by Rick Jones
Rome, Italy
Inside the bar that always had that smell of sweat and mildew, Kimball ordered a line of whisky shots. After receiving a dozen glasses, he lined them up in a neat row.
The sum of my life, he considered, sitting before me. He took the first glass and downed it. Then he tipped it over and laid it rim-side down on the tabletop. In time, he would create a second row of empty shot glasses, all in a neat row. On the TV above the bar, scenes of a tragedy were playing out in the United States. The Statue of Liberty had fallen from a stand-up posture into a severe leaning position of a ninety-degree angle. Instead of looking over the harbor and the city of New York, she was now staring at the ground. On the other side of the split screen was the cordoned off area of the Washington Monument, the once towering needle now a rubble of stone. Obviously, the United States of America was having its second go-round of 9/11, with these attacks striking the most iconic symbols of American freedom. Terrorism was making itself known that the Coalition Forces may have won the battle in places like Syria, but not the war.
Kimball, downing his second and third shots, eased back into his seat to watch the news.
TV anchors and analysts also spoke of the aftereffects of the attack, such as the nosedive of the DOW and how America’s backbone was close to breaking under the financial strain, before the market had finally been forced to close. And the airports had been closed as well, the country now on lockdown for air travel. But what made Kimball’s breath hitch was the posting of the alleged architects behind the attack. Though he did not know the man on the left side of the screen, he did recognize the man on the right as Montrell Thompson, AKA Mohammad Allawi.
After the man attempted to assassinate Shari Cohen buy putting a bullet in her that damaged her lung and bowel, Kimball responded with unstoppable vengeance. Even though he had given his heart to her long ago, she had denied him because Kimball was a person who could commit great violence. Though he also showed her a side of compassion, there was something about Kimball that could never be tamed. And it was this wildness that caused him to pursue and hunt down the man who tried to kill the woman he loved. Though he did not kill Montrell Thompson, he did leave behind his broken body for the authorities to pitch inside a Blacksite hellhole, which Kimball believed at the time would have been worse than death.
Apparently, I was mistaken. I should have killed you when I had the chance.
Kimball took another shot of whisky, tipped the empty glass over onto its rim, and continued to watch the news. Thompson, along with one other, were on the loose and the manhunt had yielded, thus far, zero results.
Kimball looked down at the remaining glasses, then at the TV.
Thompson was a brilliant mind, Kimball thought, and a man who liked to make statements with his hand the one that held the Sword of Damocles. He enjoyed the fact that he ruled with uncontrollable power of creating absolute chaos with a simple sweep of his hand. Kimball knew that Thompson would finish what he started with Shari Cohen by trying to end her life for instrumenting a raid against his brother, who had been killed.
Kimball counted the six empty glasses. Six remained full.
Back to the TV.
Back to counting the glasses.
The TV.
The glasses.
The stock was half full, half empty.
Grabbing his rucksack, Kimball raced out of the bar.
* * *
Kimball ran nonstop to Vatican City and toward the Apostolic Palace, where he was stopped by members of the Swiss Guard. After a security check was conducted, a bishop was subsequently called to escort Kimball to the papal chamber. After the bishop knocked on the papal door and poked his head in to apologize for the intrusion, he then waved his hand in gesture for Kimball to enter. After the door closed behind him, Kimball found himself in an awkward position; Isaiah and Jeremiah were sitting in council with the pontiff.
“Have you forgotten something?” the pontiff asked. “As you can see, I was rather busy.”
Kimball walked into the room and stood before the pope’s desk. “No doubt replacing me.”
“As you requested, yes?”
“I did. And yes, with Isaiah taking lead and Jeremiah serving as his lieutenant.”
Then Kimball took a lighter note to his demeanor. “You’ve seen what happened in the United States, the terrorist attacks.”
“Of course.”
“The airports are locked down,” he told him. “I need you to get me to Washington, D.C.”
The pontiff looked at Kimball for a moment, then with measurable regret, he said: “You’ve made your decision . . . I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“The man who orchestrated these attacks is also the same person who tried to assassinate Shari Cohen,” Kimball told him. “He’ll try to finish off what he failed to do the first time. Now airspace over the United States is closed. But the Vatican can charter a flight from Rome to the Cayman Islands—which is the property of the United Kingdom, whose airspace is open—through Alitalia Airlines. From there I can chopper my way to a ship that’s a day away from the Port of Miami. Once I reach Miami with the proper credentials provided by the Vatican, then I can find my own way to D.C.”
“Kimball, you’ve surrendered your collar. And by surrendering your collar, you are no longer entitled to any assistance from the Vatican.”
“Shari Cohen was deemed an asset and an Honorary Knight of the Vatican when she placed her life at risk to save the life of Pope Pius XIII, who made her an asset and an interest of the church.”
“The woman you care for,” the pontiff returned to point out Kimball’s true motive. “You have a need to protect her. I understand. Nevertheless, the church has no confirmation that her life is in jeopardy.”
“It will be.”
Isaiah and Jeremiah continued to look at the floor by their feet, the Vatican Knights simply witnesses to the conversation that was playing out.
The pontiff, however, stayed his course of inflexibility. “The moment you forfeited your collar, Kimball, was the moment you broke my heart. Not only did you quit on the church . . . but you quit on yourself.”
Kimball nodded in agreement. “I won’t deny that,” he said to the pope. “But if wearing the collar will reinstitute my value as a Vatican Knight, then I’m willing to give the church my full attention.”
After a pause, the pontiff said, “Your full attention is not enough, I’m afraid. What I want are those who are truly devoted to the cause for which the Vatican Knights were created for by Bonasero Vessucci. The collar is not a free pass to serve your personal needs, Kimball, nor is it decoration. It is a symbol that reminds the Knight who wears the collar that ‘Loyalty is above all else . . . Except Honor.’ Unfortunately, you have shown me neither for some time now—sad to say.”
Kimball, sounding defeated, said, “I’ve lost my way—true. But I need this.”
“And what will you give in return?”
“My absolute devotion to the Vatican.”
“If I allow you this opportunity, how would I know that your devotion wouldn’t suddenly fade the moment you reach your destination?”
“I give you my absolute word. I will live and die by the credo of ‘Loyalty above all else except honor.’”
“I see that the love for a woman has incredible power. Still, I’m troubled, Kimball. Even from where I sit, I can smell the alcohol. Apparently, it didn’t take long for you to find a tavern soon after you left my chamber.”
“Only a few,” he answered.
“Which is a few too many, especially when you used to be an elite soldier within the ranks of the Vatican Knights.”
“I am done with the alcohol.” Kimball’s voice was beginning to rise heatedly.
“And on that, as well, do I have your promise?”
“You do.”
The pontiff sat for a long time toiling in self-debate, while at the same time appraising Kimball, who looked more like a vagrant or a wanderer, than a man who could reshape events
from the multiple skill sets he possessed. Leaning forward to open the drawer, the pope grabbed the cleric’s band and placed it on the desktop. As soon as Kimball went to reach for it, the pontiff slapped his palm over it. “On two conditions,” he said, “will you wear this collar.”
Kimball remained as still as a statue with his hand still extended.
“Like I said, Kimball, this collar is not for decoration, it is a symbol to be worn proudly, something you used to do. Now, I ask you once again to wear this with pride and as a Vatican Knight. And to serve and protect those who cannot protect themselves.”
“Done.”
“Secondly, you are not to drink alcohol, since it will be your duty to uphold a higher standard.”
“Agreed.”
“So easily, Kimball?” Keeping his palm firmly over the collar, he added, “Sometimes, when the demons of your life gets their hands on you, it’s difficult to simply give up the devil’s elixir.”
“I said that I was done. I have given you my word, and my word has always been my bond.”
“True. True. But tell me, how are you going to find the magic of once again seeking the ‘Light’ with the same spiritual motivation, when it has obviously faded from your heart?” The moment he asked the question, the pontiff read the answer in Kimball’s eyes. The motivation was coming from his deeply grounded love of a woman he knew he could never have. Such power this must be, thought the pope. Then he lifted his hand from the collar and proposed it as an offering to Kimball.
“May God be with you,” he whispered.
Kimball, grabbing the collar, looked upon it as if it was a priceless gem. It had always reminded him of his journey to seek the ‘Great Illumination,’ and something he had worn proudly. Now he would wear it as a soldier who would continue to work in the ‘Dark’ to serve the ‘Light,’ and do what must be done to protect the woman he loved.
Getting to a bended knee, Kimball Hayden proffered the salute of the Vatican Knights by placing a closed fist over his heart, then said, “Loyalty above all else except honor.”
“Remember your station as a Vatican Knight, Kimball, and serve the church well.”
“Thank you, Your Holiness.” Getting to his feet, Kimball then asked, “About the transportation.”
“Everything will be set by the time you’re appropriately dressed to serve.”
“Again, Your Holiness, greatly appreciated.”
“Remember your conditions and the promises you applied to each one. And, Kimball.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“Welcome back.”
There was nothing to reveal what Kimball was feeling at that moment, no showing of emotion. He simply nodded in gratitude and walked out of the papal chamber.
After a moment passed, the pontiff said to Isaiah and Jeremiah, “I pray that he maintains his convictions and holds true.”
“Kimball has given you his word,” Isaiah told him. “And we all know that he can handle himself against anything that comes his way.”
“He can handle himself against hostile intrusions, yes,” the pontiff returned.
“But if there’s one man that Kimball Hayden could never conquer . . . it’s always been himself. Before I hand you the complete authority as the Master of Command of the Vatican Knights, Isaiah, first let’s see if Kimball can manage his walk alone towards the Light. Let us see if he’s truly capable of living up to the standards of ‘Loyalty above all else except honor.’ If he stumbles, however, the command is yours and Jeremiah will serve as your second lieutenant.”
“Yes, Your Holiness,” said Isaiah.
“Dismissed.”
After giving the pontiff the salute of the Vatican Knights and then kissing the Fisherman’s Ring, they left the papal chamber.
Pope John Paul III, now alone, wondered if the love of a woman was as great as the power of divine intervention. Perhaps, he considered, they were one and the same.
* * *
Inside his quarters, Kimball was staring at his reflection in the stainless-steel mirror above the sink basin. He was measuring the lines on his face, which had grown longer and deeper over the past few weeks. And his eyes, once blue with the star-point glitters of light dancing along the irises, had dulled. The liquor had been stealing from him by the inches. But as soon as he fitted the cleric’s band into the collar of his shirt, though the lines remained, a spark appeared to germinate in his eyes, just pinpricks. But they were there, burning as embers.
Rejuvenation?
The word struck him.
Rejuvenation?
Perhaps.
He was trying to make himself believe that this was for the continued hunt of the ‘Light.’
Rejuvenation?
The small glimmers of light in his eyes continued to blossom, to bloom, and his heart seemed to register a new and growing faith.
Then he closed his eyes and thought: But the heart is not the seat of emotions. It’s only a muscle.
When he opened his eyes, he noted that the sparks were still there. Perhaps, he considered, the heart is much more than a muscle after all.
Then he saw Shari Cohen in his mind’s eye, by visiting the memories of the way she smiled and moved with grace and economy. He could see her perfect rows of ruler-straight teeth and the point of her widow’s peak. And then he recalled the way her voice carried with the milk-and-honey tone of sweetness.
Unknowingly, this had brought a smile to his face and to his reflection.
Then darkness quickly intruded with memories of Montrell Thompson on the night he nearly killed the man who attempted to assassinate Shari. He remembered being indomitable and unstoppable, a juggernaut fueled by heightened anger who surrendered his boundaries mandated by the church, only to rediscover them at the last moment. So, he allowed the man to live out his days in a Blacksite penitentiary.
With his smile diminishing, Kimball stared at the cleric’s collar and its pristine whiteness that was in contrast with his black shirt. This is the symbol of my faith to seek what matters most. But there were two things that mattered to him: The love of a woman he knew he could never have, and the Light of Acceptance. Now he was divided over which was paramount since the collar only reminded him of his journey to seek out the ‘Light,’ not love.
Backing away from the mirror, Kimball turned to appraise his compartment. His life had for years centered inside this room that was more like a chapel than a sleeping quarter. And for those years he had denied himself the right to kneel upon the padded rail or light the candles within the votive rack in preparation for prayer. On the pedestal lay a Bible that had never been opened, or a word read from between its covers. High up on the wall was the stained-glass image of the Virgin Mother who, on sunny days, would lend her arms out to him in invitation as the sun passed overhead to create a Biblical beam of light that would filter through the window, and alight on the floor by his feet. Today, however, a troubled sky moved in with dark and scudding clouds. But the Virgin Mary, even without her sunny disposition, continued to hold her arms out to him.
Grabbing his rucksack, Kimball left his chamber to see that the woman who had won his heart would not fall victim to Montrell Thompson, who was now known as Mohammad Allawi.
You better pray that the authorities get to you first, he told himself. If you so much as try to go after her, I’ll be there. And believe me when I say that for the things you have done in life, God will condone my actions. Perhaps we’ll meet in Hell someday. And if we do, I assure you that the fight between us will never end.
Kimball Hayden, whose fury was beginning to mount, would not be denied.
Chapter Nineteen
The Following Day
The news network targeted by Najm’s emails took the ball and ran with it. He had planted the seed in an era where fake news had become the fodder for passable news based not on objective facts, but by the possibility that it could be factual. In order to keep one agency from taking the leap forward in the ratings game, other agencies
followed suit so that the playing field remained level. Of course, they admitted that the information provided was in the stages of being verified, yet the TV analysts spoke of possible government intrusions, and usually as a one-sided affair that did not bode well for the banking community. Even as the government denied any possibility of this happening, especially after the crash of the stock market, the seed of possibility had been planted. People were flocking to the banks to pull funds only to create lines that wrapped around neighborhood corners.
“There’s no better way to destabilize a regime, Najm, than by manipulating the media to work for you,” said Allawi. “It happens all the time. When networks are at each other’s throats to win the ratings war, who does it benefit? It benefits those who want to reshape the public perception, that’s who.” Mohammad Allawi, leaving the TV on, went to a threadbare couch to confront three men in their mid-twenties, all devotees to the cause, with his arms folded across his chest and a smile on his face. “I am so proud of you,” he told them. “All of you.” Then he pointed to the images on the TV screen, which was showing the aftermath of the banking scare. As predicted, a major news agency had taken the seed of imagination and turned it into a storyline that took off with a life of its own. The false narrative Allawi had Najm send to the agency regarding the possibility of a ‘bank holiday’ in the aftermath of a plummeting DOW, was serving its purpose. People were gathering in massive lines at the banks, bleeding them dry despite assurances from the president, who from his stately podium, stated that there was no truth to the news reports.
Your money is safe, he told the masses.
There’s no need to panic.
The news reports are unfounded and not true. I repeat, they are unfounded and not true.
And finally, in a stroke of premature confidence, he added with a pumping of his fist: We will rise above this as we did in the aftermath of 9/11.
“There you see what happens when the people no longer believe or trust their government.” Then Allawi returned his attention back to the three men on the couch. “And tomorrow, you three, with the guidance of Allah, will add to that mistrust. And with Allah’s guidance, all of you will serve to usher in a New Age of Enlightenment. Your names will never be forgotten.”
