Vatican Knights (7 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Washington, D.C.

September 23, Early Afternoon

Shari
Cohen’s greatest achievement in life was graduating
cum laude
from
Georgetown University; a strong second was being selected as class speaker and
representative for the highly touted group of scholars making their way into
the real world. Although many graduated as physicians, attorneys, and business
prodigies, Shari’s proficiency was in International Studies and Strategic
Counterterrorism. Upon graduation, she was actively recruited by the NSA, the CIA and the FBI.

She started in the FBI, like most
agents, tarrying around the bottom rung until she was able to prove herself.
But with perseverance and determination, she rose steadily through the ranks
until 9/11, when her knowledge and skills immediately triggered a meteoric
rise. Now, as head of the Bureau’s Hostage Rescue Team, she had served as lead
in dozens of scenarios in which her tactical negotiations and innovative
thinking had saved numerous lives. In time, her strategic methods would become
departmental protocol, helping the Bureau keep pace with evolving ideologies,
especially when dealing with the Middle East.

In the living room of her
brownstone, as Shari picked up her daughter’s books that were scattered across
the living room floor, CNN was reporting on the death of Maryland’s First Lady,
Darlene Steele.

Since no statement had been made
by the political brass, CNN offered baseless theories about her death gleaned
from “inside” sources, who informed the news media more out of speculation than
fact. The end result was a constant looping of assumptive news that became
monotonously redundant as she picked up books by Dr. Seuss and Mother Goose and
began to stack them into the bookcase.

Gary Molin entered the room
wearing a cooking mitt on one hand and holding a two-pronged fork in the other.
He was tall and slender with olive-colored skin. His eyes were battleship gray,
a drab color that paralleled the dreariness of his humor. For months he and his
wife had been growing apart, each talking “at” each other instead of “to” each
other. When they hugged or kissed or expressed any type of physical affection,
it felt obligatory, insincere, even vulgar. But the true mystery was that
neither could remember when they started to drift apart. There was no specific
argument or event or act of lascivious impropriety that drove a wedge between
them. It was something quite simple, really. The romantic glow of infatuation
was simply going away, the once-burning flame barely a smoldering ember. Worse,
they both knew it. Nevertheless, each tried to hang on to the other with futile
gestures, such as cooking candlelit dinners with fancy French names, with
chilled bottles of wine sitting in an ornately-styled silver ice bucket. Then
they would sit in awkward silence as they ate, the conversation hard to come
by, their passion as elusive as the proper words to initiate a simple thread of
discussion.

Tonight Gary was making Greek lamb
with spinach and orzo, a favorite of Shari’s during their honeymoon in the
Greek Isles several years earlier. It was an effort to bring back the times
when they were star-struck just to be in each other’s company, to hear each
other’s voice.

He stepped further into the room,
the smell of baked meat wafting behind him. “Anything new?”

“It’s still guesswork at this
point,” she said. Her tone was flat and withdrawn as she continued to place the
books onto the bookshelves.

For a moment Gary’s eyes appeared
saddened. Her tone seemed to confirm that their marriage was as artificial as
their attempts to communicate.

When breaking news from CNN
interrupted the current programming, the anchorwoman reported that a White
House spokesman was about to take the podium in the Brady Press Room.

A balding man with Botox lips and
a soft appearance stepped to the podium and faced an audience of reporters.
Something about his demeanor evoked the impression of a troll, and he spoke in
a high-pitched whine. This was not the image Shari would have presented to a
world audience, a mistake on the part of the White House staff. But as Shari
expected, the first words spoken were of condemnation for the terrorist regime
and the obvious call for justice. Then the spokesperson slid neatly into what
everybody was waiting to hear—that the Soldiers of Islam were responsible, and
there was now an international effort to bring these terrorists to justice and
to acquire the safety of Pope Pius the XIII. Nothing was ever mentioned of the
terrorists’ identities.

As the spokesperson elaborated,
the phone rang. Shari backed up with her eyes on the television and reached
blindly for the phone on the wall. After talking briefly in hushed tones, she
slowly placed the receiver back on the cradle. “That was the attorney general,”
she said. “He wants to see me right away.”

Although Gary showed no emotion,
she could tell he was seething underneath.

“I’m sorry,” she told him. “I know
it was important to you that we have dinner together tonight.”

He shrugged. “Yeah . . . well,
whatever.”

She appeared wounded; the tone of
his voice was deliberately biting. “Gary, this is my job. This is what I do. I
don’t have a choice in the matter.”

In a quick display of warring
emotions, his face transitioned from anger, to pain, and then to a semblance of
understanding.

“He said the president wanted to
see me right away.”

Realizing the lamb was wasted,
Gary removed the cooking mitt and tossed it on the sofa. “I understand,” he
said. But his voice carried the flatness of someone too hurt to care.

“Look, Gary, I’m sorry. You know I
wanted to spend tonight with you.” This was a modicum of a lie and Gary knew
it. Lying was not her forte. But he knew that she wanted desperately to believe
that her marriage wasn’t failing. Shari Cohen never failed at anything in her
life.

He stepped forward and looked into
her eyes. “Shari, seriously, help me understand what’s happening here, with us.
Are you losing interest? Is it because I’m a stay-at-home dad? What? Help me
out, will you?”

“There’s nothing to discuss,
Gary.” She pointed to the TV, maintaining calm. “You see what’s going on. You
know what I do for a living.”

He hesitated before speaking, and
then softly he said, “I know you’re a mother and a wife. And I know I’m your
husband. And I know you’re running away from me.” He rounded the sofa. “You
wouldn’t even take my last name when we married. I know, I know, “professional”
reasons. But I guess I can’t help thinking you just didn’t want to be associated
with me.”

She let her hand fall. “Gary. . .
.” She let her words trail because she knew he was right. She was running away.
Even using her maiden name wasn’t escape enough.

Shari moved before her husband and
leaned into his embrace. She didn’t feel any sense of love or passion, but an
overwhelming sadness that brought her to the brink of tears. “You are without a
doubt, Gary Molin, a good man. And don’t you ever forget that.”

He drew back and feigned a smile.
And then with the back of his hand he caressed the strands of hair off her
forehead so that her hairstyle completely framed her beautiful face without
errant locks interrupting her features. “I’m not angry with you, honey. I’m
just scared of where we’re going.”

“We’ll talk,” she said. “I promise.”
There was no smile, not even a false one. And then she placed a hand over his
heart. She could feel the moderate beats against her palm. “I know you’re
disappointed, but I have to go.”

“I guess when your wife is the
head of the Hostage Rescue Team, then this is to be expected, right?”

 “Thank you for understanding,”
she said.

He shrugged. “What else can I do?”

“I just need time, that’s all.”

“What we need is time to talk. And
I mean
talk
.”

She remained forcibly calm. “Right
now, Gary, there’s a lot on my plate and the attorney general is calling me.
Please understand the pressure I’m going through right now because it’s obvious
to me that I’m heading into an impossible task. I need to believe that I can do
this.”

“You can,” he told her. “He’s
bringing you in because he believes in you like I do.” He then pulled her close
once again, this time kissing the crown of her head. “You can do this, Shari.
This is what you were built for.” 

When she drew back he saw the
worry in her eyes and the uncertainty on her face. Normally she was brimming
with the fortitude to meet a challenge head-on. But this time she was
different. This time she appeared unusually troubled, which seemed to shake her
normally stalwart confidence. Always keeping to the adage that a single setback
doesn’t crumble an empire, she undoubtedly knew in this case that a single
error in judgment could endanger not only the pope’s life, but also the
stability of the world order. But how could she save the world if she couldn’t
even save her own marriage?

Grateful for his vote of
confidence, she hugged him, the feeling not so vulgar, and then departed to do
battle against the Soldiers of Islam armed only with excellent judgment.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Vatican City 

September 23, Late Afternoon

They had
taken their names from the Books of the Old Testament, with the exception of
Kimball Hayden, who held the moniker of Archangel but never used it. Danny
Keaton had taken the name of Leviticus, Joey Hathaway the name of Micah, Lorenzo
Martinez became Nehemiah, and Christian Placentia was known as Isaiah.

After years of growing up behind
Vatican walls, these men had developed into a band of brothers groomed to be
the Crusaders of a new age. They had been trained by the best in the world and
had mastered much more than the martial arts. They also studied a variety of
philosophies, from Aristotle to Epicurus, with an emphasis on the works of St.
Thomas Aquinas. Art also had its place in their education; they developed
insight into the subtleties and symbolism of Da Vinci and Michelangelo. For a
Vatican Knight, it was believed that development of the mind was equally as
important as development of the body.

Under Kimball’s command they had
entered the jungles of the Philippines and South America to save the lives of
missionaries held hostage. Other times they had traveled to eastern bloc
countries to protect priests from dissident insurgents. And often they
interceded in bloody skirmishes between opposing religious factions in Third World
nations.

But those who took out the
president’s detail did so with deadly precision and sophistication that would
rival the proficiency of the Vatican Knights.

With the exception of Kimball
Hayden, Leviticus was the most battle tested, having served in more conflicts
than any other Knight with mêlée scars to prove his conquests.

Micah, Nehemiah and Isaiah were
less rough-hewn, though their fresh-scrubbed appearances made them no less
deadly. Their acquired skills marked them as some of the most formidable
combatants in the world. Micah was an expert in double-edged weapons. Nehemiah
and Isaiah were masters of silent killing. But all these men complemented each
other like connected pieces of a puzzle.

Spiritually, there was no one more
deeply entrenched in their faith. Mentally, there was no team more dedicated to
doing what was right. And physically, they were the finest any commander could
ever hope for. Kimball was fully confident that they were the best in the
world, not only as soldiers, but as men.

He was proud of his team.

Walking along the path that
divided the Old Gardens, Kimball moved with urgency until he reached Divinity
House, the garrison of the Vatican Knights, an uncharted building situated
between St. Martha’s Chapel and the Ethiopian College, about 200 meters west of
the Basilica. The building itself was simple and nondescript, its purpose to
draw little attention.

The building’s interior was
constructed of stone and rock shingle. Located along the walls where torches
once burned were electric sconces. Natural light came in through stained glass
windows that signified the Stations of the Cross. In the center of the
structure was the Circular Chamber, a huge rotunda that separated the building
into two distinct wings. It was a room of ceremony where men became knights of
the Vatican and where viewings were held for knights who had fallen in battle.

The floor was a masterpiece of
mosaic tile, majestically cobbled together to form the emblem of the Vatican
Knights. Centered within the coat of arms was a Silver Cross Pattée set against
a blue background. The colors were significant. Silver represented peace and
sincerity, and blue signified truth and loyalty. Standing alongside the coat of
arms were two heraldic lions rising on their hind legs with their forepaws
against the shield, stabilizing it. The lions were a symbolic representation of
bravery, strength, ferocity and valor.

The emblem appeared repeatedly
throughout Divinity House. The coat of arms also appeared as a branded insignia
on their uniforms and berets. It was even acid-etched on the stone wall of
their living quarters above the door.

For the moment it was quiet, the
Knights either at prayer or in meditation. Kimball wished to take part in
neither of these activities, since he struggled to find his faith. By blood he
was a warrior; by nature, a patriot. But as a child of God he found himself in
constant turmoil. Peace eluded him like something flitting at the corner of his
vision, something close but unobtainable. What he sought could not be found at
the altar or within the confines of a confessional. What Kimball truly wanted
was to be more than what he really was—a killer.

What he sought was salvation.

Opening the door to his chamber,
the hinges squealing, the sound echoing throughout the hollow halls of Divinity
House, Kimball began to pack for his journey to America.

His room was small, with the
barest necessities. Other than a single-sized bed, nightstand and dresser,
there was a small dais with a Bible upon it that had gone unread, and a votive
rack and kneeling rail meant for prayer, but the candles had never been lit and
the rail never knelt upon. High on the wall, a stained glass window provided
the only light into the room. The pieces of leaden glass formed the colorful
image of the Virgin Mother reaching out to him with outstretched arms.

After carefully folding his cleric
shirts and placing them in a backpack, the act itself homage to the cloth, he
made sure he was equally careful with the pristine white Roman collars.
Whatever else he and his Knights would need, they would receive from Cardinal
Medeiros in the States.

After running the zipper along the
backpack, Kimball stood before the mirror and appraised himself, noticing the
telltale signs of age beginning to show. After arranging his beret so it tilted
to military specs and making sure the Roman collar was straight and clean,
Kimball grabbed his backpack and headed off to confront his new challenge. He
felt invigorated, a feeling he hadn’t felt to this degree since he was a member
of the US Force Elite, the one-time assassination squad covertly sanctioned by
the president of the United States.