Team Leader stood before the camera at center stage and spoke in Arabic. “To the people of this country, and to your allies: It is unfortunate that the world of Islam must endure the political machinations of a government motivated by corruption rather than do what is right, such as to stop the oppression of Arab nations by your needless occupation. If you think this is a unique situation, think again. The political machine that drives your country is stimulated by those who have the finances to maintain political camps in other nations and bullies allied support.” Team Leader then placed his hands behind the small of his back and stood at ease.
“It has come to our knowledge that the United States has no intention to abide by our demands, but continues to fight for the support of allied nations who do not have the courage to stand against them. Therefore, since the Great Satan has not met our demands, we will take the life of a bishop as an action praised in the eyes of Allah.” Team Leader hesitated, chose his next words carefully, and continued. “Those on Capitol Hill, those in the White House, those in American democracy, must understand that your way is not the Islamic way.”
Beside him the bishop began to beg for his life in earnest.
Team Leader ignored him and spoke over his cries.
“We will continue to maintain our edict that there are to be no discussions, no debates and no negotiations. The death of your bishop will serve to motivate the politicians of the world to see things differently and to work accordingly with the demands offered by the authority of the Soldiers of Islam.”
Team Leader removed his hands from behind the small of his back until the Sig was in full view of the camera. “Under the watchful eye of Allah, it is with honor that I kill a minion of Satan before Satan’s own eyes.”
Team Leader beckoned for someone off stage.
Kodiak jerked the pope up and dragged him to the stage and forced him to the floor next to Bishop Angelo. The pope winced when sharp splinters of wood bit into his knees. On the monitor, the pope appeared emaciated and disheveled, his garments soiled, his limbs wispy thin. The wrinkles on his face were deep, long and more profound. To view him on tape, many would consider the man who was king to look more like a skid row bum.
The pope turned to Bishop Angelo, held his hand out to him and wrapped his fingers around Angelo’s, whose movement was made minimal by the cuffs. He received the contact, a conduit tapping into the pope’s power.
“Be not afraid,” he told him. “For God holds a special place for you in His kingdom.”
For a brief moment their eyes met. And for that concise passage of time, Bishop Angelo seemed suddenly at peace. His faith was no longer alien.
The pope squeezed his hand, a gesture that everything was fine — would be fine, and Bishop Angelo gave a nod of perception.
“Allah is great,” cried Team Leader. In a deft move he pointed the pistol at the base of the bishop’s skull and pulled the trigger. The bishop slumped forward, dead, a quick and merciful kill. At the same time blood sprayed against the pope’s face, warm and wet, the fluid causing the pope to flinch, as if in pain.
Boa turned off the camera.
Team Leader immediately pulled the stunned pope to his feet and pushed him toward Kodiak. “After you hook him up, return for the bishop’s body and lay him at the feet of the pope to rot.”
Temporarily lobotomized by the trauma, the pope was guided from the room.
After holstering his pistol, Team Leader removed the videotape and examined it by turning it over in his gloved hand. “We must move quickly,” he said, then handed the tape back to Boa. “Make sure this gets to Yahweh.”
“Understood.”
When Boa left the room, Team Leader stood alone in silence. With the smell of cordite still in the air, he drew in the scent as if it were intoxicating, and then expelled it with an equally long exhale. He then turned to view the bishop who sat there with the back of his head pared open like petals of a rose. Gore and blood lay everywhere.
With his hands clasped behind the small of his back, Team Leader left the room.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Shari appeared pale when she reached her Lexus. Since being dismissed from the Oval Office, she had looked over her shoulder for someone following her. All she saw were people coming and going, never the same face, not a single person even looking in her direction, as everyone seemed preoccupied by their own circumstances.
With her hands shaking, the keys jingled as she started the car. But when her cell phone rang she jumped before picking it up. “Yes?”
“You’re clear,” the voice said. “There’s no tag behind you.”
“Are you sure?”
“No doubt about it.”
Shari’s shoulders slumped as if a great weight was lifted, but the painful muscle strain at the base of her skull continued. After pulling out of the parking space she placed the phone on speaker.
“So how’d it go?”
She set the phone on the opposite seat; her practiced eye glancing often into the rearview mirror looking for something the Vatican Knights may have missed. “I’m not sure,” she told Kimball. “Of course they dismissed it, which we knew they would. But at least the chum is in the water.”
“So who was there?”
“The norm: The president, the vice president, the attorney general, the chief advisor and two senior advisors.”
“All of whom would know about the existence of the Force Elite.”
“So it could be any one of them?”
“Or all of them.”
Shari looked into the rearview mirror and saw a van pull in behind her. “I hope that’s you.”
“It is.”
Her tension headache eased. “Let’s hope they bite, Kimball, because I’m fresh out of answers, theories and pieces of the puzzle.”
“Trust me,” he said. “If there’s a chance of exposure, they’ll send somebody and send them fast. I’m a little surprised they didn’t send along a tag.”
“Maybe they did — maybe you just don’t know it.”
“I’ve got Isaiah and Micah following me. There’s no tag.”
“Then I hope I’m not wrong about this,” she told him.
“After what happened last night, I doubt it.”
They drove on for a minute. Neither spoke. Shari looked into the rearview mirror and noted Kimball’s chiseled features, the movie-star looks. In return Kimball smiled and waved. And like a school girl caught looking at a boy she had a crush on, she immediately turned away and chided herself for making the act so obvious. She was, after all, a married woman with two children. Nevertheless, through the corner of her eye, she stole another peek.
“Kimball?”
“Yeah.”
“How safe is my home?”
“I’m thinking it’s still a hot spot.”
“Good,” she said. “Because I want them to know where they can find me.”
“It’ll be dangerous.”
“I know. But at least you’ll be there.”
“We’ll all be there. Leviticus is already at the house with Nehemiah keeping it under surveillance. So far it’s clear. The audio bugs are picking up nothing inside.”
She hesitated, looked into the mirror again, then wondered if a man like him, a man considered to be without any semblance of conscience or soul or morality, had the capability of loving anybody. Was there anything remotely and truly human about him? “Kimball?”
“Yeah.”
She wanted to ask, Are you capable of loving someone? but thought against it. “Never mind,” she said, and cancelled the call.