by Gregg Loomis
Lang glanced at the pages. "Just so happens." He stuck them in a pocket, handing the bottle back to Steinmann. "I'd suggest you take one quick."
Steinmann's fingers fumbled with the top for a second before he made a choking sound. Both hands clawed at his chest, the vial of pills clattering to the marble floor. He dropped to his knees as if in prayer, mumbled something through lips foaming with spittle, and pitched forward.
The older priest knelt, cradling the Jesuit's head and glaring at Lang. "If he dies, it is on your head."
Lang didn't stay to argue.
As he crossed the Campo Santa Teutonica, three priests dashed by him in the opposite direction, one of whom carried what looked like the small black bag physicians used in the long-ago days of house calls. Behind them came two large men in suits, each with a gun in his hand. Lang supposed they were Swiss Guards.
He certainly wasn't going to ask.
No one noticed the priest making his way toward St. Peter's Square.
Once beyond the lights of the square, Lang ducked into the first alley he could find to remove his cassock, collar, and hat, all of which went into the Tiber as he crossed back over it. He forced himself to walk at a normal pace, the stride of a tourist enjoying Rome by night.
The Piazza Navona, as usual, was lit as bright as day. Lang found a seat in front of a trattoria across from Bernini's magnificent Fountain of the Four Rivers supporting an Egyptian obelisk. He ordered a cup of coffee and surveyed the huge oval piazza that had once been the Stadium of Domitian, hosting chariot races and other entertainment for the hungry Roman mob. Even at this hour on a chilly night, there were a lot of people milling about, eating, or simply watching each other. Some were admiring Bernini's three sculptures.
After a few minutes, Lang determined no one was paying him any particular interest. Tense muscles relaxed a little. He sipped his coffee and began to read.
Finishing the translation, Lang was more puzzled than before. Though he understood the implications of what he had read, its relationship to Steinmann's interest in Wynn-Three was still a mystery, unless Lang accepted that the priest really did want to simply question someone who remembered a past life. But that made little sense. In the Western world, incidents of claimed reincarnation, though rare, were not unknown. They seemed common in parts of the world where the culture and religion accepted them. So, why single out Wynn-Three?
He was still trying to puzzle out an answer when he reached his hotel, a small inn on the Piazza della Rotunda perpendicular to the east side of the Pantheon. Marked only by a single door, the Sole al Pantheon had been in business since 1467. Several of its dark, cramped rooms had been transformed into airy suites, and claustrophobic bathrooms into luxurious spas. Since it had no real bar, Americans shunned the place. That, along with the fact that those unfamiliar with Rome would be unlikely to find such a small hotel, made it appealing to Lang.
In his room, Lang drew shutters, closing out the noise of the piazza below. He checked his watch, calculated the five-hour time difference, called up the directory of his iPhone, and selected a name.
"What's up?" Francis's voice was as clear as if it was coming from across the room rather than the ocean.
"I need a few questions answered."
"I'd say you need a great deal more than that unless you've had a miraculous conversion, but shoot."
Lang summarized what he had just read, finishing with, "I gather Issa is Jesus. The similarities in teachings and miracles are too close to think otherwise. I get the theological implications but I'm not sure how all this relates to Wynn-Three, Steinmann's interest in him, and just what that interest might be. I mean, from time to time people claim they had a former life, but the Church either ignores it or denies the phenomena exists. This is the first time, at least in modern days, I've heard of the Church wanting to speak with the person in question. Why the sudden interest?"
There was a brief pause, Francis either thinking or trying to organize what he was going to say. "One question at a time. Let's start with a little biblical history. In the Gospels, there is about a seventeen-year gap in the life of Christ. We see him debating with the elders in the synagogue at twelve or thirteen, then he's an adult being baptized in the River Jordan at the beginning of his ministry. There has always been speculation about those missing years. More than one person has suggested he spent them in the Orient, India, or any number of other places."
"So what?" Lang wanted to know. "What does it matter?"
"If you can summon up a little patience and listen, perhaps I'll answer that question. In the late nineteenth century, a Russian by the name of Notovitch published a book, The Unknown Life of Jesus. He claimed he had read an ancient Tibetan manuscript that pretty much matches what you say your translation said. Since he was never able to actually produce the evidence, the Church dismissed his claims as pure fantasy.
"In, what, 1950, the Chinese Communists invaded Tibet. A number of monasteries were closed, their libraries destroyed. Although the monastery Notovitch described was actually in the Kashmir of India, the resulting panic that the Chinese might push across the border caused enough confusion that a number of ancient manuscripts were lost. Ever since, there has been a rumor some of them wound up in the Vatican's Secret Archives. It would seem that, at least as to one of them, it is no longer just a rumor."
Lang was growing restive. "That still doesn't explain Steinmann's interest."
There was an audible sigh. "I'm getting there, Lang, I'm getting there."
"So is Christmas."
"Look, my impatient friend: I've got tonight's women's guild to attend to, Sunday's sermon to work on, and a monthly meeting with the accountant, the parish bean counter, as it were. If you want to listen, fine. Otherwise, I've got work to do: mine, the bishop's, and, time permitting, God's. Being of service to my favorite heretic is simply an add-on. The possible reason for Steinmann's interest in the child isn't like one of your court cases where the defendant is either guilty or not."
Distance did nothing to diminish the peevish tone.
"Sorry, Francis. I'll shut up and listen."
"That would certainly be a remarkable first. Where was I? Oh yeah, the Tibetan manuscripts. There has always been speculation that Jesus's ministry had some connection to the East, that he had some long-standing relationship with Eastern mysticism. For all we know, the three wise men, Magi magicians or cognoscenti from the East, Matthew mentions might have exerted some unknown influence, bringing symbolic gifts: gold for the glory of a king, frankincense for life, myrrh for death.
"Have you ever read the Old Testament?"
Lang wasn't sure he had heard the question correctly. "Sure. As a kid, I learned about the Bible stories: Adam and Eve, Noah, David and Goliath. The usual cautionary tales Sunday schools employ to frighten kiddies into following the straight and narrow. A strange question. Why?"
"Then even as a confirmed unbeliever, you know the nature of the Hebrew God: vengeful, angry, jealous . . ."
"And acting rather badly, I fear: slaughtering innocent people, advocating war, burning cities. Some sort of sociopathic behavior, I'd say. And racist, beyond belief favoring the Jews . . . Quoting Ogden Nash,
'How odd
Of God
To choose
The Jews.'
"God does not have to be politically correct, but you get the point. The God of the Old Testament suddenly becomes loving, forgiving, forgetful of an eye for an eye and all that."
Lang suddenly saw where this was going. "Peaceful, do unto others. Like Buddhism."
"Exactly! Now, how did this transformation come about?"
"A really good therapist?"
Francis ignored him. "That is the question people like Steinmann worry about. If Christ really did study in India or some other Eastern country, then his teachings come not from the Jehovah of Abraham but from some other theology. Even you can see where that path leads."
"But what difference does it make? God is God wh
ether his name is Yahweh, Krishna, or Allah."
"I would think so but you can bet the ultraconservative theologians don't. You remember the Cathars?"
Lang had to think a minute. He recalled the mysterious fortress of Montsegur that had nearly gotten him killed during the Julian Affair. "You mean the French religious sect that was destroyed in the thirteenth century?"
"That's them. Although none of their writings are known to have survived, they supposedly claimed a blood kinship with Jesus through Mary and that he preached philosophy and wisdom from the East."
"So, I'm still in the dark as to why Steinmann had—has—a particular interest in Wynn-Three."
"'Had'?" Francis asked, picking up on the perfect tense. "The good father is no longer interested?"
"I have it on good authority he has, er, greater problems," Lang said noncommittally.
"There's something you're not telling me."
"Yes, you're right, and we can talk about it when I get home. Right now, I need to know all I can learn about why the Church wants to get hold of the child, why after years of simple denial they supposedly want to actually speak to someone claiming to be reincarnated."
"I'd have to speculate."
"You've done worse things."
Lang thought he heard an intake of breath. "Okay, here goes: suppose the Church had come across evidence of some sort that Christ really had studied in the East somewhere, that his ministry was based on Eastern, not Judaic, beliefs. Evidence like your Tibetan scrolls. Further, suppose this Eastern religion included reincarnation, something the Cathars believed."
"I'm with you so far."
"Good. That's why I'm making it simple. Now, if the Church has suddenly learned Christ's teachings came from, say, Buddha, the Church has been serving the wrong god for over two thousand years. Having found a connection, if they have, between reincarnation and Jesus's teaching being non Judaic, you can see why the issue of prior lives is suddenly a very sore subject. As much as it pains me to admit it, knowing Steinmann's reputation, I'd fear for the child if he gets his hands on him."
"Sort of like those three wise men departing into their own country without returning to tell Herod where the newborn child was," Lang suggested.
Francis chuckled. "There's nothing wrong with your knowledge of the Bible, Lang, just your faith. But, yeah, I'd say that sums it up."
"Thanks for the lecture, Francis." Lang was about to push the "end" button. "But speaking of faith, all of this doesn't faze yours."
Another transatlantic chuckle. "Why should it? Like you said, there's but one God, no matter what His name. I believe He sent His son for our salvation. Whether Christ studied Judaism, Tibetan Buddhism, or Persian Zoroastrianism, He is still the Son of God."
Lang opened the shutters for a moment, looking to his left to the spotlighted Pantheon. "Your faith is as unshakable as . . . a Roman monument. It's comforting to know that."
"My faith is available to you, too."
"Now comes a word from your sponsor. I'll skip the commercial. But, thanks, Francis. Good night."
Lang sat where he could see the Pantheon from his window. There was something comforting about a work by man that had endured for nearly two millennia. Not as old as the pyramids or Stonehenge, but old enough. Some ideas lasted as long. The theories of Archimedes, the ethic of the Buddha, ancient wisdom just now being rediscovered, such as the properties of superconductors he had encountered two years earlier in what he thought of as the Sinai Matter.
But this idea, reincarnation, had a new twist, one with a deadly implication for those who claimed to experience it. The first response of any institution was its own preservation. The Crusade against the Cathars, the Inquisition, even something as prosaic as the statue of Giordano Bruno in the Campo de' Fiori a few blocks from where he sat, were testament to the tenacity with which the Church had defended itself.
That explained Steinmann's interest in Wynn-Three. It also explained why one group Lang had encountered were professionals, whether assassins or merely information gatherers.
But what about the other, the man at Auschwitz and on the slopes at Oberkoenigsburg? They asked no questions but definitely wanted Lang out of the picture. The only stake they had in the whole affair that Lang could figure was that they thought he might be getting too close to finding the missing child.
It looked like Steinmann might be sidelined or out of the picture permanently. As for the others, Lang might well find out tomorrow in Oberkoenigsburg.
CHAPTER 77
Gurt Fuchs
W.A. Mozart International Airport
Salzburg
7:20 A.M. Local Time
The Next Morning
A NUMBER OF MALE PASSENGERS SHARED SIMILAR fantasies as they watched the tall blond walk down the concourse toward the Customs and Immigration lines. A uniformed official suddenly awakened from indifference as Gurt passed through the "Nothing to Declare" gate. Carrying a German passport and having disembarked from a flight from Frankfurt, she had no need to show her papers anywhere within the European Union.
Oblivious to the occasional stare, she proceeded down the arrival concourse, its stone floors polished to a mirror glaze. She entered the domed arrival terminal, mostly empty at this hour, and went to the Lufthansa kiosk against which she propped her wheeled single bag as she picked up a package that bore the return address of a dingy building across from the railroad station in Frankfurt, the city she just left.
"Probably forgot her face powder," snickered a heavy matron seated in the café doing a brisk business in coffee and breakfast pastries.
Her companion, an equally hefty Hausfrau, waggled multiple chins as she munched a torte. "Brains in her boobs, not her head."
The two were partially correct: the package from the Agency's Frankfurt station did, in fact, include powder, but hardly of the type the two women had in mind. It contained a Glock 19 automatic and two fully loaded ammunition clips, neither of which could have passed security screening.
A lot of Gurt's friends in Frankfurt owed her favors.
She crossed the room, going to a Eurocar rental booth where she filled out a form, showed her driver's permit, and picked up the keys to a Ford Focus station wagon parked at the curb just outside. She would have preferred something with a little more power and better handling, but anonymity was the feature most desirable.
Outside, she slid into the driver's seat, noting with disappointment that European rental cars lacked the GPS option common in their American counterparts. With one hand, she turned the ignition key while studying the road map provided by the rental company. Assuming the roads had been cleared of snow, she would be in Oberkoenigsburg in little over an hour.
CHAPTER 78
Hospital of Santo Spirito
Borgo Santo Spirito 2
Rome
At the Same Time
ALTHOUGH OUTSIDE THE WALLS, SANTO SPIRITO is very much a part of the Vatican. Pope Innocent III founded the institution in the early 1200s, supposedly after a dream in which an angel showed him the bodies of unwanted babies dredged up from the Tiber by fishermen's nets. Founded as a hospice for paupers and a place where mothers might anonymously slip a newborn infant into the rota, a revolving barrellike contraption, it still has a special ward reserved for orphans.
Today, it operates much as any modern hospital as well as serving as the Vatican infirmary. As a result, it is staffed by some of the most talented and devout Catholic physicians from all over the world.
Cardinal Petro diLucci stood by a bed in a private room in the cardiac ward, his eyes following the video display of vital signs. The regular beep of the monitor, the wheezing of the oxygen equipment went unheard. His Eminence was in deep thought. His meditations were of less than a spiritual nature.
How had this happened?
How could this Reilly person not only have penetrated the Vatican's most secret and secure premises but made off with a document that could end the Church as it was now known?
/> How could Steinmann have betrayed the trust implicit in his having access to the Secret Archives?
From the story the older priest told, the answer to the latter question was clear enough: the Jesuit had been in unimaginable pain and Reilly had withheld the remedy. It was equally obvious that Steinmann had made a secret of his heart condition for fear of being relieved of his duties, duties he sometimes fulfilled with excessive zeal.
Now Reilly had a translation of the accursed Tibetan scrolls and the Church was in real danger. Fortunately, just yesterday Steinmann had given the cardinal a full update: Reilly could most likely be found in the Austrian ski resort, looking for the kidnapped child.
His thoughts were interrupted by the entry of a short black woman in a doctor's white jacket, her badge of office, a stethoscope, hanging around her neck. One of a number of young and promising Africans the Church had sent through medical school to return eventually and treat the multitude of diseases that wracked that continent. The inconsistency of educating women to minister to the health of mankind while denying them the chance to minister to souls as priests went unnoticed.
Flashing him a smile all the brighter in contrast to her ebony skin, she studied the chart hanging at the foot of the bed before checking the remaining fluid in two IV drips and leaning over the bed to employ the stethoscope. Finished, she began to add notes to the chart.
"Is he going to live?" diLucci asked in English.
"It is in God's hands, Eminence."
An appropriate, if uninformative, answer.
"Tell me, my child, what would be your best guess as to God's will as it relates to Father Steinmann?"
The smile vanished and she shook her head slowly. "If he survived the initial event, the chances are quite good unless he has another, which is a real possibility." She pointed to the monitor. "This time, though, we will know the instant such a thing happens. There is extensive damage to the ventricle, preventing a proper circulation of blood to the body. At best, he will need a valve transplant when he becomes strong enough for surgery."
