The Insider Threat

by Brad Taylor

  They adhered to the same brutality the Roman Empire showcased in this very Colosseum, but that is where the similarities ended. There would be no grand architecture from the Islamic State. The duality of that thought caused him no angst. Creation of something profound wasn’t in his makeup. The caliph alone was all that mattered.

  He walked toward the entrance, the duffel bag against his leg. He saw the line, behind a fence. He approached the gate, and found he could enter. The checkpoint processing tickets was deeper in. He passed by a uniformed guard that paid him no mind. He kept walking, the lines getting more robust, the target getting better.

  He paused, not wanting to get too far in without a means of escape. He turned around, making sure he could still make it out after initiating the chemicals, and saw someone running toward him.

  The woman he’d held under his knife.

  93

  I heard the screams start and knew we were either too late, or about to be the heroes. I hoped it was the latter. The man from the State Department seemed incapacitated, the explosions and shouting causing his mouth to open and close like a fish out of water. I grabbed him by the collar and said, “How do we get into the basilica without fighting the crowds? How do we get in?”

  His eyes rolled left and right, looking for a way out of the disaster, following the people fleeing. I slapped him on the cheek. “Wake the fuck up! Get me in. Right now.”

  He said, “The grotto. That will bypass everyone. It’ll put you into the heart of the basilica.”

  I said, “Lead the way, but do it on the run.”

  We took off, fighting through the throng in Saint Peter’s Square, most having no idea what had happened, but a few recognizing something was terribly wrong, causing panic in the others.

  We went to the right of the facade and hit a security checkpoint, the guard manning it unsure of what was going on, but damn sure that nobody was getting past. My guide waved his badge, and was rebuffed. I pulled my weapon and said, “Let my team in. Someone’s trying to kill the pope.”

  His eyes popped open like he’d touched an electrical socket, and he started shouting, reaching for his pistol in a holster, thinking I was a threat. I hammered him with the suppressor on the end of my weapon, dropping him to the flagstone.

  The aide looked at me in absolute fear. I said, “Show me the way. Right fucking now.”

  He nodded and turned toward a courtyard to the right of the facade, moving slowly. I slapped the back of his head and said, “Quicker, damn it.”

  We started running, going through the courtyard and entering a hallway that turned into a catacomb. We wound through marbled corridors full of tombs, side cutouts housing the corporal history of the Catholic Church. I heard noise to our front and jerked our guide behind me. He fell to the floor and started whimpering, crawling toward an alcove.

  We were at a turn in the corridor, the grotto splitting left and right, the noise coming from the left. I crouched, waving Brett forward. He came abreast, kneeling next to a rope barricade protecting a casket.

  Aaron came to my right, saying, “This isn’t going to play well in the press.”

  I said, “Because you’re a Jew?”

  “No. Because you’re a walking disaster.”

  * * *

  Jennifer and Shoshana reached the square of the Colosseum, seeing a massive amount of people milling about, some waiting to enter, others just buying souvenirs. They had nothing other than the last known location of Omar, indicating a movement toward this location, and Jennifer was beginning to believe that thought was incorrect.

  Now outside of radio range, she tried to call Pike on her cell, and got no answer, which didn’t surprise her. She called Knuckles, asking for another lock-on for the phone, but he was on final approach to the airfield, forced to land. They were out of options.

  She said, “We’ve got no help from the Taskforce. I don’t know what else to do.”

  Shoshana said, “He’s here.”

  Jennifer looked at her and saw the weird glow. She said, “Shoshana, where? Why do you think that?”

  “Because he’s going to kill a lot of people. I can feel it.”

  There were about two hundred souls in the square, but Shoshana began walking to the entrance with a destination in mind. Jennifer said, “Where are you going?”

  “To him. He’s inside.”

  “What? How do you know? Shoshana, this is crazy.”

  Shoshana said nothing, entering the small alley that led to the ticket booth.

  They moved forward together, Shoshana bumping people out of the way and drawing sharp comments. Jennifer apologized for her, then tried to get her to stop. She reached forward to tap her on the shoulder, and saw Omar at the same time Shoshana did. He was deep inside the line for the Colosseum, carrying a small duffel bag.

  She hissed, but Shoshana was already moving, the dark angel blossoming out like tendrils of black oil dropped in water.

  Jennifer grabbed her arm, saying, “Wait,” and Shoshana broke free, running flat-out through the line of people. Jennifer saw Omar turn around, saw his eyes grow wide, then him reach into the duffel bag.

  She pulled her weapon, the people around her starting to react, shouting and running away. Omar held up something that looked like an Apple MagSafe adapter and pressed a button, yelling at Shoshana to stop. She did, panting, in front of him.

  He said, “You take one more step, and we all die.”

  Jennifer closed the distance and took a knee, aiming at his head. He said, “This is a dead man’s switch. You kill me, and it goes off.”

  The crowds running away and screaming, the chaos absolute, Shoshana looked him in the eye and said, “So what now? You walk away?”

  Omar smiled and said, “Yes. Exactly. I walk away carrying this bomb.”

  Jennifer kept her barrel on his head and said, “No way. There will be enough police here shortly. You’re going nowhere.”

  Omar looked at Shoshana and said, “She doesn’t understand the commitment. You do.” He raised the plastic device in his hand and shouted, “Tell her I will let go. Nobody needs to die.”

  Shoshana said, “I warned you about your path. Someday, someone would be holding the knife on your neck. And now it’s me.”

  Jennifer saw a flicker of confusion, then Omar said, “Tell her I’ll set this thing off. Tell her I’m not afraid to die. I am the Islamic State.”

  Shoshana said, “Yes, I know. And I’m the one who will kill you.”

  Jennifer watched Shoshana launch herself at him, wrapping his body up and forcing it on top of the duffel bag. She wrestled for the device in Omar’s hands, and Jennifer thought it was for control. It wasn’t.

  Staring into Omar’s eyes, a wicked grin on her face, Shoshana pried his hand loose from the detonator.

  Jennifer screamed, “No!” then dove backward, holding her hands over her head. A second later it went off, with a crack that reverberated through the ancient hall. Omar was split apart. Shoshana was launched into the air, flying across the hall and slamming into stone. She crumpled in a heap.

  94

  Jacob dragged the pope down the stairs, into the grotto where the Catholic saints of the past were laid to rest. He knew it exited outside the basilica, knew exactly where it went from the massive research he’d done.

  He wanted to live. That’s what permeated his soul. The Islamic State had long since faded to the background. Now all that remained was escape, and he had the means to do so.

  The Holy Father.

  The man offered no resistance, walking forward without a fight. They passed the tombs of all the popes before, and the Holy Father spoke.

  “Why do you do this? What can you get from it?”

  Jacob said, “You of all people know why. You do nothing but profess goodness, and yet you perpetuate cruelty. I should kill you right now.”

  “But you do not. Why is that?”

  Jacob said nothing. They reached a turn in the catacombs, the light from outside
spilling in, and he saw three men with weapons. He snapped back, dragging the Holy Father, the adrenaline ricocheting through him.

  On his knees, the Father said, “My son, I don’t know what you have done with your life, but you will be forgiven. This isn’t the end.”

  Jacob grabbed him by the neck and said, “Don’t beg for your life, old man. Don’t do that. I’ll kill you right now.”

  The Holy Father looked at him, and Jacob saw nothing but pity. No fear. No pain. He said, “Kill me if you wish. It will do no good for your soul.”

  Jacob said, “My soul is my own. You don’t own it, and neither does Islam.”

  The Father said, “I understand. More than you know.”

  Jacob gave a giddy laugh and said, “Get up. We’re moving out of here. You get your wish. You’re my salvation.”

  He turned the corner and saw a man with ice-blue eyes like Omar. And the same conviction.

  * * *

  I saw the two come around the corner and wondered about my luck. How on earth could this jackass from State have led me right into the fight?

  I put my sights on Jacob’s head and said the usual. “Put down your gun. This doesn’t have to end in a bad way.”

  I heard “Fuck you. Let me out. I’m going right down this hall.”

  Looking at Brett, I mouthed, Any ideas?

  He shook his head.

  Every hostage situation comes about because of one of two reasons: either they took the hostage because they intended to, for a specific purpose, or they took the hostage because something had fallen apart, like a bank robbery or liquor store holdup gone bad. I was now dealing with a hybrid. Clearly, they had intended to kill the pope, but now this guy was running with him after the fact. Like he was trying to escape. I decided I’d just wait it out. Sooner or later, the Vatican police would come charging down the catacombs.

  I realized that might get the pope killed.

  I turned to the State guy, still curled in the fetal position. “Get your ass out of here and get some tactical guys. No standard police. Get someone who can shoot and knows when to pull the trigger.”

  He left and I turned back to Jacob, peeping out from behind the bend in the corridor. I saw his eyes, and recognized that he was serious, but not crazy. He held no fear. No hesitation. He was here to live or kill.

  I said, “Jacob, I know who you are. I know what you went through. What I don’t know is why you’re doing this.”

  He waved the weapon, and I saw it was an HK MP-7, telling me he’d taken it off of someone dead above. Which meant there was some carnage, and he knew he was lost because of it.

  He said, “I’m not a monster. I didn’t want to kill that guy in Syria. I was forced to. I want nothing more to do with the Islamic State.”

  Every word was a revelation, every syllable something that a trained negotiator could use. Unfortunately, I wasn’t a trained negotiator. I was a gunslinger.

  “Jacob, the only way to prove you’re not a monster is to walk away. Right now.”

  I heard the Holy Father speak, and worried he would only make the situation worse. Then I wasn’t so sure.

  Jacob soaked in the words, appearing to hear them. I had hope. He returned to me and said, “I will kill this man. I will.”

  I said, “I know you will. I believe you. I just don’t want you to.”

  He said, “Then back the fuck off! Let me out.”

  I looked into his eyes and said, “You know where this is going. Sooner or later there’s going to be someone who shows up to negotiate. Someone who’ll blow smoke up your ass. I’m not that guy. Leave him alone. Or die.”

  * * *

  Jacob cursed and pulled back behind the corridor. The Holy Father said, “He’s right, you know. They will kill you.”

  Jacob said, “Does it look like I care about that?”

  “I don’t know what you care about. I can tell you I care what happens to you.”

  Jacob whirled on him and said, “You don’t give a shit what happens to me. You’re only worried about dying. And I might make that a reality.”

  The Holy Father held out his sleeve, showing the blood, and said, “I’ve seen the evil you do. And I still care.”

  Jacob said, “Why? Why would you give a damn what happens to me?”

  “I care because I’m human. Are you not?”

  “Yeah, I’m human. And I don’t need the holy mumbo jumbo. If I had a soul, it was burned long ago.”

  “We’re all born of sin, yet we can all be forgiven. Yesterday is done, but your soul is pure tomorrow.”

  Jacob snarled, “You haven’t seen the ‘pureness’ I have. You haven’t witnessed what was done to me in the name of Christ, or what I’ve done in the name of Islam. It is not pure, I promise.”

  The Holy Father stared deep into his eyes and said, “Don’t confuse the fallibility of man with the grace of God.”

  The Holy Father’s gaze was steady, and Jacob saw it was true. Saw the depravity of the Islamic State through the kindness in the eyes of the man he was supposed to kill. The waste of his life seeped through, the totality of how he had been cheated. He had one thing left to give, and it wouldn’t be for them. He wouldn’t destroy what was good with a hand bathed in evil.

  His eyes watering, his face contorted in pain, he said, “Father, where were you?”

  Before an answer could be given, he grabbed the pope’s collar and dragged him out into the corridor. Jacob placed the weapon against the pope’s head and shouted, “Time’s up! Do it now.”

  He saw the muzzle flash a millisecond before the subsonic round split his head open.

  95

  The room was as quiet as a tomb, the heartbeat monitor the only noise. A couple of blips a second, dinging over and over until it really began to annoy me.

  I know it was callous, but Jesus, couldn’t they turn the damn beeps off? It was bad enough I had to see Shoshana wrapped up in bandages like a character in a bad soap opera. I looked at her sleeping form, the thought bringing an incongruous bit of humor. She’ll probably wake up and say she is an evil twin. Or she has amnesia.

  Then I remembered she might not wake up at all.

  I heard the door open, and Aaron returned, looking haggard, a three-day growth of beard on his face. I said, “She’s still beeping. Can’t be all bad.”

  He smiled, a cracked thing without any real joy, and said, “She’s always made me wait. Why should this be any different?”

  I said, “She’ll wake up. You know it and I know it.”

  He said, “I don’t know it. I wish I did, but I don’t.”

  I looked at her bandaged face and said, “I do. She will.”

  He said, “Thanks for the spell. I needed to get some food. Get out of here.”

  “I can stay. This wasn’t a chore.”

  He said, “I know. I appreciate it.”

  He sat down and rubbed his face, his eyes squeezed shut. I could tell he was blaming himself for letting her go. He knew what was driving her forward. He’d let her walk out of that house with Jennifer knowing she was going to kill Omar, but he’d never thought she would sacrifice herself to do it.

  And neither had I.

  I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel guilt, in more ways than one.

  We’d left Saint Peter’s Basilica as the heroes of the world, having saved the Holy Father from certain death. Anonymous, but heroes nonetheless. The Vatican’s version of a counterassault team arrived right after Jacob had been killed, and in the ensuing chaos, we vanished. They were taking credit for eliminating Jacob, and that was fine with me.

  I’d been the one to pull the trigger, splitting Jacob’s head apart with a 300 Blackout round, hitting him right above the nose. But I knew I hadn’t saved anyone.

  Jacob had searched the marble corridor with his eyes, and then had locked on me. He’d shouted his command, and placed his hand on the trigger, staring at me the whole time. I knew who had really spared the pope.

  It was a difficult ch
oice, and one I understood had to be made, but it left a confusing mishmash of emotions. The man had used me to kill himself, and I’d done it.

  Initially, I’d had no issues with the shot. It was just one more, like the man I’d eliminated on the steps in Tirana. Later on, deep in the night, when the bad man came calling, I did. In the safe house, I’d woken up in a sweat, thrashing about, Jacob’s eyes condemning me.

  Jennifer had felt the motion and had woken up as well. She said, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  I said, “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  She’d sagged back into the mattress, not believing me. She said, “Talk to me.”

  “Don’t have anything to say.”

  She remained silent for a moment, then turned to me. She said, “I do.”

  “What?”

  Her eyes soulful, she said, “I think I killed Christine, and now Shoshana. I don’t think I want to do this anymore.”

  I snapped fully awake. “What the hell are you talking about? Christine’s doing fine. She’s not going to die. And Shoshana made her own decision. Right?”

  Her eyes now on the ceiling, she said, “Either way, I could have prevented both, and I didn’t. Same as Ringo. Same as Hussein. I don’t like this responsibility. I don’t want it.”

  I said, “I know. I don’t either.”

  She’d leaned up on an elbow, searching to see if I was just placating her. I was not.

  I said, “We live in a violent world, with evil people who have no compunction about slaughtering innocents. Someone has to stop them. Nobody wants the responsibility over life and death, but someone has to take it. And that someone is us.”

  She said, “What happened in the grotto?”

  I turned my head away and said, “I killed him. Period. Nothing else.”

  In a soft tone she said, “Nothing else. But everything to him.”

  I looked at her and said, “Yes. I caused a human being to cease to exist. I took his life, because he wanted me to. He made me kill him, and I don’t like it. But liking’s got nothing to do with the fact that he deserved to die.”