by Gregg Loomis
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It was like touching cobwebs. He saw, rather than felt, the cloth dissolve at his fingertips. Light still in his mouth, he stood and lifted the bottom of the jar, gently shaking its contents onto the ground.
The whitish cloth looked as though it were melting as it touched the dirt. Underneath was more robust material, a scroll still wrapped around two wooden sticks, the sort of thing large enough to be seen in the hands of an official by a multitude gathered to hear some ancient proclamation. The part exposed to light was written on what Lang guessed was vellum or parchment. Large patches were missing, holes that consumed whole sentences. Still, Lang knew he was lucky. Other documents of like age, the Dead Sea Scrolls, the' Oxyrhynchus Papyri, had been discovered sealed in jars but had been in fifty thousand or more crumbs that scholars had been piecing together for half a century. Wary of touching a manuscript so old, he leaned down on hands and knees to see what he might have found. The text was in Latin, Hebrew, and a script he did not recognize, most likely Aramaic, the pastoral tongue common to the peoples of the Middle East at the time of Christ.
He started to put the scroll back into the jar, then stopped. He knew he should do whatever seemed necessary to preserve such an ancient and possibly historically significant writing, the only known contemporaneous evidence Christ had even existed. He was aware that, should his harming of it become known, he would be excoriated by academic, archaeologist, and historian alike.
On the other hand, he neither knew nor associated with any of the above.
And the contents of this jar might well give him a clue as to Gurt's killer.
A no-brainer.
He separated the two rolls and began to read the tattered paragraphs.
What he saw was surprisingly similar to the abstruse phraseology of the indictments returned against his own clients. No wonder the lexicon of the law was founded in Latin.
The Romans had perfected legal obfuscation long before modem lawyers.
The part of the scroll he was looking at charged the reus, defendant, with publicly encouraging the people retinere, to withhold, legally due taxes by equivocating or questioning what was actually due Caesar. Another accused of attempting to foment, fovet, distrust of Rome's ability to fairly distribute food by pretending there was a shortage of fish and loaves when in fact an ample supply was at hand, as evidenced by what remained. Refusing to recognize the divinity of Caesar, insisting on exclusively worshiping the god of the Hebrews.
Lang could have spent the rest of the night reading of the offenses against Rome, all of which would have been treason, all of which would have carried a sentence of death by crucifixion.
He sat down hard. Not only was he looking at the only surviving simultaneous record of Christ's existence, he was seeing a Christ quite different from the man portrayed in the Gospels. Leb Greenberg, the Emory professor, had been right: More Lenin than Gandhi. He was also right that the Gospels perpetrated perhaps the greatest historical revision known by blaming the Jews
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for the death of an enemy of Rome. This was definitely not something the Church would want known.
He could understand why the modern-day Catholic Church would go a long way to make sure the words in front of him never saw light. In fact, he was surprised the scroll had been left here instead of either destroyed or removed to those very secret archives available to few besides the Pope himself. Another look at the columns gave him a possible answer: Until the excavation was done here, no one could have gotten to the amphora even had its existence been known. By the time the dig was under way, it would have been difficult to tell what was actual support and what was simply a part of the original supplanted St. Peter's Basilica.
The Church, had it known of Julian's prank, his secret, would have thought it safe from discovery. Had the Vatican known of the inscription at Montsegur?
No way to know.
The medieval Church, the Inquisition, would have suppressed any trace of Julian's secret along with any who even mentioned it. But today? Would they kill to quell knowledge of it? The Church had, after all, survived Galileo, Luther, and Darwin.
Even Dan Brown.
The parchment could well explain why Pius had remained silent, apparently indifferent to Nazi atrocities, maybe even explain why so many Nazis escaped to South America on papal passports issued for fear of revelation of Julian's secret. But today? Things were very different than in the thirties and forties. Advocates of abortion, stem-cell research, gay rights, and other causes opposed by the Church weren't assassinated.
And there were probably those socially conscious souls who would even see Christ the revolutionary more appealing than Christ the submissive. The Church might even gain converts, or at least attract a larger audience.
It had, after all, been playing the same feature for two thousand years.
But if not the Church ... ?
What had Franz Blucher called the organization that had helped escaping Nazis? Die Spinne, the spider. But old Nazis would hardly be interested in shattering Church dogma; they would want to protect their kind.
Like Skorzeny.
But Skorzeny was dead, wasn't he?
Lang stared for a moment into the darkness. Julian, Skorzeny and ...
It was .like a mental meteor shower, brain neurons firing synapses at each other, the Gunfight at the Cerebral Corral. Phrases, faces, places blurring into a realization Lang knew he had unconsciously possessed long before now. He had been an idiot to concentrate so hard on discovering new facts that he had paid little attention to the ones he had.
Ah'mdamned sorry to hear someone survived duty in Berlin back then only to get shot.
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No one had told Reavers Don Huff had been shot. In fact, the close, allbut-prohibitive regulation of firearms in most European countries made murder by gunshot unlikely. Unless administered by the police or some form of government agency.
Any government.
An attack in a jail shared by federal prisoners. And by a prisoner of whom there was no record.
A trainload of treasure that had largely disappeared.
Operation Paper Clip.
A politician's face on television, familiar but unremembered. Because there was no scar. A politician who had reentered the United States on a regular basis from Madrid.
Or somewhere in Spain.
A politician whose plan to strengthen American politics presumably included strengthening the intel community.
Assassins who appeared, knowing he would be on a bridge.
A sniper at Herculaeneum.
How could he have overlooked so much?
Again reaching into his cassock, he took out the communication device Reavers had given him, checking to make sure it was switched off. In fact, he couldn't remember ever turning it on.
He hadn't needed to.
He slammed the contraption against a stone pillar. He was gratified to see it shatter, not surprised a small red eye winked, an LED, light-emitting device, indicating it was operative no matter off or on.
The nature of all cellular phones operating from satellites made them traceable by GPS, but only when in use.
Reavers's gadget had GPS, all right, but not only when actually communicating with satellites. Not only had the identity Reavers furnished him with given advance notice of his travel plans, every move he had made had been tracked to within fifty feet or less.
Lang stood shakily, trembling with rage. Not only had he been deceived, his stupidity in pursuing secrets of early Christianity had cost Gurt her life. He couldn't bring her back, but he could sure get even for her. He could...
The top of the slope was suddenly flooded with light, as if the sun had risen on the Vatican hill for the first time in nearly two thousand years. Shielding his eyes, Lang turned slowly.
"Take it easy, pard'nuh," a familiar drawl ordered. "No need gettin' shot this late in th' game."
Lang let his arms drop, denl0nstrating he had no weapon. Thirt
y feet away and at the edge of the glare Reavers stood. From the snakeskin boots to the belt buckle the size of a hubcap to the ten-gallon hat, he looked the part of the cowboy. But no Colt Peacemaker .44.
Instead, a Sig Sauer P 229 9mm in his right hand.
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That was contemporary Agency.
Just like the one sitting uselessly in Lang's bedside table back in Atlanta.
Lang thought there were at least two more men, each carrying something heavier than a side arm. He could not be certain, because the light was too bright, intentionally so.
"So you were tracking me all along," he said lamely. "No doubt Gurt, too."
"No doubt."
Play for time, that had been drilled into him from his earliest training. When faced with capture or worse, talk, keep your enemy occupied. Sing "Dixie" and tap-dance if necessary. Of course, Reavers had the same training. Lang was betting the man's ego would make him ignore it while he savored his victory.
Lang slowly lowered his hands and tried not to be obvious as he cut his eyes right and left looking for a possible weapon.
There was a long silence before Lang spoke. "What is it you want, Reavers?"
The chief of station shifted his weight as though leaning on something Lang couldn't see. "I think you know, pard'nuh."
Lang's foot touched something hard. A quick glance down showed him the short crowbar at his feet. "Maybe you want what's in this amphora. It could cause the modern Church a lot of grief if someone made its content public."
Reavers frowned, shaking his head. "Don' bullshit me, Lang. You know damn well what I want."
"My silence."
The man leaned even farther toward the invisible prop, grinning, his tone as calm as though he were discussing a roundup just finished. "That's about it, pard'nuh. Sorry."
Lang's foot crept toward the crowbar. "At least let me see if I understand. Tell me if I'm right or wrong. You can do that much."
Reavers nodded amiably. "Shore can. Jus' one caveat: You try somethin'
funny, my friends here'll shoot. Even if you got heat from somewhere, you can't get ' em all. So fire away."
He laughed at the double entendre.
"Skorzeny," Lang began, feeling the iron beneath his foot. "He was involved in that train from Budapest in 1945, the one with all the treasure on it, right?"
Again the grin. "One o' th' things always impressed me 'bout you, Lang: You could draw a line from A to Z without botherin' about the rest o' them letters."
Lang's foot began a slow movement back, no more than the nervous shifting of weight a man about to be executed might exhibit. "And he, Skorzeny, helped himself to part of the treasure, a treasure he had known about since he deposed the independent government of Hungary virtually by himself."
"So far, you're battin' a thousand. Hell, why do need me? You already know the answers."
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"Not quite. Indulge me. In 1945 the Agency, then OSS, decided they would bring some Nazis to the US, those that might be helpful, like Von Braun. Skorzeny was one of them' because he knew where the rest of the train's treasure was and he sure as hell wasn't going to tell anyone while he was awaiting sentence from some war crimes tribunal."
Reavers shifted again, becoming tired of the game. ''You're guessing."
"True, I am. But I'm right, aren't I?"
"Go ahead," Reavers said noncommittally. "I'm listening."
"I'd bet Skorzeny never told you and someone decided to send him back."
Reavers nodded. " 'Cept you couldn't jus' put him on a plane or ship and deport him. Wasn't that easy."
Lang began to scratch. "This damn priest's robe's gettin' hot. Mind if I take it off?"
Reavers gestured with his pistol. "Take off whatever you like, 'Cept I see a weapon, you're dead meat."
"Thanks."
As he slipped the cassock over his head, Lang stooped to lay it on the ground. With the hand away from Reavers, the one in the dark, he picked up the crowbar. Now. he was armed. What use the tool was going to be against automatic weapons was unclear.
Stall.
"So, the Agency made arrangements to ship him off to the only Fascist country left, Franco's Spain. But there was one very serious, unanticipated problem."
For the first time, Reavers appeared interested. "And that would be?"
"While he was in the States, Skorzeny fathered a son. Having been born there, you couldn't just bundle off a U.S. citizen, even one a few months old. I'd guess his mother was making threats, too."
"Bitch!" Reavers spat. "Never met her, came on board long after she had a fatal auto accident, but I unnerstan' she was a real pain in the ass, always askin' for more money."
Lang was trying to look into the lights, ascertain exactly where they were.
"That wasn't the only problem. The kid, Skorzeny's son, knew damn well who he was, insisted on visiting his father in Spain almost every year from 1960, when he would have been fifteen or so, until Skorzeny died in 1974. In case you're interested, the tip off was 1974. The visits ended the year Skorzeny died."
Reavers was not amused. "You couldn't know that about where the kid went, not unless you knew ..."
Lang was guessing now, putting odd pieces together to gain precious time. "That Harold Straight is Skorzeny's illegitimate son? Look at the man, Reavers! Add a scar down his right cheek and he couldn't belong to anyone else. You guys created a whole identity for him but you left the Immigration and Naturalization records of his frequent travels to Spain. Seemed a little peculiar that in all the rhetoric of his he never mentioned foreign travel. You invented an
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identity for him, too. Problem was, it wasn't secure enough. The media, even his political opponents, ran their background checks on computers, I bet. First time someone wants to see the actual records, birth certificate, maybe, school records, et cetera, you have him killed. That was a huge red flag, Reavers."
Reavers nodded again. Was that sweat beginning to glisten on his face?
"Yeah, 'bout the time of Skorzeny's death, I was the new boy on the block, trying to cover up Paper Clip. We knew there'd be a public howl, always is, we do somethin' isn't 'xactly Goody Two Shoes. My predecessor had some of our best forgers fiddle the local paperwork up there in Minnesota. 'Course, anyone who knows documents is likely gonna spot a fake sooner or later but we figger'd the newsies, they'd take a quick look an go away. Fact is, by '74 we'd gotten all the goody outta all those Krauts and congressional committees were beginin' to ask embarassin' questions. We didn't want no more honey, just wanted the bees off'n us. By that time the Skorzeny kid was a big deal in state politics, sure-fire to make it to Washington in some capacity. His old man, Skorzeny, was sort of a mystery man, few if any photos lying around to compare to Straight. That's why we had to take care of Huff. Pity."
''Yeah, shot him in the back of the neck, same way the Russkies executed prisoners at the Lubyanka while you were there. He was getting too close to learning about Skorzeny's son. He wouldn't have let that go, would have kept digging till he found out the boy was very much alive. From there, it's a short step to seeing Straight as your man, the Agency's champ, right?" Lang was almost certain he had located the source of the light; the same two men with automatic weapons were holding powerful torches. Could he get them both at once? No matter, he had to try. "Put Straight in the White House and surprise!
The old Cold War level of funding comes back. You've got a rubber stamp for every plot gets hatched out at Langley. Want to blow up Saudi Arabia? Go to it!
Sabotage the French economy, rig an election in Turkmenistan? Your man, Straight isn't in a position to say no. That's really what all this is about, isn't it, keeping me from finding out the Agency is trying to put its very own stooge in the Oval Office?"
Reavers's amiable manner vanished. "Damn right! An' we'll succeed, 'least America better hope we do. Bunch of mamma's-boy bed wettersrunnin' the country, ' fraid of a bunch o' rag-heads we shudda bombed back into th
e Stone Age right after 9/11. We need Straight like ..."
"Like Germany needed Hitler in 1933." Lang was coiling his body, getting ready to throw the crowbar. "Wouldn't do that, I was you," Reavers advised.
"Throwin' things like that, somebody's gonna get hurt. More'n likely, you. Be a good boy and drop the crowbar."
Now or never, as the books say. Lang dropped a shoulder, ready to sling the crowbar at the nearest light. If he hit it, the man holding it, or even came close, there was a chance the distraction would give him a split instant to dive for protection behind one of the mounds of dirt, tombs, or columns.
"Hold it!" Reavers shouted, the Sig Sauer coming up.
