The venetian code, p.11
The Venetian Code, page 11
Novikov finally shook his head. “No,” he said. “It can’t be this easy. It just can’t.”
“Paranoid?” Rabinovitch asked him.
“I prefer the word . . . let’s say, caution.”
But Rabinovitch was having none of it as he snapped his fingers to two operatives on his team, then pointed to the southside doorway. “Check it out.”
“I would be extremely careful,” Novikov commented. “And I would further suggest that we should look before we leap. We have time.”
“Time is never a luxury,” Rabinovitch reminded. “Remember that.”
The two operatives, after fanning out and with their helmet lamps burning bright conical beams of light, moved towards the medieval doorway with their weapons held at eye level.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Kimball Hayden was intrigued by Roman and wanted to know how someone his age was groomed to be a soldier to help those who couldn’t help themselves. It wasn’t that Roman was raised to romanticize being a Vatican Knight who was constantly in the thick of things trying to reshape history with endeavors to quash terrorist uprisings or to fight factions who held to dark doctrines and warped ideologies. Nor did he come off to Kimball as someone who wanted to wear the uniform of a Vatican Knight for the sake of belonging, but to give of himself. Though the uniform was simple garb to the newest Vatican Knight, Kimball could see that Roman truly wore his soul like a three-piece suit.
Inside a tunnel, Kimball whispered, “Roman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How old were you when you were orphaned?”
“Five.”
“Do you remember your parents?”
After a moment of hesitation, Roman answered, “I try, but I can’t remember their faces. Why?”
“Do you remember your parents at all?”
“I do. I have some memories.”
“Tell me, what do you recall of them.”
After a pause, Roman said, “My mother was a gracious and kind woman, very religious, always praying, always devoted to God.”
“And your father?”
Another pause, then: “I remember he would always come home with his knuckles cut up and his face bruised, sometimes badly. But he always smiled at me even when I knew that the smiles were fake, but that’s what he wanted me to see—him smiling as though he was happy.” After a moment of hesitation, Roman went on. “I knew he was getting into fights. But my mother didn’t say anything because I thought she was afraid of him.”
“Was she?”
“No. She adored him. He never raised a hand against us or his voice.”
“Then what?”
“After they were killed when the horses panicked and overturned the cart, which crushed them both, I learned that my father came home the way he did—all bruised and battered—because he stood up against those who intimidated others even though he didn’t know how to fight, not even a lick. He fought for those who were too weak to fend for themselves, or for the poor who asked for money to get by for one more night. In the end, people from all over town came to his funeral and told me that he was a good man and that I should be proud of him. Then on that day when Bonasero Vessucci took me in as a recruit, he told me about the Vatican Knights and how they protected those who could not protect themselves, like my father, but that the order knew how to defeat the enemy who preys upon the defenseless.”
“So, you wanted to become like your father?”
“To a degree, I guess. Yes.”
“There’s no greater honor in that,” Kimball told him. “I’m sure he’s as proud of you as you were of him.”
Roman remained silent.
As they continued down the channel, they noticed that the floor was inclining slightly, the water level lowering.
And then the distant voices.
Muted.
Kimball held his team up and they listened.
Though the words echoed, nothing spoken could be discerned.
But one thing was obvious to the Vatican Knights: They were closing in on Novikov’s group.
Kimball, motioning for his team to move ahead with caution, did so. After turning off their helmet lamps, they allowed the sound of voices to guide them through the darkness.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“You have no idea what you’re doing,” Novikov said to Rabinovitch. But the Russian leader ignored Novikov while keeping his eyes on the pair moving forward. “Did you hear me?”
Rabinovitch rolled his eyes inwardly, then he said, “Every word. Now, shut up. You’re beginning to annoy me.”
The two moved slowly towards the marked archway panning their weapons up and down and across, looking for threats that were always a constant in this game.
When they reached the archway, the pair of mercenaries hesitated, peered inside the short tunnel that led to the medieval door, then determined that everything was all right, they pressed ahead. The walk to the door was a short one, about twenty-five feet. After one of the mercenaries pressed a hand against the doorway and realized that it was immoveable, he called upon the aid of his comrade, and together they pressed their shoulders against the wood door and pushed. With gritted teeth and with the cords of their veins standing out from their necks from exertion, the door moved first by the inches, and then by the feet as rusting hinges protested. As the door swept wide and the rays of their lights showed the inside of the room, their mouths slowly dropped at the mind-boggling sight of the Templar’s trove. There were broadswords and helms from past Templar Grand Masters, all relics from the Crusades. Gold crucibles sat everywhere filled with rubies, sapphires, and jade. Gemmed goblets made of gold were piled. Holy relics, such as the Golden Shields belonging to Solomon, obsidian chalices, libation cups, and ornate reliquary boxes filled with precious metals and gems were overflowing. But the one true relic, the one that outweighed the value of any golden chalice, was the one molded in clay. It stood alone upon a podium, though cobwebs that had the whipped-up thickness of cotton candy over the years covered it. Still, the Cup of Miracles could be seen through the gauzelike covering.
From behind the mercenaries came an audible gasp, a sharp intake of air as Ivan Novikov stepped between them to reach the podium. Surrounded by gemmed-filled crucibles and the Golden Shields of Solomon, nothing seemed to exist to Novikov outside of the Cup of Miracles. Slowly, he reached for the cup with reverence not for what the cup represented but because of its financial value, and carefully removed it from the podium. After peeling off the cobweb wrapping that teased him with seemingly ceaseless layers, he was finally able to clear the cup of its wrapping.
Clay.
That’s all it was. Nothing . . . but . . . clay. And yet its value could not be calculated in terms of money.
In Ivan Novikov’s hands was the Cup of Miracles, the cup that Jesus served to John after He dipped it into the vats after turning the water within these containers into wine in Cana, and the first of Jesus’s miracles that would unite the apostles to serve Him.
Though the cup was of the simplest form of craftsmanship, Novikov expected something fantastic upon touching the cup—perhaps an electric charge, a vision, or an epiphany. But all he sensed was the cup’s coolness and uneven surface.
“There,” said Rabinovitch, “you now have your cup and the floor remained. There are no more traps, only treasures.”
Novikov’s eyes ogled with unbridled admiration as he held the cup up before him. “Yes. No more traps . . . only treasures.”
As the mercenaries roamed through the chamber running their fingers through the gems, laughing and speaking of dreams of owning yachts, homes to get lost in, private beaches to walk upon, something unseen was approaching from the shadows beyond the room.
The mercenaries stopped reveling in their riches, as did Ivan Novikov and Sergei Rabinovitch, all of whom could sense a dark and disturbing presence. Beyond the medieval door where the shadows remained as black as pitch, something was waiting. Slowly, Rabinovitch’s team of killers grabbed their weapons and moved to greet what they perceived to be an alpha predator.
“As I said before,” Novikov whispered to Rabinovitch, “nothing is that easy.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Inside the chamber where the monolith stood were a few hiding places. From their positions within the mouth of the eastside outlet, the Vatican Knights could hear the voices of Novikov’s unit inside the Templar Chamber regaling over the found treasure. Since the Vatican Knights had the opportunity of sound to cover their approach, they fanned across the room to create a skirmish line and advanced on the medieval door with their weapons raised to eye level.
And then a sudden silence from within the treasure chamber, a red flag warning to Kimball who raised his hand and halted the team.
Silence.
Kimball immediately gestured to his team to break formation and take cover.
An alpha predator had been alerted to their presence.
And the showdown was about to begin.
Isaiah ushered the monsignors to the eastside outlet, Kimball and Roman took position inside the north tunnel, Job took the westside outlet, and Jeremiah took position behind the monolith. All means of escape for Novikov’s unit had been sealed off. For them to take flight, they now had to go through the Vatican Knights.
A single light appeared from within the bullet-shaped doorway of the medieval door, and then a second, and then a third, the illumination uniting to create a brighter light that filtered into the monolith’s chamber.
And then they were doused as though on cue, the room becoming blacker than black.
For a long moment, nothing sounded until Sergei Rabinovitch finally broke the silence.
“To those who lie in wait,” his voice echoed, “know this: the remainder of your lives can be measured in seconds, believe me.”
Nothing.
Then from Rabinovitch: “Last chance. My team excels in darkness. They sense, not see, what others cannot. I would suggest that you show yourselves. Perhaps negotiate a set of terms in goodwill, yes? You get a small piece of the prize for your efforts, and we all go away happy.”
Silence.
“Wealth or the end of your life, your choice. I would choose wealth.”
Still, no answer, which was beginning to annoy Rabinovitch.
And then from the Russian team leader: “So be it.”
Rabinovitch’s finger-snapping could be heard in the darkness, a signal from the Russian telling his team to move against the Vatican Knights. Then in even measure, he told them, “Terminate all hostile forces with extreme prejudice. Leave no one alive. No one.”
Elsewhere, Kimball took it upon himself to enter the arena alone.
* * *
The men of Rabinovitch’s unit spread across the monolith’s chamber floor in two-man teams. These two-man units had trained diligently in the shadows should their NVG units be ineffective, as they were in this case. Since enabling their shoulder lamps would give away their positions, they operated as though they had an umbilical tie to one another. Even where the shadows were at their deepest, it was as though each man preternaturally knew the location of the other.
Moving to the east side of the room, two of Rabinovitch’s best, Vasnetsov and Kaverin, brothers attached by a common cause when they served the Spetsnaz, were never parted more than six feet from the other as they advanced through the darkness. Though their sight had been rendered useless inside this environment, they had learned to heighten other senses such as hearing the imperceptible or feeling the slightest quiver of the ground beneath one’s feet from something that was approaching.
They continued their westward advancement, though they heard and felt nothing outside of their measured breaths and catlike footfalls.
Then there was a quick grunt as though someone had suddenly been stunned; a groan one moment and then absolute silence the next. To Kaverin, his umbilical tie to Vasnetsov had suddenly been lost, his spiritual connection gone. Vasnetsov was no longer to his left, only a void, an emptiness, something that should never be.
Kaverin redirected his stance to face Vasnetsov’s position with his weapon raised to eye level. Then in a whisper so soft, he said, “Vasnetsov.”
Nothing.
Kaverin remained as still as a Grecian statue while tuning into his other senses that had been honed over a lifetime of training. But he could neither smell the sweat of someone’s fear nor feel the slightest tremor of someone’s closing footfalls beneath his feet. Whatever existed before him had the wispy presence of a phantom, nothing but translucent mist. Keeping his weapon even, he began to pull back on the trigger, applying two of the three pounds necessary.
Softly: “Vasnetsov.”
Nothing.
But Kaverin was not the only one with honed skills when working inside the shadows. His voice, his whispers, had been his downfall, the hushed sounds driving something within the shadows to his location, a predator, who reached out to knock Kaverin’s weapon aside, which set off a short burst and staccato flashes of light. In these quick flashes of muzzle fire, the former Spetsnaz fighter caught a glimpse of his attacker. In these quick sparks of light, Kaverin saw the rage in the man’s eyes, that of savage cunning and brutal intent. His teeth were clenched as though to force back a primal scream. But the most outstanding feature was the white band of a Roman Catholic collar that surrounded his neck. Kaverin, with his eyes widening with immediate recognition and alarm, realized that his life was about to come to a quick and horrifying end. In that instant between life and death, Kaverin was a martyr in the making as he cried out a warning to his teammates. “Vatican Knights!” The two words echoed throughout the Monolith Chamber before a knife had been run across his throat, the horizontal slit paring the flesh into a second horrible grin along his neck as he went to his knees. Gagging with horrible wetness as he choked on his blood, Kaverin raised his weapon and shot off a burst to light up the area.
His attacker was gone, like magic, here one moment and gone the next.
Then Kaverin, falling forward to the stones, could see his sight fading from consciousness to something more eternal. In the end, just before he slipped over to the other side, he thought how odd it was that there was a blackness that was far greater than absolute darkness.
In the subsequent moments, there was the sound of something being dragged across the floor.
* * *
Rabinovitch and Novikov both heard Kaverin cry out his warning to others from their position inside the chamber. Novikov, though a learned man, had never heard of the Vatican Knights since he was not a man apprised of military culture. Those with military sophistication and backgrounds, however, would know about their enemies and their capabilities. When Novikov saw Rabinovitch staring down at the floor with a look of concern, it gave rise to a myriad of questions in Novikov’s mind.
“The Vatican Knights,” he began, “that means something to you?”
Rabinovitch broke his downward gave and looked into the Monolith Chamber, the man refusing to answer.
“The Vatican Knights, who are they? Should their appearance be something I should be concerned about?”
Rabinovitch nodded and said, “They’re the Vatican’s commando unit. Highly trained, highly efficient, and highly effective at what they do, which is to wage battle against their enemies with unrivaled skillsets.”
“Better than your team?” Novikov asked him. “Better than the Russian Spetsnaz?”
Rabinovitch allowed his tongue to run along his cheek for a long moment before answering, “No.”
“What’s there to worry about?”
“Kaverin is lost. And so is Vasnetsov. Two of my best. Out there,” Rabinovitch tipped his chin towards the Monolith Chamber, “could be a killing ground that benefits the Vatican Knights. Their leader, their commander, has been mythologized in the Middle East as the Devil’s Magician. Elsewhere, he’s known as the priest who is not a priest. It’s also been said that he is an angel to some and a demon to others. Surely, he will serve the dark side as the demon when it comes to my men.”
“You just said that your team is better, did you not?”
Rabinovitch did not answer. In his mind, he wanted to believe that his team of former Spetsnaz operatives were better trained and disciplined. But his heart told him differently: You can lie to yourself, but you can never lie to what your heart knows to be true.
Novikov, intuiting Rabinovitch’s thoughts, said, “Your team of mercenaries, they don’t stand a chance, do they?”
“They’re a good unit.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
When Rabinovitch’s response was to grip his automatic weapon until he became white-knuckled, it was a subliminal message to Novikov. His team lacked the efficiency to overcome the Vatican Knights.
Then: “This Devil’s Magician, does he have a name?”
“Kimball Hayden.”
“Kimball Hayden. An American?”
“We believe so. Perhaps CIA at one time.”
“Well, it makes sense,” Novikov whispered. “The manuscript of Giovanni Chiaravalle, after having been stolen a decade ago, and then for it to suddenly show up on the black market where it once again disappears and those involved with its possession or knowledge of its whereabouts, are murdered. And here we are with the Vatican and I having an interest in possessing the prize that is the Templar treasure. It now makes sense to me why the Vatican would suddenly want to crash the party.” After a pause, he added, “They want the Cup of Miracles.”
Rabinovitch remained silent.
“You didn’t expect that, now did you?” said Novikov. “That as soon as you obtained the manuscript from Müller that others may also share a mutual interest of its contents as well, namely the Vatican.”
