Pandora's Ark by Rick Jones Read Free Book Online Page A

smile
flourished as he leaned forward to draw Leonid into close counsel. “What I want
from you, Leonid, is one thing.”
    “And what would
that be?”
    “I want you to
put the demons back inside the box.”
    The old man knew
exactly what he was talking about.
     

 
     
     
    CHAPTER SIX
    Somewhere Over the Atlantic Ocean
     
    Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci sat
in the Economy class looking out the window at the ocean below. White caps
broke against waves that matched the color of an overcast sky, that of
battleship gray. And rain began to dapple against the window as the plane rode
the leading edge of a turbulent wind.
    For the past few hours he
considered many things, especially the moments on the papal veranda standing
alongside Pope Pius holding counsel on many subjects, usually on splendid days
where the sun was high in a cerulean blue sky. But he kept thinking about one
thing: the stone guardrail that encompassed the landing.
    It was beautifully crafted,
the stonework bearing the images of angels and cherubs and stood nearly five-foot
high, which was taller than most rails since it acted as a safety feature to
keep those from toppling to the cobblestones below.
    What was the reason for
Pope Gregory to lean over the rail to such a degree that he would
lose his balance and fall , especially at such an early hour when the
shadows were at their darkest? Had he seen something below?
    He rubbed his chin at the
thought. Possibly, he considered. But there were other considerations as well.
The man could have hoisted himself along the railing, and as an abomination to
God cast himself over its edge to the street below, which Bonasero immediately
disputed with incredulity. Or he could have been pushed. But this, too, was disputed
with incredulity, since it would infer that Gregory was murdered.  
    Still, something nagged at
him, something that went beyond the surface since the quick answer by
investigating authorities was that it was nothing more than a horrible accident;
therefore, any other alternatives were summarily dismissed with no need for
further examination.  
    So the final report would
read as this: Pope Gregory had died from the consequences of the fall. And that
may be true, he thought, at least to a certain degree. But what precipitated
the fall to begin with bothered him.
    The cardinal closed his
eyes, settled back in his seat, and waited for the plane to touchdown in Rome with a single thought on his mind: The pope’s death was not as simple or as clear cut
as it seemed.
    This he was sure of.  
     

 
     
     
    CHAPTER SEVEN
    Moscow , Russia
     
    It was night, and the old man sat
alone in the darkness of his apartment with the threadbare shades pulled wide
so that he could see the wonderful lights cast upon the domes of St. Basil’s
Cathedral.
    He had conceded,
telling al-Ghazi that he would commit himself “to put the demons back into the
box.” He was no magician, not a conjurer, not even a man who could urinate
without a burning sensation that caused him a pain far greater than the
arthritis that was plaguing his bones in the cold Russian weather.
    In truth
al-Ghazi was right, he considered. As beautiful as it was outside his window,
the way the lights lit upon the colored domes of the cathedral, his Mother Russia was forever gone.
    During the
latter part of the Cold War, Leonid Sakharov was a pioneering savant in the
field of nanotechnology—leap years ahead of Russia’s most brilliant scientists.
In the mid-eighties when nanotechnology was in its genesis stage, the Russian
and American tactical war departments realized that the use of nanobots, or
nanoweapons, was the future of the arms race with far more devastating
repercussions than nuclear devices. Billions of programmed molecules, unseen
and indefensible, and with no need of special equipment to produce, could serve
the military’s needs in several ways.
    Sakharov’s
duties were to conceive nanoweaponry such as nano-scouts, bots so small