by Jones, Rick
With a savage cry Obadiah dropped his knife and looked skyward, the veins in his neck sticking out in cords. When Kimball went for the kill, Obadiah rotated on his feet like a matador dodging the course of a charging bull, and came around with a solid kick that sent Kimball across the floor and over the edge of the collapsed stairwell. Dropping his knives, Kimball reached for the exposed rebar and grabbed it before plunging to the debris below. When he tried to pull himself up, Obadiah was standing at the edge of the concrete holding a hand over his wounded arm, the blood flowing freely between his fingers as he looked down on Kimball.
“You’re indeed a truly magnificent warrior,” he said. “But tell me, that crest and shield on your vest. Is it a symbol of your squad? Or is it the marking’s of something else?”
Kimball tried to pull himself up, but Obadiah placed a foot upon the rebar, his weight bending the bar downward.
“Your style is different,” added Obadiah.
When Kimball’s hands slid downward along the bar, he reaffirmed his grip.
“Who are you?” asked Obadiah. “You’re not with the FBI, that much is for certain. Your style is too unique, and I thought I had seen them all.” When Obadiah bent down, the blood of his forearm dripped on Kimball. In the background the opposing forces were moving in, but Obadiah didn’t seem too concerned by their apparent approach in Kimball’s view. “You’re not the Swiss Guard, either. As good as they are, you fight like no other. So again, who are—”
Obadiah turned to check the progress of the troops. Given this window of opportunity, Kimball lunged up, grabbed Obadiah by the front of his shirt, and pulled him over the edge.
Too surprised to utter in protest, Obadiah traversed the open space to the debris below.
When the troops finally reached the precipice, a commando reached down and aided a tired Kimball Hayden to the landing.
“Are you all right?” asked the assault team leader.
“I’ll live,” said Kimball. He pointed to the rubble below. “You’ll need to contact Special Agent Cohen of the FBI regarding the man down there,” he said. “She’s in the building somewhere.”
The assault team leader looked over the debris. “What man?”
Kimball immediately sat up and looked over the edge.
Obadiah was gone.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Washington, D.C.
September 30, Mid-Morning
The day had been a sweeping success for the FBI. And like a deprived addict the media consumed the details. The pope was taken to Massachusetts General Hospital to recuperate from a bronchial infection. His overall prospects for recovery were rated as excellent by his doctors. Once able to travel, he would then check into Gemelli Polyclinic in Rome for a follow-up. Beyond the lead story of the pope’s health were accounts of battles that procured the pontiff and the remaining bishops of the Holy See, all unharmed.
The Soldiers of Islam, however, weren’t as lucky as Shari Cohen of the FBI conducted a superior assault mission, in which the Incident Command System was well established and performed with military precision. The Command’s Ops Supervisor and Liaison Officer informed a special group of media members, discreetly predetermined by the president of the United States, that the Soldiers of Islam were eradicated. This, the media members were told, demonstrates to the world that terrorism will never gain a true foothold on American soil. The media went wild and unknowingly served propaganda as the main course of public news. This in turn served the government’s purpose of burying the real conspiracy involving the pope’s kidnapping and the true identities of the players involved.
On the surface Shari had picked up various snippets regarding Misters Paxton, Murdock and Pappandopolous—it all depended upon the source at the time. Mr. Paxton apparently took a post in the field office in the state of Oregon. But Shari knew the dark truth. This same dark truth applied with respect to the sudden retirement of George Pappandopolous, and of course, the unreported imprisonment to solitary confinement of Punch Murdock. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind that these players shared the same feared fate as Murdock, ending up in a grave in potter’s field.
The man known as Obadiah was never found. What was found, however, were several false walls and panels allowing for his escape, a contingency well thought out by the members of the Force Elite. One such panel on the first floor by the rubble led to the network of sewer lines beneath Boston’s numerous streets. Obadiah’s name was never mentioned to the media, but only within the smallest Washington circles. Leaks could prove deadly, so whoever spoke of him did so with caution.
Coincidental to all the positive news washing across television and reported in the major papers, America suffered the pangs of losing Vice President Bohlmer to a brain aneurysm, an imperceptible bubble along the arterial wall that finally erupted, somehow missed by physicians normally stellar in their tending of White House dignitaries. After three days of closed casket viewing within the rotunda of the Capitol Building, he was buried alongside his wife in California. Shari did not attend.
Kimball Hayden and the Vatican Knights had simply disappeared. Shari thought of him often during her trip back to D.C. When she returned to the archdiocese, she learned from Cardinal Medeiros that since the threat to her family was over, they were gearing up for the return home. The cardinal didn’t mention Kimball to her at all, nor did she dare ask.
Upon her arrival home, Gary was cleaning up from the mess left by the skirmishes. When they first laid eyes on each other they simply stood quietly, as if evaluating one another to glean each other’s secrets.
And then it came to them in a symbiotic rush. There was nobody else for them, nobody. And for a long time she hugged Gary hard, a reaffirmation of her love for him, something that eluded them for months. And though Gary thought she might crush his ribs, his return hug was just as affirming.
They had rediscovered each other while standing on the threshold of Death’s doorway.
#
After Shari was granted time at home to relax, FBI Director Larry Johnston called her to the downtown office to confront her on a few issues. Most notably he wanted to know who her CIRG Team was, since all valid members had been accounted for at Quantico at the time of the assault.
When she arrived at the office the director closed the door behind her and gestured for her to take a seat in front of his desk.
“You look good,” he told her, his tone congenial.
“Thank you.”
He examined a few documents before placing them on the desktop before him. “These are the documents by the Planning Ops Chief from the Incident Command Post.”
Shari wanted to roll her eyes. Here it comes.
“None of your team checked out with the Incident Commander for accountability when they completed duty, which is against ICS protocol.”
“I wasn’t aware of that,” she lied. She realized Johnston knew it as well.
“I’d also like to know who your squad was, since everybody who made up the Strike Force Team was accounted for at Quantico during the time your assault against the Force Elite commenced.”
Shari remained composed and quiet. Johnston seemed almost fatherly as he addressed her with a wry grin. “As a First-Team Assault Unit, they were fabulous in clearing the stage for the rest of the team’s maneuvers, perhaps saving a lot of lives considering who they were up against.” And then with a measure of gratitude he said, “I’m proud of you, Shari. The Bureau, the president—you’ve made this agency shine. And for that we are all proud.”
“Why . . . thank you.”
He picked up the papers. “The assault from beginning to end took less than eight minutes from the moment your team struck first, until the takeover by the Ground and Air Support Units. There were no casualties or injuries on our side—a job well done.”
“Eight minutes?”
“Eight minutes,” he confirmed.
“It seemed much longer than that.”
“Being on the front li
nes—I‘m sure.”
She diverted her attention to the papers he was holding. “What else does the report say?”
He placed them back on the desk. “Nothing damaging . . . that’s for sure.” He paused before posing the next question. “So are you going to tell me who they were?”
Shari could only stare while her mind searched frantically for an answer. Then without so much as a quaver in her tone, “I can’t.”
Johnston’s face remained passive despite her inability to confide in him. “You know I should be admonishing the hell out of you for doing what you did. But I can’t argue the outcome of the situation. Despite the lack of protocol regarding the ICS, I’m going to send this report to the attorney general, who I’m sure will agree with the recommendation that your efforts be recognized. You and your team did a nice job, Shari. There are a whole lot of people who are really proud of what you did.”
Shari was beyond relief. “May I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“Abraham Obadiah . . . Are we going after him?”
Johnston’s features became guarded. “No.”
Shari couldn’t believe what she just heard. “But this is the man who started all this. He tried to start a war—”
He cut her off by raising his hand. “Abraham Obadiah apparently doesn’t exist; at least that’s the viewpoint of Mossad, the Israeli government, and the attaché. We’ve already checked, even though we believe him to be a major player in Mossad’s Lohamah Psichlogit Department. However, these agencies are admitting nothing. So whoever this guy is, he’s obviously a powerful person whom they apparently want to keep away from the watchful eyes of other nations, including our own.”
“So we’re just going to sweep this under the rug?”
“And what do you suppose we do? Risk dredging up a conspiracy that could have buried this country in the eyes of our allies—of the world? I don’t think so. If this man surfaces again, we’ll handle it. Until that time, we’ll continue to work with our allies in a positive way. If they say this man doesn’t exist, then he doesn’t exist. Is that clear?”
She sighed. “Yes, sir, very.”
“Then have a good day.”
Shari got up from the chair and thanked the director.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said. The smile returned to his face. “You have a special engagement to attend to this afternoon.”
“An engagement?”
“The pope is being released from the hospital today. And he has requested a personal meeting with you prior to his plane leaving. I believe he wants to thank you for what you’ve done, which is an engagement most of us would envy.” He returned to the paperwork on his desk. “Your plane leaves for Boston in about an hour.”
“But . . .”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll be back in plenty of time to be with your family.”
For a moment her heart hitched inside her chest. Would she get another chance to see Kimball and say goodbye? She at least wanted that privilege, to tell the man how much she truly respected him, and that their courses were taking them in two separate directions. She just wanted to say goodbye to someone whom she would never see again.
“If I were you, Shari, I wouldn’t miss the opportunity of a lifetime.”
She thanked Johnston once again and didn’t have to be reminded a third time that a plane awaited.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Boston, Massachusetts. Logan Airport
September 30, Late Afternoon
The crowd along the fenced tarmac at Boston’s Logan Airport was far greater than when the pope arrived in Dulles many days before. The support was immense. But certainly far less than the Biblical proportions the pope joked about as Cardinal Medeiros wheeled him across the tarmac toward Shepherd One.
Shari walked alongside them, the pope holding her hand lightly in his as they moved along the stretch of pavement. “I’m so glad you made it, my dear. But as much as I want to thank you, I once again need to speak to you about the Vatican Knights.”
“I have already given my word, Your Holiness. I’ll keep their secret safe.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” he told her. “But you must understand that the Vatican Knights are not even a myth since their secret is that closely guarded.”
“I understand.”
“And for that, my dear, I truly thank you. And I certainly thank you for saving my life and the lives of my bishops. If you should ever want to come to Vatican City, please let the good cardinal here know when you want to visit, and I shall roll out the red carpet for the one who saved my life.”
“I truly appreciate that, Your Holiness. But there’s something I would like to ask you.”
“Of course, my dear.”
“I’d like to say goodbye to Kimball.”
The pope’s face changed to sad imposition. “As much as I would like you to, I’m afraid I cannot let that happen. The Vatican Knights are mourning the losses of those whom I consider my children. Please understand that.”
She looked up at the immense Boeing. “Is he in there?”
“Yes,” he said. And then in more sorrowful measure, “He’s in there with the others holding ceremony. In a moment I shall lead them in prayer.”
“Then I’ll respect that,” she returned, and continued to hold the pope’s hand as they moved closer to the jet. “May I ask you something else?”
“Of course.”
“The Knights,” she began. “Why Kimball? How are they chosen?”
“The Knights, Ms. Cohen, are incredibly special people who come from squalor—mostly hard-luck cases who were either orphaned or abandoned and possess no future other than what the Vatican can give them. Serving me in the capacity that they do is ultimately their decision in the end, knowing the full consequences of their choices and dangers involved.”
“And Kimball?”
The pope smiled as if reminiscing over a fond memory. “Kimball is an animal of a different breed,” he said. “He’s unlike the rest because he’s in his own personal torment and seeks redemption through his service to God. He believes his road is a difficult journey in which salvation lies at its end, but impossible to achieve in his eyes. What he fails to realize is his journey is lifelong and paved with mistakes, as well as goodness.”
“Kimball is a good man.”
“Of course he is. Although we see this, he does not. It’s up to Kimball to find his own way. We can only provide direction, but it’s Kimball who must have the faith to see it through.”
“Is there anything you can do to help him?”
The pope smiled. “I can only provide the direction, my dear. Kimball has to do the rest. You see . . . Kimball needs evil in his life in order to recognize the good, which is something I learned from the man who held me captive. I saw the side of man that I’ve been sheltered from for so long. And because of it I now understand Kimball more than ever.”
“I don’t understand.”
The pope held a hand up to the cardinal who slowed the wheelchair as they neared the Boeing. “Kimball knows one thing,” he said. “He knows the dark side of man perhaps better than anybody else, and he knows what’s needed in order to combat it. I on the other hand have lived in ignorance believing the light inside all men can be reached. Kimball knows different. He knows the darkness, has lived in its depths, and is working his way toward the light. There has to be a balance in life, my dear. But right now I believe Kimball does not feel that balance in his soul. Perhaps when he finds the balance between the two, then he will find the salvation that he has been so desperately seeking.”
“I hope so.”
“Kimball has to find his own way.”
The cardinal had moved the wheelchair to the center of an entourage dressed in priestly vestments. They were standing at the base of the stairs leading into Shepherd One.
“Well, my dear, my gratitude for your perseverance in this matter cannot even begin to be measured by my standards. I do wish y
ou well. And I will tell the Vatican Knights that you wish them well.”
“Thank you.”
“Perhaps we shall cross paths again,” he told her. “Next year I have a highly publicized Papal Symposium, if God allows my health to get better. And I will journey across the world once again, ending my mission in the United States.”
“After what happened, you’d come back?”
“That’s all the more reason, my dear. I cannot let a setback undermine what needs to be done. If my health holds, then I will return. I will not allow terrorism to slow the Word of God. I can’t.”
He smiled and reached out for her free hand. “God bless you, Ms. Cohen. You truly are an asset to mankind, which makes me believe there is hope after all. Even when I questioned myself that man was too far gone. It was a period in my life when I was at my lowest. Sometimes, my dear, it takes a tragedy to see the full picture. I now believe that tragedies are sometimes good for the soul that often reminds man that he sometimes needs a misfortune in life to bring out the best in him.”
“I’ve always believed in that,” she told him. “A perfect example is nine-eleven.”
“Yes, of course. Your nine-eleven brought strangers together in a cause to heal not only a nation, but one another. There was no prejudice, no animosity, all of which were forgotten due to a common tragedy. From hatred came pure love. It was a balance that formed from both the Darkness and Light of Man. Let’s hope that Kimball finds his balance, too.”
Shari leaned close and hugged the old man as he gained his feet. She barely touched him, his bones as frail as a sparrow.
“Be good, my dear.”
“And you take care of yourself.”
“Don’t worry,” he told her. “Gemelli Hospital is one of the best in the world.”
There was one last question she wished to pose to the pope.
“Your Holiness, if I should visit the Vatican someday, would it be possible to visit the Knights . . . or Kimball?”
“If you should happen to see the Vatican Knights again,” he informed her, “then it will be because something terrible has happened . . . So let’s hope not.”