Apocalypse Ark Read online

  Branca could hardly picture driving all the way from Reggio Calabria to Rome with a divine light beaming through the windows of his van. The mental image was bizarre; it nearly made him laugh out loud. He wondered—not for the first time—if it mattered where the power was unleashed, and once again decided that the best bet was to reach his primary intended target. Strike directly at the heart of the corruption he was striving to obliterate.

  A fisherman could tell you that, to defeat an octopus, you crushed the nerve center between its eyes and thus rendered its grasping suckers impotent. Without the deathblow, each separate tentacle was deadly in its own right.

  Branca had no reason to believe the Scarlet Whore of Babylon would wither overnight after the Vatican was razed. The Book of Revelation promised tribulation and famine, with battles between great massed armies. Victory was promised to the righteous, but not without losses. Scripture painted the battlegrounds in graphic terms, complete with carrion birds gorged to bursting on ripe human flesh.

  Hell on earth, for a while, before paradise reigned.

  “They’re moving, up ahead,” Arieti said, drumming nervous fingers on the steering wheel.

  And so they were. Once movement had begun, the line advanced more quickly than Branca expected, with ferry attendants directing each vehicle in turn to its assigned parking place, while dull recorded voices gave directions to the upper decks and snack bars. Twenty minutes barely gave them time to go upstairs and come back down, but there were toilets on the ferry that would save them stopping later on.

  Two men remained below while Branca and the rest went off to find the lavatories. They would all be back and seated, ready to depart, before the ferry docked, prepared for trouble on arrival if it found them, quick to hit the A3 north to Naples if their way was clear.

  The final lap, to victory or death.

  * * *

  TWO FERRIES, FROM different lines, were pulling away from their docks at Piazzale Don Blasco when Halloran steered the Alfa Romeo Giulietta into the large waterfront parking lot. Bolan tried counting vans waiting to board the next ships out, but gave up when he passed two dozen.

  Impossible. Without authority, they couldn’t possibly check all the vans in sight before another ferry sailed, and if they tried it as a pair of armed civilians, they’d incite a panic at the very least. To make things worse, another blue-and-white Alfa Romeo with Polizia emblazoned on its side in matching two-tone paint sat near the ramp, well beyond the boarding traffic’s flow.

  “It’s too much,” Halloran declared, sounding defeated for the first time since Bolan had met him. “They could be right here and we would never know it.”

  “Someone else might,” the soldier said, and raised his sat phone, pressed a button to connect with Stony Man and waited for the hookup half a world away.

  Two rings, preliminary clearance through the farm’s secure switchboard and Kurtzman said, “Striker, your timing’s eerie.”

  “Tell me.”

  “There’s a call going, scrambled, to the same number in Rome. It looks like... Damn! They just broke off again.”

  “It looks like what?” Bolan asked.

  “They’re still moving, and the GPS puts them...halfway across the Strait of Messina, bound for the mainland. Looks like they’re traveling due east, which makes their destination...Villa San Giovanni.”

  “Thanks. I’ve got a boat to catch,” Bolan replied, and cut the link.

  “They’ve sailed,” Halloran said, not asking.

  “It doesn’t mean we’ve lost them,” Bolan replied. “In fact, we’re closer to them than we have been since we started.”

  “You’re an optimist.”

  “And you’re the guy with faith. So break it down,” Bolan told him.

  “Do you know where they’ll be landing?”

  Bolan gave the city’s name.

  “Of course,” Halloran said. “The shortest route by sea. Also, the boat to Naples travels only once a week and takes eight hours. They’ll shave at least two hours off that time on the autostrada, at eighty miles per hour.”

  “Meaning we can catch them,” Bolan answered.

  “We can try.” Halloran steered their vehicle into line for boarding on the next boat out.

  It would be close, in terms of timing and the ferry’s maximum capacity, another twenty minutes lag time if they missed the first departure. Bolan glanced at Halloran and thought he might be offering another silent prayer.

  For what? Help getting on the ferry? Taking out the Keepers and the Ark? If God existed, would He welcome prayers for aid in pulling off a more efficient homicide?

  It wasn’t Bolan’s problem, and he left the cleric to it. At this point, he thought anything that soothed Halloran’s nerves could only help when push came to shove. They’d been through the preliminary rounds, survived them all so far, and with a little luck—or maybe with a helping hand from Providence—their next engagement would turn out to be the title match. Winner take all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Villa San Giovanni, Italy

  The ferry was on time, another minor miracle, but waiting for the vehicles ahead of him to disembark did nothing to improve Claudio Branca’s frame of mind. He’d spoken to Ugo Troisi in transit, reporting his progress and receiving Dextera Dei’s personal assurance that all was prepared for their triumph in Rome. To Branca, that just meant that Troisi and the rest were standing by, waiting for him and his surviving troops to do the work, but what else could a soldier in the field expect?

  He had the secret weapon, after all. Janus Marcellus, Mania Justina and the rest could do no more than pray for his success. The Scarlet Whore of Babylon, meanwhile, would likely be preparing her defenses, calling on the full machinery of a corrupted state for aid.

  All wasted effort.

  Who could stand before the mighty wrath of God Himself?

  But getting there was still a problem, even with Troisi’s blithe assurance that the way was clear. When pressed, Troisi knew nothing of the hunters who’d been dogging Branca’s tracks from Africa, through Turkey, Greece and Sicily. He couldn’t say if they’d been caught up in the fighting between the Camorra and the Mafia, but hoped some news would be forthcoming from a contact with the police. Until then, anything was possible.

  The line was moving now, disgorging cars, vans, trucks and pedestrians onto the docks, where others waited to reverse the process. Branca watched out for police, saw two cars waiting, but the officers inside them all looked bored and half-asleep. Nothing out of the ordinary there.

  “Follow the signs to Naples,” he told Arieti needlessly. “And make sure that the other car’s behind us.”

  “Okay, okay.” Franco sounded slightly irritated, but too professional and dedicated to protest at being treated like a simpleton.

  “Sorry,” Branca said. “I know we’ve covered all this.”

  “No problem,” Arieti answered. “Better to be safe than sorry, eh?”

  And they were friends again, comrades in arms. Keeping their weapons close at hand as they rolled off the ferry, with the backup car trailing behind them, every man alert to any hint of danger. The police ignored them, watching out for girls in skimpy clothing or for nervous-looking hikers who might have a kilo of marijuana or something stronger in their backpacks.

  After he’d dismissed the police, Branca watched for mobsters. It was possible the problems they’d encountered on Sicilian soil might trail them here, the Mafia expecting higher pay to compensate for losses it had suffered, or the Camorra trying one more time to snatch whatever contraband they thought might be inside the van. Branca didn’t believe they’d jump his party here, in such a crowded public place, but stranger things had happened.

  As it was, they cleared the ferry and the waterfront without incident. Large overhead signs directed
them to the Autostrada A3. They’d travel to downtown Naples, then transfer to the A1, at which point about a hundred thirty miles would remain until Rome. Two gasoline stops along the way, at most, and if they kept the pedal down, the last leg of their odyssey should last another six or seven hours, maximum.

  How many men could time the hour of their death or triumph so precisely?

  Branca was satisfied, in either case, to know that he had done his best for God and for Custodes Foederis. His reward would be assured, whatever happened at the Vatican, but it still pained him to imagine that the whole thing might have been in vain.

  Crossing the Strait of Messina

  THE SOLEMN VOICE of Cardinal Luis Bouchet greeted Brother Halloran without preamble or enthusiasm. “Have you a report to make, Brother?” he asked.

  “I have, Prefect.”

  “Does it concern the recent incidents in Sicily?”

  “It does, in part.”

  “You’ve failed to stop the Ark, I take it?” Bouchet asked.

  “For the moment. Yes, sir.”

  “For the moment?” There was just a hint of mockery in the voice. “Is there some prospect for improving your performance, Brother?”

  “We are closer, Prefect. Crossing as we speak to Villa San Giovanni in—”

  “Reggio Calabria,” the prefect interrupted. “Yes. I am acquainted with the territory. And the object of your quest?”

  “Crossed just ahead of us. We were delayed by the...unpleasantness.”

  “Another, what? Two dozen dead by now?”

  “None of the latest were our doing, Prefect. As you may have gleaned from media reports, there is a feud between the Mafia and the Camorra. It appears that mafiosi were engaged as escorts for the Ark, and—”

  “The cardinal bishop is concerned by your alliance with the stranger. Unapproved alliance, as I was compelled to tell him.”

  “And did you explain the circumstances, Prefect?”

  “To the best of my ability, but he wasn’t consoled. You understand the risk it poses to the Church, Brother? We take great care to keep the inner workings of the CDF from prying eyes.”

  “I understand, sir. But—”

  “And now we have been compromised. Imperiled, I believe, was the cardinal bishop’s word.”

  “I don’t believe that Matthew Cooper would—”

  “What? Report in full to his superiors? You’ve already described him as professional. That indicates responsibility and discipline. Or should, ideally.”

  Halloran absorbed the jab. Replied, “I was about to say, Prefect, that I don’t believe he would do anything to harm the CDF, much less the Church.”

  “His knowledge of us is, by definition, harmful. His report of what’s occurred may lead to scrutiny of us, our operations and our influence on various events. That is, if he reports.”

  Halloran caught the tone, said nothing, and waited for the rest of it.

  “Of course,” the prefect said, “if some unfortunate event befalls him in the meantime, there’s at least a possibility that we may not be drawn into the circus that is bound to follow.”

  “I imagine he’s already mentioned me to his superiors, Prefect.”

  “No doubt. But you might be relocated. Sequestered. Finding one brother out of thousands, when the Vatican doesn’t desire him to be found, could prove impossible. Remove the witness and there is no case.”

  “You want me to eliminate him, Prefect?”

  “I’ve given no such order, and I never would. We all trust you to use your own best judgment, Brother. On a perilous assignment such as this, where your companion has assumed the risk, no one could blame you if he fell along the way.”

  “And would I be absolved, Your Eminence?”

  “For what, Brother?”

  “I understand.”

  “You have our every confidence,” Bouchet said. And then the line went dead.

  Halloran looked around the ferry’s deck and found Cooper at the rail, eyeing the mainland as they closed the gap. Villa San Giovanni lay before them, home to fourteen thousand year-round residents who made their living chiefly from the tourist trade or from the sea. They would regard incoming tourists with the same disdain as citizens of any other busy seaport in the world, masked with a smile to keep the euros flowing through their hands.

  Cooper saw him, nodded and began the trek back to their car, belowdecks. Halloran fell into step beside him, wondering if he possessed the skill and nerve required to kill this man.

  And whether it would damn his soul to hell.

  Washington, D.C.

  “I’LL HAVE TO call you back,” Brognola told Kurtzman. “I’ve got a sat phone call incoming.”

  Switching one phone for another, he picked up before the second buzzing tone had cycled through, and said, “Brognola here.”

  “Heads up,” the deep, familiar voice replied. “We missed them on the island, so we’re going for another ferry ride.”

  “I got that from the Farm, just now,” Brognola said. “Cutting it close.”

  “We’ve still got time,” Bolan replied.

  “Sounds like you mixed it up with the brotherhoods at their busy time of year.”

  “None of the mess back there was ours,” Bolan said. “Call it Family dysfunction.”

  “Any more of that ahead, you think?” Brognola asked.

  “I gave up fortune-telling,” Bolan answered, “but I hope they’re smart enough to let it go.”

  “Well, hope in one hand...”

  “Right. I hear you. But it’s all we’ve got right now.”

  “If you want me to, I’ll call a guy I know who works with the Financial Guard. See if he can distract them for a day or so, stir up the pot and cramp their action.”

  “Couldn’t hurt,” Bolan replied, “unless it puts you too far in the hole on favors.”

  “I don’t know if anybody’s keeping score these days,” Brognola lied.

  Bolan let that one go and said, “It wouldn’t be a bad idea to have somebody on alert in Rome.”

  “No problem there. They’ve kept it quiet, on the Ark deal, but the other incidents are splashed all over TV and the papers. No one’s taking any chances at the Vatican.”

  “Okay. Just thought I’d mention it, you know. In case.”

  “Your sidekick holding up all right?”

  “Seems like,” Bolan replied. “He’s praying overtime.”

  “Whatever gets you though.”

  Brognola had been raised a Catholic, in a traditional Italian-American home, and he still believed in something, at some level, after all the horrors life had shown him—or, perhaps, because of them. He rarely thought about it, and if asked wouldn’t have said it helped him do his job, but if it comforted another soldier on the line or helped a dying man cross over...well, he couldn’t see the harm.

  As for the scandals, frauds and sexual abuse, the so-called ministers who lived in splendor like medieval kings, he’d always thought that if there was a hell, its lowest, hottest pits were reserved for those who preyed on others in the name of faith.

  And dimwits texting while they drove.

  “Looks like we’re docking,” Bolan said. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  “If there’s anything you need...”

  “I’ve got your number. Later.”

  He was gone, just like that, and Brognola replaced the sat phone in its cradle on his desk. Leaned back in his swivel chair and wished that he could be there with the warrior, give his desk the slip for once and work it old-school, as he’d done when he and Bolan met. That was another time, of course; another war.

  But in his mind and heart, their enemies were much the same.

  Brognola called back to the Farm, got Kurtzman on the line again
. “You’re staying on that phone, right?” he demanded.

  “When they use it,” Kurtzman said. “They’re not big into chatting on the road.”

  “Okay. But keep me in the loop, regardless of the time. I’ll be here, at the office.”

  Pulling a double shift and eating out of paper bags. Why not?

  When Bolan’s life and so much more was riding on the line, it seemed the least he could do.

  Custodes Foederis Headquarters, Rome

  “THEY’VE REACHED THE mainland,” Janus Marcellus said. “It won’t be long now.”

  If it works, Ugo Troisi thought, immediately troubled by his lapse in faith. Aloud, he said, “We’ll be victorious, Your Grace.”

  “What are your plans for paradise?” Marcellus asked.

  “Plans, Your Grace?”

  He’d thought about it, certainly. Pictured the earth made fresh and new by God’s own hand, with no end of rewards for those who persevered. But plans? Who planned a day in heaven, much less all eternity?

  “I plan to be sitting at the right hand of our Lord as he completes the judgment,” Janus said, apparently with total confidence. “I’m sure He would agree I’ve earned the place, for helping him depose the Scarlet Whore.”

  Troisi smiled and nodded, knew he should agree wholeheartedly. Why was he having difficulty with the basic tenets of their doctrine now, when victory was almost there, within his grasp? Why did the man he’d followed through travails and persecution to achieve this moment sound almost...deranged?

  Forgive me, Father!

  It had to be Marco Gianotti’s scheming that was twisting him inside, Troisi decided. This rank suspicion and dissension came at the worst of all possible times, detracting from what ought to be a day of joyous celebration. Premature, perhaps, until the Ark arrived in Rome and did its awesome work.

  “A fair reward indeed, Your Grace,” he managed to reply, nearly choking in the process.

  Marcellus frowned thoughtfully—or was it something more? “I wish that everyone agreed with you, my son. Mania, I’m afraid...well, she may doubt me.”

  Troisi felt himself begin to blink at that, but interrupted the reflexive action. This could be some kind of test. If Gianotti had discovered something with his snooping and eavesdropping, Marcellus might have thought it best to bait a trap.