Shepherd One (14 page)

“My point, Aziz, is that the priests up here are lambs too frightened
to fight back when it comes to their own slaughter. I never anticipated one who
would fight back. So, for this man, I think we shall exercise caution, yes?”
Hakam opened a drawer filled with knives that were long, sharp and keen.
Butcher’s knives set aside to cut the baked meats normally served on
trans-Atlantic flights. “Take two men and go below,” he ordered. “And leave
your firearms here—give him no chance to acquire a weapon so he can try to
level the playing field.”

Aziz appeared disappointed. “You don’t trust me, do you? You
think a priest who prays to a false God can defeat a soldier of Allah?”

Hakam nodded. “A soldier of Allah you are, my friend, and a
very good one. But this man is no priest.” He reached into the drawer, pulled
out a knife, and handed it to the assassin. “Bring me his head to be placed
before the pope.”

Aziz took the weapon and held it firmly in his grasp.

Hakam then produced two more knives for the soldiers who
would be accompanying him to the lower level, and laid them on the countertop.
Although the color of the blades were as dull as aluminum casting, their edges
held a razor-like sharpness to them. “
Allahu Akbar
,” he said.

Aziz thrust the knife he was holding downward, the pointed
end planting deep into the countertop in a display of its effectiveness. “
Allahu
Akbar
.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

The Chateau Grand Hotel

Los Angeles

Criminal Investigators Louis
Bardaggio and Chris Cardasian stood outside of room 616 while the crime scene
analysts continued with their work inside. However, the full complement of
analysts was now beginning to spread thin, since further investigation revealed
an additional five bodies. All part of the papal flight crew.

“Mr. Morgenessi,” said Bardaggio, looking at his notepad,
“as much as we have on him, is a father of three with no questionable
background, resides in Rome, and has been the co-pilot of Shepherd One for
almost three years.”

Cardasian kept a watchful eye on the analysts through the
open door. “Shepherd One?”

“It’s the papal plane,” he answered. He then gestured by
pointing and jabbing his thumb ceilingward, indicating the upper levels. “The
other five bodies are confirmed members of the papal flight crew . . . and all
of them garroted in their sleep. The only one missing from the detail is the
pilot.” He referred to his notes. “Captain Enzio Pastore, a highly decorated
pilot of the
Aeronautica Milatare
and lead pilot for Shepherd One.” 

Cardasian appeared nonplussed before examining his watch,
his face screwing mildly. When he spoke, he never looked away from his watch.
“Didn’t the pope’s plane take off about thirty minutes ago?”

Bardaggio nodded like a bobble-head doll. “It did, and with
a full flight crew that was checked in by TSA. So the question is this: If the
real papal flight crew is here, then who’s up there?”  Once again he jabbed his
thumb ceilingward.

Cardasian raked a hand through his fading crop of thinning
hair. “TSA doesn’t know who they checked in?”

“I asked LAX that,” he said. “And they told me since
Shepherd One is not considered a commercial flight or a flight of hostile
intent, it is not subjected to the same search protocols as commercial liners.
It is, after all, the papal plane.”

“So they just let an undocumented crew walk on board?”

“According to TSA management they did confirm that Captain
Pastore submitted the tags of his crew, which were logged. That information is
then given to the tower, who then acknowledges a full detail, and gauges the
length and time to close down airspace for all flights until Shepherd One took
off. Their job is to log in the names of the flight crew and nothing more. It’s
all about time restraint and scheduling. It wasn’t about safety.”

“So Pastore could have given the TSA officers the ID tags of
a dead crew, without them even acknowledging or matching the tags with the
faces, and in goes whomever?”

More bobble head nodding. “Yup. And the officers who logged
the tags said Pastore looked fine.”

“Of course he looked fine. He’s either under duress or he’s
in on it.”

Cardasian stepped away from the open door, thinking. The
smell of blood and copper was beginning to permeate the hallway they were
standing in. “I’ll contact the FBI and Homeland Security,” he said. “It’s a
possibility that Shepherd One may have been commandeered by a crew
with
hostile intent.”

“It kind of looks that way, doesn’t it? It really does.”

It was Cardasian’s turn with the bobble-head weave. “And
what better way to mask hostile intention by flying the pope’s transport?”

#

The greatest pain
Basilio
Pastore suffered was when he sprained his knee playing soccer. The split lip
was a close second. There was an actual divide on his lower lip, the flesh
pared back to reveal a V. Every time he took a breath it was like a blast of
cold air passing over an exposed nerve, only worse, the pain sometimes
launching a cry from his throat and tears from his eyes.

After the large man ripped the shirt off Basilio’s back he
made him wipe his lip dry, the fabric soaking up as much blood as possible
before the shirt was proffered to his mother. When the shirt became saturated
with the stains of his blood his wound continued to hemorrhage, the divided
flesh needing surgical mending. And in all this time the assassin looked down
on him with a wry grin, nodding—his actions a testament of his brutal nature
with the promise of more to come.

As soon as the large man was satisfied, he grabbed Basilio’s
shirt in one hand and a hank of the boy’s hair in the other, pulling Basilio to
his feet with effortless ease, and directed him down a semi-dark, dank corridor
that smelled with the rancidness of raw sewage. “What?” said the large man as
he half carried, half dragged Basilio along the corridor floor. “Did you not
like your accommodations of the holding pen? Perhaps the Black Box will be more
to your liking.”

Far from his family and positioned on the other side of the warehouse
was a steel booth marginally larger than a gun safe. The interior was small and
cramped, the metal compartment a standing sarcophagus that disallowed the
possibility of lying down. To Basilio it was a premature burial chamber.

The large man pulled the door wide and shoved Basilio
inside. And Basilio did not fight back or resist, knowing the man was too big,
too powerful, and any sort of defiance on his part would bring nothing less
than additional pain. 

“Perhaps this is more to your liking,” said the man with the
simian brow. The flash of his smile showed the fine rows of his teeth and the
nature of his hostile glee. “Perhaps you will die in here, yes? Or perhaps I
will forget about you. But I am not a man without compassion, either.” The
terrorist stood back and appraised a shirtless Basilio, his smile now gone.
“You will not die today,” he told him. “But tomorrow is another day.” The man
slammed the door shut and something moved in place, a locking mechanism of some
type. Then through the door, the terrorist’s voice muted beyond the steel
walls, avowed something in Arabic before departing, leaving behind a
disconcerting quiet.

In time Basilio ran the flats of his palms along the
interior of the chamber walls, each rotation of his hands trying to get a feel
of his surroundings in order to draw a mental image from his settings. What he
discovered was that the Black Box was exactly that, a black box. Holes had been
drilled into the top to allow the seepage of air and pencil-thin shafts of
light. When he tried to bend into a sitting position, he found it impossible. With
every passing moment the air become stagnant and hot, the heat heavy. Above
him, thin shafts of light began to fade as the sun began to set.  

Leaning forward and pressing his forehead against the steel
wall, there was no doubt that he would die here, in this chamber, his body to
become a mummified husk.

He had no doubt at all.

Basilio began to weep.

#

Hakam, in his
usual calm
demeanor, waited patiently. After allowing Aziz and two others to go below
through the access trapdoor, he posted a fourth soldier topside to maintain
watch over the entry point to ensure that only Aziz and his team would emerge, once
they garnered the prize of the valet’s head.

Grabbing the clipboard containing the passenger list, Hakam
examined it carefully and double checked it. Listed were Pope Pius and the
twelve bishops of the Holy See.

The roster, however, was incomplete.

Taking the clipboard, Hakam went to the main flight cabin
where the passengers were congregated. The bishops were basically nondescript,
mostly in their sixties, gray-haired, all harboring the shared look of dread
and fear, all of them wearing black attire and Roman collar. The pope, on the
other hand, remained calm and reserved, obviously putting his faith in God, and
found comfort by doing so.

Hakam stood before him and held up the clipboard, saying
nothing.

“Are you trying to make a point of some kind?” asked the
pope. 

Hakam sighed and lowered the register. “This is the
passenger list,” he said, then tossed the clipboard onto a neighboring seat.
“It lists nineteen people.”

Pope Pius said nothing.

“It lists the twelve bishops, the six-member flight crew,
and yourself.”

“I suppose.”

“Why does it not contain the name of your personal valet? I
find that quite interesting.”

Pius shrugged. “I did not create the list.”

Hakam was a man of amazing reserve, but he was beginning to
feel the burgeoning sense of his impatience rising to the surface. “Why . . .
does it not . . . contain … the name . . . of your valet?”

“What do you want from me? I have already given you my
answer.”

“Would you give me a different answer if I had my friend
with the garrote choose one of your bishops to display his skills, in order to
illicit a proper response from you?”

Pope Pius took on more of an imploring appeal when he spoke.
“What I have told you is the truth.”

Hakam took a seat on a nearby armrest and smiled gingerly.
“I believe you,” he said. “But I want to know who he is—this man of mystery.”

“He is my valet,” he said simply.

Hakam maintained the smile. “Now you’re lying to me.” And
then he stood. “Twelve bishops will soon become eleven if you don’t start
telling me the truth. We both know that he is no priest. His name does not
register on the list, which is required by law—even if it is the pope’s
transport . . . And oddly enough, he wears military issue.” 

“What I say to you is true. He has been my personal valet
throughout the symposiums.”

“He’s definitely not Swiss Guard,” said Hakam, “since he’s
American. Only the Swiss can be a part of that force. And the insignia on his
pocket—he’s the only one on board who wears it; the symbol of the shield with
the silver cross and lions.”

Pope Pius turned away, his body English telling Hakam he was
mining in the right area.

“I’m running out of patience, Your Holiness. I like to know
who my enemies are before I go into battle with them.”

“Your enemy,” said the pope, “is yourself. You kill in the
name of God when there is
no
God that would ever condone the killing of
another human being. By doing what you do—what all of you do—you condemn
yourselves to Hell when you should be living life to full measure.”

Hakam leaned forward, his smile gone with his normal demeanor
of placid indifference taking on a harder look. “His name,” he said. “And what
is he?”

The pope remained silent as both men stood a meter apart,
eyes connected, a test of wills, one Pius was about to lose.

“I have never killed a man in my life,” said Hakam, his
voice even and calm. “And I have never laid my hands on a firearm. Taking the
life of a man only proves that the assassin has dominion over the life for
which he takes and nothing more. True power comes from directing others to kill
for you. Not only does the one with true power have dominion over the life he
orders to be killed, but the authority over the person he orders to do the
killing. Dominion over everybody is the key to getting what I want. And I shall
have it.” Hakam never took his eyes off the pope when he held his hand out and
snapped his fingers.

From the corner of his eye Pope Pius saw the man with the
garrote step into view, the fine cord stretched taut between his two hands, the
assassin’s face neutral as he waited.

“Now watch
true
power,” said Hakam. He simply pointed
out his target, the bishop who earlier made a futile attempt to escape to the
rear of the plane, a man who was still dazed from the blow to the head as the
assassin with the garrote raced to him. “He’s half dead anyway,” Hakam
commented.

“Please don’t do this,” said Pius.

“Then you should have given me what I wanted.”

Wrapping the garrote around the bishop’s throat, the cleric
fought feebly by clawing and raking his hands through the air, and then at his
throat, the line digging, squeezing the life from his body, his glazed eyes
further detaching themselves from reality, and finally his life. When it was
over the assassin carefully postured the bishop in his seat with the dead man’s
chin resting against his chest.

It was over in less than a minute.

“Do you have that kind of power?” asked Hakam.

The pope was racked with sorrow. “You didn’t need to do
that. What I told you was the truth!”

“What you told me was the half truth. Now I want the whole
truth or you will be down to ten bishops. Who is your valet? What am I up
against?”

Pope Pius closed his eyes. The muscles in the back of his
jaw began to work in serpentine motion. “He’s a Vatican Knight,” he finally
said.

Hakam tilted his head. He made it a point to keep on top of
most things regarding counter military faction groups in order to be well
prepared and always guarded. But he never heard of such an order. “He’s a
what?”

“A Vatican Knight.”

“And what is a Vatican Knight?”

Hakam could tell the pope was hesitant to speak. But no
further prompting was needed as Pope Pius finally did so. “He is part of a
specialized group of elite commandos created to serve the Church,” he said.
“They serve in a military capacity far beyond the skills and range of the Swiss
Guard.”

Hakam stood back, inwardly astonished, his features
betraying little, if anything. “Commandos?” It was more of a statement of
disbelief rather than a question. “And why would the Vatican need such an elite
group of commandos to serve them?”

Pius turned to him. “To stop people like you from doing
things like this,” he said. “The Church is always under the constant threat of
attack.”

Hakam now understood. The man was not a priest but a
soldier, a commando, a man who harbored the nature of a warrior. The reason why
he was omitted from the passenger list was because he was not supposed to
exist. Apparently the Vatican Knights were a ghost faction well hidden under
the auspices of the Church. “Why have I not heard of them?”