The Crimson Dagger - Vatican Knights Series 23 (2020), Rick Jones [free ebooks for android txt] 📗

As the knocking intensified, Kimball emerged from sleep and sat along the edge of his cot. It was still dark, though from the stained-glass window he could see the beginnings of a new day trying to peek through, the light marginal.

Rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, the knocking continued.

“Yeah, I hear you. Just a minute.”

Getting to his feet, Kimball made his way to the door and opened it. A bishop was standing on the doorsill.

“Something I can help you with, Bishop?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” the bishop told him, “but the pontiff would like to meet with you in council.”

“Yeah. Give me few minutes.”

“Very well, sir.” And then the bishop was gone, the message given and received.

Closing the door, Kimball returned to the center of the room. Normally, as the sun traversed across the sky, it would shine a biblical beam of light through the stained-glass image of the Virgin Mother who always looked down upon Kimball with a lucent smile. But the morning sun was far from reaching its zenith, the day still young, still dark, with no invitation from the Light, at least not yet.

Putting on the uniform of a Vatican Knight, that of a cleric’s shirt and Roman Catholic collar, military pants with cargo pockets, boots, and a powder-blue beret, Kimball checked his image in the mirror, which was a stainless-steel sheet of metal attached to the wall above the wash basin, something he had to reattach after removing it from the storeroom. In a funhouse sort of way his image appeared vaguely distorted, though the deepening lines remained genuinely true.

Leaving his chamber, Kimball Hayden walked through the hallways of his team’s quarters. Doors made of thick timber that were held together by black metal bands and rivets lined both sides of the hallways, the doors all throwbacks to medieval times. And the walls were constructed of gray castle rock.

Walking through the Old Gardens, Kimball could see the streamers of citrusy-colored light beginning to show themselves along the horizon in the east.

As he made the required turns to the Apostolic Palace, members of the Swiss Guard acknowledged him by stepping aside to give the Vatican Knight a wide berth. When he reached the pontiff’s chamber, a Swiss Guard stiffly opened the chamber door in invitation. Once inside, the door closed behind him.

Pope Clement the XV was sitting at his desk wearing the robes of his station, along with his white zucchetto and cassock.

“Your Holiness,” Kimball greeted, though his voice lacked any measure of true respect. In fact, the salutation was rather dry.

The pontiff pointed to the empty seat before his ornate desk. “Please,” he said.

Kimball walked to the vacant chair, but before he could sit down the pontiff held out his hand to him, the one that held the Fisherman’s ring. Kimball understood the conventionalism of the pope’s extended hand: when in the presence of the pontiff, it was dutiful to kiss the ring as a sign of respect. Kimball, however, balked at this. He had never had to kiss the ring of any pope before Clement. This, he knew, was simply a power play on the part of the pontiff, and an act to let Kimball know who ruled.

Finally, after taking hold of the pontiff’s hand, Kimball leaned over and kissed the ring. When the Vatican Knight saw the smug appearance on the pope’s face, that arrogant look of victory, Kimball squeezed the man’s fingers together, the action bringing a painful wince to Pope Clement’s face. After letting go of the pontiff’s hand, Kimball took the vacant seat.

Pope Clement XV was rubbing the pain from his fingers when he said, “I heard you were back.”

“And I see that you had high hopes that I wasn’t. You cleared out my chamber.”

“The barracks within the Old Garden is the military quarters of the Vatican Knights. It’s not a hotel for you to come and go as you please.” He continued to rub the sting from his fingers.

“I’m always available. I can be here within hours.”

“Sometimes, Kimball, there are measures that need the attention of the Vatican Knights immediately, not when you arrive.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?”

The pontiff gave Kimball a rigid look, then said, “Curb your tone. I don’t care what you feel for me or what you think of me. I am still the pontiff.”

Kimball’s nature was to lash out and to dictate what was on his mind. You’re a murderer. You stole the papalship. You don’t deserve the role or title of pope. But Kimball held his tongue, which was as physically painful as taking a heavyweight blow to his jawline, it was that palpable. Then: “Yes, Your Holiness.”

“You may be the leader of the Vatican Knights and they may try to follow you into the Abyss, but I command the unit overall. Remember that.”

“I understand that you no longer converse with the Society of Seven regarding missions.”

“I don’t need the feedback of the Society of Seven,” the pontiff returned. “All missions come under the principles of three rules: Protect the sovereignty of the Vatican, protect the interest of the Vatican, and to protect the welfare of the Vatican’s citizenry. I am fully capable of making decisions based on those rules without pointless advice from cardinals who sit outside my circle.”

“It’s not a conspiracy. It’s a way of developing the pros and cons to a situation that has a reasonable outcome of success.”

“As Vatican Knights, I expect success at all turns of conflict.”

Kimball could feel his guts straining as he fought for calm. He knew that the man sitting before him in pontiff’s dress was a man who was deeply flawed. Yet there was nothing he could do or say to prevent the pope from reworking his mindset. It would be Kimball who would have to adapt to new changes, not the other way around. And Kimball was a man who hated change. Nevertheless, the Vatican Knight remained true to the chain of command. “Yes, Your