The Vatican Knights

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Team Leader walked urgently into Pope Pius’s chamber. And in a deft move that appeared slight-of-hand, produced a key seemingly from thin air and inserted it into the lock of the shackle, undoing the metal cuff. “I want you to watch something,” he said. With little effort Team Leader yanked the pope to his feet and pulled the pontiff so close to him his lips nearly touched the old man’s ear. “Be prepared,” he whispered. “Because you’re not going to like what you’re about to see.”

The pope raised his chin in an act of defiance.

And for the first time, Team Leader noted genuine faith and strength in the man’s eyes. “Good,” he said, and then he led the pope toward the killing chamber.

“That was Alan Thornton,” she said, snapping the cell phone closed. “My presence is needed for an update. Apparently the president is going ‘live’ this afternoon.”

“Be careful,” Kimball said.

She turned to him. “What do I give the president? I can’t give him this,” she said, pointing to the images on the monitor.

“Why not?” said Kimball. “If the president and the Force Elite were trying to get that CD, then there will no longer be a point to further any action against you if you hand it over to the president.”

“But they could also be calling me to the meeting to find out if the data has been interpreted. If they learn it has, then they may send another response team to keep me from delving even deeper.”

“True, but why put you in a position to discover the necessary information only to put you down? It doesn’t make sense.”

“For cosmetics,” she answered. “The president can say that he did his best as an administrator by putting his money player to work. So if my team fails, then the accusing finger points directly at me and not at him. I’ll be the one who’ll end up the scapegoat. But now that I’m getting close, they’re apparently having second thoughts and want to undo what they did. And now that it’s all unraveling, the president needs to cover his tracks before whatever he’s hiding becomes public.”

“Which is why he sent the Force Elite after the CD,” said Kimball.

“Exactly. It also means that Obadiah is somehow connected with his administration.”

Kimball stepped away from the computer, the lines on his face registering deep thought. “Not only Obadiah but Mossad, the White House, Russia, Venezuela, Israel — they’re all connected. But how? And why?”

“Good question. What I can’t figure out, though, is how they tie in with the Soldiers of Islam and the kidnapping of the pope. Or why the White House administration would even be supporting this act.”

Kimball ran his hands across his face as if to wipe away the frustration.” All right,” he finally said, “so what do we have here?”

Shari raised her hand and began to tick off events on her fingers, starting with the thumb. “The men who tried to kill me last night were from an indigenous force. Obadiah, who happens to be from the Israeli attaché, wanted that CD. That ties him to the White House since they sent in Dark Lord. Then there are the photographs of political and big business dignitaries mixed in with the dossiers of terrorists.” She lowered her hand. “That CD, Kimball, holds more than just the profiles of terrorists.”

He nodded in agreement. “It’s also a schematic.”

“But of what? There are pieces still missing and we’re running out of time.” Shari nervously paced the room. “And in one hour I have to go see the man who’s trying to kill me. How ironic is that?”

“He’s not going to hurt you.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one he’s gunning for.”

“Shari, it’s unlikely you’re going to go missing at the White House door. If anything, they’ll wait for an opportune time, like last night — when it’s unexpected.”

“Then I’ll draw them out,” she said. “I’ll copy these photos and dangle the carrot before the mule. So if there’s anyone in that room who is part of this, and if these photos are worth killing me over to keep me from finding out the truth, then they’ll send a second attachment to finish the job. You agree?”

Kimball gave a nod. “If they think you can expose them, then they’ll come after you like the Hounds of Hell.”

“If the president and his administration are somehow involved in this, we need to know now. We’re running out of time. Just be ready to take prisoners when they come for me.”

Shari could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t too keen about her proposal.

“Look, Shari, this isn’t child’s play. These people are dangerous. And this time they’ll be waiting for me.”

“Right now I don’t see any other option.”

Kimball hesitated, his cerulean blue eyes connecting with hers. “Just be careful.”

Shari drew closer to him. “Just don’t fail me when I draw them out.”

He didn’t move. He could smell the hint of her perfume. “We’ll be there.”

“Then let’s draw the flies to the honey.”

The time was exactly 11:30 a.m.

Boa was manning the camera when Kodiak carried the bishop into the room with a gloved hand across the man’s mouth. The bishop, barely cognizant, put up feeble resistance swinging a clawed hand errantly through the air.

The stage was comprised of a canvas backdrop and a splintered wooden floor. Kodiak forced the bishop to his knees on the chalk drawn X in front of the camera.

Whining and whimpering like a dog, the pain of knowing he was about to die so fundamental, the sounds issuing from his throat so primal, the members of Omega Team felt nothing but cold detachment for Bishop Angelo.

“We ready to rock?” asked Kodiak.

Boa shot a thumbs-up. “We are as soon as the main man gets here.”

Kodiak took a piece of duct tape and strapped it across the bishop’s mouth. “You won’t feel a thing,” he assured him, and added cruelly. “But then again, I’ve never been shot in the head with my brains spilling out all over the floor, either.” This brought malicious laughter from Boa, who panicked the condemned man into exposing hugely white eyes filled with terror-stricken madness.

When Team Leader entered the room with the feeble-looking pope by his side, the laughter quickly subsided. The old man looked as if his legs were about to buckle, his knees shaking and unsteady. With hardly any effort at all, and with the pope unable to provide any resistance, Team Leader forced the man to his knees. “For the man of the hour,” said Team Leader, “the best seat in the house.”

He then removed his holstered weapon and held it by his side, the Sig hardly perceptible in the shadows due to its black brushed steel. Then, without any sense of remorse or guilt or conscience, or anything that would brand him as remotely human but rather cold, said, “Let’s get this show on the road.”

The bishop began to sob uncontrollably as Team Leader approached him.