by Rick Jones
“As to what?”
“Are there any doubts that you wish to serve the church in the capacity that you currently serve, as team leader of the Vatican Knights?”
Kimball clenched his teeth, causing the muscles in the back of his jaw to work. “Bonasero understood me,” was all he said.
“I understand that,” the pontiff returned. “But he’s gone. All I ask is for you to bend a little and give me a chance. I’m not Bonasero. I never will be … But I will hold you accountable.”
“I know.”
There was a beat between them, an awkward silence. Then from Kimball: “I have doubts, as I’m sure the monsignor has informed you.”
“That’s why you’re here,” he said.
“But I know my place. It’s here. With the church. I thought I expressed that with him during our sessions.”
“You did, Kimball. But sometimes, as powerful as your words may be, your heart is much stronger. Your head may be saying one thing but your heart another. Now I know you seek the Light. The Light is there. All you need to do is reach out and take it if you haven’t already.”
Kimball seemed to mull this over for a moment. Then: “Can I tell you a story? Something I just came to realize not too long ago.”
“Of course.”
Kimball sighed before speaking. “There was the thing called Death. It moved about taking lives with a single touch. It was alone, an outcast. And it was frightful to anything it came close to for obvious reasons. Then one day a she-wolf saw Death and didn’t shy away. In fact, the she-wolf was alone. When she tried to nuzzle against Death, Death pulled away, its hands raised because it didn’t understand this sudden acceptance. In time they became inseparable with Death watching over the she-wolf as she slept. In time Death fell in love with the she-wolf, and the she-wolf fell in love with Death. Then one day, Death thought the power of his love for the she-wolf was so strong that it conquered the power of his touch. So when the she-wolf walked up to it and wished for Death to embrace her, it did. The love between the two was completely overwhelming as they welcomed one another. And then the she-wolf began to weaken … and then she died in Death’s embrace.”
“So what you’re saying, is that no matter how hard you seek the Light, it’ll never happen because you are what you are? That things can never change.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“I don’t know any such thing,” Kimball returned. “I’m Death. I kill people. It’s what I do … It’s what I’m good at.”
“Kimball, you are good at what you do. You protect those who can’t protect themselves. You’re an asset in the lives of those who have you to thank because they’re still alive.”
“I couldn’t save Bonasero,” he said.
“No, you couldn’t. But you did save those children,” stated the pontiff. “And Bonasero would have been proud of you for doing so. You know this in your heart.”
Kimball did know this. Losing Bonasero was like losing his crutch. And deep inside he knew it was time to move on without him–though it would be with a very heavy heart.
The pontiff leaned forward in his seat, as if to emphasize a point through whispers. But he didn’t whisper at all. In fact, his voice was strong and filled with purpose. “Kimball, I know you’ve been inquiring about the True Cross with the SIV. And there may be a connection as to its theft and Mabus. There appears to be a connection with an arm’s manufacturer in London and the Islamic State, and that the manufacturer may be seeking to barter state-of-the-art weaponry for the True Cross. The CIA and MI6 are involved in this matter, as well as MI5.”
Kimball knew about Atwa and the True Cross, and that Mabus was somehow involved. “You want me to represent the Vatican Knights on this mission?” he asked.
“You are the unit’s leader,” said the pontiff. “When Saint Helena brought remnants of the True Cross to Rome, pieces began to show up magically throughout Europe, some were obvious facsimiles. But the wood to this particular cross never left Golgotha. Helena left it in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre where it belonged. Since it is an interest of the church, it needs to be returned to its rightful place in the vault above Christ’s tomb. We cannot allow people like Mabus to barter it for weaponry.”
Kimball wanted Mabus like a rabid dog.
“But I need to know where your heart lies,” stated the pontiff.
Kimball didn’t hesitate. “I’ll tell you what I told the monsignor,” he said. “I still belong to the church.”
“That’s good to hear, Kimball. I’m quite pleased. As you know I’m off to Mexico and South America for visits to calm the masses after the attack on the Vatican. I’ll be taking a few of the Knights with me for protection. But I’ll be sending Leviticus and Isaiah with you, to London, where you’ll be briefed by the Director of MI5. From there you will work under the command of their intel teams, depending on the situation. The moment the True Cross comes into play, however, then the Vatican Knights are to follow through with your specific commands to see that the True Cross finds its way back to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Foreign intel will follow through with their own national security agendas and act accordingly against the principal of the manufacturer, as well as his ties with those of the Islamic State.”
“The Golgotha pursuit,” said Kimball.
“If that is what you want to call it.”
Kimball immediately considered his options. Earlier he had made a promise to himself that he would erase Mabus completely off the face of the planet, a clean cut. Now an opportunity to draw him close to the extremist presented itself almost by chance. In time he would acquire the True Cross and bring it home to the vault above Christ’s tomb. But he would also deal with Mabus and the company he kept, knowing full well that he’d be risking his chance at redemption by choosing his brand of justice over law. Obtaining the True Cross and taking Mabus out of the equation would certainly be a coup.
“When do I leave?” asked Kimball.
The pontiff didn’t miss a beat. “Right now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Brockbridge Correctional Facility
Jessup, Maryland
Prisons and jails always smelled like dirty laundry to Shari Cohen, who could never get used to the odor. In the background as she walked along the corridor, she could hear inmates shouting and metal doors clanging. But when she reached the interrogation room located in a secured area between A- and B-Pods, everything became muted behind thick walls.
After the prison guard unlocked the metal door and opened it, Shari Cohen entered a claustrophobically tight chamber that was poorly lit. The walls, floor and ceiling were a neutral color, an off-white. And standing in the center of the room was a stainless steel table and matching stool firmly anchored to the concrete floor. On the tabletop were a pair of welded eye-rings to feed and loop a chain through.
Sitting at the table was a man by the name of Trayveon Scott, a heavily bearded Caucasian who embezzled more than two million dollars from the coffers of large companies, and then channeled the funds to unknown accounts with deep speculation that Scott had sent the funds to accounts that supported the Islamic State and the Levant in Syria. But these accusations could never be proven in a court of law since Scott had wiped away all traces of his cyber footprints. What could be proven, which Scott could never dispute, was that the missing money had been siphoned through multiple computer terminals at his disposal. And since his defense was weak and the evidence overwhelming, Trayveon Scott, who took the name of Qasim Ali upon his conversion, pled to a lesser charge with three years remaining on his sentence.
But inside the penitentiary he was a savior and a vessel who showed the wayward sons inside Brockbridge the way to Allah’s Light. He was a recruiter with the power of a false prophet who could bend the minds and wills of those who needed direction, and gui
de them towards intolerance.
In spirit, Qasim Ali gave purpose to those who had none.
The chain that bound his wrists together were looped through the eye-rings sticking out of the tabletop, securing him. He appeared mild and calm, his face showing no emotion or betraying his thoughts. He wore a heavy beard made up of minute loops of curly hair. And his eyes darted about their hollows as he took everything in with careful study.
Shari showed her badge. “Trayveon Scott, I’m Special Agent Shari Cohen from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Scott waved a hand in dismissal to Shari. “I know who you are,” he said softly. “There’s no need for introductions. I’ve no interest in getting to know you all that much. So ask your questions and let’s get this over with.”
She nodded. Ooooookaaaaaaay. Then she stepped closer to the table.
“And so that you know, Trayveon Scott no longer exists,” he added. “My name is Qasim Ali. So please give me the proper courtesy of calling me by my rightful name.”
In Shari’s free hand was a manila folder. She peeled back the flap, grabbed a few photos, laid them on the table, and spread them across the surface. They were black-and-white glossies of Montrell Thompson, aka Mohammad Allawi, and a disciple of Qasim Ali.
“You know this man,” she stated strongly.
Scott looked at the photos without touching them. Then he raised his head and offered Shari a neutral look. “I know a lot of people,” he said simply.
She pointed to the pictures. “But you know him.”
“I see so many in my journey as Allah’s guide.”
“Knock it off,” she responded. “I know you keep in touch with him.”
He smiled lightly, a cocky grin of malicious amusement. “Do I?”
She was becoming taxed. Then she reached for another page inside the manila folder, a short dossier on Scott. “Trayveon Scott,” she said. “Formerly from Windsor, New York. Went to NYU and graduated with honors in 2004 in Business. Earned your Masters at Columbia in Business as well, also with honors. In 2012, you were charged with–”
“OK,” said Scott. “So you know my history. Big deal. I’m not impressed. All this came to light at my trial.”
She took another step toward the table. “Mr. Ali, you recruited that man in the photos as a member of the Islamic State, and you gave him direction.”
“I give all my converts direction. I show them the way to Allah’s Light.”
“You gave him the madness of a rabid dog,” she said testily. “What you gave him was the ability to lead a group of people who were seeking to pinpoint weaknesses in Washington, D.C., for possible terrorist strikes.”
“But you brought the cabal down, Special Agent Cohen. I saw you on the news. Bravo.”
“But that man,” she said firmly, pointing to the photos of Allawi, “escaped the net and I think you know where he is.”
“I show my converts the path to Allah. What they do when they leave here is of their own free will.”
“Free will?” she questioned. “I thought Muslims worked according to the will of Allah. Free will is the banner of Christians.”
Ali’s grin slowly withered to a grim line.
“Mr. Ali, this man, Montrell Thompson–Mohammad Allawi–murdered my family. Now he’s out to take down innocent people as a show of ISIS reach. And I’m holding you directly responsible for that.”
“Are you? Let me tell you something, Special Agent Cohen. I’m simply exercising my First Amendment right of religious freedom. I give these people direction. What they do with it when they get out of here is their own choosing. Perhaps they take the direction of Allah’s will. Maybe they don’t. In either case, Special Agent, I have nothing to do with them the moment they leave Brockbridge.”
“You’re lying,” she told him.
“Say what you want,” he said. “To believe in Islam and to convert others to its beliefs is my guaranteed right to do so. It’s the very first article in the Bill of Rights. Perhaps you should read it sometime.”
“You do know, Mr. Scott,” she said, calling him by his given name simply for the fact to needle him, “that the Bill of Rights is not a shield to hide behind.”
Scott hesitated before answering. “Here are the facts,” he started. “I have broken no laws. I no longer speak with the man in the photos you have placed before me. And I no longer want to speak with you or anyone else unless my lawyer is present.”
“Your lawyer probably deals with three hundred idiots like you every week, begging them to plead to a lesser charge because he’s overburden. You think he gives a rat’s ass about you?”
“I pay him quite well. So I’m requesting his presence, which is my absolute right as a citizen of this nation.”
“Mr. Scott–”
The door behind Shari opened. And two men stylishly dressed in expensive suits entered.
Special Agent Bob Tasker was a beefy-looking man with strong features and even stronger-looking limbs and a gym body. His associate was no different, large and muscular, as he sidled up to the table alongside Tasker.
Tasker turned to Shari. “Special Agent Cohen?”
“That’s right.”
He showed her his credentials. DHS. Department of Homeland Security. “I’m here to inform you that Mr. Scott is being summarily transferred to the authority of DHS.”
“My name is Qasim–”
“I don’t give a damn what your name is or what you want to call yourself,” Tasker interjected sharply. “I’m not playing that game with you or anyone else of your kind.”
“My kind?”
Tasker removed a folded piece of paper that was in the inside pocket of his suit, and laid it on the table before Scott. “These are your papers of transfer,” he told him. “You’re being moved to maximum quarters.”
Shari was caught off guard by this.
“Maximum?” asked Scott. “You think I’m going to give you different answers in a maximum security prison than here?”
“I think you will.”
Trayveon Scott suddenly fell ill at ease. “I would really like to speak with my attorney,” he said evenly.
“That’s not an option,” said Tasker. Then the special agent faced to the door. “Guard!”
The tumblers in the lock turned, and the door opened. “Sir.”
“Please escort Mr. Scott out and have him prepped and ready to go within the hour.”
The guard nodded. “Yes, sir.” The guard undid Scott’s chain that was secured around the eye-hooks, then ushered Scott out of the room.
Scott called over his shoulder, sounding somewhat desperate to get his point across. “You can’t do this! You can’t pull me out of Brockbridge! It’s my right as a citizen of this country–”
Tasker slammed the door shut behind him. Scott’s voice was muffled on the other side, his words indecipherable, and then he was gone, nothing but silence.
“What’s this all about?” Shari asked Tasker.
“Special Agent Cohen, with all due respect, and like I said before, Trayveon Scott is now under the jurisdiction of Homeland Security.”
“You’re not taking him to a maximum facility, are you?”
“We’re taking him to a facility,” he answered.
“You do know that I’m working under the clear authority of the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, who works for the attorney general, regarding this man’s possible ties to a terrorist faction.”
“Special Agent Cohen, I’m here under special orders. And I don’t think I have to remind you that our orders originate from our parent agency, which is the White House.”
So there it was. Scott was a suspected major player. Then: “You’re taking him to a black-site, aren’t you?”
“Special Agent, I don’t know what this man knows, if anything at
all. But if he does, then we need to harvest whatever information we can before a strike is committed against the Capitol.”
“And you think that Trayveon Scott holds the key?”
Tasker remained quiet.
Then from Shari: “Where are you taking him?”
“To a facility in West Virginia,” he said. “Not far from here.”
Shari was stewing underneath and she let Tasker know it, even though Tasker and his associate were following orders. But there were different levels of power within agencies who didn’t want to share intel or play nice. ISIS had moved on Paris, Brussels and the Vatican. D.C. could be next. And Trayveon Scott, aka Qasim Ali, could be the key to stopping it.
She looked at the agents. “Is there anything else I should know?”
“No, ma’am,” said Tasker. The other agent never said a word. Shari didn’t even know what he sounded like. “It’ll be up to position leaders and intel principals if they want to allow the Bureau into the loop. That’s beyond my authority and pay-scale.”
Without saying anything further the agents left, leaving Shari inside the chamber that seemed too small and too tight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
In the short time it took Atwa to ready himself, he looked less like a militant and appeared more like a European. His hair was conservatively cut, his face cleanly shaved, and he wore the suit of a westerner.
His trek to enter London came by way of Edinburgh Airport in Scotland. Oliver Beckett had seen that Atwa received an adequate passport with an identity not on any watch-list, and paid handsomely for key people to be at key positions the moment Atwa arrived at the terminal gates, where he was allowed passage with nothing more than a cursory look from the passport agent, a quick stamp of his visa, and then a scripted remark that welcomed Atwa to Scotland.
