by Jones, Rick
She let her hand fall. “Gary. . . .” She let her words trail because she knew he was right. She was running away. Even using her maiden name wasn’t escape enough.
Shari moved before her husband and leaned into his embrace. She didn’t feel any sense of love or passion, but an overwhelming sadness that brought her to the brink of tears. “You are without a doubt, Gary Molin, a good man. And don’t you ever forget that.”
He drew back and feigned a smile. And then with the back of his hand he caressed the strands of hair off her forehead so that her hairstyle completely framed her beautiful face without errant locks interrupting her features. “I’m not angry with you, honey. I’m just scared of where we’re going.”
“We’ll talk,” she said. “I promise.” There was no smile, not even a false one. And then she placed a hand over his heart. She could feel the moderate beats against her palm. “I know you’re disappointed, but I have to go.”
“I guess when your wife is the head of the Hostage Rescue Team, then this is to be expected, right?”
“Thank you for understanding,” she said.
He shrugged. “What else can I do?”
“I just need time, that’s all.”
“What we need is time to talk. And I mean talk.”
She remained forcibly calm. “Right now, Gary, there’s a lot on my plate and the attorney general is calling me. Please understand the pressure I’m going through right now because it’s obvious to me that I’m heading into an impossible task. I need to believe that I can do this.”
“You can,” he told her. “He’s bringing you in because he believes in you like I do.” He then pulled her close once again, this time kissing the crown of her head. “You can do this, Shari. This is what you were built for.”
When she drew back he saw the worry in her eyes and the uncertainty on her face. Normally she was brimming with the fortitude to meet a challenge head-on. But this time she was different. This time she appeared unusually troubled, which seemed to shake her normally stalwart confidence. Always keeping to the adage that a single setback doesn’t crumble an empire, she undoubtedly knew in this case that a single error in judgment could endanger not only the pope’s life, but also the stability of the world order. But how could she save the world if she couldn’t even save her own marriage?
Grateful for his vote of confidence, she hugged him, the feeling not so vulgar, and then departed to do battle against the Soldiers of Islam armed only with excellent judgment.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Vatican City
September 23, Late Afternoon
They had taken their names from the Books of the Old Testament, with the exception of Kimball Hayden, who held the moniker of Archangel but never used it. Danny Keaton had taken the name of Leviticus, Joey Hathaway the name of Micah, Lorenzo Martinez became Nehemiah, and Christian Placentia was known as Isaiah.
After years of growing up behind Vatican walls, these men had developed into a band of brothers groomed to be the Crusaders of a new age. They had been trained by the best in the world and had mastered much more than the martial arts. They also studied a variety of philosophies, from Aristotle to Epicurus, with an emphasis on the works of St. Thomas Aquinas. Art also had its place in their education; they developed insight into the subtleties and symbolism of Da Vinci and Michelangelo. For a Vatican Knight, it was believed that development of the mind was equally as important as development of the body.
Under Kimball’s command they had entered the jungles of the Philippines and South America to save the lives of missionaries held hostage. Other times they had traveled to eastern bloc countries to protect priests from dissident insurgents. And often they interceded in bloody skirmishes between opposing religious factions in Third World nations.
But those who took out the president’s detail did so with deadly precision and sophistication that would rival the proficiency of the Vatican Knights.
With the exception of Kimball Hayden, Leviticus was the most battle tested, having served in more conflicts than any other Knight with mêlée scars to prove his conquests.
Micah, Nehemiah and Isaiah were less rough-hewn, though their fresh-scrubbed appearances made them no less deadly. Their acquired skills marked them as some of the most formidable combatants in the world. Micah was an expert in double-edged weapons. Nehemiah and Isaiah were masters of silent killing. But all these men complemented each other like connected pieces of a puzzle.
Spiritually, there was no one more deeply entrenched in their faith. Mentally, there was no team more dedicated to doing what was right. And physically, they were the finest any commander could ever hope for. Kimball was fully confident that they were the best in the world, not only as soldiers, but as men.
He was proud of his team.
Walking along the path that divided the Old Gardens, Kimball moved with urgency until he reached Divinity House, the garrison of the Vatican Knights, an uncharted building situated between St. Martha’s Chapel and the Ethiopian College, about 200 meters west of the Basilica. The building itself was simple and nondescript, its purpose to draw little attention.
The building’s interior was constructed of stone and rock shingle. Located along the walls where torches once burned were electric sconces. Natural light came in through stained glass windows that signified the Stations of the Cross. In the center of the structure was the Circular Chamber, a huge rotunda that separated the building into two distinct wings. It was a room of ceremony where men became knights of the Vatican and where viewings were held for knights who had fallen in battle.
The floor was a masterpiece of mosaic tile, majestically cobbled together to form the emblem of the Vatican Knights. Centered within the coat of arms was a Silver Cross Pattée set against a blue background. The colors were significant. Silver represented peace and sincerity, and blue signified truth and loyalty. Standing alongside the coat of arms were two heraldic lions rising on their hind legs with their forepaws against the shield, stabilizing it. The lions were a symbolic representation of bravery, strength, ferocity and valor.
The emblem appeared repeatedly throughout Divinity House. The coat of arms also appeared as a branded insignia on their uniforms and berets. It was even acid-etched on the stone wall of their living quarters above the door.
For the moment it was quiet, the Knights either at prayer or in meditation. Kimball wished to take part in neither of these activities, since he struggled to find his faith. By blood he was a warrior; by nature, a patriot. But as a child of God he found himself in constant turmoil. Peace eluded him like something flitting at the corner of his vision, something close but unobtainable. What he sought could not be found at the altar or within the confines of a confessional. What Kimball truly wanted was to be more than what he really was—a killer.
What he sought was salvation.
Opening the door to his chamber, the hinges squealing, the sound echoing throughout the hollow halls of Divinity House, Kimball began to pack for his journey to America.
His room was small, with the barest necessities. Other than a single-sized bed, nightstand and dresser, there was a small dais with a Bible upon it that had gone unread, and a votive rack and kneeling rail meant for prayer, but the candles had never been lit and the rail never knelt upon. High on the wall, a stained glass window provided the only light into the room. The pieces of leaden glass formed the colorful image of the Virgin Mother reaching out to him with outstretched arms.
After carefully folding his cleric shirts and placing them in a backpack, the act itself homage to the cloth, he made sure he was equally careful with the pristine white Roman collars. Whatever else he and his Knights would need, they would receive from Cardinal Medeiros in the States.
After running the zipper along the backpack, Kimball stood before the mirror and appraised himself, noticing the telltale signs of age beginning to show. After arranging his beret so it tilted to military specs and making sure the Roman collar was straight and clean, Kimba
ll grabbed his backpack and headed off to confront his new challenge. He felt invigorated, a feeling he hadn’t felt to this degree since he was a member of the US Force Elite, the one-time assassination squad covertly sanctioned by the president of the United States.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Route 1, Boston, Massachusetts.
September 23, Late Morning
Team Leader had divided his unit into two groups: Alpha Team, consisting of five of his most seasoned combatants, and Omega Team, left behind in D.C. to monitor the political maneuverings of the White House and its law enforcement constituencies.
To secure the hostages, Alpha Team placed them in a military cargo truck that had been modified with a false floor. Beneath the cargo bed was a compartment capable of carrying up to nine people in tight quarters. To ensure safety throughout the transportation process, the muffler system was customized so the noxious fumes were directed away from the cargo space at all times. And since the hostages were immobilized by a ketamine derivative, it was highly unlikely they would wake and panic and find themselves cloistered in a dark compartment during the drive north.
Team Leader sat on the passenger side of the cab, the radio tuned to an AM news station, just one of many he had listened to during transport. He stared at the passing landscape with eyes that seemed detached, yet fully aware.
Earlier that morning he had a member of Omega Team place an easily-traced call to CNN from a D.C. pay phone. By then, the transport team was already nearly three hundred miles north, the distance covered before a dragnet could be extended from the nation’s capitol.
The timing and location of the call was a red herring. He wanted Washington to believe that the Soldiers of Islam were still in the D.C. area, so that the scope of their search would be concentrated to a smaller radius. But the ruse failed. According to the news, road blocks had been set up on all major highways north, west, and south of the capitol, stretching as far as New York, Florida, and Texas.
Though he had considered his strategy carefully, Team Leader was concerned about the blockades after their military vehicle was stopped by law enforcement on two separate occasions in New York. But when he showed them counterfeit documents claiming their vehicle to be from the 75th Ranger Regiment, a division of the US Army Special Operation Command, the vehicle was waved through without so much as a cursory examination.
Once the truck exited the turnpike and entered Boston central, the driver passed Government Center and negotiated the narrow streets to a pre-established safe house located in Boston’s Historical District.
The isolated building was an old and vacant depository made of aged brick, which had cracked and discolored from time and neglect. The first-floor windows were bricked over. The second- and third-story windows, however, were merely boarded over with weathered plywood. The trees surrounding the building were either dead or dying, their limbs knotted like the arthritic twists of an old man’s hands. The area had simply gone to waste.
A wrought-iron gate bearing a “No Trespassing: All Violators Prosecuted” sign was securely locked with a thick garland of chain wrapped firmly around the bars. Team Leader got out of the vehicle, searched his pocket for the proper key, and undid the lock. Once the vehicle passed through, he closed and relocked the gate.
The vehicle drove slowly down the weed-laden driveway. Wispy branches from the trees above snapped as the top of the vehicle forced its way through the canopy of skeletal limbs. At the end of the driveway the truck turned into a vacant area behind the building.
There stood a dented fire door, the only way in and out of the building. The entry had been reinforced prior to the mission with a state-of-the-art titanium lock. Reaching into his cargo pocket, Team Leader removed a remote unit and aimed it at the entry. When he depressed a button the bolt mechanism drew back in a series of hollow, metallic clicks, and then the red light on the remote’s faceplate turned green, an indication that the door was unlocked.
Moving toward the entry, Team Leader turned the handle, opening the door to a world that was truly blacker than pitch.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington, D.C.
September 23, Mid-Afternoon
The FBI’s conference room was much larger and less constrictive than the White House’s Situation Room. The room had twenty-foot ceilings and was nearly 1600 square feet. The walls were covered in dark walnut paneling, and serving as the room’s focal point, an oil painting of J. Edgar Hoover watched over everyone with his patented scowl. In the center of the room was a large table that held up to three dozen people comfortably, with pitchers of ice water spaced every three feet along the table’s length.
The FBI’s Deputy Director, George Pappandopolous, sat at one end of the table. Normally a man of good cheer, he seemed somewhat detached and disenchanted, his smiles false, his greetings insincere. It seemed to Shari as if he had already resigned himself to losing the battle over the pope’s abduction. She hoped this wasn’t the case.
Taking her assigned seat opposite the deputy director, Shari knew that she was about to become the lightning rod of attention.
To her right sat Billy Paxton, who appeared displeased. He had always played the back-up role, never taking the lead—always the electric violin to her Stradivarius. She had become an insurmountable obstacle in his life, preventing him from elevating to the next level. He was always being compared to her but never measuring up. So when she said “Hello,” he simply ignored her.
As chatter circulated around the room, Deputy Director George Pappandopolous leaned forward and clasped his hands. Securing the attention of the room, he went directly to the core of the matter.
“As you all know, the president’s detail was dispatched by a radical terrorist cell who call themselves the Soldiers of Islam. The incident falls under FBI jurisdiction, but we will nevertheless be working with all international intelligence sources that are ready to aid in the search and rescue of the pope and the governor. So let’s get one thing straight: I don’t want anybody on my team sitting on vital data. There are fifteen intelligence agencies in this country and dozens more worldwide, and we’re to work closely with all of them. Is that clear?”
There was a unified murmur of agreement.
“Here’s what I’ve got so far, just to update you as to what’s going on,” he continued. “We haven’t received any demands from the Soldiers of Islam as of yet. The only call received was the one to CNN at approximately zero-seven-hundred hours. We do know, however, the identities of all terrorists involved. You’ll find their cover sheets and bios in front of you.”
The assembled agents opened the manila folders before them and began examining the documents inside.
“We also know they had ties to al-Qaeda and are presumed to have gone rogue, so we’ll need to develop a strategy to communicate and make the necessary concessions without any foreknowledge of their methods. By the direct authority of the attorney general, Ms. Cohen, who is sitting opposite me, is to take command in this situation with Mr. Paxton acting as speaker.”
Paxton winced as if a gas bubble had lodged painfully in his chest. Is that what he had been reduced to? A mouthpiece? It just seemed disrespectful. Especially for someone who received Congressional approval to act on behalf of the American government in distant lands.
“For those of you who may not know, Ms. Cohen is an expert in counterterrorism and psychoanalytical strategy. Therefore, the attorney general feels that Ms. Cohen is best qualified to command this post. In other words, first there’s God and then there’s Ms. Cohen who will be in direct contact with Chief Presidential Advisor Alan Thornton. There is no other chain of command. She . . . is . . . it.” Pappandopolous eased back into his chair. “Good luck,” he added, “because we’re going to need it on this one.” He offered Shari the stage by directing a hand toward her. “Ms. Cohen.”
Shari tilted her head in the direction of the deputy director and thanked him. She opened her manila folder and began t
o peel a page at a time from the stack of papers.
“All right,” she said. “The first rule of thumb is to never assume anything, because everything changes and changes quickly. Therefore, you have to make adjustments and decisions according to the moment. We know the insurgents are Islamic and have an unyielding conviction to die for a cause. So . . . what else do we need to know?” She raised her hand and ticked off a finger with each question.
“One: How have they or their associates operated in the past? Two: Will they release the hostages when their demands are met or not? Three: Have their dealings with past HRT units been consistent or not? And four: Can we possibly predict a safe outcome based on their past dealings? In other words, know your enemy.”
She lowered her hand; her voice had gained strength and momentum with every passing sentence.
“We’ll need to get on this as soon as possible. I want as much information on the remaining operatives as I can get my hands on. Contact the CIA abroad, Mossad, the CTC, whomever it is you need to contact to create the most complete dossier on each individual involved with the Soldiers of Islam. Then we’ll need to create several strategies to deal with them. And I’m going to need all of this at my fingertips when the time comes to negotiate. We’re dealing with the human element here, which is always difficult, but at least we’ll be in a position to act when the terrorists make their next move.”
Shari’s speech was well-versed and never missed a beat, which was more of a natural skill than a learned one.
Paxton, on the other hand, seethed with contempt and rolled his eyes.
