The Hand of Christ (52 page)

All around the sides of the Square, halberd and sword wielding Swiss Guards stood stoic in their yellow, orange, blue, and red renaissance uniforms complete with black beret. Tourists that eagerly took their pictures surrounded the ceremonially dressed men.

These men were not a threat.

As if by some unseen commandment, the crowd of foreigners shifted their movements in unison. Like the inexplicable darts of a thick school of silver-backed ocean fish that suddenly changes direction, the tourists uniformly swarmed their attention away from the Square and toward the Apostolic Palace.

A thick buzz filled the air.

A young Australian man roughly brushed past the assassin in a fit of excitement, his camera at the ready, and shouted, “It’s him! Oh my god, it’s the Pope! Come on, Mom, hurry!”

The assassin turned and with his dark eyes peered in the direction of Pope Leo XIV. The old man was moving slowly and methodically in front of the growing crowd separated only by waist level wooden barricades; he was surrounded by ranks of security. They looked nervous. A sea of hands were reaching forward to touch him and to be blessed by him. Some were holding out pens and begged for his autograph.

Amidst the plain clothed guards that protected the Pontiff, and a short distance behind him, the assassin saw the black robed priest that had secreted him into the confines of the Vatican earlier in the day. The two men made eye contact. Geoffrey’s soul pierced cold as a wave of nauseating anxiety swept through him. For the first time, he felt the subtle signs of pity. The assassin grinned slightly as if he had sensed the priest’s struggle with morality; Geoffrey slowed his gait, falling a few paces back.

The earpiece in Jimmy’s ear crackled and Michael spoke, “Do you see what’s happening?”

“
Yeah, I see the Pope and his entourage. Any sign of our guy?”

“
None, let’s get closer. Take the left flank of the Pope, I’ll take the right.”

“
Affirmative, moving now.”

Jimmy quickly took his position, so did Michael. Both men were scanning the crowd for any sign of the assassin.

The masses grew as the number of people swelled around the Pope. Colonel Camini was growing anxious, as was Detective Dante.

“
Colonel, this is ridiculous, we’ve got to get him back inside!” Dante said.

“
Just keep your eyes open, Detective!” Camini snapped back.

The assassin moved closer to the Pope; reaching into his pocket he removed the pen. With it now in his hand, the assassin raised it slightly before him. As he did, an unannounced break in the overhead clouds allowed in a short burst of sunlight; with seemingly divine intervention, the pen caught a few of the errant rays, glistening sharply.

The glare caught Michael’s attention; he turned toward it, but saw nothing. The sun struck again and cast off a second flash of reflected light; then Michael saw him. A large hooded man was moving close to the Pope; he held something in his hand, it was a silver pen. The man pulled down his hood exposing his freshly shaven scalp. Michael was looking at him from the side and almost didn’t give him a second thought, thinking of the man as another autograph seeking tourist. But the way he moved, different than the others; the man glided with strength and a planned purpose, as if each step were carefully thought out.

Instinct fired.

Michael focused in on him.

Quietly he belted out into the air not taking his eyes off the bald man, “Jimmy!”

“
Go ahead, Michael, what is it?”

“
Whistle!”

Jimmy didn’t understand Michael’s command, and quizzically replied, “What? What did you say?”

Slowly Michael articulated his command, “Put your two fingers between your lips and blow. I want you to whistle like you are at the Rose Bowl and Michigan State just upset Notre Dame in overtime.”

Jimmy did as he was told and blew out a high-pitched whistle startling everyone close by. Heads turned instantly his way, including the assassin’s.

Then Michael saw it.

On the back of the bald man’s head was a long row of fresh stitches in between purpled bruising and swelled scalp. The assassin! “Jimmy, at your twelve o’clock, the big, bald guy staring right at you, that’s him!”

Michael was already sprinting toward the assassin.

Jimmy said nothing and was frozen in his tracks; the assassin was glaring directly at Jimmy and sent a bolt of fear through his body.

Colonel Camini heard the whistle and ordered a couple of his men toward the perpetrator. “Check him out, don’t make a scene.”

The two plain clothed Swiss Guard nearest the Colonel complied, immediately Jimmy found two large Italian men on either side of him politely but firmly leading him quickly from the crowd.

The assassin turned his attention back to the Pope, he moved closer. Leo had his hand cupped onto a woman’s cheek; tears were filling her eyes, readying to stream down her plump red cheeks as he blessed her.

The assassin was behind the woman and within inches of the Pontiff; he was raising the pen.

Geoffrey’s body tensed.

Detective Dante saw him and instantly knew that the man they were looking for was this one. He screamed out and reached for the Pope to pull him away.

Michael bolted toward the assassin, pushing his way roughly through the crowd; one of the plain clothed Swiss Guard lunged at Michael. Michael spun around as he was about to be tackled and tripped the Guard sending the man awkwardly to the pavement along with a few other tourists.

Immediately three more of the Pope’s security force joined in the chase after Michael. Michael was running straight at the assassin, but it was too late, he wasn’t close enough.

The assassin depressed the tip of the pen; a mist of fine white spray was coming fast out of it. Michael reached for one of his knives and pulled it out of his sleeve. While still running in a sprint, Michael cocked his arm and threw the knife at the assassin.

A loud scream pierced the air as the knife penetrated through the assassin’s hand and to the hilt of the blade; he dropped the pen reeling from the pain and turned toward the attacking CIA Officer.

Screams permeated through the air as the Pope fell to his knees. Slumping to the earth, the Pope’s eyes looked skyward in an unheard prayer to god and then rolled into the back of his head. The woman whose cheek he had been touching was on her side convulsing forcibly. Foam had formed upon her lips as the skin of her face turned an odd pink with slight green spots. Her life violently slipped away. Next to the Pope one of the Swiss Guards was on his hands and knees vomiting amidst horrendous and body contorting coughs.

The Zyklon B chalk like pellets were fast acting, having a near instantaneous effect. The cyanide based poison pellets were constructed partly of naturally occurring diatomaceous earth and inserted lengthwise into the pen in an airtight cylinder. When the assassin depressed the top of the pen, the seal of the cylinder was broken and exposed the small but deadly material to air. A second and smaller chamber held a miniscule C02 capsule that propelled the cyanide mist out of the pen’s tip.

The gaseous hydrogen cyanide fueled device used the same toxic gas preferred by the Nazi’s at the Aushwitz-Birkenau and Majdanek extermination camps. The small cyanide pills in the assassin’s pen were produced at a factory in the Czech Republic with a purpose designed for eradicating insects; it would have been satisfyingly poetic to the killer had he known.

Michael bore down on the assassin and reached into his other sleeve, pulling out the second knife. There were too many people around; he couldn’t risk their lives by using his guns. The assassin thought differently and pulled the policeman’s pistol from his pocket and fired as Michael jumped through the air. Michael planted both of his feet into the chest of the killer, causing the assassin to stumble a number of steps backward. At that same moment, the bullet from the assassin’s gun hit Michael sending the second knife through the air and Michael lifeless to the ground.

The assassin didn’t fall. He grasped the handle of the knife that was still stuck through his hand and pulled on it letting out a deeply baritone and bloodcurdling groan as he freed it from his hand. He was now holding it by its serrated blade and eyeing Michael who lay prostrate on the travertine.

Surrounding the assassin in a semi-circle were no less than a dozen Swiss Guards and Carabinieri with their weapons trained upon him. Behind the assassin, a handful of Vatican Police were hurrying away bystanders. Colonel Camini held his pistol in both hands and stepped forward with the weapon trained onto the assassin.

The large killer eyed the throngs of men in front of him slowly; his left arm was hanging at his side, in the dangling hand he held the gun; smoke oozed from its bore. In his right hand was the knife.

He had no intention to run.

“
Drop the gun and the knife!” shouted the Colonel.

He didn’t move.

“
I said drop them, do it NOW!”

There the large Persian stood, defiant in his disobedience. He looked at the knife in one hand and the pistol in the other. Raising both arms slowly out to the side he dropped the gun. He then looked at the blood running down his arm from the hole in his hand and held it up for everyone to see.

The assassin spoke. His voice was strangely calm, “This is the last time the blood of a Muslim will fall to the earth at the hands of an infidel. Your Pope is dead; your time to reign is over.”

A few seconds went by, but to all it felt as if the world had stopped, and those few seconds passed like long drawn out minutes. It was quiet; the visitors to the square were on the ground, some dared to peek at the bloodied man. The moments moved excruciatingly slow.

Then the assassin screamed out, his voice escalating with every word, “It is the duty of every Muslim to make war upon every infidel! Send me to Paradise!”

Without warning the assassin flipped the knife over so that the grip was in his hand. His well-trained movements were so fast that they were a blur to the naked eye. With the expertise of a professional killer, he flung the weighted knife through the air at the Colonel burying it deep into the man’s chest. The Colonel was able to fire one shot before dropping to the ground; the blade sunk to its hilt in the center of his breast.

Without an order given, every officer, both Vatican and Roman, opened fire; the assassin was thrown violently through the air and onto his back. He was dead before hitting the ground, his body riddled with bullets.

Chapter Fifty-Six

The Resurrection

The Vatican

The Square was in a spinning swirl of uncontrolled chaos. Detective Dante left the Pope to the care of the arriving medics and ran to the fallen Colonel whilst Vatican Police and Carabinieri could be seen running in nearly every direction. In the distance, a small fleet of ambulances raced to the scene.

Jimmy screamed out to his friend, “Michael!” and easily freed himself from the two stunned Swiss guards and ran to where Michael lay. Michael was on his front with his back to Jimmy and wasn’t moving. Jimmy grabbed him by his shoulder, gently turning him over.

“
Michael, are you alright!” Jimmy sounded frantic.

To Jimmy’s relief, a slight groan came from Michael, “I am so damn sick of getting shot at!” he said, while holding his shoulder. A small amount of blood filled the tiny gaps between his fingers.

“
You’re bleeding, Michael!”

Michael restated the obvious, “I know that I am bleeding, I’ve been shot; blood usually comes with bullet holes. I am alright, Jimmy, it just hurts like hell!”

Jimmy looked at the other side of his shoulder, “There’s an exit wound close to the entry. The bullet made its way through your shoulder; you should get bandaged up.”

Michael sat up, “Don’t worry about me, it’s a flesh wound. What about the Pope? Is the Pope dead?”

Jimmy had nearly forgotten about the Holy Father. He looked over to where a flurry of men worked on the Pope and said, “I don’t know. He went down, he’s not moving. It doesn’t look good, Michael; they are taking him away right now, but I can’t see anything. His guards are blocking my view. One of the tourists went down, too, looked like she got hit badly with whatever the assassin used.”

Michael looked over at where the Pontiff fell to the earth. Security officials and medics who were carrying him quickly away on a stretcher surrounded the Pope. A number of Vatican Police were holding up blankets shielding the rest of onlookers from what was going on behind the impromptu curtains. They were heading toward the Apostolic Palace.

The stricken Vatican guard was sitting at the back of an ambulance in its opened door. The medic was breaking what looked like some sort of ampoule between a couple pieces of gauze pads. The guard was wearing an oxygen mask within which the medic shoved the pads.

Where the Pope had fallen, a crowd of frantic medics in a much smaller group was attending to the already dead tourist. Barely able to stand, her husband was being held by a Swiss Guard and desperately pleaded for her to live.

“
Help me up, Jimmy,” Michael said wanting to stand in order to regain his bearings.

Once Michael was up, the two plain-clothed Swiss Guards that Jimmy had run from grabbed both men. A voice in the distance shouted out, “Bring them both here!” The two Swiss Guards were shocked at what they saw, neither man was able to heed to the command. One made the sign of the cross.