Secret of the Thorns: Political Thriller (Donavan Chronicles Book 1)

by Tom Haase

  His eyes watered. Shaking, trembling, he stood up and looked around the room. He used his cell phone.

  “Eminence, I have a problem.” He told him what had happened, his voice whiney as he relayed the story, and said he would now call the police.

  “Father, you took an oath to our society and swore allegiance to obey. That is the foundation of our order. We are the secret guardians of the traditions of the church. You must get hold of yourself. Follow our commands as a soldier priest. We also ordered the knight monks of the Templars. Remember, you are a soldier in the war to preserve the church. Live up to it.”

  The Cardinal waited for his answer. He started at the phone in consternation at this Polish priest’s audacity to challenge his authority

  Joblonski remembered the oath, the pledge of obedience and knew the consequences of failure. One priest he knew of had failed the order; a car bomb had ended his life the next day.

  He wiped his tears. “Yes, Eminence, it will be done.”

  “Do not call the police. Take whatever actions are necessary to protect yourself and get out of there. Get the documents to me immediately.” The call ended before Jablonski could reply.

  Joblonski noticed a package of books on the secretary’s desk. He placed the package near the position where his foot had tripped Wozniak, hoping the people who discovered the body would assume the curator had stumbled and smashed his head on the end of the desk. He would tell anyone who asked the curator stayed after he visited with him in his office following the archbishop’s reception. The small splotch of red blood on the desk’s corner would aid in the deception.

  The documents he sought lay inside the open safe. His hands shook and his vision remained foggy. He stooped down and after filling the original container with all the documents, hefted the chest - surprised by its weight. The curator had said that it took four trips for him to carry all of the documents and the chest to the office. Jablonski’s stocky weightlifter frame and the physical training he performed at least twice a week provided the necessary power to lift the chest. He carried the box down the steps.

  The driver saw him emerge from the side door and opened the trunk. After depositing the chest, he slid into the backseat and directed the chauffeur to take him to the home of a former parishioner, the DHL manager in Warsaw. After returning to the archbishop’s residence he sent the fax of the two copies Wozniak had given him to Rome, and then shredded them.

  He called the Cardinal with his updated report.

  Chapter Nine

  Vatican City

  Cardinal Puglisi answered the phone on the second ring. After giving the response to the Agnus Dei, he listened to the Polish priest give an account of the events in Warsaw concluding with the sending of the fax, which had arrived.

  “The man is assuredly dead?”

  “Yes, Eminence. No doubt,” Jablonski answered.

  “You have recovered all of the documents. You left no evidence of their existence?” the Cardinal asked.

  “None. I sent everything to you. He told me just before the accident he planned to copy all the documents on Monday and to announce his findings to the world the same day. Even if he told anyone else there are no documents to support his claim. The location where he found them is still an archeological site but there will be no physical evidence.”

  “You did fine, Father. Thank you.” The cardinal hung up and then nodded his head a few times. At last, he broke into a smile. He would remember that priest in the future but he would have to watch for a possible leak of information in Poland. On second thought, more positive action must be considered.

  The clock struck ten just as the cardinal walked to the window overlooking most of Vatican City. All this —the city and the power that came with it—could be his. And the discovery of these texts could enable him to move a step closer to the papacy.

  But in Puglisi’s experience, humans often made mistakes.

  Something nagged at him about the Polish priest’s report. He realized it was the chance Jablonski failed to collect all the texts. What if he missed something? Perhaps prudence dictated that he take some measure to guarantee it, an additional check just to eliminate any possibility of error. A mistake here could rip the veil Puglisi wanted to put over the find until it was to his advantage to reveal it.

  Yes. He would act right now.

  Puglisi went to his desk where he picked up the phone but had to stop mid-dial.

  The damn incontinence. His condition was a major inconvenience. How humiliating! At least his flowing robes hid that embarrassing diaper. He needed to hurry, the pressure built fast so he moved in long strides toward his private bathroom. He would make the phone call in a few minutes.

  * * * *

  Father Jonathan McGregor entered that dreamy state of near sleep when the memory of that frightful night came to him again. It plagued him constantly, even after all these years. The sound of gunfire, the artillery shells exploding, the sight of his decapitated team sergeant, the corporal bending over with multiple hits to the stomach…All were as fresh as if it had occurred yesterday rather than years ago.

  The memory left Jonathan lying in a pool of sweat.

  Suddenly, the insistent jingle of the phone drove the images away. Jonathan rose from the bed, looking in every direction as he slowly regained his situational awareness. He mopped the perspiration from his brow with an open palm and then ran his fingers through his sandy hair.

  The phone rang again.

  Jonathan stumbled into the main room of his apartment, trying to hurry but the old war wound slowed his movement until he loosened it up. He retained the slight limp in his left leg from the bullet that ripped into his thigh in the Iraqi desert. On reaching the ringing instrument, he picked up the receiver.

  “Hello,” he said, his Scottish accent pronounced.

  “Agnus Dei,” came the distinctive voice.

  “Dona nobis pacem,” he responded with the orders salutation.

  “I have a mission for you of some importance,” came the distinctive high-pitched Italian voice of the Vatican Secretary of State. “I will clear your absence with the pontiff. You’re to leave immediately for Warsaw on a late night flight from Rome airport. A ticket will be at the Alitalia counter for you.” The voice on the phone went silent.

  Jonathan tried to wrap his mind around what this meant. This was the worst time for him to go on a trip. In the morning, he had planned to accompany the Pope on the first leg of his three-week, three continents visit starting in Istanbul.

  There the Pope would present the relics of Saint John Chrysostom to the Orthodox Patriarch. The Pope had decided to refer to the city as Constantinople when in dealings with the Orthodox Church but refer to the city as Istanbul in public statements. The Pope intended the journey to be his first attempt to start the healing process for the rift between the churches caused by the Bull of Excommunication placed on the Patriarch during the crusades. The pontiff would then continue to Africa culminating his journey with a stop in Mexico and Colombia, concluding his three-week pilgrimage to various holy shrines.

  Despite his other commitments, Jonathan replied, “As you wish, Eminence.”

  “You have an hour before you must leave and I will provide transport to take you to the airport. Come to my office as soon as you can.”

  After a click from the other end, Jonathan heard the dial tone.

  Jonathan arrived at the cardinal’s office in thirty minutes with his mind racing to figure out what this sudden trip could mean.

  When he entered the Secretary of State’s office, the door to the cardinal’s office stood open. He went inside and, upon seeing the cardinal, gave a slight bow.

  Cardinal Puglisi gazed at him with barely squinting eyes, and said, “Nothing I tell you is to go beyond these walls.”

  “I understand.”

  “In order for you to be fully prepared for any eventuality, I believe you will need to know the whole truth. You might have guessed that I’ve monitor
ed your career since the day we met. Now I will place my complete trust in you for the work you are about to embark on for our society.” He got up, came around to Jonathan, and took him by the arm. “Come over and sit in a comfortable chair. I poured us a glass of wine.”

  After the two men sat, Jonathan crossed his long legs putting the injured one on top. The Cardinal continued, “We believed from ancient times there once existed a manuscript, a gospel, since it was written by an apostle of Christ. Today I learned a copy of that gospel may have appeared in Warsaw.”

  “This is great news. May I ask which apostle is believed to have written it?” He held his breath in anticipation.

  “The Apostle Peter.”

  Jonathan’s mind felt bewildered, confused. No one had ever said anything about such a gospel either in his seminary studies or here at the Vatican. He took a sip of the wine. “What about authentication?” he asked. “Are we sure about it?”

  The cardinal ignored the question. “The document’s finding has great significance to the Agnus Dei Society. It will also help our agenda of ensuring the rebirth of the classical Roman Catholic Church. We knew that document and many other items, including many manuscripts from Greece and copies from the Library of Alexandria once existed. The Pope sent them to Spain, the safest place at the time in the Roman Empire, just before the sack of Rome. In the centuries following, their continued existence became problematic as the war against the onslaught of Islam hit Spain and the Moors conquered most of that country.” He stopped and sipped his wine as if trying to gauge Jonathan’s reaction.

  The Cardinal continued, “Part of the Gospel of Peter and some Greek texts and a large quantity of ancient Arabic writings may have been discovered in the Polish National Museum in Warsaw. A member of the order has secured them and is shipping them here by express delivery. I have a team coming to do an initial validation of the documents.”

  “That means you will have them tomorrow. What is the purpose of my sudden trip to Warsaw?” Outside, a church bell rang ten o’clock.

  “I do not want anyone but members of the society to know of their existence until I decide to release the information once we authenticate the documents. In Warsaw, there might be some records in the National Museum which have not been…shall we say erased.” The Cardinal took a sip of his wine. “Your assignment is to ensure no written record beyond the original texts exists and if it does to correct that oversight. Anyone who might know about them in Poland will have no evidence to prove their existence if the documents are in our hands. I mean for you to track any evidence of their existence down and erase, better yet, eliminate it, no matter where it leads you. Am I clear?”

  “Very clear.” Jonathan’s mind raced to get to the question that bothered him. What did erase mean? Hopefully, not what it did in the military.

  “You are authorized to use any method or means to accomplish my task. You have sworn the oath. I expect you to follow my orders.”

  Jonathan gave an uneasy nod.

  “From your military records,” the Cardinal continued, “both as a commander and as an intelligence officer, I believe you possess the necessary skills and training for such a mission. It is imperative our society have this gospel.” He told Jonathan about the curator’s death in the museum. “You will have to work around that.”

  “Should we inform the Pope of this discovery?” Jonathan asked.

  “Father McGregor, you are, as of this moment, bound by an oath of silence to our order on everything you have heard here. Tell no one.” The Cardinal pointed his finger at Jonathan’s chest for emphasis. “Carry out your mission as a soldier priest. Now, I believe your transport to the airport is waiting. You need to be on your way. I had to pull some favors to put you on the last airplane out of Rome for Warsaw tonight. It was a full plane but I managed to get you a seat. God go with you.” The Cardinal blessed him and escorted him to the door. “Father, come back when you are certain that the only copies of the manuscripts are in my hands and no one else’s. Make that your only mission.”

  In the car, Jonathan thought something, no more like a feeling than anything logical, that something was missing in the information he received and he didn’t like the cardinal’s insinuation to use any means necessary. The cardinal had held back more than he had revealed, Jonathan believed. In his years in the military, and after ordination, in marriage counseling and hearing confessions, he had developed a sense of detecting the half-truths and the blatant lies people indulge in. The cardinal had not lied, but what could he be hiding? He certainly had avoided telling all.

  At this moment, however, his mission for the cardinal was quite clear.

  Chapter Ten

  Leonardo Da Vinci (Fiumicino) International Airport – Rome

  11:25 p.m. local time

  “Damnit to hell,” Bridget muttered. This security is ridiculous, she thought. We’re no safer now than we were before 9/11. Any terrorists would now put the bomb in his checked luggage or ship it by airfreight. Patience was a must for traveling by air these days, but patience was something she felt a deplorable lack of at present. All the hours in the truck and then on the plane to get here and now she was held up by everyone in front of her acting like this was the first time they had ever been on a plane.

  She tried to relax, but after the harrowing experience in the Ethiopian desert, and now with probably twenty minutes to wait in line, she couldn’t manage to even take a deep breath. Scott’s news demanded she get there before he could talk to anybody. If he let the secret out, no credit would go to a young professor. The old boys would see to that. She had to protect him from such a fate despite what he had done to her in the past. He might possess a recent doctorate, she realized, but he remained naive in the ways of academia. No matter what, he was still her only brother.

  Bridget stopped her wondering about Scott’s discovery and focused on the airport.

  “Next,” the airport security man waved at Bridget. “Come on.”

  “Finally,” she muttered.

  She cleared security with no problems. Now it looked like she would make her connecting flight. The ground staff took her boarding pass and cleared her on to the Alitalia flight. She found her seat on the aisle halfway back in the two-seat configuration on the left side of the plane. She stowed her only luggage, an oversized backpack, in the rack and sat down with her small computer bag on her lap.

  Exhaling she relaxed back into her seat dreaming of the double of something…anything alcoholic…she would order after takeoff. When she heard the flight attendant close the front cabin door, Bridget smiled. Great, now we go, she thought. I’m even lucky enough to have an empty seat beside me.

  Looking up, she noted a man wearing a Roman collar walking toward her row. He stopped beside her and smiled. He seemed somehow familiar, but Bridget discounted that brief feeling. She certainly didn’t know any priests this handsome. His sandy brown hair, coupled with the slight limp, gave a Dennis the Menace appearance. What a waste he’s a priest. To her, the church didn’t seem to be in sync with the modern world.

  “I have the window seat in this row. Would you please excuse me?”

  “No problem, Father.”

  She scrunched up as he stepped over her feet and got into his seat. His head hit the overhead compartments as he slid his tall frame into the small space in the coach section.

  Well, she thought, might as well be friendly if I must sit next to him for a few hours. Besides, I don’t want to think about Scott until I arrive.

  “I noticed your Scottish accent,” she said. “At least, I believe it’s Scottish. Where exactly are you from?”

  “You’re correct, it is Scottish.” He buckled his seat belt as he responded.

  “What do you do, or should I say, where is your parish?”

  “I’m currently working in the papal offices at the Vatican. I’m supposed to be on another trip, but tonight one of my superiors ordered me to fly to Warsaw. You know how it is. Duty calls.” He signaled for
the flight attendant to see if he could order a gin and tonic for after takeoff. She told him he could and he looked at Bridget and asked if she wanted one. He ordered two.

  “What do you do? Looks like you’re out in the sun a lot.” He glanced at her face.

  “I’m working on an archeological site in Ethiopia.” She realized that her appearance must be dreadful. The sand from the confrontation was still in her hair and she had not had time to clean up. She had changed her shirt in the rest room after passing security and had time to only wash her face. It couldn’t hurt to be polite with the priest even though fatigue pulled at her.

  The priest studied her for a few seconds. “In your profession, as an archeologist digging in sites of the ancient world, would you know how to read ancient Greek, Arabic or Aramaic by any chance?”

  The plane reached the end of the runway and started its takeoff role with the accompanying roar of the jet engines. They waited for a few minutes until the pilot throttled back and the noise level dropped.

  After they’d been served with drinks, the priest asked his question again.

  “Why do you want to know?” Bridget inquired. She sensed something from his manner that struck her as odd.

  “Just thought anyone working in an archeological site in Ethiopia might be versed in ancient Greek, Arabic, or perhaps Egyptian hieroglyphics. I don’t suppose there are any who do all three?” He sipped his drink.

  “You’d be surprised. There a quite a few who do but as for myself, I do read Greek and have studied hieroglyphics as well as some Hebrew at university, but my brother is the Arabic expert. I’ll see him in the morning, but I have no familiarity with Aramaic,” Bridget stated. She rotated away in hopes of stopping the conversation in which she had no interest. She did have a basic knowledge of Arabic from her youth with her parents in the Foreign Service but so what?