by Rick Jones
“Yes, Your Holiness. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
A moment later, he said, “Tell Kimball Hayden to attend my chamber for council.”
“Yes, Your Holiness. Will there be anything else?”
“Just get back to me with what the Austrian principals agree upon.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
There was a click, the call severed.
Pope Clement XV, who once killed a man in an attempt to achieve the highest spiritual seat in the land, continued to bounce the tips of his fingers together on his tented hands.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Vatican
Vatican City
There was a light rapping against Kimball’s door. At first he thought it was a part of his dream with the tap-tap-tapping making no sense, however, with the images that were playing out in his mind—that of children playing in a fenced-in yard by a lakeside cabin.
. . . tap . . . tap . . . tap . . .
As the knocking intensified, Kimball emerged from sleep and sat along the edge of his cot. It was still dark, though from the stained-glass window he could see the beginnings of a new day trying to peek through, the light marginal.
Rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, the knocking continued.
“Yeah, I hear you. Just a minute.”
Getting to his feet, Kimball made his way to the door and opened it. A bishop was standing on the doorsill.
“Something I can help you with, Bishop?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” the bishop told him, “but the pontiff would like to meet with you in council.”
“Yeah. Give me few minutes.”
“Very well, sir.” And then the bishop was gone, the message given and received.
Closing the door, Kimball returned to the center of the room. Normally, as the sun traversed across the sky, it would shine a biblical beam of light through the stained-glass image of the Virgin Mother who always looked down upon Kimball with a lucent smile. But the morning sun was far from reaching its zenith, the day still young, still dark, with no invitation from the Light, at least not yet.
Putting on the uniform of a Vatican Knight, that of a cleric’s shirt and Roman Catholic collar, military pants with cargo pockets, boots, and a powder-blue beret, Kimball checked his image in the mirror, which was a stainless-steel sheet of metal attached to the wall above the wash basin, something he had to reattach after removing it from the storeroom. In a funhouse sort of way his image appeared vaguely distorted, though the deepening lines remained genuinely true.
Leaving his chamber, Kimball Hayden walked through the hallways of his team’s quarters. Doors made of thick timber that were held together by black metal bands and rivets lined both sides of the hallways, the doors all throwbacks to medieval times. And the walls were constructed of gray castle rock.
Walking through the Old Gardens, Kimball could see the streamers of citrusy-colored light beginning to show themselves along the horizon in the east.
As he made the required turns to the Apostolic Palace, members of the Swiss Guard acknowledged him by stepping aside to give the Vatican Knight a wide berth. When he reached the pontiff’s chamber, a Swiss Guard stiffly opened the chamber door in invitation. Once inside, the door closed behind him.
Pope Clement the XV was sitting at his desk wearing the robes of his station, along with his white zucchetto and cassock.
“Your Holiness,” Kimball greeted, though his voice lacked any measure of true respect. In fact, the salutation was rather dry.
The pontiff pointed to the empty seat before his ornate desk. “Please,” he said.
Kimball walked to the vacant chair, but before he could sit down the pontiff held out his hand to him, the one that held the Fisherman’s ring. Kimball understood the conventionalism of the pope’s extended hand: when in the presence of the pontiff, it was dutiful to kiss the ring as a sign of respect. Kimball, however, balked at this. He had never had to kiss the ring of any pope before Clement. This, he knew, was simply a power play on the part of the pontiff, and an act to let Kimball know who ruled.
Finally, after taking hold of the pontiff’s hand, Kimball leaned over and kissed the ring. When the Vatican Knight saw the smug appearance on the pope’s face, that arrogant look of victory, Kimball squeezed the man’s fingers together, the action bringing a painful wince to Pope Clement’s face. After letting go of the pontiff’s hand, Kimball took the vacant seat.
Pope Clement XV was rubbing the pain from his fingers when he said, “I heard you were back.”
“And I see that you had high hopes that I wasn’t. You cleared out my chamber.”
“The barracks within the Old Garden is the military quarters of the Vatican Knights. It’s not a hotel for you to come and go as you please.” He continued to rub the sting from his fingers.
“I’m always available. I can be here within hours.”
“Sometimes, Kimball, there are measures that need the attention of the Vatican Knights immediately, not when you arrive.
“I’m here now, aren’t I?”
The pontiff gave Kimball a rigid look, then said, “Curb your tone. I don’t care what you feel for me or what you think of me. I am still the pontiff.”
Kimball’s nature was to lash out and to dictate what was on his mind. You’re a murderer. You stole the papalship. You don’t deserve the role or title of pope. But Kimball held his tongue, which was as physically painful as taking a heavyweight blow to his jawline, it was that palpable. Then: “Yes, Your Holiness.”
“You may be the leader of the Vatican Knights and they may try to follow you into the Abyss, but I command the unit overall. Remember that.”
“I understand that you no longer converse with the Society of Seven regarding missions.”
“I don’t need the feedback of the Society of Seven,” the pontiff returned. “All missions come under the principles of three rules: Protect the sovereignty of the Vatican, protect the interest of the Vatican, and to protect the welfare of the Vatican’s citizenry. I am fully capable of making decisions based on those rules without pointless advice from cardinals who sit outside my circle.”
“It’s not a conspiracy. It’s a way of developing the pros and cons to a situation that has a reasonable outcome of success.”
“As Vatican Knights, I expect success at all turns of conflict.”
Kimball could feel his guts straining as he fought for calm. He knew that the man sitting before him in pontiff’s dress was a man who was deeply flawed. Yet there was nothing he could do or say to prevent the pope from reworking his mindset. It would be Kimball who would have to adapt to new changes, not the other way around. And Kimball was a man who hated change. Nevertheless, the Vatican Knight remained true to the chain of command. “Yes, Your Holiness,” he finally stated.
“Now that I’ve made myself abundantly clear on where we stand, it has come to my attention that the church has suffered a situation in which an interest and a citizen is in jeopardy. I want you to gather a team of Vatican Knights. The unit will be dispatched immediately to Vienna where an existing crisis needs to be addressed.”
“Such as?”
“It appears that the Austrian Imperial Treasury was broken into and the Spear of Destiny was absconded by a terrorist cell that’s being captained by Ali Mustafa.”
Kimball nodded. He knew of Mustafa because the man was trying to align forces in the Middle east to reestablish a caliphate now that the Americans had pulled a majority of its forces from the front lines of contention. Terrorism was once again on the rise, and Mustafa was leading the charge.
“I know of Mustafa,” he finally answered.
“Then you must know of the story that surrounds the Holy Lance, too.”
“Vaguely,” Kimball answered. “I do know that it’s supposed to provide uncontested power to the leadership of the one who possesses the relic.”
“It does. Rulers who were in possession of the artifact reigned fo
r years.”
“Both good and evil,” Kimball added.
“I won’t deny that it has been through the hands of both over the centuries. But since I have taken command of the Vatican, I have made many requests to the Austrian government that such a treasure deserves its rightful spot here at the Vatican, only to be declined by the Austrian leadership. This action, this theft, only proves to me that Austria has failed to keep the relic safe from hostile forces.”
“So now you want the Vatican Knights to go in, take the relic, and return it to the Vatican’s Vault.”
“It’s where the treasure should have been from the start. Where it should have always been. It is, after all, an interest of the church. It rightfully belongs to the Vatican. Not to a museum.”
“The Austrian Imperial Treasury is valued and esteemed.”
“The Austrian Imperial Treasury is not the Vatican, Kimball. And it’s not a museum piece. It’s a holy relic.”
Kimball knew that this was a half-truth. Pope Clement obviously found a justifiable reason to take back the relic. It wasn’t about the artifact’s safety. It was about having the historical object under his power and rule, and a symbol that would grant him the powers of God. Kimball saw right through the man’s façade; his veneer was that thin and transparent.
“The citizen I’m talking about,” Pope Clement went on, “is Cardinal Favino, who is being held hostage by Mustafa’s cell.”
“The Cardinal Secretary of State?”
The pope nodded. “Apparently, the Einsatzkommando unit attempted a raid. The initial result was one dead and three wounded. So, in the interest of the church, Austrian leadership has been informed that since their failure, and should the Cardinal Secretary be harmed or killed, then the Vatican will hold the government culpable for any injury as a result of further failures.”
“So, you want the Vatican Knights to go in on a rescue mission?”
“Of course. Cardinal Favino, after all, is a citizen of the church, is he not?”
“But you also want the Spear of Destiny?”
The pope nodded. “The mission is twofold.”
“I’m sure the Austrian authorities were pleased to hear a standdown order coming from the Vatican, seeing that the jurisdiction is theirs.”
“The reach and the power of the church is a long one, and one that few would care to contest. The Austrian government sees this as a means to exonerate them from any culpability should the Vatican Knights fail. Condemnation would only fall on the shoulders of the church and not on the Austrian established order. So, as you see, failure is not an option on the part of the Vatican Knights.”
Kimball had been painted into a corner before by insurmountable pressures. But he had ‘been there and done that’ countless times as well, the man a seasoned vet to such adversities.
“But there are restrictions,” the pontiff added. “Once your team begins its initial raid, then you have four hours to achieve the means. After that, then the Austrian powers will send in their own forces to finish off what the Vatican Knights started. So, I suggest you finish what you’re about to start. Find Cardinal Favino and bring him back to us safely along with the Holy Lance. Failure on either will not be acceptable.”
Kimball wanted to challenge him by asking: And what if I do fail? What if Cardinal Favino is mortally wounded? What if retrieving the Spear of Destiny was undoable? What if I had to sacrifice one for the other? But Kimball knew that these would be asked fruitlessly since the answers would come from a man who was as heartless as a machine.
“A plane will be waiting for you at Fiumicino,” the pontiff stated, “a chartered jet. A team of Austrian officials will be waiting for you at the terminal. They will instruct you accordingly, but the method of operation is yours to choose once you step inside that building. Do not fail me, Kimball. Do not fail the church.”
Kimball clenched his teeth. He did not like the manner in which the pontiff expressed himself, or the way he threw his weight of authority around with veiled threats. Nevertheless, and as a Vatican Knight, Kimball remained dutiful.
Getting to his feet, Kimball tilted his head as a departing goodbye. As the pontiff extended his hand so that the Fisherman’s ring could be kissed once again, Kimball simply ignored him and walked out of the chamber.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Vienna, Austria
Zeller and Müller where standing by as streaks of light were beginning to rise from the horizon in shades of mauve and rose. Within the Kristallpalast’s shadow, Müller was waiting on a call from the Federal Ministry of the Interior. Plans had to be shaped and decided upon in regard to the best possible approach, since there was no such thing as ‘acceptable losses.’
Finally, Müller received his phone call. After he ID’d himself to the principal, Müller listened and nodded. Müller listened to a detailed conversation, about three minutes long, and one that obviously did not invite a challenge on Müller’s part. Orders were to be followed to the letter without question.
“Yes, sir,” Müller stated flatly. Then again after hearing more conversation, he repeated in the same even measure, “Yes, sir.”
Disconnecting the call and then looking at the phone in what Zeller assumed to be disdain from Müller, Zeller asked, “I assume it’s not what you wanted to hear?”
Müller tucked the phone away and looked at the skyscraper. “We’re to stand by,” he told him. “This has now become a political matter. The Vatican has contacted the Federal Ministry of the Interior and proposed an exchange of jurisdictional command.”
“To whom?”
“To the Vatican Knights. Apparently, the Vatican wishes to stage a plan of operation with their elite unit. I’ve just been informed by the Minister for the Interior personally that we’re to stand down due to the delicate affair, in accordance with the Vatican’s request. He also informed me that this was strictly a political move so as not to anger the Catholic constituency, should this go sideways. Our culpability in the matter would be fully expunged upon the failure of the Vatican Knights.”
“But the glory will go to them if they succeed.”
“I don’t care about the glory,” said Müller. “I only care about the results. Besides, the Vatican Knights will operate within a window of four hours. After that, my team goes in.” Müller looked at his watch. “The team will be here in two hours.”
Zeller looked skyward at what was now a visibly damaged pool on the seventieth level. “This will be over by noon.”
“One way or the other,” said Müller, who nodded in agreement, “it will be.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Somewhere Over Western Europe
Kimball, along with his team of Vatican Knights which included Isaiah, Jeremiah, Job and Daniel, were gathered inside of a Cessna Citation Mustang which had a top speed of 479 miles per hour. The cabin was a six-seater, small and cramped, the plane a private charter. Flying at a level of 15,000 feet, Kimball Hayden was briefing his unit on the makeup of Ali Mustafa and his team.
Kimball was forwarding each man the biographical information listed on a tablet, though he could have done so without it because he knew everything there was to know about Ali Mustafa. The others in Mustafa’s cell, however, were all fresh faces.
“Ali Mustafa,” he began without looking at the iPad, “is some kind of mental giant. Smart. Intelligent. He’s a Saudi who comes from a well-to-do family with deep fiscal pockets, though there’s nothing to indicate that they supported him financially beyond his studies at Oxford University where he became a wunderkind of sorts in the computer sciences, and minored in religious studies. Upon graduation with Honors, Mustafa disappeared for two years, so his history is little more than guesses based on his sudden reemergence in Syria as a leader of the Islamic State. There’s no indication that he followed the tenets or ideologies of ISIS when he was a student. After his two years of going off the radar, he emerged as the top-end propaganda artist for the Islamic State who enlisted elite fighter
s with savior narrative through the Internet.”
The plane took a jarring bump as it hit turbulence.
Then from Kimball: “Prior to the United States deciding to reduce and withdraw its troops from the Middle East, Ali Mustafa was staging films that romanticized and heightened enthusiasm for joining the ISIS regime. People came from all points of the Middle East. Jordan, Saudi Arabia, Syria, Lebanon, Tunisia, Russia and Turkey to name a few. Numbers were growing. He promoted the virtues of Allah and sentimentalized the executions of infidels as the doorway to Paradise. Mustafa, himself, and on camera, beheaded as many as six people, claiming that Allah would embrace him in the afterlife because he”—Kimball raised his middle- and forefingers of both hands and flexed them to italicize the last four words—"had served Him well.”
Kimball set the iPad aside. “Look, I don’t have to know Mustafa personally to understand what we’re dealing with here. He had the power and the reach to recruit individuals from elite special forces from Turkey’s OKK unit, the Tunisian Armed Forces, from the King Abdullah Special Forces Group from Jordan, and from the Royal Saudi Armed Forces. We’re not going up against novices here. In fact, I was informed that they had already countered an attack by Austria’s Einsatzkommando Cobra unit, which in itself is an elite outfit.”
“How many in the cell?” asked Jeremiah.
“One was killed at the Imperial Treasury. Khalifa. But not until he took out the first wave of first responders. That leaves six, including Mustafa.” Then Kimball started to tick off the names by counting down his fingers beginning with Ghazi, Zamir, Talib and Qusay. Then he finalized his count by adding Abd-al-Mumin to the mix as Ali Mustafa’s chief lieutenant, who had a violent history of his own.
