Right now, as Rome slept, no one realized that a weapon of mass destruction was about to be seated directly in the heart of Vatican City.
No one.
Not even the co-directors of Vatican Intelligence.
Moving closer to Rome with the False Prophet as his companion, a man came to destroy the sanctity of one of the most religious stages on the planet, that of Vatican City.
As from the immortals who sit above as they do from below with the Vatican the most coveted prize between Heaven and Hell, the Vatican was about to become the battlefield on two fronts: one from the Bangladeshi, and the other from the Nocturnal Saints.
The only thing the co-directors could do, along with their Jesuit team, was wait. And for every moment that time pressed on without the Vatican’s ability to confront an approaching threat, so did the possibility of a successful strike against them.
Within twenty-four hours, this dual threat would place the Vatican in a position of being leveled and forever removed from Earth, with parts of Rome becoming a dead and poisonous spot for thousands of years.
With patience, the co-directors waited for messages abroad. Unfortunately, they would come too late.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Safe House
Five Miles from Jerusalem
Baghdadi was sitting with his legs bent in Native American Indian style on the floor, when a man who exuded uncontested power entered the room. He was wearing the uniform of the military operatives that stormed the safe house. But instead of wearing the Kevlar helmets with the boon of gadgetry that lined the head covering like a Mohawk, this man wore a scarlet beret. He was tall and well-built with his frame that of a man who worked out excessively, though his face appeared aged as someone who was in his sixties.
“Saheem Baghdadi,” was all he said.
The extremist remained silent.
“A recruiter who promotes the cause of terrorism,” Leibowitz continued. “We’ve been great admirers of your work and have been trying to locate you for some time now, only for one IP address to be as fictitious as the other. But we were able to finally home in and, apparently, not a moment too soon.” Leibowitz looked around the room and its poor conditions, along with the bodies of Baghdadi’s team that lay about in odd and contorted positions. “Nice place you’ve got here,” he added. And then: “Now, tell me about the man called Pierre Labron. What was his mission as you understood it?”
Baghdadi, however, gave Leibowitz a genuinely perplexed look. “Who?”
“The man you picked up in the fields twenty-five miles outside of Jerusalem about an hour ago.”
Baghdadi swallowed.
“I need to know what the mission plans are,” Leibowitz added. “I need to know what your target site was.”
This was where Baghdadi puffed out his chest and feigned courage by raising his chin in defiance.
“If that’s the game you want to play,” said Leibowitz. Then the team leader made a gesture to one of the commandos who removed a KABAR combat knife, grabbed Baghdadi by a hank of thick hair, pulled Baghdadi’s head back to expose his throat, and then he placed the blade along Baghdadi’s flesh with the intent to slice a deep and linear groove.
“All right! All right! All right!” Baghdadi pleaded.
The knife-wielding commando released the radical and summarily backed away.
“Tell me everything you know,” said Leibowitz. “And I do mean everything. Leave one thing out, you die. Tell me lies, you die. Is that understood?”
Baghdadi nodded.
“In the other room with Labron is a suitcase, an explosive. What was the target site?”
Baghdadi sighed heavily. Around him lay the members of his team, the outcome of weakened soldiers who were not even close to the combat level of the Metsada. In fact, he felt duly responsible since he filled their heads with the false promise of happiness. All they got in the end was a premature death.
“What was the target site?” Leibowitz repeated evenly.
“Tel Aviv,” he finally answered.
“Where in Tel Aviv?”
“That you would have to ask him, this Labron guy. My duty was to get him inside the city unseen. The rest of the mission was up to him.”
“And your handler? And don’t lie to me, Baghdadi. Keep in mind that I know the answers to some of the questions I ask in order to ferret out the lies. Perhaps I know who your handler is, perhaps not. But if I were you, I would not risk the chance of providing me with falsehoods.” Leibowitz crouched down so that he was eye level with Baghdadi. “Now, tell me, who’s your handler? Who contacted and assigned you with the task of meeting Labron?”
“You know who it was.”
“Tell me. Give me a name.”
Baghdadi looked away, ashamed. “Ahmed Jaziri.”
“Of course, it was. And where is Jaziri now?”
Baghdadi turned to face off with Leibowitz and shook his head. “That I don’t know. No one knows where Ahmed Jaziri is.”
Leibowitz feigned a smile. “Of course not. So, tell me, where do you think he is?”
“I don’t know.”
“And you know nothing outside of Labron’s mission other than that his target site was somewhere in Tel Aviv, is that right?”
Baghdadi nodded.
“And you, after being commissioned by Ahmed Jaziri, were to pick up Labron at a predetermined site outside of Jerusalem, take him to this safe house, and then come up with the best possible way to get him into Tel Aviv unseen, with the suitcase he carries?”
Another nod.
“And you know nothing else?”
“No.”
Leibowitz got to his feet. “I believe you,” he told him.
From behind, the commando, after returning his knife, removed his suppressed Glock from his holster, pressed the gun’s point to Baghdadi’s temple, and pulled the trigger. After a muted spit of gunfire, Saheem Baghdadi joined his team by being among the dead.
Then from Leibowitz: “Bring me Labron and the suitcase he carries.”
Within thirty seconds, a clearly shaken Labron was forced to his knees before the
