by Katz, Yoram
The two walked up the stairs, entered a corridor and stopped next to one of the rooms. Brother Pedro asked Jeanne to sit and wait on a wooden bench. He tapped gently on the door and entered, returning after a short while.
“Father Mazzini will see you now.”
Jeanne estimated the age of the man behind the desk at sixty five. His pale green eyes were the most striking feature of his face, and they were examining her carefully. At first, she felt intimidated by those weird eyes, but then the man stood up and smiled at her. “Ms. de Charney?” She bowed her head.
“I am Father Mazzini. What can I do for you?” He spoke good English with an Italian accent and Jeanne heard curiosity in his rich voice.
“I would like to thank you for seeing me, Father. I greatly appreciate it.”
“It is my pleasure. I figured that if you had come here all the way from France, you must have had a good reason.”
“Yes. This is a long story, and I will try to keep it brief. A few months ago, I found a 200-year-old letter in our family’s estate in Normandy. The letter is from Pascal de Charney, a young captain in the Egyptian expeditionary force of Napoleon, to his father in Normandy. Pascal served in Napoleon’s army, which invaded the Holy Land in 1799. In the letter, he tells about a certain item he collected in Safed, which he was going to send to his father. Pascal had apparently deposited this item in the hands of a friend, a fellow officer, who was to deliver the package to Pascal‘s father if anything happened to Pascal. Pascal died during the Acre campaign, and his friend suffered a severe head injury. This friend returned to France empty-handed and in no position to explain what had happened.” She paused to take a deep breath. The pale green eyes were fixed upon her, as if trying to read her mind. “This item must have been very important to my family, and I am trying to locate it.”
Father Mazzini and Brother Pedro exchanged glances. “My young lady,” said the Abbot in his warm baritone voice. “You took upon yourself an extraordinary task. It is heartwarming to see that young people still value their family’s legacy, but how can we help?”
“Pascal de Charney’s friend, the officer in whose hands he had entrusted the package, was seriously wounded during the same battle, on May 10th, 1799, and was evacuated from the battlefield.” Jeanne looked at Father Mazzini to find out whether he made the connection.
“I understand, my girl. You assume that the wounded friend was brought here…”
She nodded.
“Do you know the name of this officer?”
“His name was Captain Bernard Moreau. He served on the staff of General Napoleon Bonaparte.”
A shadow descended on Father Mazzini’s face. He closed his eyes. Long seconds passed before he opened them. “This is all very moving, my girl,” he said quietly, “but do you know what the monastery and its inhabitants had to go through, during the period you have mentioned?”
“I know that many of the sick and wounded were cruelly massacred by the Turks.”
Father Mazzini sighed. “This was the worst disaster this place ever witnessed. Let me give you some background. The Carmelite Order was originally founded here, on Mount Carmel at the time of the Crusades, by monks who lived in nearby caves and were inspired by the prophet Elijah. With the fall of the crusaders’ Kingdom of Jerusalem in 1291, these monks were driven away. Only in 1631, an agreement was signed between Father Prosper, who was sent from Rome, and Emir Turbai, ruler of the Galilee, whereby we were given the Elijah cave down the mountain slope, and the area on the top of the mountain.
“Father Prosper tried to build a church and a monastery, but Muslim protests as well as a dispute with the Greek-Orthodox Church, which claimed the rights to the mountain top, forced him to carve his monastery into the mountainside in the slope between the mountain top and the Elijah Cave below. He died in his humble monastery in 1653, and the place was destroyed by Muslims in 1767. You can still see the ruins down there. In 1769, we got the approval of the Ottoman Sultan for building the monastery under French protection. This part of the Carmel Ridge is known as ‘French Carmel’ ever since. In 1799, the monastery was converted to a hospital for the wounded and sick soldiers of Napoleon, and here we meet your story.” Father Mazzini looked at Jeanne, who was sitting mesmerized, absorbed in his words, and sighed wearily before resuming.
“When I came here, two years ago, I read every document about this period I could lay my hands on, and I can give you an accurate account of what happened. In the night between May 20th and 21st, Napoleon’s army retreated from Acre towards Haifa, blowing behind it the bridges on the Naaman and Kishon Rivers, to delay any pursuing forces. Evacuating the sick and wounded presented a major problem for the General. At one time, he even considered ending those poor men’s miseries by giving them opium, but his Chief Medical Officer refused to have anything to do with such an unchristian act. Those who could ride were placed on horses and camels, and others had to be carried on stretchers. The conditions were horrible, with the wounded and sick sometimes having to pay the stretcher bearers to carry them.”
Father Mazzini signaled Brother Pedro to pour him a glass of water. He raised it slowly to his mouth and drank before he went on. “When they reached Haifa, the situation became even more desperate. Here, they were joined by the wounded and sick from the monastery, who were evacuated overnight to the sea shore below. Some were in such panic that they tried to find shortcuts on the steep path down and fell to their deaths, their groans and cries for help haunting the men below. Those who made it were concentrated on the shore and filled the air with their screams and curses. The most miserable were those sick with the Plague, whom nobody dared touch. Some of them even inflicted wounds upon themselves to convince their comrades that they were injured and not sick, so that they could get some help,” Father Mazzini took a deep breath. “And this was just the beginning of the retreat of that wretched army to Egypt.”
“And what happened to those who were left behind?” asked Jeanne, though she knew the answer.
Father Mazzini sighed. “Alas, my child, they were all cruelly butchered by the Turkish soldiers. Father Julius, who came to this site in 1804, found human bones scattered on the mountainside and buried them in a common grave he dug in the court outside. Out there you can see the small monument commemorating these poor souls.”
“I have seen the monument. What a sad story.”
The abbot nodded glumly.
“Is there a way I can find out whether Captain Bernard Moreau was treated here in the monastery? Are there any surviving records?”
“Unfortunately not, my child. The Turks burned and destroyed everything. The monastery was deserted, and all in it was lost. In 1821, Abdullah Pasha, ruler of Acre, ordered the building demolished and used its stones to erect a summer house for himself. That house was later transformed into the lighthouse you can see across the road. The monastery was rebuilt in 1827.”
“Then there are no records?”
“Unfortunately none, my child.”
Jeanne thought for a while, before sending out the experimental balloon she had devised with Luria. “Father Mazzini, I have a question which may prove irrelevant, but which I, nevertheless, would like to ask you.”
Mazzini looked puzzled. His eyebrows contracted, and he gave her a searching look. Eventually he nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“Well…” Jeanne was struggling for words. “About four years ago, a burglar broke into the monastery area and this incident ended in tragedy.” She paused to watch the abbot’s face. “There was a rumor that the burglar took some artifacts that belonged to the monastery… could there be any connection…”
She stopped right there. Father Mazzini was seized with coughing fit, and it took him some time to calm down.
“Madam?” It was Brother Pedro who spoke. His presence in the room was not felt until that moment. Jeanne turned to look at him.
“This… incident you have mentioned…” He had some difficulty speaking, and Jeanne felt the pain
in his voice. “It was a big shock, a trauma for all of us. I personally was a close friend of the late Father Diaz, and I have not yet recovered from this heartbreak. I do not know what your sources of information are, and what your reason for bringing this up is. All I can tell you is that the police investigation concluded it was a breaking and entering case, which escalated into murder. It was a terrible crime, but nothing was stolen that night. I am sure you mean well, but you are causing us much pain, unnecessarily.”
“I am sorry.” Jeanne’s face reddened like a ripe tomato.
Father Mazzini, having regained his composure, stood up and Jeanne understood that the interview was over. “I am sorry we were not of much help to you, my child. Good luck with your efforts and may the Lord bless you.”
Disappointment was written all over Jeanne’s face when Brother Pedro escorted her out.
* * *
Jeanne opened the car door and silently slid into the seat beside Luria.
“How did it go?” he asked, realizing she needed some urging.
“Like you had predicted, they claimed total ignorance.”
“So have you got any wiser?”
“Yes,” she answered. “I have, definitely.”
“How?”
“First, I received a lesson in the history of this place.”
“And…”
“Second, it is evident they are not telling everything they know.”
Luria stepped on the accelerator, and they started rolling out of the parking lot.
* * *
Brother Pedro removed the small field glass from his eyes and made a mental note of the license plate of the car into which Jeanne had entered. He identified the driver. It was that over-inquisitive cop from four years before.
He turned around, made his way back to the main entrance of the building and went up to the abbot’s office. The two had a short conversation, after which Father Mazzini dismissed him.
Once alone, the abbot reclined in his chair, exhausted, and closed his eyes, trying to control the terrible headache which had seized him. After a long while, he opened his eyes, unlocked one of his desk drawers and pulled out a notebook in a thick, black leather cover. He leafed through it until he found what he was looking for.
Then, he pulled the telephone on his desk a bit closer, picked up the receiver and, with trembling hands, keyed in a number.
30. Lorenzo Molinari – Ben-Gurion Airport, February 9th, 2010 (Tuesday)
The young policewoman at the border control booth at Ben-Gurion Airport examined the picture in the passport and then watched the face of the man on the other side of the glass. He was in his early forties, very tall and dressed in a casual beige jacket. His black hair highlighted his blue eyes.
“Lorenzo Molinari?”
“The man smiled at her. It was a strange smile. “This is my name.” He spoke English with a pronounced Italian accent.
“What is your purpose in visiting Israel?”
“I am a tourist,” he said. “I came to tour your beautiful country. I am very much interested in the history of the place and mostly in the holy sites.”
“Is this your first visit to Israel?”
“Yes. I have been thinking of doing this for a long time now, but business, you know…”
“What is your profession?”
“I am an engineer, a mechanical engineer.”
She thought he looked more like a model.
* * *
“To Haifa?”
The taxi driver looked at the elegant man facing him. “Yes, sir; please follow me.” He gestured towards his cab and moved forward to take the small suitcase from his passenger’s hand. But the man glared at him with those strange, penetrating eyes of his, and he froze in his place.
“Thank you, I prefer having my suitcase near me.”
The driver opened the back door, and the man seated himself, putting his suitcase on the seat beside him. The driver entered and started the engine. Something about this client made him uneasy. “Where in Haifa?” he asked.
“Dan Panorama Hotel.”
Molinari leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to relax. Last time he was around, he had a different name, and he really messed things up. He tried to move too fast and blew it.
He was still convinced that the gangster, Srur, was involved in the Stella Maris burglary, but now he believed that the thug-turned-businessman was just a go-between. Srur did not really know what was going on.
Last time, once he made the mistake of exposing himself to him, he was constantly tailed by Srur’s men. Consequently, he had to give up the investigation, and returned to Rome empty-handed and humiliated. He wanted to come back, but his superiors decided it was too risky. They preferred to lay low for a while and wait. They had their sources in Israel and bid their time.
He knew that in due course something would come up. It took four years. But now, at last, a lead surfaced. That nosy cop from four years ago has emerged again. He was now accompanied by a surprising partner, and the two of them were on to something.
It could well be another dead end, but Molinari promised himself to give it everything he had. Beyond the immense issue at stake, it was now also a question of personal honor.
He could not fail again.
He will not fail again.
31. Rendezvous in Haifa, February 10th, 2010 (Wednesday)
It was about 7 PM when Luria left his office. It was dark, and he was feeling very tired. All he needed now was an improvised dinner and a hot shower. With these encouraging prospects in his mind, he pulled out the car keys from his pocket.
The main street was empty.
Luria turned into the parking lot, where his car was one of the only two still parked there. The other car aroused his suspicion. Two figures were sitting inside it. Lovers perhaps? Luria became alert. He fumbled for the holster which was tucked in the back of his belt, pulled out the gun and put it in the right pocket of his jacket. His right hand stayed there, clutching the handle. He quickly passed the parked car and turned toward his car.
Then, the doors of the other car suddenly opened, and two young men jumped out and raced towards him. One of them hugged Luria firmly from behind, tightly pressing his arms to the sides of his body, so that he could not use the gun. The other placed himself in front of him. Luria tried to shake his attacker off, but the guy’s arms felt like a huge pair of pliers, denying him movement. The briefcase he was holding in his left hand dropped to the ground.
“It’s not necessary, Mr. Luria,” the man facing him said calmly. “Please, do not give us any trouble. We have no intention of hurting you.”
“Then you have certainly fooled me.” Luria was red with indignation. “What do you want?”
“An old friend wants a word with you.”
Luria strained his eyes. In the feeble street light, he could not identify the face of the man, but noticed that he was dressed in a well-cut Armani suit.
“There are more civilized ways of inviting people to a conversation,” he gasped, still struggling to shake off the bear hug he was in. He thought he was in good physical shape, but his efforts made no impression on the guy behind him.
“Well…” said the man in the Armani suit. “This friend of yours usually keeps very good manners unless forced to behave differently. So do I, but when somebody tries to play with guns, my manners suffer a bit. I suggest you come with us quietly. If you relax and behave, we will get along just fine.”
Luria muttered something.
“I am going to ask my friend to let go of you, but you must promise me to behave. Promise?”
Luria tried again to shake off his aggressor, and this time the man tightened his grip. Luria groaned with pain.
“Promise?” repeated the young man.
“OK. OK,” grunted Luria, “just tell the gorilla to leave me alone.”
The Armani guy nodded his approval to his colleague. Luria felt his right hand pulled out forcefully from his pocket, and the gun retri
eved from it. Then he was free, and the giant behind him took a step back.
“Thank you so much,” said Luria to the Armani. “What type of meeting did you have in mind?”
* * *
The car pulled over, and the oversized driver got out and opened the back door. Luria, followed by the young man in the Armani suit, stepped out. A young couple, walking hand in hand, was leaving the restaurant in the building next to where they were parked, and hardly noticed them. Luria identified the place immediately. It was the ‘Margalit’ restaurant. The three men headed for the building.
* * *
“Yossi Luria in the flesh!” Ze’ev Srur was a bit heavier than Luria remembered. “How are you, my friend? It has been years since we last met.”
“Four years and twenty three days to be exact,” noted Luria. “That’s why I decided to drop in today. I wanted to celebrate our anniversary. I really missed our little talks.”
“Funny,” said Srur. “I like people with a sense of humor. If I recall, last time we met you were somewhat less amused.”
“Yes, Mr. Srur. The last few years have exposed the lighter side of my personality.”
“I am happy to learn that the passing years have done you good.” Srur headed toward his small drink cabinet. “And you can call me Ze’ev. May I offer you a superb whiskey?”
“No, thanks.”
“It’s a pity. This is an excellent whiskey, and you are already at liberty to drink on duty. As I remember, you no longer serve the forces of law and order.”
The dart sent by Srur hit its target. “And I suppose I should be thanking you for that.” Luria was unable to conceal the bitterness in his voice. “I never touch alcohol. I simply do not enjoy it.”
“Have it your way.” Srur poured himself a drink and shook his glass. “I hope you do not bear old grudges. Each of us played his part in that game, and that is all there was to it.” He raised the glass and sipped from it, his eyes fixed on Luria.
Luria chose to change the subject. He was looking at Srur’s hand which was holding the glass. “What is this red thread on your wrist, Ze’ev? I never thought you were superstitious.”
