Frustrated, I said, “No, I don’t see. Just because he’s crazy doesn’t mean I can see the crazy.”
She said, “He’s not coming back. This is his End of Days. In the Bible, Megiddo is known as Armageddon.”
And that I could understand.
Chapter 53
Sitting in the rear of a private charter jet, Garrett finally achieved deep sleep. He was safe, flying away from the investigation that was building into a crescendo. His dreams coalesced around a young woman dead on the floor, her robe open, and in the dream, her neck encircled by a red sash. He stood up from her body, for some reason wearing no pants, and heard a thumping at the door. He turned to jump out the window and faced Inspector Lia coming through it, holding a pair of pruning shears.
He jerked awake, disoriented, sweat popping on his brow like small beads of mercury. Across from him, Michelangelo said, “Hey, you okay, boss?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. Just haven’t had a lot of sleep the last few days.”
Michelangelo nodded, believing Garrett was talking about the toll the planning of their mission was having, and Garrett certainly wasn’t going to disabuse him of the notion.
After he’d killed the hapless university student, he’d fled down a back stairwell, found the student’s bike, and rode the four miles to his own place across the Tiber River, waiting on the police to pull him over with every stroke of his pedals. He’d ditched the bike on the street, knowing someone would steal it and possibly help with a misdirection if it was ever recovered, and packed his bags for the trip to Israel. He had enough time for about three hours of rest before Michelangelo arrived to take him to the airport.
Now halfway through the three-hour flight to Ben Gurion Airport near Tel Aviv, Garrett was feeling the effects from the lack of sleep, the dream he’d just had startlingly vivid in his mind’s eye.
Michelangelo said, “What did the Grand Master say to you when we boarded? He didn’t seem like he was pleased to see me.”
The Grand Master’s entourage had taken the front half of the Learjet, leaving the back for Garrett and Michelangelo, both in the last two seats next to the baggage compartment, which was fine by Garrett. He didn’t want to sit with those prima donnas anyway.
Garrett said, “He wanted to know why you were here because I’d told the lieutenant that I would be the only security on the trip. I told the Grand Master that you would remain behind in Tel Aviv purely as support.”
“But I’m not going to be in Tel Aviv. I’m going to be in Jerusalem.”
“He doesn’t need to know that. Tell me you have the charges made.”
In his previous life in the Croatian Special Operations Battalion, Michelangelo had been an explosives expert. He’d designed the limpet mines used and his background was the reason he had been chosen for the Jerusalem mission—that, and with his swarthy skin and black hair, he could pass for a Palestinian.
In the end, Garrett knew they would have to accomplish this one by themselves, because there was no way Keta’ib Hezbollah—or any Muslim group—would agree to attack what they were targeting.
“Yes, I have them. Four shaped charges daisy-chained together. They’ll get the job done. If they’re not confiscated when we land.”
“They won’t be. We’re representing the Vatican and are almost a sovereign nation in our own right. They’ll treat the entire group as diplomats.”
“Any contact with Leonardo and Raphael?”
“They told me they’d landed, and that’s it. They’ll be fine.”
“How are you going to give them the trigger from Israel? You can’t count on a cell network for Zello out in the middle of the Syrian desert.”
“Sat phone. We both have one.”
“Those can be tracked. It’s how most of the terrorists were found that we helped kill.”
“Only if someone is looking for a suspicious number. This isn’t that. We’ll be good. We’re not talking on them daily. Just to trigger. By then it’ll be too late.”
Garrett saw Lieutenant Marco Bianchi coming down the aisle and quit talking. He reached them and said, “The Grand Master would like a word.”
Garrett stood up, saying, “Of course.”
He followed Bianchi to the front of the aircraft, seeing the Grand Master, Geoffrey Chaucer, seated in a beige leather captain’s chair and, like Lieutenant Bianchi, wearing the Knights’ military uniform instead of the more formal robes.
A simple black jacket with epaulets, each man wore two rows of ribbons above the left breast pocket and a red patch with the Maltese cross on the left shoulder, the only distinction between the Grand Master and the lieutenant being a large Maltese cross pin below the Grand Master’s right breast pocket.
Looking to be about seventy years old, Chaucer was British, as was the Grand Master he’d replaced—a man sacked by the pontiff from an internal dispute over the distribution of condoms in the developing world, a power struggle that had created schisms within the order unlike any that had been seen since the seventeenth century, pitting allies and enemies inside the Vatican against each other.
Once again, the order learned the lesson they’d seen with the Knights Templar. It didn’t pay to become too powerful, and picking a fight with the leader of the Holy Roman Church was not a good way to succeed.
After his election, unlike the previous Grand Master, Chaucer didn’t wear the ostentatious uniforms prescribed by the order. Garrett always thought they were ridiculous—something from the Napoleonic era, the jacket bright red and festooned with sashes, ribbons, brush epaulets, and medals all over the place. Garrett always thought they looked like something a dictator in a third-world country would wear.
When Geoffrey had been ordained as the Grand Master, his first order had been to tone down the pageantry and to return to its roots of charity and chivalry. In other words, bend the knee to the Holy Roman Catholic Church.
It was something Garrett saw through completely, but he knew Geoffrey Chaucer had little humility. He might attempt to show it through a minimalist uniform, but he was as egotistical as the man he’d replaced.
Chaucer said, “Garrett, please, take a seat,” pointing to the one across from him.
Garrett did, saying, “How can I help you, sir?”
Chaucer fiddled with a pen in his hands, then said, “Garrett, I knew we needed your skills in Syria, and I appreciate you coming with us here in Israel for the same reason, but this is a very delicate visit.”
Unsure of where the conversation was headed, Garrett said, “Yes, sir. Of course. My only reason for being here is the same reason I was in Syria. To protect members of the order. You know that the majority of my protection in Syria involved negotiating between factions, right? I didn’t fire a shot in anger unless one was fired against someone from the order.”
Chaucer said, “Yes, yes. I know. And I’ve heard about the death of the one everyone seems to call a ‘turtle’ in Bahrain. That has caused significant repercussions with the United States, and now you’ve brought another ‘turtle’ with you here. I was told it would be only you.”
“Sir, he is not coming to Megiddo with you. That will be only me. He’s remaining behind in Tel Aviv purely for support. Protection requires more than the five feet around you. He’s going to coordinate with level three trauma centers, find evacuation routes, everything I used to do when I did emergency evacuation site surveys for United States embassies. It’s just prudent.”