“So they just let an undocumented crew walk on board?”
“According to TSA management they did confirm that Captain Pastore submitted the tags of his crew, which were logged. That information is then given to the tower, who then acknowledges a full detail, and gauges the length and time to close down airspace for all flights until Shepherd One took off. Their job is to log in the names of the flight crew and nothing more. It’s all about time restraint and scheduling. It wasn’t about safety.”
“So Pastore could have given the TSA officers the ID tags of a dead crew, without them even acknowledging or matching the tags with the faces, and in goes whomever?”
More bobble head nodding. “Yup. And the officers who logged the tags said Pastore looked fine.”
“Of course he looked fine. He’s either under duress or he’s in on it.”
Cardasian stepped away from the open door, thinking. The smell of blood and copper was beginning to permeate the hallway they were standing in. “I’ll contact the FBI and Homeland Security,” he said. “It’s a possibility that Shepherd One may have been commandeered by a crew with hostile intent.”
“It kind of looks that way, doesn’t it? It really does.”
It was Cardasian’s turn with the bobble-head weave. “And what better way to mask hostile intention by flying the pope’s transport?”
The greatest pain Basilio Pastore suffered was when he sprained his knee playing soccer. The split lip was a close second. There was an actual divide on his lower lip, the flesh pared back to reveal a V. Every time he took a breath it was like a blast of cold air passing over an exposed nerve, only worse, the pain sometimes launching a cry from his throat and tears from his eyes.
After the large man ripped the shirt off Basilio’s back he made him wipe his lip dry, the fabric soaking up as much blood as possible before the shirt was proffered to his mother. When the shirt became saturated with the stains of his blood his wound continued to hemorrhage, the divided flesh needing surgical mending. And in all this time the assassin looked down on him with a wry grin, nodding — his actions a testament of his brutal nature with the promise of more to come.
As soon as the large man was satisfied, he grabbed Basilio’s shirt in one hand and a hank of the boy’s hair in the other, pulling Basilio to his feet with effortless ease, and directed him down a semi-dark, dank corridor that smelled with the rancidness of raw sewage. “What?” said the large man as he half carried, half dragged Basilio along the corridor floor. “Did you not like your accommodations of the holding pen? Perhaps the Black Box will be more to your liking.”
Far from his family and positioned on the other side of the warehouse was a steel booth marginally larger than a gun safe. The interior was small and cramped, the metal compartment a standing sarcophagus that disallowed the possibility of lying down. To Basilio it was a premature burial chamber.
The large man pulled the door wide and shoved Basilio inside. And Basilio did not fight back or resist, knowing the man was too big, too powerful, and any sort of defiance on his part would bring nothing less than additional pain.
“Perhaps this is more to your liking,” said the man with the simian brow. The flash of his smile showed the fine rows of his teeth and the nature of his hostile glee. “Perhaps you will die in here, yes? Or perhaps I will forget about you. But I am not a man without compassion, either.” The terrorist stood back and appraised a shirtless Basilio, his smile now gone. “You will not die today,” he told him. “But tomorrow is another day.” The man slammed the door shut and something moved in place, a locking mechanism of some type. Then through the door, the terrorist’s voice muted beyond the steel walls, avowed something in Arabic before departing, leaving behind a disconcerting quiet.
In time Basilio ran the flats of his palms along the interior of the chamber walls, each rotation of his hands trying to get a feel of his surroundings in order to draw a mental image from his settings. What he discovered was that the Black Box was exactly that, a black box. Holes had been drilled into the top to allow the seepage of air and pencil-thin shafts of light. When he tried to bend into a sitting position, he found it impossible. With every passing moment the air become stagnant and hot, the heat heavy. Above him, thin shafts of light began to fade as the sun began to set.
Leaning forward and pressing his forehead against the steel wall, there was no doubt that he would die here, in this chamber, his body to become a mummified husk.
He had no doubt at all.
Basilio began to weep.
Hakam, in his usual calm demeanor, waited patiently. After allowing Aziz and two others to go below through the access trapdoor, he posted a fourth soldier topside to maintain watch over the entry point to ensure that only Aziz and his team would emerge, once they garnered the prize of the valet’s head.
Grabbing the clipboard containing the passenger list, Hakam examined it carefully and double checked it. Listed were Pope Pius and the twelve bishops of the Holy See.
The roster, however, was incomplete.
Taking the clipboard, Hakam went to the main flight cabin where the passengers were congregated. The bishops were basically nondescript, mostly in their sixties, gray-haired, all harboring the shared look of dread and fear, all of them wearing black attire and Roman collar. The pope, on the other hand, remained calm and reserved, obviously putting his faith in God, and found comfort by doing so.
Hakam stood before him and held up the clipboard, saying nothing.
“Are you trying to make a point of some kind?” asked the pope.
Hakam sighed and lowered the register. “This is the passenger list,” he said, then tossed the clipboard onto a neighboring seat. “It lists nineteen people.”
Pope Pius said nothing.
“It lists the twelve bishops, the six-member flight crew, and yourself.”
“I suppose.”
“Why does it not contain the name of your personal valet? I find that quite interesting.”
Pius shrugged. “I did not create the list.”
Hakam was a man of amazing reserve, but he was beginning to feel the burgeoning sense of his impatience rising to the surface. “Why… does it not… contain … the name… of your valet?”
“What do you want from me? I have already given you my answer.”
“Would you give me a different answer if I had my friend with the garrote choose one of your bishops to display his skills, in order to illicit a proper response from you?”
Pope Pius took on more of an imploring appeal when he spoke. “What I have told you is the truth.”
Hakam took a seat on a nearby armrest and smiled gingerly. “I believe you,” he said. “But I want to know who he is — this man of mystery.”
“He is my valet,” he said simply.
Hakam maintained the smile. “Now you’re lying to me.” And then he stood. “Twelve bishops will soon become eleven if you don’t start telling me the truth. We both know that he is no priest. His name does not register on the list, which is required by law — even if it is the pope’s transport… And oddly enough, he wears military issue.”
“What I say to you is true. He has been my personal valet throughout the symposiums.”
“He’s definitely not Swiss Guard,” said Hakam, “since he’s American. Only the Swiss can be a part of that force. And the insignia on his pocket — he’s the only one on board who wears it; the symbol of the shield with the silver cross and lions.”
Pope Pius turned away, his body English telling Hakam he was mining in the right area.