As al-Ghazi and al-Sherrod watched the Quds soldiers remove the remains of Sakharov from the chamber, al-Ghazi turned to the diminutive man with pressing questions.
“It won’t be long until the Zionists retaliate,” he said simply.
“The Americans will stall them,” he returned. “So we have time.”
“We don’t know this for sure.”
“The Americans are intent to keep their economy in check. Such a violation against Iranian sovereignty only provokes to cripple an already hurting economy by escalating gas prices, which is a major concern for the Americans. He who holds the oil, my friend, also holds the scepter of rule. And the Americans know this. They will talk the Zionists to stave off their attack and let the sanctions work.”
“But Israel will not hold off forever.”
“Of course not,” he said. “Past history has shown that. But past history has also shown that they will wait long enough to placate the United States, as well.” Then: “We still have time. We simply need to be careful with our applications and not rush into this with any chance of failure.”
“How long?”
Al-Sherrod mused over this for a long moment before answering. “A week,” he finally answered. “Perhaps two.”
“Two weeks may be too long,” he replied.
“Your impatience is showing, Adham. I thought it was a conviction of your people to exhibit the virtue of patience.”
“We are not without reality, either,” he told him. “The gamble is too great should the Israeli’s decide to strike. The optimum thing to do is to act accordingly to the situation. And the situation dictates that the location of the facility has been compromised and the nature of our findings made clear to the enemy.”
Al-Sherrod considered this.
“We have the technology,” said al-Ghazi. “We have the capability to manufacture enough nanobots to achieve the means of an initial strike against the Vatican. We cannot wait on the assumptions of what the United States and Israel might do.”
Al-Sherrod looked at al-Ghazi squarely in the eyes and noted his fiery determination. “One week,” he finally said. “I believe we can produce enough of the quantity necessary to achieve the means. But will that give you enough time to set everything in motion?”
“I have replaced Umar with others,” he told him. “They have decided to martyr themselves.”
“Are they capable?”
“They are skilled to initiate the program,” he said. “It’s just a matter of introducing the Ark in a timely fashion.”
“And how will you do this?”
“I will contact a leading religious principle with the condition that the true Ark will be an offering to be shared by all religions, with its opening to be commenced at the Vatican with all leading principles and political states of head present. When the lid is opened to reveal the tablets, then the canisters inside will be activated. Everything made of organic matter within Vatican City will be destroyed within minutes.”
Al-Sherrod suppressed his smile. The leading political principals, as well as leading religious leaders and other spiritual dignitaries who pray to false gods, will be neutralized. But his goal was not borne of religious extremism, but out of political radicalism.
“Should this succeed,” he told al-Ghazi, “then we will plant such canisters in New York, Washington D.C., Tel Aviv, London, to whatever locations that will propel Iran as an international power.”
“You do whatever your agenda requires,” said al-Ghazi. “If yours is strictly political, so be it. Ours is for religious purposes only. We do this for the sake of Allah.”
“I see.”
“We need to commence this while we have the advantage.”
Al-Sherrod nodded. “Then the Ark is yours,” he said. “Do with it what you will and set forth the precedence of changing the balance.”
Al-Ghazi, at least for the moment, shared his enthusiasm. “Then with the will of Allah,” he said, “let us set forth Pandora’s Ark.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
When the plane finally landed in Rome, Kimball felt something he hadn’t felt in a very long time: elation, purpose and true belonging.
When he arrived at the Vatican he was shelled with old memories. The wonderful imagery when he was a Vatican Knight when things were at their worst but he was at his best, making a difference in the lives of others rather than taking them away.
He had finally come home.
When he entered the dormitory housing of the Vatican Knights he felt a very real belonging, an indescribable gravitation. Above the door to his quarters was the acid-etched stencil of the Knights’ coat of arms, the symbol of faith, loyalty, honor, courage and strength. Reaching up, he brushed his fingers over the engraving.
Opening the door he found the room the way he left it six months before. To the left was his bed and nightstand. To the right the small votive rack, kneeling rail and podium which held a Bible, its cover dust laden. His first action was to go to the Bible where he drew a breath and blew the dust away in a plume. He did not open the book. Instead, he put the aluminum case beside the nightstand and headed for the mirror.
In the past six months he had aged little. In fact, the only process he noted was that his crow’s feet had deepened, the lines stretching closer toward the temples. Other than that there was nothing to show that he had become hardened over the past six months with constant drink and the feeling of self-loathing and failure.
Although he wanted to smile, he did not.
After donning his uniform as a Vatican Knight, he returned to the mirror and contorted the beret to specs, the embroidered symbol of the team, the powder blue shield and silver Pattée, stood front and center. His clerical collar was pristine, his shirt and pants pressed.
Kimball was now in his element.
After cleaning his quarters a knock came at the door, a few sharp raps.
It was Leviticus. And the two men embraced.
“The pontiff wishes to speak with you,” Leviticus finally told him.
“Our first mission?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. But it’s not what you think, Kimball.”
“How so?”
“Bonasero’s life may be in jeopardy.”
Kimball sat before the papal desk with Leviticus sitting beside him. Bonasero Vessucci could not have been happier, his expression a genuine model that this gathering was an overwhelmingly joyous affair.
“You have no idea how good it is to see you again,” he said. “To see the both of you together.”
Kimball nodded. “And you, Your Holiness.”
“Kimball,” he spoke to him in a rare but subtle tone nearing admonishment, almost childlike in its inflection. “To you I’m Bonasero. We have been through too much together to bandy about titles, yes?”
Kimball smiled. “Then it’s Bonasero.”
“Good.” The pontiff sat back in his chair. “But the issues I propose to you both will be hard to accept, I’m afraid. Leviticus already knows, but I believe that an attempt on my life will be committed very shortly.”
“By whom?”
Bonasero sighed. “I believe by the good Cardinal Angullo.”
“Angullo?” Kimball sounded incredulous. He knew the man and envisioned him as someone incapable of lifting a hand against somebody, let alone as someone capable of driving a stake through another man’s heart. Again, he said: “Angullo?”
“He is not the same man, Kimball. He’s been a man driven by his own ambitions rather than seeking the true nature of God. He’s lost his way and I truly believe that he murdered Pope Gregory.”
An awkward moment fell between them as Kimball digested this, hearing for the first time that Pope Gregory’s death was no accident as the press had indicated. Murdered? “You think Cardinal Angullo killed Gregory?”