The Iscariot Agenda (25 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Vatican City

Pope Gregory stood inside the papal chamber when a knock sounded at his door. Standing alongside him with his hands clasped together was Cardinal Angullo. They had been in discussion on many levels. Now it was time to implement new changes.

Pope Gregory rounded his desk and took a seat. “Come in.”

Cardinal Vessucci entered, leaving the door open for Cardinal Angullo who headed out of the chamber. When he passed Cardinal Vessucci he stopped and bowed his head with Vessucci reciprocating, no doubt a certain tension between them existing, and moved on. The cardinal then closed the door softly behind him, leaving Vessucci alone with the newly elected.

“Please,” said the pontiff, gesturing to an empty chair before his desk. “We’ve much to discuss.”

Vessucci took the chair. “Congratulations, Constantine. The position has been well selected by the College.”

“My understanding is that it was close. It appears that many in Cardinal Angullo’s camp amended their votes, making it closer than it was. But that is something we will never know for sure. But the fact, Bonasero, is that I am the newly elected pontiff.”

Bonasero Vessucci bowed his head in homage.

“And there are things to discuss,” the pope added. “Things that need to be clarified.”

“Of course, Your Eminence.”

“But first let me say that I’m sorry for the loss of Pope Pius. I know he was a close friend of yours. He was a good man.”

“He was a
great
man.”

Pope Gregory nodded. “I can’t argue with that,” he said. The pope fell back into his chair in leisure, studying the cardinal before him. And then: “A few months ago I sat in that same chair talking to Amerigo, who lobbied on your behalf. And we ended speaking about secrets should the Apostolic See become mine.”

“There are secrets, yes.”

“I know. And I informed him that secrets were kept because it was my opinion that there was something immoral attached to them. But as I found out about The Third Secret, that is not always the case. The Third Secret must be kept because of the nature of the calamity should the secret prove true.”

“I understand.”

“But there are other secrets, aren’t there? Secrets you’re privy to.”

“There will always be secrets,” he returned.

“Pius told me so. He also told me that if I should sit upon the throne of the Apostolic See, then you are obligated to tell me the secrets held by the Vatican.”

“He told me the same.”

Pope Gregory leaned forward. “It has come to my attention that you are a member of—what they call—the Society of Seven. Does such a group exist?”

The cardinal hesitated. The group had been covert for years. Their name had never been whispered to anyone outside the legislative body. But apparently it had.

“Does such a group exist?” he repeated.

And then: “It does.”

“And you are a reigning member?”

“I’m a member, yes.”

“Was Amerigo a member?”

“He was.”

“And who else is involved?”

“Besides myself, there are five others. Pope Pius served as the group administrator, as did Pope John Paul the Second, and many popes before him.”

“John Paul—how long has this group been around?”

“Since World War Two when the Nazi’s began to occupy surrounding territories.”

Pope Gregory appeared literally stunned, his jaw dropping slowly. “I see.” Then: “And what exactly is the purpose of this group?”

“To protect the Vatican on all fronts,” he said. “We make sure that the sovereignty of the Vatican, its interests, and the welfare of the citizenry is protected throughout the world.”

“And the seven of you do this alone? This . . . Society of Seven?”

“No. We delegate a force to troubled spots around the globe.”

“A force? You mean members of the Swiss Guard?”

Vessucci nodded. “No,” he said. “I’m talking about a very special force with very special people.”

Gregory waited patiently.

“As you know, Your Holiness, the Vatican has diplomatic ties with over ninety percent of the countries worldwide. And in a good number of them a skirmish will arise from time to time with members of Catholic citizenry getting caught in the middle.”

“So you dispatch this force?”

“Yes.”

The pontiff began to roll his fingertips across his desktop as he sat there mulling over the dialogue. “Not the Swiss Guard?”

“No, Your Holiness.”

“And is this group one of the secrets Pius was alluding to?”

“That’s possible. I wasn’t here during the course of your discussion. So I can’t inform you as to how much he let their existence be known to you.”

“Then why don’t you enlighten me,” he said. The pope stopped drumming his fingers, the room growing absolutely quiet.

“They are known as the Vatican Knights,” he said. “They’re an elite group of commandos sent on missions as directed by those within the Society of Seven. Their duty is to go into hotspots and salvage a situation before the situation is completely lost.”

“Are you talking militants?”

“I’m talking soldiers—”

“You’re talking militants who go into battle situations under the waving banner of the Vatican?”

“I am.”

Pope Gregory leaned forward. “This isn’t the Middle Ages where we spread Christianity with the point of a sword.”

“It is not their intent to spread Christianity,” he said. “They are sent into situations to save lives. And like I said, it is our duty to protect the sovereignty, the interests—”

“And the welfare of the citizenry,” he completed. “And the duty is not for us to save. Fate is the governing hand of God. Not a militant group!” The pontiff fell back into his seat, keeping a steady eye on the cardinal. And then more calmly, “Have these Knights ever killed anybody?”

“They have.”

The pontiff nodded. “Since when did murder become an agenda of the Vatican?”

“They don’t murder,” he retaliated, perhaps louder than he wanted. “They do whatever is necessary to achieve the means.”

“There will be no mercenaries under my watch,” he told him firmly.

“They are not mercenaries. They are protectors of the faith.”

“The word of God is the protector of Faith.”

“The word of God alone will not protect the Vatican or its interests or its people of what is about to come. It’s a different world out there and Catholicism is becoming a target for fanatics. Even past popes saw the right to protect the Vatican and its interests. And the Vatican Knights have been that way for over sixty years.”

“I will not support or sanction militants under the banner of God,” he returned adamantly. “If the citizenry should fall victim by the sword, then let those who fall by the sword be accepted into God’s grace while those who yield it fall into God’s fury. We are not a military unit!”

“Your Eminence, it was the Vatican Knights who saved Pope Pius in the United States when he was kidnapped by militant factions, and it was Kimball Hayden who saved the pope’s life aboard Shepherd One when the plane was hijacked.”

“Kimball Hayden?”

“He’s the team leader.”

Pope Gregory seemed to reflect on this for a moment. “And where is this unit housed?”

“In a building next to the Old Gardens,” he answered.

“On Vatican grounds?”

“Yes, Your Holiness.”

Pope Gregory nodded. “This is a new regime, Bonasero, you know that, yes?”

He nodded.

“I will not have a military faction of any type existing under my campaign as pope of the Vatican, is that understood?”

“Your Eminence, I plead you; their importance to the salvation of what’s coming makes them a necessity. They are the shield that protects the Vatican beyond city limits. To disband them would surely leave us wide open to assaults across the world.”

“You have to have faith, Bonasero, to believe that the world is not this Hell you make it out to be. The word of God is strong enough to penetrate all hearts.”

“That is true. But some people see and hear God differently. And sometimes what they hear is not always the words of kind rhetoric.”

“Faith,” was all that the pope countered with.

Cardinal Vessucci closed his eyes. He was not surprised given the nature of Marcello’s mindset, which was widely known within the College of Cardinals.

“You will disband this unit immediately,” he told the cardinal. “And I mean today. They will not spend another night on holy ground and defile everything Catholicism stands for. Is that understood?”

“Your Holiness—”

“I said, is that understood?”

The cardinal nodded. “It’s understood.”

“And you will say nothing to anybody about these . . . Vatican Knights. Is that also understood?”

“Yes, Your Holiness.”

The pontiff clasped his hands in an attitude of prayer. “There is also another matter,” he said. “There are alleged improprieties going on at the archdiocese in Boston. On most accounts I would say that most of these claims are bogus. But I need someone such as yourself who holds the judicial skills to wade through the facts and allegations and set matters straight.”

“But I’m the secretary of the state,” he said. “My duties lie here, at the Vatican.”

“Your duties, my good cardinal, are whatever I see is for the good of the Church. You are being reassigned.”

“To the United States?”

“To Boston, yes.”

“And what about my position as the Vatican’s secretary of state?”

“That position now belongs to Cardinal Angullo,” he said. “He will make an excellent addition. And I’m convinced that he will perform his duties admirably.” 

“Why are you doing this?”

The pontiff looked him squarely in the eye. “I do what I do, Bonasero, because the Church needs a new direction. The direction God intended us to follow.”

“Even God recognizes the right to defend one’s self, or the right to defend those who cannot defend themselves.” 

“You leave for Boston the day after tomorrow,” the pope stated immediately.

Obviously the war of principles was over as far as Pope Gregory was concerned, so the cardinal labored to his feet.

“One more thing,” said the pontiff, refusing to look up as he grabbed a pen and held it over a sheet of parchment. “I want the names of the five cardinals involved with this Society of Seven.”

“Why?”

“I don’t have to explain my intentions to you. I merely ask and you provide.”

“Will they also be reassigned? Sent to some obscure place for punishment for doing what they believe to be the right thing to do?”

“Names, Bonasero. Now!”

The cardinal took in a deep breath and let it out as a gesture of his mounting frustration.

And then he gave the pontiff what he wanted.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Vatican City

The Congregation of the Clergy

Inside the office of Monsignor Dom Giammacio, the air hazy with cigarette smoke, Kimball sat in his rightful chair as the monsignor waited for him to galvanize the dialogue.

This had been the first visit since the incident in Necropolis when the point of the pick missed Kimball’s heart by less than four inches. The tip, however, wedged deep and perforated his lung, causing blood to fill the sack as if it was a bladder. Along with his other wounds he was incapacitated for weeks, moving in and out of fevers as infections came and went.

Now that he rebounded to the point of mobility, he still felt sore, his breathing sometimes labored. But it was his emotions that panged him more; the loss of Pope Pius and the betrayal of Ezekiel.

Kimball raised his hand and began to rub the throb in his forearm where the Chinese star broke the bone, which had to be pieced together by pins and screws.

“Are you still ailing?” asked the monsignor.

Kimball stopped rubbing. “I’ll be fine,” he told him. And then he fell back to his stoic manner.

“Kimball, I’m sorry about the loss of Pope Pius,” he began. “His loss has struck all of us who knew him well. But you, in particular, appear to hold a deeper lament. We can talk about it if you want.”

“It’s not just him, Padre. There are other issues involved.”

“Such as what went on in Necropolis?”

“That’s part of it.”

The monsignor leaned closer. “Are you sure it’s not most of it?”

Kimball gave him a sidelong glance. “Have you ever been betrayed?”

The monsignor seemed to muse over this for a moment, and then, “I’m sure I have been.”

“Have you ever grown close to someone that you may have considered being a part of you like a son?”

“No.”

Kimball looked away, his eyes growing distant, detached, his mind visualizing something only he could see. “Do you know what happened in the Necropolis?”

“I know you were severely injured down there. I believe you received a broken arm and perforated lung for your efforts in saving the good Cardinal Vessucci.”

“The cardinal was never in jeopardy,” he said. “It was all about me. I was being tested.”

“By the one who tried to kill you?”

“By him, by God, by me—it was all about seeing if I had the true ability to change.”

“To change?”

Kimball nodded. “The last time we met you told me that redemption was within my grasp because I had become something different than what I used to be. You said that I killed because I wanted to, but now I kill because I have to . . . And there lies the difference between the darkness and light.”

“I remember.”

“In the Necropolis, when I learned that I was betrayed by someone very close to me and that forgiveness was entirely impossible, I felt something very familiar.”

“And what was that?”

Kimball faced him. “I learned that I hadn’t changed at all,” he told him. “I’ve only been hiding what was always there . . . The truth.”

The monsignor grabbed his pack of cigarettes, shook a smoke free, lit it, and then waved the match dead before tossing it into the ashtray. “And what is this truth, Kimball?”

He hesitated, his eyes once again growing distant.

“Kimball, what is the truth?” he repeated.

“That I’ve been living a lie,” he answered. “That salvation will never be within reach no matter how hard I try to obtain it because the fact is what it is.”

“And what is the fact?”

“That I kill because I want to, not because I have to.”

“Have you killed anyone because you want to?”

“No.”

“But because you had to?”

“Yes. But it doesn’t take away from the one thing I want most in my life right now.”

“And what is that?”

“I
want
to kill Ezekiel,” he said.

“Is this the one who betrayed you?”

“Yes.”

“Have you looked deeper into yourself, Kimball? Have you looked far enough to realize that your emotional wounds run much deeper than your physical ones, and that your anger over the betrayal is misdirecting your sense of logic and reason?”

“I won’t justify what I feel, Monsignor, by saying that it’s all right to feel the way I do because I’m angry. He murdered those close to me because of a personal hatred directed at me. He deserves what’s coming to him.”

The monsignor leaned back. “Are you going after him?”

“If I don’t, then he’ll come after me.”

“Perhaps he won’t.”

“With all due respect, Padre, you obviously have never felt the insatiable need to
want
to kill. I have it. He has it. And until we meet, it’ll just feed until it drives us both crazy.”

“And how do you think Pope Pius would have felt?”

Kimball’s face dropped a notch, the beginnings of sadness and disappointment. “Amerigo’s gone,” he finally said.

“Do you believe he watches over us?”

“Don’t do me like that! No guilt trips! I can’t help what I am!”

“Then what about Cardinal Vessucci? Did he not see in you the man you failed to see in yourself?”

“I failed to see the man he saw because no such man exists! I kill, Padre. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at.”

“For so long you have served the Church well. Now you have a conflict with faith and all of a sudden you’re no longer virtuous because of the anger you hold so deep.”

Kimball picked up on the Monsignor’s tone.
Was that admonishment
?

“You sit there forgetting all the good you have done for the Church, the lives you have saved, and the restoration within yourself that there is hope beyond the darkness that had been your life. Now after a betrayal all the good that has become your life, the light that had become your path, is gone because you cannot let go of the rage that has consumed you like a dark shroud.”

Kimball clenched his jaw, the anger working its way to the surface.

“Then perhaps you’re right,” the monsignor said, tilting his head and releasing a cloud ceilingward. “Perhaps the man in you is a killer. But do you want to know what I see. What Pope Pius and Cardinal Vessucci saw?”

Kimball’s entire body tensed.

“We saw a man whose conviction to duty was far greater than his conviction to himself. Then one day he had an epiphany and learned that his need to reach the Light of Loving Spirits was not only a necessity, but an attainable goal. What Pius saw in you, what Cardinal Vessucci saw in you, was the penchant to be what you truly are, Kimball. And that is a man who is lost and is trying to find his way.”

Kimball was beginning to settle down.

“Yes, you were betrayed. And yes, it probably won’t be the last time. But betrayal is a part of life’s lesson and we must learn from it and handle it with the will to forgive rather than the need for revenge. When you see that difference, Kimball, when the rage subsides, then I’m sure that you will once again see the Lighted Path.”

Kimball sighed. “Ezekiel’s not done with me. He’ll come back to finish his agenda.”

“Then if he comes, Kimball, his anger and hatred will surely doom him. For those who choose to remain in the dark will only find an unwanted refuge within its depths.”

Kimball stood and walked to the window. People were milling by the hundreds through St. Peter’s Square. “Losing Amerigo and Ezekiel at the same time is too much for me to handle right now,” he said.

“Psychologically speaking, Kimball, there are many phases everyone goes through when dealing with loss such as anger, sadness and disbelief—it’s all a part of the grieving process. And you’re not above that. It’s obvious to me that you’re going through the process right now. I guess that only makes you human.”

Kimball considered this. The monsignor was right about the phases. In conjunction with his anger toward Ezekiel, he had taken the pick and smashed it down to indiscernible pieces of metal with a hammer before discarding it as scrap. The pick would never serve to harm anyone again.

“Kimball?”

He called back over his shoulder. “Yeah.”

“Your time is almost up. Is there some other matter you wish to talk about?”

He thought about it, but came up with nothing. “No, Padre. Nothing.”

A knock came at the door.

“Excuse me,” said the monsignor, and he went to answer the door.

Kimball could hear the hushed voices behind him. His eyes still fixed on the masses moving throughout the Square.

“Kimball.”

He turned. The monsignor was standing by the doorway with a bishop who was dressed in proper attire.

“It appears that Cardinal Vessucci would like to speak with you in the Society Chamber. Do you know of such a place?”

The Society Chamber was the meeting area where the Society of Seven gathered, usually to brief him on missions. “I do.”

“Then he’ll be waiting for you there,” he said.

As Kimball was leaving, he stopped by the monsignor. “Thank you,” he whispered. And when he said this he did so with immeasurable gratitude.

“My pleasure,” he said. “And if you don’t remember anything else, please remember this: You’re right when you say you are what you are. But it’s usually the person in question who last sees himself as he truly is when others see him as he already is.” 

Kimball reached up and squeezed the monsignor lightly on the shoulder. “I appreciate you trying, Monsignor. I really do. But you’re right about one thing: I am what I am.”

When Kimball walked away with determination in his swagger and a cast-solid hardness to his face, the monsignor called after him.

But Kimball ignored his pleas as hot vendetta coursed through his veins.

 I am what I am
.