Apocalypse Ark Read online

  CLAUDIO BRANCA WATCHED a spray of flying fish explode before the Oceanus, silver flashes there and gone within a fraction of a second. Pelicans swept overhead, pursuing, swooping with their jaws agape to snare a meal. Branca heard someone coming up behind him at the rail and turned to see it was the ferry’s skipper, Nikolaos Anatolakis.

  “We’re all right,” the captain said without preamble, speaking heavily accented English. “Nothing on the radar that appears to follow us.”

  “You’ll keep a sharp watch, though,” Branca replied.

  “Certainly. And if something appears?”

  Branca had wondered about that himself. Travel by ship had been intended to save time and difficulty with successive border crossings, while eluding the pursuers who had followed them belatedly from Axum. The reverse side of that coin involved a risk of being trapped aboard the Oceanus, still at sea, with no means of escape if they were overtaken.

  No means but the Ark, perhaps.

  In Branca’s estimation that would be a dreadful waste. Assuming he could activate the sacred weapon—and he had no manual to work from, nothing but some texts from scripture vowing death for anyone who touched it—what would be the net result? Perhaps the Oceanus would disintegrate with all aboard her, or the sea might boil. And then what?

  Abject failure where his mission was concerned.

  He was supposed to wield the Ark in Rome, against the Vatican, not spend its force and sink it in the midst of the Aegean Sea. In that event, the Scarlet Whore of Babylon would be unscathed, free to manipulate the media and wipe out any trace of Branca’s failed crusade. Branca wasn’t a scientist, but all Italians knew that the Aegean and the Med had dozens of volcanoes slumbering. In the event of a mysterious explosion, was the media more likely to accept an explanation drawn from science or accept that God had touched the earth with fire?

  And did it even matter, if the Holy See emerged unscathed?

  Branca considered praying, but his nervous agitation kept him from it, worried that the Lord would hear his ego and his agitation talking, rather than his heart. Prayer should be undertaken thoughtfully, if not in relaxation, then at least from some semblance of inner peace.

  Not possible today.

  If need be, Branca was resolved to go down fighting on the Oceanus, sink the ferry and the Ark, to keep it out of hostile hands. Retrieval at some future date might still be possible—he thought of the Titanic, sunken for three-quarters of a century before six thousand of its artifacts were raised from a depth exceeding two miles—and then another, more proficient hero would be starting closer to his target, making good on the crusade.

  But I won’t fail, he told himself. Acceptance of defeat ensured it, and he wouldn’t let himself be sucked into that trap. They could still outrun their enemies, reach Rome and turn God’s cleansing fire against the infidels who had usurped His name.

  Two stops remaining for the Oceanus, then his team would be back on the road. Once they were rolling on Italian soil, in Branca’s estimation, they would be invincible. If he knew anything of scripture, if he hadn’t been deceived by Janus Marcellus and Mania Justina, victory was guaranteed. Satan, his minions and their earthly followers were all condemned to burn.

  If Branca closed his eyes and concentrated, he could almost smell the smoke.

  Custodes Foederis Headquarters, Rome

  JANUS MARCELLUS FACED his wife of fourteen years across a dining table built for twenty guests. They were alone this evening, as usual, since they broke bread with others only on specific ceremonial occasions. More particularly, Marcellus wished to speak with Mania Justina in private about certain things that had been preying on his mind.

  She beat him to the punch, though, with a question: “How goes Branca’s progress with the Ark?”

  Marcellus laid down his fork, considering the best response. While he and his wife had planned and organized their church together, building from the ground up to its present shining moment in the sun, Marcellus wasn’t convinced that she still shared his zeal and dedication to their common goal.

  “The team is still intact and moving forward,” he replied. “There’s been another incident along their route, however. In Çorlu.”

  “The Temple of the Resurrection,” Mania Justina said, almost whispering. “And Bishop Akdemir?”

  “Martyred, with at least a dozen members of his congregation.”

  “Figli di puttana! Cazzo!”

  Marcellus nearly smiled at that. When Mania was angry, cursing, she reminded him of how she’d been when they had met, a fiery thing who could entrance and capture any man. He seldom saw or felt that fire these days. But was she warming someone else, behind his back?

  Clutching her silverware so tightly that her knuckles blanched, she asked, “Is there nothing we can do? No way to intercept the people who are chasing Branca and his men?”

  “If we knew who they were—”

  “Who do you think they are?” she challenged, interrupting him. “Who but the CDF?”

  Marcellus considered that. He had no doubt the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith would try to stop the Ark from reaching Rome, might even kill him at his own headquarters if the opportunity arose, but could the CDF track Branca from East Africa, through Europe to his final target, without help from the inside? Had someone from the inner circle of the Sedem Illustratio betrayed them?

  And if so, who could it be?

  Not Mania herself, Marcellus decided. She had grown addicted to her affluence and power in the church. Destroying it would no more occur to her than cutting up her stack of credit cards. Unless, that was, she had a reason. If she thought their holy quest was bound to fail, and she devised some way to save the church while blaming her husband for the Axum raid and all that followed, leaving her in charge...

  No. Mania enjoyed her luxuries, but seldom evinced any interest in daily operations of the church. She would require another mate and leader for the sect if Marcellus was deposed. He cast about for candidates, considered several, then focused on the man he trusted most. Perhaps his Brutus, as it were?

  Ugo Troisi.

  Janus possessed no evidence of any impropriety between his first lieutenant and his queen, but if they had been dallying behind his back for any length of time, securing that evidence shouldn’t be difficult. First thing tomorrow, he would speak to Marco Gianotti, security chief for the Sedem Illustratio, to arrange covert surveillance. Not on Mania, which might produce destructive gossip, but on Troisi and a handful of his aides. No reason given or required for a directive from the Pontifex Rex.

  Feeling better already, Marcellus took up his fork and dug into his pasta con sarde, while asking Mania, “How was your day?”

  Sikinos, The Cyclades, Aegean Sea

  EKREM ARIKAN BROUGHT the Piaggio P.136 in at wavetop level, throttling back its twin engines, and touched down at the port of Alopronia, on the southeast shore of Sikinos. As if he had performed the act a hundred times before, Arikan taxied toward a concrete pier protruding seaward on the north side of the harbor, his aircraft stabilized by pontoons mounted underneath its wings. When they were close enough to dock, he killed the engines and a grizzled islander ran out with rope in hand to secure the plane’s nose.

  It was bright and warm as Bolan stepped out of the plane, a soft breeze carrying the smells of fish and brine common to every seaport in the world. For most, it would evoke vacation memories, perhaps of a fishing trip or sailing, but the images that came to Bolan’s mind were of military landings, dodging customs agents, flaming cargo freighters packed with contraband.

  Speaking of customs, he spied an officer in uniform approaching just as Halloran emerged from the Piaggio P.136. Bolan let the cleric deal with the now-familiar dickering, produced the sum that Halloran and the official agreed upon, then waited while the customs man considered Halloran’s request
for pointers to a boat for hire. Another tip produced a name—Yiorgos Kallis—and directions to the tavern where he was most likely to be found.

  Unlike its neighbors Sikinos hadn’t grown wealthy from the tourist trade. Its two established villages—Alopronia, the port and Sikinos, sequestered in the island’s hills—were small and relatively quiet, while the island claimed but two paved roads, neither in great repair. Plans to build a lavish beach resort had stalled repeatedly, leaving the island’s 230-odd inhabitants to earn their living from the sea, or by their wits.

  Yiorgos Kallis, Bolan thought, had likely managed some of both. He spoke four languages, including English, and owned two boats: the Argus, used for fishing charters, and the Sybaris, which he agreed to rent for the equivalent of forty bucks per hour, plus a security deposit large enough to replace the boat if it never came home. Bolan agreed, doled out the cash and listened to a series of detailed instructions on the vessel’s proper handling.

  Ekrem Arikan had already agreed to wait and fly them on from Sikinos to their next stop, wherever that might be, with the proviso that he could depart at once and leave them flat if the police appeared and started asking questions. In that case, he had provided Halloran and Bolan with his cell phone number, which would let them call him back or redirect him for a pickup out at sea, and they’d agreed to instantly forget his name and contact information if they were detained.

  No problem there, since dead men told no tales.

  The Sybaris was thirty-odd feet long, a onetime fishing trawler, probably as old as Bolan and, like him, still seaworthy. Its Perkins T-6-354-MGT diesel engine took some coaxing to start, but once they got it running it had kick to spare. Halloran took the wheel and pointed them toward Ios, angling toward landfall at Manganari on the island’s southern tip, their nearest point of access to the Temple of Immaculate Conception.

  “It’s a smaller port, as well,” Halloran said, “although still popular with tourists. Watchers are more likely to expect us at the ports of Koubara or Milopotas.”

  Maybe, Bolan thought. But he’d be ready for a hot reception when they landed, just the same. If it went down that way, they would have trouble getting to the temple, much less finding time to grill its bishop or whoever was in residence, but they’d still have to try.

  That was the nature of the game, and Bolan didn’t plan to fold.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Custodes Foederis Headquarters, Rome

  Marco Gianotti read the list of names hand-printed on the slip of notepaper he held, then raised troubled eyes to meet the gaze of Janus Marcellus.

  “Ugo Troisi, Your Grace? And his three closest aides?”

  “A mere precaution,” Marcellus said, putting on a smile that stopped short of his eyes. “Consider it a spot check, for my peace of mind. You understand how critical security must be during these final days.”

  “Of course, Your Grace. If there is anything specific I should watch or listen for...?”

  “Nothing particular,” Marcellus replied. “Use blanket coverage, within the limits of discretion. By the day after tomorrow, be prepared to tell me everywhere they’ve gone and what they did there. Everyone whom they’ve communicated with by any means.”

  “Outside the Sedem Illustratio, Your Grace?” Gianotti asked.

  “Anywhere at all,” the Pontifex corrected him. “Within, without, it makes no difference.”

  “And privacy...”

  “Is not an issue in this case. If Ugo speaks to me, I will expect a transcript all the same.”

  “Of course, Your Grace. It will be done as you command.”

  “Starting immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you’d best begin, Marco.”

  Dismissed, Gianotti left the royal apartment without further comment and headed off to make arrangements for covert surveillance on the Dextera Dei and his three top aides, collectively known as the Concilium. Gianotti had no clear idea of what inspired the order, but it troubled him. Not so much for Troisi’s sake or any of the others, but for Mania Justina.

  And himself.

  Surveillance on Troisi would expose the man’s visits to Mania. Gianotti took for granted that the Pontifex was unaware of what went on behind closed doors when it was just the pair of them together. Gianotti knew about their trysts because he was a trained observer—and because Mania had informed him of their dalliance.

  That information had been shared in bed.

  Which was the crux of Gianotti’s new dilemma. If surveillance of Troisi turned a spotlight on Mania’s chronic infidelity to Janus Marcellus, what might be the end result? Ugo Troisi’s fall from grace—and possibly from life itself—was the most obvious. And what would be Mania’s punishment? If she was pressed for a confession, would she give up Gianotti’s name in turn, together with the details of their ongoing affair?

  Perhaps.

  With that in mind, he started searching for solutions. Breaking off his dalliance with Mania today, in a preemptive strike, might tip her over into rage and sabotage his own best interests. Certainly, it wouldn’t stop her from exposing him if she was cornered by her husband. Tipping off Troisi and any of the others to his orders from the Pontifex was pointless, short of hoping for a mutiny or exodus of the entire Concilium. Which left...what?

  He could warn Mania, since she wasn’t a selected target of surveillance, trusting her to put off any further meetings with Troisi for a time—but could he trust her? Was she not as likely to brief Ugo on the plan, thus jeopardizing Gianotti in his turn?

  The final option was to forge ahead as ordered, shadowing Troisi and the members of his council day and night. When he reported back to Marcellus, Gianotti could omit whatever information he decided was too volatile. And if abridging the reports placed his own life at risk, if he was caught at it? What then?

  It was a partial plan at best, and faulty. Gianotti knew he had to do better still, in order to survive.

  And be the last man standing if it came to that, on Judgment Day.

  Manganari, Ios

  ONCE THE MEDITERRANEAN’S undisputed spring-break party capital, Ios had lost much of its teen and twenties crowd in recent years to rowdier resorts, such as Faliraki on Rhodes and Ayia Napa on Cyprus. The kids still came and drank themselves into oblivion, albeit in reduced numbers, but most of the action these days was confined to Chora, the island’s largest settlement and its adjacent beach.

  The island’s next-most popular beaches—Kalamos, Milopotas and Theodoti—saw roughly half the traffic of Chora. The remainder of Ios, by and large, offered a traditional Greek experience for older, more sedate tourists, including the tomb of Homer, author of the classic Iliad and Odyssey.

  There were no drunken, naked legions waiting to receive the Sybaris at Manganari, therefore, when it docked and Bolan went ashore with Brother Halloran. Customs didn’t appear to be an issue, either, since there were no uniforms in evidence. A sleepy-looking harbormaster greeted them with fish and ouzo on his breath, relieved them of a minor docking fee and steered them toward a tilting shed with three cars parked around it, marked for rental.

  The lot’s proprietor was a round-faced man who introduced himself as Nikos, smiling through a thick, untamed mustache. Two of his teeth had gone missing in action, but he didn’t seem to mind. Upon presenting driver’s licenses, Bolan and Halloran were welcome to their choice of vehicles: a native Greek NAMCO Pony Super resembling an oversized golf cart; a supermini Citroën C2; and a Peugeot 206 about the same size. They took the Peugeot, since it was the newest of the three and seemed less likely to break down on their short journey to the Temple of Immaculate Conception.

  “Why not the Immaculate Conception?” Bolan asked, once they were on their way, the Peugeot’s one-liter straight-four Renault engine muttering under its hood.

  “I hav
en’t got a clue,” Halloran answered. “Possibly because there’s only one on record. Or perhaps they’re hoping for another one someday.”

  “That’s something else,” Bolan continued, while he checked the weapons in his tote bag. “Say this business with the Ark was true from start to finish and they make it to the Vatican. Here comes the big reveal. Flash, bang, they win. What are they hoping happens next?”

  “According to the cult’s own literature, when the Scarlet Whore of Babylon is overthrown, a wave of retribution will sweep the planet.”

  “Retribution?”

  “Against the Roman church, of course, for all its sins—as viewed by Janus and Mania. The Catholics with souls worth saving will repent and join the One True Church—”

  “Meaning Custodes Foederis?”

  “What else? Those who are unrepentant face God’s faithful on the field of Armageddon, which they claim will be in the Sahara Desert, for a battle to the death. And in the midst of that, you have the Second Coming as foretold in Revelation. Christ returns and leads his army to resounding victory, with Janus as his field commander.”

  “That’s in Revelation?” Bolan asked.

  “They’ve made a few adjustments and interpolations,” Halloran replied. “After the battle, Christ restores Earth to its original condition from the early days of Genesis. He leaves Janus and Mania in command of a virtual Eden, reigning benevolently over Armageddon’s survivors, while souls of the fallen return with Him to heaven.”

  “And the Keepers buy that?”

  “By comparison to some other creeds arising in the past half century or so, it isn’t that outlandish,” Halloran replied. “Rastafarians believe Ethiopian emperor Haile Selassie was God incarnate. In the United States, your Nation of Islam claims whites are devils created by a mad scientist named Yakub. The Seedline cult claims Eve had sex with Satan and produced Cain, the first Jew, who in turn fabricated ‘mud people.’”

  “I get it,” Bolan said. “No crazy shortage all around.”