by Jones, Rick
“And you don’t think Cardinal Marcello, or myself, can maintain such a capability?”
“The good Cardinal Marcello does not and you know that.”
“And you don’t believe my camp is strong enough to get to the coveted seat?”
The pope leaned forward. “Your camp is strong, Giuseppe. But it’s not as powerful as the camps that follow Marcello or Vessucci. I’m afraid, by the will of God, that you may become the swing vote, as to who will succeed me.”
“And, of course, you want me to endorse the man you favor: Cardinal Vessucci.”
Pope Pius fell back into his seat. “He has been groomed for this position for a long time. He knows the secrets of the Church, since he is the secretary of state.”
“With all due respect, Your Holiness, being secretary of state of the Vatican is not an automatic succession to the papal throne.”
“I know that, Giuseppe. But Cardinal Vessucci has had a huge hand in the matters of the Church over the years. The transition would be an easy one.”
“Cardinal Marcello is a traditionalist, such as me. Why would I jump to a camp that is not of my viewpoint?”
“What you do, Giuseppe, you don’t do for yourself. You do it for the sake of the Church. Politicking can be a very good measure, if the welfare of its citizenry benefits from it greatly. And in my heart, I believe that the good Cardinal Vessucci is the man to hold the papal scepter.”
The cardinal smiled. “You’re also asking me to surrender my passion of obtaining the coveted seat by stepping aside so that another can take the throne?”
“I’m asking you to make a great sacrifice and to do what is right,” he said imploringly. “I’m asking you to sacrifice your personal need over the needs of the Catholic citizenry.”
The weasel-faced man sat back, his eyes darting about in deliberation. “As you know, Your Holiness, I covet the throne as well as Vessucci and Marcello. Therefore, I will campaign as such since it is my right. But if I recognize that my camp is too weak, then I will consider your offer to endorse the good Cardinal Vessucci.”
The pope smiled, nodded. “That’s all I can ask for, my friend.”
Cardinal Angullo got to his feet easily. The pontiff labored to his, and then held out his ring for the cardinal to kiss. The cardinal grasped the pontiff’s birdlike hand and kissed the ring.
“But keep in mind, Your Holiness, that what we have spoken of here today has not been set in stone. In final, when it comes down to what I believe is right for the Church or the welfare of its people, will ultimately be my choosing in the end. Whether it’s Vessucci or Marcello, only God can direct me to that decision.”
Pope Pius feigned a smile. “Then I’m sure He will shine His light upon you and such a decision will be obvious.”
“Perhaps, Your Holiness.”
In closing, the pontiff clapped a hand on the cardinal’s shoulder and ushered him to the door. “And thank you for holding counsel with me in my chambers,” he told him. “I expect the matters we spoke about today is between you and I and nobody else?”
“Such as the way of politicking,” said the cardinal.
“Good. And it was good to see you again, Giuseppe.”
“Same here, Your Holiness. And take care of yourself as much as you can, all right?”
The pope nodded. “I will, my friend. Thank you.”
When he closed the chamber doors the room became a vacuum, the noise simply sucked out leaving nothing behind but dead silence. From his stooped position he looked upon the door with a single thought: Politicking was an essential tool to secure a beneficial future. But he also realized that one man’s ambitions often outweighed his sense of morality to do the right thing. And in the case of Cardinal Angullo, the pope considered that personal gain was foremost in the cardinal’s passions rather than the welfare of the constituency.
Perhaps he was reading too much into it, he thought. And he prayed that he was wrong in his assessment.
But somehow he could not completely grasp the concept that bringing Cardinal Angullo into close counsel was the right thing to do.
Turning away from the door and with a great deal of effort he made his way to his desk where, once seated, gazed out the windows that overlooked St. Peter’s Square.
Beautiful, he thought, glimpsing the Colonnade. Simply . . . beautiful.
And then he closed his eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Baltimore, Maryland.
What was left of the Pieces of Eight sat in a small room in the sublevel of the surplus store. The old-time warriors were sitting beneath the feeble glow of a single bulb burning from the ceiling, the men holding counsel in a room whose walls were lined with every model and make of every firearm available for the black market.
Jeff and Stanley sat on one side of the table, Kimball on the other.
For the good part of an hour Kimball explained his reason for absconding from service and from the Pieces of Eight. He then went into detail of his solo mission to Iraq, the killing of the shepherd boys, and his subsequent epiphany. And then he discussed how he was given a chance of salvation through the Church. What he neglected to inform them of, however, was his lead role as the Master commando of the Vatican Knights.
“Dude, you didn’t even know the words to ‘The Lord’s Prayer’ back then,” said Jeff. “You know the words now?”
Actually, he didn’t. He was just glad that Jeff proposed the question as rhetorical.
“And out of the goodness of their heart the Church, or the pope, just walked right up to you for no reason and offered you the chance of salvation for what reason?”
Kimball was starting to feel cornered. Unlike Stanley, who was unschooled, Jeff was a learned individual who had the capability to eye every possible angle, like a prosecuting attorney.
“They didn’t come to me,” he lied. “I went to them.”
“So all of a sudden you have this epiphany—”
“What’s an epiphany?” asked Stanley.
“Shut up. So all of a sudden you have this epiphany and the Church is willing to just open its arms in forgiveness to a killer like you.” Jeff snapped his fingers. “Just like that, huh?”
“No, not just like that,” said Kimball, grabbing his own collar. “As you can see, I’m indebted to the Church for the rest of my life.”
Jeff stared at the pristine white collar. “And if you walk away?”
“Then I’ll end up like you,” he told him. “I’ll be damned.”
Jeff finally fell back into his seat. “I can’t argue with that,” he said. “But I wouldn’t hold my breath if I was you, Kimball. Your atrocities can never be forgiven, no matter how much you bow down to your new-found God.”
Sadly, Kimball thought the man to be spot on with his assessment.
And then Jeff leaned forward once again and placed his elbow and forearm on the table. “You think you can push aside your conscience long enough to be one of us again? You think you can kill this guy?”
Kimball nodded. “Even the Church recognizes the right to defend itself,” he said. Hence, the Vatican Knights.
Jeff stared at Kimball long and hard, deciphering whether or not the man could be trusted and brought into the Hardwick fold. Kimball could still be an asset given his very particular set of skills. “Have you kept up with your abilities?”
“I exercise.”
Jeff sighed as if being taxed. “Have you kept up with your abilities?”
“I can definitely hold my own,” he countered.
“I don’t need a liability, Kimball. I need assets.”
“My skills have never wavered,” he said firmly.
“Well, imagine that,” Jeff said cuttingly. “A priest who can wield a knife like no other. I find that quite odd. Don’t you?”
“Look. We can sit here and go in circles all you want about me and what I can or cannot do, or we can discuss how to set up a perimeter and protect ourselves against an assassin who is getting closer w
ith every breath we take.”
Jeff picked up the edginess in Kimball’s voice. “All right, but let me say this. Once this mission is over, then you can run back to the Church and live out your life of hypocrisy. I don’t ever want to see you again.”
“I’m here to help all of us. I’m not here to win your approval. Just keep that in mind.”
Jeff smiled sardonically. “Then let’s start talking suspects, shall we?”
“Yeah . . . Let’s.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Vatican City
The chamber of Cardinal Marcello’s quarters was not opulent, but comfortable in its amenities. There was a recess in the wall large enough for a ceiling-to-floor bookcase that held religious tomes in hardbound. Against the east wall were two bullet-shaped windows, the top portions adorned with stained glass that gave a pristine view of the Gardens, and between them sat a single-sized bed bearing the colored comforter the same as his scarlet and gold dress.
As the sky was beginning to show the red bands of dusk, the cardinal closed the scalloped drapery and took a seat behind his desk. Before him stood Cardinal Angullo, his head and neck protruding forward from his body like a vulture’s.
“So, Pius is already lobbying on behalf of the secretary of the state.” Cardinal Marcello tented his fingers and began to bounce the tips thoughtfully against his chin. “What he says is true, however. My camp of followers is equal to Vessucci’s. And truth be told, my friend, you are the swing vote.”
Cardinal Angullo began to pace the area before Cardinal Marcello’s desk. “He spoke of your penchant of being far too conservative for the seat, too unyielding to bend with the masses.”
“It is my belief that we must adhere to the scriptures as they were written. The will of the people must bend to the will of God. God must never bend to the will of the people,” he said.
“He also spoke of secrets,” he added. “Secrets known apparently by a selected few.”
“Secrets are made secret for a reason, Giuseppe? The subject matters involved often give rise for discussion and debate.”
“I then asked the pontiff if the secrets held were corrupt in nature. He says ‘no.’”
“That’s because it’s easy to look at something and justify the action if the means are achieved, morally or otherwise.”
Cardinal Angullo stopped pacing, his neck craning forward. “You know as well as I do that I also seek the seat you and Vessucci covet?”
“I do.”
“I tell you this because I know where I stand, Constantine. My camp is small but powerful.”
Cardinal Marcello stopped bouncing his fingertips off the base of his chin. “What is it you’re proposing?”
The corners of the cardinal’s lips edged upward. “A shared seat,” he finally said.
“You know as well as I do that the papal throne cannot be shared.”
“Not directly, no. But it can be shared, nonetheless. Like the throne is shared between the good Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci and Pope Pius.”
“You want to sit at my side?”
“As an aide, yes.” The cardinal began to pace once again, back and forth, just in front of the cardinal’s desk, this time looking ceilingward as he spoke and deliberated. “The seat of the secretary of state is appointed by the pope, yes?”
“It is.”
Cardinal Angullo stopped pacing and leaned over the cardinal’s table with his knuckles resting on the desktop. “If you promise to relieve Cardinal Vessucci of his duties as secretary of state and appoint me in his place, then I will lobby with my camp to support you in full. With my numbers converging with yours, then Vessucci will lose his bid for the papal throne.”
“To be honest, Giuseppe, your proposal seems unethical in its own right.”
Cardinal Angullo stood erect. “Politicking may seem that way. But as Pope Pius has stated, politicking is good if the masses as a whole benefit from it. If there are secrets untold, secrets in need of moral interpretation, then it is up to us to render corrections and make right what is wrong.”
Cardinal Marcello began to mull over the offer.
Then: “I could also offer the same agreement to Vessucci, if, of course, my terms do not appease you.”
Marcello took on an angered look, his brows dipping sharply over the bridge of his nose. “Are you giving me an ultimatum?”
“I’m merely politicking, which is never pretty by any means, but a necessity of survival. I come to you with this offer because I believe you to be the man deserving of this position besides myself, of course. But let’s make something quite clear: I’m in a win-win position as the swing vote, to better my position within the Vatican. You would do so if you were in the same position, Constantine. We all covet the throne at one time or another. However, not everyone is handed the papal throne the way I’m handing it to you.”
Constantine Marcello closed his eyes, the muscles in the back of his jaw working. The man was right, politically speaking. And then: “Fine. If your camp supports my endeavors and backs my camp, then the seat of secretary of state is yours. I’ll reappoint the good Cardinal Vessucci to another esteemed position.”
Angullo smiled. “Then I will begin to lobby in your behalf . . . Your Holiness.”
Cardinal Marcello snapped a hard glare at Angullo. “I’m not the pontiff yet, Giuseppe. Do not address me as such as long as Pius lives. He’s a good man who deserves our respect.”
Angullo bowed his head. “I beg my forgiveness, good Cardinal. I meant no disrespect.”
“Is there anything else?”
“No.”
“Then have a good night.”
Cardinal Angullo perpetuated a weasel-like smile, bowed, and then left the cardinal’s chamber with his garment trailing behind him.
When the chamber door closed the walls echoed in resounding manner, just like the question that continued to bounce off his conscience: Did I just nail my soul to the Devil’s altar?
For the sake of absolution he promised himself with a soft sell that he would make things right with God by justifying his actions, since the easiest thing man can do is justify anything as long as the measures achieve the means. And he was sure that God would truly forgive him for righting a terrible wrong.
Whatever dark and unholy secrets were currently being managed by the Vatican, God would surely see the cardinal as a champion of Light and a crusader against any transgressions within the Church.
Nevertheless, the good cardinal began to pray, hoping this to be God’s divine plan rather than the selfish pining of human ambition.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Baltimore, Maryland
“Who stands to lose the most by our presence?” asked Jeff.
“After twenty years, who would care?” said Stan.
“Exactly.”
Kimball remained silent, obviously musing.
Jeff watched him with a keen eye, then, “Any ideas, Kimball? Any ideas at all?”
Kimball leaned forward, his eyes focusing to an imaginary point on the opposite wall. “Let’s begin with the obvious,” he started. “We know that it has to be somebody involved with the knowledge of the Pieces of Eight, right?”
“OK.”
“And those with knowledge of the Pieces of Eight were basically whom?”
Jeff nodded his head in agreement. “The highest political factions,” he answered.
“And the Joint Chiefs,” added Stan.
“True. But the role of the Joint Chiefs was strictly to inform us of our targets in foreign locales. Engagement was only approved by the political brass.”
Jeff added, “So it wouldn’t make sense for anybody from the JCOS to get involved in this. Their job was strictly to identify insurgent forces and assess whether or not such targets posed a threat to the sovereignty or safety of the United States.”
“And how to act was basically the decision of the Commander in Chief,” said Kimball.
“But why now?” asked Stan. “Why twenty years
later?”
Kimball raised a finger for emphasis. “Now we get into the Who, What, Where, Why and How of things,” he said. “We all know that the Ford administration banned the CIA to commit assassinations against foreign targets abroad. But that didn’t stop ensuing presidents to engage in covert operations. Remember, people, espionage is espionage; it’s not child’s play. That’s why they created the Force Elite and groups such as the Pieces of Eight. Guy’s like us kept the world in check without the backlash from the court of public opinion, if things didn’t go well.”
“So what you’re saying,” began Jeff, “if I’m reading you correctly, is that you believe George Herbert is involved in this?”
“All I’m saying is that Bush was the main player who signed off on every mission we performed, all of them. I’m simply trying to look at this from a logical point of view. But logic doesn’t seem to be fitting in any of the scenarios I’m running through my head right now. But maybe if we come up with the ‘why’ of things, then maybe pieces will start to come together.”
Now Stan piped in. “Yeah, but why not do this ten years ago? Fifteen years ago? Why now?”
“Good question. So the new question would be: Why are we a threat now and not ten or fifteen years ago as Stan just stated? Why would George Herbert be afraid of us all of a sudden? What has he to lose, if anything, right now?”
“I think you’re reaching,” said Jeff. “George Herbert has nothing to fear from us.”
“That’s true,” he said. “But there was one event he signed off on with extreme reluctance, do you remember?”
Jeff nodded, slowly at first, the memory coming to the fore. “A close ally of the president informed him that Senator Cartwright was blackmailing others within the Senate to argue points of his support against the president, or he would ruin their careers by making public information regarding unscrupulous backgrounds. Cartwright became a pariah who promised to take down leading people in the Bush administration including Bush himself with the material he gathered against certain alliances. Cartwright was strong-arming decisions that shouldn’t have been made from those in the Senate due to his blackmailing techniques, and was about to be investigated for inappropriate activity.”