“But if it is true?” asked the Prime Minister.
“Then we act accordingly. We take out this facility with a sortie. We attack the fuel cells, which will implode the facility, and take out its resources. It’s a simple resolution to the problem. But in retaliation Iran will rattle its saber, condemn the state of Israel by declaring war, and then call upon its Arab brothers.” On the monitor the Defense Minister leaned forward, his image looming large. “Yitzhak, based on this encryption, how sure are you regarding this technology?”
“Aryeh Levine was one of our supreme assets,” he told him. “The message was a quick feed, so we believe that his time was limited, so he got off enough hoping that we could decipher the materials he presented to us.”
“And if you deciphered wrongly?”
“I strongly believe that Levine got enough of the message across to state the purpose of the facility’s intent. They are building a weapon of mass destruction. And given how they feel about Israel, they will use it against us.”
The Defense Minister fell back into his seat. “The president of the United States is not on board for a full-on strike, even though their CIA has verified the location of the facility in the Alborz. This proposes another problem.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Prime Minister, if we should strike then oil prices will rise, putting America’s economy at risk. This is not about the American economy, which is their sole concern. This is about Israeli sovereignty.”
The Prime Minister had to concur.
And then: “I believe a strike is warranted,” said Netanyahu. “I will contact the U.S. and inform them of our intentions. Ehud, alert the command center and inform the Ramatkal at the IDF to prepare for a strike. Tell them to remain on alert status waiting for the go.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Yitzhak.”
“Yes, Mr. Prime Minister.”
“Your man better be right. If not, then we may be on the verge of a World War once this is said and done.”
“I understand.”
“Then let’s make this work.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Cardinal Angullo had received word that he was being reassigned within a three-day window, even though a venue had yet to be set or a new secretary of state chosen to succeed his position.
He stood before the window of his residence looking out at the forming clouds that were sliding closer to the Vatican, dark ominous clouds, storm clouds, the type of clouds that brought torrential rains and celestial staircases of lightning that were bright and angry in their staccato flashes.
He felt the same type of seething, the anger building within the pit of his soul. He had positioned himself perfectly to usurp the papal throne, only to fall short by a thin margin within the conclave.
With his hand he grabbed the fabric of his garment and balled it within his fist, turning, twisting, like his soul. It was as if his anger was something alive and writhing, something working its way to the surface.
Within three days. That’s all he had: three days.
But Angullo knew that he couldn’t wait until the last day or risk drawing undue intention. He had to act quickly, intelligently, and with great prudence.
He would go undetected, like last time; on the night he pushed Gregory over the balcony’s edge by slipping through the hallways where there were no cameras, no spying eyes. He would enter the chamber like last time, quietly, like a wraith, unheard and undetected until it was too late. But how to achieve the means was left up in the air.
No poisons. No sense of duplicating the last scenario with a simple shove to the pavement below — too risky a scenario coming so close on the heels of Gregory. No, mix it up, change the stage with a dazzling performance by adding a sense of mystery.
Angullo’s mind toiled for hours, the clouds moving in until the sky was black, the rain coming down in sheets, the lightning strikes as brilliant as the sun.
It was two o’clock in the morning, the weather abating little, the possibility of the lightning posing a problem, which may give up his position within the papal chamber before he could finish his attempt upon the pontiff’s life.
He had no choice — none whatsoever. Not only was the window closing, but it was slamming shut.
But how to do the deed? That was the question. No knives or blunt weapons, nothing that would leave a mark or cause suspicion that would draw investigators to the scene like flies to honey.
That left the pillow, hardly a weapon of choice but weapon enough. He would take the pillow and apply it to the pontiff’s face, smothering him, then set the stage that Pius had died in his sleep. This he could manage, having the vantage point of standing over the weaker man and pressing down until he extinguished his life.
But there was a problem even with this application, the act leaving telltale signs of murder. When a person is smothered by this method the capillaries in the whites of the victim’s eyes burst from pressure, leaving the whites mottled with patches of red.
The window was lowering, and quickly.
And he could feel the rush of blood course through his veins, the surge of adrenaline fueling him, prompting him to make the move, which was now, before the sun rose.
He took the same route to the papal chamber as he did on the night of Gregory’s passing by taking the tunnels beneath the Basilica, the ancient hallways that had been abandoned for years as the musty, old-time smells assaulted him. He carried a lamp with him, the fringe of light barely strong enough to direct his way to the ancient doorways leading to the levels above. The ceilings of the corridors were low, causing him to stoop as he walked, and the surrounding bricks of the walls were made of stone the color of desert sand. The earth beneath his feet was as fine as moon dust as he kicked up small plumes with his footfalls, leaving clear and precise prints in his wake.
Once he reached the stairwell he lifted the lamp, the light casting a feeble glow that revealed an uneven rise of steps. Lifting the hem of his garment, Cardinal Angullo began his climb to the upper level.
Since he had bypassed all the cameras, he would not be seen by any security guards watching the monitors. He was a ghost.
Feeling slightly winded at the top of the stairwell, he came upon a wooden door that was held together by black steel bands and rivets, something from medieval lore, and used a key to open it. It was the only way to open the passage from his side, the side of the ancient hallway.
The door opened, the hinges protesting lightly, and used the light as a wedge to keep the door open for his escape back to the sanctuary of the Domus Sanctæ Marthæ.
He moved quietly down the hallway, which was a dead end except for the door that was presumed locked and inaccessible. At the mouth of the hallway, at the opposite end where Angullo entered, stood a Swiss Guard. Not a problem for the cardinal, since the guard stood thirty meters away and had his attention focused elsewhere.
The cardinal moved cautiously, silently, his movement fluid and fleeting. If the man was seen through the lens of a camera, those watching would have sworn that the cleric was gliding on air like something phantasmal, eerie or supernatural.
When he reached the pontiff’s door he placed an ear against the panel, and listened.
Like on the night of Gregory’s death he heard nothing but the stillness of night, a good omen, and entered the chamber with not even the sound of a whisper of wind.
He stood there, listening. And then he moved closer to the walls where the shadows pooled, becoming a part of them. He moved slowly, gracefully, using the darkness as his ally.