James Acton 04 - The Templar's Relic (10 page)

The crowd’s panic grew, surging toward the front gates of Saint Peter’s square, when five souls stepped from the crowd, walking back toward the basilica, pounding their chests, and repeatedly yelling in unison, “Allahu Akbar!”

Hassan smiled, immediately recognizing his men. But would it work?

One lone man left the crowd and rushed to join the five, his fist and voice adding to the tiny chorus.

Then another.

And another.

Then they turned in twos and threes, and within minutes, the entire tide had turned, with the crowd now chanting as one, their voices crystal clear, their words ones they had known since they were first taught to speak.

“Allahu Akbar!”

God
is
Great! Hassan’s chest hurt with the sound of it, the pride, the joy, the love, the rapture. The celebration of tens of thousands of Muslims, united as one, roaring their love of God, proclaiming it without shame to those who would subjugate them, to those who would rather see them wiped off the face of the earth rather than accept them.

He shot two more rounds into the crowd.

But this time they didn’t flee. His men raised their fists in the air and charged the façade and its scarred entrance. From his perch behind Saint Paul’s statue, he could see the guards inside begin to back away. One raised his weapon, and Hassan’s heart stopped in anticipation.

But the weapon was slapped down by one of the man’s comrades.

Unfortunate.

He turned to the roar approaching, and couldn’t help but grin as thousands of his fellow believers closed in on the portico. The backup plan was going perfectly, and within minutes, a plan thought crazy, a plan thought too ambitious only hours ago, would show the world the supremacy of Islam, the supremacy of a faith whose strength was in its believers, its adherents more powerful than any army, than any infidel weapon.

Today, the Vatican would become an Islamic state.

Papal Office

Apostolic Palace, Vatican City

The distinctive sound of gunfire drew the entire room to a halt, then there was a rush for the windows. Acton reached it first and pointed. “Somebody’s firing on the crowd!”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Giasson.

But there was no mistaking it. There were at least half a dozen bodies lying in the square, abandoned by the roaring crowd that once stood as one, chanting in unison, it now fleeing the square in a panic.

Giasson flipped open his phone and dialed. “Report!”

He listened for a moment as the entire room turned their attention to him.

“Can you hold?”

He frowned.

“Look!”

It was Laura that caused the focus to change back to the view outside. Acton watched as several men stopped running and turned, their fists pounding their chests, yelling something. Then more of the crowd turned, and within moments, thousands upon thousands had stopped running, and had joined the others.

Then they charged.

“If you can’t hold, fall back to the palace!” Giasson looked at His Holiness, then shook his head. “No, do not fire unless fired upon.”

He listened again.

“I agree.”

He hung up and looked out at the crowd as it poured toward the portico.

“They don’t stand a chance,” whispered Laura.

Giasson turned to His Holiness.

“The blast took out one of the gates. There’s no way they can hold the basilica without opening fire.”

“Out of the question.”

“I know, I know”—Giasson clearly sounded frustrated—“which is why I ordered them to fall back. We can barricade inside the palace, but unless we’re willing to meet them with force, we will lose this city.”

“But who’s firing now?” asked Father Morris.

“We don’t know. I’ve been assured it isn’t us.”

Acton frowned. “Which means someone is manipulating this situation.”

Giasson nodded. “It appears so.”

The elderly pontiff dropped into his chair and massaged his temples. “What can we do?”

Giasson approached the desk and leaned forward, his hands splayed across the ancient antique. “Your Holiness, we must fight back. We are being invaded.”

“Thou shalt not kill!” said Father Morris.

Giasson shook his head, turning toward the priest. “No, you and I both know it is ‘Thou shalt not murder’. There’s a big difference. The Bible says it is justified to kill in self-defense. This is clearly one of those times.” He turned back to the Pontiff. “Your Holiness, we must fight back!”

The old man sighed and nodded.

“Again, I ask how?”

Giasson stood up straight, returning to the window. Acton looked out. The crowd was at the façade, the entrance to the basilica, but from this angle, it was impossible to see what was happening.

Giasson’s phone rang again. He answered, listened, then said, “Very well.”

“The basilica has fallen. Our men are falling back to the palace, but this building is too large to hold.”

“What do you propose?” asked Father Morris.

“On any given day we have approximately three thousand people here. Once it became clear things were getting out of control, the administration ordered all non-essential personnel home. This means almost all the lay staff, over two thousand, are gone. But eight hundred people live here. We’ve evacuated the elderly and the sick, plus in this morning’s briefing I believe it indicated approximately one hundred were on assignment or vacation outside of the city. That leaves perhaps seven hundred residents and staff.”

“How do we get seven hundred people out?” asked Laura.

Giasson shook his head. “For one thing, almost two hundred of that are security personnel including Swiss Guard. They stay to hold the city.”

“And the other five hundred?”

This time it was the Pontiff who asked.

“We take them out the south entrance.”

The old man’s eyebrows narrowed. “But there is no south entrance.”

Giasson smiled. “Yes, there is, and if we’re lucky, that crowd”—he jabbed his finger at the window—“is thinking the same thing as you.”

Statue of Saint Paul, Vatican City

Ali was the first to emerge from the crowd and join Hassan at the statue of Saint Paul. Then Ziti and the others. The crowd that could surged through the blasted gate, the rest pushing against the still solid remaining gates. It was clear many were being crushed, but Hassan didn’t care. They would die martyrs here this day, dying for a cause greater than any one life. Dying to assure the supremacy of Islam, of the words delivered to the Prophet Mohammad by the archangel Gabriel, and the inferiority of the decadent Western way.

Today was the beginning of the new Caliphate, and with it, the foretold apocalypse.

Hassan, as a Twelver, or what the uninformed West would call a Shi’a or Shiite Muslim, believed in the twelve Imams, those who followed the Prophet Mohammed over the centuries, divinely ordained, to keep and spread the faith. The Twelfth Imam, Muhammad ibn al-Hassan, currently hidden from mankind by God since he disappeared in 872 AD, would return someday with Isa, or as the West called him, Jesus. When man had lost its way, when God willed it, they would return to bring justice and peace to earth by imposing true Islam upon all.

And as a Twelver, just like most in his original homeland of Iran, bringing on the apocalypse was encouraged, for once it was upon us, the Mahdi would return, and bring peace to an entirely Islamic world.

The five gathered around him, their heads close so they could hear over the roar of the crowd. Hassan looked from man to man. “Today, my brothers, we take the first step in bringing Muhammad al-Mahdi back, and assuring the supremacy of the words of the Prophet, peace be upon him!”

“Allahu Akbar!” they all cried in unison.

Hassan held up his weapon.

“Ready?”

They all nodded, drawing their own weapons.

“Allahu Akbar!” yelled Hassan as he charged toward the opening in the façade. He shoved into the crowd, a mass of human flesh, unorganized, but fervent in its desire to gain access to Christianity’s largest church, either to settle their bloodlust, or simply to escape the pressure from the thousands pushing behind them. The crowd pressed against him, and he could tell he risked being lost in the chaos.

He extended his hand holding the gun far enough ahead so those immediately in front of him could see it, and they parted slightly, just enough for him to squeeze through for him to display the weapon to the next group in his way. Within minutes he was at the gates, and once through, it was relatively open. The bodies of several guards who died in the explosion lay on the ground against the wall, their bodies stripped of any weapons they might have had. As he turned a corner he nearly gasped, the massiveness of the basilica breathtaking.

And he felt a rage fill his heart.

The idolatry around him, the icons worshipped by the infidels, disgusted him. And the mob now inside appeared equally incensed, some hacking at whatever they could lay their hands on, with whatever they could find. Keys, pens, their bare hands. Whatever they used, they were determined to wipe this example of blasphemy off the face of the earth.

But that wasn’t his concern.

He marched through the nave at the center of the massive church, then turned to his right as he approached the Papal Altar, entering the Chapel of the Sacrament, a mostly enclosed area, where no one had yet ventured. Surveying the floor, he found the spot he was looking for just as Ziti rushed up to join him.

Hassan pointed at the floor.

“Set the charge here.”

Outside the Papal Offices

Apostolic Palace, Vatican City

Giasson led the entourage down the hallway, several heavily armed guards flanking him and taking up the rear. Acton and Laura were close behind, both armed, then the Pontiff and his closest staff of five. Two guards held the doors open to the private elevator that only ten people had a key to, Giasson one of them. The Papal staff boarded, along with Giasson and one guard; all that would fit.

Giasson looked at Acton.

“Follow the guards; they will take you down the stairs. Be quick, we won’t be waiting.”

Acton nodded and followed the rest of the armed party at a trot, Laura by his side, the case still gripped in his left hand. They reached the end of the hall and a winding staircase. Acton grabbed the rail and raced down the steps as fast as he could, three guards leading the way, Laura on his heels. The roar of the crowd got louder, and Acton heard the smashing of glass and shouting.

He drew his weapon tucked into his belt.

As they approached the main floor, gunfire erupted, and the screams of someone clearly in pain echoed up the stairs. They came to a sudden halt as a burst of gunfire tore the floor open in front of them. More shouting just around the corner and Acton picked out the distinct voice of Giasson shouting orders in Italian.

The guard on point motioned for them to head to the right. Acton emerged from the stairs and looked to his left. Two of the protesters, or invaders as he now thought of them, lay dead on the floor, one with a gun still gripped in his hand. At the far end of the hall another small group were climbing through a shattered window. Acton gripped the case tight in his hand, made sure Laura was at his side, then raced after one of the guards, toward Giasson’s voice.

They emerged in a large room to find Giasson and the Papal entourage walking as fast as the elderly Pontiff’s legs could carry him, down a long series of hallways that appeared to connect several buildings. Giasson’s phone beeped. He flipped it open. “Giasson.” He listened for a moment. “Merde. Can you bring it here?” Another pause. “Then do it.”

Giasson continued to march down the hallway. “We’ve lost the heliport. They’ve begun tossing incendiary devices over the walls to stop the evacuation.”

“How will we get his Holiness out?”

“The same way the rest are evacuating,” said the old man calmly.

Giasson dismissed the statement with a flick of his wrist. “Out of the question. The helicopter will be here within two minutes, and you
are
going to be on it, if I have to carry you myself,” said Giasson. He looked over his shoulder. “With all due respect, Your Holiness.”

They eventually reached the end of the interconnecting hallways, and at last to a set of doors to the outside. Two guards held them open, and Giasson stepped through as a single shot roared through the enclosed space. Father Morris dropped with a cry. Acton whipped around, flicking the safety off his weapon, and spotted several rioters, one armed, rushing toward them. Another shot rang out, the glass from a window behind him shattering. Acton squeezed the trigger, and the man dropped.

Half a dozen rioters charged forward, screaming at the top of their lungs, one dropping to pry the weapon from Acton’s handiwork. Acton felt Laura’s hand on his shoulder as he backed away, guiding him toward the exit. The perspective suddenly changed, the sun shining down on them instead of the artificial lighting from inside, and he was momentarily blinded. A window burst into a thousand pieces to his left. He fired a single shot into the crowd rushing the door, and one dropped, but not the one with the gun as another shot tore through the mayhem.

As Acton cleared the doors, two Swiss Guards, both with automatic weapons, took knees on either side of the doors, and opened fire, ripping up the floor in front of the men charging their position. Acton saw them stop momentarily, then rush forward again, the few from earlier now numbering in the dozens.

“We can’t hold this position without it getting extremely bloody!” yelled one of the men.

The whoosh of helicopter blades overhead momentarily drowned out Giasson’s response. Acton watched as Giasson waved his arm for the chopper to descend quicker. The massive vehicle dropped almost like a stone, bouncing on the ground in what was definitely not a textbook landing for a civilian chopper, making Acton think this might have been an ex-military pilot.