The venetian code, p.18
The Venetian Code, page 18
Kimball noted the cast on Vladimir’s arm. “You were with Novikov in the warrens beneath the canal.”
“Of course.”
“You were the second set of footprints leading away from the Monolith Chamber.”
“I survived your first assault when you broke my arm, yes?”
“It wasn’t me. If it was, you wouldn’t be standing here.”
“So full of bravado, you are.”
The two men continued to circle each other.
And then from Kimball, “So, you’re one of Novikov’s little bitch dogs, is that it?”
“He gave me a financial offer that I could not refuse. I am now the head of his detail.”
“Head of his detail.” Kimball looked at the bodies on the floor. Pointing his knife at them, he said, “You’re not doing a very good job.”
“Assassins are a dime a dozen. I will handpick my own team, people I can trust.”
The two stopped circling. The time for inaction was over.
Then from Kimball: “All I want is the Cup of Miracles . . . and Ivan Novikov.”
“What you want is immaterial to me.”
Then Vladimir raised his arm that was in a cast. With his size and power, the Russian could wield it as a blunt instrument.
“Show me your magic, Magician. I’m curious.”
That was all the invitation Kimball needed as he launched himself forward with sweeps and arcs that drove the Russian back. Using his cast more as a shield than a weapon, he was able to deflect the Vatican Knight’s slashes and jabs, though the cast was coming apart from the deep scores.
In a counterattack, Vladimir thrust out his leg, a tree trunk, which caught Kimball’s midriff with power enough to send him across the room and crashing into the standing computers, his body indenting the processors. When he scrambled to his feet, Vladimir was already on top of him. Knocking a knife free from Kimball’s grip, the Russian grabbed Kimball’s wrist to the hand that still held the other KABAR. With a crushing hold on his wrist, Kimball thought for sure that his bones would snap, the Russian’s grip was that powerful. When Kimball noted the gleam in Vladimir’s eyes and his grin of malicious amusement, it confirmed to Kimball that the Russian intended to cripple him before the kill.
With his free hand, Kimball came across and struck the big Russian in the chest, then he threw a subsequent kick, both striking the man as though he was a stone pillar. Neither strike did much to move Vladimir Pushkin off his balance, just a mild rocking motion.
Then the Russian continued to squeeze his hold on Kimball’s wrist, causing the bones to bend, to give. Grimacing, Kimball brought his cupped hand across and clapped it against Vladimir’s ear, a hard strike that made a popping sound. With Vladimir’s eyes suddenly gaping to the size of saucers, the large man released Kimball and fell back with a hand to his shattered eardrum. The agony was all-consuming, and his vision swirled as though he was highly intoxicated, his world spinning and reeling.
Behind the veil of whirling madness, Vladimir Pushkin could see Kimball approaching him, a phantom shape that seemed to appear and disappear until it was on top of him. Reaching out a clawed hand, the Russian grabbed Kimball’s throat, hoisted him high, and tossed him through the flybridge window.
Glass shattered everywhere.
* * *
On the deck below the flybridge, the sound of shattering glass could be heard from the above deck. Novikov, in reaction, quickly galvanized the guests to leave the yacht with quick sweeps of his waving hand. People raced for the stern, all confused as to what was going on. Some of the women barked out with cries and shouts, sure that something terrible had commandeered the boat.
As the gathering dispersed, Ivan Novikov went to his bedroom, opened a drawer, and removed a 24K gold-plated Colt .45 ACP with an ‘elite’ scroll design that was fully loaded. The heft of its weight felt good in his hand. It was also the weapon that won him several marksmanship challenges.
As the main room continued to clear out with partygoers, Ivan Novikov grabbed the Cup of Miracles and placed it on a shelf next to other objects of significant historical interest. Weighing the Colt in his hand, the Russian oligarch felt good about his chances to come out on top.
* * *
When Kimball got to his feet on the outside deck of the flybridge feeling somewhat foggy, tempered glass the size of diamonds littered the area. Almost immediately, he felt two large hands grip him by the shoulders and lift him high in the air. Looking down, as his vision started to clear, he could see the roid rage in the Russian’s eyes, that manufactured inducement that promoted savagery. From one of his ears, blood had coursed heavily. As the Russian cocked his casted arm back for a killing blow, Kimball shifted and, with an acrobatic move, swung himself so that he came up to encircle the big man from behind, placing a hand on the Russian's jaw and cupping his simian forehead, Kimball twisted, hard, the crunch of bones breaking as he snapped Vladimir's neck. As the Russian’s eyes rolled until they showed nothing but white, his knees buckled, and then he fell straight down with the Vatican Knight riding him all the way.
Getting to his feet and feeling a bit winded after his battle with the Russian, a shot rang out. A bullet passed through Kimball’s shoulder, a clean shot, with white-hot agony soon trailing the gunshot. Bringing a hand to his shoulder and feeling the tackiness of blood, Kimball realized that his wound had neutralized his dominant right arm.
Turning, he saw Ivan Novikov standing on the flybridge with a ribbon of smoke curling from the barrel of his Colt.
* * *
“Vatican Knight,” was all Ivan Novikov said. “No doubt you’re here to steal the Cup of Miracles.” And then a thought dawned on the oligarch as he started to look in all directions. And then: “Are you alone?”
Kimball, grimacing, remained silent.
“Are . . . you . . . alone?”
Kimball shifted his eyes as though he was tracking somebody behind Novikov. The oligarch, reading this transmission, immediately pivoted on the balls of his feet to confront the threat behind him. When he saw nothing but the broken window to the flybridge and Vladimir Pushkin lying on the deck with his neck at an awkward angle, he once again pivoted swiftly around. Kimball Hayden was gone.
“Dammit,” Novikov whispered. With his feet crunching the tempered glass lying on the deck, Ivan Novikov went on the hunt.
* * *
Kimball made his way to the deck below. Behind him was a droplet blood trail, something Ivan Novikov would take immediate advantage of by following the marked route. Working his way across the elegantly furnished room, Kimball saw the liquor and wine bottles sitting on the tables. Grabbing a whisky bottle, he removed the cap and poured the contents over his wound. Stifling a cry of fiery pain, Kimball absorbed the agony by clenching his teeth. When he had emptied the bottle, he simply tossed it aside.
Feeling a nauseating weakness starting to creep over him, Kimball realized that Novikov would soon be on his trail. Without his KABARs or a firearm, without his full ability to fight back, Ivan Novikov, in his way, had neutralized the playing field. Predator versus prey; cat against the mouse.
As he crossed the room, he noticed a cup that had been wedged between other ancient relics, Novikov hiding the Cup of Miracles in plain sight. Grabbing it, Kimball was surprised to see that the cup was nothing spectacular. It was a poorly fashioned mug made of clay that had a hairline fissure. As he held it, he felt no otherworldly magic traveling up along his arm to seal and heal his wound. He didn’t feel anything spiritual or see any earthshaking images in his mind’s eye, either. All he felt within the bloody fold of his hand was a clay cup that could have been like a thousand other clay cups.
“It’s not what you thought it would be, is it?” Ivan Novikov entered the room with his Colt directed at Kimball. “Just an unglamorous cup fashioned from clay. And from the looks of it, probably from a drunken potter. Now, return the cup to where you found it. And so that you know, I’m an expert marksman.”
“So, I’ve read.”
“I’m sure you have.”
Kimball, laboring to return the cup on the shelf, gave Ivan Novikov, who was moving closer to the Vatican Knight’s position, a sidelong glance. Then Kimball tossed the Cup of Miracles into the air, the clay chalice turning end over end with its fragility to be tested once it impacted against the floor.
Novikov’s eyes detonated with alarming surprise as he watched the Cup of Miracles turning over in revolutions as it reached the height of its flight, and then its downward spiral to the floor.
“No!” Novikov, who reached a hand to snag the cup away from its trajectory, missed. Then the cup hit the floor hard, the clay chalice smashing into dozens of shards that skated to all points of the compass along the floor. Too numbed to respond as Novikov stared at the pieces, Kimball was on top of him.
With one good appendage, he easily disarmed Novikov by slapping away the Colt, then he went into a choreographed assault by throwing a bladed hand that caught Novikov in the head, temple, throat, shoulder, chest—blow after blow after blow that was so blindingly fast to the Russian oligarch that he had no time to defend himself. Being pushed out of the room until he was on deck, Novikov started to throw errant and feeble blows in an attempt to protect himself, the man looking like a novice when it came to combat. As his eyes started to roll up into his sockets with nothing but internal stars circling within the scope of his mind’s eye, Kimball threw a straight kick to Novikov’s midsection. The impact was so powerful that it lifted the oligarch off his feet and over the railing, the man landing in the water below.
When Kimball went to the railing, he saw nothing but froth at the entry point of Novikov’s splashdown.
The Russian never surfaced.
CHAPTER FIFTY
The Papal Chamber
Apostolic Palace, Vatican City
Twelve Hours Later
Twelve hours after obtaining the Cup of Miracles, Kimball was escorted to the Papal Chamber by a pair of Swiss Guards. In his hand was a cloth bundle that was tied by twine. After entering the chamber, a Swiss Guard closed the door behind Kimball.
The pontiff sat behind his ornate desk with his fingers interlocked. “Kimball,” he said. “I’m glad you made it back home.”
When Kimball stepped from the shadows by the entry and made his way toward the papal desk, the pontiff could see that his complexion was grayish-pale and that he had gray rings surrounding his eyes. When he grabbed the pope’s hand to kiss the Fisherman’s Ring, the pontiff could feel a palpable heat emanating from Kimball, the Vatican Knight running a high fever.
“Kimball,” he stated, His Holiness genuinely concerned. “You’re ill.”
Kimball waved him off as he set the bundle on the desktop before the pope. “There you go,” he said, pointing to the package.
Pope Innocent IX stared incredulously at the tied wrapping. And then: “What is it?”
Kimball reached down, untied the package, and peeled aside the cloth flaps. Inside were dozens of clay shards.
“I don’t understand,” stated the pontiff who grabbed a triangular piece and examined it.
“It’s what twenty or so people died for,” Kimball answered. “Including Roman and Monsignor Russo . . . All for the pieces of clay that sit before you.”
The pontiff started to pick through the shards, then with a tremor to his voice, he asked, “Are you telling me . . . are you saying . . . that this is the Cup of Miracles?”
“In an altered form.”
The pontiff appeared crestfallen. “It’s—”
“Still the Cup of Miracles,” Kimball finished. “The cost to obtain it was too high if you ask me. I hope it was worth it.”
The pontiff, picking up the sarcasm in Kimball’s voice, said, “The cost could have been minimalized since I did not agree to your going to Dubai in the first place. So, what happened after Venice falls upon your shoulders, not on the church’s. If the cost was too high, Kimball, then look in the mirror as to the man responsible for the price paid.”
“Touché.”
“I can only assume that the relic meant little to you and that you went to Dubai to confront Ivan Novikov.”
Kimball remained silent.
“Did you break the Vatican’s code of conduct to achieve the means?” The pontiff asked him.
“I did what was necessary to obtain the treasure. The Vatican wanted the Cup of Miracles,” he pointed to the pile of broken clay, “there you have it.”
Looking at the pieces, the pontiff asked, “What happened?”
“You could say that in the end . . . that cup saved my life.”
“Then, despite the high cost to obtain it, it still had a purpose.”
Kimball nodded. “It did.”
Folding the cloth over the pieces, the pontiff said, “It was never about its form but what it represented. It shall be archived in the Vatican’s Vault where it belongs. No matter what state it’s in, it’s still the cherished item from which a miracle had united the Apostles.”
Kimball, emitting three low coughs, brought him to the attention of the pope. “You’re ill, Kimball. And severely by the looks of it. A fever, no doubt. I can feel the heat coming off of you. I think you need immediate medical attention.”
“Just a little infection,” he responded, “that’s all.” He omitted to inform the pontiff about his bullet wound, now covered by a clean shirt and gauze padding, that was festering with a buildup of pus. His temperature was also mounting to a dangerously high level.
Then came another chain of coughing from Kimball who then placed his hands on top of the pontiff’s desk for support.
The pope, highly concerned about Kimball’s condition, stood and rounded the desk, then he tried to hold Kimball steady. “You need medical aid immediately,” he told the Vatican Knight.
That evening, Kimball would be resting at Gemelli Hospital in Rome where the physicians cleaned his wound properly and placed him on a solution of antibiotics to neutralize the fever. Four days later, he would be released to the care of the Vatican.
* * *
On the night that Kimball Hayden was being treated, a bishop from the Holy See who oversaw the items with the Vatican’s Vault was carrying a purple velvet satchel with gold ties. Inside were the shards of the Cup of Miracles.
Moving down the aisles of the Vatican Archives, the bishop, wearing white gloves, found his way to the Vault. Pressing his eyes to the optic reader that measured the pulsating roadmap of capillaries running through the eyes to confirm identity, the lock to the Vault’s door unlocked and opened.
The bishop, making his way through the Vault with his movements activating the motion-sensor lights, found a podium with a crystal covering. Lifting the glass, he placed the shards neatly on the podium and capped it with the crystal covering. Removing his gloves, he exited the Vault.
The Cup of Miracles was finally home.
EPILOGUE
Lake Lucerne, Switzerland
In Lake Lucerne, a man sits at a small coffee shop sipping a latte. His face appears weathered from a beating, his skin bruised, though he keeps the wide brim of his hat down to cover his features and wears large-framed glasses to hide his contusions. In Switzerland, he was known as Armend Favre, his passport uncontestable and the best money could buy. In life, he was Ivan Novikov, a Russian oligarch.
Under the name of Armend Favre, he was a chameleon who could travel at will despite the world’s attempts to sanction him. When a person was as insanely rich as he was, there would always be a means to slip through the cracks.
As he overlooked the lake enjoying his beverage, he thought about his confrontation with Kimball Hayden. Easily bested by the Vatican Knight, the battle was not over. He had survived the contest, a rarity since his entire detail had been taken out, including the dullard, Vladimir Pushkin, who he believed was unchallengeable given his size.
There’s a reason for everything, he thought.
Taking another sip, he knew there would be other adventures where treasures remained hidden only to be discovered, great treasures. He also needed to quell that nagging sensation that was plaguing him, that Kimball Hayden had taken from him the Cup of Miracles. Realizing that the cup was now under the Vatican’s ownership, his ego would not let it go. The cup may have been beyond his reach, but the life of Kimball Hayden was not. In time, he would confront the Vatican Knight when he least expected it. As Kimball Hayden had stolen the Cup of Miracles from him, he would steal away Kimball’s life in what he considered to be an even exchange.
Under a wonderfully blue sky, Armend Favre, who was truly Ivan Novikov, continued to sip his latte.
THE END
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