Robert Tanenbaum - Counterplay

The first walked up to the Pope with the gun pointing at his head, while with the other hand she pulled off the headdress of her habit. With shock, Marlene recognized Samira Azzam, who shouted at the Pope, “You are my prisoner in the name of the Islamic Jihad and al Qaeda in Chechnya!”

Several things then happened at once. Marlene saw the man with Hodges rush forward pulling his gun. But the second false nun had anticipated this and calmly shot the man in the forehead. She then held her gun on Hodges, who made no attempt to draw his own gun but raised his hands instead.

The two traditionally dressed Swiss Guards next to the Pope attempted to place themselves between Azzam and the pontiff. But she shot them dead, their halberds clattering to the floor in front of the stunned altar boys.

Marlene turned at the sound of two more pops behind her and saw that two of the four security detail members, who’d been waiting in the background, were on the ground with the other two standing above them with their guns drawn. The killers then walked forward, training their guns on the priests and nuns.

We knew it, and we still got caught, Marlene thought ruefully. But this was too easy. Who was the traitor? Her first inclination was to go to the Pope’s aid as well, but she knew that to do so would be to die and that would be of no use to anyone. Wait, she told herself, at the moment, they want him as a hostage.

Elsewhere in the cathedral, the remaining four members of the Swiss Guard had been shot by the “federal agents” standing near them. The television crew swung their camera to the terrorist with the gun on the pontiff but was ordered to shut it off by another terrorist who came toward them with his gun pointed. When the reporter, a well-known broadcaster who’d pulled rank to do the live shots from inside the cathedral, complained, the gunman shot him through the eye. He was dead before his body crumpled to the floor.

Meanwhile, two more faux agents had swung the doors of the cathedral shut and locked them. Then they picked up the automatic rifles with the folding stocks they’d secreted behind curtains early that morning when the traitor priest-the one with the scarred face-let them in.

As the stunned spectators reacted with screams and cries, and by standing as if to flee, Azzam removed the silencer from her gun and shot a man who’d stepped into the aisle. “Sit down and listen,” she shouted, pointing her gun back at the Pope’s head, “or the leader of the Crusaders will die first, and then the rest of you…. Listen to my instructions if you wish to live. They are: you will not attempt to use cell phones, or you will die. You will remain seated and quiet, or you will die.”

As if waiting for this cue, a middle-aged woman got up from her seat stating, “I’m not going to stay for this,” and began to leave with her nose in the air as though she’d been insulted by the hostess at a bridge party. One of the terrorists near the entrance stepped into the aisle and fired a quick burst that caught the woman and laid her out on the carpet where she lay twitching.

“This,” Azzam shouted, “is the penalty for ignoring my instructions.”

The Pope, who’d remained seated as if he was trying to understand what sort of theatrical production was being staged, tried to stand. “Please, what is the meaning of this? Do with me what you will, but in the name of God, do not harm innocent-”

Azzam shoved the Holy Father back down in his seat. “Shut up, old man. You are nothing to me but a symbol of my people’s oppressor.” She turned to the television camera crew, who had remained motionless in slack-jawed terror staring at the body of the former anchorman. Neither of them had liked the man, a pompous ass who liked to treat fellow employees like his personal slaves, but they weren’t prepared to see him staring sightlessly at the ceiling with blood trickling out of his ruined eye socket.

“You,” Azzam said, commanding their attention, “you will now turn your camera back on and train it on me. No one else…or you will die.”

The cameraman and the soundman nodded and picked up their equipment. From the folds of her robes Azzam pulled a written statement that she began to read into the camera. “On behalf of the struggle of Muslim peoples in Chechnya, as well as throughout the world, your Pope, a criminal and Crusader representing the centuries of oppression against Muslim people, is the prisoner of al Qaeda in Chechnya, as are all other people in this building. Any attempts at rescue, and this man will be the first, but not the last, to die. My people have already taken control of the security cameras monitoring the outside of this building; we will know of any attempts to use force against us. There have already been numerous deaths; your security people are dead. If you wish to prevent any other unnecessary deaths, you will wait until further contact. That is it for now.”

Azzam signaled for the camera crew to cut, which they did, dutifully placing their equipment back on the ground. Then the terrorist turned back to where Agent Hodges, aka Andrew Kane, still had his hands up. “It is done,” she said.

The other woman with the gun lowered it as Kane strode forward wearing a big smile as if he’d been named Homecoming King. He’d almost laughed looking at the astonished faces of the crowd when Azzam first announced that the Pope was her prisoner. “Let’s get started then,” he said clapping with glee.

Half the terrorists put their guns down and picked up bags they’d stored at various spots around the cathedral and began removing the contents. A frightened murmur ran through the spectators when some recognized the materials for making bombs.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please,” Kane announced. “My people are just taking out an insurance policy. If all goes well, and everyone cooperates, you’ll all go home and sleep in your own beds tonight.”

Kane leaped down the stairs and approached the camera crew. “See my face?” he asked the cameraman. The man nodded. “Good. If you ever photograph my face, you will die. Is that clear?” The man nodded again and mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

Kane smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Good. Good. Then we’ll have no problems. Now, think of me sort of as your director-slash-off-screen-

commentator. You’ll carry my voice, but no face. Now, we’re about to go live again. I want you to open with a nice shot of my friend Samira Azzam with her gun pointed at that ridiculous little old man in that silly costume.”

“The Pope?” the cameraman asked.

Kane rolled his eyes. “Yes, of course, you idiot. The Pope…. Then we’ll switch to a shot of those fine young men rigging the explosives. Got that? Good, good…hey you might even win an Emmy out of this! All right, hand me that microphone…oh good God, wipe the blood off of it first…that’s better. You ready? Okay, lights, camera, action.”

Kane cleared his throat. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this much fun. “Good afternoon,” he said. “We’re sorry for any inconvenience, but we’ve interrupted your regularly scheduled program to bring you a special report. He turned to face Karp, Lucy, and the cowboy, all of whom had remained calm, and said, dropping the Southern accent and assuming his normal voice, “My name is…drumroll please…Andrew Kane.”

Kane paused to let it sink in. He was pleased by the gasps of the spectators in the cathedral and absolutely overjoyed to watch Karp realize the implications. He was less enthused by the reaction of Lucy. He’d expected some mix of shock and horror, but instead she just looked at him steadily, as if she’d known all along and was prepared. It sent a shiver up his spine that he had not anticipated. Well, I will see fear in her eyes before this is over, he swore to himself and tore his gaze away from hers.