“I still have strong arms, Bangladeshi, as do you. I’m sure together we can open the cap enough to see what’s inside.” That was when Ahmed Jaziri leaned so close that the tips of their noses were inches apart. Then in a hushed tone that was so soft that he appeared to be mouthing his words, Jaziri added, “To be paid in cryptocurrency as you request tells me that the money cannot be traced after the transaction has been made. If I agree to the contract after tonight’s unveiling and quickly discover that you lied to me about your ability to pull this operation off, be assured that there is no place on Earth where you can hide from me. If you fail me, I will find you no matter how many times you alter your appearance. And trust me, Bangladeshi, it will not be pleasant for you when I do.”
The Bangladeshi appeared as cold as ice with his new face. But like his old face, he showed no emotion, which was a constant to his features.
“Do you hear me, Bangladeshi?”
“I hear you just fine.”
“Tonight then, at your address, we will open this coffin you say holds the treasures within. If it’s true, then we have a deal. Five hundred million in cryptocurrency will be forwarded to an account of your choosing. The contract will be signed between us with your blood as the ink and your soul as my reward. Am I making myself clear?”
“You are.”
Jaziri stood and ran his fingers along the brim of his fedora, a goodbye gesture. “Tonight then, at your residence. Together, we shall perform the ritual of the unveiling and lay our eyes upon the Unholy Three: Satan, the Antichrist and the False Prophet.”
“Don’t be late.”
“Believe me, Bangladeshi, I won’t.” Jaziri repeated the action of running his fingers along the brim of his hat. “It was good to see you again. I’m glad you contacted me. Should you pull this off, then it would be money well spent.”
“Believe me, Ahmed, you’ll get your money’s worth by the time I’m done.”
Behind Jaziri’s heavy beard, the man smiled. “We’ll see.” Turning, the financier for terrorist organizations added, “Tonight, Bangladeshi, at the time you requested, I’ll be there not a second too soon or too late.” And then the man was gone, disappearing into the milling crowds that filled the Parisian walkways.
The Bangladeshi stared after the Financier until he was absorbed by the crowds. Then he wondered about the deal since Jaziri had made his point quite clear: this contract was going to be signed by the blood of the Bangladeshi. To fail Ahmed Jaziri would be to fail himself, since he was about to sign over the rights to his life, should the outcome fail. But the Bangladeshi felt confident and believed in himself. There would be no failures to slow down or hinder his efforts, since he was a taskmaster who had performed to greater heights of achievement with success. In his mind, he was a ruler and a doer of the impossible. And within the days and weeks to come, places like Washington, D.C., Tel Aviv and Vatican City would come to ruin and be reduced to charred remains.
This he was sure of.
Picking up the Le Monde newspaper, the Bangladeshi continued to read.
CHAPTER
FIVE
The Apostolic Palace, The Vatican
Vatican City
The woman wearing the nun’s gown and wimple was escorted up the staircase by two members of the Swiss Guard. Once inside the papal chamber and with the door closing softly behind her, she made her way to the pope who was standing behind his desk with his hand extended. The moment the nun reached the pontiff, she accepted his hand and kissed the Fisherman’s Ring. That was also when he noticed her ring on her receiving hand, which was an exclusive piece of jewelry. On the ring’s face, which was a ruby stone, was an upside-down V. And under this tented V were the insignia letters N and S that represented the Nocturnal Saints.
Thereafter, he pointed to the open chair before his desk to her in invitation. “Please,” he told her.
Bowing slightly in gratitude, she took the seat.
“Thank you for coming,” he told her.
“It’s an honor, Your Holiness.” When she spoke, her voice was deep and rough from many years of smoking. And then she pointed to her wimple. “May I remove the headdress? It’s something I’m not accustomed to and it’s rather uncomfortable.”
“As long as you wear it on your way out,” he informed her.
She removed the wimple and tossed her hair about, then she laid the headdress upon her lap. Then: “The moment I received your communication in Brazil, I knew it had to be something of great importance.”
The pontiff nodded. “And what name are you going by now?”
“Jennifer Antle.”
The pope knew that she was notoriously conservative and looked upon change with the same intolerance as he. Old values were constructed with moral undertakings, whereas liberalism paved the way for unethical choices to fit the mindset of those seeking new principles. Like her, he was steeped in old traditions believing that man should bend to the will of God and not the other way around. And because he was a silent member of the Nocturnal Saints who valued the organization’s strict conventions, that was his reason for maintaining discreet ties with her.
“I have a problem,” he told her, “with the thorn in my side digging deeper. I need it removed both discreetly and with quiet efficiency.”
“Does this thorn have a name?”
The pope nodded. “Kimball Hayden.”
The woman fell back into her seat, then said, “You do know that I confronted this man before, along with his team of Vatican Knights.”
“I heard. But I was in China at the time serving as a cardinal with my influence obviously restricted.”
“You do know that the Vatican Knights took out my D.C. unit with ease, don’t you? And my team was made up of ex-special forces operatives.”
“I’m not
