Cardinal Vessucci sighed. Corsaro was absolutely right: he was one man alone against a terrorist faction 30,000 feet in the air. The improbability of the dark reality certainly outweighed the reasonability of Hayden’s success. “I will inform the Camerlengo to be prepared,” he said. “But don’t give up on Kimball.”
“I know what he can do,” returned Corsaro. “My faith hasn’t totally escaped me.”
Vessucci eased back in his seat and turned his eyes to the glass stained image of the Pieta, this time his mind wondering if the Vatican Knight was even alive.
Barring the bump on his head, Kimball was fine. What wasn’t fine, however, was the laptop he was using to contact the Vatican, which had been destroyed during the plane’s maneuvers, the screen shattered. He hoped the additional laptops he left behind in the fuselage held up during the violent course.
Passing through the hatch with more effort than he cared to exert, Kimball realized he was running out of time. The wild path of Shepherd One was no fluke, the plane obviously in evasive maneuvers which were confirmed by the dual rocket explosions that sent a concussion wave that drove the jumbo jet into a downward trajectory before righting itself. No doubt Enzio had done a masterful job in eluding the sortie. But then to regain control of the airliner which was not built for aerial exercises was absolutely expert on the part of the seasoned pilot. But Kimball knew he would soon have to utilize his own set of skills if they were to survive the day: I kill people. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at.
Somehow he would eventually have to work his way topside and take his chances.
Stepping into the tube of the fuselage, it looked like it had been tossed about by a gorilla wreaking havoc. Clothes, suitcases, paperwork and miscellaneous items were strewn across the floor. Crates not tethered properly to the surface were lying on their sides. But in the center of the fuselage were the two aluminum cases, unmoved, secured, the tethering suction cups doing their job well.
Standing over the weapons, Kimball held his hands over them like someone standing before a comforting fire burning beneath the mantel of a fireplace, then got to a bended knee. Gently, as he knelt between them, he placed a hand on each of the neighboring cases and sensed their coldness. First, he carefully opened the case on his right. When he did he saw the burnished spheres and listened to the waspy hum. And then he repeated himself with the second case and used great care as he lifted the lid, revealing a twin rendition of the first — the burnished spheres undamaged and very much alive. With the same prudence he closed and fastened the latches, and then rummaged the area for a working laptop. After finding two useless units broken in the freefall, he finally found one intact.
Working his way back into the Avionics Room, Kimball reestablished set-up and booted the laptop. Around him, as he waited for the screen to come to life, the minuscule bulbs on the Avionic boards winked intermittently, the inconstant lighting drawing ghoulish lines along his face in the shadows. To his right a thin spotlighted beam of light came down through the lifted plate leading into the cockpit, the light shaft drawing him close to the hole, where he listened.
Since he did not hear the small Arab talk, he considered the time to be now.
“Hey, Enzio.”
… Hey, Enzio…
To the pilot it sounded like a distant whisper from the end of a long tunnel, a phantom voice trailing through the darkness.
“Yo… Enzio.”
This time it was clear, very clear.
The pilot turned toward the cockpit entrance, expecting to see the small Arab. But the entrance was clear.
“Enzio?”
It was coming from the co-pilot’s side but from the floor, causing the pilot’s demeanor to shift into a nonplussed look. And then it dawned on him, the small access plate leading from the cockpit down to the Avionics Room was missing. The hole, which was designed for the transference of wires from the cockpit’s control panel to the Avionics boards below for diagnostic information retrieval, was open.
“Enzio.”
“Father Hayden?”
Although he was an elite commando known by a few, it was well within the interest of the Vatican that his true identity be as covert as possible. To everyone within the Church he was known as Father Hayden, personal valet to Pope Pius XIII. “Yeah, Enzio, it’s me.”
“Why are you in the Avionics Room?”
“It’s a long story. But it appears they’ve locked me in. The elevator’s been disabled and the trapdoor’s secured.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Again: long story.”
Enzio kept looking over his shoulder with darting glances, expecting to see the little Arab walk in. “Father Hayden, it is better where you are anyway. I think they killed one of the bishops. You’re safe there.”
“Enzio, none of us are safe. Do you have any idea what they’re planning to do?”
He took another glance over his shoulder. “They tell me nothing. All they say is if I don’t comply with their demands, then they will kill my family.”
“Listen, Enzio, there’s a nuclear payload on this plane — two separate devices. Obviously they have something very particular in mind. Have they said or mentioned anything around you, anything at all regarding what they plan to do?”
“When they speak to each other they do so in Arabic, which I don’t understand. However, the leader was online with someone before he left the cockpit. But I did pick up a few words that came up in their conversation.”
“What?” he asked.
“I heard him mention on several occasions the Ponte Felcino Mosque.”
The Ponte Felcino Mosque? “That’s in Perugia,” he said.
“I think that’s where they’re holding my family,” he returned. “After the little Arab broke off contact, he told me that my family was fine. So I’m thinking he was talking to their captor.”
And this very well may be possible, considered Kimball. Perugia, Italy had a high Muslim population of 150,000 people with 10,000 people living in city center. The mosque was raided by Italy’s anti-terrorist task force after learning that the clerics were promoting terrorist sentiment, and discovered evidence to support their claim. Since then the mosque had come under the watchful eye of the Italian government.
“After the raid a few years ago and knowing that they’re being watched, I don’t think so.”
“Then maybe they’re close by.”
“Yeah, maybe — maybe the Ponte Felcino Mosque is their base command.”
“How well do you know Perugia?”
“Good enough,” said Kimball. “The SIV keeps an eye on all possible insurgent groups close to the Vatican.” The SIV, or the Servizio Informazione del Vaticano, was the Vatican’s Intelligence Service.
“Then they could be anywhere in Perugia.”
“If they’re there at all, but at least it’s a starting point.”
“I know they’re there,” said Enzio, the tone of his voice wanting to believe so. “I know they are.”
“Did you hear anything else?”
“No, I just got a quick glimpse of the man he was speaking to — rough looking, ugly as sin. The picture quality was poor, but I saw concrete pillars in the background, squared, with a high ceiling that led me to believe it was the mosque.”
“Was the ceiling rounded like a rotunda?”
“No, it appeared more like structural beams crossing from one point to another. But the picture was grainy and it was only for a moment that I glanced at it.”
“Squared columns and beams are not the structural hallmarks of a mosque,” he said.