by Rick Jones
“Mentally, otherwise,” the pontiff began, “how does he appear?”
“Strong and willful, as always. He also seemed to believe that he was the commander of the Vatican Knights.”
“Do you believe he’ll be able to command again?” asked Isaiah.
“Physically, perhaps. Mentally, maybe. But Kimball, for sure, still has a long road ahead of him. According to his physician these memory gaps may fill themselves in over time. We’ll just have to wait. That’s all we can do, I’m afraid.”
“How long before he’ll be able to come to Rome where he’ll be able to train?” asked the pope.
“A month before he’s at full strength. But learning to walk again will be a chore, let alone run. But Kimball has always been strong-willed and conquers most challenges thrown his way. Doctors believe he’ll acquire his full capacity to function normally within six months, if Kimball works diligently, which we know he will. So again, physically he’ll get there; mentally, it’s something we’ll have to gauge.”
“But when he’s strong enough,” the pontiff continued, “he’ll be able to return to Rome and work his way to full capacity as a Vatican Knight, is that what I’m hearing?”
“In a month, yes. At least according to his physician.”
“Then see it done, Monsignor. In one month, Kimball will return to the Vatican where we can watch over him.”
“Understood.”
“May God be with you, Monsignor, and also with Kimball.”
There was a definite click over the line, the call ending.
Inside the chamber of the Pastoral Center, Monsignor Dom Giammacio wondered if Kimball would ever regain the skillset he had learned over a lifetime, given these new limitations. But if there was a man who could overcome the obstacles in life, no matter how difficult, it was Kimball Hayden. The only obstacle Kimball never could overcome was himself, which for some reason was always insurmountable, and perhaps his greatest challenge was yet to come.
Standing, the monsignor knew that Kimball was on the cusp of becoming a lethal weapon once again, a man who often worked in Darkness to serve the Light.
. . . Only time would tell . . .
CHAPTER FIVE
The Eastern Part of Syria
One Month Later
Even though the U.S. had reinserted themselves in the eastern part of Syria to watch over the oil fields so that they couldn’t be seized by the Islamic State, Junaid Hassad had reformed and rebuilt his league to number in the thousands. These cells had spread themselves throughout the country only to grow into larger ones that would someday grab a foothold of caliphate affairs. Dreams turned into goals, goals turned into fervor, and fervor turned into action. Soldiers who became the new wave of Muslim fighters carried the black flag proudly in the name of Allah as they ransomed high-asset targets for high sums of money. Priceless antiquities were stolen, not destroyed, and sold on the black market since everything, if wanted badly enough, had a price. And those with computer skills had created bogus charities to illicit funds, only for these sites to either disappear or become defunct after hundreds of thousands of dollars were exchanged for bit coins, making the money trail impossible to track.
ISIS grew and flourished, the cancer that was once in remission was now returning aggressively. The oil fields remained untouched with the presence of U.S. contingents maintaining watch, but in small numbers. In time, as the Muslim State grew, Hassad would unite his forces to charge and take over the fields. People would die in scores in the name of Allah and many more would take their places, once again in the name of Allah. Victories would be won and lost. But the oil from the fields would bring in revenue to keep the battle going, until they could no longer pump from the fields. Allah would see to it.
Junaid Hassad wielded his golden tongue like a sword by captivating souls and giving them purpose. He even proffered the promise of Paradise that would be filled with awaiting virgins as their ultimate reward, should Allah choose to call them Home. Fists pumped in the air, chants of Allah echoed throughout the valley, and darkened hearts became filled with hatred numbered into the tens of thousands and continued to rise daily.
Hassad had become a demi-god in his own mind, truly believing that he was a vessel of Allah, a messenger and a prophet who spoke of a brave new world under one law, one rule, and under the one true god.
Watching from the sidelines in Iraq were members of the Company. Among them was Shari Cohen. Though they were safe in the Green Zone, they knew that a very real threat was reestablishing itself in the Middle East. And that threat was a man who had the power of many.
Junaid Hassad, who had been classified as the serpent’s head that needed to be extracted from the body, had made himself a target in the eyes of the CIA.
More than a thousand miles away, Shari Cohen, from within the Command Center, watched a satellite view as darkness unfolded before her eyes.
* * *
The Command Center
The Green Zone
Baghdad, Iraq
Shari Cohen stood along the upper tier of the Command Center watching the large monitor screen, as Junaid Hassad energized his troops. She also knew that he would disappear long before they could position a Predator drone to strike and neutralize the threat. Though Hassad was young he was also seasoned, knowing that he was being watched from high-altitude angles and he was careful to minimalize his dialogues.
Henry Faizan, a third generation American-born Syrian and CIA operative, stood beside her watching as Hassad conquered the masses with his tone and inflection, who was there one minute and gone the next. He was a man of dark complexion and Middle East features, the perfect subject who could breach the definitive lines that divided the Islamic State from the Islamic people, cross the trenches, and dig in to be one of their own.
“We have word from Washington,” he told Shari. “Junaid Hassad has been green-lighted as a targeted killing. It’s a ‘go.’”
Though Shari agreed with the assessment to assert force, she also knew that separating the head of the snake from this particular body would only spring forth another. This wasn’t a typical serpent they were dealing with here; they were dealing with the Hydra. To remove Junaid Hassad would only guarantee the growth of another, who would also be gifted with a gilded tongue.
Shari nodded. “Killing Hassad would only be putting out one fire, only for two or three more to develop. This has to be a committed task to remove Junaid Hassad, his lieutenants and his couriers—anyone who could be a long-term threat.”
“Then we’re talking about the entire IS regime.”
“Exactly.”
“It’ll be a never-ending war, if that’s the case.”
“Exactly.”
“But Junaid Hassad would be a good start.”
After hesitating, Shari Cohen said, “Exactly.”
CHAPTER SIX
Leonardo da Vinci–Fiumicino Airport
Rome, Italy
The same time Shari Cohen was watching the world stage play out before her eyes, Kimball Hayden was disembarking from an Alitalia airliner in Rome.
Though he looked frail because of the forearm crutches that steadied him, he also appeared as someone who brimmed with confidence to achieve a newfound goal, despite his handicap.
At the gate to meet Kimball was Isaiah and Jeremiah, the two co-lieutenants of the Vatican Knights who surrogated for Kimball when he was laid up in Washington. Keeping to the Vatican Knights’ tradition, they wore the coveted uniform of a cleric’s shirt and Roman Catholic collar; and military attire from the waist down, the cargo pants and military issued boots.
As Kimball labored to the gate on his crutches, Isaiah and Jeremiah noted the angry red lines of Kimball’s scars and the melted flesh that had cooled and thickened to unruly patterns along his arm. Though these wounds were difficult to look at on some level, Kimball displayed these abnormalities without pity-seeking demeanor. These scars, these burns, they are what they are. These are the badges I have earne
d in life.
While laboring, Kimball beamed when he approached his lieutenants. He had never felt so providential or fortunate. He was alive, in Rome, surrounded by friends who would goad him to become the best he could be, again.
Faces he recognized, Isaiah and Jeremiah, brothers at arms and by his side, were waiting for him with near childlike enthusiasm while granting Kimball a thumbs-up. As soon as Kimball reached them, he fell into their embrace rather than him pulling them close.
“It’s good to see you again,” Isaiah stated genuinely.
After a round of pats on the back, Isaiah and Jeremiah wanted to usher Kimball towards the awaiting vehicle, only for Kimball to tell them that he was capable all on his own. Don’t let the crutches fool you, he told them. They’re temporary.
Once inside the vehicle where Kimball had the backseat to himself, Jeremiah drove the sedan away from the airport and through the streets of Rome.
“Over the weeks I was informed about the people in my life,” Kimball said. “About Bonasero . . . About Leviticus.” Kimball looked out the passenger window with somewhat of a dream-like appearance, as if he was in his own personal space that was far and distant, perhaps entirely detached from the moment. But when he spoke, there was no doubt that he was in the here and now. “I’ve been told that of all the Vatican Knights, I was closest to Leviticus . . . And yet I can’t remember him. Not his face, his smile—I have absolutely no memory of the man, whatsoever.”
“It’ll come back to you,” Jeremiah said with his Australian clip. “In time.”
But Kimball shook his head at this. “I think it would have by now, remembering someone so close to you.” After a pause, he added: “I was told he was encased in a tomb close to Bonasero in the crypts beneath the basilica.”
Isaiah nodded. “Not too far.”
“I want to visit them as soon as we reach the Vatican.”
“The pontiff has asked for your attendance in a closed council session.”
“Seeing the tombs is important to me. I think he’ll understand.” And then: “I need this.”
For the rest of the trip, Kimball remained quiet as they cruised down the vias where he took everything in with absorption. His mind was taking inventory of the precious structures he had forgotten, like the Ruins of the House of Augustus and the House of Livia. The Coliseum he remembered. Maybe because of its violent history, he considered, since violence was a DNA component of his wiring.
As they made their way towards Vatican City and the top of the St. Peter’s Basilica could be seen in the distance, Kimball’s breath hitched at the site, even though he had seen it thousands of times before.
“I remember,” he whispered.
And then a mantra came to him so sudden and swift, it was as if a mental gateway had abruptly opened. It was a poetic narrative that had been handed down by the Arab leagues, a tale of a single man who had the power to make a difference. 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. But in the Middle East he is known by another name: The Devil’s Magician.
“The Devil’s Magician,” he said openly, as the top of the basilica and Vatican City neared.
“Are you just now remembering that?” Jeremiah asked him.
“Yeah. I do. The moment I saw the basilica.”
“The doctor informed the monsignor that fragments of your past may return after triggers stimulate your senses,” Isaiah told him. “This is just a start, Kimball. Things take time.”
But Kimball was an impatient man. He wanted his life to be whole again. He didn’t want the mental pieces of the puzzles to come together over weeks, months or decades. He wanted his entire catalogue of memories, both pleasant and unkind, to make him into something he used to be, instead of this unfinished creature he was now, and someone who labored to stand on two feet without the aid of his crutches.
As they entered Vatican City, which was landlocked by the city of Rome and the smallest nation in the world, Kimball felt an odd sensation, a feeling that was familiar and alien to him at the same time, once his eyes settled on the cross that was perched upon the pinnacle peak of the dome’s cap. It was an inner and constant struggle, a warring between the Darkness and the Light. But as the sedan drove towards the Apostolic Palace, a peaceful serenity washed over him. It was an undeniable peace he had known in the past as something fleeting, something that came and went within the blink of an eye—and perhaps a glimpse of what could be. This time, the sensation never waffled or wavered or skittered away. Instead, it clung to him like a shroud, warm and comforting.
When the vehicle stopped just beyond the basilica and before the Apostolic Palace, Isaiah turned around to face Kimball. “You remember where the tombs are? Or do you need me to show you the way?”
“I’m good,” he answered. “I remember.”
“We’ll wait here.”
Kimball, who struggled to get out of the car but eventually found his footing with the aid of his crutches, walked towards the basilica. Once he reached the entryway of the noble cathedral, he stood within its shadows. Directly behind him and stretched across the stone flooring was the shadow of the cross that stood high at the top of the basilica, due to the high-riding sun that cast the shape to the Square below. Unaware that he was standing at the cross’s shadowy base, Kimball made his way into the basilica, through the hallways, making his way to the tombs beneath the church.
The subterranean hallway was constructed entirely of ancient brick and stone. Instead of using torches that once lit this corridor, bullet-shaped globes of electric lighting had replaced them. The passageway was long and had a low ceiling. And off to the sides of the hallway were multiple chambers that held the tombs of churchly notables. Kimball, who hunkered low to avoid hitting his head on the arched ceiling, struggled, his gait awkward and uneven.
When he reached an opening that led to a chamber marked Leviticus, he carefully took the three steps that led into the space that had an ornately carved vault as its centerpiece. The stone was made of veined marble and had the etchings and carvings of winged angels playing harpsicords. At the bottom was Latin scripture, something Kimball could neither recall nor interpret its meaning.
Placing his forehead against the cool tough of the stone, Kimball closed his eyes and tried to remember Leviticus as if by osmosis. “Why can’t I remember you?” His voice echoed wearily off the chamber walls. Then as a whisper: “Why?”
When nothing came to him, not even a snippet of memory, Kimball scaled the steps to the main hallway and made his way to the Tomb of Bonasero Vessucci. Like the vault that encased the body of Leviticus, Bonasero’s was highly decorated not only with the carved figures made of obsidian glass and overlaid with gold, it also had the commemorating bust of the former pontiff, also in marble, which sat upon a podium.
Kimball, as he always did in the past and after he kissed the tomb, sat on the middle step that led down into the chamber and set his crutches aside. For a long moment he stared at the tomb. It was as if he was trying to find the words in which to communicate, only for them to lock themselves deep inside his throat. After choking back a sob which seemed to open the passageway, Kimball finally said, “Forgive me for not remembering, Bonasero. You of all people, I should not have forgotten that you had been lost to me some time ago.”
After his voice echoed away, Kimball sat in the loneliest silence that he had ever known.
Then a hand alit upon his shoulder, providing the Vatican Knight with an all-encompassing warmth. The spoils of his soul that were being warred over by the Darkness and the Light had turned into a wonderful peace. Though Kimball wanted to see the face of the man who stood behind him with this magical touch, he did not.
With a half-smile, Kimball said, “I remember you.”
Of course, you do, Kimball. I have never left your side . . . Even when you were broken.
&
nbsp; Kimball closed his eyes and sank himself into this wonderful zone of absolute comfort, as the voice that sounded like Bonasero, but wasn’t, and like those who had come and gone in his lifetime, but weren’t, had unified into a single voice that was booming and powerful and filled with love.
Kimball, you’re not the broken and twisted shell of the man you used to be. You are the epitome of strength and the vessel who will rise to change the lives not of the few, but of many. After a series of gentle pats on Kimball’s shoulder. Then sadly: Hardships will be coming your way, Kimball. And when things become their worst, you will need to be at your best.
Kimball raised his hands before him; one was badly burned and the other appearing fine. “Look at me,” he said. “I’m a cripple. I can barely walk, if not for the crutches.”
Crutches come in many forms, Kimball. Sometimes they’re spiritual, sometimes they’re emotional, and sometimes they’re physical. Crutches support us when we are at our lowest, be it spiritual, physical or emotional. But there comes a time where we gather enough strength so that we can cast aside these reinforcements and stand on our own. Your will, Kimball, your resolve and your strength are not hiding; they’re dormant. Find that which has made you into the man you have become, your strength. Allow your strength to dominate the will which will guide you to be the orb of Light that sits upon the staff of Righteousness.
The moment the hand pulled away, the voice, now fading as it drifted away, said, Find yourself, Kimball, because a time of need is growing ever closer as spreading Darkness returns once again.
At the last spoken word, whatever inner peace Kimball possessed dissolved like smoke dissipating in a gust of wind; here one moment and gone the next. When he turned to look down the corridor that was feebly lit by low-wattage bulbs, no one was there. The hand, as always, nothing more than a mysterious touch.