The Iscariot Agenda (5 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

One Week Later

Kimball Hayden sat in Monsignor
Giammacio’s office, another tedious session, sitting quietly as the Monsignor sat across from him with a cigarette in his hand.

“And we were making such promising strides on your last visit.”

“Look, Padre, I’m not much of a talker. I never was. Things like this make me feel awkward.”

“Kimball, we have twenty minutes left. I suggest we make the most of it. Would you like me to lead, then?”

He shrugged. “Whatever.”

The Monsignor tapped the ash from his cigarette into an ashtray. “In your last session it was clear that you seek salvation for past actions. Yet you seem to believe that no matter what you do, you do in vain. No matter how hard you seek the Light, the Light will not be there for you on the Day of Judgment. Is this correct?”

“Look, Padre—”

“Am I right, Kimball?”

Kimball sat erect, unknowingly taking on a defensive position. “Um, well, yeah, I guess.”

“No matter what it is you do in the eyes of God to redeem yourself?”

Kimball leaned forward, his voice laced with frustration. “Look, I kill people. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at.”

“But we’ve discussed this matter already, haven’t we? The way you killed in order to save the life of the pope, the lives of the bishops within the Holy See. Did we not cover this in depth?”

“Padre, I killed two children.”

“And in seeking redemption for this action, have you not since saved the lives of other children?”

Kimball fell back into his chair and reflected.

Vatican Knights were chosen young, when they’re waifs and orphans with little promise of direction but possess the tools to excel in character and physical dexterity. To possess the tools of a warrior one who has to have the hunger to be learned and engage fully in academics and self-examination. To see one’s self is to see Loyalty above all else, except Honor.

At the Hilbert Institute, an academy for wayward boys too old for adoption, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci stood beside Kimball and was dressed down from wearing cardinal attire by wearing a simple cleric’s shirt and Roman Catholic collar. Kimball remained true to the Knights’ attire—wearing a cleric’s shirt, collar, black fatigues and boots.

Standing on an upper-tier walkway overlooking a basketball court, resting their elbows along the top of a railing, both held little interest in the ongoing game. What they locked onto was the player sitting on the bench, a third stringer, a child whose sneakers never touched the court.

“Picking a Knight, Kimball, takes an objective eye no matter how much you empathize with the child. This boy has no ambition, no skills, and according to the administrators, he’s so withdrawn from society he has no friends. And that is by his choosing.” He turns to Kimball. “He does not have the tools to take on the responsibilities of a Vatican Knight, come fifteen years from now.”

Kimball stood back in examination, sizing the child from a distance. The boy was gangly and pale and far more interested in drawing imaginary circles on the floor with the toe-end of his foot, than watching the game.  

“What he needs is a mentor,” he finally said.

“What he needs is a miracle worker. There are far more children out there who hold the standards to become a Vatican Knight.”

Kimball leaned forward on the railing. “You know who this kid reminds me of?”

The cardinal smiled. “I suppose you’re going to say that he reminds you of yourself?”

“That’s exactly what I was going to say. And do you know the person who lent me a hand when I needed it the most?”

The cardinal nodded. “It was me.”

“In Venice. You knew all about me, all the horrible things I did. But you opened up anyway and let me in . . . That was the day I opened myself up for the first time to anyone.”

“But you possessed a very particular set of skills that was over and above everyone else.”

“Skills I had to learn. You have to remember, we all took awkward steps from the cradle when learning to walk, sometimes falling, then getting back up and doing it all over again until it became an involuntary act.”

“I don’t know, Kimball. I just don’t feel good about this one. And I’ve been choosing Knights for a long time.”

“If I’m to ever choose my own team and future teams, then you have to trust me. Otherwise, why am I here?”

“To learn and see in those who have what it takes to serve best on the pontiff’s behalf.”

Kimball sighed. “I can reach him.”

The cardinal turned back to the bench, to the child, who continued to draw imaginary circles with his foot. “Some people cannot be reached, Kimball, no matter how hard you try. And I’m saying this child is too far gone.”

“And I’m saying he’s not.”

There was a silent moment between them.

“Despite what I think,” said Vessucci, “you’re not going to budge, are you?”

Kimball nodded. “Not on this little guy. No. All I ask is that you give me the opportunity to be this mentor, his guide, and I guarantee you he will become one of the best Vatican Knights the pope could ever hope for.”

“That’s a lofty goal, Kimball, considering what you have to work with. It takes more than you realize to reach a child on an emotional and psychological level if they’re too far gone.”

“If nothing else, then we at least gave a child-in-need an opportunity for something better than what he has right now—and that isn’t much.”

It was something the cardinal couldn’t refute or deny. “Touché. But all I ask is this: Are you sure it has to be this one, when there are so many more with the same need for salvation?”    

Kimball nodded and pointed at the child. “It has to be him.”

The cardinal saw the conviction in Kimball, the obsessive need for Kimball to commit to the boy, and then faced the child who sat alone. “Then we will call him . . . Ezekiel.
”

“Kimball?” The Monsignor dashed his third cigarette out in the ashtray. “You’re basically saying that you tried to save this boy as—how shall we say—redemption for taking the lives of those boys in Iraq?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But your actions are.”

“If that’s the way you want to see it, then go for it.”

“Then tell me. Why this particular child when Cardinal Vessucci was so adamant against it?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Would you like to expound?”

“Expound?”

The Monsignor gestured with his hands. “To develop or explain more in detail.”

“Then why didn’t you just say that?”

“Would you like to expound?”

“No.”

“Then tell me about Ezekiel, now that he’s a man.”

Kimball hesitated while the Monsignor reached for another smoke, and then. “I reached him as I knew I would, and he became solid.”

“Solid?”

Kimball moved his hands in mock gesture imitating the Monsignor. “To develop a person until he is pure, unadulterated, genuine.”

The Monsignor smiled. “Then why didn’t you just say that?”

Kimball returned the smile.

“Time’s up, I’m afraid,” said the Monsignor. “Next week we’ll take up where we left off, with Ezekiel.”

“There’s not much to say about him other than he turned out to be one of the best in the league of the Vatican Knights.”

“Not about him as a person, but what his redemption means on a psychological level.”

Kimball stood and offered his hand, but the Monsignor refused it, smiling congenially. “You almost crushed my hand the last time. I don’t have to be slapped twice to learn my lesson.”

As Kimball lowered his hand a feeble knock sounded off the thick wooden door that was pieced together with black iron bands and rivets, an ersatz design of medieval times.

When the Monsignor opened the door in invitation, a bishop stood at the threshold with his hands hidden beneath the sleeves.

“I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, Monsignor, but the pontiff has requested the presence of Mr. Hayden. He said it was quite urgent and that he was to be summoned to the pontiff’s chamber.”

“That’s quite all right,” he returned. “We just finished our session.”

The Monsignor held the door wide and gestured his hand in a way of showing Kimball the way out. “Next week, Kimball, and I know I say this all the time but you continue to do this anyway, but please don’t be late.”

“I’ll be here at the top of the hour, Doc.”

The Monsignor sighed. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

The pope’s chamber was laden with veined-marble flooring that shined like the surface of ice, and scarlet drapes with scalloped edges and gold fringe covered the floor-to-ceiling windows. Polished brass sconces surrounded six-foot portraits of past popes, the gallery lining the walls in the chronological order they served the Church. The chamber held the sizeable dimensions of a ballroom that served as the nerve center of papal activity.

After Kimball entered the room, the enormous wooden doors closed behind him with mechanical slowness. His footfalls echoed throughout with the poor acoustics as he neared the pontiff’s desk, which bore the ornate carvings of angels and cherubs on the mahogany panels.

Sitting in a button-studded chair made of Corinthian leather sat Pope Pius. Beside him stood Cardinal Vessucci, wearing the normal vestments of the simar with scarlet trim and a scarlet biretta. The cardinal appeared to be holding photos, obviously engaging the pope of the matter in hand before Kimball entered the chamber.

Pope Pius fell back in his chair and gestured for Kimball to take one of the two chairs before his desk. “I’m glad you could make it, Kimball. My deepest apology for interrupting your session with the monsignor, but the situation requires your immediate presence.”

Kimball sat down. “We were done anyway. How can I be of service, Your Holiness?”

Pius turned to the cardinal, a cue to Vessucci to take over. The cardinal then handed three 8x10 glossies to Kimball. “We just received these from Vatican Intelligence,” he told him.

Having diplomatic relationships with more than ninety percent of the world’s countries, the Vatican’s Intelligence Service,
the
Servizio Informazione del Vaticano
, better known as the SIV,
was created to counter early 19th century efforts to subvert the power
of the Vatican
. So the Church saw the need in creating an “unofficial” security
agency
to solve problems by conceiving a system of confidential communication and information gathering. But with the growing threat of extremist groups, the SIV had grown to a major organization since the attempted assassination of Pope John Paul II.

As Kimball examined the photos his shoulders began to soften and slump. “I know these people,” he said. “They were a part of my old unit, the Pieces of Eight.”

He inspected the glossies further, noting the dead faces, the whites of their eyes holding at half mast.

“The photos you’re holding were taken in makeshift morgues in the Philippines. These, however,” he handed Kimball three additional photos, “were taken at the scene where the bodies were found.”

The bodies were facedown, unrecognizable, their shirts ripped and parted, a letter carved into each man’s back. He also noted that Walker was tied to the legs of a table, his own legs missing.

“Somebody cut off Walker’s legs?”

“No. Mr. Walker was apparently—for lack of a better term—a mercenary who lost them in an IED attack in Iraq. Misters Grenier and Arruti, however, where operating a military agency in the southern Philippines while looking after Walker, who remained in Manila.” 

“A band of brothers,” he whispered. And then he took notice of the carvings. “Symbols?”

“Letters,” Vessucci immediately stated.

“Are you sure? One looks like a lightning bolt and the other looks like a sideways V, like Greek runes or something.”

“At first glance—yes, but the SIV has concluded that they’re nothing more than crude carvings. It’s been determined that the bolt is actually an S, and the sideways V—as you put it— the letter C.” He handed Kimball another photo, this one of his old unit posing for the camera’s lens. Kimball was kneeling in the bottom roll, the last one on the right, his face maintaining the appearance of cold fortitude in a time that seemed so long ago. In the top roll the faces of  the Pieces of Eight—Walker, Grenier and Arruti, who stood side-by-side from left to right—were circled in red marker, the letter ‘I’ in Walker’s circle,  the letter ‘S’ in Grenier’s, the letter ‘C’ in Arruti’s.

“I-S-C. Whoever’s doing this is spelling out a message, that’s clear.”

“But what? And even more disturbing, why?” asked the pope.

Kimball traced the photo with a glancing trail of his finger over the fourth member, Ian McMullen, an Irishman who lived up to his stereotyped billing by loving his alcohol as much as he loved his AR-15. An empty circle was drawn around his face. “This guy isn’t very subtle, is he?”

“Kimball, these photos were sent to the SIV by whoever is doing this to these men. And he’s working toward the final member in the photo . . . And that’s you. Whoever sent it knows you’re here.”

 “That’s impossible,” he said heatedly. “Everybody attached to that unit, including the United States government, believes I’m dead.”

“Apparently not,” said Pius. “Otherwise, there would be no reason for this murderer to be sending these photos here.”

Kimball considered this. Reasonably speaking, the pontiff was correct. “You’re right, but what concerns me is that Grenier and Arruti were sharp commandos. It’s hard to believe that one guy could take them on and beat them both.”

“Whether it is one or many, this has to be dealt with before he, or they, decides to bring their war to the Vatican.”  

Cardinal Vessucci rounded the desk and sat on its edge, facing Kimball. “The problem, Kimball, is that Leviticus and his team are in Brazil, and Isaiah is in Colombia with his. Ezekiel, Job and Joshua are on their annual sabbaticals and won’t be back for another two weeks.”

“You’re telling me I’m on my own?”

“We’ll do whatever it takes to find Ezekiel, Job and Joshua. The SIV will find them.”

“That could take days.” He turned to the photo; saw the circled face of McMullen. “I already have a team,” he added.

The pope leaned forward. “You’re not talking about your old unit, are you?”

“Why not? There’re five left. That’s more than enough to accomplish the means.”

“Kimball, these men,” the cardinal pointed to the photos of the murdered men, “were mercenaries killing for the highest bidder. Are you sure you want to reconnect with the ways of old?”

“Let’s put it this way: Let’s see how far I’ve really come with a little temptation in my life. Let’s see if I really miss what I was . . . Or if I’m pleased with what I have become.”

“Kimball—”

The Knight immediately raised a halting hand. “Bonasero, please, this man” –He pointed to McMullen’s image—“saved my life on two occasions. Obviously he’s next on the list, which means I have to get to him before they do. My time is limited.”

Pope Pius sighed. “I’m not comfortable with this, Kimball,” he said. “But I cannot allow someone’s life to hang in the balance under any circumstance. Nevertheless, I will have the SIV look into the whereabouts of the Knights on sabbatical and, once found, have them reconnoiter with your position as soon as possible.”

“Understood. But I’ll need to leave right away and re-team with my old unit. I just need the current dossiers of the remaining members. And I’ll need to know where they are.”

“The SIV will have the information available by the time you’re ready to leave,” said Vessucci.

Kimball stood. “I appreciate it.”

“And Kimball.” The pope rose, donning his full vestments. “This temptation you speak of about turning back to the ways of old once you return to those who chose to remain in darkness, I have all the faith that you will stay true.”

“Yeah, well, somebody has to, I guess.”

“Kimball,” the cardinal placed a gentle hand on Kimball’s shoulder. “Be careful, please. It’s hard to fight something that’s unknown, unseen, and uses the shadows as camouflage.”

“If it exists, then it can be found. They found me, didn’t they?”

“Be careful, Kimball,” said Pope Pius. “And may God be with you.”

Kimball nodded.
I’m certainly going to need Him for this one,
he considered. Not due to the danger to his welfare, but because of the dangers of falling back to the ways of old. Would he like the taste of taking a man’s life simply because he could, the same way an alcoholic needs a single taste to fall off the wagon? Or would he be able to remain guided, taking life only because he had to with killing as a final option?

After giving the cardinal a good-bye pat on the shoulder and kissing the Fisherman’s Ring on Pope Pius’s hand, Kimball made his way toward the massive chamber doors with his footfalls echoing throughout the room in haunting cadence.