“Pray, Mr. Arruti, it’ll give you comfort in your final moments. You now have fifteen seconds.”
“Look. I have money. I’ll just go away. Whoever you work for will never have to know, right?”
“Wrong. Ten seconds.”
Arruti sighed in resignation. “No god will forgive me for the things I’ve done.”
“Maybe you should have thought of that twenty-three years ago.”
At the last second of the countdown the pick found its mark, killing Arruti instantly.
The assassin was true to his word.
Raising the tail of the dead man’s shirt and exposing the back, the assassin then sliced a crude C into the man’s flesh.
His work in the Philippines was complete.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kimball Hayden sat in Monsignor Giammacio’s office, another tedious session, sitting quietly as the Monsignor sat across from him with a cigarette in his hand.
“And we were making such promising strides on your last visit.”
“Look, Padre, I’m not much of a talker. I never was. Things like this make me feel awkward.”
“Kimball, we have twenty minutes left. I suggest we make the most of it. Would you like me to lead, then?”
He shrugged. “Whatever.”
The Monsignor tapped the ash from his cigarette into an ashtray. “In your last session it was clear that you seek salvation for past actions. Yet you seem to believe that no matter what you do, you do in vain. No matter how hard you seek the Light, the Light will not be there for you on the Day of Judgment. Is this correct?”
“Look, Padre—”
“Am I right, Kimball?”
Kimball sat erect, unknowingly taking on a defensive position. “Um, well, yeah, I guess.”
“No matter what it is you do in the eyes of God to redeem yourself?”
Kimball leaned forward, his voice laced with frustration. “Look, I kill people. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at.”
“But we’ve discussed this matter already, haven’t we? The way you killed in order to save the life of the pope, the lives of the bishops within the Holy See. Did we not cover this in depth?”
“Padre, I killed two children.”
“And in seeking redemption for this action, have you not since saved the lives of other children?”
Kimball fell back into his chair and reflected.
Vatican Knights were chosen young, when they’re waifs and orphans with little promise of direction but possess the tools to excel in character and physical dexterity. To possess the tools of a warrior one who has to have the hunger to be learned and engage fully in academics and self-examination. To see one’s self is to see Loyalty above all else, except Honor.
At the Hilbert Institute, an academy for wayward boys too old for adoption, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci stood beside Kimball and was dressed down from wearing cardinal attire by wearing a simple cleric’s shirt and Roman Catholic collar. Kimball remained true to the Knights’ attire — wearing a cleric’s shirt, collar, black fatigues and boots.
Standing on an upper-tier walkway overlooking a basketball court, resting their elbows along the top of a railing, both held little interest in the ongoing game. What they locked onto was the player sitting on the bench, a third stringer, a child whose sneakers never touched the court.
“Picking a Knight, Kimball, takes an objective eye no matter how much you empathize with the child. This boy has no ambition, no skills, and according to the administrators, he’s so withdrawn from society he has no friends. And that is by his choosing.” He turns to Kimball. “He does not have the tools to take on the responsibilities of a Vatican Knight, come fifteen years from now.”
Kimball stood back in examination, sizing the child from a distance. The boy was gangly and pale and far more interested in drawing imaginary circles on the floor with the toe-end of his foot, than watching the game.
“What he needs is a mentor,” he finally said.
“What he needs is a miracle worker. There are far more children out there who hold the standards to become a Vatican Knight.”
Kimball leaned forward on the railing. “You know who this kid reminds me of?”
The cardinal smiled. “I suppose you’re going to say that he reminds you of yourself?”
“That’s exactly what I was going to say. And do you know the person who lent me a hand when I needed it the most?”
The cardinal nodded. “It was me.”
“In Venice. You knew all about me, all the horrible things I did. But you opened up anyway and let me in… That was the day I opened myself up for the first time to anyone.”
“But you possessed a very particular set of skills that was over and above everyone else.”
“Skills I had to learn. You have to remember, we all took awkward steps from the cradle when learning to walk, sometimes falling, then getting back up and doing it all over again until it became an involuntary act.”
“I don’t know, Kimball. I just don’t feel good about this one. And I’ve been choosing Knights for a long time.”
“If I’m to ever choose my own team and future teams, then you have to trust me. Otherwise, why am I here?”
“To learn and see in those who have what it takes to serve best on the pontiff’s behalf.”
Kimball sighed. “I can reach him.”
The cardinal turned back to the bench, to the child, who continued to draw imaginary circles with his foot. “Some people cannot be reached, Kimball, no matter how hard you try. And I’m saying this child is too far gone.”
“And I’m saying he’s not.”
There was a silent moment between them.
“Despite what I think,” said Vessucci, “you’re not going to budge, are you?”
Kimball nodded. “Not on this little guy. No. All I ask is that you give me the opportunity to be this mentor, his guide, and I guarantee you he will become one of the best Vatican Knights the pope could ever hope for.”
“That’s a lofty goal, Kimball, considering what you have to work with. It takes more than you realize to reach a child on an emotional and psychological level if they’re too far gone.”
“If nothing else, then we at least gave a child-in-need an opportunity for something better than what he has right now — and that isn’t much.”
It was something the cardinal couldn’t refute or deny. “Touché. But all I ask is this: Are you sure it has to be this one, when there are so many more with the same need for salvation?”
Kimball nodded and pointed at the child. “It has to be him.”
The cardinal saw the conviction in Kimball, the obsessive need for Kimball to commit to the boy, and then faced the child who sat alone. “Then we will call him… Ezekiel.”
“Kimball?” The Monsignor dashed his third cigarette out in the ashtray. “You’re basically saying that you tried to save this boy as — how shall we say — redemption for taking the lives of those boys in Iraq?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But your actions are.”
“If that’s the way you want to see it, then go for it.”
“Then tell me. Why this particular child when Cardinal Vessucci was so adamant against it?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Would you like to expound?”