by Jones, Rick
“So al-Qaeda is behind this?”
“We’re not totally sure,” he said. “The other Arab, al-Bashrah Aziz, is a Saudi national who also has ties to al-Qaeda.”
The president appeared puzzled. “So how are we not sure that this is the doing of al-Qaeda if both men have ties to the organization?”
CIA Director Doug Craner leaned forward, placed his glasses on the tabletop, and spoke pointedly. “Because, Mr. President, our intel tells us that there was absolutely no discussion in the chat rooms prior to this incident. The only activity occurred after the incident was broadcast by the news media.”
“Which means what?”
“It means, Mr. President, that there seems to be confusion among the terrorist organizations as to who is responsible. The activity on the web indicates curiosity rather than culpability. We think this action was conducted by the Soldiers of Islam as a rogue group working independently from al-Qaeda.”
“New blood, then?”
“Yes, sir. And we don’t know how they’ll conduct themselves since we have no knowledge or insight about their activities. All we can say, Mr. President, is that when we got the strikes on al-Hashrie and al-Bashrah, we were able to bring up their profiles.”
Craner gave stapled copies of his report to an aide, who handed them out to everybody at the table. On the front page was a photograph of al-Hashrie Rantissi, taken two years ago when he entered the United States.
“Al-Hashrie,” he continued, gleaning from memory, “is a Jordanian national who came to this country two years ago, after serving a six-month stint in an al-Qaeda training camp located along the Afghan border. The other body identified, al-Bashrah, helped al-Hashrie form a sleeper cell in Utah, along with six others. For the past two years, they have remained dormant.”
“Until now?”
“Until now—yes, sir.”
“And the other six?” asked the president.
“Through our intel sources we were able to confirm and identify each member of the cell. We obtained warrants and raided their residences. Unfortunately for us, the areas were sanitized. The computers left behind were useless; the hard drives were completely fried.”
The president remained disconcertingly quiet. After a moment’s hesitation he said, “So at least we know who the other six are—the Soldiers of Islam.”
“Yes, sir. They’re all on the FBI’s watch list.”
The president glanced at his watch, knowing that the world was waiting for a televised response regarding the kidnapping. At the moment he had nothing to offer, the Soldiers of Islam having yet to make any demands. “When they call,” he said almost too quietly, “are we to bend in our policy of non-negotiation?”
“We’re not talking about an expendable here,” said Thornton, his advisor of three years, whose numerous accolades for political achievements covered the walls of his office. “We’re talking about the pope. And if we allow these terrorists to harm him due to our unwillingness to bend, we would most likely come under extreme criticism from our allies. The voices of over a billion Catholics have the power to be heard.”
“I agree,” said the president.
Thornton turned to President Burroughs with an expression of defeat. “So I believe the answer is yes, Mr. President. We’ll need to make concessions. Perhaps many.”
The president seemed to focus on an imaginary point on the tabletop. “That’ll be your department, Dean,” he said. “You’re the attorney general. The FBI is your gig.”
The president turned to Hamilton with a no-nonsense look. His tone indicated that he would not tolerate mistakes. “This is not to be turned into another Waco or Ruby Ridge. Is that understood?”
“Clearly, Mr. President.”
“Options, then.”
Hamilton wasn’t through. “I say we bring in Shari Cohen,” he said. “Anybody who knows her can tell you there is no one more suited to handle this situation than her. She’s at the top of her game and perhaps the best this country has to offer.”
The president appeared to ponder this, tapping a finger against his chin.
Shari Cohen was the Bureau’s top negotiator for the Hostage Rescue Team based in the Washington Metropolitan Field Office. She also held the title of Assistant Director of the FBI’s CIRG, or Critical Incident Response Group. And when time permitted, she worked in collaboration with Homeland Security, educating their agents who worked in counterterrorism.
Then, “I agree with your assessment. Bring her in.”
Vice President Bohlmer vociferously stated his objection. “Mr. President,” he said, “Have you forgotten the demographic we’re dealing with here? We’re talking about a male-dominated regime that recognizes women as property. To put in a female negotiator and someone of Jewish faith on top of it—no offense to Ms. Cohen or to her religious heritage or abilities—to negotiate with Islamic terrorists is an assured insult to their principles. And in recompense for our actions, you can be certain that they will kill Pope Pius.”
President Burroughs appeared at a crossroads. “Second option, then.”
“I would suggest Billy Paxton.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Fully qualified. Very good.”
“But he’s not Cohen.”
“No, sir. But Paxton is not too far behind. In fact, he committed his talents to a hosting country and Congressional approval on two separate occasions to free up American hostages.”
President Burroughs remained silent and nibbled softly on his lower lip. “Then we’ll use Paxton as the figurehead with Cohen working in Paxton’s shadow. But I want Cohen to maintain control of the unit.”
“Mr. President,” Bohlmer immediately protested, “I really have to object to this. If the Soldiers of Islam find out that Cohen is involved—”
“Your objection, Jonas, is duly noted. Thank you.” Then to the room in general, “Further advice as to direction?”
Thornton leaned forward with the points of his brows dipping sharply over the bridge of his nose, as if he had given the matter considerable thought. “I suggest, Mr. President, that we at least try to appear committed to the policy of not negotiating with terrorists. We don’t want to open the door to every degenerate group in the country who has demands to make. We’ll need to set up an international coalition and make it clear that any concessions or compromises are made by the international community. That way, if something should go wrong, the blame cannot rest solely on the shoulders of the United States.”
“In other words, you’re saying that we should set up a situation so that all nations are involved—just in case.”
“Yes, sir. That would take care of international ostracism if the pope’s safety cannot be secured.”
“You don’t sound very optimistic.”
“I’m just covering all the bases, sir.”
President Burroughs began to drum his fingers against the tabletop, his mind working. “Then get every international liaison involved,” he finally said. “I want their opinions, their suggestions, and I want it understood that we’ll share common responsibility in this matter whether the outcome is good, bad or indifferent.”
“Understood.”
“I also want direct lines to my office from every liaison involved. And I want to know everything that’s going on, twenty-four-seven.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll inform the media of only what we want them to know. Let them know that this is an international effort. If something should ultimately go wrong, I do not want this madness to fall on our shoulders.”
The president searched the faces around him. “Per the guidelines of the Patriot Act, I want all agencies to work together on a constant basis. I want everybody on the same page. The CIA Advance Team will monitor all chat lines abroad to gather whatever intel is available and network the information to everybody involved. Is that understood?”
There was mumbled agreement.
“That’s it, people. Today you start earning you
r keep. So go out there and do what you do best.”
There was an immediate movement of forces, some already on cell phones instructing aides to contact international liaisons, others calling to gather a writing staff to generate material for the media.
As the Situation Room emptied, President Burroughs sat quietly digesting all that had occurred. This was strictly politics, and he recognized his own role, in spite of his subjective feelings. There was absolutely no concern about the fate of the pope. The meeting was about saving face in the eyes of the international community. The life of Pope Pius was a secondary issue.
Feeling dirty, the president closed his eyes and sighed.
CHAPTER TEN
Mossad Headquarters, Tel Aviv, Israel
September 23, Mid-Afternoon
The Hebrew word for “Institute” is Mossad, Israel’s legendary agency for collecting intelligence data and conducting covert operations. Presently, Mossad had 20,000 active agents and 15,000 sleeper agents worldwide, including operatives in the former communist countries, the Arab nations, and the west, including the United States.
Mossad’s PALD, the Political Action and Liaison Department, was responsible for maintaining liaisons with friendly foreign services by transmitting data and updating the terrorist database. On this day, the department was like an ant colony, well-constructed and orderly, the work-pace quick and efficient. Requests for information regarding the Soldiers of Islam poured in, with the Washington, D.C. branch of the FBI and the CIA at the top of the list.
Going over reports from the Research Department, Yosef Rokach sat at his desk with a cigarette burning between his fingers, the smoke undulating lazily through the air. In the world of espionage, he was born to Hebrew parents that were killed by Hezbollah raiders and graduated from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem within the top ten percent of his class. But in reality, he was John McEachern, an American-born citizen who grew up in an Indiana suburb without a drop of Hebrew blood coursing through his veins.
Upon his commencement from Notre Dame University, where he earned a Doctorate in Systems and Networking in the same time it took most people to earn a Bachelor’s degree, McEachern obtained an internship with the CIA. He worked at the lowest levels, not realizing that he was actually being monitored for strengths and weaknesses. When it was reported that he had an affinity for Middle-Eastern languages and digested them easily and with amazing rapidity, he was recruited as a sleeper. After four years of learning to improvise through tense situations and training his body to beat the polygraph and resist the constraints of sodium pentothal, John McEachern, born of Irish parents, was ready for the field.
So when a counterfeit profile was created and imbued into every known system within Israel’s computerized infrastructure, Yosef Rokach was born. According to all background checks, he was devout to his religion, committed to his people, and an outstanding citizen in every respect by Hebrew standards. But after seven years within Mossad, he still had not made it beyond a low-level ranking within the PALD.
Taking a final drag of his cigarette, he stubbed it out and fell back in his chair, interlacing his fingers behind his head. The room was huge and open, with desks and monitors everywhere and not a cubicle in sight. The office boasted bomb blast glass walls and high-tech security equipment. Eye scans restricted secured areas to specific personnel. Software with facial recognition capabilities was used to identify employees on file. Everything was based on the assumption that no one could be trusted. The data handled by the office was so vital it was considered more important than a human life. And employees caught betraying the Mossad trust would find themselves before the agency’s interrogation specialists.
Yosef looked directly into a homing camera.
From all points excited chatter could be heard, the urgency behind the exchanges normally reserved for attacks against Israeli interests. But this was not the case. The pope was missing. Catholics throughout the world were calling for the intervention of anyone who could bring back the Holy Father unharmed. Mossad saw this as an opportunity to show the world that Arab hostility understood no boundaries, that the Israeli plight was now the plight of all people. Israel wished to impart to its allies a better understanding of what it’s like to live under the constant tyranny of a fanatical enemy.
From a bank of elevators that led to departments Yosef couldn’t access emerged David Gonick. Stepping from the elevator quickly, Gonick headed toward the restroom, his face thoroughly pale and ashen. He wrung his hands nervously and appeared visibly shaken, as if he had witnessed something horrible. Gonick had been another CIA installation who had infiltrated the Lohamah Psichlogit Department. Lohamah Psichlogit, also known as Literature and Publications or LAP, was responsible for psychological warfare, propaganda and deception operations. To be a member of the LAP, one had to have Q Clearance, which was limited to those few at the top of the food chain. The CIA’s infiltration of that particular level and installation of one of its own took years of maneuvering. But to see Gonick in this manner addled Yosef since Gonick was always a man of refinement under extreme pressure.
Had he been made?
Moments later Gonick returned from the rest room. Not once did he turn Yosef’s way or acknowledge him as he hastily made his way to the elevator. Upon his return, however, the knot of his tie was lowered and the top button of his shirt undone. It was a signal.
Yosef rubbed his hand vaguely over his face, sensing a long-awaited fruition. Standing, Yosef tried to look as relaxed as possible before heading for the restroom. The people around him did not take notice of his leaving. They were intimately involved in their own duties, and Yosef was just one nondescript face among many. In fact Yosef excelled at being unremarkable; he was a ghost among the living.
The restroom was empty and clean. The urinals were to the left, the toilet stalls to the right. Entering the third stall, Yosef closed the louvered door behind him and waited. While he stood there, a sense of paranoia swept over him. He breathed deeply and waited for it to pass. Quietly, he lifted the lid to the tank. Lying on the bottom of the tank, almost invisible to the naked eye, was a data stick encased in a clear jewel case. It was state-of-the-art small, but it carried a huge memory load.
Using toilet paper to wipe the case dry, he placed the stick in a special pocket within the cuff of his pants. After replacing the lid, he took a deep breath to collect himself and left the stall.
As per protocol he would decipher the data on the stick and forward it to his American associates. His value as an agent, after years of training, had simply come down to his computer skills, something he didn’t see as particularly glamorous for a spy. Yosef more or less continued to romanticize the theatrical side of espionage, envisioning himself walking along fog-laden streets late at night, meeting connections hiding in deep shadows. In truth, however, he held something more important, something far more tangible than romantic ideas. The data stick in his possession, no bigger than a human thumb, contained enough information to bring the planet to the brink of global war.
Returning to his desk acting as if the day was normal, Yosef couldn’t wait to get home to decipher the data.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Vatican City
September 23, Mid-Afternoon
They were known as the Society of Seven, a private sect within the Vatican made up of the pope, the Vatican’s Secretary of State, and five of the pope’s most trusted cardinals from the Curia.
In a restricted chamber in the lower level of the Basilica, seven chairs were situated on a marble platform rising four feet from the floor. The pope’s chair, a king‘s throne layered in gold leaf, stood vacant. The second chair, nearly as impressive as the pope’s, but smaller and less imaginative, was occupied by the Vatican’s Secretary of State. Surrounding him dressed in full regalia sat the cardinals of the Curia.
The hall was grand, ancient—an underground haven in which past popes and their secret alliances had met time and again. The walls were made of lime
, the ceiling vaulted and supported by massive Romanesque columns. The chamber’s acoustics were poor, words often traveling across the room in echoes. And the light came from gas-lit lamps moored along the walls, giving the room a dire medieval cast.
As the Society of Seven waited, an echoing cadence of footfalls sounded from beyond the chamber door, their pace quick with urgency. At the opposite end of the chamber a door of solid oak labored on its hinges as it swung inward. From the shadows, a man of incredible height and stature walked toward the platform with a gait and bearing that spoke of power and confidence. His shoulders were impossibly broad, his chest and arms stretching the fabric of his cleric’s shirt to its limit. His upper body mass, V-shaped, tapered to a trim waist and chiseled legs. When he reached the base of the stage, he removed his beret, dropped to a knee, and placed a closed fist over his heart.
“Loyalty above all else,” he said, “except Honor.” This was the salute of the Vatican Knights.
The Vatican’s aged Secretary of State, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci, rose with difficulty and walked the three stairs to the marble floor where the large man remained kneeling. “Stand, my friend. We’ve much to talk about.”
Kimball Hayden got to his feet, towering over Cardinal Vessucci, whose stooped height barely reached Kimball’s chest. When the cardinal placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, he had to reach high above his head to do so.
“You know why we’ve called you.” The cardinal spoke in fluent English.
“I do.”
Vessucci kept his hand on Kimball’s shoulder using the larger man as a crutch. “Then assemble your team and return our pope and the members of the Holy See to us. Do whatever is necessary to achieve this goal. Is that understood?”
Kimball nodded.
“If these terrorists wish to pick a fight with the Roman Catholic Church, then a fight they’ll get.” Vessucci lowered his hand and stopped in his tracks, the short walk too taxing for the old man. “We may be a small state, but we also have the right to protect the sovereignty of the Church, its interests, and the welfare of its citizenry. I understand that the act of engagement is complicated by its lack of rules, but you have to be discreet in such matters, if possible. Should something tragic occur, Kimball, the Church may have no choice but to disavow any knowledge of the Vatican Knights. We cannot afford your methods to draw any unwanted attention to the Church.”
