Vatican Knights (6 page)
Authors: Rick Jones
Mossad Headquarters, Tel Aviv,
Israel
September 23, Mid-Afternoon
The Hebrew
word for “Institute” is Mossad, Israel’s legendary agency for collecting
intelligence data and conducting covert operations. Presently, Mossad had
20,000 active agents and 15,000 sleeper agents worldwide, including operatives
in the former communist countries, the Arab nations, and the west, including
the United States.
Mossad’s PALD, the Political
Action and Liaison Department, was responsible for maintaining liaisons with
friendly foreign services by transmitting data and updating the terrorist
database. On this day, the department was like an ant colony, well-constructed
and orderly, the work-pace quick and efficient. Requests for information
regarding the Soldiers of Islam poured in, with the Washington, D.C. branch of
the FBI and the CIA at the top of the list.
Going over reports from the
Research Department, Yosef Rokach sat at his desk with a cigarette burning
between his fingers, the smoke undulating lazily through the air. In the world
of espionage, he was born to Hebrew parents that were killed by Hezbollah
raiders and graduated from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem within the top
ten percent of his class. But in reality, he was John McEachern, an
American-born citizen who grew up in an Indiana suburb without a drop of Hebrew
blood coursing through his veins.
Upon his commencement from Notre
Dame University, where he earned a Doctorate in Systems and Networking in the
same time it took most people to earn a Bachelor’s degree, McEachern obtained
an internship with the CIA. He worked at the lowest levels, not realizing that
he was actually being monitored for strengths and weaknesses. When it was
reported that he had an affinity for Middle-Eastern languages and digested them
easily and with amazing rapidity, he was recruited as a sleeper. After four
years of learning to improvise through tense situations and training his body
to beat the polygraph and resist the constraints of sodium pentothal, John
McEachern, born of Irish parents, was ready for the field.
So when a counterfeit profile was
created and imbued into every known system within Israel’s computerized
infrastructure, Yosef Rokach was born. According to all background checks, he
was devout to his religion, committed to his people, and an outstanding citizen
in every respect by Hebrew standards. But after seven years within Mossad, he
still had not made it beyond a low-level ranking within the PALD.
Taking a final drag of his
cigarette, he stubbed it out and fell back in his chair, interlacing his
fingers behind his head. The room was huge and open, with desks and monitors
everywhere and not a cubicle in sight. The office boasted bomb blast glass
walls and high-tech security equipment. Eye scans restricted secured areas to
specific personnel. Software with facial recognition capabilities was used to
identify employees on file. Everything was based on the assumption that no one
could be trusted. The data handled by the office was so vital it was considered
more important than a human life. And employees caught betraying the Mossad
trust would find themselves before the agency’s interrogation specialists.
Yosef looked directly into a
homing camera.
From all points excited chatter
could be heard, the urgency behind the exchanges normally reserved for attacks
against Israeli interests. But this was not the case. The pope was missing.
Catholics throughout the world were calling for the intervention of anyone who
could bring back the Holy Father unharmed. Mossad saw this as an opportunity to
show the world that Arab hostility understood no boundaries, that the Israeli
plight was now the plight of all people. Israel wished to impart to its allies
a better understanding of what it’s like to live under the constant tyranny of
a fanatical enemy.
From a bank of elevators that led
to departments Yosef couldn’t access emerged David Gonick. Stepping from the
elevator quickly, Gonick headed toward the restroom, his face thoroughly pale
and ashen. He wrung his hands nervously and appeared visibly shaken, as if he
had witnessed something horrible. Gonick had been another CIA installation who had infiltrated the Lohamah Psichlogit Department. Lohamah Psichlogit, also
known as Literature and Publications or LAP, was responsible for psychological
warfare, propaganda and deception operations. To be a member of the LAP, one
had to have Q Clearance, which was limited to those few at the top of the food
chain. The CIA’s infiltration of that particular level and installation of one
of its own took years of maneuvering. But to see Gonick in this manner addled
Yosef since Gonick was always a man of refinement under extreme pressure.
Had he been made?
Moments later Gonick returned from
the rest room. Not once did he turn Yosef’s way or acknowledge him as he
hastily made his way to the elevator. Upon his return, however, the knot of his
tie was lowered and the top button of his shirt undone. It was a signal.
Yosef rubbed his hand vaguely
over his face, sensing a long-awaited fruition. Standing, Yosef tried to look
as relaxed as possible before heading for the restroom. The people around him
did not take notice of his leaving. They were intimately involved in their own
duties, and Yosef was just one nondescript face among many. In fact Yosef
excelled at being unremarkable; he was a ghost among the living.
The restroom was empty and clean.
The urinals were to the left, the toilet stalls to the right. Entering the
third stall, Yosef closed the louvered door behind him and waited. While he
stood there, a sense of paranoia swept over him. He breathed deeply and waited
for it to pass. Quietly, he lifted the lid to the tank. Lying on the bottom of
the tank, almost invisible to the naked eye, was a data stick encased in a
clear jewel case. It was state-of-the-art small, but it carried a huge memory
load.
Using toilet paper to wipe the
case dry, he placed the stick in a special pocket within the cuff of his pants.
After replacing the lid, he took a deep breath to collect himself and left the
stall.
As per protocol he would decipher
the data on the stick and forward it to his American associates. His value as
an agent, after years of training, had simply come down to his computer skills,
something he didn’t see as particularly glamorous for a spy. Yosef more or less
continued to romanticize the theatrical side of espionage, envisioning himself
walking along fog-laden streets late at night, meeting connections hiding in
deep shadows. In truth, however, he held something more important, something
far more tangible than romantic ideas. The data stick in his possession, no
bigger than a human thumb, contained enough information to bring the planet to
the brink of global war.
Returning to his desk acting as if
the day was normal, Yosef couldn’t wait to get home to decipher the data.
Vatican City
September 23, Mid-Afternoon
They were
known as the Society of Seven, a private sect within the Vatican made up of the
pope, the Vatican’s Secretary of State, and five of the pope’s most trusted
cardinals from the Curia.
In a restricted chamber in the
lower level of the Basilica, seven chairs were situated on a marble platform
rising four feet from the floor. The pope’s chair, a king‘s throne layered in
gold leaf, stood vacant. The second chair, nearly as impressive as the pope’s,
but smaller and less imaginative, was occupied by the Vatican’s Secretary of
State. Surrounding him dressed in full regalia sat the cardinals of the Curia.
The hall was grand, ancient—an
underground haven in which past popes and their secret alliances had met time
and again. The walls were made of lime, the ceiling vaulted and supported by
massive Romanesque columns. The chamber’s acoustics were poor, words often
traveling across the room in echoes. And the light came from gas-lit lamps
moored along the walls, giving the room a dire medieval cast.
As the Society of Seven waited, an
echoing cadence of footfalls sounded from beyond the chamber door, their pace
quick with urgency. At the opposite end of the chamber a door of solid oak
labored on its hinges as it swung inward. From the shadows, a man of incredible
height and stature walked toward the platform with a gait and bearing that
spoke of power and confidence. His shoulders were impossibly broad, his chest
and arms stretching the fabric of his cleric’s shirt to its limit. His upper
body mass, V-shaped, tapered to a trim waist and chiseled legs. When he reached
the base of the stage, he removed his beret, dropped to a knee, and placed a
closed fist over his heart.
“Loyalty above all else,” he said,
“except Honor.” This was the salute of the Vatican Knights.
The Vatican’s aged Secretary of
State, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci, rose with difficulty and walked the three
stairs to the marble floor where the large man remained kneeling. “Stand, my
friend. We’ve much to talk about.”
Kimball Hayden got to his feet,
towering over Cardinal Vessucci, whose stooped height barely reached Kimball’s
chest. When the cardinal placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, he had to reach
high above his head to do so.
“You know why we’ve called you.”
The cardinal spoke in fluent English.
“I do.”
Vessucci kept his hand on
Kimball’s shoulder using the larger man as a crutch. “Then assemble your team
and return our pope and the members of the Holy See to us. Do whatever is
necessary to achieve this goal. Is that understood?”
Kimball nodded.
“If these terrorists wish to pick
a fight with the Roman Catholic Church, then a fight they’ll get.” Vessucci
lowered his hand and stopped in his tracks, the short walk too taxing for the
old man. “We may be a small state, but we also have the right to protect the
sovereignty of the Church, its interests, and the welfare of its citizenry. I
understand that the act of engagement is complicated by its lack of rules, but
you have to be discreet in such matters, if possible. Should something tragic
occur, Kimball, the Church may have no choice but to disavow any knowledge of
the Vatican Knights. We cannot afford your methods to draw any unwanted
attention to the Church.”
Kimball placed a gentle hand on
his old friend, as much to stabilize the man as to express his good will. He
hated to see the cardinal in this condition—a man of greatness deteriorating
inch by inch, the victim of a degenerative bone disease. “When do we leave?”
“Immediately. You’ll be flying
from Rome into Dulles via private jet. Once on American soil, you’ll need to
contact Cardinal Juan Medeiros at the Sacred Hearts Church, one mile east of
the Washington Archdiocese. He’ll be your intel source—a good man.”
Kimball gave a light squeeze to
the cardinal’s shoulder before getting to a knee and placing a closed fist over
his heart. “Loyalty above all else,” he repeated, “except Honor.”
The cardinal reciprocated
Kimball‘s gesture with one of his own, placing a hand on top of Kimball’s
head—an act of anointing, an act of honor. “Be safe, my friend. The Church has
faith in those who believe in righteousness. May God be with you.”
Kimball stood, turned, and walked
away from the Society of Seven, his footsteps echoing off the ancient stone
walls.
The White House
September 23, Mid-Afternoon
The total
area of the White House is 65,000 square feet, including the basement and
sub-basement. But as far as the president was concerned, it was not enough
space. All around him, White House staff worked like drones, seemingly
everywhere at once.
Voices whined and chattered,
becoming an incessant buzz that hammered at his temples unmercifully, even
within his private study.
All he wanted, even for fifteen
minutes, was a short reprieve to regroup his thoughts and emotions.
And he found it in the Press
Briefing Room, a small, closed-in area no larger than a decent-sized living
room. Forty-eight theater-style chairs stood empty before him.
President Burroughs stood in front
of the staging area looking over an empty audience, then rubbed the palms of
his hands over his eyes until he saw bright patterns. He knew this room would
soon be packed with media shouting out questions for which he had no answers.
“I knew you’d be here,” said the
vice president. His voice always projected smoothly, calmly, except when he was
involved in a hotly-contested political debate or lobbying for a cause. “It‘s
an odd place to find peace and quiet, isn‘t it?” The vice president stood
behind the podium, then hooked his fingers over the edges and took a firm grip
as if he was about to lead Mass for a congregation of one. “Are you all right,
Jim? It‘s not like you to run away from matters.”
The president pitched a sigh. “I’m
not running from the situation, Jonas. I’m running from the moment.”
“You know it’s only going to get
worse from here, don‘t you?”
The president lowered one of the
seats in the gallery and sat down. “When I woke up this morning,” he began, “I
knew it was going to be a bad day. Call it presidential insight, intuition,
call it whatever you want. But something told me that today was going to be a
challenge that I’m not sure I’m up to—that we’re up to.”
The vice president stared at the
seamless face of Jim Burroughs. “We’ll get through this,” he said. “We have
to.”
The president offered a weak
smile. “We’ve been through a lot together, you and me.” He draped an arm over
the back of a neighboring seat. “I guess that’s what happens when you have
Senator Burroughs from New York and Senator Bohlmer from California running on
the same ticket in a race for the White House. People expect a lot from us.”
“And we’ve provided.”
“Until now,” he added.
“There’s nothing you could have
done, Jim, to prevent what happened. You took all the necessary precautions.
You put your detail in place as required.”
“My detail was murdered, Jonas, by
a team of insurgents who walked right into my backyard, which makes this
country appear vulnerable—to the American people and to our allies. Not a good
thing.”
“Jim, they were highly skilled
militants trained well above the level of your people. You know that.”
“Of course I know that. But the
court of public opinion and the people of this nation will only see a breach in
American superiority. Our government suddenly appears incapable of providing
the security that the nation expects.”
“Which is all the more reason why
we have to make things right,” Bohlmer returned.
The president closed his eyes, his
headache abating little. “We’re doing all we can, Jonas,” he answered weakly,
“given what we have to go on.”
“I agree. But there’s still an
issue we need to address.”
The president opened his eyes.
“Such as?”
“Shari Cohen.”
The president raised his hands
intuitively. “Please, Jonas, we’ve already discussed this matter upstairs, and
your concern was duly noted. But her presence in this matter is vital.”
“Her presence, Jim, is dangerous.
How many people do you think are working on this right now?”
The president shrugged. “A lot.”
“Exactly. A lot. And how long do
you think it’ll take for somebody from the
Post
, the
Times
,
or the
Globe
to make an offer to someone who is willing to divulge the
fact that a woman of Jewish faith is manning the team? You know as well as I do
that leaks are caused by those who are willing to set aside their integrity for
a pocketful of change. It‘s a fact, Jim. And I’ll bet you anything that you
have somebody up there right now who’s willing to sell their mother upriver for
a can of beer.”
“We have a failsafe in place
against leaks.”
“Jim, a failsafe is not foolproof.
You know that.”
“What do you want me to do? Take
the best person I have off the job because of her religious background?”
“In this case, yes! You know what
the Soldiers of Islam will do to the pope if they find out Cohen is tracking
them. Not because of what she
does
, but because of
who
she is.”
“If I remove every qualified
person from their positions because of their religious affiliations—or any of
the rights granted them by the Constitution—then the terrorists already won the
battle by forcing me to make decisions based on insurgent beliefs.” The
president closed his eyes, the pain beginning to erode his patience. “You need
to have faith in our work force, Jonas. Shari Cohen is an unbelievable power.
And when all this is over with, they’ll be kneeling at her feet. Believe me.”
“And you need to be realistic. You
know we won’t be able to meet their demands, whatever they may be. And deep
down you know they have every intention of killing him.”
“Jonas, if they were going to kill
him, then they would have done so when they stormed the Governor’s Mansion; they‘re
keeping him alive for a reason.”
Bohlmer left the podium, his hands
gesticulating wildly to press his point. “Jim, the Soldiers of Islam are making
a powerful statement to the world that they’re in control and gathering steam
for recruitment by doing what they’re doing. It’s all about giving hope to
insurgents by instilling in them the belief that a battle can be fought and won
on American soil.” Bohlmer took in a long breath, then sighed. “They’re going
to kill him, Jim. You know that. Let’s not give the media a rope to hang us
with by keeping Cohen in the game. This will doom the entire administration.”
“Look, nobody understands better
than I do that saving the face of this administration is paramount. But if I
remove Cohen as head of the team, the probability of finding the pope decreases
immensely. With Cohen at the helm, there is a chance that he will be found. If
the pope is alive, I must make every effort to save his life using whatever
resources are available to me. And Cohen is a valuable asset.”
“Cohen is going to get him
killed!” The vice president was becoming heated. “Think about it! The moment a
leak is established, his life will be over. There will be no more opportunities
to track down this cell and the Soldiers of Islam will disappear.”
The president weighed the
possibility that Bohlmer’s judgment was correct. With a topic of this
magnitude, a leak could most certainly occur, despite the failsafe put into
place. In all likelihood the media had already attempted to contact White House
moles for information that hadn’t been made public. If Cohen’s name should hit
the airwaves, the odds of the pope being executed would rise exponentially. And
then the accusing finger would point at his administration. The newspapers would
go on a feeding frenzy, attacking Burroughs for allowing Cohen to manage the
team, even though the dangers were acknowledged beforehand by his staff.
“She’s the best we have,” he
finally stated.
“She’s a guaranteed death sentence
for the pope if the Soldiers of Islam find out that a woman of Jewish faith is
behind the investigation. I can’t stress that enough.”
“She stays, Jonas. I’m not
particularly afraid if I hurt the feelings of the Soldiers of Islam. As long as
the pope’s alive, she’s the most qualified to find him.”
“You may not be afraid of the
Soldiers of Islam, but you
are
afraid of how the world community will
perceive you should this blow up in your face.”
President Burroughs raked the vice
president with a fierce eye. “She stays, Jonas.”
The vice president was becoming
ill-tempered, his face becoming ruddy. He was not used to losing ground in an
argument. “Jim, we’re never going to find him. And do you want to know why? It
would be like looking for a needle in a haystack the size of Manhattan.”
He then stood back, found his
calm, and spoke in a much gentler tone.
“Look, Jim, this is politics. And
we both know that we need to cover our bases on this one. As much as I feel
sorry for the pope, and as much as I would love to find him, we can’t let our
emotions cloud our judgment. The reality is that the probability of finding him
is zero to none.”
The president’s eyes settled on
Bohlmer, his demeanor stern and unrelenting, but his voice remaining calm. “I
know this is politics,” he said. “But it’s better politics if we put in the
best there is and make a concerted effort to find him.”
The vice president looked
incredulous. “I don’t get it,” he said. “The picture is right in front of you,
yet you continue to put us and the rest of this administration in jeopardy
because of her.”
The president remained silent.
“If I didn’t know better, Jim, I
would swear you want this to happen. That you want the media to know—”
“That’s enough, Jonas.” The
president held up his hand, knowing what Bohlmer was about to say. “I’m not
going to argue this point with you any longer. I have based my decision on our
government’s potential to find the pope and bring him back alive. If you’re
afraid that my decision will determine what the Soldiers of Islam will do to
undermine this administration, then deal with it. Once again, your input is
appreciated and duly noted.”
Bohlmer took a step back, his jaw
tight. “All right,” he said. “But you’ll have to live with your decision, Jim.
When they kill him, and they will, I hope you can stand on your own two feet. I
tried to reason with you.”
“I’ll stand alone on this if I
have to.”
“I just wanted to let you know
where
I
stood.”
The president nodded his head.
“Noted.”
After Bohlmer left, the president
wondered how much of a gamble he was taking by leaving Cohen in the lineup. He
hated to admit it, but there was merit in what the vice president said.
With the ache in his temples
sharpening into a stabbing bout of pain, the president leaned forward in his
chair and placed his face within his cupped hands, wondering how the game of
politics was going to play out.