by Rick Jones
CHAPTER FIVE
The Vatican, Vatican City
2000 Hours Central European Time (CET)
Five Hours Ahead of Eastern Standard Time (EST)
Kimball was beaming on the inside as the Light within remained as bright as a thousand suns. To see Isaiah, Jeremiah, Job, and others within his team all coming together under the same roof of the garrison as family, was an entirely joyful moment. Though his time away had only been a few months, it seemed that his self-imposed sabbatical was much too long.
Inside the central chamber where the mosaic floor was tiled to resemble the emblem of the Vatican Knights—that of a coat of arms with a Silver Cross Pattée as its center that was set against a blue background of a shield. 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 who were 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, the qualities of a Vatican Knight. The insignia-laden floor had also consisted of more than one million tiles, with the process starting at the end of the Second World War and finishing up by the start of the Korean War.
Come nightfall, Kimball and Isaiah were alone inside Kimball’s chamber.
At first, neither spoke—perhaps reminiscing.
But it was Isaiah who finally commented. “Looks hollow without your gear. Somehow, the room looks . . . bigger.”
“What happened? Pope Clement couldn’t wait to see me gone?”
“I guess he was hoping that I elevate myself to the position as commander of the Vatican Knights. As far as the team goes, Kimball, you’re not just a Vatican Knight, you are the Vatican Knight. The pontiff knows how we feel about this. I couldn’t take over your chamber because it would seem blasphemous.”
“And my gear?”
“In storage.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
Kimball walked to the Bible which sat upon the podium and traced his fingers over the gold-embossed letters on the cover. Then he went to the votive rack and noted the candles whose wicks had never been lit. And then: “I miss this,” he admitted. “I miss you. I miss my team. And I miss the assignments. Everything gave me purpose and meaning. I felt as though I was doing the right thing here. Maybe not always . . . but mostly.”
“You’re not happy in the States with Shari?”
“That’s not it at all,” he said. “I love her with all my heart. Never been happier. My problem is that I want the best of both worlds. And she’s good with that. She understands my journey.”
“She’s a good woman, Kimball.”
“I know.”
“So, are you here for good?”
“I’m here when I have to be.”
“The pontiff isn’t going to be happy when he hears that you’re back.”
“Yeah, well, that’s his problem. He knows what he’s done, and he knows that I know what he’s done.”
“You really believe he murdered Pope Gregory?”
“I do and so did Bonasero. In fact, I was there the night he entered Bonasero’s chamber during the early morning hours holding a pillow ready to snuff out Bonasero’s life. You should have seen his face when he saw that it was me lying in bed instead of Bonasero. It was beautiful.”
“I heard you nearly put him through the wall.”
“I wanted to, if not for Bonasero coming out of the nearby shadows to calm me down.”
“And the reason why the then-cardinal claimed he was there?”
“He said he was there to check up on Bonasero to see if he was well, after Bonasero had fallen ill.”
“You do realize that Pope Clement was exonerated of all wrongdoing.”
“Of course. Did you really expect the authorities to rock the foundation of the church by pointing an accusing finger at a man who was a preferiti candidate of becoming the next pope?” Kimball paused as he looked at the stained-glass window of the Virgin Mother high upon the wall. “Perhaps,” he began, “Mother Mary can forgive him for what he did but I can’t. And neither could Bonasero.” Kimball went to the opposite side of the room where his cot lay. He couldn’t remember when the room appeared so large, so empty.
Then from Isaiah: “There’s been changes since you’ve been gone,” he said.
“No doubt.”
“The pontiff has been sending the Vatican Knights on missions that often don’t follow the rules of engagement. He’s all but disbanded the Society of Seven, who no longer have any say in our military assignments.”
“And you’re surprised by this?”
“He makes the sole decision on everything we do,” Isaiah answered. “I’m afraid that we might be witnessing the beginning of the end of the Vatican Knights, as we know it.”
“You might be right, Isaiah. Pope Clement, at least in my eyes, is corrupt and makes his own boundaries, and then he steps across them at will. I don’t think he believes that laws of any kind are for him to follow, since he rules from the most sacred seat in the land. At least there were checks and balances when Bonasero ruled as pope, like listening to the Society of Seven.”
Isaiah appeared forlorn in the room’s dim lighting, something Kimball intuited.
“Are you all right?” he asked Isaiah.
“This is the only life I’ve ever known. All of a sudden, there doesn’t seem to be any direction.”
“And now you’re scared?”
“Let’s say I’m confused.”
“Hopefully,” Kimball said, “I’ll be able to right a listing ship.”
“His rule is supreme, Kimball. There’s little you can do.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” The commander of the Vatican Knights once again peered at the stained-glass image of the Virgin Mother. “Perhaps there is a design that’s mightier than his,” he said. “I can only hope.”
Isaiah looked at the image of Mother Mary, as well, and caught the gist of Kimball’s reference: There were powers mightier than that of a man who sees himself as king.
Over the next hour, Isaiah helped Kimball remove his gear from storage. In the hour thereafter, Kimball made his bed. He also tossed his military magazines about to give the room a lived-in look. And he stored his footlocker at the end of his cot. Now, his room was as he had left it. Smaller, cluttered, lived in.
After Isaiah left, Kimball sat on the edge of the cot and tested it. It held, as always, beneath his weight. Then he looked across the room and at the votive rack, the kneeling rail and podium with the unopened Bible. His side of the room was his sanctuary, a place where he felt most comfortable. The other side almost seemed to be a place of taboo; a place not fit for the likes of a man who often operated in the Dark to serve the Light. But he was most comfortable in the Divide between the two, inside the Gray.
Checking his watch, he realized that it was late afternoon in Washington, D.C. And he wondered about Shari, how she was doing. Then he realized how lucky he was to have her in his life. Would he be able to serve the church and cater to Shari’s needs? He hoped so. But he also knew it would be a difficult desire to achieve; to survive happily in both worlds.
Removing his cellphone from his shirt pocket, he dialed a quick-call number. Shari did not pick up, so he left a message saying that he was thinking about her. But more importantly, he said that he loved her.
Returning the phone, he looked at the colorful image of the Virgin Mary who was looking down at him from a point high on the wall. Her smile was becoming and gentle and divinely expressive. It was the kind of smile his mother used to show him often when he was younger. It was the smile of unconditional love.
Do you love me? he thought. Have I done enough to see the Light?
The Virgin Mary was neutral in her stillness.
Hmm. Yeah. I thought so.
Kimball laid down on the cot. It felt good underneath him. Lookin
g ceilingward, his eyes began to grow heavy with fatigue. In time, while drifting with the images of the Virgin Mary and Shari sharing the same space within his mind, he eventually fell asleep.
Kimball Hayden, within the dim cast of light from a single lamp, neither slept within the Dark nor the Light, but within the Illumination that was in between.
CHAPTER SIX
Oncology Medical Center, Washington, D.C.
1500 Hours Eastern Standard Time
Five Hours Behind Central European Time (CET)
Shari Cohen literally thought that her heart was about to misfire within her chest. There was nothing worse than waiting, she considered. So far, she had taken blood tests, a pelvic exam and an ultrasound. Now, she waited what seemed to be an agonizing long time for the results, even though less than an hour had actually gone by.
When the nurse finally called her from the Waiting Room because the doctor was ‘ready to see you now,’ she felt an inner chill course along her spine that made her shudder.
When Shari entered the physician’s office, she noted the nameplate on the doctor’s desk: Dr. Amii Stefano. The doctor was young and had a pixie look to her, with small eyes and an upturned nose. When Shari took a seat before her desk, Dr. Stefano set aside a manila folder filled with documents and photos, interlocked her fingers, then smiled. It was a smile that Shari took as a good sign, at least one to ease her tension. Then she realized that the smile was practiced and hardly genuine.
“How are you, Ms. Cohen?”
“I could be better.” Shari’s eyes shifted to the manila folder, sending a subliminal message to Stefano ‘to cut to the chase.’
Dr. Stefano’s eyes followed Shari’s stare to the folder. “I see,” she said. Easing back into her seat, Dr. Stefano began to speak in earnest after her smile faded. “Ms. Cohen, the pelvic exam and ultrasound has revealed large cysts on both ovaries. The cyst on your left ovary is the size of a golf ball. The one on the right is larger than a baseball. I’m surprised you’re still standing. The pain must be agony.”
“Honestly, I haven’t felt much pain until recently. About a month.”
“My concern is the mass on the right side. Should it rupture, you’re going to be in a world of hurt. I think it’s prudent to remove both masses ASAP.”
“What about the shadows?”
Dr. Stefano hesitated before answering, as though she was choosing her words carefully. “Your cervical screening is showing the abnormalities of high-grade squamous intraepithelial lesions.”
“You mean cancer?”
“At this time, I would like to follow up with more sensitive diagnostic procedures aimed to prevent progression, if it is cancer. Right now, however, we haven’t confirmed whether it is or isn’t. Additional tests are warranted. It’s important that you understand that these readings could be indicative of precancerous changes.”
Shari could detect by the manner of Dr. Stefano’s voice that there was more. “And?”
Another moment of hesitation, perhaps a period to find the proper words once again. “If it is ovarian cancer, it often does not cause any symptoms until it has spread beyond the ovary.”
“You’re talking about the shadows.”
“Again, we’ll need additional tests to make a validation as to whether it is cancer or if it’s something else. Either way, those cysts will need to be removed immediately. Should the ovaries burst, the last thing we want is for precancerous cells to travel to other areas of the body.”
Shari could almost feel her will separating from her body. The truth of her mortality suddenly struck her in the solar plexus with the hard truth stunning her as though from a palpable blow. And then: “And my ovaries?”
“I think it’s best that they be removed. But we’ll know more by the time of the procedure.”
Shari was beginning to sound distant, though not entirely detached. “But I want children.”
“I understand the magnitude of your feelings, Ms. Cohen. This is not a unique situation, believe me. I have said the same thing to many others a hundred times before, and it never gets easier. If the tests are true and the cells are precancerous, we’ll have no choice but to remove the malignant tissue. If it has spread, if that’s what the shadows indicate, then a full hysterectomy will be recommended.”
“I wouldn’t be able to have children.”
“You can always adopt, Ms. Cohen. That is always an option to consider.”
Shari’s line of sight appeared to attach itself to a far and distant point that only she could see. Then she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then released that breath with a heavy sigh. Opening her eyes, Shari appeared refocused. “These cysts . . .” Her words trailed.
“The procedure is rather minimal. Three small incisions and it’s done with a robotic system. You’ll arrive at seven, be prepped by nine, and the procedure will be over within sixty minutes, maybe longer depending on the results of additional findings and how much actually needs to be removed. We can—”
As a sour lump cropped up inside her throat, all Shari could think about was Kimball and how much he wanted a family. The boy has to look like me and the girl has to look like you. These fifteen words continued to ring inside her head like a mantra as Dr. Stefano’s voice droned on—at least to Shari—with nonsensical sounds. As the chant inside her mind eventually faded to dying whispers, only then did she grasp the last few words of Dr. Stefano’s exchange.
“—the day after tomorrow.”
Shari snapped from her reverie. “I’m sorry. Your last statement?”
“I would like to perform the procedure the day after tomorrow. I believe it’s imperative that we remove the cysts and the threat of the sacs rupturing.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Dr. Stefano outlined the procedure in depth, though Shari’s mind was somewhat adrift. She nodded at all the proper parts of the physician’s explanations, accepting her word as gospel. But Shari did not worry for her welfare. She worried about this sudden inability to see Kimball’s dream come to fruition. In fact, she was blaming herself rather than to blame the unfortunate circumstances that were beyond her control.
After making appointments for an additional battery of tests, Shari left the office knowing that she was about to lose her ability to have children. Would it be a small price to pay should the procedure save her life? Would she feel whole? Would Kimball see her in a different light? She had so many questions and so few answers.
As the day pressed on, and as Shari sat on the wraparound deck of the cabin that overlooked the lake, she finally broke, the sobs coming hard and uncontrollable until she was drained. That evening, as she went to bed, she discovered that Kimball had left a message on her cellphone. Though the communication was brief, it was also impactful. He sounded happy and within his element. But it was his final words that cut her deep: I love you so much. Having believed that she had cried herself dry, Shari Cohen discovered otherwise as she openly sobbed while listening to the message over and over again:
. . . I love you so much . . .
. . . I love you so much . . .
. . . I love you so much . . .
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Kristallpalast
Vienna, Austria
Following Afternoon
The Kristallpalast was Vienna’s latest and greatest luxury hotel that served a clientele with expensive tastes and hefty bank accounts. It was a seventy-five-story tower located in the city’s luxury district that was not too far from the central and historic areas, with state-of-the-art comforts and operational wizardry that was provided by a mainframe unit that cost nearly as much as the construction cost of the hotel. The building was a glass structure with the windows actually solar units that did not have the cell construct of normal solar paneling. The glass plates appeared as normal windows that provided an unobstructed view when they actually accepted sunlight with absorption to power the rooms’ amenities. The solar power provided a myriad of functions such as to dim the window’s tin
ting to different levels of shading; voice commands to operate the TV; the shower; the coffee maker; to lock or unlock the door; to control the level of lighting, whether it be bright or dimmed to create a romantic mood; or to contact the main desk via telephone without lifting the receiver to make the call. And for those who could afford it, they would enjoy semi-heated glass-bottomed pools that hung off the room like a balcony on the seventieth floor. For those with prestige and deep wallets, there were the dual-level penthouse suites that were richly marbled with the finest stock from Italy and furnished with fixtures that were crafted from the best designers in Austria. After the hotel’s opening, politicians, celebrities, and esteemed principals from all over the globe had stayed at the Kristallpalast. And from its very inception, there hadn’t been this much excitement of an inaugural opening since the RMS Titanic set sail from Southampton in 1912.
On the sixty-fifth floor where the Convention Rooms were, the Vatican’s Secretary of State, Cardinal Antonio Favino, was in conversation with the Directorates of Safety and the local political leaders, regarding the pontiff’s impending visit to Vienna. Though the pope was considered to be the president of Vatican City, the duties of the Vatican’s Cardinal Secretary was to oversee all political and diplomatic functions of Vatican City and is often described as the prime minister of the Holy See. He was also a close confidante and loyalist to Pope Clement XV.
As Cardinal Favino spoke of the details of the pontiff’s pending arrival, he did so with an air of authority and pomposity. He was a pugnacious and overweight man who didn’t quite fit the mode of a pious individual because he often came off as overbearing.
When the arrangements were made and agreed upon, that the pontiff would be allowed every possible indulgence, a deal was struck: The Kristallpalast would become a venue along the pope’s European journey. Now that the arrangement was set and the day growing late, Cardinal Favino elected to stay at the hotel along with his valet team of three bishops, all who were members of the Holy See, to enjoy the upscale amenities, as well as to dine in a five-star restaurant courtesy of the Kristallpalast on the fiftieth floor.
