by Tom Haase
He moved to his favorite chair and sat. His mind shifted to another problem that began a month ago when he received an unexpected call on his private phone.
Few people knew the number. No one should’ve been calling him at that hour. He looked at the display, “out of area.” His mind raced in an effort to remember to whom he gave out his private number. One time he gave it to the man he sent to procure the jade tablets that reportedly contained the first five books of the Bible given by God to Abraham. He made a mistake in a rush to visit his daughter and gave the man this number instead of the normal office number. That man's body later surfaced in the mountains of Columbia months ago. Definitely not him. Other people who’d been given this number were his son, now dead, and his wife, also deceased. The nurses who cared for Madeline knew this number but would never call this late at night. And his daughter Gerti, but currently she slept in her bedroom.
The remaining person who once had the number—though it couldn't possibly be him, supposedly died in Africa months ago.
He picked up the phone. “Yes.”
As he answered, he relished the view of the sun setting over Central Park. It encompassed a majestic panorama of the New York skyline. He loved to watch the sun go down and enjoyed having a drink during the experience.
“Mr. Schultz, it is Kesi.”
He remembered that voice. It possessed that African sounding accent. But it couldn't be. Kesi was dead.
Schultz recalled what he thought at that time when he heard the voice from the dead.
The panoramic view forgotten in a second and his mind focused on the voice of a dead man, now apparently alive.
“We did not kill her,” the voice said. “She knifed me in the Ethiopian desert and it took me months to recover. You still owe me money. I need money if I am to go after her.”
Schultz's mind raced. This call so unexpected, astounding really. His normally perfectly executed and well thought out plans did not include people coming back from the dead. When both of the men he hired didn’t report back and the police certified deaths near the archaeological site in Ethiopia, he assumed his men were gone. He knew from the aftermath that the target he had sent them after remained alive. He realized this unexpected revelation might work to his advantage.
“I owe you nothing because you didn't fulfill your contract,” he said. He waited for a moment before he continued in a louder voice. “Bridget Donavan is not dead. When you find her and complete your contract you will be paid double. Is that a deal?” Schultz shouted the last part into the phone.
“Yes, but I need expense money. I need it now.”
“I will deposit half of what I promised you before into your old account. Make sure you don't fail this time. I'll email you her location when I find her.” Schultz slammed the phone down.
Shortly after that phone call he emailed the man back and ordered him to take Bridget Donavan out on the first of October. She had scheduled a press conference at her university to reveal some new information about the finds they supposedly located. Kesi failed on that mission because he employed an assassin who was, instead, killed by Bridget.
Kesi called back after the failure of his man to assure Shultz the matter would be taken care of, both for the money and for his pride.
Subsequent to their dismissals from their positions, Schultz lost track of the two Donavans after they fled their universities in disgrace. He engineered a plan to have both schools protract their appeals in order to drain their resources. It had been successful but neither appeared in public for months.
The advances to Kesi meant nothing to him financially but now he reacquired the possibility again to settle an old debt. He oftentimes used the silence when visiting Madeline in her bed to reaffirm his commitment to punish the person who created his worse nightmare. Madeline's infirmity remained beyond his control because that came with her birth. Not so the death of his son. As far as he knew Bridget Donavan killed him in the Iraqi desert. Through his contacts in the Pentagon he learned that Donavan served as the medic on the long-range patrol on which his son suffered wounds. Donavan supposedly let him die while she attended someone else. She would pay for the death of his son. The possibility to extract his long sought vengeance for that now reemerged with this phone call from Africa.
He walked over to a small bar in the office and poured himself another double Dalmore single malt scotch. Perhaps this had become his lucky day. Those slackers failed to eliminate the bitch. Somehow she remained alive. Schultz realized that the man would want to avenge his humiliation for letting a woman beat him and that would be something far greater than any money he could offer. The big black man would want revenge on the woman who sliced him. There wasn't enough money in the world to pay for that. Schultz now knew someone who came back from the grave. Now he had someone he could count on because Kesi wanted revenge. He would certainly take it. He needed to locate the target.
Bridget Donavan was now as good as dead.
Chapter 4
Village Church on the Amazon River, Brazil
Sunday.
The church sported a little wooden cross on top of what could've been called a square steeple. The sides of the church were made out of corrugated sheeting with a thatch roof held up by wooden beams. When Bridget entered, no one stood at the main altar, but she heard voices. Six people knelt before the statue of Mary to the left of the main altar, the only altar. A small group of people sat on that side area of the church, as there were no aisles. The church remained silent as Father Pedro, a Catholic priest evident to all by his Roman collar, stood in front of this small group. Odd, she thought, since the Mass certainly over by this hour. He should be waiting for her at the house to work on the petition.
Bridget's prayer life remained at zero in her present state of mind and could be classified as typical of a lapsed Catholic. But a prayer never hurt, she figured while she waited on the priest. After she slid into the back pew, she folded her hands. The priest started to speak, and it distracted her as he talked to the small group of local villagers.
“I want to tell you,” the priest said in a not too clear voice, “that when I was a young man I visited the Holy Land. It was a magnificent experience. I went there to see all of the sacred sites and to visit a professor who had been my instructor in my first year of seminary. He lived in Jerusalem at the time and, he told me the story about a certain Bible when I was there.”
Even with her language capability, Bridget strained to understand him as the priest shifted in and out of the local dialect. So far his tale didn’t hold her interest and she stood to leave the church.
“He said it was not just any Bible, but the Bible commissioned by the Emperor Constantine in the year of our Lord 326 A.D.”
Bridget bobbed her head up and down a few times to make sure she heard accurately. She could hardly believe what she heard. The priest referred to the Bibles that Constantine had commissioned. She remembered from her Greek studies of the Byzantine Empire that none were thought to be in existence today. She scooted to the far left in the pew to be able to hear clearly. The priest never mentioned anything about this in the month she worked on the canonization petition for him. He knew from their talks over coffee that she previously lost her position as a professor in a university and her field being archaeology and especially Greek archaeology. She hadn't gone into the details that caused both her and her brother to be dismissed from their respective universities and the subsequent loss of almost all their money. Maybe the old priest just didn't make the connection that the topic of his conversation with the parishioners might be something that would seriously interest her.
Blam!
The sound shattered the still air as she inadvertently knocked a Mass book off the pew and it produced the unwanted sound, causing the priest to look at her. He smiled when he recognized her. She dropped her head and pretended to pray, hoping he would ignore her and continue his tale. He seemed to enjoy relating his foreign travels to people who, she assumed,
had never been more than a few miles from where they were born. These villagers appeared to be keenly interested in the tale even though Bridget presumed he must have told it many times before.
“He told me,” the priest continued, no longer looking at her, “that Constantine ordered fifty Bibles to be prepared and the monks in Jerusalem hand wrote them. All these Bibles were to be delivered to the emperor in Constantinople.”
Bridget strained to comprehend every word. So far, what the priest said sounded accurate as she remembered the tale of the bibles. This priest's revelation bordered on amazing in the historical sense. If it were true, then a valuable artifact could be recovered. Something that could provide her millions as opposed to her current position of being broke. Bridget recognized her gullibility. Time to return to being skeptical. If this bible existed then surely the church would have revealed its existence, wouldn't it? But then again, maybe not, based on her previous unpleasant experience with the ecclesiastical authorities in Rome.
“That task took the monks six years to complete,” the priest continued, “but in the end they were all delivered to the Emperor Constantine by the Bishop of Jerusalem. The Emperor intended to distribute them to select people for favors or for prayer by the clergy for his immortal soul. One of the chosen, the one who received the first Bible, was the Bishop of Jerusalem and the Emperor wrote something in the manuscript. The story goes that he wrote something his mother, Saint Helen, whispered to him. My old professor actually saw and touched the Bible of Constantine during his visit with the then Archbishop of Jerusalem and Bishop of Galilee, his very close and personal friend.”
“Father, excuse me, but did you really see the Bible. What was in it?” one of the parishioners asked.
“I didn't see it myself, Juan. My friend told me many authorities now believe that all the Bibles are nonexistent, somehow lost to history. I know that my mentor did not make up the story and that he touched the Bible himself. He saw the writing in the ancient Greek script with the Emperor’s seal. I asked him if he would take me to see this holy Bible. He said it resided in the possession of the new archbishop, being passed down from archbishop to archbishop, and they kept it in their own secret place. He did not know the new archbishop and could not request such a favor.” The priest continued his tale by describing some of the places he visited in the Holy Land.
Bridget's mouth dropped open on hearing the priest's tale. She couldn't believe what he said. She tried to comprehend the story that this old priest told, hoping she hadn't misunderstood. Then her heart started to beat faster. She could hear it pounding inside this silent church. She didn't care about his travels to the holy sites but the Bible—sparks flew in her mind. The adrenaline reached her brain and it started to clear. She shut her eyes and shook her head vigorously as she bent over. When she opened her eyes, the headache now gone. Strands of hair had fallen along her face from bending over. Her fingers tucked them back behind her ears as she stood up. Her mind switched back into being the Bridget of old, the one who engaged in the venture to find the Crown of Thorns.
The priest concluded his description of the visit to the Holy Land, and Bridget approached him. After the people left the church, she asked him to repeat the tale about the bible, as she wanted to make sure she understood his story. He did so with a smile and spoke slowly. When he concluded, she sat for a few minutes alone. She needed to think.
Five minutes later, she sprang to her feet.
Her new life would begin here and now.
“Father, a moment please,” she said before he left the church.
“Yes,” he said. He half-turned toward her.
“Father, I know I told you I would be here for a while, but something has come up and I must leave immediately. It's personal. I hope I have helped you get started on the canonization process. I believe you are in a position to finish it by yourself. I’ll leave all my notes on how to do that.”
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.
“Pray that what I am about to do will redeem me and my brother,” she said as she headed for the entrance.
Her new life had started. Bridget now needed to rush to get back to civilization.
She would regain her lost academic standing and show the world what she could do. She would locate this single remaining Bible of Constantine or die in the attempt. It made no difference to her which.
Chapter 5
Washington, D.C.
Monday morning, 6:45 a.m.
Scott Donavan looked at his watch. Late again. The Blue Line Metro train clanked as the wheels tripped over the rail joints. He needed to improve his punctuality for this interim job at the Smithsonian. Soon he would have to go somewhere else and get a decent job, but right now it remained all he had. The train approached his stop at the Smithsonian. Again he checked his watch, only ten minutes late. He moved forward to join the crowd at the exit. Scott positioned himself behind all of the pushing passengers. The train stopped. The doors opened.
The herd shuffled forward to the exit door. As he stepped to the door, he noticed a sports bag pushed up under the seat next to the door. The seat now empty.
“Anybody leave a bag on the train?” he shouted.
No one stopped. No one turned around. Scott knew the warning about leaving unattended bags he heard over the public address system a thousand times. What the heck. It couldn't hurt to take a look. He hurried before the doors closed. The bag appeared to be a blue sports bag like the one carried by people going to a gym. Not uncommon at this hour in D.C. Bending over the bag, he didn't see a nametag, so he unzipped it hoping to find a name he could shout out in the crowd. He froze in momentary disbelief, bordering on total shock.
A green indicator light had been taped to what could only be some form of explosive substance. The timer wrapped around it with duct tape displayed 1:01. The clock continued a countdown to 1:00. Then 0:59. Holy Cow! Scott scooped it up and his legs propelled him off the train just as the doors started to close.
“Bomb! Bomb! There's a bomb here!” Scott shouted repeatedly and waved his free arm.
He searched for someplace to get rid of this explosive package. He saw a maintenance person closing a janitorial closet door, the only person left on the platform. The man stood next to where his wheeled water bucket with a mop protruding from the top.
“Bomb,” Scott shouted. People were now running and shouting and forcing their way up the escalator.
The maintenance man saw him as he ran toward the open closet door. Scott could see disbelief, but the man heard the shouted warning. The janitor kicked the bucket out of the way and started to run towards the escalators. Scott made a quick decision and headed toward the open door of the closet.
“Bomb! Get out of here. Run for your life,” Scott continued to bellow.
He approached the door, grabbed the handle and flung himself around, at the same time releasing the package into the closet. He slammed the door shut. Running toward the escalator, he noticed the hall had emptied as the last people off the train were charging up the steps. The train departed. This early in the morning no one came down.
Scott, after looking around and seeing the platform empty, jumped on the escalator. He ran toward the top but could not get any further because people were blocking his way. He turned around just as the explosion fractured the air and sent pieces of concrete and clouds of billowing dust coming up from behind. His ears took a severe pounding and he felt dizzy as the shock wave careened over him. Thank God, he thought, hoping all the people were out of the blast area. The Metro train that contained the bomb had already departed the station before the explosion. In the minute shown on the timer, the train would have reached Metro Center. The devastation would have been horrific for such a device to go off in an area clogged with the morning rush hour in full progress.
Reaching the exit, Scott blended in with the rest of the terrified passengers fleeing to get away from the destruction. He stopped to get his breath, looked around, and decided he
needed to keep walking. He could hear sirens already coming toward the Metro station. Police patrol cars were screaming down Constitution Avenue toward his location. Time to get out of here.
Scott remembered what happened to the guy in Atlanta who saved the bystanders from an explosion. He didn't want to end up like that poor fellow. The press had turned an act of valor into a witch hunt. Besides, nobody would probably be able to remember his face. Unfortunately, his and his sister's pictures had adorned enough tabloids a few months before. He didn't need that again. If he disappeared before the authorities got there, no one would be able to point him out. He guessed the police would get many varied descriptions of him from terrified commuters. He hoped the horror that most experienced would not permit them to vividly remember him and hoped any security camera would not have picked up his face.
A light rain fell as he walked toward the Smithsonian employee entrance. The weather produced by the tropical storm of the last three days dampened his mood and that of his co-workers as well. The walk from his Arlington apartment to catch the Metro took longer than he thought. The last delay while getting out of the Metro made him late for work.
Scott dusted the remnants of raindrops off of his jacket when he entered the employee's area of the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History off Constitution Avenue. He rubbed his hands together to get the circulation going after the short walk from the Metro station exit he used to get away from the bomb blast.
Entering the locker area, he shook the wet drops from his hair and then hung up his jacket. He put the little sandwich bag beside the few books he kept for reading during breaks. He needed to calm down a bit before meeting anyone. It wasn’t every day he saved lives by getting rid of a bomb. Not every day my ass. Never in my life and hopefully never again. He couldn't believe it even now. Come on, man, get it together. You don't want to blow it now. Just act normal. He closed the locker. On Friday, his boss told him about a major gift to the museum from some donor and he wanted to see Scott first thing this Monday morning. His job would be to transport some donated artifact containers that would be delivered on Sunday from the admin office down to the staging area.
