by Rick Jones
Jeremiah took his side along Isaiah with Joshua nearby.
And together, as a team, the Vatican Knights hurried to the Altar of Moses with an effort to make it before nightfall.
* * *
Zahid Ahmadi was beginning to feel the encroachment of bone-dread terror. In search of his team, he had come upon the bodies of his followers throughout the chambers and the cisterns. These were men of elite training, those who had risen to the top to be the best of their kind, only to have been bested themselves. The bodies of the enemy, however, were nowhere to be seen, which told Ahmadi that the Vatican Knights were a predatory group like no other.
Though Ahmadi often puffed his chest out with the confidence of a fearless leader who did the bidding of Allah, he was also a coward at heart. He always performed his killing rituals with the backing of his team, and against those who never raised a hand in violence against others. His victims were always those who followed the peaceful tenets that had been written in the Koran, not the misinterpreted ideologies that gave the Islamic State permission to wreak havoc amongst the people. For those who refused to be conscripted into their ranks, they were made examples of with his team solidly behind him as support. Now that he was alone with his backup unit lying in pools of blood, Ahmadi mewled at every turn and bend when he discovered more bodies. For the first time, the Arab suddenly realized what it was like to be surrounded by the carnage of his people, rather than to slaughter those who could not defend themselves. Sometimes, karma truly is a bitch.
Ahmadi continued to move in and out of the shafts of light, looking for a way out of this labyrinth. Then he discovered a myriad of tracks upon the sand, all fresh. The problem here was that they carried the markings of the papal cross, meaning that they belonged to the very enemy that cut his team down with effortless ease.
Ahmadi leaned against the wall and began to breathe heavily, the man seriously close to hyperventilating. Removing his headwear and raking his fingers nervously through his hair, Ahmadi decided to follow the trail. He would be quiet and resourceful, he thought. And he would use his Allah-given wits and stealth to stay unseen, until the opportunity of escape presented itself.
But this line of thinking immediately went to the wayside as his confidence waned.
In a distant opening of a cistern approximately fifty feet away, the silhouette of a man stood within the opening’s framework. It was tall and massive with shoulders impossibly wide. But the most disturbing detail about this shape was that it dripped with chaos when it was supposed to exhibit order. Here was the madness and fury of something wicked that was imprisoned within a body that was supposed to be the confines of a pious man, only for this shape to escape the Light from time to time to distribute its Dark wrath. This was not just the black outline of any man; Ahmadi had come to realize. This was the shape of the Devil’s Magician.
As the shadow approached with deliberation, Ahmadi’s eyes blazoned with alarm. Then he took flight, the man following the trail of the footprints before him. He had forgotten the AK-47 in his hands, his terror that mind numbing.
Ahmadi continued to run, continued to mew, until he came upon and found his opportunity to escape. He had come upon a small landing that overlooked a stretch of desert valley. The footprints had taken him to his point of salvation, though there was still a climb to be made, about fifty feet. Only then did he become aware of the weapon he carried, his AK-47. But since he could not attach the weapon to his backside because it had no strap, he simply tossed it over the edge as dead weight. There was no way he would be able to climb and carry the weapon at the same time.
From the corridors that were steeped inside the shadows, he knew something grimly wicked was heading his way, something unstoppable. Even if he had his weapon it would have been useless against this demon, since the fables of his people dictated that this devil had no stoppable limits.
Ahmadi reached for the outcropping of stone, a solid handhold, then repeated this act by wedging his foot into a recess and took the leap of faith. He had separated himself from the ledge and clung firmly to the wall with his eyes closed. Then as he gained a bit of added confidence, he opened his eyes and began his climb.
Moving hand after hand and raising foot after foot, he began to scale the wall.
Ten feet. Twenty feet. And then thirty, his assurance rising.
As he approached the forty-foot mark with the edge not too far above him, he looked downward to see the Vatican Knight staring at him with unbridled conviction.
This was all the motivation Ahmadi needed to quicken his climb and angle away from Kimball Hayden, so that a bead of gunfire could be drawn on him from the Vatican Knight’s weapon. But that didn’t stop Kimball from letting off a quick burst that caused the wall to Ahmadi’s left to erupt with exploding chips, as rounds peppered the stone.
Peeking over the obstacle of rock that shielded him from Kimball, Ahmadi saw the Vatican Knight’s weapon take flight. Obviously, Kimball had the same problematic decision of climbing the wall with a weapon he was unable to carry. And because of that decision, Ahmadi knew that the advantage was his as soon as he reached the higher vantage point.
As soon as the Arab made it topside, Ahmadi knew that the Vatican Knight would give chase, so he immediately went to round up a sizeable pair of rocks to shower him with, since there was nothing grander than the age-old ritual of stoning. Grabbing two and then weighing them in his hands, Zahid Ahmadi was pleased with their heft. One bludgeoning stone would easily pluck Kimball Hayden off the wall.
As he turned to make his way to the mountain’s edge, his eyes ignited with shocking disbelief. Kimball Hayden was already standing along the mountain’s lip, an impossibility given the minimal amount of time he had to climb the wall. But in Ahmadi’s mind, this man was governed by otherworldly forces of Darkness that allowed him to succeed where others would have failed.
“Impossible,” Ahmadi whispered as he dropped the stones. And then louder, he said to Kimball, “You can’t win this battle, Magician. Because I am on the side of Light.”
Kimball quickly crossed the divide between them to grab Ahmadi by his shirt, then pulled the surprised man close. The Arab did not try to run because he had been unable to, the man having been rooted by his own paralytic terror.
The Vatican Knight tightened his grip on Ahmadi’s shirt until the fabric began to bleed through the cracks of Kimball Hayden’s fingers. “Is that what you believe, Ahmadi? Is that what you truly believe, given that you kill people because it gives you a false sense of power?”
“Everything I do is with the grace and guidance of Allah. It is through him that I work his will.” Then the terrorist gave off a nervous laugh, something that was more like a schoolgirl titter. “I am the Light and you’re far from it,” Ahmadi told him. “And this I can clearly see within your eyes. It’s unmistakable.”
“Is it?”
Ahmadi nodded. “In the eyes of Allah, who will never be defeated, I am the Light since his cause is just.”
“Just? You know what I have come to learn over time, Ahmadi? I’ve come to learn that the two sides who are at war with one another believes their cause to be the just one. And if that’s the case, if both sides believe they’re in the right, then it’s no longer a war between ‘Good and Evil’ or between the ‘Darkness and Light.’ It just becomes another war between ‘Us against Them.’ God simply remains neutral.”
Ahmadi shifted his gaze to the Roman Catholic collar around Kimball’s neck. “The collar you wear,” Ahmadi said. “Is it not the symbol of your kind? To be a pious soul?” The Arab feigned a smile, though it still held the quality of an arrogant sneer. “Even I know that you are bound by certain protocols of the Church, which makes your kind weak. You cannot kill me, Vatican Knight. You cannot harm a man who is unarmed or vulnerable.” Ahmadi’s smile broadened as a confidence started to develop. “You are committed to your vows to protect those who cannot protect themselves. And here I stand as one w
ho is defenseless.” Ahmadi cocked his head to the side as if in study. With his egotistical smile, he added, “Oh, yes. I know of your convictions.”
Kimball nearly lifted the man off his feet with one arm as he half carried, half dragged Ahmadi to the edge of the cliff. Holding the terrorist along the very threshold which forced Ahmadi to pinwheel his arms to steady him upon the mountain’s rim, Kimball said, “Defenseless? Don’t forget, Ahmadi, that it was people like you who lit the match to ignite a war.” Kimball then leaned him further over the edge. “Tell me, how does it feel when it’s your life that’s on the precipice for a change?”
Ahmadi, who became highly alarmed, shouted, “You’re a Vatican Knight! You have certain principles that guide you! You cannot kill me because your God and Church proclaims this to be!”
Kimball leaned into the frightened man until their noses were inches apart. “You think this collar bars me from doing some of the things I do because of the Vatican?” Kimball then started to twist the front of Ahmadi’s shirt, causing the collar around the Arab’s neck to tighten like a noose. “I’ll tell you what,” Kimball whispered. “Between you and me . . . I won’t tell the Church if you won’t.” Kimball then gave Ahmadi a quick wink of his eye and shoved the terrorist off the edge. Turning and walking away until Ahmadi’s cries faded and disappeared, as his back continued to sting with mounting pain, Kimball Hayden made his way to the Altar of Moses.
CHAPTER FORTY
One Week Later
Dining on a terrace of an exclusive restaurant in Prague, Shari Cohen takes on the identity of Ada
Blazek, as she dines with a Czech businessman who’s believed to be a cyberhacker who breaks through the most restrictive firewalls—such as the CIA, the banking system and national defense organizations—and sells the data to the highest bidder. And since the Cayman Islands remain unresponsive to the inquiries of investigating countries regarding certain accounts, Langley decided to resolve the matter on its own. Shari, who was now Ada, a dark-haired beauty with a glimmer in her eye and a charming demeanor, was maneuvering to mine the suspect for all he was worth.
In Zurich, Abesh Faruk’s body was discovered inside of a gold-lined booth that was manufactured to house the golden calf. He was seated in a highbacked chair with one leg crossed over the other in mock leisure, the body obviously staged since he succumbed from a kill shot to the temple and two to center mass. By the time of his discovery, however, his eyes already had that milky sheen of blindness to them. The murder would go unsolved.
In Paris, the Bangladeshi was sitting at a table outside of a coffee shop while reading Le Monde, a Parisian newspaper that had reported the death of Abesh Faruk, in Zurich, a businessman who made his fortune selling arms and had an estimated personal value of 2,300,000,000 Euros. Apparently, the man had been gunned down in what was reputed to be a ‘professional hit.’ At this time, however, there were no suspects, even though there was a large field of enemies to choose from, given the business he was in.
Amal Purakayastha eventually set the folded paper aside, sipped from his latte, and reconsidered his position. Abesh Faruk was dead, leaving Purakayastha to be the only one who knew the whereabouts of the suitcase nukes. They had been placed directly beneath the booth that was to accommodate the statue of the golden calf and contained within a lead-shielded vault. The weapons, of course, were entirely impotent unless systematically prepared. Not even a Geiger counter could determine their whereabouts, since the vault’s shielding was incredibly thick. Soon, when the opportunity availed itself, the Bangladeshi would appropriate the weapons and find a buyer. After the sale, he would purchase his own island—maybe in the Mediterranean or the Caribbean or perhaps in the Bahamas—where he could live far from the maddening crowd.
At the Vatican, a bishop from the Holy See pushes a cart through the catacombs that were secreted away beneath St. Peter’s Square. Laying upon the gathered fabric of suave velvet was the head of the golden calf, after it had been analyzed by the papal staff. The bishop had proceeded to make his way towards the Papal Vault, which contained such historical gems as the Robe of Jesus; the heart of Joan of Arc, which was the only part of her that did not burn, the muscle pure; as well as other historical artifacts that were connected to Biblical lore. Once he reached a chamber that had been prearranged to store the relic of the golden calf, the bishop, who wore cotton gloves, handled the head with homage-like care, and placed it on a pedestal that was located beneath a conical beam of overhead light. When the bishop left the vault, he locked the door behind him with the head of the golden calf gleaming star-point spangles of gold light.
In northern Syria, Rico, whose real name was Abel Goldman, was on a mission in northern Syria to deal with a rising insurgent who was whipping the masses into a frenzy to join the Islamic State. Goldman’s mission: set the mark within his sights and make him the object of a targeted killing. Abel Goldman, who was a part of Israel’s legendary Kidon, would not disappoint his principals.
In Rome, Kimball Hayden makes his way into a bar with the aid of a cane. The cut along his back had deeply scored the flesh and nicked a backstrap muscle, which caused him excessive pain. Though he was no stranger to adding scars to wounds that had healed his already marked flesh, Kimball saw it as another badge of honor to wear upon his skin the same way a pious man would wear the marks of stigmata. Taking a seat and lining up his whiskey shots, Kimball found comfort in his aloneness as he paid his respects to Roman, who had been buried within the crypts beneath the basilica, with the pontiff providing kind words and prayers of worship. It had been a wonderful service.
On TV, as Kimball continued to drink his shots of club soda one by one, and then laying the empty glasses upside down in a neat row, he watched the news reports as the world continued to pull itself apart by the madness of men.
We have a long way to go, he thought. And then: My job is far from being done.
Kimball drank.
EPILOGUE
The Vatican, Vatican City
Following Day
On the following morning, which was closer to the noon hour, Kimball entered the catacombs beneath the basilica to pay his respects upon the crypts of close friends. He paid upon the Tomb of Leviticus his good wishes, a brother by heart whom he could not remember, but knew that he had served beside him on many occasions and through many battles.
Next was Roman, an honorable man who surrendered his life so that others could benefit from his deed. Under Catholic tenets, the act of suicide was considered a damnable sin with the cost being time without end within the Lakes of Eternal Fire. But even God had to recognize the fact that Roman’s act was one of self-sacrifice and certainly one of necessity, so that good people could benefit.
In a final measure to pay his respects, Kimball, who labored mightily with his cane in hand, made it to the tomb of Bonasero Vessucci. Taking the top step of the three stairs that went down to a sunken chamber, and then setting his cane aside, Kimball said, “I would kiss the stone of your crypt, Bonasero, if my back wasn’t crying out so. I hope you’ll understand.”
Behind him, in the corridor that led him to this ornamentally carved vault, electric torches glowed dimly.
After clenching his teeth against pain that was firing up from exercising certain muscles too early, a hand alit upon his shoulders from behind. The touch was warm and oddly medicinal, the pain suddenly washing away and escaping him.
Worry not about Roman, the voice told him. He’s been embraced by the Light.
Kimball, who slowly closed his eyes, smiled at this. The voice that came from behind was alien and familiar at the same time. To him, it sounded on some level to be that of Bonasero’s; and then on another level he could hear Roman, their inflected measures somehow intertwining; and yet on another level he could hear the voice of someone who was above and beyond the touch of mortal man, with the three intonations joining in rhythm to sound as one. That’s good, Kimball finally thought. I’m glad he made it. N
o one deserved it more than Roman.
And yet you continue to fight over enduring doubts?
Kimball nodded. That’s because the world is becoming too much to deal with. I see it every day. I see its sickness growing with every breath I take. I feel that I’m drowning in water that’s too deep, and I’m beginning to tire.
Your will, Kimball, will see you through this since your continuing presence is invaluable. Your commitment should never question your worth in the battle between the Darkness and Light.
Kimball continued to bask comfortably within the warmth of this touch upon his shoulder.
But there is something else, Kimball, that bothers you.
Am I being selfish to want something more beyond this? A fulfillment of a dream?
Ah, yes. The want and need of living in peace with the shared love of a woman you desire. To live in a simple home that’s surrounded by a garden filled with bright blooms. To have children you want to call your own someday.
Kimball’s smile widened with a dreamy cast to it. Yes.
If you envision it long enough, Kimball, it will happen. But only when your journey to serve the Lord is over. But until that time, you are fated to protect those who cannot protect themselves, with your final reward a true Heaven.
Kimball, however, found this cryptic. A true Heaven? Does that include the woman I desire? A home? Children?
As the hand fell away with a touch that seemed to dissolve upon his shoulder rather than to suddenly pull away from it, Kimball immediately turned to look down the long corridor. It was empty. And then the pain began to return, which was small at first, but turned into a stabbing pierce as if he had been run through with a hot poker.
