by Rick Jones
After a brief pause, Kimball replied, “I miss them. I fought beside them. They’re my brothers.”
“And you need them as much as they need you.”
“I would like to think so.”
“I know so.” Shari stood up, embraced Kimball, and placed her head against his chest. His heartbeat was strong and measured. She also knew that it was the seat of Kimball’s feelings and the trigger that often forced him to wear his emotions on his sleeve. At times he could be kind and caring, and at others he could be brutal and savage. There was no doubt in her mind that Kimball Hayden would always be at war with himself as Darkness and Light consistently fought for the bounty of his treasured soul.
“Go,” she finally told him. “And do so knowing that I love you. And do so knowing that I’ll be here waiting for you.”
“What about you? You make a decision yet?”
Shari knew what he was talking about. She had been working for the CIA as a field agent, until her position became compromised enough to assure that she could never serve in the field again. So, Langley offered her a position as a lead principal who would train operatives at Camp Peary, better known as the Farm, which she balked at. Like Kimball, she wanted to get her hands dirty. And it was because of this shared understanding with Kimball to get engaged rather than to sit along the sidelines, that she appreciated his desire to work within certain theaters of operation. It was for the white-knuckle draw of stemming conflict.
“The Bureau wants me back . . . I’m considering the possibility of resigning my post at Langley and returning to the Bureau.”
Kimball smiled. “Good for you.” And then: “I’ll be gone for a couple of days. A week at the most. Just enough to pop in and out.”
“Kimball, please, do what you have to do. I won’t hold you back.”
As they kissed while framed by the window with the lake and forest in the background, Shari pulled away and winced, then grimaced. She immediately placed a hand to her side in an attempt to quell a sharp and stabbing pain. It was something akin to having a hot knitting needle driven deep into her abdomen.
“What’s the matter?” he asked her.
After taking a few deep breaths, the pain appeared to be subsiding with Shari’s pinched look fading.
“I want you to get that looked at,” he told her. “The pain’s too frequent and they’re getting worse.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Your body’s trying to tell you something, Shari. Promise me that you’ll get that looked at while I’m gone.”
“We’ll see.”
“Promise me.”
Staring into his cerulean blue eyes and seeing his desire for her, she caved. “I promise.”
Then as a couple, and as the fog started to burn off while the mallards swam about in majestic colors, Kimball Hayden and Shari Cohen stood as one to watch the sun rise completely above the pines.
CHAPTER TWO
The Vatican, Vatican City
Three Days Later
It was close to midnight when Kimball reached the bullet-shaped doorway to his chamber that was located within the garrison of the Vatican Knights. It was a nondescript building made of field rock that was situated in the Old Gardens, with the structure having been pieced together stone by stone more than five hundred years ago.
As Kimball stood before the wooden door that was held together by black bands of metal and rivets, something with a medieval touch to it, he read the Latin that was etched into the stones that surrounded the doorway.
Pietas Maxime Praeter Honestatem
(Loyalty Above All Else Except Honor)
He traced his fingers carefully over the lettering while remembering fond memories, and as he did so the corners of his lips curved gently into a marginal smile. He remembered those who had come into his life and then departed, soldiers and warriors and clerics, but not before they left behind their impressions that made Kimball think of them as family.
Turning the knob and opening the door to his chamber, Kimball stepped inside the room which was as black as pitch. But he knew every inch and every crack that ran along the walls because he was familiar with moving through darkness as though he was a part of it.
On the nightstand and by the smell of its oil was a kerosene lamp. With a bold stroke of a match, Kimball lit the wick and adjusted the brightness once he returned the lamp’s glass chimney.
His footlocker was gone from the end of a cot that no longer had any bedding. Military magazines and tomes that were stacked knee high in some areas were gone. And the steel plate of metal that had a mirror polish to it was no longer stationed on the wall above the washbasin. Pope Clement XV had done his best to erase Kimball not only from his life, but also from the church. Everything that had been a reminder of Kimball Hayden had been removed from the chamber.
Untouched, however, and on the opposite side of the room was the votive rack for which the candles had never been lit, a kneeling rail which had never been knelt upon, and a podium that accommodated a Bible that he had never opened. High on the wall that divided the chamber was a stained-glass window of the Virgin Mother who held her arms out in invitation. At a certain time of day when the sun traversed the sky, a biblical beam of light would enter the room as a warm and gifted shaft to absolve Kimball of his sins only for the Vatican Knight to reject it, since he never felt comfortable in accepting what he believed he didn’t deserve. Earning the Light had always been a far-reaching goal not yet acquired, but certainly attainable.
Kimball sat on the cot whose mattress was military issue, meaning that the pad was only two inches thick. But to him, it was more comfortable than the bed he shared with Shari.
Looking at the stained-glass window once again, and with the flame of the lamp’s wick dancing, the image appeared to shift macabrely. Where there had once been a gentle smile upon her face, warm and welcoming, it had now been replaced by a sardonic grin that appeared to shift into horrible distortions and unruly malice.
Sighing, Kimball turned away and laid on the cot. He then interlocked his fingers and placed his hands behind his head to create a makeshift pillow. As he lay there staring ceilingward, he thought about Shari . . .
. . . And he thought about the Vatican Knights.
Then he wondered if he could live in a world where he could divide his time between the two.
Another sigh, this one caused by the realization that he was truly where he needed and wanted to be, at the Vatican.
. . . Shari . . .
. . . My team of Vatican Knights . . .
Kimball closed his eyes knowing that sleep would not come to him on this night.
CHAPTER THREE
Medstar Medical Center, Office of Doctor Simon De Natalie
Washington, D.C.
Following Morning
The office of Doctor De Natalie had an odd smell of peppermint to it as Shari Cohen sat in a chair before a large desk and waited. Accolades hung on the wall behind the desk, all gold-starred with impressive honors from well-renowned institutions of medical learning, with perhaps the certificate from Johns Hopkins the most admired.
Behind her came the complimentary taps of door knocking from the doctor before he entered his own office. In his hand was an open manila file. As he made his way to his desk without acknowledging Shari, he took his seat while continuing to review the results of her recent examination.
After Shari considered the moment to be the longest minute in her life, Dr. De Natalie provided a few nods as though he was debating with himself before saying, “The results of your x-ray, Ms. Cohen, which I have here, shows sizeable growths on both ovaries, which may be cysts. Not uncommon for a woman of your age. But there are also radiolucent areas, or shadows, to nearby tissue we’d like to examine further before we consider laparoscopic surgery to remove the cysts. So, I’ve taken the liberty to schedule an immediate appointment for you to see a gynecologic oncologist.”
“Oncologist? You think I have cancer?”
“It’s a mere precaution we take when radiolucent areas appear. I wouldn’t worry, however. Most cases are benign in nature. Before we can proceed with the laparoscopic procedure, we would need to verify that the shadows are anomalies. And I assure you, Ms. Cohen, this is not a unique situation. Shadows appear quite often.”
“And if these shadows prove to be malignant?”
Dr. De Natalie hesitated. Then: “Well, then, the damage, I’m afraid, could be extensive. We’d have to see if the surrounding areas are a causation or connection to possible metastasizing.”
“Meaning that the cancer, if that’s what it is, could be spreading?”
“Yes.”
Shari appeared as though she had been punched in the gut. Hearing the C-word was as palpable as the day her family was killed by the domestic terrorist, hard and cruel and permanent.
At first, her mouth moved with mute protest before she finally found the words to speak. “And my appointment with the gynecologic oncologist?”
“Two hours from now.”
“That’s quick.”
“It’s best to confirm what these areas are and act accordingly.”
“You know something, don’t you?”
“All I can tell you, Ms. Cohen, is that these shadows—may they be malignant or benign—do exist. The oncologist is equipped to deal with such matters and is more than capable of satisfactorily managing the condition, should one even exist. Again, these shadows are not necessarily cancerous. I want you to understand that. This is simply a prudent measure to fully determine what these anomalies might be.”
“And should they prove to be cancer?”
“Then a hysterectomy would most likely be the recommended procedure,” he told her, “along with radiation or chemo sessions to assure that the malignant cells haven’t spread. But that would be entirely up to your gynecologic oncologist.”
Shari’s thoughts became chaotic with the inability to suddenly piece together the fragments into cogent thinking.
Intuiting this, Dr. De Natalie said, “Are you all right, Ms. Cohen?”
She closed her eyes and took a breath to collect herself. A moment later, she nodded. Then she opened her eyes to reveal the twin orbs the color of newly minted pennies, though they were glazed with tears. She always wanted to have more children, though not to take the place or to be surrogate replacements for those she had lost, but to start anew with Kimball. The boy had to look like him and the girl like her, something Kimball always stated in jest. But she also knew that it was more than just a quip but a subliminal suggestion. It was also a need and a desire hunkering deep inside him. She always knew that his dream was to have a family together.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Cohen. I really am.” But the doctor’s voice held the measure of apathy to it—this certain deadness that had been brought on by years of providing regretful news to the point where it had numbed him.
She looked at Dr. De Natalie just as a tear slipped from the corner of one eye. “It’s not me that I cry for,” she told him.
De Natalie gave her a questionable look, one that came and went as though it was simply a marginal and inquisitive thought.
Shari got to her feet. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“Ms. Cohen, in most cases it’s not as bad as it seems. I’m sure everything’s going to be fine.” His confidence, she considered, sounded just as flat as when he gave her the prognosis.
Then from Doctor De Natalie, who called after her when she turned to exit, said, “The front desk will have all the necessary information for your appointment with the gynecologic oncologist.”
Wiping away the tears with the sleeve of her blouse, Shari did not respond as she walked out of the doctor’s office.
CHAPTER FOUR
Austrian Imperial Treasury
Vienna, Austria
Late Afternoon
Ali Mustafa was not wearing his normal attire of the head-to-toe black robe and balaclava. Today, he was dressed in a suit and tie, with the Western wear somehow making him feel dirty and hypocritical. Such attire was not meant for people of his wiring. But he had to ‘fit in’ with the culture in order to become one with the enemy, so as not to draw unwanted attention.
As he walked along the aisles of the museum to view the pieces that lay within their glass cases, he was not alone. His second lieutenant, Abd-al-Mumin, who was equally dressed and just as uncomfortable, was with Mustafa to memorize the layout of the museum. They noted the entry and exit ways, the positions of the CCTV cameras, the guard stations and caged sentry posts. They noted the overhead airshafts and vents, as well as the museum’s weak spots and its strengths. Everything within the Austrian Imperial Treasury did not go without notice.
They meandered through the hallways and corridors that milled with crowds. They looked at objects of ‘supposed’ interest and concluded that only one item would hold any relevance to them at all, which was the Holy Lance. Undoubtedly, it would be the centerpiece of their rapt attention and a marvel to behold.
As Ali Mustafa and Abd-al-Mumin rounded the corner, they came upon a small room that displayed the ecclesiastical relics which included the Spear of Destiny. Since a long line had gathered before the relic, Ali Mustafa found his patience tested as he and Abd-al-Mumin moved along the line with near glacial speed. In time, the ISIS operatives found themselves standing before the Holy Lance. Beneath the dim cast of an interior spotlight within the glass case, the daggerlike tip glowed as an aura rose from its semi-gold sheath. Here was the power of Jesus that could command elite armies, a magic wand when, in the hands of its master, could be waved about as the staff of absolute rule.
The corners of Ali Mustafa’s lips curled into lines that took on the shape and thinness of fishhooks, as he appraised the glass container. He evaluated the display case in its entirety—top, bottom, sides. The case was neither armored nor bulletproof.
Moving along, Mustafa and Abd-al-Mumin quickly found themselves outside where a light rain had started to fall. Whereas Ali Mustafa took the rain in stride, Abd-al-Mumin hiked the collar of his jacket, even though it did nothing to keep him dry.
“It will take time to plan,” Abd-al-Mumin commented as they walked.
Mustafa nodded. “A day at most. But it’s doable.” He stopped and locked eyes with Abd-al-Mumin. “To attain the Holy Lance is paramount. Even the smallest error could be costly. There can be no mistakes. Not for this.”
“I understand.”
Mustafa turned and started to walk away with Abd-al-Mumin by his side. The rain was coming down harder, though Mustafa didn’t appear to mind the downpour.
“Make sure that you do, Abd-al-Mumin. The team is under your command. To fail me is to fail Allah. To fail Allah is to fail yourself. To fail yourself is to fail the cause. And to fail the cause is to forfeit your life as recompense to Allah, who will judge you for your team’s performance.”
“There will be no failure on the part of my team,” he told Mustafa. “They’ll be ready.”
Mustafa believed this to be true since Abd-al-Mumin’s unit was handpicked because of their military qualifications. The Islamic State was becoming an amalgamated army made up of soldiers from a number of countries that included Jordan, Saudi Arabia, Tunisia, Russia, and Turkey. From the Russian group, he had chosen members in the past from Chechnya, Ingushetia, and Dagestan, which are largely Muslim regions who have long sought independence from Moscow. Those from Turkey had been trained by the Special Forces Command, or the OKK; from Tunisia, the Tunisian Armed Forces; from Jordan, the King Abdullah ll Special Forces Group; and from Saudi Arabia, from the Royal Saudi Armed Forces. For this particular undertaking, Abd-al-Mumin had chosen his team wisely and conscripted the best of the best. These were not the newbies from Syria who opted to fight for a cause that had been instilled in them from discontented imams. These were seasoned and battle-tested operators. Ever since Allied Forces began to withdraw from Syria with their lack of presence encouraging bad behavior, the Islamic State became motivated by t
he opportunity and began to emerge and evolve as elite fighting forces with no constraints. Accepting members from elite forces throughout the Middle East and then conscripting them for certain causes was becoming a coup for the Islamic State. For Abd-al-Mumin, he only saw win-win situations. The word ‘failure’ was neither a consideration nor an afterthought, but an obscene and unspeakable term.
As the rain came down in droves, Ali Mustafa finally nodded. “Then let us pray, my friend, that Allah is as confident in your team as you are.”
“My team is the best of the best,” Abd-al-Mumin quickly answered. “They were brought together by the will of Allah to serve a purpose. And that purpose, Ali, is to obtain the Spear of Destiny. There is no question as to the skillset of my unit. What they bring to the table are the gifts given to them by Allah to achieve the means. They will serve in the manner that is required of them. And they will acquire the relic in uncontested fashion.”
Ali Mustaf maintained his fishhook smile. “I like your confidence, Abd-al-Mumin. And you have done well. I’m sure that Allah will see to your victory.”
“Allah will, Ali. Tomorrow, you will be holding the Holy Lance within the grip of your hand, for which you will wield it as you were meant to. It will become your sword and shield, and, with Allah as your commander, you will reign with the law of the land as One Rule under the One True God.”
Mustafa raised his hand and looked at his palm. Then he clutched it into a fist while envisioning the Holy Lance within his grasp, his scepter of rule. Then softly, as if to himself, he said, “Allahu Akbar.” God is Great. Then he opened his hand to reveal its emptiness.
Together, in the rain, while Abd-al-Mumin continued to toy with his collar in an attempt to stay dry, Ali Mustafa continued to smile as though he relished the climate. Both, however, romanticized fantasies of possessing absolute power, which were often the dreams of madmen.
