The Iscariot Agenda (21 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

It’s said that if you do not view everything on a daily basis but return later after a long gap of interaction with someone, then the changes are evident. But if you see someone daily, then the changes are not as clear. Such was the case of Pope Pius XIII.

When Kimball saw the man he seemed to have aged dramatically over the past few days. He was pale. And his face was beginning to drop as his jowls became more pronounced. But the old man’s smile was remarkably genuine as the pontiff raised himself from his seat to greet Kimball as he walked through the chamber doors.

The men fell into each other’s embrace, and suddenly Kimball felt a terrible pang of impending loss and did not release the man after a long moment.

“I’m glad you’re well,” said the pontiff, drawing away.

“Your condition . . .” Kimball let his words fall away.

“It’s all right, Kimball. I’m fully prepared. And that makes all the difference in the world. Now please,” he said, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. “I want you and the cardinal to have a seat. We have much to discuss.”

Kimball was dressed as a Vatican Knight—the black cleric shirt and Roman collar, which was incongruous to the black fatigues and boots.  Cardinal Vessucci wore his typical black cloak and scarlet zucchetto.

“What’s going to happen to me is inevitable,” began the pope. “What may also be inevitable, if Cardinal Vessucci does not ascend to the papacy, is the continuance of the Vatican Knights.”

Kimball turned to Vessucci, then back at the pope. “Bonasero has a strong camp,” he said. “And he’s the secretary of state. He’s well positioned.”

Pope Pius nodded. “He is. But it has come to my attention that Cardinal Angullo’s camp is going to merge with Cardinal Marcello’s.”

“Has this been confirmed?”

“I’ve been told by those who are neutral that the camps are merging.”

“What does that mean?” asked Kimball.

“It means,” started Cardinal Vessucci, “that my camp has been severely weakened.”

“The world is becoming secular but Cardinal Marcello is unwilling to bend, even in small measures. And the traditionalists within the rank and file see this as a moment to fill the papacy with a staunch conservative, which Bonasero is not.”

Kimball leaned forward. “Are you saying that if Cardinal Marcello wins the papal throne, then he’ll disband the Vatican Knights?”

“Cardinal Marcello will not see the Vatican Knights as saviors of the citizenry of the Church. He will see them as a military force and equate them with warfare and brutality.”

“But that’s not what we’re about.”

“I know that. And Cardinal Vessucci knows that. And so do those within the Society of Seven. But there are certain constituencies within this Church that will never align themselves with those who agree with the existence of the Vatican Knights for the reason I just proposed to you.”

“Then we’ll enlighten them,” said Kimball.

“To inform the constituencies of the Vatican Knights will cause controversy and most likely division within the Church, which we cannot afford. The pope is the bearer of Vatican secrets and must hold them close, in order to keep the Church from dividing. However, all secrets must be delivered to the pope in a way that the mantle is passed, and he must become the Bearer. And as the Bearer, he has the right to choose what to do with those secrets accordingly. Knowing that Cardinal Marcello is conservative by nature, he will most assuredly disband the Knights, which is something I would believe to be in grave error.”

“So what do we do?”

“In the time I have left, the good cardinal and I must campaign with due diligence. I still have pull with some of the traditionalists. And Bonasero has good report with those in the College, who have remained neutral. I believe together we can develop a constituency that will exceed Cardinal Marcello’s. But it will take work.”

“Do you think this can be done?” asked the cardinal.

“It has to be done,” he returned.

“Why don’t we just operate under the guidance of Bonasero and the members of the Society of Seven?” asked Kimball.

“No matter what, my friend, we cannot and will not hold secrets from the reigning pope. If we begin to do that, then structure within the Church begins to break down. The pope is the figurehead of Catholicism and must sit upon the papal throne in full control. If he is not, then the institution will ultimately fail from corruption within. What the pope knows, what the pope has to know, is optimum.”

Kimball fell back into his seat. Things weren’t looking up.

The pope then addressed Kimball. “But what is even more important, my friend, is to protect you from whoever it is that is out there trying to kill you. Without you, then there can be no Vatican Knights.”

“Not true,” he said. He instantly realized the adulation. “Isaiah and Leviticus can easily lead the teams. A Vatican Knight is a Vatican Knight.”

“But none as unique as you are. And that, my friend, was not meant to be flattery.”

Kimball bowed his head with humility. He truly respected this man who saw in him what he did not see in himself: an underlying goodness. “Thank you.”

“With the grace of God,” said Pius, “then we will be able to win on both fronts.”

“And if we don’t?” asked Kimball.

“Then the Church will come under the power of a Traditionalist. And the Vatican Knights will be no more . . . And if you do not survive the war that is sure to follow you, then we will all lose.” 

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Vatican City
. Three Days Later

“He’s out there. He’s deadly . . . And he’s coming our way.”

As required, Joshua and Ezekiel returned from sabbatical. Along with Kimball and Cardinal Vessucci, they gathered inside an uncharted building which served as a barracks that was situated between the St. Martha’s Chapel and the Ethiopian College, about 200 meters west of the Basilica. The building itself was simple and nondescript, its purpose to draw little attention other than it being a housing relic created of field stone an cement mortar.

The interior was an antiquated throwback where everything was constructed of stone and rock shingle the color of desert sand. Along the walls were ornamental sconces—the natural light came in through stained glass windows that chronicled the Stations of the Cross. In the center was the Circular Chamber, a huge rotunda that separated the building into two separate wings. It was the room of ceremony where a man either became a knight of the Vatican, or as an assembly area where viewings were held for knights who had fallen in combat.

The Chamber’s floor was a mosaic masterpiece of art majestically cobbled together to form the emblem of the Vatican Knights. Centered within the coat of arms was a Silver Cross Pattée set against a blue background.

And not only did the crest serve the Vatican Knights as a symbol of positive fortitude, but also as a constant reminder of what they were as the emblem appeared everywhere throughout this house of divinity. The coat of arms was depicted in stained glass images and served as the titled insignia on their uniforms and berets. It was also acid-etched into the stone wall above the door of their living quarters.

Standing on the outskirts of the mosaic emblem with their hands clasped together behind the small of their backs, with their feet slightly parted in the at-ease position, Kimball paced back and forth briefing his team of what was to come. Yet his tone was steady and his features stoic.

“You all know what I was before I became a Knight and what I did,” he said. “My past is no secret to anybody in this room. And now it appears that it has come back to haunt me. And I mean literally.” He stopped pacing and took a spot in the center of the mosaic coat of arms. “Whoever is hunting me is doing so with a skill that rivals the Vatican Knights,” he added. “He’s stealthy, he’s deadly, and he’s methodical. In fact, he took out an entire team of seasoned vets who were once considered to be the best the world had to offer in the field of wetwork assassinations. And that’s saying something.”

“Is there anything—anything at all—that we can go on?” asked Job. “Is there anything that can give us an edge?”

Kimball nodded. “Nothing,” he said. “This guy’s without a face.”

“And a Shadowman is usually impossible to beat,” added Ezekiel. “If we don’t know our target, then how are we supposed to neutralize the situation?”

“We have to draw him in,” said Kimball. “And wait for him to make a mistake.”

“But that can come at a cost,” said Joshua.

And Joshua was right, he considered. Costs often came with the loss of life the moment the assassin revealed himself, while making his own targeted kill. Perhaps the flash of a muzzle or the victim’s dying moan. Anything that would draw attention to those acute enough to realize that something was out there whetting its desire to kill.

But this time they’d all be watching for those little imperfections.

Cardinal Vessucci crossed the floor wearing his traditional cloak and scarlet zucchetto and stood next to Kimball, who served as a physical antithesis to the much smaller man. He then asked the Knights to bow their heads in simple prayer, and then he spoke softly in Latin, only to finalize the prayer with the signature mark of the Cross. “May God be with you,” he said.

Kimball crossed the chamber floor, his footfalls echoing off the stone walls. “This is personal and none of you have to get involved in this,” he told them forwardly.

“Yes we do,” said Ezekiel. “Vatican protocol states we must protect our citizenry. Are you not a part of that?”

Kimball conceded with a marginal smile. Ezekiel’s message was clear. And he could see upon the faces of Job and Joshua that the sentiment was jointly shared. What it came down to was a single proverb signifying the mindset of a Vatican Knight:
Loyalty above all else, except Honor
.

 “Thank you,” he said.

Job broke from the ranks. “What are we waiting for?” he said. “We have a war to prepare for.”

And that was the problem as Kimball turned to Cardinal Vessucci, their gazes meeting in such a way that words weren’t necessary. The worrisome look on Kimball’s face said it all: He was not comfortable bringing his war within Vatican jurisdiction. But Vessucci’s expression was quite detailed, his features a well-scripted arrangement indicating that the Vatican was not about to abandon Kimball after what he had done for the Church time and again. And like many others in need, the Church would give him sanctuary.

Then to Vessucci in a voice that was soft and low, “Thank you.”

The cardinal smiled, bowed his head, and placed a closed fist over his heart. It was the salute of the Vatican Knights. And in Latin, he said, “Loyalty above all else, except Honor.”

Kimball reciprocated with a salute of his own, with a closed fist over his heart.

#

Vatican City is
the smallest country in the world, yet to Kimball it was the most pristine.

Not much larger than a golf course and with a population of just over 700 people, none of them permanent residents, the city served as the spiritual hub presiding over a billion Catholics.

Kimball walked leisurely along the paths of the Papal Garden. The sky was as blue as Jamaican waters and a mild breeze grazed against his skin.  Flowers bloomed in colorful riots from all around. But the surrounding magnificence seemed to have little or no interest to Kimball as his mind worked anxiously trying to determine the identity of the assassin.

He was certain that Senator Shore had nothing to do with the entire matter. But because the senator was the only person of interest who came to mind, the accusing finger automatically pointed in his direction. Now the senator lay dead along with four others who had no reason to be. If political factions were behind this, then the killings no doubt grabbed their attention and a message was sent, as the Hardwick brothers intended. But the killings continued as the brothers had fallen victim within hours of the senator’s assassination. So if the message was received in the form of a dead senator, then it had no effect. The killer was marching forward. And Kimball was now the designated target.

He was literally the last of a dying breed.

Passing clerics with a smile and a nod, Kimball racked his brain further. The consensus was that the common denominator stemmed from a single incident more than two decades ago: the sanctioned killing of a United States senator by other reigning political factions serving at the time. But the senior authority during that legislature either passed or retired into obscurity. There was no doubt in his mind that Senator Shore had the candidacy on the line with enough skeletons to fill a walk-in closet. And if anyone had reasons to cover up a past which had demonized a democratic government through decisions of iniquity at that time, then the senator seemed the likely candidate to sanitize anyone that could bring him down.

The only one
, he thought.

But something else told him differently—that instinctive gut feeling a soldier develops in the field after numerous battles, that sensation that the threat remains and the predator is still on the hunt.

But why
?

The answer eluded him.

After more than two hours of contemplation, Kimball slowly wended his way along the paths back to the housing of the Vatican Knights. When he entered, the residence was tomblike and unnervingly quiet. Job, Ezekiel and Joshua were most likely in the armory, he considered, and then he walked across the chamber floor, his footfalls echoing with hollow cadence as he traversed the mosaic design of the Vatican Knights. It was also the chamber where fallen Knights were waked after losing their life in battle. And then he wondered if he would also be viewed on top of this very symbol like others before him moments before he was to be buried in the grottos beneath the Basilica.

He stood upon the mosaic crest, upon the silver Pattée, and appreciated his surroundings. In the moment of final tribute, the Vatican Knights would stand at the outskirts of the area wearing the compliment of full dress as the pontiff and those within the Society of Seven presided over the fallen in eulogy. Once the ceremony was over, the assigned pallbearers would carry the coffin to a marble tomb within the grottos beneath the Basilica.

It was a cold place, he thought; sepulchral and earthy. But it was hallowed ground.

Moving along the corridors that lead to the residential quarters, he noted the acid-etched crest of the Vatican Knight’s above each door.

Entering his chamber and closing the door behind him, he found himself within a small room, the dimensions not much larger than a prison cell. But here he was always at peace, even though it was far from opulent in any sense of the meaning.

Against the left wall was a single-sized bed with accompanying nightstand and dresser. Opposite that against the right wall stood a small dais with a Bible upon it that had gone unread, a votive rack whose candles had never been lit, and a kneeling rail meant for prayer but had never been knelt upon. On the wall centered between these two opposing sides was a stained glass window with pieces of leaden glass forming the colorful image of the Virgin Mother reaching out her outstretched arms in invitation.  

Here was tranquility.

He sat on the edge of his bed, the mattress bowing beneath his weight. Above him the Virgin Mary’s arms were glowing with the light of the mid-day sun as they seemingly reached out to him. Standing, he traced his fingers lightly over the image, the warmth radiating through the glass, the Virgin Mary all but real.

He sat back down and closed his eyes. There was nothing but silence.  

Opening his eyes, he looked across the room and noted that the Bible was in an awkward position with its cover open and the book placed upside down on the dais. Rarely had he opened the book to reveal the pages—but even more so to leave the book in such a way.

Somebody was here
, he concluded.

Getting to his feet he crossed the room in a couple of steps.

The book was open and upside down on the podium. However, the ribbon bookmarker marked a different page of the biblical text. After leafing through the pages to the bookmarked spot, it was there that he found a Photostat copy of the Pieces of Eight.

In the moment it takes for a heart to misfire, Kimball could swear that his heart did so in the form of a swift punch to his chest.

All the faces of the team were circled with red marker, including his. But this photo was different. Within the red circle surrounding his face was the letter ‘T.’ The word ‘Iscariot’ now complete.

In seconds his emotions went from shock to rage to confusion, and then to rationalization after factoring the impossibility of the moment. But in calm measure he realized that the truth of the matter had now become a certainty.

The assassin was here.