The Vatican Knights

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Shari sat in the chair located atop the Presidential Seal in the Oval Office, as Attorney General Dean Hamilton and Chief Advisor Alan Thornton quietly sat on either side of her, watching President Burroughs, who sat at the presidential desk, preparing his first address to the international community. In that moment an awkward silence fell over the room as the president quietly read from the script. Sitting on a couch against the curve of the wall were Vice President Bohlmer and two of the president’s senior advisors, each man carefully pouring over the data received from Shari’s team. The only sound was the turning of pages.

The president pitched a sigh, and then looked about as if he was the only one present in the room, until he laid the pages on the desk and rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. “All right, people,” he started. “In about an hour I have to address the world on the status of the pope. What I want from you is a plan as to how I’m supposed to address the international community without causing our alliances to find fault with the United States. In other words, I need to base my decisions on fact rather than speculation. What I need is something positive. And from this drafted garbage in front of me, I’m getting the feeling that we’re making little progress, if any at all.”

Shari took the initiative. “Mr. President, I have something, but how it relates to the Soldiers of Islam isn’t quite clear.”

“And what would that be, Special Agent?”

“I’m talking about these,” she said, producing photos from a leather briefcase. “Yesterday I was able to burn and decipher the encryptions of a CD given to me by Mossad — a CD holding the dossiers of the Soldiers of Islam and other information that I believe ties in with what’s going on. Right now the connection is thin at best, but given time, I’ll be able to figure it out. I just need a few more pieces of the puzzle.” While she spoke she looked around the room and examined the faces for micro-expressions, such as the perceptively surprised look, a nervous tic or wandering eyes, anything that would betray their sentiments. All she saw were poker faces.

“May I see those?” asked the president, extending a hand.

Shari proffered the bait. “They’re photos of high-ranking business officials, all from oil conglomerates, and politicians from Russia, Venezuela and Israel, which I assume to be clandestine meetings since they’re surveillance photos. The second and third batches are surveillance photos of the known members from the Soldiers of Islam, and photos of tracts of oil beneath these countries and the Palestinian territories. These were all tied in with pertinent information regarding the terrorists.”

The president examined the photos. She carefully watched his expression unfold until he shook his head in bewilderment. “And how exactly does this tie in with the abduction of the pope?”

“On the surface, nothing,” she told him. “However, when I went to the Embassy of Israel to see the man responsible for creating the data, he wanted the CD back. I refused. Later that night… a team was sent to retrieve that data and they tried to take me out.”

The president’s face took on what Shari read to be guarded concern. “Take you out?”

“Someone tried to kill me over that information, Mr. President. On paper it looks like nothing, but when somebody comes into my home and tries to kill me for something that appears meaningless, that tells me there’s something damaging in those photos.”

The president continued to examine the pictures. “And what happened to the perpetrator?”

“There were three, sir. However, law enforcement got involved and they exited as quickly as they entered,” she lied. “Just mild damage committed to the home, sir, nothing else.” It was porous at best, but it was the only thing she could come up with.

“I didn’t hear anything about this.”

“It’s minor considering the issue at hand, Mr. President. Again, the matter was taken care of long before it got out of control.”

“Thank God you’re still with us then.” He shuffled from one photo to the next, giving each close scrutiny.

“Mr. President, I’m not sure how they tie in with what’s going on, but I know there’s a connection.”

The president tossed the photos on the desk. “I disagree,” he said. In Shari’s mind a contradiction was as good as an admission of guilt. The president was now trying to downplay the photos. So Kimball was right after all, she considered. The man was trying to find out what she knew.

“Special Agent Cohen, I have to address the world in less than an hour, and you want me to offer those photos of politicians, businessmen and tracts of oil to the world community as evidence of the pope’s well being? Is that what you’re asking me to do?”

“Mr. President, I’m not offering a solution as to what you should present to the world. I’m saying that this is a key to what happened—why it happened.”

“Special Agent, we know why it happened. They’re holding the pope so that certain demands can be met. And these photos have nothing to do with that.”

Vice President Jonas Bohlmer walked quietly to the president’s desk and held his hand out. “Can I look at those, Jim?”

The president nodded and turned his attention back to Shari. “I don’t know if it’s your lack of progress in this situation, Special Agent, but I cannot afford to have my time wasted by someone who’s grasping at straws. What I want to know is if you have anything besides these pictures?”

“I also have a report from CSI stating that the Governor’s mansion was sanitized.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the Soldiers of Islam purposely left no trace evidence, yet they leave behind two members whom they knew were traceable and would tie them in anyway. So if that was the case, why sanitize the area? It’s a contradiction of actions, Mr. President, which tells me the Governor’s mansion was staged to provide us with a red herring, so we won’t look beyond the box.”

“And why the red herring?” asked the vice president.

Shari turned to him. “I don’t know.”

The vice president shook his head in admonishment. “Ms. Cohen, you seem to have more questions than answers. That’s not why you were put into this position.”

“I understand that, Mr. Vice President, but I’m doing the best I can with what I have.”

The vice president turned to the photos, then back to Shari. “Special Agent Cohen, I’m going to be candid with you,” he said. “From the beginning I was against you being a part of this at all. And now you’re proving me right.”

“How so?”

At first the vice president said nothing, his glaring demeanor saying it all. “For the fact, Ms. Cohen, that you are a Jewish counterpart in a situation that can be deadly should the Soldiers of Islam find out that a woman of Jewish faith is manning the helm.”

“Mr. Vice President, with all due respect, I am quite qualified to perform my duties… whether or not I’m Jewish or a woman.”

“You know better than I do, Ms. Cohen, that you’re a lethal combination when dealing with such people. Not only are you failing in your tasks, however, but if these terrorists should ever gain the truth that you’re the one spearheading this charge, then that only compounds the difficulty. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Shari was seething. Her grandmother was right. In some peculiar way, in a land where freedom was paramount, she was still being persecuted on some infinitesimal level, even with impeccable credentials to back her up. And then her grandmother’s voice rang true in her head, a prophetic aphorism she recalled as a child, then later in the Holocaust Museum. Because you’re a Jew you’ll always be persecuted. But never forget who you are and always be proud, because one day you will be reminded of what you are and you’ll need to fight back to survive. Never forget that, my littlest one.

Shari started to rebut. “Mr. Vice President—”

“These photos, Ms. Cohen, with all due respect, are worthless. And I agree with the president that you’re grasping at straws.” He returned the photos to Shari. “We’ve no use for these. Keep them.”

Remaining composed, she took them without hesitation. At least the bait had been laid.

With time the discussion took a new direction: Global hate crimes against those of the Arab population, riots in South American countries, murders within the States. Shari knew her diligence was about to be met with deadly force, regardless that the photos were being cast off as worthless. The president’s tactic of demonstrating indifference was simply a cosmetic cover. She knew this. What they didn’t know was she was thoroughly prepared to take them on.

As Alan Thornton and the vice president prescribed their recommendations for addressing the world, Shari glanced at the photos again, as if finding enlightenment. She nodded, as if perceiving something of importance about them. If somebody in this office was involved with the pope’s abduction, she was sure her actions were under scrutiny.

While the president readied himself to go on air with nothing more than an overview rather than gospel, she sat quietly. She considered she was pretty much invisible to the administration at the moment as the principals discussed the image of the United States in the eyes of the world. The welfare of the pope wasn’t mentioned at all. And this, she told herself, was politics at its worse.

Once in awhile the president asked Shari a question, but only because she was the counterterrorism expert, of which she responded appropriately. She noted the president was creating a mental script of half-truths with her aid, which also made her feel dirty. After all, this is the world of politics in which truths are often woven into fables and fables woven into truths.

As time drew near for the president’s address, Shari appraised the faces around her one last time and spotted nothing.

The only thing she could do now was to wait for someone to kill her.

The dampness of the New England air had seeped into the marrow of the pope’s bones. Wearing only his undergarments, he embraced himself against the chill, and waited for the inhumanities against his bishop to unfold before his eyes.

Team Leader stood before the camera at center stage and spoke in Arabic. “To the people of this country, and to your allies: It is unfortunate that the world of Islam must endure the political machinations of a government motivated by corruption rather than do what is right, such as to stop the oppression of Arab nations by your needless occupation. If you think this is a unique situation, think again. The political machine that drives your country is stimulated by those who have the finances to maintain political camps in other nations and bullies allied support.” Team Leader then placed his hands behind the small of his back and stood at ease.

“It has come to our knowledge that the United States has no intention to abide by our demands, but continues to fight for the support of allied nations who do not have the courage to stand against them. Therefore, since the Great Satan has not met our demands, we will take the life of a bishop as an action praised in the eyes of Allah.” Team Leader hesitated, chose his next words carefully, and continued. “Those on Capitol Hill, those in the White House, those in American democracy, must understand that your way is not the Islamic way.”

Beside him the bishop began to beg for his life in earnest.

Team Leader ignored him and spoke over his cries.

“We will continue to maintain our edict that there are to be no discussions, no debates and no negotiations. The death of your bishop will serve to motivate the politicians of the world to see things differently and to work accordingly with the demands offered by the authority of the Soldiers of Islam.”

Team Leader removed his hands from behind the small of his back until the Sig was in full view of the camera. “Under the watchful eye of Allah, it is with honor that I kill a minion of Satan before Satan’s own eyes.”

Team Leader beckoned for someone off stage.

Kodiak jerked the pope up and dragged him to the stage and forced him to the floor next to Bishop Angelo. The pope winced when sharp splinters of wood bit into his knees. On the monitor, the pope appeared emaciated and disheveled, his garments soiled, his limbs wispy thin. The wrinkles on his face were deep, long and more profound. To view him on tape, many would consider the man who was king to look more like a skid row bum.

The pope turned to Bishop Angelo, held his hand out to him and wrapped his fingers around Angelo’s, whose movement was made minimal by the cuffs. He received the contact, a conduit tapping into the pope’s power.

“Be not afraid,” he told him. “For God holds a special place for you in His kingdom.”

For a brief moment their eyes met. And for that concise passage of time, Bishop Angelo seemed suddenly at peace. His faith was no longer alien.

The pope squeezed his hand, a gesture that everything was fine — would be fine, and Bishop Angelo gave a nod of perception.

“Allah is great,” cried Team Leader. In a deft move he pointed the pistol at the base of the bishop’s skull and pulled the trigger. The bishop slumped forward, dead, a quick and merciful kill. At the same time blood sprayed against the pope’s face, warm and wet, the fluid causing the pope to flinch, as if in pain.

Boa turned off the camera.

Team Leader immediately pulled the stunned pope to his feet and pushed him toward Kodiak. “After you hook him up, return for the bishop’s body and lay him at the feet of the pope to rot.”

Temporarily lobotomized by the trauma, the pope was guided from the room.

After holstering his pistol, Team Leader removed the videotape and examined it by turning it over in his gloved hand. “We must move quickly,” he said, then handed the tape back to Boa. “Make sure this gets to Yahweh.”

“Understood.”

When Boa left the room, Team Leader stood alone in silence. With the smell of cordite still in the air, he drew in the scent as if it were intoxicating, and then expelled it with an equally long exhale. He then turned to view the bishop who sat there with the back of his head pared open like petals of a rose. Gore and blood lay everywhere.

With his hands clasped behind the small of his back, Team Leader left the room.