Vatican Knights (26 page)
Authors: Rick Jones
Washington, D.C. Washington Archdiocese
September 28, Early Morning
Below the Vault within the
archdiocese where the temperature is naturally cool, Kimball laid the body of
Nehemiah onto a rectangular marbled block, a slab every bit as cold and
immovable as the body that lay upon it. Kimball placed one hand on Nehemiah’s
heart and the other over Nehemiah’s forehead. Closing his eyes and bowing his
head, Kimball moved his lips wordlessly as he recited prayer after prayer from
words of his own choosing. Twice, when his cell phone rang, he continued with
prayer, refusing to acknowledge the call, even though he knew it was Shari.
Nehemiah’s body lay stiff. The fabric on his legs glistened
with blood beneath the pool of feeble lighting. His throat was horribly slashed
and his eyes pale.
Behind Kimball on stainless steel gurneys lay the bodies of
the Force Elite, their tactical masks removed, their faces also carrying
identical expressionless stares. Kimball recognized none of them.
Each would be given a proper burial provided by Cardinal
Medeiros under covert conditions. Nehemiah, on the other hand, would be flown
back to the Vatican and given a stately sacrament by the Society of Seven, then
be interred within the catacombs beneath the City.
When the phone rang a third time he answered. “Yes?”
“Kimball, I’ve been trying to call you,” said Shari.
“I’m in the prep chamber with Nehemiah,” he told her.
Silence followed.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “It can’t be easy.”
“It never is. So what did you find out?” Kimball moved away
from Nehemiah and closer to the gurneys, hardly acknowledging the bodies.
“Murdock gave us two names involved with the cause. This
will hopefully lead us to the top officials involved.”
“Did he tell you where the pope was?”
“No. He says the only one who truly knows the location is a
man going by the name of Yahweh. Apparently he’s the one spearheading the
cause.”
“Did he tell you who this Yahweh is?”
“No. Murdock won’t give us any more information unless he
has a guarantee by the government that his life won’t be placed in jeopardy.”
“Does he have a guarantee?”
“It was given to him by my director, and I’m sure the
attorney general will—”
“He’s a dead man,” Kimball interjected. “He knows it and
he’s just playing for time.”
Shari knew he was right. Murdock was a desperate man playing
whatever hand he had to prolong the inevitable. If he had given up the identity
of Yahweh, then he would have conveniently disappeared. “We’ll find him,” she
told Kimball. “We’ll find Yahweh.”
“Shari, we’re running out of time. Whoever this guy is, then
we better find him fast. And if Yahweh also happens to be Obadiah, then forget
about it. We’ll never find him.”
The thought never occurred to Shari that Yahweh and Obadiah
could be one and the same. Obadiah didn’t have the credentials to motivate or
recruit the backing of members from Capitol Hill. It had to be somebody with a
strong and influential presence, somebody of top ranking. “I don’t think so,”
she said, and told him why.
“Well, I hope you’re right. But if we’re going to find the
pope in time, we’ll need to know who Yahweh is as soon as possible.”
“Trust me, Kimball. The director’s working on it.”
“So long as he doesn’t drag his feet.”
Shari smiled. “Knowing Larry the way I do . . . he’s
not.”
#
George Pappandopolous was perfecting the length of his tie
tying when his phone rang. “Yeah?”
“Have you heard?”
Pappandopolous immediately recognized Yahweh’s voice. His
tone took on a more respectful manner. “Heard what?”
“Omega Team has been eliminated and Judas is in the hands of
hostiles, alive.”
Pappandopolous remained silent; he knew what would come
next.
“You and Paxton are the last line of defense,” said Yahweh.
“Either you, or Paxton, or both, I don’t care which, take him out before he has
the opportunity to flip on us. Both of you have clearance, so clean up the
mess.”
“Where is he?”
Yahweh gave him the information in a rattled, fast-paced
tempo. Pappandopolous thought he seemed extremely nervous since his primary
strength was maintaining grace under pressure.
Pappandopolous had barely pulled the phone away from his ear
when he heard multiple telltale clicks. Suddenly his face went as white as
alabaster. His line was tapped.
He dropped the phone onto the bed, went into the closet,
grabbed a carry-on bag, dove deeper, and came up with a shoebox containing wads
of bills and two pistols. As far as he was concerned the gig was up. With more
than seventy thousand dollars he was sure he could hide out in the South
American jungles for a long time. After all, taking on malaria was a far better
option than taking a bullet to the brain.
He threw some clothes into the carry-on and hastened from
the bedroom to the living area. Two men stood in the shadows, each a clone of
the other—same height, same weight, same build. Both wore the same long coat
and both held similar weapons with attached suppressors.
Pappandopolous immediately dropped the carry-on and
instinctively held his hands out, as if this action would ward off what he knew
was coming. The guns flashed in muted, rapid succession, lighting up the room
long enough for Pappandopolous to note the almost waxy appearance of his
executioners’ faces.
He felt himself falling, and his world slowed to a surreal
level of movement much like being under water. With every passing moment the
beat of his heart decelerated, the drumming in his ears slowing to the point
where the next beat might be the last. And in his throes he was surprised that
his life hadn’t passed before his eyes, nor was he granted the opportunity to
look into the Great Light. In fact, he was disappointed, wanting to believe
there was so much more than approaching confusion and unbearable coldness.
Casually, one of the assassins walked to Pappandopolous,
took position over him, and aimed his weapon for a clear headshot. Without
hesitation he pulled the trigger.
#
Paxton took the
stairway from
his D.C. apartment to the parking lot, his morning coffee in hand, unlocked the
door, and slid into the driver’s seat. After he lowered his cup into the
beverage receptacle, he checked his appearance in the mirror and raked a hand
through his hair. After blowing himself a kiss, he inserted the key into the
ignition and turned the switch. When the engine caught, a wall of flame surged
through the dashboard, followed immediately by an explosion. The car leapt
upward nearly two stories before twisting over and crashing onto its roof.
Paxton never knew what hit him.
Boston, Massachusetts
“Now you know,” said Team Leader,
walking into the pope’s chamber and standing over the body of Bishop Angelo.
“Now you endure the pain of having a loved one deposited at your feet just like
my people have endured over a lifetime.”
Pope Pius reached for Bishop Angelo’s body and tried to pull
him close, but lacked the strength to do so.
“Look at me,” said Team Leader. “Look at me and tell me you
don’t hate me for what I’ve done.”
The pope acted like he didn’t hear Team Leader at all. He
simply caressed what was left of Angelo’s hair like a despondent father.
Team Leader reached out and grabbed the pope’s wrist,
demanding his attention. “Tell me you understand,” he stated firmly. “Tell me
that you now see the madness behind what I’m doing. Tell me you can no longer
turn the other cheek now that I’ve brought this to you.” He released the pope’s
wrist. “Tell me that you’re not a hypocrite and that hatred, true hatred, has
consumed you . . . Tell me that
you
understand me!”
The pope shook his head. “What I understand is that your
hatred runs so deep and is so corrupt, that no matter how well you think your
vision may be, you’ll never see beyond your own contempt, which is the only
part of you that is pure. And for that I
pity
you . . . I don’t
hate
you.”
Team Leader stood up. “Then you are a hypocrite,” he told
him. “There’s no man on this earth who can honestly sit there and tell the
murderer of a loved one that he doesn’t hate him, not even you.”
The pope went back to caressing Angelo’s hair and then the
tears, the sobbing, came. Team Leader felt he had won a moral victory. He had,
in essence, broken a man who was the showcase of moral fortitude and a pillar
of strength.
“As a reminder of your own stubborn will to refuse to
acknowledge what makes us human, I’ll let your bishop sit beside you and rot.
Maybe with each passing moment you’ll grow to understand further what my people
have gone through for years.”
After Team Leader left, the pope wept and prayed and asked
for forgiveness. What the man in black had said was true. For the first time in
Pope Pius’s life he felt the pressure of hatred and understood the need for
retribution by a hand other than that of God. Even worse, he understood the
man’s embitterment and saw the reasoning behind his lunacy.
I won’t give in to your way of thinking
, he pressed
upon himself.
I will not
. But Pope Pius knew he couldn’t bury the truth
deep enough. And if he couldn’t hide the truth from himself, there was no way
he could deceive God. The truth was he
did
hate the man for what he did
to Bishop Angelo. And as much as he tried to find forgiveness in his heart, he
could not.
The pope bowed his head and pleaded for His understanding
.
Forgive me, Lord. Please, forgive me.
The old man wept.
#
Washington, D.C., Southeast Washington Hospital
September 28, Morning
Punch Murdock lay
in a
quasi-daze pumped up on morphine. Incessantly, like an army of ants crawling
over his flesh, he often reached to scratch away the itch, but the itch was a
phantom, the leg no longer there. Often he would depress the button,
self-injecting morphine whenever he felt the beginnings of a throbbing ache
budding from the stump of his leg. Then he would sleep, dreaming of images he
forgot about the moment he awoke. On one occasion he awoke to find FBI Director
Larry Johnston standing beside his bed, his face bearing the same unyielding
features as before.
“Man, don’t you ever smile?”
Johnston tossed a photo onto Murdock’s chest. It was a
picture of Pappandopolous after the hit. “What you said panned out,” he said.
“And Paxton?”
“Too messy to show.”
Murdock handed the photo back. “Now I suppose you want
Yahweh?”
“That was the deal, but I’m not here to pay you a courtesy
visit. I’m here to tell you that through the simplicity of technology, you gave
us more than we expected from our deal.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that we tapped the lines to Pappandopolous’ and
Paxton’s residence and we intercepted a call from Yahweh. A voice print proved
who the caller was. We know who Yahweh is.”
Murdock’s mouth opened with mechanical slowness, his trump
card gone.
“Just thought you’d like to know that,” said Johnston.
Suddenly Murdock understood the mockery behind Johnston’s
tone, behind his visit. It was something akin to the Grim Reaper taunting him
with a slight brush of his bony talons across his cheek before the final fall
of the scythe. “Now wait a minute,” Murdock said. “You gave me your word!
You
agreed to give me life with a courtyard
!”
Johnston turned and headed for the door.
“You gave me your word!” Murdock shouted, struggling against
the cuff that held him to the rail. “
YOU . . . GAVE . . . ME . . . YOUR . .
. WORD
!”
Although the door closed behind him, Murdock’s shouts could
be heard all the way down the hall.
The White House
Noon
Alan Thornton reached up and
straightened Shari’s collar. They were standing in the presidential hallway
leading to the Oval Office. With them stood Attorney General Dean Hamilton, FBI
Director Larry Johnston, and a force of the president’s own security detail.
“You’ve done an outstanding job so far,” Thornton told her.
“You really have. Whether or not we get the pope back safely, at least it
couldn’t be said that Shari Cohen didn’t do her best.” He smiled at her.
“And thank you, Alan, for following through. I’m ashamed to
say that I thought you were a part of it.”
After their last discussion, Thornton had waded through
heavy political water to find the truth about the Force Elite, and whether the
group had been dispatched by executive command without knowledge of select
administrators. But he found nothing. Tension was so high on Capitol Hill most
officials refused to say anything for fear the ‘accusing finger’ would tie them
to the cause. Political careers were on the chopping block. But when the FBI
produced the tape of Yahweh’s call to Pappandopolous, it was as good as a
written admission from the perpetrator himself. Political futures would be
eliminated later under certain conditions.
“This is your game,” Thornton told her. “And the right to
do this belongs to you.” He handed her a manila envelope containing a digital
recorder, transcripts and records. The evidence was literally in hand. “You
ready to do his?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Good girl.”
Thornton took the initiative and knocked on the door leading
into the Oval Office. Once inside he stood directly on the Presidential Seal
with Shari and the entourage alongside. Vice President Bohlmer sat in a high
back chair looking over documents and President Burroughs was looking out the
window, his hands deep within his pockets.
“Mr. President,” said the attorney general.
The president gradually turned around, the movement a
statement in itself as to what he was feeling at the moment. There was no
surprise on his face, no features that betrayed his thoughts. When he finally
stepped forward he stared directly at Shari. “Special Agent Cohen,” he said.
“I’ve been expecting you.”
“Mr. President,” her tone lacked any note of sincerity. “You
know why I’m here?”
“I’ve been informed.”
“Then you know we’re running out of time.”
“We’ve been running out of time since this began.” He made
his way back to the window, his disposition more melancholy than angry. “Let’s
get this over with.”
Shari opened the manila envelope and laid the contents on
the president’s desk. “What I have here, sir,” she said, picking up the digital
recorder, “is a conversation between two parties plotting the assassination of
an official of this office. An official captured in the compromising position
of putting this government in jeopardy, should the truth about the pope’s
kidnapping be known to the world community.”
“Do what you have to do,” he said dourly.
She pressed the ‘ON’ button of the recorder.
#
Yeah.
Have you heard?
Heard what?
Omega Team has been eliminated and Judas is in the hands
of hostiles, alive.
Silence.
You and Paxton are the last line of defense. Either you,
or Paxton, or both, I don’t care which, take him out before he has the
opportunity to flip on us. Both of you have clearance, so clean up the mess.
Where is he?
He’s in the Southeast Washington Hospital, room
two-twenty-four. There’ll be guards there, of course, but you have clearance.
Just be subtle about it.
Is the whole Force Elite gone?
Except for those pulling duty in the north.
The voice was clear and distinct, even to those listening
from across the room.
Shari shut off the recorder. “We were also able to obtain
warrants for telephone records. Ma Bell gave us a printout of the phone
numbers, and the time the call was placed based on the legal tapping. The time
corresponds exactly to the addresses of the parties involved.” She pulled out
another document. “And this, Mr. President,” she said, holding up a sheet with
spike-line etchings, “is a printout confirming the voice of the speaker based
on tone patterns. In other words . . . we know who the lead conspirator is.”
The president rounded the desk and reached for the printout.
“Well, Ms. Cohen, it seems that you’ve covered all your bases after all. I must
say that’s impressive.” He took the printout and examined it. The recognized
name and the voice probability of over ninety-nine percent were printed at the
page’s bottom. He handed the printout back to her. “Is this indisputable?”
“In a court of law, I believe so, sir. Absolutely.”
The president sat on the edge of his desk. “Go ahead,” he
told her, “finish this off.”
Shari thanked him and stood with confidence before the vice
president. “Mr. Vice President, I have one question and one question only. And
the question is: Are you Yahweh?”
Vice President Bohlmer didn’t answer. His eyes darted about,
his mind searching for a practical response. But he could only remain silent.
“Mr. Vice President. I’ll ask you again: Are . . . you . . .
Yahweh?”
The vice president’s shoulders fell in defeat.
“I take that as a yes,” Shari said.
“Take it however you want,” said Bohlmer. “I don’t think it
matters much anymore.”
The president lifted himself off the edge of the desk. “Why,
Jonas? Why place this entire administration under the strain of impropriety in
the eyes of the world community? The United States is supposed to set an
example of credibility and trust, not backdoor thuggery!”
The vice president turned to the president, the shame of
getting caught evident on his face. “I’ll tell you why I did it,” he began. “I
did it because your administration had grown weak. I did it because we need to
take a step forward and renegotiate our standing as a lead nation rather than
being held hostage by accords with countries tied to terrorist regimes. Whoever
has the oil holds the scepter of rule. And we can shift that balance of power
by changing the geopolitical landscape. Within ten years, Jim, this economy
would flourish without the dependency of the Middle East. And history would
record the people of this administration as the chief principals who
implemented change.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about reevaluating how we think about the
accords that hold this nation hostage to foreign fuels. We need to change the
current situation, Jim. We need to regain our foothold that’s been slipping in
the world community for some time now.”
The president could only stare incredulously. “You mean to
tell me you were willing to start a war and kill millions of people by using
the pope as a catalyst?” He leaned back, his face flushing. “Did it ever occur
to you that maybe, just maybe, fossil fuel may not be readily available after
our separation from the Arab states? That fossil fuel may skyrocket in price
before it has a chance to stabilize? And by
that
time economies may be
ruined, including our own? Did you ever think about those contingencies?”
“We considered all of those scenarios,” he returned. “As far
as we were concerned, the rewards outweighed the risks.”
President Burroughs gazed at him with eyes that seemed
sorrowful rather than judgmental. “You had me second-guessing myself,” he told
him. “You wanted me to believe that Special Agent Cohen was the wrong person for
the job because of her faith. But you knew if I kept her on, and if given the
time, she would have discovered the truth as to the governing force behind all
this. Thank God I didn’t listen to you.”
“What I did—I did for the future of this country.”
The president closed his eyes in disgust. “I chose you,
Jonas, because I thought you would be a good successor with a good head on your
shoulders. Apparently I misjudged you.”
The president walked back to the window and stared outside
for a while before speaking again. “Of course you understand we’ll have to keep
the Oversight Committee out of this.”
Vice President Bohlmer closed his eyes. In so many words,
the president had just given him the death sentence. The vice president nodded.
“I’m not beyond insight, Mr. President. I realized the ax had fallen on my
career when Ms. Cohen played that tape.”
“Before you leave, Jonas,” he said, turning and placing the
flats of his palms on top of his desk. “Tell us where
he
is.”
The vice president turned away.
“Jonas,
where
is he?” the president repeated.
The vice president turned back, his eyes vacant and
unreadable, the lack of expression behind them denoting that he was not about
to crack.
In turn the president pressed him with a stare that was
clear, if not determined.
Then finally, after a whittling away of perseverance, the
vice president conceded. “In Boston,” he finally said, his tone weighted with
defeat. “The pope’s in Boston.”
“Boston? Where in Boston?”
“Behind the Granary Burying Ground. There’s a depository
there that has been abandoned and marked for demolition years ago, but never
was. We knew that as soon as the news got out about the kidnapping, a dragnet
would have been sent for hundreds of miles from the epicenter of D.C., which is
why the operation was moved north. We even went as far as to place the body of
the governor here in D.C. as a red herring to keep the search limited to this
area.”
Shari stepped forward. “The Granary Burying Ground—that’s
part of the Freedom Trail.”
“It’s an old section of Boston managed by the historical
society where Paul Revere and Samuel Adams are buried,” said the vice
president. “Most of the buildings surrounding that particular site are either
condemned or too far gone for revitalization, which means activity in that area
is minimal. You’ll find him on the third floor,” he added.
“And how long before they kill the pope?”
The vice president hesitated, as if his conscious was
vacillating on whether or not he wanted to continue. Then in the same defeatist
tone, he relented. “They’re going to kill him today,” he said.
The president stood there looking nonplussed. “Today?”
The vice president nodded.
“Then we’ll negotiate a peaceful surrender. And you, Jonas,
will be the negotiator.”
“That’s unlikely,” he said. “I already tried to abort the
mission once Murdock was in custody. But the Boston faction refused to hear me
out.”
“Then contact him again.”
“You don’t seem to understand,” said the vice president.
“They’re in a win-win situation. If you try to compromise their position by
trying to negotiate a peaceful solution, they know the media will be all over
this like a pack of dogs on a three-legged cat, which the United States can’t
afford. On the other hand, if the cause runs its course, then the accusing
finger is pointed directly at the Arab world and the United States isn’t
labeled as the culprit, since the truth is unbeknownst to the worldwide public.
Our image is maintained.”
The president looked at Alan Thornton, then to Shari. “Is
what he says true?”
“It all depends upon the Boston faction,” said Thornton. “It
depends if their command leader is willing to hold this country hostage by
calling upon the media. If that’s the case, then it would be devastating to
this country.”
President Burroughs began to pace the room, his eyes cast to
the carpeted floor, thinking. “Obviously this can’t get out,” he said. “Is
there any way we can quash this without the media knowing? Anything we can do?”
“Unfortunately, Mr. President, we’re at the mercy of the
Boston faction. Who knows what they have, or what equipment or contingencies
they planned for.”
The president turned toward the vice president, who sat
unmoving in his seat. “Jonas, tell me, tell us, what they have?”
“I can’t help you,” he said. “All I know is what I told you—what
the Boston commander has already informed me of. He stated quote-unquote, that
there will be no discussions, no debates and no negotiations. The cause will go
on.”
The president slapped an open palm against his desk.
“Dammit, Jonas!”
The vice president didn’t even flinch.
Once again the president addressed Thornton. “Alan, what’s
your stance on trying to negotiate a peaceful solution to all this?”
Thornton’s face screwed into a semblance of wrinkles, seams
of complete loss. “Perhaps, Mr. President, you should ask Special Agent Cohen.”
“Ms. Cohen?”
“I don’t know the commander of this Boston faction or his
capabilities of what he can or cannot do. But I do know that he’s in a win-win
situation as the vice president states. If he knows that we suspect his
location and try to negotiate a deal, all this does is allow him time to
strategize and defend his position.”
“But?”
Shari hesitated before speaking. “I believe, Mr. President,
that a surgical strike is needed. We need to catch them off guard and take away
their advantage.”
“I still think we need to try to negotiate a peaceful
solution to this.”
“Mr. President, we don’t have time. They’re going to execute
the pope today. So we need to act accordingly.”
The President turned back to the vice president. “Jonas, is
there any way—any way at all, to negotiate this without anyone getting harmed?”
“As sure as the sun sets,” he said, “this man will follow
through and kill the pope. If you interfere, then he will retaliate by bringing
this country down . . . a win-win situation.”