Secret of the Bibles: Suspense Thriller (Donavan Chronicles Book 2)

by Tom Haase

  THE SECRET OF THE BIBLES

  _________

  Tom Haase

  Copyright 2014

  Main Menu

  Start Reading

  Table of Contents

  Historical Events

  About the Author

  Copyright

  The Donavan Chronicles series are the:

  Secret of the Thorns

  Secret of the Assassin

  Secret of the Bibles

  Secret of the Icon

  And the prequel to the series:

  Secret of the Oil

  http://www.tomhaase.com

  TWITTER = @tommhaase

  FACEBOOK = https://www.facebook.com/authortomhaase

  To Mike and Laura Haase

  Historical Events

  All years are A.D.

  64–

  First systematic persecution of Christians by the Roman Emperor.

  313–

  Constantine, the Roman Emperor, issued the Edict of Toleration for Christians. Persecutions cease.

  325–

  Council of Nicaea, the first ecumenical council of the Christian Church. Church declared Jesus divine.

  306–337–

  Constantine the Great ruled the Roman Empire.

  327–

  Helen, the mother of the Emperor, while visiting Jerusalem supposedly found the True Cross and the Crown of Thorns plus other items.

  328–

  Constantine ordered the Bible in Greek to be prepared by the monks in Jerusalem. He ordered fifty copies.

  329–335–

  Constantine distributed the Bibles to selected officials with notes he wrote to each recipient.

  476–

  The Western Roman Empire fell. Most records of the bibles lost.

  1054–

  The Eastern Church separated from Rome prior to the Crusades (1095-1291). Ecclesiastical contacts are severed.

  1453—

  Eastern Roman Empire falls. All public records of the Bibles of Constantine vanished.

  Chapter 1

  Jerusalem

  Saturday night

  The liturgical chanting of the Orthodox monks from the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, only a hundred meters from the bishop's residence, reached his ears. The feast day of the Ascension, the day Christian believe Christ rose body and soul into heaven, now drew to a close. The Bishop of Galilee, also the Archbishop of Jerusalem, could make out the distant prayers and chants through the open window. A refreshingly cool evening breeze wafted down from the hills around Jerusalem and floated into his office through the open window.

  The bishop squinted to read the small print at the bottom of a page in the book lying on his desk. Except for the chanting in the distance, all around him only silence. A sudden unexplained notion urged him to go over and shut the safe door. He didn't lock it but put the painting back in place, covering the safe. The lack of normal household sounds disturbed him. He became aware of too much silence. The clattering noise from the house staff preparing his evening meal now absent. After retaking his seat behind the desk, he glanced up, and for a moment the eerie lack of sound outside his private office continued. Then the sound of running boots pierced the silence. Abruptly, the heavy wood entrance door crashed inward, and two men rushed in. He caught a brief impression of black garb and military-style weapons.

  Simultaneously, he heard the explosive sound of the gunfire, the zinging of the bullets that barely missed as the rounds from the automatic weapons passed his head. The liturgical chanting did not mute the noise of the gunfire. A microsecond later the bullets hit his chest. He felt the sting from the rounds with their sledgehammer force. He knew the lead projectiles had pierced his body when he absorbed the impact. His body fell backwards. The telephone receiver in his right hand—that he’d grabbed for on their initial entry to call for help—clanged to the floor. A deep penetrating pain engulfed him. His body would not respond to his command to move or to yell for help. As he collapsed, he momentarily lost focus when his head bounced off the side of the desk.

  Then he sensed someone rush toward him.

  He couldn't move. Nothing worked. No arm control, his legs held no feeling, and his eyes remained almost closed.

  The monks continued chanting their evening prayers.

  “The bastard's dead.” The speaker shuffled away from him. “We have to find that book. It's got to be in this office,” an accented voice said in English.

  Desk drawers opened, items were strewn about, and then the dying bishop heard a siren.

  “Come on, it's got to be in this room,” another voice shouted and then commanded, “Find it.”

  “You have the container? That friggin' Russian told us it would be heavy,” a raspy voice said in a whisper.

  “We shouldn't have taken this job. It's too risky.” The speaker threw books on the floor.

  “I'm only going to tell you once, asshole. Shut your trap and look for it,” the raspy voice said.

  “I'm looking. I can't find anything here. This damn book better be worth the risk we're taking. I didn't want to shoot that priest to find this bible. It's bad luck.”

  “Keep looking. It's just like any other heist.” He flipped the desk over and the wood splintered into a shattering sound in the stone-walled room. Books crashed to the floor along with glass vases full of flowers and other personal memorabilia as they knocked over every table in the room.

  Sounds resonated to the bishop's ears as items fell. He realized now that he would die.

  “You hear that siren? Hurry up. They're coming. Somebody must've called the cops. Damn.”

  “Shut up, you fool. Just find it.”

  The pain in the middle of the archbishop's chest felt excruciating. The spot where the bullet entered felt hot. The bishop trembled from cold chills plunging through the rest of his body, and his left hand shook. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't see anything clearly. His eyes were slightly open, but all he could manage, a weak squint. He desperately wanted to see these men—and to stop them.

  “Watch for the cops,” a deep rasping voice ordered.

  The bishop heard feet running and the cascade of books being tossed from his library shelves. The cleric finally realized he no longer possessed the ability to move. He stopped trying. They must never find it. That thought kept running through his mind.

  “They're here,” shouted the other man. “Let's get out of here. We’ll never find it now. Run.”

  The bishop heard feet pounding toward the entrance door, but one of the attackers remained near him. He felt the point of a shoe plow into his side.

  Gunfire erupted. Rounds zipped into his room, splintering chunks off the walls. Shards of wood and glass filled the air. Above his head, a weapon fired again and again. He heard the heavy thump of something falling right beside him and partially landing on his legs. He felt a hand land on his face. Then silence.

  “Clear. They're all dead,” came a husky voice in Hebrew. “Call headquarters for a forensic team. Whatever they were after, they won't be taking anything from here.”

  The archbishop’s lifeblood drained from him onto the cold floor and he desperately wanted to beg God for forgiveness. His dying thoughts …

  Yes, we are all dead. I failed to protect it. Forgive me, Lord. Into Your hands, I commend ….

  In the distance, the monks continued chanting their evening vespers.

  Chapter 2

  Amazon Jungle, Brazil

  Sunday Morning

  Bridget Donavan's head throbbed. A putrid, vomitus smell emanated from the nearby bathroom. She
pulled the pillow over her head and tried to hold her breath. The pounding became unrelenting inside her head. She imagined this might be what it would be like inside a tambourine when the player thumped it with all his might. Pushing herself up caused the bed to squeak. Then her hand touched an arm.

  “Oh my God.” The memory of the copious amounts of alcohol intake came rushing back to haunt her.

  “Who the hell are you?” Bridget demanded. But she really didn't care to hear the answer.

  She continued her effort to stand up, even as she lost her footing and grabbed for the nightstand, preventing her complete collapse by extending her arms. She managed to rise and stumble toward the bathroom to take a shower. She needed to clean up, to get rid of the smells from last night. A hot shower might help her sober up and stop this relentless thud, thud, thud in her head and remove the taste of wool socks in her mouth.

  “Oh, my head,” came from the body spread on the sheets, her perfect heart-shaped rear exposed. She rolled over, exhibiting beautiful sculpted breasts with dark nipples.

  “I'm not gay, but she is beautiful,” Bridget thought.

  Entering the bathroom of the hotel room, if one could call this flea-bitten rat hole in the middle of the Amazon jungle a hotel, she felt a sense of guilt.

  “I can't believe I slept with her, and besides, I was too out of it to do anything,” she thought as she surveyed herself in the mirror. “What a sight. She probably just needed a place to sleep. Like I did.”

  Bridget made her way to the shower and turned it on. The cold water hit her naked body like an ice cube sticking to her tongue, and she squealed. She turned the tap toward the hot position. No hot water. What a place. At least there clean running water.

  God, the smell, she thought. She didn't remember who the hell lay in the bed. She kept telling herself to get a grip. This is the rock bottom of my life. She had finally hit it. The only way to go from this cesspool remained up. Time to get her life back. No more booze. No more women—men on the other hand were okay. Her real preference would always be men. She made a promise to never again be weak and fall for a woman.

  She toweled dry and put on her pants and a skimpy bra that barely held her ample breasts. Then came the tank top, after which she ran her fingers through her dripping red hair. Flip-flops on her feet completed her sartorial makeup for the burgeoning hot day. She wanted to get out of this room, get out of this non-air conditioned hotel, and get out of her stupid lifestyle.

  Bridget tiptoed across the room without looking at the naked female body lying on the bed. She didn't want to wake her while in the room, but she slammed the door when she left. Nothing remained there she needed. She picked up her backpack and all her identity materials. In the hall, she grabbed the handrail and headed down the steps. Her head still didn't feel right, but the pounding now lessened. The shower definitely helped and the two aspirins she’d gulped down were kicking in. The headache subsided, but the nausea might yet take her down.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she noticed that no one sat behind the registration desk this early. She walked directly across the lobby. Lobby my ass, more like a mole-ridden closet in the basement of an abandoned house. She walked out the front and strolled onto the dirt street while sucking in large breaths of fresh air. At last she felt something that really could help her hangover.

  The morning sun started to dry Bridget's shoulder-length red hair. She flipped her hands through it and got the knots out as she meandered across the street. This early in the morning, she took the time to examine some of the wares in the shops and on the outside displays. She stopped for a second and watched as an aged stooped woman behind a wood table arranged her baked goods and then sat on a three-legged stool.

  “Come and buy my bread,” the woman cried to Bridget in a mixture of Portuguese and the local language. The canopy over the freshly baked goods didn't provide much cover from the morning sun, but in a few hours it would be a savior for the old lady from the direct overhead blazing rays.

  “I'll take this one,” Bridget said, picking up the loaf of honey brown. She hoped it would help the hangover to put something in her stomach.

  She munched on it as she walked along the dusty street and listened to pots and pans clanging as folks prepared breakfast. She viewed the shop owners' brooms sweeping the dirt from in front of the businesses, creating dust clouds, as the village day started. Only a few people roamed the street this early in the morning, but not all of the stalls had opened. The sun already baked the earthen street, and small thermals rose from it. She stopped at a shabby kiosk to purchase a cup of coffee. The strong aroma wafted up her nose, causing her to take in a deep breath and scrunch up her face on the first swallow.

  “That's what I need to wake up,” she said aloud and took another swallow of the potent black liquid.

  She picked this village because it existed off the beaten path. It lay four hundred miles up the Amazon River. Here she hoped to find peace and reorient her life. The place lay west of Óbidos, a place without a name. She wanted to learn about the Amazon rainforest but soon lost interest due to the sweltering heat and the alcohol. Her Greek and Egyptian archaeological background was not in high demand in the region.

  She marveled as she noticed the jungle tops protruding above the village. The Amazon represented over half of the planet's remaining rainforests. This place comprised the largest and most species-rich tract of tropical rainforest in the world. But today? Today, just plain hot and muggy.

  As she walked the street, a door opened suddenly on her right. She spun. Instantly alert. Calm down, she told herself, it's nothing but a boy running out to play. Walking on, she sensed someone behind her. Instinctively she turned to confront. The old lady came after her to give her change from the bread purchase.

  “Thank you,” Bridget said and conducted a surveillance of the area behind the woman while talking to her. Nothing there.

  On a similar walk three weeks ago, she met the local parish priest. After a coffee and a long conversation, he asked her to help him prepare some paperwork. Her Spanish excellent, but her Portuguese not as perfect, but she knew enough to understand what he wanted. He desired to submit a petition to the Vatican to start the process to sainthood for a local Indian woman. Many villagers testified to the miracles, and now he believed they had compiled enough information for a petition to Rome. He, however, did not have the language skills necessary for such an undertaking. He begged Bridget to help him and offered a small amount of money and a bedroom for her use. Figuring a no-cost lodging would help her dwindling finances, she had given in and said she would do it for a month without taking the small stipend offered. They both knew the poverty stricken parish could ill afford to pay her. The entire village existed at a sustenance level.

  “It's time to start over,” she mumbled as she walked along already sweating in the morning sunshine. Her senses came alive for some reason not immediately evident to her. She previously learned to always pay attention to her gut feelings. With the eyes of a soldier used to street fighting in the Middle East, she glanced around but saw nothing to cause alarm.

  The clanging of the village church bell startled her. This small rural church existed in the middle of nowhere. Not much chance of a new beginning here, she thought. Bridget hurried on and almost walked past the church on her way to the priest's humble domicile. He called the place his rectory. While passing the church entrance, a loud murmuring sound emanated from its doors.

  She walked to the church door and opened it.

  Chapter 3

  New York City

  Sunday Evening

  Benjamin Joseph Schultz walked into his fifty-sixth floor penthouse overlooking Central Park from which he could see the spectacular evening view of the New York City skyline. He had returned from his visit with his younger daughter, Madeline, who remained in a permanent care hospital with an advanced case of mental deficiency. He cherished the time he spent with her today.

  “Hi, Dad. Good visit with
Madeline?” Gertrude asked.

  “Yes. Home in time for my drink and to watch the sun set. Any problems in our office?”

  “No. I'll see Madeline next week. Have some computer work to do on that find in Bolivia. Don't want us to get taken. Don't forget I'm going to Washington tomorrow.” Gertrude walked to her room.

  Gertrude, his oldest daughter, remained his treasure and his blossoming socialite. She possessed all of his abilities and perhaps more. She would be perceived as a real beauty in anyone's eyes. Her jet-black hair, the light olive-toned skin, and her beautifully sculpted body always reminded him of his Egyptian wife. He had guided her through the proper formative girls' schools and paid to get her into Yale to obtain her physics degree and later a masters in art and antiquities. Her friends called her Gerti. She ran the business as his right arm, knew almost all the secrets, and she occupied the bedroom next to his.

  Schultz possessed millions of dollars from his trading and selling of artifacts to museums all over the world. But his real money, the multi-millions in foreign accounts, came from the marketing, laundering, and surreptitious distribution of stolen or purloined rare artifacts. He secured the items that made him wealthy from ancient Egyptian sites, some Pre-Xia Dynasty items, a few Chinese vases and throne room ornaments from the tombs of certain Emperors, and the especially lucrative selling of prehistoric dinosaur bones.

  The expense for the maintenance and care of Madeline presented no real difficulty, and he enjoyed the time he took each week to spend three hours with her. He used the time to remember his joy at her birth and the first few years of her life when she existed as the jewel of his eye. Even today, he took pleasure in doing something for his beloved daughter. Each week he read her children's books, since the girl's mental age only approached two years. It wasn't much but something he felt obliged to perform. Benjamin Schultz always hoped she could hear the reading and somehow feel his love and affection. He realized that he would never really know.