Pandora's Ark (11 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Vatican City

Standing before an open window in
the
Domus Sanctæ Marthæ
, Cardinal Angullo stood looking out at the
Basilica, musing over the fact that the conclave was just under two weeks away
and that he, along with three others including Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci, were
part of the
Preferiti
, those who were the most preferred to succeed the
papal throne by the College of the Cardinals.

Politicking was a way to promote and nothing more. But it
was the individual’s choosing as to who would actually succeed that was kept
close to the vest. Those who divulged their candidate while entering the
conclave stood the chance of excommunication. Therefore, to build camps and
alliances, and to share with them the strengths and ideologies of a
Preferiti
brought to the table beforehand, was paramount.

But Angullo’s camp had weakened over the past six months,
his ideologies not coinciding with the pontiff’s, and therefore enacted
unwarranted challenges toward the pope with subsequent discussions that often became
heated between them. By exhibiting more power than was granted, with his personal
management sometimes uncontrollable by the way he acted before the pope, caused
his members to disassociate from his camp, the one-time respect for the
cardinal now lost.

And this did not go unnoticed before his eyes.

By the inches he was losing his foothold to be the next in
line for the papal throne, yet his camp remained strong. But as time moved
forward his power diminished. And so was the opportunity to sit upon the papal throne
and rule a constituency of more than a billion people.

So he acted accordingly and provided his opportunity.

On the eve of the pontiff’s death, he spiced Gregory’s meal
with a poison that made him sick and feverish and somewhat disoriented. As the
hours passed, as the blue shadows traipsed slowly across Vatican grounds’ with
the trajectory of the moon, he waited in the shadows of the pontiff’s chamber with
saintly patience.

When the pope exited from the bed with the poison coursing
through his veins like magma, and then making his way to the balcony, Angullo
could not believe his luck and chalked it up to God’s will.
His original intent was to place a
pillow over the pontiff's face and snuff the life out of him.  And
with the aged man dying in his sleep, a way of life in which the world would
view as God's will, no questions would be asked
.
But when the large man stood at the rail of the
balcony overlooking Vatican City, it was as if God was allowing him a lasting
panoramic view of St. Peter’s Square, a final good-bye with the Basilica, the obelisk,
and the Colonnades clearly defined within his mind.

But Gregory’s mind was clearer than he thought, the pontiff
calling out in the darkness of his suite, somehow knowing that he was not
alone, which caught the cardinal off guard.

Like a wraith that appeared to glide inches above the floor
rather than walk across it, he quietly made his way to the balcony with a hand
raised, and with a mighty shove sent the pontiff airborne, the big man clearing
the railing and falling to the cobblestones below.

From his vantage point he watched the life bleed quickly
out of the man and across the stones, the old man raising a clawed hand
skyward, towards him, accusing him one last time before it fell
the
moment he took his last breath
.

Angullo closed his eyes at the memory of what he had done
so clear in his mind’s eye. But the images of what he did that night never
haunted him, his conscience remaining clear and undisturbed. And at that very
moment he had
come
to terms believing that what he had done was truly justifiable—and that upon
his
succession to the throne
he would rule the Church the way Gregory should have.

And then he opened his eyes and raised his hand before him—the
murdering hand, he considered, the one willed by God to shove Pope Gregory to
his death for the good of the Church.

And since it was against Vatican law to perform an autopsy
on the pope, the poison would never be discovered. And the cardinal was
convinced that this was all due to the Lord’s wishes. Lowering his hand, his
eyes once again returning to the Basilica, Cardinal Angullo realized that
another within the
Preferiti
stood in his way. And should Cardinal
Vessucci garner enough steam before the conclave, then God may see fit that
Cardinal Vessucci follow the same fate as the late pontiff.

After all, he told himself, it was God’s will.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Islamabad
, Pakistan
, The
Following Day

In the
eyes of the Islamic Revolutionary Front, Umar al-Sarmad, although not a leader,
possessed the qualities to become one. He was twenty-eight, brash, and full of
bravado, the young warrior always romancing the idea that fighting in the name
of Allah was a prestigious one.

For the past four years he held the front lines along the Afghan
mountain range, always the first into battle, the last to leave. Often he would
pray alongside his fellow combatants in the complex cave system as bombs
hurtled over their heads, with the tremors beneath his knees or the cascades of
dust falling from the cave tops affecting him little.

But in reality Umar al-Sarmad had constantly prayed to a
god that was not his own and fought alongside the revolutionists with bravado
that was nothing more than veneer.

For Umar al-Sarmad was not as he seemed.

His true name was Aryeh Levine, a Hebrew growing up outside
the city of Jerusalem.

And he was Mossad.

At the age of twenty-four and having served three years in
the Israeli Army and then an additional three years as a commando, Aryeh Levine
caught the eye of one of the most recognized, if not the most legendary,
intelligence agency in the world.

He was smart with the ability to make snap judgments
hinging on instinct rather than the timely process of deductive reasoning. His
judgments were usually correct in the most difficult situations—his leadership
recognized and never questioned. So he was recruited for the welfare of the
state of Israel.

From day one he was “processed” as if he was a prisoner,
going through rigorous interrogation techniques to withstand any punishments
meted out should his role as an infiltrator be compromised. He learned the
enemy’s language and dialect, their culture and prayers. And the transformation
from Aryeh Levine to Umar al-Sarmad was a successful one that culminated in a
final makeover as an Islamic terrorist.

His commencement began in Yemen, at the Zaydi Great Mosque,
where his anti-sentiment rants against the United States and Israel caught the attention of radical fundamentalists. Within months his seemingly sound
reasoning earned him prestige within the Circle, which subsequently became a
call of duty to serve Allah on the battlefield alongside his al-Qaeda brothers.
Within a span of three months, from the time he entered the mosque to the
moment he first set foot on the battlefield, Aryeh Levine had successfully
infiltrated the Islamic Revolutionary Front.

It wasn’t, however, too long thereafter when he caught the
eye of his leader,
Adham al-Ghazi
. On a frigid
day deep in the mountain terrain, al-Ghazi’s team happened upon a counterforce
of a dozen troops who were killed in an ambush, their bodies scattered,
bloodied and unmoving. In the event, however, two survived the skirmish, both
wounded, one holding his bullet-ridden arm, the other weak with a badly rented
shoulder.

When they were forced to their knees before al-Ghazi, their
eyes resigned to the fact that their lives were about to come to a horrible and
violent end, the same way that a cat plays with its prize before the kill.

And al-Ghazi was that cat, his quiet demeanor as powerful
as a feline’s paw swiping at them, his dark eyes serving as the talons that
drove deep beneath their skins by peeling back the layers to reveal their
inward secrets until he knew who and what they were without even questioning
them. Without a second thought or consideration, he simply knew they were
Mossad.

They had stumbled upon a recon mission.

In his manner of questioning them they gave little, most
likely false data in the form of red herrings, as they were trained to do under
such circumstances. To make his point, however, al-Ghazi shot the man with the
badly wounded shoulder dead, the black-edged bullet hole emitting a ribbon of
smoke from the man’s forehead as he knelt a brief moment before falling dead
beside his aide.

“
The truth
,” al-Ghazi said, his voice cold and flat
and naturally uncaring to the surviving Mossad. “
I want
. . . the
truth
.”

But the truth never came. Instead, al-Ghazi was met with
silence.

“
Very well, then
.” And at that point he handed his
pistol to Umar al-Sarmad, to Aryeh Levine, and without looking at him said, “
You
know what to do
.”

The moment he hefted the pistol and regarded its weight in
his hand, he turned to the agent. At the same time the agent turned his oily
and soiled face to the mouth of the weapon, then to the eyes of Levine. In an
instant his eyes started, recognizing Levine, even with the growth of beard. It
was a fatal mistake. Within a measure of a heartbeat Levine pulled the trigger,
the bullet dicing the man’s brain and killing him instantly.

In al-Ghazi’s eyes Levine knew he had made an impression.
But deep down he agonized over the trigger pull, having been forced to kill one
of his own in order to maintain his cover.

In the aftermath he notified Mossad, telling them it was an
unfortunate necessity. And in the end Mossad chalked it up to collateral damage
that could not be avoided.

It was also the move that put Aryeh Levine under al-Ghazi’s
wing as his trusted trigger man who killed anyone at al-Ghazi’s say without
impunity. And by doing so, Al-Ghazi had elevated himself as a man with ultimate
power by having others kill for him.
Anyone can take the
life
of a man,
he always said.
But to get others to do it for you is
absolute
power
. And it was this idea alone that he relished. 

And Aryeh Levine was all too happy to oblige him, as long
as he maintained his cover. Soon, he thought, he would kill al-Ghazi as a
courtesy of Israel and its allies with the gun he had been handed.

Over time he had become stellar in his duties, promoting
himself as a trusted officer within the ranks, but more so in the eyes of
al-Ghazi, which prompted a call from the high-ranking official to serve as his
aide in an impromptu mission.

In al-Ghazi’s office in Islamabad, Umar al-Sarmad—and whenever
he heard that name he inwardly cringed—sat before al-Ghazi’s ornate desk with
the black marble top. Despite the notion of al-Qaeda living in abject poverty within
caves and landscapes that were harsh and brutal, they were obviously not
without their luxuries, either. His office was spacious with top-of-the-line furniture
surrounded by Arabic wares, vases and tapestries that proved costly. And
scarlet drapery with scalloped hems that adorned the windows overlooked the
stunningly beautiful city.

Like always al-Ghazi was impeccably dressed as he sat in a
chair made of Corinthian leather, one leg crossed over the other in leisure. With
his elbows on the armrests and his fingers tented with the tips resting beneath
his chin, the Arab smiled at Umar, at Levine, showing off the fine rows of bleached-white
teeth. “How are you, my friend?” he asked.

“I’m fine, Adham. Yourself?”

“As well as could be,” he said, leaning forward. The Arab
then reached into a draw and removed a manila envelope. Inside was a photo
which he removed and placed on the marble top of his desk. “I need your
services,” he told him. 

Levine sat there, waiting.

“I need you to serve as an aide for this man” He slid the
photo across the desktop, a black-and-white glossy of Leonid Sakharov. “He is a
scientist working on behalf of our organization,” he said. “But I need someone
who will watch him since I have other projects in the making and cannot be
there as I would like.”

“You want me to serve as his bodyguard?”

“Not so much as I want you to serve as my eyes and ears when
I’m not there,” he said.

“There?”

“Tomorrow, you and I will be escorting the good doctor to Mount Damavand in Northern Iran.”

Levine’s mind reeled.
Iran
?
The country was
not exactly open to al-Qaeda operatives, he thought. But since he was
programmed not to question al-Ghazi’s judgment, who thought he was acting on
behalf of Allah—and that the sin of not “possessing faith” in everything Allah
warranted was usually meted out with a good old-fashioned beheading if
questioned—thought it best to remain silent.

“Where we will take part in creating a glorious history,”
he added dreamily.

Levine realized he had to get a message out to his sources
immediately. With al-Qaeda making a pact with the Iranian leadership, their
alliance would galvanize Israeli and western agencies to take the required action
in the form of sanctions or military strikes. His first inclination was that it
had something to do with the development of Iran’s nuclear program, and that
Sakharov the key to put it all together.

But Levine was wrong. His inclination was way off base
because it was something far worse than the advancement of nuclear weaponry.

“I would be honored,” he finally told him.

“Good. Then we leave for Mount Damavand first thing in the
morning with the good professor along. But I must warn you now, Umar, the man
is very difficult to get along with.”

“I’ll cope.”

“Get a good night’s sleep, then. Tomorrow we begin to make
history and shine in Allah’s eyes once again.”

Whatever
. “Then I must
assume, Adham, that this will be a lengthy mission?”

“That will depend on Sakharov.”

“Then may I leave the compound for a moment of leisure.”

Al-Ghazi stared at him long enough for Levine to think that
he may have triggered suspicion.

But then: “Not tonight, Umar. I cannot allow anything to
happen to you. This opportunity is so dire that I must insist on your
lockdown.”

Levine conceded by nodding. He would have to figure a way
to contact his sources once at Mount Damavand—a terrible risk to be sure, but a
necessity nonetheless.

Levine got his
feet and bowed his head in respect of al-Ghazi’s leadership. “
Allahu Akbar,”
he said softly
. Allah is the greatest.

Al-Ghazi smiled
in return. “
Allahu Akbar
, my friend.
Allahu Akbar
.”