The herod conspiracy, p.6
THE HEROD CONSPIRACY, page 6
Tonight, as he led his team of assassins at the call of Samantha Cartwright, the objective was clear. Find a child, a gypsy girl of thirteen, though no one knows what she looks like, and terminate her. In fact, terminate them all and leave no proverbial stone unturned. In regard to the child, he asked no questions. All he cared about was the transference of five million dollars to an account in the Cayman Islands once the mission was complete.
As the village burned around him, the man, flanked on both sides by towering flames, the shanties proving to be wonderful tinder, unstrapped his Kevlar helmet and removed it. Sweat peppered his brow as he examined the handiwork of his team. Blazing orange highlighted the area, the hellfire giving the compound a netherworld glow. Bodies lay in the thin streets between the shanties—men, women, and children. Distant screams sounded out, only to be cut short. Dogs continued to bark insanely. And gunfire continued with occasional reports from aged carbines.
Chaos.
Mayhem.
And suffering.
That’s what his Black Templars brought to the world as the team leader closed his eyes to relish the moment. Then, after wiping his sleeve across his brow to wipe it dry, there was a sharp crack from a rifle. Like magic, a bullet hole suddenly appeared against the slight protrusion of his Adam’s Apple, the round severing the spinal column as it made a clear exit.
Falling to the ground, the team leader remained alive, though unmoving, due to his brain stem miraculously intact, not even a bullet’s graze. As he lay there, his eyes shifted inside their orbs to take in his accomplishment with final absorption. Though flames continued to burn, he could no longer feel their heat against his flesh. But he could hear cries of anguish and torment, his objective coming to fruition as his targets lay in the streets, dead, his mission achieved. Surely, he considered, the targeted killing, the gypsy girl, lying amongst the dead, the slaughter of innocents complete. That was all that mattered to him, that he completed his mission.
Within seconds of his heartbeat winding down, the edges of his peripheral vision began to darken—first purple, then midnight black. Soon, the darkness crept inward to pinch enough of his view to the point of regarding the world through a pinprick hole. And then that, too, had diminished to blot out the flames entirely, though he could still hear the wood of the shanties crackling . . .
. . . Until he could hear nothing at all.
* * *
Three red dots formed a tight pattern against the back of Bishop Abbaticchio’s shirt as he lifted the child to the thick bough.
As soon as she found her footing, she turned and extended her hand, a gesture to aid the priest in his climb.
“I’m too heavy, child,” he told her. Then he tried to scale the tree by grabbing the limb and trying to hoist himself up. But his body did not have the strength to lift him, and the man quickly gave up. “Go, Angelica. Find someone—”
. . . Phffft . . . Phffft . . . Phffft . . .
Three dampened shots from suppressed assault weapons went off as one, the rounds piercing Bishop Abbaticchio’s back.
The priest, with a wide-eyed gaze of astonishment, extended his hand to Angelica, who was equally wide-eyed. “Go to the Vatican,” he told her, “and find someone who will take you to the man who will protect you. Kimball Hayden. Can you remember that name?”
She nodded.
“Say it,” he demanded. “Say his name.”
“Kimball Hayden.”
. . . Phffft . . . Phffft . . . Phffft . . .
Three more shots.
Bishop Abbaticchio, who grunted as though he took a punch to the solar plexus, focused his gaze on Angelica and whispered, “Go.” Then the cleric fell backward to the ground, the priest landing with his arms extended in a mock crucifixion. His eyes, which remained open, were staring skyward, though lifeless.
“Bishop Abbaticchio!” she cried with her hand reaching for him. “Bishop—”
Then the surrounding branches, the leaves, and the bark of the tree’s trunk started to chip away from gunfire as rounds peppered her surrounding area. Some were so close that she could hear their waspy hums as they zipped past her ears.
As the guerrillas approached, she could see the muzzle flashes of the assault rifles as they started to home in on her position.
And then she was gone, the girl running along the branch that had the thickness of a gymnast’s beam, then over the tin wall.
The assassins, after climbing the tree to peer over the tin barrier, saw no one.
The child had escaped.
* * *
As the slaughter appeared endless to those caught in the firefight, less than ten minutes had passed. In the distance, sirens were nearing, both fire and police.
Upon hearing this, Alpha Two tapped a button against his Kevlar helmet that opened a channel to all Alphas. “Alpha Two to Alpha One, do you read?”
Silence.
“I say again, Alpha Two to Alpha One, do you read?”
Nothing.
“Come in, Alpha One.” When the operative received no response, he immediately assumed command. “Alpha Two to all Alphas, retreat! I say again, retreat! Alpha One is incommunicado! I say again, Alpha One is incommunicado!”
“You want us to police the area and locate him?” asked an Alpha.
“Negative. We don’t have time! Hostiles are closing on our position!”
“Copy that.”
As quickly as they came, the Black Templars vanished just as swiftly while leaving behind a slew of dead bodies and scorched earth.
CHAPTER NINE
In the aftermath of the village’s razing, high-ranking members from the Polizia di Stato and its police tactical unit, the Nucleo Operativo Centrale di Sicurezza, were canvasing the ruins. Few shanty homes happened to escape the flames. Most, however, were little more than charred remains. But the most heart-wrenching of discoveries were the bodies, thirty-two dead with twelve of them children, many of them young girls.
Lead Inspector Anna Bianchi was reviewing the site along with Inspector Amerigo Zuccari. Shanty huts had burned to ashes and ruins, and the smell of smoke was everywhere. Bodies were strewn along the passageways, the victims of gunfire, including two priests. But the remains of one individual held immeasurable interest to the inspectors, the body of a soldier who was clad in riot gear.
“Obviously, not a Zingari,” commented Inspector Zuccari who stood over the body writing notes onto a small tablet. Then he pointed to the nearby Kevlar helmet. “That’s a top-end ballistic helmet, Kevlar quality, but not the brand worn by our Nucleo Operativo Centrale di Sicurezza.”
Lead Inspector Anna Bianchi concurred by nodding. “This man,” she began, “whoever he is, appears military experienced to some degree. The question is, why would a team of military sophisticates come to a Zingari community and wipe them out?”
“Inspector Bianchi!” The call came from one of the two uniformed Carabinieri officers who were manning the line of the cordoned-off perimeter that sequestered the deceased militant. Waiting for permission to cross were two priests, Fathers Auciello and Essex, the two showing their credentials. “They would like to have a word with you.”
“Vatican Intelligence,” Inspector Zuccari stated simply. “Why would they be here?”
“Two of their own were killed. Bishops, I believe.”
“But why send Vatican Intelligence?” Zuccari started to wave his hand. “Let them through.”
Tucking away their credentials, Fathers Essex and Auciello joined the inspectors, nodded, and shook hands, the greeting a mere formality.
“Fathers,” said Lead Inspector Bianchi, “Inspector Zuccari and I are curious to know why you’re here. What your interest is. It’s uncommon for the Vatican Intelligence to take an interest in gypsies.”
“Our interests lie in the welfare of a young girl, thirteen years old,” said Father Auciello. “As you know by now, two of our bishops from the Miracle Commission, now dead, were based here to examine the child. The Vatican team was receiving a live feed of the child when the attack commenced. But the Commission lost the feed when the hut burned to the ground. We see that she is not among the dead.”
“We would like to see that tape,” said Zuccari.
“Of course,” returned Father Auciello. “However, it holds nothing of value.”
“We’ll make that determination, Father,” said Lead Inspector Bianchi, “if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.”
Bianchi pointed to the corpse of the militant whose skin had become as ashen as the underbelly of a fish. “You’re here because of him, aren’t you?”
“With all due respect, Inspector, we’re allowed to give minimal information, as is the right of the Vatican.”
“Why would the Vatican have an interest in the slaughter of a Zingari village?” asked Inspector Zuccari. “More so, why would a paramilitary group be front and center of the assault?”
“With all due respect, Inspector, please do not refer to these people as Zingari since the term is considered somewhat derogatory. Like you, they are God’s children.”
“Not anymore,” he returned. “Thirty-two people are dead, two of them your bishops. The other twelve were young girls. Now you tell me, Father, why the Vatican thinks they have a stake in this.”
Fathers Auciello and Essex looked at the body lying supine on the ground.
And then from Father Essex: “We’re not sure. All we know is that Bishops Abbaticchio and Lauria were investigating a young child, a girl, who was said to be a true stigmatic.”
“A stigmatic?” asked Zuccari. “What’s that?”
“A person who displays the religious wounds of Christ. Wounds to the wrist, mostly, as was this case. They were here as part of the Commission to validate or discredit the phenomenon when the assault took place. Perhaps the attack had nothing to do with the child, but we know that she is not among the dead. The child is missing.”
“As are the other survivors who most likely took residence in neighboring Zingari villages, safety in numbers. That sort of thing.”
“Perhaps,” replied Father Auciello. “But the fact remains, all the children that were murdered were young girls between the ages of eight to fourteen, no males. Why do you suppose that is?”
“I have no idea.”
“Neither do we, which is why we’re here. Did the investigation of Bishops Abbaticchio and Lauria trigger the assault against this compound?” The priest shrugged. Perhaps. And then: “The gypsies may have their follies, Inspectors, but nothing that would call for the massacre of these people, especially children.” Father Auciello continued to stare at the man’s face. In his viewpoint, the deceased soldier appeared to have Slavic features such as high cheekbones, a broad forehead, fair skin, and a long, straight nose. There was little to indicate that he was either indigenous or Anglo-Saxon, but more likely from the Czech Republic, Bosnia, Serbia, Poland, Slovakia, Russia, or any other Slavic nations in the region. If that was the case, then this man was a mercenary for hire, a seasoned soldier.
But why?
Father Auciello, after removing his cell phone, centered the camera’s feature on the man’s face, took several photos, and forwarded them to Vatican Intelligence where the images would be uploaded and examined by VisageWare, a Facial Recognition Program. Per Father Auciello’s request, Vatican Intel would start with the FRP database in regard to persons of interest from Slavic nations.
When he confirmed that the Vatican received the data, he tucked the phone away. “Thank you, Inspectors. We appreciate your time.”
“You do know that this is an ongoing investigation,” said Lead Inspector Anna Bianchi. “What you discover needs to be shared, you do know that?”
Father Auciello feigned a light smile. “Of course,” he answered.
With Father Essex, the co-directors of Vatican Intelligence exited the compound that smelled of blood and ash.
CHAPTER TEN
The Fenix Corporation (The Night Citadel)
Samantha Cartwright was sitting inside her stately office inside the corporate castle with a view that overlooked a pristine lake that reflected glimmers of silver light from the moon. Listening, she could sense a sourness that was building inside of a stomach that was beginning to knot itself into a slick fist. The Black Templars had converged on the gypsy village and killed scores. The targeted killing, however, Angelica Cisternino Rotolo, had escaped their net, the child escaping with the aid of a bishop. But that wasn’t the worst part of Alpha Two’s summary. Apparently, they had lost one of their own, their Team Leader, who remained unaccounted for.
“What?” she cried out in anger.
“We needed to bug out and fast,” Alpha Two told her, his Irish brogue obvious. “The authorities were approaching, and we couldn’t afford to get into a firefight with the Nucleo Operativo Centrale di Sicurezza.”
“So, you left Kosygin behind, which goes against the code of the Black Templars. You leave no man behind!”
“He was not answering the call and time was limited.”
“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this!”
“I’m sorry.”
Samantha Cartwright brought the heel side of her balled fist against her desktop, her anger abating a little. The Black Templars were a seasoned group of mercenary warriors that didn’t come cheap. But they belonged to her as long as the organization had deep pockets, which it did.
“What about the target?”
“Many killed as required by the objective. But since we didn’t know what the child looked like, I’m confident to say that the mission was accomplished.”
“But a child got away. A girl.”
“The odds would indicate that we achieved the means.”
“The girl that happened to get away, however, was with the priest.”
Alpha Two remained silent.
And then from Samantha Cartwright: “Clean up your act. It’s not over until you find the girl who escaped . . . And then you will finish the job. Is that understood, Alpha Two?”
“It is.”
“Find . . . Her!” With the heel of her balled fist, she rammed it against the speaker button and severed the connection.
Falling back into her seat and raking her fingers nervously through her hair, she sensed that she was not alone. Turning, she could see something standing in the shadows, something that was blacker than black. In the background, the door to her bedroom was open as dim light from the hallway filtered into the room.
“Who’s there?” she demanded.
“I heard you screaming. I think the entire corporation did. I wanted to see if you were all right.”
Samantha Cartwright recognized the voice immediately. Helmut Schmidt.
“First, I don’t remember inviting you into my room. And secondly, you didn’t knock.”
“I thought you might have been in trouble.”
“Well, I’m not. So, if you don’t mind,” she said, her words indicating that he should leave.
Schmidt, the man silhouetted against the backdrop, raised his hands in surrender, backpedaled a few steps, removed himself from the room, and closed the door softly behind him with the sound of the door’s mechanism locking with a slight click.
Samantha, frustrated, growled as she pounded her fists against her desktop like gavels against blocks of wood. Then she stopped as her focus took her back to the door where Helmut Schmidt had just exited. How much, she asked herself, of my call with Alpha Two did he hear?
It would be a question she would toil with all night long as sleep eluded her.
* * *
Rome, Italy
After Samantha Cartwright abruptly canceled her call, Alpha Two set his cell phone down on the nightstand next to the comforter, got to his feet, went to the bathroom, turned on the faucet and ran cool water over his face. After shutting off the faucet, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. What was a sore spot for him was the scarlet-colored scar that ran laterally along his face, something that was as telling as a tattoo. It was a scar he received while working as a contractor in Fallujah when he took on an ISIS guerilla mano a mano with no outside interference. With nothing but their combat knives, he could recall the moment with such clarity that the fight seemed rather recent instead of taking place a decade ago. He could remember fixing his gaze on his opponent, a man with obsidian-black eyes wearing a keffiyeh. They circled one another, appraised each other, and then they converged. In the end, the ISIS operative managed to score a groove along Alpha Two’s face, a deep cut down to the bone, whereas the guerilla took a lethal slice to his throat.
Sighing, Alpha Two traced a fingertip along the length of the scar. If not for the blemish, he thought, he would have been a handsome man with dark and angular features.
After pouring himself three fingers of whisky, and while his teammates were elsewhere inside the safe house licking their wounds from the Shanty Town slaughter, Alpha Two returned to his bed. He closed his eyes to recollect the moment when he decided to take full command of the team.
With fires blazing all around them as the kill squad canvassed the area in a search-and-destroy mission, Alpha Two, after neutralizing a mother and her ten-year-old daughter, happened upon Alpha One who was flanked between two walls of flame, the heat intense, his helmet off as he wiped an arm across his brow, drying it. In an act Alpha Two saw as opportune, he raised his weapon, took aim, and fired off a precision shot, a single round that penetrated the man’s throat, killing him. In the aftermath of One’s death, he radioed his teammates and informed them that Alpha One was incommunicado, a ruse to make them believe that he had nothing to do with his disappearance when, in fact, he had everything to do with it.
He opened his eyes thinking that he had, however, committed a single error, that he had not killed Alpha One sooner in order to remove his body from the scene. Since the Black Templar creed was also a principle followed by all special forces, that of leaving no man behind, the arrival of the Nucleo Operativo Centrale di Sicurezza forced his hand to vacate the area before his team was overcome by the SWAT division.
