Kimball crossed the chamber floor, his footfalls echoing off the stone walls. “This is personal and none of you have to get involved in this,” he told them forwardly.
“Yes we do,” said Ezekiel. “Vatican protocol states we must protect our citizenry. Are you not a part of that?”
Kimball conceded with a marginal smile. Ezekiel’s message was clear. And he could see upon the faces of Job and Joshua that the sentiment was jointly shared. What it came down to was a single proverb signifying the mindset of a Vatican Knight: Loyalty above all else, except Honor.
“Thank you,” he said.
Job broke from the ranks. “What are we waiting for?” he said. “We have a war to prepare for.”
And that was the problem as Kimball turned to Cardinal Vessucci, their gazes meeting in such a way that words weren’t necessary. The worrisome look on Kimball’s face said it alclass="underline" He was not comfortable bringing his war within Vatican jurisdiction. But Vessucci’s expression was quite detailed, his features a well-scripted arrangement indicating that the Vatican was not about to abandon Kimball after what he had done for the Church time and again. And like many others in need, the Church would give him sanctuary.
Then to Vessucci in a voice that was soft and low, “Thank you.”
The cardinal smiled, bowed his head, and placed a closed fist over his heart. It was the salute of the Vatican Knights. And in Latin, he said, “Loyalty above all else, except Honor.”
Kimball reciprocated with a salute of his own, with a closed fist over his heart.
Vatican City is the smallest country in the world, yet to Kimball it was the most pristine.
Not much larger than a golf course and with a population of just over 700 people, none of them permanent residents, the city served as the spiritual hub presiding over a billion Catholics.
Kimball walked leisurely along the paths of the Papal Garden. The sky was as blue as Jamaican waters and a mild breeze grazed against his skin. Flowers bloomed in colorful riots from all around. But the surrounding magnificence seemed to have little or no interest to Kimball as his mind worked anxiously trying to determine the identity of the assassin.
He was certain that Senator Shore had nothing to do with the entire matter. But because the senator was the only person of interest who came to mind, the accusing finger automatically pointed in his direction. Now the senator lay dead along with four others who had no reason to be. If political factions were behind this, then the killings no doubt grabbed their attention and a message was sent, as the Hardwick brothers intended. But the killings continued as the brothers had fallen victim within hours of the senator’s assassination. So if the message was received in the form of a dead senator, then it had no effect. The killer was marching forward. And Kimball was now the designated target.
He was literally the last of a dying breed.
Passing clerics with a smile and a nod, Kimball racked his brain further. The consensus was that the common denominator stemmed from a single incident more than two decades ago: the sanctioned killing of a United States senator by other reigning political factions serving at the time. But the senior authority during that legislature either passed or retired into obscurity. There was no doubt in his mind that Senator Shore had the candidacy on the line with enough skeletons to fill a walk-in closet. And if anyone had reasons to cover up a past which had demonized a democratic government through decisions of iniquity at that time, then the senator seemed the likely candidate to sanitize anyone that could bring him down.
The only one, he thought.
But something else told him differently — that instinctive gut feeling a soldier develops in the field after numerous battles, that sensation that the threat remains and the predator is still on the hunt.
But why?
The answer eluded him.
After more than two hours of contemplation, Kimball slowly wended his way along the paths back to the housing of the Vatican Knights. When he entered, the residence was tomblike and unnervingly quiet. Job, Ezekiel and Joshua were most likely in the armory, he considered, and then he walked across the chamber floor, his footfalls echoing with hollow cadence as he traversed the mosaic design of the Vatican Knights. It was also the chamber where fallen Knights were waked after losing their life in battle. And then he wondered if he would also be viewed on top of this very symbol like others before him moments before he was to be buried in the grottos beneath the Basilica.
He stood upon the mosaic crest, upon the silver Pattée, and appreciated his surroundings. In the moment of final tribute, the Vatican Knights would stand at the outskirts of the area wearing the compliment of full dress as the pontiff and those within the Society of Seven presided over the fallen in eulogy. Once the ceremony was over, the assigned pallbearers would carry the coffin to a marble tomb within the grottos beneath the Basilica.
It was a cold place, he thought; sepulchral and earthy. But it was hallowed ground.
Moving along the corridors that lead to the residential quarters, he noted the acid-etched crest of the Vatican Knight’s above each door.
Entering his chamber and closing the door behind him, he found himself within a small room, the dimensions not much larger than a prison cell. But here he was always at peace, even though it was far from opulent in any sense of the meaning.
Against the left wall was a single-sized bed with accompanying nightstand and dresser. Opposite that against the right wall stood a small dais with a Bible upon it that had gone unread, a votive rack whose candles had never been lit, and a kneeling rail meant for prayer but had never been knelt upon. On the wall centered between these two opposing sides was a stained glass window with pieces of leaden glass forming the colorful image of the Virgin Mother reaching out her outstretched arms in invitation.
Here was tranquility.
He sat on the edge of his bed, the mattress bowing beneath his weight. Above him the Virgin Mary’s arms were glowing with the light of the mid-day sun as they seemingly reached out to him. Standing, he traced his fingers lightly over the image, the warmth radiating through the glass, the Virgin Mary all but real.
He sat back down and closed his eyes. There was nothing but silence.
Opening his eyes, he looked across the room and noted that the Bible was in an awkward position with its cover open and the book placed upside down on the dais. Rarely had he opened the book to reveal the pages — but even more so to leave the book in such a way.
Somebody was here, he concluded.
Getting to his feet he crossed the room in a couple of steps.
The book was open and upside down on the podium. However, the ribbon bookmarker marked a different page of the biblical text. After leafing through the pages to the bookmarked spot, it was there that he found a Photostat copy of the Pieces of Eight.
In the moment it takes for a heart to misfire, Kimball could swear that his heart did so in the form of a swift punch to his chest.
All the faces of the team were circled with red marker, including his. But this photo was different. Within the red circle surrounding his face was the letter ‘T.’ The word ‘Iscariot’ now complete.
In seconds his emotions went from shock to rage to confusion, and then to rationalization after factoring the impossibility of the moment. But in calm measure he realized that the truth of the matter had now become a certainty.
The assassin was here.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR