“Then if not in the mosque, where could they be?”
Kimball deliberated. The city was not very big, the buildings sparse and old, two- and three-story constructions that have been around for decades, and, in some cases, for centuries. There was an annex of abandoned buildings, however, on the outskirts, but close enough to the mosque. During World War II these buildings were used as a production factory for building arms. And since they were located in central Italy, and with the shipping points equal distance from one another, made it a prime location. Once the war ended so did the arms trade, the factories soon shutting down by dying a quick death. Although plans had been made to raze the buildings to create more fashionable businesses and residences, nothing ever came to fruition. The buildings were left to rot.
“In Perugia,” said Kimball, “there are several abandoned buildings…” He let his words falter.
“Then that is where they are,” the pilot said quickly. And then: “Father Hayden, my duty to the Vatican is second to my family. If I have to surrender my life in order that they shall live, then I would gladly do it. But right now my hands are tied because they are being held captive.”
“I’m trying to contact the Vatican through the ports down here,” he said. “I hooked up a laptop hoping to get through. I can do that, right?”
“If you know their address, then yes, you can. The Avionics station was set up to transfer diagnostics information from Shepherd One to the command base to immediately define possible flight problems. There are no restrictions, as far as I know.”
“Then I guess we’ll just have to see what exactly is in Perugia.”
Enzio could feel the tears welling, a sour lump in his throat. “Please, Father Hayden, if they are there, and if you can find a way, please save them.”
“Trust me,” he said. “If they’re there… I know the perfect team to go in and get them.”
Al-Rashad closed the laptop with gentle care, his eyes taking on that faraway look. Al-Khatib Hakam had failed in his attempt to reach Washington D.C.
In the message he just received, al-Rashad was to act as conduit and inform the clerics of the Ponte Felcino Mosque that Hakam would use the moment to complete the mission of forcing the United States Intelligence Services to destroy themselves from within. And then he outlined his new itinerary to al-Rashad, which he was to relay to the clerics at the mosque.
However, he was to be surreptitious in manner since the mosque was most likely under surveillance. If necessary, he would travel through the thin warrens beneath the Perugian streets to reach the sublevel of the Ponte Felcino Mosque.
So this was now his task, he thought. To act as liaison between a soldier who never held a weapon and clerics who sponsored the cause.
Deep inside he could feel something volatile brewing, something hotly alive and waiting to rear its ugly head in the form of all-consuming anger. He was, after all, a great warrior, not a messenger.
And then his eyes began to focus, first going to the ceiling, which was made of chicken-wire glass that allowed the access of natural lighting to the factory floor below.
His mind then bore dark considerations.
When this was over, when Hakam had completed his task, he would murder the children and take the pilot’s wife, raping her until his body could perform no more, and then leave her in a grave until her bones turned to dust.
Yes, he thought. That’s what I’ll do. Heathens deserve no better.
For a long moment he leisurely gazed over the factory floor from his vantage point of the second tier, his impatience of not serving in the capacity for which he was capable of annoying him to no end. When the assignment was over he had no doubt he would be sent back to America to reestablish the sales of illicit steroids to raise money for future causes. In the States there was a market for everything, including the retailing of growth hormones which was quite expansive and highly profitable. High school athletes needed them to gain an edge for the college ranks, the college athletes needed them to gain the edge for the pro ranks, and the aging pros needed them to maintain the edge over younger competitors. The need to be bigger, stronger and faster was a never-ending well to tap from.
Of course taking such narcotics was everything against the Quran. But al-Rashad could not help himself, finding incredible power within the sweet bite of the needle as his body mass grew beyond expectations. His matchstick arms became massive and thick with trails of veins coursing along the edges of defined muscle mass. His chest blossomed exponentially, the pectoral plates rounding out with the solidness of marble. However, he waived caution. Over the years his addiction culminated with body changes, such as the sloping brow and the jutting of his jaw, precursors to internal and sometimes fatal changes, such as the decimation of the liver and testes.
But al-Rashad felt good, sensing the need for power outweighing the need for prudence.
When looking in the mirror in the gym he saw himself with incredible vanity. Whenever he flexed or posed, he did so with the body of a warrior and not as a messenger.
He spat over the railing, the idea of what had been relegated to in the cause leaving a bad taste in his mouth.
Al-Rashad is not a messenger.
I am a warrior of Allah!
When the war cry dissipated from his mind, when he established a state of self calm, al-Rashad turned away and began to make his way toward the Ponte Felcino Mosque.
For now, he would act as the dutiful messenger.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Los Angeles was abuzz. More so out of excitement than in panic mode. Shepherd One was flying above them; the life of Pope Pius XIII at stake. LA had become the centerpiece of worldwide attention. All which posed problems for the president and his team.
President Burroughs sat with his cabinet of advisors to come up with a way to best serve their position in the international community. The key situation at the moment was how to deal with Shepherd One, which was flying over a vastly populated area with a six kiloton payload. Was it their ethical duty to inform the masses of the flight’s yield, causing panic and the probable destruction of a city? Or do they wait, gambling on the improbability of a quick resolution?
Either way it was a troubling proposition. Not only did they have to contend with the issues at hand, but deal with the media affairs constituting reasons for the attack on Shepherd One. Therefore, information was sent to the press secretary in order for her to filter out certain facts, and doctor a fashionable statement to best suit their needs since denial was no longer an option.
“If we inform a city of over four million people about the probability of Shepherd One possessing a six-kiloton weapon — a weapon with half the yield that destroyed Hiroshima — what can we expect other than the obvious?” asked the president.
“Well,” said Thornton, “everyone here knows as well as I do that the highway systems would eventually become impassable, trapping hundreds of thousands of people, maybe more. And then you’d have the looting and pillaging, your fires, murders, rape — nothing good at all. You would think it would be better not to inform anyone in order to continue ongoing stability. But on the other hand, if those weapons are on board, then they’re going to be used. So do we allow ourselves to be subjected in the media and in the worldwide community as a government who knew the potential destruction of our people but failed to react? If that’s the case, then we would distance ourselves from our own citizenry by failing to protect those in Los Angeles by allowing the detonation to happen when we knew the potential existed.”