by Rick Jones
Kimball, who reached over to place his fingertips on the band and held them steady as if debating to don it or not, finally pushed the collar in the direction of the pontiff. “I can’t be saved,” he told him.
The pontiff—for that slight moment when Kimball was deciding—had hope, which Kimball dashed the moment he pushed the collar aside.
“I’ll clear out my room,” Kimball told him. “And Isaiah should be elevated to my position. He deserves it.”
“Kimball—”
“It’s all right,” he told him. “I made my bed long ago. Now it’s time to sleep in it.” When Kimball started to leave the papal chamber, he turned and noted that the pontiff appeared smaller, feebler, the man sinking within himself as if learning the loss of a good friend. “If you don’t mind, Your Holiness . . . I’d like to visit the Tombs one last time.”
The pope nodded and softly said, “Of course.”
“And thank you for everything you’ve done. And thank the monsignor, too. And should you get the chance . . . tell my brothers I will always love them.”
Just when the pontiff was about to say: ‘tell them yourself,’ Kimball Hayden was gone.
The priest who was not a priest was no more.
Chapter Fifteen
Winchester, Virginia
“You know they won’t comply,” Najm said to Allawi, who nodded. “The United States stands firm behind their policy of not negotiating.”
“That’s what they say behind closed doors. And that’s what they tell the American people. But they’ll have no choice in the matter. Once their two-day limit has come and gone without submitting to our demands, then I’ll give them incentive to do so.” He turned to Najm with his arms folded across his chest. “Tell me, Najm, how is the DOW doing?”
“It’s down more than ten thousand points,” he answered. “But slowing.”
Allawi nodded and smiled with a sense of malicious amusement. This was a game to him, a tit-for-tat chess match, knowing that the decisions made here could either elevate a man to be a king or reduce him to a pawn. Allawi was obviously eyeing the throne. Then: “It’s time for phase two. I want you to get a message out to a major news’ network immediately. Provide them with the seed of false information that the government is deciding to call for a bank holiday, so there won’t be an automatic rush to drain funds. There won’t be a checking of sources, since the news has become a subjective and one-sided affair when reporting. When one agency picks up the feed, then other networks will follow suit for ratings’ sake. Soon, this false information will spread to serve our needs.”
“The Press Secretary will deny this.”
“Of course, he will. But we live in a culture where the people no longer have trust in their government. No matter how much the White House will try to deny this, people will always have their doubts. And they’ll be racing for the vaults.”
“Yes, Mohammad.”
“Send a flurry of emails to the network and make it appear as if it was coming from an unnamed source within the White House. And make sure that the IP address is directly traced to the White House, as well. Can you do that?”
“I can.”
Allawi turned to the television and watched the news that played incessantly on every channel. Onscreen, smoke continued to billow in the aftermath of the razing, while analysts proposed unfounded theories and provided guesses. But when the photos of Montrell Thompson, AKA Mohammad Allawi, and Geoffrey Miner, AKA Najm, were posted, Allawi knew that he had reached celebrity status. He and Najm were the most popular people on the planet and superstars in the eyes of the Islamic State. ISIL would now open their arms and embrace him as a high-ranking principal within the regime. The negative aspect of such elevation, however, was that he and Najm had been spotlighted. National eyes would now be on the lookout for them, as their faces had become imprinted into the minds of millions of people. CCTV cameras and their facial recognition programs would be scouring the landscape to measure certain landmarks on every face for validation. And ATLs, ‘Attempt-to-Locate,’ would be the mandate for every law enforcement agency nationwide.
“We’ve done well, Najm. It appears that we have made the FBI’s exalted directory of being on the ‘Ten Most Wanted’ list.” Using the remote to turn off the TV, Mohammad Allawi took a seat next to Najm and placed a hand upon his shoulder. In front of them was the computer that Najm was so adept at using. “My brother,” he began softly, “in two days’ time we will strike again once the government predictably refuses our demands. I will choose three martyrs to carry out the second phase of the operation on that day. And then I will point the accusing finger at the United States president and inform the masses that the atrocity could have been avoided with the government’s cooperation. This, of course, will further damage the White House occupancy.”
“I have concerns, Mohammad.”
“I know,” he answered. “I can see it in your face.”
“We won’t be able to move or relocate . . . There’s nowhere for us to go.”
“We have the world, Najm. In two days when the second phase commences, I will proffer the government one last opportunity to release our brothers. Should they fail, then we will prepare to launch Operation Herod. I promise you, Najm, you will hear no greater cry across the land if the government does not comply before the operation. Once done, then we will be delivered to the land where we belong.”
Najm appeared nonplussed by this. “Paradise?”
Mohammad Allawi nodded. “No, my brother, we still have work to do on this plain. We are not martyrs. We’re doers. We will recruit and rebuild our forces. Syria may be lost to us, but teams are moving into the Asian countries. Pockets of resistance still survive in the Middle East and they’ll continue to grow and flourish. What we have done today will no doubt promote the Muslim goal of living under the rule of Allah. People will sign upon the dotted line wherever they can to join Allah’s army and become the crusaders of tomorrow. Armies will rise from the ashes like the Phoenix in resurrection and storm the fronts of heathen nations.” Najm nodded as if he understood. But he also knew that such preparation for a new world order could not be done within the borders of the United States. Allawi, who seemed to intuit Najm’s thoughts by the warring tics on his face, said, “In four days, once the operations are completed and the psyche of the American people damaged beyond repair, we will be on a boat outside of Virginia Beach, a small vessel. We’ll then be taken to a much larger boat that has the maneuverability to see us to Cuba. Everything is lined up. While you were busy here, I was working on a plan for our eventual flight from justice.”
“Cuba?”
Allawi nodded. “Cuba is no friend of the United States. My contacts there have allegiances to certain members who, in fact, have great hatred for the United States while turning a blind eye to certain ties relating to the Islamic State, after having received substantial payments. Bogus passports will be waiting for us that will see us to the Middle East. Our transports will be waiting. And by this time next week, our brothers will hail us in welcome.”
Najm was born in Michigan and had never been outside the United States, not even to Canada. Mohammad Allawi had set up such a huge and personal move, he wasn’t sure how he was going to handle it. Mohammad Allawi was an intelligent man who could speak many languages, with Arabic being one of them. Najm’s only skill was his incredibly high aptitude in computer technology, which was his only gift. Not knowing the language was a marginal concern that he would become a pariah.
“It’ll be fine, Najm. If you’re a celebrity here for all the wrong reasons, imagine what it would be like being a celebrity in a land for all the right reasons.”
Though apprehensive, Najm was also exhilarated. His life in the United States was over, this he knew. Now it was time for a new journey, which he believed had been presented to him by Allah.
Looking at the screen of the computer before Najm, Mohammad Allawi said,
“Before I leave, Najm, I still have a
bone to pick and a craw that needs settling. Have you found the woman?”
Najm nodded. “She’s in Washington, D.C.,” he told Allawi. “She rents a small apartment. Lives by herself. In fact—” Najm started to type coordinates to Google World and brought up a satellite view of the residence. Then he zoomed in on the location, which was a block filled with expensive locations, even for apartment living.
Allawi immediately thought about how much of a downgrade it was from her previous residence, a luxury home in a twenty-four-karat neighborhood. It was there that he had attempted to kill her with a sniper’s bullet, only to discover disappointment when he learned that she had survived the attack. But in doing so, he had also awakened a sleeping giant of a priest who not only became her champion, but a juggernaut who became unstoppable. It was this man in priest’s clothing who had incapacitated him long enough for the authorities to claim his soul, and then pitch him inside a cell that was no larger than a walk-in closet. “I will not miss her this time,” he said softly.
But Najm didn’t know if Allawi was talking to him or thinking out loud.
Then from Allawi: “It didn’t take you long to find her.”
“She’s missing from the public files but not the FBI’s. I was able to find the information within their data files.”
“You do amaze me, Najm. And because of this you’ll be a leader in ISIL, believe me.”
“Thank you, Mohammad. I’m deeply honored.”
“I couldn’t have pulled any of this off without your services.”
Another nod of appreciation from Najm.
Then Allawi added: “I want the woman. I want her address.”
Najm gave it to him, which Allawi mentally filed away. He would set the record straight and make sure that the woman looked into his eyes the moment she expelled her final breath. The idea of killing her was like an itch that couldn’t be scratched during his stay at the Blacksite, something that consumed him. Now he was finally going to neutralize that irritating prickling beneath his skin once and for all.
“And there’s security,” Najm told him. “Two sedans with a pair of agents in each one. You’ll need to be careful.”
“We just brought down the most powerful nation in the world to its knees. You think four agents sitting inside their vehicles drinking coffee and eating donuts is going to stop me?”
“Of course not.”
Mohammad Allawi got to his feet and gave Najm a few pats on the shoulder.
“I’ve much work to do, Najm. First, I must find martyrs exuberant enough to join Allah in Paradise.” As he turned to walk away, he added, “And there’s a woman I must kill.”
While deciding upon those he wanted to conscript to martyr themselves for phase two of the project, the thought of Shari Cohen continued to leave a sour taste in his gut.
Chapter Sixteen
Washington, D.C.
The two sedans remained in front of Shari’s apartment residence with a pair in each vehicle. They appeared to be more enamored watching their cell phones than watching the apartment—at least that’s what Shari thought when she glanced out the window. Allowing the drapes to fall back, she turned her attention to the flat-screen TV. The country appeared to be spiraling into chaos. Two iconic symbols of freedom had been destroyed. The financial institute of Wall Street was dropping to rock bottom. And the nation was in lockdown with airports and government offices crippled. All from the hands of Montrell Thompson, she thought. AKA Mohammad Allawi. As soon as that idea struck her, his photo happened to show up on the screen like magic along with his cohort, a man by the name of Geoffrey Miner. Speak of the Devil.
They were classified as the frontrunners of the attacks against American sovereignty and deemed extremely dangerous. Phone numbers were scrolling across the bottom for any information regarding these ‘persons of interest.’ And Shari, who was locked away and refused to go off the grid to a safehouse, felt extremely impotent.
She wanted to call Director Larry Johnston and plead for reinstatement. But he had made it very clear to her that he was given orders by a man who sat behind a bigger desk. Therefore, and no matter how much she pressed upon him her value to the case, she’d only be talking to deaf ears.
Frustrated, Shari went to her couch to watch the current events play out, never once realizing that the man who orchestrated the mayhem was also putting her within the crosshairs.
Chapter Seventeen
The Crypts Beneath St. Peter’s Basilica
Vatican City
Carrying a rucksack over his shoulder with all the items he had accumulated over a lifetime, Kimball went to the tombs beneath the basilica. The corridors had a medieval feel to them with stone-arched walls and low ceilings. Lining the hallways were electric torches that had taken the place of ancient sconces. And sunken chambers that were large enough to contain a single crypt stood off these passageways as sequestered rooms. Though the arterial tunnels beneath the basilica were like a labyrinth, Kimball knew them well as he negotiated his way to the tomb of Leviticus.
After kissing the cool marble of the crypt and placing his head against the stone, Kimball chose his words carefully. “This is it, my friend. I wish we had more time together, you and me. I wish I could say that we’d be together in the afterlife, but I’m thinking we’re going in two different directions.” After a pause, he added: “I miss you.”
After giving the stone of Leviticus’s tomb a final kiss, Kimball made his way to the crypt belonging to Bonasero Vessucci, the man who gave Kimball his second lease on life to seek the ‘Light.’ Taking the three stairs down to the sunken chamber, Kimball set his rucksack aside, kissed the stone of the crypt, and then took a seat upon one of the marble steps.
It was a long time before he spoke. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I failed you. I failed me. I’m sure I’ve been nothing but a grave disappointment to you.” When Kimball felt a hand alight upon his shoulder and an indescribable warmth race throughout his body, Kimball closed his eyes. It was a moment of feeling cleansed, this hand washing away whatever darkness that had eclipsed his spirit.
Kimball, life is one long lesson of learning, is it not?
The voice, as always, sounded like Bonasero, but at the same time it didn’t.
“I have never felt so lost or so alone.”
Then learn from this instead of walking away.
“I’ve tried, Bonasero. Only to fail time and again. For every step I take toward the ‘Light,’ I do something that sets me two steps back and closer to ‘Darkness.’ I’m so tired.”
In being spent, Kimball, have you not risen above it in the past?
“Only to fall flat,” he answered softly. And then: “I’m tired of all the killing . . . I’m tired of walking away from missions with my hands bloodied by the death of others.”
The one constant in life, Kimball, is good versus evil. Without good to interrupt the ambition of evil, many would suffer. Sometimes, is it not best to diminish evil in all its forms, so that the lives of good people can continue to pave the way for a better Earth?
Kimball remained silent and kept his eyes closed.
Sometimes, Kimball, a man’s purpose may appear to be consumed by shadows when, in fact, the shadows can be a tool of the ‘Light.’ Therefore, in order to serve the ‘Light,’ then one must work in the ‘Darkness.’ You, Kimball, must operate according to your divine mission. Few can do what you are capable of. And in every group, is there not at least one who stands above the others in some way, one who has been anointed as someone special?
“I’m nobody,” Kimball stated softly. Then he pointed to his rucksack. “A lifetime of my possessions is inside that bag. Nothing else.”
Material goods, Kimball, is not the true measure of a man. It’s what he does in life to leave behind as his legacy.
“I have killed so many people, both good and bad.”
That’s true. But by saving the lives that you did, you have also given opportunity for future lines to continu
e, where the lives of the children will begat the lives of more children, and so on.
“I have also stolen future lines as well . . . by killing children.”
God forgives the truly repentant man. And you, Kimball, are feeling the weight of a man who has become conscionable to his misdeeds. It is for you to overcome the weight that begins to crush your soul.
“I don’t know how.”
He does . . . And once again, Kimball, your service will be required. Duty will call.
As soon as the hand lifted, darkness rushed through him in shuddering waves.
And when he turned to look down the corridor, he found it empty as always, the man behind the voice gone.
After sighing through his nostrils, Kimball grabbed his rucksack, kissed the tomb of Bonasero Vessucci, and said a final good-bye.
When he made it to the Square and stood within the shadows of St. Peter’s Basilica, he recalled a Vatican proverb that described him when he was of value to the church.
It went: It’s said that when the world isn’t right, a man steps out of the shadows of St. Peter’s Basilica to make it whole again. He is the priest who is not a priest. He’s an angel to some and a demon to others.
Kimball, with his rucksack over his shoulder, walked out of the shadows of St. Peter’s Basilica, not realizing that the priest who was not a priest would once again take up the call to serve as an angel to some and a demon to others, one last time.
As he made his way through the milling crowds of St. Peter’s Square, nobody surrounding him knew how truly special this man was about to become.
Chapter Eighteen