by Rick Jones
CHAPTER SIX
––––––––
“He is no longer a Vatican Knight,” the pontiff told the monsignor evenly. “It was his choice, Dom. You had no right to approach him since he is no longer a member of the church. Which was also his choice.”
The monsignor sat before the pontiff’s desk alongside the two leading chairman of the Vatican Intelligence, Fathers Auciello and Essex, who governed all global aspects regarding potential terroristic fronts in the ninety countries the Vatican had diplomatic ties to.
“If the payment of twenty-five million dollars is wired to a Middle Eastern bank that does not recognize international law,” said Father Auciello, a tall and slender man whose tanned skin contrasted greatly against his silver hair, and who always carried himself with stately repose, “Vatican Intelligence, the CIA and the Mossad will eventually lose the trail.”
“This isn’t about the money,” stated the pontiff. “It’s about getting our people back.”
“That’s the point, Your Holiness,” said Father Essex, a short and stocky man. “The Islamic State does not guarantee a safe transfer after payment has been made. In fact, high-end assets have been found beheaded, even when payment transactions were completed.”
“And Kimball believes that this may be the action here,” said the monsignor.
“The Vatican Knights will always be a threat to ISIS and their cause, so they’ll lessen the ranks to neutralize the threat by killing them once the transfer of funds have been made. In the end, Your Holiness, it will be a lose-lose situation.” “We already sent in a team of Vatican Knights,” said Pope John Paul the Second. “And we failed. A young man is without his legs. Two others are in captivity along with a cardinal who is considered to be a member of the preferiti. Now I’m being told that the cell has moved on to an unknown location. More so, our time is minimal—days, in fact. And now you sit here asking me to deny payment in fear that the Islamic State may not follow through with their promises, when I have no other option.”
“You have Kimball Hayden,” the monsignor emphasized.
“He is not a Vatican Knight,” the pontiff returned somewhat severely in a measure that was beyond his nature. “He is a man who is untamed. I cannot afford a stain on the church with someone like Kimball Hayden running around like an American cowboy, taking lives outside the mandates of the Vatican, because in his mind he sees killing as a means to justice.”
“Your Holiness,” the monsignor said calmly while leaning forward in his seat, “he does this not for the sake of the church. In fact, he refused the collar of the Vatican Knight for the same reasons that you proposed, that he may sully the image of the church. He does this to save what he called are his brothers. He may be gone, Your Holiness, but the bond between them remains. And sometimes, just sometimes, the side of Darkness can only be stopped by those who lack the con- science of good will towards others. It’s the only thing this cell knows, which was indicative as to what they did to Ecclesiastes. All Kimball is asking for is our aid.”
“Aid?”
“He’ll do this alone. No backup. No team. Just Kimball. All he needs is a few items to promote his mission to Damascus and some help from Vatican Intelligence. He’ll find the group and deal with them without the managerial resources of the Vatican ...He’ll be an independent.”
“Is that what we’re calling mercenaries now, Dom? Independents?”
“Your Holiness,” Father Auciello interrupted. “If I may?”
“Please.”
“What the monsignor is trying to say, is that Kimball is our only option. If you wire the funds, they will kill our members, regardless. We have no idea where they are. Time is not a luxury. And both Leviticus and Isaiah have been the leading members of the Vatican Knights since Kimball’s departure. If we lose them, then the Vatican Knights as an elite unit will be severely weakened. And this weakness will compromise future missions if the team does not have the military sophistication to carry them out.”
The pontiff sighed, the man obviously caught between crossroads. Kimball had never taken to John Paul III like he had taken to Bonasero Vessucci, the previous pope. To the pontiff, it was as if he was an invading stepfather trying to move in to usurp the duties over his true father, a change Kimball wasn’t ready for.
“You’re right,” the pontiff finally admitted. “I have nowhere else to turn, no divine guidance other than good judgment.” He examined the faces of each of the men who were obviously in Kimball’s court. And then: “This will be entirely covert.
Not even those within the Society of Seven must know about this. Fathers Auciello and Essex will monitor events in Damascus just enough to direct Kimball to locations he needs to go. Weapons and goods will be waiting for him. Outside of that, he gets nothing else from me. I wash my hands of what he is about to do. And I pray that God will forgive me for the bloodbath that this man is about to shed.”
“I’ll notify him immediately,” said Father Auciello. “Since time is limited.”
“Where exactly is he?” asked the pontiff. “In a bar, I presume?”
“Actually,” said the monsignor, “he’s in his chamber.”
The pontiff appeared puzzled by this. Then: “He’s here? Inside the Vatican?”
“Yes, Your Holiness. He said he needed to prepare himself.”
The pontiff fell back into his seat and turned his face to the ceiling, and asked
God to understand the nature of the beast that he was sending to Damascus.
* * *
Kimball was standing inside his chamber where he had ruled as team leader of the Vatican Knights. It was small, cramped and spartan. To the left of the room was his bunk, the covers in a wild tangle just the way he left them, the blankets and sheets untouched. On the neighboring nightstand were his collection of military manuals, the periodicals in a bundled mess. To the right of the room was the area of worship, a place that held a votive rack filled with candles that had never been lit, a kneeling rail that had never been knelt upon, and a podium that held a Bible that had never been open. And in the center of the room but high on the wall was a stained-glass window that held the colorful image of the Virgin Mary with her arms extended in invitation. During a certain time of day as the sun traverses the sky, the shine of its rays always passed through the pane to create a Biblical beam of slanting light that filtered through the window and to the floor. The light was there for him to touch, his fingers always dancing inches away from the beam, but he could never allow himself to touch the light since he didn’t believe he deserved the salvation of her gift. At least not yet. But today there was no light at all, the clouds thick and heavy, the sky gray.
Kimball looked at the stained-glassed image of the Virgin Mary. “What?” he asked her. “I don’t get an invite today?”
The room was quiet.
A moment later, Kimball stepped to a mirror that was attached to the wall next to his bunk and met his reflection eye-to-eye. He appeared leaner with his skin gray presumably due to the room’s terrible lighting. His hair and beard were unkempt and wild, something to match that angry ember that burned deep behind his cerulean blue eyes.
Then he ran his hand through his beard and across the lines of his crow’s feet that seemed longer and deeper, the measurements of growing old. Then he traced his fingertips across the angles of his cheeks, which had become sharper as the constant drink of whisky seemed to have whittled him down some. Kimball then stood back and took stock of his physique. Though he remained massive, his clothes did not fit him as snuggly as before, but had loosened over the months since he decided to walk away from the hope the church once pro- vided him. Life in the streets, at best, seemed to sap him of everything including his dreams, his desires, and his dignity. Kimball Hayden was turning into a shell who was wasting away on the outside, and was completely dissolved of everything on the inside.
What have you become, he thought while staring at his image. Then he swallowed, the man pining for anoth
er shot of whisky. Turning away from his reflection, Kimball went to his nightstand and opened the drawer. Inside were a half dozen clerical bands to be fitted inside the collar of his uniform. Next to that, a framed photo with his team. There was Leviticus and Isaiah, Jeremiah and Micah, Job and others, just a small portion of the overall team, all smiling for the camera. Suddenly Kimball’s heart became heavy, which drove the sting of tears to his eyes as he placed the framed photo against his forehead. The glass was cool to the touch, the former soldier for the Vatican feeling anger, regret and loss. Though he had come back, his chamber remained alien and familiar to him at the same time. Familiar because this was his home, and alien because he felt like he did not belong. Finally, he drew the picture away and looked at the photo, noting the faces of Leviticus and Isaiah, his brothers in spirit. Then he traced his fingertips over their images: “You’re coming home, boys. Whether by the hand of God or Satan, I’m coming for you both.”
Removing the photo from its frame, Kimball tucked the picture inside the pocket of his jacket and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
High up on the wall and looking down into the chamber, the stained-glass image of the Virgin Mother possessed a look of great sadness, perhaps due to an odd reflection of the gray light that came in from the outside world behind her.
Then again, perhaps she always held that saddened look while watching over Kimball Hayden.
CHAPTER SEVEN
––––––––
Damascus, Syria
Present Day
Sargon Azerbaijani was a small and diminutive man who always extended his hand out to others asking for wages to care for a family he didn’t have. His clothes hung over his slight frame like the blankets of an unmade bed. And his eyes, from between the tattered wrappings of his headscarf, appeared wet and oily like black olives sitting in a jar of water.
He was sitting at a table in the Elissar Restaurant in Damascus, an upscale establishment that had an outside eatery that was surrounded by a wall capped with fernlike plants, the lush limbs overflowing. His eyes darted nervously about, always searching for the next ‘someone’ who would walk into his life and give him direction, and to provide him with his path toward fate. A moment later, while Sargon’s nerves remained unsettled, Hassan Maloof entered the patio area and took a seat opposite the small man, ready to dictate Sargon’s destiny.
“Sargon,” Hassan stated flatly in greeting. Wrapped around his head was a headscarf that was as black as deep space, the color a symbol of cold nothingness.
Sargon bowed his head in return. “Hassan.”
Hassan quickly took the perspiring glass of water that was sitting in front of him and consumed half the glass before returning it to the tabletop. Then he stared at Sargon through sunglasses that hid his fixed stare, and waited as if he wanted Sargon to initiate the conversation, which Sargon did.
“I give you facts,” he finally said. “Now you give me my asking price, yes?”
“Will more facts be coming?” Hassan asked.
“For a price, I can get you anything you want.”
Hassan studied Sargon through his glasses, the moment to Sargon like an icy- cold finger tracing a line along his spine with the effect raising hairs on his arms. Then Hassan reached inside the pocket of his garment to produce a few bitcoins valued at $5,000 American dollars in conversion exchange, and placed them on the table. Though he trapped the coins to the tabletop with the tips of his finger, he was unwilling to hand them over. “These are yours as agreed upon,” he told Sargon. “But I need your services further.”
“Like I said before: For a price, I can get you anything you want.”
Hassan nodded and lifted his fingers from the coins, freeing them for Sargon to scoop up, which he did, the man hungering for the coins as if they were scraps of food to a man who hadn’t eaten in days. After Sargon hid the coins away in his garments, he leaned forward and winged his elbows across the table and smiled, the man showing off yellow rows of teeth that looked like kernels of corn. “And how may I assist you further, Hassan?”
“I’m looking for a man who can convert twenty-five million American dollars into bitcoins, a rather large sum without drawing attention, which means he’ll have to have several sources to draw from. Do you know such a man?”
Sargon fell back into his seat and started to stroke his beard in an overdramatic display of deep thought, which Hassan immediately picked up on, and something he didn’t appreciate because he knew that this was Sargon’s way of promoting his skills as a middleman in order to amplify the difficulty of the situation, which wasn’t difficult at all, since Sargon already knew the players in the game. He was simply setting the stage to Hassan that the price would have to be elevated in order to achieve the means.
In return, Hassan removed a long dagger from his sheath and placed it on the table, not caring who sat close by. Its blade was sharp and its point keen. “That knife,” he told Sargon, “is sharp enough to slice through the bone of a man’s neck. It has removed many heads ...And it will remove many more.” He then returned the knife to its sheath and stared at Sargon, whose theatrical display suddenly folded.
“I know such a man,” he told Hassan. “But for such a sum, he’ll charge plenty for the service, which is a commission of the total amount, usually twenty per- cent.”
“Five.”
Sargon shrugged. “I have no control over how this man conducts business. He’ll want twenty percent, his standard rate.”
Hassan seemed to mull this over. “And your position? What do you want?”
“I can set this up for one percent.”
“One hundred thousand in American currency,” Hassan returned. “No more.”
“That won’t even—”
Hassan lifted the side of his garment to show Sargon the knife. “One hundred thousand dollars in American currency, Sargon. A good sum and not one penny more.”
Sargon reluctantly nodded. “It’s a good sum,” he admitted.
Hassan allowed the garment to fall back in place, covering the weapon. “Tell your person that his fee will be five percent, not twenty.”
Sargon nodded. “He won’t do it,” he told Hassan. “I know him. He’ll stand on twenty or not do it at all.”
Hassan leaned forward and removed his sunglasses to emphasize his point with a hard stare. “Tell him who he’s dealing with. We will do the deal at five percent.” Sargon appeared uncomfortable, the man licking his lips with a tongue that was as dry as a strip of carpet. “You don’t understand, Hassan. This man has unbelievable ties and connections. He does not care about your regime or who you are. He only cares about money.”
Hassan fell back into his seat and did a quick calculation. At twenty percent of the take, that was five million dollars in currency, a huge sum that could buy the Islamic State thousands of crates filled with assault weapons that could arm legions of fighters for decades. “Nevertheless, Sargon, you will negotiate a deal much lower than twenty percent, or your days as a capitalist will come to a quick end.” He peeled back his garment to once again show off his blade. “This I promise you.” Letting the garment fall back, Hassan got to his feet. “Time is moving quickly on this. So contact your man and make sure that we have a deal in place.” Then the assassin was gone, leaving Sargon to tremble uncontrollably.
CHAPTER EIGHT
––––––––
Cardinal Vicenza never felt beneath his station as a representative of the church as he did now. He was sitting in his study that was a library of tomes and religious books. For twenty-seven years he served as a cardinal and had grown into one of the most trusted and valued members of the pontiff’s inner circle. He had come from a small and nondescript town in Italy, a place close to Milan, and finally had found his way to Rome during his journey to serve God.
Inside the room a fire crackled in the hearth, though the cardinal kept his back to the flames. And somewhere a wall clock ticked in even measures, second
after second, the ticking as loud as knocks on the door, it seemed. And then the phone rang, an old-fashioned French-type that was elegant and suave in appearance. Lifting it to his ear and saying nothing, the cardinal calmly listened until the man on the other end finished. Then from the cardinal: “No ...Nothing.”
More talking from the other end.
Then the cardinal added: “Yes. I understand.”
More talking, this time a long conversation that was one-sided. Then there was the sound of an audible click, which was quickly followed by the flat-line drone of a severed line.
The cardinal held the receiver out and stared at it a moment before returning it to its cradle. With the fire snapping and burning in the background, with the wall clock ticking off the seconds too loudly, the cardinal heard none of this as he took a seat in a wingback leather chair and slumped into its cushions. As he sat there staring at a fixed point on the wall, Cardinal Vicenza felt dirty and corrupt, so much so that not all the showers in the world could wash away the filth, since it was in- grained and deep inside him.
And then he broke, the man bringing his hands to his face, and wept openly into his palms.
“Forgive me!” he pleaded, the words muffled by his hands. “Please, God, forgive me. For I have betrayed the church.”
A knot of wood snapped and popped in the fire, a sound as loud as a gunshot. But the cardinal didn’t notice, didn’t react. Instead, he continued to sob as his conscience began its descent into a spiraling darkness he was sure would be the beginning route to his Damnation.
CHAPTER NINE
––––––––
The coolness.
The damp air.
The smell of must, mold and mildew.
The sound of water dripping from a pipe or a faucet, the noise for some reason magnified and louder than it should be.
