The Brimstone Diaries

by Rick Jones

  The lead investigator held his hand up and started to pat the air. “Hang on now,” he said, moving towards the priests. “Something I can help you with?”

  Father Ferrano held out his credentials for the detective to see.

  The detective nodded before asking, “And to what purpose would Vatican Intelligence see fit to come into this chamber?” he asked.

  “That, Detective, cannot be divulged. This investigation, like yours, holds the same qualities of confidential interests to the Vatican, as it does to New Scotland Yard. So, if you’ll please step aside.”

  The detective worked the muscles in the back of his jaw, the man obviously displeased about the intrusion. When he looked at Kimball, however, and saw the burning within his eyes, he stepped aside. “I certainly don’t want to stand in the way of the Vatican, though it should be understood that this investigation falls within the jurisdiction—”

  “We won’t be long,” Father Ferrano interrupted, as he made his way to the stainless-steel table that housed the body of the assassin whose broken body had been reset to appear ordinary in death.

  The man’s face was livid with arterial lines running along his face and neck. The tattoos that covered his body, however, masked the rest of the lines that were most likely coursing along his limbs. In the center of his head was the bloodless wound of a bullet hole, a near-perfect circle.

  “Those tattoos,” remarked Father Ferrano. “I’m going to assume that they have meaning and merit to them.” He removed his cellphone and started to take photos of the images. First of the Holy Mother, and then of Jesus, who adorned the Crown of Thorns. Then after tapping an app on the phone, a screen came up that allowed the taking of digital prints. When Father Ferrano grabbed the assassin’s finger and began to roll it against the screen, the detective started to voice his disapproval. That was when Kimball told him to ‘back off.’ Hearing the menace in Kimball’s

  voice, the detective, stunned by the priest’s abruptness, reminded them that they may be tampering with evidence, and that it was up to the coroner to make determinations, not the Vatican. Father Ferrano, however, ignored him as he repeated the process nine more times until every fingerprint had been gathered, and then sent to Vatican Intelligence for possible identification.

  “Turn him over,” Father Ferrano said to Kimball, which really caused the detective to protest.

  “I must reiterate,” the detective stated harshly, “and I don’t care if the Vatican is involved in this for whatever reason. But you cannot touch the body in fear of disrupting trace evidence.”

  “If you have a problem with what we’re doing here,” Kimball told him, “then you’re more than welcome to file a complaint with the Vatican.”

  Waving his hand angrily and dismissively at Kimball, the detective turned and walked away while muttering profanities under his breath.

  When Kimball turned the large man onto his side, he noted the tattoos of angel’s wings on his back. The skin had scar tissue from multiple floggings, which marred the original beauty of the etchings.

  “Here,” said Kimball, “you need to look at this.”

  When Father Ferrano rounded the table, he saw the tats and took a few photos, which he also sent to Vatican Intelligence.

  “We’re done here,” he stated evenly to Kimball, who gently laid the body onto the table where the Vatican Knight sized the assassin with appraisal. He was a large man at six-six with less than eight percent body fat, nothing but muscle. And because of these dimensions, Kimball also looked for signs of steroid use such as the protruding brow, the flushed skin or muscle bloating. This man, however, showed none of these signs. He was simply a physical freak of nature, a wall of granite as Isaiah had stated. When Kimball saw his second lieutenant throw punches and kicks along the catwalk that would have taken most men down, this man seemed to absorb the blows instead of being repelled by them. Then he examined the tattoos with closer examination to see if he had any tats beneath the religious symbols, like the shadows of old tattoos that may give evidence that he at one time belonged to a branch of special forces. Kimball, however, didn’t see anything outside of overlapping crosses.

  “You good?” Father Ferrano asked him.

  “I think we’re done here.”

  As they started to leave, the detective called after them by threatening to contact the principals at the Vatican, if they disrupted any trace evidence in their examination of the assassin’s body.

  Getting into the vehicle in the parking lot, Father Ferrano started the vehicle and drove from the lot area.

  “Did you find something of importance?” the priest asked him.

  Kimball shook his head. “Nothing. If he was in the military, the prints you took will discover that fact. He had no markings on his arms. Not even a remnant of an old emblem that may have been covered over by the new designs. I was thinking that he may have been a ghost working for a black-ops force.”

  “Or for Opus Dei,” Father Ferrano tossed in. “But it’s not ISIS, that I’m sure of.

  If his biographical record is out there, they’ll find it. Vatican Intelligence will go through every database necessary to find him. Military, criminal, all of them.” But for some reason Kimball didn’t think it would be that simple.

  After all, such elite fighters as this assassin didn’t come directly from basic training. They were from a mold based on years of development.

  In silence, they drove to the London office of Opus Dei.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ––––––––

  Vaughan House

  Westminster Cathedral, Central London

  Robert Bowman was as giddy as a child. Headline news was reporting the assassination attempt on Bowman’s life. Bowman, though his whereabouts remained unknown, was believed to be safe.

  “Do any of you have any idea how many books I’m going to sell after this?” he stated rhetorically to the Vatican Knights who guarded him. “Any idea at all? I struggled at the university because of their ‘publish or perish’ ideology. I clung to the edges by my fingernails trying to make a name for myself. Always clawing and scratching my way to the top of the heap. Though Science is the New God elevated me to a more respectable position, this type of media will catapult me directly to the mountain’s peak.”

  Isaiah, Jeremiah and Joshua looked at each other, the Vatican Knights sensing that Bowman had no idea of the gravity of danger that surrounded him.

  Isaiah shut off the television.

  Bowman, who pointed to the set, said, “What are you doing?”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Isaiah stood before Bowman and crossed his arms over his chest. “That piece of gauze you’re wearing over your ear was the first shot across the bow. A near miss that missed the mark of your forehead by inches. You’re lucky to even be alive, let alone to be standing here.”

  “But I am standing here.”

  “That’s right. You are. At least for the moment.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, Mr. Bowman, that we can provide you safety until we discover who is behind this. It doesn’t matter why. It may take days, weeks, months, even years.

  Until that time, you will not exist in the eyes of the public. You’ll have to go underground.”

  “Underground?” He walked over to the TV. “Did you just hear what the media said about me? They spoke about me as a writer. They even posted the cover of my book. My photo. This time tomorrow I’ll be a celebrity.”

  “This time tomorrow, if we’re not careful, you’ll be dead.”

  Bowman remained silent.

  “Mr. Bowman,” this came from Joshua, a large and beefy man from Germany, his country of origin, who spoke with an accented clip. “Your life, as you know it, will never be the same. There are people out there who know what you are, who your ancestors are. And that puts a target on your back. This,” —he pointed to the tv— “only draws unwanted attention. More will come out from whatever hole
they’re hiding in to finish off what the assassin started. A bullet to the ear is a small price to pay for your life. And it’s up to us to make sure that it stays that way. Your safety is paramount in the eyes of the church.”

  Bowman’s face appeared to slacken. “Are you telling me that you’re holding me hostage? Even if it’s for the rest of my life?”

  “Mr. Bowman,” said Joshua, “if we allow you to walk out that door, you’ll be dead within a few hours.”

  “How do you know it’s not a one-shot deal? Maybe this guy was a religious fanatic. Did you think about that?”

  “Of course. But for every fanatic there are ten more like him. Now that your face has been posted all over the tele, every religious nut will rise for a cause that’s not their own because the assassin missed his mark, to finish off what he started.

  And that’s only one scenario.”

  “There’s another?”

  “Are you going back to the Opus Dei thing? Or to the Prelature Order of the Cross which evolved into Opus Dei?”

  “This isn’t a joke,” said Isaiah. “And don’t treat it as such. Over the centuries the Prelature Order of the Cross and extremely conservative groups over the centuries slaughtered anyone connected to the bloodline. And you, Mr. Bowman, should you be a target of such organizations, will never be safe unless you’re under the protection of the church.”

  The bulb of enlightenment suddenly went off over his head, the philosopher now realizing that the life he always wanted, the life he always dreamed of, was slipping away. Walking towards an empty chair, Bowman allowed his knees to buckle so that he fell into the cushion, the motion itself one of defeat. “I’ll never see the light of day again,” he said distantly. “I’ll never be able to walk down a tree lined street in the Spring. I’ll never be able to have a family without putting them in jeopardy.” He looked at Isaiah. “From this point on my life will be nothing but a living Hell.”

  “Not true,” Isaiah returned. “The Vatican will take care of all your needs. Believe me.”

  After a moment, Bowman asked, “May I have a glass of water.”

  Jeremiah got to his feet. “Of course.”

  When the Vatican Knight returned, he offered a sweating glass of ice-cold water to Bowman. “Here you go, mate.”

  Bowman took the glass and stared at it for a long moment. Then he dipped his finger into the water and started to stir it. A moment later he removed his finger and continued to stare at the glass.

  “Is something wrong, Mr. Bowman?” Jeremiah asked him.

  “No,” he said. “I’m just waiting for the water to turn into wine.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ––––––––

  Rome, Italy

  Though Master Kang was impressed by his hotel room, he was not overly delighted by it. In North Korea everything had a cold grayness to it, with signs of poverty everywhere. Now he wanted polish instead of tarnish, with gold and brass plating everywhere and drapes that were pleated with scalloped edges fringed with gold tassels. He wanted a bed with an ornate headboard and a mattress he could float on. And he wanted a balcony view of the House of Augustus, which he got. Three hours after his arrival, there was a knock on the door. When he opened it, Abdallah Kattan was standing on the threshold with a look of indifference on his face. “Master Kang,” he said. He was wearing a suit, shirt and tie, which made him appear less like a cleric and more like a business man. Then the Syrian pointed to the room behind Kang. “May I?”

  Kang opened the door to allow Kattan entry.

  With his hands clasped behind the small of his back, Abdallah Kattan entered the room and went immediately to the balcony. The view of the ruins was beautiful, he considered, with the moment being highlighted by the blue sky and the few renegade clouds that floated dreamily, and the mild sweep of a pleasant breeze. “A lovely view,” he said. “I do hope, Master Kang, that you appreciate the sight as much as I do.”

  But Kang went immediately into the business aspects of the conversation. “I understand the parts necessary for the project have yet to arrive. You do understand, Kattan, that my time is money, yes?”

  “As I’ve been told by Fariq, which is why I’m here.”

  “You need to know this.”

  “I understand your position, Master Kang.” Kattan turned to face Kang with a measure of heated disdain in his eyes. “Now you will understand my position.

  You’re now in Rome, which is my territory. You work for me. I don’t work for you. I pay you. You receive the money, and then you do as I tell you. You don’t tell me ...I tell you. Is that clear?”

  Kang lifted his chin in defiance. “If you want the project completed properly—”

  Kattan removed a knife that had been in the back of his waistband and produced it. With a push of his thumb on the switch, a blade shot forward from the hilt. It was long and keen and had a mirror polish to it. Then he started to tap the knife’s point against Kang’s chest. “If you fail me, Kang, I will drive this knife through your chest and skewer your heart. Do me right, then you will receive every American dollar you deserve right down to the last American penny. Is that clear?” He stopped tapping the knife against his chest and placed the point of the weapon at the soft tissue beneath Master Kang’s chin, which indented the flesh, and pushed slightly upward to drive the North Korean onto the tips of his toes. “I said, is that clear?”

  “It is.”

  When Kattan pressed the button, the blade slid back into the hilt. Kang, now relieved, eased back to the soles of his feet for solid footing. Leaving the balcony, Kattan entered the living area with Master Kang following. Behind them, the sheer drapes that led to the outside landing lifted and floated like phantoms with the course of a light breeze. Then from Kattan: “Listen to me, Master Kang, and listen clearly. The pieces are arriving by couriers every day, at a piece or two at a time. Should they be stopped and searched, a couple of pieces on their own will never draw suspicion, as would several pieces that may indicate the building of an WMD. Do you understand?”

  The North Korean nodded.

  “More than sixty percent of what you asked for has already arrived and is at the site to be assembled. The other pieces will be here over the next two days. In that time, you will begin the project until all the pieces arrive. With every piece that one of my soldiers bring to me, is another soldier to add to my army when the time comes. Do you have the size specifications as to the dimensions of the product I want you to construct?”

  The North Korean told him the numbers by heart.

  “Very good, Master Kang. This item must sit perfectly inside a very special crucible that is being made by the Craftsman. The project of this item is almost complete and will be here in two days’ time. Four days from now, Master Kang, the item I have hired you to piece together must be finished. Then, of course, you will be paid in full.”

  “Four days’ time, yes.”

  “So, you see, Master Kang, we’re still on time. Not a second more. Not a second less.”

  Kang simply stared at Abdallah Kattan, the man not betraying a single emotion. Kattan, who headed for the door, stopped and turned to face the North Korean. “And one more thing,” he said. “If you even consider disappearing, I want you to know one thing: I have eyes everywhere. If you attempt to leave the city, let alone the country, I will have my people carve you up into bits so small that the curs who run freely through the alleys will feast on your remains. Do the job I ask, then you will be rewarded as agreed upon. This you have my word on. Leave, however...” Kattan let his words hang long enough for Kang to get the gist of the hidden meaning.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he told the Syrian.

  Kattan, who was smiling at Kang in return to show off his perfect rows of teeth, said, “Very good, Master Kang. I honestly look forward to working with you.”

  And then the man named Abdallah Kattan, who masqueraded as Cardinal Alnasseri, was gone.

  * * *

  When Kat
tan reached his vehicle and saw Master Kang looking down at him from his balcony, the Syrian did not acknowledge him with a good-bye wave. Instead, he got into his vehicle, pulled out his cellphone, and thumbed a number on his keypad.

  “Yes, Abdallah.” It was Fariq.

  “The wheels are in motion,” he told him. “The funds have been transferred in full to Houshmand’s account in Damascus. I need you to coordinate the efforts with Houshmand to deliver the package into your hands, where you will then transport it to Rome through the proper channels. Do you understand?”

  “I do.”

  “You have three days, Fariq. By then Kang will have completed his task, so the timing of this operation is everything.”

  “Yes, Abdallah. Of course.”

  “Bring a trusted courier with you to pick up and transport the item through the safest channels. Without the item, there can be no true victory for Allah.”

  “Understood.”

  “And one more thing,” said Abdallah Kattan. “Contact the Craftsman in Milan and tell him that we’ll need the replica by tomorrow. Have our liaisons there move the item to Rome immediately.”

  Then again from the subservient Fariq: “Of course, Abdallah. As you say.”

  Kattan snapped the phone shut and looked up at Master Kang’s balcony. The North Korean was nowhere in sight. Starting the vehicle, Abdallah Kattan pulled out of the parking lot and returned to his apartment where he would once again don the second skin of Cardinal Alnasseri.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ––––––––

  Milan, Italy

  He was known in certain circles as the Craftsman, an aged man with unscrupulous standards who forged counterfeit pieces of high-end objects to sell on the black market. Several weeks ago, however, he had been contacted by a man of Syrian decent who flashed a wad of American dollars with the promise of more to come, should he devise a specific crucible to replicate the one that was showcased inside the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore, in timely fashion. Accepting the offer, the Craftsman agreed on a settled amount which would be transferred to his account in the Caymans.