Shari’s heart leapt into her throat where it became a sour lump. She understood duty and obligation, especially when Kimball had offered his life to the church who gave him a chance at redemption. But a nuclear weapon that carried with it the capability to level one city and part of another meant that Kimball would not stand a chance when the flames spread across the landscape at supersonic speed. She, however, would have the ability to flee once the irreversible countdown to zero hour began its march with all avenues of defusing the situation having been exhausted with no upside. Unlike her, Kimball would have to call upon his faith which was in short supply. But his love for those he had stood by as a Vatican Knight had become his means to remain by their side, along with the institution that allowed him to seek the Light. Here was Kimball Hayden’s bed which he willingly made a long time ago.
“I know,” Father Auciello interjected her thoughts. “It’s a situation you don’t want to consider. But it’s a situation that becomes necessary in times when you’re a Vatican Knight. You stay true to the church until the very end. Let’s pray, Shari, that this does not happen.”
“I’ve been in positions before regarding the transport of low-grade nuclear weapons,” she responded, “but nothing this close to home.”
“Perhaps,” Father Essex told her, “with the power of prayer, which can be quite strong, can provide us with the moment of divine intervention.”
“Yeah,” she said evenly. “Perhaps.” But Shari found herself at a crossroads. She wanted to grab Kimball’s hand and take him away from all this—perhaps back to the lakeside cabin where the world seemed as though it was a galaxy away from all drawbacks. It was also a moment of personal weakness and shame, thinking that running away and leaving others behind to suffer the ultimate catastrophe was the proper thing to do. But that’s not me, she told herself. Deep down, she knew she would ride out the storm regardless of the Bangladeshi’s intentions, knowing that she would fight and dig and scratch right down to her cuticles until her fingers bled. Like Kimball, I will fight by his side with the outcome a shared one.
And then, as though shaken from reverie, she said, “I’ll keep you posted regarding the findings of the Polizia di Stato,” she informed them. “And please, contact me if you receive anything of value.”
“That goes without saying,” said Father Auciello. “Our channels are always open to our Jesuit team. Response time will be automatic.”
Shari nodded. Then, as her shoulders wilted in what appeared to be defeat, she asked, “Tell Kimball to call me when he gets a chance.”
“Of course,” stated the co-director. “I’ll tell Kimball as soon as we conclude our close council meeting with the pontiff regarding the current information.”
“Thank you, Father Auciello.”
“Do remember, Shari, what I said about the power of prayer. In times like these it can be an immensely powerful tool.”
Onscreen, Shari nodded.
After the connection ended, Shari knew she would pray but would that be enough? Would the power of prayer against the whims of a madman who was in pursuit to be in allegiance with the Christian devil be the hammer that finally brings him down?
She looked at her watch.
Time continued to move along toward zero hour, whenever that was. But she knew that the Bangladeshi, should he be pressed to above-stress levels, would detonate the weapon at his desired time. An hour. Two hours. A day. A week. All of these were unknowns that could only be answered by the Bangladeshi.
After switching off the live feed from the Vatican, Shari returned her screen to a bank of grids that showed people milling in the streets of Rome within the triangulated area. Narrowing her eyes, she wondered about the Bangladeshi and his mindset.
And then she whispered to herself, “Where are you?”
And then she thought about the other man, the second operative, who walked the streets of Washington, D.C. hand in hand with Satan, literally. The Man from Munich he was called, a courier of deadly goods who operated without ethics since money seemed to be the panacea to curb one’s conscience.
But this was Washington, D.C., which was the highest political seat in the land with its ruler the master of the free world. And like her, she knew that her counterparts were searching diligently to find him.
Once again, and so softly that her words came as a whisper, she asked, “Where are you?”
Her answer was silence.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Papal Chamber, The Apostolic Palace
Vatican City
Fifteen minutes after communicating with Shari Cohen, Fathers Auciello and Essex, along with Kimball Hayden, were escorted to the pontiff’s chamber by two members of the Swiss Guard who were dressed in their Renaissance-style apparel. Once inside, the pontiff stood behind his desk and offered his hand to the priests for them to kiss the Fisherman’s Ring. First, it was Father Auciello who grabbed the pontiff’s hand, leaned forward, and kissed the ring. Father Essex repeated the exercise. But it was Kimball who balked at the ritual. As Pope Clement XV remained standing with his arm extended in Kimball’s direction, the Vatican Knight knew that the practice was born from exercising personal power and had nothing to do with paying homage to the pontiff’s station. But it did have everything to do with forcing Kimball into a situation that was equal to bowing. Relenting, Kimball finally grabbed the pontiff’s hand and kissed the ring.
After the priests took the seats before the pontifical desk, Kimball was left standing between them with his hands clasped together and his fingers interlocking.
“And what have we so far?” the pontiff asked.
“The city has been cordoned off,” Father Essex stated, “as you’ve requested.”
“I see that by looking out my window. I was talking about the precarious position that the Vatican suddenly finds itself in.”
Father Auciello leaned forward in his seat.
