Pandora's Ark

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

The day was a glorious one with scarce cloud cover and a bright, hot sun. Throngs of people filled St. Peter’s Square, a sea of heads bobbing and weaving to get a better look at the doors leading into the Basilica, which were closed.

Wading through the masses looking for suspicious activity wearing plain clothes was the Vatican Security Team, who maintained constant contact with the SIV, who in turn were in contact with Kimball Hayden. The Polizia Municipale maintained the lines at the city’s borders. And Italy’s elite police squads and sniper units held positional vantage points on rooftops and elevated posts that overlooked the Square.

All teams fell under the same umbrella of communiqué with the SIV Command Post, which was manned by Farther Auciello and his team of Jesuits. Should a team fail to forward their rendezvous code by radio every five minutes, Auciello would then communicate to Kimball of team failure, requiring possible backup from the Vatican Knights.

Before the papal alter inside the Basilica, dignitaries from all over the world — political and religious — ranging from presidents to vice presidents to prime ministers, most notably Vice President John Phippen of the United States and Prime Minister Cameron from Great Britain, along with world leaders from Europe and South America, religious icons ranging from Imam Qusim Abul to the elite rabbi faction of Israel, who sat with the Catholic representative of the pontiff, Pope Pius XIV, with each man each lending a hand of friendship to the other, biases and prejudices forgotten.

Sitting before the altar covered with a scarlet fabric with scalloped hemline draped over it, sat the crate containing the Ark of the Covenant.

Voices rose in anticipation.

And Bonasero Vessucci couldn’t have been more pleased. Not so much with the unveiling of the Ark, but of the congregation of people from all walks of life with different beliefs and agendas who came together under the banner of friendship and peace. The smiles, the acceptances and tolerances of one another, were completely genuine.

The pope excused himself and went to the rear of the Basilica where Kimball and his team manned the monitors form the Baldacchino, out of sight. They were in full gear, however, wearing the clerics’ shirts, Roman Catholic collar, military boots and pants.

“The unveiling is going to happen in fifteen minutes,” the pope told him. “Are there any issues thus far?”

Kimball nodded. “Everything appears copasetic,” he told him. “All teams are communicating. Other than a few skirmishes breaking out in the square from people jockeying for position to get a better view of the Basilica, everything looks fine.”

“That’s what I want to hear.”

Kimball shot him a thumbs-up. “Everything’s going to be OK, Bonasero. Everything’s going to be just fine.”

Sayyid and his two brothers of Jihad stood in front of the Vatican Museum wearing Polizia Municipale uniforms. Across the Viale Vaticano was the hotel of their choice to set up shop. From where they stood they could see a sniper and his teammate, which wasn’t surprising since the observation post gave a direct view of the Basilica.

Since they were on the city’s border and the masses were inside the square hoping to catch a glimpse of the holy relic, the street was marginally deserted. Yet Sayyid and his team lay low and close to the shadows. More so, they had shaved. And by wearing the uniforms of the Italian police, they appeared less like their photos from the Watch List.

Sayyid turned to his teammates, the laptop in his hand but within a soft case, and said, “You know what to do,” he told them. “Make it happen.”

The two men walked across the street and entered the hotel.

The two Arabs entered the hotel’s lobby and were greeted by the clerk, who raised his hands in gesticulation informing them that the upper levels of the hotel were off limits until after the Ark’s unveiling, even to the Polizia Municipale.

One of the Arab’s closed in and leaned against the desk. “Is that so?” he said in fluent Italian.

“I’m afraid the upper levels are cordoned off by Special Forces.”

“Special Forces? How many?”

“Four.”

Four. It was more than they had anticipated.

“Thank you,” he said. And then he removed a pistol with a suppressor from under his jacket and shot the clerk in the head, a hole magically appearing between the man’s eyes as he fell dead behind the counter.

The two men then began to climb the steps.

Two officers of Italy’s elite NAS police team stood post at the top of the stairwell that led to the roof. As one of Sayyid’s teammate took the steps, he was halted by one of the officers who raised a hand to stop the Arab from taking another step.

“Stop right there,” he ordered. “I’m afraid the upper levels are off limits for another hour or two.”

“But I am from the Polizia Municipale—”

“I’m afraid the upper levels are off limits,” he repeated sternly. “Even to the Polizia Municipale.”

“I see.”

The Arab turned and began to descend. And then he stopped on a lower step before facing the officer once again. “You are NAS, yes?”

“Please move along, Officer. I won’t ask you again.” By this time the second NAS officer joined his teammate, a small assault weapon in his hands.

Two on the roof, two in the hallway leading to the roof, for a total of four, considered the Arab. The entire NAS team was accounted for.

The Arab smiled. Neither officer held the point of his weapon at him, but downward, an act of complacency.

“For elite soldiers,” the Arab said, still smiling, “you never would have made my team.”

The Arab stepped aside, allowing the second Arab to round the bend of the stairwell, his pistol already drawn, the point of the laser light finding its mark of the first officer. Tap! Tap! Two shots to the man’s throat, throwing wads of meat and gristle into the background, the officer falling backward to the floor, eyes already at half-mast, his life extinguished as he landed hard on the floor.

The second target was bringing up his weapon, fast, the mouth of the barrel rising, rising. Tap! Tap! Two more shots, loud spits in quick succession through the suppressor as the bullets scored, shearing off the left side of the officer’s head as blood, gore and gray matter marked the wall next to him in a macabre Pollock design.

The Arabs raced up the stairs, their guns ready.

Sayyid checked his watch. There were thirteen minutes left for the unveiling, give another five to lift the lid from the Ark, a total of eighteen minutes.

He checked his watch. His team had already been in the hotel for two minutes and the sniper team was still manning their posts.

What’s taking them so long?

There were twelve minutes left.

The NAS sniper examined the grounds surrounding the Basilica through the lens of his Leupold scope, the crosshairs bouncing from person to person in St. Peters Square. Everything appeared fine.

His NAS partner stood looking through binoculars. In his ear was a communication bud. Every five minutes he reported his call sign, which was ‘Kill Shot One-O-One.’ He checked his watch. He had two minutes to go before calling in his sign to SIV.

The two Arabs were quiet when they opened the door leading to the roof, the sunlight slanting into the stairwell as the door slowly opened, the beam getting wider.

They moved softly and quietly, their guns holding steady.

Footfall after footfall, with the gravel beneath their feet failing to yield a noise, they neared the NAS team.

The Arab on the left aimed his weapon, the red dot finding the base of the skull of the sniper, and pulled the trigger. The officer snapped backward, his spine arcing, the point of his rifle aiming upward, and then he fell backward onto the roof, hard, the rifle skating freely across the gravel.

The second NAS officer stood in awe, his mind not appearing to register the moment or the reality of his partner’s death. He was unarmed, the binocular in his hands a useless weapon.

“Come here,” said the Arab, beckoning the man closer with his free hand, the pistol in the other. “I won’t hurt you.”

The NAS officer maintained a nonplussed look, noting their uniforms. And then revelation that was horribly dark and ugly struck him like a hammer blow. “Please,” he said, raising his hands slowly, “I have three children.”

Once the NAS officer moved away from the edge, the Arab shot him in the forehead.

They then went to the rail overlooking the Vatican Museum. Sayyid was still standing where they left him, and then waved him up.

After looking both ways along the Vaile Vaticano, Sayyid crossed the street.

Two minutes passed and Father Auciello did not hear from ‘Kill Shot One-O-One.’ He allowed another minute to lapse before calling the team.

“Kill Shot One-O-One, this is Command Center. Do you read me?”

Silence.

Then: “Kill Shot One-O-One, this is Command Center. Do you read me?”

Still no answer other than the white noise that continued to sound over the speakers, an obvious red flag since NAS was impeccably anal about communication protocol.

“Kill Shot One-O-One, this is Command Center. Are you reading me? Come in, Kill Shot One-O-One”

When there was no answer Father Auciello contacted Kimball inside the Basilica. “Kimball.”

“Yeah.”

“We’re not getting a response from Kill Shot One-O-One.”

“What’s their twenty?”

“The rooftop of the hotel across the street from the Vatican Museum.”

“Copy that. Any teams in the area?”

“Negative. They’re 400 meters out and on the borderline of VC. They’re looking for suspicious activity of vehicles, such as vans and trucks taking the Vaile Vaticano when the street has been restricted.”

“Copy that.”

“I hope everything’s Code Five.”

“I’m sure it is. Out.”

Sayyid stood at the rail overlooking the street and the front of the museum across the way, and then stared at the magnificent structure of the Basilica’s dome. He saw the people standing about the square, noted that the doors leading to the Basilica were closed and locked, a force of Swiss Guards maintaining vigilance at the gates.

The good thing about nanotechnology, he thought, was that it did not possess any smell or emit radiation, hold any biological or chemical traces, or tip its hand that it even existed at all until it was too late. It was the perfect weapon of non-detection. And it didn’t matter if they were behind closed doors. Frequencies were capable of passing through walls and windows, at least enough to stimulate the bots into action. So by locking the doors of the Basilica, they have all but sealed their own fate.

And the fate of those within the plaza was just as bleak, the openings beneath the locked doors of the Basilica causeways for the bots to enter the open forum of St. Peters Square.

Sayyid removed the laptop from his padded case and placed it on the flat part of the railing. He then lifted the lid and booted up, the laptop whirring to life.

“I want one downstairs manning the lobby,” he told them. “I don’t care which one. You decide. The other I want manning the top of the stairway to make sure that no one gets by, should the man in the lobby fail to hold back the infidels.”

One of the Arabs stepped forward, waving the point of his weapon at the Basilica. “It’s quite a ways,” he commented. “Perhaps we’re too far from the bots when they escape, yes? Perhaps we have a chance?”

Sayyid nodded. “They will last long enough to enter parts of Rome. Still, we will be too close.”

The Arab seemed disappointed in this, which was indicated by his weapon hand falling to his side.

“You are disappointed?” asked Sayyid.

“I was just wondering,” he answered.

“Then wonder no more,” he told him harshly. “You have chosen to martyr yourself. Do you think Allah will favor a man who is second guessing his decision?”

“No, Sayyid.”

“Then get below and prepare yourself for Glory,” he said. He looked at his watch. “In less than fifteen minutes you will be in Paradise.”

“Yes, Sayyid.”

The terrorist was gone.

Moments before the unveiling Kimball called upon a bishop to have Bonasero Vessucci return to the Baldacchino.

“I got a call from SIV,” he told the pope; there was a slight urgency in his tone. “It appears that an NAS team has not responded according to protocol, so I’m heading to their position with Leviticus and Isaiah.”

“We’re moments away from the unveiling, Kimball.”

“I know that. But I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

“Where?”

“They’re on a rooftop directly across from the Vatican Museum.”

“That’s quite a ways off.”

“But still within sniper range.”

“But the dignitaries are inside.”

“Who’s to say that they’re the targets? If someone is there, perhaps they have another agenda.”

“Please be careful,” he returned.

“I plan to.” Kimball removed his ear buds and motioned to Leviticus and Isaiah to follow. The good thing about Kill Shot’s position was that it was opposite the square and through Vatican grounds, where the public was not allowed. It was nothing but open fields, gardens and walkways, a straight an unimpeded path. They would be there within minutes.

When Pius returned to the dignitaries he did so as the emcee. He stood next to the guarded crate, a hand on the fabric.

Looking over the audience and seeing the almost child-like anticipation they harbored, he waited no longer. With the aid of accompanying bishops he removed the fabric, pulling it away from a Plexiglas enclosure.

The Ark of the Covenant, even in its casing, glowed with such radiance it was almost too much to believe or comprehend that gold could cast such light. It was astounding, the ethereal glow reaching outward as if trying to touch the audience, to accept them within the warmth of its magnificent aura.

The dignitaries stood in paralytic awe, mouths suspended. From some tears slipped from the corners of their eyes, the moment overwhelming.

“What I show you,” began Bonasero, “is more than the true Ark of the Covenant. What I offer you is the beginning of the healing process where all religions, all faiths, and all denominations can share and enjoy the true meaning this relic provides to all of us.”

The Plexiglas was then removed with great effort, allowing the Ark to stand alone before the Basilica’s altar. Dignitaries and religious leaders bandied around, touching it, bathing in its glory, its aura, swearing upon their souls that they could feel an indescribable elation. More people wept, including political principals suddenly enlightened by their misguided values, hoping that God would forgive them for their wayward follies. For some this was an epiphany. For others it was an awakening that the power of the Ark was real and beyond anything manmade.

There was no doubt that this was the true Ark of the Covenant.

The imam was the first to inquire. “And when can we open the lid, Your Holiness?”

Pope Pius returned the imam’s smile with one of his own. “Now,” he said. “We can open the lid now.” With a motion of his hand he gestured for the bishops to carefully lift the lid and set it aside, which they did.

When the seat of the Ark was carefully placed down, the masses crept forward for a view of what lie within.

The first word spoken: Amazing.

Kimball, Leviticus and Isaiah hastened across the grounds, sighting the back of the museum. When they reached the Viale Vaticano, they remained hidden behind the concrete columns until they could verify Kill Shot’s team and move forward.

The street was quiet. Even from this distance they could hear the cheers of the crowd.

The team could see a single man standing at the edge of the hotel’s railing obviously working a laptop. No one else was in sight.

“Is that NAS?” asked Leviticus.

Kimball held his hand out to Leviticus. “Got a scope?”

“No, but Isaiah does.”

Isaiah handed Kimball a long monocular, which Kimball used to zoom in on the man at the railing. It was the man he had seen in the photos. Although he was clean shaven, he had no doubt that it was Sayyid. He handed the monocular back.

“Kill Shot’s dead,” he told them lightly. “That’s Sayyid, which means his two goons are somewhere close. One in the lobby, for sure. Maybe both.” Kimball handed the scope back to Isaiah. “Sayyid’s wearing a police uniform,” he added, “which is how they got by. I’m sure the others are doing the same, so make positive confirmation before you engage them.”

“And the laptop?”

Kimball nodded. It could have been used for anything. “Maybe to set off an explosive somewhere.” When he said this it sounded more like a question than a statement.

“We checked everywhere, Kimball, with bomb-sniffing dogs and tech devices. There’s nothing out there.”

“What about the nanotechnology?” asked Isaiah.

Kimball shook his head again. “The Ark is clean. The entire city has been swept numerous times.”

“Maybe the Ark is a deterrent to throw us off from what they’re really planning to do. Obviously they’re here for a reason.”

Kimball’s glanced at his watch. According to schedule, the lid of the Ark had been removed. And then he returned his gaze to the terrorist. “I’d say we go ask Sayyid and find out. What do you think?”

Both men concurred with ‘hoo-rahs.’

“All right then: Ready up.”

They were going in cold and without firearms. But they checked their blades. Each man had two combat knives, very sharp, very deadly, and precisely balanced for throw shots.

“Leviticus, Isaiah, go in the back. I’ll take the front and draw their fire. And be quick,” he added. “I’m not too crazy about going to a gunfight with a knife.”

“Don’t worry about us,” said Isaiah. “You just keep your head down.”

They looked up at Sayyid, who seemed to be lost in whatever he was doing.

“Then let’s move,” said Kimball.

The team began to maneuver into position.

The man in the lobby thought he saw movement, a vague shadow passing quickly across the frosted-stain glass of the front door, then gone.

The Arab took position behind the clerk’s desk, taking careful aim with his firearm in a two-handed stance. The clerk was lying dead at his feet, staring at the ceiling, his eyes beginning to glaze over with the milky sheen of blindness.

In a fluid motion the door swung open and someone, or something, tumbled into the lobby and took refuge behind a low-level wall that was waist high and topped with vases containing fresh-cut roses.

The Arab fired his weapon in quick succession. The suppressor muting the rapid sounds of fire as the doors shattered into tempered chips of glass, the bullets stitching across the low wall, taking out the vases, rose petals flying everywhere in a riot of colors. Plumes of dust and drywall erupted as the bullets decimated the wall, the assassin hoping to find his mark.

When he emptied the clip he deftly loaded another, took aim, and waited.

The lobby was quiet.

His target stilled.

The Arab moved away from his post and stepped over the clerk with his pistol drawn in front of him, a keen eye holding steady as to what lie beyond the wall, his trigger finger applying four of the five pounds of pressure necessary to discharge his weapon.

He stepped forward, cautiously, the point of his gun leading the way, the wall getting closer.

An image appeared.

Kimball lay on his back as the haze of the drywall began to settle, his black uniform becoming laden with dust.

The assassin smiled and raised his weapon. “Allahu Ak—”

The Arab’s eyes went wide, his mouth opening, and then he fell to his knees, his eyes then rolling upward, and then fell forward, hard, the man taking the teeth-first approach with a knife sticking out at the base of his skull.

Kimball gained his feet and attempted to brush away the dust with futile swipes of his hands. “You were cutting it close,” he said. “Too close.”

“Had to make sure my aim was true,” said Isaiah. He removed the knife from the Arab, the blade extracting wetly, and wiped it clean across the Arab’s clothing.

“Eyes peeled,” whispered Kimball, pointing to the stairwell. “Now we have to work our way up.” And moving up was never easy, the advantage always belonging to those who maintain the high ground.

Kimball, grabbing the assassin’s gun, and then extracting the clip and checking to see if it was full, reseated it.

The Knights moved forward.

There was no mistaking that the lobby had been breached, thought the Arab maintaining the upper level. With the two NAS officers lying dead at his feet, he stacked one on top of the other to provide a marginal barrier as he hunkered behind them. If his teammate didn’t stop the incoming wave, then it was up to him to impede them long enough for Sayyid to complete the mission.

There was an unsettling quiet, a disconcerting hush.

He wanted to call out his comrade’s name, but didn’t want to give his position away.

He held the pistol firmly within his grip, using the bodies of the NAS officers to steady his aim.

The stairway was quiet.

And sweat was beginning to surface on the Arab’s brow, causing him to sweep his arm across his forehead.

The air was stifling, and the minutes seemed to drag on for hours, the Arab wondering if Sayyid had tooled the laptop to initiate the program.

He looked at his watch. His heart palpitating. Giving his life to Allah was not as spectacular as he thought it would be. The act of martyrdom was overrated, he considered, the thought of Paradise no longer alluring.

He wanted to run, to live. His mind raced feverishly like a desperate animal trapped against the corner of two walls with nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, his killer edging closer with the intent to kill, emblazoned in his eyes.

Although his killer went unseen, he could sense him coming closer.

He swallowed, looked at his watch. Sweat was coursing profusely along his face. And then self-preservation took over. The Arab stood, yelled, his eyes going feral, and descended the steps shooting blindly at the shadows, at anything that appeared to move, striking nothing but wall, pocking them. When his clip emptied he fumbled to seat another, the time wasted a fatal one. A bullet found its mark, a shot to the center of body mass, rupturing the man’s heart.

The Arab fell like a stone, dead the instant his knees began to buckle and before falling down the stairwell in a tumble.

Leviticus took the man’s weapon, grabbed the remaining clip, seated it, and along with Kimball and Isaiah, climbed the last leg of the staircase.

Sayyid was unaware of what had taken place inside the hotel, since the weapons were geared with suppressors. But he was not totally without the perception that the hotel had been breached, since he saw glimpses of shadows attempting to maneuver across the Viale Vaticano in clandestine manner. It was like sighting something at the edge of his periphery vision, but not quite seeing it in its totality.

But it was there no matter how obscure it may have appeared.

He ratcheted up his agenda, his fingers dancing, typing, the encrypted runes becoming letters, the letters becoming commands, the commands initiating the program.

He typed faster, sensing that he was not alone. Something was coming closer — up on his backside.

“Stop right there, Sayyid.”

The Arab stared at the monitor. His mission was all but complete. The encryptions were completely deciphered, the program waiting to be initialized with a single push of the ENTER button. His finger hovered over the key and hung there.

“I’m afraid that you are too late,” he said. “What will be, will be. And there’s nothing you can do to stop this from happening.”

“It will if I put a bullet in your brain.”

This time the voice sounded nearer, which meant to Sayyid that they were edging closer to his position. So he slowly lowered his finger, but not touching down.

“If you take another step, I will initiate the program. I may not have eyes in the back of my head, but my hearing is exceptional.” The Arab turned to face his attackers. He noted the odd configuration of uniform; saw the black clerics’ shirts and Roman Catholic collars, the incongruous combination of military wear, and the attached sheaths with combat knives.

“You are not Swiss Guard or Vatican Security, are you?”

They said nothing, their weapons poised.

“Step away from the computer,” said Kimball. “It’s not our intention to harm you.”

The Arab chortled. “I have already resigned to my fate and gladly offer my life in the name of Allah,” he said. The tip of his finger now touched the button. “Should you fire off your weapon, then I will push this button by reaction.”

Kimball aimed the firearm at the man’s head.

And the Arab saw the directed aim. “Head shot or not, my body will react all the same.”

Kimball drew in a breath. The Arab was right.

So in a quick and fluid motion, Kimball directed his aim and shot the computer.

Unfortunately, his aim was not true.

Sayyid saw the quickness of Kimball’s motion and immediately realized his intention. The Arab quickly shifted his footing, his body acting as a shield as he turned into the bullet’s path, taking the strike, the computer untouched as the bullet entered his body and ricocheted until it lodged in his lung, causing considerable damage but not the killing blow.

Before falling to his knees, Sayyid depressed the button.

Kimball had taken the gamble and lost.

Stepping to the laptop, he watched the commands on the screen scroll downward.

And then he leaned over Sayyid, grabbed him roughly by the collar, and yanked the man so close that their faces were inches apart. “What have you initiated?” he asked fiercely. “What have you done?”

The Arab laughed. And when he did so blood bubbles formed and burst at the corners of his lips. “You’ll find out within minutes,” he told him. “Within… minutes.”

And then his head fell back, slowly, his eyes growing vacant as his life left him.

When Sayyid was dead Kimball released him, and then looked over the railing at the Basilica with grave concern.

What have I done?

The mood inside the Basilica was a festive one. The Ten Commandments sat inside the Ark, two bullet-shaped tablets with engravings detailing the laws brought down from Mount Sinai by Moses.

People heralded the Ark, the tablets, defining this moment as a great time in history for all of mankind.

People banded about, smiling, Arabs and Jews and Catholics becoming a unit of one. Politicians had their spirits lifted, willing to take back with them what they had seen and felt, the goodness of overwhelming light and indescribable being, and then to share it amongst their constituencies.

And then the joviality came to a resounding halt, smiles withering, ears perking to the sound of something alien.

From the depths of the Ark came the resonance of a hum, low at first, but growing in volume like the nest of agitated wasps ready to take flight.

People backed away.

The waspy hum grew louder.

And then there were cries of pain and fear and the misunderstanding of what was happening.

Their skin begin to itch and turn red, like the beginnings of a rash, their flesh being needled as pinprick bites began to take their toll.

Outside the Basilica doors, no one could hear their screams.

“Leviticus, do something!”

Leviticus was a computer expert and hacking his forte. Decoding and deciphering runes, symbols and encryptions was his specialty. His skills surpassed by few.

He grabbed the laptop, noted the scrolling symbols, and began to type in his own set of commands.

From a distance of 400 meters they heard something quite odd. Coming from Vatican City was the unmistakable sound of a waspy hum that grew with every passing moment.

“Hurry up, Leviticus. We’re running out of time.”

He typed furiously. The symbols continued to scroll.

The hum got louder.

There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The dignitaries ran to the nearest exits in self-preservation, their flesh now burning as beads of blood began to surface. They battered frantically at something they could not see, slapping their bodies, their faces, rashes now becoming open wounds, bleeding.

And Bonasero was no different. He was human and life to him was precious. More so, he was still a creature and as all creatures do, took flight as his skin began to be eaten away, his mind going into flight syndrome. But his humanity also kicked in, directing others to the rear of the Basilica in a futile attempt to get away.

More cries. More screams. The church filling up with anguished shouts.

And then he gave in to his fate, the pope falling to his knees, his garments becoming bloodied.

And he prayed to God.

Leviticus typed quickly, his fingers not missing a required key. And then he hit the ENTER button.

They watched the screen as the symbols stopped scrolling. A moment later the monitor winked off, and then on, a new series of commands taking place, scrolling.

Leviticus had powered down Sayyid’s programming with one of his own.

But the hum continued.

And Kimball thought of one thing and one thing only: We’re too late.

As Pope Pius lay there with his skin on fire, he was cognizant enough to realize that the hum was quickly dissipating. And he chalked this up to his soul departing and leaving the corporeal world behind. The sound, the sensations, everything in life was leeching from his body.

But when the sound faded he opened his eyes and looked at the Papal Altar. People lay about while some belly crawled to nowhere in particular, whereas others struggled to their feet. Everyone was bloodied. And to Bonasero it looked like something apocalyptic, the survivors lost and in ruins as they wandered about with no aim or direction, just… walking.

Reaching down to whatever reserve he had, Bonasero gained his feet, wobbled until the dizziness faded, and began to help others.

What had been a blessing had turned into a nightmare, he thought, turning towards the Ark. Even after all that happened, it continued to maintain its extraordinary luminosity.

He looked upward at the stained glass, at the images, and then looked at the statues of Christ, and then at Michelangelo’s Pieta. The Church was unharmed.

What happened was inconceivable.

But they were alive.

And for that he was grateful.

Kimball and his team did not waste any time. They raced back to the Basilica, went in the back way where they ended up at by the Baldacchino, and summarily headed into the main area of the Basilica.

The people looked war torn, far worse than those in regions where the Vatican Knights performed rescue duties by saving the lives of Third-World refugees. These people looked like they had battled for their lives, their bodies bloodied.

Kimball stepped forward, helping and aiding those in need.

And then seeing Bonasero he went to his aid, making sure that the pontiff took to the floor and rested.

Kimball knelt beside him, a hand on Bonasero’s back to keep him in a seated position. “Are you all right?” he asked with concern.

“I’m fine,” he answered almost breathlessly. “The others?”

“Battered, bloodied, but nothing life threatening.”

The pontiff forced a smile. “That’s good,” he said. And then: “What happened?”

“It was Sayyid,” he told him. “He and his team were here. They’ve been neutralized.”

The pontiff seemed to understand this and nothing more needed to be said or asked. Kimball had come through, his team of Vatican Knights defusing the situation like so many times before. They upheld the sovereignty of the Church, its interests, and the welfare of its citizenry. They had saved the lives of those who couldn’t save their own.

“Please,” said the pontiff, pointing to the dignitaries, “help the others.”

And Kimball did.