by Tom Haase
“We must leave for another meeting. Please excuse us, Scott. I’ll see you at five. We’ll talk more then,” Wozniak said. He grabbed Cezar by the arm. The man spit the coffee back into the cup and the curator led him to the door.
After they’d left Scott alone, he continued to examine the manuscripts. The next time he glanced at the clock, it was almost five. Scott started for the door, keenly anticipating learning the more about the discovery of the documents.
Chapter Three
Addis Abba Airport
Ethiopia – 6:15 p.m.
Bridget relaxed into her seat on the Ethiopian Air, Boeing 737-400. The airplane leveled off at cruising altitude of thirty four thousand feet and entered Egyptian airspace before continuing across the Mediterranean Sea to Italy. Exhausted from the earlier confrontation and the dash to the airport, she really needed a hot bath to get all the sand out of every place on her body but there hadn’t been time.
“Can I get you anything?” the flight attendant asked.
“I’ll have a gin and tonic.” Bridget rewarded herself for her accomplishments of the day…staying alive. The first sip of the cool drink made her relax into her seat and she soon felt the tension go out her neck and shoulders. It would be great to see Scott again and maybe, just maybe to mend the fence, but could she forgive him? It was time she now decided.
On raising her hand for the second taste of the drink, she saw some specks of blood on her shirtsleeve and let out a sigh.
What the hell? It isn’t the same as the last time I had blood on my sleeve. Not like it at all. That was in a different place but still a desert like the experience of earlier in the day. She remembered that day in the desert, another desert – a desert in Iraq. It seemed like yesterday. She guzzled her drink.
It was in a war. A war she would never forget.
* * * *
The small unit was returning from a long-range patrol. The mission had not gone well. Two members of her squad were dead but she still remembered their names. There was Specialist Cunningham. As the unit medic, she had treated the less injured Cunningham while the other, Specialist Schultz, died of mortal wounds. Unfortunately, the one she treated didn’t make it either. After he died, she checked her watch; at least two hours remained before sunrise. The night was cold in the desert. She was walking toward her sergeant and to find out how they were to get the remains back to their lines when she heard automatic weapons fire. The sound came from over the next ridgeline. Her sergeant indicated by hand signals for the unit to climb the ridge and observe.
They ascended nearly to the top and crawled to the crest of the hill. With their night vision goggles they witnessed three Iraqi soldiers lining up a group of civilians. Bodies were already scattered around where the Iraqi’s civilians stood. The soldiers started shooting, slaughtering the unarmed group of people.
“Upon my command open fire on those bastards,” the sergeant ordered. “Now.”
Bridget aimed at the center man and fired until she saw him go down. The bastard had killed unarmed civilians. She felt no guilt at killing the man. He deserved it. This was different from last night when they engaged a regular Iraqi army unit. Then it was soldier against soldier.
She detected firing coming from an adjacent ridge. They were also aiming at the Iraqi renegades. All of the murdering Iraqi soldiers were down; the captives who were alive ran, disappearing into the desert night.
“Cease-fire,” came the order.
“Who’s there?” the sergeant demanded.
“Hold your fire, Yanks.”
Still using her night vision goggles she could make out a British soldier standing up wearing a beret. Only they did that —a beret in combat! Her sergeant got up and moved toward the man. They introduced themselves.
“I’ve got a seriously wounded man. Do you have any medics?”
“No medic,” the sergeant said, “but I have a specialist who’s trained in combat wounds.”
The sergeant called the rest of the squad down the hill to where the dead Iraqis and the nomads or Kurds, whichever they were, lay sprawled on the ground. Bridget went to check the Iraqi soldiers. They were all dead; then she checked the civilians. None were alive.
When she completed scanning the area, the British unit of six soldiers arrived carrying one seriously wounded man. She went to see if she could help. When she had completed her examination of the severe stomach wound, plus the bullet wounds in the man’s legs, she looked at the officer and gave a negative shake of her head.
She pulled out the medical treatment components she had with her and worked for twenty minutes to try to stabilize him. While she treated the wounded soldier, her sergeant and the British lieutenant positioned his men in a protective perimeter around the position.
“Thank you for trying to help my man,” the lieutenant said to the sergeant. Bridget noticed his distinctive Scottish accent.
“I’m sorry there is nothing more I can do for him, and I don’t think it will be very long.” She finally looked up at the lieutenant and noticed his sandy brown hair atop a tall frame. The light was dim but there was enough so she could make out his chiseled facial features.
“What a waste of life. I can’t believe they were just slaughtering those people.” He shook his head and turned looking over the carnage.
“I guess that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” Bridget asked while getting to her feet. They moved over toward the truck that the Iraqis were using as a communication vehicle. She mopped her face and some of the camouflage paint came off, streaking the pattern to a zebra resemblance in the minimal desert light.
“Donavan, get in there and contact headquarters and let them know where we are. Our fucking radio is on the blink,” her sergeant said as he walked past.
She opened the back end of the vehicle and saw that much of the equipment was either broken or shot up. One FM radio seemed to be working and she tuned to her command frequency and notified headquarters of their location. She jumped down from the back of the truck and nearly knocked over the lieutenant who stood in the shadow looking into the van.
“Hey, Sarg, headquarters said that one of their units will link up with us at dawn. We’re to sit tight till then.”
“Great. Just fucking great. No problem, we’ll wait. Thanks, Bridget,” the sergeant said.
“Bridget, What a lovely name. My ancient family has some members bearing that name,” said the British officer with the Scottish accent.
“Sorry, Lieutenant, that I’m not dressed for going to the Savoy.”
“No, Bridget, if I may call you that. Forgive me, I did not mean to insult you. By the way, my name is Jonathan McGregor. I need to thank you for what you’ve done for my man. Please accept my thanks.”
Bridget nodded and they leaned against the back bumper of the truck. She kept an eye on the wounded soldier but knew there was no chance for him to live more than a few more minutes. They talked about where they were from, and what they wanted to do after the war.
“I want to go to university and get my doctorate in ancient Greek and work in archaeology.” She looked down and moved her foot over the sand.
“That should be very interesting,” he said. “When do you get out?”
“I only have four months to go and I’ve already got my application in to the university.” She raised her head and looked at him and realized it was still to dark to see all his features.
“What about you Lieutenant, are you a career officer?” she asked as she examined the dying soldier. She again gave a slight shake of her head so the lieutenant would know.
“No, I’ll be out as soon as the war is over. I go back to my job working for an intelligence agency at home.” The Scottish accent was now barely noticeable; maybe her ears were adjusting to it.
“A spook. I guess you’d have to kill me if you told me anything about what you do.” She smiled.
The beginning of morning nautical twilight was just breaking the eastern horizon as she glanced at his fa
ce. His gray or silver eyes stared back at her. She couldn’t see the color clearly. She realized that he had a handsome face. The wounded British soldier’s breathing stopped and he passed away as the sun rose. They continued to talk for the next hour until the lead elements of her unit reached their position.
They said their goodbyes, wished each other good luck, and departed with their separate units. War was like that. Small glimpses of humanity poking out of atrocity.
* * * *
Basement, National Museum – 6:23 p.m.
Warsaw, Poland
“Cezar will be joining us shortly, but we can start since he already knows about the hidden room,” Wozniak said.
“Hidden room?” Scott asked. “Where?”
“Here in the museum.” Wozniak then recounted how he’d stumbled upon a false wall in basement archive area. Behind the wall had been the documents…and a body almost mummified with age. “Once I found the documents, without realizing there were Latin and Greek text mixed in with the predominately Arabic ones, I realized I needed help. We have no Islamic or Arabic specialist on staff here.” Wozniak said.
Wozniak stopped his monologue and looked at Scott. “That’s when I got the information from your doctorate mentor about you and your Islamic and ancient Arabic studies. We are fortunate that you were in Europe and agreed to come and take a look at our find.”
The door to the curator’s office opened and Cezar entered, halting the fascinating story.
“I suppose you have told Scott everything about the discovery,” Cezar said. “I hope you kept it to the truth. You realize we decided to keep this quiet until we could at least verify some of the documents. We didn’t want to bring any discredit on the museum.”
“I’m at the point where you joined me in the lower basement. Now we can both continue to fill him in from the point on. What you discovered would certainly cause our friend to get excited.”
“Could we not go down to see the actual place where you found the hidden vault?” Scott requested. “I really would appreciate seeing it. I believe I would get a better feel for your discovery.”
Cezar nodded at this suggestion. Wozniak appeared ready to object, but then conceded.
“Certainly, but the body we found will be moved to another section of the museum for analysis on Monday,” Wozniak said and then led them to the basement. There he used his key to open the door descending to the lowest level. Arriving at the vault area Scott listened to the two storytellers as they described the scene on the day of discovery.
“When do you think the vault was built?” Scott asked.
“The Napoleonic era. Amazing that such space could be established without ever appearing on any architectural plans for the museum,” Wozniak said.
Cezar demonstrated how he had examined one wall, running his fingers between the bricks to check the mortar. He strolled over to the part of the collapsed wall and did the same thing.
“I believe the wall hiding the discovery is from the late 1700’s or early 1800’s. But my guess is that it was built at that time but made to look like it was from a previous period of history—”
“Why would anybody do that?” Scott interrupted.
“My first guess is that it was to make people think the wall was much older than that era. It all depends on the things you found in there and what they were trying to hide,” Cezar informed him.
“I’ve seen the plans for the museum from the reconstruction after World War Two. I found no room like the one on the plans.”
“You are right.” Cezar removed the watch from his waistcoat and checked the time. “Remember the museum started in the 16th century and construction occurred over the ruins of a monastery with all those cells and hermit cages built above and below ground. But the museum was rebuilt after the German bombings during the war.”
“But those blueprints should’ve shown this room,” Wozniak said with some conviction.
“In 1970, the rebuilding of this section of the museum started. The architect didn’t get the plans up to date because he was killed in a Solidarity rally with Lek Walesa near the completion of the project. He probably didn’t consider the area of the basement important enough to concentrate on since most of the building was beyond this wall. The total structure of the museum covers this area.”
“Come on, Cezar. Are you telling me that he covered this area using this old wall to save money that he may have pocketed?”
“Maybe he didn’t work on this area because it’s not a load bearing wall. He may have just used beams to carry the weight over top of the space without ever looking into it. Therefore no blueprint or architectural drawing for this space on his plans. Let’s go in so Scott can see. You are now part of our team, Scott.”
“Thank you for the trust,” Scott said.
“I guess your explanation of how this room could have remained hidden all these years makes sense,” Wozniak said with Scott nodding in agreement.
Scott could not imagine how anyone could fake this whole event, unless the curator was part of the plan. That idea he dismissed. Too many people would have to be involved and the old man couldn’t have sealed the place up by himself.
Wozniak said, “I phoned an old friend who had the expertise we needed and told him a little about this discovery and my belief that the documents were in old Arabic. My friend recommended you, Scott, as the only person in the world he would send for this job. He emphasized that you are brilliant, a child prodigy. Please don’t be embarrassed. You’re the only person he knew who could help here. He said your father served in the Foreign Service and you learned the Arabic language as a child. He believed your sister also holds a doctorate but in a different field. He gave me your email and that’s how I contacted you.”
“That’s an amazing account of your discovery.” Scott shifted in his stance after the praise he received. The curator hadn’t looked at him when he piled on the accolades. “I’ve been examining the documents for a few hours and, with your permission, I can continue this evening,” Scott said.
“You certainly may. I will have my secretary prepare a nondisclosure agreement for you to sign, but I’m sure as a professional, you will respect my wishes for this one night.”
Scott decided he would do it. He had already completed the notification to Bridget and there was no one else before he would sign. He decided not to mention his sister’s knowledge of the document’s existence. The curator seemed to always fail to look him directly in the eye. Scott wasn’t sure he could completely trust the man.
Scott walked past both men and examined the skeleton in the chair that the curator had mentioned. He had seen the pictures the curator took but this was the real thing. He examined the uniform and then switched his attention to the chessboard. Some of the pieces were not standing.
“Were the chessmen in this position when you discovered this place?
Wozniak didn’t answer for a few seconds. “No, I accidentally knocked some over when I bent down to pick up the manuscripts. Not as agile as I once was,” he said with a smile.
The curator took Cezar’s arm to steady himself before getting the cane. The two headed out of the vault into the outer hall where they conversed. Scott refocused on the chessboard. He picked it up. The pieces were in a random order as far as he could see. His eye noticed something on the table under the board. He picked up a small scrap of paper. He put it in his pocket to examine later. It wasn’t a manuscript, so it was probably not important. At that moment, he sighted some holes in the far wall.
“Mr. Wozniak, have you examined the walls inside this space? You mentioned a monk cell. Perhaps there are some religious articles from a time before our dead friend took up residence here.”
“I haven’t,” Cezar told Scott. Cezar re-entered and walked to the back wall. “I believe it would be normal for a monk to have a crucifix on the wall and perhaps a small statue of the Virgin or his patron saint. A place in the wall, a small niche could hold them.” In the rear of the room he r
an his hands along the back wall where no light from the hallway penetrated.
“Here, use my flashlight,” Wozniak offered as he entered the space.
The light showed three small niches in the wall three feet off the floor. They were barely three by four inches. Cezar attempted to put his pudgy hand into the spot but its width prevented entry.
Scott bent down on one knee and carefully slid his hand into the space. It went back farther than he expected but only cobwebs clung to his hand as he brought it out. He scooted over to the next one with the same result. On the third niche he inserted his hand, not cleaning off the cobwebs after the first two explorations, and as he withdrew from the last hole something cut the outside of his index finger. The sting resembled a paper cut from grade school days.
He stopped and took some time to curl his fingers. He dragged them along the bottom of the niche. Something caught on his fingernail. What could it be? He pushed his hand in farther and recupped his finger as he started to withdraw. Hasty action was out of the question here. He controlled his excitement by taking two deep breaths and slid his hand along the bottom. The paper started to move as he withdrew his hand.
“What have you found?” Cezar asked.
“Don’t know yet, but I believe some sort of paper.”
He meticulously extracted the piece from its hiding place and placed the paper on top of the chessboard.
Wozniak approached and put on his glasses. “It’s in Latin.”
“Very appropriate for monks,” Cezar said apparently to taunt the curator for an obvious statement. “Of course in Latin.” He made a dismissive gesture apparently to indicate anyone would expect Latin.
“What does it say?” Scott asked.
“It’s missing some words. Actually pieces of the paper appear damaged. Looks like water from the earth ate it away over the centuries.”
“But what does it say?” Scott asked.
“I’ll give it to you in English. There is a C, then an R, then OWN. Then there is a missing word due to smudged earth and water damage. Next it says ‘of prophesy’ so I don’t have clue as to what that means,” Wozniak explained.
