The Vatican Knights

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The last trails of light from the sun’s westward trajectory dispelled into magenta twilight. It was a magnificent view apt even for an artist’s canvas, but Shari didn’t notice the beauty of the colors painting the heavens as she made her way home. Her eyes were focused elsewhere beyond the road, her movements to steer the car in the right direction governed by reflex and habit alone, since she had driven the same course for years.

Since her debacle meeting with Abraham Obadiah, she made constant calls to Mossad and got nowhere. She even went as far as to talk to the Director of Mossad, who was no different from Abraham Obadiah, just another stone wall who denied everything.

For the first time in her life she felt like she was spiraling downward into an abyss that held nothing but a deep despair. The actual mindset of ‘not knowing’ terrified her.

As soon as she turned into her neighborhood her eyes focused the moment she spotted her brownstone. After turning into the garage she knew that she should regroup and train her thoughts on her family. But she found it impossible. So she sat there with her mind working to the point where her thoughts detained all the vagueness of a drunken stupor, that sense of feeling utterly lost and alone.

As brilliant as she was, she stood by alone in this political nightmare.

And for a moment she felt a deep and shameful pang of self-pity.

In her mind’s eye she could see her grandmother’s hardened face that was much older than her given years. Yet her voice was strong and gentle and carried the weight of courage and resolve. It was a voice recalling a moment when the sky over Auschwitz rained ashes for days on end — the buildings and camp becoming laden with gray soot, the image somewhat ghostly and pale, the demeanor somber and cold. And of course there was the repugnant odor of burning flesh, which no one dared to speak of. Yet she never became hollow, always propelling herself mentally, believing that willpower overcame the abhorrence of those who cruelly bound her. In the end, she was right.

Shari closed her eyes and pulled deep with her nostrils, taking a lungful of air to soothe her, then released the air in an equally long sigh. She had no right to feel dismayed when her grandmother had suffered through much greater. So she admonished herself quietly and thanked her grandmother for all the stories that held lessons to draw from in moments like this.

Reaching for the key in the ignition, she saw the crumpled business card in the ashtray, untouched since she placed it there earlier. Grabbing the card and unfolding it, she smoothed out the creases. It was just a simple business card — no fancy fonts or styles — just sophomoric typeface with the phone number of the D.C. Archdiocese. She brought the card to her brow as if she might glean something from it through osmosis and tried to recall the man who gave it to her. For a brief moment she struggled for clarity. Then it came to her: Kimball Hayden, a name from the past she had heard before only in whispers, forgotten until now.

Approximately six years ago as an upstart in the counterterrorist program, Shari was in the company of men who didn’t realize her presence until after the name of Kimball Hayden was spoken with a measure of reverence and referred to as “a man who was as deadly as he was without conscience.” When the attorney general at the time and top-ranking official from the Joint Chiefs realized her presence, they immediately drew upon another topic. But Shari had already taken in snippets of conversation that had painted Kimball Hayden as a brutal killing machine.

She placed the card back into the recess of the ashtray. This man, professing to be an emissary of the Vatican, couldn’t have been the same Kimball Hayden. The man she recalled was an unrelenting and remorseless killer.

With the thoughts of Kimball Hayden ebbing, she decided to research data on the CD and scrape together whatever information she could. At best, she may open a gate that would lead her down the right path. At worst, she would resign herself to the fact that there was nothing she could do to save the pope. It was literally a crap shoot.

After making the rounds with the children and sharing an awkward moment with her husband, by shying away at the notion of joining him in bed, Shari sheltered herself at the work station in the den area and booted the PC. Within moments the screen downloaded the dossiers and, while fighting fatigue, probed every page until she finally nodded off into a deep sleep.

At 10:39 Yahweh received the call in his study. Outside, the moon was in its gibbous phase which cast an eerie glow upon the land that was the color of whey. It was the only light granted as he sat silhouetted in front of the window overlooking the grounds. As the phone rang, his mind was drifting, when he reached for the phone and lifted the receiver. “Yes.”

“It’s Obadiah.”

Yahweh’s spoke without emotion. “Yes, Mr. Obadiah, what do you want at so late an hour?”

“I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

“You know I am a man-of-position. And the situation with the pope is taking up a majority of my time.”

“We seem to have a problem.”

“Which would be?”

“Shari Cohen,” he said.

Yahweh remained quiet.

“I’ll come directly to the point,” said Obadiah. “It appears that Ms. Cohen has some rather delicate information that could prove catastrophic, if she’s able to make the proper ties. And our associates supporting the cause are not happy with that situation.”

“The proper ties with what?”

“Apparently, someone from Mossad sent the United States Government an attachment of encrypted pages holding something of value to the project.”

Yahweh’s attention was fully captured. “I’m listening?”

“The pages hold the graphics that could tie a lot of people involved with the cause, including prominent leaders in the United States, Russia, Israel and Venezuela. It was never meant to be seen outside of the Defense and Armed Forces Attaché and the Mossad Director.”

“Then why is it in the possession of Ms. Cohen?”

“It was passed through black channels without the knowledge of the Director or the Attaché. It seems that American sleepers within the Lohamah Psichlogit and the Research Department obtained and forwarded the information to the FBI.”

After feeling his neckline prickle with heat, Yahweh undid the top button of his shirt. “What exactly is in the encryption?”

“Diagrams,” he answered, “and some photos. But if a connection between the diagrams and dossiers are made, then the matter could open up a Pandora’s Box.”

Yahweh wanted to strangle something, anything. “We need that CD back,” he finally said. “And I think we both know what needs to be done. I want you to contact Judas immediately and have him direct Omega Team to dispatch Ms. Cohen tonight… And get that CD before it ends up in the hands of the NSA.”

“I have no problem with that, but so you know, the encryptions contain inbred viruses. If anyone outside of Mossad or the Attaché tries to decipher the code without having the proper knowledge to do so, then the viruses will ignite and completely wipe out the file, dossiers and all.”

Yahweh closed his eyes and slowly dropped his head into his hand. “I don’t care what toys you put into the program, Mr. Obadiah. I just want you to put Ms. Cohen out of my misery.”

“I understand.”

“Do you, Mr. Obadiah? Then understand this.” Yahweh slammed the phone down as a measure of his discontent.