The Lost Cathedral (The Vatican Knights series Book 7)

by Rick Jones

  And, of course, the killing.

  There was always the killing.

  But one in particular, a child of constant faith, saw the Reich more as a blight rather than hope.

  In the photo, this child of thirteen did not smile.

  I should have hung you from the nearest tree, Gunter considered.

  For as long as he lived he looked for this boy, was obsessive about it, and forever falling short of his endeavors to succeed. But three years ago as if by serendipity, he found what he was looking for without even searching.

  Pope Gregory had died and Pope Pius XIV was seated as the new chief of the Vatican state. Though the features were nothing as he remembered them, he could tell by the eyes. The truth was always in the eyes, the windows to the soul.

  The problem was that the man’s name was Bonasero Vessucci, from Milan. Not Franz Kleimer-Schmidt, which gave him pause. But his obsession had grown so deep and corrupt, so blackened with hate which had fueled the need for vendetta, and now that he was in the downside of life, he would at least see the one promise he made to Franz as a child: to see him dead before he died.

  If not the real thing, then Bonasero Vessucci was the perfect surrogate.

  But in his heart he knew differently because it was all about the eyes.

  “I will not see the rise of the Reich in my lifetime,” he said softly. “But I will surely live long enough to see you dead, as promised.”

  Then a burning itch began once again in the groin region.

  This time he made it to the chamber pot.

  Nothing but red.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Gendarmerie Station

  Vatican City

  Phinehas sat cross-legged on his bunk like a Native American would sit while staring at a blazing fire burning within a circle of stones, only there were no stones and no fire. And his eyes were fixed on a faraway point during a moment when time had absolutely no meaning.

  Earlier when he had seen Kimball he knew exactly what the Vatican Knight wanted. The location to the lost cathedral to quash any threat against a Vatican interest, namely Pope Pius XIV. So he gave him a point hundreds of kilometers south of their actual position to keep the cathedral safe. He knew that Kimball had already done his homework, and that Shepherd One may have landed close to the area where it disappeared from radar. He simply bolstered that belief, though it was far from the truth, by throwing him a red herring to follow by giving him the nearest airport of the disappearance. The borders of Peru and Colombia were large, and Brazil’s was even larger. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. A virtual impossibility.

  But the word ‘impossible’ meant little to Kimball Hayden. To him it only measured the degree of difficulty. In other words: a challenge.

  He measured his breathing while listening to the whispers in his head, the voices driving and ordering him to kill the primary target of Franz Kleimer-Schmidt, a deed incomplete. Mordecai had been killed in his failed attempt, leaving the pontiff in critical condition.

  Two attempts, two failures.

  The voices spoke admonishments, keeping him from sleeping.

  Tomorrow, he would no longer be under the jurisdiction of the Gendarmerie since he had to be transported to Rome for arraignment as required by law. Though the Gendarmerie were good in their capacity of law enforcement, they were not Vatican Knights.

  He was.

  And since his skill set was unique, as with all Vatican Knights, he would use them at a level that would render the Gendarmerie powerless and finish off what he started, to seek out Kleimer-Schmidt and render his life valueless. Or at least die trying.

  His noble intentions were to kill at any cost, and not to follow the once principled nature he once held as a Vatican Knight. Those values had long been gone, erased and replaced with the philosophies of a new order.

  He would sit for hours, staring, with eyes completely vacant while his mind listened to the whispers of the Luminaries. He would also draw measures to escape, playing out the entire scenario within his mind’s eye.

  Tomorrow, he told himself.

  Tomorrow.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  After Kimball Hayden selected his group to aid him in Brazil, eight including himself, he returned to his chamber.

  Phinehas was on his mind and in his thoughts, constantly. When he was inside the SIV lab with Father Auciello, the Jesuit had struck a chord with Kimball by reminding him that he was once a wetboy working for the U.S. government, just as Phinehas was an assassin for the Luminaries, who was just as cold and shallow.

  In his past Kimball had killed many to achieve the means, and did so under the full agreement of the government who had stripped his humanity away in layers until there was nothing noble about him. So in a sense he was just as cold, if not icily so, as Phinehas. He’d been there—a calculated killer who should have understood Phinehas’ position before losing control inside the Gendarmerie station and assaulting him. What he did as a Vatican Knight shamed him deeply because of the way he reacted, with frustration rather than understanding.

  He was too emotionally involved with Bonasero, who was fighting for his life. But there was another part of Kimball, a savage side that was ruling. Anger was skin deep. And though Phinehas reacted with the same depth of frigidness, he was hard to forgive. Phinehas was a Vatican Knight who was of strong of mind and will, a man who was incorruptible. Yet without conscionable thought he raised a pistol at the pontiff and pulled the trigger. And though Kimball’s reaction was unjustifiable, Phinehas’ actions were just as unforgiveable. At least this was how Kimball saw it.

  Mordecai was dead after committing the egregious sin of suicide, an eternity of damnation. Here was a man who was just as imposing with a strong mind and will, who’d been beaten down to a mindless shell where life had no value whatsoever. His or anyone else’s.

  Whoever these Luminaries were, they wielded power that was corrupt and absolute.

  And they posed an immediate threat to the safety of the Church and its interests.

  Kimball, however, had a personal stake in this that went far beyond the criterions to engage the Vatican Knights and forward them to battle. This was about saving the life of Bonasero Vessucci, and to bring home the lost brothers who were onboard Shepherd One.

  Kimball sat on the edge of his bunk looking across the room. The votive rack stood with its unburnt candles. The kneeling rail needed dusting. And the Bible sitting upon the podium was closed, the book also in need of dusting. Standing high on the wall in the center of the chamber was the stained-glass image of the Virgin Mary reaching out in invitation.

  For the longest moment he stared at the design, at the deep-colored hues that were pieced together to fashion a picture. Her face was kind, her smile warm, and her arms were open and waiting. All he needed to do was to fall into her embrace, which was the warm and basking light that streamed through when the sun was high. But today the sun was in hiding behind a thickness of clouds. Today there would be no salvation.

  Getting to his feet, Kimball went to the mirror and gazed upon his reflection. His features were strong and lean with eyes that sparkled like blue sapphires. Within the collar of his shirt was the pristine white band of the cleric’s collar, a symbol of his commitment to the Church. But it was much more than that. It was a constant reminder that he was a righteous man, even though personal forgiveness escaped him about as much as peace of mind.

  Bringing his fingertips to the collar, he grazed the material. This is what it’s all about, he told himself. Making things right when everything seemed so horribly wrong. And it was this collar that empowered him, like superman’s cape. It gave him strength.

  Lowering his hand and moving away from the mirror, Kimball reflected inwardly. It was not going to be easy to take on four Vatican Knights who had lost their way. Fighting would be brother against brother, Cain against Abel, with the results probably the same.

  There would be death.

  Just as he was
about to leave his pager went off, telling him that the SIV lab had received a chime that announced the arrival of a recognition hit from VisageWare.

  Without hesitation Kimball sprinted to the SIV monitoring room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  SIV Monitoring Room

  Vatican City

  “We’ve got a hit from the La Pedrera Airport. The time stamp records six days ago. Not the three days that Phinehas told you,” said Father Essex, who manned the console before the large flat-screen. Father Auciello stood next to him with his hands clasped behind the small of his back. Kimball stood beside him.

  “Phinehas knows exactly when Shepherd One disappeared from radar. And he wants us to believe that Shepherd One went down close to the Padre Aldamiz International Airport.” Kimball answered thoughtfully. “He’s trying to draw us into an area with thousands of square miles of thick jungle—where he believes we’ll look for the cathedral when, in fact, Shepherd One actually flew hundreds of kilometers north under radar, where it eventually downed itself before neighboring countries had a chance to launch search-and-rescue missions.” Then: “It has to be the Huecuvus temple. That’s the lost cathedral he had to be talking about. That’s where they are.”

  “Perhaps,” said Father Essex. “But Phinehas hasn’t exactly been truthful with his responses, either. However—” With a few more taps on the keyboard Essex was able to bring up a stilled image. It was a photo of several men, six in all, with Phinehas and Mordecai verified as being two of them. Three remained unknown. But the final man, the one sitting in the chair holding what appeared to be some sort of staff, was tagged with an international red-flag status from Interpol and the Brazilian Intelligence, the ABIN.

  “Who’s that?” asked Kimball.

  This time it was Father Auciello who spoke. “His name is Gunter Wilhelm,” he said. “He leads an order called Fallen Angels, a neo-Nazi group trying to foster old-time mentalities of the Nazi regime. For the most part they’ve been benign, just recruiting funds to support their mission statement of—and get this—one law, one rule, and one religion.”

  Kimball turned to him.

  “That’s right,” said Father Auciello. Then he pointed to the screen. “This man headed this group for more than sixty years, pulling in more money that you could ever imagine. They’ve been able to recruit white-collars, bankers and people of prominence. But when the transfer of funds turned into crimes of embezzlement and bank-and-wire fraud, Interpol and the ABIN became involved. Suddenly their websites disappeared. And with it the face of the organization, which is that man right there: Gunter Wilhelm.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Wilhelm never hid his past. In fact, he used it as a tool to reach those who were enamored with the principles of the Third Reich. In the late thirties he volunteered as a member of Hitler’s Jungvolk before entering the Youth Organization. This has been confirmed by existing records, which the Germans were meticulous about maintaining. But as the war pressed on and the Nazi’s began to lose their footing, Hitler’s Youth and the Jungvolk were drafted to defend the borders of German cities like Berlin and Munich. But as the lines along the Russian Front thinned, as soldiers were killed and began to abscond, the children were sent to maintain the line as a desperate and futile attempt to maintain the regime. What had been an undefeatable offense had eventually turned to a defense manned by children.”

  “And Wilhelm?”

  “He was a commander of what? Juveniles? Kids? Who did what they were groomed to do. To fight and maintain. Of course we know the Red Army pushed through and defeated the lines. There’s nothing more about Gunter until ten years later in Brazil, where he starts the Order of Fallen Angels, a neo-Nazi organization. And at that time places like Brazil were sympathetic to the Nazi cause and gave refuge to war criminals. But Gunter Wilhelm was hardly a war criminal—just a kid who refused to let go.”

  “Yeah, well, that kid grew up to stage the downing of Shepherd One and the attempted assassination on the pope. Question is, why? What does he stand to gain by having Bonasero killed?”

  “According to ABIN,” Father Essex offered, “Wilhelm’s organization has pulled in over three hundred million dollars worldwide. They have disciples all over the globe. Perhaps they feel that they’ve equipped themselves to the point to press their efforts of one law, one rule, and one religion into play. Please keep in mind that ISIS was an organization just a few years ago. Now they’ve spread across northern Africa, the Middle East and parts of Europe. They’re even becoming radicalized in the United States, with every state now reporting active members. What was once considered benign has now become malignant.”

  Kimball wasn’t thoroughly convinced about this. Whereas ISIS wanted immediate recognition, the Order of Fallen Angels, for whatever reason, remained in the shadows. How was an order to get any kind of acknowledgement if they remained hidden?

  Kimball studied the screen. “And this is the first time this man’s been seen since he disappeared six years ago?”

  “As far as we know,” answered Essex.

  Then Kimball stated the obvious. “He’s in a wheelchair.”

  “He is rather old—late eighties.”

  “My point is: to reach the cathedral is to do so through thick jungle—a terrain this man can’t possibly navigate through in his condition. Maybe he lives in cities nearby? Perhaps in a sanctuary protected by local governments?”

  “We thought of that, too,” said Father Auciello. “But the ABIN says ‘no.’ Gunter Wilhelm is not being protected by locals since the residents would view him as a threat because the areas are run by gangs who would refute his authority . . . He could be anywhere.”

  “Does ABIN know about Huecuvus?”

  “They do.”

  “And?”

  “They say there’s no activity. They’ve been to the site on two occasions with the permission of the Registry.”

  “The Registry could be in league with Wilhelm,” said Kimball. “When an organization has the ability of spreading millions around to those in office, people from the Registry could give ample warning to his group. They’d have that area sanitized and no one would be the wiser. Which is why my team’s going dark.”

  “Not only would you be dealing with Wilhelm and his group, Kimball, but if the Registry finds out and the Brazilian government is informed of a covert military breach, you’d be putting the Vatican within the crosshairs of political ridicule.”

  “Would the Brazilian government admit that they’d been covering for a Nazi group that may be responsible for the attempted assassination of the pope? I think the ridicule would shift to them should the truth of their sympathies be known.”

  “Sympathy for the Nazi’s, for the most part, died out long ago with them,” Father Auciello stated. “And again this is all speculation. The order may be in Peru. In Colombia. It could be anywhere.”

  “But you doubt it,” Kimball returned. “You know what I think? I think a few disciples within certain sects of the government are being fed financially to speak only when necessary. To warn. To aid. To be their eyes and ears outside of Huecuvus.”

  “Speculation,” Auciello said evenly.

  Kimball nodded and agreed that it was speculation. All of it. Huecuvus might be what the ABIN said it was, a hollowed out temple with no evidence of community living. But it also may be the hub of the order’s activities that had been brilliantly masked as well.

  “If Bonasero survives, then they may try another run at him. And that man,” Kimball pointed to the image on the screen, “is responsible. He is the head of the snake. And I will find him.”

  And when I do, I’ll deal with him and everyone he’s close to.

  Fathers Auciello and Essex looked at each other, knowing that Kimball Hayden had a special way of dealing with things when angered.

  Then Kimball added: “Isaiah and his team will stay behind to watch over Bonasero. The Secretary of State has already greenlighted the mission. Anythi
ng of importance goes through him.”

  “Kimball,” Father Essex spoke with his London inflection, “be careful. The numbers of the order is large, with many disciples. More so, and I don’t think I have to tell you this—”

  “I know,” Kimball said softly. “The four Vatican Knights within this cathedral will not be the same.”

  “Not even close. Try to remember that they’re lost, Kimball . . . Like you once were.”

  “There isn’t a minute that passes by that I don’t think about that. But you have to remember one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Combat is combat . . . It’s not child’s play.”

  Kimball gave both priests a nod of appreciation and left, the glass doors behind him closing the moment he vacated the room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Plans had been set in motion. The Vatican had chartered a plane to carry eight men to Miami, Florida. Then to Mexico City. From Mexico City they would fly their final leg to La Pedrera Airport in Colombia, a very long journey that would be hard to decompress from.

  The plane was part of Alitalia’s fleet, an Embraer E-Jet that had a range of 2200 nautical miles, or 2500 statute miles. It had seating for 100 people, a relatively small plane by airline standards. But the nature of the mission called for unquestioned transport per the Vatican’s Secretary of State, who commanded in lieu of the pontiff.

  In the plane’s rear Kimball and his team of seven—including his leading lieutenant, Leviticus—were examining their weaponry for function. As soon as the standards were met with satisfaction, they then inspected the rest of the gear. There were Kevlar vests, composite shin and forearm guards. There were laser sights and suppressors. Flashbangs and Tasers. They had flex-cuffs to bind. And a ketamine drug to render immobility within seconds.

  After plans were discussed and poured over, when the designs of what was to be played out was established in their minds’ eye like an afterimage, Kimball took a seat toward the fore of the plane, alone.