The Hand of Christ (54 page)

Michael glanced up toward the vaulted ceiling. He was astounded by the impressive giant coat of arms of Alexander VII that was protected on either side by two large angels. Up the marble Scala Reggia, two stairs at a time, the three men ascended the Royal Staircase.

They stole through rooms of the Vatican that most visitors would salivate to see: the Salas Regia and Ducale, then into Bramante. Through the different and richly appointed rooms they ran until they hit a dead end. Over his shoulder and barely showing the aerobic effects of their jaunt, Camini quickly glanced at the two men and then recast his attention to the wall. He pushed onto a small ornate protrusion that was indistinguishable amongst the many others to the left and right of it. It moved inward slightly. The Colonel twisted it counterclockwise a half-turn and then clockwise two full turns. Then he pushed. The wall opened in the same manner that Jimmy’s had at the safe house.

He beckoned the men inside.

Stepping through the hidden doorway, Michael was overcome.

It wasn’t a room but a long hallway into which they had entered. The vaulted thirteen-arched Loggia was sixty-five meters long and four meters wide. Every color known to man, including some that he sure that he had never seen before, seemed to have been used in the hallway’s details. To his left, right, and every way that he looked, his vision was clouded with a menagerie of brilliance. Fifty-two biblical scenes were painted above him. Michael knew instantly what it was: Raphael’s Bible.

There was no time to enjoy it; Camini motioned to the men, “Let’s move!”

Through the Cortile di San Damaso, the Colonel, Michael, and Jimmy headed toward the Scala Nobile, to the stairs that would take the men to the Pope. Without haste, they moved through Sala Clementina, the antechamber to the Pope’s reception rooms; Michael stole a look skyward. Above him was a large fresco of a benevolent mother that sprayed her breast milk downward to the open mouths and outstretched tongues of horses, birds, and beasts.

Michael thought of the time, while studying at Georgetown, that a professor introduced this work to his graduate level Religious Art class, and had remarked how this artwork was so odd for the Vatican. Seeing it firsthand, he understood. The voluptuous woman was young and beautiful and was firmly squeezing each exquisitely shaped breast in either hand. Her nipples were visible as they poked through her long fingers as she sent cascades of milk forcibly down to the animals. The adoring gaze of two handsome men whose nudity was protected only by a small corner of a well-placed cloth protected her – odd indeed.

Michael scanned ahead of the Colonel; to his right, two more guards stood steadfast at the entrance of the Papal Apartment.

Colonel Camini screamed to the men, “Get out of the way!”

His voice bounced off the arched roof of the room founded by its namesake: Pope Clement VIII. Swiftly, the guards moved out of the way and obeyed their Colonel without question.

At the door of the Pope’s private home, the Colonel didn’t bother knocking. This would have been considered a small crime on any other day; the Colonel wasn’t in the mood to worry about slight infractions of pomp. Today was no
other
day.

The door swung open fast and the Colonel bullied his way through to the shock of Monsignor Geoffrey Hauptmann who shouted at the Colonel, “You must be granted permission to come in here! How dare you…”

The Colonel pushed gruffly past the Monsignor to the private emergency medical facilities of the Papal Apartment. A doctor hovered closely over the Pontiff. An oxygen mask was strapped to Leo’s face and in the background a heart rate monitor beeped the steady rhythm of a faster than normal pulse. In each arm was the needle of an IV administering clear fluids. The one in his left was a standard electrolyte solution, but the other seemed different. He walked over to inspect the bag just as the Monsignor shouted:

“
Colonel!”

The Colonel ignored the shouting Monsignor and quietly read the dark bag,
3% Sodium Nitrate.

Addressing the doctor, the Colonel asked, “Sodium Nitrate?”

“
Colonel! Do not ignore me!” The Monsignor was quickly approaching, the anger rising in his voice. He was irrational in tone.

The private doctor to the Pope stood aghast not sure what to make of the situation, and barely uttered the word: “Cyanide.”

Letting out a slow breath, the Colonel digested the name of the poison that he had just heard and then asked, “And the Sodium Nitrate will do what, Doctor?”

Before the doctor could answer, Geoffrey reached out and snatched Camini by the arm spinning him around. “You have not been granted permission to enter this HOME!”

His eyes steely and angry, and with his other hand, the Colonel grasped Geoffrey’s wrist and twisted it painfully to remove it from his arm. He turned his broad-framed body square with the Monsignor’s, and through squinted eyes said, “His Holiness is not in a position to grant that permission is he?”

The Colonel stepped even closer; Geoffrey could feel the Colonel’s heaving breaths on his brow as the towering head of the Swiss Guard lowered his eyes down to him. Growling angrily, the Colonel said, “If you ever touch me again, or order my guards to do anything contrary to Vatican law, I will ensure that you are never more allowed on the grounds of this nation.”

“
How dare you – you can not speak to me like I am your dog!” Geoffrey’s face had turned a shade of blood red and his lips pursed taut and white as he shouted back at the Colonel.

“
Monsignor, an attempt on the Pope’s life has occurred; two people have died, making every aspect of Vatican affairs my concern and my charge. There is not one person on these grounds above suspicion, including those nearest to His Holiness.” The Colonel narrowed his eyes further, “You were with the Pope before, during, and, now, after the attack. You ordered the Bronze Door closed knowing full well it would be a signal of the Pope’s death. But yet here he lies, alive.”

Geoffrey cowered backward slightly. Michael saw it, so did the Colonel. The reaction was slight, but it was one of fear.

Geoffrey stuttered, “You d-d-dare accuse me?”

“
I accuse you of nothing. I have merely stated the facts. Monsignor, do not leave this room.”

Geoffrey’s face went from a deep shade of red to ghostly white as the blood drained instantly from it. In his mind his thoughts raced,
everything is falling apart!

With his attention back to the Pope’s private physician the Colonel asked, “Doctor, please – you were going to answer my question. What will the Sodium Nitrate do?”

The doctor’s face was pale. The interaction between the two high-ranking men shook him. His forehead felt clammy and cold. He cleared his throat and answered, “Colonel, cyanide inhibits mitochondrial cytochrome oxidase which means that oxygen utilization worsens causing oxygen metabolism to be denied at the cell level. I am just finishing the administration of the Sodium Nitrate solution. There is one more step.”

The doctor walked past the Colonel and removed the dark bag of intravenous solution from its hanger and replaced it with another. “I have given His Holiness 450 mg of the solution and now will administer Sodium Thiosulfate for the next couple of minutes. Ideally, the methemoglobin created from the administering of the nitrites and sulfates will cause the dissociation of the cyanide from the cytochrome oxidase. It is a miracle from god that his heart still beats; the poison should have killed him.”

The Colonel wasn’t quite sure he understood, “Just tell me if you think he will live.”

The doctor looked from one man to the next in the room and answered somewhat dejectedly, “With our prayers, Colonel.”

The Colonel made the sign of the cross.

So did Jimmy.

Michael walked to the side of the Pontiff’s bed. The old man’s chest rose and fell steadily. He could hear each breath leave the old man’s poisoned lungs with a slight crackling sound. His face was a light shade of pink and tinged with green splotches. Leo’s eyes were almost closed, but remained just open enough that the slight curvature of the lower edges of his brown corneas could be seen. Michael didn’t look up, “Colonel, it’s time that I tell you why I am here.”

Colonel Camini walked around the bed and approached Michael. In a voice that Michael could only hear he said, “I know why you are here,” he leaned closer to Michael, his mouth was near the CIA Officer’s ear, and whispered: "the Hand of Christ.”

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Highway A81

Khorramshahr, Iran

The two young Persian soldiers were conscripts, forced to spend eighteen months in the Islamic Republic of Iran Army. As a two-man team, they were trained to drive the gargantuan sixteen-wheeled MZKT Transporter Erector Launchers that carried the experimental Ghadr-110X missile. Having parked the vehicle and secured its wheels, they were now converted from drivers to guards. Their vehicle, topped with the fat-bodied and long intercontinental weapon, was lined up first in the convoy and along the highway, which would mean that they would be last when returning the truck to the motor pool. It would add another two hours to what they both hoped was an alert when it was finally called off.

Military life was boring, but a necessary requisite for all young men in the Islamic Republic. They had no choice but to serve. Both men were anxious from the news that had been delivered earlier in the day. Their country had declared war on the United States; due to the declaration, they were now relentlessly marching around, over and over again, one missile in a convoy of missiles. The only thing that each man had wanted for the next eighteen months was to quietly do his conscripted duty for Iran and then return home. Instead, each soldier carried over their left shoulder the wooden-stocked, standard-issue, Russian made, 7.62mm firing AK-47 assault rifle – neither soldier ever having fired a shot in anger – which was loaded with live ammunition.

Each was petrified.

The launchers were parked on the hot asphalt of Highway A81 just north of Khorramshahr. The long stream of military vehicles forced the normally busy road to be shut down and only offered silence as no civilian was allowed within fifty miles. Overhead, the occasional pair of aging F-14 Tomcats – sold to Iran by the US and prior to the Islamic Revolution of 1979 – roared by and made sure the airspace remained clear of civilian craft.

Next to the highway there wasn’t much to see, the western plains of Iran were uninspiring. Like any obedient soldier, each man marched rhythmically around the rocket conducting countless circuits until such time as they were to be relieved from guard duty.

Relief would not come today.

The day’s sun had long ago reached its peak, bringing with it the perfect number of rays to heat the temperature to nearly oppressive levels. The black road absorbed every hot ray that was close enough to be absorbed, radiating them back on the men two-fold. The heat came from every angle and direction imaginable. One soldier stopped and removed his cap to wipe the heavy sweat from his brow. Soon, the sun would set, bringing the promise of cooler temperatures. It couldn’t happen soon enough. The moment that the soldier’s forearm successfully removed the dampness from his crown, the engine assembly mounted beneath the nuclear missile and atop the Transporter Erector Vehicle revved to life of its own volition.

He dropped his hat to the ground in shock.

The second soldier came running to where the first had paused and shouted, “Ali! What did you do!?”

“
I have done nothing; it just started moving on its own!” Ali replied.

The two young conscripts stepped backward, staring dumbfounded upon the truck and weapon as the rotund nuclear tipped missile slowly started to rise.

The two young soldiers glanced at one another; each man silently beckoned the other for direction, but neither could comply with each other’s silent wish.

“
Ali, look!” shouted one of the soldiers. He was pointing at the column of launchers lined up behind them.

Both men stared at the convoy as each missile slowly rose from its platform, an action that sent pairs of other low ranking drivers and guards into fits similar to their own. Like a synchronized ballet, each Ghadr-110X slowly began to pivot upwards from its platform until it rested in the firing position.

Chaos enveloped the column as Captains yelled at Lieutenants who, in turn, yelled at lower ranking soldiers. No one knew what was happening. All of the soldiers in the column – conscripted or not – were in a warp of confusion; not one seemed to know the cause behind the sudden rise to life of the nuclear tipped missiles.

On the other side of the planet, approximately 8685 miles away and nestled deep in Cheyenne Mountain, CPL York was nearing his tenth hour of duty, monitoring the column of launchers when the activity straightened him in his seat.

“
CPT Scott, sir!” York shouted quite loudly, but with his newfound level of respect.

“
What is it, Corporal?” replied CPT Scott, as he walked immediately to York’s station.

MSGT Bryan glanced at the images on one of York’s LCD screens and saw what caused York to shout before CPT Scott did, and said, “Oh, hell! That can’t be good.”

CPT Scott leaned over York who pointed his long and lean index finger at the screen, “Sir, those missiles have come to life, thermal imaging is showing high levels of heat coming from their engines. I think they’ve been activated!”