Vatican Knights (12 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Team
Leader moved to the end of the governor’s mattress and nudged it with the toe
of his boot. “Get up, Governor. It’s time to put your best face forward and
make history.”

The governor lifted his head, his
eyes narrowing to penetrate the semi-darkness but failing to adjust
accordingly. A haze still gathered in his mind, the effects of the ketamine
derivative finally dissipating. To him, Team Leader’s voice sounded like a
distant cry from the end of a long tunnel, the timbre muted and hollow.

“Get up, Governor.”

This time the voice was closer,
stronger, the articulation clearer.

“Governor, it’s time.”

Governor Steele saw the
phosphorous green light suspended in space above him. And then he remembered
the green lights, moving like fireflies in his bedroom. He remembered the
struggle and the bite of the needle. He remembered it all. “Where am I?”

“It’s time, Governor.”

Steele struggled for coherency,
trying to get his bearings.

 Team Leader moved closer. In a
voice far more affable than menacing, he said, “Please, Governor, it’s time.”

Steele raised his head enough to see
a gray morning light working its way through the ribbing of thin boards that
covered the windows like the slats of vertical blinds. Dust motes were floating
in slow eddies in the shafts of light. The combination of feeble light and
floating dust cast a tomblike pall.

Team Leader switched off his
monocular and flipped up the eyepiece assemblage. In the dim light, Steele
couldn’t make out the color of the man’s eyes, only that he was wearing a ski
mask with piping around the eye holes.

“Governor, we’re ready for you.”

“I demand to know—”

“Kodiak!” Team Leader called out.

“—who you are!”

From the adjoining room, a man
entered the holding area and stood silhouetted against the backdrop of a
boarded-up window. He was tall, foreboding and massive. There was no depth to
his shape, no indication that he was anything but two-dimensional. There was
something preternatural about him, something blacker than black. In the
governor’s mind, this thing was Death.

Team Leader took a step backward
and gave a wide berth to the behemoth beside him. “I do believe it’s time to
move along,” he told Kodiak. “Please bring the governor into the next room and
set him before the camera.”

There was no noise from the shadow
man. Nothing told the governor that Kodiak was more than a shape until he felt
the large man grab him with unnatural strength and unfasten his shackle. While
the governor rubbed his wrist, Kodiak lifted him to his feet and escorted him
to the next room, sometimes giving a healthy shove to goad him in a certain
direction.

 “Where are you taking me?” asked
Steele.

 “You really want to know?”

 “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

 “You’re moving the mile,
Governor.”

 “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 “It means you’re a dead man
walking.”

The governor finally understood.
He was going to be executed.

#

The
Oval Office
was rife with tension as Vice
President Bohlmer vented about the complacency of the Secret Service members
who were killed during the abduction of the pope. Their guns hadn’t been drawn,
nor had a single shot been fired in defense, except those from Cross’s weapon.
The agents were simply caught unaware, and the Secret Service had no answers.
There was no trace evidence, no physical evidence, nothing. Three hundred sixty
degrees of direction and no one knew where to begin.

President Burroughs sat behind his
desk listening to Bohlmer voice his anger. They had become one of the few
political tandem teams who had a truly symbiotic relationship. The vice
president was not chosen because his constituency was strong enough to garner
electoral votes, but because the two shared a mutual respect and an awareness
of the country’s needs. 

Now that Day One had turned into
Day Two without so much as a word from the Soldiers of Islam, the heads of the
political machine were considering their next course of action. The word in the
media was that the FBI had one of the nation’s best working on the
situation—Billy Paxton of the Hostage Rescue Team.

There was no mention of Shari
Cohen.

“Jonas, take it easy before you
have a stroke,” the president finally said.

The vice president raised his
hands in submission, fought for calm, and took his rightful chair located on
top of the Presidential Seal on the bright blue carpet.

Also in attendance were several of
the president’s advisors, including Chief Advisor Alan Thornton, Attorney
General Dean Hamilton, CIA Director Doug Craner, and FBI Director Larry
Johnston.

“So what have we got so far from
the intelligence community?” asked the president.

CIA
Director Doug Craner didn’t look at the sheaf of papers in front of him, but
held it there for reference. “Our intel abroad is picking up nothing from
Aljazeera or any other Arabic news agency, other than praise for the Soldiers
of Islam. The Arab chat rooms are loaded, but no significant leads have been
gleaned from them thus far.”

“What about intercepted emails and
messages from those on the FBI watch list?”

Johnston shook his head. “Same
thing,” he said. “There’s really nothing out there of any significance. Just a
few dangling carrots that have already been discredited.”

“But you’re following up?”

“Yes sir. Every lead, no matter
how insignificant it may seem, is being investigated.”

“And what about you, Dean? You’ve
been pretty quiet.”

Attorney General Dean Hamilton sat
in a tack-studded leather chair with one leg crossed over the other. “Well, Mr.
President, I’m afraid that these Soldiers of Islam, for whatever reason, wish
to remain unseen and unheard. I’m afraid that I have nothing to add to what
these gentlemen have already submitted to you.”

 “Which means that we now have to
take the initiative and ferret out these animals on our own?”

“I would say so, yes.”

President Burroughs turned to his
advisors. “Options?”

Thornton leaned forward, his hands
raised and ready to gesticulate as he spoke. “We know the terrorists’
identities,” he said. “So I think it’s time to play to the media and post their
photos. Maybe somebody—a co-worker, a friend, anybody—will contact us with
reliable leads.”

The president rubbed the base of
his chin, one of his many contemplative habits. After a moment of awkward
silence he made his decision.

“Obviously, we need to initiate
some type of action to at least appease the international community.” He rose
slowly from his chair and gazed out the window overlooking the Rose Garden and
jogging track. “Dean?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Inform Paxton. Get him in front
of the camera for a live update as soon as possible. And inform Ms. Cohen,
too.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s see how the snake reacts
when it knows the mongoose is on its tail.”

As the room emptied, the president
continued to stand at the window looking out at the Rose Garden. His favorite
was Joseph’s Coat.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Boston, Massachusetts

September 24, Noon

The camera
room was just as dusty, tomblike, and unkempt as the holding area. The walls
were gutted, broken plaster laying in pieces along the dust-laden floor. Pop
and beer cans lay discarded with old condoms that were now nothing more than
dried husks, and dust motes floated with hypnotic grace. Against the west wall
a canvas tarp was nailed to a header beam, providing a neutral backdrop for the
camera. A twelve-amp generator hummed, providing power for two lamps stationed
on either side of the staging area.

 As Team Leader entered the room
with Kodiak prodding the governor along, Boa was making the final adjustments
to the camera’s tripod.

“Are we ready, Mr. Boa?” asked
Team Leader.

Boa nodded. “We are.”

Although Team Leader turned toward
Kodiak, he didn’t have to issue an order; Kodiak knew exactly what to do.
Moving to a marked spot ten feet in front of the camera, Kodiak shoved the
governor to the stage and forced him to his knees. Removing a pair of handcuffs
from his duty belt, Kodiak cuffed the governor from behind and stood back. The
stage now belonged solely to Governor Steele.

Here, Team Leader did a peculiar
thing—he moved onto the stage and patted the governor on the shoulder, giving
him a reassuring squeeze. “Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Boa.”  

Boa turned on the camera and
directed the lens to Team Leader, who stood with military erectness in his
black tactical jumpsuit, boots and ski mask. After counting down on his fingers
from three to two to one, Boa directed a finger at Team Leader, who began
speaking in perfect Arabic. “No doubt the nation is wondering what happened to
your Devil’s Advocate, Pope Pius the Thirteenth.”

The camera slowly zoomed in for a
close-up of Team Leader and the governor, a predetermined shot. The governor’s
blanched face held the sallow color of a fish’s underbelly. The pallor of his
face made the new growth of his beard appear darker, more dramatic.

“My name is Abdul-Aliyy,” said
Team Leader, “of the Soldiers of Islam. Your nation has degraded our culture,
murdered our children, and continually supported the evil Zionist state of
Israel. If you do not meet our demands, then your Devil’s Advocate will die.
There will be no discussions, no debates, and no negotiations. All terms are to
be met without delay. For every day the demands are not met by your lying
government, we will kill a member of the Holy See for your government’s
resistance.” 

Team Leader reached down and
unsnapped the strap of his holster. “Our intent is not simple murder,” he
stated. “Our intent is to enlighten the governing forces of your country that
our demand for Arab sovereignty must be met. You and your allies will remove
all occupying forces from the Middle East, release all prisoners from any
custodial institutions, and most importantly, you will aid in the removal of the
Zionist state of Israel from Arab soil.”

Team Leader paused for dramatic
effect, then continued with harsh resolve. “You are no longer safe within the
borders of your country,” he said firmly, evenly, with a hint of derision. “Nor
are you safe in your schools, your churches, or within the confines of your own
homes. The subjects we hold are proof that we can get to you anytime,
anywhere.” 

Team Leader reached down and
grabbed a thatch of the governor’s hair, forcing his head in line with the
camera, a pre-established cue for Boa to zoom in and capture the governor’s
terrified features.

“Governor Steele is to be our
first moral sacrifice,” Team Leader said. “A sacrifice which, in the eyes of
Allah, is justified to gain what is right.”

Team Leader released the governor,
who fell to the floor in a fetal position. From the camera’s right side, Kodiak
entered the video and lifted the sobbing Steele back into a kneeling position,
then disappeared once again beyond camera range.

Team Leader stood behind the governor
and brandished a pistol. Within view of the camera, he securely attached a
suppressor and held the gun by his side.

The governor barked something
undecipherable, then pleaded for his life, first calling on God, then on his
assassin. “Please don’t do this,” he said. “Please.”

Team Leader pressed the mouth of
the barrel against Steele’s temple. “This is because your government is a lying
whore dog,” he said.

At that moment, the governor
doubled over, a writhing, sobbing mass. Team Leader grabbed him by the collar
of his pajama top and yanked him back into a kneeling position. Then, with one
deft move, he grabbed a hank of the governor’s hair and forced his head back,
making it compulsory for the governor to look deep into his assassin’s
eyes.     

The governor didn’t understand
Arabic, but the intentions behind the Team Leader’s words rang clear. “Please,”
he whispered. “Don’t.”

The hatred within the assassin’s
eyes seemed to fade, with perhaps a softening in judgment, but Team Leader
acted without conscience and pulled the trigger. The Sig went off in a muted
report as the governor’s head snapped hard to the direction of the shot, then
recoiled. With a detached gaze, the governor continued to kneel there as if
deciding whether or not he was dead. When the governor fell hard against the
floorboards, Boa zoomed in to catch the blood pooling in a halo around his
head. 

Team Leader stepped back into the
camera’s frame, the weapon by his side, the mouth of the barrel smoking, a
dramatic effect. 

Off camera, Kodiak dragged the
governor’s body from the stage and began wrapping it in plastic sheeting and
duct tape. On camera, Team Leader continued his address. 

In perfect Arabic he reiterated
the policy of “no discussions, no debates and no negotiations.” If their
demands weren’t met in a timely fashion, the pope would be executed for the
sins of the Great Satan. 

The message was clear. Allah
required that every last man, woman and child not of Arab heritage be
eliminated from Arab lands. In Allah’s eyes, the blood of Arabs is sacred, the
blood of all others expendable.

Boa rewound the tape, ejected it
from the camera and handed it to Team Leader.

 “It’s absolutely necessary,” he
told Boa, “for this to work. We must all share the same passion. If we’re without
a shared passion, the cause will founder.”

Boa and Kodiak understood. If they
didn’t become dehumanized, they would fail.

Looking down at the body, neither
showed any evidence of remorse.

#

Shari
Cohen stayed
active in the Operations Room
trying to glean current information from the Italian, Russian, French, and
German intelligence agencies. So far nothing had come from the Islamic sources
residing in those countries besides praise for the Soldiers of Islam, which
only fueled her frustration. She was trying to track something that seemed to
have no substance. 

Needing time alone to regroup her
thoughts, she returned to her office when the phone began to ring. “Special
Agent Cohen.”

Pappandopolous’s bass-heavy voice
was unmistakable. “Paxton’s about to address the nation on behalf of the
president,” he said, “and the attorney general wants you to sit up and take
notice. When Paxton gets off the dais, the AG wants you to take over the
reins.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Just watch,” he said. “You got a
couple of minutes before Paxton goes on.” He abruptly hung up. 

She placed the receiver back into
its cradle and rubbed her eyes. Looking into a full-length mirror on the wall
and not liking what she saw, she retrieved a brush and compact from her purse
and did a cursory makeover. After trying to smooth out the wrinkles in her
skirt that had grown into pleats, she gave up and went to the luncheon area
where TV screens projected from every corner of the room. 

Billy Paxton appeared on each
monitor, looking polished. He wore a fresh shirt and tie, the colors matching,
a dark blue tie against a baby blue shirt. His hair no doubt had been coiffed
by an on-site stylist.

Once at the podium he went into
the scripted diatribe against the Soldiers of Islam. He revealed who they were,
where their cell group initiated from, their backgrounds, and then the
photographs of the six remaining terrorists.

Shari was pleased. Now the
Soldiers of Islam could no longer hide behind their masks
.

For thirty minutes Shari watched Billy
Paxton take center stage before returning to her office, her mind racing, only
for her thoughts to come to a startling halt when she saw Punch Murdock sitting
in her office. She recognized the man by his broken nose, the appendage leaning
noticeably to one side of his face.

“Can I help you?”

Murdock stood holding his hat in
one hand and a manila envelope in the other. “Ms. Cohen?”

“Yes.”

Murdock smiled and gave a
perfunctory nod in greeting. “My name is Marion Murdock,” he said. “I’m here
because—”

“Punch Murdock,” she interrupted.

His smile broadened. “You know of
me?”

“Of course.” She held her hand out
to him.

“Oh, yes.” He laid his hat on the
chair and took her hand warmly. “I’m so pleased to finally meet you,” he told
her. “I’ve always heard about the great things you’ve done for the department
over the years.”

“And the same goes for you,” she
said. “I’ve finally met the man behind the myth.”

Murdock nodded, his face flushing
just a bit. “I think perhaps the legacy has been embellished,” he informed
her. 

“I don’t know,” she said. “The
word in the White House corridors is that you’re the real deal.”

All of a sudden the man’s smile
left him, making him difficult to read. “Not anymore,” he said. “I’m sure
you’ve heard about my detail?”

She nodded. “I have. And I’m sorry
for the families who have lost a loved one. Please accept my condolences. I
know it’s never easy to lose team members who have become friends.” 

“They were good people. They
didn’t deserve this.”

“Nobody deserves something like
this.”

Then, pointing to the seat where
he had just laid his hat, Murdock asked if he could sit down.

“I’m sorry—yes, of course. Please,
have a seat.”

After removing his hat from the
chair and placing it on the corner of Cohen’s desk, Murdock handed her the manila
envelope.

“What’s this?”

“CSI reports regarding the
findings within the Governor’s Mansion and the complete and extensive dossiers
on the Soldiers of Islam. I understand you’re to be privy to all the facts. And
just to let you know, Ms. Cohen, the president has the same set of paperwork,
as does the attorney general and the other responding agencies who want to know
where the blame lies so they can cover their asses.”

She looked directly into his eyes
and noted the solemn despair behind them. “I’m truly sorry for the loss of your
team,” she said.

“I appreciate it, but you know as
well as I do that all political fingers will be pointing in my direction.
That’s the business we’re in, Ms. Cohen. So that legacy you alluded to earlier
seems a bit less meaningful, don’t you think?”

“It’s not your fault, Punch. You
weren’t even there.”

“That’s the point. As team leader
on such an important detail, I should have been.”

Shari observed the classical signs
of survivor’s guilt. “Nobody knew this was going to happen.”

“Of course not, and that’s why my
team became complacent. They should have been better prepared. And if I had
been there, they would’ve been.” He raised his hand as if to apologize for his
sudden rise in volume. “I’m not yelling at you,” he said. “I’m just frustrated,
that’s all.”

He then pointed to the envelope in
her hand. “You’ll probably want time alone to read that over,” he added. “So
I’ll be on my way.” He stood, grabbing the fedora off her desk. “I just wanted
to meet
the
Shari Cohen that I’ve heard so much about,” he added.

She smiled. “You’re very kind.”

At that point he raised a finger,
indicating one last thing. “As a courtesy to me,” he began, “and since the
hammer is about to fall on me because of the failure of my detail, all I ask is
that you keep me in the loop if you should come across anything.”

Shari hesitated, her shoulders
slumping in apology.

Murdock understood. “Don’t worry.
Nobody wants to jeopardize his own career by dealing with damaged goods,” he
stated, putting on his hat. “I can’t blame you.”

“It’s not like that at all.”

“Really.”

“Protocol dictates that we deal
only with the agencies directly involved in this matter, for fear of
misappropriation. You know that.”

Murdock feigned a smile. “It’s
nothing personal, Ms. Cohen. I was just asking for a favor, and I fully
understand your position. I probably would have done the same if I was in your
shoes.” Before closing the door behind him he made one last remark. “I was told
to bring that report to you because it appears I have been relegated to the
role of gofer. So much for the myth you were talking about earlier,” he said.
“I guess you’re only as good as you were the day before. So be careful, Ms.
Cohen. Even though you’re a legend today, you may be a has-been tomorrow. Have
a good day.”