The Iscariot Agenda (Vatican Knights)

by Jones, Rick

  Even at the age of six, he vowed that he would never forget their faces.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Present Day, Vatican City

  Monsignor Dom Giammacio was the Vatican’s counselor for clerics who wallowed in the self-doubt of their waning faith. Most often they went to him to reaffirm their own ‘unconscionable’ belief that questioning the existence of God was not a fatal sin. And perhaps with some pro-pious readjustment could fall back into His Fatherly graces. In the monsignor’s point of view, if they feared Him on some level, even in their queried state of mind, then it could be logically stated that they at least believed Him to some degree. After all, why fear something that did not exist?

  But today was marginally different, as was every Monday at this time.

  In front of the monsignor sat an obtrusively large man who fiercely raked the cleric with cerulean blue eyes whenever the priest attempted to open a dialogue with him, the man always an unwilling participant in the course of such examinations. But at the direction of the pontiff, the man appealed to the wishes of His Holiness by addressing underlying issues regarding his constantly warring subconscious.

  He was large and tall, with a wide expanse of shoulder and chest. His massive anatomical design was even more pronounced by the tight fit of the cleric’s shirt he wore, the cloth stretched to its limit. And though he wore the Roman Catholic collar as a symbol of his faith, he struggled at the core of his divine devotion.

  Unlike others, he was not a priest or a cleric or a man of pious nature, but a Vatican Knight in the service of the pope who was delegated to preserve the interests of the Holy Roman Church. When necessary, he and his elite force of commandos would perform black op missions selected by the pontiff and six of his most trusted and ascribed cardinals known as the Society of Seven. Outside the ‘Society,’ the monsignor was one of few beyond the circle who knew of their existence and thusly informed to keep matters confidential. Not only were the Vatican Knights to remain a secretive conclave of elite commandos in service to the Church, they were to remain so exclusive that they could not even be considered as mythology. Never will the Vatican Knights be made public, since their efforts to achieve the means were sometimes less than charitable. War, after all, possessed a dark side.

  Quietly lighting a cigarette, the monsignor let it burn in the ashtray as a lazy ribbon of smoke drifted into the air. After tenting his fingers and easing back into his seat, he turned to Kimball Hayden who sat opposite him. The glower he received from the Vatican Knight was quite communicable: Let’s get this damn thing over with. The sentiment in the man’s expression was quite explicit in that he did not want to be here holding psychological counsel. But neither man had a choice, due to the appeal from the pope.

  For a moment they stared at each other waiting for the other to start the session. But over time it had become a battle of wills with the monsignor always giving in. It was a game he never won.

  “Let’s begin, Mr. Hayden, shall we?”

  Kimball sat there appraising the little man with the bad comb-over, which never failed to bring a preamble of a pretentious smirk to Kimball’s lips.

  “Mr. Hayden—”

  “Kimball,” he said. “I want you to call me Kimball.” He really didn’t, but it was a power play on his part to establish authority.

  “All right, Kimball. If that’s what you want.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “It’s what I want.”

  The monsignor let the cigarette smolder in the ashtray, his tented hands holding steady as their standoff drew an unwavering bead between them.

  “And how would you like to start off with today’s session?” asked the monsignor.

  “Like I do at the beginning of every session,” he stated. “By saying, I find this a huge waste of my time.”

  “Then why don’t you tell that to the pope? Or do you lack the courage?”

  Kimball eased back into his chair, impressed that the monsignor had challenged him. For the moment the Knight conceded. “Please accept my apology, Monsignor. I guess you don’t want to be here anymore than I do,” he answered.

  “It’s not a matter of what I want,” he returned. “It’s a matter of you finding what it is you seek, which is the truth of faith versus fate . . . You’re no different from anybody else who walks through my door.”

  Kimball closed his eyes in resignation, his once obstinate will bleeding off by the inches, a promising sign to the monsignor.

  So the cleric led the Knight into conversation. “Several months ago you aided in a mission to save the pope’s life, yes?”

  Kimball opened his eyes, nodded.

  “And in the process of engagement with opposing forces you had to kill, yes?”

  Another nod—a small tilt of his chin in affirmation.

  The monsignor leaned closer. “So now you’re in conflict with yourself because what you did is inconsistent with Church doctrine regarding the killing of another, yes?”

  Kimble hesitated.

  “And now you are afraid that what you did for your government so many years ago as an assassin and what you do now for the Church, bears no difference and that the Lord has already condemned you with no chance for salvation, yes?”

  A nerve had been struck. Kimball’s line of sight made a slow and downward trajectory to the floor.

  The monsignor grabbed the burning cigarette and wedged it between his fingers, the smoke rising in tight, corkscrewing trails. “I know you seek salvation for past actions,” he told him. “And I know the redemption you seek seems impossible to obtain with your current actions contradictory to what the Church calls for, which is to be the salvation for others when, for this to happen, you sometimes have to kill so that others may live. Therefore, in your mind’s eye, if you go on killing, then how is it possible for you to gain deliverance and passage into Heaven? Are these not the questions?”

  The monsignor hit another mark in Hayden’s view.

  “Are these not the questions?” he repeated.

  Kimball nodded.

  “Then why do you do it?”

  Kimball sat in reflection as his eyes took on a detached gaze and stared at an imaginary point beyond the cleric, his mind clearly focusing on a mental illustration of something past. “I’m sure what I’m about to say you probably already know, since I’m sure you read my file. But I’m going to tell you anyway.” There was a brief hesitation, his focus turning back to the reality of the moment with cerulean blue eyes so clear it enabled the monsignor to see secrets in their depths. What he saw was the constant warring between solemn regret and subdued rage, one emotion trying to best the other.

  “Several years ago,” Kimball said with sorrowful inflection, “while on a covert mission for the United States government, I was dispatched to Iraq to eradicate a top official within the Iraqi government . . .”

  The monsignor didn’t press him. He simply waited for Kimball to choose his moment.

  And for that moment Kimball seemed to have difficulty trying to articulate his thoughts to words, but ultimately continued, his eyes moving toward the ceiling as if his memories were somehow scribed there in text, a written aid to refer upon. “While in Iraq I came upon two young boys herding goats,” he said. “And they saw me . . . So I took the only available action to keep them from compromising my position.”

  “So you killed them.” This was not a question, but a confirmation of what the monsignor already knew.

  “That night after I buried them, I looked into the sky and saw so many stars, something I never did before, and wondered if there was something beyond this.” He then raised his hands in indication of his surroundings. “And then I looked for the face of God, looking for any sign or suggestions that He truly existed. The only thing I saw was the stardust glitter of designs and constellations. And then it occurred to me that I had become what the government made me out to be—something without conscience, remorse, and without feeling. It was a label I was proud of until that very moment.”

/>   “Perhaps the face of God came in the essence of enabling you to confront the truth about yourself by discovering your conscience. After all, the true design of God is not how we actually see Him, but how we imagine Him to be,” said the monsignor. “For it is said that God has many faces, but only one voice. In you, Kimball, your epiphany was God’s embracement of you, don’t you see? You did not see Him, but your soul heard Him.”

  Kimball didn’t answer.

  “Sometimes, Kimball, epiphanies come in the strangest ways. The killing of the children was the enlightenment to your true nature.”

  “Then tell me this,” said Kimball. “How can God condone the killing of children?”

  The monsignor stared back for a moment before answering. “Do you feel repentant for that action?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then that’s your answer. God forgives those who are truly repentant for their sins. And because of your true repentance, He embraced you on that night.”

  Kimball gnawed on his lower lip. It was amazing how such a heinous act could be so easily explained away and justified. It was no different than the mindset of suicide bombers.

  “Kimball?”

  Hayden met the monsignor’s gaze.

  “Do you feel that saving the pope on your last mission was in the interest of the Catholic nation?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you feel that Pope Pius is a good man?”

  Kimball didn’t know where the monsignor was going. “Yes, of course.”

  “And those who took him, do you consider them to be good men?”

  “Not in my opinion.”

  The monsignor nodded. “So you took action against these men” —The monsignor lifted his hands with a cigarette still burning between the fingers of one hand, and with his middle and forefingers of both hands flexed the digits in a gesture of italics when emphasizing the word ‘these’— “to save the life of the pontiff who has nothing but peace as his primary goal, yes?”

  Kimball sighed. “Are you coming to a point?”

  “My point, Kimball, is a simple one. Before the incident in Iraq with the two shepherd boys, you killed men because it was obligatory and because you wanted to. Am I right so far, at least from what I know of your past as a government assassin?”

  Kimball hesitated, then, “So far.”

  “But in killing those men to save the pope’s life, was it because you wanted to? Or was it because you had to?”

  Kimball considered this for a moment as the monsignor honed in with careful study, his spectacled eyes reminiscent like the lenses of a microscope, his demeanor that of scientific appraisal.

  While working as a black-op assassin for a group attached to the CIA, Kimball killed out of commitment. In the sense of Vatican convention, however, he killed if a peaceful solution was not soluble and self defense his only option.

  “And there’s the difference,” the monsignor intuited. “You used to kill because you were amenable to the opportunity. But the moment you became an emissary of the Church as a Vatican Knight, and staying true to your epiphany and remaining repentant for past sins, you now take a life not because you want to . . . but because you have to. Saving the life of the pope can only be viewed as a necessity borne from goodness, despite the harsh methods taken to achieve the means. Even God sees the right of good men to champion the cause as savior for those who cannot defend themselves against uncontested evil.”

  For a brief moment Kimball’s emotions vacillated from gratefulness to subdued anger. Gratefulness because the monsignor justified Kimball’s actions as a necessity of the Church, if the actions were conducted in principled manner. And subdued anger because terrorists conduct their deadly missions under the same so-called principled banner of their God, easily justifying their heinous crimes the same way the monsignor was easily explaining away Kimball’s killings as justifiable. It was all in the matter of viewpoint and perspective of what one faction’s principle should be. But Kimball saw no difference since one thing was certain in war: both sides always believed to be correct, even though their principles were miles apart. How easy it was to explain things away and justify them at the same time, he thought.

  “I don’t think salvation lies at my end,” he proposed.

  The monsignor fell back into his seat and stamped the cigarette out in the ashtray, his gaze remaining studious as he again tented his hands in steeple fashion. “Salvation lies at everyone’s end,” he told him. “And the mystery of what lies beyond will be answered upon the moment of death for everyone. But you have to have faith, Kimball. You need to start believing in the good in yourself, rather than to dwell on a past laden with the sinful wage of pride. Now I believe you when you say you’re truly repentant for past sins, but yet you can’t seem to forgive yourself in your own eyes when you have already been forgiven in the eyes of God.”

  “That, Monsignor, is because I don’t believe that anyone can justify terrible acts with simple faith in what we believe God thinks is right. I believe it goes much deeper than that.”

  “And that, Kimball, is why you need to see beyond the box and realize that you need to step further away from the darkness you lived in for so long, and step closer to the Light. You may be a high-ranking member in the eyes of Vatican principals, but you are also a man who is very detached from God.”

  “That’s because I have seen too much of the real world, Monsignor. And I participated in many things I’m not proud of, things that will make me a castaway on Judgment Day.”

  “Perhaps, Kimball, you need to put aside your doubts and open up to Him.”

  “You try to make it sound so easy, Monsignor. But it’s not.”

  “At least give it a try,” he said. “Go back to your chamber and open up to Him. Pray to God and ask Him to hear you out.”

  Kimball shook his head in a nonplussed manner. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Have you ever killed a man?”

  The monsignor’s eyes widened, a brief flare, the question catching him off guard. “Lord no, of course not.”

  Kimball leaned forward. “When you do, then you come tell me the secret of keeping the memories of those you killed buried so deep they’ll never show up in the middle of the night as horrific images while you’re sleeping, and drive a scream from your throat.”

  The monsignor’s shoulders dropped. “Kimball, I can’t perform magic. And I’m obviously not going to make you see a new direction within a few sessions. That’s understandable. But you have to help yourself as well. Although repentance is the first step, you need to open yourself up to Him and embrace Him.” He undid the steeple of his fingers and reached for a cigarette. “All I ask is that you open yourself up and pray with true conviction. That’s all I’m asking . . . Just for now. Let’s start with that.”

  Kimball sat idle, unwilling to state whether or not he intended to make an effort. He truly didn’t know at this point.

  “A week from today,” said the monsignor. “Same time as usual. And please don’t be late like you were this afternoon.”

  Kimball stood, his towering frame looking down upon the monsignor’s bad comb-over until the monsignor got to his feet and offered his hand, which Kimball took in a crushing grip.

  “Good luck, Kimball. If you take time to forget the past rather than reliving it, you may find the Light.”

  “I’ll take prayer into consideration,” he finally said.

  “Good. And can I ask you one more thing?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can you stop shaking my hand? You’re hurting it.”

  Kimball released the cleric’s hand and left the office, leaving behind a lobby filled with clerics waiting to see the monsignor.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Kimball’s personal chamber was located next to the Tower of San Giovanni at the west end of Vatican City, approximately 200 meters west of St. Peter’s Basilica. The room itself was small, the ceiling high, the walls made of slump
stone the color of desert sand and bore nothing else but a cross hanging above a small window that overlooked the magnificent Lourdes Gardens. Against the far wall lay a single-sized bed with night stand, light, and shelves lined with military texts and journals. Closer to the door was a kneeling rail and votive rack for prayer, the candles having gone unlit and the kneeling rail unused. Although exclusive of luxury comforts, it was still home to the Master of the Vatican Knights.

  Closing the door behind him, Kimball crossed the floor with myriad thoughts swimming in his head after meeting with the monsignor, and sat on the edge of the bed, the frame bowing slightly beneath his weight. For the first time he had taken the session to heart, the monsignor’s insight bearing the frank truthfulness that the Light was not going to come to him, but he must make a viable effort to go to the Light.

  Closing his eyes and raising his chin, the muscles of his jaw working, Kimball made a decision: He would pray. He rose from the bed and went to the kneeling pad before the votive rack and got on his knees. After striking a match, he lit two votive candles in homage for the two Knights who lost their lives during an earlier mission. He lit the candles for Hosea and Malachi, lost friends and comrades.

  Closing his eyes and clasping his hands in an attitude of prayer, he tried to recite the ‘Lord’s Prayer,’ only to forget the words after the preamble of the first six words of the prayer were spoken. So he tried his hand with the ‘Hail Mary.’ But after forgetting the words beyond the first sentence he subsequently gave up, considering himself to be the worst Catholic in the world since he couldn’t recall a simple prayer.

  And then he opened his eyes and noted the serene curl of black smoke rising from the candles’ wicks. Their motion was gentle and fluid, like the composites that once made up his friends—yet the flames could be caustic when need be. And then he wondered if the former Knights made it to the ethereal Light, then questioned if there was a Light at all. What Kimball needed to believe in was to see something far more wonderful beyond the pain and madness of killing, something well beyond the darkness in which he had spent his entire life.