When the sun finally crested the horizon, a priest came for Shari and escorted her to the neighboring archdiocese and to the cardinal’s chambers next door. The room was large and well decorated with scarlet drapes that swept down from the highest reaches of the windows and touched the floor, the scalloped bottoms lined with gold tassels. In the room’s center sat a desk so large, so magnificently rich in style, Shari knew it was top dollar. Standing along the walls was a gallery of busts supporting casts of past popes.
Kimball sat in one of the two leather chairs before the cardinal’s desk wearing a neatly pressed cleric’s shirt and Roman collar, and gave her a nod of acknowledgment when she entered the chamber.
On the opposite side of the room the cardinal was washing his hands at a gold-plated wash basin, the sleeves of his robe rolled up as he cupped his hands in the water for his daily cleansing. After his morning ritual of purification, he wiped his hands dry with an embroidered cloth and approached Shari with his hands offered in greeting. “And how are you, my dear woman?”
Shari had seen the cardinal on television many times, and found herself to be in awe of his presence. “I’m fine. Thank you.” She allowed the man to close his cool hands over hers.
“I’m glad you and your family are all right.”
“If it wasn’t for this man,” she said, glancing at Kimball, “I wouldn’t be here — my family wouldn’t be here.”
The cardinal escorted her to a high-back chair beside Kimball, then rounded his desk to take his own seat. “Ms. Cohen, obviously you know who I am.”
“Of course.”
“Then I must ask a favor of you. You must assure me that what we say here remains in this room. No one can ever know the secret of Kimball and the Vatican Knights.”
“You have my word.”
“Then let me say this: The Vatican Knights are a very special group of people. And sometimes in order to accomplish their duty, they have to use methods that seem — well, brutal. Now I’m sorry you had to bear witness to such aggression earlier this morning, but if the Vatican Knights could have accomplished the task at hand without violence, they would have done so.”
“I’m not judging the Vatican, Cardinal, or its methods. Believe me.”
“My point, Ms. Cohen, is if the media should ever gain knowledge that the Vatican was sending forth its own group to handle insurgent factions, then the media would most likely paint us in the most unfavorable light, which we cannot afford.”
Shari nodded understanding.
“The bottom line, my dear, is that the Vatican does not judge; it simply acts when it has to. Unfortunately, killing sometimes becomes a necessity.” And then he shot her the disclaimer. “It’s not up to the Vatican on whether or not someone lives or dies. We can only assume that it’s God’s will. Therefore, we will do whatever it takes to bring the pontiff back alive and well. Please understand this, Ms. Cohen. The pope is truly a good man who preaches freedom and tranquility in all its forms. But until all men are like him, we often have no choice but to engage in methods not consistent with the teachings of the Church to achieve the means.”
“Cardinal, not only do you have my solemn word on this matter… but also my gratitude.”
“Then what I’m about to say to you now, my dear, is this: We hold steadfast to our alliances and never betray our allegiances.” He leaned forward in his chair. “For the moment you are one of us and for that we say, Loyalty above all else, except Honor. It is the credo the Vatican Knights live by.”
Suddenly she felt an overwhelming sense of commitment. Even when she took the Oath of Honor as a peace officer, she never felt allegiance surge through her as now. In a strange way she felt an obligation unlike any other, an inexplicable sense of oneness that created a sour lump at the base of her throat. “I feel… honored.”
“No, my dear, we are the honored ones.” Cardinal Medeiros leaned back into his chair. “So we will follow your lead.”
Kimball stood, his height towering over the cardinal’s desk. “I know I’m cutting matters here,” he said, “but we have work to do.” With that he took to his knee, placed a closed fist over his heart, and said, “Loyalty above all else, except Honor.”
“May God be with you both,” replied the cardinal.
In a matter of moments Kimball and Shari were in a sedan on their way to the Sacred Hearts Church, where Leviticus was working his magic trying to decode the encryptions on the CD taken from the damaged PC.
Bishop Angelo was terrified of his own mortality. Worse, he was afraid of how he would appear before God knowing that God could look inside someone and see the smallest imperceptible detail of any man no matter how much he tried to hide or deny the truth about himself. And that truth, at least for Bishop Angelo, was that he was struggling with his faith in God.
After he prayed and waited for something in return, the answer was always silence. And then he would weep because He was not there to comfort him; therefore, a sense of abandonment washed over him. After toiling to find his faith, he instead found himself feeling hopelessly lost and alone in the company of his brothers who were chained to the same wall as he. He had been reduced to nothing more than a frightened shell of a man who was certain that his fate was paved with the same dark intentions as the governor’s.
Looking over at the governor’s empty mattress, Bishop Angelo closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath through his nostrils, then exhaled with an equally long sigh. “Have you prayed to the Lord, Giacomo?”
Bishop Antimonni didn’t bother to face him, his eyes fixed on a guard leaning against the opposite wall holding an MP-5 that bore an attached suppressor that was as long as the weapon itself. “Of course,” he finally answered.
“And did you receive an answer?”
“He may have given one,” he said. “I only need to be patient to find out what it is.”
“In other words, if you are to be executed, then His answer was ‘no.’”
Bishop Antimonni gave him a gingerly smile before closing his eyes. It was as if he was drifting off to someplace wonderful. “No, my friend. If I am to be executed, all I pray for is that I be welcomed into His glory.”
It was not the answer Bishop Angelo expected. “Are you not afraid?”
Antimonni opened his eyes and nodded. “Of course I am. But my faith keeps me going and gives me hope. As it should you. If God wants me to appear before Him in Judgment, then that is His will for which I have no control. What I do have control over, however, is my faith.”
Bishop Angelo made a cursory examination of all the faces of the bishops and was quick in judgment to note that their repose, at least for the moment, appeared meditatively calm. “I’m afraid,” he finally admitted. “God forgive me, but I’m so afraid.”
Bishop Antimonni turned to him, then laid a hand on Bishop Angelo’s forearm, the links of his chain rattling in a ghoulish chime. “Being afraid is good,” he told him. “It reminds us of who we are. For without fear, we would either be foolish or disillusioned, of which we are neither.”
He then gazed along the dark hallway, then at the guard posted across from them. “When the soldiers finally come,” he whispered, “that is when we seek our faith and prepare ourselves for Glory. But faith does not carry us to false courage. Every man here bound to this wall is terribly frightened. But we never lose sight of our commitment to God, because the moment we lose our faith, is the moment we lose sight of who and what we are.”