“Oh, no,” he said. “I’m sure it’s just one man. You know the rule: No one works rogue unless you are rogue.”
“Then that begs a couple of questions, doesn’t it?”
“Obviously.”
“Like, who is this guy? And why is he doing this to begin with?”
All three men stood stone faced.
No one had an answer to either question.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
For the first time since his diagnosis, Pope Pius was feeling uncomfortable. His chest felt heavy. And when he labored to do anything physical, he often struggled for breath.
Standing before a floor-to-ceiling window with a placating hand on his chest, Pope Pius afforded himself the moment to gaze upon St. Peters Square with an almost omniscient point of view, seeing everything.
From his vantage point he could see the elliptical colonnade with two pairs of Doric columns forming its breadth, each bearing the Ionic entablatures of Baroque architecture. In the center of the colonnade stood the 83-foot-tall obelisk which was moved to its present location by Pope Sixtus V in 1585. The obelisk dated back to the BC period in Egypt and moved to Rome in the first century to stand in Nero's Circus. On top of the obelisk it was rumored to hold a large bronze globe containing the ashes of Julius Caesar, which was removed when the obelisk was erected in St Peter's Square. The colonnade, the obelisk, the two exquisite fountains in the square, one by Maderno and the other by Bernini, were a fusion of other cultures. Perhaps a symbolic gesture to incorporate people from all walks of life, he considered. All people under the eyes of God, all with a defined culture blended together to make a uniform One.
Soon it would be gone for the glory of His Light, he considered. And then the ailing Pius closed his eyes and smiled.
He had lived a glorious life.
Turning away from the window the pope made his way back to his desk with a hand over the burning irritation deep in his chest. His breathing became arduously difficult to maintain, his lungs demanding as his steps all of a sudden becoming too challenging to manage. When the pope finally reached his chair he positioned himself over the cushioned seat and let his knees buckle, the pontiff falling onto the cushion.
In time he found reserve, his breathing self regulating to a normal rhythm.
And then he stabilized, his eyes remaining closed.
“Your Holy Eminence, are you all right?”
The pontiff did not hear the arrival of Cardinal Vessucci, who stood opposite him on the other side of the desk with his hands hidden beneath the wide sleeves of his garment.
Pius smiled. “It’s getting worse, my friend. But yes, I’m fine.”
“You look tired, Amerigo. Perhaps the physician—”
Pope Pius held up a halting hand. “Bonasero, nature will inevitably take its course. There will be times of discomfort. But in the end I will end up in His glory and there will be no pain.”
The cardinal nodded. “I only meant well,” he said.
“I know, my dear friend. Your concern for me is uplifting.” The pope slowly lowered his hand to the desktop. “So what can I do for you, Bonasero?”
The cardinal took a seat. “There is talk within the College that Cardinal Marcello is garnering massive support to succeed you for the papal throne.”
“There is always a storm before the calm, Bonasero. Politicking has always been the right of those in contention. You must do the same.”
“I have, Your Eminence, but Cardinal Marcello appears to be pulling well ahead and may be the forerunner. I need your endorsement to members within the College.”
“And you shall have them. But we still have time. It’s best to listen to all sides in order to present enlightenment for all. People will always gravitate to those whom they believe will have the answer to resolve any solution.”
“But Cardinal Marcello’s voice is that of ultra-conservatism. I cannot compete with that in good conscience, knowing the necessity of the Vatican Knights. He, and others like him, would view them as an abomination against the principles of the Church rather than a necessity for the right of the Church to protect its sovereignty, its welfare and its citizenry.”
“And for that reason you must make those within the College realize the world is forever changing in its philosophy. So we, too, must change with it. If we don’t, then the institution will eventually die.” The pope let out a sigh. “You’re well with words, my friend. Be patient and listen. Then let those weigh the options between tradition and necessity.”
“Sometimes, Amerigo, traditionalist thinking is the most difficult obstacle to overcome. If I don’t get that throne, the Vatican Knights will be no more — especially if Cardinal Marcello adorns the papal crown. And if that happens, then we will no longer be capable of protecting our citizenry abroad, or the interests and sovereignty of the Vatican.” He paused for a brief moment, and then, “It’s a different world, Amerigo.”
“Not so different,” he returned. “There have always been battles within and beyond the walls of the Vatican. There have been Crusades from every scale imaginable from the grand to the miniscule. Winning the recognition and ear of the College is just another crusade to be fought and won. And I’m confident the Vatican Knights will be around for quite some time.”
“I pray that they will be, Your Eminence.”
“Have you found those on sabbatical?”
Vessucci nodded. “We found Job.”
“And Joshua and Ezekiel?”
“Nothing yet, I’m afraid. But their sabbatical is up in a few days.”
“Let’s hope it’s not too late for Kimball, then.”
“According to the SIV, Kimball made contact with the brothers. So there’re three of them now. The odds are certainly in his favor.”
“The odds were in his favor when he was with Mr. Hawk. And now Mr. Hawk lies dead and Kimball very lucky to be alive.” Pius began to nibble on his lower lip in thoughtful manner, his eyes looking beyond the cardinal.
Never in his life had he questioned the skill set possessed by Kimball on whether or not it was enough to get him through any battle or skirmish. There was never a cause for true concern or worry, or a possible misstep in his capabilities. His confidence in Kimball had always been as stout as the flying buttresses that supported the main structures of medieval churches. Such as they were the crutches that fortified architectural characteristics that were delicate, they became the hallmarks of strength the same way Kimball Hayden had become the pontiff’s support that made him strong. He unknowingly allowed the Knight to become the basis of his pride, a dark vanity, and wondered if the Lord was now presenting a painful lesson by taking away that very source.
Is Kimball fighting a losing battle?
He hoped not.
The pope slowly closed his eyes. “I hope… I pray, that God Almighty is watching over Kimball’s welfare,” he finally said.
Please don’t let him pay the price of an old man’s vanity.
But for some underlying reason he could sense the flying buttresses that supported him for so long begin to crumble.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The surplus store was locked down tight. A CLOSED sign attached the barred window of the front door.
Even with the buzz of the overhead fluorescents, the room held a sepulchral deadness to it. The light was feeble, at best, and the air was unmoving and hot.