Sinners and Saints (The Vatican Knights Book 12)

by Rick Jones

  “Did you ever see her again?”

  Becher picked up the photo, a Jewish girl and a Nazi soldier, two people in love who lived in sin due to a reigning culture steeped in hatred. “No,” he finally said. “Never. I don’t know if she’s alive or not.” Then he looked at Kimball and gave off a marginal grin. “But perhaps,” he continued, “we will be reunited shortly, yes?”

  Kimball wanted to ask: Do you believe that you have earned the right?

  But Becher seemed to intuit this. “I believe that I have done enough as a Vatican Knight to enter the Light, yes…And I believe that my Ayana, if she’s there, will be waiting for me.”

  Kimball wanted to believe him, but he could tell that Becher wasn’t in full compliance with his own beliefs. He could see that the old man still had doubts since his past, like Kimball’s, may be unforgiveable. At one time both men had relished the kill of another, perhaps an unpardonable sin in the eyes of their God.

  “Now,” said Becher, maintaining his smile, “my questions about the mystery of the hereafter is about to be answered. Darkness or Light. I had chosen my path and I stayed true, Kimball. Now it’s time for you to believe that you have chosen well, that the path you decided upon is one of righteousness. Believe, Kimball, and accept the Light.”

  “Easier said than done,” he told Becher. “Once you became a Vatican Knight you stayed the course and lived by the guidelines. I never did, always skirting the rules of engagement because I see things differently.”

  “How so?”

  Kimball leaned forward as if to detail a secret. “Because I have a rule of my own,” he told him.

  “And that would be?”

  “I kill people. It’s what I do…It’s what I’m good at.”

  Silence passed between them, a pause that was finally broken by Kimball.

  “Sometimes the evil doesn’t stop at mission’s end,” he went on. “Cutting away a piece of the cancer doesn’t always solve the problem, as I have said before. Cancers come back. They grow. And the problem continues all over again. I make sure that it doesn’t. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

  “And that, Kimball, like I said before, is something you bring to the table that I don’t. The ability to skirt the rules mandated by the Vatican, therefore, you continue to damn yourself.”

  Kimball fell back into his seat. “It’s just the way I’m wired.”

  “And because you are wired in such a way, you believe that you’re unable to change. And if you don’t change, then salvation is beyond your reach. Am I right?”

  Kimball remained quiet.

  “Not true,” said Becher. “Believe in Bonasero’s words: even God recognizes the right for good people to protect those who can’t protect themselves. Sometimes, Kimball, one has to operate in the Darkness to better serve the Light. You skirt, if not break, the rules by using means you believe are necessary to abolish all evil, rather than to simply thwart its efforts.”

  Kimball looked out the window, thinking he’d been here before with the monsignor, his psychologist, both trying to act as the voice of reason. But it came down to one thing: Kimball had to believe in himself. But he didn’t. The Light was a smoldering ember far from his reach since killing others was simply a natural part of his given life.

  “Believe, Kimball…and you shall receive.”

  “With all due respect, Becher, do you really think you’re anything like me?”

  “We have similarities, yes.”

  Though this was true, Kimball had similarities with other people as well? Kimball thought about this as the train slogged its way to a higher speed along the tracks. “I appreciate your service to the Vatican,” Kimball told him. “And I appreciate you for the person you have become over time. But don’t for one second believe that you’re anything like me. You ran with the rules. And I’m not knocking that. But rules, to me, are restrictions that I cannot abide by. If I cannot abide by the rules of the church…then I can’t abide by the laws of God. If I cannot abide by the laws of God, then I cannot reach the Light.”

  Kimball could see that Becher wanted to sigh, the man giving up on his endeavor to show Kimball that he had reached the Light a long time ago, but failed to see it.

  “You being here,” Becher told him, “was a chance for two people with questionable pasts to see the Light together. I’m sorry I failed you. And I’m sorry I failed the Vatican.”

  “You failed no one,” Kimball said. “If anything, I failed myself.”

  Kimball turned to look out the window. It was going to be a long ride, he thought, one of silence. But it was a time to take in the beauty of their surroundings, the picturesque landscape zipping by in a blur. If there truly was a Paradise, he told himself, then this was it with snow-capped peaks against purple mountain ranges, luscious stretches of green grass, and pockets of wild flowers in brilliant shades of reds and yellows. Nothing else could ever compare.

  Then he came to the realization that this would be the closest to Heaven that he would ever get.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Geneva Railway Station

  Geneva, Switzerland

  The moment the train moved forward, Ásbjörn Bosshart realized he had no idea what his future held, if anything at all. All he knew was that he was a tool for a shadow agency that had conscripted him to aid them in their quest for fuel utilization and weapons’ application. He was to board a train, sit in a particular roomette, ask no questions, and be patient.

  They will do the rest.

  All he knew was that the train was headed to Rome, an eight-hour journey.

  Everything upon arrival continued to remain a mystery, however, such as contact and transfer. So every once in a while, he continued to look at the tablet with sidelong glances to see if it would come to life.

  It didn’t.

  Beyond the window, as the train picked up speed, the landscape evolved from the cityscape of Geneva to Nature’s natural beauty. Yet he could find no pleasure with his surroundings as his thoughts lay mainly with his wife and daughter. Instead of seeing the passing of green fields, he instead saw their faces twisted with agonizing looks of horror.

  Then came the overwhelming guilt for not being there when the abduction of his family took place, something he could not control, the feeling crippling him. So he wept, his chest heaving and pitching as he sobbed uncontrollably.

  Then his sight gravitated to a blue sky that had a few renegade clouds and tried to focus his thoughts. He had prayed to God once, asking Him for divine intervention. Now all he could do was wait, wondering if His answer was ‘yes.’

  But the wait would be long and painful with time moving along at a glacial pace. This he knew. He also knew that there was nothing worse than not knowing about the fates of his wife and child.

  Then he pressed his forehead against the cold pane of glass and closed his eyes to squeeze off the tears.

  It was then that the tablet chirped, an incoming message. Bosshart grabbed it immediately and pushed the ‘on’ button, the screen winking to life. “Yes,” he said too quickly.

  The man on the screen was wearing a ski mask, but the voice was the same. “Doctor Bosshart.”

  “I’m here.”

  “Is the train in motion?” The man’s voice was highly accented, Asian.

  Bosshart nodded. “It is.”

  “Then everything is as it should be.”

  “So what do I do now?”

  “Nothing. You just sit tight, Doctor. In three hours you will transfer from the train and place yourself into our care.”

  “Transfer from the train? It doesn’t stop for another seven hours.”

  “For everyone but you, Doctor Bosshart. Your ride is only three hours in length. No more. No less.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t have to. You simply do whatever it is I tell you to do.”

  In three hours the train would be traveling through thin passageways and above mountain ravines. There was no way the train c
ould stop, the area too treacherous.

  “I’ve ridden this course many times before,” Bosshart stated. “There is nowhere to stop.”

  Then the screen winked off, the image gone. In three hours, Ásbjörn Bosshart was to hand himself over to his captives from a moving train traveling at 140 kilometers-per-hour, as it wound its way over deep gorges and slim passageways that were barely wide enough for the cars.

  How this was going to happen Bosshart didn’t know—nor could he even begin to imagine the intricacies involved in attempting to do so.

  Deep gorges.

  Thin, winding corridors between mountain walls.

  In three hours, Ásbjörn Bosshart would get his answer.

  Chapter Eighteen

  International Police Organization (Interpol)

  Lyon, France

  The International Police Organization, or Interpol, is located in Lyon, France, and has satellite stations all over the world. Their primary focus as a law enforcement agency include many facets of public safety such as battling terrorism; crimes against humanity which involve acts of genocide and war crimes; organized crime involving illicit traffic in works of art, drug production, trafficking, investigations regarding weapons smuggling and human trafficking; money laundering; child pornography; and white-color and computer crimes. And Ásbjörn Bosshart had jumped to the top of the list, a man who found himself in the crosshairs through no fault of his own.

  Since Interpol’s VisageWare facial recognition program had failed to garner a hit in real time, the managing IT computer team went back to recorded images from past feeds, about two hours, and struck a facial hit of Bosshart as he entered the Geneva Railway Station. The hit couldn’t have been a better match with Bosshart looking right into the overhead camera just as he entered the facility, the software programming hitting on twenty-four facial landmarks, the ID conclusive to 100%.

  “We have him,” remarked one of the techs. “Two hours ago. At the Railway Station. And he appears to be alone, no family members.”

  The comm leader came over and leaned over the tech’s shoulder for a closer look, one that was studious. “Follow him,” he said.

  The tech continued to follow Bosshart by going from CCTV camera to camera, the program reading Bosshart’s face as dots landed and calculated to confirm that the image in the crowd was still Bosshart, with the numerical percentages running at the bottom of the screen with the numbers reading 95% or higher.

  When Bosshart stood in line to receive his ticket, the comm leader directed a second tech—who was manning the console—to find out which train he had boarded. And under what name, if not the name of Bosshart.

  At the timestamped moment that Bosshart was handed his ticket, the tech hacked into the Railway’s terminal database and discovered that the ticket handed to Bosshart at that time from that particular Railway PC, was given to a man by the name of Jeffrey Wanders, an obvious AKA with the ticket having been generated one hour before from an unknown account.

  “Listen up, people,” said team leader. “The target is going by the name of Jeffrey Wanders. Follow the money trail to its point of origin, since the ticket was purchased while Bosshart was still at The CERN. So somebody had to purchase it for him. Find that connection, people. I need the financial link to give us a head’s up as to who else is involved in this.”

  More typing, fast and furious.

  Then to the tech who continued to follow Bosshart’s image onscreen, he asked, “What train did he get on?”

  “It looks like”—more typing—“the chartered transit into Rome.”

  “Is it still at the station?”

  “Negative. The train left forty-five minutes ago. It’s starting its climb into the mountainous regions.”

  Team leader knew that the means to mobilize units to intercept the train would be impossible. By the time the Federal Criminal Police were notified, the train would be hitting the mountain passes and riding over deep gorges, since it was a chartered scenic route that catered mainly to tourists. The next stop was Rome, which was a blessing since there would be no stoppages in between. He could have Rome’s Gendarmerie waiting alongside with agents of Interpol to intercept Bosshart the moment he got off the train.

  Then a tech working feverishly at a keyboard and monitor called out to team leader. A trace placed on the Railway PC had led to a now-defunct account which had been terminated immediately upon the ticket’s purchase. And that account had been created through a series of other accounts which had been created throughout countries in Europe, an obvious attempt to mask the original point of origin. In the end, however, Interpol’s technology was superior and the point of origin was unveiled. It appeared that it came from North Korea. More specifically, from the RBG, the Reconnaissance General Bureau.

  Team Leader didn’t hesitate to call all the principals involved.

  It appeared that Ásbjörn Bosshart was working on behalf of the Pyongyang government.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A canopy roof.

  Shapes within a truck, all blacker than black.

  And then focus and clarity, a child’s sight resting on heavily-armed men geared for war.

  The name of Ásbjörn Bosshart’s daughter was Emily. She was nine with saucer-sized eyes that were sapphire blue in color, and braided hair that was the color of the sun. She appeared more like her mother and less like her father. But her temperament was her own, a spitfire mentality who already had it in her mind that she would grow up to rule; whether it be the household, her career, or perhaps both.

  When her eyes ended their fluttering and her surroundings became crisp, her situation became clear. She remembered the moment when she was sitting before the television just before school. When she turned it off, a man dressed in black military fatigues reflected off the screen behind her.

  She didn’t know who he was but guessed how he entered. Her mother had never locked the door, a habit fostered by the belief that they were safe when, in the end, her complacency had cost them dearly.

  “Where’s my mother?” she asked everyone inside the truck’s cargo bay.

  But no one answered.

  So again, but with more authority, she asked: “Where…is my mother?”

  The man riding closest to her leaned forward. He was wearing a ski mask, they all were, but she remembered this man in particular because of his eyes, which were as black as obsidian glass, and cold. He was the one who took her, the one who cupped his hand around her mouth with a scented cloth that rendered her unconscious. “Be quiet,” he told her

  “Where…is …my…mother?”

  Just as another soldier lifted the stock of his assault weapon to bring it crashing down on her skull, Che held up a halting hand. His teammate, in mid-descent, slowed and stopped his weapon from striking her.

  “She’s at a different location,” Che told her. “She’s fine.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Am I?”

  Then Emily’s eyes began to tear up. She may have been nine, but she had her father’s intelligence. She knew that her mother was no longer a part of the equation, an expendable where Emily was not. What she didn’t understand at her age were the different levels of love that existed, such as the love between siblings or for parents, or the love for a pet or a spouse, all different in levels of emotion with some levels higher than others. But the love a parent feels for a child is indescribable and somewhat incalculable, the value off the charts. Therefore, she was more important to them than Bosshart’s wife, becoming the bargaining chip that would play on the emotions of her father in order to achieve the means. She was a simple tool that would eventually force her father’s hand in the scheme of all things.

  Emily Bosshart began to cry.

  Nobody in the truck tried to coo her with gentle words. They simply watched her as the truck drove east to an area equipped with the necessary devices to see the mission done.

  Then Che spoke to his team in Korean as he placed the electronic tablet
beside him. “I have just been informed by the target that the train is in motion. It’s beginning its climb to enter the passageway. In two hours it will reach a dead zone of communication, the walls too steep for transmissions to get in or out. This period will last for just over an hour. But we need to remove the target within the first ten minutes of the operation. That gives us more than fifty minutes to get out of range before a transmission can be made to the authorities in Rome. By then we’ll be gone without so much as a bread crumb left behind for them to follow.” Then he looked at the girl, who was crying. As he maintained his sight on her, he, however, continued to speak to his teammates. “You know what to do,” he told them. “You know the details of your mission better than you know yourselves. So execute your duties in the name of Kim Jong-un and North Korea. Ten minutes, people. That’s all we need.”

  Ten…minutes.

  As he continued to look at Emily, he thought of his own daughter. She was eight, and unlike most children in North Korea who were forced to ration their meals daily, she was privileged because he was a reigning member of Office 35, so she had never gone hungry. This girl, Bosshart’s daughter, was advantaged because she lived in a world that held the rights of freedom, something that had always eluded him but something he always wondered about. But at the end of the day she was still a daughter to a loving father, like he was a loving father to his child. To kill her would destroy Ásbjörn Bosshart, this he knew because he was a father who understood the deep loss that would follow, and where death would be welcomed rather than suffering through the agony of losing a child.

  But at the end of the day in North Korea, emotions had no place when it came down to performance and the success of mission objectives. Bosshart was a wealth of information to tap from. They would mine him regarding the concepts of using the particle as a fuel source to transport the other particles, which would be used for military weaponry and applications. Once he had been tapped dry of everything he knew, once the welfare of the girl could no longer be dangled before him as a means to keep Bosshart going, they would kill her. A moment later Bosshart would follow, both father and daughter executed in a cold, dank cell whose walls were damp with wetness.