by Tom Haase
“The man is dead?”
“Yes, Eminence. No doubt,” Jablonski answered.
“You have recovered all of the documents. You left no evidence of their existence?” the Cardinal asked.
“None. I sent everything to you. He told me just before the accident he planned to copy all the documents on Monday and to announce his findings to the world the same day. Even if he told anyone else there are no documents to support his claim. The location where he found them is still an archeological site but there will be no physical evidence.”
“You did fine, Father. Thank you.” The cardinal hung up and then nodded his head a few times. At last, he broke into a smile. He would remember that priest in the future, but he would have to watch for a possible leak of information in Poland. On second thought, more positive action must be considered.
The clock struck ten just as the cardinal walked to the window overlooking most of Vatican City. All this —the city and the power that came with it—could be his. And the discovery of these texts could enable him to move a step closer to the papacy.
But in Puglisi’s experience, humans often made mistakes.
Something nagged at him about the Polish priest’s report. He realized there existed the chance Jablonski failed to collect all the texts. What if he missed something? Perhaps prudence dictated that he take some measure to guarantee it, an additional check just to eliminate any possibility of error. A mistake here could rip the veil Puglisi wanted to put over the find until it accrued to his advantage to reveal it.
Yes. He would act right now.
Puglisi went to his desk where he picked up the phone but stopped mid-dial.
The damn incontinence. His condition always a major inconvenience. How humiliating! At least his flowing robes hid that embarrassing diaper. He needed to hurry, the pressure built fast so he moved in long strides toward his private bathroom. He would make the phone call in a few minutes.
* * *
Father Jonathan McGregor entered that dreamy state of near sleep when the memory of that frightful night came to him again. It plagued him constant, even after all these years. The sound of gunfire, the artillery shells exploding, the sight of his decapitated team sergeant, the corporal bending over with multiple hits to the stomach. All were as fresh as if it occurred yesterday rather than years ago.
The memory left Jonathan lying in a pool of sweat.
The insistent jingle of the phone drove the images away. Jonathan rose from the bed, looking in every direction as he regained his situational awareness. He mopped the perspiration from his brow with an open palm and then ran his fingers through his sandy hair.
The phone rang again.
Jonathan stumbled into the main room of his apartment, trying to hurry but the old war wound slowed his movement until he loosened it up. He retained the slight limp in his left leg from the bullet that ripped into his thigh in the Iraqi desert. On reaching the ringing instrument, he picked up the receiver.
“Hello,” he said, his Scottish accent pronounced.
“Agnus Dei,” came the distinctive familiar voice.
“Dona nobis pacem,” he responded with the orders salutation.
“I have a mission for you of some importance,” came the distinctive high-pitched Italian voice of the Vatican Secretary of State. “I will clear your absence with the pontiff. You’re to leave this evening for Warsaw on a late night flight from Rome airport. A ticket will be at the Alitalia counter for you.” The voice on the phone went silent.
Jonathan tried to wrap his mind around what this meant. This was the worst time for him to go on a trip. In the morning, he planned to accompany the Pope on the first leg of his three-week, three continents visit starting in Istanbul.
There the Pope would present the relics of Saint John Chrysostom to the Orthodox Patriarch. The Pope decided to refer to the city as Constantinople when in dealings with the Orthodox Church but refer to the city as Istanbul in public statements. The Pope intended the journey to be his first attempt to start the healing process for the rift between the churches caused by the Bull of Excommunication placed on the Patriarch during the crusades. The pontiff would then continue to Africa culminating his journey with a stop in Mexico and Colombia, concluding his three-week pilgrimage to various holy shrines.
Despite his other commitments, Jonathan replied, “As you wish, Eminence.”
“You have an hour before you must leave and I will provide transport to take you to the airport. Come to my office as soon as you can.”
After a click from the other end, Jonathan heard the dial tone.
Jonathan arrived at the cardinal’s office in thirty minutes with his mind racing to figure out what this sudden trip could mean. When he entered the Secretary of State’s office, the door to the cardinal’s office stood open. He went inside and, upon seeing the cardinal, gave a slight bow.
Cardinal Puglisi gazed at him with squinting eyes, and said, “Nothing I tell you is to go beyond these walls.”
“I understand.”
“In order for you to be fully prepared for any eventuality, I believe you will need to know the whole truth. You might have guessed that I’ve monitored your career since the day we met. Now I will place my complete trust in you for the work you are about to embark on for our society.” He got up, came around to Jonathan, and took him by the arm. “Come over and sit in a comfortable chair. I poured us a glass of wine.”
After the two men sat, Jonathan crossed his long legs putting the injured one on top. The Cardinal continued, “We believed from ancient times there once existed a manuscript, a gospel, since it was written by an apostle of Christ. Today I learned a copy of that gospel might have appeared in Warsaw.”
“This is great news. May I ask which apostle is believed to have written it?” He held his breath in anticipation.
“The Apostle Peter.”
Jonathan’s mind felt bewildered, confused. No one ever mentioned anything about such a gospel either in his seminary studies or here at the Vatican. He took a sip of the wine. “What about authentication?” he asked. “Are we sure about it?”
The cardinal ignored the question. “The document’s finding has great significance to the Agnus Dei Society. It will also help our agenda of ensuring the rebirth of the classical Roman Catholic Church. We knew that document and many other items, including many manuscripts from Greece and copies from the Library of Alexandria once existed. The Pope sent them to Spain, the safest place at the time in the Roman Empire, just before the sack of Rome. In the centuries following, their continued existence became problematic as the war against the onslaught of Islam hit Spain and the Moors conquered most of that country.” He stopped and sipped his wine as if trying to gauge Jonathan’s reaction.
The Cardinal continued, “Part of the Gospel of Peter and some Greek texts and a large quantity of ancient Arabic writings may have been discovered in the Polish National Museum in Warsaw. A member of the order has secured them and is shipping them here by express delivery. I have a team coming to do an initial validation of the documents.”
“That means you will have them tomorrow. What is the purpose of my sudden trip to Warsaw?” Outside, a church bell rang ten o’clock.
“I do not want anyone but members of the society to know of their existence until I decide to release the information once we authenticate the documents. In Warsaw, there might be some records in the National Museum which have not been…shall we say erased.” The Cardinal took a sip of his wine. “Your assignment is to ensure no written record beyond the original texts exists and if it does to correct that oversight. Anyone who might know about them in Poland will have no evidence to prove their existence if the documents are in our hands. I mean for you to track any evidence of their existence down and erase, better yet, eliminate it, no matter where it leads you. Am I clear?”
“Very clear.” Jonathan’s mind raced to get to the question that bothered him. What did erase mean? It couldn’t be what it meant in th
e military.
“You are authorized to use any method or means to accomplish my tasking. You have sworn the oath. I expect you to follow my orders.”
Jonathan gave an uneasy nod.
“From your military records,” the Cardinal continued, “both as a commander and as an intelligence officer, I believe you possess the necessary skills and training for such a mission. It is imperative our society have this gospel.” He told Jonathan about the curator’s death in the museum. “You will have to work around that.”
“Should we inform the Pope of this discovery?” Jonathan asked.
“Father McGregor, you are, as of this moment, bound by an oath of silence to our order on everything you have heard here. Tell no one.” The Cardinal pointed his finger at Jonathan’s chest for emphasis. “Carry out your mission as a soldier priest. Now, I believe your transport to the airport is waiting. You need to be on your way. I pulled some favors to put you on the last airplane out of Rome for Warsaw tonight. Even though a full plane, I managed to get you a seat. God go with you.” The Cardinal blessed him and escorted him to the door. “Father, come back when you are certain that all copies of the manuscripts are in my hands and no one else’s. Make that your single mission.”
In the car, Jonathan thought something, no more than a gut feeling, was missing in the information he received and he didn’t like the cardinal’s insinuation to use any means necessary. He realized the cardinal held back more than he revealed, Jonathan believed. In his years in the military, and after ordination, in marriage counseling and hearing confessions, he developed a sense of detecting the half-truths and the blatant lies people indulge in. The cardinal hadn’t lied, but what could he be hiding? He managed, as Jonathan knew well from past encounters, to avoid telling all.
At this moment, however, his mission for the cardinal shone crystal clear.
10
Rome
Leonardo Da Vinci (Fiumicino) International Airport – 11:25 p.m. local time
“Damn it to hell,” Bridget muttered. This security is ridiculous, she thought. We’re no safer now than we were before 9/11. Any terrorists would now put the bomb in his checked luggage or ship it by airfreight. Patience was a must for traveling by air these days, but patience at this moment, something she felt a deplorable lack of. All the hours in the truck and then on the plane to get here and now held up by everyone in front of her acting like this was the first time they ever boarded a plane.
She tried to relax, but after the harrowing experience in the Ethiopian desert, and now with what she estimated would be twenty minutes to wait in line, she couldn’t manage to even take a deep breath. Scott’s news demanded she get there before he could talk to anybody. If he let the secret out, no credit would go to a young professor. The old boys would see to that. She must protect him from such a fate despite what he did to her in the past. He might possess a recent doctorate, she realized, but he remained naive in the ways of academia. No matter what, he remained her one brother.
Bridget stopped her wondering about Scott’s discovery and focused on the airport.
“Next,” the airport security man waved at Bridget. “Come on.”
“At last,” she muttered.
She cleared security with no problems. Now it looked like she would make her connecting flight. The ground staff took her boarding pass and cleared her on to the Alitalia flight. She found her seat on the aisle halfway back in the two-seat configuration on the left side of the plane. She stowed her luggage, an oversized backpack, in the rack and sat down with her small computer bag on her lap.
Exhaling she relaxed back into her seat dreaming of the double of something…anything alcoholic…she would order after takeoff. When she heard the flight attendant close the front cabin door, Bridget smiled. Great, now we go, she thought. I’m even lucky enough to have an empty seat beside me.
Looking up, she noted a man wearing a Roman collar walking toward her row. He stopped beside her and smiled. He seemed somehow familiar, but Bridget discounted that brief feeling. She didn’t know any priests this handsome. His sandy brown hair, coupled with the slight limp, gave a Dennis the Menace appearance. What a waste, he’s a priest. To her, the church didn’t seem to be in sync with the modern world.
“I have the window seat in this row. Would you please excuse me?”
“No problem, Father.”
She scrunched up as he stepped over her feet and got into his seat. His head hit the overhead compartments as he slid his tall frame into the small space in the coach section.
Well, she thought, might as well be friendly if I must sit next to him for a few hours. Besides, I don’t want to think about Scott until I arrive.
“I noticed your Scottish accent,” she said. “At least, I believe it’s Scottish. Where exactly are you from?”
“You’re correct, it is Scottish.” He buckled his seat belt as he responded.
“What do you do, or should I say, where is your parish?”
“I’m currently working in the papal offices at the Vatican. I’m supposed to be on another trip, but tonight one of my superiors ordered me to fly to Warsaw. You know how it is. Duty calls.” He signaled for the flight attendant to see if he could order a gin and tonic for after takeoff. She told him he could and he looked at Bridget and asked if she wanted one. He ordered two.
“What do you do? Looks like you’re out in the sun a lot.” He glanced at her face.
“I’m working on an archeological site in Ethiopia.” She realized that her appearance must be dreadful. The sand from the confrontation still nested in her hair and she hadn’t taken time to clean up. She managed to change her shirt in the rest room after passing security and took a moment to splash water on her face. It couldn’t hurt to be polite with the priest even though fatigue pulled at her.
The priest studied her for a few seconds. “In your profession, as an archeologist digging in sites of the ancient world, would you know how to read ancient Greek, Arabic or Aramaic by any chance?”
The plane reached the end of the runway and started its takeoff role with the accompanying roar of the jet engines. They waited for a few minutes until the pilot throttled back and the noise level dropped.
After they’d been served with drinks, the priest asked his question again.
“Why do you want to know?” Bridget inquired. She sensed something from his manner that struck her as odd.
“Just thought anyone working in an archeological site in Ethiopia might be versed in ancient Greek, Arabic, or perhaps Egyptian hieroglyphics. I don’t suppose there are any who do all three?” He sipped his drink.
“You’d be surprised. There a quite a few who do but as for myself, I do read Greek and have studied hieroglyphics as well as some Hebrew at university, but my brother is the Arabic expert. I’ll see him in the morning, but I have no familiarity with Aramaic,” Bridget stated. She rotated away in hopes of stopping the conversation in which she no longer fostered any interest. She did have a basic knowledge of Arabic from her youth with her parents in the Foreign Service but so what?
She shouldn’t have revealed her brother’s language, as it didn’t relate to the question. This small talk now got on her nerves after he asked about the languages. Why did he ask about those languages? The ones Scott had mentioned. Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. They are natural questions anyone might ask an archeologist. She needed to refocus and think about what to do on arrival in Warsaw.
“When did you leave Ethiopia?”
“Today,” she said. My God, this can’t be, Bridget thought. He’s such an attractive man…but a priest. Forget him, concentrate on the problems you are rushing into. “Excuse me. Gotta go to the ladies.” She unbuckled her seat belt and moved toward the lavatory. At least this little lie would give her some time away from the questions.
* * *
Father Jonathan McGregor picked up the change in her attitude when she returned to her seat. She guzzled her drink down in a couple of gulps and then mu
mbled something about needing to get some sleep before turning away from him and closing her eyes.
Jonathan sipped his gin and tonic, allowing him to ponder the woman’s altered manner. She ended their conversation on purpose after he asked about her ability to read the languages. She’d changed from friendly to cool. He would’ve thought she’d claim knowledge in her area of specialization with pride.
Most archeologists knew languages from older periods, he surmised. Why the change? Perhaps because of weariness, but his keen sense of half-truths and blatant lies kicked in. It centered on something to do with his questioning. But she couldn’t know anything about the gospel or the other documents that were part of his mission…could she?
He would have to be wary. Perhaps more remained at play here than he at first believed. His old soldier’s sense of danger started as a low rumble in the back of his mind. In a few hours he would be on the ground and maybe, just maybe, this simple mission wasn’t so simple.
His seat companion, a beautiful young lady he realized, with flowing red hair and an obvious figure under those dusty clothes. Even priests are born with eyes. At that moment his mind said wake up. He didn’t know why but something, something in the back recess of his mind, pinged. A vague memory of an American army soldier appeared. He remembered meeting her in the desert and she stated interest in archeology and ancient Greek.
What was her name?
He strained to remember. So long ago and it happened at night. The woman’s face in camouflage paint and she kept a helmet on most of the time. What name had that sergeant called her? Betty, no. Beatrice, no. Bridget, yes. Bridget. The one not dressed for the Savoy, the one on a clandestine intelligence mission with the army forces. She must be the one who ministered to my soldier.
She’s the one sitting beside me. For sure, it’s her. Why is she rushing out of Ethiopia to meet her brother who is an Arabic specialist?
