by Rick Jones
Dingli is a small village in the Northern Region of Malta nine miles west of Valletta, which lies on a plateau known as the Dingli Cliffs, and it is one of the highest points of Malta that overlooks the sea.
In the outskirts of the village of less than 4,000 inhabitants stands a hut made of fieldstones. It was small and rustic, the roof sturdy as were the walls. And the floor was patched together by cobblestones. There was no electricity, no modern amenities. And the running water came from an existing well with the pressure from the spigot weak.
Deveraux was beginning to come to, his eyes fluttering in REM.
Then:
The ceiling.
The walls.
The spartan room.
And people he didn’t recognize with the exception of one.
He was sitting in a chair with his hands bound behind him and his ankles tied to the chair’s legs. He was sore, especially his right shoulder, which had been dislocated during the tumble of his vehicle, but reinserted. And his knee became a tabernacle of pain due to his patella having suffered a hairline fracture.
“Welcome back. You’ve been out for more than twelve hours.” Kimball Hayden was sitting in front of Deveraux with his shirt off. In the aftermath of falling free from the motorcycle, Kimball had skidded along the pavement and skinned away flesh from his back and left shoulder, the road rashes beneath the gauze raw as the wounds wept red from beneath the bleached cloth.
As soon as Kimball saw Deveraux’s eyes flutter to recognition, the Vatican Knight went to an old wooden chair where his shirt hung over its back and put it on. He then removed the cleric’s band from the shirt’s pocket, brought it to his lips, kissed it—the band his most prized possession because it represented his search for redemption—then fitted the band within the shirt’s collar. Without looking at Deveraux or giving any hint of emotion in his tone, Kimball asked, “What’s your name?”
Deveraux didn’t respond.
In the same even tone from Kimball: “What’s your name?”
Nothing.
Kimball walked to Deveraux and took the seat in front of him. “I know you’re from the Special Activities Division. And I know I’ve been designated as a targeted killing by the CIA on orders from a particular principal in the Senate. Either by Senator Shore or Rhames, I’m not sure which.”
Deveraux licked his parched lips. “Where am I?”
“Don’t worry,” said Kimball. “There’re no cameras around. And there’s no way for us to be located by VisageWare.”
Deveraux gave Kimball a fierce look. “This is Malta,” he told him. “It’s a small island. One hundred twenty-two square miles. Maybe twelve to fifteen miles away from Valletta, at its farthest point. We will find you.”
“How many are here from the SAD? How many in your team?”
Deveraux looked at the others. They were dressed piously from the waist up, with everyone wearing cleric shirts with cleric bands in their collars, but military from the waist down, including military-styled boots. “Who are you people?” he asked.
Kimball ignored his question. “How many in your team?”
Deveraux grunted as white-hot pain blossomed in his knee, the joint swelling as his pants grew tight around the area. “Does it matter if it’s one or one hundred? You’ve been designated as a targeted killing. That label is not exclusive to the island of Malta. Wherever you go . . . the tag always follows. You know this to be true because you used to relish the take-downs yourself.”
“Many in your group are dead,” said Kimball.
“And many more will come.” Despite the pain, Deveraux managed a weak smile as his lips pared back enough to skin his teeth, the grin one of wickedness. “You’re a dead man, Hayden. You and all your boys here. Dead. All of you.”
“If that’s the case, then tell me who the principal is. Surely you can do that since I’m a man with no hope of surviving the senator’s crusade.”
Deveraux’s smile faltered. “If you were in my position, Hayden, would you talk?”
Kimball had to admit that he wouldn’t. He also knew that people like Deveraux had hard shells to crack. And men like Deveraux would never talk.
Then Kimball produced a small chip taken from Deveraux’s cellphone and held it up, the chip pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “This was taken from your device,” Kimball told him. “From your cell. We have a second one taken from the primary assassin who tried to take me out as well.”
“Good for you.”
“Both phones had a single app to decrypt all ingoing and outgoing messages. Nothing else.”
Deveraux sat there listening and grimacing, the discomfort in his knee beginning to blossom to an excruciating pinnacle of pain.
“We will decrypt all the messages,” Kimball added.
“Good luck trying. That’s a military-grade application.”
Kimball raised the chip high, the gesture predetermined. Isaiah grabbed the chip, inserted it into a specifically designed thumb drive Deveraux had never seen before, then placed the drive into a laptop’s port. Next to the laptop was a BGAN system similar to the one used by field operatives. Now Deveraux had to wonder.
“Who are you people?” he asked again with a measure of insistence to his tone.
“You think the Special Activities Division has no equal?” Kimball said rhetorically.
As Leviticus attended to Kimball’s wounds, while Isaiah helmed the PC, Job and Jeremiah removed disassembled pieces of assault weapons from aluminum suitcases, all MP7s, attached them together with suppressors, then laid them out on the table. It was a designed showcase to let Deveraux know that Kimball and his team would be a serious faction to deal with. More so, it made Deveraux wonder how they got these weapons through Customs. The only way, he considered, was if they had powerful connections.
“You’re not priests,” Deveraux finally said. “None of you are.”
“You’re absolutely right about that,” Kimball responded. “We’re not.”
Then Deveraux addressed Kimball: “Seems to me that you didn’t leave your past behind at all. You just changed loyalties from one group to another. Meet-the-new-boss-same-as-the-old-boss type of thing?”
“Something like that,” Kimball answered.
Deveraux’s smile returned, even with the pain in his knee. “You, your boys, and all your boy toys won’t change a thing. You’ll never get off the island.”
“I don’t plan to,” said Kimball. “I’m staying to see this through to the end.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
Kimball gave a slight nod. “We’ll see.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Headquarters of the Servizio Informazione del Vaticano, the SIV
The Vatican
The administrative arm of Vatican Intelligence was made up of Jesuit priests who were highly trained to rival the greatest minds in the intelligence community worldwide. The technology was Grade-A, and the software to the mainframes was superior.
They had received encrypted data from the Vatican Knights in Malta. The information came from two different sources, from two phones, the corresponding data extracted from each and absorbed by the mainframe, with the intel yield transferred to a bank of plasma screens along the wall.
Cyphers appeared and began to scroll from top to bottom on the screens, the symbols being analyzed and processed. Odd-looking typescripts began to disappear with readable characters now taking their places, the symbols being decoded to form an original language.
Texts began to surface, though messages to most remained unclear as the software labored to find the right decryption sequences to best determine a viable meaning to the cryptic sign. Efforts were being retarded by the application’s safety features. But the puzzle was becoming less cryptic as texted communications began to take shape, albeit at a measurably slow pace.
But they had enough to piece certain accounts together.
They spoke of Kimball Hayden, the man a menace to the security of a nation due to
the secrets he kept. And of ‘Operation Incite,’ which by way of deciphering had little information to glean from, since the codes were becoming increasingly difficult to clarify.
They got bits and pieces like:
ORDER: SEN RHA
ISSUE HIGH-PRIORITY
HAYDEN: DESIGNATED AS TARGETED KILLING
FILE ATTACHED: %$&***@!07104
TERMINATE WITH EXT PREJ
Then they downloaded the link to the attached file, which brought up Kimball’s biographical information when he worked as an assassin for the United States to promote certain black-op agendas.
More information surfaced, more data. Some about Kimball. But a lot regarding ‘Operation Incite.’
FOP: BATES
DEVICES ACQUIRED FOR ‘OP INCITE’
FATALITY ACHIEVEMENT: 100 TO 150
DATE OF ACHIEVEMENT: SANTA MARIJA
OPERATION INCITE SANCTIONED: SEN RHA. IN EFFECT
STAGE: DEVICES ACTIVE. POINT OF NO RETURN
It was still cryptic, however. And the process continued to be slow, the measures taking hours instead of minutes to decode. But for the moment it was enough.
With minimal information for the Vatican Knights in Malta to possibly work with, data was being returned to them in Dingli.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Dingli, Malta
They had waited for an extensively long time before hearing back from the SIV on minimal information. Nevertheless, gains had been made against one of the most impervious decryption methods ever devised. Now it was up to the Knights to glean the data and to come up with the most likely scenarios through deductive reasoning.
They looked at the first segment:
ORDER: SEN RHA
ISSUE HIGH-PRIORITY
HAYDEN: DESIGNATED AS TARGETED KILLING
FILE ATTACHED: %$&***@!07104
TERMINATE WITH EXT PREJ
“There you go,” said Kimball, tracing his fingertip over SEN RHA on the screen. “I’ve been designated as a targeted killing by Senator Rhames. That’s my file number. And I’m to be terminated with extreme prejudice.”
Isaiah brought up the second segment of the email.
FOP: BATES
DEVICES ACQUIRED FOR ‘OP INCITE’
FATALITY ACHIEVEMENT: 100 TO 150
DATE OF ACHIEVEMENT: SANTA MARIJA
OPERATION INCITE SANCTIONED: SEN RHA. IN EFFECT
STAGE: DEVICES ACTIVE. POINT OF NO RETURN
“I have no idea about this one,” Kimball said to Isaiah. But he could translate to a degree. “FOP means field operator. A guy by the name of Bates. Could be that guy in the other room or one of his teammates.” Then he poured over the rest. “Devices acquired and fatality achievement between one hundred and one hundred fifty. This refers to the number of soft targets to be taken out. It could be an intercepted line of transmission from ISIS to the SAD team. Maybe the Special Activities Division is here as a counterterrorism unit to stop the attack.”
Isaiah questioned that analysis, however, by running a finger over the words: INCITE SANCTIONED: SEN RHA. IN EFFECT. Then over the line: DEVICES ACQUIRED FOR ‘OP INCITE’. “Would Senator Rhames authorize the attack? If I’m reading between the lines correctly, it appears to me that Senator Rhames is sanctioning this action. Not deterring it.”
Kimball scrutinized the lines with absorption through narrowed eyes. “You may be right,” he told Isaiah. Then from his own interpretation, he added, “Devices acquired for Operation Incite with a fatality rate of up to one hundred fifty people—” He stopped to interpret additional lines. “To kill one hundred fifty soft targets during the Santa Marija Festival . . . with this action having been authorized by Senator Rhames.”
Isaiah looked up at Kimball. “Are you telling me that the United States is planning an act of terrorism on Malta?”
Kimball didn’t know what to believe. Their interpretation could certainly be way off base. But the information as it stands says otherwise. Not only was the Special Activities Division here to terminate Kimball Hayden, they were also here to mount a terrorist attack as well. So their mission had been twofold.
But why?
“Send our interpretations back to the SIV. Have Father Auciello or Essex examine this further. See if they can tap into CIA files.” Then he looked at one line in particular: FOP: BATES. “And tell them to locate a file on a field operator by the name of Bates, no first name. And see if he’s spearheading an operation called ‘Incite.’ I need to know what this guy Bates looks like.”
“It could be the guy in the other room.”
Kimball shook his head. No. “A field operator is an analyst and a surveyor. Those within the Special Activities Division are referred to as NOCs. And this guy’s a NOC for sure.” NOC was an acronym for Non-Official Cover, a black-op soldier.
Kimball rested a hand on Isaiah’s shoulder. “Tell the SIV that time’s limited. Apparently Incite is a ‘go’ during the celebration. If Bates is on this island, then I need to find him. In the meantime, I’m going to see how much our friend in the next room knows.”
“He won’t talk,” said Isaiah.
“He might. But if he doesn’t, then I need to find Bates. Field operators aren’t as thick-skinned as NOCs.”
“Will do.”
Kimball left Isaiah’s side with every intention of not playing nice with Deveraux.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Headquarters of the Servizio Informazione del Vaticano, the SIV
The Vatican
Father Auciello was Oxford educated and held the co-director spot for the SIV alongside Father Essex, a London Jesuit.
They had received disturbing information regarding a potential act of terrorism against Malta sovereignty by American forces who had the backing of at least one U.S. governing principal, Senator Rhames.
Given partial information based solely on circumstantial assumptions from Kimball and Isaiah, Fathers Auciello and Essex requested an immediate audience with Pope John Paul III inside the papal chamber.
Pope John Paul III was sitting behind the papal desk pouring over the recently interpreted documents of analyzed messages extracted from two SAD phones, with the information on one cellphone corroborating the information on the other.
Pope John Paul III held up the manila folder. “Are you sure about this? We’re talking about a major government who stands to fight a crusade against terrorism, not promote it.”
“I understand that, Your Holiness,” said Father Essex. “But Kimball believes that the evidence indicates otherwise.”
“But the decoding is incomplete, isn’t that correct?”
Father Auciello nodded. “Yes, Your Holiness, it is. It’s a CIA encryption language which our software is laboring to deduce. However, it’s been able to decode more than forty-three percent of the messages. From that forty-three percent we’re able to piece together a communications format, though incomplete.”
“Still,” said the pontiff. “Incomplete suggests circumstantial.”
“That’s true,” said Auciello. “But the messages regarding the termination of Kimball Hayden by the Special Activities Division with extreme prejudice is very, very clear.”
The pope was in full agreement. It was an established point in which to address certain political principals in the White House. Then the pontiff lowered the folder to the desktop and began to peel away page after page, reading. A moment later: “If Kimball is right about this,” he said, “then we’re looking at the potential of more than one hundred people being killed for reasons only the United States can answer.” He raised a single sheet of paper. “But if Kimball is wrong with his assumption and I address the U.S. with these concerns, especially when they’ll want to know how we came about this information, and my answer is because they’re sanctioning a termination order against one of our own, then the relationship between our two nations can become strained.”
“This isn’t about politics,” stated Father Essex.
“It is
and it isn’t,” returned the pontiff. “Kimball’s life is in danger. And that’s quite clear in these documents. And for that I will use everything in my power to see him safe by whatever means possible. However, the flip side is the unclear agenda where the United States is promoting a program to kill innocent people for a particular operation.”
“Operation Incite,” said Auciello.
“Yes. However, the data on this is yet to be clear.”
“If people are killed in Malta, Your Holiness,” Auciello continued, “on something we could have prevented, is that something we can live with?”
The pontiff eased back into his chair and looked over the circumstantial evidence provided from puzzled pieces of information regarding Operation Incite. Everyone sitting in council within the papal chamber knew that Kimball was a high-end assassin for the United States Government who killed with a cold sense of unquestionable duty. Kimball had seen documents like this before, knew how they read to covert operators. Said documents were not novelties to people like Kimball, since they used to be a part of his Bible.
“I believe in Kimball,” the pontiff stated eventually. “Circumstantial or not, you’re absolutely right, Father Auciello. If this operation goes down and we stand idle knowing otherwise, even if the United States is responsible for such actions, it is our duty to see that this does not happen.” The pontiff placed the papers inside the manila folder and handed it back to the Jesuit. “First, the safety of Kimball.”
Father Auciello said, “From what we know, the Special Activities Division missed on at least two, maybe three attempts.”
“And this is because Senator Rhames, as mentioned in these files, knows that Kimball holds secrets too critical should they be known?”
“That’s right. That has always been Kimball’s concern. And that’s why he’s been staying under the radar all this time,” said Father Essex. “He knew this would happen should it be discovered that he was still alive.”