by Tom Haase
He turned to look at Jibril. The other man seemed satisfied with Hashim’s harsh treatment of the American woman. As the two men departed the room, he released a sigh. No physical damage had been inflicted on the girl and Jibril seemed to agree with the need to keep her alive as a chip.
“If we try to kill them again they might run. Then we lose any chance of getting the documents.” Hashim hoped Jibril wouldn’t chase the boy and try to kill him as he had done last night. That had to be prevented.
“Go to the hotel and be there before that boy gets up,” Jibril ordered. “If he leaves the hotel, follow him.”
“How is the arm?” Hashim wanted to change the topic.
“It’s just a nick. Barely broke the skin. I bandaged it and forgot about it.”
The next morning Jibril joined Hashim at the stake-out. Hashim had position to have a view of the hotel entrance himself standing on the sidewalk within a few feet of the car. “I didn’t want to wait in the car. The sun is already hot at this early hour,” Hashim said.
“You want a drink, boy? You must develop stronger mental control. In Iran we train to endure any such inconvenience when on a mission.”
“I could stand a coffee. Do you want one?” asked Hashim, ignoring the barb in Jibril’s comment. He watched the other man clench and unclench his fist in apparent frustration. With a secret smile, Hashim walked away down the sidewalk to a nearby cafe.
When he returned with the drinks, he found Jibril inside the car in the passenger seat. Hashim go into the driver’s side and the two waited in silence. Two hours later, the American and the other man who’d been with yesterday both emerged from the hotel.
Hashim’s earlier training on tracking and tailing a suspect would now be put to good use in this surveillance. He followed and watched as they entered a monastery. Hashim held his hand up for Jibril to see. He wanted them to stop and not get any closer.
“We need to back off a little and observe from across the street. We’ll see what they are up to,” Hashim urged.
“You’ll do as I say. I can see them in that room through the window. There is only one other, a monk I believe, with them.”
“Let’s wait,” Hashim said.
“I’ll stay and walk the street to see when they come out,” said Jibril. “You stay right here as backup.”
“How long?” Jibril asked when he came by Hashim’s position for the tenth time.
“You are impatient. It’s only been fifteen minutes. They must have found something last night to lead them here. Since they are apparently still searching, I don’t believe they found the Holy Koran in the Christian church. We should wait.”
“Look, they’re back in the room with the monk,” Jibril said.
Hashim focused on the window. Shortly after the monk left the room and the two huddled over the desk for a long time. Hashim checked his watch; twenty minutes more had elapsed.
Jibril ground his teeth. Red faced, he hit his open palm with a clenched fist. The man was about to explode, which was not good for Hashim.
* * * *
In the monastery’s office, Scott examined the Abbot’s Book and found the pages and entries around the beginning of the sixteenth century.
“Look. Here is a letter from Ponce de Leon to the Abbot Filipo. The abbot was his cousin according to the letter.” Scott continued to read the documents. His Spanish was excellent and he had no problem translating at the same time.
“Scott, here in the letter is a list of things. It appears that our dear abbot at that time was the thief of the tomb under the altar. The list attached to the letter is in Latin. There is also so kind of code at the bottom of the letter.”
“You’re the Latin expert, can you read it?” Scott asked.
“My God, it says there were over two tons of gold in the Abbot’s possession, many chests of silver and thirty manuscripts.” Jonathan let out a low whistle. “You’re not going to believe this. It says the treasure also contained the staff used by St. Peter, encrusted with diamond and rubies, and the writings he dictated to a convert in Rome.”
“That was some haul he made to get it all over here to this place. Does the letter have the location?” Scott asked.
“Keep reading and maybe you’ll find out.” Jonathan dropped down into the chair behind the desk.
“What?” Scott asked.
“The list,” Stephen said, looking up, “says the Crown of Thorns worn by Jesus Christ during his passion is in a gold, emerald-encrusted reliquary.”
“That can’t be,” Scott offered.” There are so many pieces of the crown of thorns all over the place. I once heard there are over seven hundred supposedly real parts of the crown of thorns placed on Jesus’ head.”
“All theoretically acquired by St. Helena, the mother of the Byzantine emperor. She also claimed to have found the true cross and there are thousands of pieces of it all over the world. Those bits of wood are venerated and worshipped as relics among the faithful.”
“Why would this be any different? Just another scam,” Jonathan said.
“Perhaps, but maybe Peter brought it with him to Rome. It stayed there until the Vatican sent the manuscripts and these relics to Spain for safekeeping before the invasion of Rome, then perhaps the intact crown of thorns exists. But the Pope would have known,” suggested Scott.
“Maybe, maybe not. The occupation of Rome and the succeeding years erased the memory of what had occurred before the invasion. The people here in Spain had it but the Moors overran the country and the existence of these things faded from memory.”
Scott picked up a piece of paper. “I found something. It’s a letter from Ponce de Leon thanking the Abbot for all the support he had given him and ensuring him that he had spent it wisely to enhance his governorship in Hispaniola.”
“Did he spend everything?” Jonathan asked.
Scott kept reading; he stopped after a few seconds to pick up another page from the Abbot’s Book. “No, I don’t think so. He says he has the rest of the Abbot’s gift with him in his governor’s mansion. He says he is keeping his promise to ensure Filipo knows where it is in case of his death or if Filipo needed any support.”
“So it is in the governor’s house in the New World?”
Scott waited to answer. He kept reading and found another letter dated 1521. “No, he took the entire collection with him on his journey to Florida to set up a new colony for Spain. This letter is not in the same handwriting as the others.”
Scott took some time to read ahead, and then continued, “According to this letter, he buried it in Florida while founding a new city, but the Indians attacked and before he could recover the items and escape, he was wounded. They evacuated him to Hispaniola. It’s a letter written on his deathbed. He says he will die soon and the Abbot’s gift is still in Florida. At the end, there is a long list of letters and numbers.” Scott waved the paper. “Can you believe he took the Crown of Thorns with him? And guess what else is here? Another damn code.”
“That code may lead us to where he hid the Crown of Thorns and Peter’s staff. It appears the fool took those with him to America,” Jonathan concluded.
Scott started copying the coded message onto a piece of paper. When he finished he turned more pages in the book but found nothing else he could use. “What’s it worth?”
“There is no value on those items. They could be worth billions because of what’s called ‘presence’, the intrinsic value of things possessing so much value that the value is beyond money. Maybe Christ’s DNA is on the thorns. What a find that would be!”
Scott gathered his notes and put them in his backpack. He led the way to the door.
The abbot appeared as he opened it. “Did you find what you needed?”
“Maybe,” said Jonathan. “We thank you for your help.”
The abbot took the book and returned it to the safe. He twirled the combination and pushed the sconce up to cover the access portal. He turned back toward them, “Good day, and God go with
you.”
They walked out of the monastery.
“Now what? We don’t have the manuscript and the deadline is only an hour away?” Scott asked.
“I suggest you go to the hotel and work on the code for now. I’m going to call on my friend, Father Castile, to ask if he can help locate your sister.”
“How can he?”
“I know he has contacts with the police. Let me try. There is nothing we can do and if the kidnappers do try to contact you, it’ll be at the hotel.”
* * * *
“They are leaving,” Hashim said.
“I don’t see any manuscripts. They should have a large box or something to carry if they had the scrolls. They didn’t find it.”
“They might have learned something from the monk.”
“Let’s go find out.” Jibril started toward the monastery entrance.
“What?” Hashim asked, but it was too late. Jibril ran across the empty street and plowed through the window of the abbot’s office. The sound of shattering glass reached Hashim’s ears and he saw fragments of the destroyed frame fall to the ground at the base of the window. Hashim ran across the street but stayed outside in case anyone approached. The street was more like a side alley with no one in sight. He looked in the broken window.
Jibril had recovered from his explosive entry. He grabbed the monk. “What did they take? The two who just left here.”
“What are you talking about?” the abbot asked trying to push the man away.
“What did they learn about the Holy Koran?”
The abbot’s face showed incomprehension. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Jibril pulled his pistol and shot the man in the leg. The monk collapsed.
“I saw you open a safe. Open it.”
The abbot didn’t move. Jibril shot him in the arm. “Now tell me what they learned here.”
“I don’t know. May God forgive you.”
“Keep your God monk. There is only Allah.”
“Jibril,” Hashim shouted, “someone is coming.”
* * * *
Jonathan hurried back to the monastery. He needed to get a copy of the document from the Abbott’s book for the Vatican. On rounding the corner near the entrance to the Abbot’s office, he picked out one of the two men who had kidnapped Bridget. He heard a gun shot. The man stood in front of the smashed window of the abbot’s office. On seeing Jonathan, the man shouted and ran down the street.
Jonathan rushed toward the window, drawing his weapon as he approached. He peeked through the window and saw the abbot lying on the floor. A man raised a gun at the prone monk. He didn’t want to shoot the man but it was like the night in the desert, he had no choice. The presented choices forced him to make a decision between his beliefs about the sanctity of life and the necessity to preserve life. He made the choice. Two times he pulled the trigger. Two rounds entered the assassin.
Jonathan turned back to search for the other kidnapper, but he had vanished.
Chapter Forty-Two
San Matias District, Granada, Spain
Hashim, passed the single guard and descended the stairs to the room of Bridget’s confinement. He unlocked the door and entered the room, closing the door. Hashim pulled a gun from behind his back and placed it on the table next to Bridget’s chair. Trying to work quickly, he untied her arms and took a small knife from his pocket, opened the blade, and started to cut the tape that bound her legs.
“Don’t say a word,” Hashim said as he ripped the tape from her mouth. The area around and under the tape was red and looked quite raw and tender. His breath came in short gulps. “I’ve got to get you out of here.”
“Why?” When he had cut all the bindings, the woman jumped up and grabbed the gun before he could stand up. She pointed it at him. Hatred emanated from her eyes. “Who are you anyway? I thought you’re a terrorist.”
“No time to explain right now. Just follow me and be quiet. I’m on your side.”
“Sure you are. All terrorists are on our side. Right?”
“Listen. We only have a few minutes to get away.” He took a step toward her.
“Shut up before I blow your head off,” she shouted at him.
It was time to come clean. He couldn’t before in case she blabbed his secret if she was tortured. He had accomplished his mission to get into the decision making level of the terrorist all too well. Now he would sacrifice that to save the woman. They both had to get out because the Iranians would know he let her go.
“I’m an American soldier. Listen to me, damnit. We need to get out of here before they find out Jibril is dead. I couldn’t tell you before in case you let something slip. Now it doesn’t matter. I have to get you out of here.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” She still pointed the gun at his chest.
Hashim slowly closed the knife and returned it to his pocket. “I’ll give you a short version. My name is Lieutenant Anthony Mahdi. I’m with army intelligence operating undercover in Eastern Europe to keep tabs on the Iranian fundamentalists. I’ve worked my way up in their organization in Poland and that’s how I happened to be on this operation. That all ends now because I have to get you out of here before they kill you. We have to go, now.”
He spoke as fast as he could and hoped she could comprehend his meaning.
“The men they sent from Iran are from the Presidential Guard and they will kill you as soon as they get the document or the ones here will if they find out Jibril is dead. The man with your brother killed Jibril a few minutes ago. I saw it. I got away and came here to get you. Now put the gun down and follow me, or we could both be dead.”
He could see the doubt in her eyes. She was rolling it over in her head but taking too long.
“I’m from Chicago, Illinois, of Iranian parents who escaped before the Shah fell. It was a Polish neighborhood and I learned the language there. The village they came from was destroyed in an earthquake. No records left. So I used that as my entry into their organization as someone born in that village where they couldn’t check the records. I had to learn about Islam, would you believe it, I’m a Catholic.
“The Defense Intelligence Agency runs a group of us who have penetrated their network. We report on what is going on to warn our government of impending attacks before they happen. If we kill off the birds we watch then we must start all over again to penetrate the next cell. It’s smarter to keep working on the inside. No matter what action we might take, someone else will replace them. Then we have to start all over getting into the confidence of the new terrorist leader.”
He stopped and waited a few seconds for her to digest the information. “Why do you think there have been no attacks on American soil in years? We’re out here making sure they’re intercepted before they can harm Americans. Now either shoot me or follow me. Please, we have to go.”
Bridget set the gun down. “If you had judged me wrong, you’d be dead now.”
Anthony moved closer to her, took the weapon, and kept it in his hand.
Leading the way out of the room, he started up the steps when the guard with a rifle blocked the steps half way up. Seeing the weapon in Anthony’s hand, the man started to raise his rifle. Anthony aimed the pistol and fired before the man could get the weapon into position. He pushed Bridget against the wall. The body tumbled down the steps, barely missed them, and now lay sprawled at their feet.
Anthony decided to attack if they were going to get out of the house alive. He jumped over the corpse and kept the gun pointed up the stairs. Another target appeared. He fired twice. Both rounds penetrated the target in the chest. The terrorist slumped down. Anthony could see the blood splattered on the wall behind where the man had stood. What a disaster. His cover was definitely blown.
He felt the woman rush up behind him. His concentration focused on the stairs above and he dismissed her for the moment. No distractions could be allowed. He had to concentrate and ensure his shots were accurate. They were still outnu
mbered and the chance of getting out of here alive had diminished with each shot because it certainly signaled the other guard that an escape was in progress.
Bridget moved closer to him and he felt her hand grab the back of his belt. He moved forward with her attached. Then a sound came from directly ahead. Someone was running toward them. No, not one but two, and they were shouting for him. They didn’t realize that he was the enemy now.
At the top of the stairs, the Imam and another man Anthony had seen earlier appeared. Both had weapons. They fired as they ran. Anthony flattened himself against the wall as the first bullet whizzed by. Bridget ducked behind him.
Anthony raised his weapon and sighted the target. He aimed for the man’s head. He had to make sure he killed him and then he would engage the other. He couldn’t afford to wound one and wonder if the downed man might come back to life and surprise him. He fired, the gun recoiled and the round entered the target’s head. The Imam returned fire with an automatic AK47 and bullets rained down on them. One slammed into Anthony’s left shoulder causing him to spin backwards.
He felt Bridget grab the pistol from his hand. He released it and hoped she could take care of the Imam.
“Get down,” she shouted as she pushed him forward onto the steps.
Three shots explode directly above his head as he slammed into the stone steps. When he looked up, the body of the Imam tumbled down the steps, and slammed into him. He saw the three bullets in the center of the Imam’s chest.
“Are you all right?” Bridget asked.
Anthony examined his shoulder. A bloody mess but the bullet had gone clear through. Bridget ripped a piece of cloth from the dead Imam’s robe and wrapped Anthony’s shoulder.
“I’ll keep the gun. You’re in no condition to use it.”
“You sure know what to do with it,” he said. Anthony tried a little smile to show his appreciation for what she had done. His adrenalin now kept him going.
“If I remember correctly, that’s all the men in the house. You need to get out before anyone else comes. I can still move with this bad shoulder. The car is outside. Go.”
