The Iscariot Agenda

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Pope Pius lay in bed propped up by a myriad of pillows examining documents through glasses that hung precariously on the tip of his nose. Papers lay scattered across his comforter. And the glow of the mid-afternoon sun rained in through the panes of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

There was a slight knocking on the door. “Come in.”

Bonasero Vessucci entered the pope’s chamber, softly closed the door behind him, and stood next to his friend’s bed. “Are you comfortable, Amerigo?”

The pope removed the glasses and held the stem between his thumb and forefinger. “As good as expected,” he answered. “No matter how much I sleep, I’m always tired.” He quickly noted the concern on the cardinal’s face. “What is it, Bonasero?”

The cardinal sighed. “It appears someone at Gemelli leaked the fact to Il Messagero that you have cancer.” Il Messagero was the leading newspaper in Rome. “The conservatives in the College of the Cardinals are already gathering.”

“It’s nothing personal, my dear friend, you know that. It’s politics.”

“Right now, Giuseppe Angullo is politicking his way to be the next server of the pulpit.”

Pius waived a hand dismissively. “He won’t have the votes from the consensus party no matter how hard he tries to promote his platform. He is too much of a conservative not only to the constituency of the Church, but also to the citizenry of its followers. A good man he is, but if he refuses to bend, even if bending is a necessity with a changing world, then he chances the risk of losing the faith of a constituency. Even the Curia will recognize that.”

“True. But he has many supporters and is an ally to Cardinal Marcello, who also has a strong camp of followers. Together, Amerigo, they may conform into a single, large camp that would endorse Marcello to take over the post as the next pontiff. Il Messagero is reporting this to the people in the columns of the front page.”

Pius chewed on his lower lip, realizing where Vessucci was going. Marcello was a powerful cardinal with conservative constituents inside the Church that would never allow the right for the Vatican Knights to exist, deeming them too militant a faction even though there was a need for them. The Society of Seven would disband.

“If his following becomes too strong,” said the cardinal, “then the Knights will not have a following. I will not keep them active behind Marcello’s back, should he be elected.”

“And you shouldn’t,” he returned. “But you have a strong backing. But more importantly, you have my support. I will counter Marcello’s followers by calling them to counsel in solitary, if necessary, and garner their favor on your behalf. I will have them commit, as a favor to me.”

“It seems so political.”

“It’s been the way of the Church since its conception,” he said. “It’s what has kept Catholicism afloat for all these centuries. And right now it needs strong leadership. And I believe, Bonasero, with all my heart that you can take the Church on the right path in a world growing morally corrupt every day in a time when it needs us most. The Vatican Knights must be a staple to this Church until all men can lay down their swords and live in peace. But until that time we need people like Kimball and Leviticus to man the front lines when peace is no longer forethought in the minds of men.”

The cardinal leaned over and patted a pillow, an attempt to fluff it.

“We knew this day was coming,” the pope stated, smiling lightly. “Nobody lives forever, Bonasero, we know that. So the mantle will be passed to you. All I ask is that you hold it high and make God proud with the way you serve Him.”

Bonasero Vessucci nodded and smiled back, but the smile was weak and feigned.

“Now, about the Knights,” said the pontiff.

Vessucci nodded. “Leviticus and Isaiah are still tied up with their missions. So far, there are no casualties or collateral damage. They’ve also managed to pull innocents out of harm’s way, and are taking them to debarkation points where allied support will take them to safe zones.”

“That’s good,” said the pontiff. “Very good. And what about Kimball? Have we heard from him yet?”

“No. Not since the SIV aided him to get to his New Mexico contact.”

“Victor Hawk?”

“Yes. But Kimball hasn’t contacted us yet.”

“You look concerned.”

The cardinal nodded. “Kimball was supposed to contact me over an hour ago… But he hasn’t.”

The pope sighed, and then looked out the window — a beautiful day, sunny, birds taking flight against a perfect canvas of blue sky. The man had every right to be concerned, he thought, since it wasn’t like Kimball not to keep his contact times; unless, of course, he was unable to.

The pontiff closed his eyes. “Dear Lord,” he said.

It was all he could whisper.

“Again!”

The wavering light of the torches cast awkward shadows against the surrounding stone walls of the chamber that held no windows. The room was circular with a domed ceiling and a wraparound second tier that overlooked the area. In the center of the room Kimball was mentoring three of the youngest knights: Ezekiel, Job and Joshua, with Ezekiel being the eldest at thirteen and Job and Joshua twelve.

Kimball was pacing back and forth like a caged animal, his hands behind the small of his back as he watched the boys with strict examination, looking for minute imperfections in style as they went through the motions and techniques of aikido, a Japanese art form of self-defense.

While Joshua and Job employed locks and holds against each other by utilizing the principle of nonresistance to cause an opponent's momentum to work against them, aikido also emphasized the importance of achieving complete mental calm and control of one's own body to master an opponent's attack. There are no offensive moves. Yet while they seemed to be grasping the techniques with fluidity, Ezekiel floundered, the moves and locks mere puzzles to him as he looked awkward in his performances.

When Job attacked Joshua, Joshua grabbed Job by the hand, bent his wrist away from his body, and sent Job into a perfect somersault with the twelve-year-old landing hard on his side on the mat.

“Very good, Joshua. And you too, Job. Both of you did a nice job. Now hit the showers. The two of you are done for the day.”

Joshua and Job pumped their fists high into the air and headed off down the stone-walled corridor.

Ezekiel watched them go with hangdog eyes.

And Kimball took a knee beside him so that they were of equal height. “You want to be the best, don’t you?”

The boy remained silent. He had been training for years, but seen others progress faster — those who were younger and greener; those with the affinity to do what came to them naturally, whereas he struggled mightily.

And then: “I’ll never be as good as them,” he finally said. “I can barely tie my shoes.”

Kimball smiled. “You’ll do fine, Ezekiel. I have faith in you. Sometimes you have to work harder than others in order to achieve greatness.”

“I don’t want to work harder. I just want to be good.”

“Look, Ezekiel, I will work with you until you get it right. And before too long you will be better than Job and Joshua combined.”

“I doubt that. They’re really good.”

“You doubt it? Well, let me tell you something. Remember a few years back you could barely hold a sword?”

He nodded.

“Well, you said the same thing back then. But look at you now. You’re the best I have in Chinese Kenpo in your age group.”

Ezekiel sighed.

Kimball brushed a hand across the boy’s head, messing his hair. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Tomorrow I’ll show you my secrets, how’s that? I’ll show you things that even Job and Joshua have never seen before.”

The boy beamed. “Really?”

“If you promise to show me more heart.” Kimball stood and patted Ezekiel on the crown of his head. “Off you go,” he said, giving him a little push toward the hallway. “You’re going to have a long day tomorrow, so get a good night’s sleep.”

Ezekiel responded by racing down the stone-arched corridor. “Tomorrow!” he shouted.

Kimball watched the boy disappear beyond the light of the torches.

“He’s quite a project, isn’t he?” Cardinal Vessucci came forth from the shadows opposite the hallway.

“How long have you been watching?”

“For a while,” said the cleric. And then: “The boy’s struggling, Kimball.”

“He’s struggled with everything he’s done,” he returned. “But that’s okay since success does not come without struggle.”

“Kimball, the boy does not have the natural tools to be a Knight. What you do you do for yourself — not for the boy.”

“I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“You’re trying to right this boy by hoping it will right you. To save him is honorable, yes. But save him some other way. Do not make him a Vatican Knight when he does not have the tools to become one.”

“I believe in him.”

“Kimball, it’s noble to believe in someone who is down, but it’s even nobler to let someone go if you know in your heart the truth. If he goes into battle as a warrior for the Church and is weak at his trade, then he will surely be killed. Can you live with that knowing all along that he never really belonged?”

Kimball was heated. “You took me in believing I could find salvation within myself, yet I still haven’t found it. Not yet. So maybe I don’t belong.”

“I see. You demand of the boy what you don’t demand from yourself.” The cardinal turned and walked to a stairway leading to the second tier that led to an outside balcony. As he climbed the stairs lifting the hem of the robe as he ascended, he continued to speak. “I believe in you, Kimball, as does the pope and everyone within the Society of Seven. You have given us no reason otherwise.” When the cardinal reached the doorway leading to the outside loggia, he turned and faced Kimball. “But don’t expect from the boy what you don’t expect from yourself.”

And then he opened the door, the chamber illuminating with a bright and dazzling…

… Light.

Beautiful, glorious morning light.

When Kimball’s brain registered the light beyond the folds of his lids, he immediately reacted purely on instinct by bolting from the mattress with his hand reaching for the KA-BAR strapped to his thigh. In a skillful move the blade was in his hand in a firm grasp, his legs parted, knees bent, the man ready to rock and roll.

He knew he had overslept, the fatigue carrying him deeper than he wanted to, the hours slipping by.

“Hawk!”

He checked his watch. He should have been up hours ago, when it was still dark.

“Hawk!”

No response — just an uneasy silence.

And then he saw it — on the night stand. Dog’s head sat sentinel with his ribbon of tongue hanging out, his eyes already taking on the milky sheen of death.

He could have killed me, Kimball thought. He was here, in this room. Dog’s head was testament to that, a perverse message.

Hawk?

Kimball hunkered low with blade in hand, his head on a swivel as he moved slowly from the room and into the hallway.

The front door was open, giving view to a landscape cleansed by a rain he was oblivious to, fresh and pure and unadulterated.

He moved down the hallway, his senses kicking in, the feeling of not being alone paramount.

And then: Why didn’t he kill me? He was right beside me — had every opportunity. Why didn’t he do it?

The surface of the porch was beaded with drops of rain and the air smelled like ozone, usually the promise of more rain to come, even though the sky was clear.

Kimball carefully scanned the terrain, close and afar, sighting nothing.

Next to the chair was the MP-5 Hawk left from the night before. Kimball picked it up and snuck back into the house for cover, checking the chamber and noting that the weapon was ready for fire action.

He then brought the weapon up until the scope met his eye. With his head on a swivel and his body low to the ground, he exited the house and onto the porch.

With head shifts to the left and right, Kimball pointed the weapon in the direction to the east, and then the west in grid fashion, always moving in case he was caught in the crosshairs, a hard target to hit.

Twenty minutes later he found Hawk lying face down in red clay that used to be sand until it rained. His shirt was torn and parted, revealing the Indian’s backside.

Carved into the flesh was the letter ‘R.’

Kimball then turned the man over, the wet clay making a perfect imprint of Hawk’s face and body. Little clumps of clay stuck to the man’s face and Kimball brushed it off. And then he looked out over the desert terrain knowing that the assassin was gone.

He was keeping with the sequential order of the photo, the brothers being next, Kimball last.

If he wanted Kimball dead, then he could have done it when the opportunity availed itself as he lay in bed, an easy kill. It was apparent he wanted him alive to the very end and was probably off to engage the twin brothers to complete the kills sequentially.

Kimball lowered the point of the weapon and stood to his full height.

He was, after all, alone here.

Looking down at Hawk, he recalled that his skin once held the deep, rich tone of tanned leather, but was now the color of ash.

Kimball took in a long deep breath, and then let it out with an equally long sigh. Closing his eyes, he whispered, “Iscariot.”