“I will get it done,” the Bangladeshi finally said. “I will place the False Prophet directly over the heart of the city.”
“For your sake, Bangladeshi, I hope you see this through since your life, as you know, hangs in the balance. Do not fail me again.” And then the screen winked off, the light mote at the center of the monitor burning brightly a moment before it disappeared.
The Bangladeshi slapped the lid of the laptop down, and hard. He was frustrated and upset with his world suddenly closing in. Normally a man of great reserve, he started to feel claustrophobically entrenched inside of a situation that was growing tighter from all sides and by the seconds.
Leaning his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes, the Bangladeshi knew that he had to come up with a means to get inside Vatican City to lay the device close to the city’s highest throne, whether it be the St. Peter’s Basilica or the Apostolic Palace.
I will not be denied, he told himself. And then he sighed.
When the door of a nearby car opened and closed as its owner got inside the vehicle, it was enough to spur the Bangladeshi to move as well. Starting his vehicle and letting the engine idle, the Bangladeshi began to ponder ways to get the False Prophet inside Vatican territory. It would not be an easy undertaking, he considered. Especially when the border had been closed off and remained regimentally manned by Vatican Security, the Swiss Guard, and members of Italy’s Arma dei Carabinieri.
But if there was one thing the Bangladeshi was good at, what he excelled at, was being able to find that crack in the wall that was wide enough to slip through.
Looking at the suitcase and the image of the False Prophet stenciled upon its aluminum shell, the Bangladeshi knew that if he annihilated Vatican City in its entirety, Ahmed Jaziri would still cash in his chips that was the Bangladeshi’s life.
After putting the vehicle into gear with the cogs ratcheting, the Bangladeshi realized that the only way to prolong his life was to turn the table against Jaziri. After detonating the device, he would hunt down Ahmed Jaziri before the financier could assemble a team designated to terminate him.
Taking his foot off the brake, the Bangladeshi started to drive out of the parking lot, and then he made his way onto the avenues with a plan brewing inside his mind.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Saint Peter’s Basilica
Rome, Italy
Kimball Hayden found it absolutely odd to see the Basilica vacant, with he as its only occupant. He had searched behind the bronze statue of St. Peter and its foundation. He looked behind, around and examined every inch of Michelangelo’s Pietà, the Spiritual Statues between Columns, the Shrine to St. Helena, the Statue of St. Philip Neri, and many more. Earlier—along with Isaiah, Nehemiah and Vatican Security—they had checked the grottos and the monuments; scoured the transepts and the nave; combed through the Sacristy, the Baptistry and the Museo Storico Artistico, only to come up empty. The False Prophet, as of yet, had not taken up lodging within the church.
Now that the others had fanned out to continue the search, Kimball found himself alone before the Papal Altar, which was situated on top of several older altars. In his view, he had never seen anything that was as beautiful and ornate with its most outstanding feature the ninety-five-foot canopy that rose above the altar, this being the Baldacchino, which was Bernini's masterpiece and his first work inside of St. Peter's Basilica. Directly beneath this canopy lies the ancient tomb of St. Peter.
Kimball began to feel a sudden chill sweeping through him, perhaps the sensation that of cleansing away any dark residuals that clung to him such as wanting to exact rage against his enemies or his need to exercise violence, only to be eclipsed by a sudden warmth of absolute peace.
In that moment of perfect comfort, he closed his eyes.
And there upon the altar he stood before, a hand fell upon his shoulder. It was warm and paternal with the touch providing him with the reassurance of being safe. And then the Voice behind the hand, a tone that was filled with compassion and power and authority, spoke in a mixture of voices of those he had been closest to. He could hear his mother, soft and soothing. He could hear Leviticus, the one he was closest to as a Vatican Knight, with his tone sincere. And, of course, the voice of Bonasero Vessucci who spoke with paternal comfort. But there was another who spoke to Kimball with an air of Ethereal Authority, with the weight of the Voice’s deep pitch heavy with compassion and indescribable love.
“I can feel you,” Kimball whispered. And though his words came across as a hush, they echoed across the Basilica, nevertheless.
And now hear me, said the Voice. Your purpose, Kimball, is to walk the fine line that divides the Light from the Darkness. Your mission is to stand within the Gray that divides the Two, and to make choices as a man who is both a sinner and a saint. And the free will for you to choose your battle is yours and yours alone.
Kimball thought: How does one fight a man who sits upon the highest religious seat in the land and possesses the ears of those who are unwilling to see him for what he truly is: a menace to the papacy.
The man you speak about mapped his course long ago, and for his choices he will stand or fall by the decisions he has made in the course of his life.
Like me?
Like everyone who is judged by
