The Eye of Moses - Vatican Knights Series 22 (2020), Rick Jones [learn to read books txt] 📗

Kimball Hayden remained quiet.

As a moment of silence passed between them, Mr. Spartan finally said, “It’s funny, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“That history is supposed to teach us lessons that we somehow never seem to learn.” With that, Mr. Spartan turned and left the room.

Hayden, who stared after him, could feel the weighted sadness that Mr. Spartan always seemed to leave behind. Oddly, they were two peas within the same pod.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

When Mr. Shakespeare's body was discovered soon after the murder, it didn’t take long for the Consortium to intercept the calls and communications from Swiss authorities who detailed Shakespeare’s death. Throat slashed, they said. An apparent homicide with no witnesses. At present, Crime Scene Investigators were on location to examine the area for any trace evidence.

This did not resonate well with Mr. da Vinci, who was in immediate contact with Mr. Spartan via the GBAN system on the laptop.

“And the others?” he asked Mr. Spartan.

“Still within the field of operation. Per protocol, every man is running silent without means of identification. Unfortunately, Mr. Shakespeare is the only one accounted for at this point.”

On screen, Mr. da Vinci offered a sullen nod before saying: “It’s likely that Mr. Shakespeare was compromised by the Shadow Klan. Who else would have that kind of skillset to remove him?”

Berl Leberecht, AKA Mr. Shakespeare, was a decorated member of the Kommando Spezialkräfte, which was an elite special-forces unit comprised of special operations soldiers that were selected from Germany's Bundeswehr, and organized under the Rapid Forces Division. To remove him from the operation when he was cognizant of surrounding dangers, conveyed to Mr. da Vinci that Mr. Shakespeare’s termination was a result of someone who was just as militarily gifted as a combatant.

“But we’ll know better when the others check in,” said Mr. da Vinci.

“If it was the Shadow Klan,” Mr. Spartan said, “there’s a good chance that we’ve been compromised.”

“Perhaps. But we don’t know for sure. And I don’t believe that this is the time for speculation until the others have returned with data.” Then Mr. da Vinci leaned toward the screen with the features along his face, such as the running seams, appearing more pronounced. “I know you’ve spread your team to trail those identified from facial recognition. But what about the one called Salt?”

“I sent a three-man unit,” Mr. Spartan informed him. “Misters Donatello, Archimedes and Michelangelo. I thought it prudent to send them as a team since Salt possesses a special skillset.”

“Agreed.”

“If Salt has any information, hopefully they’ll be able to obtain it. They’ll use the same technique against Salt as Salt used against Mr. Copernicus. They’ll use his family as a means of extracting information.”

“I don’t want them harmed.”

“They won’t be. At least not critically. They’re simply bait.”

“And in the aftermath of Salt’s mining?”

“Then he’ll be removed from the situation . . . And it’ll be done away from the family.”

Mr. da Vinci nodded. “Removing Salt will weaken Elias Caspari greatly, and half the battle will be won.” Mr. da Vinci fell back into his seat and away from the lens, enough so that the lines upon his face were no longer evident. “Stay in communication,” he finally told Mr. Spartan.

“I will.”

“Out.”

When the picture faded to a light mote in the center of the screen, Mr. Spartan watched it disappear completely before closing the laptop.

And then he closed his eyes.

Mr. Shakespeare had been erased from the equation. And in the process, the Consortium had been severely weakened with the loss of a tremendous asset who was once a member of the German Kommando Spezialkräfte. “Even more so,” he commented softly to himself, “he was a good friend.”

As the shadows of his room began to lengthen, as time appeared to crawl at a bitterly slow pace as the sun began to set, Mr. Spartan worried about his team as a commander often did. The people under his control were more cloak-and-dagger operatives. But they were also his surrogate brothers who had replaced the family that had been taken from him.

Sitting within the shadows without his features betraying his state of deep sadness, a tear managed to slide from the corner of his eye and along his cheek, where it dangled precariously along the edge of his jawline a moment before falling. He had lost a brother, a friend, and the world . . . a good man.

After staying within his own little bubble of grief for nearly thirty minutes, it was only when Mr. Galileo returned to the safehouse bearing the gift of a Klansman, that he finally broke from mourning.

Things were finally beginning to move.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Salt made his way home with the collar of his jacket hiked. A biting wind had made its way through the mountain passes, the air having a deep chill to it. When he entered his apartment, he removed his jacket and placed it on the coat tree in the entry.

One of the nightly rituals which had become conventional but never pedestrian, was for his girls to race around the corner of the hallway to embrace him upon his arrival. Tonight, however, he was greeted with silence, which struck him as odd.

Sensing a heightened awareness, Salt was reaching for his shoulder holster beneath his suitcoat when he felt the point of a muzzle pressing against the back of his skull.

“I wouldn’t,” said Mr. Michelangelo. “Remove your hand slowly. And if you try to do something stupid, you should know that you’d be putting the lives of your wife and children in jeopardy. Do you understand?”

“What do you want?”

“Do . . . you . . . understand?”

“Yes.”

“Put your hands on your head.”

When Salt placed his hands over the crown of his head, Mr. Michelangelo reached inside the assassin’s suitcoat and removed his firearm. Once he was in control of the weapon, Mr. Michelangelo told Salt to move into the kitchen.

The length of the hallway was long and thin, and the carpet runner had an odd pattern to it. On the wall above a small table a clock ticked off