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Authors: J Robert Kennedy
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relatively peaceful.”
“Who?”
A small explosion shook the room and flames licked the side of the building, black smoke and soot staining the window they had just been in front of.
“What was that?”
Giasson flipped open his phone and hit the speed dial. “Report.”
“They’ve started throwing Molotov Cocktails, sir.”
“Clear them out.”
“How? We don’t have the personnel for that kind of operation.”
“Contact Roma Polizia, request assistance. Close the gates, lock down the city. Once the riot police arrive, let them in and they’ll deal with them. Have fire and ambulance service standing by.”
He flipped the phone closed and it immediately rang. He answered.
“Giasson.”
“Mario, it’s me, Jim.”
“Professor, what’s your situation?”
“Not good. We’ve got hundreds at least rioting outside the university. Police have just arrived and are starting to push back. I just saw on the TV that they’ve begun rioting inside Saint Peter’s Square. Are you and His Holiness okay?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I’m with him now.”
The Pontiff raised his eyebrows.
“Professor Acton,” said Giasson, covering the phone.
The old man frowned. “Are he and Professor Palmer okay?”
“For the moment, but the university is surrounded by protesters.”
“I think it best if they and the scroll return here.”
Giasson looked out the window. “It doesn’t look much better here, but I think you’re right.” He uncovered the phone. “Professor, I am sending a helicopter for you. It should be there in fifteen minutes. Try to get to a clear area where it can land.”
“Okay, will do. Thanks, Mario.”
Giasson flipped the phone shut then turned to Father Morris. “Please arrange a helicopter to pick up the professors.” Morris nodded and stepped from the office. Giasson returned to the window, scanning the crowd. “There’s tens of thousands out there. I think we’re going to need to prepare for the worst.”
“What do you mean?”
“A crowd that size can easily overwhelm us, unless we’re willing to use deadly force.”
“Out of the question.”
“For the moment, I agree, but if it is a choice between preserving this church, this institution and all its treasures, we may have no choice. We’ve seen what Muslims have done in the past. Look what the Taliban did to the statues of Buddha that had stood for fourteen hundred years. The West stood by and did nothing, and now an irreplaceable piece of history is gone. And just recently in Timbuktu.” Giasson leaned on the Pontiff’s desk. “Your Holiness, if they get in here, they will destroy millennia of art, the frescoes of Michelangelo, the works of the most famous artists the world has ever known. They don’t care. Not only are they a mob, hell-bent on destruction, they are Muslims, who believe most of what we stand for is blasphemous.”
“I have to believe that there is some sanity in that crowd. Someone who is not here in a frenzy of bloodlust.”
“There very well could be. And that’s who I fear the most.”
And with 1.6 million Muslims in Italy alone, he knew the chances were too good that his fears could come true.
Jaffri Residence
Borough of Tor Bella Monaca, Rome, Italy
“How can we turn this situation to our advantage?”
Hassan Jaffri looked at the five others gathered in his basement apartment, a hole in a low class neighborhood. A perfect hiding place. No one wanted to know you, you didn’t want to know anyone else. People minded their own business, and, as with most low income areas of Europe, there was nothing strange about devout Muslims living there, going about their business.
And he was devout.
Born in Afghanistan, his parents had fled the Russians and wound up in Italy. But he had returned, as soon as he could, and had spent the past three years training in Pakistan in weapons, bombs, tactics. He was ready to fight the infidel, and was just waiting to be activated.
“Who?”
A small explosion shook the room and flames licked the side of the building, black smoke and soot staining the window they had just been in front of.
“What was that?”
Giasson flipped open his phone and hit the speed dial. “Report.”
“They’ve started throwing Molotov Cocktails, sir.”
“Clear them out.”
“How? We don’t have the personnel for that kind of operation.”
“Contact Roma Polizia, request assistance. Close the gates, lock down the city. Once the riot police arrive, let them in and they’ll deal with them. Have fire and ambulance service standing by.”
He flipped the phone closed and it immediately rang. He answered.
“Giasson.”
“Mario, it’s me, Jim.”
“Professor, what’s your situation?”
“Not good. We’ve got hundreds at least rioting outside the university. Police have just arrived and are starting to push back. I just saw on the TV that they’ve begun rioting inside Saint Peter’s Square. Are you and His Holiness okay?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I’m with him now.”
The Pontiff raised his eyebrows.
“Professor Acton,” said Giasson, covering the phone.
The old man frowned. “Are he and Professor Palmer okay?”
“For the moment, but the university is surrounded by protesters.”
“I think it best if they and the scroll return here.”
Giasson looked out the window. “It doesn’t look much better here, but I think you’re right.” He uncovered the phone. “Professor, I am sending a helicopter for you. It should be there in fifteen minutes. Try to get to a clear area where it can land.”
“Okay, will do. Thanks, Mario.”
Giasson flipped the phone shut then turned to Father Morris. “Please arrange a helicopter to pick up the professors.” Morris nodded and stepped from the office. Giasson returned to the window, scanning the crowd. “There’s tens of thousands out there. I think we’re going to need to prepare for the worst.”
“What do you mean?”
“A crowd that size can easily overwhelm us, unless we’re willing to use deadly force.”
“Out of the question.”
“For the moment, I agree, but if it is a choice between preserving this church, this institution and all its treasures, we may have no choice. We’ve seen what Muslims have done in the past. Look what the Taliban did to the statues of Buddha that had stood for fourteen hundred years. The West stood by and did nothing, and now an irreplaceable piece of history is gone. And just recently in Timbuktu.” Giasson leaned on the Pontiff’s desk. “Your Holiness, if they get in here, they will destroy millennia of art, the frescoes of Michelangelo, the works of the most famous artists the world has ever known. They don’t care. Not only are they a mob, hell-bent on destruction, they are Muslims, who believe most of what we stand for is blasphemous.”
“I have to believe that there is some sanity in that crowd. Someone who is not here in a frenzy of bloodlust.”
“There very well could be. And that’s who I fear the most.”
And with 1.6 million Muslims in Italy alone, he knew the chances were too good that his fears could come true.
Jaffri Residence
Borough of Tor Bella Monaca, Rome, Italy
“How can we turn this situation to our advantage?”
Hassan Jaffri looked at the five others gathered in his basement apartment, a hole in a low class neighborhood. A perfect hiding place. No one wanted to know you, you didn’t want to know anyone else. People minded their own business, and, as with most low income areas of Europe, there was nothing strange about devout Muslims living there, going about their business.
And he was devout.
Born in Afghanistan, his parents had fled the Russians and wound up in Italy. But he had returned, as soon as he could, and had spent the past three years training in Pakistan in weapons, bombs, tactics. He was ready to fight the infidel, and was just waiting to be activated.
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