Dean Hamilton was the Attorney General whose resolve was as steely as the gaze from his bottle-green eyes that possessed the determination to outwit, outfight, and outmaneuver anyone within his constituency to achieve what he believed would be the best for the administration. To fight in the vein of rectitude by ruffling a few feathers on the political floor had become his trademark. And to fight Dean Hamilton on his level always promised a bitter struggle for those who always took battle against him. Not only was he remarkably virtuous, he was equally keen and anticipated what was coming. “Yes, Mr. President.”
“I want all available resources in motion. I want every field agent across this country in constant movement. And I mean constant. There will be no time to eat, drink or sleep. I want action, lots of action, and I want results according to those actions.”
Since Hamilton was in charge over the FBI, he would notify the directors immediately. “Yes, sir.”
“And, Doug.”
“Sir?”
“Find Perchenko.”
It wasn’t so much as a benevolent statement as it was a fervent order. The president’s stern measure made it abundantly clear should Perchenko be found before the American’s could ascertain any viable information, then the proverbial Sword of Damocles would fall upon the CIA Analyst’s head, since the accusing finger had to be pointed somewhere. “Yes, sir. We’re working on it.”
The president looked out the window over his left shoulder and noted the canopy of tree tops that covered the land in beautiful blooms in different shades of green. And then he wondered if he would ever see Washington again… Or if it would become a poisoned city due to nuclear fallout.
The president thought of a lot of things.
Nikki’s Tavern was a little hole-in-the-wall pub with a simple non-descript door leading from a trash-laden sidewalk that led into an interior that was as bleak and rundown as the surrounding neighborhood. Inside, the wallpaper had yellowed like old parchment and the ferns that dotted the floor space in the corners barely sustained life. High on the nicotine-stained ceiling, fans turned with a wobbled effect that made Kimball imagine the blade attachments weren’t too secure. Yet none of this mattered to him. Within this neglected establishment was solitude.
Looking down the long stretch of the tavern, he took note of the room’s gloominess that was thick with cigarette smoke that moved through the air in phantasmagoric shapes. Along the bar silhouetted against the backdrop stooping over their drinks, a few patrons sat quietly. In its unkempt isolation Kimball found a booth across from them, the table steeped in shadow and a much needed comfort zone.
In front of him seven shot glasses — five empty, two filled with dark liquor — were neatly positioned in front of him as he ran a fingertip around the rim of a full one, his eyes staring at nothing in particular. Somewhere somebody coughed — an unhealthy phlegm jag that sounded in the patron’s chest like a death rattle.
And then the bar fell silent, Kimball losing himself in thought.
For over a decade he was driven to find salvation; however, salvation always seemed more than an arm’s length away. Perhaps, he considered, it was because he was a man who truly did not find God to be part of his element, even though he wished it so. Whereas he could recite articles verbatim from military manuals as easily as a preacher could recite verses from the Bible, Kimball Hayden could not remember the first line of ‘The Lord’s Prayer,’ which was the simplest of all prayers.
Unlike his team, Kimball was the unique cast that helped shaped the members of the Vatican Knights, who were groomed to be the Crusaders of a new age. Whereas they were developed by using humbleness as their shield and faith as their guide, Kimball only knew death and how to administer its techniques as if the art of killing was no more than an involuntary act. Yet in the eyes of his team and the Church clerisy, he was all but anointed.
But Kimball never felt so alone.
In a quick motion he brought the shot glass to his lips and drank — a maneuver that seemed automatic, and then aligned the empty glass alongside the other empty glasses.
Six glasses now stood side by side in a perfect row, all empty, a mere representation of his growing hollowness with one glass left, the last full glass a symbolic and tenuous hold that he wasn’t completely without hope. If he drank from it, then the line would be complete, the glasses fully drained, and with it the faith of receiving salvation forever gone since the well to draw from was now completely dry. With that final glass remained the last few ounces of hope.
Nevertheless, Kimball stared at the shot glass, tempted.
There’s nothing symbolic about it, he thought. It’s only a drink.
But by not drinking it, it gave him a reason for optimism.
So instead of imbibing, he fell back into personal reflection.
And what he reflected upon was the value of his purpose of having been assigned the pope’s personal valet, which was not without its reasons. He was chosen because he possessed the best tools to save the pontiff’s life if the situation ever presented itself, especially in today’s world where zealous enlightenment appeared to be on the rise. But Kimball knew he had to lay low. Absconding from government service might not bode too well for him if the Burroughs administration should discover that he was still alive.
As he traced a fingertip along the rim of the last shot glass, a male in his early twenties stopped just beyond the edge of the table, his fingers ticking off and counting down the empty glasses before focusing his gaze to the Roman Catholic collar Kimball was wearing, and then shifted to the priest’s eyes. “Excuse me, Father.”
Kimball raised the corner of his brow. “Something I can help you with?”
“Aren’t priests supposed to uphold a higher standard? Are you supposed to be drinking like this?”
Kimball looked at the guy in such a way that the young man took a step away from the table. He had encroached too closely into his personal space. Worse, he infringed upon his personal life with audacity. And then in a tone that was less priestly. “Hey, kid.” The young man hesitated as Kimball beckoned him closer to the table with his forefinger. “Come here.”
The young man came forward with every line, shadow and premature crease on his face spelling out that he had overstepped his boundaries and wished he hadn’t. There was something very different about this priest, something dangerously roguish.
The moment he stepped into close counsel with the cleric, Kimball whispered, “Look, I already have enough on my plate without people like you passing judgment on me. If you don’t like what I do, then piss off.”
The young man did not retort. He simply turned and walked out of the bar at a pace much quicker than when he entered.
Across from him, behind the bar, was a mirror smudged with layers of dust — a mirror that had not been wiped down in months, perhaps years. Staring back at him was the reflection of a man wearing a cleric’s collar, the image of a priest, a father, a man of the cloth. Perhaps the kid was right after all, he considered. Without the collar he would have been like anyone else in this bar — someone who was stooped over their drink and blending in with the shadows; people who were nondescript and without hope.
After glancing into the mirror one last time, Kimball pushed the last shot glass away, still full, and left the tavern.
CHAPTER ELEVEN