The Devil's Magician

by Rick Jones

  The Devil's Magician

  The Vatican Knights, Volume 14

  Rick Jones

  Published by Empire PRESS, 2018.

  PROLOGUE

  ––––––––

  Vatican Proverb:

  It’s said that when the world isn’t right, a man steps out of the shadows of St.

  Peter’s Basilica to make it whole again.

  He is the priest who is not a priest.

  He’s an angel to some and a demon to others.

  But in the Middle East he is known by another name:

  ...The Devil’s Magician...

  CHAPTER ONE

  ––––––––

  Pavia, Italy

  31 Kilometers South of Milan

  Ten Days Ago

  Nearly 240,000 miles from the moon, in a cramped bedroom in Pavia, Italy, a cold blue light from the moon’s face filtered in through the window and alit on the contours of two bodies hidden beneath the bed sheets. Occasionally there was a faint repositioning for comfort, perhaps a minor sweep of a leg or an arm. Outside, tree limbs animated by a strong wind sounded against the residence, a clawing and scraping against the outer walls, the sound as unnerving as raking fingers across a blackboard.

  Since Albierto was a light sleeper, he rolled onto his back and stared ceilingwards. There, shadows played as branches swayed eerily in the moonlight out- side the window, moving back and forth in play, the skeletal limbs dancing in odd and macabre twists. Sighing, he turned to his wife who was in a fitful sleep and wearing a sleep mask, her mouth slightly agape. As long as the wind maintained its high velocity, he knew sleep would not come to him tonight and made a mental note to trim the branches at first light. Casting the sheet aside and planting his soles squarely against the floor, Albierto was careful not to disturb his wife as he grabbed a robe off the bedpost, put it on, and left the room.

  The floor was cold beneath his feet, the tiles as smooth as ice.

  The wind.

  The branches.

  The scraping.

  The clawing.

  And then a footfall that was not his own, which was followed by another. And then another.

  In the darkness of the living room, a shape that was raven black stood silhouetted against the backdrop, a one-dimensional being that had no contours or shape, and was nothing but an outline.

  In the spaces where his eyes should be, however, Albierto saw a spark of illumination, a flicker of a terrifying inner light that told him that this man, in some way, was a harbinger of death. In his grip was something long and wedge-shaped, a knife, which turned over and over in the man’s hand in play. Albierto felt paralytic terror sweep through him as his mouth moved in mute protest, the man unable to utter a cry. The shape continued to toy with the knife, twisting it in his hand so that the weapon rolled repeatedly within his grasp. And then the rolling stopped. In the darkness, the intruder’s breathing sounded labored as if on a respirator, and he was as immovable as an ancient statue. And then the darkness broke, the shape closing, the knife riding high above his head and then coming down again and again and again, the spatter going every- where as blood gouts erupted.

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  Out.

  The knife plunging and withdrawing repeatedly until Albierto lay on the floor with his mouth open as if surprised by his own mortality, a dullness already beginning to creep within his eyes. Dropping the knife, the intruder that was blacker than black began the second phase of the mission. He began his hunt for Albierto’s family members.

  * * *

  Carmela never heard the man enter her room.

  As he stood over her, he held a syringe in his hand.

  Outside, tree limbs continued to scratch at the residential walls, causing the man to look briefly towards the window, then to the door, his search to confirm that he was alone. Then he looked down at the woman, her chest rising and falling in even rhythm. After giving a light squeeze on the plunger to send a thin arc of fluid through the air to clear bubbles from the tube, he eclipsed her by clamping a hand over her mouth and straddling her.

  She bucked beneath the man’s weight, could feel his knees pinning her arms to the mattress—could smell the scent of blood on his hand, the smell of a slaughter house. And then the intruder spoke to her in a language that was alien to her, the words spoken softly as whispers, his voice calm. And then she felt the prick of the needle in the side of her neck, a sting, the violation bringing her to the void of a very deep sleep. She continued to fight, to buck, her strength ebbing. And through it all the man spoke to her with the same calm measure.

  ...Allahu Akbar ...

  ...Allahu Akbar ...

  ...Allahu Akbar ...

  Finally, his voice receded off into distant whispers until she eventually faded off into absolute darkness.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Syriac Catholic Church

  Damascus, Syria

  One Week Ago

  In November of 2016, Pope John Paul III promoted the prelate Baltasar Alnasseri to the high rank of cardinal, who was to serve as the Vatican’s ambassador to Syria. And since Cardinal Alnasseri was under the age of 80, he was also eligible to succeed the pope for the highest seat in Vatican City once the incumbent passed, with the scepter of rule passing from one hand to another. And for the past year, Cardinal Alnasseri became known as the martyr of Syria by serving without complaintive measures in a land of great conflict. His conviction to serve the church had weighed respectively with the members of the College of the Cardinals, with Alnasseri earning the admiration that propelled him to the top of the preferiti, which was a class of forerunners vying for the papal position, should a Conclave be called into session. Alnasseri was a quiet man on the surface who spoke with mannerisms, as his actions tended to lead by example. And though he was not a vocal man, he never-the-less commanded an audience who saw him as a beacon that led the way to the Light of Loving Spirits. He was grace and power and the purveyor of forgiveness, the true makings of divine strength. Though he had never raised a hand against an- other man, Cardinal Baltasar Alnasseri was one of the most powerful men in Damascus.

  After the doors to the Syriac Catholic Church had been closed and locked for the evening, once prayers had been said at the altar and the candles in the glass vessels within the votive racks snuffed, Cardinal Alnasseri retired for the evening. His accommodations were rather spartan in nature with a single bed, a night- stand, a lamp, desk, and a small bookcase for religious tomes. The walls, though plastered, had fallen away at places to show the brick stones underneath that were the color of desert sand.

  Alnasseri, interchanging his ambassador garments for the garments of sleep, got down on bended knees before a crucifix hanging on the wall, closed his eyes, clasped his hands in an attitude of prayer and prayed. Once done, he went to bed, reached for the lamp on the nightstand, yanked the pull chain, and extinguished the light.

  * * *

  They were darker than the shadows that surrounded them, three figures that were blacker than black as they moved through the nave of the Syriac Catholic Church. Silver illumination from a gibbous-phased moon entered through the glass above the stained-glass windows, casting marginal light to the aisles that separated the pews. They were quick and moved with purpose, darting in and out of the quasi-light until they reached the altar, then into the chancel, the sound of their footfalls nonexistent, even as they reached the courtyard that divided the church from the rectory.

  Inside the courtyard were several neatly trimmed Palestine oaks, enough to provide coverage. The night was silent, the stars above them spread out like a cache of diamonds scattered over black velvet.

&
nbsp; And together as one they pressed forward.

  When they reached the steps to the rectory they noticed a guard stationed behind the glass door, the man seated while reading the Qassioun, a Syrian newspaper.

  One of the figures in black made a motion by pointing to a particular assassin, and then to the guard, the message clear. The assassin quietly removed a knife from his sheath, the blade having a black-matte finish to match the color of night, and quietly began to scale the stairs. Taking step after step, as the guard flipped the page, the assassin banked on the man’s complacency. Rolling the knife in one hand while reaching for the latch with the other, the killer slowly lowered the handle and pushed the door inward. Once he had full access, he drew upon the guard first by slashing a diagonal slit from page corner to page corner, opening a line of sight between the two, and then he ran the blade across the guard’s throat. The edge bit deep, slicing the cords before the guard could utter a cry. Gagging with a horrible wetness while bringing his hands to the wound to stem the flow, the man’s eyes flared with the surprise of his own mortality, the edges of his sight growing rings of purple, and then black, his sight finally fading with the last image of the man who killed him. And then he was gone, the guard falling to the floor with his blood fanning across the shale beneath him in a near-perfect halo.

  The assassin remained still, listened, the area quiet. Then he beckoned his teammates to follow. As they ventured into the hallways of the rectory, they found the corridors dark with pockets of deep shadows throughout. Somewhere behind a closed door someone coughed, the sound muted. So the team leader raised his hand to halt his team, waited, nothing but ensuing silence, the pause a long one before they continued on. Two of the assassins took to the left of the hallway, team leader to the right, the unit using the shadows as their ally.

  The walls were adorned with pictures of past clerics, priests who claimed to be the messengers of God, but in the mind of team leader—at least by his assessment—they were nothing more than false prophets.

  When they reached the hallway that served as the sleeping quarters, the assassins went from door to door, searching. In the first two rooms were clerics of Syrian descent, their Christian ideologies no doubt blasphemous in the eyes of Allah, for which they were summarily struck down along with their faith, by the cutting strokes of the assassins’ knives. In the third room, however, which was as equally spartan in décor as the others, lay the man they were looking for. In the darkness a match was struck by team leader and a pair of candles were lit inside the votive rack, the illumination slight but enough to shed light on the intruders.

  Baltasar Alnasseri rose to his elbows on the mattress, the man appearing stunned and disoriented at the three shapes before him, all wearing garments and head wraps.

  In the quasi-darkness of the chamber, as the candles burned, Cardinal Alnasseri could see the flames reflect off their eyes as if they were mirrors. Then from the assassin standing in the middle of the room and pointing his knife to the priest, he said: “You’re Cardinal Baltasar Alnasseri, yes?”

  The cardinal didn’t answer, couldn’t, the man immobilized by paralytic terror.

  Then again from the assassin: “You are Cardinal Baltasar Alnasseri, yes?” Then he displayed the knife by showing off its keen edge. “I will not ask you again.”

  The cardinal nodded before he finally said: “I am.”

  “Then you claim to speak the words of God by posing as a false prophet, yes?”

  “What is this all about?”

  The assassin made a hand gesture to his teammates, who responded quickly by grabbing Cardinal Alnasseri and lifting him from his bed. The cardinal put up feeble resistance, the two men holding him strong.

  Then team leader moved in until his face was a foot from Cardinal Alnasseri’s, the two men studying each other. “In Syria,” said team leader, “it is the word of Allah that rules. In Damascus, Christianity is nothing but a cancer to the Muslim faith, Cardinal Alnasseri, which makes you a traitor to the faith.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “It’s not what I want from you, False Prophet. What I seek is your value to the church.”

  And it became all too clear to Cardinal Alnasseri. He was to be held hostage and bartered for monetary gain, a ransom, an ISIS means to further their goals.

  “I’m to be your captive,” he said that was more of a statement than a question.

  “And what will happen to me should your demands be met by the Vatican? ...Will you kill me?”

  The flames continued to dance and reflect off the assassin’s eyes, the man remaining silent.

  The cardinal sighed. “I see,” he finally said.

  “You see nothing,” was the assassin’s answer. “You’re blind like everyone else of your kind.” Then team leader stood back and motioned to his teammates.

  “Make it quick,” he said.

  The cardinal was forced to his knees and pushed forward until his lips nearly touched the floor. “What are you doing?” he asked anxiously. Someone grabbed his arm and slid the sleeve upward along its length, and then the cardinal felt a sharp sting to his triceps, a sharp bite as the point of a needle plunged deep. And then his world started to spin as he fell to his side. Three men stood over him, all shapes against the candles’ flames, dark and threatening. In the hand of one man was a syringe. And then the edges surrounding the cardinal’s eyes began to creep inward as a ring of darkness, closing and pinching out the light. The cardinal raised his hand to his captors but wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was a moment of beseeching; a natural quest of asking for aid when one was too weak to fight for his own self-preservation. And then his hand fell limp to his side, his breathing becoming shallow. The shapes were growing darker against the back- drop of flames, the light being squeezed out by the spreading darkness.

  And in the end, as his assailants faded away along with the light of the burning wicks, Cardinal Baltasar Alnasseri was finally overcome by a darkness that was absolute.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ––––––––

  Damascus, Syria

  Five Days Ago

  A team of Vatican Knights, headed by Leviticus and Isaiah, moved into position sixteen kilometers south of the Syriac Catholic Church where it was believed that Cardinal Baltasar Alnasseri was being held inside a facility considered by Intel to be an ISIS stronghold.

  A day after the cardinal’s capture, the Holy See was contacted regarding the murders of the clerics inside the rectory, along with low-quality footage of Cardinal Alnasseri that had been taken from a less than stellar cellphone, the video dark and grainy.

  The abductor spoke first in Arabic, then in English, and then Italian. The demand was simple: The Vatican was to pay a ransom valued at ten million dollars in bitcoin, a crypto currency, with the transfer of funds to be completed by representing liaisons in Damascus. But since there was little trust between the pontiff and the principals of ISIS, the Vatican balked, insisting on more time to gather the bitcoins, when, in fact, they needed time to devise a search and rescue mission. So a precise time was given by the members of the Islamic State—that of six days and not one second more, which gave the Vatican Knights five days to strategize and implement their plan.

  But the demands of the Islamic State didn’t come without its conditions, either. Should anything outside of the given instructions to the Vatican beyond the transference of the bitcoins by the Islamic State not be followed, would only pro- mote the cardinal’s death. There would be no negotiations, discussions or debates beyond the timeline. Therefore, a fine line had been drawn with the expectation that all orders be followed to a T.

  The Vatican, however, had different plans and different schemes. And since Cardinal Alnasseri was a vital interest of the church, Pope John Paul III, along with the members of the Society of Seven—those who were considered to be the pope’s most trusted cardinals—decided to employ the Vatican Knights before the deadline.

  With the aid of the SIV, which
was the Vatican Intelligence Agency, they engaged the use of geospatial satellites above Syria and Damascus. By using facial recognition software, despite the abductor covering most of his features, they were able to pinpoint with an accuracy of a 97% rating by validating certain landmarks of the exposed area around his eyes, that the captor was a high-ranking member of the Islamic State and a Syrian national. His name was Hassan Maloof. And he was the organization’s main money maker by selling oil and stolen antiquities on the black market, and by arranging the abductions of high-end assets as a means to fund the regime. Though well-funded, the organization was losing the oil and antiquities markets from allied encroachment, and were now subsisting on abductions as a means of financial gain. Once having a stranglehold on countries like Lebanon, Iraq and Syria, allied forces were steadily pushing the regime to the south to places like Damascus, perhaps their last bastion of hope of keeping the ISIS ideology alive.

  With the use of CCTV cameras located throughout the city and the aid of a confidential informant, the Vatican’s SIV unit was able to hack into the local main- frames to incorporate their facial recognition software, and were able to scour the Damascus streets for Maloof once the informant had given them a probable location. It took all of six hours to locate and trace Maloof to a safe house, which was a vacant repository on the outskirts of the city. Two days after the abduction of Cardinal Alnasseri and the discovery of the whereabouts of the ISIS commander, a team of Vatican Knights arrived at the Damascus International Airport using falsified passports. Less than an hour later, they were skirting the perimeter of the repository under the cover of darkness.

  Under the partial light of the gibbous moon, they realized the distance from their location to the building’s walls was great.

  “I don’t like this,” whispered Isaiah. “There’s a lot of open space between us and them, and the moon isn’t cooperating.”