It had become his recruiting point — a place where a new alliance was born, and hopes to a man in search of his soul.
Since then, however, he had grown old; his body losing its youth and energy, his one-time vigor lost to the futile battle against aging as he sat in the living quarters of the cardinals, the Domus Sanctae Marthae, and watched the television with gripped attention.
The United States had tried to take down Shepherd One, the White House scrambling for the reason ‘why’ in order to appease the masses. But the preliminary indication is believed to be that Shepherd One has been commandeered by terrorists, was now holding a circular pattern over Los Angeles and refusing to land.
At that time Cardinal Vessucci turned to Cardinal Sollozzo, another ranking member of the Society of Seven, a body of rulers who, along with the pope, determine the missions of the Vatican Knights, and spoke to him in subdued manner. “I believe a meeting is necessary at the Round Table,” he said. “Gather the others and meet me in the Forum.”
Sollozzo nodded and left his seat. Vessucci did the same but had to labor to stand, his legs having weakened over time, and moved toward the Forum chamber with the alacrity of a man twenty years his senior.
Very much to Hakam’s pleasure, the plane leveled off at 30,000 feet and maintained a pattern over Los Angeles. In those moments where Shepherd One was in its descending freefall, Hakam failed to entrust his faith in Allah. And in those moments he neither prayed for salvation nor asked to be accepted into His glory. He simply embraced panic.
Sitting with his hands clenching the edges of the navigator’s table with his head bowed and eyes closed, with his chest laboring to pull in air and subsequent calm, Hakam was entirely grateful to Enzio for his skills as a pilot.
And then he caught himself once again. On the norm he would assign the pilot’s skills as Allah’s will, the plane surviving because it was meant to be. But deep inside he realized he was drifting from his once unyielding belief that death was a gateway to Allah’s kingdom. More so, he had zero doubt that Allah had faulted him for his weakness.
He then opened his eyes for a quick view of the sky — a confirmation of his continuing life before closing them once again and sending up a prayer of thanks. With repentance he was sure he could fall back into Allah’s good graces. And what better way to do it than to send Him a few words of gratitude?
“We are alive because it’s Allah’s will,” he said half to himself. But Enzio didn’t appear to be responsive or caring, his eyes looking straight ahead.
Yet his tone wasn’t quite confident, his inflection weak, as if forcing this belief upon himself. For the past several hours his demeanor had vacillated from losing his calm to forcing composure, the markers of indecision. And if he was losing faith within himself, then most certainly his team would lose faith in him. This he could not afford.
“We are alive because it’s Allah’s will,” he repeated with more passion. But still he got no response from Enzio.
Lifting the lid of the laptop attached to the navigator’s table, Hakam brought up the unrefined image of al-Rashad with the simian features of his prognathous jaw and sloping brow staring back at him. When al-Rashad spoke he did so in a manner that was brusque — the Arabic language flying from his lips in a fast clip while Hakam patiently listened. Although Enzio did not understand the verbal communication, he did recognize the syllables ‘Ponte Felcino’ reoccurring often.
When the interaction was over Hakam gingerly lowered the screen and stated nothing for a long moment, his eyes transfixing on the laptop as if deliberating. And then: “Allah has used you as a vessel,” he said. “And through you we are still here to see the cause through.” He turned to Enzio. “So I say this to you: Your family is fine.”
Enzio eyed him cautiously, Hakam’s face unreadable. The man with the cool bearing was back. “And this is the truth?”
Hakam stood and looked over the city sprawl of Los Angeles below them. “This is the truth,” he answered. But again, conviction was lacking in his tone.
Turning quickly, Hakam left the cockpit with the need to pay penance.
They were known as the Society of Seven, a political body of rule consisting of the pope, the Vatican’s Secretary of State, and five of the Curia’s ruling cardinals. Together they were the exclusive acknowledgers of the existence of the Vatican Knights who determined missions.
Within the hour Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci amassed the five cardinals inside the Forum — a small room within the basilica whose walls were made of slump stone assuring their privacy, as well as the impossibility of appropriating information from covert conversations.
The room was small, humid, with two stained glass windows that offered a profusion of light. Where torches once burned flames in metal sconces now stood as supports for electric lighting. And everything around them — the walls, the floor, even the low-lying cathedral ceiling — held the color of desert sand which was suffused with gold flexes of mica. In the room’s center, an oval-shaped table fashioned from ebony wood served as their Round Table.
Cardinal Vessucci looked at the images within the stained glass and saw the likeness of Michelangelo’s Pieta, the Death of Christ, his body cradled by his mother, the Virgin Mary. In it he saw an end of His life, but also a depiction of a new beginning with His resurrection. But the life of Pope Pius XIII would hold no such revelation, his life ending with a finality promising hatred between religious factions all over the world.
“Our hands are tied,” Cardinal Tomaso Angulio said bleakly. “If Shepherd One truly is under the command of extremists, then we must lean toward finding a new pope. Until then, all we can do is to pray for their safety.”
“We can do that,” Vessucci said flatly. “But let’s not forget that Kimball is on board as well. And we all know Kimball to be a man with a very particular set of skills.”
“Kimball is but one man who is unarmed against several. He does not have the Vatican Knights to back him on this.”
“You have little faith, my friend. You know as well as I do that Kimball thrives on moments like this.”
“Of course, I do. But I’m also a realist, Bonasero. What should happen if an errant bullet rips a hole in the side of the plane, sending Shepherd One to earth? Or what if the pilot is incapable of landing her for whatever reason? Or maybe—”
Vessucci held up a halting hand. “Believe me, Tomaso, you have valid concerns which are shared by everyone at this table. But the fact remains that Kimball Hayden provides us with continuing hope.”
“Nevertheless, Bonasero,” said Cardinal Corsaro, a man with a hatchet-thin face and a cast to his left eye. “The chances are remote, at best, since we cannot utilize the Knights on this one. So we at least must prepare the Conclave for the next pope — someone we can trust with the knowledge of the Vatican Knights, someone who will keep their secret. And you know as well as I do that you are the most renowned within the College.”
“I would prefer to put my fate in Kimball’s hands before we start talking about my succession as the next pope,” he said. “Besides, I’m in the twilight of my life. So let’s not begin to anoint me yet.”
“We should not turn a blind eye to the existing probabilities,” said Corsaro. “Kimball is the man we all want to be in the trenches, no doubt. But we all know he has limited options. And even they are beyond his control.”