The Iscariot Agenda (Vatican Knights)

by Jones, Rick

  Numerous sparks began to fly, the pace of the men gathering impetus as the blades struck repeatedly against one another, metal against metal, sparks flying everywhere as if the weapons were forged from flint rather than steel.

  Kimball moved backward, losing ground, the stress beginning to weigh on him as his face began to contort with the strain of effort. His arms moved in blinding motions, up, down, across, deflecting the blade of the katana time and again.

  Ezekiel appeared to pick up his effort, sensing a kill, the arcing strikes fluid, poetic, the speed of the blows wearing down his opponent.

  Blow after blow Kimball was forced into a slow retreat, his back against the sarcophagus with less than a meter to spare.

  And then in a vertical blow, Ezekiel brought the blade downward as if to cleave the man in half. But Kimball crossed his knives so that the blades made a perfect X and caught the blade within the upper-V portion of the X.

  For a long moment time stood still, the men eyeing each other as their chests heaved and pitched for oxygen, the instant a welcome respite from the activity, the blades locked.

  “You’re getting old,” said Ezekiel, his breathing labored.

  “Yeah, well, for someone half my age you shouldn’t be sucking wind the way you do. I should have trained you better.”

  Ezekiel smiled with malicious amusement. “I will admit . . . you are good.”

  “And I’m about to get better.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah . . . Really.”

  On that note Kimball went on the offensive. He cast aside the katana’s blade and went after Ezekiel with a series of blows and moves that were so poetically smooth that it seemed like a choreographed ballet to Cardinal Vessucci. Kimball’s arms moved with such incredible speed that it seemed impossible to defend against. But Ezekiel did so, marginally, his face taking on the look of someone who had misjudged his opponent and was quickly losing confidence.

  His mentor was now in his element, striking blow after blow, steel against steel.

  And Ezekiel began to look choppy, his motions uneven as he desperately deflected wave after wave of Kimball’s attack, the continuous barrage driving him backward as Kimball gained ground, the momentum now his as his confidence waxed, the blows becoming quicker, stronger, the intent to kill Ezekiel set by the determination of his squared jaw flexing.

  After casting aside the blade of Ezekiel’s katana, Kimball came across with his KA-BAR and sliced Ezekiel across the abdomen, tearing the flesh but not gutting him like he intended to. Ezekiel stumbled backward, confused, the tip of the katana lowering toward the floor, slowly, his defenses totally shut down.

  And then he fell to his knees, a hand over the wound as blood seeped steadily through the cracks of his clenching fingers. “You killed me.”

  “Not yet. But I intend to.”

  When Kimball stepped forward to finalize the action with a quick thrust of his KA-BAR, Ezekiel’s hand flew outward with incredible speed, a Chinese star taking flight.

  Kimball reacted spontaneously, lifting a forearm just enough to catch the star, which was aimed for the throat. While Ezekiel knelt with a hand over his gash, he was also reaching for his three-pronged weapon. It was a sophomoric mistake on Kimball’s part to allow him to do so, and he chastised himself the moment the star imbedded within his flesh.

  The razor-sharp prong bit deep, snapping one of the twin bones in his forearm, rendering the arm useless. And a KA-BAR fell to the floor, leaving him with one.

  Ezekiel got to his feet, slowly, his face blanching to the color of the underbelly of a fish. The katana was still in his hand. But he held it in such a way that his body English said that there was little power, if any, to proffer a killing blow.

  Nevertheless, he tried.

  Wincing, his gut burning with white-hot pain, he struggled to lift the point of the katana at Kimball. “I’m tired of this game,” he managed. “Let’s get this over with.”

  With surprising willpower Kimball didn’t think Ezekiel was capable of in his condition, the rogue warrior brought the blade up and across in an arc, the blows coming in slow succession with one hand managing the blade while the other covered his wound.

  Even with one arm out of commission, Kimball easily deflected the katana, the volleys coming without effort.

  And Kimball finalized the event with a sweeping arc of his own, the blade of his knife cutting Ezekiel deep across the shoulder, the katana finally dropping to the floor of the chamber.

  Stumbling backward with the look of a man totally lost, Ezekiel reached blindly into one of his many hidden pockets for a Chinese star. But there were none, his pockets empty.

  Kimball reestablished a firm grip on his KA-BAR until he was white-knuckled.

  And then he ventured forward with obvious bloodlust, raising the blade for the final cut.

  “Kimball!” Cardinal Vessucci voice was loud and firm, like a father admonishing a child before a wrongful act can be concluded. “He’s lost.”

  Kimball stopped, his eyes still focusing on Ezekiel who looked like a man about to fall. “He killed Joshua and Job,” he said. “Good people who didn’t deserve to die. He murdered my team, the Pieces of Eight.”

  “Then he shall be judged by God when his time comes. Don’t fall back to what you used to be, Kimball. I beg you.”

  Ezekiel chortled. “Like I told you, Cardinal, a man can never truly turn away from what he really is. And Kimball failed the test.”

  “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

  “Only because the cardinal stopped you,” he returned. “The truth is you don’t have the will to stop yourself.”

  Kimball sighed and lowered the knife.

  Ezekiel leaned against the wall, blood all over him.

  And Kimball made his second mistake. The moment he went to aid the cardinal to his feet he heard a snicker from behind.

  It was the pick shooting up from a cylinder.

  “Kimball, look out!”

  But the warning came too late.

  The cylinder flew across the chamber, the pick finding its mark of Kimball’s upper chest below the right clavicle. Suddenly his world lit up with pinprick stars of light flashing within his field of vision, which was turning purple around the edges. He could see Ezekiel moving with a surreal slowness toward the katana; saw the cylinder emerging from his chest, the pick wedged deep. There was no pain, at least not yet. And the cardinal’s voice sounded distant and deep, like a tape being played on its lowest setting, whatever he was saying much too slow to comprehend.

  The gun, lying on the ground to his right, was situated near the base of the sarcophagus.

  Just as Ezekiel was wrapping his hand around the hilt of the katana, Kimball grabbed the firearm and held it weakly aloft, then aimed it at Ezekiel. The purple edges were closing in to a mote of vision, his sight pinching toward darkness. And then he pulled the trigger.

  Shots dotted the wall surrounding Ezekiel, causing him to duck.

  . . . Pow . . . Pow . . . Pow . . .

  The bullets missed their target, pocking a wall that was priceless with the history of antiquity, with chips flying everywhere.

  Ezekiel dropped the katana, placed a bloodied hand over his head, and ran out of the chamber.

  Kimball’s hand fell weakly to his side, the Smith & Wesson falling from grasp but not too far from his hand.

  Cardinal Vessucci then aided Kimball by cradling his head within his lap. He could tell that Kimball was fading, his pupils contracting and his sight becoming detached from his reality. “You’ll be fine,” he whispered to him.

  And then he faced the exit where Ezekiel had escaped.

  All was incredibly quiet.

  And then to himself, he said, “I never thought I’d live to see the day when a Vatican Knight went rogue.”

  The old man sighed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Vatican City. Three Months Later

  Almost three months to the day Pope Pius X
III was diagnosed with cancer, he passed peacefully away in his sleep.

  At the moment of the pontiff’s death the Cardinal Camerlengo, the title held by Cardinal Dominico Graziani, stood at the pontiff’s bedside and ritualistically called the pope’s name three times without response. After he completed the aged tradition, the medical staff then determined the pontiff’s death and authorized a death certificate. The Camerlengo then sealed off the pope’s private apartments, and made the event public by notifying the Cardinal Vicar for the Diocese of Rome. Once he alerted the Vicar, Cardinal Graziani then made preparations for the Papal funeral rites and the nine days of mourning, known as the novemdieles.

  During the interregnum, the period of interim government, Cardinal Graziani became the leader of the Church and summarily directed the election of a new pope with the support of three cardinals, who were elected by the College of Cardinals, and began the tradition of the Conclave.

  On the day of election the cardinals took seats around the wall of the Sistine Chapel, took a paper ballot, then wrote a name on the ballet. One by one, with Cardinal Vessucci at the head of the procession, the cardinals proceeded to the altar where a chalice stood with a paten on it. After holding their election slips high to show the Conclave they had voted, they then placed the ballots on the paten, and then slid them into the chalice.

  When the cardinals took their respective seats, Cardinal Marcello and Vessucci gazed upon one other and gave each other a nod of support. The word was that some in Angullo’s camp were vacillating with their decisions and determined that Vessucci was the proper candidate. But going into the Conclave the numbers weren’t yet determined as to whose camp was strongest, the cardinals keeping their votes close to the vest.

  Rising to the altar, the Cardinal Camerlengo, along with three aids, counted the votes and read the names out loud so that they could be written on the tally sheet. And Vessucci bowed his head in defeat. As they read off the names it appeared that the tally was not in his favor since all that was needed was the majority vote, which was half the Conclave plus one.

  After the last name was tallied, an assistant ran a needle and thread through the center of each ballot and bound them together. He then burned the ballots using chemicals that would give off white smoke.

  From the chimney the emerging smoke was as white as the billowy clouds that served as the backdrop against a bright blue sky. And the bells of St. Peter’s Basilica began to toll.

  A new pontiff had been chosen.

  Cardinal Constantine Marcello had been selected to fill the vacancy of the Apostolic See under the name of Pope Gregory XVII. And Cardinal Vessucci was suddenly rendered impotent. There was no doubt in his mind that the disbanding of the Vatican Knights would be inevitable under the occupancy of Pope Gregory.

  And there was nothing he could do about it.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Paris, France

  One Day After The Election Of Pope Gregory XVII

  Ezekiel sat at an outdoor eatery with a small cup of latte before him. In his hands was the Le Parisien, a Parisian newspaper.

  After escaping Necropolis all bloodied and fatigued, he found his way to a hack doctor who healed his wounds for a nominal fee, along with an additional charge up front to keep him quiet. But when the doctor hinted that he would renege out of the deal unless Ezekiel came up with more of the required sum originally agreed upon, Ezekiel grabbed a scalpel and threw it across the room, impaling a cockroach that was scaling the wall.

  Point made!

  After that the doctor said nothing more and aided the assassin with his healing.

  Once Ezekiel was able to travel he made his way to France and kept a low profile.

  Now, almost three months to the day after the battle inside Necropolis and sitting beneath a uniform blue sky with the Eiffel Tower serving as the backdrop, with pigeons cooing and pecking at the flakes of his croissant lying about his feet, Ezekiel’s heart grew heavy inside his chest.

  On the front page of Le Parisien was a glorified obituary regarding the death of Amerigo Anzalone, Pope Pius XIII. It covered the man’s life, his rise to the papal throne, and the final days of his life as a servant to Christians around the world.

  How I must have disappointed him in the end, he thought. And he was deeply saddened. Although the man had gone rogue, he respected the pontiff and wished deep down that Pope Pius had forgiven him on so many levels. For some reason, this was important to Ezekiel as he sat there musing over the times he stood within the glory of this man.

  Please forgive me.

  Slowly, he lowered the newspaper to the white-clothed tabletop and watched the pigeons gather at his feet without fear—the birds pecking, eating, and cooing while life as usual moved on.

  It was a beautiful day, yet a sad one as well.

  And then the birds took flight, their wings beating everywhere in sudden panic, nothing but a wall of feathers. And then they were gone.

  In their place stood a well-built man with fair complexion, raven hair, and a wedge of pink scarring beneath his chin from a horrible accident. “Disgusting creatures, don’t you think?”

  Ezekiel said nothing. He just stared at the man.

  The man with the scar pointed to an empty chair at the table opposite Ezekiel. “May I?”

  “Do I know you?”

  Without waiting for Ezekiel’s invite the man took the seat. “In a way I believe you do,” the man said.

  Ezekiel waited.

  When a waiter came forward the man waved him off, crossed his legs in leisure, and cupped his hands over a knee. “We’ve never met face to face, but I’m sure you’ve heard of me,” he told him. “In your circle you would know me as Abraham Obadiah.”

  As stoic as Ezekiel was, his eyes started as he reached for a weapon.

  The man quickly raised his hand. “Don’t,” he said. “Do you really think I would sit at this table without the proper resources backing me up?”

  “I’d kill you before they had time to react.”

  “I hardly doubt it,” he returned. “Look at your chest.”

  Ezekiel did, finding three red spots from laser sightings directed over his heart. However, he could not spot the assassins in hiding.

  Ezekiel could feel his anger bubbling. A few years ago this man sitting before him was responsible for the kidnapping of Pope Pius and the executions of bishops within the Holy See. Of this man’s entire team, he was the only one to escape after Kimball and his team of Vatican Knights waged war against Obadiah’s military elitists and defeated them.

  “Why are you here?”

  Obadiah stared at him briefly before digging a photo out of his pocket and placing it on top of the open pages of Le Parisien. The photo was aged, but still in excellent condition, not grainy. It was a photo of a much younger Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci. The man beside him wearing the black fatigue pants, military beret, boots and a cleric’s shirt with a Roman Catholic collar, was Kimball Hayden.

  “When the blood relative of a superior American senator is taken in by the State of the Vatican, it draws attention.” He tapped the photo. “This was taken a day after papers were filed for your release into their custody with no questions asked by state agencies. The people I work for take notice of things like that.”

  “What’s your point?”

  He pointed to Kimball. “This man,” he said. “Who is he?”

  “Why?”

  The man’s tapping became more adamant. “Who . . . is . . . he?”

  The men squared off against one another with hardened gazes. And then, with measured calm, Ezekiel said, “His name is Kimball Hayden.”

  Obadiah fell back into his seat. “Kimball Hayden,” he uttered distantly, his eyes growing detached. He now had a name. “And what does Kimball Hayden do?”

  “Why do you want to know?” Ezekiel asked harshly.

  Obadiah leaned forward. “Let’s just say that my team keeps an eye on things globally for the welfare of humankind.”
<
br />   Ezekiel smirked. “Espionage,” he said. “Word at the time of the pope’s kidnapping was that you worked for Mossad.”

  “You can believe whatever you want,” he returned. “If that was the word, then that was the word.” The man leaned further forward, as if in close counsel. “Now tell me, who is this Kimball Hayden? And what was his interest for the only surviving relative of a powerful American senator?”

  Ezekiel did not draw close to Obadiah. Instead, he closed his hands together in an attitude of prayer and placed them over the photo. “He is a Vatican Knight,” he told him. “As I was.”

  Obadiah fell back once again. “A Vatican Knight?”

  He nodded. “The Vatican has its own team of elite commandos,” he returned. “It was the Vatican Knights you clashed with on the day the pontiff was freed from captivity . . . And it was Kimball Hayden who led the team.”

  Obadiah nodded. “I know,” he said, raising his arm and showing off a ragged scar. “He did this to me.”

  “He should have killed you.”

  “But he didn’t.” A pause, then: “And why you?”

  Ezekiel took in a breath and let out a sigh. “To become a Vatican Knight you must be without family, someone who is orphaned. From a young age you are trained to be learned and skilled in combat.”

  “Fascinating,” he murmured. “Taking pages directly from Spartan legacy by rearing a child to become an elite soldier. But why you?”

  “Kimball murdered my grandfather,” he said.

  “While working under the auspices of the Church?”

  “No. At that time he was an assassin for the United States government.”

  Obadiah was blown away. This was incredibly damaging intel his League did not have; the murder of a all-powerful political figure sanctioned by figures within the White House. “And your role?”

  “I was chosen by Hayden because of his own personal reasons.”

  Obadiah smiled. “For salvation,” he said. “He raised you for his own salvation.”