Vatican Knights

by Jones, Rick

“Did you look in his eyes before you killed him?”

  “I did.”

  “And what did you see?”

  Team Leader leaned forward. “I saw in him what I have seen in the eyes of all men,” he said. “I saw a man who was terrified of dying—someone who didn’t believe in anything beyond the moment of his pathetic life.”

  Yahweh nodded, then turned to view the passing terrain outside the window.

  While the limo continued through the empty streets, a moment of silence passed between them before Yahweh spoke again. “I do believe you have something for me.”

  Team Leader reached into the inner pocket of his combat fatigues and produced the videotape. “When will the proper authorities get this?”

  Yahweh took the tape and held it close. “After I view this for myself and after they find the governor’s body. I’ll distribute the tape to a CNN affiliate. And then the world will cry like frightened children, knowing there is no hope for the Holy One.”

  Team Leader tried to look through the tinted windows, but could only see the faintly glowing orbs of the street lamps as they passed. “And the world will finally be divided.”

  Yahweh leaned forward. “When you return to the holding ground, I want you to kill off the members of the Holy See quickly, at least one a day. Build the world into a fast and furious frenzy. Let them know the end is near.”

  “You need to be patient.”

  “Patience is a virtue I can’t afford. Get it done.”

  Although Team Leader couldn’t see the man’s eyes, he knew Yahweh was measuring him.

  The limo continued on.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Washington, D.C.

  September 25, Morning

  Kimball Hayden had followed Shari Cohen home from the JEH Building the night before, in a sedan borrowed from Cardinal Medeiros. While Kimball tailed Shari, the rest of the Vatican Knights rested at the archdiocese.

  He recognized the white Lexus and the federal tags leaving the parking garage and followed her to a leafy, upscale neighborhood north of D.C., where she lived in a two-story brownstone with wrought-iron railings leading to the double doors and a picture window that offered a perfect view of the park across the street. Often he looked at her dossier, especially at the black and white glossy photo that resembled a Hollywood headshot.

  He knew he had to gain her trust, but to do that he would have to violate the trust of the Vatican. To draw her into an alliance he would have to tell her who he was and where he came from, which was against the policies of the Vatican who wished the Knights to remain anonymous. But Hayden saw no other way. If he wanted to gain the trust of Shari Cohen, he would have to tell her the truth.

  He could only pray she would keep his secret.

  #

  Shari’s phone rang several times before she picked up, her hand searching blindly for the receiver. She finally lifted it from its cradle and pressed it to her ear. “Hello?”

  “They found the governor’s body.”

  Shari recognized Pappandopolous’ voice. “Where?”

  “At the Tidal Basin. They’re pulling the body out now.”

  She shot up in bed, disturbing her husband, who raised himself onto an elbow. “I’m on my way,” she told him.

  Pappandopolous hung up. Without so much as a word to Gary, she got dressed as fast as she could. Within five minutes she was hopping toward the front door, trying to put on her last shoe.

  #

  By the time Shari arrived on the scene, the governor’s body had already been pulled from the Tidal Basin. A perimeter had been established along the shoreline. Behind the tape, the police were holding the media at bay. Shari flashed her credentials, and an officer lifted the yellow strip to allow her passage.

  The weather was mild, the sky blue. Before her the surface of the Tidal Basin rippled with the course of a light wind, the motion calm and soothing. But Shari noticed none of this as she made her way to the coroner’s van.

  The vehicle’s rear was parked at the basin’s edge, the doors open, a sealed body bag inside. When Shari got there she badged the medical examiner.

  “Show me what you’ve got.”

  The examiner unzipped the body bag to expose the governor’s face.

  “Single gunshot wound to the head,” he said. “By the size of the exit wound I would have to say it was a medium to large caliber. The amount of antimony, barium and lead will help us determine what type of weapon was used when we do a gunshot residue analysis.” The medical examiner pointed to the entry wound, to the burns circling the hole. “Definitely execution style,” he added. “Up close and neat. The mouth of the barrel couldn’t have been more than two inches away when it went off.” He turned to Shari. “Anything else you need to know before we get him on the table?”

  Shari examined the governor’s face. It was severely swollen and unrecognizable, his skin marbled to a purple-gray. “This is the governor?”

  “Yeah, it’s him all right,” he said, zipping up the bag. “We did a cursory identification through body symbols: scars, moles, and so forth. Of course we’ll leave the official ID up to the examination, but there’s no doubt in my mind that this is the governor.”

  “He looks kind of . . . well—”

  The examiner nodded, intuiting her question. “Methane gas build-up,” he answered, “which bloats the skin. There’s really nothing anomalous about it. But it’s him.” He closed the door to the van. “Anything else?”

  Shari looked across the basin. “Could the water throw off the timeframe of the murder?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “The body normally cools about one-point-five degrees per hour. As cold as this water is, it’s my guess he was sent adrift to corrupt our findings. We’re really not going to be able to pinpoint a time of death with any true accuracy on this one. Hopefully we can learn more by examining trace elements, if they haven’t been washed away.”

  Shari closed her eyes, her mind working. The same question kept surfacing at every turn of the investigation: why were the Soldiers of Islam sanitizing their actions when the authorities already knew their identities?

  She opened her eyes. “You know who found him?”

  “A jogger,” he said, pointing to the edge of the basin where a young woman wearing a spandex suit stood speaking with three officers. “The one wearing the outfit that looks like it’s been painted on.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be in contact for the autopsy results.”

  Shari moved through the group of CSI investigators and made her way to the water’s edge where the jogger was nervously ringing her hands. “Excuse me,” said Shari, presenting her badge, “I’m Special Agent Cohen of the FBI. I understand that you’re the one who found the body?”

  She nodded. “I am.”

  The three officers didn’t relinquish their territory as they stood with pens and pads in hand, scrutinizing Shari as an intruder. But after ten minutes of questioning the jogger, Shari concluded that nothing of value could be deduced from the witness and thanked her, letting the officers re-stake their claim.

  She then questioned the crime scene investigators and learned that there was no perceptible sign as to when the governor’s body was set adrift. The area was clean. This brought her back to the question of why the Soldiers of Islam would leave the two bodies behind in the Governor’s Mansion, letting the world know who they were, only to turn around and cover their actions as if trying to protect their identities?

  It just didn’t make sense.

  After scribbling a few notes, she checked her watch.

  It was time to see a man about a CD.

  #

  Kimball Hayden watched from the sidelines as Shari Cohen held a brief discussion with the medical examiner. Then, after moving on to talk to the witness and the crime scene investigators, she returned to her Lexus. Just as she was about to insert the key into the door lock, Kimball Hayden intercepted her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  As a government official
, it was Yahweh’s duty to understand the enemy and its mindset. However, it truly escaped him why the enemy was so willing to surrender its life for its god, without fear or hesitation.

  Was the enemy’s belief in the afterlife so strong, so rooted, that it considered the corporeal life less substantial than the spiritual one? Was the true reward death? It was amazing how cultures viewed the difference between the virtues of living and dying.

  Yahweh had watched the video repeatedly. The tape made it apparent that the governor did not share the same convictions as his Arab enemies, the fear of his impending murder evident. He was clearly unwilling to die for an afterlife that he may or may not have believed in. The governor, in fact, was representative of the weak principles of faith in this country.

  After placing the video in an envelope, he sealed it using a wet sponge and had Judas drop it off at an affiliate station of CNN shortly after the governor’s discovery.

  Once done, Judas made a call to the station and played a taped recording, first in Arabic, then in accented English, advising that the Soldiers of Islam were claiming responsibility for the governor’s death. Further statements demanded that their conditions be met or the pope would soon be lying beside the governor. End of message.

  When Judas clicked off the tape, he calmly hung up the receiver and walked away with a ten-million-dollar smile.

  #

  “Ms. Cohen?” The tall man emerged seemingly from nowhere. “Shari Cohen?”

  Shari looked up into the face of a man who, by her estimate, stood a full foot taller than her, and she was five-six. He was wearing black tactical pants that blossomed at the top of military boots and a cleric’s shirt bearing a starch-white Roman collar. “Yes, Father.”

  He offered his hand and gave her a genuine and pleasing smile, which heightened his handsome features. “My name is Kimball Hayden.”

  For some reason that name struck a chord with her, but she couldn’t quite match the name with the face. “What can I do for you, Father Hayden?”

  “To begin with, ma’am, I’m not a priest. I think it’s important that you know that.”

  She looked at the Roman collar.

  “It’s part of our uniform,” he answered.

  “What exactly do you want, Mr. Hayden?”

  “Your help.”

  She got the key into the lock and turned it. The door lock popped up. “And what help might that be?”

  “I understand you’re the one spearheading the investigation into the kidnapping of Pope Pius the Thirteenth, and that Mr. Paxton is simply following your lead.”

  She now felt uneasy and gave a quick glance over to the police presence along the basin.

  “Ms. Cohen, please. It’s important you understand that I’m an emissary sent from the Vatican. You can check this out with the archdiocese in Washington. Cardinal Medeiros will verify who I am.”

  “How do you know me?”

  “I don’t. I just know what your role is.”

  “Then how do you know that?”

  “Ms. Cohen, the arms of the Vatican are long and wide, even within your own political branches. I’m not going to reveal your secret. I’m simply here to earn your trust so we can work together to achieve our mutual aim—to bring home our pope.”

  Shari cocked her head slightly. “Are you a Swiss Guard?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m part of a group of operatives known only to the pope and a few others. Our job is to preserve the lives of the innocent. I can’t tell you too much more than that, I’m afraid.”

  “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.” She opened the door to her Lexus. “Good day, Mr. Hayden.”

  “Ms. Cohen, please. Call the archdiocese. They’ll confirm who I am and the nature of my visit.” He gave her Cardinal Medeiros’ business card. “Please.”

  Shari got into her vehicle, started the engine and cocked her head out the window. “I don’t know who you are, Mr. Hayden, but this is strictly a federal matter. Misguided vigilante groups like yours, well-intentioned as they may be, only make matters worse. So stay away.”

  “All I’m asking is for you call the archdiocese and confirm who I am. You’ll be able to contact me through them.”

  “I’m a busy person, Mr. Hayden. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  As she drove away, she quickly crumpled the card and tossed it into the recess of the ashtray. Her only thought at the moment was to see Abraham Obadiah.

  #

  Boston, Massachusetts

  September 25, Morning

  Kodiak had sent King Snake and Boa to check the perimeter for possible breaches in the system. Lasers had been installed along the first floor of the abandoned building in a series of intertwining networks; a single line broken would automatically trigger a warning to the bank of security monitors situated on the third floor. So far the system did the job; the amber light on the monitor flashed occasionally when a rat crossed the eye of the laser and broke the beam. They had prepared the building well.

  After examining the monitors, Kodiak checked on the bishops of the Holy See, who cowered in his presence. Not a single man dared to look him in the eye. At the end of the row lay the empty mattress of the governor. The bishops could guess why the governor had never returned. And soon, they feared, the whole row would be empty.

  Walking down the hallway, the cadence of his footfalls casting a hollow, foreboding echo, Kodiak entered the pope’s room, removed his pistol, engaged the laser sight, and placed the red dot in the center of the pope’s forehead. He then bounced the dot from one eye to the other in a malicious game of eenie-meenie-minie-moe. But the pope refused to flinch.

  Tiring of the large man’s game, the pope faced him. “Do what you must and be done with it.”

  Kodiak stopped the taunting and holstered his weapon. “Just a tune-up before the real thing, Padre.”

  Pope Pius XIII leaned forward, his aged face caught half in light and half in shadow. “Will you be the brave soul that kills a defenseless old man chained to a wall?”

  The muscles in the back of Kodiak’s jaw tensed. “I’m afraid that privilege is for somebody else.”

  “The man who speaks with an accent?”

  Kodiak remained silent.

  “I see that you have no such accent. In fact, you sound American. Why would that be?”

  Kodiak leaned forward as if to step up to a challenge. The size discrepancy between the two made the pope look like a small child within the larger man’s presence. But somehow the smaller man seemed to bear unimaginable strength.

  Kodiak knelt until he could clearly see the weathered face of the old man. “You really think this is about meeting certain conditions to gain your release?” He leaned forward and beckoned the pope into closer counsel. “When the bullet finally penetrates your skull,” he whispered as if sharing a secret, “the Arab world will fall in the wake of your death.”

  The dark truth dawned on the old man like a sudden epiphany. His jaw dropped and his eyes held sudden recognition.

  “That’s right,” said Kodiak, a smile forming on his grotesquely scarred face. “Now you’re getting the whole picture, aren’t you?”

  When Kodiak refused to retreat, the pope drew his hands to his face and recalled the cryptic words of the man with the accent: whereas your Christ was the King of Kings who readily embraced the world, Pope Pius XIII shall become the Martyr of Martyrs who will divide it.

  The meaning was all too clear.

  “That’s right, Padre. You’re the best weapon the twenty-first century has to offer.”

  The old man wept.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The White House

  September 25, Noon

  While on her way to the Embassy of Israel, Shari received a text message from Chief Advisor Alan Thornton, requesting her immediate presence at the White House Situation Room. There was no further explanation.

  Upon her arrival Shari sat with the president, vice president, attorney general, FBI director and key advi
sors, including Alan Thornton. The discomfort was palpable.

  “This morning,” said President Burroughs, “we received word that the Soldiers of Islam had made contact with CNN’s affiliate station, providing them with a tape of the governor’s execution. We immediately issued a warrant to get the tape into our possession, but not before the station had broadcast snippets of the tape on the air. By now it’s probably on every website throughout the world.” He turned to Alan Thornton. “Damage assessment?”

  Thornton glanced briefly at the contents of a single sheet of paper in front of him. “According to Aljazeera, terrorist groups in the Middle East are targeting foreign nationals in homage to the Soldiers of Islam. The CIA is picking up messages from chat rooms of potential plots to kidnap foreign dignitaries aligned with the United States and its allies. There are reports of hate crimes being perpetrated against Arab citizens throughout this nation. And predominantly Catholic nations, especially those in Europe and South America, are burning you in effigy, Mr. President, for allowing this to happen.”

  President Burroughs sighed. “Has the tape at least provided us with anything we can use? Anything at all?”

  Attorney General Dean Hamilton proffered what he knew. “The executioner on the tape called himself Abdul-Aliyy, which is a pseudonym. We already know the names of the six remaining Soldiers of Islam, and Abdul-Aliyy is not one of them. In fact, Abdul-Aliyy in Arabic means ‘Server of the Most High.’”

  “A religious moniker that would motivate the Arab world into a frenzy, since they’ve captured the so-called apostle to the Great Satan,” stated the president.

  “Exactly, sir.”

  “Calling himself Abdul-Aliyy indicates that the tape may have been made prior to the media exposing their identities,” added the president. “They obviously couldn’t doctor the tape at that point because they had already committed the execution. But why provide a false name if the world already knows who you are?”

  “For martyrdom,” said Shari. “In Arab culture religion is everything. By giving themselves a moniker such as Abdul-Aliyy, they’re anointing themselves as martyrs. In the Arab world, martyrs are heroic fighters of Allah who are promised eternal heaven. But from a practical standpoint, it also incites the Arab public into a zealous passion, cultivated by millennia of religious beliefs.”