by Rick Jones
Five men chosen, all Vatican Knights who would seek the idol of the golden calf.
Setting aside the tablet that contained the biographical records of the Vatican Knights after choosing his team on the nightstand beside his cot, Kimball Hayden stood and stretched his limbs and muscles. His living area was small and more like a prison cell. But it was where he felt most comfortable. On the left side of the room was his cot, a trunk that was littered with magazines on military warfare, a nightstand, and a sink and mirror for shaving and washing. On the right side was an area that had been set aside for spiritual worship. There was a votive rack filled with candles that had never been lit; a kneeling rail that had never been knelt upon; and a Bible that had never been opened, which sat upon a bone-white podium. High on the wall was a stained-glass window of the Virgin Mother, the kaleidoscopic colors pieced together to create an image of the woman extending her arms out to him in everlasting invitation, which he always refused. As the sun traversed across the sky during its daily routine to reach a certain point in the east, it would shine a Biblical beam of light through the pane and into the chamber. Often, he would extend his fingers wanting to feel its warmth, only to pull them away because he didn’t feel worthy of the Light—at least not yet. Standing in the center of the room and looking at the glass image, he knew it was almost time for the sun to make its pass. But by the time the sun had locked itself into position to shed a filter of the Blessed Virgin’s light into the room, he knew he’d be gone to prepare for the mission that would become paramount.
Maybe next time, he thought.
Standing before the mirror, he gazed upon his image. He still had the angular features and strong jawline, along with the raven hair and cerulean-blue eyes that were amazingly stark and piercing. His body, though mended, retained battle scars that had been accrued over a lifetime of repeated conflict. His chest and abdomen had the pockmarks and indents of healed bullet wounds. Scars marked his body with obscene lines suggestive of tic-tac-toe. And his badly burned arm was discolored compared to the rest of his complexion, with the skin having melted and cooled until pores or arm hairs no longer existed.
Tracing his fingers over the thick scars that ran laterally and vertically across his washboard stomach, he then raised his burned arm upwards as if to grab an apple from the limb of a tree and held it there for observation. His body had been mutilated in the name of his God, whom he believed had rejected him over the course of his life for sins too great to achieve salvation.
Allowing his arm to drop by his side as if it was boneless, Kimball dressed accordingly by donning his cleric’s shirt and Roman Catholic collar, his military pants and his combat boots, he then checked himself in the mirror. The lines of his scars, the indents and mutilated flesh which had healed over time were now hidden beneath his uniform.
Looking at the Virgin Mother one last time before leaving his chamber, he stated out loud, “Maybe next time?”
The stain-glass window, as always, remained silent and still, even though her stationary reach for him remained.
“We’ll see, I guess.”
Grabbing his duffle bag, Kimball exited his chamber to assemble his team. But before he did, he had one last stop to make.
* * *
The subterranean hallway beneath the basilica was constructed entirely of ancient brick and stone. Instead of using torches that once lit this corridor, bullet-shaped globes of electric lighting had replaced them. The passageway was long and had a low ceiling. And off to the sides of the hallway were multiple chambers that held the tombs of churchly notables.
When Kimball reached an opening that led to a chamber marked Leviticus, he took the three steps that led into a sunken chamber that had an ornately carved vault as its centerpiece. The stone was made of veined marble and had the etchings and carvings of winged angels playing harpsicords. At the bottom was Latin scripture, its meaning one of spiritual gratitude for Leviticus’ service as a Vatican Knight.
Placing his forehead against the cool touch of the stone, Kimball closed his eyes and tried to remember his teammate, who had become one of the missing pieces to his memory. After Kimball was nearly killed and his body broken, his mind had lost important pieces of recollection. There were vacuum holes of Swiss cheese, with empty gaps surrounded by full memories. People he had loved had been wiped away, his mental slate now clean in areas he wished that weren’t. Leviticus, my brother. Someday, I will smile in remembrance of you and the time we shared together. I promise. As he stood with his head against the stone trying to force remembrances of times they had shared together, Kimball could not even picture his face.
Kissing the marble of Leviticus’s tomb, Kimball moved on to the tomb of Bonasero Vessucci.
Like the vault that encased the body of Leviticus, Bonasero’s was highly decorated not only with the carved figures made of obsidian glass that were overlaid with gold, it also had the commemorating bust of the former pontiff, which sat upon a nearby podium.
Unlike Leviticus, whom Kimball could not remember, Bonasero was a good and clear memory of times unforgotten. Bonasero was more of a father to him than his biological father, and the man who had given him true direction. The Light is for your taking, he recalled Bonasero saying. The Light is never out of the reach of a man who is truly repentant of his sins.
Leaning forward, Kimball kissed the stone of the man he missed dearly. I miss you.
Taking a seat on one of the three steps that led down to the chamber and setting aside his duffle bag, Kimball stared at the crypt that housed the body of the man who saved his life in ways only Kimball could understand. You gave me the insight to see beyond the life within the Darkness. You gave me hope.
Closing his eyes, Kimball waited for what he knew was to come—the soft touch of a hand alighting on his shoulder that filled him with indescribable warmth.
Kimball smiled.
The voice that spoke to him was that of everyone and no one, a voice that sounded like many he knew and those he didn’t at the same time.
Your journey continues, Kimball. I sense you’re not there yet—at least not in your heart. Perhaps your continuing leaps forward to the greater good will give you not only the insight of what you have accomplished, but also the understanding that you have reached the Light long ago.
Kimball shook his head at this and thought: When I nearly died, I found myself deep inside this dark tunnel. At one end was a small square of light as bright as a thousand suns, which grew brighter. But in the end, it rejected me and sent me back to a world of absolute pain.
Are you sure that you were rejected? Or was it because your life’s mission is not yet over?
In my heart? . . . I was rejected.
Perhaps your heart is not the seat of reasoning when it comes to dealing with the Great Illumination. Perhaps the Great Illumination sees you as a difference maker whose voyage is far from over. Or perhaps, Kimball, you sit in kinship with the Light and don’t know it, as you do Its bidding to right a world that’s turning horribly wrong. All you have to do, Kimball, is to believe in yourself. Believe that by working within the Darkness to serve the Light as something good. That light you saw . . . it was your beacon of hope that let you know that It’s watching.
I wanted to go to the Light.
Everyone does, Kimball. But only when one’s mission in life has been completed does one receive that right. Your journey has much more to achieve over its course . . . Much more.
When the hand lifted, the warmth and comfort faded away like an ice cube melting on a hot sidewalk. Opening his eyes and turning, like always, the corridor was empty, the man behind the voice nowhere to be seen.
Grabbing his duffle bag, Kimball went to align his team for their journey to Saudi Arabia to search for the golden calf.
CHAPTER NINE
Zurich, Switzerland
After returning to Zurich in his private jet, Abesh Faruk ended up inside his “Trophy Room.” He was seated in a red
velour chair with a high back. He was also wearing a suede smoking jacket and a red satin ascot. Sitting in leisure with one leg crossed over the other and a glass of cognac in one hand, he sat admiring his displays of unique historical antiquities.
Glass booths and cases were filled with his personal gems, artifacts connected to historical figures or to Biblical references of outstanding accounts. The golden calf would be both, as it would be connected to one of the greatest stories ever told within the Bible, Torah and the Koran—though in different ways—as well as to have been forged by Aaron, the brother of Moses.
The empty booth was tall with gold framework to support its bomb-blast glass—all which was surrounded by the best security system with heat sensors and motion detectors that money could buy.
Taking a sip of his cognac, Faruk looked over his amazing trophy room that showcased the most renowned items that were worthy enough to take up spaces within the most notable museums and galleries across the world. In one case was the alleged skull of Vlad the Impaler, though his bones were never found. In another was the square trimmings from the Shroud of Turin that had been analyzed by scientists to determine its age, with the remnant sold after the tested cloth had somehow mysteriously disappeared. In another display case was the battle helmet worn by Hernán Cortés. And in another, the sextant used by Columbus when he navigated the seas.
Though these items were priceless and had no true money value placed on them, Faruk found comfort being surrounded by these material goods like a security blanket. It somehow validated his wealth and status, two of the most important things—at least in his mind—that made a man whole. The only void, the only missing piece of his collection, was the empty booth that awaited the arrival of the golden calf. Only then would he be satisfied that his collection was complete.
Taking another sip from his glass, Faruk wondered about hiring a team of mercenaries whose ideologies were steeped heavily in Islamic fanaticism. But he also saw fanaticism as a good thing because it was a driving force that promoted unbridled ambition. If the golden calf existed, then Zahid Ahmadi would find it so he could continue his devasting agenda against an age-old enemy.
With a marginal grin that was perhaps in admiration, Abesh Faruk could barely contain his excitement.
CHAPTER TEN
Damascus International Airport
Following Day
Zahid Ahmadi was not a man accustomed to dressing outside of his ISIS attire. But there was an evolutionary change underway, so that the regime had to become more chameleon-like under the black banner of the Islamic State. Under exigent circumstances, members of a cell would cast off the wolf’s cloak to adorn the sheep’s mantle to blend in. And that’s what Ahmadi did—he blended in. Wearing a suit and tie, something that not only irked him to no end because he felt somewhat disloyal to tradition, the tightness of the collar and the restriction of movement made him uncomfortable. How Westerners were able to wear such clothing was beyond him.
Amal Purakayastha, however, appeared to be within his comfort zone since he had worn nothing else besides a military uniform when he was with the Bangladesh Special Operations Forces.
The members of Ahmadi’s cell were also clad in suits and ties, with some carrying briefcases containing worthless documents regarding scholarly matters they knew nothing about. Since Saudi Arabia was a strict venue that was governed by Sharia Law, which was the Islamic Legal system and the de facto Constitution of the country, terrorist factions were not well liked or respected. Going under the radar was only the first of their many goals, to be completely nondescriptive or eye-catching to the inspecting agents. Their credentials were A-class and their mannerisms at ease.
Passing through the security levels without drawing suspicion, Ahmadi’s team was able to get to their specified gates. They would take three different planes to Saudi, where they would congregate and continue their journey with the aid of Abesh Faruk’s inside contacts.
After an hour’s wait, Ahmadi and Purakayastha boarded the plane and discovered that they were seated next to each other, which displeased Ahmadi since he did not trust the Bangladeshi. Purakayastha, who was voiceless throughout the process of joining with Ahmadi, remained quiet throughout the trip. What unnerved Ahmadi most about the man was that he had the cold fortitude of a machine and as someone who went through the simple and basic programming of blinking and breathing. Even when Ahmadi asked the Bangladeshi questions, the dark-skinned man simply nodded.
Hours later as the plane started to descend into the King Khalid International Airport, only then was Ahmadi able to ease himself and relax his shoulders, which were tense for most of the flight. As soon as the plane landed and the people disembarked, Ahmadi, along with Purakayastha, stood by the ARRIVAL board until every member of Ahmadi’s cell landed. As soon as they disembarked and made it through CUSTOMS, each man within the team met up with a driver who had been a predetermined hire by Abesh Faruk, and then driven to a specified location where they would band together.
Inside a limo, as Amal Purakayastha and Zahid Ahmadi sat across from each other with pinning stares, neither man spoke as the vehicle departed the airport.
It was going to be a very long drive.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The world was absolutely perfect and wonderful with everything having a surreal quality to it. Kimball Hayden was standing beside a grill with a pair of tongs in his hand to flip over the steaks. He was wearing a cooking mitt, which was odd since he would never wear such a thing. But he was smiling as the children played in the yard that was surrounded by a white-picket fence. They were chasing and laughing at each other, all giggles and amusement while a dog bounded with them as it barked with puppy playfulness. Tending the garden where the heads of flowers bloomed in pastel colors, was a woman whose face was pixelated the same way a TV program distorts an obscene image. She was somebody Kimball thought he knew, or had associated with in some way, either physically or emotionally, or perhaps both. Standing, he could tell that she was looking at him as she wiped the sweat off her blurred brow. When she spoke, her words were hollow and echoey, the conversation between them therefore nonsensical. But Kimball laughed and answered in the same nonsensical way, and with a voice whose measure had the sounding clips of broken English. There were more guffaws as the discussion continued, the two obviously laughing at something this woman had said. And then he called after his children, a boy and a girl, asking them how they wanted their burgers, which they had magically turned into from steaks. ‘Medium’ was their overwhelming response, since nothing else would be acceptable. The boy, around six, looked like him, with skin the color of bronze and eyes that were cerulean blue. The girl, who was also six, had raven hair and eyes that glowed like newly minted pennies, something Kimball realized came from the woman who was standing in the garden with her face blurred.
In the woman’s hand, as she spoke nonsensically but was something Kimball appeared to understand, even though he didn’t, was a flower with a large blooming head. Its color was a loud orange, which blended into other loud colors, bright colors, colors that were showing a brilliance to them. And then the flower’s head turned into a commanding ball of light which pulsated and expanded, the light then washing everything away that was around him—the children, the woman, the white-picket fence, the dog and the grill—until they were all gone. Then the light blossomed into the Great Illumination, its magnificent radiance most pleasing to his eyes, warm and inviting. But through this mesmerizing moment which engulfed him fully, he could hear the voice of the woman standing within the garden calling to him. The words were no longer distorted but clear, the syllables cutting through the timeless space between them with crystal precision.
Kimball! . . . You stay with me, you hear me? . . . Don’t you leave me! Not now! . . .You come back!
. . . PLEEEEEEASE . . . COME BACK! . . .
It was the voice of his angel calling to him, the woman who was the mother of his children, a boy and a girl,
and the woman who stood in the garden whose face was indistinct because he could not recollect who she was.
The pull of the Light.
The voice of his angel.
The pull.
The voice.
As soon as the plane hit turbulence, Kimball awoke with his eyes widening to pull in his surroundings, while his mind tried to catch up to the where and now. It took a moment to realize that he was dreaming a wildly pleasant fantasy—the faceless woman, the children, the fenced in yard and the dog—that were nothing more than delusions brought on by a moment of sleep. According to Monsignor Dom Giammacio, who was his Vatican-appointed therapist, these enigmatic visions were bottled-up needs trying to resurface.
Give it time, he would tell Kimball. The mind has a way of mending, if given the chance. In time, perhaps the face of this woman in your dreams, like the faces of the children, will come to light.
Do you know the woman I dream about?
I can certainly speculate, Kimball, but only your subconscious can answer that question.
Another bump, a quick rise and fall on an uneven blanket of air. He was inside an Alitalia Airlines jet that had been chartered by the Vatican, which was on its way to Egypt. From a port on Egypt’s east coast, the Vatican Knights would be shuttled by chopper to an awaiting boat approximately thirty miles off the Saudi border. Once the boat made its way under the cover of darkness to within two miles of shore, the Vatican Knights would take a Zodiac to the shoreline where they would be met by a CIA operative, a man by the name of Sherpa, who would lead them to the Jabal al-Lawz Mountain range. And from there, to the base of Jabal Maqla.
The flight was relatively short and clocked in under four hours. After they disembarked at the Marsa Alam International Airport dressed in business suits, so as not to draw unwanted attention if they had worn the uniform of a Vatican Knight, Kimball and company were met by DeMarco Jackson, a CIA operative. He was wearing a white shirt with beige pants, black shoes, and gold-rimmed sunglasses. Smiling to show off ruler-straight teeth, Jackson recognized Kimball immediately after examining the Vatican Knight’s biographical record.
