by Rick Jones
Shari Cohen and her husband had been on speaker phone with Larry Johnston, FBI’s Director of Field Operations in D.C., on two occasions. He assured them that he and others, especially from the American Embassy in Paris, had been in constant contact with their law enforcement constituencies and were following up on leads. What those were, however, were never expounded upon. He also informed them that their lines were tapped, in case someone did attempt to contact them regarding a price demand. But no such call was received.
Shari was becoming more detached, the woman feeling absolutely gutted.
She had not heard from Beauchamp, or as Johnston had stated, from Embassy sources. Worse, she felt completely abandoned by Pope Pius XIV. Despite becoming good friends during their shared alliance, while collaborating on the rescue of Pius XIII, the new pope appeared to have cast her aside, without so much as a consideration or even sending an apology for her situation.
She was tired and clearly fatigued, as she stood in the bathroom looking at her image in the mirror. Her skin was becoming cold and gray looking, the dark rings that circled her eyes even grayer.
Gary was also slipping into his area of remorse as well. The man was becoming just as distant and cold as she was, his behavior equally listless. They had lost their children, as if they had been taken by some manner of death. They saw no difference.
Shari peeled away from the mirror, headed to the main suite, grabbed her purse, her jacket, and made for the door.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Out,” she said. “I can’t stay here any more. Not when my babies are out there…somewhere. Wondering where their mother and father are.” Her voice cracked.
“And where will you go?”
“Anywhere… Back to where they took our babies. At least that’s a start.”
“Everyone says to stay here and to wait for a phone call.” Gary sounded so flat and even as he spoke in quiet monotone, the voice of a man who had lost all measure of hope.
“If you want to wait for a phone call that’s never going to come, then you can stay here.”
As she was about to open the door, a knock sounded.
When she opened it, she saw a man standing there carrying a brief case. His hair was gray and conservatively cut. His smile was warm. And the eyes behind his Lennon-like glasses were clear and bright and full of genuine compassion. But when she looked at the man’s collar, she noted it was the clerical band of a Catholic priest. When she saw the insignia on the pocket of the cleric’s shirt, that of the Silver Cross Pattée set against a powder-blue background with two lions holding up a heraldic shield, she knew what it was.
It was the symbol of the Vatican Knights.
Shari barked a loud cry and fell to her knees, sobbing and shedding tears in ultimate release. The archbishop quickly went to her aid as did her husband, neither realizing why she had fallen. But Shari knew who this man was and why he was here, as she traced a fingertip over the symbol of this man’s shirt, feeling the fine stitching like Braille beneath her touch and the wonderful message it brought with it.
The Vatican had said ‘Yes.’
Her hope had been rekindled.
So she wept.
“Madame, are you all right?”
She reached out and pulled the priest into an embrace, which caught him awkwardly off guard. “I’m fine,” she told him as she got to her feet. “I’m so, so fine.” And for the first time in more than a day, she smiled, showing even rows of perfectly placed teeth. “You’re from the Vatican, yes?”
Gary’s ears perked up. What?!
“I am, Madame. I am Archbishop Rousseau, from the rue Barbet-de-Jouy in the 7th arrondissement. I have been asked to serve as emissary from the Vatican. Apparently you have friends in very high places.”
“Are you talking about Pope Pius?”
He smiled and nodded. “I am here at his request.”
She escorted him to the nearest couch, where he laid his briefcase on the coffee table in front of it and took a seat. “A memo was received through the members of the Holy See with your name on it, a name we have all come to recognize and revere.”
Her smile faded. “But?”
“There are no ‘buts,’ Madame Cohen. It is my absolute honor to be sitting by your side.”
“So why are you here?” asked Gary.
“I’m here in response to your wife’s request for Vatican aid,” he said simply.
“And the answer would be?”
“That your request has been approved. The Vatican Knights are on their way as we speak. You no longer have to feel alone in this,” he told them. “You have the complete support of the Vatican, who will now see you through this crisis until the end.”
Shari looked euphoric as hope blossomed. Gary felt the same, but with prudence. Of course they were finally getting what they needed, what they wanted. But the sidebar issue was that the unit’s team leader had allowed his personal affections for Gary’s wife to grow unchecked. And though nothing had happened from that relationship, he couldn’t quite help that creeping sense of insecurity, which he now had to set aside for the good of his children. “And who, if I may ask, is heading up this taskforce?”
Archbishop Rousseau opened his briefcase. Inside were a notebook-thin laptop and some loose papers. Grabbing an index card, he read from it. “His name is…Hayden. Kimball Hayden.”
Shari closed her eyes as a preamble of a smile began to surface along the corner of her lips. Gary wasn’t sure if it was the happy beginnings of an underlying eagerness to see someone, or if the smile was one of brimming confidence, knowing that the job would be done correctly.
Or perhaps it was a combination of both, he considered.
She opened her eyes. “You do know that time is critical in such matters as this, right? We have less than seventy-two hours.”
Archbishop Rousseau reached out and patted her arm gently. “And that is why we need to get working right away,” he told her. He reached into his case, removed the laptop, and booted it up. “Now,” he began, “it’ll be a few hours before the Vatican Knights arrive in Paris. In the meantime, we will be working in collusion with the Servizio Informazione del Vaticano, the American Embassy, and the Direction Centrale de la Police Judiciaire to expedite matters.” He began to type into the computer. “So far the SIV has determined that the American Embassy has forwarded its concerns to the leading inspectors at the DCPJ on three occasions, but the replies are always the same—that efforts are ongoing. But nothing is explained as to what those efforts are. At least the Embassy is doing their part.
“I also understand that the Vatican, most notably the secretary of state, will also issue a call to the DCPJ, as well. So nearly everyone is doing their part to help you, Madame.” He continued to type on the keyboard. “Now if the DCPJ will only do theirs.”
“The names of the lead inspectors are Beauchamp and Reinard,” said Gary.
The archbishop nodded. “We know. The SIV is searching the data banks of the DCPJ—shall we say, ‘under covert circumstances’—for the electronic dossiers on both men. We’ve also hacked into their personal files, looking for correspondence to others. Anything that will alert us as to what they may know about the matter but aren’t telling the Embassy.”
“Why would they hold back?” asked Gary.
“Sometimes agencies feel that intruding organizations who involve themselves in collaborative matters only create delays, as one group tries to out-muscle the other by having certain practices done their way rather than the way of the originating group. And in this case, the originating group is the DCPJ. If they should have information and do not want to share it, then we’ll take it.” The archbishop shook his head. “But I’m afraid we have nothing—nothing at all.”
Shari looked at her watch. Where time had once crawled at a glacial pace, it now appeared to be moving much too quickly toward zero hour.
And still they had nothing.
The archbishop continued to typ
e, his fingers dancing over the laptop in the same way a skilled pianist strokes the keys of a piano, quick and furious and without error. After a few minutes, the laptop sounded off with a ping: an incoming message.
“Well,” he said. “It appears the SIV got hold of some information from the files of the DCPJ, regarding our Misters Beauchamp and Reinard.”
“And?”
He read the short summaries on both before speaking. “I’m afraid there’s little on Reinard. But your friend Inspector Beauchamp seems to have somewhat of a questionable history regarding alleged affiliations with people of questionable character. But he was acquitted of any wrong doing on all accounts and reinstated every time without consequence.”
“So now what?” she asked.
“We continue to search.” The archbishop leaned away from the laptop. “Madame Cohen, Monsieur Molin, please, I need you to think and think hard. Perhaps these are questions that have already been asked by DCPJ, but is there anything else you can add, something you may have forgotten or missed? Perhaps there was a face in a crowd that didn’t belong, or maybe a trailing car that appeared suspicious? In most cases like this, the victim is carefully selected and targeted. There is always a scout, who determines whether the target has familial contacts—if she’s a runaway, or if she’s alone.”
“There were four of them,” said Gary. “And they wore ski masks.”
“No-no-no,” said the archbishop, waving his forefinger. “I’m talking about another. Before the abduction, Monsieur Molin. There is one who may watch over you for days, sometimes weeks, before they actually respond. The scout is the eyes and ears of the operation. There may be one, perhaps two. But there are always scouts who pick and choose from the lot, and then they formulate a plan.”
“There was no plan,” he said. “This was random.”
The archbishop shook his finger once again. “In this business, Monsieur, there is no random. There had to be another.”
Gary was beginning to get frustrated. “I’m telling you, there was no—”
“Inside the Louvre!” Shari shouted, and then faced off with Gary with a quick snap of her head. “Remember? By the Mona Lisa”
And then it hit him. “Yes, of course.”
She turned to the archbishop. “There was this man inside the Louvre,” she told him. “Hard looking and improperly dressed, wearing faded jeans and military boots. He seemed so out of character for one who should be there to admire art. And we could tell that he was disinterested, looking at one painting to the next with cursory glances, as if to justify why he was there to begin with.”
“That’s right. The moment we left the Louvre, we noticed that this guy had followed us from the museum. We thought he was going to rob Shari’s purse. Shari and I even made mention of that as we were walking down the street.”
“Was he on a cell phone?”
They had to think for a moment.
And then: “Yes!” Shari began to recall the moment with clarity. “For the last hour before we were to take the bus back, we decided to walk the streets running behind the museum.”
“Yeah,” Gary agreed, and then followed up her line of thinking. “We honestly pegged this guy for a robber. But he never made his move or came any closer.”
“In all likelihood, Monsieur, he was keeping an eye on you until the van rolled into view. That’s what a scout does. He communicates. Once the team is in position, then the scout disappears, because his face has been exposed. Once he clears the scene, then the abducting unit takes over. They’re skilled practitioners, who have performed this routine enough to get it down to a fine art. The abduction takes less than a few moments—the van is usually gone before anyone can get a good look at it. But in most cases, the van is stolen. I can pretty much guarantee you that it’s smoldering in a vacant lot somewhere.”
“Smoldering?”
The archbishop nodded. “The vehicles are burned to wipe away all traces of evidence and DNA matter. But…” the archbishop began to type a return message to the SIV, “you have given me the tools that I need to find this man.”
“What tools?”
“What time did you see this man inside the Louvre?”
“Around noon. What tools?”
“The Louvre,” he returned, “is filled with priceless valuables. And priceless valuables are surrounded by cameras. Cameras record images. Therefore, whoever this man is, we will find him.”
Shari fell into Gary’s embrace. At least a step had been taken in the right direction.
With a final tap of his fingertip, the archbishop hit the ‘SEND’ button.
“Now what?” asked Gary.
“The information you’ve given me is now in the hands of the SIV. They’ll identify whoever this guy is.”
“And once they do?”
“Then Kimball Hayden will find him.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Kimball’s Chamber
Vatican City
Kimball summarily alerted his top two lieutenants, Isaiah and Leviticus, to gather three additional Knights for a top-priority mission in Paris, and for everyone to be ready to put on their A-game. There were no queries of curiosity or hesitation on the parts of his lieutenants. They simply acted with the speed and discipline of seasoned warriors.
As Leviticus and Isaiah gathered his team, Kimball stood beside his cot, where a set of combat knives were laid out in neat rows. Kimball reached down and grabbed his favorite, a double-edged KA-BAR, and hefted it to familiarize himself with its balance and weight. It felt good in his hand, especially the way it became an extension of him, especially in moments when the enemy was but an arm’s length away. He quickly tested the knife by cutting the air with sweeping curves and delicate arcs, the motions so poetically fluid that anyone who saw him would know that he was one of the best when handling such weaponry.
He then grabbed the KA-BAR’s twin and strapped one to each leg. Whatever else they would need would be found inside the vault of the archdiocese in Paris.
And then he closed his eyes, sighed, and tried to calm his heart. It was thrumming rapidly against the wall of his chest. He had been to countless battles and had suffered numerous scars and pains. But the pace of his heart was not driven by the anticipation of the fight, but by the expectation of seeing Shari Cohen once again.
In his mind’s eye he could see her clearly—could see the uniformity of her cocoa-colored skin, that of tanned leather. And eyes that shined like newly minted pennies. He noted the point of her widow’s peak and the pristine whiteness of her teeth whenever she smiled. He remembered everything.
Calming himself with long pulls of air through his nostrils, and then releasing them with equally long exhales, Kimball could feel a sense of peace wash over him.
After opening his eyes, he went to the mirror and gave himself a critical examination, wondering if she would notice the seams that had deepened over the years. With the points of his fingers he traced the lines, the tips then gravitating to the crow’s feet that flared outward from the edges of his eyes.
The one battle he could never win, the one battle whose advancement he could never slow, was the battle against aging.
He stared at his image long and hard, noting the band of the cleric’s collar set against the darkness of the cleric’s shirt, then considered if he even had the right to wear such a garment. From the waist up he appeared as a priest. From the waist down, a soldier—the military-styled pants blossoming at the tops of military boots, the attire that of a man caught between two worlds, one of divinity and the other of war.
When he first met Shari, they had grown very close while working together when the Pope was kidnapped. But in the end, she had chosen the delicate soul of her husband over Kimball’s brutal nature.
…I kill people… It’s what I do… It’s what I’m good at…
He sighed.
Would she think of him differently? Or would she continue to see him as a man who had an underlying savageness to him when call
ed upon?
But the pontiff’s voice was very clear, his message even clearer: she’s a married woman.
So make your choice, Kimball: damnation or salvation. You either vie for the affections of a married woman, or you continue to seek the Light of Salvation.
In the end it’s always your choice.
But he was losing himself in self-conflict, when he should have been outlining a plan of attack. This wasn’t about him or Shari. Nor was it about the way he felt or what he wanted. This was about the children. So he refocused his thoughts by completely handing himself over to a sense of duty. He became what he had always been, a champion to those who could not protect themselves.
He was an elite soldier.
He was a savior.
He was a Vatican Knight.
After rearranging his beret to meet with military specs, Kimball left his room preparing for battle.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Servizio Informazione del Vaticano, was the Vatican’s intelligence service. It had been created to counter early 19th century efforts to subvert the power of the Vatican. So as a precaution, the Church had seen the need in creating an ‘unofficial’ security agency to solve problems, by conceiving a system of confidential communication and information gathering. And with the constantly growing threat of extremist and radical groups, the SIV has developed into a major organization that rivaled the likes of Mossad, MI6, and the CIA. With diplomatic ties to more than ninety percent of the world’s countries, the SIV had become an agency among the world’s elite.
Father Gino Auciello, a Jesuit priest and the assistant director of the SIV, co-headed the program, which was based inside a restricted chamber south of the Necropolis. The room was state-of-the-art, with banks of TV screens and monitors, and satellite linkups that allowed aerial visuals to any part of the world.
He was the eyes, ears, and mouthpiece of the agency, who reported directly to the pope whenever red flags and concerns came to light. Today, a mighty banner arose and caught the priest’s direct attention. The Jesuit was tall, thin, and wiry, with shock-white hair that was conventionally cut. His face was smooth and lean, his complexion the color of light cocoa. And though he was pious to the core, he was also a scholar from Harvard University, who had graduated from the School of Theology with minors in the sciences of politics and world studies.