Original Sins Page 13

  “Kimball Hayden is well respected within the group. If you’re proposing that he be terminated by one of his own kind, you won’t find an operator.” “No-no, that’s not what I’m saying,” said the senator. “We keep the members of the Pieces of Eight out of the loop. What I’m suggesting is something quite different.” “And that would be?” Rhames turned to face off with the Handler, but the Handler refused to look the senator in the eyes. “I’m proposing that he serve on a one-way mission. Give him a sensitive assignment that’s off the books.” “You have something in mind?” “I do,” said the senator. “Something that was tabled and shelved by the president.” Because the senator’s answer came quickly, the Handler knew it was something Rhames had considered long before their meeting. “And?” “I know that you’re well aware of the behind-the-door discussions about sending an assassin into Iraq to kill the head of the snake in order to kill the tones of an impending war.” “I do.” “Who better to serve on that mission than Kimball Hayden.” The Handler appeared to be mulling this over, his continuing silence a testament to that. Kimball was a sleek operator who worked best by running with the shadows of the night. Though he would most likely venture deep inside hostile territory, getting close to Saddam Hussein would be an impossibility, even for an elite operator such as Kimball Hayden. It truly would be a one-way mission whose odds of success were perhaps less than five percent of achieving. “The mission has been dismissed.” “By the leading principals, yes. But you can incite Kimball by telling him that he could literally stop a war from happening. Kimball Hayden would thrive on such a chance. If his conscience truly guides him to believe that he’s a crusader working to better the good of all, then he will jump at the opportunity. Let his conscience be his guide and allow it to lead him to his death. Those in the Joint Chiefs who at one time considered the operation, will hail his attempt and give him all these pretty medals posthumously. And then they’ll bury an empty coffin in Arlington in his name as homage.” The Handler didn’t betray his thoughts, his face that of a poker player. And then: “Kimball Hayden is an elite member of the team,” was all he said. “I get your attraction to him,” the senator returned. “He’s like your favorite dog that you don’t want to put down. But, in time, as the dog grows sick, it becomes a necessary act.” “You’re comparing apples to oranges.” “Am I?” The senator leaned into him. “What happens when that dog turns on you because it feels like it’s being forced to do something that its instincts disallow?” When the Handler didn’t answer, the senator added, “He has to go. The vacuum left by his vacancy can be filled by another.” Then the Handler stated. “It’ll be done.” “You’re making the right decision.” “Funny,” said the Handler. “It doesn’t feel that way at all.”

  “The man is losing his sense of duty to his conscience. You’re not going to get it correct all the time. Sometimes you take what you think is a diamond when, in the end, you discover that it’s only glass. The team can—and will— continue without him.” “I’ll see it done,” said the Handler, who got to his feet. “When?” “I’ll inform the Joint Chiefs that an operation will be conducted under the black-op mandate. The president will not be informed nor will any member of the White House. This will be a TS military operation for which the White House cannot be held responsible, should the mission go sideways.” The Handler continued to watch the children and their parents, all happy and playful, all who lived the American Dream where the home front was safe for most. “I’ll contact you when plans have been set in motion.” “Do you have a ballpark time, like today or tomorrow?” “All I can say is’ soon.’ It takes a lot of preparation to develop a method of operation, even if that operation has no chance to succeed.”

  After the senator nodded the Handler walked away. The moment the man was out of sight, Senator Rhames looked over the park with undivided attention. What he did for his country and for the people of this fine nation, he thought, through the expense of others to keep the machine going. In the end, Senator Rhames was good with his decision to see Kimball Hayden dead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Vatican

  Vatican City

  Bonasero Vessucci was on the phone with Vatican Intelligence. Apparently, Kimball Hayden headed a kill squad that was responsible for the death of Senator Joseph Cartwright. But a question remained as to who had run the blade across the man’s throat. In Bonasero’s heart, he wanted to believe that the senator’s life had not been taken by the hand of Kimball Hayden but by the vicious charge of another. But since he was more of a realist than an idealist, he knew that Kimball Hayden was directly responsible for the man’s death. “I see,” he said over the line. Then after listening for a long moment, he added, “Bring Nahum and Jonah home. Send Roman to cover them . . . That’s right . . . Fine.” After hanging up, Bonasero leaned back into his seat and rubbed his eyes with the heels of both hands. After he finished wiping the fatigued itch from them, he turned those red and rheumy eyes to the wall hanging of the crucifix. Jesus hung there with overly saddened eyes not because of the pain of physical suffering, but because of the pain of taking on man’s sins, which He took with absorption. His head inclined to one side with the circlet of thorns adorning his crown. And his hands and feet bled from the wounds of the nineinch nails that had been driven deep into the wood. It was a macabre symbol for sure, but one that purposely captured true anguish. Was I so wrong about this man? It was a question he asked himself internally, but it was also a question he addressed the crucifix, as well. Jesus looked at him with somber eyes that spoke volumes of weighted sadness that hung over Bonasero like a pall. Was I so wrong about Kimball Hayden? Silence. Then tell me why. Tell me why I was so drawn to this man. Tell me why he means so much to me. Please . . . tell me if I misread the signs You proffered me. The crucifix upon the wall, a work of art that lasted for more than two thousand years, simply remained inanimate and unspoken. Perhaps the interpretation of the image’s sadness was answer enough for Bonasero, that with his failure came personal sorrow. Christ had died for man’s sins to give them a clean slate, yet those sins had become greater and far more numerous over time. And Bonasero wanted to believe that Kimball Hayden was a man seeking forgiveness on some level, be it divine or otherwise, at least this was what his intuition had told him. Was I so wrong about Kimball Hayden? Again, Bonasero was served with silence. Sighing, the cardinal wanted to believe that determination and perseverance was the key to success, and that he was reading his intuitions correctly. But Kimball was on a steady nosedive on a paved course towards the Fires of Damnation. No matter what Bonasero Vessucci thought or considered to be divine inspiration, such a man as Kimball Hayden had to—in some form— catch a glimpse of the Light. “He hasn’t, though, has he?” he asked the crucifix.

  The crucifix, with its troubled appearance, remained, as always, silent. “Perhaps you remain silent because the rest is now up to him, yes?” Silence. A moment later, he added, “Or am I wasting my time?” In a room that remained quiet, Bonasero Vessucci waited and hoped and prayed that he was not wrong, and in time Kimball Hayden, for whatever reason that was unknown to Bonasero, would be intercepted by divine guidance. But in the back of the cardinal’s mind a thought had plagued him ever since he opened Kimball’s file and felt something that was close to an epiphany. This lingering and troublesome admission buried deep inside him had three simple words to it: .

  . . I . . . was . . . wrong . . .

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Residence of Kimball Hayden

  Washington, D.C.

  In his apartment, Kimball Hayden sat in darkness reflecting. The curtains were closed so tightly that only marginal beams of light showed through the slight divisions between the drapery. After he murdered the senator, he returned to his apartment with the images playing over and over in his mind like a film loop. He could remember the words of the senator and the way he begged for the life of his grandson, a gambit that had worked on some level as Kimball spared the boy’s life. An
d then he saw the slow draw of the knife’s blade moving effortlessly across the senator’s throat, could see the flesh part to reveal the gristle and muscle underneath, the lips of his wounds paring back into a hideous smile while blood ran copiously from the wound. And with the slowness of a bad dream he envisioned the senator bringing a clawed hand to his throat as he gagged with a horrible wetness, the man falling against his desk before dropping to the floor. As the man lay there dying with his eyes wide enough to show nothing but white in contrast with the darkness, Kimball searched the study for the files. After opening cabinet doors and then spilling contents such as tomes and paperwork off the library shelves and to the floor, Kimball heard the whimper of a child. It was a muted sound, a choking sob. It was the type of noise someone makes when trying to hold back a cry but can’t, the emotion too strong, the attempt too weak. After tracing the sound to a cabinet in the corner of the study beneath the shelving, Kimball opened the door. Inside was a boy who was perhaps five or six. As strokes of lightning flashed to spark the room with incredible light, both assassin and child were pinning each other with stares. The boy was terrified, an innocent who knew nothing of the horrors the world had brought to the house on this night. He openly sobbed after he saw his grandfather leaning against his desk with his pristine white shirt now completely saturated with blood. In the flashes of lightning the color appeared as candy-apple red, a horrible hue who at that moment of his young life had associated with the color of death.

  The boy.

  The assassin.

  One in terror.

  The other questioning the value of killing an innocent boy. Then Kimball recalled the sudden hushed whispers that raced through his mind, the voices of learned teachers who attempted to drive off his spirit, his soul, his conscience.

  . . . Never question your superiors . . .

  . . . Your superiors know what’s at stake . . .

  . . . Your job is to perform to the best of your abilities according to the mandate . . .

  . . . Question nobody . . .

  . . . Not even yourself . . .

  But at that moment Kimball did question himself, had searched deep to find any pertinent reasoning outside of protocol to kill the boy, and found nothing but a spark burning deep. It was an ember of Light, a simple stimulus that turned him away from Darkness and moved him closer to the Gray. Instead of running the blade of his KABAR across the young boy’s throat, he reached inside the cabinet and caressed the child’s cheek with soft strokes of his hand. The gesture was meant to calm and soothe, and to tell the boy that no harm would come to him. After closing the cabinet door, Kimball returned to his team who discovered nothing within the residence, such as the presumed and damaging evidence of those with political standing. For hours after he returned to his apartment, Kimball allowed the images to play before his mind’s eye like a horror film, the memories suddenly too ghastly to watch, the images too macabre. As the sun rose beyond the draped windows, as the newspaper hit the stands with the headline announcing the death of Senator Cartwright in big, bold letters, that was when the Handler contacted and questioned Kimball about not following through with protocol. Kimball’s response was simple and to the point: because he was an innocent. Then as the hours pressed by at a glacial pace with morning eventually turning to noon, Kimball received a second call from the Handler. There was a mission to be discussed, he was told. A mission that had been ordered by those who sat at the highest levels of government. Kimball, who was beginning to question his actions and feel the spark within beginning to feel a breath that might someday fan it into a bonfire, agreed to meet. Refusing to part the drapes of his apartment to allow light, Kimball donned his jacket and went to meet the Handler.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  George Bush Center for Intelligence

  Central Intelligence Agency

  Langley, Virginia

  After walking through the lobby of the Langley Office, Kimball Hayden had to go through numerous screenings. First, he had to use a keycard to enter a station where he was summarily scanned by a metal-detecting wand. Then he walked down a series of seemingly endless hallways until he came to a set of metal doors, once again ran his keycard, typed a coded number into the numeric keypad, then walked the length of another corridor until he came to another set of doors. After running his keycard for a third time, the ocular scanner by the door was enabled. Lowering himself so that the ocular scanner could map out his eyes, the light of the unit turned from red to green, and the doors unlocked, which gave him access to the agency’s most clandestine subdivisions. More hallways, only this time the doors were unmarked and had no letterings or nametags attached to them. At the end of the corridor was a nondescript door. After knocking twice the door buzzed, and Kimball stepped inside the office. The walls were nicely paneled in dark oak. The desk was ornate. And books lined several shelves on the westside wall. The Handler stood up and offered his hand to Kimball, who took it. Then the Handler gestured for Kimball to take one of the two vacant seats sitting before his desk. The Handler, as always, was impeccably dressed in a top-end suit and silk tie. His hair was dark and conservatively cut with a straight part. And his eyes, always studious as if examining everything he encountered, were as black and glossy as obsidian glass. Leaning back into his chair in comfort, the Handler said, “Thank you for coming on such short notice, Kimball. I appreciate it.” Kimball nodded by tilting his head forward in acknowledgement. “What I’m proposing is a highly classified and sensitive assignment known by few in military circles. Obviously, you know what’s going on in Kuwait.”

  Another nod from Kimball. “Saddam Hussein has pushed his forces into Kuwait, meaning that the oil fields are in jeopardy. President Bush has demanded that Hussein remove his forces, which he has refused to do. As of this moment, there are ongoing talks with our Middle East allies about developing a Coalition League to strategize and take out the Iraqi forces, should Hussein continue to violate the Kuwaiti people and its territories. But that can take weeks, Kimball. Several, in fact.” Kimball appeared unmoved by the Handler’s conversation. “There are open talks between certain political and intel principals of the highest levels. And then there are those talks that my division inherits and executes through operations that are strictly off the books. This is one such case. So classified, in fact, that members of our unit are restricted from hearing what I’m about to tell you. Is that understood?” Kimball nodded, then said, “Understood.” Across the desk, the Handler appeared just as indifferent as Kimball, cold and emotionless. Then: “The targeted killing is Saddam Hussein, in Baghdad where he is based. It’s been reported that he never sleeps in the same place twice but is approachable under the right conditions. We have an intel operator on the inside who can direct you to the target, but he cannot engage. That is your responsibility, Kimball. Get close, do the job, then get out. Right now, the window of opportunity to terminate Hussein is three to four weeks. It’s imperative that he be taken out within that timeframe. After the fourth week, the principals believe that Bush will give the green light on an all-out war with Iraq, which is what we—you—are trying to deter. Have I made myself clear to this point?” Kimball nodded. “You have.” The Handler continued. “I will gather the necessary data from our source over the next few days. This will involve point of entry, path of least resistance, and the final termination point. On the third day you will be deployed in an area north of Baghdad where you will work your way south. Maneuver at night and use the shadows as your friend. It’ll be hot, so avoid daytime temperatures, if possible. Questions?”