Pandora's Ark (15 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Vatican City

Upon the passing of the pope, politicking was paramount in
order to succeed to the throne. The two leads within the
Preferiti
were
Cardinals Vessucci and Angullo. Cardinals Bass and Botelli were considered
third and fourth respectively in the rankings, but still within striking range,
even though both cardinals gravitated more toward the principles of a more
liberal state.

To politick outside the walls of the Sistine Chapel prior
to the conclave was acceptable. To politick for the papal station once the conclave
was in session invited excommunication. By the time the door to the chapel was
sealed minds should be made up, a successor chosen on the merits of what he
could bring to the Church.

After a day of true debate among his constituency, Cardinal
Bonasero Vessucci had been diligently patient while listening to others. What
had come to the fore is that Angullo’s camp had weakened considerably after the
secretary of state often disputed the pontiff’s decisions and openly criticized
the man for his judgment, which drew the ire of the pope and a growing distance
between them.

In some eyes Angullo was seen as intolerable and
uncompromising, causing many to withdraw from his camp, which in turn weakened his
support. Others, however, stood firmly by him because they wanted to remain in
the good graces of the man holding the second highest position within the Vatican.

And this was good news for Bonasero Vessucci, who was highly
respected within the College of the Cardinals as someone who debated with skill
and tolerance and had the pedigree of serving behind one of the most revered
popes ever to reign by serving as secretary of state prior to his removal by
Pope Gregory, and further viewed as a man of altruistic conviction.

While his following ran deep, Cardinal Angullo’s was
running far and dry and fast, the unspoken polls rising in Vessucci’s favor.

As he stood before an open window of his dormitory at the
Domus Sanctæ Marthæ
overlooking the Basilica, he reflected over the possible
changes to come. Without hesitation he would reinstate the Vatican Knights to
protect the sovereignty of the Church, its interests, and its citizenry beyond
the reach of the Swiss Guard. For those who could not protect themselves, the
Vatican Knights surely would.

Standing idle watching the sun slowly set, the sky turning
from a deep blue to reddish-orange, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci sighed. Even
with the polls serving in his favor, he knew he had an obstacle to overcome as
long as Cardinal Angullo remained steadfast. If nothing else, he thought, the
man was ambitious to a fault.

And sometimes, ambition could warp a man’s sense of
conscience.

With a preamble of a smile the cardinal continued to admire
the sunset, the sun’s tendrils finally fading toward the darkness of night.

#

As Cardinal Vessucci
stood at the window of his dormitory, so did Cardinal
Giuseppe Angullo.

He stood there as a dry wind caressed his skin—the same dry
wind that was blowing on the fatal night of the pope’s death.

As the sun settled, so unsettled was his nerves.

Although silver of tongue, his past association with Pope
Gregory had proved to be a slow undoing of his grip over his camp. Those whom
he considered to be his closest allies had quietly defected, his numbers
growing weaker at a time that was becoming more opportune. In whispered circles
he heard that some had defected and became a part of Vessucci’s growing
numbers, propelling him to the top of the
Preferiti
, whereas others
gravitated to other aspirants. Either way, Angullo was slipping.

Closing his eyes, he could feel his ambition torture him
like something hot and writhing in his gut. The seat was but a conclave away, a
position he glorified since he was ordained as a priest in Florence. And here
he stood after becoming second in command of the Vatican through Machiavellian
means.

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

Las Vegas
, Nevada

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.”

“Louie, are we done?”

Louie’s smile broadened. “Until next week,” he told him.
“Next Friday night.”

“Bigger purse?”

“After this? I’d say so.”

“I need the money.”

“Don’t we all,” said Louie, a ribbon of smoke curling
lazily from the cigar’s end. “Don’t  we all.”

#

In the locker
room
with distant cheers of the next fight coming through the cinderblock walls,
Kimball sat on the bench undoing the tape that was wrapped around his wrists
when Tank Russo was aided to a nearby medical table with his trainers aiding
him into a supine position.

Kimball glanced up long enough to see Tank wave off his team
before going back to the unwrapping.

Tank turned to him. “That was just a lucky kick, dude.”

Kimball ignored him.

Then: “Dude?”

Kimball faced him, his features appearing taxed. “What.”

“That was a lucky kick.”

“If you say so.” He went back to undoing the tape.

A short lapse of silence followed before Kimball spoke, his
eyes focusing on the tape as he unwound the strips rather than looking at the
man on the table. “Are you OK?”

Tank nodded, his eyes looking ceilingward. “A little
dizzy,” he answered. “And I can feel a headache coming on.”

“You need to get yourself looked at—make sure you don’t
have a concussion.”

Tank turned to him. “J.J. Doetsch,” he said. “How come I
never heard of you before? It’s obvious this isn’t your first time to the
rodeo.”

Kimball smiled. “I thought you said it was just a lucky
kick.”

Tank proffered his own smile, an icebreaker between
burgeoning friendships. “That was just my ego talking. You know how it goes in
this business.”

Kimball finished with unrolling the tape from his wrists,
tossed them in a trash can, and walked up to Tank who lay there with partially
glazed eyes. But intuitive eyes as well.

Tank saw the scars, lines and bullet pocks along Kimball’s
ripped body, the obvious wounds of battle. “You ain’t new to this, are you?”

“Cage fighting? You were my first.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he said. “You’re my first cherry pop.”

Tank faced the ceiling. “Lucky me,” he said.

Kimball placed a kind hand on Tank’s shoulder and smiled.
“Yeah. Lucky you.”

When Kimball returned to the bench Louie was standing there
with eight crisp Benjamins fanning out from his grasp. “Your take,” he said,
“as we agreed upon.”

Kimball took the money and stared at it for a long moment.
It’s not that he had never seen that amount before or held them for simple
homage. It was the way he earned it—by ritualistic brutality that catered to
the whims of the masses.

It was blood money.

He took the bills, folded them, and slipped them into his
shirt pocket that hung on a hanger in his locker. “Thanks, Louie.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow at work, then. We’ll talk about next
Friday night.” After pumping a victorious fist in excitement, Louie was no
doubt heading for the Blackjack tables with his roll.

“You’re going to be a champion someday,” said Tank. “You
know that, don’t you? You’re going to be right up there because you give the
people what they want: a vicious wrecking machine that takes his opponents out
without conscience or care.”

Kimball sighed, and then said evenly, “Without conscience
or care, huh?”

Tank nodded. “That’s right, buddy. And that’s why you’re
going to be a bankable star in this business. When I first saw you I thought
you were just a stupid greener just standing there. Just cool and calm is what
you were. Grace under pressure like I’ve never seen before. You showed me
nothing, as if you were completely empty.”

Kimball stared briefly into open space before turning to
the lump of bills bulging from his shirt pocket within the locker. It was so
easy, he thought. The money. An obvious pull since he was good at it. But what panged
him to no end was that Tank Russo instantly saw in him what others have been
saying about him since the beginning: that Kimball Hayden was a man without
conscience.

And a man without conscience can never see the salvation
within God’s eyes.

Kimball was suddenly full of regrets.