James Acton 04 - The Templar's Relic (9 page)

Over Vatican City

Acton pictured the fall of Saigon. Dozens of helicopters, landing and taking off, filled the airspace around the Vatican. News choppers, as well as police and military, competed for airspace at their designated altitudes. As they flew over Saint Peter’s Square, and over the basilica, toward the heliport at the opposite end of the tiny country, Acton could hear the roar of the massive crowd below, its undulating sea of human flesh, fused together in a sea of hate, filled the massive square, and poured out into the streets surrounding the city.

It was terrifying.

The flicker of police lights indicated blocked off streets, cutting off reinforcements from joining the occupiers, but it was too late as far as Acton could tell. There was no way they were going to be able to take back the square, not without either force, or a protracted siege, forcing them out with thirst and hunger over days.

But during that time they could wreak havoc. Acton’s heart ached at the treasures that could be lost to humanity forever, simply due to the ignorance and hatred of others.

All because someone had let word slip of an artifact that belonged to a ‘rival’ religion, and that Acton was positive would have been handed over to Islamic scholars at the earliest possible moment, now that what it was had been confirmed.

“Hang on! As soon as we touch down, get out, get down, get clear!” yelled the pilot.

Everyone in the back gave a thumbs up. Acton leaned against the window, and watched as a helicopter lifted off the pad, making way for their rapid descent. Acton reached up and grabbed a handhold, smiling at Laura, who at the moment had her eyes closed, white knuckle-gripping a support with both hands.

The skids hit and the helicopter bounced slightly. The door was pulled open by Boileau, and Acton jumped out, turning around to help Laura down. They bent over and ran toward a man who was waving at them to join him. Acton heard the engines power back up and he glanced over his shoulder. The two guards were right on their heels, and various aged Vatican residents were loading on the chopper.

The man who had been waving Acton recognized as Alfredo Ianuzzi, one of Giasson’s men. He opened the door of a car and they climbed in. Ianuzzi jumped in the driver’s seat, and started the car as he slammed his door shut, the din from the helicopters suddenly cut off.

“What’s going on?” asked Acton.

Ianuzzi slammed the car in gear and it jumped forward. “We’re evacuating the elderly. All of the exits are blocked by protesters.”

“What’s the situation in the square?” asked Laura.

“Not good. Latest estimates have about thirty thousand, with tens of thousands more outside trying to get in.”

“Any casualties yet?”

“Injuries, yes, fatalities, not yet. But things are about to get a lot worse. There are reports that Catholics are starting to mass for a counter protest.”

“That could get ugly.”

The man nodded as he came to a halt near the rear of the Palazzo del Governatorato, or Palace of the Governatorate, the main administrative building of the tiny city. The three of them climbed out of the car, and Acton followed Ianuzzi, holding Laura by the hand. The air was filled with the chanting of the crowds on the other side of the massive complex.

Ianuzzi held a door open for them, and once inside, the noise from the crowds was replaced with the shouts of people inside, as organized chaos greeted them.

“What’s happening?”

Ianuzzi urged them forward. “We’re trying to get the most precious and significant artifacts into the Archives, so they can be protected should we lose the city.”

“Is it really that bad?” asked Laura.

“I guess you haven’t seen the news?”

Acton shook his head as they jogged toward their destination which he guessed to be the security offices. “No, we’ve been pretty much cut off the past couple of hours.”

“Well, Muslims are protesting around the world. The usual craziness you’d expect in Pakistan and the Middle East, but they’re also protesting in the West.”

“If it turns violent here, I shudder to think what might happen around the world.”

Acton nodded at Laura. “Agreed. This needs to be stopped, and fast. Otherwise we could end up with a hell of a lot of dead people.”

Ianuzzi held the door open to the security office. “I don’t see how we’re going to clear those people out.”

Giasson looked up from his glass enclosed office and waved them in.

“Thanks for the escort, Alfredo.”

Ianuzzi nodded and rushed out of the security office.

Laura and Acton entered Giasson’s office and he rose to greet them with his standard double-cheek kiss and a handshake. “I’m glad you two are safe.” He nodded at the metal case Acton carried. “Is that it?”

Acton patted the case. “Yes.”

Giasson ran his palm over his shaved scalp. “We need to get that out of here. Fast.”

“Agreed. I suggest we get it into the hands of an Imam, in a Muslim country, today if possible.”

“We’re trying, but no one wants to touch it.”

“What?”

“No one we talk to wants to be seen cooperating with Christians—not when their flock is so fired up.”

“That’s ridiculous!” exploded Laura. “They’re the ones demanding we return it, but when we offer, they refuse? What kind of daft thinking is that?”

Giasson frowned. “You’re preaching to the choir, Professor. I think in some cases they are afraid to get involved, in other cases, they relish the chaos that has been created.”

“If not holy men, then what about governments?”

“Our diplomats are working on that, however we don’t have much of a presence in Muslim countries, therefore we’re forced to work through proxies, usually my home country, Switzerland. And as we all know with diplomacy, it takes time.”

“Time we don’t have,” said Laura.

Suddenly the entire room shook, as if jolted by some mighty force hitting the building, and a moment later, a terrifying rumbling sound rolled through the security area.

Everyone was on their feet, with Giasson sprinting out of his office.

“Report!”

Nobody said anything, then a single phone rang. It was picked up by the guard at the entrance. The entire room turned to face her. She spoke quietly, then looked at Giasson, the phone covered by her chest. “Sir, an explosion has been reported on the southern wall of the basilica!”

Gasps filled the room.

Giasson pointed at one of his men.

“Unlock the armory, issue all personnel with side arms, all forward guards with automatic weapons. This is about to turn violent.” The man jumped from his desk when Giasson added, “And bring myself and the professors side arms and body armor as well. We’ll be in His Holiness’ office.” He motioned for Acton and Laura to follow him as he strode quickly from the office. He looked at them, his expression grave. “His Holiness must be convinced to get out of here before it’s too late.”

Northern Side of Saint Peter’s Basilica, Vatican City

Hassan smiled as he saw some of the guards rush toward the explosion. It was merely a diversion, to lure them away from where he wanted to go, and draw most of the eyes in the opposite direction. He walked backward, his fist pumping the air, looking toward the explosion, but moving against the crowd, hopefully unnoticed, along with three of his cell.

And there it was. Completely exposed. No one had thought to defend it for some reason, the focus more on the façade of the basilica, the guards safely behind the massive wrought iron gates.

But something was different.

His fist froze in the air, then slowly dropped as he realized
what
was different. A massive, metal security door had been dropped in place, a security measure he had never noticed in the dozens of times he had roamed through this prime example of Christian idolatry and decadence.

The rest of his cell stopped as well, exchanging puzzled expressions.

He pushed forward. They had to at least try, otherwise it meant the backup plan, and it was generally agreed that it had a much lower chance of success.

The rest followed, and they hovered on the edge of the crowd so as to not draw attention. Hassan nodded at Mahmoud Ziti, their bomb maker. “What do you think?”

Ziti eyed the door. “It depends on how thick it is.” He paused, as if unwilling to say what he was about to say.

“Out with it.”

Ziti frowned. “If I were the infidels, I would make it thick enough to withstand any blast that we could throw at it. It isn’t the door that is expensive, it is the mechanism. Whether the door is one inch or two inches thick, doesn’t matter from a design or expense point of view enough for them to have done a cheap, thin door. That door”—he jabbed at it with his index finger, less a knuckle lost during his bomb making training—“is definitely at least two inches thick.” He shook his head. “We’re not getting through there.”

“Are you sure?”

“We won’t even dent it.” He pointed with his chin at the guards behind the façade’s gates. “That’s why they aren’t guarding it. They’re not in the least bit concerned about it.”

Hassan frowned. Ziti was right. Which meant the backup plan. A plan he didn’t even like. It would take far more time, and was much more dangerous. Danger didn’t bother him, but danger meant more chance of failure.

They had to do this right.

The first time.

Ziti looked at him. “Backup plan?”

Hassan nodded.

“Backup plan.”

Papal Office, Apostolic Palace, Vatican City

“Your Holiness, we must get you out of here now!”

Acton recognized Father Morris’ voice as they stepped into the antechamber outside the Pope’s office, the hand carved inner doors uncharacteristically opened as people rushed about with purpose. Acton stepped aside as a large portrait was carried out.

Giasson pushed through, and Acton with Laura followed him into the Pope’s office.

The old Pontiff looked up and smiled at his guests. “Professors. I am pleased to see you are unharmed.”

“Barely.”

Giasson interrupted. “Your Holiness, we must get you out of here. Now.”

The Pontiff turned to Father Morris. “What’s our status?”

“All guests, invalids and elderly have been evacuated, along with the Sisters. All that remains is you, Your Holiness.”

The old man dismissed the plea with a wave.

“And our charge?”

“All documents, scrolls and books of historical importance are secure in the Secret Archives.”

“And the art?”

“The Basilica has been emptied of everything that it can be, and so have much of the adjacent buildings. The problem is that some of it is just too large, too heavy to move, or is part of the buildings themselves.”

“The frescoes,” whispered the old man, staring at nothing, his eyes glazing over. He looked out the window, shaking his head. “Such hate. Were we really once like this, hundreds of years ago?”

Giasson stepped forward, his voice low. “Your Holiness, that is a debate for another time. For now, we must get you to safety. The Church cannot suffer a second death, under violent circumstances.”

“I am ready to die.”

“But for what?”

The old man raised his eyebrows.

“For what, sir? To be a martyr, fighting a mob of insane fanatics, upset because we found an old piece of paper, a piece of paper their own leadership demands we hand over, but won’t accept? If you die at their hands, it will ignite a war around the world. Catholics will demand retaliation, and when they don’t get it from their governments, they will take it out on Muslims on the street.

“There was almost no backlash after nine-eleven against Muslims. Only isolated incidents. But this is holy ground, and they”—he waved his hand at the crowd without looking—“intend to destroy it, for no other purpose than it doesn’t agree with their Koran. These are the same people who want to destroy the pyramids because they honor false Gods.” Giasson lowered his voice. “Your Holiness, what right do we have to allow Saint Peter’s church, to let the rock upon which we stand be destroyed by a mob.
You
are the Church, its symbol. We must get you out of here, to lead the negotiations and get that thing”—his finger whipped around to point at the case Acton still held—“into their hands. Only you can do it, Your Holiness. Save the Church by ridding us of that, and leave me to try and save the buildings.”

The elderly man stood silent for a moment as Giasson, Acton and Laura, along with Father Morris waited for a response. The bustle of activity continued as the workers removed the last of the relics in the room.

At last the old man sighed.

“Very well.”

Giasson flipped his phone open and speed dialed a number. “Get His Holiness’ chopper ready. We leave in ten minutes.”

Suddenly the room rocked with another explosion.

Façade of Saint Peter’s Basilica, Vatican City

The chanting of the crowd turned to panic as they rushed away from the explosion. Those that remained were the walking wounded, the dead, or Hassan. From his vantage point near the statue of Saint Paul, he could see that Ziti’s explosives had done their job. A five second fuse, and a perfect toss, had turned the bomb into a grenade, and it had taken one of the gates off the façade, killing or wounding some of the guards standing behind the wrought iron, and half a dozen of the crowd too close to the blast.

He smiled.

Now for Phase Two.

He pulled his gun and took aim.

And with a silent prayer to Allah, he squeezed the trigger seven times, leaving a deliberate pause in between each, so as to extend the event, and leave no doubt in his targets’ minds as to where the shots came from. And as bodies in the crowd dropped, his position near the façade, and the location of the bodies, made it clear where the shots had originated.