Solomon's Throne

by Jennings Wright

  Finally he spoke. “Peter was the bishop of the church. In Jerusalem.”

  The doctor nodded. “Yes, according to this letter.”

  “Not Rome. Jerusalem.”

  Another nod.

  “But…” He stopped. He was again tempted to throw the letter into the fire. He could pretend he’d never seen it, never read it, never… But no. He had seen it. Somehow, against all odds, this letter had survived for 1600 years. It had been hidden by the dead man, and those before him, to protect the Church of Rome… Well, that’s what he assumed. But someone else knew about it. Someone else wanted it. Someone had killed trying to get it. Or get it back?

  “Eduardo.” The Jesuit realized that Doctor Balsemao was speaking to him. “Eduardo, I must ask you to go now. I do not want this in my house any longer. There is still a Court of Inquisition here; Antonio Vieira is in Rome trying to end the auto-da-fe’, but they still have power. I cannot risk my family, my lands… Please, you must take your letter and go!”

  Fumbling with his cloak, draped over the chair to dry in front of the fire, the Jesuit stuffed the handwritten pages from the doctor into his undershirt, pulled the drawstring tight on the leather pouch, and ran outside, oblivious now to the wind and rain.

  When Father Eduardo returned to his small apartments at St. Anthony’s, he tucked the pages away in his small chest and put all his energies into forgetting them. Unable to destroy them, and unable to forget them, he stumbled through the next several weeks in a haze of duty and cold. Winter had come to Lisbon, and with it the poor and destitute seeking help. He kept busy visiting parishioners and helping with the smallpox epidemic that cropped up over the Advent and Christmas seasons.

  From time to time the letter would force its way into his thoughts, and he would just as forcibly push them back. He had no idea what to do with the information that Providence had put in his path, and was well aware of the dangers posed by the Inquisitors. The five year suspension ordered by Pope Innocent XI had led to a truce of sorts in the country, and very slim tendrils of trust had returned. But this… this was catastrophic. This letter produced by a complete stranger had the power to undermine the legitimacy of the entire Church. What would Rome do to stop such a thing from happening?

  After the Christmas season had passed, the Jesuit noticed that a stranger had begun attending mass. Lisbon had many travelers, traders and people from the Empire seeking a new life in the cosmopolitan city. But this man did not seem to be a trader. He had dark hair and fair skin, and he did not have the hands or sun baked skin of a sailor. He did not worship, but sat in the back of the chapel, hands folded in his lap, staring at Father Eduardo with a stoic expression.

  The Jesuit spent the cold wet weeks of January and February in his small room, fire in the inadequate grate, working on a calligraphy copy of the New Testament for the Abbot at the Jeronimo Monastery. He had trained in such work in his youth, and still enjoyed spending the cold winter months creating the beautiful books. His mind was consumed with the detail, and he did indeed forget about the letter hidden away in his chest.

  On the first fine day of the year, he took a chunk of bread and cheese, and set out to walk the wharf and enjoy the warm noonday sun. Seagulls fought over rotting fish carcasses, and stray dogs and cats lolled about in the unexpected sunshine. The strong smells of a working wharf washed over him as he strolled along, enjoying the massive nau in for the winter, and the smaller fishing boats tied up to unload their early morning catch. Finding a stone wall on which to perch, he turned his face to the sun and closed his eyes, saying a silent prayer for his meal.

  “Good afternoon, Father.”

  The voice startled him, and he turned towards it. Standing before him was the man from the chapel, the man who had been attending mass. He had been coming so long now that the priest had stopped wondering about him. And yet here he was, standing in front of him at the wharf, far from St. Anthony’s. His dark eyes were squinting against the bright sun, but he was standing very still and straight, hands clasped in front of him.

  “Oh! Good afternoon. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.” He tried a smile, but he was feeling very uneasy.

  “Father, I believe you knew a friend of mine. Sebastian de Gois?”

  The priest thought a moment, “I’m sorry, no. Was he a member of our parish?”

  The man stared at the Jesuit. “At the end. He died in your chapel. In your arms, I believe.”

  “That was his name? I didn’t know it. Well, now we can properly mark his grave. I’m sorry about your friend.”

  At the mention of a grave, the man’s intensity increased. “He was buried? Where?”

  “Yes, of course. Ah! I assume you thought he would have been put in a pauper’s grave, since we didn’t know who he was? Luckily he had some coin with him, and he seemed to be a gentleman soldier from the little we spoke. I arranged for him to be buried at the Jeronimo Monastery…”

  He trailed off as the man spun around and stalked up the street, away from the wharf. The Jesuit still felt very uneasy, and decided he would return to his cell and vouchsafe his belongings. Sebastian de Gois. What trouble have you wrought upon me, Mestre de Gois?

  When he returned to his small room, he was relieved to see that it was undisturbed. Feeling foolish at his increasing anxiety, he gathered the leather pouch containing the vellum scroll, the translation given to him by Doctor Balsemao, and the small handwritten journal that he had found in the dead man’s pocket, and hurried with them into the chapel. Constantly looking over his shoulder for the man at the wharf, he scuttled to and fro in the small building, trying to find a hiding place both large enough to contain all his secrets, and small enough to be inconspicuous.

  Stopping in the middle of the sanctuary, he closed his eyes and breathed a silent prayer. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes, and looked around him, pushing aside his fear. There. The small side altar. He knew from having conducted services there that, behind that small altar, on the old stone floor, was a loose paving stone. He had never tried to move or repair it. Hurrying over, he got down on his knees and pushed on rear edge of the rock. It wobbled just a bit. Unable to get any purchase with his shaking fingers, the Jesuit leapt up and rushed into the sacristy. There he grabbed the knife with which he trimmed the candle wicks.

  Working quickly, he pried up the loose stone. There was only a very small concavity beneath the stone, probably the result of water in some bygone age. Using his fingers and the knife, Father Eduardo quickly dug out enough earth to fit the pouch securely inside. He placed the papers and the journal in the leather pouch, cinched it, folded the top edge over to discourage dust, and put it carefully in the hole. He replaced the rock, and used his cloak to sweep the dirt that he could not scoop up into the corners. The rest he dumped outside the back door, wiping his hands clean on his cassock. His skin was damp with perspiration despite the cooling winter day, and he leaned against the wall, trying to dismiss his overactive imagination.

  The next Sunday, the Jesuit noticed that the dark eyed man wasn’t in the congregation during mass. Feeling relieved, he performed the service with a much lighter heart. After greeting the parishioners and partaking of the Sunday mid-day meal with a local solicitor and his family, he returned to his room with no thoughts other than finishing his book. He opened the door and uttered one word. “Bosto.”

  His room, with its few possessions and minimally adequate furniture, had been hit by a cyclone. A cyclone with knives. His only other cassock was shredded, the pieces of black wool scattered about the room. His small bed, with the hay stuffed mattress, was ripped down the center and emptied of all but a few scraggles of straw. His rough wool coverlet was in tatters. The wooden bedstead, stool and work table were kindling. The ashes from the fire had been thrown out and onto the rest of the mess, and water from the small clay pitcher had been poured on top, making a sodden, smelly mess. And his book for the monastery, his beautiful book, on which he’d spent countless hours… Each page ha
d been torn into small pieces, and the tooled leather cover slashed and ruined.

  The Jesuit stood, frozen. He was a priest, not a man of violence. He had been brought up by quiet parents on a farm near Doctor Balsemoa. He had been fortunate to escape the tentacles of the Inquisition unscathed. He had not yet been born when Portugal regained its independence from Spain, so his country had been at peace during his lifetime. He had early decided on a monastic life. He did not understand the anger expressed in the wholesale destruction of his room, nor the mind behind it. He just knew evil when he saw it, and he turned and ran.

  Looking out over the harbor, lit up with the dawn, Eduardo clutched the leather pouch in his inner pocket. He didn’t know what it was about, but he knew that, unless he left Lisbon, the man with the dark eyes would find him, and would make him surrender what Sebastian de Gois had died protecting. He wasn’t sure why, but he wasn’t about to do that. He would protect the letter, yes, and the Church with it. But he would also find the man’s treasure. The Throne of King Solomon.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Lisbon

  Present Day

  The tree lined street near Se’ Catedral de Lisboa was dark and quiet. Little traffic used the roads surrounding the ancient building once the few small bars and restaurants in the vicinity closed for the night. Residences were dark and still. The three men, clad in non-reflective black, slipped along under the trees, lost in shadow. They stopped at a small building on Rue das Pedras Negras, the leader making a downward swipe with his gloved hand and dropping to one knee.

  From a small ground floor window, a blue light flickered once, twice, then died. The lead outside man returned the signal, and the three separated, two men disappearing around corners, and a third aiming a grapple hook at the tile rooftop of the house. Compressed air fired the hook with minimal sound, and, after ensuring the hook was secure, the man rappelled to the chimney pot on the roof. A small access door opened from the inside, and the man slipped in.

  The two men silently descended the stairs, turning on head lamps. The building, built as the home of a moderately wealthy sea captain in 1562, had been transformed into to an ultra modern office space. Chic minimalist furniture lined the hallways, creating cozy meeting places. Bedrooms on the top two floors had been converted into generous offices, each with its own keypad for security. On the first floor, a gracious dark paneled room with elaborately carved doorway arches functioned as a reception area, while a large oak paneled dining room off the modern kitchen had been converted to a conference room.

  The men bypassed all of this, including the valuable art showcased on every wall. Top of the line computers, stereo equipment, and expensive sculptures were equally ignored. The men approached a thick wooden door to the right of the modern Subzero refrigerator, and studied the keypad. The leader clicked a button on his smart phone and studied the screen for a moment. He looked at his partner, crossed himself, and put his finger to the pad. Carefully entering a 14 digit code, he pressed “Enter.” Green light, and click. The man gave his partner a quick thumbs up and opened the door.

  The stairway was illuminated with blue lights, casting a hazy glow on the dark stonework. At the bottom of the stairs the room opened out into a single large square, separated by banks of climate controlled vaults. The floor was criss-crossed by moving red laser tracks. Over each vault was a single fish eye camera. The men stopped on the top step and looked at their watches. The shorter of the two held up three fingers. The leader nodded.

  In less than a minute, there was the sound of equipment powering down, and the lasers disappeared. In another minute overhead fluorescent lights came on, and the blue lights dimmed. The green lights on the side of each fish eye lens switched to red. The men moved slowly into the room, cautiously testing out their inside information. If they’d missed just one system… After five quiet minutes, they went straight for a small vault set into the back wall.

  Carefully the leader withdrew a black box from his coverall pocket. He opened it to reveal a man’s index finger. His partner made a face and the leader smiled and shook his head. Not real. The finger, made of a silicone polymer and kept warm on a battery powered bed of foam, was perfect in every respect: fingernail, hairs, knuckle wrinkles. And, most importantly, fingerprints.

  The leader consulted his smart phone, and crossed himself again, to the amusement of his partner. He wiped his upper lip with his shoulder, steadied his stance, and raised his own index finger to the keypad. He began his series of punches. Fourteen numbers. Star. Fourteen more numbers. Enter. This time there was a yellow light, and another touch pad illuminated. Quickly taking the warm finger from its box, the tall man pressed the fingerprints against the screen. The screen flashed red; the man removed the finger, and glanced over at his partner. Both held their breath. Green light. Click. The vault opened.

  Inside the lighted vault was a black velvet box. Carefully withdrawing the box, the smaller man pulled the tab and opened it. All that was inside was a leather pouch, tied with a drawstring, and a small leather bound book. The man gently removed the pouch and opened it. He gave his leader a thumbs up—got it. Picking up the book he raised his eyebrows at the taller man. The leader gave a shrug. Bring it.

  Handing the velvet box to his partner, the team leader took a thick plastic bag from his pocket. He slipped the two items inside, and carefully sealed the opening with the attached tape. A stainless steel box, the size of hardback book, came out of the cargo pocket on his leg, and the plastic bag with its precious contents was carefully stowed inside. With the unplanned addition of the book, the box barely closed. It had been specifically designed for the pouch, but the leader didn’t want to leave the book behind. Anything important enough to keep with his intended target was definitely important enough to steal.

  The men replaced the velvet box in the vault, and shut the door. The leader turned the handle on the door, and a wild claxon began to sound. Shock widened their eyes, and they looked at each other in stunned disbelief. After a moment of frozen silence, the team leader yelled, “Go!” He shoved his partner through the room and up the stairs, frantically trying to stow the box of stolen artifacts back in his cargo pocket while racing up the stairs.

  All pretense of stealth gone, the two men crashed out of the kitchen door into the landscaped back yard. The two sentries had come running from their posts on the front corners of the building, and the four men began running across the lawn, northeast and away from the water. And their boat. As they leapt over the small fence that separated the property from the small side street, one of the men caught his foot on a finial and fell, his leg breaking with an audible snap. The leader stopped briefly, made the sign of the cross with his forefinger on the man’s forehead, and hissed, “Go!” The three men resumed running, leaving the fallen man to his fate.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  London, England

  Present Day

  The London office of Xavier International Ltd sat in Kensington, not far from Hyde Park. The streets for miles around were fronted with Perpendicular and Tudor style homes, many on the bustling main streets converted into offices and exclusive stores, with the occasional take away in between. Encompassing an entire renovated home on Gloucester Road, the normally restful rooms of Xavier International were currently a hotbed of chaos. Pacing up and down and yelling in a mixture of English and Portuguese, Luis Xavier had the office staff cornered while he rampaged.

  “The system was invencivel! They told me, they swore that no gatuno could beat that system without cutting off my thumbs! Even if they did cut off my thumbs, they couldn’t use the system, because it reads the calor corporal, the body heat!” He turned to his cowering secretary. “You call those bastardo! You tell them to call me instantaneamente! NOW!” He slammed his office door.

  Once inside his office, the calm quiet decor seemed to take the fiery edge off of his temper. Still livid and pacing, he stopped waving his hands in the air and stood in front of the large window facing Gloucester Roa
d. Across the street little St. Stephens Church sat, exuding 150 years of serenity. He stared at it for several minutes, until his intercom came to life.

  “Excuse me, sir? I have Mr. De Castro on the phone in Lisbon.” The secretary said hesitantly.

  Xavier snatched up the handset. “Emil? O que aconteceu?” What happened over there?

  “As minhas desculpas, Luis.” My apologies. “We don’t know yet what has happened. The system should have been unbeatable.”

  “Yes, so I was told when I agreed to pay the outrageous sum you charged me.”

  “Well, um, yes. It does appear that we have had an internal breach—on your end possibly, although there is a slim chance it was on ours—which allowed the thieves access to your codes, and to have knowledge of the system. You know that, of course. We have not yet determined how they breached the biometric component. And of course, they were unaware of the failsafe alarm upon the closing of the door. That last minute backup system did allow the policia to capture one of the thieves, as you also know.”

  “Yes, I know all that! What I want to know is who these people are, who in your organization sold our codes—and yes, Emil, it was your organization. I am the only one in this company to know the codes, and I can assure you that I didn’t steal from myself! And I want to know where my artifacts have gone.”

  There was silence at the other end for a moment. De Castro cleared his throat. “So we are working with the local police, but the suspect who was injured has said nothing. He is not in the system, either in Portugal or on Interpol. Nothing else appears to have been stolen but the contents of the one vault…”