The Barabbas Connection, page 21
part #21 of Vatican Knights Series
From his vantage point, Kimball could almost feel the imaginary impact of the bullet’s strike twenty-four stories above the lobby’s floor.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
When Tripoli was making his way to the lobby, he had received an incoming call to his earbud from an outside source.
Tripoli hit the earphone and spoke into his lip mic. “Go.”
“We got a message from the topside principal,” stated the voice, which Tripoli recognized as his handler. “You’re to abort the mission.”
Tripoli stopped on the steps leading downward. He was at the second level. “We’re to what?”
“Abort the mission.”
“We have the woman within our sights. We’re closing in.”
“Is she under your custodial authority?”
“We’re working on it.”
“Abort the mission and return to base.” And then the connection was disconnected from Langley’s end.
Standing on the step as if dumbfounded, Tripoli could only shake his head in dismay as he opened a frequency to all earpieces of his remaining SOG operatives. “Abort mission,” he told them. “I repeat, about mission.”
After getting no feedback, he reached the lobby and, with perfect timing, was able to stand with his teammates to watch a battle royale that was playing out inside of a glass elevator that was several stories above the lobby floor.
There were bursts of gunfire and the shattering of glass. Then the elevator started to rise, slowly at first, then it began to pick up speed. A body stood at the lip of the elevator’s edge, the man threatening to fall, only to regain himself and fight back. A struggle could be heard, even with the distance dividing them. And then the elevator stopped, the vehicle jolting. There was a scream and a cry of savage anger, and then the dark finality of one of the group’s own as he took flight from the cab.
Demon Dave rotated his arms and kicked his legs, the man, most likely conceiving his death, maintained his honor of not crying out, even as he hit the floor with the sound of a ripe fruit bursting upon impact.
Tripoli, and what was left of his team, looked at Demon Dave as though what had happened was an impossibility, an enigma, since he was an elite fighter who exhibited skills greater than most and was known to be a warrior rivaled by few. Even within his cabal of combat soldiers.
As blood began to pool underneath Demon Dave, Tripoli looked ceilingward. Standing in the opening of what used to be a glassed-in elevator was Kimball Hayden, a man he recognized from a photo that was inside the jacket of his biographical record. Even from a distance of more than two-hundred feet, this Vatican Knight appeared larger than life, even to Tripoli, who raised his free hand upward in the form of a mock gun, pointed it at Kimball, then flexed his thumb as if he had fired off this makeshift and imaginary weapon. Then he winked at Kimball—though Kimball could not see this from the elevator’s cab because the distance was too great. It was a measure of respect because the Vatican Knight not only bested one of their own in battle, but the group, in general, had bested his team. Although none of his teammates were killed outside of Demon Dave, he knew the Vatican Knights would stop short of committing additional damage since they were not wired or committed to do so. When the dust settled, the rest of the SOG crew would be attained and cared for. The presence as to how they were discovered inside the stairwells or inside the rooms unconscious, would be explained away and swept under the carpet by intel officials.
Demon Dave’s death, however, would be reported by the media that he had died as a result of an accident when the elevator malfunctioned, and that his body had been tossed through the glass as a result of the misfortune. If nothing else, U.S Intelligence always had a way of sanitizing their deeds.
When Tripoli and the two standing members of his team turned to exit the building, he looked at Kimball one last time.
The man who fought in the name of his God continued to stand precariously along the edge of the elevator like an eagle that’s perched high upon its aerie, the Vatican Knight watching with a keen eye as Tripoli walked away.
Though Tripoli’s unit had lost the battle with the Vatican Knights on this day, he had to smile inwardly with deep admiration. What the Vatican Knights did was not an easy task by beating one of the best trained units in the world and handedly. In fact, he was overly impressed.
As his inward smile finally made it to the surface with the corners of his lips edging up into curls that were as thin as fishhooks, he was glad to learn that the Vatican Knights were not the things of stories or fables, but were genuine in every facet. What Tripoli’s team needed was a challenge, something that would serve as their barometer to show how good his SOG unit was against a true combative team. Apparently, they were not good enough. In fact, they needed to hone their skills to the sharpness to equal the skills of the Vatican Knights, something Tripoli would commit his team to.
In the end, even though Tripoli’s team had to chalk one up in the loss column, Kimball Hayden and his garrison of Vatican Knights did not disappoint him.
In fact, it only proved that his Superman existed after all
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Ellicott City, Maryland
As the citrusy-colored lights started to rise along the horizon to signal the coming of dawn, the FBI’s Special Weapons and Tactics unit, or SWAT, surrounded the house belonging to Barabbas.
They were wearing the Robocop-like attire with the knee, shin and elbow composites, and Kevlar helmets with attached NVG monocular. They set up a perimeter by moving to the rear and to the front of the log-style home with their assault weapons leveled.
After the FBI agent at the front door announced that they were the police and had a search warrant, a member of the SWAT team used a battering ram to knock the door off its hinges and away from the doorjamb. In a subsequent action, the second team powered their way through the rear door with both units swarming in to systematically clear the rooms.
After clearing the top level, the units worked their way into the basement. But Barabbas was nowhere in sight. And as Shari had indicated, they did discover a hidden room behind a metal rack that was filled with used auto parts. The walls, however, were bare, the stockpile of weapons gone. The only things discovered inside this small hideaway was a computer, a 3D printer, four pieces of silicone—one to widen the bridge of the nose, two to enhance the cheeks, and a piece to square up the jawline—and a small bottle of adhesive.
The lead officer of the FBI grabbed the silicone pieces, these rubberlike substances that had been carved out by the printer to create a likeness of Shari Cohen to give Barabbas a more angular look than the soft, round features she naturally carried. The agent examined the bottle of the adhesive, then tossed the limp silicone pieces next to the computer in disgust.
With a computer used for programming the numbers necessary to carve the silicone and, when applied, to mimic the features of Shari Cohen after the 3D printer carved the silicone to the proper specifications, the agent realized that the CIA’s facial-recognition-software program that cost more than one hundred million dollars to manufacture, had been deceived by less than a thousand dollars’ worth of electronics and pieces of rubber.
After they searched the area beyond the house and the wooded area, they discovered nothing but the rental car, which was a day overdue, the cabin had been cordoned off for the crime scene analysts.
Barabbas, who went by Annabelle Palor, never made her flight out of Washington, D.C., the woman obviously anticipating the move.
The woman known as Barabbas had simply disappeared from the grid.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Washington, D.C.
Two Days Later, Early Evening
Kimball Hayden and Shari Cohen were dining at the Platinum Gate’s Hotel restaurant of fine dining. Together, they enjoyed the high-star cuisines of caviar with buckwheat blinis; crab and coriander maki; Severn and Wye smoked salmon with crème fraiche, pickled mustard seeds and soda bread; and then they topped everything off with Shari having a Bollinger La Grande Année Rosé, a champagne; and he a club soda.
Shari was dressed in a nice dress, whereas Kimball stayed true to his uniform as a Vatican Knight who was piously dressed from the waist up and as a military soldier from the beltline down.
“Whoever Barabbas is,” Kimball stated, “she’s long gone and under the radar. Nobody knows where she is.” He took a sip of his soda.
Shari smiled at him—her lips divine. And from eyes that shined like freshly forged copper, they had spoken volumes of her admiration for the man who stood up for her. Without the Vatican Knights—without Kimball or Jeremiah or Isaiah in her corner—she realized that she would have been under the hostile detainment of her own organization.
Setting her glass aside, she reached over and grabbed Kimball’s hand in both of hers. His hand was large with certain areas calloused from the labors of a Vatican Knight. Her touch, however, was soft and warm and caring, everything Kimball had wanted. “Thank you,” she told him.
After setting his soda aside, he reached over and covered her hands within both of his. “You’re welcome.” Keeping their hands together to forge an umbilical tie, he asked, “So what now?”
She shrugged. “Well, the CIA is going to overhaul their software system to look for glitches. But that’s not the problem. The problem is that we have become too dependent on technology to the point of accepting everything at face value. No follow-up examinations, just a straight line to a conviction without due process. Right now, the Company is not accepting the fact that Barabbas was able to defeat their one-hundred-million-dollar program with a few pieces of silicone. I guess genius truly is in simplicity.”
“And what about you?” he asked her. “Since the CIA was getting ready to give you a necktie party.”
“That’s something I have to think about,” she answered. “I like the job but it’s dangerous. I like the thrill but not the idea that I may have to compromise my values to achieve the means.”
“So, you’re out on a limb as to whether or not you want to stay or leave?”
“For now. Director Mayok proffered his apologies and swore to me that it would never happen again . . . Along with a hefty raise, which was supported by principal staff members.”
“But?”
“Maybe I’ll take some time off to think about what I want in life,” she said “The peace. The quiet. I was even thinking about taking the cabin I own in Maryland off the market, fix it up, and make it my own.”
“It’s a perfect spot,” he told her. “It’s quiet. Got a lake for fishing. Swimming. I never felt so at peace there, including times when I was at the Vatican.”
“It is nice, isn’t it? But it’s a little beat up, which is why it hasn’t sold yet. Too many bullet holes to fix up, I guess.”
Shari’s lakeside cabin was a result of a battle where she and Kimball took down a domestic terrorist group. The windows, now boarded up, had been shattered. The furniture smashed. And bullet holes pocked the walls, ceiling, and floor.
Kimball smiled. “It’s nothing that a few dozen cans of wood putty couldn’t fix. The windows I’d put in myself. I’d remove the old frames and install the new ones.”
“Could you?”
“I liked that cabin. It’s far from the maddening crowd.” And then: “To me, it was Heaven.”
Shari removed her hand from Kimball’s grasp and started to stroke his hand with gentle sweeps. “You know something?” she stated rhetorically. “That sounds like a plan.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Really. Perhaps, Kimball, it’s time that we be honest about each other; no more games.”
Together, as this symbiotic relationship was born, they both leaned into one other and kissed for the first time. It was long and loving and full of warmth. And everything in Kimball Hayden’s life felt right.
It felt perfect.
After knocking over his club soda accidently with his elbow, the liquid spilled over the tablecloth and to the floor. But Kimball Hayden didn’t care.
Because the kiss took him to another realm of existence.
It took him to the Light.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Policlinico Gemelli Hospital
Rome, Italy
Having survived the ordeal after having been shot in Washington, D.C., Pope Pius XIV found himself as a mainstay at the Policlinico Gemelli Hospital in Rome, after he was well enough to return to Italy. But he was an aged man with an underlying heart ailment. To survive the assassination attempt was a miracle, the man having skirted death on several occasions as fevers ran so hot that they threatened to shut down his organs. But as time resumed and the threat receded, Pope Pius XIV was hardly surprised to see that not only was he missing his arm, but his shoulder, as well, which gave him an odd look. What never subsided, however, was the immense fatigue.
In one of the pontiff’s waking moments, he discovered Cardinal Angullo sitting at his bedside with his hand resting on Pope Pius’s arm.
“And how are you today, my friend?” the cardinal asked him.
The pope tendered to him a lazy smile. “It’s good to see you, Giuseppe. Thank you for coming. These visits from you mean a lot to me.”
“As a friend, Your Holiness, being by your side and seeing that you’re doing well brings blessings to my heart. However, you appear to remain in a weakened state and the church needs its leader. The Secretariat of the State means well, but he is not the pontiff.”
“So, you want my answer about resigning my post, is that it?”
“You’re too ill, my friend. Perhaps it’s time to enjoy what’s left of your life that God has granted you. Spend it in the Gardens. Observe nature and its beauty.”
“One can only observe Nature and its beauty for so long without getting bored. With that being said, however, I agree that it’s time for the Conclave to choose another to take my place. I have governed to the best of my abilities when whole. Now, as I lay here, I don’t think I will have the power or the spirit to rule the Vatican. It’s time.”
Cardinal Angullo gave a few pats to the pontiff’s surviving arm. “I will inform the Secretariat,” he told him. “Your resignation will be presented and signed, and the Conclave will begin to gather to choose another.”
“I know your camp is strong,” the pontiff stated, though he sounded tired and started to drift. “So good luck, my friend. You deserve this.” A moment later, the pope was sleeping, his chest rising and lowering in even rhythms.
Getting to his feet, Cardinal Angullo stared at the man who lay upon the bed. If the pontiff had not made the right choice, then the cardinal would have forced the issue by stuffing a pillow over his face to assure his death. Now with the pontiff deciding to resign his post, Cardinal Giuseppe Angullo had much to do. He would notify the Secretariat of the State and the cardinals of the Curia of the pontiff’s decision. And though it would take a week to gather a Conclave to vote on the Vatican’s new leader, he would politic his views once again to bolster his camp within that time.
After leaving Pope Pius XIV’s room, Cardinal Angullo kept thinking how lucky his friend was by making the proper decision. If not, then his last breath would have been stolen by now. Instead, he will live to see another pope crowned when the mitre is placed on Angullo’s head, this he was sure of.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Ten Days Later
On a beach somewhere in Barbados, Barabbas was taking her leisure by sunbathing along a pink shoreline. She was wearing a string bikini, something that left nothing to the imagination. She also wore a wide-brimmed hat that kept her face mostly within the shadow and sported a pair of wide-framed sunglasses whose lenses were as dark as obsidian glass. Barabbas had always been clever with foresight, always thinking ahead. Though the flight manifest would show that Annabelle Palor was to traipse off to Europe, she had never reported or showed at the gates, the seat going empty. Instead, she went to Mexico where she embarked on the first of several flights under a new name, only to wind up in Barbados long before her image hit the multi-national watch lists. In time, she would get the alterations needed to her cheeks and chin to change her appearance enough to fool the CCTV cameras, while remaining beautiful. Just a simple sculpturing of her features that would allow her to keep her vanity intact.
In Iran, the country’s head of state was eventually killed off by Israeli’s elite Kidon assassination team, the vociferous threat neutralized when his armor-plated vehicle exploded in a fireball, with the culprit being a faulty fuel line. In the days to come, Iran would install a new leader who would be less vocal, and someone who would be under the auspices of the Russian government. Since the saber rattling against the United States and its Middle Eastern interests virtually faded overnight, Israel saw no reason to sabotage their nuclear facilities since leakages may have a long-term effect with Israel sharing the same province within the Middle East.
In Russia, Sergei Ostrovsky resigned from his post believing that his final stroke was one of genius that was directed by KGB policies, and not by the stratagems of the FSB. The situational problem in Iran had been removed by the Kidon and not by the Russians, meaning that the prospect of an accusing finger would be directed at Israel, even though Russia had benefited from the action. Not only did Russia replace someone old with someone young and someone who would be under Russia’s oppressive rule, he also managed to remove the president of the United States who had repeatedly undermined Iran and its current and dangerous policies. In a topple move, the incoming president remained neutral due to other pressing matters and concerns. With a self-satisfying smile of achievement, Sergei Ostrovsky retired knowing that he had kept to the principals of his old regime.
At Arlington Cemetery, President Burroughs is laid to rest after his viewing beneath the rotunda of the Capitol, which was broadcast worldwide. Even though the newly stated president had vowed to discover the truth behind the assassination, it eventually fell to the wayside after the political disavowals and meaningless finger pointing.
