Returning to his desk acting as if the day was normal, Yosef couldn’t wait to get home to decipher the data.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
They were known as the Society of Seven, a private sect within the Vatican made up of the pope, the Vatican’s Secretary of State, and five of the pope’s most trusted cardinals from the Curia.
In a restricted chamber in the lower level of the Basilica, seven chairs were situated on a marble platform rising four feet from the floor. The pope’s chair, a king‘s throne layered in gold leaf, stood vacant. The second chair, nearly as impressive as the pope’s, but smaller and less imaginative, was occupied by the Vatican’s Secretary of State. Surrounding him dressed in full regalia sat the cardinals of the Curia.
The hall was grand, ancient — an underground haven in which past popes and their secret alliances had met time and again. The walls were made of lime, the ceiling vaulted and supported by massive Romanesque columns. The chamber’s acoustics were poor, words often traveling across the room in echoes. And the light came from gas-lit lamps moored along the walls, giving the room a dire medieval cast.
As the Society of Seven waited, an echoing cadence of footfalls sounded from beyond the chamber door, their pace quick with urgency. At the opposite end of the chamber a door of solid oak labored on its hinges as it swung inward. From the shadows, a man of incredible height and stature walked toward the platform with a gait and bearing that spoke of power and confidence. His shoulders were impossibly broad, his chest and arms stretching the fabric of his cleric’s shirt to its limit. His upper body mass, V-shaped, tapered to a trim waist and chiseled legs. When he reached the base of the stage, he removed his beret, dropped to a knee, and placed a closed fist over his heart.
“Loyalty above all else,” he said, “except Honor.” This was the salute of the Vatican Knights.
The Vatican’s aged Secretary of State, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci, rose with difficulty and walked the three stairs to the marble floor where the large man remained kneeling. “Stand, my friend. We’ve much to talk about.”
Kimball Hayden got to his feet, towering over Cardinal Vessucci, whose stooped height barely reached Kimball’s chest. When the cardinal placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, he had to reach high above his head to do so.
“You know why we’ve called you.” The cardinal spoke in fluent English.
“I do.”
Vessucci kept his hand on Kimball’s shoulder using the larger man as a crutch. “Then assemble your team and return our pope and the members of the Holy See to us. Do whatever is necessary to achieve this goal. Is that understood?”
Kimball nodded.
“If these terrorists wish to pick a fight with the Roman Catholic Church, then a fight they’ll get.” Vessucci lowered his hand and stopped in his tracks, the short walk too taxing for the old man. “We may be a small state, but we also have the right to protect the sovereignty of the Church, its interests, and the welfare of its citizenry. I understand that the act of engagement is complicated by its lack of rules, but you have to be discreet in such matters, if possible. Should something tragic occur, Kimball, the Church may have no choice but to disavow any knowledge of the Vatican Knights. We cannot afford your methods to draw any unwanted attention to the Church.”
Kimball placed a gentle hand on his old friend, as much to stabilize the man as to express his good will. He hated to see the cardinal in this condition — a man of greatness deteriorating inch by inch, the victim of a degenerative bone disease. “When do we leave?”
“Immediately. You’ll be flying from Rome into Dulles via private jet. Once on American soil, you’ll need to contact Cardinal Juan Medeiros at the Sacred Hearts Church, one mile east of the Washington Archdiocese. He’ll be your intel source — a good man.”
Kimball gave a light squeeze to the cardinal’s shoulder before getting to a knee and placing a closed fist over his heart. “Loyalty above all else,” he repeated, “except Honor.”
The cardinal reciprocated Kimball‘s gesture with one of his own, placing a hand on top of Kimball’s head — an act of anointing, an act of honor. “Be safe, my friend. The Church has faith in those who believe in righteousness. May God be with you.”
Kimball stood, turned, and walked away from the Society of Seven, his footsteps echoing off the ancient stone walls.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The total area of the White House is 65,000 square feet, including the basement and sub-basement. But as far as the president was concerned, it was not enough space. All around him, White House staff worked like drones, seemingly everywhere at once.
Voices whined and chattered, becoming an incessant buzz that hammered at his temples unmercifully, even within his private study.
All he wanted, even for fifteen minutes, was a short reprieve to regroup his thoughts and emotions.
And he found it in the Press Briefing Room, a small, closed-in area no larger than a decent-sized living room. Forty-eight theater-style chairs stood empty before him.
President Burroughs stood in front of the staging area looking over an empty audience, then rubbed the palms of his hands over his eyes until he saw bright patterns. He knew this room would soon be packed with media shouting out questions for which he had no answers.
“I knew you’d be here,” said the vice president. His voice always projected smoothly, calmly, except when he was involved in a hotly-contested political debate or lobbying for a cause. “It‘s an odd place to find peace and quiet, isn‘t it?” The vice president stood behind the podium, then hooked his fingers over the edges and took a firm grip as if he was about to lead Mass for a congregation of one. “Are you all right, Jim? It‘s not like you to run away from matters.”
The president pitched a sigh. “I’m not running from the situation, Jonas. I’m running from the moment.”
“You know it’s only going to get worse from here, don‘t you?”
The president lowered one of the seats in the gallery and sat down. “When I woke up this morning,” he began, “I knew it was going to be a bad day. Call it presidential insight, intuition, call it whatever you want. But something told me that today was going to be a challenge that I’m not sure I’m up to — that we’re up to.”
The vice president stared at the seamless face of Jim Burroughs. “We’ll get through this,” he said. “We have to.”
The president offered a weak smile. “We’ve been through a lot together, you and me.” He draped an arm over the back of a neighboring seat. “I guess that’s what happens when you have Senator Burroughs from New York and Senator Bohlmer from California running on the same ticket in a race for the White House. People expect a lot from us.”
“And we’ve provided.”
“Until now,” he added.
“There’s nothing you could have done, Jim, to prevent what happened. You took all the necessary precautions. You put your detail in place as required.”
“My detail was murdered, Jonas, by a team of insurgents who walked right into my backyard, which makes this country appear vulnerable — to the American people and to our allies. Not a good thing.”
“Jim, they were highly skilled militants trained well above the level of your people. You know that.”