The Vatican Knights

CHAPTER FIFTY

Below the Vault within the archdiocese where the temperature is naturally cool, Kimball laid the body of Nehemiah onto a rectangular marbled block, a slab every bit as cold and immovable as the body that lay upon it. Kimball placed one hand on Nehemiah’s heart and the other over Nehemiah’s forehead. Closing his eyes and bowing his head, Kimball moved his lips wordlessly as he recited prayer after prayer from words of his own choosing. Twice, when his cell phone rang, he continued with prayer, refusing to acknowledge the call, even though he knew it was Shari.

Nehemiah’s body lay stiff. The fabric on his legs glistened with blood beneath the pool of feeble lighting. His throat was horribly slashed and his eyes pale.

Behind Kimball on stainless steel gurneys lay the bodies of the Force Elite, their tactical masks removed, their faces also carrying identical expressionless stares. Kimball recognized none of them.

Each would be given a proper burial provided by Cardinal Medeiros under covert conditions. Nehemiah, on the other hand, would be flown back to the Vatican and given a stately sacrament by the Society of Seven, then be interred within the catacombs beneath the City.

When the phone rang a third time he answered. “Yes?”

“Kimball, I’ve been trying to call you,” said Shari.

“I’m in the prep chamber with Nehemiah,” he told her. Silence followed.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “It can’t be easy.”

“It never is. So what did you find out?” Kimball moved away from Nehemiah and closer to the gurneys, hardly acknowledging the bodies.

“Murdock gave us two names involved with the cause. This will hopefully lead us to the top officials involved.”

“Did he tell you where the pope was?”

“No. He says the only one who truly knows the location is a man going by the name of Yahweh. Apparently he’s the one spearheading the cause.”

“Did he tell you who this Yahweh is?”

“No. Murdock won’t give us any more information unless he has a guarantee by the government that his life won’t be placed in jeopardy.”

“Does he have a guarantee?”

“It was given to him by my director, and I’m sure the attorney general will—”

“He’s a dead man,” Kimball interjected. “He knows it and he’s just playing for time.”

Shari knew he was right. Murdock was a desperate man playing whatever hand he had to prolong the inevitable. If he had given up the identity of Yahweh, then he would have conveniently disappeared. “We’ll find him,” she told Kimball. “We’ll find Yahweh.”

“Shari, we’re running out of time. Whoever this guy is, then we better find him fast. And if Yahweh also happens to be Obadiah, then forget about it. We’ll never find him.”

The thought never occurred to Shari that Yahweh and Obadiah could be one and the same. Obadiah didn’t have the credentials to motivate or recruit the backing of members from Capitol Hill. It had to be somebody with a strong and influential presence, somebody of top ranking. “I don’t think so,” she said, and told him why.

“Well, I hope you’re right. But if we’re going to find the pope in time, we’ll need to know who Yahweh is as soon as possible.”

“Trust me, Kimball. The director’s working on it.”

“So long as he doesn’t drag his feet.”

Shari smiled. “Knowing Larry the way I do… he’s not.”

George Pappandopolous was perfecting the length of his tie tying when his phone rang. “Yeah?”

“Have you heard?”

Pappandopolous immediately recognized Yahweh’s voice. His tone took on a more respectful manner. “Heard what?”

“Omega Team has been eliminated and Judas is in the hands of hostiles, alive.”

Pappandopolous remained silent; he knew what would come next.

“You and Paxton are the last line of defense,” said Yahweh. “Either you, or Paxton, or both, I don’t care which, take him out before he has the opportunity to flip on us. Both of you have clearance, so clean up the mess.”

“Where is he?”

Yahweh gave him the information in a rattled, fast-paced tempo. Pappandopolous thought he seemed extremely nervous since his primary strength was maintaining grace under pressure.

Pappandopolous had barely pulled the phone away from his ear when he heard multiple telltale clicks. Suddenly his face went as white as alabaster. His line was tapped.

He dropped the phone onto the bed, went into the closet, grabbed a carry-on bag, dove deeper, and came up with a shoebox containing wads of bills and two pistols. As far as he was concerned the gig was up. With more than seventy thousand dollars he was sure he could hide out in the South American jungles for a long time. After all, taking on malaria was a far better option than taking a bullet to the brain.

He threw some clothes into the carry-on and hastened from the bedroom to the living area. Two men stood in the shadows, each a clone of the other — same height, same weight, same build. Both wore the same long coat and both held similar weapons with attached suppressors.

Pappandopolous immediately dropped the carry-on and instinctively held his hands out, as if this action would ward off what he knew was coming. The guns flashed in muted, rapid succession, lighting up the room long enough for Pappandopolous to note the almost waxy appearance of his executioners’ faces.

He felt himself falling, and his world slowed to a surreal level of movement much like being under water. With every passing moment the beat of his heart decelerated, the drumming in his ears slowing to the point where the next beat might be the last. And in his throes he was surprised that his life hadn’t passed before his eyes, nor was he granted the opportunity to look into the Great Light. In fact, he was disappointed, wanting to believe there was so much more than approaching confusion and unbearable coldness.

Casually, one of the assassins walked to Pappandopolous, took position over him, and aimed his weapon for a clear headshot. Without hesitation he pulled the trigger.

Paxton took the stairway from his D.C. apartment to the parking lot, his morning coffee in hand, unlocked the door, and slid into the driver’s seat. After he lowered his cup into the beverage receptacle, he checked his appearance in the mirror and raked a hand through his hair. After blowing himself a kiss, he inserted the key into the ignition and turned the switch. When the engine caught, a wall of flame surged through the dashboard, followed immediately by an explosion. The car leapt upward nearly two stories before twisting over and crashing onto its roof.

Paxton never knew what hit him.