by Rick Jones
The symposium was less than an hour away.
Simon lowered the binoculars. “Where the hell are they?” he whispered more to himself.
Jaric stood there with a distant look in his eyes, the man ready to be pressed into duty.
When Simon raised the binoculars and scanned the area, he saw them. Relief washed over him as he exhibited this sudden emotion with a heavy sigh. The cardinals were making their way to the chapel from a walkway in the rear. They were talking and gesticulating to each other, the men appearing as if they belonged.
“There they are,” Simon said.
“The cardinals?”
“Yes.”
Jaric held his hand out to Simon, wanting to gaze through the binoculars. Lifting them to his eyes, Jaric could see the two men. They were people he recognized, people he’d seen inside the lost cathedral many times, but didn’t know until this precise moment that they were the ones conscripted to assassinate the pope.
Jaric handed the binoculars back to Simon. “And what about the others,” he asked.
Simon looked at him questioningly. “What others?”
“Besides them. Besides us. Who else is here to see this through?”
“Have you not been listening? There’s only us and them.”
Jaric turned to Simon. “That’s all I needed to know,” he said.
Jaric lashed out with his hand and caught Simon by the throat, forcing the man against the wall.
“Jaric, what are you doing?” Simon’s face was beginning to turn the color of red. “Jaric, what--” Then he started to strike Jaric’s vise-like grip with feeble slaps, after dropping the binocular. “What . . . are . . . you doing?”
Jaric leaned in, their faces inches apart. Simon could clearly see the angry stitches of red lacing crisscrossing the whites of Jaric’s eyes. “I would have smashed your little sect back in Brazil down to paste, but I didn’t know who was involved with the second kill team. So I had no choice but to play out your silly little game until I could ID the assassins and neutralize the threat. Now that they’ve been compromised, I don’t see any further purpose for you.”
Simon’s eyes began to flash incredulity. “Jaric—”
“You were once a good man, Enzio. And you might be again with a little help. So consider this your lucky day.”
“Jaric—”
Jaric tightened his grip until Simon’s collar acted like a tourniquet. “My name isn’t Jaric,” he told him crossly. “It’s Hayden. Kimball . . . Hayden.”
#
Inside the Barracks of the Vatican Knights
The barracks to the Vatican Knights was a nondescript building made of fieldstones close to the Old Gardens. Now with less than a half-hour to go before the symposium, additional preparations regarding security measures were being made by Isaiah and Leviticus in the Prep-Room, when Jeremiah suddenly interrupted the conversation.
“Out here,” Jeremiah said, sounding winded. “You’re not going to believe this.”
“What?” Isaiah asked. “What is it?”
“You need to see it to believe it.”
They rushed down the corridor to the floor of the main area. The floor was fashioned with mosaic tiles to represent the emblem of the Vatican Knights. Centered within the coat of arms was a Silver Cross Pattée, which was set against a blue background. The colors were significant for the fact that silver represented peace and sincerity, and blue the traits of truth and loyalty. Positioned alongside the design were two heraldic lions standing on their hind legs with their forepaws holding the edges of the shield, stabilizing it. The implication of the lions was a symbolic representation of bravery, strength, ferocity and valor. Situated in the middle of this design and trussed up like a turkey lay Simon, his eyes wild and ferocious.
Next to him lay a note.
Leviticus, despite Simon’s cries about Jaric’s betrayal and other ridiculous complaints, grabbed the note and read it openly.
To Whom It May Concern:
Here’s the Bad Guy. Get him the help he needs.
Signed, the Good Guy
Everyone scoped their surroundings with quick perusals, noting that the doors and windows were locked. Yet here was Simon, the man placed beneath their very noses.
Leviticus went back to the note. It may have been simple but it also spoke volumes.
The Vatican Knights knew this could only be the doing of one man, so their hearts lifted.
But why didn’t Kimball make himself available to the Vatican Knights? Where had he been for the past several months? And why did he disappear?
There were so many questions.
But not a single answer.
#
The cardinals were gathering for the symposium outside the entryway leading to the chapel. The two cardinals watched from a distance since they were alien to the group and this type of forum. Their lack of recognition to those common to the Curia could draw suspicion, and may lead to inquiries. But as soon as the cardinals were requested to take their seats within the chapel, then the two would separate and mingle with the inflowing crowd.
But Kimball knew that this could never happen. The cardinals standing apart were either carrying weapons, or worse, they wore explosive vests like Mordecai. Should they become the centerpieces within the crowd, then they could ignite the vests and kill scores of people—even if they failed to meet their primary goal of killing the pontiff.
At most Kimball had two, maybe three minutes.
He quickly navigated through the throng of tourists and made his way to the side of the chapel. But he was careful not to catch the attention of the two false cardinals.
He then made his way behind them, used the walls as cover, and got close enough to hear them whisper to each other in fluent German.
Kimball moved closer, wondering if they had their thumbs on the detonation buttons. If they did, Kimball knew there wasn’t any amount of speed in the world that was fast enough to keep them from depressing the switches. But there was no other alternative. He had to keep them from joining the cardinals and far enough away from the Sistine Chapel, so that the blast wouldn’t cause severe damage or harm.
Kimball closed his eyes and took deep breaths, realizing the next few moments could also be his last. Then as the cardinals started to enter the chapel’s entryway, the false cardinals started to make their move to join them.
That’s when Kimball intervened.
#
Security was tight at the chapel with Vatican Security taking great measures to ID every cardinal that entered, a measure that had never been taken in the past, even after the assassination attempt against the life of Pope John Paul II.
If the two false cardinals had seen this upon entry they may have regarded the mission a lost cause and depressed the buttons, killing many and rendering the chapel as rubble, a small victory for the order.
But the false cardinals never had the opportunity.
#
The false cardinals were walking side by side in silence with their hands hidden beneath the sleeves of their robes, a habit from wearing their cowls, when suddenly one was whipped backwards. When the second cardinal turned, he saw Jaric come down with the point of his elbow and strike the member in the face, caving in the entire bridge of the man’s nose and leaving a horrible indent. Within the split moment it took Kimball to kill the false cardinal, the second cardinal was standing unresponsively in awe, a mistake since Kimball was fast upon him.
The false cardinal fumbled for the detonation switch, but the Vatican Knight grabbed the man’s wrist and wrenched it hard enough to snap the bones. The man cried out, his hand useless as it dangled awkwardly at an unnatural angle. But the false cardinal came across with his opposite hand. In it was a small knife meant to slash and score deep cuts. The blade caught Kimball along the chest, slashing a groove along the pectorals.
Kimball grimaced. The pain was hot. But he responded by grabbing the enemy’s attack hand and torqued the body’s mechanics in such a w
ay that the assailant ended up driving the knife into his own throat with Kimball the motivating force behind the maneuver.
The man’s eyes went wide as he fell to his knees. When Kimball removed the knife, blood bubbled from the ruin in the man’s throat. Quickly, Kimball raised the sleeve of the man’s robe, noted the badly broken wrist and its ugly-looking angle, and cut the wire that went to the detonation plunger and to the vest. Though dead, Kimball did the same for the false cardinal that lay dead. He cut the line.
Both men had been neutralized.
As the second false cardinal coughed, blood spewed from his mouth as red mist. Then when the cardinal raised an imploring hand to Kimball, the Vatican Knight stood there watching him die with the coldness of a machine. Then as the false cardinal fell forward and landed hard with the face-first approach, Kimball was gone.
And nobody knew where he went.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Beneath the Lost Cathedral, Brazil
Four Days Later
Hermann Braun and Albrecht Krause were livid. The order had been meeting with failure after repeated failure, hardly the hallmarks for creating a new Reich when nothing is ever achieved. It was fine to learn from mistakes. But if nothing was ever truly learned and repeated disappointments remained consistent, then there could be no advancement. The order had been stuck in a quagmire of miscarriages for more than sixty years now.
Simon had disappeared after missing his window of opportunity, as did Jaric and the members of the Second Team. All gone without so much as a single trace element of what happened to them left behind. The pope was fine. The symposium went off without a hitch. And the Luminaries were absolutely miserable.
Failure after repeated failure.
“Hardly the measures of creating a Reich!” Albrecht stated angrily, after pounding his palm against the armrest of his chair. “Simon was to ascend to the throne upon our passing.”
“There’ll be others,” said Braun, who appeared to be in far more control than his associate.
“That I most seriously doubt.” Someone spoke from the shadows, a voice that was alien and familiar at the same time.
“Who’s there?” Albrecht asked. “Who thinks they have the right to enter the Chamber of the Luminaries without our permission?”
“Your permission,” the shadow said, coming forward from the darkness and toward the light of the torches. “Your permission is absolute Jack to me.” Kimball stepped into the dancing light of the torches’ flames, which cast eerie shapes against the walls.
Hermann Braun’s mouth dropped. “Jaric.”
“No. Not Jaric.”
Albrecht got to his feet with his chest puffed out in macho posturing. “You’re out of order, Jaric. Stay your ground.”
“Stay my ground? Are you serious?”
Albrecht appeared nervous, as did Braun.
“Are you the purpose of Simon’s failure?” asked Braun.
Kimball took another step forward. “You could say that.” He was wearing his Vatican Knight’s attire: cleric’s shirt, Roman Catholic collar, BDUs and boots. Strapped to each thigh was a sheathed combat knife, his toys of choice and specialty.
“And Simon?” asked Albrecht.
“He’ll be fine.”
“And the others?”
“Not so.”
Albrecht pointed to Kimball’s weapons. “So now you have come to kill us, yes?”
“You and that idiot standing to your left are the heads of the snake. And you know what they say about the head of the snake.”
“I see,” said Albrecht, carefully rummaging for something beneath his garment. “So you have come to lop off the snake’s head and see this order die.”
“Something like that.”
“That, Herr Hayden, will never happen.” By the time Albrecht removed his Luger from beneath his cowl, Kimball had already found his ally within the shadows, becoming a part of them. Albrecht set off a volley of shots to the area where Kimball was standing, the rounds skipping off the floor and the back wall.
Braun covered his head and ducked.
Then Albrecht sent off another round of misfired shots. The bullets hitting nothing of importance. “It is here, Herr Hayden, where you shall die. Your knives are no match for the German Luger.”
“You’re sure about that, Albrecht?” The voice came from behind the old Nazi, confusing Albrecht since Kimball had to make remarkable strides to the opposite side of the chamber in such little time. Albrecht turned and fired the Luger at the point of Kimball’s voice, the area lighting up in muzzle flashes with each round fired. The air smelled of gunpowder.
“What’s the matter, Albrecht? Hands too old and unsteady to hit your target?”
More shots. More misses.
“Stop, you fool!” stated Braun. “Can’t you see that he’s forcing you to waste ammo?”
Albrecht looked at the gun with examination, then pointed it back toward the shadows. “There is no escape for you, Herr Hayden. Only death. Come out and I promise to make it quick. Just a shot here.” He pointed to the base of his skull. “Quick and painless, ja.”
Silence.
“Herr Hayden?”
More silence.
“Come, come, Herr Hayden. I will no longer play your game and waste valuable ammunition. I still have plenty of rounds in the Luger.”
It came from the darkness like the soft whispers of rotors cutting through air, the Ka-Bar knife rotating through space and closing the distance between the shadows and the stage in a split moment. The point of the knife caught Albrecht Krause in the throat, the blade going clean through with the tip punching through the back of the neck and beside the spinal column. The Nazi dropped the Luger as the edges of his sight darkened and began to pinch inward, closing his vision. As Albrecht went to his knees and his hands to his throat, he attempted to dislodge the knife. But his aged hands failed him, his power gone. Then as his eyes began to roll and his life began to escape him, Albrecht could feel a darkness that was all-consuming and so cold that it chilled him like no other as it approach. With a final shudder, Albrecht Krause fell to the floor and sighed his final breath.
Hermann Braun, grabbing the Luger with a hand too shaken to hold the weapon straight, cried something out in German, rested the point of the barrel against his temple, and pulled the trigger.
The head of the snake was finally gone.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
The Vatican
The Office of Monsignor Dom Giammacio
Present Day
“Actually, I’m quite interested as to what happened,” the monsignor said. A cigarette burned between the fingers of his right hand. “You survived the fall through the floor.”
“Only because Phinehas cushioned the fall.”
“Yes, of course. And you were injured, yes? Severely so.”
Kimball nodded. “Broken bones. Dislocations. Things that needed time to heal.”
“And during this down time, they tried to wash you?”
“I didn’t have the power to fight back.”
“But when you healed, when you had the ability to do so, you did nothing.”
“I did something,” said Kimball. “I showed patience.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Patience,” he said. “I learned that a second team was going to be sent to the Vatican to take out the pope. But I didn’t know who they were. I needed to learn their identities so I could eventually target and neutralize the team. Who the team members were had been kept a secret until the moment of mission initiation. I couldn’t act beforehand.”
“But at such a risk, Kimball. During this time they were washing you. You could have lost focus. You could have lost your inner self.”
Kimball shook his head. “I’ve been to the Darkness. I’ve felt its cold embrace. Once you’ve been there and made the choice to leave it and never return, there is nothing but the power of the Light. They failed to turn me. It doesn’t work on everybody. Take the car
dinals who were inside the cathedral, for instance. They’d been executed because the Light in them was strong.”
“I see.” Curls of cigarette smoke continued to lift towards the ceiling. The monsignor’s eyes were fixed with rapt attention. “And you chose not to seek the aid of your brethren Knights? Or the pontiff?”
“I needed to terminate the assault team before they could act,” he said. “Exposing myself to the Vatican Knights too soon would have jeopardized my mission. Being gone for so long would have raised more questions than answers. Suspicions would have arisen given what happened to Phinehas and Mordecai. I couldn’t afford to be detained when assassins continued to run free inside the city.”
“I see. Act now and answer to your peers later,” said the monsignor.
“Exactly.”
“But you disappeared. And again without the benefit or aid of your brethren Knights.”
“There was something I had to do. Something personal.”
The monsignor studied him for a long moment before speaking. “Justice over law,” he finally said, intuiting. “You took it upon yourself to return to Brazil and finish off what you were unable to do because the identities of the assassins had yet to be learned. You could only sanitize the situation completely once the assassin team here was recognized and terminated, leaving you free to pursue closure with those in Brazil.”
“Is this the Spanish Inquisition here?”
“No, Kimball. You know better than to ask me a question like that.” The monsignor leaned forward. “Did you get . . . closure?”
“Let’s just say that Bonasero no longer has to look over his shoulder.”
The monsignor nodded. “I see,” he said, falling back into his chair. Then: “Justice over law in the way you see it.”
“Like I said, Bonasero no longer has to look over his shoulder. And those who are lost no longer have to listen to the maniacal ravings from people as sick as Gunter Wilhelm and those like him. People now have a chance and a choice to lean on a real church for direction, or perhaps a loved one.”
