The Jericho Pact

by Rachel Lee

“Because this is a memorial to the ninety-six Reichstag members who were killed by the Nazis in 1933. One plate for each member.”

  Margarite drew a sharp breath. Then she looked from the memorial to the dome and back again. “It seems they may have learned.”

  “Indeed, so it does.”

  Lawton hoped they had learned enough, and that the rest of Europe could learn from them.

  Before it was too late for them all.

  Rome, Italy

  Monsignore Veltroni had chosen an out-of-the-way café for his meeting with Steve Lorenzo. It was not in a place any of the Stewards of Faith were likely to come. Not even remotely. As he sat awaiting Steve, he felt his conscience twinging mightily. Loyalty, he thought, could be a very difficult thing. Right now his long loyalty to the Stewards was warring with his loyalty to Steve, placing him on the famous horns of a dilemma.

  But he had chosen, he decided. He had chosen the moment he had summoned Steve so he could talk to him before setting the spies on him. He told his conscience to hush, but it insisted on pricking him anyway.

  All of a sudden he remembered Steve’s question about whether they were protecting the Faith, the Church, or the Word of God. They should all be the same, and he had believed so for a long time, but now, after Cardinal Estevan’s directive, doubt had begun to plague him. For the first time he began to think there was more to this ruby codex than proof that Jesus had sired a son. Estevan was not the kind of man who would require spies on a priest who had merely seen the thing if that were all it was.

  Sighing, Veltroni sipped his espresso and wondered what was taking Steven so long. Maybe he had some answers for all this perplexity.

  Just then the little bell over the door jingled and Steve entered, raindrops glistening all over his cheap wool jacket. He stood just within the café, shaking himself a bit to shed some of the wet, then smiled at Veltroni and came to join him at the small table. Immediately another espresso appeared, this one at Steve’s elbow. He seemed glad to lighten it with a little cream from an enamel pitcher and swallowed it hot.

  “Ah,” he said with a smile of pleasure. “Just what I needed.”

  Veltroni chuckled and waggled his fingers, indicating that the waiter should bring two more. “Are you hungry?”

  “A little.”

  “Then let me get you a small pastry. You need the calories so you can walk home.”

  Steve’s smile deepened. “I’m worrying you.”

  “More than a little bit. But I need to talk to you. Something is going on, and perhaps you can shed some light.”

  “Me?” Steve arched an eyebrow, then turned to thank the waiter who brought two more coffees. “What could I possibly know? I’ve been in the jungle for the last two years.”

  “That’s why you may know something. But first…” Veltroni hesitated, aware that he was about to break a vow of obedience. Years of submission to his church made that a difficult thing to do, even though it was not the first time. “Pablo Cardinal Estevan. You remember him?”

  “Yes, of course. He heads up the Stewards now, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, he was elected after you went to Guatemala.”

  “I haven’t met him yet.”

  “Better,” Veltroni said heavily, “that you don’t.”

  Now both of Steve’s eyebrows lifted. The waiter brought a plate of pasticciotti that was far bigger than a “little” pastry, but Steve merely lifted a fork and helped himself to a bite of the delicious lemon-filled pastry puff. “All right,” he said, when he had swallowed a few mouthfuls and the sugar met with the caffeine, energizing him. “Tell me what is worrying you.”

  “Estevan is not sure you will hunt for the codex. In fact, he’s not certain that it was ever stolen from you.”

  Steven toyed with his fork, and his expression did not reassure Veltroni. “Trust me, it was stolen.”

  “I believe you, Steve. Even if you find it, Estevan also does not believe you will turn the codex over to the Church. He has told me to have you followed and watched.”

  Steve took another bite of the sweet and sighed with obvious pleasure. “All right. Thank you for telling me.”

  Veltroni leaned forward. While he believed Steve, he was unhappy with the sudden sense of doubt that assailed him. Why did Steve seem so unconcerned that he was to be watched? “Tell me, Steve. What is it about this codex? Why should Estevan be so concerned that the Church should possess it if it’s just a shard of history?”

  “It’s more than that,” Steve said. He put his fork down and sipped his espresso. “Far more. If it contains the information I was told to search for, I cannot say. I certainly could make neither heads nor tails of it.”

  “Then what is Estevan hoping for?”

  Steve hesitated, turning his head and looking out the window at the rainy afternoon, as if weighing something. Finally he looked at Veltroni. “I don’t understand it myself, Giuseppe. Honestly. But I know there are those who believe it wields great power. The Quiche curandera who passed it on to me warned me that it would be terribly dangerous in the wrong hands. Then it was stolen before I could do more than look at it.”

  Veltroni nodded and waited, but when Steve didn’t say any more he asked, “What is your opinion? What do you suspect?”

  Steve tugged at his earlobe, then used a cloth napkin to wipe his mouth. “What I know, Giuseppe, is that there are people who believe this codex has the power to create Armageddon.”

  All right, Veltroni thought later, as he walked back to the Vatican, taking his time because the moment he arrived, he would have to set the spies on Steve. All right.

  Armageddon. Many wanted to see it, fools that they were. That people should actually have the hubris to believe they could force the second coming by setting the Apocalypse into motion often stole his very breath. As if God would allow his hand to be forced in such a fashion.

  But those people could create a living hell on earth regardless of whether the Lamb chose to return as the Lion.

  Armageddon. He wondered if Estevan was aware of that possibility, of the power Steve claimed was inherent in the ruby codex. He wondered if the person who held it now believed that and was trying to use it.

  Just a few days ago Veltroni would have said the safest place for such an item would be in the hands of the Mother Church. Now he was no longer certain.

  Perhaps the best place for it was in the deepest part of the ocean. For certainly such a thing would never be harmless in the hands of men.

  7

  Berlin, Germany

  F rau Doktor Ulla Viermann didn’t wish to speak to anyone. That much soon became apparent to Lawton and Margarite when the doctor didn’t answer her phone or her door while she was at home. Finally they had to wait outside the hospital and snag her when she walked to her car.

  At first it looked as if they would have a screaming fight on their hands, but speaking quickly, Lawton said in awkward German, “We don’t believe you were in any way responsible for the chancellor’s death. And we want to prove it.”

  The shout for help that had been about to emerge from the doctor’s throat died. She hesitated, hugging her coat tightly around herself, and stared at them through the soft drizzle of rain. “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “Friends,” said Margarite in German. “Better friends than any others you have right now, because we think the chancellor’s death was an assassination, and that you did your best save him. Only an idiot would think otherwise.”

  “There seem to be many idiots,” Ulla Viermann said slowly, her gaze still suspicious.

  “We aren’t among them,” Lawton said. “Please. Meet us at the café around the corner. We’ll share a pastry and hot chocolate, and tell you more.”

  After a moment the doctor nodded and went to her car.

  “Do you think she’ll come?” Lawton asked Margarite.

  Margarite shrugged. “Who knows? If not, we try again.”

  Really, Lawton thought, he sometimes wanted to shake
this woman for her studied indifference. It was worse than Renate’s ice, for it was a pose, not a matter of self-defense. “She could think we’re trying to set her up.”

  “Stop worrying until we have something to worry about.”

  He couldn’t argue with that, he supposed. Together they walked around the corner to the bakery. Ulla Viermann already awaited them at the door.

  A good sign? He certainly hoped so.

  “One of the things I love about Germany,” Lawton said, trying to break the ice, “is all these little bakeries where one can go inside and have coffee and a pastry. We have nothing this nice where I come from.”

  Ulla smiled reluctantly. “No, you have the McDonald’s,

  ja? You see?” She pointed up the block to where the famous symbol hung from a second-story window. “It seduces our youth, as well. Burgers and fries.” She shook her head. “The sweets may not be better for me, but they are certainly more civilized.”

  They certainly were, he thought, for inside the bakery they sat at a table covered in white linen. Their hot chocolate, made from scratch, was thick and creamy, and topped with whipped cream. The pastries were fresh from the oven.

  “When I die,” Lawton said, “heaven had better have a few of these bakeries.”

  Ulla laughed, and some of the tension escaped her posture and expression. “Your French friend here will tell you they do it better in France.” Apparently she had quickly picked out their nationalities.

  “Indeed we do,” Margarite agreed.

  Ulla smiled. “Your people make wonderful pastries, Madame. I do not deny it. But these are fine also, oder?”

  Margarite gave in and smiled. “They are wonderful.”

  “So.” Looking satisfied, Ulla reached for a second pastry. As thin as she was, she no doubt could afford it. “You want to know what I know about the death of Herr Vögel. You say you do not believe I did anything wrong. I know I did not. But why should I talk to you? Especially when the police have already told me I must talk to no one about it? I should not even be here.”

  Lawton nodded. “I know you are in a very difficult position, Frau Doktor. But while we are not police, we represent…” He paused, looking for the words he wanted. “A larger group.”

  Ulla smiled and spoke in flawless English. “If you are going to lie to me, Mr. Caine, it would be better if you do it in your own language. You would certainly find it easier, and I could then say—should I ever need to—that I must have misunderstood your American idioms.”

  Lawton nodded to her and, with relief, switched to English. “We’re concerned that this investigation might settle for a scapegoat—you—and conceal the real cause and real culprit. You are aware that Vögel had threatened to withdraw Germany from the European Union if President Soult pursues his plans for pacification.”

  Ulla Viermann snorted. “Pacification. What an ugly word that is. It has been used for centuries as an excuse to commit genocide.” She sipped her hot chocolate and paused, looking out the window at the people who hurried by in the darkening evening. “We tried for a while to evade our past. For many years we taught our youth nothing about Hitler or the Holocaust. Then we realized that history forgotten is history repeated. For over twenty years now, every German child has learned what happened here.”

  Lawton nodded. “History forgotten is history repeated. That is exactly what we fear.”

  She looked at him, her watery blue eyes shot with the red of weariness. “We have faced our past here, and spared ourselves nothing of its ugliness and horror. Oh, there are those who do not believe it, who place their hands over their ears and eyes because they cannot conceive any German could do such things. But they are a minority, Herr Caine. Most of us have faced the past and determined never to repeat it. Any of it.”

  “So Vögel’s position had popular support?” Lawton asked, studying her intently.

  She nodded. “Just so. We became concerned several decades back when the German youth rioted against Turkish workers. Among those of us who had studied the matter, we heard echoes of Kristallnacht, the night when Hitler’s goons stormed the streets all over Germany, smashing and burning Jewish-owned shops and businesses, even murdering their owners. When our youth rioted, some heard the echoes of that past and recognized that it was time to reeducate our people.”

  Lawton nodded. “That was a very brave move.”

  “It was necessary. You will notice that despite the bombings in London and Madrid, and the ricin attack in Prague, the German people are not rioting. We are not burning mosques.” Ulla glanced at the Frenchwoman with a slight smile, to soften the implied insult. “There is tension, of course, but we choose not to begin a problem that will only grow. Always there are those who disagree, but Germans will not support another Nazi regime, no matter the name. Europa Prima? Does he think that fools us?”

  Margarite stiffened, and Ulla appeared to realize the second barb had sunk deeper than she intended. “I do not speak ill of you or your people, Madame. It is not only Frenchmen who elected Monsieur Soult to his post.”

  Margarite nodded, her face remaining expressionless.

  Ulla looked thoughtful. “These are difficult times. We are so anxious to avoid any appearance of religious bigotry that we allowed a radical mosque to develop in Hamburg, and out of it came the horrors of September eleventh. Yet when we talk about that, we back away quickly, because to try to eradicate or control any religious sect might lead us once again in the wrong direction.” The doctor shook her head. “It appears that any answer holds dangers.”

  “But the chancellor,” Lawton said, anxious to get back to the point. “From what we have learned, it seems there is no clear cause for his death.”

  “In that you are wrong,” the doctor said. “The cause of death is very clear—cellular asphyxiation. The means by which it occurred are another matter.”

  “There can be no doubt?”

  “None whatsoever.” Ulla Viermann licked her thumb and forefinger, then reached for her napkin to finish the job. “It is not an everyday occurrence, but any emergency room physician with experience has treated cyanide poisoning. There is a cyanide kit in every emergency room. Cellular asphyxia, usually caused by cyanide poisoning, can easily be confirmed by looking at blood oxygen levels. If the venous blood is nearly as oxygen-rich as the arterial blood, then something is keeping that oxygen from bonding with the iron in the red blood cells and moving into the patient’s body. I performed that test on Chancellor Vögel, and the treatment notes confirm that.”

  “But why did you treat for cyanide?” Margarite asked. “Surely there are other chemicals that could cause this. Is it possible that your misdiagnosis and the antidotes for cyanide were the cause of death?”

  Ulla bridled a bit, then visibly calmed herself. Under the table, Lawton gave Margarite a warning nudge. Things were bad enough without being antagonistic.

  “Forgive my associate,” he said quickly to the doctor. “She’s French.”

  For that he received a small laugh from Ulla and a poke in the ribs from Margarite, but at least the tension evaporated.

  Ulla spoke. “I have answered that very question countless times since the event. I will answer it once more for you.” She looked pointedly at Lawton. “There are three known cellular asphyxiants,” she said. “They are carbon monoxide, hydrogen sulfide and cyanide. The circumstances of the chancellor’s collapse ruled out carbon monoxide. There was simply no way the Reichstag dome could have been filled with a sufficient concentration of that gas. I ruled out hydrogen sulfide because the chancellor’s security agents denied smelling it at the scene. Hydrogen sulfide has a very powerful odor of rotten eggs, and it could not have been present in a lethal concentration without the agents having smelled it. That left cyanide.”

  “Or, obviously, something else,” Lawton said.

  “As I said before, there are three known cellular asphyxiants,” Ulla said, once again looking defensive. “Even now, nearly a week later and after hundr
eds of blood assays, they do not know what toxin killed the chancellor. But even if I had not treated him for cyanide poisoning, the chancellor would be dead.”

  “And you’re certain you performed the right treatment for cyanide?” Margarite asked. “Comparatively few murders are committed with cyanide. It is a controlled substance. Surely you do not treat cyanide poisoning very often.”

  Ulla sighed. “Clearly you are not doctors,” she said after a moment.

  “No,” Lawton agreed. “I’m sorry if we offend you. That is not our intention. We are simply trying to ensure that we understand everything.”

  She appeared to accept this. “I said that every modern emergency room is equipped with a cyanide kit. There is a reason for that. Cyanide is a common chemical, used in or produced by many commercial processes. We see cyanide poisoning more often than you would think. Most are workplace accidents. The diagnosis is not difficult, and the treatment protocol is clear and well-known. Most patients survive, unless the dose was massive or they do not receive treatment in time.”

  She reached for another pastry. “My patient’s dose was not so massive that he died in minutes, although he was very near death by the time he reached the hospital. We followed the standard treatment protocol. When he did not respond to that, I ordered hydroxocobalamin. While it is not approved for cyanide poisoning, neither is it a lethal toxin. It is vitamin B12, the same substance found in every multivitamin pill on the market. It, too, had no effect, and the patient died.” She looked at them. “I had barely confirmed the time of death when they swept him away to autopsy.”

  Lawton shook his head. “And now they suspect you, because they have no other explanation. Surely they do not think you could have diagnosed an unknown toxin?”

  She sighed and looked down at her plate, white ceramic now dusted with white powder from the pastries she had chosen. “I don’t know what they think, Herr Caine. All I know is that I treated the chancellor in the best way that my training and experience allowed. And I failed.”

  “We’re not blaming you,” Lawton hastened to assure her. “And we’re not going to stop our investigation. It will help no one to bury the truth.”