Pandora's Ark (5 page)

The punks hustled,
stirring their friend who was half conscious and murmuring nonsensical
syllables. When they gathered the punk to his feet he cried out in agony as the
pain in his wrist suddenly became white hot.

One of the punks came
forward. “Can we have his knife back?” He held out his hand as a gesture to
receive.

Kimball nodded. “Nah, I
think I’ll keep it for posterity.”

The punk fell back with
his group, and then they headed for the opposite end of the alley.

Kimball pocketed the
knife, watching. When they rounded the bend he hastened his pace. Regardless,
there were always vultures out there waiting in the shadows ready to close in
on what they think may be carrion to feed on. This was not a good area to take
things lightly or remain complacent.

When he reached his
apartment he finally felt at ease, knowing he was safe because his apartment was
rigged to deal with any unwanted visitors.

The interior was small,
hot and closed in, the kitchen nothing but a single-basin sink and a microwave
oven. The bedroom was equally small and allowed nothing larger than a
super-single sized bed and adjoining nightstand. Across the way was a small
dresser with a 13” flat-screen TV. Next to that was a bathroom, small, with
walls that were stained with patches of black mold that he had to wash away
with a sponge on a weekly basis.

But it didn’t matter to
him. It was just a place to lay his hat.

Removing the knife from
his pocket, he depressed the button and watched the blade slide out. The metal
was clean and shined with a mirror polish. But it wasn’t a well-made knife.
More like something that was made in Tijuana and brought across the border.

He tossed the knife onto
the dresser, took a quick shower, and felt fresh and new as he got into bed.
Most nights he would lay there and watch the news, often using the remote to
switch channels by the second—going from channel to channel until settling on a
station. 

But tonight he just
wanted to lay in the dark and think about what Louie had to say about how he
saw the fight in Kimball’s eyes, which caused him to wonder if his destiny was
truly set. The skirmish in the alley was testimony to that, the “fight” always seemed
to be within arm’s length no matter how hard he tried to avoid it.

With Louie’s words and
the images of the brawl in the alley playing out in his mind, and if he wasn’t
so consumed with the sequence of the day’s events, then he would have been
watching TV. And if he had, then he would have learned that Pope Gregory had
died of an apparent accident by falling off the Papal Balcony. 

What a day.

CHAPTER FIVE

Moscow
, Russia

The man was in his late sixties but moved with the
alacrity of somebody much older. With a cane in one hand and a small bundle of
bread and eggs in the other, the old man walked along the cold streets of Moscow. Above him the sky was gray; the sky was always gray as the man shuffled along in a
laboring gait to his apartment on the third level of the complex. Every day the
journey up the stairs were beginning to prove too much for his increasingly
feeble legs.

Someday, he considered, when his legs finally gave,
so would he.  

He would sit by the window with a bottle of vodka
and drink himself into a stupor with the last thought on his mind of the Cold
War, when he was someone of purpose. Now that the walls have crumbled and
communism nothing but an afterthought, the old man had become a societal burden
surviving on a meager stipend equal to four hundred American dollars per month.
Often he would go days without heat during a Russian winter because he didn’t
have enough rubles to pay the bill. 

Yet the old man eventually adapted, finding warmth
with booze and aged memories.

Climbing the stairway only to take a time-out on every
fourth or fifth step to catch his breath, the old man worked his way to his
apartment that was approximately 350 square feet of living space.

Once inside he placed the eggs in the refrigerator
and the bread on the counter, then leaned against the badly stained kitchen
sink to regain his strength.

“You’re getting old, Leonid,” he told himself.
“It’s getting close to putting this old dog down.”

The old man removed his scarf, his jacket, and
draped them over the kitchen table that wobbled on weak legs. And then he made
his way to a time-worn lounge chair situated before a small casement window
that gave him a view of Red Square. This was his comfort zone. Just him, his
memories, and the cheapest bottle of vodka he could afford.

Yet the chair was moved away from the window and
the drapes were drawn, pinching out the drab light of an overcast day.

The old man stopped, his heart fluttering
irregularly in his chest. “Who’s in here?”

From the depths of the shadows a man sat in the old
man’s chair, which to the old man was sacred property. He was cast in obscurity
as a silhouette bearing no contour or shape, just a mass of darkness.

“I’ve come to give you back your respect,” the
shadow simply stated. “To give you back all those years of glory and
achievement.”

The old man recognized the voice immediately,
clicked his tongue in disgust and waved his hand dismissively. The Middle East accent and the steady lilt in the man’s voice told Leonid that it was Adham
al-Ghazi, not a man he expected or wanted to see under any circumstances.

“You come into my home unannounced and scare an old
man half to death! What’s the matter with you?”

Al-Ghazi said nothing.

“Say what you have to say, and then leave.”

Al-Ghazi sat unmoving, a shade of deep black. And
then, “My bathroom in Iran is bigger than this place,” he said. “And it smells
better, too. It’s a shame that a man of your talent is forced to live in such
conditions.”

“If you’ve come all this way to tell me that your crap
doesn’t stink, then you’re wasting your time.”

“Still full of spitfire, I see. That’s good.”

“What do you want, Ghazi?”

The Arab stood and moved into the light. He was
impeccably dressed in an expensive suit bearing pinstripes and a matching silk
tie. His beard was perfectly trimmed, not a single hair was misplaced or out of
proportion from any other hair on his chin. To Leonid, it appeared perfectly
sculptured.

“I want to give you back your glory days,” he said,
placing his hands behind the small of his back. “I can give you back what Russia cannot.”

The old man waved his hand dismissively for a
second time. “Impossible,” he said. “That ship has already sailed and Mother
Russia is gone.”  

“Perhaps. But a new ship has arrived.” Al-Ghazi
reached into his jacket pocket, produced a thick envelope, and placed it on the
kitchen counter. Leonid Sakharov didn’t have to be told of its contents.
“That’s just a beginning, my friend. When you’re finished, then you’ll be able
to live out your life in luxury. I guarantee it.”

Leonid Sakharov stared at the envelope, refusing to
make any type of commitment by picking it up.

“Whereas Russia has turned a blind eye to you,”
added al-Ghazi, “my people have not.”

“Your people are
al-Qaeda.”

“My people,
Leonid, can make you whole again. No more pining away in that rat trap of a
chair of yours looking over Red Square and reminiscing of old times while
drinking rotgut. Unless, of course, that’s the way you want to go out. As a
seething old drunk who has nothing to look forward to besides a cheap bottle of
vodka every morning.” 

“And what’s it
to you? Maybe I like being ‘a seething old drunk who has nothing to look
forward to besides a cheap bottle of vodka every morning,’” he mimicked.

Al-Ghazi smiled.
“You’re so much better than that,” he told him. “In fact, Leonid, I know you
don’t believe that yourself. Or you wouldn’t get up every day just to reminisce
about times that used be. You want to be there again, don’t you? To ply your
trade and
be someone who
is needed
.”

The old man cast
his eyes to the floor. Al-Ghazi hit the head of the nail straight on. A tired Old
Man he may be, but al-Ghazi was correct to presume that he lived everyday in a
drunken haze just to make his world more bearable. “What is it that you want?”
he finally asked.

“Your services,
of course.”

“It’s been more
than ten years,” he said.

“I’m sure it’s
like riding a bicycle.”

The old man
hobbled his way to a stained sofa, the foam of the cushions bleeding out through
tears in the fabric, and fell into the seat. “Why?”

Al-Ghazi’s smile
never wavered. “Do you know what truly resides within the Ark of the Covenant?”
he asked.

“I couldn’t give
a rat’s ass.”

“Not a religious
man, I see.”

“Not too many
people in Russia are,” he said curtly. “It kind of went to the wayside when
Stalin came aboard.”

“Yes, of
course.”

“So again: Why?”

“The Ark,” he began, “is said to contain five items: the two tablets of the Ten Commandments, a
pot of gold Manna, the rod of Aaron, and one other item that cannot be seen or
heard until it’s too late.”

There was a
lapse of time as the two men stared at each other.

And then: “If
you haven’t noticed,” said Leonid, “I’m an old man who doesn’t have much time.
So get on with it!”

“It is said that
once the lid of the Ark is opened, then those who are not selected by the God
of the Covenant will die by the demons who reside within.”

Sakharov sighed.
And al-Ghazi could see that the old man was becoming taxed.

“All I want you
to do, Leonid, is to do what you do best.”

“Right now, it’s
getting drunk.”

“You know what
I’m talking about.”

“Actually, I
don’t.”

Al-Ghazi leaned
forward. “A few days ago my group came in possession of the Ark of the Covenant
and the lid was opened.”

“You’re saying
you found the Ark?”

“The true Ark, yes.”

“And let me
guess. There were no demons, right?”

“No demons,” he
confirmed. “Another fallacy, I believe.”

“And what do you
propose to do?” he asked. “Sell it to the highest bidder? Maybe to the
Catholics or the Jews or the Muslims, whoever has the deepest pockets so that
you can go on and continue to fund your terrorist campaigns?”

Al-Ghazi’s smile
diminished. The old man was starting to get to him. “Nothing of the sort,” he
answered tautly. “I have another purpose for it.”

“And that would
be?”

“To fulfill a
biblical prophecy that so many richly believe in,” he said.

“And what would
that be? Not that I care, mind you.”

“Their prophecy
states that the Ark of the Covenant serves as a preamble to World War Three.
That the religious factions are willing to war over this box made of acacia
wood and gold, simply for the history it possesses.”

“Doesn’t it bear
the same historical nostalgia for you? You’re Muslim?”

“What Allah
wants first and foremost is for the infidels to be annihilated. This Ark can serve as the catalyst to get this done.”

Leonid cocked
his head and squinted. “You want to start a war?”

“Maybe not a
war,” he said, “but a means to destroy all those who do not support the
teachings of Allah. If a war starts, then it would be by Allah’s will.”  

The old man
reared his head back, just a little. “You’re friggin’ nuts,” he finally said.

“Religion is a
hot-button issue,” al-Ghazi returned. “People are so devoted to the concept of
their
god that when someone dares to speak against their god or religion, they then
become easily angered. But what would it be like, Leonid, if they cannot attain
what they believe belongs to them rightfully? Animosities rise, tempers flare,
and battles begin. And for what? A golden box?” Al-Ghazi studied the old man
momentarily before speaking again. “People die every day in the name of
religion,” he added. “And for a lot less.”

In fluid motion
al-Ghazi parted the drapes, giving the old man a view of Moscow.

Leonid nibbled
softly on his lower lip, and then looked out at Red Square, at the wide streets
and at the domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral. He missed his life—missed what he
had. And al-Ghazi picked up on this.

“Come with me,”
he goaded. “Take back what Russia took away. Be someone who can make a
difference.”

Make a
difference
. This simple statement affected the old man greatly, the words
playing continuously in his mind the entire time he remained silent, obviously
debating.

And then, after
looking at al-Ghazi with a sidelong glance, he asked, “What is it that you want
me to do?”

Al-Ghazi’s smile
flourished as he leaned forward to draw Leonid into close counsel. “What I want
from you, Leonid, is one thing.”

“And what would
that be?”

“I want you to
put the demons back inside the box.”

The old man knew
exactly what he was talking about.

CHAPTER SIX

Somewhere Over the Atlantic Ocean

Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci sat
in the Economy class looking out the window at the ocean below. White caps
broke against waves that matched the color of an overcast sky, that of
battleship gray. And rain began to dapple against the window as the plane rode
the leading edge of a turbulent wind.

For the past few hours he
considered many things, especially the moments on the papal veranda standing
alongside Pope Pius holding counsel on many subjects, usually on splendid days
where the sun was high in a cerulean blue sky. But he kept thinking about one
thing: the stone guardrail that encompassed the landing.

It was beautifully crafted,
the stonework bearing the images of angels and cherubs and stood nearly five-foot
high, which was taller than most rails since it acted as a safety feature to
keep those from toppling to the cobblestones below.

What was the reason for
Pope Gregory to lean over the rail to such a degree
that
he would
lose his balance and fall
, especially at such an early hour when the
shadows were at their darkest? Had he seen something below?

He rubbed his chin at the
thought. Possibly, he considered. But there were other considerations as well.
The man could have hoisted himself along the railing, and as an abomination to
God cast himself over its edge to the street below, which Bonasero immediately
disputed with incredulity. Or he could have been pushed. But this, too, was disputed
with incredulity, since it would infer that Gregory was murdered.  

Still, something nagged at
him, something that went beyond the surface since the quick answer by
investigating authorities was that it was nothing more than a horrible accident;
therefore, any other alternatives were summarily dismissed with no need for
further examination.  

So the final report would
read as this: Pope Gregory had died from the consequences of the fall. And that
may be true, he thought, at least to a certain degree. But what precipitated
the fall to begin with bothered him.

The cardinal closed his
eyes, settled back in his seat, and waited for the plane to touchdown in Rome with a single thought on his mind: The pope’s death was not as simple or as clear cut
as it seemed.

This he was sure of.