Sinners and Saints

by Rick Jones

  “Your husband has performed admirably in his mission to attain what we required of him,” he told them. “Once we have in our possession the materials he misappropriated from The CERN, you’ll be released as agreed upon.”

  Bosshart’s wife, a woman who had a natural squint to her eyes from the fatty folds of flesh that surrounded them, looked at him and said, “Please don’t hurt us.”

  It had been the woman’s mantra since they apprehended them in Geneva: Please don’t hurt us. Just four words whose constant repetition was beginning to grate on his nerves. Biting back a caustic response, Che turned and walked away with his hands clasped behind the small of his back.

  Taking the winding corridors of the warehouse, Che took the turns absent-mindedly as instinct drove him, his mind wandering. Under the regimes of North Korean leaders, Che had come into his own as a leading member of Office 35. As an operative in the field of espionage working missions in South Korea to glean classified data not only from SK sources, but also from their most notable allies which included the United States, his intel intercepts had been shared with China and Russia as well. Now with Kim Jong-un in command of the RGB and Office 35, North Korea was expanding its tactical muscles by exploring fields of espionage to propel the country to greater heights. And Operation Scepter’s Rule was their most ambitious undertaking to date. What Ásbjörn Bosshart manufactured, nurtured and controlled, was something that needed to be harnessed for the purpose of military applications. And he who holds this particular element, it was said, also held the scepter of rule. Now Yeong Che was close to holding a power that was close to Poseidon’s trident, something that could literally move and rattle the Earth.

  All he had to do now was to take it from Ásbjörn Bosshart, a meek man who had the mind of a giant. Once Che was in possession of it, once he grasped a power so great that worlds could be destroyed by it, he would turn over Bosshart and his family to the principals of the Jong-un’s regime, to mine and use the properties from Bosshart’s brain. During the process, Bosshart would be sequestered until everything that was needed to know from him was understood with absolute certainty. As soon as everything had been catalogued with specific precautionary controls in place, Ásbjörn Bosshart would disappear without a trace the moment his value had ceased to exist.

  In a room inside the warehouse behind walls of glass with chicken-wire embedded into it, stood members from the RGB’s military unit who were readying themselves with fighting gear. Team members were checking Kevlar helmets with formations of gadgetry that marched up one side and down the other, with each having an assemblage of an NVG monocular attached, a convexity faceplate of yellow-hued plastic, and uniforms that had body ensembles that were completely ‘Robocop,’ with specially designed composite shin and forearm guards.

  When Che entered the room, the members of his unit stood ramrod-straight with the unit’s second-in-command yelling out orders to strike poses of attention. As soon as Che waved them to at-ease positions, they did so as shoulders and muscles immediately relaxed.

  Che went over to his second in command, Kwan Ma, and rested a hand against his shoulder. “Bosshart is in possession of the asset,” he told him.

  “All of it?”

  “Everything we requested.”

  Ma nodded. “We’re finalizing our preparations now. The team will be ready to go in twenty.”

  Che looked over gear that had been laid out for him over the tops of a few crates: a Kevlar helmet, clothing with composite guards and shields, a combat knife to go along with the one he already had in his possession, and an MP7.

  Then he turned back to Ma. “He’s on a train in Geneva as we speak,” he told him, “waiting for it to pull out of the station. He’s in G-22, and has been ordered to remain there until he reaches his destination.”

  Ma nodded.

  Then from Che. “We have prepared a longtime for this moment, Ma. There is no room for error. To fail Kim Jong-un is to fail North Korea. And we both know what that means, don’t we?”

  That all depended upon the failure, Ma considered. Sometimes it was death; other times it was hard labor in the camps, a constant reminder to those around you that failure was never rewarded, no matter how much of an elitist you may have been in the levels of North Korean servitude. Either way, the outcome was never good.

  “We will not fail,” he told Che. “We’ve practiced this scenario over and over until our actions have become second nature to us.”

  And this was true. In North Korea they had set up a mock stage of attack to practice the operation repeatedly, until every move and action became ingrained into their minds, and every movement of muscle worked under the command of pure instinct. There would be no time to think, only to respond automatically to the opposition with lethal force. They would charge through the mock set using the points of their weapons as guides, first looking to the left, then to the right, then up and down, making a full scope of the area to ensure that nothing had been left to chance.

  Then Ma added: “Everything will be by your lead, Che. I’m confident in your command. The entire team is. Five minutes in. Five minutes out. Ten minutes total to achieve the means. Kim Jong-un will favor us greatly come tomorrow.”

  Che smiled lightly from the corner of his mouth. “It’s good to be confident, Ma. But it’s never good to be overconfident. Keep your eyes and ears open for something not planned for. Though plans look perfect on paper, there is always something that can come up to spoil the process.”

  “Che,” it was now Ma’s turn to offer a smile, “relax. We’re talking about one man on a train with others who bear no military sophistication at all. Absolutely none. And for those who decide to intervene, they will be dealt with accordingly…Ten minutes, Che. And then it’s over.”

  Ten minutes, Che thought. It sounded so simple. The combat scenarios had been practiced to perfection, with every possible twist thrown into the mix in order to recalculate the moment and respond accordingly. But Yeong Che was more than just a skilled soldier and an intel operator for the RGB and Office 35. His combat instincts had been naturally sharpened to a preternatural keenness, which most would call paranoia. But something in the back of his mind held something of caution, a warning that not everything planned would play out the way it had been designed. Despite this, all his team needed was ten minutes of near perfection.

  Ten…minutes.

  Yet a caution flag nagged at him, that incessant warning that kept telling him that they had not prepared enough. Time and time again they had practiced and worked their way through jammed weaponry, missteps, and new twists, only to come out on top no matter what was thrown at them during the scenarios.

  But this time…

  Che let the thought hang, which Ma picked up on and clapped a hand to Che’s shoulder.

  “You’re a good soldier, Che. You have planned for every contingency, every possibility. I can see in your eyes that you do not have the full faith of your team.”

  “That’s not true,” he answered. “This unit is the best of the best. I know that.”

  “But?”

  Che shook his head lightly as if to dislodge the notion that not all was completely copasetic. “Just a soldier’s feeling that we have missed something.”

  “Che, nothing is perfectly planned out or fully implemented. All we can expect is near perfection. And near perfection will be enough to achieve the purpose.”

  Ma was right about this, Che understood. But what Ma didn’t understand was sometimes there were some forces that could not be overtaken, forces that would not relent to the actions of others, but became relentless in their own right for the purpose of self-preservation.

  What neither man knew at the time, but something Che suspected could happen, was a forthcoming fight with a powerful force that often left a trail of bodies a mile wide.

  While Ma nevertheless felt confident, Che continued to hold reservations. On that train would be something other than a meek-looking scientist who held the secr
ets of absolute domination within his hands. Onboard that train would be something else, something incredibly dangerous. Something they didn’t plan for.

  It would be someone who lived and skirted the Darkness in order to serve the Light.

  A single man.

  What Che and Ma didn’t know, however, is when the world was not right, then a man comes out of the shadows of St. Peter’s Basilica to make it whole again. It was also said by many that this man was considered to be an angel to some and a demon to others.

  And to Che and Ma, in those ten minutes Ma thought would be pulled off with near perfection, they would eventually meet their demon.

  And his name would be Kimball Hayden.

  Chapter Eight

  Geneva Railway Station

  Geneva, Switzerland

  After Kimball was told by the old man that Kimball was his mirror image despite the huge gap in age, the Vatican Knight didn’t ask Becher to expound on this, figuring that it was going to be a long trip from Geneva to Rome, which meant that there would be several hours of discussion.

  After wheeling Becher along the platform which led to the car’s roomettes, Becher labored to his feet to climb the steps that led inside the car. As soon as Kimball grabbed the aged man’s arm to help him, Becher whipped it free from Kimball’s grasp.

  “Much appreciated for the sentiment to help me along,” he told Kimball, “but I don’t need a crutch to walk just yet.”

  Kimball took a step back and pointed to the steps, the gesture saying ‘Be my guest.’

  After climbing onboard the Express, Kimball searched for their roomette by looking at the numbers above the doors and checking them against their tickets. And then he found it towards the end of the car, H-21. Opening the door for Becher, the old man, whose spine curved like the blade of a scythe, entered the room, removed and tossed his hat on the padded bench, same with his briefcase, and took his seat. Kimball, after closing the door and drawing the curtains for privacy, removed his scarlet beret with the emblem of the Vatican Knights on it, tucked it beneath the shoulder strap of his cleric’s shirt, and took a seat opposite Becher.

  The room was small and cramped, their knees about eight inches apart from touching the knees of the man they sat across from. But the benches were soft and comfortable, which would make the long journey to Rome tolerable.

  Becher looked out the window, a glorious opening to view the landscape one last time, he considered. To see stretches of green ranges and snow-capped peaks for the last time brought him tempered joy and regrettable sadness, all at the same time.

  “You know what’s funny?” he asked Kimball, as people milled through the station’s platform with bags in hand. “It’s funny how people usually look more to God when they realize that they’re nearing death.” He turned to face Kimball. “Don’t you think?”

  Kimball shrugged.

  Becher looked back out the window. “But not you,” he said. “And not me. We looked to God a long time ago for the horrible things we have done in our past. And for the rest of our lives we have sought redemption hoping that when Judgment Day comes, He will embrace us despite what we have done.” Then he patted the cover of his briefcase, which caught Kimball’s eye. Inside were two things: Kimball’s biographical records and an old photograph, nothing else.

  “Is that why you made that remark back at the hospice? The one about me being you forty years from now?”

  “If you live that long.” Then in a voice that sounded weary and too tired, Becher continued. “I was a soldier of the Third Reich,” he stated evenly. “A kid not too far removed from Hitler’s Youth Organization when I was placed inside Auschwitz.”

  Kimball’s eyes shifted to see one of the old man’s hands reach for the straps of the briefcase.

  “On my first day,” he continued, undoing one strap, “I took a post at the very gate whose welcoming sign read: Arbeit macht frei…Work sets you free.” Then Becher seemed to have become detached from the moment, the man going silent, his hand going still. And with a faraway look, he said, “I stood there watching Josef Mengele choose who lived or died with a flick of his cane. Those who went to the left went to the gas chambers; to the right, the temporary reprieve of work.”

  “You were a Nazi?”

  “I was a soldier during the war. Doing what I was groomed to do.” He turned to Kimball and offered him a hard look. “The same way you were groomed by the United States government to kill whoever got in your way or compromised your position in the field. Men. Women. Children. Both the innocent and the guilty.” He undid the final strap and opened the briefcase, which exposed the contents within: a thick manila folder and an aged photo. Becher placed the flat of his palm against the folder. “I’ve read your history, Kimball. I’ve read about the horrible and terrible things you did to people because you were groomed to do so. It was something you believed to be right at the time.” Then he pointed a bony finger at Kimball. “But it wasn’t until you had an epiphany, as did I, perhaps caused by a single heinous action, which brought you closer to God to beg for His forgiveness.”

  Kimball immediately thought of his moment, his epiphany, when he killed two shepherd boys in Iraq, two children who were living simple existences, both gone with two pulls of a trigger.

  The Vatican Knight clenched his jaw while trying to bite back a painful memory, but failed, his past a painful reminder that he was a man without hope or redemption, always finding comfort in the Gray rather than the Light of Loving Spirits.

  “For you…it was the children in Iraq.” Becher patted Kimball’s file, which was precise. “But in the end,” he continued, “it’s always about the one true crime, the only crime, which is robbery. When you killed those boys in Iraq, you robbed them of the chance to have children of their own. You robbed a mother of a son. A father of a son. You robbed brothers and sisters of a sibling. You robbed them of a life. But what you did, Kimball, is no different from the atrocities I committed in Auschwitz. In forty years, should you live that long, and when you look in the mirror, you’ll see a man who suffers from the horrors and the fears of a life that once was, and the guilt of never reaching His Glory. You’ll wonder if your sins are too great to be forgiven, like me. Or if you tried hard enough to redeem yourself over time, wondering if He has decided for fate of salvation over damnation. It will always be a struggle, Kimball. And my struggle is about to end soon. Which means that the answer to my question will finally be answered: Have I done enough to redeem myself in His eyes?”

  “Are you afraid?”

  Frederic Becher nodded. He was. “But He comes for all of us at some point in time,” he said. “I hope I’ve done enough to make up for the atrocities I’ve committed in the past.” Then he leaned toward Kimball. “So you see, we’re not too different after all. You’re not unique, Kimball. But you do bring something different to the table. I will admit that.”

  “Such as?”

  Becher eased back into the comfort of his seat. “I have always chosen to seek the path that the Vatican has given me to seek the Light. I have always been governed by their rules, never deviating from them. But you…” After a pause, he added, “But you seem to skirt the rules regardless, a man who marches to the beat of his own drummer, despite knowing the gambles you take in an attempt to achieve salvation over damnation. On one hand you go against the criteria drawn by the church, a damnable sin. But on the other you do what you must in order to achieve the means—good, bad or indifferent.”

  “Evil doesn’t stop because a rule is drawn. Evil is a cancer. If you only cut a part of it away, it’ll just grow back. And it’s usually more aggressive when it does.”

  Becher smiled. “I see. So you cross the lines knowing that you must cut away the entire cancer in order to see that it does not grow back…regardless of the restrictive actions to be taken that had been laid down for you by the church.”

  Kimball remained silent.

  “You break the rules knowingly despite the gamble of your action
s that are putting you closer toward damnation, only to see a final outcome that is for the whole.”

  “I’m the commander of the Vatican Knights. Sometimes I have to make snap decisions that are not popular, but decisions that have to be made.”

  “I understand that,” said Becher. “I get where you’re going. What I’m saying is that I never had the courage the cross the lines like you did, always seeking the Light by taking the straight-and-narrow. I’m like you in so many ways, Kimball. But I never took the gamble with my soul like you do. You seek the Light. Yet you do things that turn you from it. You kill people. It’s what you do. It’s what you’re good at…Or so I’ve heard.”

  Kimball leaned forward. “Now, if I may ask who you are, since you seem to know so much about me and I know nothing of you.”

  Becher nodded. “I thought you knew,” he told him.

  “All I was told was that I was to escort you back to the Vatican. And that you were going to teach me life’s lessons and give me valuable insights. But all I’ve heard so far is nothing more than psychological assessments that I can get back at the Vatican from the monsignor. You’ve told me nothing more than what others already know.”

  Becher patted the file in the briefcase. “When I placed my hand on this file, Kimball, you assumed that it was your biographical record?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “I left your records back at the hospice where the good cardinal will return the sealed file back to the monsignor at the Vatican.”

  “And that?” Kimball asked, pointing to the folder.

  “That, Kimball Hayden, is my file. A voluminous creation of my history while serving the Vatican.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Becher patted the file again. “This file, Kimball, began during the end of World War Two. It details everything I did for the Vatican in the years after while seeking the same Light as you.” He stopped patting the folder and leaned forward, his face a network of folds and seams. “I, Kimball, was and always will be…the first Vatican Knight.”