“I got a call from SIV,” he told the pope; there was a slight urgency in his tone. “It appears that an NAS team has not responded according to protocol, so I’m heading to their position with Leviticus and Isaiah.”
“We’re moments away from the unveiling, Kimball.”
“I know that. But I’d rather be safe than sorry.”
“Where?”
“They’re on a rooftop directly across from the Vatican Museum.”
“That’s quite a ways off.”
“But still within sniper range.”
“But the dignitaries are inside.”
“Who’s to say that they’re the targets? If someone is there, perhaps they have another agenda.”
“Please be careful,” he returned.
“I plan to.” Kimball removed his ear buds and motioned to Leviticus and Isaiah to follow. The good thing about Kill Shot’s position was that it was opposite the square and through Vatican grounds, where the public was not allowed. It was nothing but open fields, gardens and walkways, a straight an unimpeded path. They would be there within minutes.
When Pius returned to the dignitaries he did so as the emcee. He stood next to the guarded crate, a hand on the fabric.
Looking over the audience and seeing the almost child-like anticipation they harbored, he waited no longer. With the aid of accompanying bishops he removed the fabric, pulling it away from a Plexiglas enclosure.
The Ark of the Covenant, even in its casing, glowed with such radiance it was almost too much to believe or comprehend that gold could cast such light. It was astounding, the ethereal glow reaching outward as if trying to touch the audience, to accept them within the warmth of its magnificent aura.
The dignitaries stood in paralytic awe, mouths suspended. From some tears slipped from the corners of their eyes, the moment overwhelming.
“What I show you,” began Bonasero, “is more than the true Ark of the Covenant. What I offer you is the beginning of the healing process where all religions, all faiths, and all denominations can share and enjoy the true meaning this relic provides to all of us.”
The Plexiglas was then removed with great effort, allowing the Ark to stand alone before the Basilica’s altar. Dignitaries and religious leaders bandied around, touching it, bathing in its glory, its aura, swearing upon their souls that they could feel an indescribable elation. More people wept, including political principals suddenly enlightened by their misguided values, hoping that God would forgive them for their wayward follies. For some this was an epiphany. For others it was an awakening that the power of the Ark was real and beyond anything manmade.
There was no doubt that this was the true Ark of the Covenant.
The imam was the first to inquire. “And when can we open the lid, Your Holiness?”
Pope Pius returned the imam’s smile with one of his own. “Now,” he said. “We can open the lid now.” With a motion of his hand he gestured for the bishops to carefully lift the lid and set it aside, which they did.
When the seat of the Ark was carefully placed down, the masses crept forward for a view of what lie within.
The first word spoken: Amazing.
Kimball, Leviticus and Isaiah hastened across the grounds, sighting the back of the museum. When they reached the Viale Vaticano, they remained hidden behind the concrete columns until they could verify Kill Shot’s team and move forward.
The street was quiet. Even from this distance they could hear the cheers of the crowd.
The team could see a single man standing at the edge of the hotel’s railing obviously working a laptop. No one else was in sight.
“Is that NAS?” asked Leviticus.
Kimball held his hand out to Leviticus. “Got a scope?”
“No, but Isaiah does.”
Isaiah handed Kimball a long monocular, which Kimball used to zoom in on the man at the railing. It was the man he had seen in the photos. Although he was clean shaven, he had no doubt that it was Sayyid. He handed the monocular back.
“Kill Shot’s dead,” he told them lightly. “That’s Sayyid, which means his two goons are somewhere close. One in the lobby, for sure. Maybe both.” Kimball handed the scope back to Isaiah. “Sayyid’s wearing a police uniform,” he added, “which is how they got by. I’m sure the others are doing the same, so make positive confirmation before you engage them.”
“And the laptop?”
Kimball nodded. It could have been used for anything. “Maybe to set off an explosive somewhere.” When he said this it sounded more like a question than a statement.
“We checked everywhere, Kimball, with bomb-sniffing dogs and tech devices. There’s nothing out there.”
“What about the nanotechnology?” asked Isaiah.
Kimball shook his head again. “The Ark is clean. The entire city has been swept numerous times.”
“Maybe the Ark is a deterrent to throw us off from what they’re really planning to do. Obviously they’re here for a reason.”
Kimball’s glanced at his watch. According to schedule, the lid of the Ark had been removed. And then he returned his gaze to the terrorist. “I’d say we go ask Sayyid and find out. What do you think?”
Both men concurred with ‘hoo-rahs.’
“All right then: Ready up.”
They were going in cold and without firearms. But they checked their blades. Each man had two combat knives, very sharp, very deadly, and precisely balanced for throw shots.
“Leviticus, Isaiah, go in the back. I’ll take the front and draw their fire. And be quick,” he added. “I’m not too crazy about going to a gunfight with a knife.”
“Don’t worry about us,” said Isaiah. “You just keep your head down.”
They looked up at Sayyid, who seemed to be lost in whatever he was doing.
“Then let’s move,” said Kimball.
The team began to maneuver into position.
The man in the lobby thought he saw movement, a vague shadow passing quickly across the frosted-stain glass of the front door, then gone.
The Arab took position behind the clerk’s desk, taking careful aim with his firearm in a two-handed stance. The clerk was lying dead at his feet, staring at the ceiling, his eyes beginning to glaze over with the milky sheen of blindness.
In a fluid motion the door swung open and someone, or something, tumbled into the lobby and took refuge behind a low-level wall that was waist high and topped with vases containing fresh-cut roses.
The Arab fired his weapon in quick succession. The suppressor muting the rapid sounds of fire as the doors shattered into tempered chips of glass, the bullets stitching across the low wall, taking out the vases, rose petals flying everywhere in a riot of colors. Plumes of dust and drywall erupted as the bullets decimated the wall, the assassin hoping to find his mark.
When he emptied the clip he deftly loaded another, took aim, and waited.
The lobby was quiet.
His target stilled.
The Arab moved away from his post and stepped over the clerk with his pistol drawn in front of him, a keen eye holding steady as to what lie beyond the wall, his trigger finger applying four of the five pounds of pressure necessary to discharge his weapon.
He stepped forward, cautiously, the point of his gun leading the way, the wall getting closer.
An image appeared.
Kimball lay on his back as the haze of the drywall began to settle, his black uniform becoming laden with dust.
The assassin smiled and raised his weapon. “Allahu Ak—”
The Arab’s eyes went wide, his mouth opening, and then he fell to his knees, his eyes then rolling upward, and then fell forward, hard, the man taking the teeth-first approach with a knife sticking out at the base of his skull.