by Dean Kutzler
“When I called you, Father, for our meeting today, you said it was dangerous for me to be there at the brownstone—why?”
“Because if this organization got to your family, they most certainly know about you.”
Jack heard the man, but it just didn’t add up. Why would they kill his uncle and father? If they were after the key and the book, wouldn’t it serve them better if they were alive?
“You’s two done with ya pow-wow over here? Not that we don’t love ya gracing us with your presence Father, but just like the confessions you gotta take,” the waitress nodded towards the gathering crowd at the door and winked at Jack, “they’re lining up at the door.”
Jack and Father Alazar had been so engrossed in their conversation that they hadn’t noticed the time or the waitress standing by their table with the check. “So if there’ll be nothin’ else, gents.” She ripped out the check, drew a big smiley face on the back and slapped it down on the table. “I’ll bid ya two a good night.”
“I think we’re done here, Father. There’s only one thing left to discuss.” Jack started to fish his wallet from out of his back pocket.
“The tip?”
Jack laughed at Father Alazar’s joke. Although their meeting had started out with both of them unsure of each other, Jack still not so sure, they had warmed up to one another. If they were going to work together to uncover the murderer and possibly a biblical relic to top any that have been found to date, they needed to move forward in trust. At least for now, or until the seminarian gave him a reason otherwise. “No, I think she sealed that deal from the beginning,” Jack mused. “The more important question is where do we go from here?”
Father Alazar had been much younger than Father Angeli and he suspected this was partly the reason for being chosen, in order to handle any strenuous task if the deed should call. Now with Father Angeli gone, he needed to be the front man and he didn’t have a clue in which direction to turn. He had to do this on his own, with Jack’s involvement of course. But if he relied on the bishop too heavily for guidance, it would be a clear sign that he wasn’t ready to become a priest. How could he advise patrons of the church on such serious life topics if he couldn’t lead an assignment of which he was chosen to take part? No, he would put his faith in God, let His hand steer him and keep faith strong within his heart.
“We have to be careful, Jack.” He paused until he saw certainty wash over Jack’s face. “We cannot be seen working together if the bishop’s fears are correct. If there is a mole in the church, our actions will elevate their actions and the last thing we need is for either of us to be in any more danger than necessary. You’re in the spotlight already, so you must take extra precaution. Stay out of sight as much as possible. They have gotten to two of your family members already. You need to alert the rest of your family to the danger without sharing anything from today about our investigation.”
“That isn’t a problem,” he assured. “The only family left is my mother and the detective working this case wanted to assign her extra protection until the matter is resolved, but I’m going to hire someone private.”
“Have you spoken to the detective about our meeting today?” He suddenly started looking about the diner, angry at himself for not assuming Jack had contacted the authorities. Not good, not good at all, but Father Alazar understood the limited choices with which Jack had been left.
“No, relax.” He saw the panic mounting on his face. “I winged this on my own today. Until I know more about what’s going on, I thought it best to keep it to myself.” He never told Father Alazar where he’d found his number, only that he’d gotten his name from Father Angeli and that was the truth. Until he was absolutely certain the priest had nothing to do with the murders, he’d let the omission continue. He didn’t want anyone, let alone himself, pointing any fingers at his uncle until he knew how he had been involved.
“Good,” he said easing back into the booth. “The less anyone knows, Jack, the better our chances are and the safer we will both be. For now, we trust no one but ourselves.” Glancing at his watch he said, “It is late. Let us leave before the waitress comes back with muscle. I will follow up and go through Father Angeli’s office. It will take me some time. I do not want to arouse suspicion.” He closed his eyes and said, “Word of his fate, has not yet reached the church. If I act too quickly and get caught—“, he let his last sentence trail off. “Once I’ve searched it, I will call you. I have your number saved.” Standing from the booth, he went to reach for his wallet.
“I’ve got this, Father.” Reaching into his wallet, he produced a fifty-dollar bill, laid it on the check and anchored it with the unfinished cup of sludge. “That should be enough to cover our table rental,” he smirked, extending his hand towards Father Alazar. They shook their goodbyes and left the diner separately.
November 1, 7:38 P.M., CEST
St. Peter’s Basilica, Vatican City
THE ABATING SOUND of shoes, slowly shuffling against the hand-carved stone, echoed throughout the darkness like a gravedigger’s last burial. He was certain no one had seen him slip through the secret wall to the hidden stairwell entrance. There were many, safer, secret entrances outside the walls, but the disrespectful intrusion delighted him. He carefully descended the chiseled steps, deep down below the busy ancient structure, and crept his way across the dusty debris-filled catacomb towards the massive iron door. How opposing an image—the unnatural glow of the biometric hand scanner, washing over the ancient door. Uniform hollow squares of unknown graves surrounded the door and lined the wall of the chamber, like the moon abandoning a crypt within shadows of its castoff rays.
Gazing up while painfully pushing his arthritic-ridden hand flat on the panel, he thought how the fools had no idea what rested below their precious baldachin sanctity. Certainly not the miraculous bones the sheep so foolishly worship and pray upon. The charlatans of old that amassed their preciously fabricated book had been kind enough and left out the lie of the Romans.
St. Peter’s bones.
He shook his head with a crooked smile.
The biometric scanner flashed green around the contorted hand, followed by the grinding sound of mechanical gears that came to a halt with a loud clack. A sharp tang of disinfectant stung his nostrils from a swoosh of pressurized air that escaped as the door cracked open, spreading harsh fluorescent light throughout the undiscovered catacomb. He pulled his hand away from the panel and slowly heaved the ancient mass of iron open far enough through which to fit. Looking over his shoulder, using the harsh light from the open door, he searched about the secret tomb, making sure it had remained that way, before he slipped through the door and wrestled the iron mass shut behind him.
The sterile antechamber branched out into four alphabetized sectors, all sealed with biometric-guarded doors, accordingly labeled A through D. Each room stretched far beyond the walls of the concourse structure sitting unaware high up above. The Morning Star logo brandished the wall above the doors, representing centuries of secret planning and careful construction that had been instituted and inoculated into the ancient maze of undiscovered passages.
Passages that branched out beyond the biometric doors that were clandestinely discovered so long ago had given birth to the underground institution that it had become today. Built atop many fallen houses of sanctity and lying below yet another, the symbolic nature of the location was the perfect home for the massive organization, despite its proximity to the unsuspecting worshipers above.
There were giants in the earth in those days.
He made his way down corridor A, the Research and Development section, following the familiar blue line on the linoleum to the Bio-lab in sector one, where yet another biometric scanner awaited his other palm for double security. With a flash of green, the door clicked open and angst surged through his feeble limbs as he walked past the rows of data equipment and around the computer station. He reached a gnarled digit up and shoved the bridge of his thick trifocals u
p over the greasy lumps of his misshapen nose as he peered down into the incubator. His beady black eyes blinked behind the spectacles like angry winking dots. “Has there been no progress since yesterday?”
“Nein, mein Leiter. The synthetic blood we manufactured from the old sample you acquired is still resisting oxygenation.” The tall young blonde man spoke up as he stepped away from the team of scientists he’d been working amongst. Straightening his long white lab coat, he double checked his clipboard and apprehensively stepped around to the front of the incubation bay. “The periosteum is shutting down because the intercostal muscles are rejecting the synthetic blood. Ah—how was your flight from the states, mein Leiter?” he asked, hoping to change the subject.
“You have tried both perfluorocarbons and hemoglobin?” he asked, ignoring the question.
“Yes, mein Leiter. Both approaches have been unsuccessful in carrying the DNA.” Looking down at the failed attempt in the incubator, the man rustled about uneasily underneath his lab coat. Excuses and failure were not tolerated. The clipboard in his hand began to tremble slightly. “Maybe if we had a supply of biological blood from the bloodline of the original host. He is almost old enough now. His DNA should be close to 75% methylation, leaving enough room in order for the growth…” His voice trailed off, eyes back on the clipboard as he waited for the rebuke.
“How is it—that a country like South Africa, with its limited resources, can produce successful synthesized blood, and you,” backhanding the clipboard from his hand, “you with—“, he gestured to all the high-tech equipment, “with all of this—this kostspielig machinery, cannot produce a single stable drop of oxygenated blood?”
Squatting down on his haunches, desperately clutching at the papers and clipboard, the technician pleaded, “Verzeihung mein Leiter. We are doing all that we possibly can.”
“Have you obtained Hemopure?”
“Nein.” His face winced. “Wilhelm was unable to find a way of getting it out of South Africa. It is scrutinized heavily by the authorities because of its performance-enhancing possibilities. I—I’ve sent him with the rest in search of the artifact.”
“Then you haven’t done all that you possibly can,” he mimicked, shoving him in the face hard, causing him to lose his balance and fall on his backside. “Our miraculous human ribs—are the only bones—the only ones,” he pointed to the ceiling like a preacher preaching, “out of 206 bones in a human body, that not only have the power to repair themselves just like the other 182, but also hold the incredible miracle to completely regrow themselves once they have been removed! Did you hear me, bengel? The rib will completely grow back! Und the only task you have been given, the only task you fruitlessly labored over for the last four years, bengel, is the simple feat of delivering the DNA into the host rib!”
Staring up from the floor in a panic, sweat began rolling down his face as he pleaded, “The FDA has banned human clinical trials over in the United States, saying it is flawed! Und the recon team has located the original source, mein Leiter.”
He looked down at the pathetic young man sitting on the lab’s floor amongst the spilled papers. Sympathy slowly crept over and softened his aged features as he regarded him as a small child; Sympathy at the expense of the foolish boy’s ignorance. The first thing one learns as a scientist is never blindly trust someone else’s work without having proved its validity firsthand. The young man had always been lazy, and laziness always produced unexpected results, if not failure. And failure was not tolerated. The Federal Drug Administration is nothing but a bunch of corrupted wealthy fools, getting all the more richer for allowing their country to ingest unnatural modified foods, hormone-injected livestock and boxes and cans filled with cancerous chemicals that extend shelf lives longer than most people live.
Enjoying the power his position allowed him in the organization, he cranked his distorted hand back and held it high over the cowering young man’s head. Within that moment, a sense of omnipotence filled him. He calmly watched the young man’s face as it grew stricken with fear. The scientist sat toppled on the floor, lab coat drawn taut, with his papers strewn about and his clipboard sitting in his lap. His young face was raised in a pained grimace as he squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation of the blow.
With his arthritic hand suspended in mid-air, he thought about how many years have passed over the course of time since he, alone, began this project and about the team of scientists he’d carefully handpicked over that course that now stood silently before him empty-handed, gawking at the scene about to happen.
While the others that shared his command desperately continued the centuries old search for the artifact, he had put his scientific talents to use and found a way without the relic. It was true, they were no closer to understanding the scientific reason behind how the DNA worked, but all they needed was the original host’s blood or a good synthesized product that could produce the results.
Cracking the whip had run its motivational course with this team. They have been unsuccessful far too long. The Führer has been breathing down his back. The organization was getting close to finding the artifact and to synthesizing the correct blood, very close. It was only a matter of time—time his spent body couldn’t afford to waste. The test subjects in New York City had shown amazing results, but not this close to their goal. He never dreamed at the beginning that the mission his family set out on, all those generations ago, would come so close to fruition within his lifetime. The age of a new era was about to begin and he would not miss it. Maybe it was time, he thought, unbuttoning the middle button of his coat, that he resumed a more active role in the scientific end of the research.
After a minute, the young man’s eyes opened in question wondering why he hadn’t been struck. A twisted arthritic hand hung before his face, crinkled palm up in offering. The young man’s eyes slowly followed the twisted limb up to its face, searching for confirmation before he took hold of it and carefully hauled himself up to meet the man’s stare.
“The FDA only approves drugs once the kick-back checks have cleared,” he said smiling, thrusting the knife that had been gripped in his other hand, deep into the scientist’s stomach, twisting it laterally in a circle. “Never trust someone else’s work. Maybe the Führers favoriten will have better luck with his computers.”
The other scientists gawked in horror, staying quiet for fear of the same fate, as the young blond scientist convulsed violently from the disembowelment. As he slowly slumped to the floor, a look of shock was frozen on his face and remained during the long, agonizing minutes before the convulsions died off, along with him. His lifeless body lay on the linoleum, while lacerated entrails and a piece of an organ clipped by the knife spilled from the gash, both landing near the arthritic man’s shoe.
Kicking at the gore, his face twisted in disgust as he said, “Get my son’s useless body out of here before it starts to rot!” Unbuttoning his coat the rest of the way and draping it over the chair behind the computer station, he replaced the dagger back in its shoulder holster after cleaning the blood off on his dead son’s pant leg.
“Now, I suggest we all get back to work on finding a solution to our synthesized blood problem before we have any further—” he paused to stare at the trail of blood as three of the scientists hauled the body away, “mishaps,” he finished.
November 12, 2:03 A.M., EST
The Brownstone, Upper East Side
JACK ROLLED OVER, half an eye open. 2:03 a.m. blinked from the nightstand alarm clock like an OPEN 24 HOURS sign. He was tired of boredom from waiting, but couldn’t get back to sleep. It had been over a week since the meeting with Father Alazar and his head was spinning with murder and artifacts and keys. Taking heed of Alazar’s warning, Jack had laid low in the brownstone, resorting to delivery when the stock in his uncle’s pantry ran out. The less he stepped outside the brownstone and kept away from the public’s eye, the safer he’d be from danger.
As a journalist, it was difficult to sit still
and wait for leads to appear on their own. It never worked that way. He was used to jumping in, both feet first. His computer-savvy friend, Moe, should have received his uncle’s computer by now. Moe was efficient, so Jack expected a call soon.
He didn’t agree with the priest’s decision about waiting before searching Father Angeli’s office out of fear of suspicion. They had been working together after all, Alazar being under Angeli’s wing. What suspicion would he be under by searching the man’s office? Albeit the circumstances that Father Angeli had committed suicide were strange, but he hadn’t been murdered. Everyone always said the longer you waited, the colder the trail grew, and in Jack’s experiences it proved all too true.
Whoever this organization was, they were anything but less than shrewd. Assuming they had been responsible for both his uncle’s and father’s deaths, once they learned of Angeli’s suicide, they wouldn’t sit back and waste time. If murder wasn’t on their list of limits, neither would be breaking into a church office.
If they hadn’t been inside already.
That being the main reason alone, Jack should have insisted that Father Alazar searched immediately. If the bishop’s suspicions were correct, a mole in the church would have easy access to the office. Unfortunately, he was at Father Alazar’s mercy. Jack couldn’t barge into the church and search the office himself. Father Alazar had clearly been frightened from the situation and upset at the loss of his mentor. He knew he shouldn’t push Father Alazar, but if he hadn’t heard from him by the end of the week he was going to call.
