by Rick Jones
“I’m assuming you have a point to all this?”
The monsignor stared at him blankly. “You’re not listening to yourself,” he told him. “You just said you’ve changed. By your own admission. But your tongue is not in sync with your conscience. You feel guilty for past actions. You continue to think that redemption is beyond your grasp despite all the good that you do. You speak of one thing, but your conscience leads you to believe differently. If your conscience and subconscious can somehow align themselves, then I believe you’ll find the salvation you seek. It’s up to you, Kimball, to believe in what you speak to be the truth not only externally, but internally as well.”
Kimball relaxed. I get it, he told himself. You want me to admit to something I’m not ready to admit to myself. Since I killed Ezekiel to save the Church, then my feelings for Ezekiel should be blunted because he was, in a sense, evil. “It’s not that easy to explain away,” he finally said. “Not by a long shot.”
A look of disappointment slowly eclipsed the monsignor’s face. “Time’s up,” he said lightly. Another session that had ended with zero gain.
Watching his client rise from the chair and leave the office, Monsignor Dom Giammacio resigned himself to believing that Kimball Hayden continued to be a lost soul.
Even he was starting to believe that salvation was beyond the Vatican Knight’s reach. So he prayed and hoped that Kimball’s soul was not too far gone. And further wished upon Kimball the good returns from the path he would decide to take in the end, which would be the road toward the Light of Loving Spirits.
The answers to his prayers, however, did not come by the salient whispers of an understanding God, but the steady ticking of a wall clock in the background.
As the monsignor sat there with the stub of his cigarette burning close to his flesh, he eventually stubbed it out by dashing it in the ashtray, eased back into his chair, closed his eyes, and listened.
In the background the hands of the clock continued to click in even measures.
Still he prayed.
And still the clock beat on.
#
The moment Kimball Hayden reached his quarters he immediately sat along the edge of his bed. On the right side of the room stood a votive rack with few candles that had been lit, a kneeling rail that had never been knelt upon, and a waist-high podium with a Bible whose cover had never been opened. On the chamber’s left side was his bed, a nightstand, and stacks of military manuals—a more lived-in appearance. In the center of the room and high on the wall was a single glass-stained window of the Virgin Mary who reached her arms out in invitation. And during certain times of the day as the sun made its trajectory from east to west, rays would shine through the panes with the ethereal glow of her outstretched arms ready to embrace him within the warmth of basking luminosity. But Kimball refused this radiance and kept away from the light, feeling it would be vulgar to accept it since he wasn’t worthy of receiving it.
At least not yet.
I have to earn that right.
Inside the drawer of the nightstand was a small photo album, a throwback volume since he didn’t have a computer to store digital files, and began to leaf through the pages. There were photos of old units and old friends, some dead, and some having moved on to new lives and new families. Then photos of his new unit, his new family, the Vatican Knights. He turned the pages to see the familiar faces of boys who had been trained to become caliber men of the Knights’ League, warriors who devoted their lives to protect the welfare of the Church and its citizenry.
More pages.
The center of the album was the point he’d been aiming for as he allowed the covers of the open book to rest on his thighs. The two pages he was looking at were dedicated to Ezekiel beginning with the moment of his recruitment as a small boy, through the snapped images of his training as a young man, to the day he was branded as a Vatican Knight. In all the photos he noticed the boy smiling only in a single photo, a smile that was without humor.
Did I blacken your soul that much?
Kimball reached down and traced the tips of his fingers over Ezekiel’s images.
When Ezekiel was five Kimball had killed his grandfather before the child’s eyes—though unknowingly to Kimball—in an act of service and duty to his government which orphaned the boy. In an attempt to appease his conscience, Kimball, with the aid of Bonasero Vessucci, now the pontiff, conscripted the boy to become a Vatican Knight even though Vessucci was against this after seeing something dark inside the child. But Vessucci eventually relented because he also saw the need for Kimball to give the boy a purpose that would heal them both.
But Ezekiel had grown with an anger that was so deeply submerged it only surfaced when he believed he was ripe enough to kill. So he went after Kimball who was his mentor and the man who killed his grandfather, with a combat skill-set that nearly destroyed Kimball in the end.
But it was Kimball who remained standing, having been forced to kill the child he had trained to become a man, who then became a soldier, and the soldier a Vatican Knight.
Kimball then closed his eyes and wallowed in a feeling that was close to mourning, but not as dominant. The moment he opened his eyes he shut the book closed and returned it to the drawer. Then, laying on his bed with his hands behind his head, he stared at the image of the Virgin Mary who reached out to him with willing arms. The light of the yellow stained glass showed as rays of gold with dust motes floating within its beam like flexes of gilded fairy dust.
From where he lay, Kimball reached out to the beam of light with the tips of his fingers and held them less than an inch away from the glow. After a moment of deliberation he pulled his fingers away and stared at the ceiling.
Not yet, he told himself. I don’t deserve your grace.
Then he closed his eyes and fell into a much needed sleep.
CHAPTER THREE
Rome
Present Day
The two men sitting inside a small eatery approximately two kilometers west of Vatican City appeared devoid of any set of emotions. Their movements seemed automated and practiced, almost stiff as if driven by the alacrity of old men. But they were young, late twenties and in vigorous shape with lean and well-muscled bodies.
And there were the voices deep inside their heads that guided and directed them. The whispers and words playing over and over like soft entreaties in German that did more to motivate than to hinder.
The men sat apart from each other but were aware of the others presence. In approximately fifteen minutes they would head towards Vatican City for the Wednesday morning ritual of the Papal Audience. And once they were in place, they would assassinate the pope.
The one sitting close to the door reached inside his coat pocket and removed a pistol made of a hard-plastic composite that was undetectable to any metal-detecting wand. It was capable of holding two rounds, the ferrous metals in the ammo and the primers were so nominal there wouldn’t be enough to alert the sensors. But two rounds implied a minimum opportunity. They only had two chances to apply the kill shot.
He tested the rack by sliding the barrel back, and then forward, which put a round in the chamber. Once the first bullet was triggered, then the second would automatically take its place and ready itself for the second and final discharge.
After returning the weapon to his jacket, he looked up to see the second man racking his weapon as well. With a nod of confirmation that everything was running as scheduled, the man by the door stood, dropped euros on the table, and exited the restaurant.
Less than a minute later his counterpart followed.
#
Bonasero Vessucci, Pope Pius XIV, was aided by bishops as he dressed in a traditional white mozzetta (a short hooded cape) with a matching zucchetto skull cap.
Bonasero was prepping for the Papal Audience to address the people in St. Peter’s Square. Through the open doors that led to the papal balcony, he could hear the masses milling about.
“It’s a beautiful day,
” remarked the bishop, who was smoothing out a crease on the mozzetta. “Not a cloud to be seen. Muggy, however.”
Bonasero smiled. He enjoyed these audiences and the way people felt the need to be closer to God by visiting the highest Christian throne in the land. And he loved to oblige them since it was a way for him to give everyone a cherished memory. “Every day at my age is a beautiful day, Alberico,” the pontiff quipped.
The bishop offered a light smile. Then, after standing back to observe the pope’s dress, nodded in approval. “You’re ready, Your Holiness. Security will see you to the mobile.”
Bonasero reached out to the bishop with his hand and lightly squeezed his forearm in appreciation. “Thank you, Alberico. Please make sure that everything’s ready for me when I return to provide the papal address.”
The bishop bowed slightly at the hip. “Of course, Your Holiness.”
When the pope left his chamber he was immediately surrounded by Vatican Security, all beefy-looking men wearing scarlet jackets, black pants and tie, and a pristine white shirt. Embroidered on the breast pocket of the each jacket was the Vatican logo, the crisscrossing keys of St. Peter beneath the papal tiara.
Together they walked at the pontiff’s pace, which had slowed dramatically over the past several months, to the motor-pool where the Popemobile was waiting, a Mercedes-Benz M-Class vehicle that was uncovered with no protective barriers.
After aiding the pope to the rear of the mobile, a security official quickly slapped a side panel, acknowledging to the driver that everything was set. Pulling slowly forward, the driver kept the speed minimal as the vehicle left the sally-port and began its circuitous route around the Square.
As soon as the Popemobile was in view, the masses cheered.
#
As soon as the people applauded the two men separated, each vying for position against the cordoned line close to the traveling lane.
One situated himself at the halfway point, the initial shooter. The second man posted himself at the two-third’s point. If the initial triggerman missed his mark, then the second man would intervene by stepping in front of the vehicle, pump a round into the driver, then expertly fire the last shot to center mass, killing the pontiff.
They had played out this scenario over and over in the jungles of Brazil until it became an involuntary act—an action motivated by simple, mindless reaction.
They stood along the sidelines staring at nothing in particular, each weighing the commands of the voices within their heads. As the Popemobile rounded the quarter-point of the lane, the initial triggerman removed his composite pistol, kept it by his side and out of view, and waited.
The vehicle moved slowly along. The people cheered as the pontiff waved his blessings over them. And the triggerman remained calm, his face betraying nothing at all; no excitement, no enthusiasm, nothing that would exhibit anything other than a skinny range of emotions.
The pope waved.
The vehicle came closer.
And as it did the assassin looped a finger around the trigger.
Thirty feet away.
The assassin stepped forward.
Twenty feet.
And the whispers were clear, articulate, the words condemning one man’s life: Kill him!
When the vehicle was ten feet away the assassin pistol-whipped the Gendarmerie guard in front of him, which sent the man to the ground, stepped into the center of the lane, drew a bead on the driver, and pulled the trigger.
The bullet penetrated the windshield, creating a nickel-sized hole surrounded by spider-web cracks, with the round having been redirected and striking the driver just beneath the left clavicle, causing an eruption of red mist to explode outward. As the assassin redirected his aim for the killing shot to the pontiff’s chest, the injured driver accelerated, causing the sudden movement to throw the pontiff off balance. The second shot, however, found its mark as the pontiff’s white mozzetta suddenly exploded with a splash of red close to the heart.
People screamed.
Then the assassin became overwhelmed by Security as they disarmed him, with bodies converging like sharks to a wounded fish.
The assassin’s features remained neutral, his eyes detached and vacant. And as he laid there he watched the vehicle speed away. Then he shifted his eyes to his compatriot, who did not acknowledge him while being placed in flex cuffs. Instead, the second assassin turned away, walked into the crowd, and disappeared.
As the handcuffed man was lifted roughly to his feet and became the object of heated accusations, he noticed one thing.
The voices in his head were gone.
#
“Blood pressure’s low and vitals are failing.” the EMT stated urgently.
Bonasero Vessucci was being transported to Gemelli Hospital in Rome. His mozzetta had been cut away to reveal a dime-sized wound in his chest that bled steadily and had to be wiped repeatedly with a gauze swab to keep it clean. Myriad electrodes to take readings to measure which way his life was swinging, indicated that it was on its receding flow. And his pallor was turning ash-gray, while his lungs labored for shallow breathes.
When the vehicle slanted heavily into the turns, the pope seemed to sigh harshly as if in pain. But he was completely out and felt absolutely nothing as his life continued to slip away. As the Emergency entrance neared and salvation appeared to be a hairsbreadth away, the EKG suddenly went into a steady, high-pitched whine.
Pope Pius XIV was flat-lining.
#
The second assassin stood beyond the fringe of the borderline that separated Rome from Vatican City. In the midst of an aghast crowd that wept inconsolably, he produced a cellular-sized sat phone and dialed a single digit on the keypad. The voice on the other end sounded distant and hollow, the language German.
“Ja.” Yes.
The assassin answered in fluid German. “The target’s been neutralized.”
“You have confirmation of this?”
“I saw the hit. Center mass.”
“Stand by until the media reports his death, then return home.”
The assassin severed the call, pocketed the sat phone, and disappeared into the crowd.
CHAPTER FOUR
Kimball was asleep with his forearm over his eyes when someone knocked hard on his chamber door. With the urgency of successive rapping, Kimball knew something was wrong. Immediately he got to his feet and opened the door. Standing on the threshold was Bishop Remaldi, whose eyes clearly telegraphed deep concern.
“Bishop?” Kimball stated this as a question rather than a greeting.
Without salutation the bishop said, “Your presence has been requested by the Inspector General of the Gendarmerie.” The Gendarmerie Corps of Vatican City State is the police and security force of Vatican City, and the extraterritorial properties of the Holy See.
“Why?”
The bishop’s face threatened to break. “Have you not heard?”
“I’ve been at rest.”
“Pope Pius,” the bishop managed. Then after a beat, added, “He was shot in St. Peter’s Square.”
Kimball thought his heart was about to misfire in his chest, the news a stabbing blow to the solar plexus—deep and painful. Just as he was about to say something in protest but realizing he was about to spew nothing but guttural nonsense, charged forward and left the door to his chamber wide open.
₪₪#
The Gendarmerie Corps of Vatican City State is responsible for security, preserving public order, maintaining border and traffic control during papal audiences, runs criminal investigations, and conducts general police duties in Vatican City. The agency also has ties with Interpol, of which Vatican City is a member. But the most specialized units of the Vatican Gendarmerie includes two elite units, the Rapid Intervention Group, or the Gruppo Intervento Rapido, the GIR; and an anti-sabotage unit, the Unità Antisabotaggio.
Above the door that led to the Hall of Gendarmerie was a statue of St. Michael the Archangel, also the patron saint
of the organization. It also happened to be Kimball’s call sign: Archangel—a name he refused to acknowledge as a Vatican Knight.
When Kimball stepped inside the Hall he saw Gendarmerie security milling about at a rapid pace, all wearing their standard issue Glock 17 firearm and dark blue police uniforms. Kimball, however, wore the vestments of a Vatican Knight: a black cleric’s shirt, Roman Catholic collar, and from the waist down military fatigues and boots.
He immediately went to the operating desk that was elevated above the main floor like a judge’s bench. The officer manning the station spoke to Kimball in Italian. And Kimball asked him to convert to English, which the officer did.
“I’ve been told that the Inspector General has requested my presence,” Kimball told him. Behind him people moved with bustling activity, with those in command shouting out orders in an attempt to bring a semblance of stability.
“And you would be?”
“Name’s Kimball Hayden.”
The officer nodded and made a call from his elevated position. After announcing Kimball’s arrival and then hanging up, he turned to Kimball and said, “Down the hallway to your left. Follow the signs to Interrogation Room Seven. They’re waiting for you.”
They’re? Then: “Thanks.”
As Kimball took the corridor to Interrogation Room Seven, he could see Bonasero’s face and recalled their moments together in chronological order, starting when he first met Bonasero in a small bar in Venice to sharing a personal moment with the pontiff inside the papal chamber two days earlier. Everything in between was remembered with affection, since Bonasero was more of a paternal figure to him than Kimball’s own biological father. He was a man who often lent Kimball a listening ear and offered sound advice to steer him in the right direction whenever Kimball became lost, which was often. So when the bishop informed him of the shooting, Kimball’s mind moved like mental molasses as he was unable to process the plausibility of the truth, and thought it to be a cruel and humorless joke. But the bishop’s eyes didn’t lie, their depths black and swirling with the pains of a dark truth. So when the reality of the situation finally set in, raw anger consumed the Vatican Knight fully with a feeling that drove him to a rage he could barely contain.
