The assassin had made his way to the Tomb of the Egyptians with Cardinal Vessucci, and sequestered the man inside the mausoleum.
Painted in the center of the north wall is the Egyptian god Horus, the God of the Dead. Surrounding them sarcophagi filled the room with carved bacchanal settings bearing mythical scenes, which gave the tomb its name.
“Why are you doing this?” Vessucci asked. He sounded more perturbed than frightened.
The assassin ignored him.
“You are a Vatican Knight.”
“I know,” said the assassin. “Loyalty above all else, except Honor.”
“That’s right. And where is the honor in this?”
The assassin leaned forward and cocked his head. “In war, Cardinal, the only thing that is consistent is that both sides believe they are right. And these opposing sides are bound by a code of honor that is obviously different from their opponent. It’s a code of honor that is diverse from his enemy — yet a code, nonetheless. Your honor is not my honor. I have a different set of rules, a different agenda.”
The assassin looked away and lifted the cylinder. In play he pressed the button over and over again, the pick shooting in and out, in and out, the pick stabbing upward and outward, then retracting, over and over again.
… Chick…
… Chook…
… Chick…
… Chook…
Time seemed endless for the cardinal.
“And what is your agenda? To destroy Kimball?”
The assassin stopped pressing the button and stared at the cardinal for a long moment. “My agenda, Cardinal, is to deny the man his salvation and send him to Hell where he belongs.”
“And you do this by killing off his team?’
“What I did, I did for a reason. I didn’t do it for the sake of ‘just because.’ Those men got exactly what they deserved.”
Cardinal Vessucci nodded his head in disbelief, his face taking on the semblance of a man about to break because of overwhelming regret. “There’s no need for this,” he told him. “Kimball has fought very hard to turn away from his past.”
“Sometimes, Cardinal, a man can never truly turn away from what he really is. And that’s about to be tested.”
The assassin continued to work the cylinder, the pick shooting upward and then inward in measured repetition, until the walls of the Egyptian Tomb echoed with the sound of the weapon’s play.
… Chick…
… Chook…
… Chick…
… Chook…
There are seven stages of grieving with anger third on the list. Kimball was already there, leapfrogging the first two stages with lightning speed as he made his way toward the cardinals’ quarters of the Domus Sanctæ Marthæ, the residence named after St. Martha, which lies on the edge of Vatican City but adjacent to St. Peter’s Basilica.
His eyes were focused and determined, his features hard and dogged as he quickened his pace. Although he wore his required cleric’s shirt and Roman Catholic collar, he also wore his martial pants and military boots. To cover up the weaponry, he wore a coat long enough to cover the KA-BARs sheathed to his thighs and the firearm holstered to his hip. When a marginal wind blew, however, the tails of the coat rose and billowed behind him, giving someone who may have been looking for the chance to spy the armaments he was carrying.
In hastened manner he crossed the square to the Domus Sanctæ Marthæ, the hotel-like residential dormitory of the cardinals, and ventured inside. Kimball took the steps two at a time until he reached the third floor, and walked down the corridor toward Vessucci’s quarters. After knocking on the door and receiving no answer, he quickly entered the residence and summarily shut the door behind him.
Although far from spacious, the quarters were quasi-luxurious with scarlet décor, gold-fringe hem work at the base of the scalloped drapery, polished brass accouterments, and carved moldings of cherubs and angels along the ceiling. The cardinal’s room was immaculate. The bed made with military precision; at least enough to bounce a quarter off, thought Kimball; and the wooden blinds were wide open, giving a sweeping view of the Basilica that was no less than two hundred meters away.
Kimball went from room to room calling out the cardinal’s name.
A cool wind came in through the window — enough to raise the tail of his coat as he stood in the center of the room, the coat’s tail flagging enough to pull back and reveal his KA-BARs and firearm.
As soon as the wind died away the flap of his coat fell to his sides, hiding everything. The jacket, it appeared, served nothing more than a façade hiding all that was true underneath.
As Kimball was about to exit, he noticed a cell phone lying next to a crystal trinket by the door. It was something he missed earlier, something with a note attached to it.
After grabbing the phone and giving it a quick perusal, he then read the attached letter: DIAL * * *8, IF YOU WISH TO SEE THE GOOD CARDINAL AGAIN.
Kimball examined the phone for a brief moment before dialing the button, and waited.
And there was no mistaking the voice.
“I see that you found the phone,” the assassin said.
“Why didn’t you just leave it in the armory along with your other message?”
“And risk having security find it instead of you, so that they can track my phone down through GPS? No thanks. That would have been the first thing the SIV would have done at a murder scene, once they got a hold of it.”
“Why are you doing this?” Kimball’s voice sounded pained.
“I think it’s quite obvious, don’t you?”
“Bonasero was like a father to you.”
“Like you tried to be a father to me?”
“Look. Your war is not with him. It’s with me.”
“Oh, you’re absolutely right about that. I have no intentions of hurting the good cardinal. He’s just the honey to draw the fly to the trap. And it’s time, Kimball. This has been a long time coming.”
“Where are you?”
“We’re inside the Tomb of the Egyptians,” he told him, “in Necropolis. And come alone. If you bring security with you, then Cardinal Vessucci will follow the same fate as the Knights who lie dead on the armory floor. Is that clear? Is there any question as to what I want from you? I want it clearly understood that this battle is between you and me.”
“You have nothing to worry about,” he said with an edge. “I’m coming alone. And when I get through with you, you son of a bitch, it won’t be pretty.”
“Yeah, well — we’ll see.”
The assassin hung up.
Kimball stared at the phone for a long moment before placing it gingerly on the nightstand. Slowly, as his face began to drop with regret, he made his way across the room and stood before the window. Straight ahead stood the Basilica — such a magnificent structure, he thought, less than two hundred meters away and located above the city of the dead.
Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath and released it with an equally long sigh. And in the flash of a moment regret consumed him, the sting of tears welling. And from the corner of his eye he let one slide and course along his cheek to the base of his chin.
Why did it have to be you?
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
During his time with the Vatican, Kimball had trained many. But training Joshua, Job and Ezekiel had been his favorites, almost remolding and reshaping arts of work into classics. Only he did so without the use of his hands, but by influencing them with psychology and schoolings, and with paternal direction encompassing body, mind and soul.