by Rick Jones
“What does this have to do with me and becoming a Vatican Knight?”
Becher raised a finger, the action telling Kimball to be patient. “Before Russian forces liberated Auschwitz, I was still a soldier commanded to do what my superiors ordered me to do, no matter how heinous the action may be.”
Kimball listened.
“One day in December, right in front of my sweet Ayana, I had been ordered to remove a Jew from the morning lineup, and execute him before the others as a show of brute force and power.”
“And?”
“I could see Ayana watching me, wondering if I had her strength to go against what I didn’t believe in.” It was here that Becher closed his eyes to fight off the oncoming sting of tears. “And I failed her. And I failed myself,” he said. “I did what I was told. I removed a man from the line as ordered. I then forced him to his knees and pulled out my pistol. As I aimed the barrel to the center of his forehead…I could feel Ayana’s eyes on me, waiting to see the measure of my courage.”
Becher opened his eyes, which were now red and raw.
Kimball, however, remained patient, though his appearance said otherwise. Annnnnnd?
“And then I looked into the young man’s eyes. He was no older that I was, about seventeen. He was probably someone who had never lifted a hand in anger to anyone else. Maybe he was kind and generous, I don’t know. All I can remember were eyes filled with innocence.”
“So what did you do?”
“I shot him,” Becher said simply. “I pulled the trigger…And I watched as a bullet hole magically appeared in his forehead.”
Kimball looked at the old man without passing judgment, since he had lived the moment under similar circumstances. He had killed with impunity as well, though under a different government banner and under different times.
“When I looked up to see Ayana, I could see that she was looking at me differently. She was looking at me with disappointment. And that look, Kimball, killed me over and over again, the pain too great. In the days to come, she treated me with indifference and distanced herself from me, speaking only when spoken to and treating me as any other soldier in the compound, with underlying hatred.”
“And that was the moment of your epiphany?”
Becher nodded. “Like your moment when you killed those two boys in Iraq who would have compromised your mission objective. It was an eye-opening situation that told you that your life was now embarking on a new path in order to see redemption—spiritual or otherwise.”
“So how did you end up at the Vatican?”
“I made a promise to my Ayana, who was no longer mine in her heart. I promised her that I would change. I promised her that I would sooner take a bullet to my own skull rather than to do so again to another, even if I was ordered by my superiors. But I could see in her eyes that this was not enough. So one night I absconded from my post. The act itself punishable by death. Other soldiers had done so in the past, the atrocities of what was going on too great for them to bear any longer. But they were always tracked down by the dogs and shot to death before a firing squad, the act to serve as a deterrent to others from doing the same.”
Kimball looked out the window, noting that the platform was becoming thin as the last of the people loaded the train. Then he returned his gaze to Becher, whose eyes remained distant as if peering into another time.
The old man, despite his detachment to the immediate surroundings, went on. “So one night after promising my Ayana that I would be back for her, I ran. My promise to her was that I would tell the world about the camps, and then I would bring help to liberate her and the others.”
Kimball realized that the plan was doomed from the start, which was nothing more than a simple quest based on one person’s professed love for another, a ritual of promising salvation for a love that was beyond his reach, though the intent behind the cause was noble.
“After I made a satchel of itching powder from the seeds of maple leaves to mask my trail,” Becher continued, “I covered the ground with it to hide my tracks. The dogs, once they sniffed the powder while following my trail, were rendered inoperable after the effects of the powder drove them senseless. So I kept running. And all I could remember is that I was cold and hungry, the weather fighting me all the way with the effects trying to whittle down my will so that I would give up and surrender. But I kept remembering my Ayana—her beautiful face, that smile. But most of all I remembered her will to live under such horrible conditions inside Auschwitz. So I continued on, reaching deep into myself the same way she had, calling upon a will I never knew I had, but existed all the same.”
He looked at Kimball until their eyes locked, the man no longer in a faraway place. “But as far and as fast as I ran, a Nazi patrol happened upon me—knew that I had absconded. And that, Kimball, is when I took a bullet to the shoulder. For days I ran in pain. And for days I would talk to my Ayana, never once realizing that a fever had taken hold. She would tell me to hang on, that my destiny was nearly fulfilled. So I continued until the fever had finally taken me to the doorstep of a church. When I turned over on my side, I could see the face of a young man around my age, about seventeen, wearing the garments of a priest. He clothed me. He gave me food, shelter and water. And he cared for me until the fever went away. In time I came to know him as a brother. And that man who saved me, Kimball, the man who gave me a second chance in the eyes of God, the man who saw the good in me like he saw the good in you, was Bonasero Vessucci, the Father of the Vatican Knights.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Bosshart Residence
Geneva, Switzerland
By the time Andolf Bauer reached the Bosshart residence, it had been cordoned off and was crawling with law enforcement officials from numerous branches, including members from Interpol. The house appeared to be clean with no evidence of violence or forced entry. Bosshart’s wife, a homemaker, and his daughter were not home. However, the family car was in the garage, and Ms. Bosshart’s personal items such as her purse and identity were discovered in the bedroom, along with 1,400 in Swiss francs that were crammed into a decorative jar.
Bauer worked his way through the living room as crime-scene analysts were working meticulously to lift prints. In the kitchen, an agent from Interpol’s Liaison’s Office by the name of Jean Pierre was conversing with two others. When Bauer interrupted the discussion—though not intrusively since they were acquaintances—they shook hands. The agents Pierre had been speaking with then decided to break off to other areas of the home to continue their investigation, leaving Bauer and Pierre alone.
“No evidence of forced entry,” Pierre told him. “And the family car is still in the garage.”
“Perhaps Bosshart had someone they knew come by to pick them up, which may explain the lack of forced entry,” said Bauer.
“True. But if they had planned this together, why leave 1,400 Swiss francs behind? You’d think they would’ve taken the money to use instead of credit cards. You would also think that Bosshart was smart enough not to leave behind a paper trail that a credit card would certainly do.”
“His bank accounts?”
“Untouched.”
“And the child?”
“She didn’t attend school today.”
Bauer seemed to mull this over for a moment. This was not a robbery—not with 1,400 Swiss francs sitting around. Nor was there any sign of forced entry. But Ms. Bosshart could have simply left the doors unlocked, which was not unheard of since the neighborhood was considered one of the safest in Geneva. But on the other hand, Bosshart could have grabbed his family in a hurry, leaving behind the Swiss francs in haste, and was aided by accomplices and taken to points unknown. But Bauer knew that the lack of evidence always created numerous theories, most of them too weak to support a true account as to what really happened. Right now he had 360 degrees of direction but nowhere to turn.
“So right now,” Bauer stated, “we have nothing to go on.”
“Nothing but c
onjectures at the moment,” Pierre answered. “But we’re in the early stages, Andolf. My team is viewing the footage from local CCTV and security cameras to see what might have gone down. Time will tell.”
“Time is what we don’t have,” returned Bauer. “Bosshart is in control of a devastating product. You know this; otherwise, Interpol would not be involved in such a matter.”
Pierre concurred. “We’ve also enabled the VisageWare programming.” VisageWare was a primary informational database with a massive electronic warehouse and a state-of-the-art facial recognition program. Once the system had been alerted that certain landmarks on the target’s face had been identified, no matter where the security camera or CCTV was posted in the world, agencies such as the CIA, NSA, and Interpol could access that particular system and zero in on the target’s location. Using footage from The CERN’s security cameras, Bosshart’s features were downloaded into the database so that the system could search through numerous images at incredible rates of speed through the lenses of community-mounted cameras. But Bosshart had yet to be found.
Then Pierre looked out the window and at the landscape. The neighborhood was well taken care of with manicured lawns and ornamental pruning, and luxurious flowerbeds that erupted in a riot of colors that were bold and beautiful—everything that labeled the area as a 24-carat community heavy with conveniences. And Pierre could only wonder why a man like Bosshart would surrender such comforts for a twisted ideology. “If he’s out there,” he finally said, “the FRS programming will pick him up. Bosshart has nowhere to go.”
“It’s still a big world,” Bauer assured him. “If Bosshart is found, if he panics, then the question becomes: what will he do with sixteen vials of antimatter that has five times the nuclear yield of the bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima? Better yet: is Bosshart even in control of the situation?…Or is somebody else forcing his hand?”
There were so many questions, so many theories, and not a single answer to allay their fears. Right now, the investigation was dead in the water.
Chapter Fourteen
Geneva Railway Station
Geneva, Switzerland
Ásbjörn Bosshart was becoming nauseous because his stomach was twisting itself into a slick fist. The gastric juices seemed to be boiling, his belly a hot cauldron. But he maintained himself and kept his gorge from hurling.
He was a pawn. This he knew. A lowly piece in a game for which he had no control. Take the vials, get on the train, and wait for further instructions. Do as you’re told, and your wife and child will be returned to you safely. Nothing but empty promises. But what could he do when the man barking the orders threatened to filet the skin off the bones of his loved ones?
Absolutely nothing.
Bosshart turned to the canister that was capable of taking out Geneva. But his intention of the antimatter was never for the purpose of military application, but for use as a fuel source, which he and his team had been working on for the better part of three years, the gains slow and steady. With a single particle of antimatter, towns could be powered up for a lifetime. Travel to distant stars a reality. There were so many useful applications of the product that science was on the threshold of creating uses to promote social advantages rather than to undermine civilizations. They had learned how to stabilize the particles, a huge step, though the technique was far from perfected. But at least they had finally left the cradle to take the first few steps that would eventually become a leap in this particular field of technology.
Then there were those who saw different advantages, darker ones. Advantages to take something with wonderful promise only to turn it into a destructive force of nature. This was the ying and yang of humanity; those who wanted to use it for good, and those who opposed this integrity by using it for purposes to annihilate. It had always been an ongoing battle between sinners and saints.
Bosshart sighed.
Then he closed his eyes.
Beneath his lids he could see the features of his wife’s face, a loving woman.
And his daughter, a pretty girl who didn’t appear to share any of the hereditary characteristics of either parent. Eyes as big as saucers and as blue as Jamaican waters, with a heart-shaped face that was surrounded by hair that was as blond as corn-silk.
When he opened his eyes they were glassy with emotion.
So he prayed to God, something he had never done before since he was a man of science, and asked for divine intervention as he pled for the welfare of his wife and child.
Though he had little faith he did have hope.
It was all he had.
Hope.
Enough so that God would answer his prayers.
And He would.
Chapter Fifteen
Warehouse 47
The Outskirts of Zurich, Switzerland
“It’s done,” said Ma. The blade had already been wiped clean of blood and returned to its sheath.
Che opened his eyes and stood. “And the girl?”
“She’s been prepped for transport.”
“The woman?”
Ma nodded to a location in the back. “Inside a crate.”
“Very good.” Che looked at his watch. Everything was on time as planned right down to the minute.
Then a cargo truck pulled up to the doors with the fully-geared team in the bay, five soldiers in all, not including Che and Ma. In the back lay the girl, Bosshart’s daughter, sedated but secured with flexcuffs.
Once Che and Ma entered the vehicle’s cab, the doors to the warehouse opened and the truck departed.
Operation Scepter’s Rule had finally begun.
Chapter Sixteen
Geneva Railway Station
Geneva, Switzerland
“Bonasero Vessucci had become my savior that day,” Becher informed Kimball. “And in time he became my savior in life, as he became yours.”
Kimball recalled the moment when he first met Bonasero in a small bar in Venice, a cardinal at the time. Without invitation he took the seat across from Kimball and approached the one-time assassin with an offer to seek salvation for past sins. Kimball agreed. But the journey to the Light of Redemption had been a hard one because Kimball had never gravitated fully toward the Ethereal Brightness, the man always standing firm as the fulcrum between sinner and saint.
This was the Gray Area.
And no matter the dark happenings in Kimball’s life, Bonasero was always there to lift and carry him forward when Kimball no longer had the will to do so. Bonasero had been his guiding light, his crutch, and now he was gone, which left a void deep inside Kimball that may never be filled.
“At the time Bonasero was seventeen,” said Becher. “But even then he showed promise. The church was struggling at the time due to the ravages of the war, but Bonasero lifted himself up in the eyes of the clergy within the Vatican, became a cardinal, and then ultimately the pope. At the time when I showed up on his doorstep bleeding from my wound, I told him about the camp. About the abominations that took place there. And I told him about my Ayana, a Jewish girl brimming with the courage and strength that I could only hope to possess someday.”
Becher hesitated at this point, the man obviously choking back a lump in his throat. A moment later, when he gathered himself, he continued. “Later,” he began, “knowing that Bonasero would not judge me for the things I had done, I offered my confession. I told him of the Jews I killed that Ayana was unaware of. I told him about the looks in their eyes just before I kicked the bench out from beneath their feet at the gallows…or how I dictated others to burn the bodies of the dead in the ovens.” Now his face was beginning to crack, his raw emotions gaining an edge over self-control once again, his past a dark one filled with horrible images that wouldn’t let loose.
“It’s all right,” Kimball assured him.
Becher nodded and continued. “Then I told him how the ground became a mantle of gray ashes. And of the countless urns kept in the sublevels of brick buildings. I told him everything. And do yo
u know what he did?”
Kimball did know. “He forgave you.”
“As he did you. So you see, Kimball, we’re so much alike in so many ways. We both seek the Light in order to make up for past sins. And we both question whether or not we have done enough to earn the right.”
Just then the train lurched forward as it started to pull away from the station, the beginning of a journey south to Rome.
Becher looked out the window, his eyes glazing with tears.
Softly, Kimball pressed him. “So how did you become a Vatican Knight?”
Becher offered a light smile, a good memory. “I told Bonasero that those within the camp, meaning the Jews, were good people who were unable to protect themselves. I told him I was willing to go back to free my Ayana and those who deserved better. Bonasero listened with saintly patience as I sobbed like a child. And he agreed. He told me that ‘Even God recognizes the right for good people to protect themselves…Or for good people to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves.’ And Pope Pius agreed to this because he detested Hitler’s Germany.”
“So you became the pontiff’s first champion.”
Becher nodded. “To champion the causes of those beyond the borders of Vatican City,” he said. “I became the commander of the first unit which consisted of a dozen Swiss Guards. I trained hard. I pushed hard. But with all the hours we put in, we were still far from being an elite unit. By the time we felt ready to conduct a mission to Auschwitz, the camp had been liberated by the Russians. But we went anyway to aid those who suffered most. But the camp was empty. And my Ayana was gone.”