Destiny

SIXTY-EIGHT

Near the outer edge of Paris, Marcus’s phone rang. Alicia said, “Mother Pascalina Lehnert was about as close as anyone to Pope Pius XII. She began as his housekeeper and worked her way up to his executive secretary. She was the first woman in the Vatican with an influential role. Many in the Catholic Church gave her the nickname of Virgo Potens, the powerful virgin. She served the Pope for forty-one years. She was his chief confidant, and she was a woman personally responsible for providing assistance to thousands of Jewish war refugees who came through the Vatican. Why the sudden interest in this nun, Mother Pascalina?”

Marcus filled Alicia in on his conversation with Gisele Fournier, and then he told her about his discussion with James Tower. “He’s dying, and with little time left, Tower seemed relieved to tell me about the plot to assassinate Patton. He said this secret group laid out a one-hundred-year plan to gain control of world governments, banking, commerce, media…you name it. And he believed that JFK Junior, had he announced interest in a senatorial office or even a run for the presidency, wouldn’t have been part of this plan.”

“A shadow regime hidden within our government. Who are they?” she asked.

“The Circle of 13.”

“Never heard of them.”

“Not surprising. Maybe you can dig deep enough to find a thread.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“See if there’s a remote connection to a Nazi smuggling ring in, near or around the Vatican after World War II.”

“The Vatican? Is this related to Mother Pascalina or the Pope?”

“Maybe.”

Marcus and more than two hundred invited guests made their way to the Yitzhak Rabin Memorial on the rich green lawn of the UNESCO headquarters in the heart of Paris. The skies were blue, a breeze from the west. The scent of pine, moss, and running water met the people clearing security and taking seats in bone-white foldout chairs set at a 180-degree angle around the stage near the memorial.

Marcus stood closer to the Garden of Peace under a pine tree and watched the late arrivals clear security. Coffee, tea, hot chocolate, and finger pastries were served from five white linen tables manned by waiters in crisp jackets and black ties.

Marcus could see Parisian police and security agents staked out all around the perimeter, men with binoculars scanning the rooftops, men in dark glasses scrutinizing each guest, watching the Avenue de Segur, the roof of the UNESCO building, and studying the catering staff. Guests passed under a metal detector and two bomb-sniffing German Shepherds were held at bay on leashes. As the last of the crowd found its seats, Marcus felt a sense of relief with the unconcealed security presence.

Secretary of State Hanover entered the area from the UNESCO building and walked with the Israeli prime minister and his delegation toward the stage. The Mayor of Paris greeted his guests warmly, shaking their hands and escorting them to the stage and podium. He opened the ceremonies speaking French and then continued in English.

Heydar Kazim locked his office door. He ran his hands through his dark hair and then did five push-ups. His lips were thin, a serrated white scar under the left eye. His hawk-like eyes were dark, calculating and yet emotionless. He removed the modified case under his desk containing a French-made Giat FR F2 rifle, opened the case and began assembling the rifle. Within ninety seconds, the sniper rifle was in one piece. Kazim moved to the window. Like all windows on the east side of the building, it had horizontal louver slats to minimize the direct morning sunlight. For Kazim, it was like shooting through a portal with the ultimate elevation and concealment.

He pushed a bookcase near the window, extended the bipod supports for the rifle on the surface of the bookcase, and began to sight through the scope at the target less than 150 meters on the east lawn of the property.

Secretary of State Hanover spoke, thanking the city of Paris for its hospitality. She said, “On this, the tenth anniversary of the installation of the Yitzhak Rabin Memorial, it is good to know that the people of Israel and America have an ally in the great nation and people of France. We have stood in alliance with one another when countries, led by dictators with a singular vision of world or regional dominance, would rise up and seek to conquer and tyrannize the people of other nations. When Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin was alive, he was instrumental in bridging the gap between Palestinians and Israelis by working to create the Oslo Accords, which was the keystone to building a future of peaceful co-existence.”

Kazim centered the crosshairs in the riflescope across the face of the American Secretary of State. He held his breath for a few seconds, could feel his steady heartbeat in his finger resting on the trigger. He disengaged the safety and watched. A police helicopter hovered between the UNESCO building and the Seine River. Kazim found a cigarette lighter in his pocket and then moistened an unlit cigar with his tongue. He lit the cigar and waited for the American woman to finish her bullshit at the podium.

The morning sun went behind a cloud when Marcus looked up at the UNESCO building. Something caught his eye — a tiny flicker, like a spark. The flicker of yellow came from the center window. Marcus stared at it. Something was slightly different than the surrounding office windows. Most of the other windows either had the blinds closed or open. This was one of three windows that had just one slat of a blind open, and behind that slat was the tiny spark he’d seen.

Marcus looked at the stage where Secretary Hanover was stepping aside while the prime minister shook her hand and took his place behind the dais. “Good morning, everyone,” he said. “It is indeed an honor to be standing here, a special place where the Garden of Peace offers a respite to people everywhere who come to this great city and visit the UNESCO headquarters.” His voice was strong and yet filled with humility. “Also, it is an honor to stand next to the memorial of one of Israel’s finest diplomats, Yitzhak Rabin.”

Marcus looked back at the building, his eyes focusing on an office with the open slant in the blinds. There was movement. He could see the silhouette of a man. The man was holding something. Maybe it was a camera with a long lens. A rifle.

Marcus turned toward the stage. He ran hard. The Israeli Prime Minister gestured toward the Rabin Memorial. The crowd looked in that direction. “Get down!” shouted Marcus. The prime minister looked across the audience to where Marcus was running and shouting. “Get down! Sniper!”

The sun came out from behind a cloud, and the prime minister narrowed his eyes. Two security men chased Marcus, running toward the stage. A red flower instantly blossomed from the prime minister’s white shirt. A second bullet hit him in the temple. Blood, skull fragments and brain pieces splattered across the laps and faces of the dignitaries sitting in the seats behind him. He fell dead to the stage.

Marcus was tackled to the ground in front of the podium. Guests screamed and ran. Some pointed to the UNESCO building. Security agents bolted to the building, speaking into their sleeves, nine-millimeter pistols drawn. Marcus was lifted to his feet, his eyes meeting the ashen face of Secretary Hanover. She stared at him, her mouth opening, words drowned out by the noise. She stood in the chaos and wiped drops of the prime minister’s blood off her face and hands.

Heydar Kazim ran down the fire escape stairs, landing at the final step before police and government agents could get a bearing on where the shots had originated. He opened the back door of an awaiting taxi and said, “To the Champs Elysees.”

“No problem,” said the driver, pulling away from the UNESCO building. “Do you have a particular place on the Champs Elysees that you wish to go?”

“No, just the avenue is fine.”

“Yes sir.”

Kazim sent a text message: It is done. He placed the phone inside his coat pocket and closed his eyes. He would enjoy a nice dinner, beginning with escargot and wild mushrooms, shrimp and cognac, followed by wine-poached salmon with black truffles. A chilled bottle of chardonnay would complement the food. Kazim thought about the name Champs Elysees, the French name for Elysian Fields. He half smiled remembering that in Greek mythology, Elysian Fields meant…the place of the blessed dead.