by Jones, Rick
Judas stood, ran a finger along the brim of his fedora in greeting, and addressed Special Agent Cross with playful sarcasm. His features were recognizable for the first time in the blue light. “Top of the morning to you,” he said.
Cross turned away. His face, his eyes, everything about his manner professed disbelief that a man he knew, respected, and idolized could have maneuvered this team.
Team Leader looked at Cross. “So you know Judas.”
Cross looked at him. The strength of his chin, the determination evident in the way it stood out, was a signature of stoicism. Even if it was forced, it was an action Team Leader admired.
“Judas,” Cross said, as if in quiet examination. “It fits.”
Judas’s face remained partially hidden by the brim of his hat. “Fits? Perhaps,” he said. “But unlike the real Judas who did it for thirty pieces of silver, I’m doing it for ten million dollars, and I’m sure you would, too, David, if you had the chance.”
“You’re wrong.”
Judas clapped a hand on the agent’s shoulder and addressed him again, sarcasm dripping and bleeding like a hemorrhage. “Just so you know where I stand,” he told him, “I’ll be at your funeral telling your wife what a good man you were, how much you’ll be missed, and then maybe—just maybe—I’ll sleep with her to help her fill that sudden and horrible gap in her life. So what do you think about that, huh? Sound good?”
Judas couldn’t help the malice. “Have a good death, David. It’s a stop we all have to make some day.” Still wearing a smile of dark humor, Judas left the room with all the ease of taking a stroll through the park, his hands buried deep within the pockets of his long coat.
His lack of respect for his fellow agents only confirmed the hatred Team Leader felt for Judas—a man without honor.
Facing Agent Cross with a neutral expression, Team Leader addressed him. “Your team, Special Agent Cross, was so complacent there wasn’t much sport to it. Judas or no Judas, your protection of the pope was lax. Your team would never have been so poorly trained under my command.”
Team Leader turned to the commando holding the Bullpup to Cross’s head and held a hand out. “His weapon, please.”
The commando removed a Glock from his waistband and gave it to Team Leader.
“Nevertheless,” said Team Leader, turning the weapon over in his hand to check the weight. “Since you are the only one left alive in your unit, I’m going to make you an American hero.”
Team Leader examined the mouth of the barrel before removing a suppressor from his cargo pocket and screwing the device into the Glock.
“I’m sure your family will be extremely proud of you,” he said in accented English. “And I’m sure you’ll be awarded something posthumous for your efforts in taking down two known terrorists. I think Americans love that sort of thing, don’t you?”
After the suppressor was fitted, Team Leader placed the weapon by his side so the mouth of the barrel faced the floor.
“At least your children will grow up in a safe place,” he concluded. “That is something I only dreamed of.”
At that moment he raised the weapon and shot al-Bashrah and al-Hashrie with shots to the chest and throat. They dropped as fast as the bullets that felled them.
Agent Cross’s knees buckled, his balance wavering. The commando forced him back to stable footing. Once the agent stood on his own again, the commando stepped back.
“I’m almost jealous of what you are about to become,” said Team Leader. And then he drew a silencer-equipped pistol from his holster and shot Cross in the throat. After teetering for a moment in a wide-eyed drunken stance, Cross fell to his knees with his hand pressed against his neck, then fell to the floor, hard.
While blood bubbles foamed in the gaping hole in Cross’s neck and his eyes stared at nothing in particular, Team Leader, after removing the suppressor, placed the pistol in al-Bashrah’s hand. The other commando placed the Sig in the hand of al-Hashrie.
After Team Leader removed the suppressor from Cross’s weapon, he worked the agent’s hand around the Glock. With what little strength he had left, Cross lifted his head slightly to see what Team Leader was doing. His throat rattled with an awful wetness and his eyes were beginning to lose their luster. Finally, his eyes taking on a detached stare, he succumbed to his wound.
Team Leader watched and listened as Cross took his last labored breath with somewhat of a detached stare of his own, then placed the agent’s finger on the trigger and laid his hand carefully against the blood-soaked tile.
Standing, Team Leader took note of his work.
The stage had been set. Al-Bashrah and al-Hashrie had been killed in a fire-fight with Cross.
“Everything secure?” asked Team Leader.
“Cleared and sanitized. We’re ready to move.”
Team Leader nodded his approval. “All in less than fifteen minutes,” he said. “Yahweh will be most pleased.”
The time was 0259 hours.
#
At exactly 0700 hours Eastern Standard Time, CNN in Atlanta would receive a call from someone claiming to be a member of the Soldiers of Islam. The caller would clearly state that Pope Pius XIII was now under the authority of their regime.
It was the first step of the Final Jihad.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Annapolis, Maryland
September 23, Late Morning
Yellow DO-NOT-CROSS tape had been set around the perimeter of the governor’s estate. The Forensics Unit had already staked their claim, combing and sweeping every inch of the interior. Using high-intensity lamps, which passed varying wavelengths and colors of light over all surfaces, the team sought to identify latent friction-ridge prints, which could point out certain types of trace and biological evidence.
Other investigators used mini-vacs, typical hand-held vacuums with sterilized bags, to pick up trace evidence such as dust, dirt and cellular matter. In the governor’s bedroom, a CSI technician was carefully going over the area to acquire possible prints for the VMD, or vacuum-metal deposition device. Unfortunately, in most crime scenes, more than 97% of all prints were indigenous, 2% either contaminated or untraceable, and less than 1% traceable.
When Special Agent Punch Murdock of the president’s Secret Service detail was halted at the entrance door by D.C. Metro, he flashed his credentials and was allowed to pass. He was a man of simian build and pug-like features. His nose angled badly to one side from too many years in the ring, something he never had corrected since it served as a personal badge of honor and exhibited something savage about him. His eyes also appeared wild and untamed, yet they were alert and all-seeing as Murdock absorbed every detail of the governor’s bedroom. He made his way toward a technician who was running a scanner slowly over the surface of a nightstand.
When Murdock spoke, he did so with an inflection acquired from growing up in the mean streets of the city’s toughest neighborhoods. His accent maintained a rough edge that served to intimidate and repel those he encountered rather than to magnetize them. Moving closer to the technician, Murdock leaned forward until he was level with the technician’s ear. “How’s it going, buddy?”
The forensics investigator continued to examine the surface of the nightstand with meticulous study. Beside him, the covers of the governor’s bed were in disarray. “It’s going,” he said.
“Any traces of blood?”
“Not up here.”
“Thanks.”
Murdock exited the room and worked his way through a mass of investigators, some wearing gloves and paper booties, others taking photos from numerous angles and viewpoints. In the kitchen, the body of Darlene Steele lay on the floor in a supine position, the lids of her eyes at half-mast. A medical examiner was inspecting a bloodless hole in the middle of her forehead. In the back of her head, the pared flesh formed a blooming rose petal of pulp and gore. Carefully, the medical examiner picked alien particles from the edges of the wound with tweezers and placed them in a small vial.
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A second examiner stood at the Jackson Pollack wall of design making a critical examination of the blood spatter pattern, trying to determine the angle of the shot from the configuration of blood and tissue and errant hairs that had dried on the wall. To the examiner, there was nothing artistic about the killing or the star-like motif that clung to this canvas.
Murdock looked on with detachment. He had seen this many times over his twenty-five years in law enforcement and had steadily learned how to disengage his emotions from the many bloodbaths visited.
A man wearing a gray suit and maroon tie moved next to Murdock with pen and pad in hand, his face having the fresh-scrubbed look of youth, movie star good looks, and frosty blue eyes that absorbed everything with photo-like retention.
“You’re Punch, right? Punch Murdock?”
Murdock stepped away without responding. The last thing he needed right now was some kid latching onto his lapels.
The young man followed, keeping up with Murdock‘s quick pace. “My name’s Melvin Yzerman,” he said.
“Yeah, well, good for you, kid.”
“I’m from the Washington Post.”
Murdock stopped in his tracks. He knew what was coming. “How did you get in here?”
“That’s not important. What is important is a comment from you regarding your team. As chief of the president’s security detail, how do you feel about your team—”
“Okay, you’re out of here.”
“—being killed by terrorist extremists?”
“Go on, get out of here!”
“And as head of the detail, why weren’t you—”
“Are you deaf, kid? Get out of here!”
“—with your team at such a critical moment?”
“Officers!”
“Answer me that, Agent Murdock. Just give me a simple comment.”
Responding to Murdock’s call, two officers from the D.C. Metro Unit entered the room, one with an extended baton in his hand.
“Which one of you D.C. clowns let this idiot from the Post in here?” Murdock’s face was red, the man livid. Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke. “This is a secured area, even from the press! Get this piece of crap out of here and maintain the premises. Nobody in or out unless they’re from county, state, or law enforcement! Got it?”
The officers, galvanized by Murdock’s tone, grabbed the reporter by the back of his arm and began to usher him from the room.
“Murdock!” Yzerman said over his shoulder. “Do you want to make a comment about your team’s inadequate protection of the pope? Any comment at all?”
Murdock stood silent as he watched the officers force the man toward the exit. He weighed the reporter’s question in his mind, the words bearing an uncomfortable heft.
Fighting for calm, Murdock closed his eyes and stood waiting for tranquility to wash over him, for the anger to melt away. He stood in silence, only for Yzerman’s questions to bounce back and strike a chord that would stay with him throughout the day and establish a mood that would remain raw and irritable.
Entering the spacious dining room where the bodies of Agent Cross and the downed terrorists lay, their remains draped with sheets, Murdock examined his surroundings. From the East Wall the gallery of governors stared omnisciently at him. Murdock looked at the oil paintings with a less than appreciative eye, knowing the truth of what they had witnessed would forever remain unspoken. Dismissing the paintings, he turned a keen eye back to the scene.
Tony Denucci was an investigator for the FBI who specialized in kidnappings. As a youth he was tall and broad with strong facial features. Now he was tall and gangly with a face that had grown long and jaded from witnessing too many tragedies. When he walked he did so with a stoop, his body bowing in the shape of a question mark. Over the years he had become nothing more than a husk of his former self.
Murdock clapped his old friend on the back. They had come up together from the academy some twenty-four years ago, each rising from the trenches to become experts in their respective fields. “How you doing, Tony?”
Denucci looked at him with the red, rheumy eyes of an alcoholic. “Hey, Punch.”
“Got anything?”
“Nine dead all together,” he said. “Two cops, four agents, the governor’s wife, and two intruders. You might want to take a look to see who they are.”
Murdock already knew who they were; the whole world did. They were the self-proclaimed warriors from the Soldiers of Islam.
Murdock raised the sheet from the first body, saw it was Cross, and immediately covered him back up. Upon examining the other two, there was no doubt they were of Middle-Eastern descent. He also noticed the ink on their fingertips was still wet. Their prints had already been taken and were now being processed through the FBI’s watch list and Interpol systems. Whoever they were would not remain a mystery for long.
Murdock got to his feet as Denucci continued to offer more information, using his pen as a pointer. “It looks as if the whole detail was taken by surprise,” he told him. “Not a single man’s weapon was drawn, with the exception of that agent lying over there.”
“That would be David Cross. A good man.”
“Other than him, it looks as if they were all killed before they knew it.”
Murdock ambled around the scene with his hands dug deep within the pockets of his overcoat. “Are you doing the Incident Report for Pappandopolous?”
Denucci nodded. “Yeah. And you?”
“The president wants a first-hand account of what happened here. He doesn’t want to wait for the preliminaries.”
Denucci stepped carefully around the bodies and made several notations in his pad. “Sad thing, isn‘t it?”
Murdock agreed.
“What’s even sadder is that we never saw it coming.”
“And there was nobody in the vicinity that saw or heard anything?”
“Nobody.” Denucci pointed his pen at the oil paintings. “It’s too bad they couldn’t tell us anything, huh?”
Murdock just laid a hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “Look, Tony, if something comes up will you let me know? Give me something to go on?”
“Sure. If something comes up.”
Murdock gave him a wink. “Thanks, buddy. And hey, don’t be a stranger. Let’s go on a booze cruise some time and tell war stories.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
Murdock exited the Governor’s Mansion and took stock. Beyond the police tape, the mob of onlookers had grown exponentially since he entered the house. Vans with microwave dishes now lined up by the dozen, the emblems of major networks stenciled on their sides. Newscasters and journalists tried to press their way through the line, their mics held out in a desperate bid to pick up an informative byte from the officers that maintained the perimeter.
Murdock knew the situation was going to demand long hours on little sleep, something his body was no longer equipped for at the age of fifty-four.
For almost twenty-five years he had moved up through the ranks with the same aggression he managed in the ring, with tenacity and posturing. He was finally rewarded with a position in the president’s Secret Security detail in 1990, then became the detail’s chief in 2002.
But with responsibility comes accountability. And when one holds the reins of the team he drives, and if the team should stumble gravely in its efforts, then the accusing finger inevitably points back at the driver. In Murdock’s case, he could already sense the political finger pointing in his direction, identifying him as the party responsible for the death of his team and the kidnapping of the pope.
Reaching inside the inner pocket of his overcoat, he grabbed his pack of smokes, withdrew a cigarette, and smoked it slowly, wondering how long it would take for the ax to fall upon his once illustrious career.
CHAPTER NINE
The White House
September 23. Noon
The Situation Room was the nerve center of presidential crisis management. It sat directly below the Oval Office
and could seat twenty-four people.
CIA, FBI and Homeland Security dignitaries sat at the table, along with President Burroughs, Vice President Jonas Bohlmer, Chief Presidential Advisor Alan Thornton and Attorney General Dean Hamilton. Normally a room to sequester members of the Pentagon and Joint Chiefs of Staff to determine the potential for war, President Burroughs distinguished the kidnapping of the pope as a non-military issue after a quick briefing with the military principles. The officers remained seated as mere spectators now, as President Burroughs turned his attention to the members of the intelligence community.
With his sleeves rolled to his elbows as if gearing up to engage in blue-collar labor, the president possessed the appearance of someone who was aware of being under a worldwide microscope. Despite the American policy of never negotiating with terrorists, the president could almost feel the Sword of Damocles falling on an international scale if his administration refused to bend to the will of the Soldiers of Islam.
“All right, people,” he said. “Settle down.”
The room fell silent as something indescribably awkward hung in the air. It was something like tension, but thicker and far more palpable. “Last night,” he began, “or this morning, however you want to look at it, I lost four good men to the hands of terrorists. Now can anybody here tell me how a cell could succeed in taking out my people in my backyard without any prior intelligence?” Despite his efforts to remain in control, his tone became angry, menacing, each word louder than the previous. “Anybody?”
Nobody dared to proffer an answer. The assembled dignitaries silently stared at the sheets of paper in front of them.
“Talk to me, people! I didn‘t bring you in here to clam up.”
Attorney General Dean Hamilton initiated a response. “Mr. President, if I may.”
“Please.”
“After what happened at the Governor’s Mansion, we immediately processed the identities of the two Arabs found in the house and got hits on both of them.” He looked at his intel sheet. “One was al-Hashrie Rantissi, a Jordanian national with ties to al-Qaeda.”
