Counterplay

33

As Marlene surveyed the cathedral from her place among a crowd of nuns who’d assembled behind the altar near the Stations of the Cross sculptures, she wondered if she’d been mistaken. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. She’d spotted the security detail-four back near her and others scattered throughout the cathedral-who she assumed to be a mix of the pontiff’s private force and federal agents. But they seemed to be relaxed, calmly chatting as they watched the last of the spectators hurrying in to take their seats.

While still in the loft, she’d called Dugan. I need you to help me and two friends get into the cathedral without anybody knowing I’m there, she told him, explaining her reasons.

Dugan was alarmed. If you think there’s a danger to the Pope, I should tell the authorities.

Well, I don’t know if there is a danger to the Pope, she’d replied. This is all guesswork. And to be honest, I’m not sure which authorities you can trust. Definitely not the feds, unless you see Espey Jaxon. I just want to be able to watch for any danger to my daughter, and I might be able to spot trouble and give a warning to the security teams without alarming anyone.

Although still not happy with the plan, Dugan agreed to meet the threesome at St. Malachy’s; he knew Marlene well enough to trust her instincts. Before leaving the cathedral to pick up the Pope’s medical team, as he told the police captain at the security checkpoint, he’d asked two trusted priests and a nun to borrow their security clearance cards, which they’d given with arched eyebrows but no questions.

At St. Malachy’s he’d found enough extra clothing for Marlene, Tran, and Yvgeny to pass as a nun and two priests, though the Russian’s pants rode up three inches above his ankles. I don’t think you’re going to get past the metal detectors with any weapons, he’d said.

Thanks, Father Mike, Marlene said. We’ll have to deal with that if and when the time comes.

Back at the police checkpoint, the three had presented their passes while Dugan explained. Father Karchovski, he said, nodding to Yvgeny, is a Jesuit and a physician. The smaller priest, Father Tran, a visitor from Vietnam, treats the Pope with acupuncture for his arthritis. The sister is a registered nurse who will be assisting Father Karchovski.

Then at the rear of the cathedral, they’d been stopped by the federal agent, who’d at first refused to let them in. No one told me of these people, the man said in accented English.

That’s all very well and good, young man, Dugan said. But I am responsible for the Holy Father’s comfort and safety. Do you want to risk him having a health problem…causing an international incident?

The man decided to call in on his radio. Apparently, whomever he reported to told him to let them pass.

After that, Dugan left them to attend to his tasks. Which left Marlene and her comrades faced with a problem of what to do next. The cathedral would hold more than two thousand visitors and there were a couple hundred more priests, nuns, and other church dignitaries wandering about or receiving last-minute instructions on their roles in the ceremony.

Marlene could no longer see Tran, who’d moved off to stand near the main entrance to the cathedral, or Yvgeny, who’d gone back toward the rear to see if he could spot anything out of the ordinary. However, she could see her husband, Butch, who’d entered the cathedral with the mayor, looked around-obviously trying to find his wife-then sat next to his daughter and her boyfriend. They had not spotted her yet.

She also saw Agent Vic Hodges, standing in a small alcove off to the side of the altar with a dark-haired, dark-mustachioed man where they were out of sight of most spectators but close to where the pontiff would be sitting. Hodges had turned toward her once before she could duck, but he hadn’t seemed to recognize her in the habit of a Carmelite nun.

Marlene glanced at the acolytes who were standing behind the Swiss Guards positioned at the sides of the pontiff’s seats. Then she did a double take as she locked eyes with one, who seemed a bit older than the others. Alejandro Garcia gave her a quick smile, then went back to imitating the actions of his fellow altar boys.

Marlene was thinking about finding a room and changing back into the civilian clothes she was wearing beneath the habit and then taking her seat with her family, when suddenly the nun’s choir began to sing. They were facing away from her, otherwise she might have noticed that two were not singing and that one of the two had a recognizable mole on her cheek.

Too late, she thought, then got caught up in the murmur of excitement among her fellow “sisters” as the pontiff and the soon-to-be new Archbishop of New York passed by. The Pope raised his hand and blessed them, his merry blue eyes for a moment resting on Marlene’s face so that she momentarily forgot why she was there and joined the others, as well as the spectators in the cathedral, in applauding the Holy Father.

The Pope stood before the crowd for a minute, making the sign of the cross and blessing those assembled. He then took his seat and the crowd grew quiet as a priest began the mass in Latin. However, he was almost immediately interrupted when two nuns stepped from the choir, brandishing handguns with silencers attached from beneath the sleeves of their robes.

The first walked up to the Pope with the gun pointing at his head, while with the other hand she pulled off the headdress of her habit. With shock, Marlene recognized Samira Azzam, who shouted at the Pope, “You are my prisoner in the name of the Islamic Jihad and al Qaeda in Chechnya!”

Several things then happened at once. Marlene saw the man with Hodges rush forward pulling his gun. But the second false nun had anticipated this and calmly shot the man in the forehead. She then held her gun on Hodges, who made no attempt to draw his own gun but raised his hands instead.

The two traditionally dressed Swiss Guards next to the Pope attempted to place themselves between Azzam and the pontiff. But she shot them dead, their halberds clattering to the floor in front of the stunned altar boys.

Marlene turned at the sound of two more pops behind her and saw that two of the four security detail members, who’d been waiting in the background, were on the ground with the other two standing above them with their guns drawn. The killers then walked forward, training their guns on the priests and nuns.

We knew it, and we still got caught, Marlene thought ruefully. But this was too easy. Who was the traitor? Her first inclination was to go to the Pope’s aid as well, but she knew that to do so would be to die and that would be of no use to anyone. Wait, she told herself, at the moment, they want him as a hostage.

Elsewhere in the cathedral, the remaining four members of the Swiss Guard had been shot by the “federal agents” standing near them. The television crew swung their camera to the terrorist with the gun on the pontiff but was ordered to shut it off by another terrorist who came toward them with his gun pointed. When the reporter, a well-known broadcaster who’d pulled rank to do the live shots from inside the cathedral, complained, the gunman shot him through the eye. He was dead before his body crumpled to the floor.

Meanwhile, two more faux agents had swung the doors of the cathedral shut and locked them. Then they picked up the automatic rifles with the folding stocks they’d secreted behind curtains early that morning when the traitor priest-the one with the scarred face-let them in.

As the stunned spectators reacted with screams and cries, and by standing as if to flee, Azzam removed the silencer from her gun and shot a man who’d stepped into the aisle. “Sit down and listen,” she shouted, pointing her gun back at the Pope’s head, “or the leader of the Crusaders will die first, and then the rest of you…. Listen to my instructions if you wish to live. They are: you will not attempt to use cell phones, or you will die. You will remain seated and quiet, or you will die.”

As if waiting for this cue, a middle-aged woman got up from her seat stating, “I’m not going to stay for this,” and began to leave with her nose in the air as though she’d been insulted by the hostess at a bridge party. One of the terrorists near the entrance stepped into the aisle and fired a quick burst that caught the woman and laid her out on the carpet where she lay twitching.

“This,” Azzam shouted, “is the penalty for ignoring my instructions.”

The Pope, who’d remained seated as if he was trying to understand what sort of theatrical production was being staged, tried to stand. “Please, what is the meaning of this? Do with me what you will, but in the name of God, do not harm innocent-”

Azzam shoved the Holy Father back down in his seat. “Shut up, old man. You are nothing to me but a symbol of my people’s oppressor.” She turned to the television camera crew, who had remained motionless in slack-jawed terror staring at the body of the former anchorman. Neither of them had liked the man, a pompous ass who liked to treat fellow employees like his personal slaves, but they weren’t prepared to see him staring sightlessly at the ceiling with blood trickling out of his ruined eye socket.

“You,” Azzam said, commanding their attention, “you will now turn your camera back on and train it on me. No one else…or you will die.”

The cameraman and the soundman nodded and picked up their equipment. From the folds of her robes Azzam pulled a written statement that she began to read into the camera. “On behalf of the struggle of Muslim peoples in Chechnya, as well as throughout the world, your Pope, a criminal and Crusader representing the centuries of oppression against Muslim people, is the prisoner of al Qaeda in Chechnya, as are all other people in this building. Any attempts at rescue, and this man will be the first, but not the last, to die. My people have already taken control of the security cameras monitoring the outside of this building; we will know of any attempts to use force against us. There have already been numerous deaths; your security people are dead. If you wish to prevent any other unnecessary deaths, you will wait until further contact. That is it for now.”

Azzam signaled for the camera crew to cut, which they did, dutifully placing their equipment back on the ground. Then the terrorist turned back to where Agent Hodges, aka Andrew Kane, still had his hands up. “It is done,” she said.

The other woman with the gun lowered it as Kane strode forward wearing a big smile as if he’d been named Homecoming King. He’d almost laughed looking at the astonished faces of the crowd when Azzam first announced that the Pope was her prisoner. “Let’s get started then,” he said clapping with glee.

Half the terrorists put their guns down and picked up bags they’d stored at various spots around the cathedral and began removing the contents. A frightened murmur ran through the spectators when some recognized the materials for making bombs.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please,” Kane announced. “My people are just taking out an insurance policy. If all goes well, and everyone cooperates, you’ll all go home and sleep in your own beds tonight.”

Kane leaped down the stairs and approached the camera crew. “See my face?” he asked the cameraman. The man nodded. “Good. If you ever photograph my face, you will die. Is that clear?” The man nodded again and mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

Kane smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Good. Good. Then we’ll have no problems. Now, think of me sort of as your director-slash-off-screen-

commentator. You’ll carry my voice, but no face. Now, we’re about to go live again. I want you to open with a nice shot of my friend Samira Azzam with her gun pointed at that ridiculous little old man in that silly costume.”

“The Pope?” the cameraman asked.

Kane rolled his eyes. “Yes, of course, you idiot. The Pope…. Then we’ll switch to a shot of those fine young men rigging the explosives. Got that? Good, good…hey you might even win an Emmy out of this! All right, hand me that microphone…oh good God, wipe the blood off of it first…that’s better. You ready? Okay, lights, camera, action.”

Kane cleared his throat. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this much fun. “Good afternoon,” he said. “We’re sorry for any inconvenience, but we’ve interrupted your regularly scheduled program to bring you a special report. He turned to face Karp, Lucy, and the cowboy, all of whom had remained calm, and said, dropping the Southern accent and assuming his normal voice, “My name is…drumroll please…Andrew Kane.”

Kane paused to let it sink in. He was pleased by the gasps of the spectators in the cathedral and absolutely overjoyed to watch Karp realize the implications. He was less enthused by the reaction of Lucy. He’d expected some mix of shock and horror, but instead she just looked at him steadily, as if she’d known all along and was prepared. It sent a shiver up his spine that he had not anticipated. Well, I will see fear in her eyes before this is over, he swore to himself and tore his gaze away from hers.

“As you’ve been informed, His Pope-ness and all these fine people are prisoners of al Qaeda,” he said and motioned to the cameraman to switch from the Pope to the bombers, who were attaching their devices to the columns of the cathedral and running wires down the aisles toward a panel near the Pope’s chair. “Failure to comply with our few rules and our small requests…and we’ll blow this place to, pardon the pun, Kingdom Come. Oh, and by the way, that goes for any attempt to interrupt this broadcast now or at any time in the future. We are in contact with friends on the outside who will let us know, at which point I will have no choice but to kill someone for every minute we are off the air.”

Kane laughed. “Our demands are pretty simple. First, the Vatican will direct its bank to transfer by wire the sum of five hundred million dollars into an account the numbers of which will be given when the Vatican is ready and it had best be within the hour or else”-Kane did his best James Cagney gangster voice-“the Pope gets it, you dirty rats…. Next, when our demands have been met, we’ll be leaving this fine establishment and traveling to LaGuardia with His Eminence-just to make sure there’s no trickery-at which point we’ll board a 747 and fly to a country of my choosing. At that point, the Popester will be released to that government, which I’m sure can be negotiated with to allow his return to the Vatican.”

Kane pointed to the dead woman lying in the aisle and signaled for the cameraman to focus on her. “This bitch wouldn’t follow directions,” he quipped. “Now, she’s dead. So you can see that I am absolutely serious. Stay tuned for further updates in the near future. Oh, the clock starts ticking as…of…now.”

When the camera was turned off, Kane walked over to where Karp was sitting with his arm around Lucy. “Ah, my good friend Butch Karp,” he said, then sniffed the air. “Is that Karp, or carp? Something smells like dead fish.”

Karp said nothing so Kane pulled out his gun and waved it in his face. “What’s the matter, Karp, cat got your tongue?” He put the gun closer to Karp’s face. “So whatever shall I do?” he said. “Shoot you now or shoot you later.” He began to dance a little jig. “Shoot Karp now, or shoot him later. Shoot Karp now, or shoot him later.” He stopped dancing. “Shoot you now and splatter your fucking ugly head all over your little bitch daughter, or let you think about it?” He leaned toward Karp. “What shall it be?”

Karp continued to say nothing. He just looked in Kane’s eyes until the psychopath quailed, but then snarled. “I think we’ll wait. In the meantime, I have an hour to spare, maybe it’s time Miss Lucy and I became better acquainted. I’ve decided to make her my concubine, you know…mother of my children. Hey, how about that? We’ll be related. Mind if I call you Dad?”

Karp moved his hand so that it gripped Ned’s shoulder. Kane saw the move and said, “That’s right. Sit still, cowboy, while I go rape the shit out of your girlfriend. Come on, Lucy, let’s go.”

Any thoughts Karp had entertained about staying calm and finding a reasoned way out of the difficulty were lost to the duty of fatherhood. With a snarl he shot up from his seat, and with one hand grabbed Kane’s wrist so that he couldn’t use the gun and with the other took Kane by the throat and tried to crush his larynx. He had the momentary satisfaction of seeing terror in the eyes of Kane before the blow from the butt of the gun of a terrorist who’d come up to support Kane, stunned him. The second blow knocked him out.

The terrorist pointed the gun at Karp’s head to finish the job, but Kane stopped him. Still, clutching his injured throat and pointing his gun at Ned, who’d started to rise from his seat, Kane croaked, “No. I don’t want him dead yet. Bring the girl.”

Ned would have leaped and died anyway, but Lucy turned to him quickly. “If you love me, you’ll sit back down,” she said. “This isn’t over.” The cowboy remained poised for a moment, then collapsed into his seat.

“That’s right, cowboy,” Kane taunted. “No John Waynes in here, please. Any heroics would just get a lot of nice people killed. So Lucy and I are just going to go have a little fun, then we’ll be right back.”

“I’m going to kill you, Kane,” Ned said.

“Oh, get in line, cowboy,” Kane replied. “Of course you will. Isn’t that what happens in the movies? Oh, but wait. This isn’t a movie. This is real life and sometimes the bad guy wins!”

“And when I put a bullet in you,” Ned whispered, “that will be real, too.”

Kane looked at the cowboy for a moment as if weighing whether to end the threat. Then he laughed. “Yeah, but first I’m going to get the girl.”