The Iscariot Agenda (10 page)

The assassin held the dog at bay, at least for the moment, watching the silvery threads of drool cascading down from its jaws, snapping—could smell its fetid breath as the gnashing teeth drew closer to the assassin’s throat.

The knife
!

Where . . . is . . . the . . . knife
?

With one hand on the dog, the assassin reached blindly to his right, his hand scrabbling through the sand like an arachnid searching for the blade, the hilt, a stone. 

There. In the sand. Was that a glint of steel? 

The assassin reached out, stretched his arm, his fingers flexing for the purchase of the handle.

Dog’s teeth were closing in on the throat—inches away now, closer, the grazing of teeth against flesh.

The hand found something solid, the end of the knife’s hilt, his fingers grazing the tip, but just out of grasp.

The German Shepherd’s teeth touched the assassin’s throat, the skin parting, but barely, the blood now beading, then flowing.

Dog was now going wild with blood lust.

The tip of the handle—the hilt—was now within his grasp.

The dog, in frenzy, reared his head back for the final blow.

But the assassin brought the blade out and up.

#

Hawk quickly learned
that no man can fight age. Nor was the trait of skillful hunting something merely inbred, but something that must be maintained with constant practice. Since the man had aged without the benefit of rehearsal that would have kept his skills honed, the Native American could feel his confidence wane as quickly as his endurance.

Sweat trickled down the Indian’s brow, down his cheeks, the wind doing little to cool his flesh as his heart palpitated in his chest, the rhythm threatening to misfire. And Hawk chastised himself for letting himself go.

Lightning was beginning to flash in strobe fashion, the subsequent roll of thunder shaking the granules beneath his feet. The storm was obviously upon him; a strong wind brewing.

As the sky flared with incredible brightness, the Indian was again blinded. In frustration he removed the NVG and tossed them, relying now on the skill of Apache stealth.

Hunkering low, the wind buffeting him so that his braided ponytail flagged behind him like the whipping mane of a horse, Hawk approached the position where Dog and the assassin converged.

But there was nothing but the footprints of a skirmish, which were quickly disappearing as the wind began to erase away all telltale signs by rolling sand and dust over the tracks.

The Indian then scanned the area with his head on a swivel.

There was nothing but the wind that was beginning to sough like a nocturnal howl, the wail of a banshee.

Above him the moon was being eclipsed by scudding clouds, the thunderheads from the west now beginning to stake their claim.

And then another brilliant flash, another staircase of lightning as the world lit up long enough for Hawk to recognize a shape about fifty meters to the south—that of a man?  

The Indian got low and drew a bead. When a subsequent bolt crossed the sky, it provided him with enough of a lighted glimpse to see it was a man in a Ghillie suit.

The Apache toyed with the knife by tossing it from hand to hand, feeling its weight, its heft, its power. 

Slowly, he approached the assassin from behind, careful not to attract attention.

Thirty meters away.

His temples throbbed with blood lust while his heart hammered deep inside his chest with the beat of a drum roll.

Twenty meters away.

Hawk turned the knife over in his hand, rolling it until he got a white-knuckled grip on the leather-laced handle.

Ten meters away.

Another stroke of lightning, a dazzling display of inconstant lighting as the Indian closed in, hunkering, the point of the Bowie ready to rent flesh.

Before him stood the man in the Ghillie suit, oblivious to the Indian’s approach.

I am one with the Earth. I am ‘The Ghost.’ At first you see nothing but jungle
. . .

He raised the knife in a fashion to stab and drive the blade through.

Five meters away.

. . .
then the flicker of a shape
. . .

The fabric of the Ghillie suit wavered likes blades of grass in a soft breeze. The assassin had his back to him.

And then the Indian struck, the blade biting deep through flesh, the sound reminiscent of driving a knife through a melon.

. .
. And then you were dead
.

#

The assassin watched
from behind the sandstone rise as the Indian approached from the north. He was turning a knife over in his hand, the steel glinting against the rays of a disappearing moon.

Then in a deft move the Indian drove the blade through his intended target.

The assassin did not betray a single emotion as the Bowie found its mark. 

#

Hawk could feel
the resistance of the blade driving through flesh again and again and again, the man in the Ghillie suit maintaining his feet.

Impossible
!

More stabs, then hacking, the Bowie used like a Roman gladius—the blade slicing, cutting and slashing.

Hawk stood back, observing, his chest heaving and pitching from lack of exercise, his power diminished.

The Ghillie suit fell away, revealing a small saguaro about six feet high, the trunk badly chopped.

Hawk looked at the knife, saw the juice of the cacti on its blade, then turned back to the saguaro, his face registering an uncertainty.

And then he felt an awful stab in the back of his neck—white-hot pain—as the point of a throwing star found its mark, crippling him, the large man falling to the sand as a boneless heap. At first his entire body became a tabernacle of pain, of jabs and darting pins and needles, which was subsequently followed by a wave of fire that swept throughout his entirety.  

The Indian gritted his teeth but refused to cry out. In his blurred vision he could see the assassin work against the wind toward him.

The Indian could only move his eyes, but not enough to catch a glimpse of the assassin’s face.

 “Did you really think you still had an edge after all these years?” asked the assassin. His voice was smooth and hypnotically melodic. “Is that why you did it alone? To prove to yourself that you could still be ‘The Ghost’ after all these years?”

Hawk grunted, caught himself, and let the pain ride without uttering another groan.

“You’re paralyzed,” the assassin said. His voice was steady and even, a voice without care. “The blade damaged the column bad enough to destroy the nerves. However . . .” The assassin let his words trail as he produced a silver cylinder. With a quick depression of the button a pick shot forward. “I can mercifully end the pain and send you off to the land of your ancestors. Or,” the assassin leaned closer, “you can spend the rest of your life as a quadriplegic for the next twenty years until your body atrophies to a pathetic skeleton.”

Hawk clenched his jaw in response, the disdain apparent.

“Your call, Mr. Hawk. Or, if you like, I will make the decision for you.”

The Indian looked skyward, the repose of his face becoming stoic and unmoving.

“I see,” said the assassin, who then grabbed the Bowie from the sand. “I’ll need this,” he added. And then he placed his hands beneath the large Native American and flipped him onto his stomach. Sweeping the braided ponytail aside, the assassin removed the star and laid the point of the pick against the base of the man’s skull, the tip indenting the flesh. “May the spirits have mercy on your soul,” he said.

And then he punched the weapon home.

#

Standing in the
doorway of Kimball’s room, the assassin held something in his hands. Slowly, as Kimball slept with his chest rising and falling in even rhythm, the man crept silently into the room.

Through the NV monocular he appropriated from Hawk everything appeared green and definable.

Kimball was laying on his side with his knees drawn up and his arms in a manner of self embrace.

The assassin moved closer, his footfalls so silent no one would have known the man was there, even if awake.

Kimball shifted, moving a leg.

And the assassin stilled.

A moment later, when Kimball found his comfort point, the killer moved forward careful not to awaken the sleeping giant, and placed the item in his hands on the night table beside the bed.

Through the NV monocular the assassin watched Kimball, his head tilting from left to right as if studying a living cryptogram.

And then he began to retreat, the assassin backpedaling slowly, softly, always maintaining a keen eye on Kimball as he slept.  

And then like a wisp of smoke caught within the current of a breeze, he was gone.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Vatican City

Pope Pius lay in bed propped up by a myriad of pillows examining documents through glasses that hung precariously on the tip of his nose. Papers lay scattered across his comforter. And the glow of the mid-afternoon sun rained in through the panes of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

There was a slight knocking on the door. “Come in.”

Bonasero Vessucci entered the pope’s chamber, softly closed the door behind him, and stood next to his friend’s bed.  “Are you comfortable, Amerigo?”

The pope removed the glasses and held the stem between his thumb and forefinger. “As good as expected,” he answered. “No matter how much I sleep, I’m always tired.” He quickly noted the concern on the cardinal’s face. “What is it, Bonasero?”

The cardinal sighed. “It appears someone at Gemelli leaked the fact to
Il Messagero
that you have cancer.”
Il Messagero
was the leading newspaper in Rome. “The conservatives in the College of the Cardinals are already gathering.”

“It’s nothing personal, my dear friend, you know that. It’s politics.”

“Right now, Giuseppe Angullo is politicking his way to be the next server of the pulpit.”

Pius waived a hand dismissively. “He won’t have the votes from the consensus party no matter how hard he tries to promote his platform. He is too much of a conservative not only to the constituency of the Church, but also to the citizenry of its followers. A good man he is, but if he refuses to bend, even if bending is a necessity with a changing world, then he chances the risk of losing the faith of a constituency. Even the Curia will recognize that.”   

“True. But he has many supporters and is an ally to Cardinal Marcello, who also has a strong camp of followers. Together, Amerigo, they may conform into a single, large camp that would endorse Marcello to take over the post as the next pontiff.  
Il Messagero
is reporting this to the people in the columns of the front page.”

Pius chewed on his lower lip, realizing where Vessucci was going. Marcello was a powerful cardinal with conservative constituents inside the Church that would never allow the right for the Vatican Knights to exist, deeming them too militant a faction even though there was a need for them. The Society of Seven would disband.

“If his following becomes too strong,” said the cardinal, “then the Knights will not have a following. I will not keep them active behind Marcello’s back, should he be elected.”

“And you shouldn’t,” he returned. “But you have a strong backing. But more importantly, you have
my
support. I will counter Marcello’s followers by calling them to counsel in solitary, if necessary, and garner their favor on your behalf. I will have them commit, as a favor to me.”

“It seems so political.”

“It’s been the way of the Church since its conception,” he said. “It’s what has kept Catholicism afloat for all these centuries. And right now it needs strong leadership. And I believe, Bonasero, with all my heart that you can take the Church on the right path in a world growing morally corrupt every day in a time when it needs us most. The Vatican Knights must be a staple to this Church until all men can lay down their swords and live in peace. But until that time we need people like Kimball and Leviticus to man the front lines when peace is no longer forethought in the minds of men.”

The cardinal leaned over and patted a pillow, an attempt to fluff it.

“We knew this day was coming,” the pope stated, smiling lightly. “Nobody lives forever, Bonasero, we know that. So the mantle will be passed to you. All I ask is that you hold it high and make God proud with the way you serve Him.”

Bonasero Vessucci nodded and smiled back, but the smile was weak and feigned.

“Now, about the Knights,” said the pontiff.

Vessucci nodded. “Leviticus and Isaiah are still tied up with their missions. So far, there are no casualties or collateral damage. They’ve also managed to pull innocents out of harm’s way, and are taking them to debarkation points where allied support will take them to safe zones.”

“That’s good,” said the pontiff. “Very good. And what about Kimball? Have we heard from him yet?”

“No. Not since the SIV aided him to get to his New Mexico contact.”

“Victor Hawk?”

“Yes. But Kimball hasn’t contacted us yet.”

“You look concerned.”

The cardinal nodded. “Kimball was supposed to contact me over an hour ago . . . But he hasn’t.” 

The pope sighed, and then looked out the window—a beautiful day, sunny, birds taking flight against a perfect canvas of blue sky. The man had every right to be concerned, he thought, since it wasn’t like Kimball not to keep his contact times; unless, of course, he was unable to.

The pontiff closed his eyes. “Dear Lord,” he said.

It was all he could whisper. 

#

“Again!”

The wavering light of the torches cast awkward shadows against the surrounding stone walls of the chamber that held no windows. The room was circular with a domed ceiling and a wraparound second tier that overlooked the area. In the center of the room Kimball was mentoring three of the youngest knights: Ezekiel, Job and Joshua, with Ezekiel being the eldest at thirteen and Job and Joshua twelve.

Kimball was pacing back and forth like a caged animal, his hands behind the small of his back as he watched the boys with strict examination, looking for minute imperfections in style as they went through the motions and techniques of aikido, a Japanese art form of self-defense.

While Joshua and Job employed locks and holds against each other by utilizing the principle of nonresistance to cause an opponent's momentum to work against them, aikido also emphasized the importance of achieving complete mental calm and control of one's own body to master an opponent's attack. There are no offensive moves. Yet while they seemed to be grasping the techniques with fluidity, Ezekiel floundered, the moves and locks mere puzzles to him as he looked awkward in his performances. 

When Job attacked Joshua, Joshua grabbed Job by the hand, bent his wrist away from his body, and sent Job into a perfect somersault with the twelve-year-old landing hard on his side on the mat.

“Very good, Joshua. And you too, Job. Both of you did a nice job. Now hit the showers. The two of you are done for the day.”

Joshua and Job pumped their fists high into the air and headed off down the stone-walled corridor.

Ezekiel watched them go with hangdog eyes.

And Kimball took a knee beside him so that they were of equal height. “You want to be the best, don’t you?”

The boy remained silent. He had been training for years, but seen others progress faster—those who were younger and greener; those with the affinity to do what came to them naturally, whereas he struggled mightily.

And then: “I’ll never be as good as them,” he finally said. “I can barely tie my shoes.”

Kimball smiled. “You’ll do fine, Ezekiel. I have faith in you. Sometimes you have to work harder than others in order to achieve greatness.”

“I don’t want to work harder. I just want to be good.”

“Look, Ezekiel, I will work with you until you get it right. And before too long you will be better than Job and Joshua combined.”

“I doubt that. They’re really good.”

“You doubt it? Well, let me tell you something. Remember a few years back you could barely hold a sword?”

He nodded.

“Well, you said the same thing back then. But look at you now. You’re the best I have in Chinese Kenpo in your age group.”

Ezekiel sighed.

Kimball brushed a hand across the boy’s head, messing his hair. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Tomorrow I’ll show you my secrets, how’s that? I’ll show you things that even Job and Joshua have never seen before.”

The boy beamed. “Really?”

“If you promise to show me more heart.” Kimball stood and patted Ezekiel on the crown of his head. “Off you go,” he said, giving him a little push toward the hallway. “You’re going to have a long day tomorrow, so get a good night’s sleep.”

Ezekiel responded by racing down the stone-arched corridor. “Tomorrow!” he shouted.

Kimball watched the boy disappear beyond the light of the torches.

“He’s quite a project, isn’t he?” Cardinal Vessucci came forth from the shadows opposite the hallway.

“How long have you been watching?”

“For a while,” said the cleric. And then: “The boy’s struggling, Kimball.”

“He’s struggled with everything he’s done,” he returned. “But that’s okay since success does not come without struggle.”

“Kimball, the boy does not have the natural tools to be a Knight. What you do you do for yourself—not for the boy.”

“I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“You’re trying to right this boy by hoping it will right you. To save him is honorable, yes. But save him some other way. Do not make him a Vatican Knight when he does not have the tools to become one.”

“I believe in him.”

“Kimball, it’s noble to believe in someone who is down, but it’s even nobler to let someone go if you know in your heart the truth. If he goes into battle as a warrior for the Church and is weak at his trade, then he will surely be killed. Can you live with that knowing all along that he never really belonged?”

Kimball was heated. “You took me in believing I could find salvation within myself, yet I still haven’t found it. Not yet. So maybe I don’t belong.”

“I see. You demand of the boy what you don’t demand from yourself.” The cardinal turned and walked to a stairway leading to the second tier that led to an outside balcony. As he climbed the stairs lifting the hem of the robe as he ascended, he continued to speak. “I believe in you, Kimball, as does the pope and everyone within the Society of Seven. You have given us no reason otherwise.” When the cardinal reached the doorway leading to the outside loggia, he turned and faced Kimball. “But don’t expect from the boy what you don’t expect from yourself.”

And then he opened the door, the chamber illuminating with a bright and dazzling . . .

. . . Light.

Beautiful, glorious morning light.

When Kimball’s brain registered the light beyond the folds of his lids, he immediately reacted purely on instinct by bolting from the mattress with his hand reaching for the KA-BAR strapped to his thigh. In a skillful move the blade was in his hand in a firm grasp, his legs parted, knees bent, the man ready to rock and roll.

He knew he had overslept, the fatigue carrying him deeper than he wanted to, the hours slipping by.

“Hawk!”

He checked his watch. He should have been up hours ago, when it was still dark.

“Hawk!”

No response—just an uneasy silence.

And then he saw it—on the night stand. Dog’s head sat sentinel with his ribbon of tongue hanging out, his eyes already taking on the milky sheen of death.

He could have killed me
, Kimball thought.
He was here, in this room
. Dog’s head was testament to that, a perverse message.

Hawk
?

Kimball hunkered low with blade in hand, his head on a swivel as he moved slowly from the room and into the hallway.

The front door was open, giving view to a landscape cleansed by a rain he was oblivious to, fresh and pure and unadulterated.

He moved down the hallway, his senses kicking in, the feeling of not being alone paramount.

And then:
Why didn’t he kill me? He was right beside me—had every opportunity. Why didn’t he do it
?

The surface of the porch was beaded with drops of rain and the air smelled like ozone, usually the promise of more rain to come, even though the sky was clear.

Kimball carefully scanned the terrain, close and afar, sighting nothing.

Next to the chair was the MP-5 Hawk left from the night before. Kimball picked it up and snuck back into the house for cover, checking the chamber and noting that the weapon was ready for fire action.

He then brought the weapon up until the scope met his eye. With his head on a swivel and his body low to the ground, he exited the house and onto the porch.

With head shifts to the left and right, Kimball pointed the weapon in the direction to the east, and then the west in grid fashion, always moving in case he was caught in the crosshairs, a hard target to hit.

Twenty minutes later he found Hawk lying face down in red clay that used to be sand until it rained. His shirt was torn and parted, revealing the Indian’s backside.

Carved into the flesh was the letter ‘R.’

Kimball then turned the man over, the wet clay making a perfect imprint of Hawk’s face and body. Little clumps of clay stuck to the man’s face and Kimball brushed it off. And then he looked out over the desert terrain knowing that the assassin was gone.

He was keeping with the sequential order of the photo, the brothers being next, Kimball last.

If he wanted Kimball dead, then he could have done it when the opportunity availed itself as he lay in bed, an easy kill. It was apparent he wanted him alive to the very end and was probably off to engage the twin brothers to complete the kills sequentially.

Kimball lowered the point of the weapon and stood to his full height.  

He was, after all, alone here.

Looking down at Hawk, he recalled that his skin once held the deep, rich tone of tanned leather, but was now the color of ash.

Kimball took in a long deep breath, and then let it out with an equally long sigh. Closing his eyes, he whispered, “Iscariot.”