by Tom Haase
“Is that all?” Cezar demanded.
“No, it continues. The Latin says ‘gives God’s gift of prophesy’ then blanks, the last letters are missing.”
“That’s all?” Scott wanted to know. “What does it mean? What crown?”
“Great job on finding this, Scott. We’ll add it to the other items we located here,” Wozniak said.
Scott saw his opportunity to gain credit for any of his assistance scamper away. These two would hog all the credit. Was it right? It was their discovery, but he found this in the niche. Then he remembered his earlier find. Did he have a moral obligation to tell them about the small piece of paper in his pocket? He had no idea what the paper contained. He would examine it before revealing it. They would undoubtedly take it and add it to their collection.
The right thing to do was to reveal it. Then he might be able to bargain for some credit in the find. In the end he had to do the right thing and he would. Tomorrow would be soon enough.
“Sorry to rush off, Scott,” Wozniak said as he headed for the door preceded by Cezar, “but it’s Friday and I have to leave now to attend a reception at the Archbishop’s residence. It’s already seven-thirty. Can you return tomorrow? I understand you plan to depart in a day or so, but this would help us get a start on cataloging all these parchments.” The curator waited.
Nothing specific, but Wozniak’s eye movements shifted down when he should’ve looked at Scott. The man scanned left and right during their conversation, which to Scott added to a certain lack in Wozniak’s veracity. Scott felt a sense of falsehood emanating from the man. His actions here and his incessant secrecy about the find made Scott feel uneasy.
“Of course, I’ll come in at ten to meet you. I think I may extend my stay in Warsaw, with your approval. One more thing I need to tell you. I believe— no, I’m sure that some of the Arabic texts could possibly be a first copy or the original of the Koran.” Scott stood up, turning toward the door where the curator waited.
“My God. You’re sure. Of course you are. Yes. Yes, please stay. Most kind of you. This is fantastic. Please, tell no one of this until we meet tomorrow. Will you agree to the nondisclosure agreement? You will receive compensation for your efforts. I must, however, get some guidance on how to handle the…press, especially after this information. You understand, I’m sure.” He nodded his head indicating Scott should understand.
“I will agree and I won’t say a word,” Scott said, knowing he now spoke the truth and intended to tell no one else. He moved over to the curator’s side in the doorway.
“I’ll get my secretary to make me a copy of the Latin text you found. They have used the latest technological equipment to copy the documents to maintain their integrity. It’s fascinating how they’re able to do that today. For myself, I find the potential gospel by Peter most interesting. Could you put the copies you have back into the box by her desk before you leave? All the rest are still there and I will decide what to do with them on Monday. The originals are in the safe. We must keep control of all the papers, including these copies, so none leak out. I must hurry. See you in the morning,” Mr. Wozniak patted Scott on the back and started down the corridor accompanied by Cezar, clipping his cane on the stone floor.
After exiting the room, Scott went to the curator’s office where the secretary provided him a copy of the five documents he requested from her database: the two gospel pages, the last two pages from the Koran and the map with a list of items. She then placed all the original documents found in the museum basement by Wozniak back in the environmentally controlled safe.
Tomorrow they would want his signature on the nondisclosure agreement. That’s when he would tell the curator about the small scrap from under the chessboard. For tonight he would take it and the copies the secretary had given him. He’d take it all to his hotel and analyze them there. He wouldn’t be stealing, he assured himself, just borrowing until he returned in the morning including the small scrap of paper.
Tomorrow, before he signed the agreement, he would reveal any of his findings and ask for the credit he deserved for his part in the discovery.
As Scott hurried back to his hotel, he wondered about the significance the scrap of paper in his pocket. Could it possibly hold the power to change everything?
Chapter Four
Warsaw - the Archbishop’s Residence - 8:23 p.m.
A string quartet played in one corner and Stanislaw Wozniak recognized the Violin Concerto in A by Chopin. Waiters glided about to ensure the guests had drinks in their hands. Stanislaw took one from an offered tray. He realized he was a filler at the archbishop’s diplomatic party but it did provide him access to important people in the government.
“Stanislaw, how are you?” said the partially bald, stocky priest with the face of a long-nosed terrier.
Wozniak smiled at his old friend and former parish priest. “Father Jablonski, a pleasure to see you again. How do you like your new position as the personal secretary to the archbishop?” Wozniak put his glasses into his coat’s breast pocket.
Wozniak always enjoyed meeting with Father Jablonski. They had attended the same Olympics as competitors many years ago and became friends. He used a few minutes to lobby for more funding for the museum with three members of parliament before Jablonski returned.
“My job here is busywork for the most part,” Joblonski said while taking his fiend’s arm. “Always something new every day. Not that working in a parish is dull, but this is a different challenge.”
“Could we move to the side for just a minute?” asked Wozniak
“Need to go to confession here?” asked the priest, smiling.
“No. No. But I have found something you might consider of interest. I’m not the staunchest Catholic as you know but this is something I think the church might want to see— or at least have the first look. It’s going to make me famous.”
They walked across the Archbishop’s reception hall. Stanislaw noticed again that the interior décor of the residence contained the essence of a mid-eighteenth century noble’s house, complete with rare and original paintings. The wall tapestry hanging in the rear of the room depicted the scene of the bishop blessing the soldiers from King John’s army returning to Poland from the Vienna campaign. They stopped under this hanging depiction of that historic campaign to admire it.
The cleric put his hand on Wozniak’s shoulder and led him to a small recessed area at the far corner of the main reception room. Stanislaw removed a photocopy of the first page of the Latin text and placed it into the priest’s hands. The cleric started to read. Wozniak then handed him a page of the Arabic text.
“Stanislaw, do you know what this means?”
“I can read the Latin words. But there is more. We also found some Greek and many other old Arabic texts.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen. Would you like a drink?” asked the young man holding a tray of various alcoholic beverages who had waited patiently behind them until this moment. “I have vodka, whisky, and wine.”
Both men took a glass of white wine and resumed their conversation. “I think our discovery may be the first copy of the Koran or perhaps the original from Mohammed’s time. My experts tell me it may be the original Koran with quotes unknown in modern times.” Wozniak stretched Scott’s information for effect as the priest held up the Arabic page.
The waiter moved away. He stopped against a nearby wall rearranging the glasses on his tray. Stanislaw looked at him and assumed the man was waiting to move to someone with an empty glass.
“As I was saying, the document may be the original of the Koran or at least an early copy, probably from the late seventh or early eighth century with some previously unknown verses,” Wozniak said.
Deliberately he decided to omit that he had them scanned into his computer and an American had reviewed the files. Besides, as the curator the fame would be for him and for his museum. It would save his position and forestall any talk of forced early retirement.
“Whe
re did you get these?” Jablonski asked.
“They were in the museum’s basement for centuries. We discovered them by accident. My best guess is that when King John returned, he spent the gold and money from the campaign in Austria to pay the army and then on his own projects here in Poland. He must’ve put the documents, a few parchments, and some papers into chests that eventually made their way to the national museum’s location,” Wozniak took a breath and realized he had spoken much faster than his norm.
“Perhaps,” he continued, “even the monks in the old monastery had them. The museum is located over the ruins. Somehow they ended in the basement of the museum where no one even knew about them until I decided to move an old picture in the lower basement. A nail fell out and pulled a brick with it. I found the hole that lead to the hidden chamber. No one beside myself knows about them. I think someone, perhaps in the Napoleonic era, may have discovered them but—”
“Stanislaw, would you have time to take me to view the original Latin text after the reception?” he asked in a rather excited voice.
“Of course,” he answered, wishing he had said nothing and could go home instead of back to the office.
“I’ll see you in about an hour at the front door and we can go in my car since I know you generally use the bus.”
“I’ll wait for you.” Wozniak now regretted this visit to the archbishop’s residence.
* * * *
Father Jablonski immediately started up the staircase to the office area of the archbishop’s residence. Wozniak’s bragging now compelled him to act. The priest felt an urgent call to a duty he must perform. His breath came in short gulps and he could feel his heart throbbing as he raced up the steps.
He placed a call to Rome. He had received this particular phone number in trust held by those in a position of responsibility as a lifelong member of the Agnus Dei secret society of the Roman Catholic Church dedicated to preserving its power and position in Christendom. He heard the phone stop ringing. There was no greeting. After a few seconds Father Jablonski said, “Agnus Dei (Lamb of God).”
“Dona nobis pacem (Give us peace),” came a high-pitched voice with the response. “How may I help you?”
The priest identified himself and relayed the conversation with the museum’s curator and the man’s finding of the Latin text. When he finished, he waited.
“Secure the Latin text that he showed you and fax it to Rome immediately,” ordered the head of the Agnus Dei society. “You have the number. You’re ordered to obtain possession of all the documents and have them delivered here as soon as possible. Make sure you recover every one. Eliminate every trace of the documents ever existing in Warsaw. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Eminence.” Father Jablonski heard the click as Rome disconnected.
* * * *
At the Archbishop’s reception, the waiter, Hashim Mahdi, served drinks to the priest and the museum curator. Then he withdrew to an area a few feet away. Hashim had seen the text of the Koran in the hands of the priest when he fleetingly looked over Wozniak’s shoulder. Now he listened to the conversation between the two while feigning to search for someone to approach with a drink. The partial reference he heard about the Koran when he offered the drinks made his heart beat faster. When he saw the text, he almost dropped the tray.
The men paid no attention to him. Hashim was, after all, just a drink’s boy. They had no way of knowing the local Islamic Jihad cell had recently selected him for training in surveillance and observation techniques for this type of mission. They had secured a place for him to work at diplomatic parties to gain small time intelligence. Intelligence he was to directly report to the Imam. Hashim was moving up in the organization with the information he had gleaned in previous jobs, but this latest bit surpassed anything he’d dreamed he might hear. He needed to get this to the Imam. This intelligence could do nothing but help his position; it could open the doors he needed for advancement in the organization.
As the priest moved off and the museum curator mingled with other guests Hashim abandoned his tray on a table near the bar. Telling the headwaiter he was feeling deathly sick, he went out of the residence through the kitchen.
Hashim made his way to the rear exit through the archbishop’s back garden. Once outside the garden wall, he slipped off the white waiter jacket, got on his bicycle, and pedaled as fast as he could.
He understood when the man said he thought they had the original or at least a near original of the words of the Prophet. This had to be a great find and he must relay it to the Imam. Besides this information couldn’t possibly hurt anyone.
After the traditional greeting on entering the Imam’s house, the cleric listened with interest to Hashim’s report. He probed Hashim for the specifics of every word he’d heard.
“Have you read the text from the Koran before?” the Imam asked.
“No, it was unfamiliar to me. The curator said his people believed it is from the original Koran and might be a sutra not known in our versions of today.”
The cleric questioned him again on the same points. Hashim’s reporting in the past had always proved accurate and precise. Hashim watched as the robed cleric made a phone call. He said he needed to call Iran and used a cell phone because the connection between Poland and Iran by landline never seemed to work properly for outbound calls but calls from Iran came through without a problem. He believed the government did that intentionally.
While waiting for the call to go through, the Imam said, “You have done well, Hashim. I will pass on this important information to my old friend, the grand ayatollah in the Holy City of Kom. We will then wait for his instructions.”
Chapter Five
Vatican City
As the phone call ended, Cardinal Diego Puglisi glanced about his ostentatious office, taking in the paintings with which he had surrounded himself. The paintings were beyond monetary value, given their great historical and artistic significance.
He gradually lowered his arm, allowing the telephone receiver to settle into its cradle while trying to contain his excitement. The call from the Polish priest could foreshadow great things for him. Such a great opportunity, he thought, but only if the information proved to be true.
Sitting back, he rubbed his nearly baldhead, and reclined the back of his swivel chair. Considering the information, it was important to formulate how he could most effectively use it. The Cardinal decided he must act immediately to gain maximum advantage for himself and for the religious society as a whole.
He moved over to his computer, which for absolute security held no connection to any other system, computer or Internet access. With its four hard drives, two for information and two for backups, the computer held the entire history of the society in its massive memory. After typing in the name of the Polish priest, he waited for images of the cleric to appear. In those few moments he caught the reflection of his face off the computer monitor and he fancied it bore a remarkable likeness to the Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius.
A picture appeared on the screen. When it had loaded, he recognized the Polish priest’s features and remembered meeting the man a few years ago at a recruiting conference for the Agnus Dei society. That meeting took place in the sanctuary of the lower church in Assisi, Italy, the home of St. Francis. The Polish priest had been chatting with another cleric. The Cardinal recalled both men clearly. The other priest’s name was Father Jonathan McGregor and his steel gray eyes had captured the Cardinal’s attention. McGregor’s sharp wit, gracious social manners, and Scottish accent had combined to impress the cardinal.
After McGregor had joined the society, Puglisi managed to manipulate his assignments, having him ordered to the Vatican. It took two more years to maneuver him into the position Jonathan McGregor now held as one of the private secretaries to the Pope.
The Polish priest had done him a significant favor and he would repay it someday. If the documents were what he imagined, then Puglisi would be one step closer to becoming the next Pope. T
hen rewards would be his to distribute.
He returned to his desk and pushed a number on the phone. “Antonio, would you come to my office?” he asked his secretary.
On entering, the young priest bowed and waited. Puglisi observed that the man always acted submissive since he was in the presence of the second most powerful person at the Papal State after the Pope, the Vatican Secretary of State.
“There will be some documents arriving tomorrow from Poland addressed to me. Ensure they remain unopened. And hand deliver them to me immediately. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Eminence.”
“I want you to find a member of the society skilled in Arabic, particularly old style Arabic writing. Also, I need a Greek scholar. Have them come tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock for instructions. Not a word of this to anyone. I don’t want anyone to get wind of it.” Puglisi waved his hand in dismissal.
Cardinal Puglisi returned to plotting how to specifically use the new information. He knew the knowledge of the gospel of St. Peter remained in the hierarchical inner circles of the Vatican but, in reality, no one suspected the gospel existed. An old reference to it suggested it recounted Peter’s ministry, a list of his possessions, and the personal teaching of Jesus to the first Pope. Puglisi guessed the manuscripts might also contain some records of the early church. To his knowledge it had been centuries since anyone had even an inkling of the existence of the first Pope’s gospel.
Many scholars, he recalled, thought the gospel lost during the plundering of Rome. The other writings the priest had described didn’t interest him as much, but he might employ them to his advantage once his academics translated all the documents. If he could recover the gospel, translate it, and present his findings to the world, he would become the preeminent Cardinal. He would become the leading contender to replace the current extremely liberal-minded pontiff.
