by Rick Jones
Sitting before a string of illuminated TV monitors, the Master Tech watched the throb and glow of the dark particle, a universal power.
It was a spark from the Big Bang, he thought. And a power not yet understood.
Yet Elias Caspari wanted to simply displace operations without the utilization of proper procedures. All he wanted to do was gut and run.
Impossible.
Certain safety measures had to be met and certain protocols followed. Without following the rules of precaution, then the entire horn of the mountain could perish in a blink of an eye, or perhaps the entire city of Lucerne. They weren’t even on the cusp of knowing the capabilities this particle possessed.
With hypnotic wonderment, the lead technician watched the illuminated particle pulsate with the same measure of a human heartbeat.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Lucerne Safehouse
Kimball Hayden found himself alone inside the safehouse, the separation from the others welcomed. He was sitting on the edge of his bed looking at a cellphone photo of Shari. It was a headshot of a woman who was pretty in a natural sort of a way with dark straight hair; a spangled glitter in one eye, perhaps from the flash of the camera; and perfect rows of teeth.
Hayden could envision her standing within the room as a phantasmal image that brought him pleasure and pain. Pleasure because he loved her, and pain because he missed her.
Then from the doorway of his room, a voice asked, “Your girlfriend, yes?” It was Mr. Spartan. He was leaning against the doorjamb with his hands tucked inside the pockets of his pants.
Hayden, after placing his cellphone inside his shirt pocket, said, “My Shari.”
Mr. Spartan proffered a cheerless smile the moment a flashing image of his wife and daughter entered his mind and left just as quick. “It’s a good thing to be in love. There’s no greater pleasure, is there?”
“No. Not really.”
Mr. Spartan stepped into the room uninvited. “Look, Kimball, after our last discussion, I left with the feeling that you were standing at a crossroads regarding your place in the mission.”
“I know exactly what my mission duties are.”
“I know. You’re a Vatican Knight who keeps a keen eye on the goal, which is to retrieve the items we’re after. We, too, seek the relics. But the imperative here is to look at the Eye of Moses as the optimal item here. Retrieving that crystal is your priority. You need to know that.”
“I know that.”
Mr. Spartan nodded. “I also want you to understand that you have a choice here. We work outside the parameter of rules outside of the Vatican. And yes, you’ve had your skirmishes along the way because you just can’t avoid them sometimes. But this is different. We’re dealing with a league of assassins whose goal is to do whatever Elias Caspari tells them to do. And because of this, this operation has an added agenda to it.” After a momentary pause, he added: “My role here is to cut off the head of the snake.”
“Apparently you know little of what we do as Vatican Knights. Don’t let this collar I wear fool you.” Then Kimball appeared to take in Mr. Spartan’s last statement with absorption, and added, “You’re an assassin? I get it.”
“Specifically assigned to kill Elias Caspari.”
“You once told me that it wasn’t the Consortium’s way to terminate targets. That you use methods to rebalance global powers so that no one gains an upper hand over another.”
“That’s true. That is our primary purpose. But there comes a time when exigent circumstances come into play, Kimball. You see, history is rich with people like Elias Caspari who believes that he can take something more powerful than he is and try to control it. But no one can control such a power as the dark particle. Not even the Consortium. Nor would we attempt to do so. That’s why we need to take the loaded gun away from Caspari before he does irreversible damage, should the destructive force behind the dark particle discharge. You need to regain the staff, Kimball, and to restore stability should absolute power decide to tilt in the favor of one. No one on this planet has the right to climb that pyramid alone. Especially Elias Caspari.”
“So now you stand here trying to justify your actions to me regarding your reason to murder another man, is that it? I honestly don’t care.”
Mr. Spartan stared at Hayden for a slight moment before saying, “Killing another man is not an easy thing to do. And you need to understand what Elias Caspari wants is not unique. Hitler, Napoleon, Alexander the Great—they all had the same vision. People like Caspari won’t be the first who wants to change the world with absolute conformity in action, word and thought. His idea of a utopian state is to strip everyone of free will. And that comes under both tyranny and terrorism. We cannot allow that to happen . . . no matter the cost.” Mr. Spartan remained in the room’s center, the air between them seemingly awkward. Then: “Kimball, you find the staff and the Eye of Moses. And then you find the crucible that once belonged to Nostradamus. Secure the items and make sure they end up either at the Vatican or at the Consortium.”
“You sound as if you’re not planning to join me.”
“I plan to fulfill my agenda alongside my team. It’s up to you to see that the relics return to the rightful ownership of the Consortium.”
“Mr. Spartan,” Hayden told him, “like it or not this is a team effort, which I’m a part of. I know exactly the position you’re in. I’ve been there countless times and took countless lives in the name of the church to make the world a safer place through the equation of addition by subtraction. Being relegated to a treasure hunter is not what I was wired to do.”
“I’m sorry, Kimball. But my mission is clear and it’s above your pay grade. I know you can handle yourself. That’s been made noticeably clear. And when the time comes, you’ll need to use those skills. After my team clears the area, then we will branch off to achieve our mission goals. I find Elias Caspari . . . You find the relics.”
Kimball Hayden remained quiet.
As a moment of silence passed between them, Mr. Spartan finally said, “It’s funny, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“That history is supposed to teach us lessons that we somehow never seem to learn.” With that, Mr. Spartan turned and left the room.
Hayden, who stared after him, could feel the weighted sadness that Mr. Spartan always seemed to leave behind. Oddly, they were two peas within the same pod.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
When Mr. Shakespeare's body was discovered soon after the murder, it didn’t take long for the Consortium to intercept the calls and communications from Swiss authorities who detailed Shakespeare’s death. Throat slashed, they said. An apparent homicide with no witnesses. At present, Crime Scene Investigators were on location to examine the area for any trace evidence.
This did not resonate well with Mr. da Vinci, who was in immediate contact with Mr. Spartan via the GBAN system on the laptop.
“And the others?” he asked Mr. Spartan.
“Still within the field of operation. Per protocol, every man is running silent without means of identification. Unfortunately, Mr. Shakespeare is the only one accounted for at this point.”
On screen, Mr. da Vinci offered a sullen nod before saying: “It’s likely that Mr. Shakespeare was compromised by the Shadow Klan. Who else would have that kind of skillset to remove him?”
Berl Leberecht, AKA Mr. Shakespeare, was a decorated member of the Kommando Spezialkräfte, which was an elite special-forces unit comprised of special operations soldiers that were selected from Germany's Bundeswehr, and organized under the Rapid Forces Division. To remove him from the operation when he was cognizant of surrounding dangers, conveyed to Mr. da Vinci that Mr. Shakespeare’s termination was a result of someone who was just as militarily gifted as a combatant.
“But we’ll know better when the others check in,” said Mr. da Vinci.
“If it was the Shadow Klan,” Mr. Spartan said, “there’s a g
ood chance that we’ve been compromised.”
“Perhaps. But we don’t know for sure. And I don’t believe that this is the time for speculation until the others have returned with data.” Then Mr. da Vinci leaned toward the screen with the features along his face, such as the running seams, appearing more pronounced. “I know you’ve spread your team to trail those identified from facial recognition. But what about the one called Salt?”
“I sent a three-man unit,” Mr. Spartan informed him. “Misters Donatello, Archimedes and Michelangelo. I thought it prudent to send them as a team since Salt possesses a special skillset.”
“Agreed.”
“If Salt has any information, hopefully they’ll be able to obtain it. They’ll use the same technique against Salt as Salt used against Mr. Copernicus. They’ll use his family as a means of extracting information.”
“I don’t want them harmed.”
“They won’t be. At least not critically. They’re simply bait.”
“And in the aftermath of Salt’s mining?”
“Then he’ll be removed from the situation . . . And it’ll be done away from the family.”
Mr. da Vinci nodded. “Removing Salt will weaken Elias Caspari greatly, and half the battle will be won.” Mr. da Vinci fell back into his seat and away from the lens, enough so that the lines upon his face were no longer evident. “Stay in communication,” he finally told Mr. Spartan.
“I will.”
“Out.”
When the picture faded to a light mote in the center of the screen, Mr. Spartan watched it disappear completely before closing the laptop.
And then he closed his eyes.
Mr. Shakespeare had been erased from the equation. And in the process, the Consortium had been severely weakened with the loss of a tremendous asset who was once a member of the German Kommando Spezialkräfte. “Even more so,” he commented softly to himself, “he was a good friend.”
As the shadows of his room began to lengthen, as time appeared to crawl at a bitterly slow pace as the sun began to set, Mr. Spartan worried about his team as a commander often did. The people under his control were more cloak-and-dagger operatives. But they were also his surrogate brothers who had replaced the family that had been taken from him.
Sitting within the shadows without his features betraying his state of deep sadness, a tear managed to slide from the corner of his eye and along his cheek, where it dangled precariously along the edge of his jawline a moment before falling. He had lost a brother, a friend, and the world . . . a good man.
After staying within his own little bubble of grief for nearly thirty minutes, it was only when Mr. Galileo returned to the safehouse bearing the gift of a Klansman, that he finally broke from mourning.
Things were finally beginning to move.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Salt made his way home with the collar of his jacket hiked. A biting wind had made its way through the mountain passes, the air having a deep chill to it. When he entered his apartment, he removed his jacket and placed it on the coat tree in the entry.
One of the nightly rituals which had become conventional but never pedestrian, was for his girls to race around the corner of the hallway to embrace him upon his arrival. Tonight, however, he was greeted with silence, which struck him as odd.
Sensing a heightened awareness, Salt was reaching for his shoulder holster beneath his suitcoat when he felt the point of a muzzle pressing against the back of his skull.
“I wouldn’t,” said Mr. Michelangelo. “Remove your hand slowly. And if you try to do something stupid, you should know that you’d be putting the lives of your wife and children in jeopardy. Do you understand?”
“What do you want?”
“Do . . . you . . . understand?”
“Yes.”
“Put your hands on your head.”
When Salt placed his hands over the crown of his head, Mr. Michelangelo reached inside the assassin’s suitcoat and removed his firearm. Once he was in control of the weapon, Mr. Michelangelo told Salt to move into the kitchen.
The length of the hallway was long and thin, and the carpet runner had an odd pattern to it. On the wall above a small table a clock ticked off the seconds, which was the only sound inside the apartment that beat with the measure of Salt’s heart, calm and collected instead of racing.
Once he took the turn from the hallway into the kitchen, he tried not to show how crestfallen he truly was to see his wife and daughters bundled together as a single mass for comfort. What gave him away, however, was the marginal flinch of his left eye, a half wink. They were sitting at the end of the table, a mother, and her daughters, with the children’s faces wet with tears.
“It’ll be all right,” Salt told them.
“Johannes—” was all his wife could say. And then her face began to crack, then break.
“Minerva . . . everything will be all right. All I ask is that you trust me.”
She nodded as she held their children close.
Behind them were two men, Misters Donatello and Archimedes. Each was holding a suppressed pistol, though the points of their weapons were pointing towards the floor.
Mr. Archimedes pointed to a vacant chair with a gloved hand. “Sit.”
“I prefer to stand.”
“I’m not asking you; I’m telling you. Sit.”
“Or what? You’ll shoot me in front of my children? Is that the Consortium way?”
Mr. Archimedes pinned Salt with his hard stare. Obviously, Salt and his crew had come to the realization that Lucerne was crawling with Consortium agents.
“Oh yes,” Salt added. “We know. The organization I work for is not without their discoveries . . . the same way the Consortium is not without theirs.”
Minerva shook her head. “Johannes, what are you talking about? Who are these people? What do they want?”
“Shh-shh-shh,” he told her. “In all due time, my dear.” Then back to Mr. Archimedes, he said, “You’re here for something you cannot have.”
“Salt,” Mr. Donatello began, “let’s get one thing clear. We’re bound by ‘exigent circumstances,’ which this situation happens to be. We follow certain restrictions and protocols regarding violent means, but sometimes—just sometimes—a state of affairs will come up that will strip away those boundaries.” He raised his suppressed firearm and directed it to the back of his wife’s head. “The consequences will be real, should you decide not to cooperate. Where is the Eye of Moses?”
Salt’s wife barked a cry, which galvanized the children to sob.
Salt challenged him. “You wouldn’t dare. It’s not in the Consortium mindset to kill for the sake of achievement. You’re not terrorists.” And then: “Exigent circumstances or not.”
Mr. Donatello did not lower his weapon, turning this into a stalemate between two powerful wills.
“Your turn,” Salt told Mr. Donatello, while maintaining a one-cornered smile.
“I don’t want to do this,” Mr. Donatello admitted. “But you’re leaving me no choice in the matter. I will do this.”
“Then get on with it, if you must.” Salt’s smile never wavered.
“Johannes!” his wife cried out with the quality of her tone between anger and dread.
“Trust me, my dear. These people don’t have it within them. They’re not hardwired to be the callous people they’re making themselves out to be.”
“Are you sure?” asked Mr. Donatello.
“Quite.”
“Then I’ll ask you one more time: where’s the Eye of Moses?”
Salt’s smile was beginning to stretch into arrogance.
“Then you leave me no choice.” Mr. Donatello took a step back, redirected his aim, and pulled the trigger. A muted burst of a gunfire went off, a loud spit, causing Minerva to cry out sharply as a round passed through the soft tissue of her shoulder and lodged itself in the tabletop. It had been a well-placed shot that avoided th
e children and scored her flesh.
Salt’s features immediately shifted. His smile was gone as he tried to hurdle himself forward. But Mr. Michelangelo held him back.
“You son of a bitch!” he cried.
“The Eye of Moses! Where is it?” He redirected his aim to the top of Minerva’s head. The kids were screaming. “There’ll be no more freebies next time, Salt! None! Tell me where it is!”
Salt’s eyes shifted from Minerva to the gun, then from the gun to Minerva. This was exactly what he did to Mr. Copernicus. Mr. Donatello had found his greatest weak spot and was using it against him. Now the proverbial shoe was on the other foot, Salt’s foot. Now it was Salt’s turn to wonder if Mr. Copernicus felt equally the same when Salt controlled the weapon against him; that sense of absolute impotence to change an undeniable fate.
“I’m waiting, Salt.”
Unlike Mr. Copernicus who had lacked skillsets, a man like Salt was rich with them. And destinies were only altered when a man decides to take a stand and change his course, which Salt decided to do.
Feeling the point of Mr. Michelangelo’s gun pressed against the base of his skull, Salt performed a windmill move. With sudden speed and fluidity, Salt came around with a sweep of his arm and knocked Mr. Michelangelo’s gun to the side. Then with a series of straight jab blows to Mr. Michelangelo’s face until Michelangelo’s eyes began to roll and show nothing but white, Salt stole the gun away and shot Mr. Michelangelo twice at center mass. The double impacts drove the Consortium operator to the floor, and hard. In a follow-up maneuver, Salt quickly turned on Misters Donatello and Archimedes, and fired off additional rounds.
But the Consortium operators dove to the sides and rolled out of view as the ammo stitched across the walls behind them, missing. Salt, while prompting his wife and children to leave the table with furious waves to join him, continued to fire off round after round, bullet after bullet, to keep Misters Donatello and Archimedes at bay.
When Salt’s wife and children huddled by his side, he checked Minerva’s wound. It was superficial, the flesh scored. Whether Mr. Donatello meant to do this he wasn’t sure. But it was enough to garner his full attention.
