Pandora's Ark (3 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Jerusalem
, Beneath the Temple Mount.

Yitzhak Paled was the head of Mossad’s Lohamah Psichlogit,
which was the unit responsible for psychological warfare, propaganda, and
deception operations within the Agency. Although a slight man who was thinly
built, he was still lean and firm and without any mannerisms other than what he
relayed to others: and that he was not to be challenged in any way. 

Standing in the second chamber beneath the Temple Mount, several lights erected on poles and cables lit the area brilliantly.
Surrounding the center platform where the staff of Aaron and the gold pot lay,
were the nine Keepers of the Ark, their bones brown with the coffee-like stains
of aged calcium.

Standing next to the platform, while others worked
around him, Paled stood with a hand to his chin in deep thought.

There was no doubt in his mind that the Ark in question was the
true
Ark for the simple fact that neither he, nor the
Israeli government, knew of this chamber. Nor had it been recorded in any text.

In fact, the Ark of the Covenant had been beneath
them all this time. The Keepers testament to that since the other arks
throughout northern Africa had already been established as fakes, phonies or
duplicates.

How the Arabs intercepted it was beyond him. More
so, Paled was livid that Mossad Intelligence was handed a direct message from
the Arabs stating that they were in custody of the Ark, and that the proof lie
at the Israeli’s feet. He took it as a slap in the face, a one-up-on-you type
of gesture on the part of the Arab world.

But why would the Arab state go so far to secure
the Ark in the manner that they did? How could they have possibly known its
location?

As the staff of Aaron lay on the platform, there
was no doubt in Paled’s mind that Carbon-14 testing on the rod and the bones
would prove to be at least 3000 years old, if not older.

Once more he asked:
Why
? 

Contemplating, Paled appeared lost, wondering what
the Arabs had in mind. Obviously they had taken the Ark for a specific purpose.
But the reason eluded him.

Could it have been for money?
he considered
.
Or perhaps for ransom, in order to fund terrorist groups or activities?

Of course these were the logical ideas that
immediately came to mind.

And there was another consideration. The Ark could be used to turn any situation into a hot-button issue between religious denominations
who felt entitled to its possession, which would cause tempers to flare if they
were so denied. 

The Jews, the Catholics, the Muslims—they all had a
rightful stake.

Paled continued to rub his chin while the bones of
the Keepers were carefully gathered by Company men.
No matter how careful the workers were,
a femur or rib snapped due to the severity of their brittleness.
And then in reverence, the staff of Aaron was taken and placed into a metal
lockbox and sealed. It was, without a doubt, a truly magnificent treasure.

But the biggest treasure was the Ark and the
tablets within.

“We’re almost done,” said Jacob, a minor player in
the Lohamah Psichlogit.

Paled tried to make a logical determination for the
theft before turning to Jacob with a questioning look. “Why take the Ark and leave behind the staff?”

Jacob shrugged. “For ransom?”

Paled shook his head. “It goes beyond that,” he
said. “I believe they have something else in mind.”

Jacob took a step forward and noted the bare spots
where the legs of the Ark sat on the platform, where the dust gathered around
them for 3000 years. “Primary guesses?”

“Some,” he answered. “But as a member of the
Lohamah Psichlogit who sees things in a perspective where psychological
warfare, propaganda and operations of deception are a function, I believe
they’ll use the Ark as a weapon of some kind, psychological or otherwise.” He
took a step closer to the platform. “Tell me, Jacob . . . What do you see?”

Jacob hesitated, musing. “I see the Arabs using our
own game against us,” he said.

Paled nodded. “And should they play the game well
enough . . .” he said, his words trailing off.
Then they could incite a war
like no other
. . .

. . .
and destroy us all
.

CHAPTER THREE

Vatican City
, Very Early Morning

Pope Gregory XVII thought he had
seen a fleeting shadow dart across the Papal Chamber from the corner of his
eye.

The room was dark, the corners
and recesses even darker with scant lighting from the moon coming in through
the open doors that led to the balcony. A marginal breeze blew in from the west,
causing the hemlines of the scalloped drapery to wave in poetic motion that was
slow and balanced, as if the entire moment was caught up in a surreal dream. And
though he could feel a cool and gentle breeze sweeping into the room and touch his
flesh, his mind remained fevered and hot, perhaps the illness drawing the
illusion that somebody else was in the room with him.  

Nevertheless, the pontiff
called out, his voice cracked and feeble: “Is somebody there?”

Silence.

Pope Gregory tossed the
cover of the comforter back and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge until
the soles of his feet touched down against marble flooring.

With the passing of Pope
Pius XIII, Gregory had succeeded him, serving six months at the Papal Throne.
Under his leadership conservatism reigned, pulling away from Pius’s more
liberal stance to bend to the will of the masses for reform in a world that was
ever-changing. But Gregory believed that the people should bend to the will of
God rather than God bending to the will of men. So the pendulum began to swing
back to a more conservative position, once again raising the ire within the Catholic
citizenry.  

Although he had drawn
criticism from within the ranks, he was also lauded by those within the College
as one not to back away from adversity, no matter how loud the voices may cry.

Getting to his feet, Pope
Gregory’s world shifted, the shadows elongating and coming alive, reaching out
and then pulling back, the products of a sick mind. At first he wobbled, took
time to correct himself, then made his way toward the veranda with a buffeting wind
blowing the hairs back from his scalp like the whipping mane of a horse.

A few hours ago he was as
robust as Atlas who carried the religious world upon his squared shoulders. But
now he was amazingly weak with barely enough strength to lift a hand.

His stomach also burned
like magma moving in slow passage. And then his entire body became a tabernacle
of pain as he hitched in his stride and tumbled toward a column by the veranda
door, using it as a crutch, and looked out into the night.

Beneath the light of the
gibbous moon with the obelisk and the Colonade standing sentinel beneath its
gaze, with nothing but cold, blue shadows stretching out across the bricks of
the plaza below, Pope Gregory marveled at the beauty of the country he had come
to reign.

As he stood there his
pain intensified as if something serpentine wended its way through his guts the
moment he started toward the edge of the veranda in a stumbling gait with a
hand across his abdomen, and the other stretched out for the guardrail.

With breaths coming in
short gasps and his lungs laboring to pull in enough oxygen to keep him
conscious, Gregory continued to admire the land that his papalship brought him.
For six months he ruled as best he could under the servitude of God. And for
six months he believed that such servitude should have been rewarded with an
exceptionally long time to rule the Papal Throne. Six months was not even a
blink of time within the cosmic eye, he considered.

“I know you’re there,” he
said, his breaths coming with far greater difficulty.

But there was neither
answer nor moving shadows. Nor was there the sound of a pin dropping or the
hint of a possible footfall.

“In the eyes of God, do
you truly believe that He will condone what you are about to do?”

The slight rush of a
breeze passed through his ears, a sweet melody to calm and soothe. And he
closed his eyes, waiting.

“God will not favor you,”
he said. “No matter what you do as a member of the Church, He will only favor
you in the end with the fiery lakes of Hell.”

The pontiff stood at the
edge of the veranda with a hand against the rail and a forearm across his
stomach, and then he began to teeter back and forth threatening to spill over
to the pavement below.

“With the fiery lakes of
Hell,” he whispered. And then his eyes flared the moment he felt a hand on his back
and a push hard enough to send him over the edge. The old man began to pinwheel
his arms while turning to face his executor, his feet losing purchase and going
airborne as he slipped over the railing, the pavement hurling up at him at an
impossible speed, the edge of the veranda dwindling away and becoming smaller.
The moon was spinning, its face becoming a sad memorial denoting the end of the
old man’s life.

And then he struck the
bricks, hard, the impact sounding like a melon striking the pavement during a
moment of dead silence.

Yet the pontiff survived
with the smell of copper permeating the air and blood fanning out in all
directions.

Coughing, with blood
spraying out from broken lungs, with his eyes skyward, he thought he saw the
shadow of someone staring down at him from the veranda. He was unmoving and
still, and seemed to be wearing vestments. And then he pulled away, gone,
leaving as silently as he entered.

As the pontiff focused on
the point of the veranda, as his life slowly leeched away from his body, his
vision began to implode at the edges with his sight turning black, then purple,
and then the subsequent flashes of sunburst light leading to Ethereal
Illumination.    

With a broken hand
twisted by the impact, the pontiff raised it to the Glory of the Light only he
could see, smiled, and allowed himself to pass.

#

Boston
,
Massachusetts
, The Archdiocese of Boston

For the past six months Cardinal
Bonasero Vessucci served the Diocese of Boston after his loss for the papal
selection, having been criticized, then subsequently ostracized, for sitting in
as lead counsel of a clandestine group of cardinal’s known as the Society of
Seven. They, along with Pope Pius, recognized the fact that times had become
volatile and the Church, having diplomatic ties with ninety percent of the
countries worldwide, had become a viable target. In order to protect its
sovereignty, its interest, and the welfare of its citizenry, Cardinal Vessucci
spearheaded a covert group of elite commandos known as the Vatican Knights.

Their missions were
normally in hotspots around the world, using tactics and methods to achieve the
means—techniques that were often brutal when there were no other options
available. In the course of their duties people died, but many more lived,
usually the innocent or those who could not protect themselves.

But Pope Gregory refused
to see their necessity in a world growing cancerous every day and quickly disbanded
the Knights. His subsequent move was to scatter the members of the Society of
Seven to every corner of the globe with Vessucci ending up in the United States. 

And though he loved the
Church, he missed his soldiers just as much, knowing everyday for the past six
months that the Church had been left open and naked.
How many people lost
their lives when they could have been saved?
he wondered. And he asked
himself this question just before he recited his ritual prayers to start the
day, wondering if the Knights had been forced to leave their calling. 

Just as he was about to
get into bed there was a knock on his door, a soft tapping.

“Just a moment.”

When he opened the door a
bishop was standing there, his face grim.

“Yes, Bishop.”

“I’m afraid I’ve received
some rather terrible news that I must pass on to you.”

The cardinal opened the
door wider as a gesture to allow the bishop to enter, but the man remained
standing at the threshold. “We’ve just received word that the pope has passed.”

Vessucci’s jaw dropped.

“It appears that he met
with a horrible accident and fell off the balcony. He was pronounced dead prior
to being sent to Gemelli.”

Vessucci was genuinely stunned.
The pontiff had only been in office for six months. More so, he was so physically
fit that he was set to rule for at least two more decades, perhaps longer.
“When?”

“About two hours ago,” he
said. “It’s about to be announced to the world. But before it is,” he handed
Vessucci a piece of paper, “your presence is required at the Vatican.”

Vessucci stared at the paper
for a long moment, before lifting his hand to receive it. “Thank you,” he
whispered, then closed the door softly. Without looking at the paper he knew
what it was: a request to band with the College of Cardinals and prepare for
another Conclave. He didn’t even look at the writing. He gingerly placed the
paper on the nightstand and stared out into space.

He had come close to
winning the seat six months ago, having a strong camp but not enough to defeat the
two camps that joined together to trump his. This time around, however, his
chance for the Papal Throne was well within his reach.

Slowly, he rose to his
feet, gathered his wits, and began to pack his bags for Vatican City.