Unless the order had undergone a radical change, Adjo did not think the monks carried firearms in shoulder holsters.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CARACAS, VENEZUELA
The houses in the Alto Hatillo were angular three-and four-story structures, well kept and discreetly hidden behind trees and large shrubs. The curving residential street seemed out of place in the gleaming city, which was no doubt what made it desirable to the rich and titled. Phair imagined that the home had been in the family of Guardia Nacional Comandante General Montilla for many, many years.
Just like in Iraq, Phair thought unhappily. The homes there were one or two rooms, made of stone or bare wood and corrugated tin. The families simply couldn’t afford to go anywhere else. He found it unsettling that his frame of reference was that, and not the Philadelphia suburb where he grew up.
The men exited the taxi down the street and walked over.
“I assume we got off here to make sure we weren’t followed,” Phair said.
“I’m sure we’re being followed,” Kealey said. “The idea is to be followed only by Ramirez’s employees and not the police. Also, car doors slamming have an injurious effect on the psyche. People assume it’s the police or bad news and are automatically on guard.”
“But everyone answers a doorbell,” Phair said.
“They may keep the chain on, but they’ll see who it is,” Kealey replied.
The men walked along a sidewalk and came to the white-painted iron gate of the house Ned Hull had cited. There was an intercom system, a small camera, and a locking mechanism on the gate at which Kealey peered. To Phair’s surprise, Kealey simply pushed the gate—and it opened. Either someone living there was absentminded, or the assistance Kealey had negotiated for had come up with one hell of a beautiful lie. Kealey did not look grateful. He looked stern, almost angry. Now at the front door of the house, Kealey pressed the bell. Phair heard it buzz inside. He heard a woman talking in Spanish, probably on the telephone. The voice came nearer, still talking.
“Is your wallet handy?” Kealey asked.
“Yes.”
“Get it out, keep it hidden in your hand.”
Phair obeyed. He wasn’t sure why. He hadn’t had a driver’s license in years.
“If it’s the granddaughter and not a housekeeper, I want you to ask to see her grandfather,” Kealey said.
“What?”
“Tell her you have a theological question.”
“How will I know if it’s her—”
“The shoes,” Kealey said. “Housekeepers wear simple, inexpensive brands. When you ask, tell the truth except who we work for. You’re a seminarian and I’m the librarian.”
“No, you’re crazy!”
“Improvise!” Kealey snapped. “Uneasiness is disarming.”
In that case she’ll be putty, Phair thought. Kealey had planned it this way. He was a formidable man, damn him.
The door opened and a young, wary, very pretty face looked through the screen door.
“¿Sí?”
“I am Father James Phair,” he said, swallowing hard as his voice cracked. “Do you speak English?”
“Yes. What do you want?” Her eyes shifted suspiciously from Phair to Kealey. “How did you get past the gate?”
“The gate was open.”
She pursed her lips in irritation.
“We’re seeking help, ma’am. On a religious matter.”
The woman’s eyes returned to Phair. Her expression was still guarded. “Are you sure you have the right house?”
“We are—we do,” he said. “This is a little awkward—”
“Say it,” she said impatiently.
“Someone claims to have found the Staff of the prophet Moses,” Phair said, forcing out his words on the back of a big, deep breath. “We do not believe this to be the case.”
He stopped. She said nothing. That was a good sign. At least she wasn’t denying that there was someone there who might be able to help.
“We have files in our library, of which my companion is the curator, which suggest a gentleman named Lukas Durst, at this address, may have information which can help,” Phair said.
The young woman’s eyes shifted to Kealey. “You’re a librarian,” she said.
“Senior librarian,” he corrected in his softest voice, with a disarming little bow.
“Where is this library?” the woman asked.
“In the United States. Philadelphia,” Kealey answered.
“Do you have identification?” she asked.
“I’m not a member of the clergy, but Father Phair has his ordination card—if that will do.”
Phair opened his wallet and took out a white card with black type and a gold seal showing a church spire against the sun. The card was laminated; despite that, it looked every year of its two decades. It caused the woman to relax. The fact that he had his wallet out, ready for her inspection, showed that he had anticipated—and respected—her caution.
The woman studied them a moment longer. “Azor miyad,” she said.
The men looked at her blankly.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, and closed the door.
“Hebrew,” Kealey said from the side of his mouth.
“What was she doing, testing us?”
“Exactly,” Kealey said. He looked casually up and down the street. “An Israeli agent looking for Durst might have slipped up and answered, or at least indicated that he understood.”
“You know, I don’t appreciate how you handled this,” Phair said. “You used me.”
“It went fine.”
“It might not have.”
“You spent years doing this in Iraq,” Kealey told him. “I knew you’d be fine.”
Kealey’s eyes lingered on the north side of the street for a moment. Then he turned back to the door.
“I don’t know how much time we’re going to have,” Kealey said. “There’s a car parked across the street with two people inside, just sitting. They weren’t there when we arrived.”
“Couldn’t they be ours? Or Ramir—”
Kealey cut off the name. “Not in the open like that. Given the old money on this street, I’d guess that marked and unmarked police patrols are fairly regular. Not all the residents here are under our friend’s protection and they would want some vigilance on the part of the city.”
“And if these are not the regular patrol?”
“We won’t have a lot of time to get what we came for,” he replied vaguely.
“What about the translator?” Phair would have looked himself but was afraid to turn from the door. He didn’t want the occupants of the car to see the fear in his expression.
“She arrived on her bicycle shortly after we did,” he said. “She’s sitting on the curb drinking water and checking cell phone messages.”
Carla Montilla returned. “My grandfather is on the patio in back,” she said through the screen. “Go around the side. I will meet you there.”
Kealey and Phair turned to the right, following the slate path.
“I wasn’t expecting open arms,” Phair said.
“Men in hiding tend to be bored as hell here.”
“Her reaction surprises me more than his.”
“Did it ever occur to you that she may believe us?”
Phair looked at the clean, sandy red bricks of the house and the ivy-covered lattice fence to their right. The house and grounds were extremely well kept.
“Also, I never pictured these expatriates living in luxury,” Phair said with a hint of distaste. “Whenever I read about them in the press, I imagined remote farms or huts in a jungle somewhere.”
“The Eichmanns and Mengeles had to live like that,” Kealey told him, “the ones who had to go deep undercover to avoid justice. The others, the functionaries, simply went here because that’s where the wealth of the crumbling Reich was smuggled for them to draw on while they waited to be called to action. Of course, our host apparently found additi
onal income.”
The thought gave Phair a chill as they rounded the corner.
A tall, white-haired man was stretched on a chaise lounge. He had on tan shorts and his legs and bare feet were bronzed from decades of sun. He wore a white T-shirt and an amber visor. He rose as the guests came over.
“Welcome,” he said, his English thickly accented with his native German inflection. “I so seldom have visitors.”
“You speak English, sir,” Kealey observed.
“My late wife has taught me,” he said, extending his hands to Kealey and to Phair simultaneously. “She was a journalist.” His grip was surprisingly strong. He released their hands and gestured toward a group of folded wooden chairs leaning against the wall of the house. “I am told by my granddaughter you have a matter involving the Staff of Moses.”
“Yes, sir,” Phair said.
“Records of some manner suggested to you that I can be of assistance?”
The men opened chairs and arranged them near Durst. “Declassified documents indicate that during the war you were part of a group that traveled the globe in search of religious relics,” Kealey said.
“Ja, that is so,” Durst replied as he eased back onto the lounge. He looked from one man to the other. “Who is the superior? You seem the elder,” he indicated Phair.
“We’re a team,” Phair said thinly.
“Teamwork is everything,” Durst said.
Carla Montilla emerged from the house carrying a tray with a pitcher and glasses. She set them on a table, poured iced tea for everyone, handed a glass to her grandfather, and opened a chair for herself.
“What exactly is the situation that brings you so far from Philadelphia to discuss?” the German asked.
“Mr. Durst, someone—we don’t know who—has placed himself in a cave atop Mt. Sinai and claims to have the Staff,” Kealey said. “He apparently transformed it into a serpent, which has attracted a large following in the Middle East.”
“Stupid dogs,” Durst said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“What do you mean?” Kealey asked, simultaneously calming Phair with a glance. He knew the comment would not sit well.
“They follow a scent here, follow it there. Whatever camel smells the best. It has always been so. Do you have a picture of this supposed Staff?”
“We don’t,” Kealey said.
“Well, it is unlikely to be authentic,” Durst said.
“Why, sir?”
“Because we found it and buried it,” Durst replied with a little laugh. His hand waved again. “A useless piece of wood.”
“How do you know you found the authentic Staff?” Phair asked. The revelation had blown past his distaste.
“It was with the authentic Ark of the Covenant in Ethiopia,” Durst said, still chuckling.
“How did it get there?” Phair asked.
“It was shipped by the old Jew king—what was his name?”
“Solomon, grandfather,” Carla said.
“Ja, ja. He had troubles and sent it with his son by the whore of Sheba,” Durst went on. “It was hidden for centuries in a church and the Jews never knew it.”
“How did you find out about it?” Phair asked. “Were there records?”
“We interrogated the locals, everywhere we went,” he answered. “They talked to us. And when we had the objects we took them to study and do you know what we found? Science, not the supernatural! The surface of the Ark was—goldblatt?”
“Gold leaf,” Carla said.
“Yes, still all of it there. It was covered with a woolen blanket and carried on wooden poles. You see what that did?”
“Not really,” Kealey said.
“Hin und her, hin und her,” he moved his hands back and forth. “The blanket created a charge. Anyone who touched it would be killed by the statisch. Sixty thousand volts of electricity was created by this chest!”
Phair was dumbfounded. “That was the fire of God?”
“Not God,” Durst said. “The bearers!”
“Where did you put these artifacts?” Kealey asked.
“The chest is gone,” Durst said. “We needed gold to continue our search and so we heated it. The wood beneath it burned. We buried the other thing, the Staff, in Morocco while we searched for the true cross. We intended to recover the Staff later for tests. As far as I know, the trunk that held it is there still.”
“You burned the Ark?” Phair blurted. “It is one of the greatest treasures in the history of humankind!”
“To whom?” Durst asked.
“That gets to the problem we have now, sir,” Kealey said. “You see, we believe this new prophet is looking to use his false Staff to help start a mighty jihad in the Middle East. One that will cause trouble throughout the world.”
“Who exactly are you?” Carla asked Kealey suspiciously. “Why would seminarians care about this?”
“He is no librarian,” Durst laughed. “This one is a Catholic priest, that I can see,” he indicated Phair. “But this one has been outside. He keeps the other one at bay with his eyes and is skilled at asking direct questions. He has done this before.”
“You are correct, sir,” Kealey said. “I am no librarian. I work for the United States government in the capacity of a jihad-preventer.”
“You fight these people?”
Kealey nodded.
“You could have been honest with me,” Carla said angrily.
“I’m sorry, there wasn’t time,” Kealey said. “The situation overseas is tense, and I didn’t know how much time we would have for this interview. Our countries are not on the best of terms.”
“But we, you and I, have a common foe,” Durst said proudly. “The Jew, the Arab, the African. Christian America has never been our enemy.”
Phair was deeply silent as he glanced at Carla.
She said, if not proudly then without apology, “We have agreed that my grandfather’s ideas are his and mine are mine.”
“My unfashionable ideas,” her grandfather said, lightly baiting her.
She only shook her head at him. Her refusal to explicate further bespoke what must have been a history of arguments. Apparently they had valued their relationship more than winning their debates, for there was peace and affection here.
“We need to get the Staff.” Kealey regarded Durst. “Will you help us?”
Phair felt the eyes of every Iraqi he had encountered, shared a meal with, spoke to, slept beside, burning into his soul and branding him a coward and a traitor to humanity. Phair didn’t like Durst, but at that moment he liked himself even less.
“They are people, not stupid dogs,” Phair said.
Durst and Kealey both looked at him. They suddenly seemed to have a common enemy. Incredibly, Durst’s expression seemed milder than that of Kealey.
“That is entirely beside any point,” Kealey said sternly.
“I’m sorry, but you’re wrong,” Phair said.
“Herr Kealey, it is not necessary that the priest and I agree,” Durst said. “I am here, in this country, because my ideas are so unwelcome elsewhere. I learned that during the time I spent in Europe and then in Australia after the war. I don’t take offense. I don’t care, quite honestly, what others may think.” He put his palm on his chest. “I know to be true what is true.”
Phair looked from Kealey to Durst and then to Durst’s granddaughter, and remained silent.
Kealey said, “I apologize for my colleague’s remarks.”
Durst laughed. “You are a gentleman and, very clearly, a diplomat. Who do you work for?”
“An intelligence agency. That’s all I can tell you unless you agree to help me recover the Staff,” Kealey said.
“I will help you to stop the Arabs,” Durst said. “Jews are bad enough but at least they are educated. And neat, except for the bearded ones.”
“Thank you,” Kealey said.
Those two words caused bile to fill Phair’s throat. He had never felt like hitting someone, not even in Ir
aq. He felt the desire now. He was actually angrier at Kealey than he was at Durst. Kealey should know better.
“Mr. Durst,” Kealey said, “were there any records of your quest, any maps or reports or letters?”
“Ja,” he replied. “We sent pouches with top-secret maps and dispatches to Berlin. I knew the couriers. They were never intercepted.”
“Where in Berlin?” Kealey asked.
“Our office was part of Himmler’s complex at the Chancellery.”
“The Russians ate that place up,” Kealey said. “Your data could easily have fallen into their hands.”
Durst dismissed the notion with a wave of his finger. “The Soviets were interested in rockets and bombs, nothing more. I was held in a makeshift prison—in a church basement—by those godless peasants. I told them what I had done during the war. They were so disinterested in my work that they sent me to the Americans as a show of comradeship. I wasn’t worth feeding.”
“That doesn’t mean they didn’t read your reports.”
“Doubtless they did,” he agreed. “Some poor, underpaid drunk who probably thought our work was a joke and tossed the files in a fire rather than carry them to Moscow. They were more interested in carting spoils than research.”
“Assuming there’s no record,” Kealey said, “what can you tell us that will help our search?”
“Tell you?” he said. “Nothing. I will help by going with you abroad and taking you to the real Staff.”
Kealey and Carla both looked like they’d run into each other, their shoulders moving forward involuntarily.
“Sir—”
“Grandfather!”
“I wish to go. I insist upon it,” Durst said. “I once traveled the globe, going where I pleased, where I was needed, yet I have not left this country for longer than Carla’s mother has been alive. I will go to finish what we started, to collect items that will save the human race from scheize.”
Phair didn’t need a translator to know what that meant. Durst practically spat the word.
“I really don’t have time to debate it,” Kealey said.
“Nein. And—you will be going, will you not?” Durst asked Phair.
“I work in Washington—”
“He’ll be going,” Kealey said.
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