“But I am from the Polizia Municipale—”
“I’m afraid the upper levels are off limits,” he repeated sternly. “Even to the Polizia Municipale.”
“I see.”
The Arab turned and began to descend. And then he stopped on a lower step before facing the officer once again. “You are NAS, yes?”
“Please move along, Officer. I won’t ask you again.” By this time the second NAS officer joined his teammate, a small assault weapon in his hands.
Two on the roof, two in the hallway leading to the roof, for a total of four, considered the Arab. The entire NAS team was accounted for.
The Arab smiled. Neither officer held the point of his weapon at him, but downward, an act of complacency.
“For elite soldiers,” the Arab said, still smiling, “you never would have made my team.”
The Arab stepped aside, allowing the second Arab to round the bend of the stairwell, his pistol already drawn, the point of the laser light finding its mark of the first officer. Tap! Tap! Two shots to the man’s throat, throwing wads of meat and gristle into the background, the officer falling backward to the floor, eyes already at half-mast, his life extinguished as he landed hard on the floor.
The second target was bringing up his weapon, fast, the mouth of the barrel rising, rising. Tap! Tap! Two more shots, loud spits in quick succession through the suppressor as the bullets scored, shearing off the left side of the officer’s head as blood, gore and gray matter marked the wall next to him in a macabre Pollock design.
The Arabs raced up the stairs, their guns ready.
Sayyid checked his watch. There were thirteen minutes left for the unveiling, give another five to lift the lid from the Ark, a total of eighteen minutes.
He checked his watch. His team had already been in the hotel for two minutes and the sniper team was still manning their posts.
What’s taking them so long?
There were twelve minutes left.
The NAS sniper examined the grounds surrounding the Basilica through the lens of his Leupold scope, the crosshairs bouncing from person to person in St. Peters Square. Everything appeared fine.
His NAS partner stood looking through binoculars. In his ear was a communication bud. Every five minutes he reported his call sign, which was ‘Kill Shot One-O-One.’ He checked his watch. He had two minutes to go before calling in his sign to SIV.
The two Arabs were quiet when they opened the door leading to the roof, the sunlight slanting into the stairwell as the door slowly opened, the beam getting wider.
They moved softly and quietly, their guns holding steady.
Footfall after footfall, with the gravel beneath their feet failing to yield a noise, they neared the NAS team.
The Arab on the left aimed his weapon, the red dot finding the base of the skull of the sniper, and pulled the trigger. The officer snapped backward, his spine arcing, the point of his rifle aiming upward, and then he fell backward onto the roof, hard, the rifle skating freely across the gravel.
The second NAS officer stood in awe, his mind not appearing to register the moment or the reality of his partner’s death. He was unarmed, the binocular in his hands a useless weapon.
“Come here,” said the Arab, beckoning the man closer with his free hand, the pistol in the other. “I won’t hurt you.”
The NAS officer maintained a nonplussed look, noting their uniforms. And then revelation that was horribly dark and ugly struck him like a hammer blow. “Please,” he said, raising his hands slowly, “I have three children.”
Once the NAS officer moved away from the edge, the Arab shot him in the forehead.
They then went to the rail overlooking the Vatican Museum. Sayyid was still standing where they left him, and then waved him up.
After looking both ways along the Vaile Vaticano, Sayyid crossed the street.
Two minutes passed and Father Auciello did not hear from ‘Kill Shot One-O-One.’ He allowed another minute to lapse before calling the team.
“Kill Shot One-O-One, this is Command Center. Do you read me?”
Silence.
Then: “Kill Shot One-O-One, this is Command Center. Do you read me?”
Still no answer other than the white noise that continued to sound over the speakers, an obvious red flag since NAS was impeccably anal about communication protocol.
“Kill Shot One-O-One, this is Command Center. Are you reading me? Come in, Kill Shot One-O-One”
When there was no answer Father Auciello contacted Kimball inside the Basilica. “Kimball.”
“Yeah.”
“We’re not getting a response from Kill Shot One-O-One.”
“What’s their twenty?”
“The rooftop of the hotel across the street from the Vatican Museum.”
“Copy that. Any teams in the area?”
“Negative. They’re 400 meters out and on the borderline of VC. They’re looking for suspicious activity of vehicles, such as vans and trucks taking the Vaile Vaticano when the street has been restricted.”
“Copy that.”
“I hope everything’s Code Five.”
“I’m sure it is. Out.”
Sayyid stood at the rail overlooking the street and the front of the museum across the way, and then stared at the magnificent structure of the Basilica’s dome. He saw the people standing about the square, noted that the doors leading to the Basilica were closed and locked, a force of Swiss Guards maintaining vigilance at the gates.
The good thing about nanotechnology, he thought, was that it did not possess any smell or emit radiation, hold any biological or chemical traces, or tip its hand that it even existed at all until it was too late. It was the perfect weapon of non-detection. And it didn’t matter if they were behind closed doors. Frequencies were capable of passing through walls and windows, at least enough to stimulate the bots into action. So by locking the doors of the Basilica, they have all but sealed their own fate.
And the fate of those within the plaza was just as bleak, the openings beneath the locked doors of the Basilica causeways for the bots to enter the open forum of St. Peters Square.
Sayyid removed the laptop from his padded case and placed it on the flat part of the railing. He then lifted the lid and booted up, the laptop whirring to life.
“I want one downstairs manning the lobby,” he told them. “I don’t care which one. You decide. The other I want manning the top of the stairway to make sure that no one gets by, should the man in the lobby fail to hold back the infidels.”
One of the Arabs stepped forward, waving the point of his weapon at the Basilica. “It’s quite a ways,” he commented. “Perhaps we’re too far from the bots when they escape, yes? Perhaps we have a chance?”
Sayyid nodded. “They will last long enough to enter parts of Rome. Still, we will be too close.”
The Arab seemed disappointed in this, which was indicated by his weapon hand falling to his side.
“You are disappointed?” asked Sayyid.
“I was just wondering,” he answered.
“Then wonder no more,” he told him harshly. “You have chosen to martyr yourself. Do you think Allah will favor a man who is second guessing his decision?”
“No, Sayyid.”
“Then get below and prepare yourself for Glory,” he said. He looked at his watch. “In less than fifteen minutes you will be in Paradise.”
“Yes, Sayyid.”
The terrorist was gone.
Moments before the unveiling Kimball called upon a bishop to have Bonasero Vessucci return to the Baldacchino.