The Golgotha Pursuit

by Rick Jones

  Today the sky was overcast; therefore, the chamber remained dark and the shadows deep.

  So you finally gave up on me, Kimball said to himself as he looked upon the image. You finally let go.

  He cast his eyes to the floor.

  And then came a knock on the door. At first Kimball didn’t answer. He wanted to be alone in the gloom of his chamber.

  But the knock became more persistent.

  Getting off his bunk and opening the door, a bishop stood there with a letter in his hand. “A message for you,” he said, proffering the envelope.

  Kimball took the message, thanked the bishop, and closed the door. When he flipped back the flap of the envelope and removed the note, he was astonished and pleased at the same time. The message was from Shari Cohen.

  Kimball didn’t hesitate to return the call. But he only received her voicemail, which eventually filled to capacity.

  Three hours after he had received the message, he was contacted by Father Auciello of the SIV. The administration had just received word from its corresponding sources in the United States regarding Shari Cohen, who was beloved by the Vatican. And the news wasn’t good.

  Suddenly the shadows in Kimball’s chamber grew darker.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Headquarters of the Servizio Informazioni del Vaticano, the SIV

  Vatican City

  “How bad?” asked Kimball.

  “She’s in a coma,” said Father Auciello. “But she’s stable. They had to remove part of her left lung because it was severely damaged.”

  Kimball was staggered by this information. The caliber of the round came from an M600. Apparently Oliver Beckett came through with part of the deal: to send these specialized weapons to a man by the name of Mohammad Allawi in the United States. He was someone Shari had been tracking for some time, a homegrown terrorist. And because of her efforts he had detonated a bomb beneath the vehicle her family was in when it went off.

  “So this man Allawi shot her?” he asked.

  “The caliber was from the M600, which is believed to be in the possession of Allawi.”

  “And nobody knows where he is.”

  Father Auciello nodded. No.

  Kimball pointed to the large screen against the far wall. “Can you bring up Allawi’s photo?”

  Father Auciello did. He brought up a photo of Allawi when he was incarcerated. Then an after-shot when he had a bearded growth. Kimball studied every detail of the man’s face–before and after.

  “We do have additional information,” said Auciello. “Shari’s HRT unit raided the warehouse and took down four of Allawi’s members. Here are their photos.”

  The large monitor against the wall showed all four pictures. Only one was on the watch-list. The other three, however, were not listed on any intel agencies’ radar.

  “We also believe a fifth to be involved in this,” Auciello added. “Perhaps a courier. Low level.” The Jesuit priest continued to man the keyboard by typing in commands. “After the bodies were identified and their faces run through VisageWare,” —VisageWare was a facial recognition program that had the ability to pick up and locate people worldwide by hacking into security camera systems and CCTV programming.—“we came up with this little gathering. Two days ago everyone involved in the warehouse takedown met with a man at a fast-food restaurant outside of D.C. We can’t tell who the man is because his back is to the camera, though it’s believed to be Allawi, but there’s one man—can’t quite make out who it is because the picture is rather grainy—appears to be carrying on a conversation with Allawi. The belief is that this man is an American-Front courier who set up the deal with Allawi on behalf of Mabus.”

  Kimball clenched his teeth. There’s that name again: Mabus. Just the mention of it left a sour pit in his stomach.

  Auciello continued: “Other than Allawi, this man, whoever he is, is still alive. The problem is we don’t have a decent photograph of him to run through VisageWare, not enough identifiable points of recognition.”

  “Can you run the complete tape?”

  “Sure.” Auciello played the tape in its entirety, even looping it so that it repeated itself automatically. At one point the grainy image of the courier left the table before the others, the man exiting from the frame on the left.

  A moment later Kimball caught something. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Freeze and go back.”

  Auciello did, looping one scene in particular. After the courier disappeared from view, a car drove into the frame from the left about ten seconds later. It was hugging the curbside before making its way into traffic.

  “Can you make out the person in that vehicle?” asked Kimball.

  “No. It’s not even in the frame. Why?”

  “It appears that that vehicle had been parked close to the curb before pulling into traffic. And it happened not too long after the courier left the table.”

  “Let me try something,” said Auciello. Though it took time–about fifteen minutes–Father Auciello was able to load images based on the videos time stamp, and brought up video images from two different angles. The first one was from the rear of the parked vehicle. There was no doubt that it belonged to the courier. As soon as the courier exited from one image, he reappeared in the second and walked to the car, a small Toyota. The plate, however, was blurred, the quality poor. Even Auciello with his skills and capabilities couldn’t clarify it.

  “That’s no good,” said Kimball. “Can you provide me an image from another angle?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  More taps on the keyboard. Then a second image came up. Like the first one it was out of range of the gathering at the table. But this one hit pay-dirt. It was better quality, though not remarkable. Auciello was able to lock onto the courier’s face and snapped a photo from it. Better, the courier seemed to be looking right at the camera at the time.

  “He drives a car,” Kimball said softly. “You know what that means, right?”

  Auciello nodded. “It means he has a license.”

  “Do you have enough points to run it through DMV channels?”

  “There’s a lot to choose from,” he said. “You have D.C., Maryland, Virginia, a bunch of surrounding states.”

  “Do whatever you can. But start with D.C. and Maryland. It’s only logical that he would stay close to Allawi.”

  “I can contact the FBI. Let them know–”

  Kimball cut him off. “No. Not yet.” Then he pointed to the screen. “Find out who this guy is and let me know.”

  “I have to notify the proper authorities.”

  “Give me one day,” he pleaded. “That’s all I’m asking for.”

  “And what will you do with this information?”

  Kimball narrowed his sight to Allawi’s photo. “I’m going to make the world right again.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  The Crypts Beneath the Basilica

  Kimball sat on the top of three marble steps that led down to a landing that showcased the tomb of Bonasero Vessucci. Kimball sat there looking at the bas-reliefs of the cherubs and angels that adorned its sides.

  Bonasero, Kimball raised his hands and held them toward the crypt, are you ashamed of me for what I have done? I took a life when I didn’t have to. I could have walked away … But I didn’t. He lowered his hands–those once bloodied hands–and sighed.

  There was no answer. Bonasero was silent. Not even a whisper inside of Kimball’s head.

  Please, Bonasero.

  Nothing.

  Kimball closed his eyes.

  Then a hand gently fell on his shoulder. It was soft and comforting, and the special warmth it exuded seemed to spread openly throughout Kimball’s body as something magical.

  It was Christ-like in its touch.

  “How are you, Kimball?” It was the voice of John P
aul III. “I heard you were back.” The hand remained.

  Kimball didn’t turn to face the pontiff because his shame was too great, and his courage to do so had abandoned him. “I’m all right,” he said, lacking conviction.

  “I heard about Ms. Cohen.”

  “She’s in a coma.”

  “So I’m told.” Then: “Kimball, I just want you to know that Bonasero hasn’t abandoned you, either. In fact, he’s sitting right beside you for the same reason that I will always stand behind you. You need to know that.”

  “I want to … But it’s hard. It’s just … so … hard.”

  “Then let me say this: there is evil in this world. And sometimes this evil is so wicked and absolute, I believe God even recognizes the right for those who are good and decent but cannot protect themselves against such wickedness, deserves a champion in their lives.”

  “I killed a man,” Kimball blurted, a confession.

  “Mabus.”

  Kimball nodded. Yes.

  “Mabus is a terrorist who has killed many for the benefit of his own horrible means to promote an agenda not of his god, but of his own means. Remember, God has many faces but only one voice. He is seen differently by many people of all cultures, but He speaks to all as One with the same message: Love all that you meet. And people like Mabus has no right to use God to justify his actions. God gives life, a most precious gift; whereas Mabus takes it away, an abominable act in the eyes of the Lord.”

  The hand felt good against his shoulder. More so, he felt incredibly at peace as if a burden had been lifted.

  Then from the pontiff: “There are more good people than bad. More lambs than there are wolves. And the wolf will always come back to the fold to feast until the shepherd stands against it. And you, Kimball, have been chosen to protect those within the fold.” Then the hand lifted from Kimball’s shoulder. And with it the peace that was so wonderfully warm. Then very softly the pontiff said: “You’re out of uniform and there’s so much more you have to do. Understand one thing, Kimball … You are the salvation of others.”

  Kimball wondered how the pontiff knew he wasn’t wearing his cleric’s collar. Never once did he face him. Kimball was too ashamed. “Your Holiness?”

  Silence.

  “Pontiff?” When Kimball turned, he immediately noticed that the extensively long corridor that led to Bonasero’s chamber was empty. Was it possible for John Paul to be so quick?

  Kimball stood, brushed dust from his backside, went to Bonasero’s tomb, and kissed its surface. I miss you, my dear friend. You have no idea how much.

  When Kimball returned to his chamber, he immediately noticed that the cloud cover had broken because a strong beam of light angled downward from the inviting arms of Mother Mary.

  But Kimball avoided the light.

  I’m not there yet, he thought. I’ve so much more to do to make up for what I have done.

  He grabbed the cleric’s band, fitted it within the collar of his shirt, and then he traced a finger over its pristine whiteness. Then he recalled the pontiff’s words, though not verbatim: There are some evils that are far greater than others, those who have been consumed by absolute darkness. Good and decent people deserve a champion, Kimball … And you’ve been elected.

  The collar felt right and appropriate. It felt like it belonged.

  Now he was in uniform.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Somewhere over the Atlantic

  Whenever the pontiff or the Vatican Knights traveled, they normally chartered planes from Alitalia Airlines. Kimball was on a small jet halfway to the Ronald Reagan Washington International Airport, which is three miles south of Washington, when he received a call from Father Auciello.

  “His name is Talib Aljahara,” Auciello said, referring to Allawi’s courier. “He’s a student at the University of Maryland. Good grades. No income to report. Nineteen years of age. His parents are from Jordan. Majors in Political Science. And the kid’s not on any intel radar. He has absolutely no questionable background to speak of. Nothing.”

  “You have an address?”

  Auciello did. And he gave it to Kimball, who scribbled it down and memorized it.

  “Remember,” Kimball said, “I need one day before you contact U.S. authorities on this.”

  “You have less than that,” corrected Auciello. “You now have eighteen hours.”

  Kimball landed four-and-a-half hours later.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Outside Washington, D.C.

  Talib Aljahara, like most teens, was young and impressionable. And like some teens he wanted to grow up too fast. He wanted to belong and to excel and someday be the chieftain figure sitting at the top of the totem pole. But to do this he started at rock-bottom by becoming a courier for a very important cause for very important people. He was a cog in a constantly turning wheel that was going to revolutionize the world as he knew it. And it was this realization of knowing who and what he was in the scheme of things he relished most.

  He had read about the raid at the warehouse and how the cell was taken down with the exception of Mohammad Allawi. A nationwide search was on for the man, his photo scattered all over the news networks. Some reports had him pegged in Mexico. Others had him in the Middle East waging a jihad from abroad. But Talib knew that Mohammad ventured no further than ten miles from the epicenter of Washington. The man was close because he knew that a dragnet was set. All he had to do was wait it out, whether it took six weeks or six years, the lines would begin to diminish. In the meantime, Talib would provide him with food and keep the payments to the safe house current, so that Allawi could hold out forever.

  There was a light scratching at his door, like the sound of vermin trying to dig an opening through an obstruction, then it faded.

  Talib listened.

  Nothing.

  A moment later the scratching continued. It was low on the door. Perhaps a cat, he considered. One of the few feral creatures asking for handouts, something not unheard of in this area.

  As soon as he opened the door, a man who towered over him and took up the entire space in the doorframe, knocked Talib back to the floor with a single blow to his chest. Talib’s body skated across the floor until it came to a stop against the opposite wall.

  Kimball closed the door behind him. Stepped inside the room. His black mass now standing over Talib, as the nineteen year old shook the cobwebs out of his head and sat up.

  “Talib Aljahara,” said Kimball.

  The teen rubbed at the soreness of his chest.

  Kimball got to a knee, grabbed Talib by the front of his T-shirt until the fabric bled through the gaps of his fingers, and pulled him close. “I’m going to get right to it. Mabus is dead. I killed him.”

  This struck a chord with Talib. Mabus was a god to him, someone who was faceless. “You lie,” he said.

  “I’m not,” he returned.

  The conviction in Kimball’s voice told Talib that he was telling the truth. “And what do you want from me?” the teen asked.

  “I want Mohammad Allawi,” he answered quickly.

  “I know of no such person.”

  “Look, you’re a kid. We have proof that you met with Allawi and his cell a few days ago. Everyone in that cell is dead with the exception of Allawi. And I want him before the authorities do.”

  Talib looked at the man’s collar. A priest? “And why do you seek Allawi?”

  “I want to give him something.” Like a bunch of haymakers.

  “I don’t know this man Mohammad Allawi.”

  “Don’t make me jog your memory, kid. Seriously. It won’t be pleasant for you.”

  “You do what you want, Mister. I’m telling you–”

  Kimball lashed out with his fist and hit Talib in the nose, breaking it. “Not the way I want to do it, kid. But it’s your choice.”


  Talib brought his hands to his face. How could somebody bleed so much so fast?

  “Just a busted nose,” said Kimball. “Don’t worry, it’ll heal. You’ll still be a pretty boy.” Then: “Allawi. Where is he?”

  Now Talib sat against the wall in paralytic terror, making Kimball wonder if he’d gone too far with just a single punch.

  “I’m not going to ask you twice,” said Kimball. Then he raised his arm and cocked it, readying himself to provide another blow.

  Talib shook his hands pleadingly. “All right-all right. I’ll tell you where he is.”

  “And that mouth of yours better be speaking the truth,” warned Kimball, “or your head will be joining the same pike that Mabus’s head sits on.”

  It wasn’t quite the totem pole that Talib envisioned himself to be on. “He’s in a safe house funded by the mosque,” he blurted. “I’m to provide him with food until things calm down.”

  “Things will never calm down. Now where is he?”

  Talib hesitated as if deliberating. Then Kimball took him into an arm-bar and twisted, the move causing pain but no ligament or muscle damage.

  Talib gave an address, the words rushing from his mouth.

  “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?” asked Kimball, keeping the arm-bar. He then gave the arm a little tweak, causing Talib to bark in pain. It also served as a reminder to him that Kimball was in complete control, and that this man could deal out a great measure of discomfort whenever he wanted to.

  Talib pointed to his computer desk. “There’s an address on top … Where I’m supposed to deliver groceries … Ow!”

  Kimball released him. “Don’t move,” he told the teen.

  The Vatican Knight went to the table while keeping an eye on Talib, then he eyed the tabletop. On top was a computer, the type that was both a screen and a PC, and a few open books of political science that had highlighted passages in yellow.