The venetian code, p.17
The Venetian Code, page 17
“I know what you want, Kimball. You want to get at Ivan Novikov.”
Kimball leaned into Father Auciello with the eyes of a man who was managed by internal rage. When Kimball spoke, the smell of alcohol assaulted the priest enough for him to distort his face in disgust at the odor.
“Please, Father Auciello, all I ask is that you get me to Dubai. I will not let the lives of two men be wasted on a failed mission. Their lives need to have meaning.”
Father Auciello stared at Kimball for a long moment. “You’re to be back here within thirty-six hours.”
“I can do that.”
“And your mission—I will report to the pontiff—will be to obtain the Cup of Miracles which we know is in Dubai. After the pontiff takes off my head, maybe he’ll see to reason.”
“When I lay the Cup of Miracles before him, he will. I promise.”
“Just the Cup, Kimball. That is your primary goal. Nothing else is.”
“Just get me on a plane to Dubai.”
Father Auciello then ordered his Jesuit tech to arrange immediate travel to the United Arab Emirates, a nine-hour flight. When the reservation was prepared, Father Auciello turned to Kimball and reminded him of his primary goal. “Secure the Cup,” he told him. “And do nothing more than that.”
Kimball nodded, then said, “I’m going to be true to myself.” And then the Vatican Knight was gone, a man alone on a mission where vengeance became his motivation.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
Nine Hours Later
While Kimball Hayden was on his flight to Dubai, he studied the satellite images of Ivan Novikov’s yacht, a massive structure that could only be afforded to those with his wealth. When the plane landed, Kimball made his way through security with a fictitious passport. He was a realtor from Los Angeles and a successful entrepreneur. After he collected his single piece of luggage, he exited the airport only to find himself in the dry heat of a sweltering sun. From there, he took a taxi to a hotel that was close to the Dubai Marina Yacht Club. After checking in, he went to his room and parted the drapes that overlooked the marina.
Sitting in the marina was Novikov’s yacht. Grabbing his binoculars, Kimball brought them to his eyes. The lenses automatically focused, bringing the distance into close focus. Onboard were several men, guards by the looks of them since they openly wore shoulder holsters and sidearms. In total, Kimball counted twelve. Ivan Novikov, however, was nowhere about.
Tossing the binoculars on the bed, Kimball tossed his suitcase on the covers and undid the zipper. Removing his clothes to expose a hidden compartment, Kimball removed the lid. Underneath were two KABAR combat knives, his weapons of choice when it came to combat. Lifting them, he then began to twirl the knives with the same expertise that a majorette spins a baton between her fingers. The actions were clean and fluid, the spinning and handling having been perfected over the years that made him one of the best in the world when it came to the use of double-edged weaponry.
When the feel of his knives felt right in his hands, he went to the window.
In the harbor was Novikov’s yacht.
In the distance, the sun was beginning to set.
That night, under the cover of darkness, Kimball Hayden would make his move against Ivan Novikov and his team of many.
As the Vatican Knight continued to stand before the window with the stillness of a Grecian statue, he waited for the sun to go down with the patience of a saint.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The Papal Chamber
Apostolic Palace
Vatican City
The pontiff was a man of gentle reserve who always greeted everyone with a smile. But when he was informed by Father Auciello that Kimball Hayden went to Dubai to recover the Cup of Miracles, the pope’s smile dwindled to a grim line. Pope Innocent IX had deemed the cup lost, the mission a rare moment when the Vatican Knights were unable to achieve a triumphant outcome. Since Kimball activated himself to serve the church by a law mandated by the Vatican—that of protecting the interests of the church—Kimball was not breaking protocol. He was simply extending the mission to achieve the primary directive of obtaining the Cup of Miracles. But the pontiff felt slighted because Kimball went solo on this operation, which conveyed to the pope that this exercise was, on some level, personal to Kimball. It was also a red-flag indication to the pontiff that Kimball was going to perform outside of the restrictions that the Vatican Knights operated by and was about to go rogue in the name of the church.
Standing close to the papal desk, Pope Innocent IX asked, “He’s already in Dubai?”
“For several hours now. I believe he’s waiting for nightfall.”
Slowly, the pope went to the glass door of the balcony that overlooked St. Peter’s Square. “We all know that Kimball can be difficult to control, let alone be tamed,” he stated evenly. Then after a slight pause and a sigh, he added, “I’m worried about the higher cost of his mission. In trying to obtain the Cup of Miracles . . . many lives have already been lost.”
“Kimball promises to bring the cup home, Your Holiness,” said Father Auciello.
“Are we even sure that it’s on the boat?”
After hesitating, Father Auciello answered, “No.”
“And without verification, Kimball took it upon himself to retrieve a relic that might not be possible to acquire.” The pontiff turned away from the balcony and faced the priest. “I must say that this undertaking by Kimball has a far more reaching purpose than simply finding the Cup of Miracles. Kimball has his own agenda that he wants to fulfill. One that I would not approve of since it most likely involves breaking the Vatican’s code of conduct.”
Father Auciello remained silent.
“Let’s pray, Father, that he does not jeopardize his soul by giving himself wholly to the Darkness.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
Making his way to the papal desk, the pontiff took his seat and addressed the priest. “Next time, Father, you don’t wait to tell me something that’s of urgency no matter what time it is. If you had done so, I would have postponed Kimball’s trip.”
“My apologies, Your Holiness.”
With a dismissive wave, the pontiff sent Father Auciello away.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Dubai Marina Yacht Club
2106 Hours
The Leviathan was anchored about one hundred yards from the marina, a massive vessel whose length was seventy-five feet short of two football fields. Under the watchful eye of the gibbous moon, beams of moonlight alit on the water’s surface which gave it the appearance of sparkling tinsel. Onboard, the lights were on throughout the ship as armed guards wandered from level to level.
Kimball, wearing dark clothing and camouflage paint to blacken his features, gradually swam across the water with his head barely above the surface, from the eyes up, much like what a crocodile does when it closes on its prey.
When he reached the yacht’s stern platform which was two feet above the water’s surface, he spotted a guard who was leaning against the polished brass rail and looking skyward. The opportunity was presenting itself to Kimball since complacency had always been the downfall of the amateur. With his eyes barely breaching the surface, Kimball removed his knife slowly from its sheath. Then with incredible swiftness, Kimball launched himself upward, grabbed the guard by his beltline, and pulled him over the side and into the water.
Beneath the surface, the guard tried to cry out in alarm, his voice distorted. As Kimball held him under, as water began to fill the man’s lungs, the guard’s struggles slowed and softened, the man succumbing. When the guard finally surrendered his life, Kimball released him to the bottom of the bay.
Slowly, silently, the Vatican Knight climbed onto the stern and remained hunkered, listening. Somewhere, music was playing, and people were laughing and conversing, a celebration of some kind.
When Kimball believed it to be safe to move on, he did so by using the shadows.
* * *
Ivan Novikov’s festivity was to display the Cup of Miracles to the social elite, those with deep financial pockets. In a stateroom on the deck below the flybridge, Ivan Novikov was smiling as he held up the Cup of Miracles. It was a simple-looking cup by design and made of clay. On its side was a hairline fracture.
“Behold the Cup of Miracles,” he said, holding the vessel high over his head. “During a wedding in Cana when vats of wine became depleted, Jesus turned water into wine. With this cup, He dipped it into the water-to-wine vat and handed the cup to John, who quickly spread the news of His miracle which became the catalyst that united the apostles.”
There was laughter and gaiety as the ceremony wasn’t taken too seriously by the well-dressed and the insanely rich.
“So,” Ivan continued, “I invite you to partake in the water-into-wine sharing, yes?” Pouring the small amount of water that was inside the Cup of Miracles onto the carpeted floor, he then poured wine into the Cup. When filled, though a few drops squeezed through the hairline crack, he raised the cup high which brought on cheers. Then he brought the clay cup to his lips and drank. Tilting the cup until the contents were drained, Ivan smacked his lips in showmanship and once more held the Cup of Miracles above his head. His guests cheered and clapped, all wanting to sip from the cup. After the wine was poured and people began to drink, the festivities continued to grow. Ivan Novikov, instead of displaying the Cup of Miracles like a cherished relic, was using it as a prop, a toy, something that wasn’t to be taken seriously.
Witticisms were made asking if Ivan Novikov suddenly felt all-knowing or all-powerful after drinking from the Cup of Miracles, to which he responded, ‘Yes.’
Down below and concealed by shadows, Kimball Hayden could hear the drunken revelry. Though the voices were distant, they were also loud. The Cup of Miracles was not to be treated as though it was a store-bought item, but as a relic to be valued.
Kimball, feeling Darkness welling, allowed it to come to a head.
When it surfaced, Darkness commanded him.
* * *
With the volume of the festivities covering the sound of his footfalls, Kimball Hayden moved along the lower tier. Two guards who had paired together were moving in his direction, both speaking Russian. In the shadows that provided little space the collision of forces would be inevitable, so Kimball bent his knees and ground his feet against the deck for better traction.
Then the Russians stopped talking.
In the background was a raucous ongoing celebration.
Kimball waited, knowing that their piqued curiosity would propel the two-man team to investigate their hunches.
They moved closer with their sidearms drawn.
Kimball waited.
And then in a movement that was preternaturally fast, the Vatican Knight exploded from the shadows, a dark-moving wraith. With what appeared to be the slowness of a nightmare for the two guards, neither felt the blades of Kimball’s knife draw across the flesh of their throats. With eyes flaring to the size of saucers as the guards had yet to register the final assault, Kimball disappeared into the shadows where he belonged.
Both guards, going to their knees with a hand to their throats trying to staunch the flow, became weakened by the quick drain of their fluids and fell hard to the deck, both succumbing to their wounds.
Kimball, from the dark veils, watched the two guards bleed out. When he was sure they had been neutralized, he moved on.
* * *
Two more Russian guards were doing their rounds on the second level when they suddenly became eclipsed by something that was blacker than black. It moved with phenomenal speed as its arms came across in sweeps and arcs, its talons scoring their flesh deep. When it drove its claw deep into one man’s chest, it was then that it wasn’t a talon at all but the point of a knife. As it withdrew with a sickening wet sound, the man fell to his knees. The other, who was reaching for his holstered sidearm, had the point driven through his chest, the heart rupturing and the kill quick, the man falling to the deck as a boneless heap. The first guard, grimacing against a deep-rooted pain, raised his head to cry out in warning. But by exposing his throat when he craned his head, he availed his enemy the opportunity to drive the knife across his throat, which Kimball did to cut off the scream. After gurgling in his own wetness, the guard fell backward. This time, Kimball did not wait to see the result as he moved on to clear the boat.
* * *
Skipping the level below the flybridge where Novikov was holding his festivity, Kimball made his way to the yacht’s nerve center of communications and directional steering. Topside were four men who were armed with holstered sidearms and speaking Russian. Their conversation, at times, was peppered with laughter, telling Kimball that their guard had been lowered.
Gripping a KABAR in each hand, Kimball, squatting behind the island of a control panel, outlined his action of attack inside his mind’s eye. Three were close together, whereas one was standing by the window that overlooked the bow.
On three, he told himself.
. . . Two . . .
. . . One . . .
Kimball erupted as a tour de force of a killing machine that had no equal. He was quick and fluid, and he moved with a purpose that had been brought on by years of training and instinct that made him a master of his designed craft.
Before the guards realized that they were not alone, there was a flash of darkness, a glimmer, and then they were eclipsed by a mass that was intended to maim and murder. Kimball jabbed the KABAR in his left hand into the man to his left, the blade punching through the wall of his chest to puncture the heart, a quick kill. In the same motion with his right hand, Kimball stabbed the man to his right in the chest and throat, the double move blinding in its speed. Swiftly retracting the knife in his left hand that instantly ruptured the man’s heart, he then gored the third man with stabs to both lungs and the throat. Six catastrophic strikes of the blade all hitting home in less than three seconds. As the fourth man turned from the window, Kimball tossed his KABAR. The knife spun in blinding revolutions as it traversed the air, the point finding its mark and driving deep through the forehead. With the guard’s eyes moving upward as though to acknowledge the blade’s hilt sticking from his skull, he sighed a regrettable breath and fell forward, the man striking the floor of the flybridge hard with the teeth-first approach. In under four seconds, the Russian unit had been taken out by a man who was being governed by absolute rage.
Removing his knife, Kimball Hayden went in search of Ivan Novikov and the Cup of Miracles.
* * *
The overhead bang from the flybridge above the Celebration Room caught Ivan Novikov’s immediate attention. In silence, everyone listened.
Nothing.
Then Novikov pointed to the large man who was seated. “You. Check it out.”
Vladimir Pushkin, who had a cast around his broken forearm, got to his feet. The man was as tall as he was broad with his body an accumulation of steroids which was evident by his simian-shaped forehead and prognathous jawline. The lateral scar running across his forehead was a nice touch that gave him a Frankensteinian and disturbing look.
In his hand was the Cup of Miracles which had been passed around for those to drink from. Passing the cup off to a raven-haired beauty beside him, he nodded and made his way topside to the flybridge.
* * *
The hairs on the back of Kimball’s neck tingled with a small staticky charge. It was an innate warning that a super-predator was close by. Since the flybridge had few shadows to slide into, Kimball fell back in between two vertically standing computers, which was a tight fit given the width of his shoulders.
A long moment passed in silence, which caused Kimball to question himself.
Then a shape appeared in the doorway that seemed dwarfed by the man’s immense size. He was silhouetted against the backdrop of the marina’s lights, a shape that was blacker than black and standing as still as a stone statue, no doubt listening for the smallest sounds.
Another long moment passed in silence as the shape remained unmoving.
The stillness of the Shape and the air was becoming unnerving to Kimball.
Then Kimball saw it, an imperceptible movement of the Shape’s head as it moved slightly downward as though it was casting its eyes to the floor. The four bodies on the flybridge’s floor were still bleeding out from fresh wounds, the blood black and glossy like wet tar in the quasi-light.
Kimball remained unmoving, though he continued to hold his weapons with white-knuckled grips.
And then the Shape moved with incredible speed, the hulk being fast and smooth and a skilled athlete for a man his size, a rarity as he reached for a loaded sidearm that was on the floor, a gift from one of the dead.
Grabbing the grip of a suppressed Glock, Vladimir Pushkin started to bring the weapon upward. But a Shadowman erupted from the shadows, a pure mass of darkness that was fleet of movement and foot, the attacker upon Vladimir within an incalculable amount of time that was too fast to count. As Kimball brought down his KABAR combat knife in a diagonal slash, the blade raked across Vladimir’s cast as he brought his arm up to deflect the blow.
In a subsequent move to parry Vladimir’s, Kimball came across in a horizontal sweep of his other hand and knocked the Glock from the Russian’s hand, the weapon landing on the floor and skating away.
The former Spetsnaz operator got to his feet and quickly drew distance, the two men now circling each other on the flybridge; Kimball with his knives, Vladimir with his bare hands.
Though Kimball was clad entirely in black, a small marker gave him away, that small white square of a Roman Catholic collar. Vladimir, cocking his head, came to a sudden realization as though he had received an epiphany. “Ah, a Vatican Knight. Here to collect the Cup, I see.” He pointed to the collar. “You’re the one they call the Devil’s Magician, yes?” The clip of his Russian accent was clear.
