by Tom Haase
So when the Imam called him to his office earlier tonight and informed him of his current mission, he hurried to the airport to carry out the order. Finding the targets proved no difficulty since the airport layout required all arriving passengers to depart from the various gates along the same long aisle. With relative ease, he followed the Americans to the subway and then to Hotel Mora. Now he waited in the wings of the large reception hall, his eyes scanning.
The Americans checked-in, but he couldn’t follow to close without being obvious. So Tefir waited for his opportunity. It arrived in the person of a male hotel employee.
Tefir approached the employee who had a middle-eastern appearance and greeted him in Farsi, a language he previously studied. The man smiled and replied in the same tongue. With coded words, Tefir confirmed the employee was indeed a member of the Muslim Brotherhood. Tefir briefed the man on what he wanted, stating that his Imam would consider it a great favor if he rendered the requested assistance. This included a personal meeting with the Imam in the morning in exchange for his help. The man seemed to recognize the name of the Imam and bobbed his head in agreement. The man departed but returned in a few minutes with the information Tefir requested.
Tefir believed that the reason he was ordered to trail these two and do nothing became obvious. The ones coming from Warsaw wanted to get the glory of terminating these infidels who had disgraced Islam. He didn’t want that to happen, not after all these years of training and preparation. He knew how to take care of this. He would do it himself and get the glory, show the Imam he could perform greater tasks, and also to achieve the glory himself.
Forgive me, Allah, oh merciful one.
The room of the Americans was on the second floor. He went up to scout the area. In this low class hotel there were four rooms on the floor, the walls thin and the doors even thinner. A new idea formed. Returning to the man who helped him earlier, he requested another favor. In a few minutes learned the room next to the Americans remained unoccupied. He stretched out his hand for the key to the adjacent room. On entering that room, he went to the bathroom. As he suspected, a shared bath with doors that locked to keep the other rooms occupants from entering when you were in the bath. A common construction used in this type of inexpensive hotel.
His cell rang, and the number showed the Imam called. He didn’t answer it. He texted “Have them in sight, will call with destination.” That should keep the Imam happy for an hour or two.
Tefir snuck into the bathroom with his shoes off. There he could hear voices in the other room. His understanding of English poor. Their conversations meant nothing to him. Examining the door to their room, he discovered that the lock on their side was a simple push button in the middle of the knob. No problem. He could use his knife to slide it down the space between the wall and the door an open the lock in a second. After his recce, he returned to his room.
The door to the bath opened and he heard what he believed to be a man relieving himself. Patience, he told himself. They had been running since Warsaw and they must be tired. He patiently waited. He turned off his phone and then rested on the bed.
He would kill them in their beds while they slept.
* * *
Bridget woke to a dark room surrounding her. A muffled noise came from somewhere and her senses went on alert. She struggled to wake up and became more aware of her surroundings. God, she needed sleep but something was wrong. After listening for a minute, she decided to ignore it. Someone walked past in the hall and made a noise. Her watch showed three in the morning. Everybody should be asleep.
Then she heard something else, not a noise from the hall but a creak, which seemed to have come from inside the room. She switched on the lamp. Scott still slept in the other bed. The noise hadn’t come from him. Bridget pushed back the sheet, rose, and went toward the bathroom door. Perhaps the noise came from there. Probably guests up late relieving themselves. But why not the right noises? No sound of water.
As she neared the door she thought she heard something on the other side. She paused and waited. The sound came again. She recognized it now in the stillness of the room. It was someone breathing, breathing with loud exhales.
Better safe that sorry. In her mind there existed no way the people in Warsaw had tracked them to this hotel in Spain. She started to breathe loudly, so she inhaled and held the exhaled. The noise from the bathroom continued. Instinct told her to prepare for a local bandit who might try to rob Americans staying in a cheap hotel, as they might be easy targets. She rushed to the nightstand and ripped the heavy brass lamp from the table. Her actions caused a loud noise as the cord unplugged from the wall. The room turned completely dark.
Scott moaned and turned, “What’s up, sis?”
The bath door burst open at that moment and a man rushed in. The room contained enough light from the attacker’s room to see that he was armed with a big knife. No, she thought, not a damn knife. Not again. I hate knives. The man appeared to concentrate on Scott and rushed toward him. Maybe he thought the female would be no problem. As he lunged the knife toward Scott’s supine form, Scott rolled off the bed. The blade plunged into the mattress. The man held the low bent over position for a second with the blade embedded. He tried to withdraw the big knife. The attacker had just tried to kill Scott. In the open desert of Iran and Ethiopia there was a suspension of civilization and its laws in many areas, but here in Madrid she didn’t expect to be in a fight to the death.
Bridget swung the lamp as far back as she could. Then she used a roundhouse swing to get the momentum of the lamp to its maximum velocity. She could hear the wind from the speed of the lamp as it swung past her shoulder. Bridget committed all her strength to propelling it at the best speed she could achieve. The man didn’t see her attack as he concentrated on getting his weapon freed. The lamp contacted at the base of his head where the spinal cord enters the cranium. The thud sent a shock up her arm but Bridget didn’t stop. She swung the heavy base and hit him again in the same area with all her might. No mercy.
No mercy when someone tries to kill you.
The attacker crumbled.
Scott jumped up from the position on the floor and hurried to the door. He flipped on the switch. The lower overhead light stunned them both for a few second.
Bridget approached the form on the floor with the lamp in her hand. She took the knife from the man’s hand and knelt down beside the man. Checked for a pulse. When she looked up at Scott she shook her head. Bile started to come up in her throat. My God, I’ve killed him. She swallowed hard to suppress the awful taste in her throat. She needed to be in control of herself.
Think soldier, what do you do now?
“Oh, no,” Scott whined. “Not again.”
“Get a grip,” said Bridget. “He looks like the ones at the museum. I have to believe that somehow we’ve been found out. The bastards know where we are. We have to assume he reported on us. Get your things. We have to go,” she said as she searched the man and took his phone. There were no papers of identification but she now had no doubt of him being part of the group that attacked them in Warsaw. As she searched him she noted that her hands did not shake. She was in control. This unprovoked lethal attack contained all the proof she needed to confirm in her mind that they were being pursued.
“Where?”
“To that city, the one you couldn’t figure out last night. Do you know it yet?” She let her eyes bore into him. They grabbed their things and headed for the door.
“Yes, I figured it out,” he said as they left the room.
Part II
19
January 1, in the Year of Our Lord 1492
A Monastery in Granada, Spain
Three hours After Evening Compline - 1:32 a.m.
Matins, the first prayers of the day, would not begin for a few hours. Father Filipo Torres’s duty tonight was to stay awake to ensure all the monks arose for prayer in the chapel on time. He paced his small cell to keep warm on this bitter night on
the first day of the New Year. He hoped 1492 would be a good year for Spain. He performed his duty on this night as the newest ordained priest in the monastery. All the other brothers and priests would be sleeping after the New Year’s Eve celebrations.
The Christian army of Ferdinand II of Aragon and Isabella I of Castile rested outside the city they had besieged for months, but the end would come soon. Father Filipo decided to go to the main church. Once inside, he could walk in longer strides to keep warm in his long vigil.
Father Filipo’s robes swished as he walked. When he entered the church an unfamiliar noise reached his ears, stone grinding against stone. But in the middle of the night, no sound should be in the cathedral.
A lantern’s glow appeared.
As he crept up to a column at the rear of the cathedral to the side of the nave, he noted six men around the main altar. They looked like soldiers of the sultan’s army. These intruders wore the garb of the sultan’s guard, with the gold sashes and the baggy pantaloons. The Spanish called the Muslim leader King Ibn al-Ahmar, but the Muslims used the title sultan.
Father Filipo understood that the recent political tensions forced the Catholic royals to attempt to clear all of Spain of the Muslim invaders. The first Moors and Berbers arrived in 711 AD. While the so-called dark ages enveloped the main European countries, in Spain, under the Muslims, the candle of knowledge remained lit. Islamic scholars kept the knowledge amassed by the Romans, the Greeks, and the Egyptian civilizations alive.
The sound of a soldier’s command to move quicker reverberating in the empty church startled Filipo. He realized six armed Muslims had no reason to be in a Christian church. What could he do? He could watch, or better yet, run. No, he had to watch and learn why they were in his church. The cold penetrating his robes no longer concerned him.
“Come on get the rear of that altar removed,” ordered one. He spoke in the colloquial Moorish tongue and Father Filipo understood the language. He’d heard it all his life.
“There are four slabs on the back, but I think I can get one open which should give us access to the cavity,” replied another soldier.
“Why in the name of Allah are we in a Christian church?” one asked.
“Quiet and do as you’re told. You three go out and start bringing it in,” the commander said.
Filipo moved back into the darkest recess in the baptismal area. He watched the three go out and in a few moments they returned carrying sacks. The men hunched over in the effort to carry them.
“I’ve used the pulley to open the cavity beneath the floor. Bring the gold and put it in here. We’re lucky our engineers found the plans for this place.” He heard one of the sultan’s men say.
“Hurry, there’s only a few hours before we march out of this town. We can’t carry these things with us. Don’t worry, we’ll come back.”
No, you will not, thought Father Filipo. After eight hundred years you’re going to leave Spanish soil and we’ll make sure you never come back. I think they’re hiding their gold here since they assume their mosque will be sacked and destroyed. Good thinking on their part.”
“Sir, two more sacks are outside.”
“Go get them.”
When they reentered the church, the two carried the sacks hefted onto their shoulders.
“What’s that?” asked the man in charge.
“Don’t know, sir, but it feels like parchments or books. They are light, not heavy like the others and I can hear the paper inside move. Let’s look.”
“The sultan would have your head for that you idiot. Now put them in with the rest. The sultan didn’t give me his reasons for wanting to hide them, although I saw him take many like these in his personal baggage.”
Father Filipo stood on his toes and watched as they reset the stone into the floor and replaced the back panel of the altar before the soldiers left the church. He tiptoed around inside the nave of the church after ensuring it was empty. As a priest and a monk he took the vow of poverty. The infidels had deposited a treasure in his church. He needed to think on this and develop a plan to use his knowledge.
He returned to the cloister where he started to wake the monks for Matins.
After mass the next morning, the entire monastery went out of the cathedral’s main entrance and witnessed the sultan’s army lined up for what could be a parade. After months of being under siege this seemed strange. The Sultan sat on his white charger and spoke to his men.
“Soldiers of Allah. This day we have yielded to the King of Spain. We depart this town with our heads held high.” His horse reared, but the Sultan brought him under control. “It will just be a short time before we lead the mightiest army of the Islamic world back here to re-conquer what is rightfully ours. All of you townspeople, I urge you to protect the heritage we have given you and await our return. It is the will of Allah.” He turned on his steed giving the signal, and with orders barked by his commanders to move forward. The drummers started their cadence and the army departed through the now-opened gate.
A few minutes after the last Muslim soldier left, a priest, under a banner of a cross, led a column of Christian knights into the city.
The royal army of Ferdinand and Isabella entered the liberated town. Father Filipo stared in disbelief as he saw the man, his own cousin and dearest friend from childhood, with whom he played every day on his father’s merchant ships. Astride a magnificent black stallion rode the head knight, Juan Ponce de Leon.
20
Present Day
Rome, Vatican City - 8:47 p.m.
Jonathan McGregor arrived at his apartment just outside Vatican City on the Via Borgo Angelico. His window in the front provided a view of the dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica. The inside of his top floor unit contained sparse furnishings arranged with his military precision.
On entering, he recharged his cell phone and computer. After performing the connections, he picked up the living room phone and dialed the Cardinal.
“Eminence, I’m back in Rome for a few hours before I catch my flight to Madrid. Have you had any luck in tracking them?”
“I acquired the address where they’re staying.” He gave the hotel name and location to Jonathan. “I again state that I want you to ensure they don’t have nor are able to keep a copy of any of the documents. If they do, you are to retrieve them any way you can.”
“I understand.” The line went dead after he responded. He packed some short-sleeved shirts, a pair of jeans and two tan colored slacks, and good walking shoes. He took care as he rolled his priest garb and tucked it into the carry on suitcase. This was like going on a mission just like any combat mission in the army. He brought along a light jacket, 30 SPF sunscreen, and sunglasses. These preparations should cover any contingencies on a summer trip to the Iberian Peninsula.
Jonathan understood the gospel’s recovery would be of immense importance to the church. The society would use it for the benefit of all the faithful but it remained his duty as a warrior priest to carry out the Cardinal’s command. The Cardinal, on the other hand, would use it for his own purpose, Jonathan realized. In the end, the right way to have the documents handled was by the church and not by two young Americans. His vow of obedience might cause some personal qualms but the church had fostered priest warriors for centuries. Besides, he had taken another oath and owed a higher obedience.
Jonathan went to the Vatican communication center and using his ID as a Papal Secretary initiated a personal phone call. He knew he needed to accomplish this at the Vatican using their communication network for total security. The Pope had ordered him to accomplish this call before he left on his three-country pilgrimage and it must perform it as part of his duties as the Pope’s secretary. He couldn’t wait another day and that duty forced him to go through Rome on the way to Madrid even if it cost him some time. He then went to visit his friend, a captain of the Swiss guards, and obtained the surveillance items he thought he might need. He also required his phone synchronized to the coded matrix on
the Pope’s if he needed to talk to him on a secure link. No questions were asked by the Swiss guard of the papal secretary and a comrade in arms, sort of one soldier to another thing. The phone was upgraded with the protocol he needed. Once he completed these tasks, he returned to his apartment and gathered his suitcase containing all his traveling gear, took his cell and computer, and headed for the door. Halting, he looked around, switched off the light and left for the airport. The stop in Rome put him behind in his duty to the Cardinal and now he needed to hurry.
Jonathan’s plane arrived in Madrid at 6:55 a.m. The Hotel Mora, where the Donavans had rooms, located near the Atocha Metro stop. They would be there planning their next move.
The duo failed to make any public announcement about the gospel. This omission piqued Jonathan curiosity. A revelation of this importance would be a great news story and they might have the evidence to back it up. Why, then, didn’t they tell the world? Their actions— wait, suppose they found something more important to them than just the gospel. What could that be? What could be more important to two young academics than the fame such a revelation would bring them?
