The Iscariot Agenda (23 page)

But looking at the word ISCARIOT emblazoned on the stone wall, he realized deep down he would never change. He was what he was: a killer. After making wonderful strides, he now came to the conclusion that he now wanted to kill because he wanted to. Not because he had to.

Salvation would have to wait another day.

As he was leaving the armory, he noted the sketch on the wall one last time, ISCARIOT, and then gazed upon the Vatican Knights lying on the floor in blood pools that had glazed to the color of tar. There were three in the armory, this he knew. And a single question emerged:
Where is he?

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Beneath Vatican City, The Necropolis

The Vatican Necropolis, also known as the Scavi, is virtually a city that lies five to twelve meters beneath the Basilica. Between the years 1940 to 1957, the Vatican supported archeological digs which uncovered parts of the city dating back to Imperial rule when pagan beliefs flourished. In 2003, during the construction of a parking lot, more of the city was revealed where chambers of preserved frescoes and mosaics of Christian traditions were discovered rather than the previously discovered tombs of pagan castes.

South of St Peter's Basilica is a marker allocating the place where the obelisk once stood in the circus of Nero. Today, this obelisk sits in the middle of St Peter's Square. It was here that Saint Peter was rumored to have been crucified and buried in a simple rock tomb that extended north along the via Cornelia. To the right of the Sacristy, beneath another archway, lay the entrance to the Necropolis. 

The assassin had made his way to the Tomb of the Egyptians with Cardinal Vessucci, and sequestered the man inside the mausoleum.

Painted in the center of the north wall is the Egyptian god Horus, the God of the Dead. Surrounding them sarcophagi filled the room with carved bacchanal settings bearing mythical scenes, which gave the tomb its name.

“Why are you doing this?” Vessucci asked. He sounded more perturbed than frightened.

The assassin ignored him.

“You are a Vatican Knight.”

“I know,” said the assassin. “Loyalty above all else, except Honor.”

“That’s right. And where is the honor in this?”

The assassin leaned forward and cocked his head. “In war, Cardinal, the only thing that is consistent is that both sides believe they are right. And these opposing sides are bound by a code of honor that is obviously different from their opponent. It’s a code of honor that is diverse from his enemy—yet a code, nonetheless. Your honor is not my honor. I have a different set of rules, a different agenda.”

The assassin looked away and lifted the cylinder. In play he pressed the button over and over again, the pick shooting in and out, in and out, the pick stabbing upward and outward, then retracting, over and over again.

. . .
Chick
. . .

. . .
Chook
. . .

. . .
Chick
. . .

. . .
Chook
. . .

Time seemed endless for the cardinal.

“And what is your agenda? To destroy Kimball?”

The assassin stopped pressing the button and stared at the cardinal for a long moment. “My agenda, Cardinal, is to deny the man his salvation and send him to Hell where he belongs.”

“And you do this by killing off his team?’

“What I did, I did for a reason. I didn’t do it for the sake of ‘just because.’ Those men got exactly what they deserved.”

Cardinal Vessucci nodded his head in disbelief, his face taking on the semblance of a man about to break because of overwhelming regret. “There’s no need for this,” he told him. “Kimball has fought very hard to turn away from his past.”

“Sometimes, Cardinal, a man can never truly turn away from what he really is. And that’s about to be tested.”

The assassin continued to work the cylinder, the pick shooting upward and then inward in measured repetition, until the walls of the Egyptian Tomb echoed with the sound of the weapon’s play.

. .
. Chick . . .

. . . Chook . . .

. . . Chick . . .

. . . Chook . . .

#

There are seven
stages of grieving with anger third on the list. Kimball was already there, leapfrogging the first two stages with lightning speed as he made his way toward the cardinals’ quarters of
the
Domus Sanctæ Marthæ
, the residence named after St. Martha, which lies on the edge of Vatican City but adjacent to St. Peter’s Basilica.

His eyes were focused and determined, his features hard and dogged as he quickened his pace. Although he wore his required cleric’s shirt and Roman Catholic collar, he also wore his martial pants and military boots. To cover up the weaponry, he wore a coat long enough to cover the KA-BARs sheathed to his thighs and the firearm holstered to his hip. When a marginal wind blew, however, the tails of the coat rose and billowed behind him, giving someone who may have been looking for the chance to spy the armaments he was carrying.

In hastened manner he crossed the square to the
Domus Sanctæ Marthæ
, the hotel-like residential dormitory of the cardinals, and ventured inside. Kimball took the steps two at a time until he reached the third floor, and walked down the corridor toward Vessucci’s quarters. After knocking on the door and receiving no answer, he quickly entered the residence and summarily shut the door behind him.

Although far from spacious, the quarters were quasi-luxurious with scarlet décor, gold-fringe hem work at the base of the scalloped drapery, polished brass accouterments, and carved moldings of cherubs and angels along the ceiling. The cardinal’s room was immaculate. The bed made with military precision; at least enough to bounce a quarter off, thought Kimball; and the wooden blinds were wide open, giving a sweeping view of the Basilica that was no less than two hundred meters away. 

Kimball went from room to room calling out the cardinal’s name.

A cool wind came in through the window—enough to raise the tail of his coat as he stood in the center of the room, the coat’s tail flagging enough to pull back and reveal his KA-BARs and firearm.

As soon as the wind died away the flap of his coat fell to his sides, hiding everything. The jacket, it appeared, served nothing more than a façade hiding all that was true underneath.  

As Kimball was about to exit, he noticed a cell phone lying next to a crystal trinket by the door. It was something he missed earlier, something with a note attached to it.

After grabbing the phone and giving it a quick perusal, he then read the attached letter: DIAL #8, IF YOU WISH TO SEE THE GOOD CARDINAL AGAIN.

Kimball examined the phone for a brief moment before dialing the button, and waited.

And there was no mistaking the voice.

“
I see that you found the phone
,” the assassin said.

“Why didn’t you just leave it in the armory along with your other message?”

“
And risk having security find it instead of you, so that they can track my phone down through GPS? No thanks. That would have been the first thing the SIV would have done at a murder scene, once they got a hold of it
.”

“Why are you doing this?” Kimball’s voice sounded pained.

 “
I think it’s quite obvious, don’t you
?”

“Bonasero was like a father to you.”

“
Like you tried to be a father to me
?”

“Look. Your war is not with him. It’s with me.”

“
Oh, you’re absolutely right about that. I have no intentions of hurting the good cardinal. He’s just the honey to draw the fly to the trap. And it’s time, Kimball. This has been a long time coming.
”

“Where are you?”

“
We’re inside the Tomb of the Egyptians
,” he told him, “
in Necropolis. And come alone. If you bring security with you, then Cardinal Vessucci will follow the same fate as the Knights who lie dead on the armory floor. Is that clear? Is there any question as to what I want from you? I want it clearly understood that this battle is between you and me
.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” he said with an edge. “I’m coming alone. And when I get through with you, you son of a bitch, it won’t be pretty.”

“
Yeah, well—we’ll see
.”

The assassin hung up.

Kimball stared at the phone for a long moment before placing it gingerly on the nightstand. Slowly, as his face began to drop with regret, he made his way across the room and stood before the window. Straight ahead stood the Basilica—such a magnificent structure, he thought, less than two hundred meters away and located above the city of the dead.

Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath and released it with an equally long sigh. And in the flash of a moment regret consumed him, the sting of tears welling. And from the corner of his eye he let one slide and course along his cheek to the base of his chin.

Why did it have to be you
?

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

During his time with the Vatican, Kimball had trained many. But training Joshua, Job and Ezekiel had been his favorites, almost remolding and reshaping arts of work into classics. Only he did so without the use of his hands, but by influencing them with psychology and schoolings, and with paternal direction encompassing body, mind and soul.

As children he recognized the fact that as children they had to engage in recreation. Often he would take them to the fields to play fútbol, only to top it off with a trip into Rome for gelato. They had always been high-spirited youths, happy. Joshua had always been the biggest and held the highest degree of machismo, always asserting himself with posturing to be first and foremost. Of the three Job was the most gregarious, always quick with a joke. But in the arena there was no question that he was the most competitive who possessed the need to win at all costs, even if that cost was personal sacrifice. Ezekiel was the workhorse who trained hours on end to be better, stronger and faster than the rest. Slow to develop, Kimball spent numerous hours with him so that the future Knight could exceed his own expectations. With indefatigable effort, Ezekiel fell and rose to every occasion, learning that success always came with struggle.

And now it had all come down as a horrible and final curtain call, Kimball thought. Two lives were gone and a third was about to be snuffed out, if he had his way.

On occasion, tours are offered into the depths of Necropolis. On this day, however, the ‘City of the Dead’ was quiet.

Kimball took the steps quietly, the Smith & Wesson firmly within his grasp.

Above him incandescent bulbs glowed feebly, making his intrusion less than stealthy.

At the bottom of the steps sat the Tomb of the Egyptians. 

Kimball stopped and listened.

Nothing.

Another step downward, closer to the tomb, the point of his weapon directed to kill. Within meters he knew the assassin lay in wait. 

And then he realized that he was the ‘T’ in Iscariot.

Within his vision he saw one of many sarcophaguses within the tomb. And then he saw the cardinal sitting beneath the ancient portrait of Horus, God of the Dead.

The Vatican Knight reestablished his grip on his firearm.

The owl-eyed cardinal remained still, but was not bound or gagged.

Kimball finally hit the landing to the Tomb of Egyptians.

And then from his left a Chinese star flew silently through the air with amazing precision and struck Kimball’s weapon, the firearm knocked from his hand and to the floor. In reaction he reached for the pistol.

“Don’t,” ordered a voice.

Kimball froze, knowing the lethal accuracy of the assassin’s ability.

“Well, well, well. Leave it to you to come to a knife fight with a gun,” the assassin said. 

He stepped forward, from Kimball’s left, a Chinese star within his hand.

Kimball turned, his face a mask of controlled rage, and watched the assassin place the star within a secured pocket.

“You are, and will be, the ‘T’ in Iscariot,” he told him.

Kimball squared off with the assassin and clenched his fists at his sides. “I cared for you like a son,” he said.

Ezekiel made his way toward the cardinal with a feigned smile, his eyes cautiously fixed on Kimball. “The truth, Kimball, is that you only cared for yourself,” he stated evenly. “The only reason why I was chosen to be a Vatican Knight was so that you could pacify your feelings of guilt. Isn’t that so?”

“I gave you a chance!”

“At what? To serve you after you murdered my grandfather?”

“I gave you a chance!”

Ezekiel halted and stood his ground. His eyes focused on Kimball with a steely gaze. Then in manner that was calmly forced, he said, “You murdered my grandfather and left me without family.”

“Your grandfather went too far against forces he should not have opposed. He was becoming a threat to democracy.”

Ezekiel cocked his head. “A threat to democracy? My grandfather
was
democracy!”

Now it was Kimball’s turn to force calm. “Senator Cartwright became a wayward politician whose power grew too much for him to handle. He threatened senators and congressmen in both Houses with career-ending blackmail if they did not support his agendas deemed critically dangerous to the sovereignty of the United States.”

Ezekiel couldn’t help the surfacing smile. “And here you are,” he began, “standing before me as a Vatican Knight justifying the act of murder.”

“I was under orders by my superiors at the time to eliminate a valid threat.”

“So that makes it all right?”

Kimball hesitated. And then: “No . . . No, it doesn’t.”

Ezekiel began to pace once again, never turning his back on Kimball. “I was only six,” he said. “And I remember quite vividly when you entered the estate and killed my grandfather. I was hiding inside a cupboard, remember? And then I heard my grandfather say that he created you . . . and that the monster had finally returned to kill its creator. It was the last thing I heard my grandfather say before you opened the door to the cupboard. And it was then that I saw him lying against the desk with his throat cut. I’m sure you remember that moment, don’t you?”

Kimball did not answer, believing the question to be rhetorical.

“Instead of following through with protocol by eliminating me, you allowed me to live. And with some semblance of humanity you caressed my cheek as if to say that the murder of my grandfather would somehow pass into obscurity, and that all would be forgiven and forgotten.”

“You were just a child.”

“And as all children do, they grow to become men.” Then in a manner that resonated like admonishment, he said, “You should have killed me along with my grandfather, as you were ordered to do. Now your past has caught up with you, Kimball. And in your case, it has . . .
I
am now the monster who has returned to kill
its
creator. Just as you have betrayed my grandfather, I have now come back to betray you . . . I am your Judas Iscariot. And I will destroy you.”

Kimball began to pace with agitation and grace. “You can try,” he said.

Ezekiel matched Kimball’s actions, the men pacing in concert like mirror images.

“By failing to follow protocol and allowing me to live, it will cost you your life.”

“Ezekiel, maybe I failed you, granted. But I tried to give you what your grandfather obviously couldn’t give you, which was a good life.”

“And there we have it,” he said. “I was nothing more to you than a pet project to help appease whatever guilt you were feeling at the time.”

Kimball took on a quizzical look.

“Don’t look at me like that,” said Ezekiel. “I’m not stupid. I know about the two boys you killed in Iraq during an operation, and how that moment became an epiphany for you to seek salvation.”

Their pace quickened, each matching the others actions by moving to and fro like caged animals whose tensions were mounting with every pass.

“I recognized you immediately the moment you entered the boy’s home. I never forgot your face. In fact, I thought you came back to finish the job, until I saw the cardinal.”

“I wanted to help you,” he said.

“You wanted to save me because you were ridden with guilt! You didn’t want to help me! You wanted to
save
me because you couldn’t save those boys. And by saving me you were saving yourself! I was nothing more to you than someone who could fill that gaping hole in your life that was crammed full of despair and regret.
I
became your act of redemption!
I
became the child who could save
you
! Admit it!”

Kimball sighed. “Perhaps in the beginning, yes, I agree. But over time you became so much more, Ezekiel. Of the three, I became closer to you than I did with Job or Joshua.”

“You’re getting me all misty-eyed.”

“Look. I don’t expect you to forgive me, not after what I’ve done. But what you’ve done has exceeded any chance of salvation in my eyes and in the eyes of the Church. You killed your two best friends.”

“Job and Joshua were nothing but an extension of you,” he stated sourly. “Do you have any idea how much I truly hated them? I hated everything that revolved around you, anything you had anything to do with. My passion for you and everything you were about became my hatred. And my hatred became my passion and crusade. Job and Joshua were a part of you like the Pieces of Eight. And I wanted you to watch everyone close to you die. But unlike you, I had absolutely no intention to reach out to you with any sense of humanity once they were gone.”

“You could have killed me at Hawk’s ranch.”

“Sure I could have. But my agenda was quite clear. I wanted to destroy everything that was about you. I wanted your legacy to die by the proverbial pieces. And I wanted you to watch everyone who had been a part of your life disappear until you had nothing left to draw from. I wanted you to see your life minimized to nothing, before the moment of your death.”

Kimball couldn’t help feel a hurtful pang: such hatred. And then he removed his long coat and draped it over a sarcophagus.

Ezekiel quickly noted the knives sheathed to the warrior’s thighs, but expected no less since they were Kimball’s weapons of choice. 

“There’s no turning back,” said Kimball. “Not now. Not after what you’ve done.”

“What I’ve done was no different than what you’ve done. So perhaps you’re right. Perhaps there is no turning back after what we’ve both done. No salvation, no true hope of ever achieving redemption . . . Now you can stand there all day if you want and tell me how sorry you feel for all the horrible things you did and why you did them. But let’s face it; confession doesn’t always save the soul.”

Kimball nodded. “And that’s why I’m going to kill you with the feeling that I
want
to. Not because I
have
to.”

Kimball took a quick and worried glance at the cardinal.

“Don’t worry about him,” said Ezekiel. “I’ll keep my word regarding his welfare. Even though he’s a major part of your life, he’s still a clergyman. My war is with you. And besides, perhaps on the Day of Judgment, this moment of letting him live will give me a pass into White Eternity.”

“You really believe that?”

Ezekiel nodded. “No more than you believing that your salvation is within reach.”

Without comment Kimball slowly reached down and undid the snap of the first KA-BAR sheath with his right hand, then followed up by undoing the second snap with his left. Grabbing the hilts of the knives, he retracted them slowly from their holds, the sound of the slide between leather and metal minimal. 

Ezekiel also approached the situation with the same sense of caution by never taking his eyes off Kimball and readied up. Reaching up and over his shoulder, he grabbed the handle of a katana and slid it free from its scabbard that festooned his backside.

“I see you have your toy,” said Kimball.

“One of many. But unlike the wooden one you trained me with, I promise you this one is very real, very sharp, and very deadly.”

“I appear to be at a disadvantage.”

“I always said mine was bigger than yours.”

Kimball held up his KA-BARs. “But two is always better than one.”

“We’ll see.”

The men slowly converged on one another with Ezekiel holding the polished blade of the katana in front of him with both hands, while Kimball gripped the knives tightly within his.

In trained combat fashion they sized each other up, the men looking for gaps, creases and moments of weakness.

The warriors were closing in, circling, seeking.

And then came an opportune moment.

Ezekiel came across in a horizontal flash of the katana’s polished blade and struck Kimball’s knife, the attack easily deflected with such casual ease on Kimball’s part that it slightly unnerved Ezekiel.

“Is that all you’ve got?”

Ezekiel reflected a cautionary smile. “I haven’t even started.” As the last word left his lips, Ezekiel pivoted on the balls of his feet and attacked Kimball with a flurry of blows. The blade came downward, then across, followed by jabs and strikes, all neatly deflected by Kimball as sparks flew, danced and died. The momentum of the fight carried them across the chamber, close to a sarcophagus, Kimball running out of space.

The katana struck in rapid succession, the arcing sweeps of the blade moving too fast for the cardinal to see anything other than brief flashes of light from the blade’s luster.

Kimball countered defensively, his arms and hands moving with incredible speed, more by intuition than thought, the KA-BARs matching the same lightning speed as Ezekiel’s, strike, jab, defend. 

Numerous sparks began to fly, the pace of the men gathering impetus as the blades struck repeatedly against one another, metal against metal, sparks flying everywhere as if the weapons were forged from flint rather than steel.

Kimball moved backward, losing ground, the stress beginning to weigh on him as his face began to contort with the strain of effort. His arms moved in blinding motions, up, down, across, deflecting the blade of the katana time and again.

Ezekiel appeared to pick up his effort, sensing a kill, the arcing strikes fluid, poetic, the speed of the blows wearing down his opponent.

Blow after blow Kimball was forced into a slow retreat, his back against the sarcophagus with less than a meter to spare.

And then in a vertical blow, Ezekiel brought the blade downward as if to cleave the man in half. But Kimball crossed his knives so that the blades made a perfect X and caught the blade within the upper-V portion of the X.

For a long moment time stood still, the men eyeing each other as their chests heaved and pitched for oxygen, the instant a welcome respite from the activity, the blades locked.