The Iscariot Agenda (Vatican Knights)

by Jones, Rick

  Their eyes met briefly.

  And then the cacophony of the white-hot explosion immediately followed by force of the concussion. The energy had driven Kimball off his feet and projected him through the air until he collided with the wall, the impact of the collision leaving an indented impression of his backside in the drywall. Getting to his feet, and with the wind knocked out of him and his world a blur of double vision, Kimball looked as if he had risen from ashes that were the color of moon dust as he stood there not truly cognizant of where he was or what just happened. As his surroundings became a little more balanced, with the taste of blood and copper in his mouth, Kimball made his way to the door the same way a man fights his way through a desert sandstorm—with his hands before him while marching laboriously forward against buffeting winds.

  He then grabbed the edges of the doorway and used them as a crutch, the sensation of incredible heat suddenly striking him and forcing him to retreat. From his point he could hear the loud crackle of flames as the truck burned. Behind the wheel sat the blackened remains of Jeffrey Hardwick, his skin consumed to the point where the formation of bones was already beginning to appear.

  Kimball stumbled deeper into the store, his stomach now rolling into a slick fist as nausea from the trauma of striking the wall with such force overtook him. Taking deep breaths with his hand held over his abdomen, the feeling subsided.

  Removing his cell phone from his cargo pants, he dialed a quick-dial number and waited until he received an answer.

  It was Cardinal Vessucci.

  “They’re all gone,” said Kimball.

  To the cardinal, even over a long distance, could tell that Kimball appeared out of breath. “Are you all right?”

  “They’re all gone,” he repeated. “He got them all, Bonasero. I’m the last one. I’m all that’s left.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine . . . Just a little winded, that’s all.”

  Outside, the flames continued to crackle loudly.

  “What’s that?”

  “Just a little bonfire, which Jeffrey Hardwick happens to be a participant of.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “He’s still out there, Bonasero. He’s still coming.”

  “Then come home, Kimball.”

  “If I do that, then I won’t be coming back alone. He’ll follow me and we’ll bring this war to the Vatican, which I’m not willing to do.”

  “We found Job. He’s here. Joshua and Ezekiel will be back shortly from sabbatical. By the time you get here you’ll have their backing. One assassin against four Vatican Knights favors you greatly.”

  “I don’t want anyone else hurt,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like this guy. He’s as lethal as anyone I have ever seen.”

  “Kimball . . . Come home.”

  “I’m not sure I want to do that.”

  In the distance was the sound of sirens, the authorities getting closer. Kimball, phone still to his ear, forced his way past the heat and onto the street.

  “Kimball, come home. Although Amerigo won’t admit it, he’s getting worse by the day. You need to see him.”

  “How long does he have?”

  “The doctor said months—three, maybe four at the most. But who knows. At this rate . . .”

  “Even with chemo and radiation?”

  “He’s rejecting all forms of treatment. He simply wants to expire as God intended him to.”

  Kimball sounded agitated. “Did it ever occur to him that maybe doctors were placed here by God to help him live longer?”

  “I know you’re angry, Kimball. But what kind of a life would he lead only to suffer the last few moments of his life bedridden and sedated to the point that he was no longer aware of his surroundings?”

  When the sirens and lights from police and ambulatory vehicles rounded the bend, Kimball fell back into the shadows until the vehicles passed him by.

  And then: “He wants to go to his Heavenly Father on His terms, not his own.”

  Kimball had to forcibly choke back the sting of tears. Besides Cardinal Vessucci and a few others, Pope Pius XIII had become his most unfaltering supporter believing that the Light was well within Kimball’s reach, should he decide to follow its path. He had forgiven Kimball for his indiscretions and loved him like a son. And Kimball had loved him deeply like a father. Having one of the most significant men in the world believe in you when you did not believe in yourself spoke volumes. And Kimball was crushed.

  “I didn’t mean to snap,” he finally said.

  “It’s understandable. We all love him and he will be missed.”

  Kimball stood looking at the glow rising from behind the building like a halo. “I’m coming home,” he said distantly.

  “He’ll be happy to see you.”

  And that was the breaking point for Kimball as he could no longer hold back the tears. And for a second time within days tears began to flow, although they did so without him breaking into racking sobs.

  “Kimball?”

  He closed his eyes in an effort to blink back the rest of the tears. “I’m here,” he said, his voice managing to stay even. “But I’m most likely bringing the war back with me.”

  “Then we’ll be waiting.”

  #

  After the explosion set the vehicle in flight in spectacular motion, he lowered the aerial and let the plastic cap fall over the button. From his perch he watched the fires burn, thinking there was something quite hypnotic about them, a certain graceful quality about the way the flames danced with a life of their own. Nevertheless, he reveled in the fact that he formerly introduced Jeffrey Hardwick to a short dose of what was waiting for him in Hell.

  This he was sure of.

  When the sirens began to sound off in the background, just as he was about to take flight, he saw Kimball Hayden exit the building and take flight on his own. The man looked disheveled and completely disoriented, his gait more like a man in a drunken stupor. Within a few moments, however, he seemed to have gathered himself and appeared unharmed, the large man rushing for the shadows.

  That’s good, thought the assassin. Kimball Hayden survived the blast after all. Now with Kimball as the last man standing, and after watching those around him fall, which no doubt cast an air of his own infallibility, the assassin wondered if he was breaking him down mentally, as well. Killing Kimball Hayden had now become optimum.

  Taking in a deep breath, with the smell of fire and ash heavy in the air, the assassin watched Kimball as he disappeared in the shadows. No matter what, he told himself, I will follow you to the very stretches of your run and finalize my crusade by driving a knife across your throat. And when I stand over you and watch you bleed out, then, and only then, will I smile the moment the spark of your life finally fades away.

  And true to his word, the assassin gave chase.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Vatican City

  “There are secrets within the Vatican,” Cardinal Marcello confirmed as he and Cardinal Angullo walked along the path the divided the Old Gardens. “The pontiff called me into his chamber and questioned me regarding whether or not I was offering recompense for your support in my pursuit of the papal throne.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “The truth,” he said. “I told him I was doing what was necessary to make allies. He, on the other hand, believes that I should proffer my past merits as a cardinal to the College, rather than to bolster camps with promised incentives.”

  “And what about the secrets?”

  “The pontiff was candid,” he said. “He claims the secrets are not being withheld from the constituency because they bear any sense of immorality . . . but are more of a source of unwanted controversy.”

  “Controversy, my dear Cardinal, is normally derived from prospects considered at the very least, amoral.”

  “My sentiments precisely,” he said. “And as I told the dear pontiff, one man’s morality is another man’s immorality. Should any su
bject bear the weight of causing controversy, then it has no place in the Church. Morality and controversy cannot exist cohesively together.”

  “And did he entrust you with any secrets?”

  “No. He told me nothing.”

  “Then perhaps I can enlighten you with something my sources informed me of while lobbying them on your behalf.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Have you heard of the Society of Seven?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Allegedly, they’re a most powerful council made up of the pope, Cardinal Vessucci, and five of the most trusted cardinals within the College who are closest to the pope,” he said. “They are the sole keepers of the Vatican’s secrets.”

  Cardinal Marcello stopped in his tracks, as did Cardinal Angullo, the men staring at each other as they were surrounded by a riot of floral colors of the garden.

  “Allegedly?”

  Angullo shook his head. “Allegedly, yes. But I’m trying to verify this as we speak.”

  Both men turned and commenced their walk along the pathway.

  “Such a secret in itself can be held very close to the vest,” said Marcello. “To prove something of such caliber may be impossible to do.”

  “This is true. And perhaps the truth will never be discovered on whether or not they truly exist, or if they truly bear the secrets of the Vatican. But if it is true, then Cardinal Vessucci is in league with very powerful people.”

  Cardinal Marcello nodded. “Vessucci confers with few besides the pope, so determining who they are can be easily assumed, if this is the case.”

  “And if this is the case, proven or not, then we must—or you must, as pontiff—take action in order to purge any clandestine factions within the Vatican.”

  “I would hate to prosecute anyone without confirmation?”

  “The pope has already acknowledged the fact that the Vatican holds secrets, which he is unwilling to unveil to you because he feels that he can’t entrust you with them. That is why he called me into his chamber prior to your meeting. It was an obvious lobbying effort on his part to coerce me by having my camp support Cardinal Vessucci, so that the secrets can be maintained.”

  Cardinal Marcello nodded his head in agreement. “It’s always been obvious that he wants the good cardinal to succeed him.”

  “But I have promised you the support of my camp ensuring you the papacy in return for the seat of secretary of state. Now I ask you for a second favor that will guarantee you that seat.”

  Cardinal Marcello stopped in his tracks. “I thought the seat was already guaranteed the moment I offered you the appointment of secretary of state, upon my commission of the throne.”

  Angullo raised his forefinger. “All I ask is but one thing,” he said. “The thing I ask will serve to protect you and the throne, should the Society of Seven exists.”

  “Go on.”

  “The Vatican has diplomatic ties with ninety percent of the countries worldwide. What I ask of you is this: Once you have secured the title as pope, then you’ll need to appoint Cardinal Vessucci and his allies to archdioceses across the globe to weaken his ranks.”

  Cardinal Marcello stood idle. The man was a seasoned cleric much older than Angullo. He also saw the subterfuge of every man’s rhetoric and the mind games they played in order to better position themselves for something esteemed. And Marcello saw this. “Now it’s clear,” he finally said. “What you say you do for me you also do for yourself. I am thirty years your senior and by the laws of nature I will pass before you. But you only lobby on my behalf because it will do two things: You obtain the second most powerful seat in the Vatican. And by usurping the position held by Cardinal Vessucci, you will then be the second most powerful man in the Vatican. Secondly, by appointing the good cardinal to an archdiocese elsewhere, I break up his constituency which leaves you with the most powerful camp in the Vatican upon my passing. What you’re doing is setting yourself up for the papal seat in the future.”

  “What I do I do for the good of the Church,” he said. “I won’t deny that my ambitions are the same as yours, Constantine. But I do believe if Cardinal Vessucci bears secrets that may be amoral, even though he is a good man, he can be a threat to the welfare of the Church—albeit unknowingly—since the road to Hell is truly paved with good intentions. Is that something you can afford to turn a blind eye to?”

  Cardinal Marcello mulled this over carefully; digesting the cardinal’s every word. “I’m not convinced that what you tell me is all for the good of the Church,” he said. “I also believe that you’re positioning yourself by eliminating Cardinal Vessucci, who seems to be more of a threat to you than he is to the Vatican. But I also find your reasoning sound. So I’ll grant you your second request. But if you come to me with a third, then I will seek the papacy without the service of your following. Is that clear?”

  The cardinal parted his thin lips into a smile that flashed more like a grimace. “Totally,” he said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  “Again!”

  From the wings of the training center located in an uncharted building situated between St. Martha’s Chapel and the Ethiopian College about 200 meters west of the Basilica, Kimball watched from the shadows as Joshua, Job and Ezekiel partook in mock combat using wooden katanas.

  Brass torches lining the walls were lit, the flames dancing, the shadows against the walls moving in macabre fashion.

  In the center of the chamber Ezekiel served as the object of the attack as Joshua and Job flanked him, their katanas held forward with the blunted points aimed at their target. Slowly, and with practiced prudence, they circled the young Knight looking for the proper moment to strike.

  Ezekiel held his ground, the point of his wooden blade before him as he kept his faux enemies at bay deciphering what defensive techniques to use upon the moment of attack. By now he knew his instincts should have been honed to the point of natural reaction, striking out with skilled movement independent of the mind—reaction against action. But Ezekiel knew he wasn’t there yet, still depending on mental decision over instinctive reaction. But he was close and he knew it. And so did Kimball.

  Joshua and Job circled him, anticipating, the tips of their katanas rising; telltale signs to Ezekiel that they were getting ready to strike.

  So he ground the balls of his feet against the floor, readying himself to pivot and defend from all points.

  And here they came.

  Job and Joshua struck from opposite sides, the blades of their swords cutting, slashing and slicing, the air divided with a series of whooshing sounds.

  And then the sound of contact, wood against wood, blade against blade, the young men joining together as action-reaction, the blades of the swords becoming blurs as Ezekiel skillfully defended his position.

  From one side to the other Ezekiel brought his blade up, over, and across with blinding speed deflecting blows proffered by Joshua and Job. His movements were skilled and fluid, his actions now driven more by instinct than thought. And then he came across and struck Joshua’s sword above the hilt, the faux weapon breaking, the wooden blade skating across the floor and into the shadows.

  Joshua exited from the battle—now considered a kill by the rules.

  Now Ezekiel was one on one with Job, a truly skilled warrior, both hands on their hilts as they clashed with subdued fury. Blow after blow, strike after strike, Job drew Ezekiel to the far side of the arena. And then Ezekiel countered with a primal scream, only to find an inner reserve and struck back with unbridled force.

  Up and over and across he countered with lightning quick strikes, the energy of his muscles driving his counterpart backwards, Job becoming the defender, his eyes flaring, blades clashing. And then Job ducked and drove his blade across the tissue above Ezekiel’s knee, a debilitating strike that ended the contest.

  Job had become the victor.

  Disappointed, Ezekiel dropped his weapon.

  “Very good,” stated Kimball, emerging from the
shadows. “Going up against two of the best is never an easy task.”

  “But I still lost,” he returned.

  “I would have been surprised if you won. To defeat a couple of Vatican Knights is no small feat, Ezekiel. You should be proud of yourself. You nearly pulled it off.”

  Job laid his sword aside and stood next to Ezekiel, as did Joshua. They stood side by side as brothers not by nature, but by camaraderie. They had grown together—spiritually, mentally and physically.

  And Kimball had watched them grow from adolescents to teens to young men. Each one developing a strong constitution where knowledge became power and power became knowledge. They had become learned and skilled and devoured anything books could offer. But even more so, they had developed the fortitude to live their lives by the proverb that loyalty was above all else, except honor. Kimball Hayden was proud of them.

  And now, at his time of need, they will now serve him and become his shield.

  Several hours later, Kimball’s plane began its final descent into Fiumicino Airport in Rome. Job, Joshua and Ezekiel continued to remain in his thoughts as the jumbo jet touched down on the runway.

  After a forty-five minute wait for his bag at the carousel, Kimball grabbed it and left for Passenger Pickup. Parked next to the curb was the papal limo, the driver holding the door open for Kimball. Inside, Cardinal Vessucci sat waiting, smiling the biggest smile Kimball had ever seen.

  It was good to be home, he thought.

  #

  “It’s good to see you again,” said Cardinal Vessucci.

  “Yeah, well, unfortunately my mission was a huge failure. I’m totally lost, Bonasero. Whoever is doing this remains faceless. I’m no closer to solving this than when I was the day I left.”

  “It was believed to be a political faction.”

  “There was only one person who had anything to lose by the knowledge that the Pieces of Eight held. But I honestly don’t believe he had anything to do with any of this. The man was genuinely surprised to see that I was alive, whereas the assassin knows I am. You would think that type of information would have gotten back to the senator.”