The Iscariot Agenda (Vatican Knights)

by Jones, Rick

  “By the one who tried to kill you?”

  “By him, by God, by me—it was all about seeing if I had the true ability to change.”

  “To change?”

  Kimball nodded. “The last time we met you told me that redemption was within my grasp because I had become something different than what I used to be. You said that I killed because I wanted to, but now I kill because I have to . . . And there lies the difference between the darkness and light.”

  “I remember.”

  “In the Necropolis, when I learned that I was betrayed by someone very close to me and that forgiveness was entirely impossible, I felt something very familiar.”

  “And what was that?”

  Kimball faced him. “I learned that I hadn’t changed at all,” he told him. “I’ve only been hiding what was always there . . . The truth.”

  The monsignor grabbed his pack of cigarettes, shook a smoke free, lit it, and then waved the match dead before tossing it into the ashtray. “And what is this truth, Kimball?”

  He hesitated, his eyes once again growing distant.

  “Kimball, what is the truth?” he repeated.

  “That I’ve been living a lie,” he answered. “That salvation will never be within reach no matter how hard I try to obtain it because the fact is what it is.”

  “And what is the fact?”

  “That I kill because I want to, not because I have to.”

  “Have you killed anyone because you want to?”

  “No.”

  “But because you had to?”

  “Yes. But it doesn’t take away from the one thing I want most in my life right now.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I want to kill Ezekiel,” he said.

  “Is this the one who betrayed you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you looked deeper into yourself, Kimball? Have you looked far enough to realize that your emotional wounds run much deeper than your physical ones, and that your anger over the betrayal is misdirecting your sense of logic and reason?”

  “I won’t justify what I feel, Monsignor, by saying that it’s all right to feel the way I do because I’m angry. He murdered those close to me because of a personal hatred directed at me. He deserves what’s coming to him.”

  The monsignor leaned back. “Are you going after him?”

  “If I don’t, then he’ll come after me.”

  “Perhaps he won’t.”

  “With all due respect, Padre, you obviously have never felt the insatiable need to want to kill. I have it. He has it. And until we meet, it’ll just feed until it drives us both crazy.”

  “And how do you think Pope Pius would have felt?”

  Kimball’s face dropped a notch, the beginnings of sadness and disappointment. “Amerigo’s gone,” he finally said.

  “Do you believe he watches over us?”

  “Don’t do me like that! No guilt trips! I can’t help what I am!”

  “Then what about Cardinal Vessucci? Did he not see in you the man you failed to see in yourself?”

  “I failed to see the man he saw because no such man exists! I kill, Padre. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at.”

  “For so long you have served the Church well. Now you have a conflict with faith and all of a sudden you’re no longer virtuous because of the anger you hold so deep.”

  Kimball picked up on the Monsignor’s tone. Was that admonishment?

  “You sit there forgetting all the good you have done for the Church, the lives you have saved, and the restoration within yourself that there is hope beyond the darkness that had been your life. Now after a betrayal all the good that has become your life, the light that had become your path, is gone because you cannot let go of the rage that has consumed you like a dark shroud.”

  Kimball clenched his jaw, the anger working its way to the surface.

  “Then perhaps you’re right,” the monsignor said, tilting his head and releasing a cloud ceilingward. “Perhaps the man in you is a killer. But do you want to know what I see. What Pope Pius and Cardinal Vessucci saw?”

  Kimball’s entire body tensed.

  “We saw a man whose conviction to duty was far greater than his conviction to himself. Then one day he had an epiphany and learned that his need to reach the Light of Loving Spirits was not only a necessity, but an attainable goal. What Pius saw in you, what Cardinal Vessucci saw in you, was the penchant to be what you truly are, Kimball. And that is a man who is lost and is trying to find his way.”

  Kimball was beginning to settle down.

  “Yes, you were betrayed. And yes, it probably won’t be the last time. But betrayal is a part of life’s lesson and we must learn from it and handle it with the will to forgive rather than the need for revenge. When you see that difference, Kimball, when the rage subsides, then I’m sure that you will once again see the Lighted Path.”

  Kimball sighed. “Ezekiel’s not done with me. He’ll come back to finish his agenda.”

  “Then if he comes, Kimball, his anger and hatred will surely doom him. For those who choose to remain in the dark will only find an unwanted refuge within its depths.”

  Kimball stood and walked to the window. People were milling by the hundreds through St. Peter’s Square. “Losing Amerigo and Ezekiel at the same time is too much for me to handle right now,” he said.

  “Psychologically speaking, Kimball, there are many phases everyone goes through when dealing with loss such as anger, sadness and disbelief—it’s all a part of the grieving process. And you’re not above that. It’s obvious to me that you’re going through the process right now. I guess that only makes you human.”

  Kimball considered this. The monsignor was right about the phases. In conjunction with his anger toward Ezekiel, he had taken the pick and smashed it down to indiscernible pieces of metal with a hammer before discarding it as scrap. The pick would never serve to harm anyone again.

  “Kimball?”

  He called back over his shoulder. “Yeah.”

  “Your time is almost up. Is there some other matter you wish to talk about?”

  He thought about it, but came up with nothing. “No, Padre. Nothing.”

  A knock came at the door.

  “Excuse me,” said the monsignor, and he went to answer the door.

  Kimball could hear the hushed voices behind him. His eyes still fixed on the masses moving throughout the Square.

  “Kimball.”

  He turned. The monsignor was standing by the doorway with a bishop who was dressed in proper attire.

  “It appears that Cardinal Vessucci would like to speak with you in the Society Chamber. Do you know of such a place?”

  The Society Chamber was the meeting area where the Society of Seven gathered, usually to brief him on missions. “I do.”

  “Then he’ll be waiting for you there,” he said.

  As Kimball was leaving, he stopped by the monsignor. “Thank you,” he whispered. And when he said this he did so with immeasurable gratitude.

  “My pleasure,” he said. “And if you don’t remember anything else, please remember this: You’re right when you say you are what you are. But it’s usually the person in question who last sees himself as he truly is when others see him as he already is.”

  Kimball reached up and squeezed the monsignor lightly on the shoulder. “I appreciate you trying, Monsignor. I really do. But you’re right about one thing: I am what I am.”

  When Kimball walked away with determination in his swagger and a cast-solid hardness to his face, the monsignor called after him.

  But Kimball ignored his pleas as hot vendetta coursed through his veins.

  I am what I am.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Vatican City

  Chamber of the Society of Seven

  In a restricted chamber situated deep in the lower level of the Basilica, seven chairs were situated on a marble platform rising four feet from the floor. The pope’s chair was layered
with gold leaf and beheld the ornate carvings of angels and cherubs along the framework. The second chair was smaller and less imaginative, the wood carvings around the framing not as aesthetic as that of the papal seat, but was crafted well enough to draw the attention of an appreciative eye, nonetheless. This was the chair of the good Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci. The five remaining chairs, although less ornate by comparison, maintained detailed images of winged angels thrumming harpsichords along the wood framing, the cherubs smiling, the images harmonious.

  With a soft tracing of his fingertips, Cardinal Vessucci sat in his chair and guided them over the images. It would also be the last time he would ever sit in this chair again, he considered.

  From the end of the long corridor the large wooden doors held together by steel bands and rivets opened, the room sounding off with the hollow echo of the door closing behind Kimball as he made his way to the staging area.

  He noted that Cardinal Vessucci sat alone, his shoulders slumped in defeat, the look of saddened dismay not a good sign.

  “Bonasero,” Kimball pointed to the empty chairs, “where are the others?”

  The cardinal struggled to his feet. “There are no others,” he told him. And then he labored his way to the pope’s chair and ran his fingers lovingly over the throne. “Great men used to sit here,” he added, “justifying the fates of good and decent people. Unfortunately, this chair will no longer be occupied ever again.”

  Kimball took a step forward. “Are you saying Pope Gregory is disbanding the Vatican Knights?”

  “Not only is he . . . but he has.”

  The cardinal went to the edge of the staging area and held out his hand. “Please, Kimball, I need a helping hand down.”

  Kimball aided the cardinal down the four steps, a laborious task for the aging cardinal.

  When they were rooted below the stage they stared up at the empty row of chairs. And something awful like a mournful loss hung over them.

  “During World War Two,” began the cardinal, “a Nazi defector absconded from his regiment because he had witnessed unbearable atrocity after unbearable atrocity, and took refuge within the shadows of the Vatican. When the Nazi’s began to invade the territory of Rome with the threat to reseat the papal throne to Germany under Goering’s command, this one soldier swore that he would protect those who could not protect themselves. In time, as the Nazi regime was falling on all fronts, this one man offered to protect the sovereignty of the Church and the welfare of its citizenry. He became the first Vatican Knight. And it was in this chamber that Pope Pius XII consecrated this soldier to serve the Church in the capacity that Loyalty was to be above all else, except Honor. Now with the passing of Pope Pius XIII, I’m afraid it all comes to a sudden end.” He turned to Kimball, the hurt on his face obvious. “I just thought it fitting, my friend, that I see you here, in this chamber, where it all began.”

  Kimball stared up at the seats. It was odd to see them vacant. And the chamber held an odd and sepulchral quiet to it, something eerie and hollow.

  “I thought it important that you hear it from me first,” he told Kimball. “You are the best of the best. But more importantly, as a good person, you’ve come a long way.”

  Kimball felt ashamed. How does he tell a man who offered him the chance at redemption that his blood boiled with the underlying passion to kill Ezekiel? He was no savior. He was just a simple man whose dream of salvation came and went like a wispy comma of smoke. Ezekiel had shown him the truth. Underneath, there was darkness.

  And if there was one thing Cardinal Vessucci was skilled at, it was seeing the insight of all people. Behind Kimball’s brilliant cerulean blue eyes he noted something dark. “You’re still angry,” he said, but not as a question. “The betrayal of the child you reared has consumed you with rage, hasn’t it?”

  “I tried to do the right thing.”

  “Of course you did, Kimball. But the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.”

  “I had no idea he recognized me the day I saw him in the Boys’ Home.”

  “Apparently he did. And by doing so he turned his rage into a crusade.”

  They began to walk away from the stage and toward the chamber doors.

  “Kimball, he sees you as the betrayer of his grandfather. And now he holds the same animosity as you do. It’s an ugly feeling. But you’re better than that if you believe it or not.”

  “He killed Job and Joshua.”

  “And for that God will judge him for it, not you.”

  Kimball sighed, their steps small since the cardinal moved along with light footfalls. “You have become a good man, Kimball. Stay that way and let your anger go. Ezekiel has cast his fate in the eyes of God and will be judged thusly.”

  Still, something continued to smolder deep inside Kimball.

  “And what will you do?” asked Kimball.

  The cardinal stopped in his tracks. “It appears that I have been demoted,” he answered.

  “To what?”

  “The good Pope Gregory saw fit that I be reassigned to a post in Boston where there is apparently indiscretions going on with alleged charges of fraud. The Pope sees me as the most judicious in handling such matters.”

  “And who will be the new secretary of state?”

  “It appears that the good Cardinal Angullo will usurp my position.”

  Kimball ground his teeth.

  “And what about those in the Society of Seven?”

  “They will also be reassigned, as well.”

  So that’s it. Everything about the Vatican Knights was being dispersed to all corners of the planet, broken and scattered like ashes cast to the wind.

  “Kimball, you have earned the right.”

  “The right about what?”

  Cardinal Vessucci faced him and smiled. “For redemption,” he said. “It’s yours. It has been yours for a while now.”

  For a moment Kimball could feel his heart skip a beat in his chest. It was a glorious feeling.

  “You have earned it many times over,” said the cardinal. “So don’t let Ezekiel blacken your heart. Instead, fill it with forgiveness.”

  They were nearing the colossal door.

  “So what will you do now?” asked the cardinal.

  Kimball shrugged. Good question. “I don’t know,” he said. “This is all I know what to do.”

  Kimball reached down and grabbed the wrought-iron ring of the door and opened it, the door whining on its aged hinges.

  “The team is already gone,” said the cardinal. “You are the last. But I want to say this.” Both men stared through the open door, drawing a bead on empty chairs on the stage. “You have become a son to me. And I’m proud of you, as was Pope Pius and Pope John. You have always been a dear man and I will never forget you, Kimball.”

  Kimball could feel the sting of tears. He was losing his entire family in one fell swoop.

  “So I guess this is it?” said Kimball.

  The cardinal stood there, staring, the stage a magnificent display where ideas were exchanged and history made.

  “Who knows,” he finally answered. “Maybe you’ll be pressed back into duty someday.”

  “But not likely.”

  The cardinal did not acknowledge him. Instead, he said, “Please . . . Close the door.”

  Slowly, Kimball closed the mammoth door until neither man could see the stage any longer.

  EPILOGUE

  Kimball did not return directly to the barracks to gather his gear. Instead, he walked the grounds through St. Peter’s Square, through the Basilica, past the Colonnades and sat by the Old Gardens until the late afternoon sky was turning into banded shades of red, orange and yellow.

  Here he had found peace unlike anything ever encountered.

  Gathering himself for the short walk to the barracks, Kimball found himself vacillating between old emotions against new. Sure enough he stewed underneath, but at the same time he was warring over the fact that there was serenity, each faction seesawing aga
inst the other.

  Perhaps there was validity in the cardinal’s words after all, he considered.

  But if questions remained regarding how he felt about Ezekiel, then he wasn’t completely there. If anything, Ezekiel had become a much greater test on whether or not he should follow through and kill him to settle an underlying need, or to find forgiveness and let him move on.

  Either way, he needed closure.

  Making his way to the barracks was almost a physically painful task; the empty rooms, the one-time laughter of Vatican Knights echoing off the stone walls after an off-key joke was told no longer, and the smell of baked meats wafting through the hallways from the Mess.

  Now it was empty with a tomblike stillness.

  Once inside his room he sat on the edge of his bed and slightly grazed a hand over the soft fabric of the blanket, a loving caress.

  He would take his military manuals, his military gear, and stuff as much of his life into a canvas duffel bag.

  Everything I have to show for my life, he thought.

  And this was not much.

  After cramming his goods into the bag, he laid it next to the door and stood within the room’s center. To one side was the small dais holding the Bible, as well as the votive rack and kneeling rail. To the other was a super-single-sized bed, a nightstand and bookshelves for his manuals. Comparatively speaking it was far from luxury, but it was his home. But he could not have been happier.

  Kimball then moved to the mirror and stared at his reflection, noting crows-feet that were becoming longer and deeper. If there was one thing this man could not defeat, it was aging.

  So what will you do now?

  He traced his fingers gingerly over his image.

  And then he worked them down to the cleric’s collar.

  And then he worked his fingers further downward to the patch of the Vatican Knights etched on the breast pocket of his cleric’s shirt, the image of the powder blue shield and silver Pattée with the supporting heraldic lions holding it steady.

  It was a nice ride, he told himself. And then he removed the band of the cleric’s collar and held it in his hand.

  For a long time he stared at it, thinking what it meant to him: Loyalty above all else, except Honor. And then he placed it neatly on top of the Bible on the dais.