The Iscariot Agenda (Vatican Knights)

by Jones, Rick

  In the moment it takes for a heart to misfire, Kimball could swear that his heart did so in the form of a swift punch to his chest.

  All the faces of the team were circled with red marker, including his. But this photo was different. Within the red circle surrounding his face was the letter ‘T.’ The word ‘Iscariot’ now complete.

  In seconds his emotions went from shock to rage to confusion, and then to rationalization after factoring the impossibility of the moment. But in calm measure he realized that the truth of the matter had now become a certainty.

  The assassin was here.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Vatican City

  By growing up together and learning how to battle in the arenas had made them as close as brothers could be without the blood ties.

  They had been orphaned at an early age at the expense of assassinated family members and brought to the Vatican for resurgence. What they got was a chance to be the crusaders of a modern world—where unity, faith and devotion had become ingrained within their character.

  But as children of tragedy it had taken them longer to conform to new surroundings in a new land.

  As teens they had grown together, studied together, and learned to fight with faux knives and wooden katanas. They had become exceptionally learned, studying the tomes and eclectic philosophies from such men as Aristotle, Epicurus and Thomas Aquinas. Masterful pieces of art also had their place in the teachings with certain works serving to develop insight by those who could point out and interpret the artistic subtleties of Da Vinci and Michelangelo. For a Vatican Knight it was believed that the development of the mind was equally as important as the body, the two coalescing into a combination that fashioned men of impervious will, staunch character, and the mindset that loyalty was above all else, with the exception of honor.

  After classes they were given time to grow as children do and given time to play and, at least to a degree, granted moments of mischievous deeds, which were met with punitive actions. The cardinal saw this as an important element of growth. The punishments meted out as a tool to show them which deeds were acceptable and which were not: The difference between right and wrong.

  In times of play they often found an affinity for playing with the pinball machines in the sacristy above St. Peter’s, which were mostly used by the altar boys in training with the Vatican. And as teens they experimented with wine, discovering the worlds of intoxication and hangover, which Bonasero Vessucci thought was punishment enough.

  Everything had become a formula for learning and discovering the world within, as well as the world without. And no three people could have learned to become closer in bond then Job, Joshua and Ezekiel.

  They had become inseparable.

  In a room about 100 meters south of the chamber where the Society of Seven often met to determine missions and teams of the Vatican Knights, was a small armory where the Knights often gathered to choose the best weapon to fit the needs of the assignment. The room was windowless and walled with granite, mortar and limestone. Above them hung bright reservoirs of fluorescent lighting, and an ancient door that was thick and wooden and held together with black iron bands and rivets, which led to a larger room bearing a cache of weapons.

  “This is different,” said Job, racking the barrel of a Glock for smooth action and release. “We never fought a phantom before. There was always a face or a name or something to go by.”

  “True,” said Ezekiel, “but isn’t that what a Vatican Knight is all about? To be tested?” He held a KA-BAR in his hand and began to spin it with the same ease and skill as a majorette twirling a baton, the knife spinning in blinding revolutions before he finally placed it on the table.

  Job smiled. “Show off.”

  Ezekiel gave off a small chuckle and went for an assault weapon. “Being tested is what makes us better,” he added. “There’s always something new to learn. If we don’t, then we stagnate.” He held the point of the weapon ceilingward and pulled the slide. The noise of the action rebounded off the walls in emphasis.

  “Still,” said Joshua, “tested or not, I like to know who we’re up against.”

  “Ditto,” said Job.

  “As do I,” returned Ezekiel. “But that’s not the case here, is it?”

  “No. I guess not.”

  They examined the weapons, breaking them down to the minimal piece and putting them back together. Gearing up was optimum and a weapon going defunct in the middle of battle was often fatal. So they made sure their weapons were always primed.

  When Job placed his readied combat rifle aside he suddenly caught the spangled glitter of something beneath the flare of the fluorescent lighting. It flashed like a diamond, the sparkle just enough to draw his attention away from his duties.

  Inside a canvas bag to the right of the table, lying partially beneath a folded camouflaged boonie cap, was something that held a mirror polish to it. Looking over his shoulder he noted that Joshua and Ezekiel continued with their prepping.

  Reaching into the bag he moved the cap aside and traced his fingers over the smoothness of the metal cylinder.

  What’s this?

  Removing it from the bag he held it aloft, turning the item from side to side in clear examination. It was silver and polished, and he could see his reflected image in a funhouse sort of way, warped and disfigured. And it was cold to the touch.

  There was a red button on the cylinder, a perfect placement should it be depressed by the thumb.

  With curiosity a large part of Job’s nature, he pressed the button.

  From the head of the cylinder a pick shot up so quickly that he almost did not perceive the action of the pick extend at all. The tip was wickedly sharp and keen, the point capable of boring through most surfaces with the right force applied behind it, especially the human skull.

  “Well, well, well—what do we have here?”

  Footsteps, from behind, the approach of someone coming closer for examination, and then silence.

  “Can I see that?”

  “Sure.” Pressing the button, the pick fell back into the cylinder with the same lightning speed. And then as if passing the baton in a relay race, he handed the Knight the cylinder. “Be careful,” he said. “That thing can do some damage.”

  The cylinder was taken away.

  “I bet it does,” said the receiving Knight.

  And then he ejected the pick.

  #

  Kimball’s world was that of thin corridors and stone walls the color of desert sand. As he raced down the hallways his mind reeled, the photo in his hand crushed due to tension. The assassin had walked right through the front door, past security, and directly into his chamber. This man was definitely a ghost, he considered—something that was becoming truly unstoppable.

  The halls were for the most part vacant as he hastened his way toward the armory, once in a while passing a bishop who gave him an inquisitive look as he rushed past them.

  Passing through darkened corridors that led to the chamber where the Society of Seven often congregated, passing medieval doors and numerous ancient torches that lined the flat rock walls, Kimball found his way to the armory, a small room approximately thirty feet beyond an arched entryway.

  The Knights were here, no doubt. And he would quickly galvanize them into action. But when he opened the door to area the smell of blood and copper hit him with such impact that he instantly knew that he arrived too late.

  Two teammates were downed, crimson pools of blood as thick as oil spread evenly across the floor, the smell of blood hung cloyingly thick in the air as a pall.

  For a dizzying moment Kimball stood over the bodies without expression, his mind quite desensitized as the scene took on something surreal, something that was dark and dreamlike and hanging on the fringes of the macabre.

  But when he slowly craned his head to a marking on the wall made with cold sweeps of a bloodied hand, he noted a single word written on the stone.

  ISCARIOT

&nb
sp; Suddenly Kimball felt the pang of reality strike him, that dreamlike quality of the surreal suddenly gone like a wisp of smoke cast apart by a wind that left nothing behind but the truth: His team was gone.

  Slowly, Kimball closed his eyes, the word ISCARIOT burning like an afterimage beneath his lids.

  The assassin had made his statement.

  #

  Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci was weighing his candidacy heavily as he made his way through the corridors beneath the Basilica. Often, when he was not walking the Old Gardens, he would stroll through the corridors that led to the Necropolis. Here it was quiet and undisturbed. The world, at least for the moment, was strictly his own.

  Word coming from the camps was that Cardinal Marcello was amassing a huge following with the aid of Cardinal Angullo, leaving Vessucci’s chances, at best, to acquire the papal throne with a marginal chance, even with the sponsorship of Pope Pius. Should he lose the bid, then as secretary of state he is duty bound to divulge all confidential information regarding the Vatican, beginning with the Third Secret, and ending with the Vatican Knights.

  His chief concern was the continuance of Kimball and his team. Without the support of Marcello, then the Vatican Knights would become obsolete, this much he knew. The complexion of the Vatican would change almost immediately. The sovereignty of the Church in foreign lands would be at grave risks, as well as the welfare of its citizenry if no source of defense could ever be implemented. They would be left open to opposing forces, which were growing numerous by the day in an oft changing world where fanaticism was becoming the norm.

  And there was no doubt in his mind that as pope, Marcello would simply turn a blind eye to worldwide atrocities.

  The cardinal continued to mull over the situation, as well as ways to politick to dissuade those in Angullo’s and Marcello’s camp to join his. But nothing was coming.

  In the tunnels where there was no natural lighting, the cardinal shuffled along with his head down and his mind working. Around him the shimmy of flames from gas lit torches cast ghoulish shadows along the walls.

  It took several moments, however, for him to realize that the dancing shadows were not his own.

  Somebody was here with him.

  He raised his head. “Hello?”

  About twenty feet away stood a shape that was blacker than black. Whoever it was stood unmoving. Even the light of nearby flames could not illuminate his features for identity.

  “Who is that?”

  No answer.

  “Is something wrong? Is there something I can help you with?”

  The Shape took a step forward into the feeble lighting, the brim of his camouflage boonie cap covering a majority of his features. In the marginal glow of light the cardinal could make out enough of the man’s features to identify him.

  The man smiled, showing ruler-straight teeth. “Good day, Cardinal.”

  Vessucci returned the smile. “Well, well, well, what’s brings you down here?”

  The man’s smile faded. “Things,” he said.

  “Things?” There was something about the man’s voice that didn’t seem quite right to the cardinal. The man’s tone held an edge to it. “What do you mean by ‘things’?” he asked carefully.

  “Just . . . things.”

  The man stepped closer. But this time there was something menacing about him.

  Vessucci took a step back. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s just fine,” he said. In the delicate cast of lighting the man held something in his hand that held a mirror polish to it. It reflected the color of the torches’ flames, the colors of red and yellow and orange. So when he held up the metal cylinder it appeared to blaze within his grasp. “Everything’s just fine,” he said. And then a pick shot up from the cylinder, a spangle of light gleaming from its tip. “Just do as I tell you, Cardinal. That’s all I ask.”

  #

  Reality hit Kimball like a two-by-four, the man now on his knees. The two men that lie dead were more than just soldiers for the Church. They were his friends and to a lesser degree, they had become, in a sense, surrogate children. Cardinal Vessucci had entrusted them into his care when they were on the cusp of being teenagers. He nurtured them with character development, taught them the ways of righteousness as the Church would want him to. And he watched over them like a parent. For years they were his, their coalescing forming a bond much greater than that of mentor and student.

  They had become family.

  For a man with staunch will and reserve, he refused to shed additional tears. He had been a soldier for too long, his state of mind unwilling to bend to his feelings knowing that a breach of emotion often signaled a weakness that prohibited him to continue on with his role as a warrior. Yet there was something underlying he could not reject or face. But it existed all the same. It was that raw emotion of what made him human trying to surface. It was the feeling of loss and sadness, and above all else, the condition of grieving.

  Softly, while cradling the head of one of the fallen Knights, he ran his fingers delicately through the young warrior’s hair while keeping his eyes fixed on the other Vatican Knight, who lay supine less than five feet away, his eyes at half mast, showing nothing but slivers of white.

  Slowly, Kimball’s eyes worked upward to the writing on the wall. The word ISCARIOT had dried with a Knight’s blood; however, blood runnels continued to drip from the letters.

  And then rage consumed him.

  Clenching his jaw firmly, he carefully lowered the head of the Vatican Knight and got to his feet.

  He immediately went to the armory table and hefted his favorite weapon, a KA-BAR knife, and toyed with it the same way a gunslinger twirls his firearm before holstering it. The knife felt good in his hand, excellent balance, and good weight. And then he strapped on a pair of sheaths, one for each leg, two knives; the man was getting ready to go to town.

  On his hip he holstered a Smith & Wesson .40 caliber, his favorite for precision shooting. And then he recalled the monsignor and the sessions they held together about killing. He recalled the monsignor defining Kimball’s actions as the before and after scenario, from when he was an assassin with the American government to that of a Vatican Knight. The differences were that he killed because he wanted to and not because he had to. And that was where the differences lie: from what he used to be to what he had become. As an assassin for the United States government he killed because he wanted to and did so without impunity. But as a Vatican Knight he killed as a measure of defense after exhausting all other means to protect himself or the welfare of others.

  But looking at the word ISCARIOT emblazoned on the stone wall, he realized deep down he would never change. He was what he was: a killer. After making wonderful strides, he now came to the conclusion that he now wanted to kill because he wanted to. Not because he had to.

  Salvation would have to wait another day.

  As he was leaving the armory, he noted the sketch on the wall one last time, ISCARIOT, and then gazed upon the Vatican Knights lying on the floor in blood pools that had glazed to the color of tar. There were three in the armory, this he knew. And a single question emerged: Where is he?

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Beneath Vatican City, The Necropolis

  The Vatican Necropolis, also known as the Scavi, is virtually a city that lies five to twelve meters beneath the Basilica. Between the years 1940 to 1957, the Vatican supported archeological digs which uncovered parts of the city dating back to Imperial rule when pagan beliefs flourished. In 2003, during the construction of a parking lot, more of the city was revealed where chambers of preserved frescoes and mosaics of Christian traditions were discovered rather than the previously discovered tombs of pagan castes.

  South of St Peter's Basilica is a marker allocating the place where the obelisk once stood in the circus of Nero. Today, this obelisk sits in the middle of St Peter's Square. It was here that Saint Peter was rumored to have been crucified and buried in a simple rock
tomb that extended north along the via Cornelia. To the right of the Sacristy, beneath another archway, lay the entrance to the Necropolis.

  The assassin had made his way to the Tomb of the Egyptians with Cardinal Vessucci, and sequestered the man inside the mausoleum.

  Painted in the center of the north wall is the Egyptian god Horus, the God of the Dead. Surrounding them sarcophagi filled the room with carved bacchanal settings bearing mythical scenes, which gave the tomb its name.

  “Why are you doing this?” Vessucci asked. He sounded more perturbed than frightened.

  The assassin ignored him.

  “You are a Vatican Knight.”

  “I know,” said the assassin. “Loyalty above all else, except Honor.”

  “That’s right. And where is the honor in this?”

  The assassin leaned forward and cocked his head. “In war, Cardinal, the only thing that is consistent is that both sides believe they are right. And these opposing sides are bound by a code of honor that is obviously different from their opponent. It’s a code of honor that is diverse from his enemy—yet a code, nonetheless. Your honor is not my honor. I have a different set of rules, a different agenda.”

  The assassin looked away and lifted the cylinder. In play he pressed the button over and over again, the pick shooting in and out, in and out, the pick stabbing upward and outward, then retracting, over and over again.

  . . . Chick . . .

  . . . Chook . . .

  . . . Chick . . .

  . . . Chook . . .

  Time seemed endless for the cardinal.

  “And what is your agenda? To destroy Kimball?”

  The assassin stopped pressing the button and stared at the cardinal for a long moment. “My agenda, Cardinal, is to deny the man his salvation and send him to Hell where he belongs.”

  “And you do this by killing off his team?’