If he ousted Cardinal Vessucci once, then he could do it again. But time, he knew, was crucially limited with the conclave only days away.
He exhaled, knowing the task to be a difficult one. How could he dethrone Vessucci before the throne even fell to him? Tell the cardinals of Vessucci’s past when he sanctioned the Vatican Knights, a group of mercenaries? But that would also malign Pope Pius, who also sanctioned the group. And to malign Pope Pius in the eyes of the College of the Cardinals would certainly end his political push for the throne.
The man grit his teeth, feeling cornered.
And then he raised his right hand and held it up against the backdrop of the full moon, examining it. It had been the hand that pushed Gregory from the balcony, ending his life. It was also the hand that put him in the position to succeed Gregory by placing him at the helm of the papal throne.
It was all in the right hand.
Lowering his arm, Cardinal Angullo’s mind began to work.
He clearly recalled the moment inside the papal chamber as Gregory lay on the deathbed in gentle repose after the body was appropriated from the bloodied cobblestones beneath his balcony. In keeping with medieval ritual, the Camerlengo took a silver hammer and tapped the pope’s forehead three times, calling out his Christian name. When there was no response, the Camerlengo then announced to those present that the pope was dead and proceeded to remove the Fisherman's Ring from his finger, an act of dethroning. Once done, then the proper authorities took over, namely the coroner.
But keeping with papal law he knew the pope could not be autopsied, the poison in his system crippling him that night would never be detected, the crime going unnoticed. It had been papal law since the inception of the Church, a loophole for murder no doubt used many times over — at least in Angullo’s estimation.
But such a law did not apply to cardinals or bishops or clergy. Not everyone was immune.
In the darkness of night Angullo sighed again, a sigh that was long and drawn out, a sigh of pent-up frustration.
Should he apply the same fate upon Vessucci as he did with Pope Gregory, there was no doubt in his mind an autopsy would follow and an investigation conducted by Roman authorities would ensue. The death of a Preferiti so close to the death of the pontiff would certainly draw suspicion, especially if the poison that weakened Gregory was discovered in his system.
But Vessucci had been slowed by age. His steps were becoming shorter, his gait becoming more labored. Surely these were signs of an aging man falling into ill health.
Once again he held his hand aloft against the round frame of the full moon, and flexed his fingers before drawing his hand into a tight fist. Like he did on the night of the Gregory’s death, he would enter Vessucci’s dormitory room and apply a pillow over the man’s face, smothering him. He would then set the body in gentle repose, the man dying in his sleep of natural causes.
However, a telltale sign of dying by this method always left the victim’s eyes bloodshot.
This much he knew.
But with the Conclave days away it was a risk he was willing to take since God, after all, would be watching over him.
This he was sure of.
So with his clenched fist held high, with the backdrop of the full moon framing his tightly balled hand, Cardinal Giuseppe Angullo was feeling more than triumphant.
Soon, Bonasero, the papal thrown will be mine.
Soon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Friday night in Las Vegas is a night of anarchy in most cities, a place with no discipline and no sense of order. Although Sin City is a city cast in liberal shadows, it is also a city of tough laws. Prostitution is illegal in Las Vegas, although most casinos have their own stables hidden away and usually for high rollers; alcohol is never allowed while driving, although open containers are acceptable while walking the Strip; and the perception of lawlessness or unrestrained actions would likely guarantee a criminal charge and several days in the Clark County Detention Center, most likely ruining a vacation by spending it in a facility that always smelled like dirty laundry.
But certain venues held the Thunderdome likeness of Ultimate Fighting. The cages were surrounded by fanatical fans bent on brutality rather than boxing. Their screams and cries erupting as the contestants entered the cage knowing that only one would leave, and the other would lie as a broken tangle.
In the undercard bout at Caesar’s Palace, Kimball and Tank Russo, a huge man with broad shoulders and pile-driving arms, entered the ring. Tank regarded Kimball with a warrior’s glare, that straight-on look of a champion who was not afraid with his chin raised in defiance; and a prognathous brow scarred from past combats with every crooked line a badge of honor. And then he rolled his shoulders and neck to loosen up, the large bands of muscles writhing.
Kimball stood idle, staring at the 4-ounce gloves on his hands and flexing his fingers, these types of gloves alien to him.
“He’s a big dude, J.J.” Louie called out from the first row. “Be careful!”
Kimball turned to him and saw the concern on Louie’s face — could read the scripted lines of his features openly, the man having little faith in Kimball after seeing the size of Tank Russo.
And then he looked into the stands, at the scores of people who wanted to witness unbridled violence. Their faces masks of hungry rage.
Welcome to my world.
Tank moved closer to the ring’s center, throwing jabs into open air. Kimball, with all the ease of a man taking a leisurely stroll, moved forward when the ref beckoned him to the center.
Whereas Kimball appeared uncaring, his opponent appeared bull-like; a man who wanted nothing more than to beat him down to paste simply because he could.
After the ref gave the final directions both men parted, Tank Russo taking a defensive stance, hands up, knees bent, eyes focused, whereas Kimball stood straight with his arms by his side and a smile on his face as if saying “what’s this all about?”
When the ref gave the signal Tank closed in. And Kimball could see in Tank’s eyes that he thought this was going to be an easy victory, the opponent in Kimball too green.
In a sweeping motion so quick, so fluid, Kimball swung his leg out and then up until his leg was straight up in the air, and came straight down with an axe kick, the heel of his foot coming down on Tank’s head, the force behind the blow snapping Tank’s head viciously to the side, his eyes then rolling into slivers of white before he buckled as a boneless heap to the floor, the man rendered unconscious inside of seven seconds.
Kimball stood there looking down at his opponent, and then he turned to Louie who was standing in paralytic awe, his cigar threatening to fall from the corner of his mouth as Kimball shot him a thumbs-up. “Is that it? Am I done?”
Louie stood in stunned silence along with the rest of the crowd. Whereas they saw the makings of a true champion, he saw dollar signs. And then to no one in particular he whispered, “He’s gonna make me a millionaire.” And then in a celebratory manner by pumping his fist high, he yelled, “A millionaire!” It was the rally cry that got the crowd going, the quasi-silence now turning into a cacophonous riot of absolute noise and cheer.
Louie ran to the cage and curled his fingers through the rubber-coated links. “I knew you were a fighter!” he told him. “Damn if I didn’t know you were a fighter, J.J.”
“Is that it? Are we done?”
But Louie just ranted. “That was an axe kick,” he said. “A perfectly performed axe kick.”