by Tom Haase
“Cease-fire,” came the order.
“Who’s there?” the sergeant demanded.
“Hold your fire, Yanks.”
Still using her night vision goggles she could make out a British soldier standing up wearing a beret. Only they did that —a beret in combat! Her sergeant got up and moved toward the man. They introduced themselves.
“I’ve got a wounded man. It’s serious. Do you have any medics?”
“No medic,” the sergeant said, “but I have a specialist who’s trained in combat wounds.”
The sergeant called the rest of the squad down the hill to where the dead Iraqis and the nomads or Kurds, whichever they were, lay sprawled on the ground. Bridget went to check the Iraqi soldiers. They were all dead, then she checked the civilians. None were alive.
When she completed scanning the area, the British unit of six soldiers arrived carrying the wounded man. She went to see if she could help. When she completed her examination of the severe stomach wound, plus the bullet wounds in the man’s legs, she looked at the officer and gave a small negative shake of her head.
She pulled out the medical treatment components she carried with her and worked for twenty minutes to try to stabilize him. While she treated the wounded soldier, her sergeant and the British lieutenant positioned the remaining men in a protective perimeter around their position.
“Thank you for trying to help my man,” the lieutenant said to the sergeant. Bridget noticed his distinctive Scottish accent.
“I’m sorry there is nothing more I can do for him, and I don’t think it will be very long.” She looked up at the lieutenant and noticed his sandy brown hair atop a tall frame. The light dim, but there remained enough so she could make out his chiseled facial features.
“What a waste of life. I can’t believe they were just slaughtering those people.” He shook his head and turned looking over the carnage.
“I guess that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” Bridget asked while getting to her feet. They moved over toward the truck that the Iraqis were using as a communication vehicle. She mopped her face and some of the camouflage paint came off, streaking the pattern to a zebra resemblance in the minimal desert light.
“Donavan, get in there and contact headquarters and let them know where we are. Our friggin’ radio is on the blink,” her sergeant said as he walked past.
She opened the back end of the vehicle and saw that much of the equipment was either broken or shot up. One FM radio seemed to be working and she tuned to her command frequency and notified headquarters of their location. She jumped down from the back of the truck and almost knocked over the lieutenant who stood in the shadow looking into the van.
“Hey, Sarg, headquarters said that one of their units will link up with us at dawn. We’re to sit tight till then.”
“Great. Just great. No problem, we’ll wait. Thanks, Bridget,” the sergeant said.
“Bridget, what a beautiful name. My ancient family has some members bearing that name,” said the British officer with the Scottish accent.
“Sorry, Lieutenant, that I’m not dressed for going to the Savoy.”
“No, Bridget, if I may call you that. Forgive me, I did not mean to insult you. By the way, my name is Jonathan McGregor. I need to thank you for what you’ve done for my man. Please accept my thanks.”
Bridget nodded and they leaned against the back bumper of the truck. She kept an eye on the wounded soldier, but knew he had no chance to live more than a few more minutes. They talked about where they were from, and what they wanted to do after the war.
“I want to go to university and get my doctorate in ancient Greek and work in archaeology.” She looked down and moved her foot over the sand.
“That should be very interesting,” he said. “When do you get out?”
“I have a year to go and I’ve already got my application in to the university.” She raised her head and looked at him and realized it remained too dark to see all his features.
“What about you Lieutenant, are you a career officer?” she asked as she examined the dying soldier. She again gave a slight shake of her head so the lieutenant would know.
“No, I’ll be out as soon as the war is over. I’ll go back to my job working for an intelligence agency at home.” The Scottish accent now almost unnoticeable. Maybe her ears were adjusting to it.
“A spook. I guess you’d have to kill me if you told me anything about what you do.” She smiled.
The beginning of morning nautical twilight just began to break over the eastern horizon as she glanced at his face. His gray or silver eyes stared back at her. She couldn’t see the color, but realized that he possessed a handsome face. The wounded British soldier’s breathing stopped and he passed away as the sun rose. They continued to talk for the next hour until the lead elements of her unit reached their position.
They said their goodbyes, wished each other good luck, and departed joining their separate units. War was like that. Small glimpses of humanity poking out of atrocity.
* * *
Basement, National Museum – 6:23 p.m.
Warsaw, Poland
“Cezar will be joining us shortly, but we can start since he already knows about the hidden room,” Wozniak said.
“Hidden room?” Scott asked. “Where?”
“Here in the museum.” Wozniak then recounted how he’d stumbled upon a false wall in the basement archive area. Behind the wall the documents…and a body almost mummified with age. “Once I found the documents, without realizing there were Latin and Greek text mixed in with the predominately Arabic ones, I knew I needed help. We have no Islamic or Arabic specialist on staff here.” Wozniak said.
He stopped his monologue and looked at Scott. “That’s when I got the information from your doctorate mentor about you and your Islamic and ancient Arabic studies. We are fortunate that you were in Europe and agreed to come and take a look at our find.”
The door to the curator’s office opened and Cezar entered, halting the fascinating story.
“I suppose you have told Scott everything about the discovery,” Cezar said. “I hope you kept it to the truth. You realize we decided to keep this quiet until we could at least verify some of the documents. We didn’t want to bring any discredit on the museum.”
“I’m at the point where you joined me in the lower basement. Now we can both continue to fill him in from the point on. What you discovered would cause our friend here to get excited.”
“Could we not go down to see the actual place where you found the hidden vault?” Scott requested. “I would appreciate seeing it. I believe I would get a better feel for your discovery.”
Cezar nodded at this suggestion. Wozniak appeared ready to object, but then conceded.
“Certainly, but the body we found will be moved to another section of the museum for analysis on Monday,” Wozniak said and then led them to the basement. There he used his key to open the door descending to the lowest level. Arriving at the vault area Scott listened to the two storytellers as they described the scene on the day of discovery.
“When do you think the vault was built?” Scott asked.
“The Napoleonic era. Amazing that such space could be established without ever appearing on any architectural plans for the museum,” Wozniak said.
Cezar demonstrated how he examined one wall, running his fingers between the bricks to check the mortar. He strolled over to the part of the collapsed wall and did the same thing.
“I believe the wall hiding the discovery is from the late 1700’s or early 1800’s. But my guess is that it was built at that time but made to look like it came from a previous period of history—”
“Why would anybody do that?” Scott interrupted.
“My first guess is that it would make people think the wall came from a much older period. It all depends on the things you found in there and what they were trying to hide,” Cezar informed him.
“I’ve seen the plans for the museum from the r
econstruction after World War Two. I found no room like this one on the plans.”
“You are right.” Cezar removed the watch from his waistcoat and checked the time. “Remember the museum started in the 16th century and construction occurred over the ruins of a monastery with all those cells and hermit cages built above and below ground. They rebuilt the museum after the German bombings during the war.”
“But those blueprints from the rebuilding should’ve shown this room,” Wozniak said with some conviction.
“In 1970, the rebuilding of this section of the museum started. The architect didn’t get the plans up to date because he was killed in a Solidarity rally with Lek Walesa near the completion of the project. He must not have considered the area of the basement important enough to concentrate on since most of the building was beyond this wall. The total structure of the museum covers this area.”
“Come on, Cezar. Are you telling me that he covered this area using this old wall to save money that he may have pocketed?”
“Maybe he didn’t work on this area because it’s not a load bearing wall. He may have just used beams to carry the weight over top of the space without ever looking into it. Therefore, no blueprint or architectural drawing for this space on his plans. Let’s go in so Scott can see. You are now part of our team, Scott.”
“Thank you for the trust,” Scott said.
“I guess your explanation of how this room could have remained hidden all these years makes sense,” Wozniak said with Scott nodding in agreement.
Scott could not imagine how anyone could fake this whole event, unless the curator was part of the plan. That idea he dismissed. Too many people would have to be involved and the old man couldn’t have sealed the place up by himself.
Wozniak said, “I phoned an old friend who possessed the expertise we needed and told him a little about this discovery and my belief that the documents were in old Arabic. My friend recommended you, Scott, as the one person in the world he would send for this job. He emphasized that you are brilliant, a child prodigy. Please don’t be embarrassed. You’re the sole person he knew who could help me here. He said your father served in the Foreign Service and you learned the Arabic language as a child. He believed your sister also holds a doctorate but in a different field. He gave me your email and that’s how I contacted you.”
“That’s an amazing account of your discovery.” Scott shifted in his stance after the praise he received. The curator hadn’t looked at him when he piled on the accolades. “I’ve been examining the documents for a few hours and, with your permission, I can continue this evening,” Scott said.
“You may. I will have my secretary prepare a nondisclosure agreement for you to sign, but I’m sure as a professional, you will respect my wishes for this one night.”
Scott decided he would do it. Since he already completed his notification to Bridget, there was no one else before he would sign. He decided not to mention his sister’s knowledge of the document’s existence. The curator seemed to always fail to look him direct in the eye. Scott wasn’t sure he could trust the man.
Scott walked past both men and examined the skeleton sitting in the chair the curator previously mentioned. Earlier he saw the pictures, but this was the real thing. He examined the uniform and then switched his attention to the chessboard. Some of the pieces were not standing.
“Were the chessmen in this position when you discovered this place?
Wozniak didn’t answer for a few seconds. “No, I accidentally knocked some over when I bent down to pick up the manuscripts. Not as agile as I once was,” he said with a smile.
The curator took Cezar’s arm to steady himself before using the cane. The two headed out of the vault into the outer hall where they conversed. Scott refocused on the chessboard. He picked it up. The pieces were in a random order as far as he could see. His eye noticed something on the table under the board. He picked up a small scrap of paper. He put it in his pocket to examine later. It wasn’t a manuscript, so it might not be important. At that moment, he sighted some holes in the far wall.
“Mr. Wozniak, have you examined the walls? You mentioned a monk cell. Perhaps there are some religious articles from a time before our dead friend took up residence here.”
“I haven’t,” Cezar told Scott. Cezar re-entered and walked to the back wall. “I believe it would be normal for a monk to have a crucifix on the wall and perhaps a small statue of the Virgin or his patron saint. A place in the wall, a small niche could hold them.” In the rear of the room he ran his hands along the back wall where no light from the hallway penetrated.
“Here, use my flashlight,” Wozniak offered as he entered the space.
The light showed three small niches in the wall three feet off the floor. They were about three by four inches. Cezar attempted to put his pudgy hand into the spot but his wide hand prevented entry into the smallspace.
Scott bent down on one knee and with great care slid his hand into the space. It went back farther than he expected but many cobwebs clung to his hand as he brought it out. He scooted over to the next one with the same result. On the third niche he inserted his hand, not cleaning off the cobwebs after the first two explorations, and as he withdrew from the last hole something cut the outside of his index finger. The sting resembled a paper cut from grade school days.
He stopped and took some time to curl his fingers. He dragged them along the bottom of the niche. Something caught on his fingernail. What could it be? He pushed his hand in farther and recupped his finger as he started to withdraw. Hasty action was out of the question here. He controlled his excitement by taking two deep breaths and slid his hand along the bottom. The paper started to move as he withdrew his hand.
“What have you found?” Cezar asked.
“Don’t know yet, but I believe some sort of paper.”
He meticulously extracted the piece from its hiding place and placed it on top of the chessboard.
Wozniak approached and put on his glasses. “It’s in Latin.”
“Very appropriate for monks,” Cezar said to taunt the curator for an obvious statement. “Of course in Latin.” He made a dismissive gesture to indicate any rational person would expect Latin.
“What does it say?” Scott asked.
“It’s missing some words. Actually pieces of the paper appear damaged. Looks like water from the earth ate it away over the centuries.”
“But what does it say?” Scott repeated.
“I’ll give it to you in English. There is a C, then an R, then OWN. Then there is a missing word due to smudged earth and water damage. Next it says ‘of prophesy’ so I don’t have clue as to what that means,” Wozniak explained.
“Is that all?” Cezar demanded.
“No, it continues. The Latin says ‘gives God’s gift of prophesy’ then blanks, the last letters are missing.”
“That’s all?” Scott wanted to know. “What does it mean? What crown?”
“Great job on finding this, Scott. We’ll add it to the other items we located here,” Wozniak said.
Scott saw his opportunity to gain credit for any of his assistance scamper away. These two would hog all the credit. Was it right? It was their discovery, but he found this in the niche. Then he remembered his earlier find. Did he have a moral obligation to tell them about the small piece of paper in his pocket? He held no idea what the paper contained. He would examine it before revealing it. They would take it and add it to their collection. The right thing to do remained to reveal it. Then he might be able to bargain for some credit in the find. In the end he planned to do the right thing and he would. Tomorrow would be soon enough.
“Sorry to rush off, Scott,” Wozniak said as he headed for the door preceded by Cezar, “but it’s Friday and I have to leave now to attend a reception at the Archbishop’s residence. It’s already seven-thirty. Can you return tomorrow? I understand you plan to depart in a day or so, but this would help us get a start on cataloging all these parchments.” The curato
r waited.
Nothing specific, but Wozniak’s eye movements shifted down when he should’ve looked at Scott. The man scanned left and right during their conversation, which to Scott added to a certain lack in Wozniak’s veracity. Scott felt a sense of falsehood emanating from the man. His actions here and his incessant secrecy about the find made Scott feel uneasy.
“Of course, I’ll come in at ten to meet you. I think I may extend my stay in Warsaw, with your approval. One more thing I need to tell you. I believe— no, I’m sure that some of the Arabic texts could perhaps be a first copy or the original of the Koran.” Scott stood up, turning toward the door where the curator waited.
“My God. You’re sure. Of course you are. Yes, please stay. Most kind of you. This is fantastic. Please, tell no one of this until we meet tomorrow. Will you agree to the nondisclosure agreement? You will receive compensation for your efforts. I must, however, get some guidance on how to handle the…press, now in light of this new found information. You understand, I’m sure.” He nodded his head indicating Scott should understand.
“I will agree and I won’t say another word to anyone,” Scott said, knowing he now spoke the truth and intended to tell no one else. He moved over to the curator’s side.
“I’ll get my secretary to make me a copy of the Latin text you found. They have used the latest technological equipment to copy the documents to maintain their integrity. It’s fascinating how they’re able to do that today. For myself, I find the potential gospel by Peter most interesting. Could you put the copies you have back into the box by her desk before you leave? All the rest are still there and I will decide what to do with them on Monday. The originals are in the safe. We must keep control of all the papers, including these copies, so none leak out. I must hurry. See you in the morning,” Mr. Wozniak patted Scott on the back and started down the corridor accompanied by Cezar, clipping his cane on the stone floor.
After exiting the room, Scott went to the curator’s office where the secretary provided him a copy of the five documents he requested from her database: the two gospel pages, the last two pages from the Koran and the map with a list of items. She then placed all the original documents found in the museum basement by Wozniak back in the controlled environment safe.
