"You'll see."

Alon looked back at the four Israeli security men and instinctively reached for the Sig 9mm pistol tucked into his waistband as they entered the warehouse and walked between stacks of wooden crates to a glass-enclosed office. Once everyone was inside, the driver closed the door and hit a switch behind a file cabinet. Instantly the windows turned opaque. He then hit another switch and the entire back wall began to slide away, revealing a dimly lit tunnel and a small electric engine attached to three open cars on a narrow track that stretched off into the distance.

"Hop in everyone." The driver hit another switch and the false wall behind them slid shut with a definitive metal clang. No walking away now.

"You sound British," Leo heard Alon say to the driver. "We were under the impression that this was an Israeli operation."

"I'm as British as they come, mate. My name is Graham Childs. The Rock of Gibraltar is British territory, and I work for MI6 as a field analyst. That means I gather information in a field office instead of being cooped up in a cubicle at headquarters back in London." Childs looked around at the strange group staring back at him, especially the old man and the tall guy with the piercing blue eyes. "I would have thought that at least some of you would have figured out by now that this is a joint British and Israeli operation. I mean, what with two subs from both our countries working together to bring you here. Didn't Mr. Zamir tell you anything?"

"We can't discuss what Mr. Zamir might or might not have said," Alon replied in a low voice. "Where are we going?"

Eduardo Acerbi stepped from his place at the back of the group. "We're going wherever this little train takes us, Mr. Lavi." It was the first time the old man had spoken since he had left the confines of the British sub. "Time is of the essence, so I suggest we allow this young fellow to do his job."

"Right then," Childs said, grinning at Alon. "All aboard?"

Alon hopped into the first open car, his hulking mass causing it to tip sideways while the rest settled onto the bench-type wooden seats behind him. Starting the tiny engine, Childs slammed it into gear, and within seconds they were whizzing silently through a twisting tunnel that angled upward into the center of the massive limestone hump known as the Rock of Gibraltar.

As rows of yellow lights in the ceiling zipped by overhead, they saw other side tunnels branching off into unlit spaces. It was anyone's guess as to where they led, making the trip seem even more mysterious as the tiny train swerved to the left around a bend and climbed once again in a final struggle with gravity until they entered a brightly lit space that resembled a miniature subway station and squealed to an abrupt halt alongside a concrete platform.

Jumping from the cab, Childs waited for everyone to exit the cars, and like a tour guide he motioned for the group to gather around. "In case any of you are wondering, we're now standing in the exact center of the Rock. As I mentioned before, this is British territory, and we've been fortifying this massive piece of real estate since the 18th century. This place is honeycombed with tunnels and natural caves, but the most extensive tunneling was done during World War II. The area we're standing in now was actually constructed during the Cold War in the late 1950's to be used as a bomb shelter in the event of a nuclear war. Unfortunately, limestone isn't as strong as granite, which means that the monkeys who live on the surface wouldn't be the only victims of a direct hit by a nuclear bomb. For that reason, this shelter has been taken off the list of places to go in the event of a first strike. Please, follow me. I'll take you to your quarters."

"Our quarters?" Lev looked back at the others. "I was under the impression that we were just here for a short meeting."

"You are, sir. However many of the other participants are still making their way here, so the actual briefing won't be taking place until later this afternoon, and we were told you would all probably be staying overnight. The accommodations are a little dated, but I think you'll find them adequate for the brief time you'll be staying here."

Childs smiled as he stopped in front of a pair of tall steel doors. "I believe I overheard someone mention cold beer and prawns when we were in the van. I don't know about the prawns, but I think I might know where I can find some cold beer. This way please."

CHAPTER 23.

For several minutes, Evita Vargas stared into the mirror and brushed her hair before finally deciding to walk to her favorite cafe. Smoothing her silk blouse, she closed the door to her Madrid apartment and stepped out into a narrow cobblestoned street pulsing with foot traffic and the occasional motor scooter that wove between pedestrians in the well-rehearsed dance of Spanish urban harmony.

The small cafe sat just across the street from a tree-covered square where mothers played with their children while their husbands were either at work or looking for work in a country where the unemployment rate had reached a staggering twenty-six percent. These were hard times for Spain, as in other parts of the world, and the smoke-stained walls of the cafe bore witness to the fact that fewer customers now lingered over a steaming cup of cafe con leche as they read their papers or peered into the glowing blue screens of their laptops.

In fact, due to the global economic crunch, the leisurely pace that had once dominated Spanish life was rapidly evaporating in the push to abandon centuries-old traditions in favor of greater corporate productivity. Traditionally, most Spaniards had once taken a long afternoon break from work to enjoy la comida, the long midday meal followed by a siesta. The entire country had once closed up shop from 2pm to 5pm, but recently Evita had begun to see a change in the placid culture she had been born into.

Now, instead of walking or biking to work, many people spent over an hour commuting long distances to their jobs in cars, making leisurely lunch breaks impractical, and many shops now remained open during a time that was once considered sacrosanct in a society that had valued the balance between work and rest. Even the Spanish government had decided to institute a standard eight-hour work day with a one hour lunch break, all in the interest of greater efficiency. But were the people really better off with all of these new changes?

As Evita sipped her milk-laced coffee and peered through the cafe's windows, her large brown eyes mirrored the sadness inside. Her decision to take a break from her relationship with the cardinal had been intended to give her some distance from the intensity of the situation and allow her to sort through her true feelings, but instead, the separation had only filled her with loneliness and a longing to return to the emotional familiarity of the man who loved her.

Grabbing her purse, she left a few coins on the table and walked out into the sunshine for the short stroll to her office at the university. A tenured professor of epidemiology, she was allowed to come and go pretty much as she pleased-a convenient perk when one is also a member of Spain's Centro National de Inteligencia, a counterpart to the American CIA or Britain's MI6.

It was this same dual role that had brought her into contact with the cardinal to begin with, when they had chased a madman halfway around the world the year before in an effort to head off a global biological catastrophe. She hadn't meant to fall in love. In fact, that was the last thing she had wanted to do, but fall in love she had, and now, for better or worse, she was destined to live with the consequences of that little four letter word.

Walking onto the campus, the curved outline of the modernistic science building loomed overhead as she entered through a row of glass doors. "Hold the elevator!" she called out, running toward the stainless-steel doors that were bouncing off the reluctant arm of a man inside who had heard her plea.

"Thank you."

"My pleasure, Miss," the man said. Wearing a striking blue coat and a tweed Scottish rain hat, he appeared to be in his early sixties. "Are you a student here?"

"No, actually I'm a professor. And you are?"

"I'm here to see you, Evita."

Trying to maintain a neutral expression, Evita slowly reached her shaking right hand into her purse and gripped the butt of a small .22 caliber Beretta pistol. "How do you know my name?"

"I'm acquainted with the names of many who believe in the spirit of light, my dear."

Evita's eyes widened as she stared into a face that radiated serenity. "Who are you?"

"My name is Julian Wehling. I was born in France to English parents but I live in England now. I teach Medieval European history at Cambridge."

"What do you want with me?"

"A few minutes of your time ... nothing else." The doors to the elevator slid open and Evita quickly stepped out.

"Your office is on the next floor, Ms. Vargas, and you can release your grip on the gun in your purse. I mean you no harm."

"I'll keep my hand right where it is, especially when I'm talking to a complete stranger who seems to know so much about me when I know absolutely nothing about him."

"A situation I am endeavoring to correct if you will give me a chance."

Two giggling female students brushed past and stepped into the elevator. "Up or down?" one called out.

Evita studied the man for a moment. "One cup of coffee in a public place."

The man smiled and extended a hand toward the open doorway of the elevator. "Down, please."

CHAPTER 24.

After they left the small train platform, Leo and the others followed the young MI6 analyst through a pair of tall steel blast doors into a concrete labyrinth of passageways that snaked through an old Cold War bunker. Turning a corner, they entered a blue-carpeted and slightly musty-smelling reception room that still retained the aura of the period in which it had been built. Furniture from the 1960's sprinkled the room with the colors of avocado, gold, and turquoise, and at the far end of the room a fully stocked bar sat beneath the reproduction of a large Jackson Pollack painting.

Lev's senses reeled at the nostalgic ambiance of the setting. "I feel like I've just stepped back in time. This place looks exactly like the bar at the old country club my parents used to belong to."

"If it was in Israel, it was probably decorated by the same British designers who did up this place," Childs said. He picked up a copy of Life magazine and thumbed through the pages before laying it back down on a Swedish coffee table. "Like I said before, this place was constructed back in the late fifty's and early sixty's. Obviously they haven't changed the furniture ... or much else for that matter."

John walked to the bar and ran a hand along the carved mahogany edge. "I kinda like it ... very retro. If your government ever decides to sell off any of this stuff ...

Childs grinned. "I'm afraid the home office hasn't authorized a garage sale just yet, old boy, but you're welcome to check back next year. I hear they're thinking of closing this facility down soon. Anyone up for a cocktail before lunch?"

The group shook their heads in unison, preferring instead to wait until after the meeting.

"No, I suppose not," Childs said. "Old habit of mine, actually. Comes from the time when I was stationed with the officer corps at the old British embassy in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. There really wasn't much for us to do there except play cards, watch old movies, and drink. The bloody heat was miserable."

Childs smiled at his captive audience and pointed toward a long hallway off to his right. "There are bedrooms down that hall there. They were built to hold members of parliament and high-ranking military officers in the event of a nuclear war ... people like fleet admirals and generals ... people like that, so despite the dated look of the place I believe you'll find that the accommodations are quite plush even by today's standards. I had the stewards change all the linens this morning and lunch is waiting for you in the dining hall downstairs. Shall we have a look at what the chefs have cooked up for you?"

Acerbi nodded in agreement. "That sounds wonderful, Mr. Childs."

"OK then ... follow me."

Alon turned to the four Israeli security men. "I want two of you to stand outside the entrance to this room. The other two will come with us. Anything happens ... and I mean anything at all, I want to hear about it right away."

"Yes, sir," the ranking man said. He checked his gun and nodded to the others before walking out into the hallway. With their escape route now covered, the group clomped down around a curved concrete stairway and entered a dining hall that looked as if it had been transplanted from the inside of a battleship. Long metal tables covered with green table cloths filled one side of the space, while on the opposite side of the long room, a cafeteria-style steam table sat in front of a pair of stainless steel doors that led back into the kitchen.

To those who had been on ships before, it was quickly becoming evident that this facility had been built to Royal Navy standards, and after filling their metal trays with hot food from the spotless steam table, all the myths about bad navy food rapidly began to disappear. The food was delicious.

Lifting a piece of plain white bread from a plate in the center of the table, Leo was busy mopping up some thick brown gravy around a large piece of pot roast when he heard voices behind them.

"Ah, they told us we would find you all down here. Mind if we join you?"

Seven heads swiveled in unison to see Danny Zamir standing at the bottom of the concrete stairwell next to a group of very serious-looking men and one woman.

Lev Wasserman took a swig of iced tea and raised his fork in salute. "I had a feeling you would be at this meeting, Danny. How did you get here?"

Zamir walked over and slapped his old friend on the shoulder. "An old DC-3 aircraft along the coast of North Africa, then a small speedboat across the Strait. Apparently, the older aircraft the charter outfits use to fly supplies around the third world are pretty much invisible because they haven't been updated with the newest computer-based navigational equipment."

"Well, it looks like we're all here," Lev said. "What's going on, Danny?"

"That's what we're all here to find out. All we've been told is that it concerns the computer worm, and apparently the man with all the answers is sitting right next to you." Danny pointed to Eduardo Acerbi, who continued eating as if he hadn't had a decent meal in days.

"He hasn't said a word to us yet," Leo said, looking at Eduardo, "but I think it's about high time someone put their cards out on the table."

Eduardo took a final bite and winked at Pope Michael as he laid his napkin on the table. "Once again our friend the cardinal reminds us that he has the heart of a warrior and that his patience wears thin, so let's get started. Are any of our new arrivals hungry?"

"I'm famished," a petite, dark-haired woman answered. "We haven't eaten since we left our hotel rooms in the middle of the night."

"Then I suggest you grab some of that delicious food over there and join us." Eduardo's frail hands trembled as he poured some tea. "I would prefer to hold our briefing here in this mess hall rather than return to the plush reception room upstairs where all the high level security briefings usually take place. I have a feeling that room is filled with electronic bugs."

Knowing glances shot around the room as the new arrivals plated their food and took their seats. From the lack of happy chatter, it was immediately obvious to Leo that he was sitting in the presence of people who did very little talking, especially around strangers. Two days earlier, this select group of intelligence specialists had been summoned to this meeting through intermediaries representing Eduardo Acerbi. They had all traveled openly to a NATO base outside Madrid under the guise of a hastily arranged summit meeting convened to address the escalating problems with Iran, and after spending a long day involved in tedious security briefings on the Middle East, they had retired to their hotel rooms to await individual calls. At three in the morning the calls came. Removing the batteries from their smart phones, they quietly slipped into the hallways outside their rooms and walked beneath security cameras that had been disabled.

Once outside the hotel, they made their way down a nearby side street where they found several specially marked cars parked along the curb. All of the cars were at least twenty years old, an essential part of the plan since they lacked any internal computer chips or GPS tracking devices, making them electronically invisible to anyone who wanted to track their movements. The only thing they had to worry about now was the facial recognition capability of the police traffic cameras that lined the highway to Gibraltar, but that obstacle had also been anticipated and was easily neutralized through the use of an invisible reflective polymer embedded into special windshields that had been installed in each car.

Armed only with the knowledge that they were on their way to a meeting concerning the computer worm that had struck Israel, the participants were anxious to hear what information the Israelis had managed to gather about the mysterious cyber attack. A cyber attack anywhere in the world had great national security implications for any country, so when they had received orders telling them to drop everything and make their way to Gibraltar in twenty-year-old cars, this covert group who had lived in the shadows for most of their adult lives thought nothing of making their way to a meeting that was about as shadowy as they came.

Seated up and down the long metal table, the list of attendees was impressive. The first to be introduced by Danny Zamir was Doug Peterson, the deputy director of the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency. Better known to those within the agency as the DDCI, Peterson had been recruited from the ranks of the military's Special Forces Command by his former commander and current director of the CIA. After leading several spectacularly successful missions in Afghanistan, he had risen through the ranks, and in less than five years he had been promoted to his present position as underboss in one of America's premier intelligence-gathering institutions.

Accompanying him was a thin, hawkish man by the name of Carl Smith, who was introduced as the man who headed up the CIA's Counterintelligence Center and Analysis Group, the section that oversaw cyber warfare operations. He was happily chatting up Shane Trent, a close friend who worked at the National Security Administration and had been a pioneer in the development of computer viruses and worms used to hack computer and communications systems used by rogue nations and terrorist groups.

Seated across the table from them was a dark-haired woman who turned out to be the senior cryptologist for MI6. Her name was Gwyneth Hastings, and she was listening with rapt attention to Smith and Trent, for in the cyber warfare world the two men enjoyed the status of rock stars.

The final two members of the newly arrived group were less well-known to the others. The first, Clyde Richards, hailed from the ASIS, the Australian Secret Intelligence Service, and the other, Daaruk Khadri, a slight, dark-skinned man with intelligent shining eyes, was a ranking officer in the DIA-India's Defense Intelligence Agency charged with psychological operations, cyber-warfare, electronic intercepts, and the monitoring of sound waves-a new threat the Indian government had seen lurking on the horizon.

Looking around the room at all the impatient faces staring back at him, Eduardo Acerbi leaned forward on the green tablecloth and cleared his throat. "First off, I'd like to welcome everyone to this meeting. The very fact that you are all here is a testament to our ability to communicate the seriousness of our situation to your superiors ... a situation that grows more menacing by the hour and, if I am correct, will have world-wide implications for every man, woman and child on the planet in the weeks to come. In case none of you have noticed, we are joined by His Holiness, Pope Michael."

All eyes turned toward the tall blond-haired man wearing a black sweater seated at the end of the table.

Gwyneth Hastings was the first to break the awkward silence. "I don't want to be the one to rain on anyone's parade, but this is without a doubt the strangest intelligence briefing I've ever attended. I can tell you right up front that I have no intention of discussing any classified material in front of a group of civilians, including a businessman who now lives in Iraq after his late son tried to wipe out half the planet ... nor should I feel obligated to divulge anything to a church leader who I doubt possesses anything even remotely resembling a security clearance ... even if he is the pope."

An awkward silence followed as everyone waited for Pope Michael's reaction. "Well put, Ms. Hastings, but I must inform you that, as the head of the Catholic Church, I'm also the sovereign ruler of a country, and therefore I possess the highest security clearance in that country. I might also add that I answer to a higher power, and I give you my solemn vow that nothing of what we discuss here today will pass from my lips without your prior approval."

Hastings' face turned crimson with the realization that she had just spoken to a man many believed to be Christ's Vicar here on Earth, and she had done so in the same manner and tone she usually reserved for the frequent head-butting sessions that she had been forced to endure for years in the male-dominated, rough-and-tumble-world of intelligence gathering. Not only that, but she had probably just offended a sitting head of state. Taking in a deep breath, she pursed her lips and lowered her head briefly before peering back up into the pope's blue eyes. "My apologies, Your Holiness. That was incredibly rude of me. Please forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive, Ms. Hastings. You're obviously a very talented professional, or you wouldn't be sitting at this table right now. Personally I'm relieved to hear that you take matters of secrecy so seriously, and as far as Mr. Acerbi is concerned, I must argue in his defense that he saved millions of lives by putting a stop to his son's murderous rampage ... at great personal cost to himself I might add."

Hastings was taken aback by the pope's calm demeanor. "Of course, and my apologies to you as well, Mr. Acerbi."

Folding his thin arms across a short-sleeved, white shirt, Daaruk Khadri sat back from the table as he took in every word. There was still one question on everyone's mind that had not yet been addressed, and he intended to ask it before anything else was said. "Regardless of Ms. Hastings' rather brusque approach, I happen to know that she's still one of the best agents MI6 has ever sent into the field, and her concerns are valid. I don't think it's too much for us to ask why Pope Michael and Mr. Acerbi are sitting here, especially since neither of them are members of the scientific or intelligence communities. From what I've heard, Mr. Acerbi recently suffered a stroke, and the press is reporting that the pope has been missing from Rome for several days now without explanation."

Eduardo lifted a trembling hand and silently refilled his cup of tea. Years spent in endless corporate battles had made him immune to the occasional insult laced with questions concerning personal motives behind his decisions. "Please, allow me to begin by saying that it was necessary for me to feign illness in order to escape from a rather delicate situation ... but more on that later. As for my association with Pope Michael, let me just say for now our two interests coincide and I'll leave it for him to explain his absence from the Vatican." Eduardo glanced up at the clock on the wall as a sudden tremor in his hands caused his drink to spill out onto the table.

"Are you alright, Mr. Acerbi?" Hastings asked, her eyes showing genuine concern.

"Yes, my dear. Thank you. The activity of the past few days has been a bit of a strain for a man of my age, so let me get right to the point. I'm sure by now that you have all been informed that the state of Israel has been dealt a crippling blow to their computer-based infrastructure. They've experienced a cyber attack the likes of which the world has never seen before, and it has reached into every corner of their computer-based technology. However, the most ominous thing about this attack is the power behind this computer worm. No government on Earth possesses the computing power needed to do what this thing is doing, and from what I've observed it's fairly obvious that it's about to spread around the globe via the internet and infect the computer infrastructures of every country on Earth."

Carl Smith looked up from stirring a third spoon of sugar into his coffee. "I'm afraid I find that hard to believe. I mean, if a computer as powerful as you describe existed, the NSA would have come across some evidence of its existence by now."

"I can assure you that I didn't travel all the way here to make up some fantastic lie," Acerbi said. "Think about it for a moment. What would be my motive? I've come here at great personal risk to tell you that every computer system in the world will soon be infected by an entity with a definite agenda in mind. The secure communications networks of every country on Earth will no longer be secure, and I'm talking about thousands of different ultra-secure software programs developed by some of the greatest minds in the field of computer science. Not only that, but security cameras all over the world will soon be serving as eyes for whoever is behind this, which means they'll be able to watch the activities of millions of people all around the globe, including those in military and intelligence institutions. In the weeks to come, every government and personal computer currently plugged into the internet will be monitored by an unknown entity, and I haven't even mentioned things like communications satellites, cell phones, and the power grid ... which includes nuclear power plants. The implications are terrifying. Everything from the family car to our household refrigerators are now run by computers, and soon all of them will be at the mercy of someone or something who's created a computer powerful enough to do the things I've just described."

Smith continued to stir his coffee without drinking. "May I ask how you came into possession of this information, Mr. Acerbi?"

"I've seen it. It's in an underground facility six stories below my compound in Babylon."

Zamir's entire frame stiffened while some of the others either gasped in disbelief or rolled their eyes. Twirling a pencil in his hand, Shane Trent's attention vacillated back and forth between Acerbi and the pope. "With all due respect to both of you, if what you say is true, then we should have computer scientists from all over the world sitting at the table with us right now. Do you have pictures, schematics, crude drawings ... anything to back up your story?"

"I'm afraid you have only my word. We've come here to appeal to you to send an armed force into Iraq and see for yourselves."

"An armed force ... into Iraq?" Hastings sputtered. "Been there and done that. Remember the weapons of mass destruction that never materialized?"

"Which is exactly why they've located it there ... buried beneath the sands of the desert under the palace I purchased in Babylon."

"And how pray tell did this monstrous computer get there without your knowledge?"

"Suffice it to say that it was done right under my nose using funds siphoned off my many business interests, and once the people who built it knew I was aware of its existence, my days were numbered. Unfortunately, I didn't understand the entire scope of their operation until I reached Paris and learned of the computer worm that had begun to spread around the world." Acerbi paused for a moment as he stared at all the disbelieving faces glaring back at him. "There are forces at work here that none of you understand, but whether or not you believe me, I can assure you that everything I say is true. If you'd like, I'd be more than happy to call your bosses so that they can remind you of why you are all here, although at this point I can't guarantee you that my call will be secure."