by Jones, Rick
He opened his eyes and looked at the suitcase once again, noting its dull silver coat. In a fluid motion he exited from the chair, got on bended knees, and lowered the case so that it sat flat against the floor. For a long moment he stared at it, his mind growing blank, unsure of his next move until his hand finally reached out and undid the clasps, the clicks sounding louder than they should have, he thought.
Tipping back the lid he saw the shirt, the Roman Catholic collar, the insignia, all driving the memories harder, stronger, recalling the faces of those he had saved. Men. Women. Children. Faces by the hundreds shot through his mind like the files of a Rolodex turning over with blinding speed, revealing every single card with every card a face.
So many lives.
He reached down and grabbed the shirt, tracing the insignia of the Vatican Knights with the back of his thumb.
He pressed the shirt close to him, could smell the indescribable cleanliness to it, and closed his eyes.
After a moment he then reached into the case and grabbed the beret, noting the same emblem on the hat and smiled, feeling the pride of serving.
Gingerly laying the shirt in the suitcase as if he was applying homage to the fabric, Kimball went to the bathroom and fixed the beret on his head, turning his head from left to right to appraise his appearance beneath the dim cast of light over the bathroom mirror.
After a minute, perhaps two, he returned to his seat and sat there still wearing the beret.
He sat idle for several more hours as his mind vacillated between his own individuality regarding his own good and evil, wondering if he still had hope to see the light of salvation. Or more importantly, he wondered if the God of the Vatican was willing to proffer him the spark of a new beginning.
He sat there.
And he wondered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Vatican City
Inside the papal chamber Pope Pius XIV sat at his desk while Leviticus stood to the side wearing the uniform of Vatican Security rather than that of a Vatican Knight. It was all a ruse, however, to keep Cardinal Angullo from making further inquiries as to the alien dress of a Vatican Knight —the beret, the military attire, the insignia. He did not want Leviticus to become the catalyst of Angullo’s inquisitive nature, no doubt pressing from the cardinal a curious investigation into Leviticus’ wear, as to who he represented under the Vatican banner.
When Cardinal Angullo entered the chamber he did so with humility. He was slightly bent at the waist, giving his lean figure a slight curvature. Although his eyes were cast to the floor, they were there for only a short moment before shifting his gaze to Leviticus, then back to Pope Pius. “You requested my presence, Your Holiness?”
“Please,” he said pointing to the chair before him, “have a seat.”
Angullo lifted the hem of his garment and sat down, his eyes settling once more on the large man who stood sentinel beyond the pope with calculating appraisal. “You have security?” he asked. “Is there a problem, Your Holiness?”
Bonasero Vessucci ignored him by veering off into a tangent. “I’ve asked you here for a reason,” he told him.
“That’s quite obvious.”
“Giuseppe, I’m going to make this quite clear,” he said. “You’re being reassigned.”
Cardinal Angullo smiled humorlessly. “I figured as much,” he said. “I assume it’s in retaliation for being assigned your position when Pope Gregory took the papal throne?”
“Retaliation? No.”
“Then why? I believe my actions as second-in-command have spoken for themselves over the past several months, yes?”
“Your action, Giuseppe, as to the way you achieve your means to attain personal heights rather than through the divine guidance of God, disturbs me greatly. It’s all right to aspire. But it’s not all right to aspire against the principles of God, which is self over your fellow man.”
Angullo’s smile widened with sarcasm. “Now because you sit upon the papal throne, it somehow gives you the insight to read what is in the hearts and minds of men?”
“Hardly. I have watched your slow decline over years, Giuseppe. I sadly watched a man who was a giant in the College lose himself to his growing ambitions. I watched you slowly gravitate away from the true nature of God.”
“I see,” he said simply. “But your appraisal, Your Holiness, is completely without merit. I can guarantee that there are men within the College who see me with the same subjective eye; that I am a just man who keeps God close to his heart.” He fell back into his seat. “No, no,” he said, waving his hand in dismissal. “There is no true justification other than retaliation. And we both know it.”
“Believe what you will,” he returned. “But my intentions are whole when I say that I’m trying to save you.”
“Save me? And how will you do that? Will you send me to Boston to fill the vacancy you left behind?”
“You will be sent to a venue that I believe will do you good,” he stated firmly. “I need you to rediscover the man who was once essential to this Church. I need you to find yourself, Giuseppe. And by this, I will send you somewhere where you can best serve man and yourself.”
“I see.” He looked at Leviticus glaringly, but the large man held his gaze with an unblinking stare. “Were you afraid, Your Holiness, that I would come to some kind of violent means by this news, given your suspicion of me regarding the good Pope Gregory? Is that why you’ve called upon security?”
Bonasero did not want to provide the man with anything further. He simply cast off the cardinal’s question as something unremarkable and undeserving of a merited response. Instead, he deflected his question with direction. “Within a few days’ time you will be notified of my decision,” he said evenly. “Until then you will continue in the capacity of secretary of state until I find a suitable replacement.”
Cardinal Angullo gazed at the man for a long and unabashed moment before laboring to his feet. “As you wish, Your Holiness.”
When Bonasero reached his hand out, Cardinal Angullo accepted it and brought the pope’s hand to his lips, kissing the Fisherman’s Ring.
When everything was said and done, Cardinal Angullo left the papal chamber closing the door behind him.
As the bolt snickered into place, only then did the pope drop his shoulders to ease the tension. “He’s completely lost,” he whispered to himself.
Leviticus took the seat the cardinal just vacated. It was still warm. “So what happens now?”
Bonasero Vessucci continued to stare at the door, his eyes fixed. “We wait,” he said. “Should the good cardinal feel threatened, then he may act accordingly to his nature. If he feels that the throne is well out of his reach, then I believe he will act in a manner of desperation.”
“You truly believe he had something to do with Gregory’s death?”
“I can’t prove it,” he answered. “But Cardinal Angullo is not the same man. I truly believe he positioned himself to usurp the throne after he engineered my expulsion from Vatican City. But he didn’t count—or perhaps didn’t believe—on my rebounding back to the good graces of the College. I was his only true threat in the Preferiti.”
“So now you think he plans to retaliate?”
“I don’t know. But that’s why I need you here, Leviticus. I need your protection.”
“You’ll be safe, Bonasero. You have my word.”
“I know that. But there are other ways to get to me,” he said. “Poisons, ways that only a lost mind filled with dark ambitions could think of.”
“Then we’ll have the Knights watch the staff and kitchen crew, we’ll put eyes everywhere.”
“The value of the Vatican Knights is abroad,” he reminded him, “to protect the interests of the Church and the citizenry of its people, not security. We have people for that.”
“Then what?”
“I want you to shadow the good cardinal,” he told him. “I want you to watch his every move. If Cardinal Angullo is feeling the insecuriti
es of his position, he may likely falter in his maneuverings knowing that time is limited and will need to act quickly. But with that being said, he will also be very careful not to draw suspicion with the death of one pope arriving so quickly after the death of another. After all, John Paul I was in office for one month until his untimely death with no questions asked. My death would only serve under the same scenario.”
“Understood.”
Pope Pius faced the Vatican Knight with obvious sadness lining his hanging features. “Leviticus, I need you by my side until the good cardinal is reassigned to a place where the Vatican is well beyond his tentacle reach.”
“There’s no need to worry, Bonasero.”
But the pontiff did worry.
Cardinal Angullo was a man of incredible cunning and calculation and not to be underestimated. And with that thought on his mind, Pope Pius the Fourteenth looked out beyond the open doors leading to the balcony and noted the dark clouds of a tempest moving quickly towards the Vatican.
#
Las Vegas
The morning sun had crested the horizon, shining a light upon the smog that was already beginning to settle close to the valley floor.
Isaiah stood in front of Kimball’s apartment wearing plain clothes, so as not to draw attention to himself by wearing the incongruous wear of the clerical attire mixed with military garb. Last night was one thing. It was dark and late. But now, the day was young and bright.
He stood there, waiting. But for what, he didn’t know. What he did know was that he was stunned by Kimball’s decision to reject the very uniform he once revered. More so, he was taken aback by the man’s indifferent attitude.
Taking the steps slowly to the front door, and then noting that the door had faded and chipped from the constant bombardment of a hot sun, he wrapped his knuckles lightly on the panel.
“Come in.”
Isaiah opened the door. The smell of stale air and musk greeted him, as well as a wave of intense heat.
Kimball sat in the same chair that Isaiah left him in the night before. Only this time the man was wearing his clerical shirt, military pants, boots and beret. Most striking was the whiteness of the Roman Catholic collar, which shone brilliantly in contrast against his shirt.
Kimball did not smile, did not betray an emotion or offer words of greeting. He simply sat there, his eyes on Isaiah.
Isaiah closed the door behind him. The room was stifling, dry, and in desperate need to be aired out.
“It looks good on you,” he finally told him, taking a seat opposite Kimball. “Really good.”
Kimball sighed. “When I came here,” he started, “I had a dream. I was going to make some quick cash and buy me a little place and start my own business, to be independent. Then I got involved with cage fighting.” He grazed his fingertips over the bump above his eye. “As you can probably see.” He lowered his hand and set it on the armrest. “The money was coming in fast—lots of it. And my dreams a little more within reach. I was gonna take that money, get out of the business, and start over. Just get rid of the man that used to be Kimball Hayden and become someone else and forget my past. I told myself to become someone new, someone good. And when I made enough, then I was going to run and leave everyone behind without saying good-bye. I was just gonna go.”
“And now?”
Kimball hesitated before answering. “Then I realized that no matter what, all the money in the world isn’t going to matter. I am what I am and that’s not going to change. Money isn’t the panacea to change the man I truly am.” He looked at Isaiah squarely in the eyes. “And then I remembered what you said about the uniform, looked at it, and remembered things that I had forgotten. I remembered my humanity. The lives I had saved.” His gaze never departed. “I also remembered the darkness of my life—the times I murdered people, sometimes good people, at the colossal whims of corrupt government officials who told me that what I was doing I was doing for the good of the government entity, when the truth was that I was only serving their reprehensible needs to promote black agendas. I became their machine who enjoyed doing what I did. I enjoyed it, Isaiah. I enjoyed killing those without impunity, as well as holding the power to decide whether or not they lived or died by my hand.”
“You haven’t been that way for a while, Kimball.”
Kimball removed the beret and stared at it. “Deep down I wonder,” he told him flatly. “So I did a little soul searching. And with it I found the faces of those I had saved. I remembered them taking my hand in gratitude and kissing it. I remembered the faces of the children, the incredible fears they held in their eyes and the subsequent smiles of relief when I got them to safety. And then I told myself that I enjoyed that more than killing without impunity.” He placed the beret back on his head and formed it to specs. “Last night,” he began, “after you left, I took into consideration what you said—about thinking it over.”
“And?”
Kimball smiled, but lightly. “It’s time to go home,” he said. “It’s time to go back home.”
“It’s where you belong,” said Isaiah. “The Vatican Knights would not be the Vatican Knights without its leader. You know that.”
Kimball took in a long breath of stale air, looked around the apartment one last time, and realized that he was not going to miss this place or Las Vegas at all.
“There’s one last thing I have to do,” he told him. “Just one.” He turned toward Isaiah, a faint smile still showing. “Once done, then we can go home.”
#
There was this little church on Casino Center Drive right next to the Court House and CCDC, the Clark County Detention Center. It was a building made of cinderblocks with a small bell tower and token religious statues standing sentinel by the front door. When Kimball tried the door it was locked, so he went around the back, which was an alleyway, and stood before the gate leading into the garden area. Standing by clumps of brightly lit shrubbery stood a priest and a nun, conversing.
“Excuse me!”
When the priest and the nun turned, Kimball beckoned them forward. Only the priest answered the call and walked toward the gate. “Can I help you?”
Kimball was not wearing the uniform of a Vatican Knight, but plain clothes. “I was hoping to get into the church,” he told him.
“I’m afraid the church is closed. But if you come back this evening between six and seven, that is when we open for confessional.”
“I’ve nothing to confess, Father. God knows what I did.”
“I see.”
“I’ve come for another matter. Perhaps you can help me out?”
“I can try.”
Kimball removed a wad of hundred dollar bills from his shirt pocket, the money earned from his fights, the money he was setting aside toward the pursuit of his dreams, and forwarded the money through the bars of the gate. “It’s for the poor,” he told him.
The priest took the money, his mouth slowly falling into a perfect O.
“There’s over six thousand dollars there,” Kimball told him. “Put it to good use.”
Kimball turned and began to walk away.
“Wait!”
Kimball halted and turned to face the priest, but didn’t say a word.
It was obvious the clergyman was stunned. “Are you sure? This is a lot of money.”
Kimball was absolutely positive and gave a nod to that affect. “Put to good use, Father. There are people who need it more than I do,” he said.
Without saying another word Kimball was gone, surrendering his dream for the pursuit of another: His salvation.
#
That night they took an immediate departure from Terminal Two at McCarran Airport. Kimball took the window seat, wanting to see the lights of Las Vegas pass beneath him for the last time. He didn't appear apprehensive or excited, he just remained impassively quiet. Nor did Isaiah do anything to change Kimball’s current state or try to curb his lack of enthusiasm. Instead, Isaiah let the man sit alone with his thoughts, while
he took the aisle seat and read the current aeronautical magazine.
As the plane taxied and took off, the dazzling lights of Las Vegas were in full display, the Strip no doubt capable of rivaling the lights of Paris.
As the plane banked, Kimball realized that he held no regrets for surrendering the money to the church. Although ill gotten, it would certainly do a lot of good in the right hands.
Kimball was at peace.
When the plane began its long journey eastbound, he settled back and looked to the overhead bin above him.
Inside the bin was the aluminum suitcase. And inside the suitcase was his only possession, the only thing of importance, and that was the uniform of a Vatican Knight.
Kimball then closed his eyes and settled back for the long flight.
He was at rest.
And he was at peace.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Mount Damavand. The Alborz Region, The Facility
Aryeh Levine was in obvious agony. He had been placed inside a vacuum chamber with his feet dangling downward in stomach-churning angles, the skin badly swollen and mottled with gangrenous colors.
Al-Sherrod stood behind the partition. To his left was al-Ghazi. Both men stood with totally different aspects. Whereas al-Sherrod looked on with indifference, al-Ghazi appeared as wounded as a man could be under such circumstances. He had trusted Umar, which was unlikely his real name, with brotherly reverence. Only to be violated in the worst imaginable way.
Al-Sherrod stepped closer to the glass with the marginal interest of examining a strange- looking insect beneath the lens of a glass a moment before angling it in such a way that the rays of the sun would cremate it. And that’s how he saw Levine, as an insect. “The transmission traces back to Tel Aviv,” he finally said. And then he turned to al-Ghazi whose eyes remained focused on Levine, the muscles in the back of his jaw twitching. “And we both know what exclusive fraternity resides in Tel Aviv, don’t we Adham?”
