The pope faced him. “Get me to Gemelli.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
To the child the man was like a mist that broke apart then coalesced, always in three places at once, the shadows his camouflage.
“Again!” The voice was harsh and authoritative, that of a mentor who expected nothing less than perfection.
From the shadows to the boy’s right, the blade of a wooden katana shot forth and struck the boy across the shoulders, then disappeared back into the darkness as quickly as it appeared. The strike in itself was hardly perceptible against the child’s skin, but the noise of the wooden blade striking his flesh sounded off like slapstick.
“Again!”
The boy turned toward the point of attack holding his own wooden katana, frightened, the shadows pooling around him.
This time, from his left, came a similar strike, extremely fast, the wooden blade striking the small of the child’s back.
The boy pivoted on his feet, listening. Straight ahead he heard something move — the mere shuffling of a foot being drawn across the floor, something close, the figure using the darkness as camouflage. Then in quick reaction the child struck out with his blade, centering on the point of his attacker based on the central spot of the sound.
From the wall of darkness the blade of the wooden katana shot forward and deflected the child’s blow, blades colliding with a clack that echoed throughout the darkened chamber beneath the Vatican. And then his mentor’s blade disappeared beyond the fringe of light that was granted by the flames of distant torches.
“Very good, Ezekiel,” came the mentor’s voice, that of pride. “Always rely upon other senses where others fail you. What you can’t see, then you must listen. What you can’t hear, then you must smell. What you can’t understand, then you must reason.”
The boy held the katana straight before him in a firm grip, waiting and listening.
His mentor once more moved through the shadows, gearing himself to strike.
And the child listened, shuffling upon his own feet but maintaining his balance, his blade ready to defend.
“Good, Ezekiel, you’re showing excellent poise. However, I’m behind you.”
The mentor’s blade struck once again from the wall of darkness, this time a glancing shot across the boy’s back in a slashing motion, a kill strike.
Disgruntled, the child tossed the wooden katana to the ground and fell petulantly down onto his backside, sobbing in defeat.
Kimball watched the child from the shadows for a long moment before treading carefully to Ezekiel and taking to a bended knee beside him. With a sweeping motion of his arm he pulled the boy close to him. “It’s all right, Ezekiel. You’re doing fine.”
“I suck!”
Kimball couldn’t help the smile. “No you don’t.” And then he took a seat on the concrete next to him. “I’ve been in this arena training kids a lot older than you. And do you want to know what?”
Ezekiel looked up at Kimball, the lines on his face dancing eerily with the movement of the torches’ flames.
“Believe it or not,” said Kimball, “you’re showing me incredible skills of self-defense far above those who are much older than you.”
A slight grin surfaced upon Ezekiel’s tear-streaked face. “Really?”
Kimball nodded. “Absolutely. In a few more years you’ll be an expert. I guarantee it.”
The boy’s shoulders slumped in defeat.
“What?” asked Kimball.
Ezekiel sighed. “By then I’ll be twelve or thirteen. I’ll be old.”
Kimball laughed. “What you’ll be, Ezekiel, is a fine young man who will be at the top of his game. Just be patient and never give up, OK? Remember what we talked about earlier about quitters and losers.”
The boy nodded. “Quitters never win and winners never quit.”
“That’s right. And you’re a winner, right?”
“I guess.”
Kimball mimicked him sportingly. “I guess.” And then he grabbed the wooden katana and handed it back to the child. “Quitters never win and winners never quit.”
The boy looked briefly at the sword, sighed, and then gained his feet holding the katana before him in a firm grip. “Quitters never win and winners never quit.”
Kimball got to his own feet and receded back into the shadows. Once he was totally eclipsed by darkness he shouted one word. “Again!”
And the child attacked.
The moment the plane touched down at McCarran Airport in Las Vegas, the images of him mentoring Ezekiel in the early stages of the boy’s life had vanished. And perhaps the monsignor was right after all by assessing the fact that Kimball was trying to absolve himself of his sins by usurping the life of this child and nurturing him in compensation for the lives of the children he had taken as an act to gain redemption. Take a life, raise a life.
After disembarking, Kimball grabbed his luggage and made his way to the taxi queue. Standing outside, with the heat hitting him like an oven blast, even at night, was a diminutive man with a conservative haircut, black-framed glasses, and the cleric’s outfit with the white band of a Roman Catholic collar around his neck, hardly a warrior.
The man approached Kimball who stood out like a beacon with his cleric shirt, Roman collar and military-styled pants and boots, an incongruous combination. “Mr. Hayden? Kimball Hayden?”
Kimball faced the priest. “Yes.”
The man pulled out his wallet and flipped the cover, showing his ID as a member of the Servizio Informazione del Vaticano, the Vatican Intelligence, or the SIV. “I’m Father Michael Sebastian. I have a car waiting.”
The men made their way to the moving walkway that led to the short-term parking area of the garage. Just as they secured their seatbelts and got the vehicle in motion, Father Sebastian handed Kimball a manila envelope. “I’m sorry to say that you will not like what you’ll find there in those photos.” And then, “I’m sorry about your friend.”
Kimball withdrew photos of a crime scene — that of a man lying face down on the pavement with an ‘A’ carved into his back.
“Your friend, Ian McMullen, was found dead not too long ago. I was able to intercept those photos a few hours ago from the County Coroner’s Office.”
The cleric drove out of the garage and onto Swenson, making his way toward Tropicana.
Kimball, with photos in hand, showed little emotion. “Same MO for death?” he finally asked.
“It appears to be. It’s some kind of pick-like device, like an awl or something. But we’re not quite sure as to what the mechanism really is. But the strike is a single blow to the head area
— a kill shot that’s instantaneous.”
Kimball examined the picture wondering if the photo really was McMullen. The man lying prone seemed wasted with the outline of his ribs pressing against the skin of his backside. The knolls of his spine appeared too prominent, the man too skinny. Even thinner than the man he examined in the photos of the dossier.
“Are you sure this is McMullen?” he asked.
“It’s him all right. The alcohol ate him down to nothing.”