The Vatican Knights

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The camera room was just as dusty, tomblike, and unkempt as the holding area. The walls were gutted, broken plaster laying in pieces along the dust-laden floor. Pop and beer cans lay discarded with old condoms that were now nothing more than dried husks, and dust motes floated with hypnotic grace. Against the west wall a canvas tarp was nailed to a header beam, providing a neutral backdrop for the camera. A twelve-amp generator hummed, providing power for two lamps stationed on either side of the staging area.

As Team Leader entered the room with Kodiak prodding the governor along, Boa was making the final adjustments to the camera’s tripod.

“Are we ready, Mr. Boa?” asked Team Leader.

Boa nodded. “We are.”

Although Team Leader turned toward Kodiak, he didn’t have to issue an order; Kodiak knew exactly what to do. Moving to a marked spot ten feet in front of the camera, Kodiak shoved the governor to the stage and forced him to his knees. Removing a pair of handcuffs from his duty belt, Kodiak cuffed the governor from behind and stood back. The stage now belonged solely to Governor Steele.

Here, Team Leader did a peculiar thing — he moved onto the stage and patted the governor on the shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Boa.”

Boa turned on the camera and directed the lens to Team Leader, who stood with military erectness in his black tactical jumpsuit, boots and ski mask. After counting down on his fingers from three to two to one, Boa directed a finger at Team Leader, who began speaking in perfect Arabic. “No doubt the nation is wondering what happened to your Devil’s Advocate, Pope Pius the Thirteenth.”

The camera slowly zoomed in for a close-up of Team Leader and the governor, a predetermined shot. The governor’s blanched face held the sallow color of a fish’s underbelly. The pallor of his face made the new growth of his beard appear darker, more dramatic.

“My name is Abdul-Aliyy,” said Team Leader, “of the Soldiers of Islam. Your nation has degraded our culture, murdered our children, and continually supported the evil Zionist state of Israel. If you do not meet our demands, then your Devil’s Advocate will die. There will be no discussions, no debates, and no negotiations. All terms are to be met without delay. For every day the demands are not met by your lying government, we will kill a member of the Holy See for your government’s resistance.”

Team Leader reached down and unsnapped the strap of his holster. “Our intent is not simple murder,” he stated. “Our intent is to enlighten the governing forces of your country that our demand for Arab sovereignty must be met. You and your allies will remove all occupying forces from the Middle East, release all prisoners from any custodial institutions, and most importantly, you will aid in the removal of the Zionist state of Israel from Arab soil.”

Team Leader paused for dramatic effect, then continued with harsh resolve. “You are no longer safe within the borders of your country,” he said firmly, evenly, with a hint of derision. “Nor are you safe in your schools, your churches, or within the confines of your own homes. The subjects we hold are proof that we can get to you anytime, anywhere.”

Team Leader reached down and grabbed a thatch of the governor’s hair, forcing his head in line with the camera, a pre-established cue for Boa to zoom in and capture the governor’s terrified features.

“Governor Steele is to be our first moral sacrifice,” Team Leader said. “A sacrifice which, in the eyes of Allah, is justified to gain what is right.”

Team Leader released the governor, who fell to the floor in a fetal position. From the camera’s right side, Kodiak entered the video and lifted the sobbing Steele back into a kneeling position, then disappeared once again beyond camera range.

Team Leader stood behind the governor and brandished a pistol. Within view of the camera, he securely attached a suppressor and held the gun by his side.

The governor barked something undecipherable, then pleaded for his life, first calling on God, then on his assassin. “Please don’t do this,” he said. “Please.”

Team Leader pressed the mouth of the barrel against Steele’s temple. “This is because your government is a lying whore dog,” he said.

At that moment, the governor doubled over, a writhing, sobbing mass. Team Leader grabbed him by the collar of his pajama top and yanked him back into a kneeling position. Then, with one deft move, he grabbed a hank of the governor’s hair and forced his head back, making it compulsory for the governor to look deep into his assassin’s eyes.

The governor didn’t understand Arabic, but the intentions behind the Team Leader’s words rang clear. “Please,” he whispered. “Don’t.”

The hatred within the assassin’s eyes seemed to fade, with perhaps a softening in judgment, but Team Leader acted without conscience and pulled the trigger. The Sig went off in a muted report as the governor’s head snapped hard to the direction of the shot, then recoiled. With a detached gaze, the governor continued to kneel there as if deciding whether or not he was dead. When the governor fell hard against the floorboards, Boa zoomed in to catch the blood pooling in a halo around his head.

Team Leader stepped back into the camera’s frame, the weapon by his side, the mouth of the barrel smoking, a dramatic effect.

Off camera, Kodiak dragged the governor’s body from the stage and began wrapping it in plastic sheeting and duct tape. On camera, Team Leader continued his address.

In perfect Arabic he reiterated the policy of “no discussions, no debates and no negotiations.” If their demands weren’t met in a timely fashion, the pope would be executed for the sins of the Great Satan.

The message was clear. Allah required that every last man, woman and child not of Arab heritage be eliminated from Arab lands. In Allah’s eyes, the blood of Arabs is sacred, the blood of all others expendable.

Boa rewound the tape, ejected it from the camera and handed it to Team Leader.

“It’s absolutely necessary,” he told Boa, “for this to work. We must all share the same passion. If we’re without a shared passion, the cause will founder.”

Boa and Kodiak understood. If they didn’t become dehumanized, they would fail.

Looking down at the body, neither showed any evidence of remorse.

Shari Cohen stayed active in the Operations Room trying to glean current information from the Italian, Russian, French, and German intelligence agencies. So far nothing had come from the Islamic sources residing in those countries besides praise for the Soldiers of Islam, which only fueled her frustration. She was trying to track something that seemed to have no substance.

Needing time alone to regroup her thoughts, she returned to her office when the phone began to ring. “Special Agent Cohen.”

Pappandopolous’s bass-heavy voice was unmistakable. “Paxton’s about to address the nation on behalf of the president,” he said, “and the attorney general wants you to sit up and take notice. When Paxton gets off the dais, the AG wants you to take over the reins.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Just watch,” he said. “You got a couple of minutes before Paxton goes on.” He abruptly hung up.

She placed the receiver back into its cradle and rubbed her eyes. Looking into a full-length mirror on the wall and not liking what she saw, she retrieved a brush and compact from her purse and did a cursory makeover. After trying to smooth out the wrinkles in her skirt that had grown into pleats, she gave up and went to the luncheon area where TV screens projected from every corner of the room.

Billy Paxton appeared on each monitor, looking polished. He wore a fresh shirt and tie, the colors matching, a dark blue tie against a baby blue shirt. His hair no doubt had been coiffed by an on-site stylist.

Once at the podium he went into the scripted diatribe against the Soldiers of Islam. He revealed who they were, where their cell group initiated from, their backgrounds, and then the photographs of the six remaining terrorists.

Shari was pleased. Now the Soldiers of Islam could no longer hide behind their masks.

For thirty minutes Shari watched Billy Paxton take center stage before returning to her office, her mind racing, only for her thoughts to come to a startling halt when she saw Punch Murdock sitting in her office. She recognized the man by his broken nose, the appendage leaning noticeably to one side of his face.

“Can I help you?”

Murdock stood holding his hat in one hand and a manila envelope in the other. “Ms. Cohen?”

“Yes.”

Murdock smiled and gave a perfunctory nod in greeting. “My name is Marion Murdock,” he said. “I’m here because—”

“Punch Murdock,” she interrupted.

His smile broadened. “You know of me?”

“Of course.” She held her hand out to him.

“Oh, yes.” He laid his hat on the chair and took her hand warmly. “I’m so pleased to finally meet you,” he told her. “I’ve always heard about the great things you’ve done for the department over the years.”

“And the same goes for you,” she said. “I’ve finally met the man behind the myth.”

Murdock nodded, his face flushing just a bit. “I think perhaps the legacy has been embellished,” he informed her.

“I don’t know,” she said. “The word in the White House corridors is that you’re the real deal.”

All of a sudden the man’s smile left him, making him difficult to read. “Not anymore,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve heard about my detail?”

She nodded. “I have. And I’m sorry for the families who have lost a loved one. Please accept my condolences. I know it’s never easy to lose team members who have become friends.”

“They were good people. They didn’t deserve this.”

“Nobody deserves something like this.”

Then, pointing to the seat where he had just laid his hat, Murdock asked if he could sit down.

“I’m sorry — yes, of course. Please, have a seat.”

After removing his hat from the chair and placing it on the corner of Cohen’s desk, Murdock handed her the manila envelope.

“What’s this?”

“CSI reports regarding the findings within the Governor’s Mansion and the complete and extensive dossiers on the Soldiers of Islam. I understand you’re to be privy to all the facts. And just to let you know, Ms. Cohen, the president has the same set of paperwork, as does the attorney general and the other responding agencies who want to know where the blame lies so they can cover their asses.”

She looked directly into his eyes and noted the solemn despair behind them. “I’m truly sorry for the loss of your team,” she said.

“I appreciate it, but you know as well as I do that all political fingers will be pointing in my direction. That’s the business we’re in, Ms. Cohen. So that legacy you alluded to earlier seems a bit less meaningful, don’t you think?”

“It’s not your fault, Punch. You weren’t even there.”

“That’s the point. As team leader on such an important detail, I should have been.”

Shari observed the classical signs of survivor’s guilt. “Nobody knew this was going to happen.”

“Of course not, and that’s why my team became complacent. They should have been better prepared. And if I had been there, they would’ve been.” He raised his hand as if to apologize for his sudden rise in volume. “I’m not yelling at you,” he said. “I’m just frustrated, that’s all.”

He then pointed to the envelope in her hand. “You’ll probably want time alone to read that over,” he added. “So I’ll be on my way.” He stood, grabbing the fedora off her desk. “I just wanted to meet the Shari Cohen that I’ve heard so much about,” he added.

She smiled. “You’re very kind.”

At that point he raised a finger, indicating one last thing. “As a courtesy to me,” he began, “and since the hammer is about to fall on me because of the failure of my detail, all I ask is that you keep me in the loop if you should come across anything.”

Shari hesitated, her shoulders slumping in apology.

Murdock understood. “Don’t worry. Nobody wants to jeopardize his own career by dealing with damaged goods,” he stated, putting on his hat. “I can’t blame you.”

“It’s not like that at all.”

“Really.”

“Protocol dictates that we deal only with the agencies directly involved in this matter, for fear of misappropriation. You know that.”

Murdock feigned a smile. “It’s nothing personal, Ms. Cohen. I was just asking for a favor, and I fully understand your position. I probably would have done the same if I was in your shoes.” Before closing the door behind him he made one last remark. “I was told to bring that report to you because it appears I have been relegated to the role of gofer. So much for the myth you were talking about earlier,” he said. “I guess you’re only as good as you were the day before. So be careful, Ms. Cohen. Even though you’re a legend today, you may be a has-been tomorrow. Have a good day.”

After he closed the door she opened the flap and took out a manuscript at least seventy pages thick.

She began to read. The report covered every aspect of the crime scene testing.

Only indigenous prints had been found; however, there was absolute proof that some areas had been sanitized. She had to wonder why the Soldiers of Islam had concealed some facets of the slaughter and then deliberately left behind the bodies of al-Hashrie and al-Bashrah as a calling card.

She then cross-referenced the dossiers with the assassins’ methods. The president’s men had been murdered either by garrote or by well-placed kill shots, methods of specially-trained assassins. Yet the dossiers of the Soldiers of Islam stated that they had gone through nothing more than basic training. Even if she assumed that their basic training was a precursor to more specialized military training, the facts did not add up. According to the timeline, after their basic training was completed, they were immediately shipped off to the States to become computer jockeys for recruitment purposes and cyber spying. They were not soldiers of elite status.

Yet they were.

She closed her eyes. Nothing seemed to make sense. After reading the report in its entirety and finding other evidence of sanitation, all she could do was nibble on her lower lip in bewilderment.