Crosses to Bear (Vatican Knights Book 6)
Page 11
“Like most of us,” he said, “he has a demon who needs to be vanquished.”
“What?”
Obadiah shook his head. “Never mind,” he said. “The responsibility will be mine.”
“Ezekiel is not trusted amongst the ranks,” stated the operative. “There’s something about him that makes the principals nervous.”
“In the principals, you mean Paled.”
“No. I mean everyone who sits upon the high thrones of the organization. He’s not one of us, Abraham. Never was.”
Obadiah looked at the bag. “You got what you want. You have the strain. Ezekiel was the only one who could have pulled it off because he is highly skilled at what he does. But more importantly, he was expendable. If he failed, there was no way he could have been traced back to the Lohamah Psichlogit.”
“But now that we have the virus, Abraham, it’s best to cut him loose.”
Obadiah shook his head negatively. “Not until we finish one last mission together.”
“Your mission is complete. The Lohamah Psichlogit wants you back at base command.”
“The Lohamah Psichlogit will have to wait,” Obadiah returned. “There are more pressing matters to handle at the moment.”
The operative leaned forward. “Abraham, don’t allow Ezekiel to cloud your judgment. We have seen what this strain can do. We saw what happened to the town of Bensenville under controlled conditions. We have no idea its limits. If Ezekiel opens up that vial, the effects could be catastrophic. And we’re not terrorists, Abraham. So please, think about it.”
Obadiah had thought about it. And often. He had warred with himself on one hand by allowing Ezekiel to maintain possession of the vial, and on the other wanting to follow Lohamah Psichlogit’s protocol so that the strain is held under the safest and strictest conditions in a bio-lab in Yoqneam, Israel, where it would be broken down to its finest components and studied. But he knew and understood Ezekiel’s demon, knew that it stood and walked upright as a man who was considered an angel by some and a demon to others. “We plan to use the vial as a tool of negotiation,” Obadiah finally said.
“We?”
“Yes. We. Ezekiel and I.”
“Abraham—”
Obadiah held up a hand and patted the air, telling the operative to stop. “Enough,” he said. “We know what we’re doing.” He didn’t expound on that since he didn’t feel the need to. After listening to Ezekiel’s many discussions about Kimball Hayden as a man trying to discover his moral compass, there was no doubt in his mind that Kimball would surrender himself readily in order to save the church, a noble act. It would also be his last performance as a Vatican Knight. Once Kimball hands himself over, then Ezekiel will put a bullet through his brain and kill him once and for all. Once the plan is complete and Obadiah’s devil finally dead, then the last and final vial would be handed off to the Lohamah Psichlogit. “I will bring the vial back intact. Trust me.”
The operative shook his head disapprovingly. “What you do, Abraham, is dangerous. The Patriarch will not look at this action favorably. They want the package in its entirety—all twelve vials. Anything less would be considered a breach of protocol, and you’d be labeled a rogue. And we both know what the Lohamah Psichlogit does to rogue agents.”
“I’m not rogue. Yitzhak knows this. I simply have an agenda outside the scope of the Lohamah Psichlogit.”
“Working outside the scope, Abraham, could cost you your life—no matter your past service to Israel or the good you have done for her. It’s about what we do today for her future. And you’re asking me to deliver a package of the highest priority to the Psichlogit principals that is incomplete. They’ll think that you may be holding the last vial as an unsanctioned bargaining tool, or perhaps even as a weapon of mass destruction to acquire personal gains, all without top-tier approval. If you keep that vial, Abraham, then I worry for your safety. The Lohamah Psichlogit will hunt you down and they will find you.” He tapped the case. “Please return it.”
Obadiah’s half-smile looked more like a cocky sneer. “I can’t return what I don’t have,” he told him. “Ezekiel has it. And he’s not about to surrender it readily.”
“You brought him into the Lohamah Psichlogit, so you’re just as responsible for his actions as if the vial was in your hands.”
“You sound worried, my friend.”
“I’m not worried about you,” he told him. “I’m worried about him.” The operative tilted his chin in Ezekiel’s direction.
“Let him be my problem,” Obadiah stated quickly. “Let him be my concern. All you need to worry about is how to get that strain into the hands of couriers, where it’ll be safe. And you make sure that Paled keeps the mission going. It’s imperative that the CIA and NSA continue to believe that it’s in the hands of terrorists. And that they plan to use it against U.S. and Israeli interests.”
The operative nodded. “Those fronts are moving smoothly along,” he said. “The U.S. believes that the Islamic Revolutionary Front is spearheading this cause, and that Iran is backing them covertly.”
“That’s all I can ask for. Make sure that the plan does not deviate from its course, and everything will work out to Israel’s benefit. Within a week sorties will be flying in to level the nuclear facilities within Iran. And Israel will have the international support that we’ve been looking for. As long as the U.S. pushes for action, then the U.N. will have to follow as long as there’s evidence to support the strikes. We’re in a good position.”
“And your plan?”
Obadiah waved him off in dismissal. “Tell Paled that I have a plan that is twofold. Tell him that I must seek an old enemy and kill him.”
“And the other?”
Obadiah turned to him. “Then I will kill Ezekiel.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Jesus Saves Mission
Las Vegas, NV
The Following Morning
“I spoke with Father Donavan,” Sister Abigail said to Kimball. He was standing beside her in the soup line spooning what appeared to be some kind of gruel onto the tin plates of the homeless and hungry. His serving apron had the spotting of kitchen grease on it.
He turned to her, looking at a face that was clearly pure and as smooth as porcelain. “And?”
“Seth, I know you mean well. I really do. But Father Donavan believes that you might have invited retaliation to Saint Viator’s.”
“Trust me. I’m taking care of it.” He pounded the ladle of mash onto a tin plate of a homeless man, who then moved along and allowed the next man to step up.
“Seth, I know your heart is just, but the Community is a dangerous sect. You can’t take them on by yourself.”
“They’re nothing but punks,” he returned quickly. “If you bloody their noses, then like most bullies they’ll move on.”
“No, Seth, Not Ferret. Not the Community.”
He dropped another dipper of food on a tin pan and then he turned to her, his sudden inactivity holding up the line. “Sister Abigail, the reason why they continue to do what they do is because they go uncontested. I’m here to see that they move on and that Saint Viator’s becomes what it was meant to be: a place of worship and of finding hope.”
“Seth, please, just let it be.”
After spooning food to three additional plates, Kimball said, “Do you see the faces of these people in line?” he asked her. “They’re the faces of those who don’t laugh or smile, they simply exist. When you think they’re looking at you, they’re actually looking through you. These people need more and Saint Viator’s can give them that. But not as long as this guy Ferret and his merry band of losers continue to rape the coffers and take away the means to better the lives of those you see here.”
Sister Abigail found his argument to be solid as she noted the faces of those in line. They seemed worn and haggard with the hanging looseness of rubber masks. Their eyes were dim and lackluster, the spark gone, the shine missing. And when they moved along the li
ne they did so with a mechanical stiffness that was more instinctive than voluntary, their actions robotic.
“There are other ways to do this, Seth,” she finally said.
“Great. Tell me how.”
She couldn’t.
“That’s because there is no other answer, Sister. And what happens here at Saint Viator’s is not unique, either. It’s human nature to go after those who can’t protect themselves. There has to be a challenge. And if the challenge proves too great, then human nature takes over and they’ll eventually seek weaker game.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“Have you ever heard of Edmund Burke?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“He once said: ‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.’ And he’s absolutely right.”
“So you’re that good man?”
Kimball suddenly appeared saddened. “I’d like to think so.”
She moved closer to him so that her shoulder brushed against his arm, the touching sending an inner and delightful shudder through Kimball. “You are a good man, Seth. There’s nothing to prove. And you’ll only get yourself hurt. Saint Viator’s will get by.”
“It’s not about getting by,” he told her. “It’s about doing what’s right.”
When Sister Abigail backed away it ached him terribly. For the moment they touched he could feel the indescribable charge of infatuation, which was something he hadn’t felt since Shari Cohen, a woman he had fallen in love with. Now standing beside him wearing her habit and wimple and looking as beautiful as a wingless cherub, he wanted to know the person beneath the pious dressing. What he didn’t know, however, was that she desperately wanted to know the man behind the rage, and at a much deeper level.
When the feeding was done at the shelter, Kimball removed his grease-stained apron and tossed it into the laundry basket. And though the work was not hard, he nevertheless felt drained. Sister Abigail, on the other hand, looked fresh and eager as she tossed her apron in the basket, her apron landing on top of Kimball’s.
“So what do you say?” she asked him.
“About what.”
“Coffee?”
He looked at her strangely. “You can do that?”
She laughed. And then she reached out and grabbed his forearm, gently, and left her hand there. “We’re not prisoners of the Church, you know. We can go out and have coffee with friends.”
As seasoned as he was knowing the ways of the Vatican, he had to admit that he knew little regarding the order of nuns. His face slowly gave way to a smile. “I’d love to,” he finally said. “I need a boost.”
Sister Abigail ushered him out of the mission with her hand still on his forearm, and Kimball was reluctant to shake it free.
#
Ferret’s Jury of Six were sitting inside the mission eating from tin plates that was served to them by Kimball, the former Knight not knowing who they were or why they were there, the Community having so many unknown faces.
And Bulldog Winshaw—nobody really knew his first name—looked every much as his namesake with a pinched face, deep-set jowls, and eyes set too close together. When he turned his head it swiveled on a thick neck, which was attached to immensely broad shoulders. And when he spoke his voice was annoyingly high and scratchy, the coarseness of his words sounding off like fingernails raking across the surface of a blackboard, harsh and grating. “He’s a big’un, all right,” he said to The Slim-Bar Thief, who was sitting at a table across from Bulldog and his jury. “I can see why you had problems with this guy.”
Slim-Bar, now wearing a shoulder harness, did not get a plate because he didn’t want Kimball to recognize him. His presence was simply required so that he could point out the jury’s target.
The other five members of the Jury sat quietly as they spooned viscous mash into their mouths, finding it oddly savory. Yet they would often give periodic glances to Kimball, each man sizing him up.
“Ain’t gonna be a problem for the Jury, though. Weez gonna do him in like Ferret wants us to. Weez gonna make things right.”
“Weez all ain’t going to make things right,” Slim-Bar mimicked. “You are.” Slim-Bar slightly raised his arm, now in a sling, and grimaced. “I’ve already had my share of him.”
“I ain’t invitin’ you since you’re as worthless as the tits on a bull, anyway. Now you can scat. You did what you came here for. Weez do the rest.”
But Slim-Bar didn’t leave. He sat there slouching and pouting.
Just as Kimball removed his apron and tossed it into the laundry bag, and with Sister Abigail following suit, Bulldog crane his neck. “It looks as if our boy’s on the move,” he said. He tossed his spoon noisily on the plate and wiped his mouth dry with the sleeve of his shirt, leaving residue on the fabric. “Let’s go boys. There’re lessons to be taught.”
“What about the nun?” asked Cobalt, a skinny and wiry man whose ears stuck out like the handles of a trophy cup.
“What about her?”
“We ain’t doing no nun no harm.”
“Youz a going to do as I say. Or you can take it up with Ferret.”
Cobalt looked down at his plate.
“Thought so,” said Bulldog.
As Kimball and Sister Abigail exited the mission, Bulldog got to his feet. “All right, boys, the show’s about to start. Y’all know what to do. You know what’s expected of you. You take this boy and teach him a lesson that he ain’t never gonna forget. And you let him know that Ferret sent cha.”
#
They were sitting beneath the canopy at downtown’s Experience with her sipping a latte and Kimball a strong blended coffee. While she stared at the overhead canopy watching the images along the electronic board, Kimball couldn’t remove his eyes from her, finding her unparalleled beauty far more engaging.
When the show was over, she turned to him. “I love it here,” she simply said. “It’s one of my favorite places to come to.”
“It’s odd,” he said. “I always envisioned nuns always on their knees praying or working in parochial schools with a ruler in their hand.”
She laughed. “Is that what you think?” And then: “No, Seth. We do have some freedoms. But as much as we love God and the Church, the spiritual life as a nun is very hard. As much as we sacrifice in the name of the holy Church, it’s the priests who surrender so much more.”
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Of course. That’s why we’re here. To get to know one another.”
He nodded. Then: “Why?”
“Why what? Why did I become a nun?”
“Yeah. Why? You’re smart. You’re caring. And you’re very beautiful—both inside and out.”
Her laughter peaked. “So what are you saying? That a nun can’t be smart or caring or beautiful?”
He blushed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How did you mean it then?”
He flushed even more, the sudden warmth bringing him to the verge of sweating beneath his collar. The moment he began to stammer and stutter, Sister Abigail reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, Seth. I was just kidding.”
Kimball’s shoulders dropped with relief. “Thank you.”
What Sister Abigail considered to be odd was how awkward Seth was around women. With a classically handsome face, charging blue eyes and a well-defined physique, she thought women would be crawling all over him with adoration and that he’d have to beat them away with a stick.
Not so. In fact, Seth seemed to be surrounded by a protective bubble of indifference, a man willing to reject the embraces of the opposite sex rather than to accept them. There was no doubt in her mind that Seth was alone by choice.
She let her hand fall from his shoulder. “Seth, tell me something. Why do you choose to be alone?”
He shrugged. “Not sure. It is what it is, I guess.”
“Do you allow anyone to penetrate your world?”
“Your surrogate father?”
He nodded. “And a few others.”
She grabbed his hand in both of hers and pulled it close. “Seth, I know you’re afraid to face something you obviously did in the past that may have hurt him. But believe me—if he loves you like you say he does, then you need to go to him. He will embrace you wholeheartedly. Whatever it was you have done in the past, Seth, no matter what it was, he will forgive you.”
Kimball closed his eyes, feeling the sting of bitter emotions.
Seeing this, Sister Abigail rubbed her hand against his to let him know that everything would be fine. “This isn’t the life for you, Seth. You know that. And I know that you’re not truly happy here.” She then waved her free hand about as a gesture to showcase the open world. “There’s something out there that you want, isn’t there?”
His eyes snapped opened, suddenly, then settled on her brightly lit eyes. “My life,” he said, “the one I used to have, the one I want, is gone. This is my life now. Right here. In this city.” When Kimball saw the pained look in her eyes, he asked, “What?”
“Seth, nothing is truly gone. When one dies, are they gone forever? Or do you remember them in your heart?”
“We’re not talking about the same thing here.”
“How old is he?”
“What?”
“How old is this surrogate father of yours?”
“Old enough.”
“Seventies? Eighties? Younger?”
“What’s your point?”
“My point, Seth, is that someone as special as this man may come once in a lifetime . . . And he’s not going to be here forever. In fact, if he’s aged, time may be running out. If you do not make amends and learn that he has passed, there will be no greater pain than regret for not acting when you had the chance.”
After a pregnant pause, he said, “It sounds like you want me gone.”
“No, Seth. I want you to be happy. And right now I know your surrogate father is thinking the same, wishing you were by his side.”