“The problem is not knowing the source of the threat,” Giancarlo said as Jack finished his debrief.
“Well, ultimately it’s Yasin, but he’s got someone here working for him,” Jack said with both determination and weariness in his voice. “I’ve been chasing them down all night. Whoever set this up has run me around in circles. But I’ll come across them eventually.”
John Paul sat in silent meditation for quite some time, searching his soul for some answer. He was aware of his own arrogance, to think that he could solve problems that had plagued the world for hundreds of years. But if not he, then who?
He heard footsteps approaching. At first he ignored them, assuming they were a guard checking on him. But the footsteps stopped, and after a few minutes the Pope was drawn out of his meditation. He looked up. There was a man sitting in one of the pews, smiling. He was dressed like a Swiss Guard, but John Paul knew that he was not.
“Who are you?” the Pope asked.
“My name is Mark Gelson.”
“I talked with my headquarters on the way over,” Jack continued. “All we know of the third bomber is that he is probably Caucasian. The problem is, we don’t have any Caucasian suspects at all on our suspect list. Not unless you can think of anyone, Harry.”
“This bomber poses a danger,” Giancarlo agreed. “I’m just not sure—”
“I can’t think of anyone,” Harry mused.
“Me neither.”
“Unless it’s Mark Gelson,” Harry finished.
That brought Jack up short. “Gelson? He’s no one.”
Giancarlo looked at them both. “Do you mean Mark Gelson, the American actor?”
“Yeah, but it—”
“He is a schismatic,” Giancarlo said. “He belongs to a sect of Catholicism that rejects everything and everyone that came out of Vatican II. His father actually founded the sect. They’re about twenty thousand strong in the United States. We’ve had Gelson on our watch list for several years.”
“He was a good man, my father,” Gelson was saying. “What you did broke him. He never wanted to cause a schism and form the Tridentine Society, and hated himself for it. But you gave him no choice.”
John Paul had the urge to run, but it had been years since he had run anywhere. Besides, he abhorred the idea of an inelegant death. “My son,” he said, “there are many who disagree with parts of Vatican II. The Society of St. Pius X, for instance. But they do not resort to violence. There are cardinals in the Vatican itself who share the schismatic view, but they try to voice their opinions within the church.”
“How much good does it do them?”
“To kill over matters of religion, this is the problem with the world. Our enemies twist their religion and use it as an excuse to kill. We must not do the same.”
Gelson laughed. “The history of the church is the history of killing those who stray and refuse to rejoin the fold. I don’t see why you should be any different.”
“And you would take your own life along with mine?” “I was ready to,” Gelson said. “But now I don’t have to.”
“What of your reputation?” John Paul asked.
Gelson laughed again, this time bitterly. “My reputation. Yes, I am putting at risk my reputation as a broken- down former action hero who talks about blowing people up when he’s drunk. I’ll risk it.”
“Still, you will be known as a murderer.” “Among those I love, I’ll be a hero. The man who killed the heretical Pope.”
Jack and the others followed Giancarlo across the courtyard. “I’m sure the Holy Father would like to thank you in person. First let me enter the chapel to see if he has finished his medi…” His voice trailed off.
“Something?” Jack asked.
“My men.”
Giancarlo bolted forward, with Jack and the others racing behind.
They burst into the chapel to see two men standing over the Pope. Jack recognized Gelson immediately. The other man looked familiar to Jack, but he had no time to dwell on it as the man raised his gun to the Pope’s head.
“No!” Giancarlo shouted. His own weapon was out immediately and he fired, knocking Michael off his feet. Gelson jumped back, terrified by the loud noise. Jack and the others surged forward. Michael was not dead. He sat up and steadied his semi-automatic again. By the time he squeezed the trigger, Giancarlo had thrown his body over the Pope.
Jack stopped and put Michael in his sights, but gunfire erupted all around him. He fired as he dove for the cover of the church benches. More security men, the same ones who had attacked him last night. He hoped Driscoll and Bender had found cover.
Why would Mulrooney’s security team try to kill the Pope?
Jack glimpsed Bender, still standing in the open, pouring rounds at Michael. He knew what the Mossad agent was trying to do. If he kept Michael’s head down, the man might not be able to shoot at his target.
It worked, but Bender paid a price for his bravery. Bulky and exposed, he was an easy target. A few seconds after he fired, red flowers blossomed on his chest and he fell to his knees.
By that time Jack was up and vaulting over the pews. He saw the security chief fire point-blank toward the Pope, and he assumed the Pontiff was dead, but he kept moving and firing. The assassin went down again, and then crawled for cover. He was wearing some kind of body armor. Gelson squealed and ran toward the altar, with Michael close behind him. Bullets still burned through the air all around.
“Driscoll! Left side!” he yelled, and turned to the right, firing at any angle from which bullets seemed to come. The return fire ceased as the security men retreated.
Jack grabbed Giancarlo. The Swiss Guard was heavy and lifeless as Jack dragged him off the Pope, who cowered beneath, covered in blood. “Are you hit!” he yelled.
“It’s his blood,” John Paul said. “His blood!”
“Driscoll?” Jack called out.
“Here,” Harry called from behind him. “But I caught one.” Jack turned. Harry was holding his gun in his left hand. His right arm hung limp and loose at his side.
It was swelling hugely from the biceps down, where a bullet had torn away most of the muscle and shattered the bone.
“Jack,” Driscoll said, “I think they’re coming back.”
23. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 P.M. AND 5 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
Pembrook and Wittenberg were still alive. Gelson, too, but Gelson wasn’t much of a fighter.
“What are we doing?” Gelson whined. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“He’s not dead,” Michael snarled. “That damned bodyguard shielded him. He’s not dead!”
“It’s too late,” Gelson said. “It’s all gone to hell.”
“Wittenberg, far side. Go in when you hear the gunfire. Pembrook, with me.” Wittenberg nodded and hurried around the corner of the building.
“He got Aimes and Duvaine on the move,” Pembrook said. “He’s better than us.”
