The Vatican Knights

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Judas waited for the Lexus to exit the DHS parking lot, often checking his watch. It had been more than thirty-six hours since he had any sleep, going on adrenaline since being instrumental in the deaths of the president’s Security Detail at the Governor’s Mansion. He had considered them his friends, having bellied up to the bar with some and dined at the houses of others. But since Judas was about to benefit financially beyond his imagination, he had no remorse about diverting their attention as Team Leader’s men systematically killed them. After all, money always seems to lessen the effects of a tragedy. If anything, he wanted to smoke a cigar in celebration.

With an eye on the gate, he saw the Lexus stop at the guard post, then exit. When Shari turned east onto Nebraska Avenue, Judas made a U-turn and followed at a fair distance, wondering if she had discovered anything. If she had, he would gladly kill her, too.

Within the twenty minutes it took Shari to return to the JEH Building, traffic had picked up noticeably. Twice she found herself nodding off, only to snap awake with her fingers white-knuckling the steering wheel. After that she rolled down the window and turned up the radio, the station DJs talking about the Soldiers of Islam. Who were they? Where were they? Why haven’t they made contact? All questions that Shari had asked herself repeatedly over the past twenty-four hours.

Trying to keep one eye on the road, Shari grabbed her cell phone and thumbed a number on the keypad. After three rings the line was connected.

It was the president’s Chief Advisor. “Al Thornton.”

“Hey, Al, it’s Shari.”

“I know what you’re going to ask,” he said. “And the answer is no. They haven’t made contact.”

“I know. I’ve been listening to the news.”

“Then you’re calling to make a proposal?”

“Absolutely. By not contacting us, they’re trying to show the world that they’re in total control of the situation and that the United States has been rendered impotent. We need to show them that we’re not as powerless as they think.”

“I agree. The staff has been kicking around a few solutions, but hasn’t settled on anything.”

“We need to broadcast their photos,” she told him. “We need to let them know that this country isn’t spinning in panic but motivated to bring down the Soldiers of Islam.”

“We’ve considered that approach,” he said. “But if we do, Aljazeera will spread the news like wildfire across the Arab world. And that, my dear, would make legends out of the Soldiers of Islam, most likely fueling tension rather than suppressing it.”

“Believe me, Al, they’re already legends over there. I think it’s the best, if not the only alternative.”

“I’ll forward your proposal to the president,” he said. “And for what it’s worth, I agree. I think we need to show these bastards that they’re no longer without a face. Once they realize that we know who they are, maybe they’ll reconsider their intent. After all, there won’t be a spot on this planet where they can hide.”

“Thanks, Al.”

“We’ll keep you posted, either through Pappandopolous or Hamilton.”

“Good luck.”

Turning into the garage of the JEH Building, she found a parking stall, grabbed her items, and made her way to the elevator doors. Judas pulled silently into a spot several stalls away. As soon as the elevator doors closed behind her, Judas called Pappandopolous to inform him that Shari was back in the building.

After a few moments of discussion, Judas was relieved of duty for a much-needed sleep.

Shari was so tired that she labored in her steps to the Operations Room, which was now at full staff for the new day. The files that she carried seemed much heavier, the distance to the office much further.

Lying on a couch in the hallway with his sports jacket draped over him like a blanket was Billy Paxton, his slack-jawed features indicating that he was fast asleep.

After dropping the files onto her desk, she called her husband to touch base with him and ask about the girls. Everything was fine, he told her. The girls missed her. He missed her. The family pooch, if they had one, would miss her. The goldfish missed her. The world in general, according to Gary Molin, missed her deeply. And Shari, being so fatigued, snorted in laughter. It was a wonderful moment, without any of the tension that had been brewing in their relationship. After a few more moments on the line, she hung up, placing the phone gently onto its cradle.

Exhausted, she fell into the chair, looked at the stack of files scattered across her desktop, and released a sigh that was equal parts frustration and fatigue. Finding the pope’s whereabouts would be a long, hard process. And with so little time, there was no guarantee he would be found alive.

Staring at the CD, she picked up the plastic disc and examined it as if she had never seen it before, turning it over and over, watching the iridescent streaks of color move across the surface.

“Abraham Obadiah,” she said to no one in particular and then picked up the phone.

Fanning herself with the CD, she dialed the number for Information. The operator then directed her call to the Embassy of Israel.

“Embassy of Israel, how can I help you?”

“This is Special Agent Cohen of the F.B.I. I would like to speak to Abraham Obadiah, please.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Obadiah is out of town at the moment,” said the receptionist. “But he’s scheduled to return by—” The sound of tapping on a keyboard came over the line. “According to his schedule, he’ll be back sometime tomorrow.”

“Is it possible to get a message to him right away?” she asked. “It’s crucial that I speak with him as soon as possible. It’s regarding the kidnapping of Pope Pius.”

“Just a moment, please.” And then the piped sound of Muzak played for nearly a minute before the receptionist returned. “Agent Cohen?”

“Yes.”

“If you give me a number where you can be contacted, I’ll make sure that Mr. Obadiah gets the message as soon as he comes in.”

“Is there any way that you can contact him today?”

“I’m afraid not,” she said. “Mr. Obadiah is a difficult man to get in touch with when he’s out of the country.”

“Out of the country?”

“Yes, for the past two weeks.”

Shari released a heavy sigh. “Well, could you give me the contact numbers so that I can try to get in touch—”

“With all due respect, Agent Cohen, Mr. Obadiah’s matters are of a delicate nature. Therefore, we do not, and cannot give further information. But I’ll pass your number onto him stating that you need to be contacted immediately.”

“Ma’am, I understand your position, but you have to understand mine. This is regarding the welfare of the pope, and Mr. Obadiah may hold information critical to the situation at hand.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But our policy strictly states that due to the delicate nature of Mr. Obadiah’s position—”

“—we do not and cannot give further information,” Shari finished. “Yeah, I know. Can you at least tell me what time he’s due back tomorrow?”

There was another round of tapping on the keyboard. “His itinerary states that he’ll be here tomorrow for an afternoon meeting.”

“Then can you pencil me in for a morning appointment?”

“I’m afraid Mr. Obadiah makes his own appointments since his schedule is so erratic.”

Shari clenched her jaw in frustration. “Just have Mr. Obadiah contact me as soon as possible.”

“I’ll certainly give him the message.”

“Thank you.” She gave the receptionist numbers to her cell phone and office line and hung up.

Shari fell back into her chair in resignation. Of course she could pass the CD onto the NSA, since they were the cryptographers of the American government, but decoding would most likely take days, even weeks. Her only other viable option, and one she detested, was to wait for Obadiah to call.

And with every moment wasted, the clock was counting down the moments of the pope’s life.