“The stones act as a combination,” he said. “It’s a safeguard against unwanted entry. Very few people are authorized to see what’s in this room.”
Once the wall closed behind them, the darkness becoming complete, Cardinal Medeiros called out a voice command and tracks of bright fluorescent light flicked on, illuminating a room with antiseptically clean white walls. Behind numerous glass cases were a displayed range of weapons, from handguns to automatic rifles. Some of these were modified firearms, unrecognizable even to Kimball, who considered himself an authority on weaponry.
Kimball and the rest of the team moved toward the displays, mesmerized by the quantity of weapons. In several display cases were state-of-the-art Kevlar vests, engineered with fiber resilient enough to stop high-caliber bullets. In the center of each vest was the embroidered coat of arms of the Vatican Knights. Other cases held headgear, laser sights, double-edged weapons, gadgetry and attachments. To the company of soldiers, the chamber seemed more like a museum than an armory.
“This, my friends, is what I do,” said Medeiros. He walked along the displays with satisfaction. “You’ll find that for this mission the HK XM8 with the baseline carbine and common side-loading 40-millimeter X320 grenade launcher will suffice. The weapon can be quickly modified to a compact carbine, a sharpshooter variant, or an automatic rifle, depending upon your needs. The only drawback is that you must carry all the segments with you to make the necessary adjustments.”
Kimball examined the myriad displays of weaponry and turned to Medeiros. “You engineered these?”
“Not the HK XM8,” he answered. “But most of the others that you see here.” The priest traced a finger along a glass case featuring his designs. “Like you, Kimball, I am a former covert operator, but now my skills are employed to craft the instruments you use.” And then he sighed, almost dreamily. “My years of soldiering are long behind me.” Kimball thought he picked up a sorrowful hint in the man’s tone. “Now I engineer weapons of defense for the Society of Seven.”
“I didn’t know the Society of Seven had any say in weapons development.”
“I’m sure there’s a lot that goes on within the Vatican that you and I don’t know about,” Medeiros said. Then, after sliding back a glass panel to access the HK XM8s, he said, “As you know, the Society of Seven is the Pope’s true line of defense. Although the Swiss Guard is the official army that protects the fortress of the Vatican, it is the Vatican Knights who are considered a very special group with very special needs. Therefore…” He let his words trail as he held out his hand toward the exhibit. “Your special needs.”
Suddenly, the cardinal became somber. “If the pope is killed,” he said gravely, “the world will truly be divided.”
Kimball understood. If the pope was killed, he would become a martyr, dividing Christians and Muslims, almost certainly triggering retaliatory attacks, and putting people of all faiths in danger.
“For the sake of everybody on this planet, Kimball, bring him back.”
“I will.”
Within an hour the Knights had received their equipment and learned to break down and reassemble the modified HK XM8 with little effort. When his team was geared and ready, Kimball proffered a hand to Cardinal Medeiros.
“Remember, Kimball, do what is necessary to accomplish our goal… bring him back.” Medeiros lowered his hand. His face now appeared haggard beneath the lights, the deepening shadows under his eyes giving him the look of a man aging by the minute.
“Now for the details,” said Medeiros. “The powers that be have assigned Billy Paxton of the FBI to negotiate with the Soldiers of Islam, but our sources say that Shari Cohen is the true head of the investigation over at the Bureau. She’s the one you need to contact, Kimball. She’s the one you need to create an alliance with.” Medeiros handed over a dossier. “Everything you need to know about her is in there.”
Kimball glanced over the pages of text, then over the eight-by-ten photo. He noted Shari’s almond-shaped eyes, her smooth features, and how her widow’s peak came to a point on her forehead. After a moment, he closed the file.
“God be with you, Kimball. And good luck.”
In a unified act, each Vatican Knight placed a closed fist over his heart, bowed his head, and got on bended knee. “Loyalty above all else,” they said, “except Honor.”
With another blessing from Cardinal Medeiros, the Vatican Knights left the church, disappearing into a living fog that immediately enveloped them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It was night.
Yosef Rokach sat before his PC in the darkness of his apartment, the light of the monitor casting ghoulish shadows upon his face. During the six hours he sat before the computer, trying to decode the encryptions on the data stick, Yosef’s studious eyes hardly looked away from the screen.
On average, it took approximately two hours to decode a single page of data, leaving three pages remaining, which would take him into the dawn hours. So far he had been able to bring up photos of the Soldiers of Islam and their personal histories — low-level material. In fact, this same material had already been forwarded to multiple intelligence agencies that day. So why would such data be protected by the LAP?
With rapid fingering on the keyboard, Yosef undid the visible stitching and continued to open the cyber gates, producing readable material.
And then the first of the security lights came on, blinking.
A security screen to the right of the PC monitor was divided into quarters, showing a different part of the residence on each segment. The top left portion showed three men scaling the small gate to his building, which was always kept locked. The second security lamp lit up. The intruders were now at the front door of the building, one hunkering by the lock to disengage it.
Yosef typed even faster, realizing that he wouldn’t have time to decipher the rest of the encryption. He saved the partially decoded document onto his desktop.
The third security lamp began to blink, the intruders now in the hallway making their way up the stairs to his apartment.
Yosef quickly brought up the email addresses of Washington’s FBI office and the CIA and attached the desktop document. As the file uploaded, the computer suddenly appeared to work with glacial slowness. The message, when received by the American constituencies, would be from a Mossad ISP address in order to protect the identity of the operative. Mossad would appear as the direct sender.
The fourth and final lamp lit, the amber bulb blinking in rapid succession. The intruders were now milling at his doorstep, their voices hushed, talking, deciding.
Just as the document loaded, Yosef hit the SEND button.
At that moment, the door to his apartment crashed inward.
After hitting the reset button to quickly clear the computer screen, Yosef stood to face his aggressors. “What is this? What do you want?”
Three men stood silhouetted against the light of the hallway.
“I demand to know—”
“What you demand means nothing to me,” said the first man. Even silhouetted, the man appeared slight — hardly a physical threat, but his voice possessed something strong and unyielding.
The small man stepped closer, his features clearer. His hair was dark and his face was lined with age and wisdom, the creases also denoting years of pain, anger and persecution. Here stood Yitzhak Paled, head of the Lohamah Psichlogit.
“How much did you decipher?” he asked calmly. “And who did you send it to?”