by Tom Haase
“We get out of here and go find our destinies.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Barcelona, Spain
“I’ve never seen a church like the Sagrada Familia,” Bridget said as they left the construction area of the unfinished monstrous church. “They estimate it’ll take another fifty to a hundred years to complete it.”
“It’ll be something when it’s finished,” Scott said. They walked toward the harbor in silence.
“You have everything with you for the trip?” he asked.
“Sure do. I’ll hand it to you, this is a smart move. We’ll get out of here and hopefully into the States without anyone knowing until we’re there.”
Scott suggested they take the Metro to the Drassanes exit. When they emerged onto the street, they gazed at the towering bronze statue of Christopher Columbus ensconced on a limestone pillar in the traffic circle. They crossed Avenue Colon and walked out on the Moli de Barcelona to the cruise ship dock.
“It’s a big ship. Let’s get to our cabins. I got them side by side.”
“Great. I like sharing, but enough is enough. For this trip I need my own space.” She put her hands together and then spread them apart.
“For what? What are you going to do on a cruise liner?” Scott asked, shaking his head.
“I’ve always wondered and now I’ll find an answer. There has to be some adventure on board.” She smiled at him.
“You mean some trouble you can get into.”
“I hope so.” Bridget smiled.
“Hey, you did well on getting these,” Bridget exclaimed on arrival at their cabins. The accommodations were small but tastefully decorated with a queen size bed and a private toilet. The most impressive thing was a small balcony with two chairs.
“Now we can relax. No one is shooting at us, no one is kidnapping anyone, and no one is following us,” Scott said.
“The man at the gangway said lunch is served and I’m hungry. We have three hours before we sail. I think I’ll eat constantly after the last few days of starvation. Come on.”
Chapter Fifty
Vatican City - Two days later
“I’m sorry, Father McGregor, but no one has booked tickets out of any airport in Europe under the names you gave me,” the cardinal’s secretary informed him.
“Can you check on credit card usage under that name?” Jonathan asked.
“Do you have the numbers?”
“No.”
“It will be difficult. I’ll try,” the secretary said.
Jonathan went for a walk. He wandered around the area close to his apartment. After an hour of strolling with no clear purpose, he found himself in the massive square in front of St. Peter’s Basilica. The mammoth church reminded him of the letter he had read in the Abbot’s office. He marveled at the magnificent structure over the tomb of St. Peter. He had convinced himself that Peter had the opportunity and so he could well have brought the Crown of Thorns with him from Jerusalem.
It made more sense that his successors would have kept the relic intact, not divided it in the way St. Helena did with what she claimed was the crown worn by Jesus. Romans didn’t divide things up; they kept whole items together like they tried to do with the Empire to ensure it lasted for centuries. Parts of the alleged crown discovered by St. Helena appeared all over Christendom. If all the pieces were put together, from all those relics of the crown scattered through the world, Jonathan concluded, they would weigh at least a hundred pounds.
He entered the largest church in the world and strolled down the center aisle to the statue of the sitting Peter. He meditated while he focused on the black and gold figure.
He whispered, almost like a prayer, “How did you do it? Did you bring the crown of thorns with you? You, of all people, had the opportunity. You were there when they scourged him and you went to the tomb to find that Christ had risen. You had plenty of chances to acquire the crown as the leader of the apostles. You would surely want something from his passion. But what would you take? The clothes would be of no use since scripture says the soldiers cast dice to divide them among themselves. The cross, impossible to carry or take with you, but the crown of thorns was small and transportable. I believe in my heart you took that sacred relic and brought it to Rome. It makes sense. Now I have to find it and return it to your basilica.”
He walked through a crowd of African pilgrims to a side altar, the one against the back wall opposite the glass enclosed La Pietà by Michelangelo. This superlative sculpture rested a good distance from the rococo columns of the main altar where the tourists usually gawked at the beauty of the edifice over the tomb of the first Pope. He prayed to God for guidance on what to do and for help in finding the Donavans.
After and hour, he returned to his apartment. He called the cardinal’s office.
“Father, I believe I have what you want. A Scott Donavan used an American Express card in Barcelona two days ago. It was at an office, not the airport. He took cash. He did the same thing yesterday. No transaction occurred today.”
“Thank you. Can you check on the hotels there and see where they are staying.”
“That I can do. I’ll call you back.”
“Use my cell number. I’m leaving for Barcelona.” He waited a second after the cardinal’s secretary hung up, then looked at the crucifix on his wall. It never failed to amaze him how a little prayer could get such results. The cardinal, he suspected, wanted the gospel and the crown for his own use, maybe even to be pope, but surely for the good of the whole church. Jonathan felt he now understood the reason for Puglisi’s headlong insistence on its recovery with no trails. He, however, wanted to bring back the Crown to its rightful home, close to the Apostle who had brought it to Rome those centuries ago.
On the flight to Barcelona, Jonathan tried to guess what the Donavans would do next. They must be keeping a low profile since no airline had issued a ticket. They would take precautions. He didn’t think they possessed the ability to acquire fake passports and to travel incognito in Europe. Many hotels reported a foreigner’s presence to the police and everyone needed a passport to exit the European Union at an airport. So what were they doing? He would arrive in an hour and initiate his investigation to find the elusive pair.
* * * *
Jonathan arrived in Barcelona at four in the afternoon. He realized the difficulty he now faced in trying to find Scott and Bridget in a city of such size. They were his best lead to follow to secure the sacred relics.
A week ago he only focused on his office as one of the pope’s secretaries and was delighted to have such a position. He had access to the pontiff who knew him by name. The society had put him into a key position to monitor the happenings at the heart of the Roman Catholic Church. Now pursuing an even greater goal, he had to find and return the holy relics. He had his orders and his vow of obedience.
After a twenty minute taxi ride from the airport, he arrived downtown. Why not go to Las Ramblas, the center of the old city?
At the hotel the cardinal’s office had given him, he learned the Donavans had paid and left. He found his own hotel and after changing into a blue sport shirt and tan pants he went in search of his targets – a daunting task in a city this large.
The street of Las Ramblas provides a wide center walkway between the divided pavements. Jonathan had visited here before and knew of the city’s beauty and its expansive tree-lined streets. On Ramblas thousands of people were out for a walk. The ‘mimes’ in all manner of dress and painted bodies plied their trade to get a few euros. The children laughed at the antics and sometimes cried at the sudden changes in expressions by the street mimes.
After failing to see the Americans, Jonathan went to bed early when he completed his evening prayers. They had to get to States. How could they do that?
At eight the next morning he went to a fast food place opposite the hotel for breakfast. Then he meandered along the nearly deserted street, which on the evening before teemed with humanity. He found the America
n Express office the cardinal’s secretary said a Donavan had used.
“I’m looking for a young American,” he told the clerk, a beautiful young woman whose nametag read, ‘Adelina’. “His name is Scott Donavan. I was supposed to meet him here yesterday but I only got in from Rome late last night. He told me on the phone he planned to get money at this office and I wondered if you could remember him.”
“I’m not sure. There are so many people, but I do remember a handsome young man, about six feet and striking blue eyes in here yesterday.”
“That sounds like Scott. Could you be kind enough to tell me how much money he took here? I will catch up with him and I don’t want to take more money than needed. He did tell you were he was going didn’t he?”
“Sir, I can’t tell you about the money. I’m sure you understand.” She put on a pleasant smile.
“Of course. Did he tell you anything of his plans? I have no number for him and I have to catch up with him. Unfortunately, my plane had a mechanical problem and we had to return to Rome, then back here so I missed our rendezvous. Now I’ve lost him. I don’t think he has a cell phone.”
“Well, we did talk while I prepared the money for him. He is a true gentleman but a little shy. I asked him what he was planning to do. He mentioned he was going to the harbor to see about a cruise.”
“I’ll try there. Thank you.”
Jonathan left the office and grinned to himself while he walked down the street toward the harbor. How clever of them. Why didn’t he think of it? Two days of money taken from the American Express, no airplane tickets, no strict passport control on a cruise ship except to turn it in on boarding and receive it back at the destination, the perfect way to sneak out and no one would find a trail to follow until the ship’s company updated its records online.
Arriving at the harbor, he inquired about the ships that had sailed in the last two days and discovered their destinations. The most likely was one going to Miami on a reposition for the fall season. It departed yesterday.
He called the secretary in the cardinal’s office. “I need you to find out if the Donavans are on a cruise ship named Insignia of the Oceania Line. It’s on a reposition trip to Miami. It left here yesterday.”
Two hours later the answer from Rome confirmed his suspicion. Now he knew where to go and when to get there.
Chapter Fifty-One
Rome, Italy
Jonathan returned to Rome on the afternoon flight. What course of action should he take? Every option he could imagine had its difficulties.
“What have you learned?” came the voice of the cardinal when he answered his phone.
“They took a cruise liner to the States. They will arrive in ten days. I plan to be on hand to follow them. They might know more about the manuscripts by then. I’m certain they’ll use the time to do research. I believe they can solve the mystery of its location from what they’ve done so far. They hold a copy of the letter from Ponce de Leon and we don’t.” He hesitated, and then added, “I will succeed in this mission, Eminence.”
“When will you leave?”
“Their ship arrives in eight days. I’ll leave before then, but first, I must to do some preparation for the trip.”
“I will be in Savannah, Georgia, in eight days for a bishop’s conference. I’ll be there for a few days so here’s the cell number where you can reach me.” He gave Jonathan the number. The cardinal ordered, “Keep me posted on everything you do. I might have to change my plans if you find it.”
“I will do as you request.”
“See that you do.” Jonathan heard the click when the cardinal disconnected.
It was obvious the cardinal’s planned trip would ensure his presence when the manuscripts and relics came to light. The man would somehow take full credit for the discovery. No doubt he already had a plan to explain how he managed such a feat. That didn’t bother Jonathan because it was for the society and for the church. The goal would be worth it.
Another problem plaguing his mind required his presence for a few days in Rome before going to America. Things were getting dicey. He had to act in accordance with his conscience.
He noticed the blinking light on his answering machine. Only a few people knew his number and seldom called him at home. He hit the play button. When the first message started he recognized his mother’s voice. She wished him a happy birthday. He had forgotten about his birthday. He called her and talked for ten minutes.
Then he played the second message. He recognized the voice of Captain Alfred Grossman, commander in the Swiss Guards. This call presented a real stroke of luck. The traveling Pope would not return from his three continent trip for another two weeks. The Pope’s absence would not stop the duties carried out by the Swiss Guards but when the head of state traveled the pressure on the commander relaxed and he had some free time. Jonathan hadn’t seen him since he picked up the surveillance gear. The captain’s message invited him out to dinner the next night. No more messages played on the machine.
Jonathan went to the fridge and took a beer. He returned to his chair looking out on the dome of St. Peter’s. The call from Grossman provided an answer to his prayers.
He had met the captain just after taking up his position in the papal office. The captain’s background investigation on all who had direct access to the pontiff had revealed Jonathan’s military experience. Their first meeting reminded him of two soldiers meeting for the first time. They talked of units in which they had served, battles fought, won and lost, places of assignments, and other general topics concerning the military in general.
He made the call. “Alfred, Jonathan here. I’d be delighted to meet you for drinks and some grub tomorrow evening. What time?”
“Great. Say eight at the usual.”
“I’ll be there.”
Jonathan returned to his chair and watched as the sun set over the dome of St. Peter’s. He indulged himself with another beer and let his mind relax. Talking to the captain stirred the old memories of the army. He didn’t want to go there, not now. Somehow his mind wasn’t paying attention to what he wanted. He sipped his beer, shut his eyes and a picture of the Iraqi desert emerged from his consciousness. He visualized the scene just as vivid as on that night.
* * * *
The Battalion commander drove off in his vehicle after ordering all troops to dig in and stay where they were. The high command wanted no more casualties since the hostilities were coming to an end.
“We have them beat. Sit tight,” he said, “and we go home after the cease fire. Dig in and wait. Don’t move from this position.”
That was great news to the combat infantry company in which Jonathan served as a lieutenant. His promotion to captain was in three days with a move to another unit. Digging in and staying put would be perfect and a good rest for the lads who had been on the front line for two weeks solid.
“Lieutenant McGregor, over here,” the company commander called to him, pointing away from the troops. What the hell had he done now? He had tried his best to get on, but the man was insufferable, demanding barracks lifestyle while on combat operations. When he reached where the captain stood, he took off his beret and waited.
“McGregor, I want you to take a squad from your platoon and set up an observation post on top of that ridge.” He pointed to the large-scale map of the area.
“But, sir, it’s over a thousand yards and I thought battalion ordered us to stay put here.”
“Be ready to move out in ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” Jonathan heard the order and couldn’t believe the captain was directly violating the command from the battalion commander. He, nevertheless, was the lieutenant and had to obey his orders. The location on the map was a poor position for an OP and too far out from the parent unit. What the hell was the captain up to? Was he trying to get them killed? It sure looked like it. He wasn’t the greatest military tactician in history but this was a crazy thing to do. They had no idea if they would have artillery supp
ort at that location.
He walked back to his men. “First squad, come with me. We’re going to set up an Observation Post out on that ridge over there.”
“What the hell for?” the platoon sergeant asked. “It’s too far out.”
“Fill your canteens and let’s go. It’s already getting dark. We’ll be lucky to dig in before nightfall,” Jonathan ordered.
They trudged through a thousand meters of sand to get to the position. They walked toward the setting sun as it hung just above the horizon. The glare of sunlight forced them to look down to avoid peering directly into the orange globe.
The rat-tat-tat of a machine gun broke the silence and the platoon sergeant took the round in the head. Mortar rounds started to impact and a corporal had his midsection blown apart, splattering blood and guts over the soldier beside him. Rifle fire erupted from the ridge in front.
“Move forward. Move forward,” shouted Jonathan. “Charge the position.”
The remaining men followed him and they stormed the defenders of the hill. In less than a minute it was over. They took the hill. Three Iraqi surrendered, four lay dead, and three wounded. Jonathan looked to his men: two dead and three were wounded. They had walked into it and when the ambush erupted, he realized there was only one way to survive – charge the hill. Running away would ensure annihilation in the kill zone.
The radio squawked and the CO clamored for a report. The captain came on. “Slasher 26 this is Slasher 56, give me a sitrep.” The captain wanted a situation report. All the gunfire and the mortars going off could be heard for miles.
“Slasher 26, this is Slasher 6. Give me the sitrep and your location.” Slasher 6 was the battalion commander. Jonathan thought this opportunity provided the perfect time to take revenge for his company commander ordering him out here against the battalion commander’s orders and for the loss of his men.
“I’m at grid 365589, two dead and three wounded, need medevac immediately.” He had to get the medevac helicopter. There was silence for a minute. “Slasher 26 helicopters on route now ETA ten minutes. Slasher 56 report to my location.”
