Authors: Rick Jones
Vatican Knights (30 page)
Boston, Massachusetts. Logan Airport
September 30, Late Afternoon
The crowd along the fenced tarmac at
Boston’s Logan Airport was far greater than when the pope arrived in Dulles
many days before. The support was immense. But certainly far less than the
Biblical proportions the pope joked about as Cardinal Medeiros wheeled him
across the tarmac toward Shepherd One.
Shari walked alongside them, the pope holding her hand
lightly in his as they moved along the stretch of pavement. “I’m so glad you made
it, my dear. But as much as I want to thank you, I once again need to speak to
you about the Vatican Knights.”
“I have already given my word, Your Holiness. I’ll keep
their secret safe.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” he told her. “But you must
understand that the Vatican Knights are not even a myth since their secret is
that
closely guarded.”
“I understand.”
“And for that, my dear, I truly thank you. And I certainly
thank you for saving my life and the lives of my bishops. If you should ever
want to come to Vatican City, please let the good cardinal here know when you
want to visit, and I shall roll out the red carpet for the one who saved my
life.”
“I truly appreciate that, Your Holiness. But there’s
something I would like to ask you.”
“Of course, my dear.”
“I’d like to say goodbye to Kimball.”
The pope’s face changed to sad imposition. “As much as I
would like you to, I’m afraid I cannot let that happen. The Vatican Knights are
mourning the losses of those whom I consider my children. Please understand that.”
She looked up at the immense Boeing. “Is he in there?”
“Yes,” he said. And then in more sorrowful measure, “He’s in
there with the others holding ceremony. In a moment I shall lead them in
prayer.”
“Then I’ll respect that,” she returned, and continued to
hold the pope’s hand as they moved closer to the jet. “May I ask you something
else?”
“Of course.”
“The Knights,” she began. “Why Kimball? How are they
chosen?”
“The Knights, Ms. Cohen, are incredibly special people who
come from squalor—mostly hard-luck cases who were either orphaned or abandoned
and possess no future other than what the Vatican can give them. Serving me in
the capacity that they do is ultimately their decision in the end, knowing the
full consequences of their choices and dangers involved.”
“And Kimball?”
The pope smiled as if reminiscing over a fond memory.
“Kimball is an animal of a different breed,” he said. “He’s unlike the rest
because he’s in his own personal torment and seeks redemption through his
service to God. He believes his road is a difficult journey in which salvation
lies at its end, but impossible to achieve in his eyes. What he fails to
realize is his journey is lifelong and paved with mistakes, as well as
goodness.”
“Kimball
is
a good man.”
“Of course he is. Although we see this, he does not. It’s up
to Kimball to find his own way. We can only provide direction, but it’s Kimball
who must have the faith to see it through.”
“Is there anything you can do to help him?”
The pope smiled. “I can only provide the direction, my dear.
Kimball has to do the rest. You see . . . Kimball
needs
evil in his life
in order to recognize the good, which is something I learned from the man who
held me captive. I saw the side of man that I’ve been sheltered from for so
long. And because of it I now understand Kimball more than ever.”
“I don’t understand.”
The pope held a hand up to the cardinal who slowed the
wheelchair as they neared the Boeing. “Kimball knows one thing,” he said. “He
knows the dark side of man perhaps better than anybody else, and he knows
what’s needed in order to combat it. I on the other hand have lived in
ignorance believing the light inside all men can be reached. Kimball knows
different. He knows the darkness, has lived in its depths, and is working his
way toward the light. There has to be a balance in life, my dear. But right now
I believe Kimball does not feel
that
balance in his soul. Perhaps when
he finds the balance between the two, then he will find the salvation that he
has been so desperately seeking.”
“I hope so.”
“Kimball has to find his own way.”
The cardinal had moved the wheelchair to the center of an
entourage dressed in priestly vestments. They were standing at the base of the
stairs leading into Shepherd One.
“Well, my dear, my gratitude for your perseverance in this
matter cannot even begin to be measured by my standards. I do wish you well.
And I will tell the Vatican Knights that you wish them well.”
“Thank you.”
“Perhaps we shall cross paths again,” he told her. “Next
year I have a highly publicized Papal Symposium, if God allows my health to get
better. And I will journey across the world once again, ending my mission in
the United States.”
“After what happened, you’d come back?”
“That’s all the more reason, my dear. I cannot let a setback
undermine what needs to be done. If my health holds, then I will return. I will
not allow terrorism to slow the Word of God. I can’t.”
He smiled and reached out for her free hand. “God bless you,
Ms. Cohen. You truly are an asset to mankind, which makes me believe there is
hope after all. Even when I questioned myself that man was too far gone. It was
a period in my life when I was at my lowest. Sometimes, my dear, it takes a
tragedy to see the full picture. I now believe that tragedies are sometimes
good for the soul that often reminds man that he sometimes needs a misfortune
in life to bring out the best in him.”
“I’ve always believed in that,” she told him. “A perfect
example is nine-eleven.”
“Yes, of course. Your nine-eleven brought strangers together
in a cause to heal not only a nation, but one another. There was no prejudice,
no animosity, all of which were forgotten due to a common tragedy. From hatred
came pure love. It was a balance that formed from both the Darkness and Light
of Man. Let’s hope that Kimball finds his balance, too.”
Shari leaned close and hugged the old man as he gained his
feet. She barely touched him, his bones as frail as a sparrow.
“Be good, my dear.”
“And you take care of yourself.”
“Don’t worry,” he told her. “Gemelli Hospital is one of the
best in the world.”
There was one last question she wished to pose to the pope.
“Your Holiness, if I should visit the Vatican someday, would
it be possible to visit the Knights . . . or Kimball?”
“If you should happen to see the Vatican Knights again,” he
informed her, “then it will be because something terrible has happened . . . So
let’s hope not.”
Aided by the archdiocese staff, Pope Pius XIII climbed the
stairs and waved his hand in loving gesture. Once inside Shepherd One, the door
closed behind him and the mobile stairway pulled back from the Boeing.
Along with Cardinal Medeiros, Shari turned and walked away
from the jet and made her way back to the terminal.
#
Kimball Hayden had
been
sitting inside Shepherd One looking out the window watching the pontiff being
wheeled from the terminal to the plane. Shari accompanied the pope and became
his focal point of interest as the pontiff’s party made their way toward the
Boeing. Since Kimball knew the pope would never allow her passage on board, he
pressed his hand against the window, and with the tip of his forefinger traced
the outline of her body against the pane, the closest thing to actually saying
goodbye.
As the pontiff made his way up the stairway, Kimball thought
Shari looked as pleasing as always, the way she smiled, the point of her
widow’s peak and the way her hair shined in the sun, a mental picture he would
carry with him for the rest of his life.
Perhaps
, he thought,
if I do
right, then maybe He’ll grant me the right to love someone openly.
But if anything was taught and learned, it was the fact that
Shari Cohen made him see through their affinity that he was not the painted
monster without feeling or remorse, but someone fully capable of loving.
Nevertheless, he knew he had a long way to go.
Venezuelan Coast Line
October 11, Mid-Afternoon
Somewhere off the shore of a
Venezuelan beach, a luxury home situated within a heavy copse of palm trees
surrounded by jungle vegetation bloomed in riots of bright colors. On the
wraparound porch sat two men, both drinking specialty liqueurs and talking
leisurely as the day worked toward twilight.
Hector Guerra sat in a lounge chair with his bright
flower-patterned shirt unbuttoned, exposing a huge and hairy paunch. Although a
breeze blew off the ocean, it barely moved his perfectly styled hair. Next to
him sat a man who seemed comfortable in these surroundings. He wore a
wide-brimmed hat and dark sunglasses. His most distinguishing feature was the
wedge of pink scarring beneath his chin. On his arm he wore a bandage from a
recent battle, with another wrapping around his chest from a fall that had
broken three ribs.
“Unfortunately,” said Guerra, “our economies will have to
wait to see better times.”
The man who was Abraham Obadiah lifted his drink in the air,
then sipped from it before placing it back on the table beside his chair. “For
now,” he answered. “But I’ll never give up the cause for my people.”
“You know we could never risk another venture as we did with
the pope.”
“There will always be opportunities, my friend. We’ll simply
learn from our mistakes and better prepare from them.”
“But never at the risk of placing myself in jeopardy.”
“There will always be risks, Mr. Guerra, always. What you do
is prognosticate the problems before they happen and plan for them.”
“Which is what you did with Kimball Hayden?”
“Kimball Hayden came out of nowhere.”
“My point exactly. Sometimes you just can‘t prepare for
everything.”
“Next time we’ll know better.”
“And how does one prepare against somebody who does not
exist?”
“Kimball Hayden has a background. We all do.” And then more
to himself. ”I will find him.”
Both men remained quiet for the moment, each enjoying the
light breeze coming off the surf as well as the scenery of creamy waves lapping
the shoreline. Guerra queried him further.
“And when you find this Kimball Hayden, what will you do?”
Obadiah paused to think before answering. “That‘s my
business,” he finally answered. “Right now I have far more pressing matters to
deal with.”
Hector Guerra chortled. “What? Disrupting the firm balance
of national psyches by using terrorism as a vehicle to promote fears? Isn’t
that wonderful?”
“It’s what the Lohamah Psichlogit does best,” he said. “It’s
what I get paid for.”
“Then if you meet this Hayden, just make sure that you live
to see another day.”
“I would have to,” he returned. “If I am to make a better
life for my people, then I have to make progress. And the price for progress,
my friend, is destruction. And the destruction of Kimball Hayden would surely
remove any future nuisances from my life.”
For a moment both men stared at each other, neither of their
features betraying any thought or emotion, and watched the incoming waves.
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