Текст книги "The Insider Threat"

Автор книги: Brad Taylor

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Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

91

Jacob got in line behind Carlos and Devon, the Holy Father less than thirty meters away. The Lost Boys began shuffling forward like a row of condemned men walking to their final resting place.

He watched the Father, ignoring the men around him. Watched him smile, small glasses on his face, joy in his manner. He wondered if the man could feel death coming. Wondered if he knew it and yet did nothing because of his stature. He’d read about previous attacks, with each pope declaring divine intervention that they lived, with one saying, “My defense is my cross.” Did they really believe that? Did they honestly think that they were above death?

They crept closer and Jacob whispered into the ear of Carlos, “Remember the delay of the detonator. You must time it. Two seconds after release.”

Carlos nodded.

The Holy Father continued to meet the line, and Jacob saw real happiness. Not make-believe political posturing because he had to be there. He felt a twinge of guilt and reflexively looked for Father Brimm. He was nowhere to be found.

They were now twenty people back, and one of the suited men with an earpiece came forward, whispering into the Holy Father’s ear. He nodded, but didn’t break his connection with the boys visiting. Another came forward, whispering to a prelate on the side. Then a third. Then a man with an earpiece came toward the line. Searching.

We’ve been discovered.

He said, “Carlos, this is it. Go now. You first, to kill the line of defense, then Devon, to kill the pope.”

The kid behind him poked him in the back, saying, “Quiet. You’re not supposed to be talking.” Never even hearing the words.

Carlos and Devon separated from the line and began walking forward in a rapid manner. Jacob caught movement from the security, but knew it would be too late to do anything. They were too close.

Carlos saw the protective detail closing in and darted forward, screaming, “Allahu Akbar!” The security men coalesced like flies to sugar, beating him to the ground. He waited until all were on him, then detonated.

A huge explosion rent the air, and body parts were flung throughout the cathedral, the noise stunning everyone. Devon began running straight at the Holy Father, his hand held high, shouting the same Arabic phrase.

The remaining security men leapt on the Holy Father, three pulling him to the ground and two standing in front, shooting small submachine guns they’d produced from under their jackets. Devon took a staggering amount of rounds, but remained on his feet, still moving forward. His device detonated fifteen feet away, disintegrating his body and shredding the men surrounding the target.

On the ground with everyone else, Jacob realized instantly what had happened. Devon had mistimed the chemicals, expecting to reach the pope on the run. The bullets had slowed him enough to cause it to fire early. Among the screaming and crying, he stared at the mass of flesh of his friend, split neatly in half, his upper torso remarkably intact, his head looking back at Jacob, eyes open.

Jacob stood, preparing to run screaming out of the basilica with everyone else. He took one last look at the altar, surveying the carnage.

And saw the Holy Father move.

*   *   *

Shoshana was running flat-out, retracing the path that Omar had taken out of Trastevere. Jennifer matched her stride for stride, two steps back.

They ran down the sidewalk next to the Tiber River, reaching the bridge for the island and sprinting forward, keeping a pace that made Jennifer’s lungs burn.

Moving across the spit of land, drawing stares from the tourists mingling about, Jennifer held up on the north side of the river, seeing a highway paralleling it, but nothing going into the interior.

Shoshana said, “Why are we stopping? Get us to the Colosseum.”

Jennifer manipulated her phone, saying, “Trying to find a shortcut. Last contact was at Via dei Fori Imperiali, the road leading to the Colosseum. He’s gone the long way around the Forum and is now headed east. We follow and we’ll never reach him in time.”

Exasperated, Shoshana said, “We’ll never reach him sitting here. He’s walking. We’re running.”

Jennifer put away her phone and said, “Yeah, you’re right. He took the long way because there is no short way. The Forum stretches through this area. No roads. Let’s go.”

Shoshana said, “Wait, he’s walking around the Forum because there’s no road through it? And if we find a way, we can beat him?”

“Yes, but I just told you, there isn’t a road that does that.”

“There isn’t one for someone carrying a bomb. Plenty of ways for people who run like deer. Show me the phone.”

Jennifer did, and Shoshana said, “Satellite. Like you did before.”

Jennifer manipulated the application, waiting on the resolution to come through. When it did, Shoshana said, “Right through there. We go straight up into that neighborhood. The road ends, which means it butts up into the Forum. We get into that area, it’s wide-open. We start running, and we can cut him off.”

Jennifer said, “It’ll be fenced off. Protected.”

Shoshana said, “Are you kidding me? You don’t think we can get over?”

Jennifer said, “Well, yeah, I can climb it, but we don’t have a ticket. . . .” Her voice trailed off as she realized how stupid that sounded.

Shoshana grinned at her. “We’ll buy a ticket later, to make you feel better. Let’s go.”

They took off, loping forward at the same pace, chewing up the ground, running south, away from the path of Omar. They passed a park and cut east, now running directly toward the Forum, the Colosseum beyond. They eventually hit the outskirts and found it wasn’t a simple fence. It was a brick wall reaching ten feet, covered in vines.

Shoshana ran down it for a hundred meters, then darted into a piazza, seeing benches and families enjoying the sunshine, a church on the end.

She stopped, hands on her hips, breathing heavily. “Shit. We can’t get over that. Can’t your phone tell us when we’re stupid?” She paced a bit, then said, “We’re committed now. We keep going deeper. Find a gap.”

Jennifer looked at the wall and said, “I can get you over that.”

“You mean you hoist me, leaving you here?”

Jennifer smiled. “No, Carrie. I mean I’ll follow after I hoist you up.”

“What the hell are you talking about? No way can you climb that.”

Jennifer looked left and right, seeing a couple of pedestrians, but no cops. She moved to the wall and knelt down, lacing her hands together. “Let’s go.”

Shoshana shook her head, then sprinted to the wall, planting her foot in Jennifer’s hands and leaping up. Jennifer exploded off the ground, throwing her higher, bearing the brunt of Shoshana’s weight. She felt it lighten and watched Shoshana pull herself over the top and flip to the other side.

A teenager to the left, eyes wide, said, “What are you doing?”

Jennifer darted away from the wall, then faced it, coiling her legs, her arms swinging back and forth with an unconscious count.

She took two breaths and said, “I’m saving the world.”

She sprinted as fast as she could, hitting the wall full-on, catching the rough brick with the ball of her foot and toe-kipping higher. She snagged the vines draping from the top, pulling herself up until she could muscle her way over. She paused on the apex, catching her breath, and saw the teenager below giving her a thumbs-up, beaming.

She rolled over to the other side and dropped. With an amazed expression, Shoshana said, “So that’s why they call you Koko?”

Jennifer said, “There’s always a little truth in a callsign, Carrie.”

Shoshana grinned and took off running. Now inside the fabled Roman Forum, they had unimpeded access to reach the Colosseum. Beating the merchant of death to his destination.

92

Jacob stood, his ears ringing, the blood coating the teenagers in front of him and the screams filling the chamber. He shook his head and focused on the altar. The few unwounded Vatican prelates were slowly getting their wits about them. The security was in disarray, one staggering about, his face a bloody mess. Another was leaning over the Holy Father, pulling him to his feet. Alive.

Shocked, Jacob was momentarily immobilized at the sight. Devon and Carlos were split apart, their blood and body parts dripping down the marble pillars, and the pope lived. His two friends had sacrificed themselves for nothing. He couldn’t believe the injustice. No, no, no. A bloodlust rage filled him, blotting out everything but the desire to slaughter the target. His mission came into focus. He was to be the shahid.

He pushed a kid out of the way, staggering toward the altar. He slipped in Devon’s blood, but didn’t even register the fact. He gathered steam, charging toward the confusion.

He crossed a torn body wearing a suit, the man’s earpiece now askew, his eyes looking skyward, unseeing. He pulled the submachine gun from his grasp and kept going. He reached the Holy Father and put the barrel against the security man trying to help him to his feet. He pulled the trigger. The man’s head exploded, and he dropped, collapsing on the floor like his skeleton had turned to Jell-O.

Jacob stared into the eyes of the pope and said, “Time to pay the piper.”

The Holy Father did nothing but look back at him, showing absolutely no fear.

Jacob heard a pounding of feet and saw an avalanche of security running toward him, all with weapons drawn. He reached the moment of decision. Kill the pope right now. Do the mission. Take the pain, just as he had in the past, when the Christian monsters had tortured him in the white house.

The lead man saw the situation and screamed at the others to halt. They did, in a ragged line, all weapons aimed at him. Jacob held the gun to the Holy Father’s head. He felt the tension in the trigger.

He pulled the Father’s head up, and all that he’d done and seen went through his mind. All that he wanted to be, and all that had been taken from him.

The Kurd he’d killed burst forth. His neck. The knife. Cutting through the tendons. The blood. The twitching. The absolute control over life and death.

Ringo had been right. That killing was different. It had been his introduction to hell, and now he was on an inexorable path to eat the brimstone. All because of his commitment to the Islamic State.

It was too late to stop the slide.

Remember Devon. Remember Carlos. Pull the trigger.

His life was decided. He started to squeeze, then paused.

Enough.

Devon and Carlos had chosen their path, but he didn’t have to follow. No way would he be a shahid. He wasn’t dying for the Islamic State. He wasn’t sacrificing himself for some sick bastards who burned people alive.

Fuck them.

He wasn’t dying at all. He jerked the Holy Father to his feet, snarling, “Tell them to back off.”

They stood, the security detail surrounding them watching in shock. The Holy Father was in disarray, his head now shorn of the famous papal attire, the blood from the men that protected him coating his official robes, but he was calm. He said, “Lower your weapons.”

The men did. Jacob jabbed the submachine gun against the pope’s back and said, “Walk.”

His Holiness looked at Jacob and said, “Where? Where are we to go? You can’t escape from in here. Look at the men. Look at the weapons. Give up.”

Jacob snarled, “Start moving.”

He hid behind the pope’s body and shouted, “Back the fuck up!”

The security men stumbled backward. At that moment, Jacob knew nobody was in charge. He was looking at a phalanx of individuals, all afraid to make a decision.

He pushed the Holy Father forward and turned in a circle, searching for what he’d seen on the Internet. The statue of Saint Longinus. The man who’d put the spear into Jesus Christ as he’d hung nailed to the cross.

He didn’t reflect on the irony of his search, only that the sculpture of Saint Longinus, carved into the pillar holding the dome aloft in Saint Peter’s Basilica, held the stairwell to the grottoes below. A means of escape.

He found it and said, “Get moving, old man. We’re leaving now.”

*   *   *

Walking at a brisk pace down Via dei Fori Imperiali, Omar saw the Colosseum ahead, the skyline it presented unmistakable. He checked his watch, and knew he was late. Doing the attack after the one in the Vatican would accomplish nothing. He began skipping forward, almost running, the duffel bag slapping his leg.

As he got closer, paralleling the Forum, he was accosted every step of the way by bloodsuckers looking to sell him tours. He brushed them off and kept moving. He saw the chaos around the road surrounding the Colosseum and began searching for the entrance. Looking for the means to kill the largest number possible.

He jogged forward, crossing the street, the ancient columns from the past towering above him, a creation he knew the Islamic State could never replicate.

They adhered to the same brutality the Roman Empire showcased in this very Colosseum, but that is where the similarities ended. There would be no grand architecture from the Islamic State. The duality of that thought caused him no angst. Creation of something profound wasn’t in his makeup. The caliph alone was all that mattered.

He walked toward the entrance, the duffel bag against his leg. He saw the line, behind a fence. He approached the gate, and found he could enter. The checkpoint processing tickets was deeper in. He passed by a uniformed guard that paid him no mind. He kept walking, the lines getting more robust, the target getting better.

He paused, not wanting to get too far in without a means of escape. He turned around, making sure he could still make it out after initiating the chemicals, and saw someone running toward him.

The woman he’d held under his knife.

93

I heard the screams start and knew we were either too late, or about to be the heroes. I hoped it was the latter. The man from the State Department seemed incapacitated, the explosions and shouting causing his mouth to open and close like a fish out of water. I grabbed him by the collar and said, “How do we get into the basilica without fighting the crowds? How do we get in?”

His eyes rolled left and right, looking for a way out of the disaster, following the people fleeing. I slapped him on the cheek. “Wake the fuck up! Get me in. Right now.”

He said, “The grotto. That will bypass everyone. It’ll put you into the heart of the basilica.”

I said, “Lead the way, but do it on the run.”

We took off, fighting through the throng in Saint Peter’s Square, most having no idea what had happened, but a few recognizing something was terribly wrong, causing panic in the others.

We went to the right of the facade and hit a security checkpoint, the guard manning it unsure of what was going on, but damn sure that nobody was getting past. My guide waved his badge, and was rebuffed. I pulled my weapon and said, “Let my team in. Someone’s trying to kill the pope.”

His eyes popped open like he’d touched an electrical socket, and he started shouting, reaching for his pistol in a holster, thinking I was a threat. I hammered him with the suppressor on the end of my weapon, dropping him to the flagstone.

The aide looked at me in absolute fear. I said, “Show me the way. Right fucking now.”

He nodded and turned toward a courtyard to the right of the facade, moving slowly. I slapped the back of his head and said, “Quicker, damn it.”

We started running, going through the courtyard and entering a hallway that turned into a catacomb. We wound through marbled corridors full of tombs, side cutouts housing the corporal history of the Catholic Church. I heard noise to our front and jerked our guide behind me. He fell to the floor and started whimpering, crawling toward an alcove.

We were at a turn in the corridor, the grotto splitting left and right, the noise coming from the left. I crouched, waving Brett forward. He came abreast, kneeling next to a rope barricade protecting a casket.

Aaron came to my right, saying, “This isn’t going to play well in the press.”

I said, “Because you’re a Jew?”

“No. Because you’re a walking disaster.”

*   *   *

Jennifer and Shoshana reached the square of the Colosseum, seeing a massive amount of people milling about, some waiting to enter, others just buying souvenirs. They had nothing other than the last known location of Omar, indicating a movement toward this location, and Jennifer was beginning to believe that thought was incorrect.

Now outside of radio range, she tried to call Pike on her cell, and got no answer, which didn’t surprise her. She called Knuckles, asking for another lock-on for the phone, but he was on final approach to the airfield, forced to land. They were out of options.

She said, “We’ve got no help from the Taskforce. I don’t know what else to do.”

Shoshana said, “He’s here.”

Jennifer looked at her and saw the weird glow. She said, “Shoshana, where? Why do you think that?”

“Because he’s going to kill a lot of people. I can feel it.”

There were about two hundred souls in the square, but Shoshana began walking to the entrance with a destination in mind. Jennifer said, “Where are you going?”

“To him. He’s inside.”

“What? How do you know? Shoshana, this is crazy.”

Shoshana said nothing, entering the small alley that led to the ticket booth.

They moved forward together, Shoshana bumping people out of the way and drawing sharp comments. Jennifer apologized for her, then tried to get her to stop. She reached forward to tap her on the shoulder, and saw Omar at the same time Shoshana did. He was deep inside the line for the Colosseum, carrying a small duffel bag.

She hissed, but Shoshana was already moving, the dark angel blossoming out like tendrils of black oil dropped in water.

Jennifer grabbed her arm, saying, “Wait,” and Shoshana broke free, running flat-out through the line of people. Jennifer saw Omar turn around, saw his eyes grow wide, then him reach into the duffel bag.

She pulled her weapon, the people around her starting to react, shouting and running away. Omar held up something that looked like an Apple MagSafe adapter and pressed a button, yelling at Shoshana to stop. She did, panting, in front of him.

He said, “You take one more step, and we all die.”

Jennifer closed the distance and took a knee, aiming at his head. He said, “This is a dead man’s switch. You kill me, and it goes off.”

The crowds running away and screaming, the chaos absolute, Shoshana looked him in the eye and said, “So what now? You walk away?”

Omar smiled and said, “Yes. Exactly. I walk away carrying this bomb.”

Jennifer kept her barrel on his head and said, “No way. There will be enough police here shortly. You’re going nowhere.”

Omar looked at Shoshana and said, “She doesn’t understand the commitment. You do.” He raised the plastic device in his hand and shouted, “Tell her I will let go. Nobody needs to die.”

Shoshana said, “I warned you about your path. Someday, someone would be holding the knife on your neck. And now it’s me.”

Jennifer saw a flicker of confusion, then Omar said, “Tell her I’ll set this thing off. Tell her I’m not afraid to die. I am the Islamic State.”

Shoshana said, “Yes, I know. And I’m the one who will kill you.”

Jennifer watched Shoshana launch herself at him, wrapping his body up and forcing it on top of the duffel bag. She wrestled for the device in Omar’s hands, and Jennifer thought it was for control. It wasn’t.

Staring into Omar’s eyes, a wicked grin on her face, Shoshana pried his hand loose from the detonator.

Jennifer screamed, “No!” then dove backward, holding her hands over her head. A second later it went off, with a crack that reverberated through the ancient hall. Omar was split apart. Shoshana was launched into the air, flying across the hall and slamming into stone. She crumpled in a heap.

94

Jacob dragged the pope down the stairs, into the grotto where the Catholic saints of the past were laid to rest. He knew it exited outside the basilica, knew exactly where it went from the massive research he’d done.

He wanted to live. That’s what permeated his soul. The Islamic State had long since faded to the background. Now all that remained was escape, and he had the means to do so.

The Holy Father.

The man offered no resistance, walking forward without a fight. They passed the tombs of all the popes before, and the Holy Father spoke.

“Why do you do this? What can you get from it?”

Jacob said, “You of all people know why. You do nothing but profess goodness, and yet you perpetuate cruelty. I should kill you right now.”

“But you do not. Why is that?”

Jacob said nothing. They reached a turn in the catacombs, the light from outside spilling in, and he saw three men with weapons. He snapped back, dragging the Holy Father, the adrenaline ricocheting through him.

On his knees, the Father said, “My son, I don’t know what you have done with your life, but you will be forgiven. This isn’t the end.”

Jacob grabbed him by the neck and said, “Don’t beg for your life, old man. Don’t do that. I’ll kill you right now.”

The Holy Father looked at him, and Jacob saw nothing but pity. No fear. No pain. He said, “Kill me if you wish. It will do no good for your soul.”

Jacob said, “My soul is my own. You don’t own it, and neither does Islam.”

The Father said, “I understand. More than you know.”

Jacob gave a giddy laugh and said, “Get up. We’re moving out of here. You get your wish. You’re my salvation.”

He turned the corner and saw a man with ice-blue eyes like Omar. And the same conviction.

*   *   *

I saw the two come around the corner and wondered about my luck. How on earth could this jackass from State have led me right into the fight?

I put my sights on Jacob’s head and said the usual. “Put down your gun. This doesn’t have to end in a bad way.”

I heard “Fuck you. Let me out. I’m going right down this hall.”

Looking at Brett, I mouthed, Any ideas?

He shook his head.

Every hostage situation comes about because of one of two reasons: either they took the hostage because they intended to, for a specific purpose, or they took the hostage because something had fallen apart, like a bank robbery or liquor store holdup gone bad. I was now dealing with a hybrid. Clearly, they had intended to kill the pope, but now this guy was running with him after the fact. Like he was trying to escape. I decided I’d just wait it out. Sooner or later, the Vatican police would come charging down the catacombs.

I realized that might get the pope killed.

I turned to the State guy, still curled in the fetal position. “Get your ass out of here and get some tactical guys. No standard police. Get someone who can shoot and knows when to pull the trigger.”

He left and I turned back to Jacob, peeping out from behind the bend in the corridor. I saw his eyes, and recognized that he was serious, but not crazy. He held no fear. No hesitation. He was here to live or kill.

I said, “Jacob, I know who you are. I know what you went through. What I don’t know is why you’re doing this.”

He waved the weapon, and I saw it was an HK MP-7, telling me he’d taken it off of someone dead above. Which meant there was some carnage, and he knew he was lost because of it.

He said, “I’m not a monster. I didn’t want to kill that guy in Syria. I was forced to. I want nothing more to do with the Islamic State.”

Every word was a revelation, every syllable something that a trained negotiator could use. Unfortunately, I wasn’t a trained negotiator. I was a gunslinger.

“Jacob, the only way to prove you’re not a monster is to walk away. Right now.”

I heard the Holy Father speak, and worried he would only make the situation worse. Then I wasn’t so sure.

Jacob soaked in the words, appearing to hear them. I had hope. He returned to me and said, “I will kill this man. I will.”

I said, “I know you will. I believe you. I just don’t want you to.”

He said, “Then back the fuck off! Let me out.”

I looked into his eyes and said, “You know where this is going. Sooner or later there’s going to be someone who shows up to negotiate. Someone who’ll blow smoke up your ass. I’m not that guy. Leave him alone. Or die.”

*   *   *

Jacob cursed and pulled back behind the corridor. The Holy Father said, “He’s right, you know. They will kill you.”

Jacob said, “Does it look like I care about that?”

“I don’t know what you care about. I can tell you I care what happens to you.”

Jacob whirled on him and said, “You don’t give a shit what happens to me. You’re only worried about dying. And I might make that a reality.”

The Holy Father held out his sleeve, showing the blood, and said, “I’ve seen the evil you do. And I still care.”

Jacob said, “Why? Why would you give a damn what happens to me?”

“I care because I’m human. Are you not?”

“Yeah, I’m human. And I don’t need the holy mumbo jumbo. If I had a soul, it was burned long ago.”

“We’re all born of sin, yet we can all be forgiven. Yesterday is done, but your soul is pure tomorrow.”

Jacob snarled, “You haven’t seen the ‘pureness’ I have. You haven’t witnessed what was done to me in the name of Christ, or what I’ve done in the name of Islam. It is not pure, I promise.”

The Holy Father stared deep into his eyes and said, “Don’t confuse the fallibility of man with the grace of God.”

The Holy Father’s gaze was steady, and Jacob saw it was true. Saw the depravity of the Islamic State through the kindness in the eyes of the man he was supposed to kill. The waste of his life seeped through, the totality of how he had been cheated. He had one thing left to give, and it wouldn’t be for them. He wouldn’t destroy what was good with a hand bathed in evil.

His eyes watering, his face contorted in pain, he said, “Father, where were you?”

Before an answer could be given, he grabbed the pope’s collar and dragged him out into the corridor. Jacob placed the weapon against the pope’s head and shouted, “Time’s up! Do it now.”

He saw the muzzle flash a millisecond before the subsonic round split his head open.