by Rick Jones
The pontiff nodded. “Centuries ago.”
“Computers, once they get a grip on a decrypt sequence, can squeeze those years down to weeks.”
“Or sooner,” stated Father Essex. “Three dead already. With the fourth, no doubt, soon to come.”
“Marsha Gibbons,” Kimball confirmed.
Essex nodded. “Which is why we need to get you to London as soon as possible. We have people there, but they’re not Vatican Knights. From what we’ve seen of the victims, their lives are being ended as if it was personal, with force and brutality. And Gibbons, who is next on the list, remains in jeopardy.”
“How quickly can you get my team to London?”
“If you galvanize now,” said Father Essex, his eyes rolling ceilingward while trying to decide on the time necessary, “two and a half, maybe three hours.”
“Get our contacts ready at the London base,” Kimball told him as he got to his feet. “I want to hit the ground running as soon as I get off the plane.”
“Of course,” Father Essex returned. Then: “We’ll maintain contact while you’re en route and provide you with necessary data along the way.”
“Good enough.”
As soon as Kimball turned to exit the papal chamber, the pontiff called after him. “Remember, Kimball, the optimum goal here is to return the book to the Vatican. Remember who you are and what you represent to the church. Please try to keep the effects of committing harm to others at a minimum.” When Kimball reached the door and hung his hand on the knob, he said, “Your Holiness, so that you understand ...combat is combat. It’s never child’s play.” Then he left the chamber.
Chapter Fifteen
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London
The man in priest’s clothing made his way back to his flat in London’s eastside. The apartment was dark, the drapes drawn. When he walked into the bedroom he got onto his knees, reached underneath the bed, grabbed a suitcase, and placed it on the sheets. After unzipping the case and opening the lid, he took the paperback novel he had appropriated from Marsha Gibbons and gently placed it inside the suitcase along with Adalgiso’s crucifix, Edelina Böhm’s cellphone, and Lamont Charbonneau’s custom pen. After locking the suitcase, he returned it to its rightful spot beneath the bed and grabbed the small box next to it. Placing the box on the sheets and opening the lid, the man shuddered with sexual delight when he saw the whip.
Getting to his feet and removing his shirt to reveal the tattooed angel’s wings upon his back, the assassin grabbed the whip and started to flog himself until the tats began to bleed, while asking forgiveness for taking the lives of the two constables and—perhaps—the dyed-haired woman, until he felt that his actions had been justified in the eyes of God. When red welts and stripes appeared on the tattooed wings, he returned the whip to its box and headed for the bathroom. In the mirror, while turning his backside so that he could see the reflection of his tapestry, he noted the damage to his skin and to the wings, and fully believed that God would heal him through divine intervention, since the assassin’s job was too important to the cause.
Rolling his shoulders while pinning the eyes of his reflection with a mutual stare, the assassin eventually left the bathroom and headed for the living room. Against the wall a cross burned red with neon light, which poorly illuminated the room with a reddish glow. Grabbing his cellphone from a nightstand beneath the neon cross, he dialed a quick-call number by pushing a single digit on the keypad with his thumb and waited. After the third ring someone picked up.
“Go.”
“The target has been dealt with. But not without collateral damage. I was, however, able to escape by dodging the cameras.”
“You said collateral damage. How many?”
“Three. Two constables and a woman, all Guardians.”
“Guardians. You know this for sure?”
“Positive. The woman turned on me with a knife. I had no choice but to neutralize her.”
“God will forgive you, my Brother. But since the Guardians were involved, that tells me that the Vatican knows and will continue to call out their watchdogs.”
“I can handle them.”
“Be careful, my Brother, you may now have to wade through the sea in order to get to the island. A bloody battle it may be.”
“Has the decryption program come up with others?”
“Just one. He’s in London as well.”
“Send me the data so that I can prepare.”
“Of course.”
After severing the call and placing the phone on the table, he got on his knees before the neon cross, put his hands together, and began to mouth the words of a prayer in Aramaic.
Chapter Sixteen
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En Route from Rome to London
While on a charter flight from Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci Airport to Heathrow in London, Kimball was pouring over documents on a laptop. Jeremiah, Isaiah and Joshua were also using tablets to absorb the mission’s objectives, which included the appropriation of the Brimstone Diaries, as well as to neutralize any intentions considered hostile to the citizenry of the church. Halfway through the flight, Kimball received an incoming feed from the Command Center of Vatican Intelligence, which was located beneath the basilica. Tapping the screen, Father Auciello’s image appeared on the monitor. “Father Auciello,” Kimball greeted. “Data?” The Jesuit priest on the screen nodded. “Kimball, I need you to link me in with the others onboard. I want all of the Vatican Knights to see this.” As soon as everyone with a tablet adjusted their settings, they were linked to Kimball’s modem to share incoming messages.
“Ready,” Kimball told the Jesuit.
“Two hours ago, your mark was found dead in her apartment. Apparently by the way of garroting. We were, however, able to catch the assassin through security and CCTV cameras.” After Father Auciello leaned over to type a command on the keyboard with a few taps of his fingers, he said, “You ready for the feed?”
“We’re ready.”
As soon as Father Auciello hit the ‘ENTER’ key, a granular recording surfaced on the screen. The feed was a recording taken from a security camera inside a London tube station. From the scripted markings at the lower left of the screen, it was Waterloo. It depicted a man in priest’s clothing who exited the train, then was detained by two constables for reasons unknown. After a few moments of conversation, the priest on the monitor suddenly went on the offensive with a series of fluid moves. He disabled the officers quickly with a fighting technique that could only be brought on by years of training, then crippled them before they could respond to the moment. The priest performed gracefully with his arms and hands nothing less than poetry in motion, as he stole the officer’s baton and used it against them. Just a couple of damaging blows was all it took; the club perfectly placed to attack the kill spots, with one to the neck and the other to the crown of the man’s skull.
“This image was taken about two hours ago at the Waterloo station in London,” came Father Auciello’s voice through a speaker, though the tube image was still playing on all the tablets and screens. “The woman we sought to protect was leaving the line when this man exited and started to tag her.” Freezing the image on a telestrator from Father Auciello’s end, he was able to draw a yellow circle around the cleric in question. “A priest,” stated Father Auciello. Then he zoomed in on the priest’s arms, which were massive logs of muscle that were heavily tattooed. On one arm was the tattoo marking of the Virgin Mother, and different styles of Catholic crosses in different colors of ink. On the other arm, along with numerous crosses, was the image of Jesus adorning the Crown of Thorns. Then he backed out of the image to put a new one up. This one was a head-photo shot of the man, the image crisp and clean.
“This guy’s no priest,” Kimball told him. “His skillset as a fighter tells me that he’s upper-end military. Most likely Special Forces.” From the posted image on the screen, Kimball could see the angular features and stro
ng jawline. With the width of his shoulders and the size of his arms, there was no doubt in Kimball’s mind that this man was an elite fighter. “He’s definitely no priest,” he finally added.
“We were able to gather enough facial landmarks from this photo for VisageWare. She came up with zero strikes, Kimball. Of all the photos we have in our database regarding millions of faces across the globe, this guy isn’t one of them.
He does not exist.”
“A highly-specialized spook?”
“Always a possibility,” said Father Auciello.
“No hits at all?”
“Not even close. The highest was a six-percent match.”
Kimball, along with his team of Vatican Knights, continued to watch their screens.
“What happened to the priest after he left the tube?” Kimball asked.
“After the security cameras lost sight of him inside the underground, we were able to hack into the CCTV cameras on the boulevard. And this is what we got.” The Vatican Knights watched as the assassin did little to hide his intentions as he closed in on the woman, who appeared oblivious to the danger that followed.
While the priest was narrowing the gap, a young woman with dyed hair turned against him with a blade in her hand, the steel glinting. In a move that was smooth and effortless, the priest removed the knife from her grip and slashed her throat, all within a second and without losing a step to his stride. The woman, with her hands pressed to her throat, fell to the ground.
The priest kept walking.
“The constables are dead, I’m afraid,” Father Auciello spoke. “And the woman remains in critical condition, but she’s alive.”
“Were they Guardians? The constables and the woman?”
“They were,” said Auciello. “But as you can see, the Guardians, outside of their devotion and faith to Christ, have minimal skills to bring to the table. Whoever this person is, he does not exist. And that, I believe, is something we can all agree upon, since there is no doubt that this man is a highly-trained combatant.” “What about examining the global military and black-op databases?”
“We have. And he’s a ghost. His classification may be well above our abilities to appropriate data from whatever black-op agency he comes from, because their firewalls would be too thick to penetrate.”
“Dig as deep as you can.”
“It would take too much time to cultivate through such walls. And that’s something we don’t have.”
“Doesn’t matter. You must dig as deep as you can. You must go through every known intel group, including everything that’s attached to the CIA as a black-ops arm. In this business, and believe me when I say this, we all had identities. You just have to be diligent enough to go out there and find it.”
“We’ll keep digging, Kimball, since the matter is one of grave importance, obviously. But my point is: information gathering takes a while, even with today’s technology at our fingertips, so time is not a luxury here.”
“It never is and never will be,” said Kimball.
“No. I guess there’s never enough time when you need it most.”
Kimball tapped a button to bring Father Auciello back onscreen. Then to the face of the monitor, Kimball asked, “What happened to the priest after he slashed the Watcher’s throat?”
“Once the last of the Guardians went down, the target was without protection. The priest went on to fulfill his objective by garroting her. A moment later we catch the assassin on video exiting the premise, but then we lose him. He evaporated like the ghost he is, Kimball. We can’t find him on any of the CCTV scans in London after he left the flat.”
“He probably knows he’s being watched, which means he either changed his appearance out of camera’s range—probably with a hat, an added limp or a new coat. Something. Or he was picked up by a second person in a vehicle that was out of the CCTV scan.”
Then Isaiah, who was Kimball’s second lieutenant, asked, “Now that the original mission has been compromised, I assume the mission goal now is to retrieve the book and return to base?”
“No,” said Father Auciello. “There’s another. In London. And it’s the fifth name on the list after the name of Gibbons. He’s an American professor who will be speaking at an engagement within the next two hours.”
“You do realize we’re not capable of protecting everyone in that book, right? A name today. Ten names tomorrow. Who knows how many names they’re deciphering every day.”
“Which is why you need to get that book, Kimball. Without the book they’re powerless.”
“The book may not be in London at all,” Kimball said.
“That may be true,” Father Auciello returned. “But there’s at least one person in London who does know of its whereabouts. Find the person, then you find the book.”
“You’re talking about the assassin?”
“We have his face on record. If he gets within range of a CCTV cam in London, we’ll find him through FRS and notify your unit.”
“Good enough.”
“One more thing,” Father Auciello said. “You’ll be met at the airport by Father Ferrano. He’s the field operative for Vatican Intelligence there. He’ll clue you in as to the next stage of the operation.”
“Father Ferrano. Got it.”
“I know I don’t have to tell you, Kimball, but getting the Brimstone Diaries back is paramount.”
“Understood.”
By closing the lid of his laptop, Kimball severed the connection. London was a big city with lots of hiding spaces, he thought, as he looked out the window. But he also knew that the next victim would draw the killer close like steel to a magnet.
And when he did show, the Vatican Knights would be waiting.
Chapter Seventeen
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London
The assassin was praying to his neon sign when his laptop chimed. By its tone he had received an incoming message. Getting to his feet, with the tattooed wings upon his back that were red and raw from multiple lashes, the man went to his computer, flipped the lid, and tapped the ‘ENTER’ button.
A file came up with no information in the subject line.
Tapping the icon of the file with the point of his finger, it opened on the screen. There was a photo of his next target. A man by the name of Robert Bowman, a professor of Philosophy at the University of Las Vegas, Nevada, who was doing the circuit of promoting his bestselling book, Science is the New God. “A blasphemer,” whispered the assassin. “A heathen with the blood of a prince coursing through the soul of a devil.”
For a long time, the killer studied the screen. He remembered every nuance and feature of his target’s face. He memorized the man’s quirks, his history, anything of importance that would help him track down his prey. After marking the file as dead, he scrubbed it clean. Everything about a man named Robert Bowman was completely erased from the hard drive. But there was little to know of the man since his celebrity status propelled him to the top of popculture with a meteoric rise.
“Heathen,” the man hissed disdainfully.
Then he noted the time on the wall clock. In less than an hour Robert Bowman was going to speak at an engagement regarding his book, inside a hall that sat 400 people.
Going to his closet he opened the door. Inside were different pieces of clothing to meet a certain look, all on hangers. There was a bishop’s outfit; a constable’s uniform; a pair of doctor’s scrubs; the garments of a hobo, the fabric torn and tattered; and the uniform of a British special-forces operator. Reaching inside, he grabbed the constable’s uniform.
After putting on the outfit that covered his tattoos and checking himself in the mirror to measure specs, he grabbed his T-baton, which was actually a one-shot firearm with a .45-caliber discharge. All he had to do was point the tip of the baton at the subject and depress a small button at the base of the handle. After sliding the baton into a ring that was attached to a belt, he then placed two knives into a special girdle around his wa
ist, then fashioned his coat in a way to hide their bulk.
Now the assassin was ready to move forward.
Knowing that Robert Bowman would be surrounded by Guardians, many would be killed on this day, this he knew. Whenever a target spoke freely inside a public forum, collateral damage was rarely an avoided tragedy.
But God will forgive me.
Once a priest and now a constable, the killer left his flat and made his way to Conway Hall on Waterloo Road. Within the hour he would locate and confront Robert Bowman ...
...And then he would dispatch him with a single kill shot to the middle of his forehead.
Chapter Eighteen
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Heathrow Airport, London
According to his biographical record, Father Ferrano was a Jesuit priest who served as a sniper with the Army Rangers and racked up a recorded fifty-two kills in contentious hotspots throughout the Middle East, including Fallujah, where he killed twenty-seven hostiles alone. He was tall, about six-three, and weighed approximately two hundred pounds of lean muscle. He was a man of dark complexion with black hair, deep brown eyes, and a strong and angular jawline. Across his upper lip was a laser-thin moustache that gave him the appearance of a 1920s movie-star.
After he received communication from Intelligence regarding the arrival of the Vatican Knights, Father Ferrano waited for them in an SUV next to the ramp to avoid the crowds inside the terminal. Once the small charter landed, Father Ferrano drove the vehicle to the plane. As the Vatican Knights disembarked, Father Ferrano was waiting for them.
Kimball exited first, the man forced to bend low to get through the doorway and descended the steps to the tarmac.
“Mr. Hayden,” said Father Ferrano as he extended a hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
Kimball looked at the man’s Roman Catholic collar. Then: “Father Ferrano?”
