The Lost Cathedral

by Rick Jones

  THE LOST CATHEDRAL

  By

  Rick Jones

  © 2015 Rick Jones. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information e-mail all inquiries to: rick@rickjonz.com

  Visit Rick Jones on the World Wide Web at:

  www.rickjonz.com

  Also by Rick Jones:

  Vatican Knights Series

  The Vatican Knights

  Shepherd One

  The Iscariot Agenda

  Pandora's Ark

  The Bridge of Bones

  Crosses to Bear

  The Eden Series

  The Crypts of Eden

  The Menagerie

  The Thrones of Eden

  Familiar Stranger

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  PART ONE

  The Order of Fallen Angels

  PROLOGUE

  Three Years Ago

  Deep inside the Brazilian jungle stood an old cathedral, a solitary stone structure located at the end of a tributary that was more Mayan in influence than Catholicism. The walls were gray and cracked with growing fissures due to the erosion of its foundation, so the seating of the stone blocks no longer aligned on top of one another. Vines as thick as pythons crept along the walls, perhaps keeping them pieced together where mortar had failed to hold. And old columns that once stood firm now lay in fragments along the jungle floor.

  The lone entryway that led deep inside the ancient cathedral was vaguely perceptible beneath the cape of intertwining vines and leaves that covered it. And behind this flourishing veil, a world existed where people lived and died—where a government body ruled by one law, one rule, and one religion—with everyone living as a collective under the power of three men: the Triumvirate of Fallen Angels.

  Corridors with bends that seemed never-ending led deep into vast underground chambers that were lit by ancient torches or vats filled with oils. Living quarters were small and spartan with little possessions. And those who followed the Triumvirate did so with unquestioning obedience.

  In the middle of the cathedral was a limestone stage surrounded by burning lanterns with three chairs equivalent to pontifical thrones that held the ornate carvings of winged angels and demons doing battle with sword and shield, with each chair telling a different story. Sitting in these chairs were the members of the Triumvirate, all aged castoffs from the Nazi party. They were wearing hooded cowls which kept their faces steeped in darkness beneath the extension of the head’s covering, as they waited patiently for one of the underlings to report the nature of a mission in play.

  At the end of the chamber a bullet-shaped door made of thick wood with bands of black steel and rivets holding it together opened, then closed, with its protesting hinges echoing throughout the chamber like the raking of fingers across a blackboard.

  A man wearing a cowl stepped into a circle of marginal light with his hands hidden beneath the fabric of his sleeves. His hood was drawn back, revealing the smooth features of a male from Aryan descent. Even with the faint licks of flame that burned feebly in the lanterns, one could see the bleached-blond hair, the aqua-blue eyes, and the glint of instilled prejudices that burned with a fuel far greater than the oil that simmered in the lamps.

  When he was about twenty feet from the steps that led to the thrones of the Triumvirate, the man stopped and bowed his head. “Your Luminaries,” he said.

  The three members of the Triumvirate remained as still as Grecian statues for a long measure, until the one sitting in the middle finally raised a palsied, liver-spotted hand. “You have news, yes?” His voice had grown too old to articulate correctly, his words slow and thick, but manageable enough to be deciphered by trained ears.

  “I do, Your Luminary,” he answered. “I’ve received word that Shepherd One and its dignitaries are flying over Brazil as we speak. Onboard are fourteen cardinals, who are well-guarded by six members of the Vatican Knights.”

  The aged Luminary lowered his hand and set it to rest on the carved rail of the throne. It wasn’t the cardinals he was concerned with, but the company they kept. Six Vatican Knights. A most valued prize. “Everything’s in place, then?” asked the Luminary.

  The underling bowed his head before speaking, something all underlings did before addressing a Luminary of the Triumvirate. “They are,” he answered.

  “Very good,” the Luminary said. “Then it has begun.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Shepherd One was the pope’s airborne transport, though it was not actually the name of the plane, but an Alitalia airliner conscripted by the Vatican to transport members of the Church. Shepherd One was simply a name of reference upon its landing or departing from airports.

  Onboard were fourteen cardinals who had been reassigned to Latin American states that suffered great poverty. Pope Pius XIV’s vision was to place more emphasis to nations and communities who were lacking any measure of hope, and to provide the people a confidence in God where there had been little or none before. Especially within the favelas, where God seemed to be vacant in the hearts of men.

  S
ince Latin America was highly Catholic, Pope Pius saw this as a necessity. With fourteen states wading in the shallows of despair, fourteen cardinals would lift them in spirit.

  Onboard Shepherd One were six soldiers of the Vatican Knights, an elite commando group made up of the finest combatants in the world to help protect those who could not protect themselves. They were rich in essence and morality. And they were in service to the Church, protecting its sovereignty, its interests, and the welfare of its citizenry.

  Like all Vatican Knights their call signs were taken from revered texts, names that overshadowed the identities of their given names, which was an anointment of becoming a revered member of the Vatican. In the rear sat Kish and Mordecai, Eli and Jacob, Phinehas and Zadok, names from the Old Testament—names that identified them as brethren.

  As Shepherd One was making its way south to Brasilia from Mexico City, everyone with a window seat could see a jungle canopy that was lush and full with no break in the vegetation or growth beneath them—just a tropical rain forest that seemed to run endlessly toward the horizon.

  Soon they would reach Brasilia, where the cardinals would disband to all points of the compass in ragged-looking vehicles geared to take the harsh roads that led to chaotic lands, with the Vatican Knights to provide them with enough paramilitary support to get them through territories governed by bandits and killers.

  But when Shepherd One began to bank hard to the south when the known trajectory was straightaway west, Kish became suspect. He turned to Mordecai, who sat in the center seat beside him reading a magazine. “Why are we turning?” he asked.

  Mordecai lowered the periodical and looked out the window to his left as the plane banked, seeing nothing but jungle, and then shrugged. “Got me.” Then he went back to his magazine.

  Kish, however, having piloted missions in Afghanistan and Pakistan, sensed that something was wrong since the distance between two points was always a straight line. Why alter the course? Why are we heading west instead of south?

  Then the plane shuddered.

  And it did so violently.

  #

  The pilots of Shepherd One were usually gifted flyers from Italy’s prestigious Aeronautica Milatare—a superior outfit of pilots who retired from service and found employment with Alitalia Airlines—who were specifically hired to captain the helm of Vatican flights.

  Enzio Colombo, having served the Aeronautica Milatare for twenty years, was the chief pilot with Vincenzo Palumbo aiding as his co-pilot. Though Palumbo was much younger, he was a seasoned vet, nonetheless.

  More than halfway toward Brasilia, Enzio started to hear voices and whispers, words of direction. He turned to Palumbo who didn’t seem to hear them. Then he looked at his hands that were clutching the yoke and saw the whites of his knuckles.

  Then the voices were gone.

  A moment later Enzio took on a completely new demeanor, one of steady resolve. After undoing his seatbelt, he got to his feet and placed a hand on Palumbo’s shoulder. “Back in a minute,” he told him. “You OK?”

  Palumbo shot him a thumbs up as he took over the responsibility of manning the helm.

  Enzio nodded, then he left the armor-plated cockpit and headed for the nearest lavatory. After closing the bathroom door and locking it with the ‘occupied’ sign sliding into place, he rummaged deep inside the trash container and pulled out a greasy rag that covered something solid. He put the item on the sink and peeled back the edges of the fabric, revealing a sidearm with an attached suppressor.

  He looked at his image in the mirror. His eyes were vacant, but his mind moved along evenly knowing that he had a mandated mission that needed to be finalized. Keeping the weapon close to his side, Enzio exited the bathroom and returned to the cockpit, where he locked the door behind him. His co-pilot was looking forward, the back of his head looking ripe for targeting as Enzio raised the weapon and pulled the trigger, the firearm going off in a loud spit as a small-caliber bullet penetrated Palumbo’s skull and bounced around, killing him.

  Enzio took the seat, buckled up, and turned the yoke to the right, causing the plane to bank slightly to the west.

  Then the voices.

  The ghostly whispers.

  All telling him what to do.

  Enzio, with vacant eyes, drove the yoke forward and downward, the suddenness of his action causing the plane to shudder against a leading edge of a strong wind as it began to descend rapidly, the plane vibrating greatly as the jungle canopy loomed closer.

  Twelve seconds later Shepherd One vanished completely from radar with all radio feedback nothing but static, then absolute silence.

  In the subsequent aftermath, nothing of the plane was ever discovered. There were no fields of debris, no smoke, no fire, no traces or swatches cut through the jungle.

  Shepherd One had simply disappeared.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Vatican, The Office of Monsignor Dom Giammacio

  Present Day

  Monsignor Dom Giammacio was the Vatican’s counselor for clerics who wallowed in the self-doubt of their waning faith. On this day, however, the subject in question was not about faith, but one of redemption.

  The monsignor was sitting quietly with a cigarette wedged between the crooks of his fingers, watching a ribbon of smoke trail lazily toward the ceiling. Patiently, as with all the sessions he shared with Kimball Hayden, he waited for the Vatican Knight to find his moment to speak. And when five minutes remained from a sixty-minute session, the monsignor finally said, “Kimball, we have five minutes.”

  When Kimball sighed through his nose, the monsignor leaned forward in his chair and pressed him. “Kimball.”

  Kimball despised these meetings with the monsignor and purposely showed up late. But the pontiff mandated these weekly sessions for him as a ‘catharsis.’ A way to get Kimball to believe that he was deserving of salvation despite his underlying nature of pure savagery. All he needed to do, all Kimball needed to understand and accept, was to see himself the way others did, as a savior to those who couldn’t defend themselves. But Kimball’s past left a blight on his soul, something he just couldn’t peel away like a snake that molts its second skin.

  “Kimball, please.” The monsignor continued to examine the slow curl of cigarette smoke as it rose upward, then disappeared. “Tell me, how did you feel when Ezekiel was terminated?”

  Kimball hesitated as images played across his mind’s eye. He recalled the moment as a wetboy for the United States government when he was ordered to kill Senator Cartwright . . . and the moment he slid the blade neatly across the politician’s throat to bleed the man out. He remembered the senator’s grandson hiding in a cabinet beneath shelves of books---the boy most likely watching the scene of his grandfather’s death play out with surreal slowness.

  “How did you feel when Ezekiel was terminated?” the monsignor repeated.

  Kimball closed his eyes. Everything was so clear to him, so vivid. Out of personal guilt he raised the boy into a young man and as a Vatican Knight. Eventually Ezekiel learned to use his particular skill set against Kimball as retribution for murdering his grandfather---the Frankenstein’s monster of Kimball’s creation returning to kill its master. But in the end it was Kimball Hayden who remained standing.

  “How did you feel when Ezekiel was terminated?” the monsignor repeated evenly and relentlessly.

  Kimball finally answered. “I didn’t love him. Not like a father. Not even close. But I did care for him.”

  “Kimball, that doesn’t really answer my question, now does it? So let’s try again, shall we? How did you feel when Ezekiel was terminated?”

  Kimball gave him a hard look. “Why don’t you just phrase it the way you mean to? Without prettying it up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know exactly what I mean.”

  “Tell me. You’re a man of candor.”

  Kimball knew he was falling into the monsignor’s trappings but he didn’t care. “Shouldn’t the que
stion be: How do I feel after killing Ezekiel, a person I helped raise since he was a boy?”

  The monsignor sat idly still and refused to betray a single emotion. The only thing alive was the slow curl of cigarette smoke from between his fingers.

  “I felt . . .” Kimball let his words hang.

  “You felt what?”

  After a beat Kimball said, “I felt remorse in one hand . . . relief in the other.”

  “Remorse and relief. Don’t you find that odd? Aren’t they opposite from one another? To feel remorseful for killing someone you cared for, and then to feel a certain relief in doing so.”

  “He was a monster,” Kimball stated immediately. “He killed good people.”

  “As you did when you were a government assassin, yes?”

  “Not always.”

  “But you did kill good people at one time, true? Those who could have compromised your position in the scheme of the mission. Like those two boys in Iraq.”

  Kimball was stewing underneath. It wasn’t like the monsignor to get under his skin. The relationship between them had always been cordial and somewhat informal. Kimball couldn’t understand what the monsignor was trying to pull from him. Then heatedly: “I was never like Ezekiel.”

  “You helped raise him. You shared with him your traits. So how can you not be like him?”

  Kimball could feel the muscles in his arms tightening with restrained tension. “I changed. He didn’t.”

  “How so?”

  “I kill because I have to. Not because I want to. He killed to appease his anger.”

  “Exactly on both accounts,” said the monsignor, who eased back into his seat. “Eventually you changed to protect those who could not protect themselves. Ezekiel’s soul had blackened and rotted with self-possessing anger. So you responded by protecting the Church from Ezekiel, who was on a quest to see it fall. You saved lives, Kimball. Even though your stake in this was quite personal.”