Shepherd One (26 page)

Fitting into the hole and positioning himself along the rungs,
Kimball made his way to the topside lavatory. Every jar, rise or pitch of the
plane’s flight seemed more pronounced, the lifts knocking him against the
closed-in walls and pipes of the thin space. When he reached the top rung he
arrived at the water tank that supplied the wash basin and toilet.

Placing his palm against the wall supporting the tank, he
could feel a slight give. To the right of the tank was a framed schematic of
the complex plumbing lines. Kimball quickly tore it off the wall and let it go,
listening to the frame carom off the walls until it settled somewhere in the
darkness below. With the point of his knife he was able to punch a small hole in
the wall which provided him with a glimpse of something wonderful.

It was the interior of a spacious lavatory. But more
importantly, it was a way topside.

Returning the KA-BAR to its sheath, Kimball began to
descend.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Hakam prayed long and hard and deep
with incredible passion since redemption was not freely given. And in the wake
of his sudden loss of faith he wished for divine forgiveness, as well as a
single intangible possession. He asked for the courage to see this through.

For nearly two hours he knelt on his prayer rug with his
eyes closed, his body rising and lowering with his hands held out in homage,
his lips moving silently as if miming the words of prayer. In the end, however,
he felt no different than when he first removed his shoes and took position
upon the mat. Did he truly expect Allah to speak to him? To give him an answer
on whether or not he will be allowed into His Glory?

And what was that about blind faith?
he challenged
himself. And then he remembered: Blind faith does not require proof because no
proof exists. Yet its entire concept to completely devote oneself without
question continued to elude him. And though he was highly spiritual, Hakam
realized he needed something more. And that, he believed, was his damning
point.

The Arab stood wearing his mask of non emotion, which made
the Garrote Assassin feel more at ease from across the aisle. Over the past
several hours Hakam had been growing anxious and less in control, which worried
him. But it appeared that prayer had done him well.

In the prayer’s aftermath Hakam put on his shoes and said
nothing to Garrote, would not even face him, his heart feeling a heavy
blackness that Allah had seen the truth within him.

What he must do, he does so with the hope that Allah is
truly merciful.

Returning to the cockpit he noted a single email message
from a source indicating the emissary from the Lohamah Psichlogit still lives,
and that President Burroughs thus far has failed to move on the given target
with an hour left to go.

Tapping in the required address, Hakam was automatically dispatched
to the president of the United States.

Behind him, Shepherd One’s pilot sat with his eyes forward
and refused to acknowledge Hakam in any way.

And Hakam addressed him. “Make sure you stay that way,” he
said.

Enzio did not reply.

Within moments Hakam was online and staring into the
unaffected face of President Burroughs. It appeared to Hakam that the president
was playing the same card of showing little emotion, since the power behind it
was to never allow your opponent the advantage of knowing what you were truly
thinking. It was the classic wear of a poker face.

“Yes, Hakam, what do you want?”

Hakam wanted to smile. But that would be giving too much
away.

#

“My sources tell
me that you
haven’t even begun to move on the target, Mr. President. And time is running
out.”

“Be assured, Hakam, even though we may not be moving at the
pace that pleases you, we are moving. Taking out an esteemed agent of the
Lohamah Psichlogit is a delicate matter, which is why I requested five hours.”

“Your delicate matters, Mr. President, are of no concern to
me. We both know you’re pushing for additional time, which I’m not allowing. If
Ms. Rokach is not dead within the hour, then as a consequence, we will kill the
pope.”

The room went completely silent as President Burroughs
features continued to register little as he stared directly at the monitor.

“Think about it, Mr. President. You’re on the clock with
less than one hour to obligate your half of the bargain, and my associates are
watching very closely. I strongly suggest that you do not fail the pontiff. But
before I go, I would like to leave you with something.” Everybody at Raven Rock
watched Hakam tap several buttons before hesitating, then, after letting his
finger hover over the keypad, and then looking steely-eyed into the webcam,
tapped the final button with emphasis.

What came on the screen was Arabic script.

الفنّ من يستعمل
قوات هذا:

عندما يحيطه
عشرة إلى العدوات
واحدة;

عندما يهاجمه
خمسة في قوته;

إن ضعف قوته,
يقسمه;

إن بالتّساوي
تلاءم أنت يمكن
شبكته;

إن ضعيفة عدديّا,
قادرة من ينسحب;

وإن كلّ يحترم
غير متساو, قادرة
من يتملّصه;

لقوة صغيرة
غير أنّ غنيمة
لواحدة أكثر قوّيّة

“Is Hakam still online?” asked the president.

“No, sir. He cancelled the transmission.”

Burroughs looked at the screen. “And what the hell is this?”

“It’s Arabic,” said Craner.

“I know its Arabic. I want to know what it says.”

Doug Craner made his way next to the president and began to translate
word per word until the finish.

The president nodded. “It’s from
The Art of War
by
Sun Tzu,” he said. “He’s letting us know that no matter what we throw at him,
he will defeat us. Right now he’s at the point of the quote that states: ‘if
double his strength, divide him,’ which is what he’s trying to do between us
and Mossad.”

“And the death of the pope,” added Craner, “would only serve
to muster Islamic militant faith. If the pope dies, militants may view that as
a twisted moral victory, now that the so-called ‘False Prophet’ is dead, and
organize an insurgent rise on both shores.”

The president recited from memory of the book. “When ten to
the enemies one, surround him.”

Craner sighed. “Whenever we get a step closer, Hakam always
seems to get two steps ahead.”

“What you neglect to see, Doug, is that
The Art of War
can work both ways as well.”

“I hardly see our advantage in this, Mr. President.”

“I’m not talking about us. I’m talking about Father Kimball.
This man alone took out three opponents. So consider this, although unequal he
still eluded them. But because he was incapable of withdrawing, he engaged them
and halved the team. The more he reduces Hakam’s assassins, the more it reduces
the quantity of the opposition.”

“Nevertheless, Mr. President, he’s still outnumbered,”
stated Thornton, moving beside them with his arms crossed.

“If Father Kimball took out three men, then that tells me he
can take out another three. Maybe two; Hakam hardly looks like the warrior type
to me.”

“Mr. President.” Thornton looked at his watch. “We have
fifty-four minutes before Hakam follows through with his threat to kill the
pontiff. So do we go forward and take out Rokach? Or do we begin with our
efforts to clear out LA?”

The president closed his eyes. Whenever he got one step
ahead, Hakam always countered by doubling the distance between them.

“Mr. President, we need to act decisively.”

He was right. The entire team was right. For the past few
hours Burroughs was banking on a solvable solution without throwing Los Angeles into a state of panic. And by going against supreme odds and if he failed, his
decisions could cost hundreds of thousands of lives.

“What do we do, Mr. President?”

Burroughs turned to his CIA Director. “Doug, contact Langley and target Rokach. But do not engage her until the last possible moment. If there
is no hope of resolution, then we’ll have to take her out.” He turned back to
the screen. “We’ll see if Hakam is true to his word and disables a nuclear
weapon as promised.”

“Understood.”

“And what about the other matter, Mr. President?” asked Thornton. “What about the people in Los Angeles?”

When he was on the verge of conceding and about to commit to
the evacuation, someone inside the chamber hollered ‘incoming.’

It was a message from Father Kimball.

#

SHEPHERD ONE: I
found a way
topside.

RAVEN ROCK: Father Kimball, the major principal on board has
informed us that he will kill the pope within the hour if his demand is not
met.

SHEPHERD ONE: Will it be met?

RAVEN ROCK: Unknown. There may not be enough time to
complete the task.

SHEPHERD ONE: Then I will engage the remaining faction.

RAVEN ROCK: When?

SHEPHERD ONE: Within fifteen minutes.

RAVEN ROCK: We were about to order the evacuation of Los Angeles.

SHEPHERD ONE: Do what you want. I have problems of my own.

RAVEN ROCK: My point is: How confident are you in succeeding
in your task?

SHEPHERD ONE: Confident enough. This is not my first time at
the rodeo.

RAVEN ROCK: Good enough. All we can hope for is that you
accomplish your goal.

SHEPHERD ONE: My goal is the safety of the pope.

RAVEN ROCK: Understood . . . Good luck!

. . . COMMUNICATION TERMINATED. . .

#

Basilio did not
know how long
it had been dark, the light coming through the holes having been snuffed hours
ago. During the day the box had become sweltering hot, the temperature rising
until the juices of his body ran dry. His muscles cramped into agonizing
moments of torture, each tenuous fiber knotting beneath his flesh with little
promise of relief.

His screams also went unheard, unheeded, nothing but an echo
within his death chamber. After a while he began to lose cognition, the world
beneath his feet appearing to spiral in the maelstrom of darkness, as confusion
reigned. The demons of the netherworld reaching up through the shadows, waiting
to pull him down.  

What have I done that I deserve to go to Hell
?

In time, he unwittingly soiled himself and his pleas for
help became nothing more than a string of incoherent babble and words. And now
Basilio, a onetime soccer star and son to Enzio and Vittoria Pastore, was dying
by the inches.

If he did not get hydrated within the next two hours, then
his freefall into maelstrom would come to a crashing halt the instant his heart
stopped beating. 

#

The distance to
Perugia from Rome is approximately 190 kilometers, or 120 miles. And the deployment of the
Vatican Knights was about to commence as the papal van neared the old
factories that had once served as a munitions depot during World War II. 

In the rear of the van, Leviticus stared at nothing in
particular as his mind envisioned his unit moving through the old factory with
all the precision of a seasoned force. There was no one better than his team of
four . . . And no one better than the Vatican Knights.

They had taken their names from the Books of the Old
Testament with the exception of Kimball Hayden, who held the moniker of Archangel but never used it. Danny Keaton had taken the name of Leviticus and fell as
second-in-command, Steven Hathaway took the name of Jonah, Johnny Nazorine
became Jeremiah, and Christian Placentia the name of Isaiah.  

After years of growing up behind Vatican walls, these men
had developed into a band of brothers groomed to be the Crusaders of a new age.
They had trained to be the best in the world and had mastered much more than
the martial art techniques of aikido and Chinese Kenpo. They also studied the
eclectic philosophies from such men as Epicurus and Plotinus with an emphasis
of study on the works
The Enneads
and
The Confessions
. Art also
had its place in the teachings of such men with certain works serving to
develop insight by interpreting the artistic encryptions of Da Vinci,
Michelangelo and Peter Paul Rubens. And for a Vatican Knight, it was believed
that the consummate development of the mind was equally as important as
consummate development of the body. Together they formed a combination that
fashioned men of impervious will, staunch character, and the mindset that
loyalty was above all else, with the exception of honor.

These were the Vatican Knights.

Closing his eyes, Leviticus fell into prayer and asked for
the safety of his unit. It was quick, however, as the van slowed to a stop.

Approximately 200 feet to the south lay a cluster of
abandoned buildings. Even in obscure lighting they could see that the windows
had been boarded over and the walls had aged to crumbling brick and mortar. It
was also fortified by a ten-foot-tall fence.

“All right,” said Leviticus. “There are a total of four
buildings. We’ll enter from the north side and work our way south. Isaiah and I
will recon the second-level tiers; Jonah and Jeremiah will negotiate the first
levels. If you see a tango, then you know what to do. Just make sure you do it
quickly, quietly and efficiently. We don’t want to give anyone the opportunity
to alert the others and make our job harder. Is that understood?”

It was.

“All right then. Weapons check.”

Every Knight examined his weapon, an MP-5 with an attached
suppressor, and made sure the magazines were properly seated and the weapon
action smooth. When everything appeared fitting, each man gave Leviticus a
thumbs-up in approval.

“Godspeed to all,” he finalized.

Under the cover of night they exited the van and made their
way to the perimeter. Each Knight wearing his assigned assault gear. In the
darkness they were nothing more than a part of the shadow itself, their black
uniforms and unpolished boots blending in nicely. Exposed on the breastplate of
their armor was the insignia of their clan, the emblem of the Silver Pattée.
And as always, and as required, each man wore a cleric’s collar as a proud
attachment to his uniform.

When they reached the fence line Leviticus removed a small
canister and sprayed its liquefied contents onto the chain link, the metal
bubbling until it melted and gave way, opening a point of entry.

With incredible silence and speed the Vatican Knights maneuvered through the darkness and took position along the sides of the
building, communicating with hand gestures. With a closed fist and then
pointing to the north access doorway, Leviticus was spelling out the entry
point for his team to enter as a concerted group before branching out. Counting
down his fingers from four to three to two to one until he reached zero—the
point of a closed fist—they entered the building.