by Rick Jones
“Why just me when this would have more of a success ratio with additional team members operating and moving in from different positions?” “Who’s to say that this isn’t an approved measure? Remember when I told you that this operation was so classified that members of our unit are restricted from hearing what I was about to tell you?” “Yes.” “The answer, Kimball, is that success lies with cells working independently from one another. If one is captured, it’s protocol to offer the enemy disinformation so that others can continue their pursuit.” “So, there are others involved?” “Did you hear what I just said?” “I did.” “And you continue to question me.” “My apologies, sir. But if I may, if I was the lone operator in this mission, we both know that my chances are slim to none. What you’d be doing is that you’d be sending me on a suicide mission. If that’s the case, then there would be no point to move forward on a plan that had less than a ten-percent achievable rate, should I act as a solitary operator.” The Handler visibly moved the muscles in the back of his jaw as the first hint that Kimball was beginning to tax his patience. The Handler was not in tune with being interrogated. He had always been the guiding hand that expected nothing less than blind obedience. His mantra: I say; you do. It was as simple as that. But Kimball’s subtle inquiries suggested that he was unwilling to follow unless he had the fine intricacies of government secrets that were tied to them. Apparently, he was no longer willing to submit completely to the master’s call. Kimball Hayden was starting to break away from the conventions that had served as the mandates since the creation of the Pieces of Eight. While the Handler continued to fight for calm, Kimball Hayden sat there waiting for an answer with pinning eyes that did not yield to anything less than what he wanted. Then the Handler nodded. “If you get caught with the information that there are others out there with the same mission directives as you, you know as well as I do that you could put their lives in jeopardy. That’s always been the rule, Kimball. To know only what you need to know to achieve the means. That’s always been the safeguard of operations. You will not sit here and question what can or cannot be said at this table. Is that clear?” Kimball hesitated before saying, “It is.” The Handler nodded and stated sarcastically. “Well, I’m glad that you see it my way.” Once the Handler’s anger subsided, the muscles along his jawline stopped moving. And in the short lapse of silence between them, the Handler realized how correct Senator Rhames was. Kimball Hayden was devolving from an elite soldier to someone who was becoming oppressed by curiosity, an oddity for a man who was once considered to operate with the cold fortitude of a machine. If one question was allowed, then there would be others. And questions, in the business of assassination, was forbidden since it developed inquisitive natures. And inquisitive natures often balanced out the difference between right and wrong, which also readjusts the needle within the moral compass. Kimball was simply a tool, a machine, someone who killed with impunity with no questions asked. Yet something was propelling him away from the cold killer he used to be. Then in a softer tone, one that was filled with respect, the Handler asked, “Are you all right, Kimball? Something bothering you as of late. Something I should know about.” “I’m fine,” he lied. “Just haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all.” “Is something keeping you awake? Job, perhaps?” “I’m fine.” Then the Handler went on by appealing to Kimball’s sense of duty of doing the right thing, which was a failsafe measure that always seemed to attract Kimball to perform to operational standards. “If you succeed, Kimball,” the Handler went on, “you can single-handedly stop a war. By killing this one man . . . you can save the lives of millions. Kuwaiti women, as we sit here, are being raped and murdered. You can stop that before it gets worse. Kill Saddam Hussein, then the ranks will be without the man who dictates the ways of war. And the ranks who are without their commander, Kimball, is an army without rule or control. Serve your nation. Find this man and put him out of our misery. He deserves this. The Kuwaiti people deserves this. One man, one bullet—that’s all it will take for you to stop this egregious act of terrorism against good and decent people. And against those who cannot protect themselves. Become their savior, Kimball . . . Become ours.” Kimball’s shoulders no longer remained rigid or stiff but slumped with a slight crookedness. The man was relenting, which was something the Handler noted. “So, what do you say, Kimball? In three days or less, are you willing to go in to perform at your very best? Will you become the savior who will stop a war?” Kimball knew the odds were infinitesimally small to achieve such means, and that his chances to come away heavily inflected on some horrible level was most likely paramount. “Kimball . . .” The assassin caught himself and raised his shoulders. “Within two days,” was all he said.
“Go home and standby for operational instructions. They’ll be delivered to you in the timeframe discussed with the message, as always, encrypted. Proceed exactly as described.” “Yes, sir.” “That’ll be all.” As Kimball stood and turned to the doorway, the Handler called after him. This time there was less of an authoritarian tone to his voice and more of an apologetic one. “Good luck and be safe.” Kimball didn’t respond. There was no tilt of the head in acknowledgement, no voiced response, he simply turned and left the chamber. After the door closed behind him and Kimball’s footfalls could be heard retreating, the Handler stated softly, “Traditores autem non est lux in profectum.” (Traitors have no place within the Light of Progress) It was the kiss-of-death proclamation, words that were lightly spoken, but words that also had a great weight tied to them. After a long moment passed, perhaps in remorse because of the Handler’s respect for Kimball Hayden, he picked up the phone and placed an encrypted call.
* * *
The Office of Senator Rhames
Russell Senate Office Building
Washington, D.C.
When the senator’s phone rang, an amber light bulb registered just above the keypad, meaning that the incoming call was encrypted. Picking up the receiver and placing it into the dual-cupped device that accepted the phone, then donning an ear-bud and lip mic, Senator Rhames hit the red button. Though the white noise disappeared, the voice on the other end remained masked, the tone deep and menacing. If anyone nonconsensual was listening on the line, they would pick up nothing but whining interference and back feed, while the two participants could continue to have a meaningful conversation. “And?” This was the senator’s greeting. No ‘Hello,’ no ‘This is Senator Rhames,’ he simply communicated with a leading question. “It’s done,” said the masked voice. “The subject will be heading into a hot zone within a few days.” “A solo act?” “Of course.” “Did he give you any problems?’ “He questioned me.” “A sign that we’re losing him.” “Perhaps.” “No perhaps about it. We’re losing him. He failed to register a dismissive act against another. That alone is an indicator. I know it’s hard to put down your favorite pup, something I told you before, but sometimes things of this nature can’t go otherwise. It needed to happen.” The silence on the other end was so palpable that the senator had to ask, “Are you there?” “I’m still here,” the deep voice replied.
“Believe me, this is for the best. There are others who can take up the vacuum he leaves behind.” “Not like him. He was a prodigy. Even as a pup he deserved lead command of the unit. Operators like him come generational.” “Operators who lose their way become expendable. Don’t ever forget that.” Without saying goodbye, the senator reached over and tapped the ‘off’ button, severing the call. Then he looked across the desk at Senator Shore who was seated in the chair across from him. “It’s done,” he told him. “The son of a bitch bought it hook, line and sinker. He’s moving out within a few days.” Shore, with one leg crossed over the other with his cupped hands resting on a knee, asked, “Was Kimball wise to anything?” “Not if he’s planning to go on a one-way mission.” Then: “Look, he’s a kid who thinks he’s going to save the world. He’s an idealist who wants to believe that he’s immortal, that he’s going to live forever. All kids thi
nk like that, remember? We were no different.” “You know he’ll be dead about an hour after he steps onto Iraqi soil, right?”
“That’s the whole idea, isn’t it? Lead the kid to believe that he’s saving the world when, in fact, he’s doing us a favor by getting himself killed. And when he does, we’ll shed fake tears, hand him a few posthumous medals for bravery, and plant an empty box in Arlington as a symbolic gesture of appreciation. While all this is going on, you and I will be clapping our hands free of him, and then we’ll toast his demise with glasses of champagne. He’s the weak link, Stan. And in three days or less we’ll have nothing more to worry about. The man with his newfound conscience will be removed from our lives.” Senator Shore gave Rhames an inquisitive look, something that Rhames read perfectly. “What?” “What if, by chance, he completes the mission?” Senator Rhames barked a laugh. “The man hasn’t a chance. Not even one that’s remote. Hussein is guarded twenty-four-seven. And Hayden’s chances, as I understand them, is less than five percent. He’s as good as dead, my friend. So, let your worries fly away.”
“He is an elite soldier, someone who’s known to have exceptional skill sets.” “He’s a dead man walking.” Reaching over his desk and opening a humidor, Senator Rhames offered Senator Shore one of the many cigars, which the senator accepted. Grabbing a cigar of his own and lighting up, Rhames added, “These are the best cigars that money can buy.” “I take it they’re Cuban?” “Of course.” After admiring the flavor of the smoke, Senator Rhames smiled and said, “We might as well start celebrating now. Come this time a few days from now, Kimball Hayden will be dead, and his head will be ceremoniously planted on a spike.” Together, both men smoked their Cubans with absolute relish.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Washington, D.C.
As soon as Roman touched down at the Ronald Reagan Airport from Rome, the Vatican Knight met up with Jonah and Nahum to spell them, their stint at surveying now over. Sitting in the backseat of a sedan approximately one block from Kimball Hayden’s residence, Roman was being apprised of the assassin’s movements. “Are you sure he murdered the senator?” asked Roman. Jonah, who sat behind the steering wheel of the idle car, shrugged. “He commanded the team. It’s the only thing we know with certainty. But the Post reported that the survivor saw the assassin who matched Hayden’s description.” Roman shook his head. “What was Bonasero thinking about?” “I have to say that the cardinal is way off base with this one,” Nahum said. “This man has absolutely no Illumination within him. He’s lost and will continue to be so. We’re wasting our time.” Then Nahum turned to face Roman in the backseat and asked, “You good?” “Leave the keys,” he answered. “You’re needed back at the Vatican. I’m sure Cardinal Vessucci will want an extensive report.” After Nahum left the vehicle, and as Jonah opened the door and started to get out, he turned to Roman and added, “Be very careful with this man. He can be very dangerous.” Roman said, “I’m good.” As the Vatican Knights left Roman inside the vehicle, the Vatican Knight continued to watch the apartment whose drapes were closed against the natural light of a glorious day.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Residence of Kimball Hayden
Washington, D.C.
Kimball sat inside his apartment staring at an imaginary point against the opposite wall, the man unwilling to sleep or dream about phantom images. Dark rings began to form around his eyes, the building of fatigue undeniable. But he was not about to bend to his exhaustion since his demons would be waiting for him inside his dreamscape. The Shape. The slow deterioration of his mother. The hideous wails of those he had killed crying out to him. If he could hold out, he would abandon his need for sleep. But as the hours moved along at a sluggish pace, he found himself reviewing the moments inside the Handler’s office. It was a TS moment between the puppet-master and puppet, with the puppet-master directing the strings that enabled Kimball to see the value of the mission: remove the head of the snake and the body will wither and die. Serve your nation. Find this man and put him out our misery. He deserves this. The Kuwaiti people deserve this. One man, one bullet—that’s all it will take for you to stop this egregious act of terrorism against good and decent people. Against those who cannot protect themselves. Become their savior, Kimball . . . Become ours. The Handler’s voice resonated in his head like a never-ending chant, with the flow of his words playing over and over like a recorded loop. Inside his residence and sitting as still as a bronze statue, a moth fluttered before Kimball. But its actions were not enough to divert Kimball from staring at his imaginary point on the wall across from him. The creature wavered in an awkward flight pattern before him. And then it alighted on the back of his hand, the moth coming to rest with the points of its feet barely perceptible to Kimball’s sense of touch. Slowly, Kimball’s eyes moved while his head remained still, his sight locking onto the moth whose wings waved lightly on the back of his hand. For a long time, he watched the moth and the slow movement of its wings while noting the natural decoration of eyes that appeared on them, smoky and dark. With his other hand, Kimball reached over and softly grazed its wings with a soft touch, a caress, only for his fingertips to come away with dust that had coated the insect’s wings. He stared at the residue for a long moment and considered the dust, which had a metallic shine to it. To most a moth would be a nuisance that needed its life snuffed out with a quick slap of a hand, killing it. But Kimball looked at it with curiosity as he lifted his hand and brought the moth close for further examination. It had no bones, this he was sure of, nor was it a threat. And yet it’s seen by most as something that had little or no value in the scheme of worldly operations. Yet here you are, he thought. No matter how great or small . . . everything has a purpose. The moth continued to sit upon the back of Kimball’s hand, the creature throwing caution aside to something that was much greater than itself; something that was its Hand of Providence who had the decision of life or death. All it would take would be a single blow to crush it from existence . . . or to show it mercy. Kimball decided on the latter. With an uncommon smile that was truly genuine, Kimball waved his hand so that the moth could take flight, which it did, the insect flying towards the light that slipped through the razor-thin gap between the closed drapes, towards the illumination. After watching the moth cling to the drape with its eyed wings opening and closing in slow and measured beats, Kimball became oddly enamored by this show. The creature was no different from anything else that had a right to survive, no reason why it should be killed. Even if the moth had been a fly, Kimball would not have raised a hand to harm it. No matter how great or small . . . everything has a purpose. Then his smile faltered into a tight line that was as thin as thread. When the voice of his Handler rang inside his head, it was enough to galvanize him. Standing, Kimball stretched his limbs to work out the cracks from his joints, then left his apartment.
Close to the window and to the light, the moth continued its fluttering dance along the drapes, alive and well, with the eyes on its wings remaining dark and smoky but seeing everything.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Roman watched Kimball leave his apartment. By all appearances, Kimball Hayden appeared as a teenager in a man’s body to him, though the body was massive and solidly exploited with arms that were the size of most men’s thighs with cords of highly developed muscle. He was also barrel-chested, no doubt from hours working out at the gym. But what made him most dangerous was that the man could move with speed and agility, something that was often an anomaly for a person of such size and weight. Leaving the vehicle behind, Roman paced Kimball from across the street and about a half-block away. To the Vatican Knight, it appeared that the assassin had no idea that he was being trailed, which was a good thing since Hayden could turn feral if he discovered otherwise. After two more blocks and a series of right and left turns, Kimball ended up inside of a small tavern called Nikki Lee’s, a hole-in-the-wall establishment that catered to the down and out instead of the high and mighty. Roman, who watched from across
the street, decided against all reasoning to enter the bar. Once inside he found the air thick with veils of smoke, the atmosphere more like the aftermath of a recent fire. Patrons appeared unkempt as they wore the ratty looking clothes of the homeless, with most sitting in the booths, alone, though that didn’t stop some from talking to their imaginary friends. Sitting at the far end of the bar was Kimball. There was a drink in front of him that appeared to be a soda like Coke or Root Beer, something that was spiked with rum or vodka, Roman considered. Walking down the aisle that separated the booths from the bar, the Vatican Knight felt his heart racing inside his chest. Everything went against his thought process about the man he was approaching. He’s a killer, an assassin, someone whose only conviction in life is to kill others because that is what he was meant to do: to kill. The man was huge and massive with muscles that could be clearly seen beneath the fabric of his tight-fitting shirt. As Roman approached, Kimball Hayden tracked him all the way with a serious eye to a seat approximately ten feet where the man established it to be his own. The priest who wore a cleric’s collar ordered a Tom Collins. Not wanting to draw suspicion, though he knew he was being observed closely by Kimball, he accepted his drink, thanked the bartender, and nursed the beverage while leaning somewhat over the cocktail with both hands around the glass, the priest appearing to be in deep thought. From the corner of his eye, Roman noticed that Kimball never raised his glass to his lips. He simply sat there as silent and regimented as an appliance, something that needed to be started by a push of a button. It wasn’t until three minutes after Roman received his drink that Kimball spoke. “Father?” Though Roman was far from being a priest, he went with Kimball’s confidence that he was. Turning, the Vatican Knight flashed a pleasant smile which was welcoming, and said, “Yes.” Kimball turned to his drink, and said, “Never mind.” But it was too late, the door had already been opened. “Please, if you have something on your mind,’ said Roman, “if something bothers you, perhaps you should share it if the cross is becoming too much to bear.” Roman was surprised at how much he sounded like a priest. Kimball looked at him. “A few simple questions for you, if I may” he said. “Tell me, how does a person know if he’s being led in a direction that’s right or wrong by those he trusts? How does a person recognize the difference as to who is right or wrong in a conversation between two sides, when both sides believe their ideology to be the correct one?” Roman’s answer was plain and simple. “The route you choose in life is always the route that feels good in your heart, without questioning the actions that guides you down your path.” “True. But what’s the difference since both ends of the spectrum can’t be right?” “Both ends of the spectrum can’t be right,” he answered. “There is the Light of Truths, and then there is the Darkness of Lies which make you believe that they are truths. What you need to know and understand is that moral compass that’s inside us all. If you commit an act that is questionable and raises doubts, perhaps the conscience of your compass is signaling a miscommunication between your heart and mind. It takes both to be committed and calibrated in order to believe that you are doing the conscionable thing. Why? Is something plaguing you? Is this why you come here for drink? To drown sorrows?” Roman was delighted by his answers. Playing the part of a priest, at least in his mind, was Oscar worthy. Then from Kimball, who raised his glass, stated, “What? Drown my sorrows with this? It’s just Coke.” And then: “I don’t drink.” “And here you sit, questioning a priest for answers meant to comfort.” Kimball nibbled on his lower lip a moment before saying, “How do you know when a good friend, someone you’ve trusted to steer you right, is lying to you? How do you know that what he’s telling you is the right thing when the result is always destruction?” “Have you done something that makes you question something about a committed act? Or one that was about to be committed?” Kimball looked ashamed. “Maybe.”
