The Goliath Chamber - Vatican Knights 24 (2021)

by Rick Jones

  Darkness was about to reign.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Paris, France

  One Week Later

  Two months after Abesh Faruk had been assassinated, Amal Purakayastha had gone into hiding and discovered Paris to be his ‘Land of Enchantment.’ The architecture, the language, and the makeup of its people had delighted him. But he often found himself always looking over his shoulder trying to spy that moving shadow he believed was always giving chase. It was that cloak-and-dagger feeling of paranoia that something dangerous was always close by. So, he altered his appearance by having his nose reshaped to be thinner, sharper and with a flare to his nostrils. He had his cheekbones lifted and rounded, which gave him more of an Asiatic look. And he had his eyes redesigned as well—to be more almond-shaped. The man he was several months ago in the mirror was now somebody completely different. His makeover was so extreme that facial recognition software would be incapable of spotting enough landmarks on his face to identify him. Those he believed were searching for him—like Interpol, MI5, the CTG, and the CIA—would be seeking out a doppelganger of what he used to be, and not as he is now. And those who could have identified him had been dispatched in Zurich with their bodies left inside a scramble of tangled weeds.

  Under the veneer of a new man, the Bangladeshi was enjoying a cup of coffee at a small sidewalk café. People milled about speaking the language, something he could listen to all day with the pronunciation’s poetic. And he had been reading Le Monde when a man wearing a fedora and wide-rimmed sunglasses approached the coffee shop. He was short and slight and sported a heavy beard that was made up of minute loops. What gave away his heritage was the color of his hands, that of light brown.

  The Bangladeshi folded his paper and placed it next to his cup, then he waved the man over. The man in the fedora cocked his head, the man clearly perplexed. Then he stepped towards the table as though trying to place the face, the man limping somewhat from a birth defect, a clubfoot.

  “Bangladeshi?”

  The Bangladeshi smiled enough to show perfect rows of ruler-straight teeth. “Ahmed, how have you been, my friend? It’s been a while, yes?”

  Ahmed Jaziri was a Yemeni who had significant ties with terrorist organizations and was key to operational acts of terrorism across the globe. For the most part, he maintained a low profile by conducting operations from afar by orchestrating strikes against the U.S.S. Cole, the Limburg Attack, the assault on Jibla Hospital, the U.S. Embassy, and was instrumental in deadly hits against tourists. And though he tried his best to stay out of the ‘intelligence’ spotlight, he was still a mark on their radar as a wanted man, albeit as an illegal arms dealer and not as a terrorist.

  He appeared confused. “Bangladeshi?” he repeated.

  The Bangladeshi nodded.

  “You appear different.”

  “The miracles of modern-day medicine,” he told him. “New features. New life.”

  Ahmed Jaziri took the seat opposite the Bangladeshi and proffered his hand in greeting. After a brief handshake, Jaziri eased back into his seat while appraising the Bangladeshi’s new look. “I see some resemblances to the old Bangladeshi,” he said.

  “But not enough to show up on the monitors of facial recognition programming.”

  “Smart.”

  “Perhaps you should try it, Ahmed, instead of covering your face with a hat, oversized sunglasses and a beard. No one can see you under all that.”

  “That’s the point.” When Ahmed Jaziri saw the waiter approaching their table, he simply waved him off. And then to the Bangladeshi, he asked, “You said you had a matter of great importance to discuss with me.”

  The Bangladeshi nodded and said, “More of a proposal.”

  “One, I assume, that asks for a financial reward to fill your coffers?”

  “You know me too well, Ahmed.”

  “And your proposal.”

  The Bangladeshi responded in even measure by plainly stating, “I have within my possession the tomb of the Unholy Trinity.”

  Ahmed Jaziri’s mouth parted slightly as though shocked and numbed by the admission. And then: “You have the Unholy Trinity . . . In your possession?”

  The Bangladeshi nodded.

  “Have you laid your hands upon them?”

  “I dare not open the tomb. But I know they’re there.”

  “Perhaps an unveiling is in order before you start making proposals, yes?”

  “They’re there.”

  “And your proposal.”

  The Bangladeshi leaned forward so that he could converse in hushed whispers. “I will guarantee you, Ahmed, that the major targets that you have set your sight on for so long will be destroyed in concert with key cities razed and ruined. With your blessing, I will unleash Satan, the Antichrist, and the False Prophet upon them.”

  “At what cost?”

  “Five hundred million in cryptocurrency.”

  Jaziri’s features did not betray his emotions, as he stared at the Bangladeshi for a long moment. And then: “Do you want to pass that number by me one more time.”

  “You heard me. Five hundred million in cryptocurrency.”

  “And you think I have such riches?”

  “I know for a fact that you’ve raised close to two billion in sales from black-market oil transactions.”

  “And you want twenty-five percent of my entire financial operation to fund a campaign to unleash the Unholy Trinity on certain targets, when there are other campaigns to focus on?”

  “I’m talking about a trifecta here,” stated the Bangladeshi.

  “Really.”

  “Cities that were considered beyond your reach at one time . . . are not out of the reach of the Unholy Trinity.”

  Ahmed Jaziri looked as though he was mulling over the offer, and then, “I’ll listen to what you have to say, Bangladeshi, before I make a decision. But your words better move me for such an amount. If they don’t, then you’re only wasting my time. I want you to know that.”

  The Bangladeshi nodded. “Here me out,” was all he said.

  Jaziri nodded, the gesture meaning ‘go ahead.’

  “Inside the crypt lies Satan,” said the Bangladeshi, “who will destroy the Great Satan that is Washington, D.C. The Antichrist will eliminate Tel Aviv. And the False Prophet will destroy Vatican City. Three targets that have long been on your desired list and that of the organizations you deal with—the Taliban, al-Qaeda and the Islamic State.”

  “And you can make this happen?”

  “I will guarantee it.”

  “How?”

  “I will gather people who will see the three to their destinations. Once the Unholy Trinity is set, then they will wreck absolute devastation in which your enemies will be unable to return to normality in a thousand lifetimes.”

  There was a pause from Jaziri.

  Then from the Bangladeshi: “Five hundred million is a small price to pay for the ultimate victory, Ahmed.”

  Jaziri had to agree. He had been financing small attacks and raids with death tolls minute in comparison to what the Unholy Trinity could do. A massive population of over one million people would be destroyed, and great cities would fall.

  “On one condition, Bangladeshi.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I want to see them. Tonight.”

  “The Unholy Trinity?”

  Jaziri nodded.

  “Done,” said the Bangladeshi. After he gave Ahmed Jaziri his address, he added, “The lid to the tomb is quite heavy.”

  “I still have strong arms, Bangladeshi, as do you. I’m sure together we can open the cap enough to see what’s inside.” That was when Ahmed Jaziri leaned so close that the tips of their noses were inches apart. Then in a hushed tone that was so soft that he appeared to be mouthing his words, Jaziri added, “To be paid in cryptocurrency as you request tells me that the money cannot be traced after the transaction has been made. If I agree
to the contract after tonight’s unveiling and quickly discover that you lied to me about your ability to pull this operation off, be assured that there is no place on Earth where you can hide from me. If you fail me, I will find you no matter how many times you alter your appearance. And trust me, Bangladeshi, it will not be pleasant for you when I do.”

  The Bangladeshi appeared as cold as ice with his new face. But like his old face, he showed no emotion, which was a constant to his features.

  “Do you hear me, Bangladeshi?”

  “I hear you just fine.”

  “Tonight then, at your address, we will open this coffin you say holds the treasures within. If it’s true, then we have a deal. Five hundred million in cryptocurrency will be forwarded to an account of your choosing. The contract will be signed between us with your blood as the ink and your soul as my reward. Am I making myself clear?”

  “You are.”

  Jaziri stood and ran his fingers along the brim of his fedora, a goodbye gesture. “Tonight then, at your residence. Together, we shall perform the ritual of the unveiling and lay our eyes upon the Unholy Three: Satan, the Antichrist and the False Prophet.”

  “Don’t be late.”

  “Believe me, Bangladeshi, I won’t.” Jaziri repeated the action of running his fingers along the brim of his hat. “It was good to see you again. I’m glad you contacted me. Should you pull this off, then it would be money well spent.”

  “Believe me, Ahmed, you’ll get your money’s worth by the time I’m done.”

  Behind Jaziri’s heavy beard, the man smiled. “We’ll see.” Turning, the financier for terrorist organizations added, “Tonight, Bangladeshi, at the time you requested, I’ll be there not a second too soon or too late.” And then the man was gone, disappearing into the milling crowds that filled the Parisian walkways.

  The Bangladeshi stared after the Financier until he was absorbed by the crowds. Then he wondered about the deal since Jaziri had made his point quite clear: this contract was going to be signed by the blood of the Bangladeshi. To fail Ahmed Jaziri would be to fail himself, since he was about to sign over the rights to his life, should the outcome fail. But the Bangladeshi felt confident and believed in himself. There would be no failures to slow down or hinder his efforts, since he was a taskmaster who had performed to greater heights of achievement with success. In his mind, he was a ruler and a doer of the impossible. And within the days and weeks to come, places like Washington, D.C., Tel Aviv and Vatican City would come to ruin and be reduced to charred remains.

  This he was sure of.

  Picking up the Le Monde newspaper, the Bangladeshi continued to read.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Apostolic Palace, The Vatican

  Vatican City

  The woman wearing the nun’s gown and wimple was escorted up the staircase by two members of the Swiss Guard. Once inside the papal chamber and with the door closing softly behind her, she made her way to the pope who was standing behind his desk with his hand extended. The moment the nun reached the pontiff, she accepted his hand and kissed the Fisherman’s Ring. That was also when he noticed her ring on her receiving hand, which was an exclusive piece of jewelry. On the ring’s face, which was a ruby stone, was an upside-down V. And under this tented V were the insignia letters N and S that represented the Nocturnal Saints.

  Thereafter, he pointed to the open chair before his desk to her in invitation. “Please,” he told her.

  Bowing slightly in gratitude, she took the seat.

  “Thank you for coming,” he told her.

  “It’s an honor, Your Holiness.” When she spoke, her voice was deep and rough from many years of smoking. And then she pointed to her wimple. “May I remove the headdress? It’s something I’m not accustomed to and it’s rather uncomfortable.”

  “As long as you wear it on your way out,” he informed her.

  She removed the wimple and tossed her hair about, then she laid the headdress upon her lap. Then: “The moment I received your communication in Brazil, I knew it had to be something of great importance.”

  The pontiff nodded. “And what name are you going by now?”

  “Jennifer Antle.”

  The pope knew that she was notoriously conservative and looked upon change with the same intolerance as he. Old values were constructed with moral undertakings, whereas liberalism paved the way for unethical choices to fit the mindset of those seeking new principles. Like her, he was steeped in old traditions believing that man should bend to the will of God and not the other way around. And because he was a silent member of the Nocturnal Saints who valued the organization’s strict conventions, that was his reason for maintaining discreet ties with her.

  “I have a problem,” he told her, “with the thorn in my side digging deeper. I need it removed both discreetly and with quiet efficiency.”

  “Does this thorn have a name?”

  The pope nodded. “Kimball Hayden.”

  The woman fell back into her seat, then said, “You do know that I confronted this man before, along with his team of Vatican Knights.”

  “I heard. But I was in China at the time serving as a cardinal with my influence obviously restricted.”

  “You do know that the Vatican Knights took out my D.C. unit with ease, don’t you? And my team was made up of ex-special forces operatives.”

  “I’m not talking about an entire unit here. I’m talking about one man.”

  “We’re talking about Kimball Hayden, who’s more than ‘one man.’” And then: “What about the rest of the team?”

  “Let me worry about them.”

  “You do understand, Your Holiness, that our mission is not to assassinate, but to realign conventional thinking to those who oppose tradition. Those who refuse to return to the conservatist values are then deemed as a threat to the church and then, and only then are they be terminated. Hayden is no threat to the values of the church. In fact, he upholds them.”

  “Kimball Hayden is a loose cannon who breaks every Vatican protocol whenever he can.”

  “In order for the Nocturnal Saints to be mobilized,” she informed him, “you know as well as I do that reasonable grounds have to be established in order to curb the threat.”

  “He’s the devil who walks among us,” stated the pontiff.

  “Mere accusations, Your Holiness, cannot be considered as grounds for termination.”

  “How much do you know about the man?”

  “I know he has an incredible skillset. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

  “What else?”

  “I know he’s been mythologized in the Middle East as the Devil’s Magician.”

  “Anything else?” asked the pontiff. “Say his past, for instance.”

  She had no clue.

  “Kimball Hayden,” the pontiff began, “is here because he was recruited by Bonasero Vessucci, who was a cardinal at the time of Kimball's recruitment, and he continued to support him thereafter while serving as the pope. For some inexplicable reason, Bonasero Vessucci saw something inside this man that I do not. To me, the man is as godless as godless can be.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would the church recruit a man who is without faith or soul?”

  “My sentiment exactly. Why recruit a man who is without faith? It’s been a question long on my mind ever since he became lead of the Vatican Knights. He is the devil in priest’s clothing and a wolf who lords over his flock of sheep.”

  “Why not dismiss him from duty?”

  The pontiff sighed at this. “Because he is highly respected by his team. If I terminate Kimball’s position, then I stand the chance of losing the unit. And I need the Vatican Knights to perform certain tasks in the name and interest of the church. I need them under my command. Not his. If he happens to find his end of life—say—by accident or by enemy intervention, for which I’m sure he has many, then his removal will be one that does not bring into account a suspicious eye. Th
e team will be under my full command.”

  “With all due respect, Your Holiness, in order to fulfill a mission, two things must happen: one, the person involved must either be so lost in his principles that he or she refuses to see the light of old traditions, which in turn could create a threat to the institution of the church; or two, that the Light is beyond the reach of the person who seeks it because his or her past sins are too egregious to overcome.”

  “Then let me offer you the life history of Kimball Hayden,” he countered. “Before he became a Vatican Knight, he was a government assassin who worked for either a black-ops arm of the CIA or a deep-state organization—it’s not clear as to which he was employed with—and he is someone who killed innocent people, including women and children, in order to achieve the means of his operations.”

  “You know this to be fact? The killing of innocent woman and children.”

  The pontiff nodded. “It’s in his biographical history. What Bonasero Vessucci saw within this man is beyond me. I see nothing but fantastical rage and violence—all unbridled, I might add.”

  “Are you sure about the killing of children?”

  “I am.”

  “That sin in itself is so egregious that it can never be justified, even in the eyes of the Lord.”

  “Exactly, so his redemption, which is what he seeks, is forever out of his reach. I know this. And such a man, as you well know, cannot serve in the capacity that the church requires of an individual. He is a threat to the moral conventions we both hold dear, yes?”

  She nodded, though her head bob was slight. “He’s a morally corrupt individual who’s deeply flawed,” she said. “But the fact remains: he’s a huge threat.”