Original Sins Page 10
“I’d strongly suggest,” Rhames stated calmly, “that you not push too hard.” “Or what, Senator?” “You have nothing to support your claims outside of foolish notions. To push forward such an effort with the House Committee would destroy your standing amongst your peers. To manage personal gain through coercion would never be condoned by the members. Perhaps you should think about that.” “What I’m thinking about, Senator, are the personal files I keep as materials to support my claims of activities from those that—shall we say—are deemed corrupt. And in your case, Senator Rhames, I’m talking about the unethical relationships with interns you had over the years while married, with more of a liking for the much younger sex.” Senator Cartwright turned on Senator Shore with the same controlling look. “And as for you, Senator, I will boldly state that I have enough evidence against you regarding campaign finances going to personal use. How is that condo holding up in Las Vegas by the way? And that Beemer? I do believe that’s a jailable offense, if not one that requires a prison sentence, for misappropriation of funds.” Senator Shore swallowed, his throat suddenly going dry. “It’s always good to have a backup plan whenever Plan-A falters. I will have my victory, gentlemen. All I need is your swing votes. If you don’t, I promise that you’ll both be dead in the water come next election.” “I see,” said Senator Rhames. “Now that you believe that you hold the scepter of rule between us, we’re now your puppets today and hereafter, is that it? Would that be a correct assumption?” “Let’s just say that a king cannot rule without his subjects, and a puppet master would not be a master of any sort without his puppets. Believe me, gentlemen, my policies serve to promote, not hold back. Your assistance in future ballots would be greatly appreciated.” Falling back, Senator Cartwright gave off his infamous smile of triumph, then said, “Have a good day. And let’s all pray that it’s a day of wise decisions. If it is, then I trust that we can all sleep comfortably tonight.” Tilting his head in a manner of goodbye, Senator Cartwright left the circle to engage others. Senator Shore sidled next to Rhames, both men angered by the besting of Cartwright. “He’s treading in areas where he shouldn’t be,” said Shore. “I agree.” Shore turned to see that Senator Rhames was drawing a bead on Senator Cartwright with highly venomous eyes, and then he said softly, “He’s got us by the short hairs, Jeff. We vote his way and push the bill through. We’ve no other choice.” “And what about the next time or the time after that? How many people does he have in his pocket besides us two? Three? Four? Perhaps more? It’s not democracy, Stanley, if the vote is pressured to favor the one. More so, Senator Cartwright just showed us how dangerous he can really be. But—” Senator Rhames cut himself off as he turned to Shore with a half-smile. “We have something very special in our arsenal.” Shore stared at him for a moment until he was overcome by a stunned look. It was as if the bulb of enlightenment went off inside his head. “You can’t be serious, Jeff. We’re talking about a senator here. A United States senator.” “We’re talking about a man who will use us as puppets to do his bidding from here on in on everything that comes to the Floor. And I, for one, refuse to be his bitch.” “Still . . . a United States senator.” “If Joe Cartwright wants to tap dance over a minefield to get to me . . . so be it.” “Yeah. But, Jeff—” Senator Shore fell silent knowing that the die had been cast.
* * *
Later, as votes were cast that favored Senator’s Cartwright’s bill that was not overwhelmingly popular, Senator Rhames returned to his office at the Russell Senate Office Building and made a phone call to a certain black-op handler. The discussion was quick and precise, the message clearly an order to have a particular operator meet with the senator under discreet conditions. Once the discussion was concluded and the call severed, Senator Rhames eased back into his seat, tented his fingers, and bounced them nervously off his chin. “It’s done,” he said, looking at Senator Shore who sat across his desk. “He’ll be here tomorrow.” Stanley Shore released a pent-up sigh. “Jeff, things, as they are, are not good for either of us as long as Cartwright keeps us under his thumb. I get that. But this is extreme, and I don’t feel comfortable about this. Not one bit.” “We’re not senators, Stan, if we can’t do our job. And you know that the situation that we find ourselves in can’t be unique. How many other senators that we don’t know about do you think are under the same pressures as we are to Cartwright? Trust me, when this is over others will see this as a blessing.” “Jeff, right now we are conspiring to murder a United States senator. Do you have any idea of the consequences we could suffer if this goes sideways?” “‘If’ this goes sideways, which it won’t.” After a short lapse of silence between them, while Senator Rhames continued to bounce his tented fingertips nervously against his chin, he asked, “Is it true about what he said about the condo and the Beemer?”
Senator Shore appeared embarrassed by this and flushed, which was answer enough. “I guess we all have our skeletons in the closet,” Rhames commented. “And if we’re to keep them there, then we have to do this.” Senator Shore finally conceded by giving a marginal nod. And then: “I still don’t like it.” “Maybe not. But I don’t see how we have a choice, do you?” Another nod. In silence, both men sat idle while thinking over their sins.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Late Afternoon
Malden, Massachusetts
Kimball Hayden lay in bed with his arms regimentally stiff by his side and his eyes staring ceilingward. The day had turned sour with the sky turning gray, and then a shade that was in between gray and nighttime black as a torrential rain began to fall. The window was once again dappled by the rainfall, the world beyond the pane was warped and grotesque. As he lay there thinking, he could only think about the hauntings of his dreams. He saw his tormented mother being watched over by a predator who waited in the wings with unsaintly patience, whereas the Illumination that engulfed her was slowly retreating towards Darkness.
As he continued to stare at the ceiling, as lightning occasionally dazzled the room with brilliant flashes, Kimball Hayden’s mind became turbulent with thoughts. A collage of those he had killed raced across his mind’s eye as fleeting images. He saw the young girl’s face collapse beneath the impact of the bullet, with the sphincter-like wound forever embedded in his memory. He saw people falling and wailing as rounds of ammunition ripped through flesh, their eyes wide with terror asking ‘why.’ And he recalled the moments of oversea kills and how the body count began to climb. Am I doing the right thing? Or am I simply a puppet who is led to believe that I’m doing the right thing? Then came a knock on the door, a light rapping. “Mr. Donavan, you have a phone call,” the voice said. Blinking his eyes to return from his detached state, Kimball sat up, gazed out the window, then went to the kitchen where the receiver to the cord phone rested on top of the wall unit. Picking up the receiver, he placed it to his ear. “Yes.” Like an automaton who goes through the basic programming of blinking and breathing, the man listening to the coded chatter on the other end. After ten seconds of listening, Kimball said, “Understood.” Then he hung up. “Is everything all right, Mr. Donavan?” This came from an elderly woman whom Kimball considered to be as sweet as the proverbial pie, kind and pleasant. “I’m afraid I have to go,” he told her flatly. “Oh, that’s a shame,” she told him. “You’ve always been a quiet tenant here. Never a bother. Always quiet. Perhaps too quiet sometimes.” Without responding, Kimball returned to his room, packed, then left an additional twenty on the drawer for the landlord, who always kept the secret of his comings and goings. Stepping into the rain with his collar hiked against the rain, Kimball waited for a cab to take him to Logan Airport. Never did he spot the Vatican Knights who kept watch from half a block away.
* * *
As soon as Kimball Hayden was picked up by the cab and taken to Logan Airport, the Vatican Knights stayed within range of the moving vehicle. After going through the cities of Everett, Chelsea and East Boston, Kimball was let off in front of the Delta terminal. This time Jonah b
ecame the mobile surveyor who followed Kimball into the terminal. After working through the milling crowds of one of the busiest airports in the country, Jonah followed Kimball to the departure board. Then Kimball, who traced his finger along the screen to find his flight, found it and tapped it: Gate 24. After Kimball left, Jonah examined the board where Kimball had signified his flight. Gate 24 to Washington, D.C. Kimball Hayden was returning to home base under the name of Donavan.
* * *
The Office of Bonasero Vessucci
Vatican City
Bonasero Vessucci was sitting at his desk when he received a call from Father Auciello of Vatican Intelligence. “We heard from Nahum,” stated the Jesuit. “Kimball Hayden is returning to Washington.” “And his mission to the Boston area?” “Benign,” said Auciello. “He visited the gravesite of his parents and never left the residence he was staying at.” “That’s it?” “His movements were unimpressive. But now that he’s leaving for Washington, it may be because he’s been galvanized into action. We’ll see.” Bonasero Vessucci still felt a strange draw to this man who killed for a living, this assassin. Why Kimball Hayden possessed such a magnetic pull was inexplicable. So Bonasero automatically chalked it up as a mystifying call from God. God does not talk to you by way of verbal commands, he thought, as he looked at the closed folder on his desk. He communicates by way of instilling intuition and enlightenment. Opening the folder and seeing the photo of Kimball Hayden, there was something about the man that parted him from other men. Perhaps, Bonasero considered, he was the fulcrum between good and evil. How the cardinal knew this he did not know, he simply did. “Cardinal Vessucci?” “I’m here, Father.” He closed the folder. “Inform Nahum and Jonah that if Kimball’s on the move back to Washington, then it’s most likely that he’s been called to duty. Advise them to be careful.” “I certainly will.” After the call had been cut, Bonasero Vessucci leaned against the padding of his button-studded chair and stared at the cross that adorned the wall across from him. Jesus was nailed to the crucifix, the image symbolically identifying that the Messiah had died for our sins, when it should have been us on that cross instead. What are you trying to tell me? Bonasero wondered as he stared at the image. What is it about this man that’s so important to You? Like always, his answer came as absolute silence, which only amplified the mystery.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Russell Senate Office Building
Washington, D.C.
1449 Hours
The flight from Boston to Washington, D.C. is just over an hour, meaning that as soon as the plane reaches its maximum altitude, then it’s almost time for it to descend. As soon as the plane landed, Kimball was picked up by a limo and taken immediately to the Russell Senate Office Building where he was escorted by personnel to Senator Rhames’ office. “Please,” the senator stated congenially as he directed his hand towards the vacant chair across his desk. “Have a seat, Kimball. I’m glad you could make it on such short notice. You were in Boston, I understand. At least that’s what your Handler told me.” Then the senator pointed to a carafe on his desk. “Drink?”
“No, sir. As I expressed to you earlier, I don’t drink.” “Wise man, Kimball. Always keep your head clear. I always say that if a man can’t control his drink, then the drink will control the man. So why start to begin with, right?” After nodding politely, Kimball took the seat and remained silent with his blank expression. The man was an absolute rock. After the senator appraised Kimball by trying to read the man who was clearly unreadable, he stated with a slight suggestion of shame: “Look, Kimball, this country needs you more now than ever.” Rhames fell back into his seat, still unable to read Kimball’s thoughts. “What would you say about a man who’s a threat to democracy?” “That he’s a foe against the principles we stand for.” Senator Rhames shot forward and pointed a finger at Kimball with emphasis. “Exactly! A man who’s a threat to democracy is a foe against the principles we stand for! I couldn’t have said it any better, Kimball. You hit the nail right on the head.”
Kimball couldn’t stop the arching of his brow to the senator’s over-dramatization, which also happened to be the first measurable indication of his thoughts. Catching this interpretation, the senator downplayed any further zeal of his actions and eased back into his seat. In deadpan fashion, he said, “Inside my desk is the biographical record of the subject who poses a threat to members of Congress. The targeted killing is a Caucasian male approximately sixty-two years of age.” Opening the drawer to his desk, Senator Rhames produced a manila folder and tossed it on the desktop in front of Kimball. “There’s his jacket,” he said. Kimball picked up the folder, flipped back the cover, and began to read the history of the classified target. After glancing over the photo and reading over the condensed synopsis of the man’s life, Kimball held up the folder and waved it. “Are you asking me to assassinate a United States senator?” “Understand this,” stated Senator Rhames. “This body is governed by many who make compromises in order to come to a decision with a happy medium. However, there is one who uses coercion and threats against others that undermine the process of democracy by forcing people to make decisions that favor the few instead of the many. Undue force by the hand of the subject in question is also a threat to democracy. If political members of Congress become beholden to this one man due to threats of coercion, policies will become detriments against those who need help in the long run. People will suffer and that’s not what we want, is it, Kimball? We want to protect those by giving them the share of the profit.” Kimball opened the folder and looked at the photo of Senator Joseph Cartwright, a man who had been a political superstar within the ranks of Congress for many years. “Senator Cartwright,” Kimball finally said. “That’s right. A measure was recently passed that shouldn’t have, one that will cause damage to good people in the long run. Those who had labored long and hard will find themselves struggling. If not for the illegitimate coercion of Senator Cartwright, these people would not find themselves in such a position.”
“How do you know this?”
“The bill I’m talking about was unpopular among the members of Congress. Suddenly it passes because Cartwright was able to power his way from a bill that was dead in the water to marginally passing. He used more than his powers of persuasion, Kimball. He did so by way of threats that could kill political careers.” “And how do you figure into this?” Kimball asked. “Do you remember how we talked about everyone having skeletons in the closet that need to remain there?” “I do.” “Senator Cartwright has been maintaining files of—shall we say—personal histories of those that should never be aired. Yet he’s willing to declare these secrets to the court of public opinion, should people not side with his views. And that, Kimball, is the first step towards autocracy, though masked as democracy, if we cannot get a handle on this soon.” “That doesn’t answer my question,” Kimball said. “How do you figure into this?”
“Let me ask you this, Kimball, is there anything in your life that you want to keep hidden?” Kimball mulled this over for a moment but couldn’t think of anything, the man always an open book because he operated under the command of others and his superiors, always believing that he was doing the right thing by them and his nation. Then: “No.” “Nothing?” “No.” The senator appeared surprised by this. “Someday, Kimball, you’ll realize that you truly do have a closet filled neck-high with skeletal bones. You don’t see it just yet.” But Kimball wasn’t about to refrain from the senator’s skirting answers. “How do you figure into this?” he repeated. Finally, the senator relented. “I have had relationships with interns in the past while married to the woman I love. I was wrong. I admit that. And what could be viewed as unethical actions on my part . . . could also be damaging with members of my constituency. My sin, Kimball, is adultery.” “And the others involved?” “I can’t speak for them since I don’t know. What I do know, however, is that no one is perfect. No one. If we were perfect, then we’d all be saints. We might as well opera
te a religious order instead of a government body. But priests we are not. Saints we are not. But we do what we must for the betterment of the people of the United States. And we cannot do that under the threats of one man who sees himself as the pinnacle piece of a democratic body. People whose ideology is for the advancement of the one instead of the advancement of all, has no belonging of this sacred body of governing spirits.” After a pause, he added with mild emphasis, “Senator Joseph Cartwright is that threat to the governing spirit, Kimball. And that is why he has been labeled as a targeted killing.” Kimball looked at the photo of Cartwright, who looked like someone’s kindly grandfather rather than a coercer of dark principles. “That may be so,” Kimball finally said. “But he’s still a United States senator.”