The Lost Cathedral Page 18

  Once inside his chamber Gunter pointed to an aged bureau on the far side of the room. “Take me to the dresser,” he told him. After opening a drawer, Gunter removed a perfectly folded flag, his shawl, and proffered it to Simon.

  “I can’t,” said Simon.

  “You’re young. Hermann and Albrecht are in the twilight of their lives, as I am. This is the mantle. Touch it. Feel it. Know its power.”

  Simon grabbed the folded flag. Then he undid the folds.

  “Now drape it around your shoulders,” Gunter told him.

  Simon did. The colors had faded years ago. The ends were tattered and hung in strips. And the once stark-black symbol of the swastika had diminished to the color of dismal gray, as if it was nothing more than a remnant or an afterimage.

  “When I leave here, Simon, once Albrecht and Hermann are gone, this will belong to you. Every day you must hold sermon to keep the ideas of a thousand-year Reich alive. The followers must hear and see and believe that hope is not dead. But there is a favor I must ask of you.”

  “Yes, Your Luminary.”

  “A battle is coming our way, you know this.”

  “The Vatican Knights.”

  Gunter nodded. “They seek what they cannot have. And the cost of what is about to be will be high. But in the end the order will survive. You will survive. So wear that flag with pride and follow through with the one obsession that has plagued me all my life.” He lifted the hem of his cowl to reveal legs that had atrophied to old age. On one of the legs was a wound that had scarred over to look like a seven-pointed star. “If there’s one thing I ask of you, one thing that will give me peace of mind knowing that you will follow through as promised, is to make sure that Franz Kleimer-Schmidt follows me to Hell.”

  Simon bowed his head. “You have my word, Your Luminary.”

  Gunter gave a weak smile. Then pointing at the flag, he said: “Do you feel its power? Can you feel it coursing through your veins as you wear it like a robe?”

  Though Simon could only smell the stink of its mold and mildew, he lied by saying, “Yes, Your Luminary. It’s strong and powerful—like something I’ve never felt before.”

  “It fits you well,” said Gunter. Then he held his hand out, wanting the flag. Though his life was waning, he wasn’t ready to surrender the flag just yet.

  After the banner was wrapped around Gunter’s shoulder like a blanket to keep an old man warm, Gunter pointed a bony finger toward the door. “Now take me to the altar,” he said. “We must greet our enemies as they storm the gates of our cathedral.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  The Vatican Knights had set a perimeter around the cathedral, an ancient temple with obvious Indian aspects. Stone columns, some fallen, were entwined with thick vines and brambles. Carved faces of antediluvian gods adorned the walls. And the dome appeared perfectly round, the geometric figure a marvel of construction at a time when sharp points and angles were the designs of choice.

  Everything was too quiet. Even the jungle sounds appeared to be muted. In fact the entire atmosphere seemed heavily laden with oppression, a very odd sensation.

  “Something doesn’t feel right,” said Leviticus.

  Kimball agreed. But he knew they were being pinned down by eyes they couldn’t see. Then through the thin stem of his lip mic, Kimball said softly and evenly, “Hosea and Nahum, you guys copy me?”

  They both responded that they did.

  “I need one to advance from the north side of the doorway, the other from the south side to clear the wings. Copy?”

  “Copy.”

  “Copy.”

  “All right, people. Let’s get this show on the road and see what’s inside that temple.”

  #

  Hosea took the north side through the jungle. As one of two Brits on the team, he was a former SAS operative who loved the Church as much as he loved to help those who couldn’t help themselves. So he had been a perfect fit for Kimball’s unit. And he was one of the few who wasn’t orphaned and raised to become a Vatican Knight. He simply melded with the pack like he belonged, the operative becoming an immeasurable part of the pack.

  When Kimball first heard that three members of ISIS had gathered Christians and began to behead them for their convictions in faith, and then forced a father and his young son to their knees, the SAS operative took position along a distant hillside, aimed his .50 caliber Barrett rifle, and placed the team leader within the crosshairs. Just as the ISIS assassin brought the knife to the father’s throat, the operative pulled the trigger. The bullet entered the man’s skull with gore and pulp erupting from the exit wound. As the man went down, the other two seemed stunned and confused and didn’t react until two subsequent rounds dropped them as well. Those Christians waiting along the sidelines quickly got off their knees, undid the hoods of the father and son, and ran off into the desert not knowing who their savior was.

  Unfortunately, six headless bodies were lying on the desert floor, the operative coming upon them too late before he could align his shots. But in the end his actions saved the lives of fourteen others who would have surely died at the hands of ISIS assassins.

  And in this action Kimball saw the type of valor needed to be a Vatican Knight—one who was willing to compromise his position to save the lives of helpless people, good people, people who prayed to a God who would never condone the willful killing of another man.

  So Hosea became a Vatican Knight upon completion of his duty to serve the Church, the pope, and the welfare of the citizenry. Now six months into his tenure, he moved through the thicket like a pro.

  The north side of the cathedral was clear. No shadows. No shapes. No scarecrows to speak of.

  After reaching a downed column he took to a knee and spoke into his lip mic. “North side is clear,” he whispered.

  Then from Kimball. “Copy that.”

  #

  Nahum was also a Brit. But unlike Hosea he was an orphan, having lost his parents in a car crash. In time he grew to showcase incredible athletic skills and agility, strength and leadership, as well as a hunger to learn and excel at academics.

  By the time he turned fifteen he found religion and looked to the Church to fill a void left so many years ago when his parents perished. He missed them, wondering if there truly was a Heaven that served as a perch for them to look down from. He wondered if they were proud of him. Or if they thought anything at all.

  It was at this moment in his life that he caught the eye of Bonasero Vessucci—not yet the pope but serving as a cardinal and a ranking member of the Society of Seven at the time. He embraced the boy as he sat in a pew in a church in London staring at the figure of Christ nailed to the cross. Questions were asked. The boy was bright and pious. He asked about his parents. And Bonasero answered the questions as best he could, telling the child that not only do they smile down at him, but that they would always be with him even when he felt sadness, and walk beside him.

  So they adopted each other in a bond that never diminished. When he heard of the assassination attempt not only did he pray for Bonasero’s welfare, but he also prayed for forgiveness for thinking that he wanted to serve the mission as an act of revenge---a regretful thought. Revenge may provide temporary satisfaction, but it also poisoned the soul. In time his anger subsided and his need to find the cardinals and his teammates took precedence. His need to retaliate was no longer a factor.

  The jungle to the south of the cathedral was clear like the north side, which gave Nahum pause since no one offered resistance. That led him to believe that they were being led into an ambush.

  After coming to a stone totem that bore the carvings of angry-looking gods, he crouched down behind the pillar and spoke into his lip mic. “Southside is clear,” he said.

  Then immediately from Kimball: “Copy.”

  #

  “They come,” said Simon. “I’ve been told they’re at the very mouth of the cathedral.”

  Gunter Wilhelm seemed to stare off into space, hi
s mind elsewhere. They were in one of the many subterranean tunnels that connected many of the ancient temples and annexes, which were now buried and had been for centuries. The rooms and chambers hidden underneath provided them with lairs to keep them safe from the elements, nature and manmade.

  Then Gunter finally spoke. “How many?”

  Simon, while wheeling Gunter along the hallway with the push of a single hand, used his other hand to hold the earbud in place as communication passed feebly through. Voices sounded broken, the signals fading and sometimes disappearing all together within the walls. But he was used to piecing together words to form a cognizant message. “They haven’t said. Only that they stand beyond the threshold of the cathedral.”

  “Then get me to the altar,” said Gunter. “And quickly.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  The rest of the Vatican Knights had made their way to the opening, eight in all, with four on each side of the doorway. Kimball gestured to Samuel and Jeremiah to toss in a pair of flash-bangs. Once the bangs detonated, then he and Leviticus would summarily charge the cathedral and take new ground.

  When Kimball counted by ticking off his fingers down from three to two and then to one, Jeremiah and Samuel tossed the flash-bangs inside the cathedral. The grenades went off with a brilliant flash and a bone-jarring concussive wave that could be felt outside the cathedral. Once the light of the flash disappeared, Kimball and Leviticus entered the ancient temple with their weapons raised to eye-level and their heads on a swivel. Kimball moved to the left of the doorway, Leviticus to the right. The rest of the Knights followed with each alternating as some followed Kimball and the rest followed Leviticus, fanning out as they stepped through the doorway into the temple's interior wall.

  Shafts of light came down through holes in the dome. The altar was elevated on a limestone stage. Behind it, hanging from the wall as a dark adornment was the carving of a swastika. In the center of the cathedral sat stone-carved pews in neat rows, all facing the altar. Sitting in those pews but scattered about were the fourteen cardinals.

  Kimball and Leviticus led the team forward, searching.

  The cardinals sat in worship, the swastika their idol.

  But when Kimball reached the first cardinal not everything seemed as it appeared.

  This cardinal had mummified over the three years with his body positioned on the bench to gaze upon the last thing he saw in life, the swastika. His flesh had a soapy, waxy appearance to it—like candle wax. His eyes were gone, having been pecked out by birds long ago that left deep hollows. And the once rich colors of his attire had faded to bland hues. Upon further review Kimball could see that the man had been executed. A small bullet wound the size of a dime appeared at the base of his skull, a summary execution.

  The other cardinals were checked as well. All dead. Their skins the color of cocoa and having the texture of wax. A bullet wound in each of their heads.

  “I guess there’s no room for Christianity in their ideology,” commented Kimball.

  From the altar came his answer. “With that statement,” said Gunter Wilhelm, “you’d be correct. One rule, one law, and one religion. And the religion here,” he said, pointing a bony talon to the swastika hanging above the altar, “is the one you see there.”

  Gunter Wilhelm seemed to appear out of nowhere. He was sitting in a wheelchair by the altar and within a shaft of light that filtered down from an opening above, the beam spotlighting the aged man. Next to him and more in the shadows, yet recognizable, though he stood much thinner than Kimball remembered, was Enzio Colombo, the man who had piloted Shepherd One three years ago when it disappeared.

  “Enzio,” murmured Kimball. But his voice carried.

  “His name is Simon,” said Gunter. “The man you knew as Enzio Colombo died three years ago along with Phinehas, Mordecai, Eli, Jacob, Kish and Zadok. All of them. When speaking about the cardinals, however, their deaths were quite literal, as you can see. There was no room here for men of such deep faith that was not our own.”

  “So you killed them,” Kimball said more as a statement though it sounded like an inquiry.

  “They were never the prize to begin with.” The old man continued to sit within the spotlight beam of illumination. “The prizes were the warriors onboard—these Vatican Knights. Simon explained to me that they were warriors unlike no others seen before. Those who could train others within the order—to teach them the craft of war by using particular skill sets.”

  “If they were anything like those forest monkeys wearing cowls, they weren’t trained well. Not at all.”

  The old man waved his skinny hand dismissively through the air. “They were castoffs. People who never fit the mold of the true order. Mongrels who nevertheless served a minor purpose. They were nothing less than watchdogs and looked upon as nothing more.”

  “Yeah, well, your watchdogs are out of commission.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “And you would be Gunter Wilhelm?”

  The old man nodded. “And you, of course, would be the one they call Kimball Hayden.”

  “I have questions for you.”

  The old man waited.

  “Why send a team after the pope?” Kimball asked. “Why did you try to kill him?”

  “Why?” Gunter leaned forward in his chair to emphasize his point. “Truthfully. It was a personal vendetta. An obsession that ate away at me for more than sixty years. His death will be done.”

  “Vendetta to a man who’s the living symbol of good will?”

  “He’s not what he seems to be,” was all Gunter said.

  “What?”

  “You know him as Bonasero Vessucci. As does the entire world. I, on the other hand, know him by his true name: Franz Kleimer-Schmidt.”

  “You’re talking in circles,” said Kimball.

  “Perhaps to you. Which obviously tells me that you don’t know the pontiff as well as you should.”

  Kimball remained silent and waited for Wilhelm to add more, which the old man did after a beat.

  Wilhelm pointed to the swastika hanging above the altar. “That symbol you see there has been referred to as the crooked cross. The twisted cross. Connotations representing the dark side of the Cross of Jesus Christ when, in fact, this is the icon of truth. It has become the symbol of those who have fallen from grace in the eyes of society and has become the emblem of our Order of Fallen Angels.”

  “You’re obsessed with something that hasn’t existed for more than fifty years,” said Kimball.

  “Perhaps in your viewpoint.”

  “Your principles of one law, one rule and one religion died long ago. All you do is maintain a false role of leadership over those who have a need to gravitate towards people like you, because they believe you have the answers to better their already miserable lives. You’re nothing but a cult leader and wannabe ruler. And this is your kingdom—ruins that’re surrounded by broken stones hidden away in an unforgiving jungle.”

  Gunter Wilhelm remained within the cascading shaft of luminous light and held Kimball with a hard stare. “You’re quite an opinionated person, Herr Hayden. I don’t think I like you very much.”

  “Ask me if I care.”

  “I know you don’t.” Then: “Did you come to kill me because I sent Phinehas and Mordecai to kill Franz?”

  “I’m here to make sure that it’ll never happen again.”

  “So you’ve come to kill me?”

  “I came here to put an end to the threat.”

  “Then you made a costly error,” said Gunter.

  From the left and right wings of the altar and coming up from the floor through staircases that led up to the level, several people wearing cowls surfaced and took to the stage. Their faces were hidden beneath overlapping hoods. And in each of their hands they carried machetes with blades that held a mirror polish to them.

  When Kimball saw this he could hardly believe his eyes: Are these guys really coming to a gunfight with knives?

&nbs
p; And Gunter seemed to intuit Kimball’s thoughts. “These people are willing to die for a cause and there’re waves of them behind this group,” he told Kimball. “You don’t have enough rounds to take them all, believe me.”

  “Look. Just give me my people and we’ll go.” Kimball could clearly see that Gunter Wilhelm was a man dying of disease. Whether or not the threat to Bonasero Vessucci would die with him still remained to be seen. If it did, then it would have to be dealt with some other time. Right now he had to concentrate on the immediate threat to his team. Enemies who had no fear of dying was an enemy hard to defeat, especially waves of them.

  “You mean those Vatican Knights who disappeared along with Phinehas and Mordecai three years ago.” Gunter Wilhelm sounded very smug.

  “Nobody has to die here,” said Kimball. “Not today. We just want to get our people and go. Once we’re gone, then you can go back to playing queen.”

  “King,” Gunter corrected.

  “Queen, I say.”

  Leviticus wanted to roll his eyes. Sometimes Kimball just doesn’t know when to stop.

  “You want your people,” Gunter stated somewhat angrily. “These Vatican Knights?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then why don’t you ask them?” the old man returned curtly. “They’re standing right behind you.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  The Apostolic Palace

  Vatican City

  Pope Pius still had that tired-look about him, the one with constantly drooping eyes and hanging mouth. But his eyes remained alert and flittered about their sockets with quickness. When Isaiah returned to the pontiff’s bedside, Bonasero raise a hand to him. Isaiah took it gingerly within both of his hands.