The venetian code, p.16
The Venetian Code, page 16
The monsignor, closing his eyes, thanked God.
Whereas Kimball, whose eyes remained open, was staring at the mosaic image of Immanuel, who appeared to be smiling down at him.
As Job aided Kimball to his feet, it was Isaiah who pointed to the set of wet footprints that crossed the floor to the basilica’s exit.
“Novikov wasn’t alone,” Isaiah told him. “There are two sets. I thought we neutralized the entire team.”
“Apparently not,” Kimball answered.
On the floor lying in gentle repose was Roman. His hands rested on top of his chest and his eyes were closed, a fitting posture that Job had placed him in. Getting to a knee, Kimball placed a hand on Roman’s crisscrossing hands, which were cold to the touch. His skin had a sickly paleness to it, the color the same as the underbelly of a fish. Reaching down, Kimball grabbed the Vatican Knight within his arms, lifted him into both arms, and nodded to Isaiah to lead the way out of the basilica.
As streamers of light were beginning to show themselves along the horizon, the square was still quiet at such an early morning hour.
In the semi-darkness, the Vatican Knights, without the Cup of Miracles in their possession, headed for the refuge of the diocese.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The Vatican, Vatican City
The Chamber of the Vatican Knights
Two Days Later
The Chamber of the Vatican Knights is strictly reserved for the services of Vatican Knights who perished in action. The mosaic-tile floor was fashioned to resemble the coat of arms of the Vatican Knights, that of two heraldic lions standing on their hind legs with their forepaws supporting a powder-blue shield with the emblem of the silver Pattée centered. The lions served as symbolic representations of bravery, strength, ferocity, and valor—the key values of a Vatican Knight.
In the center of the room sat a coffin with Roman laying in repose wearing the uniform of a Vatican Knight. Standing at attention around the casket were the Vatican Knights who were not on an active mission, twenty-two in all, with Kimball Hayden standing front and center of the unit as their Master Commander. They were outfitted in full regalia that displayed military epaulets, stylish double-button jackets, spit-shined polished shoes, and white gloves.
The pontiff led the eulogy, but his words sounded like a drone to Kimball because his thoughts were elsewhere. He recalled the moments of discussion with Roman deep inside the warren. As candid as Kimball was about his past to Roman, Roman was just as candid when he outlined his future to Kimball on how he wanted to help those who couldn’t help themselves. The future was for Roman to take, Kimball thought—a lifetime of it—which had been stolen away by Ivan Novikov.
When the service was over, though Roman would continue to lie in state for the night, Kimball, in full regalia, went to the crypts beneath the basilica. First, he shared a few kind words with Leviticus, his spiritual brother who died in battle. Then with a heavy heart, he went to the tomb of Bonasero Vessucci—his surrogate father whom he was closer to than his own biological one—and leaned his forehead against the cool marble. Then he closed his eyes.
“This one hurt,” he whispered. “Roman was just a kid who had his heart in the right place, but his ambition misplaced. It should have been me upstairs lying inside that chamber and not him.”
As anguish began to stretch across every fiber of his being, a hand alit upon his shoulder—the touch was soft and gentle and served as a conduit that spread warmth and inner peace. With his anguish having diminished, Kimball relaxed his shoulders.
The voice that answered was something that was both alien and familiar at the same time. In the manner of its pitch, Kimball could hear the voices of Leviticus and Bonasero as well as the voice of someone who was all-powerful and omniscient. The calm range behind this man’s words was filled with wonderful serenity that served to fulfill the core of one’s soul with the Light of Loving Spirits. Kimball, letting out a pent-up breath of dark emotions, felt a soothing wave eclipse him.
Life is a great gift, Kimball, no matter how long or short it may be. How one lives their life within that time becomes the measurement of either serving the Darkness or the Light. Roman had lived a life of decency.
“He was only nineteen.”
And now he lives in the Eternity of Ethereal Light. In death, Kimball, know that Roman is at peace. Worry not for him, for he is happy in Glory.
“Then tell me, why do I feel . . . absent? I’ve lost men in battle before. But why him? Why Roman?”
Roman had served his purpose, Kimball.
“His purpose? At nineteen?”
Life is not measured by how long one lives, but by the measure of purity in one’s heart.
“Then why?”
Roman was a messenger. He was . . . your messenger.
“My messenger?”
The hand remained in place upon Kimball’s shoulder.
In him, Kimball, was the embodiment of unblemished purity. What you saw in Roman was the spiritual image of what you’ve become. He was the Light you have failed to see in yourself. But when you looked in his eyes, did you not see an absolute peace when he passed?
“I did.”
His eyes were the mirrors of your spirit. He was the embodiment of your inner Light.
“Then, why do I feel like I’m struggling?”
Because success, Kimball, never comes without struggles, which are the tests of fortitude.
“What about the rage? I want to kill Novikov. Tell me that’s a Christian act.”
There was a pause, then: Kimball, the Light is interchangeable with Darkness. Often, you work in Darkness to serve the Light. Sometimes, you’re weighed down by black emotions such as rage and vengeance, as you are now. The conflict between the Light of your spirit is battling the Darkness of your rage. Don’t be consumed by the actions of those who wronged you. Roman’s death is a test of your restraint, Kimball. Do you give into the Light by turning a blind eye and let God be the final judge of Ivan Novikov’s actions? . . . Or do you give into the Darkness and seek revenge that belongs only to Him?
“I . . . want . . . Novikov.”
If you take revenge, Kimball, you could lose the Light that Roman showed you through his eyes when he transitioned from his earthly realm to a heavenly one. Do not take one step forward only to take two steps back.
“The anger hurts.”
Restraint, Kimball. You must hang onto the Light.
And when the hand that alit upon his shoulder lifted and disappeared, Darkness, rage, and unease filled him with the speed of moving wildfire, the calm he once felt gone. Turning, he saw no one in the catacomb, the long hallway empty.
Resting his forehead against Bonasero’s tomb, he stated softly, “Please, I’m not sure if I’m strong enough.”
In the aftermath was absolute silence.
But he realized that the choice between preserving his Light over the comfort of Darkness was now up to him.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
That evening, Kimball was sitting along the edge of his cot inside his quarters staring at a fixed point on the opposite wall. About an hour in, he finally got to his feet and went to the mirror. Beneath his reflection was a Post-It Note that read THE WORLD’S MOST DANGEROUS ANIMAL. Using his fingertip to bring down the lower lid to his left eye, and then his right, he examined himself carefully only to note the red laces of stitching that ran across the white sclera like roadmaps. The mirrors of my spirit, he told himself. The Light of my soul.
And then: I don’t see a damn thing.
After fixing his powder-blue beret, he left Vatican City which was under a canopy of a night sky that was filled with sparkling pinprick dots of light. Walking the streets of Rome, he reached the bar that was a gathering of those who felt empty, worthless, and above all else . . . lonely.
When he entered the tavern, it was filled with cigarette smoke that went nowhere. Somewhere inside the shadows and close to the bar, someone was sounding off with a wet and phlegmy cough.
Walking down the dimly lit aisle, he saw that his usual table was taken by a nun who was fully clothed in a habit. In front of her sat a whisky glass that was half filled or half empty, depending on one’s optimistic/pessimistic viewpoint. Kimball saw it as being half empty.
When the nun looked up and saw Kimball and noted the Roman Catholic collar around his neck, her eyes suddenly flared in alarming surprise.
“Oh, please forgive me, Father. I wasn’t going to drink it.” When she started to leave the booth as though she was a child caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar, Kimball put a hand on her shoulder and eased her back into the seat.
“It’s all right,” he told her. “I’m not a priest.” When she looked confusedly at his collar, he added, “I work for the Vatican . . . But I’m not a priest, believe me.”
Taking the bench opposite her, he looked at the glass of whisky.
“I really wasn’t going to drink it,” she told him. “Really.”
“Why pour it then?”
She had no answer as she cast her eyes ashamedly downward.
“It’s OK,” Kimball told her. “Really.” And then: “You’re in conflict about something, aren’t you? I can tell because I know someone who does the same thing. He comes here often and lines up shots of whisky to test his strength against temptation. What’s your story?”
Raising her eyes to shyly meet with his, she said, “It’s about my level of faith.”
Kimball smiled, which dazzled her. “Go on.”
“I believe and love God, but I don’t think my faith is on a level to serve Him.”
“Then, why do you?”
After a pause, she answered, “I have two brothers and a sister who are married and have families. But my mother wanted me to become a nun so that I would become the family tie between them and God. Christina, my name, is just another way of spelling Christian. She had preordained my life the day I was born.”
“But you want something else?”
She nodded. “Ever since I can remember,” she said, “I’ve had dreams of falling in love and having a family of my own with a small house and children, but I’m afraid if I leave the church my mother will be disappointed in me.”
“So, you question yourself over a choice to either disappoint your mother or keep lying to God, is that it?”
When she nodded, her face was about to crack.
Kimball reached over and cupped a hand over her soft and delicate hands. “Did it ever occur to you that questioning your position as a nun could be the result of God reaching out to you? Maybe it’s His way of telling you that your destiny lies elsewhere and not as a nun.”
“My mother wouldn’t see it like that. She believes that I was destined to serve the church.”
“How would you know unless you tell her what you want. Tell her what you told me—about wanting to have a family of your own. Tell her the truth.”
“It’s not that easy and you don’t know my mother.”
“All mothers love their children unconditionally. She might be wounded over your decision, but she’ll get over it. Trust me. In the end, she’ll come to realize that your life is not hers.”
Then the barkeep arrived at the table and ritually lined seven whisky glasses before Kimball, “Same as usual,” he told him. “Waste of cheap liquor if you ask me. But you’re the one paying for it.”
“Thanks, Enzio.”
As soon as the bartender walked away, the nun said, “You’re the one you were talking about earlier when you said that you knew someone who lined up shot glasses to test his strength against temptation.”
Kimball smiled. “Guilty.”
She looked at his collar. “What do you do for the Vatican?”
His smile petered away. “I . . . fix things, one could say. But my main role, I guess, is to help those who can’t help themselves.”
“Like me?”
“Not quite. In different ways.”
“How?”
“This isn’t about me,” he segued away from the topic. “We’re talking about you, remember?” And then: “Look, we all have our place in life . . . no matter how short life may be. If you have reservations about what you do, perhaps you should begin a new journey. Seek the Light that was meant for you.”
The nun looked at the whisky glass. “Is it selfish to want something different? Do you think God will be angry with me?”
“I think God has a purpose beyond what you do now. I believe it’s His way of telling you that it’s time to be your true self and to move on.”
“Are you sure?”
“How do you feel? Miserable? I can see it in your eyes.”
She tilted her head slightly. “Do you want to know what I see in your eyes? I see sadness. But I also see a great conflict waging between Darkness and Light deep inside. We’re the same, I think.”
“You can walk away from your struggles . . . I can’t. All you have to do is to remove your habit, lay it on the cot, and walk away from the Rectory.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“For some . . . it is.”
“But not for you.”
“No. I’ve tried. Only to come back to what I was meant for. If you walk away and feel the need to return, that’s when you’ll know.”
“Know what?”
“That your mother was right.”
The nun, nodding, stepped out of the booth and looked down at Kimball. “I hope you find your way through whatever sadness is plaguing you.”
“That makes two of us, but I’ll be fine.”
“I have a decision to make,” she told him. “I have to be myself. I have to be the real me.”
“That’s right.”
Offering a gingerly smile to Kimball, she left the bar and her glass of untouched whisky behind.
Kimball stared at the glasses. The cheap liquor smelled sour and sweet at the same time. And as he sat there an internal struggle began, the emotions of Darkness against the sentiments of Light.
Closing his eyes, he could not defeat the growing aggravation of Roman’s passing. In life, he had grown closest to Leviticus, his second lieutenant, who had been killed by a terrorist faction, his death becoming an indelible stain on Kimball’s memories. But Roman . . .
. . . He was a good kid . . .
Then he recalled his moments by Bonasero Vessucci’s tomb and could hear the Voice that sounded like an amalgamation of everyone he knew and loved—Leviticus, Bonasero, his mother, the Voice of Omniscient power.
. . . He was your messenger . . .
. . . In him, Kimball, he was the embodiment of unblemished purity . . .
. . . What you saw in Roman was the spiritual image of what you’ve become . . .
. . . He was the Light you have failed to see in yourself. But when you looked in his eyes, did you not see an absolute peace . . .
. . . His eyes were the mirrors of your spirit . . .
. . . He was the embodiment of your inner Light . . .
. . . In him . . . is you . . .
Kimball cupped his hands over his ears. Then softly spoken, he said, “No. I looked at my reflection in the mirror and I saw nothing. But what I feel, what I want . . . is to kill Ivan Novikov. Did you not hear what I told the nun, that she needs to be true to herself?”
. . . If you take revenge, Kimball, you could lose the Light that Roman proffered you through his eyes when he transitioned from his earthly realm to a heavenly one . . .
. . . Do not take one step forward only to take two steps back . . .
. . . Stay the course and do not forfeit the Light that Roman passed on to you . . .
Kimball lowered his hands. The Voice was gone.
“I can preach to others to stay true to themselves,” he murmured, “when I fail to be true to myself.”
Feeling on edge and wound up, Kimball looked at the nun’s glass. The whisky was not only dark, but it seemed to be calling him, enticing him.
And then: “Just one glass,” he muttered. “That’s all. Something to blunt the edge.”
. . . Kimball . . . It was the Voice . . . Be true to your convictions . . .
Grabbing the glass, he thought, I am. He then tipped the glass back and downed it, the whisky blazing as he swallowed.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Command Center of Vatican Intelligence
Vatican City
0200 Hours
Father Auciello was manning the nerve center of Vatican Intelligence when Kimball arrived unannounced, a rarity. Clearly, with the smell of alcohol coming off the Vatican Knight in waves and his eyes having a red and rheumy look to them, it was obvious to the priest that Kimball had stumbled in his sobriety.
“Oh, Kimball,” was all Father Auciello could say, his disappointment clear.
“Don’t you dare judge me,” Kimball fired back.
“Why are you here?”
“I want you to get me to Dubai.”
“Dubai?”
“That’s where Ivan Novikov is. He’s restricted by global sanctions. He’s not going anywhere without the possibility of having his precious yacht taken away from him.”
“Kimball—”
“I’m not asking you; I’m telling you. The pontiff wants his Cup of Miracles. I’m going to get it for him.”
“The pontiff has already conceded. The Cup is lost.”
“It’s not lost. Ivan Novikov has it. And we know where he is.”
“Kimball, please, we’ve lost two good people. Roman and Monsignor Russo.”
“Exactly. So, we’re going to let their passing go in vain?”
“The pontiff won’t approve of this . . . Not with your drinking.”
“The Cup of Miracles is an interest of the church. As a Vatican Knight, I’m duty bound to obtain it. I’m not asking to be accompanied by anyone. Just me. I promise you that I’ll have the cup back within twenty-four hours of landing in Dubai.”
