by K. T. Tomb
He’d tuned out the worst of Kraus’ words and believed that his boss was beginning to wind down when the very worst came; it was worse than a bullet from a pistol.
“You’re just as stupid as your mother,” Kraus spat. “She had every opportunity to have this company, its wealth and all that it has provided, but she chose that loser instead and I inherited our grandfather’s fortune.”
Engel’s eyes narrowed and he felt the sulfuric flavor of his anger rising up in his throat as he listened to the insults. He was on the verge of exploding when he noticed that one of Kraus’ hands had reached into the desk drawer and was resting there as he spoke.
“Now, look at you, running around, doing my dirty work for next to nothing when she could have been running the show.” Kraus taunted him with his eyes and dared him to make a move.
Engel was certain that the entire show—whether true or not—was only to provoke him into giving Kraus an excuse to put a bullet in his chest. He remained at attention, but he was certain that the expression on his face and the anger flaming up in his eyes were communicating plenty.
Kraus snorted derisively. “You’re too pitiful to even stand up for your own parents.”
Seeing that he was unable to provoke a response from Engel, he produced his final blow. “I should have thrown you out on your ass years ago, but, as it turns out, I’ve gotten some use out of you up until now. There will be a helicopter arriving in four hours and you will need to make use of that time to get whatever shit you have here packed and ready to load. You will have an additional 48 hours to vacate the house that you live in back in Germany. Understood?”
Kraus turned toward the two guards who had been standing at attention near the door; one of which was Heinrich. “Heinrich, are all of the weapons on his person and among the possessions in his quarters secured?”
“They are,” Heinrich responded sharply.
“He is to be escorted to his quarters and the two of you are to remain on station outside his door. When the helicopter arrives, you are to escort him to it. Understood?”
“Understood,” Heinrich replied.
“Then get him out of my sight.”
Though Engel’s fury was to the boiling point, without weapons, he was essentially helpless. As he was being led down the hall, he considered that he might have been able to take out either one of his two escorts, but he knew that the other would make short work of him. They had better, if he had succeeded at his job of training them.
As they exited the elevator and he was being led to his quarters, he felt a strange sense of relief; something he hadn’t felt since before his parents had died. It wasn’t until he fully realized that he would no longer be under Kraus’ thumb that he understood how heavily the man had pressed it down upon him. As he passed by the door that led into Thalia’s room, he felt the sharp pain of another regret, but knew that he would have no chance of going to her and speaking to her. However, setting things right with her was the one thing that was occupying his mind as his door was opened and he was ushered inside.
After having heard Peter’s story of how they had tracked Thalia down, he realized that Thalia had not had any part in what had taken place. It had not been her fault that someone had recognized her. In fact, as he thought about it, taking her out of the facility had been a stupid move on the part of Kraus, but a very astute one for Thalia’s part. She was a world-renowned archeologist. Her presence at any dig site, no matter how discreet, was certain to attract someone’s attention. He smiled as he realized how she had outfoxed them all, but the smile faded quickly as he realized that she and the others were still in grave danger at the whim of Kraus.
Just like the floodgates had opened up when he was speaking to Thalia on the balcony of their suite in Jerusalem, his mind began to open up to the cruelty of the man to whom he had been so loyal for such a very long time. As people often do, Engel had made excuses for Kraus’ behavior and accepted things that no one ought ever to accept. Instead of seeing him as astute, he suddenly saw him as an arrogant, narcissistic madman who had manipulated everyone around him with such expertise that they were unaware that he held complete control over them and they were unable to do anything about it.
Unwittingly, Kraus had done Engel an enormous favor by cutting him loose. He was setting him free to become his own man and to make a new start in the world. He could get a job doing security for some company or maybe even for someone like Simon Kessler.
The instant the thought entered his mind, however, his blood ran cold.
He wasn’t going to make it back to Germany. There was no way that Kraus could risk having him contact Kessler. He knew too much and could lead Kessler right into any and all of the secret, secure installations that Kraus utilized to do his business. Engel would either be shot or the helicopter carrying him would have an “unfortunate” accident.
He couldn’t get on that helicopter or he was sealing his doom. In fact, he couldn’t even walk out the doors of his quarters and into the custody of the two guards that were waiting for him outside.
There was only one chance for him if he planned to keep on living. There was an old boat stowed away among some rocks on the north side of the island. It was certainly a long shot, but it was a better shot than none at all. If he was going to take it, he was going to have to act fast.
Though Heinrich and Franz had confiscated all of his weapons, they hadn’t even considered the rappelling gear that he’d kept in his room. By a fortunate twist, he had been doing some training with his team several weeks before and he had packed some of the gear back to his room with him and forgotten about it. Knowing that no one would suspect anything, he tossed a few rations in a pack, secured the harness and carried the coiled rope to the window.
As he was passing toward the window, he noticed the intercom on the wall beside the door. A few days earlier, before they had gone to Jerusalem, he had stared at the silent box, hoping that Thalia would call him to her room to tend to something for her or, in his more desperate fantasies, to make love to her. He’d never considered the fact that it worked both ways. He could call her as well. The instant the thought came to him, he realized that whatever he said would be monitored.
He opened the window quietly, secured the grappling hook as best he could, wedging it between the wall and the heavy cast iron radiator. As he tossed the coil of rope out the window, there was one sentence for Thalia that immediately came to his mind and would give nothing away.
He pressed the intercom button and waited until he heard her voice. “I’m sorry,” he said, released the button, went directly to the window, clipped onto the rappelling rope, tested the hook and began his descent to the rocky shoreline below the facility.
Chapter Nineteen
Engel’s voice and his apology had been a shock to Phoe. However, a greater shock came some time later with the disturbance that was taking place down the hall outside her room. She had been immediately snatched from her room and taken to a different floor, where she was once again locked inside of what amounted to an empty office. The facility was abuzz with activity and there were plenty of orders being barked out as men rushed about; more men than she ever remembered seeing before. Something big had evidently taken place.
Several hours after being snatched from her room and placed in the office, Greta came, unlocked the door and led her out of the office and down to the research lab.
“What is going on?” Phoe asked.
“Engel is gone,” she said bluntly.
“What do you mean, gone?” she asked. ‘Gone’ could mean a lot of things.
Greta did not respond.
The quiet apology that came to her on the intercom, followed by the scrambling around, suddenly hit home. She had no doubt that he had been blamed for Peter and the team finding her. She was sure that he believed that she was the one who had somehow communicated to Peter and that he had been manipulated by her. It was true that she had planned to do that, but when he had opened up his heart
to her, she had pulled back. There was no way that Engel would have ever known that. He’d had more than a casual crush on her and it had been too much for him to take. She worked hard at fighting back the tears that were threatening to overwhelm her. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have played with him that way.
“Alright, then, let’s get to work,” Greta announced as she escorted Phoe through the door.
To Phoe’s surprise, Kadan and Jeremy were sitting in front of computer monitors and Peter was engaged in a discussion with Stefan.
“Where is the rest of my team?” Phoe asked. It was wonderful to see that the three of them were alive and well, but Charlotte, Eric and Jonathan were not present.
“The rest of your team has been taken to join Casey,” Greta replied. “Under orders of Kraus, once you have recovered the shroud, they will all be released. Simon Kessler has agreed to the terms and you may thank Jonathan for making that happen.”
“Forgive me, but I have no reason to believe that Kraus will keep his end of the deal,” Phoe responded. Her grief had to be forced aside and she felt a surge of anger swelling in its space.
“He will keep it,” Greta responded.
“I don’t think he’ll have a choice,” Peter said, approaching Phoe and Greta.
“What? Why?” She was astonished that Peter had confidence in the arrangement that had been made. “You know he’s a liar and a cheat. He and I had a deal. You see how that turned out.”
“Well, normally, I would agree, but Simon had made a move of his own and sort of has Kraus by the balls, if you’ll excuse the illustration.”
“Enough talk,” Greta snapped. “To work!”
Phoe was longing for the carefree days of Heinrich and Greta on computers and Engel in the position of the one who gave orders. Greta, with a little power, had turned out to be a real bitch.
“Okay,” Phoe began. “Where are we?”
“We are very close, is where we are,” Peter responded. “With our two computer geeks and one of the best research labs on the planet, we’re hot on the trail of the shroud.”
“Okay, so fill me in,” she said.
“I’ll let the guys do it,” Peter grinned. “I can sort of follow it, but the two of them are immersed in it.”
“There’s a surprise.” She forced a half-smile. “Alright, guys, spill it.”
“Okay, so it all has to do with Nicodemus,” Kadan began.
“We figured that,” Phoe grinned. “I swear the guy can read my mind.”
“I think he can tap into anything with that computer,” Peter responded.
“Do you guys want to hear this or what?” Kadan interrupted.
“I’m sorry, go ahead,” Phoe laughed. It seemed totally out of place, given the circumstances that surrounded them, but she couldn’t help herself.
“You know about the Gospel of Nicodemus already, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, do you know why it was never part of the canon?”
“The canon?” She wrinkled her brow, not sure where a canon came into the discussion.
“You mean the canon of scripture,” Jeremy helped out. “The set of rules that determine which books were admitted into the Bible. It comes from the Greek word that means ‘straight rod.’”
Jeremy smacked Kadan who had started to snicker when Jeremy said, “straight rod.” No doubt, there was a private joke between the two of them. Intelligent, yes, but they were still geeks. “Got it. Go on.”
“In general, there are three tests that had to be passed in order for a book to be considered a part of biblical canon,” Kadan began again. “It has to demonstrate evidence of Apostolic authority that reflects either apostolic authorship or influence; it has to adhere to antiquity and orthodoxy that indicate content based on an apostolic foundation; and finally, has to pass the test of catholicity, or universal recognition and use in the church. Some early church leaders even saw inspiration by the Holy Spirit also as a test of canonicity.”
“And that is significant how?” Phoe asked, still not quite following Kadan’s train of thought.
“Well, the Gospel of Nicodemus never passed those tests and therefore, was never considered to be a part of the Bible. In essence, the book was considered a forgery of an earlier work known as the Acts of Pilate, as in Pontius Pilate, the governor who presided over the trial of Jesus. The Gospel of Nicodemus didn’t meet any of the three tests that I just mentioned.”
“So, it is a forgery and a fabrication? How does that help us?”
“The existence of the two texts that were uncovered in those archeological digs lend a great deal of authenticity to it, though they are somewhat obscure in and of themselves,” Kadan replied. “The actual text appeared in the middle of the fourth century, which in and of itself had been part of the reason for suspicion concerning its authenticity. The first portion of the book is likely a forgery of documents that very closely match the report of the events of Jesus’ crucifixion by Pontius Pilate to Tiberius Cesar, found in the praetorian.”
“The text is in two sections with an appendix known as the Harrowing of Hell. It is the appendix and its authorship that Kadan and I have been working on.” Jeremy had been trying to break into the conversation, not wanting Kadan to take all of the credit for their combined discovery. “We think that the appendix is the only portion of the entire text that might have actually been written by Nicodemus. But all of those historical names of Nicodemus were what was blocking everybody’s research. Everyone assumed that Nicodemus was actually the dude’s name. In Greek the name means ‘victory of the people,’ but in Hebrew, the same name uses a little bit different root word that means ‘innocent of blood.’”
“So,” Kadan took over again, “we started looking more closely at John’s Gospel and noted that he didn’t use hardly anyone’s first name, but with Jeremy’s little bit of insight, we decided that John had just nicknamed the dude from the Sanhedrin who had visited Jesus and who had testified on his behalf at the Sanhedrin, thus being innocent of his blood. When you consider that the Gospel of John came several years after the other gospels and recognize that it was a summary of all of the evidence after it had all taken place, then a lot of things start to come together.”
“Okay,” Phoe responded. “That’s all very interesting, but we’re really trying to find the shroud.”
“Of course,” Kadan grinned. “I’m very close to finding it right now.” He turned back to his computer and let Jeremy finish the explanation.
“You see, the Nicodemus we’re dealing with here is neither the one from the Babylonian Talmud nor the writings of Josephus. He’s not a saint, but just a dude from the Sanhedrin that later became a believer. His name was actually Benjamin and we’ve been able to track his descendants to the Bavarian Alps and have made solid connections all the way up until 1942. That’s where we lost him.”
Though the direction that Kadan and Jeremy had taken to find the descendants of Nicodemus was something of a surprise, she had caught on to what they were explaining to her and she knew, immediately, the reason that the Jewish descendant of Benjamin/Nicodemus had disappeared in Bavaria in 1942.
Chapter Twenty
Her escort was an extensive one, considering that Jeremy, Kadan and Peter had all been added to the collection of captives that Kraus had gathered. Having learned his lesson from what had happened in Jerusalem, Kraus was taking no chances.
Phoe was being escorted by Greta, Heinrich and Franz to a site in the Bavarian Alps where the family of Eli Bückeburg, descendants of Benjamin/Nicodemus, had resided before they were snatched from their home and taken to Nazi concentration camps. Kraus had also insisted on coming along as well, eager to have the shroud in his hands. He, no doubt, was already attaching zeroes to the sum of Euros that he would fetch for his incredible find.
“Keep a very close eye on her, but let her move around,” Kraus had ordered when they arrived at the former home of the Bückeburg family and spoke to its most recent resid
ents, passing a very large sum of Euros to Hans Weber, who owned the property.
Though they were discreet for the benefit of the Weber family, Phoe knew that all three of them, and quite likely Kraus, were armed and ready to use their weapons if need be. They hardly needed them as long as the threat of seven people being murdered was still a major possibility. In spite of what Peter had told her, she continued to doubt whether Kraus would uphold his end of the deal honestly. He would figure out a way to weasel out of it even though it had been made with Simon Kessler. Regardless of what happened, she could only focus on the reason that she had been brought to the lush, green farm where the Weber family operated a small dairy and produced cheese; their main source of income.
She had seen so many of the world’s most beautiful places—she’d been raised in one of them in Taos, New Mexico—but, for some reason, she was captivated not only by the vista that surrounded and engulfed her, but by something of a deeper, more spiritual beauty that seemed to exist on the Weber farm. Though she wasn’t often given over to superstition, that which surrounded her and even seemed to feel her spirit with an inexplicable joy, made her wonder if the shroud was truly there and if it had a power beyond her understanding.
It didn’t protect the Bückeburg family from the Nazis, she thought, attempting to push the superstitious thoughts out of her mind and focus on trying to figure out where the shroud might have been hidden.
She wandered about the farm, accompanied not only by her entourage of “bodyguards,” but also by Christian Weber, an eager 15-year-old who reminded her of Casey. His English skills were nominal, but the two of them were somehow able to communicate with each other.
“What are you looking for?” Christian asked.
“A very good place to hide something about this big and maybe flat and probably made of stone.” She held her hands in front of her a little more than shoulder-width apart. She really had no idea. She hoped that the person who stored the shroud hadn’t folded it, but it was certainly possible that it had been left folded, exactly the way that they had found it. “It might be smaller,” she added for good measure.
