Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci was weighing his candidacy heavily as he made his way through the corridors beneath the Basilica. Often, when he was not walking the Old Gardens, he would stroll through the corridors that led to the Necropolis. Here it was quiet and undisturbed. The world, at least for the moment, was strictly his own.
Word coming from the camps was that Cardinal Marcello was amassing a huge following with the aid of Cardinal Angullo, leaving Vessucci’s chances, at best, to acquire the papal throne with a marginal chance, even with the sponsorship of Pope Pius. Should he lose the bid, then as secretary of state he is duty bound to divulge all confidential information regarding the Vatican, beginning with the Third Secret, and ending with the Vatican Knights.
His chief concern was the continuance of Kimball and his team. Without the support of Marcello, then the Vatican Knights would become obsolete, this much he knew. The complexion of the Vatican would change almost immediately. The sovereignty of the Church in foreign lands would be at grave risks, as well as the welfare of its citizenry if no source of defense could ever be implemented. They would be left open to opposing forces, which were growing numerous by the day in an oft changing world where fanaticism was becoming the norm.
And there was no doubt in his mind that as pope, Marcello would simply turn a blind eye to worldwide atrocities.
The cardinal continued to mull over the situation, as well as ways to politick to dissuade those in Angullo’s and Marcello’s camp to join his. But nothing was coming.
In the tunnels where there was no natural lighting, the cardinal shuffled along with his head down and his mind working. Around him the shimmy of flames from gas lit torches cast ghoulish shadows along the walls.
It took several moments, however, for him to realize that the dancing shadows were not his own.
Somebody was here with him.
He raised his head. “Hello?”
About twenty feet away stood a shape that was blacker than black. Whoever it was stood unmoving. Even the light of nearby flames could not illuminate his features for identity.
“Who is that?”
No answer.
“Is something wrong? Is there something I can help you with?”
The Shape took a step forward into the feeble lighting, the brim of his camouflage boonie cap covering a majority of his features. In the marginal glow of light the cardinal could make out enough of the man’s features to identify him.
The man smiled, showing ruler-straight teeth. “Good day, Cardinal.”
Vessucci returned the smile. “Well, well, well, what’s brings you down here?”
The man’s smile faded. “Things,” he said.
“Things?” There was something about the man’s voice that didn’t seem quite right to the cardinal. The man’s tone held an edge to it. “What do you mean by ‘things’?” he asked carefully.
“Just… things.”
The man stepped closer. But this time there was something menacing about him.
Vessucci took a step back. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s just fine,” he said. In the delicate cast of lighting the man held something in his hand that held a mirror polish to it. It reflected the color of the torches’ flames, the colors of red and yellow and orange. So when he held up the metal cylinder it appeared to blaze within his grasp. “Everything’s just fine,” he said. And then a pick shot up from the cylinder, a spangle of light gleaming from its tip. “Just do as I tell you, Cardinal. That’s all I ask.”
Reality hit Kimball like a two-by-four, the man now on his knees. The two men that lie dead were more than just soldiers for the Church. They were his friends and to a lesser degree, they had become, in a sense, surrogate children. Cardinal Vessucci had entrusted them into his care when they were on the cusp of being teenagers. He nurtured them with character development, taught them the ways of righteousness as the Church would want him to. And he watched over them like a parent. For years they were his, their coalescing forming a bond much greater than that of mentor and student.
They had become family.
For a man with staunch will and reserve, he refused to shed additional tears. He had been a soldier for too long, his state of mind unwilling to bend to his feelings knowing that a breach of emotion often signaled a weakness that prohibited him to continue on with his role as a warrior. Yet there was something underlying he could not reject or face. But it existed all the same. It was that raw emotion of what made him human trying to surface. It was the feeling of loss and sadness, and above all else, the condition of grieving.
Softly, while cradling the head of one of the fallen Knights, he ran his fingers delicately through the young warrior’s hair while keeping his eyes fixed on the other Vatican Knight, who lay supine less than five feet away, his eyes at half mast, showing nothing but slivers of white.
Slowly, Kimball’s eyes worked upward to the writing on the wall. The word ISCARIOT had dried with a Knight’s blood; however, blood runnels continued to drip from the letters.
And then rage consumed him.
Clenching his jaw firmly, he carefully lowered the head of the Vatican Knight and got to his feet.
He immediately went to the armory table and hefted his favorite weapon, a KA-BAR knife, and toyed with it the same way a gunslinger twirls his firearm before holstering it. The knife felt good in his hand, excellent balance, and good weight. And then he strapped on a pair of sheaths, one for each leg, two knives; the man was getting ready to go to town.
On his hip he holstered a Smith & Wesson.40 caliber, his favorite for precision shooting. And then he recalled the monsignor and the sessions they held together about killing. He recalled the monsignor defining Kimball’s actions as the before and after scenario, from when he was an assassin with the American government to that of a Vatican Knight. The differences were that he killed because he wanted to and not because he had to. And that was where the differences lie: from what he used to be to what he had become. As an assassin for the United States government he killed because he wanted to and did so without impunity. But as a Vatican Knight he killed as a measure of defense after exhausting all other means to protect himself or the welfare of others.
But looking at the word ISCARIOT emblazoned on the stone wall, he realized deep down he would never change. He was what he was: a killer. After making wonderful strides, he now came to the conclusion that he now wanted to kill because he wanted to. Not because he had to.
Salvation would have to wait another day.
As he was leaving the armory, he noted the sketch on the wall one last time, ISCARIOT, and then gazed upon the Vatican Knights lying on the floor in blood pools that had glazed to the color of tar. There were three in the armory, this he knew. And a single question emerged: Where is he?
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The Vatican Necropolis, also known as the Scavi, is virtually a city that lies five to twelve meters beneath the Basilica. Between the years 1940 to 1957, the Vatican supported archeological digs which uncovered parts of the city dating back to Imperial rule when pagan beliefs flourished. In 2003, during the construction of a parking lot, more of the city was revealed where chambers of preserved frescoes and mosaics of Christian traditions were discovered rather than the previously discovered tombs of pagan castes.
South of St Peter's Basilica is a marker allocating the place where the obelisk once stood in the circus of Nero. Today, this obelisk sits in the middle of St Peter's Square. It was here that Saint Peter was rumored to have been crucified and buried in a simple rock tomb that extended north along the via Cornelia. To the right of the Sacristy, beneath another archway, lay the entrance to the Necropolis.