by Rick Jones
After placing the phone inside his jacket pocket, Kimball waited inside the shadows and watched the gates to the estate. It didn’t take long before Sargon Azerbaijani was escorted to the entrance and removed from the premise less than ten minutes after he had entered.
As Sargon moved towards the poorer districts in Damascus, Kimball stayed close and used the shadows as cover.
We’ve things to discuss, Kimball thought, keeping a keen eye on his target. When the time was right, Kimball would mine Sargon Azerbaijani for everything he had.
...Everything ...
CHAPTER TWENTY
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The Shadowman sat in the shades of the chamber silhouetted against the backdrop of the room, the man a one-dimensional void like a black-hole sitting in a chair, watching and waiting with unnatural patience.
Leviticus offered him the same undying patience as the two watched each other from opposite sides of the room. An armed guard stood by the doorway carrying an assault weapon, an AK-47.
The Vatican Knight was still bound to the eye-ring in the ceiling, the bands around his wrists beginning to rub the flesh raw. Nevertheless, and often, Leviticus worked his binds by trying to wiggle the ring loose from its mooring, though the ring was deeply rooted.
“And if you do get away,” said the Shadowman, “where would you go? The door is locked. And a guard stands post outside your door ...Always.”
“Had to try.”
The Shadowman remained still as if he was an idle object like a statue, never becoming animated whenever he spoke. “The transaction for your release has begun,” the shape finally said. “And for the release of the cardinal and the one called Isaiah. Soon you will be back at the Vatican partaking in feasts and hot showers, yes?”
Leviticus remained wary. Then: “What do you want?”
“What I’ve always wanted,” he answered. “Answers.”
“About?”
For the first time the Shadowman moved by leaning forward in his seat. “About the priest who is not a priest.”
“Why are you so obsessed with him?”
The Shadowman leaned back into his seat. “He killed my brother,” he finally answered.
“And you would be?”
“A man who seeks revenge against this man, as well as against the church who supported his agendas: The Vatican.” Then from the shape: “Is he coming?”
“No,” said Leviticus. “He’s gone. He’s been gone. He walked away from the church some time ago.”
Then from the unmoving shape, and with a tone that was deaden, he said: “I see.”
Leviticus tested his bindings once again, and once more he failed to loosen the mooring of the overhead ring. “It sounds to me like you’re disappointed,” said Leviticus.
“I’ve been waiting for him.”
“You’ve been waiting for nothing. Even the Vatican can’t find him.”
“I think you’re lying.”
“I don’t care what you think.”
The Shadowman fell into a long period of silence, watching. Then: “If that’s the truth, and once the money has been funded to our account,” the Shadowman stood, “then you will all die since there’s no reason to lay out the honey to catch the flies, I believe the American expression goes.”
Leviticus nodded. “Something like that.”
And then the Shadowman was inside the corridor of feeble lighting, with the door closing and locking behind him.
Leviticus was alone once more, knowing that the Vatican would go to any lengths to find and draft Kimball Hayden to spearhead a mission that would leave nothing but destruction in his wake.
In the darkness, as he hung there, Leviticus could almost feel Kimball in a symbiotic way, sensing him close by. Then Leviticus smiled and closed his eyes.
You have no idea what’s coming your way, he thought. No idea at all.
Leviticus remained tethered to the ceiling.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
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Milan, Italy
Carmela Conti and her two children felt like they were inside a sweat-box, the temperature above 100 degrees, or close to 38 Celsius. Lying on the cot beside her were her daughters, the girls obviously parched. But what was concerning to Carmela was the sudden pallor they were beginning to take on, which was more gray than white, along with their lethargic behavior.
When Carmela knocked on the door, a small metal panel at eye-level slid wide.
On the other side was a pair of black eyes looking in, cold and indifferent.
“What do you want?” the guard asked curtly.
“My children. Please, they need something to drink.”
“Step aside,” he demanded. When she did he spotted the girls on the cot, both unmoving. “Now step back,” he told her. Fading from the door, she could hear the bolt retract on the other side, the door unlocking. A soft light cast and shed its way across the floor as the guard stood within the door’s framework, his body silhouetted against the background. In his hand was an assault weapon, which he used as a means to direct the woman to the deepest part of the chamber. Moving toward the children while keeping an eye on Carmela, he placed a hand against their cheeks. Both were cold and clammy. Then to Carmela: “I’ll be back.” About six minutes after the guard left, he returned with two others who were dressed entirely in black, with the men wearing headscarves to cover their features. Directing the woman to the furthest edges of the room with the point of his weapon, the girls were quickly removed from the chamber and carried away, with Carmela screaming in protest.
“Where are you taking them?” she cried.
The guard with the weapon responded by shoving her roughly to the cot, and then he quickly left the room, the terrorist then sliding the bolt back into place.
“Please!” she cried. “My babies.”
With her face against the mattress, Carmela Conti sobbed as she asked God for divine intervention.
She would soon get her answer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
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Sargon Azerbaijani had felt a trailing presence behind him half way to his residence in the lower district of Damascus. Often he would glance over his shoulders, first over one and then the other, always searching, the Syrian sighting nothing but veils of deep, dark shadows.
Yet he knew something was there—could sense it, could feel it; a predator hiding within the depths of darkness.
So Sargon picked up his pace, sometimes picking it up into a jog. When he reached his residence he took the stairs two at a time until he reached his quarters, which was spartan with old furnishings. He did not light the candles or part the threadbare drapes. What Sargon did do, however, was to look through a hole in his wall—one of six stones that had loosened over time like a diseased tooth and had eventually fallen free—to catch a glimpse of what he believed was stalking him.
Nothing but shadows, deep and dark and refusing to give up its secrets.
I know you’re out there, Sargon told himself.
He went to the kitchenette area that was the size of a walk-in closet, small and cramped, and opened a drawer. Inside were mostly useless baubles and trinkets, something a poor man would deem as treasures when they were actually tossed away as another man’s trash. After rummaging around and pushing aside item after item, he finally found what he was looking for. At the bottom of the drawer was a shiv, a makeshift knife that was wickedly sharp and keen. He removed it and held it aloft before his eyes in quick examination before he turned it over, the Syrian noting the honed edges of the weapon, with both sides equally sharp as if it had been run over a whetstone to a scalpel’s precision.
Carefully, he slid the weapon into a band that surrounded his wrist, and set it so that with a quick flick of his arm, the shiv would slide down into his palm. Then came the sound of a small stone being kicked outside in the hallway, the rock skipping and skating across the floor until it stopped against the wall.
Sargon step
ped away from the hole.
Silence.
Then after a few minutes of quiet with the exception of a barking dog somewhere in the distance, Sargon went to the door and pressed his ear to it.
Nothing.
In time, however, as the rush of blood passed across his ears like a freight train, with the noise loud and uniform as his heart thumped madly against his rack of ribs, he stepped away from the door and took a long pull of air into his lungs, then released it with an equally long sigh, the man forcing calm upon himself. Sargon checked the shiv beneath the sleeve of his garment, could feel the out- line of the blade. Then he readied up, gearing himself to strike as he reached for the doorknob. He grabbed it with a sweaty grip and turned it slowly. When the door was free he took another deep breath. Waited. Then swung the door wide. With a practiced jerk of his arm the blade slid neatly into his palm, the action smooth and fluid, the skilled markings of a pro.
But the hallway was empty with the exception of a trio of rats that had scattered to the security of darker corners.
Yet the cognitive sense that somebody was close by lingered with Sargon that something was waiting in the shadows, watching.
In the distance the dog’s barking intensified, masking nearby noises and sounds.
Is someone there? Sargon asked inwardly, since he could not find his voice.
And then he stepped into the corridor with one steady footstep after another, slow and cautious.
In the distance the dog yelped, its barking cut short which was subsequently followed by absolute silence.
Then once again in his mind like a mantra: Is someone there?
Nothing.
He ventured to the hallway’s end and looked down the steps that led to the bottom tier. Nothing but damaged steps that descended down to a trash-strewn street. Yet his sense of paranoia subsided little.
Tucking his shiv into the band of his sleeve, Sargon Azerbaijani turned to revisit his residence. And as he did so this wall in the shape of a man, something that was impossibly tall and wide with shoulders than nearly touched the walls on either side of him, something that was a fixture of darkness that was raven black, stood in his way.
The moment Sargon lifted his arm to jerk the shiv into his palm, the shape lashed out with a powerful fist that caught Sargon in the solar plexus, the blow lifting the small Syrian off his feet and against the far wall, his lungs expelling air in a rush upon a hard impact.
Internal stars circled around Sargon’s head like embers, then vanished as the cobwebs began to dissolve. The shape stood unmoving before him like a Grecian statue, watching. Even though Sargon could not see the man’s eyes, he knew he was being evaluated.
Sargon reached a hand to the point of impact against his chest, could feel the throbbing sensation while finding himself at a crossroads between fight or flight.
But when the shape started to close in on him—this immense wall of moving darkness—Sargon took flight.
There was a door at corridor’s end, an entryway that led to the roof. When Sargon tried to open it he found that it was jammed, even though the knob turned easily in his hand. After forcing a shoulder against it, it finally gave way with the hinges protesting.
Sargon took the steps with quickness and ease. When he turned to see what was behind him, he saw a shape that appeared too large for the staircase, but climbed the steps with steady calm. It had no features, no contours, just a black cutout that seemed one dimensional. Climbing. Scaling. One foot rising and then falling. The shape coming closer.
Sargon stumbled onto the roof, which was four stories above a dirt-packed road that had been baked over the centuries to the hardness of cement. He looked over the area and saw the poorly maintained residences, saw the trash that littered the streets and the wild dogs that traveled them.
When he turned around he saw the shape standing there—and for the first time he realized the terrifying light that burned deep within this man’s eyes, something that was awful and malevolent at the same time.
In an act of self-preservation, Sargon jerked his wrist, which caused the shiv to slide neatly into his palm. But the large man grabbed Sargon by the wrist before he could complete the action of driving the blade forward, and torqued his wrist hard in a direction not meant for the wrist to turn, causing the twin bones to snap audibly. Sargon cried out as the shiv fell from his grip, his advantage lost.
And then the shape grabbed Sargon by the neck, his hand so large that it nearly wrapped entirely around the Syrian’s throat.
“Your name is Sargon Azerbaijani,” said the shape. “Nod your head if this is true.”
Though his voice was strained, Sargon managed to say, “What do you want?”
Kimball Hayden tightened his grip, which was a clear message to Sargon that he could collapse the man’s throat at any time. “Let’s get one thing straight,” Kimball told him. “I ask the questions, you answer them. Understood?”
Sargon nodded.
“Let’s try this one more time then. Your name is Sargon Azerbaijani, yes? Nod your head if this is true.”
Sargon did.
“And you were the Damascus contact to the Vatican, yes?”
Another nod.
Kimball loosened his grip. “Very good,” he told the Syrian. “Now I need information and you’re going to give it to me. Do you understand?”
Sargon nodded, then whispered, “Yes.”
“If you don’t,” said Kimball, inclining his chin to the edge of the roof, “then there’s only one direction for you.”
Sargon nodded more urgently. “I understand.”
“You gave certain members of the Vatican information, which we now know is disinformation since the Intel and data were incomplete.” Kimball then forced Sargon to the very edge of the roofline and leaned him outward toward the street below. “If you’re honest with me, Sargon, maybe I’ll give you a pardon. But if you lie to me...” Kimball let his words hang a moment before Sargon absorbed the gist of his meaning, which was a long fall to the street below if he was less than truthful.
“I understand,” he told Kimball, almost pleading.
“I want you to keep in mind that I already know the answers to some of the questions I’m about to ask you, answers I already know that you know. These are going to be my control questions, which will tell me if you’re telling me the truth or not. Do you understand?”
Sargon nodded.
“Lie to me once, Sargon, then I’ll have no more use for you. And your pardon will not be granted. Understand?”
Another nod.
“Good,” said Kimball. “Then let’s begin, shall we?”
“Are you from the church?”
Kimball ignored Sargon’s question. “The Intel you gave Vatican Intelligence, it was clearly incorrect. I’m talking about the numbers of those within this particular cell. A number you knowingly proffered to be untrue. Am I correct?”
Sargon nodded: Yes.
“This cell is also commanded by Hassan Maloof. Correct?”
Sargon nodded. This time no, which caught Kimball off guard.
“No?” Kimball asked him.
“There is another man. Someone higher than Hassan.”
“But Hassan is a major player?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about this other man.”
“I don’t know who he is. He came the other day. From what I have seen, Hassan appears subservient to him.”
“Who is he?”
Sargon shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“What does he look like?”
Another shrug. “He clings to the shadows like you. Though I have been in his presence, I don’t know what he looks like.”
Kimball believed him. “And your role in this? I want to know why you betrayed the church.”
“What is the one reason most men value more than principle?” Sargon asked him.
And Kimball knew the answer immediately, which was ‘money.’ “So you played both sides of the fen
ce, Sargon? Is that what you’re telling me? You took money from the Vatican as well as from the Islamic State?”
“My god is the god of fortune,” he told Kimball. “I’m a poor man as you can see. So my allegiance is neither with the church nor the Islamic State. It is with whomever can put clothes on my back and food on my table.”
“So the Islamic State paid you to provide the Vatican with disinformation for what reason?”
Sargon winced at the pain of his ballooning wrist, which Kimball eased the pressure on.
Finally, Sargon said, “The plan was twofold,” he told him.
“How so?”
“Hassan Maloof wants to promote and recruit people for his cell, but he needs money to do so which is why he kidnapped the cardinal. Once that was done, this other man entered the scene and wanted to use the cardinal as an attraction. He said the church would not pay the asking price for the cleric, but would send a military unit to obtain his freedom. He called them the Vatican Knights. So he paid me a large sum of money to set up the means of an ambush.”
“How was this possible? To set an ambush. Sending the Vatican Knights is never a given when there’s still diplomacy.”
“When I was given the task of trying to formulate a means of an ambush without the Vatican knowing, I asked Hassan the same question. Hassan informed me that they had someone on the inside.”
“The inside of what?”
“Inside the Vatican.”
Kimball was astounded by the fact that there was a breach within the ranks of the church. And then: “Who?”
“I don’t know. Hassan told me that his source within the church had activated a military that would march on the site.”
“And this other man,” Kimball went on, “the one you say sits in the shadows. Is he part of the second operation?”
“Yes.”
“And that would be?”
“He waits for one man in particular. The one he calls the priest who is not the priest.”
Kimball’s heart suddenly went to his throat which became a sour lump. The abduction of the cardinal was the chief and primary cause for the Islamic State to gather funds to recruit and promote their cause. But when this Shadowman entered the scene after the abduction, Hassan Maloof bent to the will of this man who used the situation that would not only benefit Hassan Maloof, but also himself. For these two men it would be a win-win situation. The Vatican would be on the end of a losing cause since the mission of the Vatican Knights was compromised before it had begun. And this man in the shadows in his undertaking would also set an ambush for the team, hoping that the one man he was looking for would lead them. The priest who was not a priest. But Kimball had walked away from the Light some time ago. And because he did, his brothers were now under the executioner’s thumb.