Pandora's Ark (10 page)

Letting
a sigh escape, Bonasera closed his eyes with the realization that corruption
within the Church was not just a pre- or medieval constitution, but a
conviction of a black soul who was convinced that their actions were for the
overall good.

And Bonasero prayed that this was not the case, hoping
above hope that Pope Gregory’s death was truly a mishap rather than the dark
machinations of a lost soul.

He washed the thought away and turned toward the screen,
reminiscing of a time when he used to view and direct the Vatican Knights to the hot spots around the world to save countless lives. And then he
wondered how many souls were lost due to the refusal of the Church to send
forth a unit to protect the citizenry of the Church within the past six months.

Under further consideration it was amazing to the cardinal how
one man had the power to change the lives of so many with a single command or
wish, each thought directed by the convictions of what Pope Gregory believed to
be right or wrong, good or evil.

And then his consideration went one step further:
How
many people died over the past six months under the pope’s tenancy when they
could have been saved
?

As he stepped closer to the visual on the mounted wall screen,
Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci could only wonder.

#

“Tell
me—” said
the cardinal, pointing to the live
feed “—why you are observing the Temple Mount.”

Fathers Essex and Auciello joined the cardinal by his side,
the men focusing on the actions playing out before them.

Father Auciello answered in his usual stately manner. “You
have been gone for too long, my friend,” he said. “If you were still secretary
of state, then you would have a live team in place.”

“Are lives in jeopardy?”

“No,” said Auciello. “But we are getting invalidated
reports through encrypted codes from Mossad that the true Ark of the Covenant
may be in the possession of an al-Qaeda faction.”

Bonasero appeared astonished. “The Ark of the Covenant? At
the Temple Mount? Has it always been there?”

“We’re still trying to determine that. But all indications
are that the Covenant was located in an uncharted chamber approximately a half
kilometer to the east.”

“And how did it come into the hands of al-Qaeda?”

“Again: we don’t know for sure. Everything is just
speculation at this point. But Mossad seems to be very active at the location
we’re now watching.”

Bonasero Vessucci remained riveted in his stance, his eyes
cast forward, watching. If Pope Gregory did not disband the Vatican Knights,
then there was no doubt that they, along with established members of the SIV,
would be onsite gleaning information rather than speculating from satellite
feeds and encrypted notes. “Al-Qaeda will use it for nefarious purposes only—we
know that. It’s an interest of the Church to be shared by all, not just the
Church itself.” He then turned to Fathers Essex and Auciello. “Is the
Camerlengo acting on this?”

Auciello nodded. “No,” he said. “He’s more focused on the
pope’s burial and the upcoming election.”

“As well he should be.”

“And we haven’t enough data to support the need to act. And
even if we did,” he added dolefully, “we know longer have the resources to
intervene.”

The cardinal turned back to the movements on the screen,
the people milling about on an obvious hot and dry day. Auciello was right, he
considered. The Vatican Knights were the only true resource to act on behalf of
the Church in affairs of war and battle, in which the lines drawn were not
specifically done so at the Vatican door. Most interests were in foreign lands
with diplomatic ties which were well beyond the reach of the Church, some
halfway around the world. Now that the value of the Knights had been cast to
the wind, there was little or no salvation beyond Vatican City for those with
the most need.

Furthermore, al-Qaeda was a faction of opportunity. If they
truly were in possession of the Ark, then they would capitalize in such a way that
would subsidize terrorist campaigns for years to come. How they would benefit
was the question that lingered in the cardinal’s mind. But they were talking
about al-Qaeda.

And al-Qaeda would find a way.

“Bonasero?” Father Essex sounded almost contrite. “If I may
be candid.”

“Of course.”

“Since the times of Pope Gregory and Cardinal Angullo, we
have been somewhat revoked to act accordingly.”

Bonasero Vessucci understood. Without the Vatican Knights
to act upon pertinent information that may prove detrimental to the assets and
interests of the Church, or to its citizenry, then there was no point in having
the SIV other than to convey rudimentary intelligence.

“I hear you,” he said, and then he ushered them away from
the Jesuits once again. When they were in the pooling shadows with minimal
light cast from the screens, Cardinal Vessucci spoke to them with open
objectiveness. “As you know, I am impotent to act in the manner deemed
necessary by my station.”

“Then perhaps you’ll elevate to the next level, so that you
can.”

“It’s not a secret that I’m seeking the papal throne. But
Cardinal Angullo is a formidable candidate who seeks the throne as strongly as
I do.”

“Should Angullo succeed the throne, others will suffer due
to the Church’s inability to protect them. So tell me, Bonasero, if you take
the papal throne, do you plan to bring back the Vatican Knights?”

There was a moment of hesitation, and then he nodded, a
single bob of the head. “It would be my wish to do so,” he answered. “But the
good Cardinal Angullo would stand in the way, since he refuses to see their
necessity in the scheme of things. If al-Qaeda is truly in the possession of
the Ark, then we need to react before such a treasure is lost forever—or before
it’s used in ways not meant to be.”

“I hear his camp has weakened,” said Essex.

“But still formidable. Remember, gentlemen, he has strength
by being the secretary of state and as Pope Gregory’s close friend. Those two
facts alone make my journey a difficult one to achieve.”

There was a momentary lapse of silence.

And then, with forced spirit, the cardinal smiled. “We must
be patient by waiting to see how His will plays out,” he said. “If the good
Cardinal Angullo excels to the throne, then so be it.”

“You know as well as I do that if he does, then the Church
suffers greatly. It’s not only His will, Bonasero, but there’s a human element
involved as well.”

“From where I stand I can do very little. But if my peers
see me as a suitable replacement for Pope Gregory, then the SIV will be brought
into play . . . as will the Vatican Knights.”

Essex and Auciello did not smile, nor did they betray their
thoughts or emotions. But deep inside they wanted the cardinal to take over the
papal throne and the privilege to protect the interests of the Church, its
sovereignty, and the welfare of its citizenry, which could only be done with
the Vatican Knights under his rule and the rule of the Society of Seven.

They hoped.

They prayed.

They needed.

And the only person who stood in Bonasero’s way was the all-powerful
Cardinal Angullo.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The outskirts
of Tehran, Iran

Night
had come to Tehran. And the old man lay on the ultra-thin mattress recalling
the moments when such a luxury would have been a blessing in Vladimir Central
Prison.

Just a simple item,
he
regarded, as he lightly brushed his fingertips over the coarse fabric. The
little comforts that better a man’s life, he told himself, can be by the most
minimum of degrees.

On that first day when the doors of the Vladimir Central
Prison closed behind him, Leonid Sakharov couldn’t even begin to comprehend the
meaning of hardship or fear or degradation, until the bodies of his comrades
began to pile quickly at his feet.

After having his head shaved, the cuts and scrapes
testament of a dull blade, he was then placed in a cramped cell with three
other men. Two nights later, with the situation serving as a psychological
breakdown as much as physical, they were ordered out of their cell to the
showers, told to spread their legs and feet as they placed their hands against
the wall, and beaten with a baton or rubber truncheon until they had little
reserve left to drag each other back to their cell.

Those who later complained to the authorities of the
brutality were singled out for worse punishment, which is why Sakharov remained
submissively quiet by giving in to totalitarian rule that governed the system.

During the nights in his quarters when he froze and his
bones seemed to be as fragile as glass, when not-so-alien screams sounded pained
and distant, he kept his mind active and his eyes closed, drawing mental
pictures of buckyballs and formulas in his mind before committing them to
memory.

Often in the mud-laden yards, whenever possible, he would
draw diagrams and formulas with the tip of his finger, finding it easier to
actually
see
what his mind was conceiving, and then filing it away in
his memory, if the concept was scientifically feasible. 

The buckyballs, the formulations, everything was an escape
in a world that was brutally harsh and unyielding. Cellmates came and went, always
a different and interchangeable face on a seeming rotation to fill the gaps
left behind by those who died by raging disease, torture or suicide. But
Sakharov hung on while his body slowly caved to alternative sicknesses stemming
anywhere from lung ailments to fever. And whereas his body began to regress, his
mind continued to remain sharp.

On the climatic cusp of weather change, when the conditions
were about to become abysmally cold due to the onset of fall and winter months,
when the tines of his nerve endings began to ache in concert, redemption came
to him in the form of a man he had never met before.

It began on a damp morning, the old man huddled
beneath a threadbare blanket on his bunk, his knees drawn up in acute angles in
a feeble attempt to keep himself warm. In the early morning light he could see
the cold, wintry vapor of his own breath, causing him to pull the blanket tightly
around him as though it were a second skin.  

And when he heard the footfalls of the coming
guards he closed his eyes, feigning sleep.

The door of his cell slid back, the un-oiled squeal of
metal against metal as brutal as life inside Vladimir Central, and then the
hard nudges against the old man’s side with the tip of one the guard’s baton.

“Get up and come with us,” he said in typical clipped
Russian.

The old man learned long ago never to question a guard or
to look him in the eyes. Laboring to his feet, shedding the blanket to one
side, Sakharov stood and simply waited for the next command with his head
submissively lowered so that his eyes were cast to the floor.

One of the guards pressed the baton across his backside and
used it to usher the Old Man out of his cell. “Out and to the right,” he
ordered.

Sakharov closed his eyes. ‘Out and to the right’ normally
meant one of two things: either he was about to be beaten unmercifully with a
truncheon, or he would be forced to act on behalf of the guards and beat
another prisoner as they watched. He hoped it was the latter.

As they reached the far end of the right quadrant, the
guard shoved the old man with the stick to drive him in another direction,
towards the yard where inmates were allowed one hour of ‘outside’ time.

Once there, the old man was shoved into the yard and the door
closed behind him. He was not alone. In a frozen muddied lot surrounded by
twenty-foot concrete walls and a chain-link fence serving as a ceiling of sorts
to prevent escape attempts, he stared at a man who was tall, dark and well
dressed. His beard was perfectly trimmed, framing a thin face marked with the
color and features of a man from the Middle East.

The man held his ground, appraising Sakharov with his hands
deep inside the pockets of his jacket. His vapored breath came in equal
measures. “Doctor Leonid Sakharov?” he asked in perfect Russian.

Sakharov looked immediately away, the man having been
institutionalized long enough to be submissive at every encounter.

“Come, come, Doctor,” he said, taking a step toward the old
man, “I’m a friend. There’s no need here to look away since we are equals,
yes?”

Sakharov looked into the man’s eyes. “Why am I here?”

The well-dressed man circled Sakharov as if sizing him up,
his hands remaining inside his jacket pockets. “You don’t look so well, Doctor.
You look—what? Twenty, maybe thirty years older than when you first came here a
few years ago?”

“What do you want?”

“I think the question should be, Doctor, is what we want
from each other.”

The old man appeared small, the upper half of his body
folding like the curve of a question mark, as he remained silent.

“You want what only I can give you,” the man added. “And in
recompense, you give me what only you can give me.”

“And that would be?”

“Your skills, Doctor. What I want is your wonderful
skills.”

“As you can see, I’m a broken old man. I have no skills.”

“I’m not talking about your body or soul. I’m talking about
your mind.”

Now it was Sakharov’s turn to appraise the man, to size him
up. “Who are you? What’s your name?”

The man smiled handsomely. “My name is
Adham
al-Ghazi.”

“And why would a man from the Middle East want with
my mind, as you so pleasantly put it?”

“It is said that you possess the theories of a
certain technology we are most interested in.”

“We?”

“The group I work for,” he answered.

“And what group would that be?”

The man’s smile diminished, but slightly. “A group
that is willing to fund your way out of Vladimir Central Prison.”

Sakharov straightened up at this the same way the
ears of a dog would perk up at something interesting.

“From the looks of things, Doctor, it appears that you
won’t live another four months and we both know it. Now I can give you back the
freedom and comforts of life, or I can leave you here to rot in this facility.”

“You want to know about nanotechnology.”

“I want to know certain applications of it, yes.”

Sakharov squinted in examination of the man and
moved closer. “You know why I’m here, don’t you? You know that I was impatient
and foolish, which cost the lives of two good people my government dismissed as
collateral damage.”

“I won’t deny that.”

“Then you also know that I foolishly destroyed the
subsequent tests because of the nature of the program—that it’s too powerful to
manage.”

“You became a drunk who fought with and lost a
battle with his own personal demons, Doctor. Don’t kid yourself. There’s
nothing altruistic about your nature. You do what you do because you know that
you can do what no other man on this planet can. This technology is too
valuable to waste. If your government refuses to see that, then there are those
who will value you for who and what you are . . . I can give you peace of mind,
Doctor. Or as I said, leave you here to rot. It’s your choice. But if I walk
away from this prison, then I walk away for good.”

Sakharov slowly bent back into position, his mind
mulling over the proposition. He was a man dying by the inches, a man who often
watched his cellmates come and go in a crafted box of cheap wood.

For years he formulated theories in his mind and
stowed it away, only to get the chance to one day utilize it once again. For
years he romanced and fantasized the idea of once again being in the lab to
correct the errors of his past and to learn due diligence. It was the only thing
that kept him alive over the past few years. Without it, he would have given up
long ago like so many others who died without hope.

“Who are your people?”

“Is it important?”

“If I do this, then I need to know who I’m working with.”

“First of all, Doctor, you won’t be working with
anyone. You’ll be working
for
me and the constituency I represent.”

Sakharov cocked his head studiously. “You’re from
the Middle East?”

“I am.”

“Then why would I work for you? A man from the Middle East?”

“If you want your freedom, Doctor, then ask me no
more questions and leave it at that.”

“Are you al-Qaeda? Do you want to use my technology
for weaponry? Is that it? At least give me the courtesy of knowing the people I
may work for.”

“Al-Qaeda is a strong word, so we’ll leave it at
that, Doctor. And you’re running out of time. So give me your answer.”

The old man pulled in a breath of cold air, and his
lungs rattled with an awful wetness. “What must I do?” he asked flatly.

“Simple: stay alive while my people negotiate a sum
for your release. It may take awhile. It all depends upon the greed of these people.
It could take a month, a year, who knows.”

“And if you can’t settle upon a sum?”

“Then you will die. But their greed is paramount,
so I wouldn’t worry. The moment we attempt to back off, then they’ll give in.
In the meantime, the guards will be paid to see that your accommodations are
better, the meals more plentiful, and that you stay alive, if possible.”

“And if I’m released?”

“There are other hurdles my constituency is trying
to solve at this moment in order to acquire the necessary accouterments and
location to serve your needs. Once done, then I will locate you and request
that you fulfill your half of the agreement.”

And once I’m free and disagree to fulfill my
obligation to them
? The answer was obviously clear to Sakharov:
Then
they will kill you in a manner far worse than Vladimir Central ever could.

“Your answer, Doctor.”

“If you could expedite the matter, then that would
be greatly appreciated. It isn’t exactly the Ritz in here.”

Al-Ghazi gave a quick perusal of the area. “That’s
quite apparent,” he said.

The man from the Middle East began to walk to the
door and without looking back, he said, “In time I will find you, Doctor. Do
not forget our agreement should the sum of your release be agreed upon.”

And that was the last time the old man saw al-Ghazi
until the moment when the Arab showed up in his apartment to cash in his chips.

From that point after the meeting he was then
ushered to a different cell that was larger, yet still cramped with the bodies
of other prisoners, who were obviously told that Sakharov was a man walking
with a ‘hands off’ policy. If anyone so much as lay a menacing touch on the old
man, then not only would they fall victim to a guard’s truncheon, but most likely
end up as pulp inside a pauper’s coffin. The gruel was plentiful by Vladimir
Central’s standards, and a heater provided as promised. The greatest luxury,
however, was not the warmth or the additional gruel, but the wafer-thin
mattress. Instead of lying on a cold wooden surface, he slept in marginal
comfort.

So here he was, in Tehran, on a mattress
reminiscent of his time in a Russian prison, a mere luxury.

And until the moment the old man fell asleep,
Sakharov was caressing his fingers over the mattress.