Kimball considered this. The monsignor was right about the phases. In conjunction with his anger toward Ezekiel, he had taken the pick and smashed it down to indiscernible pieces of metal with a hammer before discarding it as scrap. The pick would never serve to harm anyone again.
“Kimball?”
He called back over his shoulder. “Yeah.”
“Your time is almost up. Is there some other matter you wish to talk about?”
He thought about it, but came up with nothing. “No, Padre. Nothing.”
A knock came at the door.
“Excuse me,” said the monsignor, and he went to answer the door.
Kimball could hear the hushed voices behind him. His eyes still fixed on the masses moving throughout the Square.
“Kimball.”
He turned. The monsignor was standing by the doorway with a bishop who was dressed in proper attire.
“It appears that Cardinal Vessucci would like to speak with you in the Society Chamber. Do you know of such a place?”
The Society Chamber was the meeting area where the Society of Seven gathered, usually to brief him on missions. “I do.”
“Then he’ll be waiting for you there,” he said.
As Kimball was leaving, he stopped by the monsignor. “Thank you,” he whispered. And when he said this he did so with immeasurable gratitude.
“My pleasure,” he said. “And if you don’t remember anything else, please remember this: You’re right when you say you are what you are. But it’s usually the person in question who last sees himself as he truly is when others see him as he already is.”
Kimball reached up and squeezed the monsignor lightly on the shoulder. “I appreciate you trying, Monsignor. I really do. But you’re right about one thing: I am what I am.”
When Kimball walked away with determination in his swagger and a cast-solid hardness to his face, the monsignor called after him.
But Kimball ignored his pleas as hot vendetta coursed through his veins.
I am what I am.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
In a restricted chamber situated deep in the lower level of the Basilica, seven chairs were situated on a marble platform rising four feet from the floor. The pope’s chair was layered with gold leaf and beheld the ornate carvings of angels and cherubs along the framework. The second chair was smaller and less imaginative, the wood carvings around the framing not as aesthetic as that of the papal seat, but was crafted well enough to draw the attention of an appreciative eye, nonetheless. This was the chair of the good Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci. The five remaining chairs, although less ornate by comparison, maintained detailed images of winged angels thrumming harpsichords along the wood framing, the cherubs smiling, the images harmonious.
With a soft tracing of his fingertips, Cardinal Vessucci sat in his chair and guided them over the images. It would also be the last time he would ever sit in this chair again, he considered.
From the end of the long corridor the large wooden doors held together by steel bands and rivets opened, the room sounding off with the hollow echo of the door closing behind Kimball as he made his way to the staging area.
He noted that Cardinal Vessucci sat alone, his shoulders slumped in defeat, the look of saddened dismay not a good sign.
“Bonasero,” Kimball pointed to the empty chairs, “where are the others?”
The cardinal struggled to his feet. “There are no others,” he told him. And then he labored his way to the pope’s chair and ran his fingers lovingly over the throne. “Great men used to sit here,” he added, “justifying the fates of good and decent people. Unfortunately, this chair will no longer be occupied ever again.”
Kimball took a step forward. “Are you saying Pope Gregory is disbanding the Vatican Knights?”
“Not only is he… but he has.”
The cardinal went to the edge of the staging area and held out his hand. “Please, Kimball, I need a helping hand down.”
Kimball aided the cardinal down the four steps, a laborious task for the aging cardinal.
When they were rooted below the stage they stared up at the empty row of chairs. And something awful like a mournful loss hung over them.
“During World War Two,” began the cardinal, “a Nazi defector absconded from his regiment because he had witnessed unbearable atrocity after unbearable atrocity, and took refuge within the shadows of the Vatican. When the Nazi’s began to invade the territory of Rome with the threat to reseat the papal throne to Germany under Goering’s command, this one soldier swore that he would protect those who could not protect themselves. In time, as the Nazi regime was falling on all fronts, this one man offered to protect the sovereignty of the Church and the welfare of its citizenry. He became the first Vatican Knight. And it was in this chamber that Pope Pius XII consecrated this soldier to serve the Church in the capacity that Loyalty was to be above all else, except Honor. Now with the passing of Pope Pius XIII, I’m afraid it all comes to a sudden end.” He turned to Kimball, the hurt on his face obvious. “I just thought it fitting, my friend, that I see you here, in this chamber, where it all began.”
Kimball stared up at the seats. It was odd to see them vacant. And the chamber held an odd and sepulchral quiet to it, something eerie and hollow.
“I thought it important that you hear it from me first,” he told Kimball. “You are the best of the best. But more importantly, as a good person, you’ve come a long way.”
Kimball felt ashamed. How does he tell a man who offered him the chance at redemption that his blood boiled with the underlying passion to kill Ezekiel? He was no savior. He was just a simple man whose dream of salvation came and went like a wispy comma of smoke. Ezekiel had shown him the truth. Underneath, there was darkness.
And if there was one thing Cardinal Vessucci was skilled at, it was seeing the insight of all people. Behind Kimball’s brilliant cerulean blue eyes he noted something dark. “You’re still angry,” he said, but not as a question. “The betrayal of the child you reared has consumed you with rage, hasn’t it?”
“I tried to do the right thing.”
“Of course you did, Kimball. But the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.”
“I had no idea he recognized me the day I saw him in the Boys’ Home.”
“Apparently he did. And by doing so he turned his rage into a crusade.”
They began to walk away from the stage and toward the chamber doors.
“Kimball, he sees you as the betrayer of his grandfather. And now he holds the same animosity as you do. It’s an ugly feeling. But you’re better than that if you believe it or not.”
“He killed Job and Joshua.”
“And for that God will judge him for it, not you.”
Kimball sighed, their steps small since the cardinal moved along with light footfalls. “You have become a good man, Kimball. Stay that way and let your anger go. Ezekiel has cast his fate in the eyes of God and will be judged thusly.”
Still, something continued to smolder deep inside Kimball.
“And what will you do?” asked Kimball.
The cardinal stopped in his tracks. “It appears that I have been demoted,” he answered.
“To what?”
“The good Pope Gregory saw fit that I be reassigned to a post in Boston where there is apparently indiscretions going on with alleged charges of fraud. The Pope sees me as the most judicious in handling such matters.”
“And who will be the new secretary of state?”
“It appears that the good Cardinal Angullo will usurp my position.”