The Crimson Dagger - Vatican Knights Series 23 (2020)

by Rick Jones

  Later, and from his balcony, Cardinal Favino watched the sun set over the most picturesque city outside of Prague. The view was magnificent. When darkness filled the sky and the lights of the city illumined, Favino considered how much the lights appeared like a cache of diamonds spread over black velvet. Nothing was more beautiful at the moment.

  Knowing that morning would come quickly, Cardinal Favino chose to go to bed early. Tomorrow, he would travel to the city of Prague to make further arrangements, and then to Berlin.

  Within moments, while leaving the drapes of his room parted so he could watch the star-glitter twinkle of city lights, Cardinal Favino fell asleep not knowing that he was about to become the central figure in an unimaginable upheaval.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Apostolic Palace

  Vatican City

  Late Evening/Early Morning Hours

  Pope Clement XV was incensed when he heard that Kimball Hayden was back on campus. The presence of the man annoyed him to no end since the two were one step away from becoming mortal enemies. Most people kept their dirty little secrets inside their closets. But it was Kimball Hayden who opened the door and dragged the pontiff’s bare bones out for all to see.

  Standing at the balcony that overlooked a vacant St. Peter’s Square, Pope Clement looked at the distant Colonnades that were steeped inside the evening shadows, then he ran his hand along the banister’s rail, almost lovingly, where he had shoved Pope Gregory over its edge. He recalled the exact moment when a feverish Pope Gregory believed that he was not alone in his room. He even called out the visiting specter of the cardinal who lay in wait within the shadows. And then in a moment that took no thought or hesitation, he emerged from the veil of darkness with a hand extended, then shoved the pontiff over the railing. After hearing the impact of what sounded like a melon striking the pavement below, only then did he look over the banister.

  Pope Gregory, however, was still alive, though barely, as he raised a hand skyward to point an accusing finger at him. As the pontiff’s blood that was as black as tar in the nightshade spread beneath him like a halo, and as time seemed to move with the slowness of terror, the hand lowered to the cobblestones as Pope Gregory finally exhausted his final breath. That exhalation of air from Gregory’s lungs, like a tire hissing, continued to sound through Pope Clement’s mind with clarity. Though he managed to create a vacancy for which he would surely win the papalship, it was Bonasero Vessucci who had won the post.

  Pope Clement XV, who at the time was Cardinal Angullo, foolishly attempted another try at the life of Vessucci, only to fall short when it was Kimball Hayden he confronted. The Vatican Knight, he could see within his eyes, had an inner and sometimes uncontrollable darkness. The cardinal had seen unbridled anger and fury and the willingness to kill him. If not for the interference of Bonasero Vessucci, he was sure that Kimball Hayden would have followed through to commit some type of carnage against him. The Vatican Knight was brutal, savage, and someone who had the ability to destroy anything within his path with little regard to his personal welfare. The man was a wrecking machine who operated with ice-cold fortitude.

  Sighing through his nostrils, Pope Clement knew that he had blundered. Though he had been exonerated from the accusations that Pope Gregory had died by his hand, it was because there was little evidence to support this. But the conjecture remained in the minds of Bonasero Vessucci and Kimball Hayden. And though Bonasero Vessucci had been killed in a terrorist attack, Kimball’s hostilities remained very much alive and remained a considerable threat.

  When Angullo, now Pope Clement XV, returned those skeletons back inside the closet and buried them deep, he wondered if Kimball still held the key that unlocked that door.

  He imagined he did.

  But he was hamstrung to act against Kimball, because the man had the following of his team and their respect. To diminish Kimball’s role would only weaken Clement’s ability to lord over the Vatican Knights, which he needed to serve his needs, justly or otherwise. The only way to remove Kimball was to place him in positions of lethal consequence, hoping that a bullet would strike him down. But Kimball was a man of endurance who had lived through the horrors that most men could not.

  Turning away from the balcony and returning to his desk, Pope Clement XV, a man who murdered another because his ambition became too great to control, began to muster Machiavellian ideas to achieve the means, with those means resulting in the death of Kimball Hayden.

  For hours, as the wall clock chimed off the early morning hours, Pope Clement would devise, conceive and consider every possible option, every possible means, to remove Kimball Hayden from the equation, so that his authority over the Vatican Knights would be complete and absolute. But Kimball Hayden was a man who had been constructed from a different cloth. He was wired differently than most men. When he operated, he often did so at the control of something very dark. Though the church had its operational guidelines, Kimball Hayden often left a trail of bodies behind him a mile long and a mile wide. Yet his actions seemed oddly justifiable.

  Finding no resolution to the problem that is Kimball Hayden, Pope Clement XV would not surrender his desire to see the man dead. No doubt the Devil has laid claim to your soul, he thought. How to put you firmly within his grasp is the question.

  Within the hours to come, Darkness would once again settle over the interests of the Vatican. And once again, Pope Clement would see an opportunity, though Chance would have to be a factor.

  Since Kimball Hayden seemed to carry with him the luck of the devil, the pontiff would pray for divine intervention.

  He would pray for the end of Kimball Hayden.

  And this time, his prayers might come true.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Vienna, Austria

  Early Morning Hours

  It was just after midnight when a cube van that had been stolen two days prior, drove down the Heldenplatz, a road that ran along a parking lot that fronted the Hofburg Palace. Sitting laterally from the palace was the Austrian Imperial Treasury.

  The van was rather unremarkable with a muted color that was dark gray or brown beneath the flare of the street’s sodium-vapor lamps. There were no markings or anything to suggest that the vehicle was a company van of any kind. Nor did it sport registration plates, front or back.

  Abd-al-Mumin was sitting in the rear with his team of six who had been pieced together with elite forces from different nations, and those who honestly believed that they were being governed by the blessings of Allah. Abd-al-Mumin was simply a tool of Allah’s guidance, and the holiest minion within the group outside of Mustafa.

  As the vehicle pulled over and idled by the curb with its lights off, the Austrian Imperial Treasury remained in the driver’s sight along with a pair of guard shacks. At night, the Treasury was under the aesthetic lighting of magnificent looking lamps.

  Abd-al-Mumin was fully dressed in black attire with the majority of his face covered by a balaclava. Working his way to the front of the vehicle from the rear, Abd-al-Mumin made his way to the driver, who was wearing the security uniform of the Austrian Imperial Treasury team, all the way down to the matching stripes, insignias and piping. Against his hip was a holstered sidearm.

  “You know what to do, Khalifa,” Abd-al-Mumin told him. “Allah will see you through.”

  Khalifa was a Saudi national and a one-time member of the Royal Saudi Armed Forces. After his term with the branch was over and with Allah the supreme leader in his heart, it did not take him long to find a desirable place in Ali Mustafa’s cell. At least here, he had purpose that was far above what the Royal Saudi Armed Forces had provided him with. And it was here that Khalifa felt most valuable since serving Allah was paramount. Even his personal welfare had little meaning to him as long as Allah waited to gift him with Paradise.

  Khalifa nodded. “Stay close.”

  The IS operative exited the vehicle with his eyes fixed on the guard shacks. There was a guard inside each shed that stood adja
cent to one another, both busy typing away at a keyboard while glimpsing periodically at the monitor.

  Khalifa set an earbud transmitter inside his ear and enabled it. “Abd-al-Mumin, you read?”

  A moment later and through white noise an answer came back. “You’re . . . hear . . .”

  “Adjust your settings. You’re breaking up.”

  The second transmission from Abd-al-Mumin was clear, the settings exact.

  “Good.”

  Khalifa then adjusted the eye of his bodycam, which was a button-sized lens that was attached to his shirt pocket. In fact, it replaced and mimicked a button that all security uniforms had.

  “Images?” he said softly.

  “Clear.”

  Khalifa nodded. “Here we go.” The terrorist started to cross the lot and make his way towards the guard sheds, the man moving with purpose and showing the confidence of one who belonged.

  Then as he neared the guard sheds, both guards exited and patted the air for Khalifa to stop. Neither, however, had drawn their weapons. They were simply voicing their protests.

  Khalifa raised his hands in mock surrender while approaching, the man wearing a becoming smile that had been practiced before a mirror a number of times.

  Though the guards recognized the uniform, they did not recognize the face. Even in the cast of dim lighting, it was obvious that the man’s complexion was dark and his features more Middle Eastern. But his German was flawless.

  “I was advised by the Treasury principals to check-in with you, since tonight’s my night to take watch inside the Secular Chamber.”

  “We received no such correspondence from administration,” stated the guard on the right. “And everyone who was supposed to report . . . did.”

  “I have paperwork,” said Khalifa, as he continued to move forward by way of taking smaller steps. “Right here. In my pocket.” He reached inside his shirt pocket and produced a folded sheet of paper, which he unraveled. Then he held it up. “I’m new.”

  From the guards’ positions, at least by the markings, the order appeared genuine.

  The guard on the left demanded to see the order, so that he could confirm it through the database.

  “Yes, of course.” Khalifa handed over the document to the sentry, while the guard carefully appraised him through a narrowed eye.

  Taking the sheet, the guard returned to the shack, laid the paper to the side of the monitor, then began to type along the keyboard while referring to the numbers on the page.

  The second guard stood close with Khalifa, who remained the focus of his attention. There was no doubt in the guard’s mind that the man standing before him had Middle East ties, which was inherently a red flag issue with the sentry. Though the guard quietly posted a hand on the butt of his firearm, it did not go unnoticed by Khalifa, who remained confident in his skillset and had planned for the moment.

  The guard inside the sentry booth grabbed the paper and looked at it inquisitively. After cocking his head slightly to the side in a perplexed manner, he exited the shack holding the paper up. When he spoke, it naturally drew upon him the attention of the second guard, who took his eyes off Khalifa. “Look, I can’t bring up any confirmation numbers regarding—”

  Khalifa’s motion was quick and fluid and well-practiced, as he removed his suppressed firearm from his holster and placed two shots to center mass. Two bullet holes magically appeared in the paper the guard was holding, a poor shield, only for the kill shots to subsequently appear against his shirt instantly. As the guard stood riveted with a look of surprise as though his mind was slow to register his death, Khalifa turned his firearm against the second guard and put a bullet in his temple, a perfect shot. Unlike the first guard, the second officer fell quickly to the ground as a boneless heap.

  Holstering his weapon, Khalifa tapped his earbud. “Area cleared and secured.”

  These four words had galvanized Abd-al-Mumin’s unit into action, as the doors to the van swung wide. Within the feeble cast of streetlighting with the unit appearing as silhouettes, the ISIS team began to advance on the Austrian Imperial Treasury.

  * * *

  The Kristallpalast

  Seventieth-Floor Suite

  Ali Mustafa was not a participant but a spectator, as he sat in a darkened room before the monitor of a laptop. His face was ghoulishly lit from the light that was thrown from the screen, which caused the deep lines and shadows to writhe whenever his features shifted. The only other light came from the glass-bottom pool on the balcony behind him, though it shed marginal brightness.

  His laptop screen was broken into six grids. And each grid gave a distinct view from each man’s bodycam. Khalifa had played his role well, he considered. He had applied his skillset to lure his prey and had taken them down with ease. The man was not only fast of mind, but quick with his draw. Khalifa’s hand moved so fast that Mustafa did not register the end of the exchange until Khalifa had holstered his weapon. Within a blink of an eye, two men were lying dead at the operative’s feet.

  “Impressive,” Mustafa whispered.

  Mustafa continued to watch the monitor with rapt attention as he bounced the points of his fingers thoughtfully against his chin. His dream was playing out without him being on the battlefield, the man a true commander who led from afar since true power, after all, came from the one who sat in proxy of their God by becoming a prophet.

  The war in the Middle East was evolving with new and different tactics to better themselves in certain theaters of operation. Before the United States had fully involved themselves, ISIS had funded their campaigns from pillaging oil fields and selling the product on the black market for pennies on the dollar, or they stole and sold priceless relics to the highest bidder. Now that the U.S. had withdrawn their troops and CIA backing, the Islamic State was now turning places like Syria, Lebanon, the West Bank and Italy into chem-labs to manufacture ‘jihad meth.’ It had become a product that was easily manufactured and dispensed across the globe because the demand was high, and the profits went through the proverbial roof. High-end proceeds enticed those with incredible military skillsets who had scores to settle. Indescribable incomes were also calling those who had a skill trade with computers, those who could hack and recruit. Without evolution there could be no adaption. And without adaption there could be no victory. As history be told and recorded, Mustafa was a big believer that historical accounts were lessons to learn from. The Spartans at one time were considered to be indominable, yet it was this belief of being invincible that they clung to their old habits instead of graduating to newer ways. While others took the necessary steps to better their armies and wares over time, the Spartan military had eventually succumbed to the newer and grander weapons of warfare. And because of this, they inadvertently allowed themselves to become obsolete.

  And this was something Mustafa would not allow. In fact, he was determined to usher in a new age where he would become the innovator and not the imitator. He would hold the Holy Lance high above his head for all to see, a scepter of rule that was uncontestable, and a divine trinket that would hold other worldly powers at bay.

  Then he took his eyes off the screen to look at his open palm, which held the many lines of his fate. Soon, it would hold the lance that had come away as a Crimson Dagger that had pierced the side of Jesus to create the fifth and final holy wound. And with that extraction where the point was coated with the blood of Christ, it also absorbed His divine powers. He would sit uncontested upon a throne of his choosing and wave his newfound staff like the Sword of Allah. One Law under One God under One Principle. This would be the rule of the land.

  Turning his attention back to the screen, Ali Mustafa watched as his history played out.

  * * *

  Abd-al-Mumin and his team hastily advanced toward the guard sheds. By the time they reached the shacks, Khalifa had already placed the bodies inside one of the vacant sheds. He was now operating the computer system from the opposite shed.

  Without taking
his eyes off the screen as his fingers danced quickly over the keys of the keyboard, he said to Abd-al-Mumin, “I can alter some of the CCTV images but not all. Once you get inside, you’ll have to neutralize the entire system. The nerve center is in the sublevel, highly guarded. I’ll maintain the perimeter and guard the entryway.”

  Abd-al-Mumin checked his watch. Then: “Fifteen minutes. In and out.”

  “Fifteen minutes,” Khalifa affirmed. Then he stopped typing.

  Abd-al-Mumin shrugged off a rucksack and laid it on the ground before Khalifa.

  Getting to a bended knee, Khalifa opened the bag. Inside were a half-dozen claymores. “I’ll set the perimeter accordingly,” he said evenly.

  Abd-al-Mumin placed a gloved hand on the man’s shoulder. “Fifteen minutes,” was all he said.

  “If things don’t go as planned and Allah sees fit for me to enter Paradise, then Allahu Akbar.”

  “Your time is not up yet, Khalifa. You’re too valuable to the mission.”

  “Maybe Allah sees things differently.”

  After a moment of thought, Abd-al-Mumin conceded by nodding. “Perhaps,” he answered. “But try to believe that He sees you as a man with value as I do.”

  “Either way, Abd-al-Mumin, whether He takes me or not, I am blessed.”

  Abd-al-Mumin gave Khalifa a few pats on the shoulder as an act of respect and friendship.

  Then from Khalifa: “Go . . . Everything depends on proper timing.”