of codes, the enabling sequence and the timer, in order to empower it.
Slowly, he traced the tips of his fingers over the keypad. He was too far from Vatican City for the device to have any true effect, this he knew. He also knew that in order to achieve the effectiveness necessary for the city-state to succumb to the full effect of the blast, he would need to get closer.
Closing the lid, the Bangladeshi now considered himself as a separate entity who worked independently from the Man from Munich, with the two now branching off in different directions to achieve their goals. Once the Man from Munich set his device, the Bangladeshi knew that he would not have enough time to draw distance and would get caught in the blast radius. But this mattered little to the Bangladeshi who would have hunted him down to secure the secrecy of his involvement, anyway. But the hunt was a moot point now that his identity had been uncovered.
With the nuke suitcase in his grasp and its heft appearing to weigh down his shoulder, the Bangladeshi looked out the window and surveyed the streets of Rome. In minutes, he knew, the Polizia di Stato would be infiltrating the area to canvas the surrounding streets.
I’m so close, he thought. He looked at the suitcase. But I will not be denied, either.
Leaving the room, the Bangladeshi exited the hostel through the rear entryway.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Washington, D.C.
The Man from Munich saw nothing but dollar signs as he headed to his five-star hotel. All he had to do to earn his prize was to place the suitcase at a location close to the primary target of the White House, set the timer for three minutes, then hasten from the area. Once the unit detonated and the statement made by the blast—whether it be political or a simple act of terrorism—was something the Man from Munich cared little about, as long as the numbers in his bank account grew. All he knew was that he would never have to commit another atrocity ever again. Instead, he would be sitting along the shores of Belize sipping Pina Coladas from a coconut-shaped cup. Beautiful women would serve him. His estate would be luxurious. And he would have the sleekest and fastest cars on the road.
Reaching his hotel, the Man from Munich took the glass elevator to the sixteenth floor. His movement was fast and with purpose, the man understanding that time was now critical for a successful outcome of the operation.
After sliding his card through the card reader there was a click of the lock opening. Pushing the door aside, the Man from Munich went immediately to the closet, opened the door, dragged the unit out from within, then placed it on the bed. Opening the lid, he noted the keypad and remembered what he had to do in order to power up the device. Everything appeared to be intact. Closing the lid and then snapping the clasps in place, the Man from Munich quickly sensed that he was not alone.
As the animal drive of instinct that had been imbedded into the human condition a warning mechanism, The Man from Munich could sense a threat looming close by. At first it was vague, something that made him unsure if the threat was real or imagined. But then it nurtured into something quite real, and something that filled him with heart-pounding dread.
The Man from Munich reached inside his suit jacket and quietly removed his suppressed sidearm from his shoulder holster. He looked at the ornate door, which was glossy white with gold painted trimmings. Then he turned his attention to the door that led into the neighboring suite, perhaps an escape route.
Nothing but absolute silence, which in itself was as blaring as an orchestra reaching its crescendo note.
The Man from Munich moved quietly to the door with both hands on his firearm, which was directed at the entryway. Footfall after silent footfall, the man was as stealthy as a legitimate assassin whose senses were heightening with each step forward.
Then he stopped.
And he listened.
He now knew that he wasn’t alone in this world anymore.
Alpha predators loomed close by to dominate and destroy the threat he had become, things that were greater, stronger, faster and far more vicious than he.
The Man from Munich looked at his gun, a suppressed Glock, perhaps a peashooter in the scheme of things to come.
And then with the slowness of a bad dream, this white glossy door with gold trim exploded inward from the result of a battering ram smashing the locking mechanism with ease. Splinters of wood flew inward, the shards dangerously pointed. And then the doorknob bounced and skated across the floor until it ended up at Munich’s feet. The courier quickly aligned his sight and looked for a target to lock on to, but found nothing, even as he set off a volley of muted shots.
. . . Phfttt . . .
. . . Phfttt . . .
. . . Phfttt . . .
. . . Phfttt . . .
Then he saw a hand toss something inside a room, something metallic, a pipelike device that hit and bounced across the floor. A flashbang.
The Man from Munich turned away in time as the flashbang went off. The room became as bright as a supernova. The concussive waves helped carry the Man from Munich over the bed as he dove for cover.
Men clad in special forces attire moved inside wearing Kevlar vest and helmets with face shields. They also carried suppressed-tipped automatic weapons that were at eye level with the points turning and searching for a target.
The world belonging to the Man from Munich was caught within a haze and was slow moving, the effects of the flashbang dulling his senses. At the moment, his brain could only process the shape shifting of his enemies, these blackened forms who quickly invaded his space with the fever of the hunt deep within their hearts.
The Man from Munich raised his weapon as a last-ditch effort of self-preservation. But his actions appeared too slow and weighted, his arm all of a sudden much heavier than he coul
d have ever imagined.
Then came the piercings of his flesh as round after round penetrated his skin. To the Man from Munich, they felt like the multiple stabbings from the points of hot knitting needles, the pain sharp and localized before the agony started to spread across his torso with white-hot pain. As witness to his own suffering, the Man from Munich saw the muzzle flashes of their firing weapons and felt the multiple stings of the bullets’ impacts. Then he could sense the closing of the CHAPTER that had been his life.
Laying on the floor staring ceilingward, and with the sounds of his own slowing breath, the Man from Munich began to see the faces gather above him with a single voice sounding as though it was coming from the deep base of a hollow well. The Man from Munich, however, could not understand the voice or what it was asking of him.
. . . breathing . . .
. . . breathing . . .
. . . breathing . . .
And then the edges of Munich’s sight began to turn purple, and then black, with the outer walls closing to a pinpoint dot of vision. Even as he tried to cling to life and tried to jumpstart his will to live, his body was succumbing to a trauma that was too great to overcome.
. . . breathing . . .
. . . breathing . . .
. . . breath—
And just like that, the Man from Munich was gone.
* * *
“Maxwell Gruber.” This was more of a statement than a question as the team leader of the FBI Task Force stood over the Man from Munich with the point of his weapon directed at Gruber’s center mass. But Gruber appeared disconnected as the light in his eyes began to fade.
As blood beneath the Man from Munich fanned out across the floor beneath him, the task force leader watched Gruber expel his final breath with a long sigh to vacate his lungs. Once it had been established that the Man from Munich had checked out for good, the task force leader went to the suitcase that was lying on the bed. On the suitcase’s aluminum shell that was lined with lead shielding was an oval shape with protruding horns emblazoned in red, the symbol regarded as Satan. Once opened, they saw the shields and the keypads meant to upcycle the unit.
“Close the lid,” he told one of his operatives. Then, stepping aside, he hit his earbud to open communications. “Direct Leader One to Comm Center, do you read?”
“We copy, Direct Leader One.”
“The tango has been neutralized and the package appropriated and rendered safe. I repeat: the tango has been neutralized and the package appropriated and rendered safe.”
“Comm Center copies that, Direct Leader One.”
Tapping his earbud to cancel the communication, the task force leader looked at the body of Max Gruber. He was well dressed, the man wearing a suit, tie and shirt, though his shirt, once blue, was saturated with blood and marked with a number of holes. His body would be removed in a light-weight plastic bag, then burned as a means to erase his existence.
Once again turning his attention to Satan who sat upon the bed, the task force leader knew of its history as part of the Unholy Trinity. Now that Satan had been appropriated, that left one suitcase outstanding: The False Prophet.
Ordering his team to finish up with the sterilization process, the task force leader couldn’t help wondering what the Vatican had in their playbook to diffuse an ongoing threat since the Bangladeshi, by far, was the most dangerous amongst the crew. He was gifted with cunning and intelligence, enough to keep him out of the spotlight until it was too late.
And being a pious man, the task force leader hoped that the Vatican would seize upon everything in their power to undermine the Bangladeshi’s attempts. But he also knew—given Amal Purakayastha’s biographical history—that the man known as the Bangladeshi would also be the needle inside of a haystack that was Rome, and no doubt impossible to find.
Within thirty minutes after the breach, the FBI Task Force was gone with Satan now in their custody.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Rome, Italy
The Bangladeshi was inside his vehicle approximately 300 yards from the hostel when a number of Polizia di Stato police cars and a Nucleo Operativo Centrale di Sicurezza strike van pulled up to the residence. A heavily armed strike team exited the van and raided the hostel, proof that his burner had finally been triangulated with pinpoint accuracy. Sirens sounded off as keen wails while the lights swirled within their bars.
The Bangladeshi, however, remained calm. He knew they would find trace evidence such as fingerprints, since he did not have time to sanitize the area. Though he was careful not to provide the security and CCTV cameras a clear view of his features. Still, he could feel the dragnet expanding and the noose around his neck tightening.
Beside him lay the aluminum suitcase, the False Prophet. As he watched the officers storm the hostel, he caressed the shell of the suitcase with his fingertips. If he was going to deploy the weapon, then he would have to do so within a limited window of opportunity. The authorities no doubt had been alerted to his intentions and were responding to the intel. The fate of the Man from Munich, he considered, knowing that American establishments were one of the best in the world to respond with lightning efficiency, had most likely been removed him from the equation.
He was now alone. And because of this, Ahmed Jaziri would not be happy.
Starting his vehicle, the Bangladeshi performed a U-turn and headed in the opposite direction of the assault brigade. He drove for a half hour trying to find a secluded location, only to find a semi-vacant parking lot close to a museum. Taking a parking space that was a distance away from several cars and a tourist bus, the Bangladeshi set up his laptop and BGAN system, and with great reluctance, connected with Ahmed Jaziri’s encrypted IP address.
A moment later, Ahmed Jaziri appeared on his screen.
“I’m getting communication from my sources that Vatican City has been closed off. And that Washington, D.C. has beefed up its security with the president heading to Raven Rock. I’m also told that the Man from Paris has disappeared entirely off the grid. Is this why you’re contacting me? To explain your position.”
The Bangladeshi did not betray his emotions with his appearance remaining even. “I believe the mission belonging to the Man from Paris has been compromised. He’s not responding to my calls,” the Bangladeshi reported.
“I see. And the Man from Munich?”
“I issued orders for him to move the device into place and to activate the program.”
“So, he’s still active?”
“The last time I spoke to him was an hour ago, so yes, he’s still active.”
“And yet,” said Jaziri, “Washington, D.C. still stands.”
The Bangladeshi remained silent.
“Remember what I said about failure, Bangladeshi? It’s not that you haven’t been warned of the consequences should a single device not go off as scheduled.”
“I promise you, Ahmed . . . Vatican City will fall.”
“Will it? You mean, in the same way you guaranteed me that all three weapons would go off at the targeted sites at a specified time? That kind of a promise, which I’m now discovering, will never come to fruition?” Ahmed Jaziri leaned towards the screen so that his face took up the entire monitor. “You took a half billion dollars in cryptocurrency in exchange to take out three specific targets: Tel Aviv, Washington, D.C. and Vatican City. Five hundred million. And now you contact me to give excuses. You don’t think I know that? You’ve failed not only me, Bangladeshi, but also my constituency. What you were supposed to do was to incite a movement with the detonation of these weapons. The entire Middle East would have been encouraged by the fall of these cities. And now you think the fall of Vatican City is good enough to appease me. Think again.” Jaziri fell back into his seat. “Perhaps I’ll consider your offer, Bangladeshi, if—and only if—I achieve the desired results from the detonation of the False Prophet. But you brought this on yourself with your failures. You know this. It’s what we agreed upon
.”
“The cause is not lost.”
“The cause has been significantly weakened through a series of failures, something I see as unacceptable. And the amount of five hundred million in cryptocurrency as payment to your account allows me this privilege.”
“I will not fail,” the Bangladeshi told him. “Vatican City will fall with the False Prophet placed directly on the heart of the church.”
“Really. And you have a plan of opportunity?”
“I do,” the Bangladeshi lied.
“Would you mind expressing in detail to me the mechanics of the operation.”
“I’ve much work to do and my time is valuable. But I promise you this, Ahmed, within the next twenty-four hours, Vatican City will be sitting upon a scorched earth.”
Ahmed Jaziri stared at the Bangladeshi through the screen. Then: “Redemption can only be achieved if the city falls and the Middle East rises as one against a common foe. Perhaps, Bangladeshi, I will favor you upon success.”
The Bangladeshi knew that this was a lie and a fabrication. Ahmed Jaziri was a deal broker. To fall short on two fronts of performing the tasked assignments was not a glitch, but a macro mismanagement of what was expected for the amount paid. Even with Vatican City burning in radioactive embers, it would not be enough to save his life, this he realized.
“I will get it done,” the Bangladeshi finally said. “I will place the False Prophet directly over the heart of the city.”
“For your sake, Bangladeshi, I hope you see this through since your life, as you know, hangs in the balance. Do not fail me again.” And then the screen winked off, the light mote at the center of the monitor burning brightly a moment before it disappeared.
The Bangladeshi slapped the lid of the laptop down, and hard. He was frustrated and upset with his world suddenly closing in. Normally a man of great reserve, he started to feel claustrophobically entrenched inside of a situation that was growing tighter from all sides and by the seconds.
