When they reached the fence line Leviticus removed a small canister and sprayed its liquefied contents onto the chain link, the metal bubbling until it melted and gave way, opening a point of entry.
With incredible silence and speed the Vatican Knights maneuvered through the darkness and took position along the sides of the building, communicating with hand gestures. With a closed fist and then pointing to the north access doorway, Leviticus was spelling out the entry point for his team to enter as a concerted group before branching out. Counting down his fingers from four to three to two to one until he reached zero — the point of a closed fist — they entered the building.
Leviticus and Isaiah took the stairway to the second level. Jonah and Jeremiah remained below with their heads on a swivel — the points of their assault rifles ready to engage and destroy.
The pungent air of raw sewage was thick and soupy, the nauseating stench as heavy as a wet comforter. Beneath their soft laden footfalls rats scattered into the dark recesses upon their approach. Rancid pools of greasy water marked the concrete as puddles. And moonlight the color of whey poured in through the open ceiling, giving them the benefit of light when everything around them appeared to be steeped in darkness. But as they neared the building’s rear they observed an illumination not proffered by the sky at all, but of incandescent lighting.
Moments later they heard voices of distant conversation, the male tones vacillating from excitement to calm, the dialogue unmistakably Arab.
The Vatican Knights pressed on.
Three terrorists were gathered around a small table beneath the feeble glow of a bulb playing Tarneeb, a card game, when one of the Arabs stood, stretched, and checked his watch. From their vantage point the Knights observed the terrorists wearing military fatigues and the red-and-white checkered keffiyeh. Their faces were heavily bearded, an indication they had not been marked for martyrdom. And they were mightily armed with AK-47’s.
The standing terrorist made a comment in Arabic, which drew quick laughter from the two at the table as they continued to toy with their cards, then veered off down the second tier walkway and into the shadows.
As he fumbled for the zipper of his pants, the Arab continued to talk over his shoulder as he relieved himself, adding to the already stagnant puddle before him. When he returned to the table his words trailed and faltered in his step.
His two comrades sat at the table with their arms limp beside them, both staring skyward with slack-jawed surprise, as smoke curled lazily from a single bloodless gunshot wound to their foreheads.
The terrorist looked up and appeared flummoxed as he searched the surrounding shadows but spotted nothing, heard nothing. But knew someone was there.
In sudden reflex the terrorist went for his AK-47 that leaned against the table when several bullets suddenly stitched across his chest and knocked him to the floor, the body skating a few feet along the surface before coming to a full stop.
The only evidence proposing that the Vatican Knights were even there was the marginal odor of cordite, which lasted a brief moment before the natural air of pungency once again enveloped the section.
They were not seen.
They were not heard.
In the darkness, the Vatican Knights became one with the shadows.
President Burroughs was informed by Doug Craner that Imelda Rokach had been spotted in her favorite eatery alone, with a CIA operative a few tables away waiting for the order to dispatch her.
“We have twenty-five minutes left,” said Burroughs. “We need to see what our man on board Shepherd One can do.”
“And if he fails to commit himself within that time?” asked Thornton.
The president tuned to him, his face a detailed expression that spoke volumes. If Father Kimball fails in his attempt, then they would have no choice. “Then we follow through with the assassination,” he said.
Kimball Hayden worked his way to the top of the maintenance closet and pressed his palms firmly against the open space next to the water tanks that supplied the lavatory. Slowly, he began to apply pressure, the strength of his powerful arms pushing, pressing, the wall now beginning to bow and crack, the noise louder than he cared for as the fire-resistant material protested against his authority. And then a portion of the wall split and gave way, the material falling to the floor.
He immediately scrambled into the spacious bathroom and, in fluid fashion, withdrew a combat knife from its sheath. Then, placing an ear against the door, he heard nothing but the hum of the plane’s engines.
Slowly, and with marked prudence, Kimball edged the door open enough to peer down the length of the aisle leading to the fore. From his point he did not see the Garrote Assassin. The aisle was completely empty.
He moved quickly and silently, like a wraith in the plane’s aft, and made his way to the kitchen area. He looked into the elevator shaft and noted that the cables had been cut. And then he moved to the opposite side of the area and looked down the adjacent aisle.
And there they were — the Garrote Assassin and the able-bodied terrorist. The men stood in the center of the aisle with the Garrote Assassin gesticulating and speaking, whereas the other listened and nodded. Hakam was nowhere to be seen, which meant he was probably in the cockpit. That left the two disabled terrorists who were most likely posted by the trapdoor, which would put the entire faction in front of him. And this is why he chose the closet in the plane’s aft. Now there was no chance of being flanked or surprised from behind.
Kimball pulled back, his mind formulating a plan of assault. It would be easier to attempt a takedown separately, he considered, than it would to take out two insurgents in a single action.
But he had no choice. Even if protocol required patience, since the two would eventually have to separate, he was simply running out of time. He had to engage them now.
With his back against the wall he silently withdrew his second blade, the two knives now equaling his chances.
And then he self-meditated.
Slowing his breathing, Kimball peeked around the corner to gauge their location before the assault. And just as he was about to commit himself, the Garrote Assassin patted his associate on the shoulder and pointed toward the plane’s aft. With a nod the acolyte accepted whatever he was told and began to make his round of Shepherd One, starting in the rear section. In his hand was a firearm, which he held by his side as he made his way down the aisle.
Kimball, liking his odds, pulled back, firmly gripped the handles of his weapons… And waited.
The party was about to begin.
Two terrorists stood before the makeshift room fashioned from corrugated tin, each man relishing a cigarette, one seemingly more so than the other. Unlike the crew manning the point of entry, these two appeared alert and focused, neither of them taking anything for granted.
Between their whispers something else floated dreamily across the air. It was the soft, lilting sound of a cherub singing, its sweet resonance a peaceful melody that carried like the flow of milk and honey. It, however, ended abruptly when one of the Arabs banged on the tin wall, ordering an immediate desistance of the child’s singing.
The only thing that sounded thereafter was the constant and amplified dripping of rancid water from aged pipes.