by Jones, Rick
“Are you kidding me? There’re four of us.”
“I see that,” he said. “Unfortunately for you, the odds favor me quite a bit.”
The punk cocked his head and gave a questioning look.
“Last chance,” Kimball said sternly. “Get out of my way.”
The punk did not hesitate, but came at Kimball with unskilled and reckless abandon, the point of the blade going in as a straight jab.
Kimball pivoted and sidestepped the punk, the blade missing its mark and going wide, the punk tripping and sprawling to the ground in the face-first approach as his chops hit the pavement hard, his teeth fracturing and breaking.
Kimball took a step back to access the situation, barely able to choke back the laugh which irritated the punks to no end.
The attacking punk gained his feet, and put a hand to his bloody mouth. “You think that was funny?”
“Are you kidding me? That was friggin’ hilarious.”
The punk attacked in rage, swinging wildly, the blade cutting the air in diagonal Xs, back and forth, side to side, Kimball falling back, waiting.
And then the former Vatican Knight struck.
Kimball lashed out with his left hand, caught the punk by the wrist, and twisted, snapping the bone and causing the knife to fall. He then brought up his right leg and kicked the punk with such force that the young man went airborne and carried across the alley in what appeared to be an impossibly long distance, the kid landing on a pile of trash bags where he remained unmoving.
Keeping his eyes on the other three, he slowly picked up the knife.
They faced him. And it was obvious to Kimball that they were determining if attacking him would be the wrong thing to do. To help them with their decision, Kimball began to play the knife across and over his fingers like a majorette twirling a baton. The motion was poetic and effortless, the skill taking years to achieve, the ability displayed unlike anything the punks had ever seen before.
“Your choice,” he said.
The punks backed away, two of them withdrawing their blades and pocketing their knives. The third wasn’t so sure, keeping his knife ready.
“We just want to take our friend and go,” said the skinny punk with the knife.
“Do what you want. I’ll give you thirty seconds.”
The punks hustled, stirring their friend who was half conscious and murmuring nonsensical syllables. When they gathered the punk to his feet he cried out in agony as the pain in his wrist suddenly became white hot.
One of the punks came forward. “Can we have his knife back?” He held out his hand as a gesture to receive.
Kimball nodded. “Nah, I think I’ll keep it for posterity.”
The punk fell back with his group, and then they headed for the opposite end of the alley.
Kimball pocketed the knife, watching. When they rounded the bend he hastened his pace. Regardless, there were always vultures out there waiting in the shadows ready to close in on what they think may be carrion to feed on. This was not a good area to take things lightly or remain complacent.
When he reached his apartment he finally felt at ease, knowing he was safe because his apartment was rigged to deal with any unwanted visitors.
The interior was small, hot and closed in, the kitchen nothing but a single-basin sink and a microwave oven. The bedroom was equally small and allowed nothing larger than a super-single sized bed and adjoining nightstand. Across the way was a small dresser with a 13” flat-screen TV. Next to that was a bathroom, small, with walls that were stained with patches of black mold that he had to wash away with a sponge on a weekly basis.
But it didn’t matter to him. It was just a place to lay his hat.
Removing the knife from his pocket, he depressed the button and watched the blade slide out. The metal was clean and shined with a mirror polish. But it wasn’t a well-made knife. More like something that was made in Tijuana and brought across the border.
He tossed the knife onto the dresser, took a quick shower, and felt fresh and new as he got into bed. Most nights he would lay there and watch the news, often using the remote to switch channels by the second—going from channel to channel until settling on a station.
But tonight he just wanted to lay in the dark and think about what Louie had to say about how he saw the fight in Kimball’s eyes, which caused him to wonder if his destiny was truly set. The skirmish in the alley was testimony to that, the “fight” always seemed to be within arm’s length no matter how hard he tried to avoid it.
With Louie’s words and the images of the brawl in the alley playing out in his mind, and if he wasn’t so consumed with the sequence of the day’s events, then he would have been watching TV. And if he had, then he would have learned that Pope Gregory had died of an apparent accident by falling off the Papal Balcony.
What a day.
CHAPTER FIVE
Moscow, Russia
The man was in his late sixties but moved with the alacrity of somebody much older. With a cane in one hand and a small bundle of bread and eggs in the other, the old man walked along the cold streets of Moscow. Above him the sky was gray; the sky was always gray as the man shuffled along in a laboring gait to his apartment on the third level of the complex. Every day the journey up the stairs were beginning to prove too much for his increasingly feeble legs.
Someday, he considered, when his legs finally gave, so would he.
He would sit by the window with a bottle of vodka and drink himself into a stupor with the last thought on his mind of the Cold War, when he was someone of purpose. Now that the walls have crumbled and communism nothing but an afterthought, the old man had become a societal burden surviving on a meager stipend equal to four hundred American dollars per month. Often he would go days without heat during a Russian winter because he didn’t have enough rubles to pay the bill.
Yet the old man eventually adapted, finding warmth with booze and aged memories.
Climbing the stairway only to take a time-out on every fourth or fifth step to catch his breath, the old man worked his way to his apartment that was approximately 350 square feet of living space.
Once inside he placed the eggs in the refrigerator and the bread on the counter, then leaned against the badly stained kitchen sink to regain his strength.
“You’re getting old, Leonid,” he told himself. “It’s getting close to putting this old dog down.”
The old man removed his scarf, his jacket, and draped them over the kitchen table that wobbled on weak legs. And then he made his way to a time-worn lounge chair situated before a small casement window that gave him a view of Red Square. This was his comfort zone. Just him, his memories, and the cheapest bottle of vodka he could afford.
Yet the chair was moved away from the window and the drapes were drawn, pinching out the drab light of an overcast day.
The old man stopped, his heart fluttering irregularly in his chest. “Who’s in here?”
From the depths of the shadows a man sat in the old man’s chair, which to the old man was sacred property. He was cast in obscurity as a silhouette bearing no contour or shape, just a mass of darkness.
“I’ve come to give you back your respect,” the shadow simply stated. “To give you back all those years of glory and achievement.”
The old man recognized the voice immediately, clicked his tongue in disgust and waved his hand dismissively. The Middle East accent and the steady lilt in the man’s voice told Leonid that it was Adham al-Ghazi, not a man he expected or wanted to see under any circumstances.
“You come into my home unannounced and scare an old man half to death! What’s the matter with you?”
Al-Ghazi said nothing.
“Say what you have to say, and then leave.”
Al-Ghazi sat unmoving, a shade of deep black. And then, “My bathroom in Iran is bigger than this place,” he said. “And it smells better, too. It’s a shame that a man of your talent is forced to live in such conditions.”
“If
you’ve come all this way to tell me that your crap doesn’t stink, then you’re wasting your time.”
“Still full of spitfire, I see. That’s good.”
“What do you want, Ghazi?”
The Arab stood and moved into the light. He was impeccably dressed in an expensive suit bearing pinstripes and a matching silk tie. His beard was perfectly trimmed, not a single hair was misplaced or out of proportion from any other hair on his chin. To Leonid, it appeared perfectly sculptured.
“I want to give you back your glory days,” he said, placing his hands behind the small of his back. “I can give you back what Russia cannot.”
The old man waved his hand dismissively for a second time. “Impossible,” he said. “That ship has already sailed and Mother Russia is gone.”
“Perhaps. But a new ship has arrived.” Al-Ghazi reached into his jacket pocket, produced a thick envelope, and placed it on the kitchen counter. Leonid Sakharov didn’t have to be told of its contents. “That’s just a beginning, my friend. When you’re finished, then you’ll be able to live out your life in luxury. I guarantee it.”
Leonid Sakharov stared at the envelope, refusing to make any type of commitment by picking it up.
“Whereas Russia has turned a blind eye to you,” added al-Ghazi, “my people have not.”
“Your people are al-Qaeda.”
“My people, Leonid, can make you whole again. No more pining away in that rat trap of a chair of yours looking over Red Square and reminiscing of old times while drinking rotgut. Unless, of course, that’s the way you want to go out. As a seething old drunk who has nothing to look forward to besides a cheap bottle of vodka every morning.”
“And what’s it to you? Maybe I like being ‘a seething old drunk who has nothing to look forward to besides a cheap bottle of vodka every morning,’” he mimicked.
Al-Ghazi smiled. “You’re so much better than that,” he told him. “In fact, Leonid, I know you don’t believe that yourself. Or you wouldn’t get up every day just to reminisce about times that used be. You want to be there again, don’t you? To ply your trade and be someone who is needed.”
The old man cast his eyes to the floor. Al-Ghazi hit the head of the nail straight on. A tired Old Man he may be, but al-Ghazi was correct to presume that he lived everyday in a drunken haze just to make his world more bearable. “What is it that you want?” he finally asked.
“Your services, of course.”
“It’s been more than ten years,” he said.
“I’m sure it’s like riding a bicycle.”
The old man hobbled his way to a stained sofa, the foam of the cushions bleeding out through tears in the fabric, and fell into the seat. “Why?”
Al-Ghazi’s smile never wavered. “Do you know what truly resides within the Ark of the Covenant?” he asked.
“I couldn’t give a rat’s ass.”
“Not a religious man, I see.”
“Not too many people in Russia are,” he said curtly. “It kind of went to the wayside when Stalin came aboard.”
“Yes, of course.”
“So again: Why?”
“The Ark,” he began, “is said to contain five items: the two tablets of the Ten Commandments, a pot of gold Manna, the rod of Aaron, and one other item that cannot be seen or heard until it’s too late.”
There was a lapse of time as the two men stared at each other.
And then: “If you haven’t noticed,” said Leonid, “I’m an old man who doesn’t have much time. So get on with it!”
“It is said that once the lid of the Ark is opened, then those who are not selected by the God of the Covenant will die by the demons who reside within.”
Sakharov sighed. And al-Ghazi could see that the old man was becoming taxed.
“All I want you to do, Leonid, is to do what you do best.”
“Right now, it’s getting drunk.”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
Al-Ghazi leaned forward. “A few days ago my group came in possession of the Ark of the Covenant and the lid was opened.”
“You’re saying you found the Ark?”
“The true Ark, yes.”
“And let me guess. There were no demons, right?”
“No demons,” he confirmed. “Another fallacy, I believe.”
“And what do you propose to do?” he asked. “Sell it to the highest bidder? Maybe to the Catholics or the Jews or the Muslims, whoever has the deepest pockets so that you can go on and continue to fund your terrorist campaigns?”
Al-Ghazi’s smile diminished. The old man was starting to get to him. “Nothing of the sort,” he answered tautly. “I have another purpose for it.”
“And that would be?”
“To fulfill a biblical prophecy that so many richly believe in,” he said.
“And what would that be? Not that I care, mind you.”
“Their prophecy states that the Ark of the Covenant serves as a preamble to World War Three. That the religious factions are willing to war over this box made of acacia wood and gold, simply for the history it possesses.”
“Doesn’t it bear the same historical nostalgia for you? You’re Muslim?”
“What Allah wants first and foremost is for the infidels to be annihilated. This Ark can serve as the catalyst to get this done.”
Leonid cocked his head and squinted. “You want to start a war?”
“Maybe not a war,” he said, “but a means to destroy all those who do not support the teachings of Allah. If a war starts, then it would be by Allah’s will.”
The old man reared his head back, just a little. “You’re friggin’ nuts,” he finally said.
“Religion is a hot-button issue,” al-Ghazi returned. “People are so devoted to the concept of their god that when someone dares to speak against their god or religion, they then become easily angered. But what would it be like, Leonid, if they cannot attain what they believe belongs to them rightfully? Animosities rise, tempers flare, and battles begin. And for what? A golden box?” Al-Ghazi studied the old man momentarily before speaking again. “People die every day in the name of religion,” he added. “And for a lot less.”
In fluid motion al-Ghazi parted the drapes, giving the old man a view of Moscow.
Leonid nibbled softly on his lower lip, and then looked out at Red Square, at the wide streets and at the domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral. He missed his life—missed what he had. And al-Ghazi picked up on this.
“Come with me,” he goaded. “Take back what Russia took away. Be someone who can make a difference.”
Make a difference. This simple statement affected the old man greatly, the words playing continuously in his mind the entire time he remained silent, obviously debating.
And then, after looking at al-Ghazi with a sidelong glance, he asked, “What is it that you want me to do?”
Al-Ghazi’s smile flourished as he leaned forward to draw Leonid into close counsel. “What I want from you, Leonid, is one thing.”
“And what would that be?”
“I want you to put the demons back inside the box.”
The old man knew exactly what he was talking about.
CHAPTER SIX
Somewhere Over the Atlantic Ocean
Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci sat in the Economy class looking out the window at the ocean below. White caps broke against waves that matched the color of an overcast sky, that of battleship gray. And rain began to dapple against the window as the plane rode the leading edge of a turbulent wind.
For the past few hours he considered many things, especially the moments on the papal veranda standing alongside Pope Pius holding counsel on many subjects, usually on splendid days where the sun was high in a cerulean blue sky. But he kept thinking about one thing: the stone guardrail that encompassed the landing.
It was beautifully crafted, the stonework bearing the images of angels and cherubs and stood nearly five-foot high, which was
taller than most rails since it acted as a safety feature to keep those from toppling to the cobblestones below.
What was the reason for Pope Gregory to lean over the rail to such a degree that he would lose his balance and fall, especially at such an early hour when the shadows were at their darkest? Had he seen something below?
He rubbed his chin at the thought. Possibly, he considered. But there were other considerations as well. The man could have hoisted himself along the railing, and as an abomination to God cast himself over its edge to the street below, which Bonasero immediately disputed with incredulity. Or he could have been pushed. But this, too, was disputed with incredulity, since it would infer that Gregory was murdered.
Still, something nagged at him, something that went beyond the surface since the quick answer by investigating authorities was that it was nothing more than a horrible accident; therefore, any other alternatives were summarily dismissed with no need for further examination.
So the final report would read as this: Pope Gregory had died from the consequences of the fall. And that may be true, he thought, at least to a certain degree. But what precipitated the fall to begin with bothered him.
The cardinal closed his eyes, settled back in his seat, and waited for the plane to touchdown in Rome with a single thought on his mind: The pope’s death was not as simple or as clear cut as it seemed.
This he was sure of.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Moscow, Russia
It was night, and the old man sat alone in the darkness of his apartment with the threadbare shades pulled wide so that he could see the wonderful lights cast upon the domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral.
He had conceded, telling al-Ghazi that he would commit himself “to put the demons back into the box.” He was no magician, not a conjurer, not even a man who could urinate without a burning sensation that caused him a pain far greater than the arthritis that was plaguing his bones in the cold Russian weather.
In truth al-Ghazi was right, he considered. As beautiful as it was outside his window, the way the lights lit upon the colored domes of the cathedral, his Mother Russia was forever gone.
