The Lost Cathedral

by Rick Jones

  “You’re saying that he might not have been alone?”

  Auciello shrugged. “That’s the question, isn’t it? We don’t know what happened to Phinehas or to anyone else onboard that plane. We don’t if they’re dead, alive or what happened to them period. But Phinehas tells me one thing. If there’s one—”

  “Then there’s another,” Kimball finished.

  “Kimball, there could be five Vatican Knights out there who are like Phinehas, all driven by a will to kill Bonasero . . . And only these Luminaries Phinehas speaks about only know why.”

  Five Vatican Knights, Kimball considered. Five of the best the world had to offer as soldiers. More so, they were part of the Vatican family. “And how do you take out your own family,” he whispered more to himself.

  But Father Auciello answered him regardless. “Exactly,” he said.

  “We’re only speculating,” Kimball said.

  “True. But we cannot be complacent, either. Bonasero is still alive, but barely. And who’s to say that another, or perhaps more, aren’t out there waiting to see this through.”

  Then with a sudden sense of urgency, Kimball said: “Get me to Gemelli. Now.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As a Vatican Knight his call sign was Mordecai, once a man of righteous virtue. Now he was a member of the Luminary Circle, a Fallen Angel, as was Phinehas, a man whose thoughts were not his own but that of a key Luminary.

  For the past few hours he sat inside a bar in Rome listening to the news. Pope Pius had survived the operation, was in serious condition, and remained in a coma. But his vitals were returning to normal and the next twenty-four hours would offer the telltale signs of whether he would pull through or not. Little was given about the assassin and as of the moment, the man remained faceless and nameless with the worldwide media relentlessly pursuing answers with countless volleys of questions.

  On TV the media speculated, pointing an accusing finger at the usual suspects, at terrorist groups with anti-Christian viewpoints. But Mordecai shook his head, realizing how quick people were willing to find a culprit regardless of guilt or innocence.

  Settling back into his seat while nursing a tumbler of whisky, he felt nothing. He had no moral compass, no sense of fear, or courage, or sadness—or any range of emotion, internally or externally. The man simply existed with walls and boundaries that kept him emotionally shallow.

  Like Phinehas. The two having been redesigned to be this way.

  As the TV droned on, Mordecai closed his eyes and listened to the voices within him. The whispers of the Luminaries, all directing him and telling him to press forward. There will be no pain, no fear, and no anticipation. The only thing that has any true value in life is One Law, One Rule and One Religion.

  Then he opened his eyes and ran a hand over the Semtex vest, feeling its contours beneath the fabric of his jacket.

  One Law, One Rule and One Religion, he told himself. The way of the Luminaries, the forefathers of the Fallen Angels.

  Standing, he left euros beneath the empty whisky glass and exited the establishment. Once on the sidewalk he noted the streamers of fading light as dusk was setting in. From where he stood he could see Gemelli Hospital, which was within walking distance.

  Getting inside would be tough, this he knew. But it was something he had planned for since security would be high. But he didn’t need to be bedside. In fact, with all the Semtex he only needed to be close. Once the Semtex went off, the supports would weaken and fall, collapsing Gemelli like a house of cards.

  “One Law, One Rule and One Religion,” he told himself, which drew the quick appraisal from a passerby.

  Hearing the voices in his mind as phantom whispers, he made his way to Gemelli.

  #₪

  Gemelli Hospital, Rome

  Kimball Hayden had to be escorted into the hospital as part of a papal entourage headed by a cardinal. Security was heavy, with Roman police much like the Gendarmerie everywhere, the Arma dei Carabinieri. And with Kimball, who was dressed unlike the others—that of half priest-half soldier—drawing inquiring stares, he cast it off as a moment of expected routine.

  As soon as Cardinal Pastore was given passage, Kimball, along with four other cardinals, were allowed in the Recovery Room as long as they did not disturb the pontiff. Last rites, however, by Cardinal Pastore, was a granted request.

  When they were escorted to the area, they found the room heavily guarded by well-armed members of the Arma dei Carabinieri. And Kimball absorbed everything, thinking how a skilled assassin would approach the area with minimal resistance since Gemelli was a hospital, not a fortress.

  When Cardinal Pastore begged the Carabinieri for the convenience of solitude with Pius, they respectfully requested the demand, closing the door behind them.

  Bonasero Vessucci lay supine attached to a respirator. His skin was waxy and pale, almost gray, with his shock-white hair in wisps of wiry tangles. His chest rose and fell evenly, the measures of his breathing slow. Kimball reached for the aged man’s hand and held it, feeling the bones underneath and considering the hand to be as fragile as a wounded bird. With his free hand he reached out and with the back of his fingers he gently caressed the pontiff’s cheek. “You can beat this, Bonasero,” he said, speaking so softly it appeared to the cardinals that he was mouthing the words, not speaking them.

  The pope continued to breathe shallowly with the aid of the accordion bellow inside the respirator tube.

  Bonasero, you can beat this.

  Then Kimball stood and appraised the room and the area, taking everything in with absorption. “We need to get him out of here,” he said simply. “Now.”

  “That’s impossible,” said Cardinal Pastore. “He’s too ill to be moved.”

  “He’s vulnerable,” Kimball returned. “If there’s anyone out there to finish the job, this place, this hospital, can be a powder keg with all the oxygen lying around.”

  “It’s heavily guarded, Kimball.”

  Cardinal Pastore, along with the three other cardinals, were part of the Society of Seven, a group who knew the existence of the Vatican Knights and decided upon their missions. So Kimball spoke openly. “You know who did this, correct?” He pointed to the pope.

  Cardinal Pastore nodded. “Phinehas.”

  “That’s right. A Vatican Knight. Now we don’t know if others are involved to see this through. If that’s the case, then we need to take precautions. This is a hospital, not a stronghold. So it has obvious weaknesses that a Vatican Knight would exploit, despite the guards.”

  “Kimball,” started Cardinal Kumphry, “the good Cardinal Pastore has already voiced the truth of the matter. Pope Pius cannot be moved in fear of him dying.”

  “If we don’t move him, if we stay complacent and believe that Phinehas acted alone when, in fact, he may not have, Bonasero will be dead by nightfall. These guards won’t matter. If a Vatican Knight wanted to get to Bonasero under these conditions, he could.”

  Cardinal Pastore said, “Kimball, I trust your judgment. We all do. You know that. But circumstances dictate otherwise. If we move the pontiff, he will surely die. It’s too soon to move him. If there’s someone else out there who is after the pope, then it’s here, in this hospital, that we must make a stand.”

  As frustrated as Kimball was with the situation, he knew that Cardinal Pastore was right. Bonasero Vessucci was hanging onto life by a tenuous strand. Any disturbance, no matter how slight or minimal, could prove fatal.

  Slowly, Kimball’s shoulders slumped with the crookedness of an Indian’s bow as he had no choice but to concede his position. “Just in case,” he said lightly, “I’ll need Isaiah and Leviticus to help me with this. I can’t do this alone.”

  Cardinal Pastore nodded. “Of course. Let’s pray that this was an isolated incident,” he said. “And let us pray that Phinehas acted alone and will find his way back to us.”

  The corner of Kimball’s lips raised into a smirk: Don’t count on it.

 
; #

  Policlinico Gemelli Hospital was a large building with several attached annexes, with most extensions being eight-stories high. At the entrances of Admittance, Emergency, Walk-in and Delivery, guards from the Arma dei Carabinieri stood sentinel wearing protective gear such as composite shin and forearm guards, helmets with convexity face shields, and Kevlar vests.

  From a distance Mordecai watched and observed.

  For several hours thereafter, once darkness settled, he scoped the location in its entirety to find its weakness. In the rear of the building was a Human Resources door that was unguarded. The door, however, was locked. And security personnel would pass by every four minutes in a Jeep during its circuitous route around Gemelli, which gave him a four-minute window to breach the building.

  Standing in the shadows he could see and hear the approach of the Jeep as it made its way along the rear of the hospital. When a spotlight attached to the vehicle’s side mirror started to explore the darkness, Mordecai fell back, took cover, and waited for the Jeep to pass.

  As it disappeared around the bend, Mordecai stepped toward the Human Resources door and laid a palm against the metal. Since the night was warm, so was the door. Then he tried the latch, something that looked like an elongated trigger, something to lift and pull the door open with. But it was locked. So he stepped back to examine the mechanism and noted the keyhole, which obviously required a special type of key.

  He now had three minutes.

  He looked up, seeing flat walls that led to upper-level tiers, all unreachable. There were no fire escapes, no ladders, and no way to elevate himself to another height beyond ground level. Then back to the keyhole.

  He removed his suppressor-tipped weapon from his shoulder holster, aimed it at the hole, and set off two rounds, the muzzle flashes illuminating the area with double bursts of light.

  Two minutes left.

  And the door remained locked.

  He aimed again, carefully, drawing a bead directly at the keyhole, and set off another two rounds, both muffled, the area once again lighting up with muzzle flashes.

  This time the door pared back from the doorjamb, but barely. Grabbing the trigger-shaped latch, Mordecai pulled the door open and entered Gemelli. After securing his weapon, he made his way through the vacant administrative area and toward patient central.

  He could feel the Semtex vest, was cognitive of its weight.

  And then the whispers—cold and without any semblance of emotion voicing commands somewhere in the back of his mind.

  Suddenly his pupils contracted to the size of dots, meaning that his mind was beginning to focus on a single task at hand: find Bonasero Vessucci.

  Then kill him.

  #

  Though the cardinals had left, Kimball Hayden was not alone. By his side were his two lieutenants, Isaiah and Leviticus. Whereas Isaiah was ropy, thin and hard, Leviticus was a smaller facsimile of Kimball, wide at the shoulders and chest.

  Outside Recovery Room-A, which was now exclusive to the pontiff, stood a heavily-armed force of the Arma dei Carabinieri. On the bed lay the pontiff who was breathing by the power of a respirator. Alongside him sat Kimball, who held Bonasero’s hand and felt a light pulse throb glacially slow through wispy-thin veins.

  Cardinal Pastore administered last rites, even though everyone prayed for the best but expected the worse. Everything had its end—with that end having an umbilical tie to a glorious new beginning.

  Of course discussions were had between the cardinals about alerting the Curia for a possible vote for a newly elected pope, which was disturbing to Kimball on a personal level. But Kimball also understood that the Vatican was a political body that needed to press on despite diversity, which was something he could relate to.

  Nevertheless, it still wasn’t easy to accept.

  When he felt Leviticus’s hand come down gently on his shoulder, Kimball knew it was a simple action that spoke volumes. We’re here for you, Kimball. We know how you feel. And no matter what happens, we will stand by your side so you won’t have to go through this alone.

  Kimball sighed when Leviticus’s hand finally fell away.

  For years Kimball and Bonasero had grown close, eventually becoming like father and son whose special bond was fostered by mutual respect. Whenever Kimball stumbled or fell, it was Bonasero who was there to pick him up, brush him off, and then sent him forward to blaze his own path to the Comforting Light, something that had eluded Kimball since his search for salvation began.

  Kimball could feel a sour lump in his throat, and the threat and sting of tears beginning to well. What would I do without you? he said to himself. What? Tell me what I have to do, Bonasero, to make this right.

  He looked at the respirator. It moved slowly, pumping oxygen into the lungs of an aged man who didn’t have a malicious bone in his body, only kindness.

  You didn’t deserve this, Kimball considered one last time before returning Bonasero’s hand gently beside him. And I will find the person behind this.

  Kimball got to his feet and addressed Isaiah and Leviticus, who wore the Vatican Knight’s attire of a cleric’s shirt and Roman collar, and from the waist down military BDUs and boots. “We’re going to be here for a while,” he told them.

  Isaiah said, “Maybe you should get some rest, Kimball. You look tired.”

  Kimball shook his head. There was no way he was going to leave Bonasero’s side whether it be days or weeks, no matter how much sleep he would be deprived. “I’ll be fine,” he said softly, almost like a murmur.

  Then Kimball walked around the room. There were no windows, two doors, and several vents that led to an HVAC unit a few levels below. The place was secured, especially with armed guards posted at both entryways and three Vatican Knights inside the recovery area.

  By all measures Bonasero Vessucci was completely safe.

  But nothing could have been further from the truth.

  #

  From the Human Resources section Mordecai made his way to the laundry facility beneath Gemelli, where he found scrubs and a lab coat that fit him well enough to cover the Semtex vest underneath. Regardless of the garments, security was still tight with guards who only allowed nurses and doctors already familiarized by the Arma dei Carabinieri to pass, which was not good. If Mordecai was going to participate in the killing of Pope Pius, then he needed to adapt to the circumstance. So he changed directions and looked for a weak point.

  In the opposite wing two guards stood sentinel wearing composite gear and convexity-shaped helmets that disguised their features. Their assault weapons hung across their chests like ammo bandoliers, the mouths of the weapons pointing toward the floor. They were facing each other in obvious discussions, their hands sometimes waving to make a valid point of whatever it was they were talking about.

  Mordecai watched them for a long moment and noted their complacency, the guards of the Arma dei Carabinieri more in tune with something other than the demands of their post. After grabbing a lime-green Plexiglas clipboard with papers attached, a pen, and the look of a concerned physician, Mordecai made his way toward the guards. When one of the guards saw his approach and held up a halting hand, Mordecai quickly responded by jamming the clipboard into the man’s throat, the edge finding the open area beneath the chin strap, and crushing the larynx. As the man went to his knees with his hands to his throat, Mordecai came around with the pen and drove it deep into the second guard’s neck with three quick jabs. When the first guard finally landed on his knees, Mordecai reached out, grabbed the man’s head, and gave it a violent twist, the bones snapping with an audible crack. In fluid motion in which everything appeared as one maneuver, he turned on the second guard and wrenched the man’s neck with a full 180-degree twist.

  As the bodies lay there Mordecai took stock of his surroundings, then dragged the bodies to a nearby stockroom, removed their gear, put the Kevlar over his Semtex vest, combat boots, helmet with face shield, and checked the assault weapon, an MP5. Seeing his ima
ge against a wall of glass, he looked like any other guard of the Arma dei Carabinieri.

  As he stood there he could hear the voices of the three Luminaries overlapping one another with whispers that made no sense. Yet he knew what they were telling him after commands had been ingrained in his head over the past three years, words that never changed as they prodded and told him to complete the mission at the cost of his own insignificant life.

  He closed his eyes.

  The whispers of aged and tired voices sounded like the skins of snakes slithering over each other—that sound of sandpaper rubbing against the surface of wood.

  Then they were gone, the voices dissipating into silence.

  Once he opened his eyes and gripped the weapon securely in his hands, he went to find Bonasero Vessucci.

  #

  The security Jeep that made its route around Gemelli was passing by the rear of the hospital when the driver noticed that the door leading to Human Resources was slightly ajar. Stopping the vehicle, the driver and the passenger, both of whom were armed with pistols, exited the Jeep and took prudent steps toward the door with their weapons leveled.

  The door had no real handle but a trigger latch. Around the latch were holes with the edges indented, obviously from gunfire. As the forward guard swung the door wide, the second guard was on the radio calling communications inside Gemelli. A door had been breached by obvious gunfire, the sounds most likely muted by a suppressor, which was the brand of a professional and the mark of a wetboy, an assassin.

  Immediately the forces of the Arma dei Carabinieri inside the hospital were galvanized into action, taking to the hallways with their weapons raised and herding doctors and nurses to secluded areas.

  After hearing the radio transmissions of the breach while posting watch inside Recovery Room-A alongside Isaiah and Leviticus, Kimball realized he was right about one thing: Phinehas was not acting alone.