by Rick Jones
The Brimstone Diaries
The Vatican Knights, Volume 16
Rick Jones
Published by Rick Jones, 2018.
PROLOGUE
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The Vatican Secret Archives
Vatican City
Three Months Ago
The bishop, who was dressed in a black cassock with red piping and wore a purple biretta upon his head, descended the stairway that led to the Vatican’s Secret Archives. He was a tall man, about six-six, with a wide breadth to his shoulders. In his hand was a leather briefcase that had the emblem of the Vatican inscribed on its strap, the two crisscrossing keys of St. Peter—one silver and the other gold—beneath a papal tiara.
At the bottom of the stairway was a heavy glass door that was covered with bomb-blast resistant glazing. Behind it were two men from Vatican Security. One was seated behind a desk, the other stood by the entryway.
After the bishop lifted a wallet to show his credentials, the officer at the desk buzzed him in. Once inside, he greeted both officers with an engaging smile. “Good morning,” he offered kindly. “I’m Bishop John Emory from the Theological Seminary and Christian Faith College. I’ve been granted permission by the Pontifical Commission to access the Archives.”
“Morning, Bishop,” stated the desk officer. “I assume you have the necessary documents?”
The bishop nodded. “I have the communication from the Holy See about my introductory letter right here,” he said, lifting his briefcase and placing it on the desktop. “I’m afraid that the timing of my studies will not allow me to wait any longer for my entry card. So—” After he undid the strap and pulled back the flaps, the bishop reached inside and removed a suppressed Glock 9mm. In a moment too quick for the officer behind the desk to register what was happening, a bullet hole magically appeared in the center of his forehead.
...Phfffft...
The bishop then directed the weapon on the second officer, who appeared too stunned to react.
After grabbing the briefcase and stepping away from the desk with his weapon directed on the guard, the bishop asked, “Do you want to live?”
The security officer nodded.
“Then you must do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”
Another nod.
“I seek a particular book. One of great value. To retrieve it I’ll need you to provide me access.”
“Please don’t hurt me. I have a family.”
The bishop cocked his head inquisitively like a baffled dog. “Why do people always think that having a family should exclude them from situations like this? I never quite understood that since it makes no difference if you have a family or not. You’re at my disposal, which means that you do whatever I ask of you, whether you have a family or not.” He took a step closer and redirected his aim to the guard’s forehead. “And you are at my disposal”—He looked at the man’s name tag—“Security Officer Abramo, aren’t you? Whether or not you have a family. Yes?”
The guard nodded.
“Do as I say,” said the bishop. “And no harm will come to you. All I want is the book.”
The guard gave a signal of understanding with a faint nod of his chin.
“Very good, then.”
After the bishop removed the dead officer’s name tag and tossed it into the briefcase, he was then led down a corridor that carved a path through the library that was protected by impenetrable glass walls on both sides. Books and tomes could be seen sitting on their shelves, with stacks and rows that seemed to go on forever. Steel cylinders that held ancient scrolls with delicate sheepskin that had yellowed over time were neatly stacked inside specially designed boxes. When they reached a revolving glass door that needed an entry card for admission, the bishop said, “Not here. The book I seek is in a very special room where it resides beneath a single light to showcase its value. It is a religious text with opening chapters that were penned by Saint Peter himself. Do you know the book I speak of, Security Officer Abramo?”
He did.
“Very good. Take me to the room which needs special access only you can provide.”
Security Officer Abramo, with the point of the pistol resting at the base of his skull, led the bishop down a second stairway to an underground storage space that was added in 1980. This particular area was restricted for public viewing for articles dated after 1939, as well as the recorded personal affairs of cardinals dating from 1922 and onward. In the rear of this underground vault, however, and secluded behind thick panes of glass, was an area restricted to all with the exception of the pontiff and certain scribes of the Vatican. It was a dark chamber that showcased a single item, an ancient tome. Above the book, a single bulb illuminated a biblical-like beam of light to showcase this prize upon an ivory pedestal. The tome was thick, close to six inches, with a spine of tanned leather and pages that had browned.
The bishop, who was in awe of this sight, never lowered the point of his
weapon from the base of the officer’s skull. “You’ve done well up to this point,
Security Officer Abramo. Now we have one little feat left to do, yes? I need you to get me inside that chamber.”
With the mouth of the pistol placed firmly against Abramo’s skull, the bishop directed the security officer to an ocular eye scanner that was to the left of the glass doors. Not only did it measure the roadmaps of red stitching within the eyes, it also looked for pulsations to confirm that the orbs had not been removed from the sockets of their deceased owner and displayed before the reader, in order to gain access.
When Abramo looked into the ocular reader whose scanning light went from left to right, then right to left, a mechanical voice in Italian declared a match and opened the door.
As the set of glass doors parted with the sound of escaping air, the bishop smiled. “Thank you for your services, Security Officer Abramo. But I’ll take over from here.”
...Phfffft...
...Phfffft...
Two muted shots to the man’s skull. Abramo fell quickly to the floor with his knees buckling and going straight down.
After removing Abramo’s name tag, the bishop returned both the weapon and name tag to the briefcase, then walked to the podium that contained the ancient tome. Laying the briefcase down, the assassin, in admiration, ran the tips of his fingers over the book’s cover in a soft and skinning caress. He felt no sense of incredible warmth at the touch, no sudden eclipsing of spiritual bliss. Nor did he see the flashes of biblical images from the past, such as Christ upon the cross or His march through the stations until He reached Golgotha. There was no magic here, thought the bishop. No divine enchantments. It was, after all, only a book.
Still.
As he continued to trace his fingers lovingly over the aged leather of the tome’s cover, which held no title, he finally opened the book. The pages had browned and yellowed. And with age they had become delicate to the touch. The bishop shuddered as if a bone-chilling finger ran along the length of his spine, the feel of excitement as he read the first page, though it was in Aramaic, a language he did not fully understand. Nevertheless, he continued to run his fingertips adoringly over the ancient parchment as if the scribed characters were in braille. Then he whispered softly, “Written by the hand of Saint Peter himself ...By the hand of the first pope.” Gently closing the cover, the assassin lifted the book from the podium and placed it inside the briefcase. After strapping the briefcase shut, he quickly exited the chamber, went down the corridors, up the stairways, and entered St. Peter’s Square where he became lost within the crowd.
Chapter One
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Apartment of Cardinal Alnasseri
Rome. Italy
Car
dinal Alnasseri was not whom he appeared to be. In the eyes of his constituency he was well-respected and a strong candidate of the preferiti, should the pontiff’s throne become vacant. But the cardinal was not a priest at all, had never been ordained. Cardinal Alnasseri happened to be an ISIS operative and the brother to Mabus, who was a leading principal of the terrorist faction until he was hunted down and killed by Kimball Hayden in a village south of Raqqa, Syria. Since he looked like the real Cardinal Alnasseri, this gave him the opportunity to seize the cardinal’s position within the church. So, after the last Conclave, this man, whose real name was Abdallah Kattan, murdered the cardinal upon his return from Rome to Syria, and wore the priest’s identity like a second skin.
Since few within the College knew the real Cardinal Alnasseri because the cleric refused to leave his post in war-torn Syria, he was respected, nonetheless, because his life always hung in the balance with hostile forces always an arm’s length away. When Abdallah Kattan killed the true cardinal, he decided to destroy the church from within like a cancer, rather than invade Vatican City in a losing cause that would unite the masses. He would be the carcinogen, the first of many cells to run wild and rampart, who would destroy Vatican City until it was nothing but a no-man’s land for a thousand years to come.
But Abdallah Kattan had another purpose, as well. Kimball Hayden had killed his brother which indirectly suppressed a movement. As the city of Raqqa became overwhelmed by Coalition Forces with the self-proclaimed capital of ISIS falling, hostile cells were pushed further south towards Damascus. If his brother had lived to concentrate troops and cells elsewhere, they might have stood a chance against the Coalition’s advancement. Though ISIS continued to promote terrorism within the region, they had been severely weakened, though not crippled.
Now Abdallah Kattan, the brother of Mabus who once reigned over ISIS, was now in the position to finish what his brother had started, though with different tactics. He would not be so overt by using suicide bombers, only for the Vatican to pick up the mess and move on. He would, instead, gut it from the inside out.
As he was resting inside his apartment reading the Koran, there was a light wrapping on his door. Closing the book and stuffing it beneath his chair, the man in cardinal’s clothing said, “Just a moment,” as he was getting to his feet. Opening the door, he was greeted in kind by Cardinal Restucci, whose nose and cheeks were brightly filamented with capillaries, and whose chin had a gelatinous wobble to it whenever he spoke. “Good Cardinal Alnasseri,” he said, smiling gingerly, “may I have a moment of your time?”
“Of course.” Cardinal Alnasseri opened the door wide as an invitation to Restucci.
Once Restucci was inside, Cardinal Alnasseri closed the door behind him and informed the cardinal to make himself comfortable. Taking a seat next to the sofa, the cardinal fidgeted himself into the cushion until he was content. “Thank you for seeing me,” he stated to Alnasseri.
“So, what is it that I can do for you, Good Cardinal?”
“I understand that you might be returning to Syria soon. Is this true?”
Cardinal Alnasseri shrugged at this. “It all depends,” he told him. “As you know, Damascus is being overrun by ISIS insurgents who are being forced from Raqqa. Until the situation is handled to the satisfaction of the church that my safety can be guaranteed, only then will I return. Right now, the city may be in near ruins, maybe not, but the Syriac Catholic Church still stands. I miss my home and my people.”
“That can take some time,” said Cardinal Restucci.
“Perhaps.”
“The church may send you elsewhere, in the meantime.”
“That may be true as well. But I’ve heard no such reports.” Cardinal Alnasseri took a seat along the sofa, clasped his hands together, and began to bounce his fingertips nervously against his chin. “And this is the reason for your visit? To say good-bye to me on reports that are unconfirmed?”
“No,” said Cardinal Restucci. “I’m here on a more pressing matter. One I had to be sure about.”
“And that would be?”
“Unfortunately, we’ve both become the participants in three Conclaves over the past five years, choosing three pontiffs in that short period of time, I’m afraid.”
Cardinal Alnasseri nodded at this fact.
“And over those years,” Cardinal Restucci continued, “I’ve gotten to know the cardinal from Syria quite well.” Restucci paused while examining Alnasseri’s face for shifts that might have betrayed his thoughts. But Cardinal Alnasseri’s features remained even.
When Alnasseri didn’t respond, Cardinal Restucci leaned forward in his seat.
“And you,” he said evenly, “are not the man I met during those Conclaves. So, my question to you is: who are you?”
Cardinal Alnasseri smiled at this. “You’re kidding me, right?”
The lack of expression on Cardinal Restucci’s face, however, said that he wasn’t.
“You don’t believe I’m the Good Cardinal Alnasseri, is that it? Is that why you’re here?”
“Do you remember the first time we met when you were returned to the Vatican after your unfortunate affair in Damascus, right after the Vatican Knights intervened and saved your life? You didn’t even recognize me.”
“Have you forgotten, Good Cardinal. I was kidnapped by members of ISIS. My life was threatened on a continuous basis. I believe I have the right to feel a sense of numbness and trauma after the event.”
Cardinal Restucci slowly fell back into his seat. “I will say this much,” he began, “you look remarkably like him. Your eyes, however, are closer together. And whereas you have a noticeable chin cleft, the real Cardinal Alnasseri didn’t have so much as a dimple. Most of all, he had this extraordinary-looking mole on the bony protrusion of his right wrist.” He lifted the sleeve of his shirt and touched the bony part of his wrist to indicate the exact location. “This particular mole was shaped like a Playboy Bunny which, as you can imagine, became the brunt of several jokes. A mole I see you do not have. So once again I ask: who are you? And where is the real Cardinal Alnasseri?”
“You come to my apartment to confront me about something so ridiculous—”
“Ridiculous? Cardinal Alnasseri was a highly respected man because he chose to stay with his flock inside of a battle zone, which exhibited a great measure of courage. And because of this he was regarded as a member of the preferiti. Other cardinals may not know the real Cardinal Alnasseri because his visits only came by way of Conclave, meaning he was able to develop few relationships within the College before returning to Syria. I, however, happened to be one of those few who became close to him. You are not Cardinal Alnasseri.”
“Is this what you really believe, Good Cardinal? That I’m a charlatan? And for what good reason, may I ask?”
Restucci shrugged. “Only you know the answer to that question, I’m afraid.”
The cardinals pinned each other with stares.
Then finally from Cardinal Alnasseri, he asked, “And you no doubt let this absurdity be known to others?”
“No,” said Cardinal Restucci. “Up until now I had my doubts until I saw that you possessed no such mole on your wrist. That I had to see for myself before passing judgment. But there were other measures as well, such as the way you move, the way you talk, your mannerisms. Nothing about you reminds me of the real Cardinal Alnasseri. Now I fear as to what truly happened to him.” Cardinal Alnasseri sighed heavily through his nostrils as he got to his feet. “Do you really want to know the truth?” he asked. “About Cardinal Alnasseri, I mean?” “I want to know what happened to him. I want to know about his welfare.” Cardinal Alnasseri walked to the window that overlooked Rome. No matter the lies he could tell, no matter the stories he could spin to justify his actions, he knew he’d been compromised. Then: “You want to know about the Good Cardinal, yes?”
“Of course.”
Cardinal Alnasseri moved away from the window and quietly maneuvered around the couch. �
�Very well, then.” He walked around the room removing a rosary from around his neck. “I’m afraid that the good cardinal has met with a rather disturbing outcome,” he admitted. “One you won’t want to hear about.”
“Has he passed?”
Cardinal Alnasseri began to wind one end of the rosary around his right hand, and then the other end in the left, creating a garrote. “And no doubt you will inform the College of this?”
“Of course.”
Cardinal Alnasseri moved behind Restucci’s chair. “Then let me tell you what happened to the real Cardinal Alnasseri,” he told him. “I’m sorry to say that his end came as a means to appease Allah, the same way that I’m about to please Allah by ending your life.” Cardinal Alnasseri reached over the back of the chair and wrapped the rosary around the cardinal’s throat. Cardinal Restucci was no match for the strength of the younger man as he lashed out with his arms and legs, the man gasping and choking. Then as Restucci’s struggles began to slow,
Cardinal Alnasseri pulled as hard as he could on the cord until Restucci slumped forward in his seat with a fat tongue protruding from between his teeth When Cardinal Alnasseri removed the rosary, he noted that the whites of Cardinal Restucci’s eyes were blood-red from petechial hemorrhaging, the capillaries bursting against the strain of the strangulation.
After allowing the cardinal to fall to the floor, Cardinal Alnasseri grabbed a cell phone and dialed a contact number.
After the sixth ring someone answered in Arabic. “Hello.”
“It’s Kattan,” Cardinal Alnasseri simply stated. “There’s a possibility that my position may have been compromised.”
“You know this for sure?”
Cardinal Alnasseri gave a quick glance at Restucci’s body. “No. The threat did say, however, that he told no one, before the moment of his final breath. But that may have been a lie as well.”
“Now what?”
“We continue until we confirm otherwise. Right now, I need a sanitation team to dispose of the initial problem.”