by Jones, Rick
While his following ran deep, Cardinal Angullo’s was running far and dry and fast, the unspoken polls rising in Vessucci’s favor.
As he stood before an open window of his dormitory at the Domus Sanctæ Marthæ overlooking the Basilica, he reflected over the possible changes to come. Without hesitation he would reinstate the Vatican Knights to protect the sovereignty of the Church, its interests, and its citizenry beyond the reach of the Swiss Guard. For those who could not protect themselves, the Vatican Knights surely would.
Standing idle watching the sun slowly set, the sky turning from a deep blue to reddish-orange, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci sighed. Even with the polls serving in his favor, he knew he had an obstacle to overcome as long as Cardinal Angullo remained steadfast. If nothing else, he thought, the man was ambitious to a fault.
And sometimes, ambition could warp a man’s sense of conscience.
With a preamble of a smile the cardinal continued to admire the sunset, the sun’s tendrils finally fading toward the darkness of night.
#
As Cardinal Vessucci stood at the window of his dormitory, so did Cardinal Giuseppe Angullo.
He stood there as a dry wind caressed his skin—the same dry wind that was blowing on the fatal night of the pope’s death.
As the sun settled, so unsettled was his nerves.
Although silver of tongue, his past association with Pope Gregory had proved to be a slow undoing of his grip over his camp. Those whom he considered to be his closest allies had quietly defected, his numbers growing weaker at a time that was becoming more opportune. In whispered circles he heard that some had defected and became a part of Vessucci’s growing numbers, propelling him to the top of the Preferiti, whereas others gravitated to other aspirants. Either way, Angullo was slipping.
Closing his eyes, he could feel his ambition torture him like something hot and writhing in his gut. The seat was but a conclave away, a position he glorified since he was ordained as a priest in Florence. And here he stood after becoming second in command of the Vatican through Machiavellian means.
If he ousted Cardinal Vessucci once, then he could do it again. But time, he knew, was crucially limited with the conclave only days away.
He exhaled, knowing the task to be a difficult one. How could he dethrone Vessucci before the throne even fell to him? Tell the cardinals of Vessucci’s past when he sanctioned the Vatican Knights, a group of mercenaries? But that would also malign Pope Pius, who also sanctioned the group. And to malign Pope Pius in the eyes of the College of the Cardinals would certainly end his political push for the throne.
The man grit his teeth, feeling cornered.
And then he raised his right hand and held it up against the backdrop of the full moon, examining it. It had been the hand that pushed Gregory from the balcony, ending his life. It was also the hand that put him in the position to succeed Gregory by placing him at the helm of the papal throne.
It was all in the right hand.
Lowering his arm, Cardinal Angullo’s mind began to work.
He clearly recalled the moment inside the papal chamber as Gregory lay on the deathbed in gentle repose after the body was appropriated from the bloodied cobblestones beneath his balcony. In keeping with medieval ritual, the Camerlengo took a silver hammer and tapped the pope’s forehead three times, calling out his Christian name. When there was no response, the Camerlengo then announced to those present that the pope was dead and proceeded to remove the Fisherman's Ring from his finger, an act of dethroning. Once done, then the proper authorities took over, namely the coroner.
But keeping with papal law he knew the pope could not be autopsied, the poison in his system crippling him that night would never be detected, the crime going unnoticed. It had been papal law since the inception of the Church, a loophole for murder no doubt used many times over—at least in Angullo’s estimation.
But such a law did not apply to cardinals or bishops or clergy. Not everyone was immune.
In the darkness of night Angullo sighed again, a sigh that was long and drawn out, a sigh of pent-up frustration.
Should he apply the same fate upon Vessucci as he did with Pope Gregory, there was no doubt in his mind an autopsy would follow and an investigation conducted by Roman authorities would ensue. The death of a Preferiti so close to the death of the pontiff would certainly draw suspicion, especially if the poison that weakened Gregory was discovered in his system.
But Vessucci had been slowed by age. His steps were becoming shorter, his gait becoming more labored. Surely these were signs of an aging man falling into ill health.
Once again he held his hand aloft against the round frame of the full moon, and flexed his fingers before drawing his hand into a tight fist. Like he did on the night of the Gregory’s death, he would enter Vessucci’s dormitory room and apply a pillow over the man’s face, smothering him. He would then set the body in gentle repose, the man dying in his sleep of natural causes.
However, a telltale sign of dying by this method always left the victim’s eyes bloodshot.
This much he knew.
But with the Conclave days away it was a risk he was willing to take since God, after all, would be watching over him.
This he was sure of.
So with his clenched fist held high, with the backdrop of the full moon framing his tightly balled hand, Cardinal Giuseppe Angullo was feeling more than triumphant.
Soon, Bonasero, the papal thrown will be mine.
Soon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Las Vegas, Nevada
Friday night in Las Vegas is a night of anarchy in most cities, a place with no discipline and no sense of order. Although Sin City is a city cast in liberal shadows, it is also a city of tough laws. Prostitution is illegal in Las Vegas, although most casinos have their own stables hidden away and usually for high rollers; alcohol is never allowed while driving, although open containers are acceptable while walking the Strip; and the perception of lawlessness or unrestrained actions would likely guarantee a criminal charge and several days in the Clark County Detention Center, most likely ruining a vacation by spending it in a facility that always smelled like dirty laundry.
But certain venues held the Thunderdome likeness of Ultimate Fighting. The cages were surrounded by fanatical fans bent on brutality rather than boxing. Their screams and cries erupting as the contestants entered the cage knowing that only one would leave, and the other would lie as a broken tangle.
In the undercard bout at Caesar’s Palace, Kimball and Tank Russo, a huge man with broad shoulders and pile-driving arms, entered the ring. Tank regarded Kimball with a warrior’s glare, that straight-on look of a champion who was not afraid with his chin raised in defiance; and a prognathous brow scarred from past combats with every crooked line a badge of honor. And then he rolled his shoulders and neck to loosen up, the large bands of muscles writhing.
Kimball stood idle, staring at the 4-ounce gloves on his hands and flexing his fingers, these types of gloves alien to him.
“He’s a big dude, J.J.” Louie called out from the first row. “Be careful!”
Kimball turned to him and saw the concern on Louie’s face—could read the scripted lines of his features openly, the man having little faith in Kimball after seeing the size of Tank Russo.
And then he looked into the stands, at the scores of people who wanted to witness unbridled violence. Their faces masks of hungry rage.
Welcome to my world.
Tank moved closer to the ring’s center, throwing jabs into open air. Kimball, with all the ease of a man taking a leisurely stroll, moved forward when the ref beckoned him to the center.
Whereas Kimball appeared uncaring, his opponent appeared bull-like; a man who wanted nothing more than to beat him down to paste simply because he could.
After the ref gave the final directions both men parted, Tank Russo taking a defensive stance, hands up, knees bent, eyes focused, whereas Kimball stood straight with his arms b
y his side and a smile on his face as if saying “what’s this all about?”
When the ref gave the signal Tank closed in. And Kimball could see in Tank’s eyes that he thought this was going to be an easy victory, the opponent in Kimball too green.
In a sweeping motion so quick, so fluid, Kimball swung his leg out and then up until his leg was straight up in the air, and came straight down with an axe kick, the heel of his foot coming down on Tank’s head, the force behind the blow snapping Tank’s head viciously to the side, his eyes then rolling into slivers of white before he buckled as a boneless heap to the floor, the man rendered unconscious inside of seven seconds.
Kimball stood there looking down at his opponent, and then he turned to Louie who was standing in paralytic awe, his cigar threatening to fall from the corner of his mouth as Kimball shot him a thumbs-up. “Is that it? Am I done?”
Louie stood in stunned silence along with the rest of the crowd. Whereas they saw the makings of a true champion, he saw dollar signs. And then to no one in particular he whispered, “He’s gonna make me a millionaire.” And then in a celebratory manner by pumping his fist high, he yelled, “A millionaire!” It was the rally cry that got the crowd going, the quasi-silence now turning into a cacophonous riot of absolute noise and cheer.
Louie ran to the cage and curled his fingers through the rubber-coated links. “I knew you were a fighter!” he told him. “Damn if I didn’t know you were a fighter, J.J.”
“Is that it? Are we done?”
But Louie just ranted. “That was an axe kick,” he said. “A perfectly performed axe kick.”
“Louie, are we done?”
Louie’s smile broadened. “Until next week,” he told him. “Next Friday night.”
“Bigger purse?”
“After this? I’d say so.”
“I need the money.”
“Don’t we all,” said Louie, a ribbon of smoke curling lazily from the cigar’s end. “Don’t we all.”
#
In the locker room with distant cheers of the next fight coming through the cinderblock walls, Kimball sat on the bench undoing the tape that was wrapped around his wrists when Tank Russo was aided to a nearby medical table with his trainers aiding him into a supine position.
Kimball glanced up long enough to see Tank wave off his team before going back to the unwrapping.
Tank turned to him. “That was just a lucky kick, dude.”
Kimball ignored him.
Then: “Dude?”
Kimball faced him, his features appearing taxed. “What.”
“That was a lucky kick.”
“If you say so.” He went back to undoing the tape.
A short lapse of silence followed before Kimball spoke, his eyes focusing on the tape as he unwound the strips rather than looking at the man on the table. “Are you OK?”
Tank nodded, his eyes looking ceilingward. “A little dizzy,” he answered. “And I can feel a headache coming on.”
“You need to get yourself looked at—make sure you don’t have a concussion.”
Tank turned to him. “J.J. Doetsch,” he said. “How come I never heard of you before? It’s obvious this isn’t your first time to the rodeo.”
Kimball smiled. “I thought you said it was just a lucky kick.”
Tank proffered his own smile, an icebreaker between burgeoning friendships. “That was just my ego talking. You know how it goes in this business.”
Kimball finished with unrolling the tape from his wrists, tossed them in a trash can, and walked up to Tank who lay there with partially glazed eyes. But intuitive eyes as well.
Tank saw the scars, lines and bullet pocks along Kimball’s ripped body, the obvious wounds of battle. “You ain’t new to this, are you?”
“Cage fighting? You were my first.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously,” he said. “You’re my first cherry pop.”
Tank faced the ceiling. “Lucky me,” he said.
Kimball placed a kind hand on Tank’s shoulder and smiled. “Yeah. Lucky you.”
When Kimball returned to the bench Louie was standing there with eight crisp Benjamins fanning out from his grasp. “Your take,” he said, “as we agreed upon.”
Kimball took the money and stared at it for a long moment. It’s not that he had never seen that amount before or held them for simple homage. It was the way he earned it—by ritualistic brutality that catered to the whims of the masses.
It was blood money.
He took the bills, folded them, and slipped them into his shirt pocket that hung on a hanger in his locker. “Thanks, Louie.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow at work, then. We’ll talk about next Friday night.” After pumping a victorious fist in excitement, Louie was no doubt heading for the Blackjack tables with his roll.
“You’re going to be a champion someday,” said Tank. “You know that, don’t you? You’re going to be right up there because you give the people what they want: a vicious wrecking machine that takes his opponents out without conscience or care.”
Kimball sighed, and then said evenly, “Without conscience or care, huh?”
Tank nodded. “That’s right, buddy. And that’s why you’re going to be a bankable star in this business. When I first saw you I thought you were just a stupid greener just standing there. Just cool and calm is what you were. Grace under pressure like I’ve never seen before. You showed me nothing, as if you were completely empty.”
Kimball stared briefly into open space before turning to the lump of bills bulging from his shirt pocket within the locker. It was so easy, he thought. The money. An obvious pull since he was good at it. But what panged him to no end was that Tank Russo instantly saw in him what others have been saying about him since the beginning: that Kimball Hayden was a man without conscience.
And a man without conscience can never see the salvation within God’s eyes.
Kimball was suddenly full of regrets.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Northern Iran, Mount Damavand, The Facility
Although Leonid Sakharov worked more than ten hours straight, he did not allow his fragility to slow his pace. In fact, Sakharov appeared to have more of a bite to his stamina, more of a hitch to his gait as he roamed from one unit to another, from one monitor to the next.
While Levine stood sentinel by the bay doors, one of the few spots in the lab afforded to him by Sakharov, he watched the old man operate the nanoscopic machines with eagerness that had been missing in the old man since leaving Vladimir Central, and subsisting on the memories of someday returning to his one true love: nanotechnology.
And here he was, inside a lab with the most advanced technology the profits of oil could buy despite the UN sanctions that crippled the country.
In the fore of the lab Sakharov was seated before the most powerful microprocessor in the world that had millions of transistors just a few dozen nanometers wide, a nanometer being a billionth of the size of a meter. The technology was a marvel in the eyes of Levine, the machinery incomprehensible since something manufactured that was a billionth of size truly existed. But the Holy Grail was the Assembler, Sakharov’s pride and joy. The machinery was state-of-the-art technology that built nanobots molecule by molecule until molecular chains were created, the chain itself becoming the fusion of the nanobot.
With quick efficiency drawn from memories, Sakharov expertly crafted molecular chains that would take on a programmed life of its own and replicate. To program a lifespan and to give it a platform to perform to the will of their Creator was a different matter, a different process. So for years he sketched theories in his mind. And now that he was handed the opportunity to accomplish the means during the twilight of his life, Sakharov was creating with much success. Within hours he created the chains. Within days he designed a program to imbue in the molecules. Within a month he would become a God.
The makeup within the nanobots was a predesigned half-life with every subsequent bot liv
ing approximately half the lifespan of its predecessor. This was a safety feature to keep the nanobots from replicating exponentially, based on Drexler’s theory that unrestrained growth would cause the bots to consume all organic material on Earth within weeks.
With half a lifespan with every replication, their time would always be minimized to the point where each and every bot would exist down to a trillionth of a trillionth of a second, hardly time for them to exist long enough to do any damage, which was Sakharov’s goal: Maximum damage in the beginning, zero to none thereafter.
At the end of the day and at a specific time, Sakharov would create a disk of the day’s acquired data and proffer it to Levine who was summarily escorted by two Quds soldiers to the Comm Center. This was the only time he was allowed into the communications station per agreement between al-Sherrod and al-Ghazi, and through President Ahmadinejad. Since the data was crucial, since a tenebrous alliance was born between factions with a common goal, since trust remained at a bare minimum, Levine was able to, via imaging satellite, speak to al-Ghazi, whose image appeared slightly grainy on the live feed on the monitor screen.
After placing the disc into the required slot of the computer, Levine spoke into the lip mike. “Download today’s data,” he said evenly.
On another screen designs of molecular chains, nanobots and buckyballs, along with scientific equations, formulas and rows of text, downloaded, the screen becoming a cyberscript of symbols and rune-like designs. Once the material was downloaded, he said, “Send specifications to given address: Tehran. Al-Ghazi.”
The data moved through cyberspace within the blink of an eye, the information relocating to al-Ghazi’s location and downloaded onto a disc on his end.
And then: “And how are you, Umar?”
“I’m fine,” he answered.
It was here that al-Ghazi would look for particular facial tics on Levine’s face, with certain tics meaning certain things. If the data proved false or doctored, then he would give a subtle wink with his left eye; if under duress, then a wink with his right, two separate gestures with plenty of meaning behind them. Should Levine give off the impression of either, then al-Ghazi would counter with a gesture of his own by blinking his eyes twice, a signal to Levine to use his very particular set of skills to kill Sakharov, ending the concord between the alliances. But his features remained stolid, meaning that Ahmadinejad was, at least for now, complying with the conditions of the agreement. To get this message across that everything was pretty much copasetic, he would then tent his hands in mock prayer and bounce his fingertips off the base of his chin.
