by Neil Howarth
The room had a neat single bed, and there was a small en-suite bathroom. Fagan took a long shower then knelt by the side of the bed and clasped his hands together. He looked up above his head, up beyond the ceiling and the rafters.
“Please God, in the midst of all of this, why do you tempt me now?”
The Vatican, Rome.
Commissario Julio de Mateo sat at his desk. A blue haze of tobacco smoke permeated the air from the two packs he had smoked since breakfast. He pondered the police report, sitting on his desk. Of course, the conclusions were total rubbish, but that’s what he expected, and it wouldn’t stop Captain Pulvo from writing it up as gospel. There were, however, a number of points in the detail that bothered him.
It had all the hallmarks of a professional hit. The gun was silenced, and its serial number had been filed off. Six bullets had been fired, if the magazine had been fully loaded at the start, which if the shooter was a pro, would have been the case. There were two bullets in the back of the pew and two in the priest, so where were the other two? Maybe embedded in whoever had left behind the bloodstain, which someone had tried to clean up, presumably when they had also cleaned up the body.
He had the blood sample back from the lab. The DNA results didn’t identify anyone, but it did exclude some.
When he put it all together, it didn’t make any sense. Why does a pro go to the bother of getting hold of an unregistered gun with a silencer, not particularly easy to obtain, remove its serial number, then leave it behind with the shooter’s prints all over it. Very unprofessional, or very staged.
He picked up the photograph that had come with the file. The prints from the gun had been identified. The hit from the database had pointed surprisingly close to home. He studied the photograph of Father Joseph Fagan and slowly shook his head.
“Joseph, just what have you got yourself into?”
38
Jerusalem, Israel.
It was almost noon when Ari turned the car into a Jerusalem side street, beside a busy market, and stopped.
“I don’t want to go any further, too many surveillance cameras. I can do without them seeing the two of you get out of my car. If you walk in that direction,” he said pointing to the main road running by the end of the street, “you will come to the Damascus Gate on the right. Opposite you will see Nablus Road. A short walk along it, on your right is the École Biblique. Ask for Yusuf, he is expecting you.”
“How will we contact you later?” Frankie asked.
Ari took out two cell phones. He handed one to Frankie. “Use this one. It’s prepaid and new. When you leave Israel, just dump it. This one.” He showed Frankie the other one. “Don’t use it, leave it switched on. I will use it to call you in an emergency.”
Fagan and Frankie got out of the car and started to walk.
“He seems a good guy.”
“Ari,” she smiled. “Oh yes, he is the kind of man you want by your side when you are in trouble.”
“I assume he’s Mossad.”
“Why do you think that?” Frankie said and pushed ahead.
On the right was the fortress arch of the Damascus Gate, the entrance into the Muslim Quarter of the old city. Opposite, the road they were looking for, was already busy with people hurrying about their business.
Fagan took the lead and pushed his way through the human traffic with Frankie behind him. People were crowding around stalls piled with fruits and vegetables and exotic spices, others draped with brightly colored clothing, a chaotic mix of color, sounds and pungent aromas.
As they moved further away from the old city gate, the crowd began to thin. It was a short walk to the École Biblique. Fagan looked up at the arched entrance. He knew about this place. A world renowned center of biblical study and archaeology, founded by Dominican monks and housed within the grounds of the old St Stephens Priory. Its relationship with the Vatican had been a bumpy one. It was perhaps most famous for its work on the Dead Sea Scrolls.
An armed security guard stepped out as they passed through the entrance.
Fagan had dressed in his full Catholic Priest garb. He took out his Vatican passport. “We have an appointment.”
The security guard took it and studied it, then stepped into a tiny office and picked up the phone. A few minutes later a young Arab appeared. He introduced himself as Yusuf.
“Father Joseph?” He flashed a set of brown stained teeth. “I was told to expect you.”
Fagan and Frankie shook hands with the young man.
“I have arranged for you to speak with Pere Etienne.” Yusuf turned and led the way into the Priory.
Yusuf led the way into a spacious garden, with neatly trimmed hedges and lush green lawns, bordered by cypress trees and pines. It seemed a million miles from the bustle of Arab East Jerusalem, just outside the gate.
Yusuf led them to a wooden bench shaded by a large date palm. “Please, take a seat. I will tell Pere Etienne you are here.”
A short while later Yusuf reappeared, behind him was a short man with a bald head and gold rimmed glasses, dressed in the off white habit of a Dominican monk.
“Thank you for taking the time to speak to us,” Fagan said as they shook hands. He showed his Vatican passport. “I’m here on a personal matter from the Holy Father.”
“Sounds ominous,” the monk spoke English with an accent that belied his French roots. “How can we be of service to the Holy Father?”
“Do you remember a visiting monk, an academic? His name was Brother Thomas.”
“Thomas, how could I forget?” The monk took on a pained expression. “I also heard of his passing. Very sad. He was a bright light that passed through here from time to time. I always enjoyed seeing him.”
“I’m not sure if you knew. He was a personal friend of the Holy Father.”
Pere Etienne cracked a smile. “Oh, I knew that, everyone knew that. In fact, Thomas never let an opportunity go by for him to tell you about his personal friendship with Pope Salus.”
“As bad as that?”
“He meant well, and he made up for it in other ways. He was a great wit. I have even seen Thomas amuse the Director, which is saying something. He was also a brilliant scholar.”
“The Holy Father is interested to know what Brother Thomas was working on when he was here last time.”
Pere Etienne tipped his head to one side. “That is hard to say. The fact was, we hardly saw him after the first day.”
“You mean he was not actually working here?”
The monk shook his head. “It is not that unusual. Researchers are given a grant to come and study here. It is often the terms on which their working visa is granted. But they use the opportunity to pursue some subject that they would never have received funding for. We call it moonlighting. I presume that was what Thomas was doing. The Director received an email a week or so ago saying he had been killed in an unfortunate motor accident. I shall miss him.”
Fagan pushed on past his disappointment. “What do you know of the De Vaux International Foundation?”
The monk gave him a strange look. “What can I say, they are a large donator to this institution, our board of directors would say we are blessed to have their patronage.”
“And you, what is your opinion?” Fagan asked.
“I am not sure my opinion is relevant to your investigation.”
“I didn’t say it was an investigation, merely a personal request from the Holy Father.”
The monk smiled but said nothing.
“Is that a problem?” Fagan asked?
Pere Etienne gave a Gallic shrug. “Over the years this place has not had the easiest of relationships with the Vatican. They have often found our academic endeavors, shall we say, not quite in line with their doctrinal expectations. But I think we have learned to live with each other.”
Fagan glanced across at Frankie and decided to take the plunge.
“What do you know about the illegal smuggling of religious antiquities out of the Holy
Land?”
“Is that something the Holy Father is interested in?”
“Humor me.”
The monk looked at his watch. “Perhaps you would care for a glass of wine. Shall we go to my office?”
He stood up and led the way through the garden and into the main building. Inside was cool and silent, with an ambiance of peace that made Fagan want to stop and take it in. But Etienne hurried ahead. At the end of a long narrow passageway, he stopped and unlocked a wooden door, then led the way into a small office.
“Please take a seat, excuse the mess.” He gestured towards the papers and books scattered across every available surface. He opened a small cupboard behind his desk and removed a large earthenware jug then proceeded to pour red wine into matching wine cups. He handed them out, then sat down and took a sip from his own. “Ah, that’s better. Sometimes it is best not to sit out in plain sight and invite an inquiry from the Director. Forgive me for being somewhat reticent to speak about the De Vaux International Foundation, but I have often questioned their ethics in this rather complex business.”
Fagan glanced across at Frankie, but her eyes were fixed on Pere Etienne.
“Now, you were asking about the smuggling of antiquities. I suppose you know it is perfectly legal to export religious artifacts from the State of Israel.”
“No, I didn’t,” Fagan said.
“As long as the item is exported from a licensed dealer and itself can be validated as part of a valid dealer’s inventory.”
“I sense there is a ‘however’ in there.”
The monk nodded. “There is a complex network out there, essentially laundering artifacts through the system, giving illegal items valid inventory numbers.”
“And the De Vaux Foundation, are they involved in this - laundering system?”
“Who knows, or more specifically who can prove it? Someone once told me they do not regard it as smuggling. They call it repatriation. It is a rather simple process of rediscovering the item in a location where its ownership would not be in dispute. And voila, the item comes home to Mother Church, or the Foundation. I am not sure that Dominic de Vaux regards them as any different.”
“You know Dominic de Vaux?”
“By reputation.” Pere Etienne did not elaborate.
“But why wouldn’t a large organization like the De Vaux Foundation just obtain a legal license to export something?” Fagan asked.
The monk put his wine cup on the desk. “There are two main reasons why artifacts are smuggled out of this country. The first is that the item comes from an unlicensed dig, and there are many of those on the West Bank and Gaza, or out there in the mountains.”
“And the second reason?”
“Well, that is the most interesting of all. Those are items where the exporter does not want the authorities to know the true nature of the artifact itself. Usually, because they are afraid the authorities will declare it a national treasure and impound it.”
Fagan glanced across at Frankie. “And could Brother Thomas have been involved with something like this.”
Pere Etienne picked up his wine cup and took a sip. “Brother Thomas was a good man, an honest man. I think we should remember him that way. Whatever he was involved in, I can assure you, he believed it was for the most honorable reasons.”
“You become involved for all the right reasons, but still in the end you know it’s wrong,” Fagan spoke.
“I am sorry?” the monk looked genuinely confused.
“Something that Brother Thomas said to his young assistant. Pere Etienne, I take it that you regarded Brother Thomas as your friend.”
The monk nodded his head. “I did not see him often, but there was a link, a bond between us. Yes, he was my friend.”
“Then I have to tell you that I,” he glanced across at Frankie, “that we believe Brother Thomas was murdered, along with his assistant. We also believe the De Vaux International Foundation was involved. Please, if you value your friendship with Thomas and care about his memory, help us find out why.”
Etienne stared into his wine cup then picked it up and drained it. “He came here one more time. He asked me not to tell anyone. He said he had been staying at a monastery up in the mountains, the Monastery of St Martial.”
“Did he say why?”
“No, he said he would tell me later, that for now, it was better that I did not know.”
“So why did he come back here?”
“He wanted access to one of our labs. We have some of the most advanced technology for examining ancient manuscripts and scrolls. He spent all afternoon in the CT lab.”
“Why would he do that?” Fagan asked.
Pere Etienne regarded him with steady eyes. “We use computerized tomography to read scrolls that are too delicate to unroll.”
The security guard had changed since they had entered the École. He signed them out then studied the name written in the visitor’s book - Father Joseph Fagan. And in the box saying ‘visiting from’, he had written ‘The Vatican’. He watched them leave, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.
He had met the man at a small coffee shop he liked to visit on his way home from work. The man had said he was interested in visitors to the École. Especially visitors from the Vatican. He had not said why, but he had given him five hundred shekels to look out for those special visitors, and promised him another five hundred if he gave him the names. He looked at the number scribbled on the piece of paper and picked up the phone.
39
Nablus Road, East Jerusalem.
“We need to go to that monastery,” Frankie said as they stepped back out onto the street. “We need to find out what happened out there.” She seemed strangely happy for the first time since they had started this journey. “Come on, I will buy you a coffee. I need to call Ari, he’ll know how to get out there.”
She pushed ahead, weaving her way through the throng of people. She found a small cafe and walked in through the front door. There was a small open courtyard through the back. They wandered through and sat at a table in the shade, the only customers in the place. The owner brought them coffee and left them alone.
Frankie called Ari and gave him a quick rundown on what they had found at the École. They talked for a while then she hung up the phone.
“Ari is arranging for someone to take us out to the monastery. He is going to text me the address.”
“Where is this monastery?”
“Somewhere out in the Judean desert.”
“Can we eat first?”
“Later. When we get back, I’ll buy you dinner in the old town. I know a great Palestinian restaurant.”
Frankie’s phone pinged. She picked it up and smiled. “This place is out on the Jericho road. We need to find a taxi.”
They finished their coffee and headed out.
Fagan walked in silence, still trying to put the pieces together in his head. They reached the end of the street on the lookout for a taxi. The junction with Sultan Suleiman was busy with the midday traffic. A service road ran across in front of them with iron railings dividing it from the main road, forcing the pedestrian traffic to cross at the traffic lights. At the far side, lower down than the street level was the Damascus Gate. At the top was a line of taxis.
Frankie headed in the direction of the pedestrian crossing. A black Range Rover seemed to dive through the crowd and screeched to a halt in front of them. Two men jumped out. They were dressed in black combat gear and holding guns.
“In the car.” One of them called out in English.
Fagan glanced around, people moved on by, getting on with their business, as if this was an everyday occurrence.
The men kept their distance, guns trained on them. Fagan looked across at Frankie. She gave him a shrug of resignation, then reluctantly stepped towards the open door of the car. The man nearest to her stepped in and gave her a shove. She reached out to steady herself, then stamped down hard on the man’s instep. H
er hand went for the gun. The man seemed to absorb the pain without a flinch. He pushed the gun hard up under her chin.
“Don’t tempt me lady, or I’ll do it right here.” The accent was clearly American, and he had done this before.
The man pushed her into the Range Rover then allowed the other man to bundle Fagan in after her. He moved around the other side of the vehicle and got in beside her, while the other man climbed in the front next to the driver.
The one in front turned around as the SUV moved away. “Check her out.”
The one seated next to Frankie gave her a lecherous smile. “Let’s see what you got, honey.” He proceeded to search her body, making sure he explored every inch. Frankie sat rigid, staring straight ahead while he did it.
“What have we got here.” He removed an automatic she had jammed down the back of her jeans.
“What the hell was that?” Fagan whispered to her.
“Last time I looked it was a Sig Sauer P320,” Frankie whispered back.
“Where did you get it?”
“Present from Ari.”
“Hey, shut up.” The one in the front called out. “You.” He pointed his gun at Fagan. “Put your hands on the seat in front of you.”
Fagan did as he was told while the man beside Frankie reached out and quickly searched him.
“He’s clean, boss.”
The boss pulled out a cellphone and made a call, his fingers drumming on the dashboard while he waited for it to answer. It did so after five rings.
“We got them,” he said.
Sitting in a Paris hotel, on the other end of the phone, Eugene Blanchet breathed a sigh of relief.
“What do you want us to do with them?” The man asked over the phone.
