Original Sins

by Rick Jones

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Kimball was a big man who was broad of shoulder. But when he discovered that he was going to be seated in the economy class and wedged between two others who were also large, Kimball’s jaw worked in anger. He was strapped in like a sardine, the seat narrow and tight with his shoulders resting against the shoulders of his seatmates. You would think the government could splurge a bit, he thought. Once the plane took off, however, Kimball had mellowed significantly. He was used to hardships, knew how to adapt and conform. After closing his eyes, he soon found himself being swept away meditatively with thoughts. In D.C., while heading for the local cab queue, he could feel eyes on him. The sensation was so palpable that he constantly looked to see if someone was tailing him. Though he saw no one, it didn’t mean that somebody wasn’t watching. Then he wondered if it was his developed sixth sense or simple paranoia. After the plane hit a patch of turbulence, Kimball opened his eyes. But as soon as the plane leveled off, he closed them.

  Now his thoughts centered on his mother and those within his darkened dreamscape. Those whom he had killed, those multitudes who over the years he had murdered, all these souls cried out his name asking for a simple answer as to ‘why!’ It was the same with his mother who remained within a cone of feeble light with the Shape standing sentinel, this darkened mass laughing and waiting to pounce. Now she lays herself down to sleep, It said in a manner that was reminiscent of the children’s prayer, and prays for her soul that I won’t keep. This was when Kimball opened his eyes only to realize that he had fallen asleep, at least three hours by his watch. He wasn’t meditating at all. He’d been the centerpiece of his nightmares. Somewhere over the ocean with his first stop hours away, Kimball Hayden realized that he had taken his demons with him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Vatican Intelligence

  Vatican City

  The co-directors of Vatican Intelligence, Fathers Auciello and Essex, were advised by Cardinal Vessucci to locate a person on the passenger manifest by the name of Donavan, who was leaving Washington, D.C. and disembarking at an unknown point. It took the staff of Jesuit priests who managed the facility beneath the basilica less than two minutes to hack into the flight systems to attain passenger manifests. K.H. Donavan was listed as a passenger with Flight 1099 to Paris, then from Paris to Rome, and then from Rome to Damascus. Father Auciello, who was tall and slim with an olive-dark complexion that contrasted with his silver hair, was on speaker phone to Cardinal Vessucci, who sounded perplexed that Kimball was heading to Syria, a brewing hot zone of contention. “We believe his government is sending him into a hotbed of confliction,” said Father Auciello. “The reason, however, remains a mystery since we’re unable to breach the CIA firewalls at this time. We can only assume, since the United States has concerns with Kuwaiti’s oil supply with the Kuwaiti government under attack by the Iraqi’s, that his mission is entirely clandestine, given his deep-state undercover. Whether he has been assigned a targeted killing in Kuwait or Iraq, his mission is one that is most likely insurmountable.” “A suicide mission?” “Perhaps,” stated Father Auciello. “It’s something we’ll never know for sure. All I can say, Cardinal, is whatever operation he’s about to engage himself with most likely has the goal to stop a potential war.” “That’s impossible.” “In our eyes, yes. But maybe this man can do the impossible, which is why he’s been mobilized.” “Why not a team to better their chances? Why just him?” It was something Father Auciello hadn’t considered. And then from Cardinal Vessucci. “One of his stays is in Rome. Make sure we have an asset on the plane that follows him to Damascus. As soon as we find out where Hayden enters hostile territory through our source, we will be able to track him?” “We can tap in and use the geostationary satellites,” answered the priest. “We can zoom in close enough to see the top of his head, if necessary.” “Do it. Ready our sources and prepare the overhead imagery.” “Yes, Your Eminence.” After the call was completed and the main speaker disconnected, Father Auciello shook his head in wonderment. What was it about this man that obsessed the cardinal so? Why was this man, an operator within the ranks of the United States government who killed with impunity, of such importance? Obviously, Bonasero Vessucci had his reasons, as well as the blessings of the pontiff. As time went by, all would be made clear and they would all get their answers.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Damascus, Syria

  The day inside the city of Damascus was stifling hot and the atmosphere highly choked with dust from a recent haboob. The sun, whose rays were muted by dust clouds so dense that the sun appeared like the rind of a fruit in the sky behind the thickness, was still searing. As required by his instructions, Kimball Hayden made his way to a restaurant to meet his contact, a small Arabic man with a deeply tanned complexion, inexpressive eyes, and a mouth filled with teeth that were as small and yellow as kernels of corn. The man wore the attire of the traditional red-and-white shemagh and a pristine white robe. His English was perfect despite the marginal clip to his accent “Mr. Hayden,” the Arab stated while lending his hand in salutation. “My name is Abdul.” Kimball gave the man’s hand a shake, a single pump as a courtesy. “Please to meet you, Abdul. You know the mission plan? What I’ll need?”

  The Arab man nodded. “Weapons, clothing, GPS mapping system, water. I’ve been thoroughly informed by the Handler.” Kimball nodded. Then: “I have quarters for the evening?” “My house,” said Abdul. “My wife’s a wonderful cook.” “And my mission?” “A matter for discussion at the dinner table, not here where there are too many ears to listen.” After getting into a dented pickup with rusted panels, Abdul started the vehicle and began to head south.

  * * *

  From the throng of people who meandered through the marketplaces of Damascus, a priest in civilian clothing watched Kimball meet with his contact, a small Arab man. Already the blot stains of sweat were showing up under his armpits and back, his shirt becoming saturated. The sun was hot and brutal, even though it was highly masked behind thickened dust clouds. Having met his own contact, a Brit who was serving as a contractor in Syria, the two-man team followed Kimball through the city and to an apartment that was located along the fringe of Damascus. The building appeared to be a ramshackle that had seen better days. After the priest in civilian clothing was let out, he simply maintained his post knowing that he would have to suffer through the hot day and go without sleep at night. So was the conviction of divinity in his heart to fight through adversity. For hours he would maintain his watch with saintly patience. And come morning, with the stars barely flickering in the sky, the priest in civilian clothing would relay Kimball Hayden’s movement to Vatican Intelligence, so they could monitor his progress as he made his way towards the battlefield.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Damascus, Syria

  That Evening

  There was something about the assassin who sat at Abdul’s table that made him feel a sense of unease, thinking perhaps it was the way that Kimball communicated with an automated disconnect. The man never blinked or smiled or arched an inquisitive brow in question. His manner was always stiff and controlled. After the meal plates were set aside by Abdul’s children, Abdul used the table to spread out a map of Syria and Iraq. A course had already been charted and highlighted on the diagram. “It is 468 miles from Damascus to Baghdad,” Abdul stated while tracing a finger over the map to indicate the travel distance. “There are checkpoints here,” he pointed to the Syrian-Iraqi border, “and here,” he pointed to the second check point just outside of Rimaldi. “We can skirt the first checkpoint if you enter here.” Abdul pointed to an area approximately five miles north of the border patrol. “The terrain is rough but manageable by Jeep, which is what you’ll be driving. Move east for ten miles and return to the road where much of the driving is through desert wasteland. Follow the GPS monitor exactly.” Abdul picked up a tablet with a seven-inch screen. “Use this since the check points are marked with flashing indicators. Follow the ro
ad to about five miles of the Rimaldi check point, which will be far more difficult to avoid. Soldiers will be posted along the border for ten miles in each direction. When you’re five miles from Rimaldi, jump the route and take this track.” Abdul traced the route marked in blue highlight with his finger, the course taking Kimball off-road and once again into hostile terrain. “The Jeep will manage to take you to this point.” On the map where he tapped his fingertip were illustrations of mountainous topography. “From here you’ll have to abandon the vehicle and traverse the foothills, which are not insurmountable climbs, but too much for a Jeep to negotiate. From here, it is a sixty-three-mile journey to Baghdad by foot. The temperatures will be hot, so travel at night when possible. Follow your route using the GPS monitor. It will serve you well.” “And once I reach Baghdad?” “You will dress as the natives do, in a robe and a shemagh to blend in. Your target is operating from a Comm Center here.” Abdul pulled up a photo on the tablet of an operational center that looked more like a palace, a place of opulence. “Your target will be inside. How you reach him is up to you. I can only provide you with what I know.” Kimball looked at the map, then at the facility. “You have the schematics to the Comm Center?” Abdul pulled up another screen which had the multiple levels broken down, including entry and exit ways. The Comm Center was located at a subterranean level which served as a bunker-style base of operations. After examining the blueprints, Kimball realized that he would have plenty of time to take in the drawings with absorption and commit them to memory. After taking the tablet from Abdul, he asked, “And my gear?” “Everything is inside the Jeep, including a pair of KABARS, apparently your weapons of choice; a suppressed Glock, 9 mm; and a 300 Winchester Magnum rifle with a maximum range of 1200 yards, which is a distance that’s more than necessary. Questions?” “What time do we leave?” “O-three-hundred hours,” Abdul replied. “We need to get across the Iraqi border before sunup. So perhaps you should rest, yes?” Kimball was tired, but not overly so. But he did want some ‘alone’ time. “My room?” was all he said. “Of course.” Abdul escorted Kimball down a short hallway taking him to his quarters, which was a small room that barely fit a single-sized bed and a nightstand.

  “I’ll wake you at o-three-hundred,” Abdul reminded, then closed the door behind Kimball. When Kimball took a seat along the edge of his bed, the mattress sagged and protested beneath his weight. The time was 1900 hours, meaning that he would have an eight-hour sleep. But Kimball knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep on this night since his mind would be too active as he designed plans of approach. For hours thereafter, as he gazed out the small window of his room while sitting as still as a Bernini statue with his eyes forward and his hands on his lap, Kimball’s mind worked out a plan of strategy. At 0300 hours when he heard a knock on the door, only then did he break from thought. The time was now. Kimball Hayden was about to become a pawn in the scheme of all things, and a player who was about to go beyond the point of no return.

  * * *

  At 0315 hours, the priest who kept under surveillance the run-down apartments from distant shadows, noted a Jeep leaving the complex. In the passenger seat was Kimball Hayden, the assassin now wearing desert camo. Using a satellite phone, the priest alerted Vatican Intelligence that the subject’s Jeep was moving eastbound towards the Iraqi border. Since Vatican Intelligence already had the operator’s coordinates, they were able to use geospatial satellites to home in on the vehicle. The Jeep, at such an early hour, was the only vehicle on the road, which made for easy monitoring. Once the priest in civilian clothing relayed the message, he destroyed the phone and made his way back to the central part of Damascus.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Vatican Intelligence

  Vatican City

  Inside the Comm Center beneath the basilica, Fathers Auciello and Essex were monitoring the event of Kimball Hayden’s movement as he moved in an easterly direction from Damascus to the Iraqi border. It was early morning in Syria, so early that the Jeep was the only vehicle on the long stretch of road. “Monitor closely,” Father Auciello advised the tech, “and lock on.” After a few taps on the keyboard, the eye of the satellite’s lens zoomed in until the Jeep appeared no further than one hundred feet away.

  The night-vision capability of the satellite was state-of-the-art, the picture crisp. Father Auciello then leaned into his co-director, Father Essex, and asked, “What do you think?” The priest shrugged and said, “He’s obviously heading to Iraq under deep-state orders. I’m guessing it has to do with Hussein, or perhaps someone high in the leadership command that’s governing the process of the Kuwaiti attack.”

  “Everything begins and ends with Hussein,” said Auciello. “Hayden doesn’t have a chance. He may be able to avoid the check points, but he’ll never get close to his target. Those he works for must know that the odds are significantly low, if at all achievable, which they’re not. I’m beginning to believe that they’re viewing Hayden as a liability who has become expendable. If he achieves the means, then the victory becomes a celebratory matter amongst the powers that be. But Hayden would never survive the retreat.” “I agree.” “As much as I respect the good Cardinal Bonasero,” added Auciello, “there is nothing that’s remotely good about someone who relishes in the kill of innocent people.” “The good cardinal sees something different in this man that we don’t,” he returned. “Perhaps his judgment is not as clouded as ours. Perhaps he sees a Light that we cannot. His verdict on such matters has always been correct, Father. It’s as if he was driven by something that’s outside of our understanding, perhaps by the guidance of divine intervention.”

  Father Auciello remained silent. On screen, Kimball Hayden continued with his eastbound journey towards Iraq.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Five Miles West of the Iraqi Border

  “The first check point is five miles ahead,” Abdul said as he stopped and vacated the Jeep. Leaning in as Kimball scooted over to take the driver’s seat, the Arab added, “Live by your GPS system. It will guide you well.” Now sitting behind the Jeep’s steering wheel, Kimball asked, “How will you get back?” “Don’t worry about me. I’ll manage. I’ve made arrangements.” Abdul then stepped back and pointed to the desert landscape that was off-road. “Enter here and drive to the base of the hills outside of Rimaldi. “It will take you between ten to fifteen hours, depending on the rough terrain. You will find two canisters in the back filled with fuel. Once you reach the mountain terrain, your journey by foot will be sixty miles, maybe a three- to four-day journey. And be very careful with the water usage. Remember, a three- or four-day journey going forward also means a three- to four-day journey coming back. Questions?”

  “No.”

  Abdul stepped away from the vehicle. “May Allah be with you,” he said.

  Nodding, Kimball set the Jeep in gear and started over the bumpy terrain, the Jeep seeming to handle the rises and dips quite handedly. Seeing Abdul in the rearview mirror disappear within a cloud of dust that was kicked up by the rear tires, Kimball readjusted the tablet so that he had a direct view of the mapped-out course, which appeared as a wavy red thread on the screen. For hours he traversed the landscape, the Jeep holding well. But as the day wore on, he found himself thirsting for water. Sweat surged from every pore from his flesh, his uniform now clinging to him as if it was a second skin. Then the miles began to look the same with endless stretches that was color of desert sand marked with stones of every size and shape. In general, it was nothing but a Martian landscape that no one cared to rule over except for desert scorpions. Kimball took the bumps, the dips, the slants, the off-road ride amusing and exhilarating with a sense of adventure at first, but the undertaking had eventually worn out its welcome as the continuity of the unstable ride began to rack his body with aches and pains. For hours he continued his drive only to stop and refuel. But literally at the eleventh hour he knew that the journey would be much longer than the ten hours Abdul had quoted him. According to the GPS model
, he had another sixty miles, which was perhaps a two-hour drive. Above him the sky was beginning to turn from uniform blue to the citrusy colors of dusk. The moment darkness settled, which was something Kimball was looking forward to, it would bring on a natural cooling. As the driving time of two hours turned into three, and then the three into four, Kimball finally came to a rocky wall that was spotted within the headlights. According to his GPS monitor, he was at the end of his ride. Though the elevated land was no higher than one hundred feet, the pitches were too steep for the Jeep to climb. Taking inventory, Kimball discovered three cans of water in his backpack, ammo, strips of beef jerky, his broken-down rifle, and a tarp for daytime cover beneath a scorching sun. The plan was to travel by night and take cover by day.

  But since travel time to the mountain chain had taken longer than anticipated, which would make scaling the foothills unsafe in the dark, Kimball realized that he’d have to make up time by crossing the desert come the following day, despite the heat of a blistering sun. After taking minimal sips of water, Kimball returned the canteen, spread the tarp across the desert floor, then laid upon it with his hands behind his head and his elbows winged. Pinpricks of light twinkled like a cache of diamonds spread over black velvet. The night was calm, quiet and peaceful, the air having cooled immensely, though the temperatures remained in the upper eighties. As a soft wind caressed his skin to make the night tolerable, Kimball continued to look at the sky. The dark canopy. The flickering of stars. There were no city lights to take away the full appreciation of the night sky as a limitless number of stars glittered like fairy dust, something that was hardly magical but nevertheless had a sense of wizardry to it. He saw the constellations and even noted a meteor that had streaked across the sky with its tail the color of liquid orange. And as he laid there watching, he recalled the moment as a child when his mother told him something about Heaven long ago: Above us is a black canopy filled with holes, he remembered her saying. And beyond that dark canvas was the Great Illumination of God’s power that shined through the holes as glittering stars to remind us that Heaven waits for us all beyond the Darkness. In the shadows of night beneath this glimmering light show, Kimball smiled. His mother’s voice was sweet and gentle, the woman speaking in his mind as he always remembered her voice to be. As the night wore on, Kimball remained awake to watch the overhead show, which he found mesmerizing. Then as the first streamers of light appeared along the eastern horizon, he galvanized himself into action. He returned the tarp and gathered his goods, then he began to scale the hillside. There were several hand and footholds for easy climbing. When he crested the first summit it gave him a glimpse of the eastbound terrain. The chain of rocky rises and falls continued for another two miles from his position. After that the landscape leveled off to a stretch that was nothing more than desert sand and stones. For nearly four hours, Kimball climbed the succession of hills until he made it to the leveled-off plain. Dust devils swirled around him in greeting, these sentinels dancing and twisting in macabre fashion before they dissipated. Above him, an unforgiving sun beat down on him. His camo shirt began to cling to his tacky skin. And less than ten miles into a sixty-plus-mile journey, Kimball Hayden had gone through one of his canteens, leaving him with two. As day turned into night, Kimball discovered that he was weak in the knees. He had made wonderful gains, at least twenty miles, with the foothills no longer behind him to the west. Not willing to build a campfire to mark his position, Kimball fed on beef jerky and minimalized his water intake. Then laying on the tarp in the soft sand, Kimball Hayden fell asleep. And he dreamed. Scores of bodies surrounded him within Stygian darkness as the Shape stayed close to his mother who remained caged beneath a diminishing beam of light. Men, women and children, those whose lives he had taken, circled the cone with arms that festered with rot and decay, all reaching for the sustenance of the beam while trying to draw strength from its weakening illumination. The Light, the Shape stated. Something that everyone wants but there never seems to be enough to go around. Everybody wants to go to Heaven, but nobody wants to pay the price of admission. It’s funny how those who claim to be spiritual but not practicing thinks that being spiritual is enough to get by. And when they get here, they discover that they don’t have enough of the Light to get to the Great Illumination, so they draw from whomever they can to move on. So, this I say to you, Kimball: thank you for sending me those whom you have laid to unrest, only to find themselves at my side. He saw the girl with the sphincter-like wound to her face and her mother, whose eyes had that milky sheen of dead to them. He saw on old man who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time after he had seen Kimball take down his mark. There were more people as well, all targets, men, women and children, those he had killed over his short lifetime.