The Vatican Knights

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Team Leader moved to the end of the governor’s mattress and nudged it with the toe of his boot. “Get up, Governor. It’s time to put your best face forward and make history.”

The governor lifted his head, his eyes narrowing to penetrate the semi-darkness but failing to adjust accordingly. A haze still gathered in his mind, the effects of the ketamine derivative finally dissipating. To him, Team Leader’s voice sounded like a distant cry from the end of a long tunnel, the timbre muted and hollow.

“Get up, Governor.”

This time the voice was closer, stronger, the articulation clearer.

“Governor, it’s time.”

Governor Steele saw the phosphorous green light suspended in space above him. And then he remembered the green lights, moving like fireflies in his bedroom. He remembered the struggle and the bite of the needle. He remembered it all. “Where am I?”

“It’s time, Governor.”

Steele struggled for coherency, trying to get his bearings.

Team Leader moved closer. In a voice far more affable than menacing, he said, “Please, Governor, it’s time.”

Steele raised his head enough to see a gray morning light working its way through the ribbing of thin boards that covered the windows like the slats of vertical blinds. Dust motes were floating in slow eddies in the shafts of light. The combination of feeble light and floating dust cast a tomblike pall.

Team Leader switched off his monocular and flipped up the eyepiece assemblage. In the dim light, Steele couldn’t make out the color of the man’s eyes, only that he was wearing a ski mask with piping around the eye holes.

“Governor, we’re ready for you.”

“I demand to know—”

“Kodiak!” Team Leader called out.

“—who you are!”

From the adjoining room, a man entered the holding area and stood silhouetted against the backdrop of a boarded-up window. He was tall, foreboding and massive. There was no depth to his shape, no indication that he was anything but two-dimensional. There was something preternatural about him, something blacker than black. In the governor’s mind, this thing was Death.

Team Leader took a step backward and gave a wide berth to the behemoth beside him. “I do believe it’s time to move along,” he told Kodiak. “Please bring the governor into the next room and set him before the camera.”

There was no noise from the shadow man. Nothing told the governor that Kodiak was more than a shape until he felt the large man grab him with unnatural strength and unfasten his shackle. While the governor rubbed his wrist, Kodiak lifted him to his feet and escorted him to the next room, sometimes giving a healthy shove to goad him in a certain direction.

“Where are you taking me?” asked Steele.

“You really want to know?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

“You’re moving the mile, Governor.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re a dead man walking.”

The governor finally understood. He was going to be executed.

The Oval Office was rife with tension as Vice President Bohlmer vented about the complacency of the Secret Service members who were killed during the abduction of the pope. Their guns hadn’t been drawn, nor had a single shot been fired in defense, except those from Cross’s weapon. The agents were simply caught unaware, and the Secret Service had no answers. There was no trace evidence, no physical evidence, nothing. Three hundred sixty degrees of direction and no one knew where to begin.

President Burroughs sat behind his desk listening to Bohlmer voice his anger. They had become one of the few political tandem teams who had a truly symbiotic relationship. The vice president was not chosen because his constituency was strong enough to garner electoral votes, but because the two shared a mutual respect and an awareness of the country’s needs.

Now that Day One had turned into Day Two without so much as a word from the Soldiers of Islam, the heads of the political machine were considering their next course of action. The word in the media was that the FBI had one of the nation’s best working on the situation — Billy Paxton of the Hostage Rescue Team.

There was no mention of Shari Cohen.

“Jonas, take it easy before you have a stroke,” the president finally said.

The vice president raised his hands in submission, fought for calm, and took his rightful chair located on top of the Presidential Seal on the bright blue carpet.

Also in attendance were several of the president’s advisors, including Chief Advisor Alan Thornton, Attorney General Dean Hamilton, CIA Director Doug Craner, and FBI Director Larry Johnston.

“So what have we got so far from the intelligence community?” asked the president.

CIA Director Doug Craner didn’t look at the sheaf of papers in front of him, but held it there for reference. “Our intel abroad is picking up nothing from Aljazeera or any other Arabic news agency, other than praise for the Soldiers of Islam. The Arab chat rooms are loaded, but no significant leads have been gleaned from them thus far.”

“What about intercepted emails and messages from those on the FBI watch list?”

Johnston shook his head. “Same thing,” he said. “There’s really nothing out there of any significance. Just a few dangling carrots that have already been discredited.”

“But you’re following up?”

“Yes sir. Every lead, no matter how insignificant it may seem, is being investigated.”

“And what about you, Dean? You’ve been pretty quiet.”

Attorney General Dean Hamilton sat in a tack-studded leather chair with one leg crossed over the other. “Well, Mr. President, I’m afraid that these Soldiers of Islam, for whatever reason, wish to remain unseen and unheard. I’m afraid that I have nothing to add to what these gentlemen have already submitted to you.”

“Which means that we now have to take the initiative and ferret out these animals on our own?”

“I would say so, yes.”

President Burroughs turned to his advisors. “Options?”

Thornton leaned forward, his hands raised and ready to gesticulate as he spoke. “We know the terrorists’ identities,” he said. “So I think it’s time to play to the media and post their photos. Maybe somebody — a co-worker, a friend, anybody — will contact us with reliable leads.”

The president rubbed the base of his chin, one of his many contemplative habits. After a moment of awkward silence he made his decision.

“Obviously, we need to initiate some type of action to at least appease the international community.” He rose slowly from his chair and gazed out the window overlooking the Rose Garden and jogging track. “Dean?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Inform Paxton. Get him in front of the camera for a live update as soon as possible. And inform Ms. Cohen, too.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s see how the snake reacts when it knows the mongoose is on its tail.”

As the room emptied, the president continued to stand at the window looking out at the Rose Garden. His favorite was Joseph’s Coat.