The Hand of Christ (8 page)

But our ability to grow, and to learn from our mistakes comes from you – this you blessed us with. We are able to make choices, to be conscious.”

Leo stood to his feet and appeared nearly trance-like and continued, “My lord, the world will learn the truth, it must have the truth, no matter how shocking! I will provide it for them. I can see it clearly now. You have in your infinite wisdom ordained me as Pope for one purpose. My mission is simple.”

Leo sat once more; this time he sat with the determination and fire of an enlightened man. He reached into his pocket and extracted his jeweled pen. In his other pocket was his private diary; he pulled it out, opened it up, and scribed his plans. However, before beginning, he removed the cross adorned with a crucified Christ from around his neck. Leo opened the top drawer of the table and gently set the golden crucifix into it. Relieved of its weight, he immediately felt less burdened. Closing the drawer, Leo returned his attention to the diary.

Chapter Five

A Phone Call

The Vatican

The electronic static scratched his inner ear like finger nails on a chalkboard and caused him to wince. Within a few moments, the disturbing screeches abated and the call was connected.

“
Yes?” The voice seemed relatively distant both in emotion and geography. What he would hear next would command his attention.

“
Sir, he has it.”

Silence.

“
Are you sure?”

“
Yes, sir, completely. I have seen it with my own eyes. He has translated it and found the proof. Sir, it is what we seek.”

The wheels that governed his thoughts were turning wildly fast now. “Good, very good. Your years of steadfast patience will soon be well rewarded. I will be in touch with your instructions soon.”

Another bout of quick static squelched through the earpiece signaling that the call had ended. Hanging up the phone, he enjoyed this new twist of fate. The plan would have to change. But first he had another matter to attend to.

Chapter Six

Umayyad Mosque

Damascus, Syria

Moments before the first blast, CIA Officer Dr. Michael Sterling and his Syrian counterpart and asset, Yousef Malak Aramasu, had been sitting across from one another. Nearly an hour had passed since Michael had agreed to meet Yousef once the discussions had concluded. Michael had been trying, with some difficulty, to not stay lost in his preoccupation of what Yousef had told him.

A centuries-old organization that infiltrates governments?

It took most of his energy to pay attention to the negotiations. Perhaps, if he had been more focused, more controlled, he would have seen the first Hezbollah soldier. It may even have been possible to stop the soldier before he had raised his weapon at the back of the US Ambassador’s head.

Having taken their respective and appropriate places, many in attendance had been nursing the intensely dark, aromatic Turkish coffee and had been displaying obligatory smiles as the negotiations moved forward. Surprisingly, the talks had been going well; all involved seemed to have a real conviction relative to a productive outcome.

Previously, one of the major sticking points had been the annexation of the Golan Heights, lands formerly belonging to Syria but taken by Israel during the Six Day War in 1967. Michael had suggested that the lands become a secular Druze state with a shared Syrian and Israeli non-partisan government. Both countries agreed that no military personnel would reside or be allowed in the state. Each country would contribute to and enjoy fifty percent of its infrastructure and production. Local residents would have dual citizenship between both countries.

The Lebanese delegation’s main concern at the negotiations was Shebaa Farms, a small portion of Israeli held land affixed to the northern edge of the Golan Heights; it was one of the main reasons Hezbollah continued to justify attacks on Israel.

However, the Lebanese Ambassador surprisingly indicated that even this would no longer be an issue; he would accept the same proposal with Syria as they had with Israel but with one slight change. The land would also be secular and de-militarized but its economic responsibility would be divided and shared equally between the three countries.

What surprised Michael as well as the rest of the delegations the most was Syria and Lebanon’s willingness to forcibly disband and outlaw the militant arms of Hamas and Hezbollah. Michael was shocked by this, but like everyone else welcomed the progress.

A plausible peace was finally at hand.

All three countries agreed to the proposals; some had started to rise in order to shake hands when the first shot rang out.

The US Ambassador to Syria, to whom Michael had been assigned to assist during the talks, was still seated in his chair and adjacent to where Yousef and the Syrian Ambassador had been sitting. A lone bullet had entered his head from the back, killing him instantly. Curiously, one eye of the US Ambassador was closed while the other remained open and stared ahead. In it was a look of terror that would be etched eternally in his gaze and implied that he had been aware of the fatal blow.

Strewn about the room were the lifeless bodies of the respective envoys of each delegation and those of a handful of Hezbollah soldiers. Moments ago all members of the negotiations had been seemingly optimistic in their appearances. Now, all were dead. The smell of flesh burnt by sizzling bullets and from the carbon of the expelled rounds permeated the air.

A quiet voice spoke, “Yeshua survived, Michael.”

Michael’s right hand was pressing on Yousef’s stomach, blood seeped through his fingers as Michael held in with futility the small disemboweled pieces of his friend’s intestine, poking through his shirt. At the onset of the attack Yousef had tackled Michael, trying to shield him from the impact of a grenade thrown by a Hezbollah soldier.

With fading breath, Yousef spat out a painful cough and repeated, “Yeshua survived, He did not die.”

“
Quiet, Yousef…, quiet yourself – you are not making any sense. Listen to me, Yousef, you will be alright, just save your strength.”

The words irresponsibly spilled out of Michael’s mouth, he didn’t know what else to say even though he knew that it was a lie. Yousef would die and it would be a painful death. Michael could see the dark, nearly black blood that slowly escaped from Yousef’s midsection. The same grenade that embedded small bits of shrapnel in Michael’s right thigh had lacerated his friend’s liver.

Yousef had only moments left of life.

The body of the Hezbollah soldier that had tossed the small explosive device was prostrate at Yousef’s feet. A small hole was in his forehead where the bullet of a .45-caliber handgun from a precise shot had entered.

Michael was an expert with a number of weapons including the sidearm used to fire the fatal shot. Throughout the room were the bodies of the four other soldiers that Michael had expertly killed during the attack.

Looking into the eyes of his friend of many years, Michael could sense that Yousef was aware of his fate, too. Tears filled the rims of Michael’s eyelids as they readied themselves to run down his cheeks. The right side of his body began to throb, he looked down at Yousef, and said, “Save your energy old friend, you’ll need it when you return home tomorrow for your son’s birthday.”

The corner of Yousef’s mouth curled up in a painful smirk – he knew it was a lie, too – and silently thanked his friend’s kindness. “You remembered, Michael, such a good friend you have been.”

Barely able to utter discernable words, Yousef pulled Michael’s head within centimeters of his mouth. With an anguished but very controlled whisper he uttered, “Listen to me, Michael. Yeshua did not perish on the cross. His family escaped Judea, His lineage still exists today, Michael. The organization I have been tracking, they call themselves “the Order.” They know his bloodline exists and have used that knowledge for power, a power greater than you understand. Michael, listen closely; you must protect the next... They plan to...” Yousef winced from the pain that crippled his mid-section unable to finish the sentence.

Michael thought that Yousef was speaking from a delirium invoked by his wounds and fate. He knew his dying friend well, Yousef was a serious man, but Michael was confused and said, “Yousef, I don’t understand. None of this makes any sense. What are you talking about? Protect the next what, protect who? Who is in danger?” Michael was shaking Yousef whose eyes had rolled into the back of his head.

With a bit more force, Michael screamed at his friend as he was perishing before him, “Yousef, Yousef!”

Barely able to hang on to his last attachment to life, Yousef’s eyes suddenly regained a measured focus. He stared intensely at Michael and said, “My friend, I must trust that you will find the answers. You didn’t turn me, Michael. I came to you, Michael – for you. You were my assignment.”

Yousef’s breathing suddenly labored and rendered him unable to continue speaking. Michael’s eyes grew wider as what he had heard began to percolate his being. “You came to me at Georgetown? I don’t understand, Yousef.” An intense cold slowly encapsulated and ran the course of Michael’s spine at the thought of what his dying friend had just confessed to him.

Michael barely noticed that Yousef had hastily shoved a small leather bound book into his hands.

With his last ounce of strength, Yousef strained hardly able to mouth his final words, “Take this book, Michael. Read it, but guard it with your life and share it with no one – not even your Company. This book is known as the Hand of Christ, and it is why I brought you here, Michael; you will need it. I have faith in you, Michael, have faith in yourself; you will understand.”

At the moment of death’s approach, Yousef was extremely self aware; he had prepared for this possibility. As he felt his strength fade, Yousef carefully delineated what Michael needed to hear, the rest he would trust his friend to piece together on his own; centuries of secret information had been passed to Michael within minutes.

“
Michael, promise me...”

With the final vowel of his life, Yousef contracted his ultimate exhalation and escaped this world. Eyes still open, Yousef stared at Michael in a disconnected fashion, his dead gaze looking through him. Yousef perished from his wounds. Pulling his friend’s body close to his chest, Michael whispered into his dead friend’s ear, “I promise you, Yousef, I promise.”

Michael had seen such an injury before; it had been during a mission in the North African Ahaggar Mountains in southern Algeria. At the time, Michael had been a new graduate from the CIA’s National Clandestine Services (NCS) training that was conducted at “the Farm.” Upon graduation, one of his early assignments with the Company had been with the Special Operations Group, the part of the CIA that conducts covert paramilitary operations.

Prompted in part by the first Gulf War and the end of the Cold War, the CIA’s old Directorate of Operations arm – now known as the NCS – shifted its focus dramatically from Eastern block communism to Islamic terrorist activities. Algeria had been faced with a terrorist confrontation by the Armed Islamic Group whose mission was to overthrow the Algerian government and in its place the implementation of an Islamic State. This had to be stopped.

Along with four paramilitary Special Operations teams, Michael conducted a High Altitude Low Opening (HALO) jump from nearly forty thousand feet over Algeria and landed on an oasis at the foot of the mostly volcanic mountains.

Intelligence was provided to the teams that included the location of the Armed Islamic Group’s headquarters, and of their leader. The mission was to conduct a night infiltration and destroy the camp; no prisoners were to be taken. The goal was to sever the head of leadership, to take away the terrorist group’s direction, to apprehend – or assassinate – their leader.

The HALO jump was perfected flawlessly and invisible to radar. The night land navigation to the camp of the Armed Islamic Group was conducted nearly effortlessly. Michael had been unnerved by how smooth it went. The heavily armed Special Operations teams moved through the dark guided by AN/PVS-14 night vision goggles affixed to their black Kevlar helmets. There were no signs of any life, not so much as a stray camel had crossed their paths.

The men climbed their way into the mountain, and upon entering the camp the teams were surprised to find it deserted. In the center of the camp was the building that according to the intelligence provided was identified as the headquarters of the Armed Islamic Group.

Michael had carefully entered the building with his commander; their weapons were at the ready. A lone fax machine hummed in the center of the empty room. The wheels of the dot matrix printer had been turning and forced out a one-page communication. Tearing it from the machine, the commander had read the printout out loud, “It is the will of Allah.”

After he read the printout, terror coursed instantly through the veins of the Special Ops commander. Michael distinctly remembered the blood draining from his commander’s face as he shouted nearly indecipherably the order for retreat. The terrorists knew that the Special Ops teams was coming, and had set traps for the men – the terrorists were still nearby. The teams made a hasty evacuation out of the compound but were ambushed by the terrorists halfway down the mountain. Many of the team members met an unfortunate fate.