The Crimson Dagger - Vatican Knights Series 23 (2020) Rick Jones (ebook reader play store txt) 📖

to mount the stories. But Mustafa appeared to be a man without care, or perhaps someone who believed too much in the power of the Holy Lance. Either way, time was running short and the man had yet to define his actions or his plans. He simply sat there being amused and entertained by the differences of the two men kneeling before him.

Abd-al-Mumin started to shift his weight from one leg to the other, which caught Mustafa’s attention from the corner of his eye. Though Mustafa maintained his gaze upon the two kneeling at his feet, he spoke directly to Abd-al-Mumin. “Relax,” he told him.

“Mustafa, none of this makes sense. You told me that we would be amongst our own in Syria within hours.”

Mustafa, who kept his one-sided smile, said, “And I stay true to what I told you, Abd-al-Mumin, right down to the last word.”

But Abd-al-Mumin looked at the faces of the others in the room and could see that they were all thinking the same thing: that Mustafa’s logic had abandoned him. Yet no one had the courage to challenge him either.

Then from Mustafa, who kept wearing that malicious grin while staring at the hostages, stated to everyone, “In a few minutes, everything will be made quite clear. All I ask for is your patience.”

But Mustafa’s lack of emotion and his overwhelming calm had disturbed everyone who was within earshot.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Vienna International Airport

Vienna, Austria

After the Vatican Knights arrived at the Vienna International Airport, they were met at the gate by the liaisons and driven directly to the site of the Kristallpalast Hotel via a convoy of official vehicles. Lanes and streets had been cleared, the journey a quick one without obstacles.

As the van containing the Vatican Knights rounded the corner, Müller was waiting along with Zeller, who was just a marginal player at this point and more of an observer.

As the doors to the van parted, Kimball led his unit to Müller, who waved them forward. The Vatican Knights were dressed and prepared for an all-out assault. Though they wore the battle attire of most special forces, that of composite gear, Kevlar vests, gloves, boots and wartime gadgetry, the one stark reminder that they were different from most military brand of fighters were the Roman Catholic collars each man wore around his neck. On the breastplates of their vests was a stenciled emblem of their team, that of a shield being supported by two heraldic lions who stood on their hindlegs with their forepaws steadying the shield. Inside the shield was the image of the silver cross pattée.

Müller, who remained in gear but sported a crusted-over laceration on his cheek that looked more like rust than blood, greeted Kimball. “Father Hayden.”

“I’m not a priest,” he told him. “Nor is anyone on my team. Do you have anything additional to give me outside of the cell’s biographical records?”

“Off the record?”

“Sure.”

“I’m not too crazy about the idea that the Vatican Knights have jurisdictional command over the Einsatzkommando. You do know that this is strictly a political move on the parts of our two governments.”

Kimball suspected that it was. If not for the Spear of Destiny, he was sure that Pope Clement XV would never have dispatched the unit. It was, as Müller suggested, a political move with the primary objective to attain the relic of the Holy Lance. Cardinal Favino was simply the justifiable defense for the Vatican Knights to usurp Müller’s role as team leader. In fact, Kimball believed that the cardinal was nothing more than a pawn whose death would merely serve as a postscript in history to the pontiff, should Favino be mortally wounded. Pope Clement had no emotional ties to the man at all, only to the relic and the power it wielded.

“It is what it is,” Kimball told him. “You know the routine. We both accept orders from our principals without question.”

Müller nodded. Then: “There’s a limit to your operation. Four hours, which started the moment you exited the van.”

“Four hours.” Kimball looked at the tower and its seventy-five floors.

“The elevators have been disabled, as was the building’s nerve center,” stated Müller. “Now, she may stand tall but she’s also dead.”

“Entirely?”

“Entirely.”

“And you expect us to clear the floors in four hours?”

“Not my call or care. I’m only transferring the orders that have been handed to me over to you. Four hours. What I can tell you is that Ali Mustafa is located in a suite on the seventieth level. Whether he’s still there or not is unknown.”

“So, we’re going in blind?”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Anything else?”

Müller nodded. “No. I think that pretty much wraps it up. You know about Mustafa, I’ve been told, and the company of those he keeps—all commandos from different Middle Eastern forces, not really your typical brand of ISIS fighters.”

“No. Not typically.”

People were still trickling from the front entryway, the building being evacuated without any recorded casualties, which was a good sign.

“All right,” Kimball said. “Four hours.”

“Good luck.”

As soon as the word ‘luck’ left Müller’s lips, the world suddenly shook as concussive blasts rocked the area. Windows on the fiftieth level exploded outward with the trajectory of glass and debris taking flight for as far as one-half mile in every direction. Flames billowed out with fiery blooms that turned into black smoke. And licks of flame started to lap at the exterior of the building, the fire now beginning its upward climb.

Everyone below ducked as the building rocked from the resounding blast.

Kimball looked up to take review of this newfound obstacle, then asked, “Semtex?”

Müller nodded. “No. I don’t think so. That’s the fiftieth floor, the restaurant. The entire level is a five-star establishment that gives a 360-degree view of the city. All the floors above it are considered luxury suites. I’m guessing that Mustafa used the gas lines to the kitchen as a means to separate the upper levels from the lower tiers.” He turned to Kimball. “I have no idea how you plan to move your