Shepherd One

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Hakam prayed long and hard and deep with incredible passion since redemption was not freely given. And in the wake of his sudden loss of faith he wished for divine forgiveness, as well as a single intangible possession. He asked for the courage to see this through.

For nearly two hours he knelt on his prayer rug with his eyes closed, his body rising and lowering with his hands held out in homage, his lips moving silently as if miming the words of prayer. In the end, however, he felt no different than when he first removed his shoes and took position upon the mat. Did he truly expect Allah to speak to him? To give him an answer on whether or not he will be allowed into His Glory?

And what was that about blind faith? he challenged himself. And then he remembered: Blind faith does not require proof because no proof exists. Yet its entire concept to completely devote oneself without question continued to elude him. And though he was highly spiritual, Hakam realized he needed something more. And that, he believed, was his damning point.

The Arab stood wearing his mask of non emotion, which made the Garrote Assassin feel more at ease from across the aisle. Over the past several hours Hakam had been growing anxious and less in control, which worried him. But it appeared that prayer had done him well.

In the prayer’s aftermath Hakam put on his shoes and said nothing to Garrote, would not even face him, his heart feeling a heavy blackness that Allah had seen the truth within him.

What he must do, he does so with the hope that Allah is truly merciful.

Returning to the cockpit he noted a single email message from a source indicating the emissary from the Lohamah Psichlogit still lives, and that President Burroughs thus far has failed to move on the given target with an hour left to go.

Tapping in the required address, Hakam was automatically dispatched to the president of the United States.

Behind him, Shepherd One’s pilot sat with his eyes forward and refused to acknowledge Hakam in any way.

And Hakam addressed him. “Make sure you stay that way,” he said.

Enzio did not reply.

Within moments Hakam was online and staring into the unaffected face of President Burroughs. It appeared to Hakam that the president was playing the same card of showing little emotion, since the power behind it was to never allow your opponent the advantage of knowing what you were truly thinking. It was the classic wear of a poker face.

“Yes, Hakam, what do you want?”

Hakam wanted to smile. But that would be giving too much away.

“My sources tell me that you haven’t even begun to move on the target, Mr. President. And time is running out.”

“Be assured, Hakam, even though we may not be moving at the pace that pleases you, we are moving. Taking out an esteemed agent of the Lohamah Psichlogit is a delicate matter, which is why I requested five hours.”

“Your delicate matters, Mr. President, are of no concern to me. We both know you’re pushing for additional time, which I’m not allowing. If Ms. Rokach is not dead within the hour, then as a consequence, we will kill the pope.”

The room went completely silent as President Burroughs features continued to register little as he stared directly at the monitor.

“Think about it, Mr. President. You’re on the clock with less than one hour to obligate your half of the bargain, and my associates are watching very closely. I strongly suggest that you do not fail the pontiff. But before I go, I would like to leave you with something.” Everybody at Raven Rock watched Hakam tap several buttons before hesitating, then, after letting his finger hover over the keypad, and then looking steely-eyed into the webcam, tapped the final button with emphasis.

What came on the screen was Arabic script.

“Is Hakam still online?” asked the president.

“No, sir. He cancelled the transmission.”

Burroughs looked at the screen. “And what the hell is this?”

“It’s Arabic,” said Craner.

“I know its Arabic. I want to know what it says.”

Doug Craner made his way next to the president and began to translate word per word until the finish.

The president nodded. “It’s from The Art of War by Sun Tzu,” he said. “He’s letting us know that no matter what we throw at him, he will defeat us. Right now he’s at the point of the quote that states: ‘if double his strength, divide him,’ which is what he’s trying to do between us and Mossad.”

“And the death of the pope,” added Craner, “would only serve to muster Islamic militant faith. If the pope dies, militants may view that as a twisted moral victory, now that the so-called ‘False Prophet’ is dead, and organize an insurgent rise on both shores.”

The president recited from memory of the book. “When ten to the enemies one, surround him.”

Craner sighed. “Whenever we get a step closer, Hakam always seems to get two steps ahead.”

“What you neglect to see, Doug, is that The Art of War can work both ways as well.”

“I hardly see our advantage in this, Mr. President.”

“I’m not talking about us. I’m talking about Father Kimball. This man alone took out three opponents. So consider this, although unequal he still eluded them. But because he was incapable of withdrawing, he engaged them and halved the team. The more he reduces Hakam’s assassins, the more it reduces the quantity of the opposition.”

“Nevertheless, Mr. President, he’s still outnumbered,” stated Thornton, moving beside them with his arms crossed.

“If Father Kimball took out three men, then that tells me he can take out another three. Maybe two; Hakam hardly looks like the warrior type to me.”

“Mr. President.” Thornton looked at his watch. “We have fifty-four minutes before Hakam follows through with his threat to kill the pontiff. So do we go forward and take out Rokach? Or do we begin with our efforts to clear out LA?”

The president closed his eyes. Whenever he got one step ahead, Hakam always countered by doubling the distance between them.

“Mr. President, we need to act decisively.”

He was right. The entire team was right. For the past few hours Burroughs was banking on a solvable solution without throwing Los Angeles into a state of panic. And by going against supreme odds and if he failed, his decisions could cost hundreds of thousands of lives.

“What do we do, Mr. President?”

Burroughs turned to his CIA Director. “Doug, contact Langley and target Rokach. But do not engage her until the last possible moment. If there is no hope of resolution, then we’ll have to take her out.” He turned back to the screen. “We’ll see if Hakam is true to his word and disables a nuclear weapon as promised.”

“Understood.”

“And what about the other matter, Mr. President?” asked Thornton. “What about the people in Los Angeles?”

When he was on the verge of conceding and about to commit to the evacuation, someone inside the chamber hollered ‘incoming.’

It was a message from Father Kimball.

Basilio did not know how long it had been dark, the light coming through the holes having been snuffed hours ago. During the day the box had become sweltering hot, the temperature rising until the juices of his body ran dry. His muscles cramped into agonizing moments of torture, each tenuous fiber knotting beneath his flesh with little promise of relief.

His screams also went unheard, unheeded, nothing but an echo within his death chamber. After a while he began to lose cognition, the world beneath his feet appearing to spiral in the maelstrom of darkness, as confusion reigned. The demons of the netherworld reaching up through the shadows, waiting to pull him down.

What have I done that I deserve to go to Hell?

In time, he unwittingly soiled himself and his pleas for help became nothing more than a string of incoherent babble and words. And now Basilio, a onetime soccer star and son to Enzio and Vittoria Pastore, was dying by the inches.

If he did not get hydrated within the next two hours, then his freefall into maelstrom would come to a crashing halt the instant his heart stopped beating.

The distance to Perugia from Rome is approximately 190 kilometers, or 120 miles. And the deployment of the Vatican Knights was about to commence as the papal van neared the old factories that had once served as a munitions depot during World War II.

In the rear of the van, Leviticus stared at nothing in particular as his mind envisioned his unit moving through the old factory with all the precision of a seasoned force. There was no one better than his team of four… And no one better than the Vatican Knights.

They had taken their names from the Books of the Old Testament with the exception of Kimball Hayden, who held the moniker of Archangel but never used it. Danny Keaton had taken the name of Leviticus and fell as second-in-command, Steven Hathaway took the name of Jonah, Johnny Nazorine became Jeremiah, and Christian Placentia the name of Isaiah.

After years of growing up behind Vatican walls, these men had developed into a band of brothers groomed to be the Crusaders of a new age. They had trained to be the best in the world and had mastered much more than the martial art techniques of aikido and Chinese Kenpo. They also studied the eclectic philosophies from such men as Epicurus and Plotinus with an emphasis of study on the works The Enneads and The Confessions. Art also had its place in the teachings of such men with certain works serving to develop insight by interpreting the artistic encryptions of Da Vinci, Michelangelo and Peter Paul Rubens. And for a Vatican Knight, it was believed that the consummate development of the mind was equally as important as consummate development of the body. Together they formed a combination that fashioned men of impervious will, staunch character, and the mindset that loyalty was above all else, with the exception of honor.

These were the Vatican Knights.

Closing his eyes, Leviticus fell into prayer and asked for the safety of his unit. It was quick, however, as the van slowed to a stop.

Approximately 200 feet to the south lay a cluster of abandoned buildings. Even in obscure lighting they could see that the windows had been boarded over and the walls had aged to crumbling brick and mortar. It was also fortified by a ten-foot-tall fence.

“All right,” said Leviticus. “There are a total of four buildings. We’ll enter from the north side and work our way south. Isaiah and I will recon the second-level tiers; Jonah and Jeremiah will negotiate the first levels. If you see a tango, then you know what to do. Just make sure you do it quickly, quietly and efficiently. We don’t want to give anyone the opportunity to alert the others and make our job harder. Is that understood?”

It was.

“All right then. Weapons check.”

Every Knight examined his weapon, an MP-5 with an attached suppressor, and made sure the magazines were properly seated and the weapon action smooth. When everything appeared fitting, each man gave Leviticus a thumbs-up in approval.

“Godspeed to all,” he finalized.

Under the cover of night they exited the van and made their way to the perimeter. Each Knight wearing his assigned assault gear. In the darkness they were nothing more than a part of the shadow itself, their black uniforms and unpolished boots blending in nicely. Exposed on the breastplate of their armor was the insignia of their clan, the emblem of the Silver Pattée. And as always, and as required, each man wore a cleric’s collar as a proud attachment to his uniform.

When they reached the fence line Leviticus removed a small canister and sprayed its liquefied contents onto the chain link, the metal bubbling until it melted and gave way, opening a point of entry.

With incredible silence and speed the Vatican Knights maneuvered through the darkness and took position along the sides of the building, communicating with hand gestures. With a closed fist and then pointing to the north access doorway, Leviticus was spelling out the entry point for his team to enter as a concerted group before branching out. Counting down his fingers from four to three to two to one until he reached zero — the point of a closed fist — they entered the building.

Leviticus and Isaiah took the stairway to the second level. Jonah and Jeremiah remained below with their heads on a swivel — the points of their assault rifles ready to engage and destroy.

The pungent air of raw sewage was thick and soupy, the nauseating stench as heavy as a wet comforter. Beneath their soft laden footfalls rats scattered into the dark recesses upon their approach. Rancid pools of greasy water marked the concrete as puddles. And moonlight the color of whey poured in through the open ceiling, giving them the benefit of light when everything around them appeared to be steeped in darkness. But as they neared the building’s rear they observed an illumination not proffered by the sky at all, but of incandescent lighting.

Moments later they heard voices of distant conversation, the male tones vacillating from excitement to calm, the dialogue unmistakably Arab.

The Vatican Knights pressed on.

Three terrorists were gathered around a small table beneath the feeble glow of a bulb playing Tarneeb, a card game, when one of the Arabs stood, stretched, and checked his watch. From their vantage point the Knights observed the terrorists wearing military fatigues and the red-and-white checkered keffiyeh. Their faces were heavily bearded, an indication they had not been marked for martyrdom. And they were mightily armed with AK-47’s.

The standing terrorist made a comment in Arabic, which drew quick laughter from the two at the table as they continued to toy with their cards, then veered off down the second tier walkway and into the shadows.

As he fumbled for the zipper of his pants, the Arab continued to talk over his shoulder as he relieved himself, adding to the already stagnant puddle before him. When he returned to the table his words trailed and faltered in his step.

His two comrades sat at the table with their arms limp beside them, both staring skyward with slack-jawed surprise, as smoke curled lazily from a single bloodless gunshot wound to their foreheads.

The terrorist looked up and appeared flummoxed as he searched the surrounding shadows but spotted nothing, heard nothing. But knew someone was there.

In sudden reflex the terrorist went for his AK-47 that leaned against the table when several bullets suddenly stitched across his chest and knocked him to the floor, the body skating a few feet along the surface before coming to a full stop.

The only evidence proposing that the Vatican Knights were even there was the marginal odor of cordite, which lasted a brief moment before the natural air of pungency once again enveloped the section.

They were not seen.

They were not heard.

In the darkness, the Vatican Knights became one with the shadows.

President Burroughs was informed by Doug Craner that Imelda Rokach had been spotted in her favorite eatery alone, with a CIA operative a few tables away waiting for the order to dispatch her.

“We have twenty-five minutes left,” said Burroughs. “We need to see what our man on board Shepherd One can do.”

“And if he fails to commit himself within that time?” asked Thornton.

The president tuned to him, his face a detailed expression that spoke volumes. If Father Kimball fails in his attempt, then they would have no choice. “Then we follow through with the assassination,” he said.

Kimball Hayden worked his way to the top of the maintenance closet and pressed his palms firmly against the open space next to the water tanks that supplied the lavatory. Slowly, he began to apply pressure, the strength of his powerful arms pushing, pressing, the wall now beginning to bow and crack, the noise louder than he cared for as the fire-resistant material protested against his authority. And then a portion of the wall split and gave way, the material falling to the floor.

He immediately scrambled into the spacious bathroom and, in fluid fashion, withdrew a combat knife from its sheath. Then, placing an ear against the door, he heard nothing but the hum of the plane’s engines.

Slowly, and with marked prudence, Kimball edged the door open enough to peer down the length of the aisle leading to the fore. From his point he did not see the Garrote Assassin. The aisle was completely empty.

He moved quickly and silently, like a wraith in the plane’s aft, and made his way to the kitchen area. He looked into the elevator shaft and noted that the cables had been cut. And then he moved to the opposite side of the area and looked down the adjacent aisle.

And there they were — the Garrote Assassin and the able-bodied terrorist. The men stood in the center of the aisle with the Garrote Assassin gesticulating and speaking, whereas the other listened and nodded. Hakam was nowhere to be seen, which meant he was probably in the cockpit. That left the two disabled terrorists who were most likely posted by the trapdoor, which would put the entire faction in front of him. And this is why he chose the closet in the plane’s aft. Now there was no chance of being flanked or surprised from behind.

Kimball pulled back, his mind formulating a plan of assault. It would be easier to attempt a takedown separately, he considered, than it would to take out two insurgents in a single action.

But he had no choice. Even if protocol required patience, since the two would eventually have to separate, he was simply running out of time. He had to engage them now.

With his back against the wall he silently withdrew his second blade, the two knives now equaling his chances.

And then he self-meditated.

Slowing his breathing, Kimball peeked around the corner to gauge their location before the assault. And just as he was about to commit himself, the Garrote Assassin patted his associate on the shoulder and pointed toward the plane’s aft. With a nod the acolyte accepted whatever he was told and began to make his round of Shepherd One, starting in the rear section. In his hand was a firearm, which he held by his side as he made his way down the aisle.

Kimball, liking his odds, pulled back, firmly gripped the handles of his weapons… And waited.

The party was about to begin.

Two terrorists stood before the makeshift room fashioned from corrugated tin, each man relishing a cigarette, one seemingly more so than the other. Unlike the crew manning the point of entry, these two appeared alert and focused, neither of them taking anything for granted.

Between their whispers something else floated dreamily across the air. It was the soft, lilting sound of a cherub singing, its sweet resonance a peaceful melody that carried like the flow of milk and honey. It, however, ended abruptly when one of the Arabs banged on the tin wall, ordering an immediate desistance of the child’s singing.

The only thing that sounded thereafter was the constant and amplified dripping of rancid water from aged pipes.

Hunkering in the shadows, the Vatican Knights centered their attention to the makeshift room. There was no doubt they had found the holding pen. The problem was they could not fire their weapons at the sentries in fear that an errant bullet might miss its intended mark and pierce the wall, possibly killing a child.

And because engagement was to be had, they would have to do so in close combat.

Isaiah made a quick hand gesture that was understood by his team that he was going to move in from the left, and did so by staying within the deep-seated shadows. When he got to the side of the tin shed, he laid his MP-5 against the wall, and quietly withdrew his commando knife.

The terrorists were less than fifteen feet away, less than a two-second closing distance between them.

In an instant Isaiah was upon them, the element of surprise working in his favor as he came across in a fluid sweep and slit the throat of the closest terrorist, opening a wound that grimaced like a horrible second mouth. The second terrorist responded quickly by raising his weapon. And in doing so Isaiah responded by coming across with a roundhouse kick and knocked the weapon from the man’s grasp.

The terrorist backpedalled and withdrew his own knife, its point wickedly keen and the polish of its blade holding a mirror finish. On the floor his comrade went into convulsions as blood flowed as freely as a fount from the ruin of his throat, the man choking of his own terrible wetness.

Isaiah moved closer, the point of his weapon directed for an upward strike. His opponent held the knife in a grasp to ward off the blow, which told Isaiah that this man was no novice. He was obviously a professional whose talents went beyond the sophomoric teachings provided in an al-Qaeda camp. He was not proven wrong when he attempted to strike a blow, which was easily defended.

The men circled each other in study, their knives poised to kill.

And then they converged.

Isaiah came across in a series of quick strikes; the terrorist countering with strikes of his own as each man warded off deadly blows with fluid effort. With uncanny skill Isaiah’s motions became quicker, his circular motions repelling blows that seemed to come faster and with far more brutal force. But within a minute he had gained the edge over the terrorist and drove him back as their strikes continued to the point where their arms moved in blinding revolutions.

When the terrorist came across in a high-arcing sweep, Isaiah ducked and came up with point of his knife, penetrated the flesh beneath the lowest rib, and drove the tip upward, piercing the heart for a quick and merciful kill.

As the terrorist lay there with his eyes at half mast and showing nothing but white, the cherub began to sing and filled the air with a wonderful sound of sweetness.

Al — Rashad had seen it all from a distance.

He found the bodies in the north-side entryway; the three men shot dead, two as they sat playing Tarneeb. From that point he moved with stealth, the barrel of his Glock appearing impossibly long with its attached suppressor until the holding pen came within sight.

From the first-floor level he watched one man quickly take out two of his best. But barring the quick kill of al-Abbas, al-Ghafur was not an easy takedown; his weaponry skills in double-edged combat at one time made him the best in the Iranian Revolutionary Guard. His opponent, however, took him out in less than sixty seconds.

What made the entire situation odd — at least in al-Rashad’s mind — was the total lack of an invasion from a complete assault team. This guy was mercenary.

But who sent him?

And could one man alone take out a faction of five?

Believing this not to be the case, al-Rashad explored the shadows from afar. But he could not see anyone else. Although he knew they were there, somewhere, and watching very closely.

Slowly, with the cover and aid of rusted machines that hadn’t worked for more than half a century, al-Rashad moved from one unit to the next, hunkering low, then hiding, pin-balling from one useless machine to another, as he retreated from the area.

But as stealthy as al-Rashad was he did not go undetected.

From the shadows on the second tier he was clearly seen. And when al-Rashad departed the vicinity for the safe haven of an adjoining building, Leviticus was not too far behind.

Vittoria Pastore cradled her youngest daughter who sang an old nursery rhyme, her voice as sweet as an angel.

Enclosed in absolute darkness they were not oblivious to sound. Beyond the walls they could hear the clashing of metal striking metal, which was soon followed by a quick bark of pain that was followed by silence that was terrifyingly whole. And in the wake of that silence her daughter sang to dispel the horrors beyond the door — the singing, in effect, a placebo that made their fears tolerable.

In Vittoria’s hand — the hand not cradling her child — she gripped Basilio’s shirt with such intensity the fabric bled between the gaps of her fingers. And now he was gone, her Basilio, her son. And they would be next. She knew this. So despite the guard’s requests of desistence, she allowed her baby to sing.

When the lock on the door began to rattle, she pulled her daughters close.

The singing never stopped.

When the door opened a feeble wash of light filtered into the room. And she could see a man in uniform standing silhouetted within the doorway against an illuminated backdrop.

“Ms. Pastore?” The voice was calm and benevolent, the quality of his tone passive. “Are you all right?”

She pulled the children tighter when the man came forward.

“I’m Isaiah,” he said kindly. “We were sent by the Vatican.”

When he stepped into the moderate lighting she could see the fresh-scrubbed look of a young and handsome man, which was far from the bearded and unkempt look of her captors. “I think… they killed my boy,” she told him, proffering Isaiah her son’s shirt.

When he took it he saw the dried blood. “Ms. Pastore, do you know how many people took you? How many people are involved here?”

For a moment she appeared lost, her eyes glazing over and going distant until, “Six,” she whispered, and then she leaned over and kissed the blond crown of her youngest daughter before turning back to Isaiah, the faraway cast in her eyes completely gone. “I saw six. But there could be more.”

They had neutralized five, leaving one.

“Will you please find my Basilio?” she asked him, her voice cracking. “He’s a very good boy.”

“Of course,” he said gently. In recompense he returned to her Basilio’s shirt, which might be the only thing left of him. “We’ll try our best.”

She took the shirt, brought it to her face, and wept. No longer could she hold back the tears and be strong for her daughters who now joined in, each sobbing and crying, the terror yet to go away.

And though they were safe, Isaiah knew a long period of catharsis was sure to follow.

And this was their beginning.

Poking his head through the doorway, Jonah spoke in a hushed tone. “Isaiah, Leviticus isn’t at his post.”

“There’s another one out there,” he informed him. “My guess is that he’s backtracking to see if we were being flanked or followed.”

In other words, the man was on the hunt.

When al-Rashad opened the door to Basilio’s locker hold, the boy spilled out and tumbled down the low mound of rubble it was situated on.

The boy appeared red, almost scarlet, his flesh warm to the touch. “Get up, boy. You’re not dead yet.”

Basilio smacked his dry lips, the lower lip crusted with blood. “Water…”

“You want water? I’ll tell you what; I’ll piss down your throat if you don’t get up within the next two seconds. How’s that for water?”

Basilio rolled his eyes. The boy was really out of it. And although al-Rashad needed him for leverage, he didn’t want to be burdened with dead weight either.

“I’m going to count to five, kid, and that’s it. If you don’t get up,” al-Rashad pointed his Glock at Basilio’s head, “then I will shoot you dead. One… Two…”

Basilio made a valiant effort, which showed al-Rashad the boy was at least cognizant enough to understand directions, but failed mightily in his attempt to get to his feet.

“Three…”

Basilio began to whimper, yet it sounded more primal than the whine of a fifteen-year-old boy. It was the cry of self-preservation.

“Four…”

Suddenly al-Rashad’s vision exploded in a nebulas cloud of brilliant whiteness. When his mind cleared he found himself on the ground with a man looming over him with the mouth of his MP-5 directed at his forehead. “Are there any more?” he asked.

“Any more what?”

Leviticus pressed the barrel against al-Rashad’s cheek, indenting the flesh. “How many in your team?”

Al-Rashad smiled, showing the lines of his teeth. “Millions,” he said. “In the army of Allah, there are millions.”

Leviticus repositioned the barrel from the man’s cheek to the center of his forehead.

“You think shifting your weapon from one side of my face to the other is going to make a difference?”

“How many?”

“I’ve told you.” And then the big man cocked his head, noting the Roman Catholic collar that was starch white, even in the quasi-darkness, and the striking Silver Pattée and flanking lions that stood out on his body armor akin to the S on superman’s chest. “Who are you?”

“How many? I won’t ask again.”

In the rubble Basilio moved, which prompted Leviticus to quickly shift his eyes away from al-Rashad and to the boy. The action, however, proved costly as the downed Arab came across with his leg and cut Leviticus right out from under his stance, the MP-5 going airborne.

By the time Leviticus got to his feet al-Rashad was already up with postured hands and feet in Tae Kwon Do fashion. Besides being immensely large, the man was quick.

Circling slowly around his opponent, Leviticus remained ready as he silently condemned himself for making a sophomoric mistake. Taking his eyes of his opponent was a fundamental error which could have cost him his life, and may still.

Holding his hands in a style al-Rashad did not recognize only made the man of simian appearance bolder. “And what do you call that position?” he taunted. “You hold yourself like a little girl.”

Leviticus did not respond.

Between them lay the MP-5. But this time Leviticus was not about to shift his gaze. His lesson duly learned.

“Are you a priest?”

More silence as al-Rashad goaded him.

“And that emblem on your chest…”

Leviticus stood rooted, waiting, hands and feet ready.

And then the Arab lunged forward, his massive hands striking and cutting in an attempt to kill. But Leviticus’s unorthodox style made it easy for him to defend against the larger man’s blows as they glanced off him with little effect, further enraging al-Rashad.

In a savage scream the Arab came across with his hand, missing, then cut back, hitting nothing but open air. And then he came across and sliced at him with an open elbow, missing, kicked out with his leg, the move easily defended and the leg pushed aside, throwing the larger man off balance and forcing him to reconnoiter his position.

For the moment both men took a recess as they studied each other.

Whereas al-Rashad appeared winded, the Vatican Knight seemed hardly effected. Worse, his opponent looked as if he was simply toying with him.

“I was the best in my class in martial arts,” he told Leviticus as he sucked in air. “So you don’t stand a chance.”

“A four-year-old girl could kick your ass.”

The Arab’s eyes immediately flared in the same flash of moment that his simian brow took on the furrowed lines of someone becoming highly agitated. In uncontested rage he went after Leviticus with blows far deadlier than his initial assault, the blade of his hands coming across, then down, forcing the Vatican Knight to backpedal and retreat. When he drove Leviticus against a concrete pillar, the Arab came around with a perfect roundhouse kick and drove the flat of his foot against a support, the impact cracking the column and giving it a slight dog-bend appearance. But Leviticus ducked and maneuvered out of the way — a man toying with a child, then stood aside.

Al-Rashad turned with his chest heaving and pitching, the veins in his arms and neck sticking out like cords, his face scarlet red.

And Leviticus realized the man would never quit.

Al-Rashad came forward, slowly, with his hands balled into lethal fists. “This time,” he said. “I will kill you.”

Leviticus shook his head. “I’m afraid not,” he said. And then: “It’s now… my turn.” With that he launched himself against the much larger man by raining blows that were impossible to defend against, the motions quick, damaging, one hand following the other, strike after strike connecting, hurting, driving a fount of blood from the big man’s nose, al-Rashad falling back, stumbling, his hands flailing wildly about in a futile attempt to defend himself, failing. And then Leviticus took flight, defied gravity, his vertical leap taking him higher than mere mortals could comprehend, and then came across in a blinding revolution that connected with the man’s simian jaw, the force snapping al-Rashad’s neck.

Within moments the Arab was no more.

After grabbing his MP-5, he went to aid of Basilio who was able to prop himself up on an elbow. “How are you, son?”

“Water…”

Leviticus smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll get you what you need.”

The boy was going to be all right.

For the past hour Hakam was unable to reach al-Rashad or any member of his team, which disturbed him greatly. The Perugia laptop was to be manned at all times, no excuses, which led Hakam to believe the old munitions depot had been compromised. And if that was the case, then his leverage over the pilot was gone.

Hakam slowly lowered the screen of his laptop. “Your family is doing well,” he lied. “And so that you know, it has been agreed by the principals that their death would serve us no purpose. If you do not allow your conscience to run interference in regard to the pope, and if you continue to follow through with my wishes, then your family will be freed.”

Enzio did not believe him as he gave Hakam a hard, sidelong glance.

“There’s something you wish to ask me?” said Hakam.

Enzio nodded. “What guarantees can you give me that my family will be safe?”

“They have not seen the faces of those who took them. Nor do they know where they are. Once the United States meets my demand, then your family will be returned unharmed.”

“And if the Americans do not follow through?”

“Then the United States will suffer the consequences.”

Enzio was clearly guarded. So he proposed a question served to determine Hakam’s truthfulness. Depending how Hakam answered would help him decide whether or not the Arab was sincere. The answer would surprise him. “Am I going to die?”

Hakam did not hesitate. “Yes… You and everybody else aboard this plane.”

If Hakam had said no, then Enzio would have cast him off as a liar, realizing the Arab was simply telling him what he wanted to hear. But this was not the case. Maybe his family had a chance after all.

“As it now stands,” said Hakam, “your children will grow old and have children of their own. And your wife will be the doting grandmother. Should you deviate from anything I tell you to do, then your entire lineage will be destroyed by the time the sun rises over Italy.” Hakam slowly got to his feet, feeling secure that his truths and untruths weaved an uncertainty within the pilot. And then he punched his point home. “The life of your family for your loyalty, that’s all I ask for.”

Enzio turned back to view the open sky, the micro expressions on his face telling Hakam that he was warring with himself and losing.

“Do I have your loyalty?”

Enzio nodded. When it came to surrendering moral fortitude for the lives of his family, he saw no other alternative. “And what exactly are you asking from me?”

Hakam felt overwhelming shame. As much as he prayed and pled his case to Allah, his courage escaped him. So he had to place his faith in a most unlikely ally. “Within the hour, the Americans will inform me on whether or not they have followed through with my demand. If they have, then they will plead for more time so they can follow through with additional plans. And I will grant them three hours, and no more. At the end of the third hour you will redirect Shepherd One over the center of the city and take her down to ten thousand feet. Is that clear, Captain Pastore — to ten thousand feet? If you fail to do that under any circumstances, then my people holding your family have been ordered to take their lives and place their heads along the sidewalk in front of the Polizia De Stato as I promised you earlier.”

Enzio felt highly vulnerable. Hakam had played him well. “And I have your promise that my family will be fine?”

Hakam placed the flat of his hand on the laptop. “You have my solemn word,” he lied. And then he left the cockpit.

Imelda Rokach had no idea she was being targeted for assassination. Nor did she realize that her death would serve two purposes for the president of the United States, a man whom she had never met. One, she would become the mechanism to deactivate a nuclear weapon, if Hakam was to honor his word. Two, her death would give the president much needed time to re-explore his position regarding the four additional targets — perhaps as much as five hours, which was ample time to evacuate Los Angeles.

It was amazing how a single person became the unwitting key to the salvation of tens of thousands in a city across the country. But in the business she was in, getting blindsided was the norm, even by her allies.

Inside a heath food restaurant she toyed with her salad as she read the Washington Post, her eyes focused on the printed page rather than her surroundings, as taught by Mossad no matter the circumstance. But she was in America, which was unlike her beloved Israel that was always under constant threat. Here, there were no volleys of rockets or suicide bombers.

Less than ten feet away a man dressed in suit and tie was sipping a latte while staring at the busy D.C. streets, the weather warm, sunny, the day turning out to be wonderful. On the table was a folded copy of the Post. And positioned within the paper was a.22 caliber Colt automatic with an attached suppressor.

The operative waited for the abort command through his wireless earpiece. If it did not come within the next twenty minutes, then he was to take her out. At that time he would grip the weapon, keep it shielded beneath the paper, and as he walked by put a bullet in her head with the gun sounding no louder than a spit. By the time she was discovered slumped forward in her salad he would have already immersed himself with the crowd.

The man checked his watch.

He had almost fifteen minutes to go.

He sipped his latte.