Team Leader moved down the dank corridor, pompous as an athlete who considers himself unbeatable, his arrogance laying the groundwork of invincibility. He had nursed this seed of thought to fruition. With huge tracts of oil beneath the soil he walked upon in his native Israel, as well as huge tracts in Russia, Venezuela and the Palestinian territories, there was no telling how rich their economies would become. OPEC dependency by wealthy nations would vanish once non-OPEC nations produced more products for less money. There would no longer be $120 barrels of oil.
Using Pope Pius XIII was certainly the tool of propaganda that had moved mountains in ways Team Leader never dreamed of. Political landscapes were on the verge of rising or falling, the balances of power were being manipulated by the prejudices of people of all countries by tapping into their fragile national psyches: all due to the use of a religious icon in the shape of an old man.
These thoughts massaged Team Leader’s ego as he congratulated himself and was proud he was able to use the hatred buried in his heart to such magnificent advantage. After all, he just happened to be the one to promote it since he was a realist and not an idealist. Peace in the Middle East was never more than a pipe dream. Why not precipitate the inevitable?
His face didn’t betray his inner smile as he walked past the four remaining members of the Holy See who huddled solemnly on their mattresses, their heads bowed in fear of the man who held the decision over life or death.
When Team Leader entered the pope’s room a vague scent of blood, copper and bodily waste wafted like something tangible, like something dead but floating freely. But Team Leader had the scents pinpointed for what they were, prerequisites for decay and body rot. It had been several hours since Bishop Angelo had been murdered, his body placed at the foot of the pope. And somewhere within the darkness flies alit, buzzing in incessant drone.
Team Leader engaged his night-vision monocular and the room took on a clear and phosphorous hue. Vague shapes were no longer mere images or shadows, but held depth and width and height. And Team Leader, no longer feeling detached from the darkness, was now a part of it as he gazed down at the pope.
The old man lay beneath two layers of blankets. The contours of his body poked like broomsticks through the fabric, thin and wispy. Beside him, Bishop Angelo lay beneath a blanket, the pulp of his head barely exposed as a black mass of flies assembled to lay their eggs. Team Leader guessed the pope had covered him for the sake of reverence.
“I owe you an apology, Your Holiness, but the killing was absolutely necessary to the cause. I hope the pain is not too considerable.”
“What kind of a person murders an innocent man?” the pope asked from underneath the covers.
“A person with an agenda,” he stated. His voice was calm, reserved and full of confidence. “A person who is going to change the world one government at a time.”
Team Leader rounded the mattress and looked down at the pope, who was laboring to rise from beneath his blankets.
“You think what you are about to do is salvation for the world?” the pope asked, the blankets falling to his waist. In the green cast of the NVG lighting, the man looked impossibly emaciated.
“No, not at all,” he said. “But I do believe it will be salvation for my people.”
“With my death you will get what you want — a war that will cost millions of lives and burden your conscience and soul.”
“What I see, Your Holiness is the means to achieve the effect. There are always sacrifices in causes, you know that. Think of your own history and the Crusades.”
“What you’re doing will only foster rage to the point of hatred so great that it could generate a new world holocaust. It’s not worth it.”
“In my eyes, Your Holiness, it is. Your eyes have not seen what mine has. Your eyes didn’t witness your family murdered. Your eyes didn’t cast themselves upon a loving, gentle father who died a slow death because of one man’s deep-rooted hatred for Jews one sunny day in Ramallah. You speak, but you know nothing. You live in a world where your tea may be too hot to sip or perhaps the air is a little too humid for your comfort. But in my world, having blood on your hands is the norm. And I’m going to stop it.”
The pope shook his head. “I feel sorry for you,” he said.
“Why? Because my ideologies are not in line with yours?”
The pope closed his eyes and shook his head. “It’s because you’re damning your soul for all eternity.”
“Maybe, but when that day comes, at least I know I did all I could to make a change. And perhaps my God will understand that.”
“We have the same God,” he said, “The God of Allah, of Mohammed, of Yahweh — they’re all the same, and I doubt that God will look upon you favorably.”
“My God is not the God Allah,” Team Leader said, the pitch of his voice rising. “My God will favor me for my actions against the transgressions of others.”
“By killing innocent people?”
“If that’s His will.”
“Then if that is the case, you pray to a false God. Because there is no God who would condone the killing of men.”
“And if that is the case, then Allah is a false God since men kill openly in His name.”
“Men kill openly because they are ignorant. Not because they believe their God is astringent.”
“My God is not the same as theirs.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, my son. Although God has many faces, He has but one voice.” The pope released a rattled cough of phlegm from deep within his lungs.
“Your war will not come out the way you plan it,” he added. “There will be awful consequences on both sides, and your people will suffer like no other. Can you live with that? Can you live knowing that your actions may cause other children to watch their families die? Just like you did one sunny day in Ramallah?”
Team Leader turned livid. The veins in his neck stuck out like cords. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to stop. And I’ll succeed.”
“God won’t let you,” muttered the pope. He lay back down, pulled the blankets over him, and whispered, “God… won’t
… let you.”
We’ll see. Tomorrow, when you die, we’ll see which of us is right.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Shari mustered the courage to set herself in motion. She took deep breaths and released them as if in a Lamaze class. When her mind calmed to the point of clear cognizance, she called Alan Thornton, the presidential advisor.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“That‘s not important.”
“Shari, what‘s wrong? You don‘t sound right.”
“Alan, please, I’ve got something to tell you.”
“What?”
Shari confided with him about the Soldiers of Islam having been identified from the Clark County Coroner’s Office in Nevada, and about the CD being a covert schematic of war involving US and allied interests. Thornton remained quiet, taking in every word as Shari spoke in a quick clip.
Then Shari dropped the bomb shell. “I know about the Force Elite, Alan. I just didn’t think that after what we’ve been through together that you would support my eradication.”
“Eradication? What the hell are you talking about?”
“My attackers. The ones I told the president about as he was looking over the photos in his office just before he went on the air. They were the Force Elite.”