Authors: Rick Jones
After piecing together their identities, the coroner’s
office immediately prioritized their work to establish a
ninety-nine-point-ninety-seven percent probability of the identities on the
corpses and sent the results to Special Agent Cohen of the FBI, according to
the red-flag status in their network, which was protocol.
The identities of the bullet riddled bodies found in the
Mojave Desert were about to provide major pieces to Shari Cohen’s puzzle.
When Kimball received the call from
Shari, he could tell she was elated. “You’re not going to believe this. Six
bodies were discovered in Mesquite, Nevada, this morning, about four hundred
miles south of Ogden, Utah.”
Kimball recognized the name Ogden, the station point for the
Soldiers of Islam, nothing more. “Okay.”
“I just received a preliminary report from the Clark County
Coroner’s Office identifying the bodies as the six remaining members of the
Soldiers of Islam.”
Kimball pressed the phone closer to his ear. “They know this
for certain?”
“Over ninety-nine percent certain, which means I’m
definitely on the right track. The bodies, according to the findings, have been
in the desert for at least three weeks, or for as long as five. This means they
were dead before the pope was kidnapped.”
“Execution style?”
“They were able to find two bullets from an MP5, so it looks
that way.”
“Military issue,” he said. “Not the kind of weapon you’d see
Joe Blow carry around.”
“No, not at all,” she returned.
“So they were executed, dumped, their residences sanitized—”
“—and the Governor’s mansion was seized with the military
precision incapable of the Soldiers of Islam,” she interjected. “But better
managed by—”
“—the Force Elite.”
“Yes! They still exist.” There was a period of stunning
silence before Shari spoke again. And then, “We have him, Kimball . . . Our own
government took the pope.”
“But why?”
“To start a war,” she said. It was all too clear. “Who is
the one man on this planet, the one man, who by the power of his presence can
incite a world?”
“To start a war though? Again I have to ask, why?”
“For oil,” she said without hesitation. “It’s all about
oil.”
#
After receiving the
videotape
through his connections, Yahweh viewed it several times in the darkness of his
study. The only pool of light in the room came from the TV screen.
Sometimes he played the tape in slow motion and watched the
bishop’s skull erupt in a fountain of blood frame-by-frame, trying to
understand why the cleric was so terrified of dying, when an Islamic terrorist
readily gives up his life as if it was meaningless.
In the first few clips it was obvious that the bishop was
alarmed, his sense of self-preservation so animalistic in display by the way he
thrashed in the chair or the way his eyes widened with absolute terror. It was
as if the man held no faith. But when the pope reached out to him and whispered
a few words of contentment, words not heard over the video, the bishop seemed
somewhat pacified.
Although he considered it gruesome, he replayed the tape
over and over, trying to differentiate why a man of cloth was afraid of making
the graduation to a greater level of being, when a man from another culture was
not. No matter how many times he played it, the answer or understanding never
came.
Finally shutting off the tape, he sat in utter darkness and
mused over the brilliance of the video.
Bringing the pope on stage was a brilliant stroke on the
part of Team Leader—an obvious ploy to provoke the masses and encourage anger.
Watching the pope in his disheveled state would no doubt work wonders on the
emotions of Christians worldwide and wreak havoc long before Shari could do
anything to quell the matter.
“Brilliant,” he whispered, then once again, but in a softer
tone and with far less emotion, uttered, “Brilliant.”
Within four hours the tape was displayed on the Internet by
Aljazeera
.
Within five hours the world community was in an uproar. The international news
media played the edited version of the execution over . . . and over . . . and
over again.
Yahweh was pleased.
#
“Oil?”
“Think about it,” she said. “Those photos of the Soldiers of
Islam weren’t on the dossiers as mere surveillance shots; they were being
targeted. And now they’re dead—all of them. So now we know
who
doesn’t
have the pope, but can surmise who
does
, which leads us to question
number two.”
Her voice picked up momentum as she spoke. Kimball was sure
he would have to tell her to slow down. “Members from the president’s own
assassination squad tried to take me out for having that CD given to me by the
attaché of the Israeli government.”
“Which ties them together—we know that.”
“True, but now we know why there were photos of the oil
tracts, and business and political principals from the oil producing
countries,” she said.
Kimball didn’t see the connection. “I’m not getting you.”
“Not only is that CD a schematic, Kimball, it’s also a
political agenda.” Shari pressed the phone closer to her mouth. “Israel,
Russia, Venezuela and the United States are countries with implausible
political ties with Venezuela harboring anti-American sentiment. But according
to the agenda, and from what we have seen, forced changes may be ahead to
better serve the economies of the nations bound by foreign accords by changing
the geopolitical landscape and to form new alliances with nations who are
starting to tap more of their fossil reserve, like Russia, or in the case of
Israel, sitting on top of an oil bonanza that happens to be under Palestinian
territory.”
Kimball disagreed. “No way. Venezuela’s way too
anti-American to consider an accord with the United States.”
“Their president is anti-American, Kimball. Not the people.
And by forced changes, I mean a sudden removal of the incumbent who is replaced
by someone who is pro-American.”
“You’re thinking assassination?”
“I’m thinking the purpose of the Force Elite—and this is
according to you—is to go into foreign nations and manipulate world leaders to
be more conducive to American interests? So yes, I‘m thinking assassination is
probably somewhere down the road in order to make this work. Geopolitical
landscapes are changed by the act of war.”
Kimball knew that she was right. Ever since the Force Elite
was reinvented after President Ford disallowed the CIA to commit assassinations
abroad, subsequent presidents saw differently. In fact, they saw a crucial need
for the Force Elite in order to maintain an edge over leading powers.
Assassinating a political hostile was exactly why the Force Elite was
reestablished. This was their game.
“Alternative fuels,” she continued, “at best, maybe twenty,
thirty years away. But in the meantime, the Middle East maintains an exclusive
franchise now that China and India have a need for their resources, as well.
Therefore, the principals are growing concerned and believe it’s time for a new
order to be created, since co-dependency on Arab nations with ties to the west
appears to be growing more tenuous every day, whereas their ties with China and
India become stronger. And with demand between those two countries about six
times greater than that of the United States, this country may be finding
itself going silently to the back of the bus when the need for oil here is
still great.
“So the principals decided upon a final agenda,” she added.
“The Soldiers of Islam weren’t soldiers at all, but patsies. And our government
used them to point the accusing finger at so the world community would clearly
make a rush to judgment as to who committed one of the most grievous acts of
terrorism without question, which it did. And what better way to do this by
attacking the international psyche by using the most recognizable religious
figure as a tool of war. Our governments, Kimball
,
were using the pope to create new boundaries by trying to
muster global support through propaganda for something horrible that’s about to
happen. And that’s to start an illegal war against Arab nations in retaliation
for kidnapping the pope. But then you’d have to ask yourself this: Who would
benefit most from such a war?”
Kimball remained silent, letting her roll.
“If Israel takes over the Palestinian territories, they
would do so with little condemnation from world leaders, stating it’s their
right to secure boundaries and protect themselves from a common enemy, when in
fact they’d be tapping into the oil tracts and filling their coffer with
unimaginable wealth to rival the Saudi’s. The United States would benefit if
the geo-political landscape in Venezuela changes, which would fall into the CIA‘s hands with a pro-American leader sitting at the political forefront who is more trade
friendly, and a country that‘s swimming in oil. Everyone benefits because the
need for oil is not going away anytime soon. And with a need such as this
country has, along with China and India, the theory is that economies that have
separated from the co-dependency of Arab nations would grow exponentially if
they can secure accords with nations promising competition with OPEC in order
to keep prices stable. And who now has the oil to compete? Russia, Venezuela,
and now Israel. Everything’s about money, Kimball. Everything. But religion is
a potent weapon that can generate hatred so personal and deep that there can be
no forgiveness, no matter what.
“Think about it. Israel and the United States would like
nothing better than to break ties with nations who are steadily growing hostile
against them. And Russia and Venezuela would like nothing more than to corner a
market with China and India vying for cheaper costs to offset OPEC’s sliding
scale.”
“And if there’s war . . .” His words trailed.
“Then millions would die, which I assume the principals
would look at as collateral damage if the means are achieved. But what’s truly
ironic about this whole thing is that we’re the ones who initiated this holy
war, not them.
We’re
the ones using the fear of terrorism as the weapon
against our own masses to trick the world in believing that the terrorists
initiated this whole thing, because that’s what’s expected. And what’s even
scarier is wars like these usually give rise to ethnic cleansing. I just wonder
if the leaders involved had the foresight to see that the Final Agenda held
some of the same principles as the Final Solution.”
“I would like to think that we’ve gone beyond that.”
“If there’s one thing mankind has yet to learn, Kimball, is
that past history bears little lessons if the powers that be are unwilling to
learn from them.”
Kimball sighed. “Touché.”
As Shari was prepping to leave the
JEH building, her cell phone rang. “Ms. Cohen.”
Shari could immediately tell by the deep resonance that it
was Punch Murdock. “Yes, Special Agent Murdock. What can I do for you?”
“Actually, it’s what I can do for you,” he returned. “I’m at
the Governor’s mansion and I think I may have found something that could prove
vital to your investigation.”
“And what’s that?”
“A snow globe,” he said simply.
Quizzically: “A snow globe?”
“I’m in the governor’s bedroom. And on the dresser is this
snow globe of New York with the World Trade Center as its scenery. I can tell
that the shell has been dusted for prints, but it’s what’s underneath the base
that’s quite interesting.”
“And what would that be?”
“Arabic script,” he said. “Of course at the time of the
initial investigation we didn’t know that an Arabic faction was involved with
the case, which is why it was never a consideration. But now that we know that
an Arabic faction
is
involved, and there’s script scrawled on the base
of a snow globe of New York City—the World Trade Center in particular—may give
us an indication as to where the pope is.”
Shari could literally feel her pulse pounding as she slowly
got to her feet, her eyes staring at nothing in particular as her mind searched
for the proper wordage, only to find no word play at all. The Arabs only play
was to become patsies. Did she miss something?
“Are you there, Ms. Cohen?”
“Do you read Arabic, Mr. Murdock?”
“Call me Punch, and the answer is ‘no,’ which is why I
called you. If it’s vital to the investigation, then it’s vital to maintain the
integrity of the evidence by maintaining a proper chain of command. Now it
might not be anything at all, mind you. But on the other hand, why would there
be Arabic script on the bottom of the snow globe?”
As a red herring
, she considered.
She answered his question with another question. “You said
the snow globe was dusted?”
“Yeah. It still has residue all over it, but no discernible
prints, as if it was wiped clean.”
“But you’re sure it’s Arabic script?”
“Looks like it, although I could be wrong. Just a few words,
though—enough to fit on the base.”
“Have you found anything else?”
“No. I’m thinking this could some kind of message, that
perhaps Pius is somewhere in New York.” When he said this it sounded more like
a question than a deductive statement.
“But that wouldn’t make sense,” she told him. “Why tip us
off to his whereabouts unless it was some kind of red herring, which would make
better sense.”
“That’s why I called you,” he said. “You need to see the
writing.”
Shari picked up the undertone of heavy sadness, of burden.
“Punch, why are you even there to begin with?”
Another pause, lengthy, and then: “Because you know as well
as I do that there’s no such thing as
the
perfect crime, Ms. Cohen.
There is always that something that is overlooked. And I believe I may have
found it.”
His burden seemed to grow with every subsequent word spoken.
So she had to ask: “Are you all right?”
There was another pause, and then she could hear him sigh
over the line, a sigh that was overly exhaustive. “I guess what I’m really
looking for, Ms. Cohen, is closure. My team was murdered—my friends, people
I’ve come to know as family, people I have come to share my privacies with. And
here I am left standing with this incapability to do nothing about it.”
“We already had this discussion, Punch. It’s not your
fault.” She could almost picture him feigning a smile on the other end as he
spoke.
“It’s something you’ll never understand,” he told her,
“unless it happens to you. And I pray that it never will. I can’t retire with
this hanging over my head, Ms. Cohen. I need to close this any way possible.
It’s just something I have to do. Does this make sense? To want closure on
something like this?”
She didn’t have to think before answering. Everyone wanted
closure for peace of mind. “Of course not,” she said.
“I don’t want to be as ‘good as I was the day before,’” he
added. “I want to be a part of this and not be retired to the sidelines because
the brass has lost faith in my abilities.”
“How long are you going to be there?”
“For a while,” he said. “I’m hoping this globe will lead me
to something else, like the first breadcrumb in a trail of breadcrumbs. But I
can’t decipher what’s written on the bottom of the base.”
“I’ll do that for you,” she said. “Keep looking, but
compromise nothing. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I’ll be here,” he returned. And then he hung up, leaving
her standing there with her cell phone droning in her ear.
#
Judas stood in
the shadows of
old abandoned buildings with chicken-wire windows, most of them smashed and
indented with the constant pounding of thrown stones, and charged his Glock
semi-automatic pistol.
The sun had fallen, and in the pool of darkness he was
surrounded by members of Omega Team whose faces were concealed with grease
paint. They were heavily armed and donning black military fatigues, becoming
shadows within shadows, things blacker than black.
“All right, gentlemen,” said Judas, “the objective is clear.
We’re here to take out Target Red. And FYI, the guy who took out half of Omega
Team last night is no novice to the game. He’s ruthless. He’s deadly. And one
man alone doesn’t stand a chance against him. I’m assuming he’s now a part of
Cohen’s protective detail, so he’s a number-one priority for takedown. You
will find them, and maintain a constant visual on both targets. You will also
be in constant communication with one another through your lip mics to alert
your position to supporting team members at all times. If a unit member does
not respond, then I want you to assume that Target Red has compromised Omega
Team. I need you to be prepared, people. I need you to keep your heads up
because this guy is serious business and not to be taken lightly.”
One of the commandos charged his weapon, a testosterone
gesture that he was more than ready to take on all competitors.
“Do your job, gentlemen, and you’ll all be rich men living
off the coast of Belize. If not, then you’ll be keeping company with Dark Lord
in whatever hole Hayden pitched him in. Happy hunting.”
Omega Team instantly gathered inside of a van of dark gray
primer to blend in with the surrounding darkness, started the engine, made its
way out of the complex of aged buildings, and began their journey to the
interception point to take out Target Red.
When the van was out of site, Judas entered his vehicle with
an agenda of his own.
#
Shari was displeased
, if not
disgusted, with the savagery behind the highly doctored video aired over
CNN
and other stations. There were sidebar videos of the aftermath regarding Muslim
and Islamic populations being tormented, abused and harangued in predominantly
Christian nations, even when devout Muslims and Islamists believed peace was
the true virtue, whereas violence an abomination in the eyes of God. It was
totally unfair to the sincere religious practitioners, she thought. They didn’t
deserve this.
What was even worse was to show the world in chronic
repetition the pope’s ordeal. Showing these pictures repetitively played into
the hands of the terrorists. The media knew this, but Shari realized that
macabre events such as this appeased the insatiable appetite of the public for
news as entertainment.
After getting off the phone with Murdock, Shari checked her
watch and couldn’t help the light stirring of anxiety creeping up like the
trace of a cold finger down her spine. There was no doubt in her mind that the
Force Elite was going to make a move soon, if not tonight.
Shari flipped back the screen of her cell phone and dialed a
quick-dial number.
“Yeah, Shari.” It was Kimball.
“I’m leaving the building,” she told him. “Through the West
End gate.”
“We’ll be there.”
“Kimball?”
“Yeah.”
“Please, stay close. I’m really scared.”
“We’re here for you,” he assured her. “You’ll be fine.”
“I’m heading to the governor’s mansion.”
“The governor’s mansion?”
“I got a call from Special Agent Murdock,” she told him. “He
may have found something that would benefit our cause to find the pope. But I
think it’s a red herring.”
“Be careful.”
“You think they’re following me?”
“To some degree, I’m sure. Just because we can’t see them
doesn’t mean that they’re not there. They’re nowhere and everywhere at the same
time. Does that make sense?”
“In an odd way, yes.”
“Don’t worry. My team will be riding dark behind you.
Isaiah will be wearing the NVG headgear that night pilot’s wear while flying
nighttime missions. No one will see us. So if there’s anyone following you,
then we’ll get them.”
“We need the insurgents alive, Kimball. I need to mine them
for information.”
“Then cross your fingers and hope they’ll comply.”
Shari sighed, but there was no relief as her stomach clenched
into a slick fist.
“If we’re not alone, Kimball, if they are following me,
remember that this is for all the chips. So make
sure
they become
compliant. Their death will serve us no purpose. We
have
to learn the
location of the pope.”
“Shari, this is not a game. My team will do what they can to
preserve the lives of the opposition. Preserving lives is what we do. But you
have to understand that we’re working with a mentality in which there is no
option other than to kill or be killed. I know the consequences if we fail, and
my team knows the consequences, too. If we fail, we at least did all we could.
You did all you could . . . Just don’t expect miracles because I don’t believe
in them.”
“Kimball?”
“Yes.”
“You need to have faith.” She hung up.
#
Boston, Massachusetts
September 27, Evening
Team Leader was
rejuvenated
and in full command after watching the video of the execution on television.
Despite the progress of Shari Cohen, there was no doubt the cause waxed toward
the ultimate goal to create an absolute schism between the Middle East and the
rest of the world. He knew hatred, like fear, was a great motivator if used
wisely. And if used wisely enough, hatred could reshape the balance of world
power.
Team Leader moved down the dank corridor, pompous as an
athlete who considers himself unbeatable, his arrogance laying the groundwork
of invincibility. He had nursed this seed of thought to fruition. With huge
tracts of oil beneath the soil he walked upon in his native Israel, as well as
huge tracts in Russia, Venezuela and the Palestinian territories, there was no
telling how rich their economies would become. OPEC dependency by wealthy
nations would vanish once non-OPEC nations produced more products for less
money. There would no longer be $120 barrels of oil.
Using Pope Pius XIII was certainly the tool of propaganda
that had moved mountains in ways Team Leader never dreamed of. Political
landscapes were on the verge of rising or falling, the balances of power were
being manipulated by the prejudices of people of all countries by tapping into
their fragile national psyches:
all due to the use of a religious icon in
the shape of an old man.
These thoughts massaged Team Leader’s ego as he
congratulated himself and was proud he was able to use the hatred buried in his
heart to such magnificent advantage. After all, he just happened to be the one
to promote it since he was a realist and not an idealist.
Peace in the
Middle East was never more than a pipe dream. Why not precipitate the
inevitable?
His face didn’t betray his inner smile as he walked past the
four remaining members of the Holy See who huddled solemnly on their
mattresses, their heads bowed in fear of the man who held the decision over
life or death.
When Team Leader entered the pope’s room a vague scent of
blood, copper and bodily waste wafted like something tangible, like something
dead but floating freely. But Team Leader had the scents pinpointed for what
they were, prerequisites for decay and body rot. It had been several hours
since Bishop Angelo had been murdered, his body placed at the foot of the pope.
And somewhere within the darkness flies alit, buzzing in incessant drone.
Team Leader engaged his night-vision monocular and the room
took on a clear and phosphorous hue. Vague shapes were no longer mere images or
shadows, but held depth and width and height. And Team Leader, no longer
feeling detached from the darkness, was now a part of it as he gazed down at
the pope.
The old man lay beneath two layers of blankets. The contours
of his body poked like broomsticks through the fabric, thin and wispy. Beside
him, Bishop Angelo lay beneath a blanket, the pulp of his head barely exposed
as a black mass of flies assembled to lay their eggs. Team Leader guessed the
pope had covered him for the sake of reverence.
“I owe you an apology, Your Holiness, but the killing was
absolutely necessary to the cause. I hope the pain is not too considerable.”
“What kind of a person murders an innocent man?” the pope
asked from underneath the covers.
“A person with an agenda,” he stated. His voice was calm,
reserved and full of confidence. “A person who is going to change the world one
government at a time.”
Team Leader rounded the mattress and looked down at the
pope, who was laboring to rise from beneath his blankets.