Blood Symbols

by Izak Botha

  Schreider stood up, refastened his collar and straightened his tie. Then, marching resolutely to the Belvedere Courtyard, his thoughts returned to the Pietà. The only wounds carved on Jesus were tiny nail holes in His hands and feet and a minuscule spear wound in His side. The bomber had a point. In no way was Michelangelo’s portrayal of Christ scripturally correct. He could not recall reading anything or seeing any painting, sculpture or crucifix which depicted Christ marred beyond recognition. All the symbolism depicted the Savior bloodied, but unbroken, and while this imagery of the resurrection might be interpreted as symbolic, the consistency was odd.

  ‘We have skeletons in our closet,’ he thought. ‘That is what, deranged as he was, that kid is trying to say.’

  Nor would Schreider take Santori’s drubbing lying down. The Maggiore might have taken him off the case, but the colonel still needed to learn what that letter said, if only to satisfy his curiosity and salve his conscience. He could not prove it yet, but the murder, theft, trespass at the bunker and attempted bombing, were all unrelated incidents in one particularly ill-starred day.

  The gendarmerie must be questioning the bomber by now. Realizing the consequence, Schreider set off for the Governatorato. On his way, he had another realization. Strange as it seemed even to him, he felt for the bomber. The youngster had threatened the lives of bystanders and members of the Holy See, but his pleas had been sincere.

  Slipping between parked cars, Schreider called Weber on his mobile. His captain was returning from the station, where he had placed several guards at the gate.

  ‘Pick me up in the gardens,’ the colonel commanded. ‘I have to check on the bomb suspect. I don’t trust the gendarmes on this one.’

  Schreider was striding through the passage linking the Belvedere Courtyard with the Stradone del Giardini when Weber pulled up in front of him. The colonel slid into the passenger seat and ordered the captain to gun it. While Weber performed a U-turn, Schreider drew a miniature New Testament from his inside jacket pocket which he left there for when he went to Bible study.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Weber asked.

  ‘Matthew’s account of Christ’s trial.’ Flipping to the Gospel of Matthew, Schreider began reading extracts of the passage aloud: ‘The soldiers who held Jesus captive spat in His face. ... Then, they buffeted Him and smote Him with the palms of their hands. ... They stripped Him and put on Him a scarlet robe. ... They plaited a crown of thorns and put it upon His head. ... They smote Him on the head with a reed whilst He had the crown of thorns pushing into His flesh. …’

  Schreider stopped. Staring out of the window, he imagined the scene. ‘All that took hours,’ he said. ‘That means the blood must have dried.’

  Then, he continued reading: ‘His captors stripped the robe off Jesus and put his raiment back on. ...’

  Schreider paused again. He had not thought like this before: ‘Every time they removed His clothes and replaced it with something else, the dried blood would have taken skin and bits of flesh with it.’

  With Schreider too deep in thought to concentrate on their location, Weber assumed control: ‘We’re almost there.’

  Schreider turned to the Gospel of Mark and skimmed through the pages as Weber stopped in front of the Governatorato. ‘His incarceration and torture carried on for days,’ he said, reading a last passage.

  Schreider hopped out and sprinted across the terrace to the entrance. Saluting the two Helvetians at the door and calling for his captain to keep up, he slipped into the north wing corridor. Just before the gendarmerie offices, he ducked into a short passage to the left and turned right into the darkroom.

  The colonel needed only seconds to assess the situation. Looking through a one-way mirror he saw the bomb suspect in the adjacent interrogation room. The youngster was sitting on a chair, his face badly bruised. One eye had been reduced to a slit between two swollen eyelids, while blood from a half-inch cut in the kid’s lower lip oozed onto his shirt. Probing the bomber for answers, Adjutant Lioni hovered like a hawk.

  Schreider’s gaze shifted to the AV technician in the darkroom with him. The gendarme sat on a swivel chair with his feet propped on his desk, his lunchbox balanced on his groin. With one hand, he was stuffing his face with a pastrami-and-cheese sandwich, while with the other he held a can of soda; he was so preoccupied with his lunch and the show in the interrogation room that he had not even noticed who was standing beside him. Glancing at the blank monitors on the desk, Schreider wanted to slap the man off his chair.

  ‘Aren’t you filming this?’ the colonel snapped.

  The gendarme shot up, his lunch box flying across the recording console as he saluted. Wiping his mouth and hoping his hibernating brain would boot up, he searched for an answer that would not land him in further trouble.

  ‘I was told not to record, Colonel.’

  Schreider pointed to the camcorders: ‘Put that damn thing on right this instant!’

  The gendarme tripped over himself as he fumbled to press the power button.

  Once the screens lit up, Schreider turned his attention to the interrogation. The would-be bomber was slumped in his chair. Gore dripped from him; he looked broken. He had played a dangerous game, but had ultimately backed down. He could not have picked a worse day to vent his frustrations though. His attempted suicide coincided with the murder and theft at the Penitentiary as well as the breach at the Archives, making him the only captured suspect in what was being treated as an orchestrated terrorist attack.

  Schreider shifted his gaze to the gendarme. His voice shaking with agitation, he asked, ‘What do they have so far?’

  ‘He’s an Australian from Perth, who stayed in Venice for a year where he tried his luck as a gondolier, but when that failed, he tried construction in Florence, Colonel. I think the man’s nuts. He doesn’t even speak Italian. He came to Rome a month ago to see our Holy Father, but he couldn’t get past your guards. That’s why he forced his way into Saint Peter’s today.’

  Schreider watched as Lioni smacked the bomber’s head. When the adjutant grabbed the young man’s hair to yank his head back and spit in the kid’s face, Schreider had seen enough. He turned towards the exit to go to the interrogation room but halted as the door opened and in walked Verretti.

  Ignoring the Swiss officers, the inspector marched straight to the operator’s desk.

  ‘The audacity of this gabagool!’ the colonel thought. One would think Schreider’s name was ‘Schweinhart’ the way he had to deal with pigs like Verretti all day. In fact, this pig had done nothing but obstruct their operations all morning. Pushing Weber aside, the colonel approached Verretti. ‘What are you doing, Inspector? Are you trying to kill the man? It’s obvious the boy had nothing to do with the murder or the theft.’

  Verretti straightened. ‘We don’t know that, now do we?’

  Schreider’s carotid arteries swelled as rich, oxygenated blood rushed to his head. ‘Look at the circumstances. He’s already made a statement.’

  Verretti did not budge. ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘We ... the Church has skeletons in its closet, and the kid flipped his shirt over it. It’s not complicated.’

  ‘I see. So, that’s your analysis. And I assume, then, you expect me to stop interrogating him? You make me sick, Colonel.’

  ‘The man’s no terrorist! Neither are the fleeing suspects.’

  The chance to prove his worth felt like one in a million; Verretti would not let the opportunity pass or allow anyone get in his way—especially not Schreider. ‘They could’ve worked together,’ the inspector growled.

  ‘For God’s sake, Inspector, the journalist fled from us. You going after her scared her shitless. The real suspect here is the priest who’d escaped from the Penitentiary. You know yourself he stole an important artefact.’

  ‘He also killed Father Yilmaz.’

  ‘You don’t know that, Arnaldo!’

  Verretti detested the use of his first name, especially at
work where it undermined his authority. From Schreider’s lips he found it even more despicable. ‘This is now my investigation, Colonel. So why don’t you and your captain get the hell out and let me do my job.’

  Schreider’s muscles contracted. Fist clenched, he swung upwards. His knuckles struck Verretti’s chin, sending the inspector into the wall.

  Weber had not seen his commander lose his cool before; he had not therefore seen the punch coming. But before Schreider could throw another, he had lunged forwards, grabbing his commander’s shoulders.

  Schreider broke free and advanced on the inspector, but before he could throw another punch, the Italian had plucked his sidearm from his holster and raised it towards the colonel’s face.

  ‘Best you pull that trigger!’ Schreider snarled.

  Struggling to keep his footing, Weber managed to restrain his commander. ‘Not now, Oberst!’

  Schreider pushed his forehead against the pistol barrel. ‘Go ahead. Shoot! Shoot while you have the chance!’ He waited for Verretti to show his mettle, but when nothing happened, he stepped back. Using his superior height to his advantage, he stared the man down. ‘You coward!’

  Schreider relaxed, and his captain released him.

  ‘I’m not letting you off the hook on this,’ the colonel said, finally. He turned and headed for the exit. Stopping at the door, he flung a parting glance over his shoulder at Verretti. ‘You let anything happen to this man, and I swear to God I’ll hunt you down like the swine you are.’

  Eyes as wide as a spooked rat’s, the surveillance officer gulped down the last of the soggy mush stuck in his cheeks.

  Chapter 26

  The Maserati glided swiftly through traffic, its engine growling like a tigress as exhaust filled its muffler. Since Jennifer had jettisoned the backpack from the window, the occupants of the Maserati had been silent; the significance of the stolen artefact had sunk in. Whether Simon had murdered someone did not seem to bother the gendarmes. They were after the letter. Why else would they have abandoned their pursuit?

  Jennifer could not believe she had escaped the Vatican police only to find herself trapped by a suspected murderer and confirmed thief. Fear gripped her as her quandary became clear. Even if she got away, she would have no way of proving her innocence. When she had woken up that morning she had thought the day might be challenging, but not that her life would be shattered with, perhaps, worse to come. If she survived, how would she explain all this? It was bound to be a funny story to tell the grandkids, but first she had to stay alive—and avoid life imprisonment.

  She wondered if she should be thanking Simon for helping her or ruing his apparent chivalry. Were it not for him, she would still be in the Vatican facing a pack of ravening wolves. Heaven knew what would have happened if he had not saved her. As they neared the city’s outskirts, she studied him from the back seat. His most notable features were the tiny wrinkles that framed his penetrating eyes. He exuded confidence, and his wavy hair, greying slightly at the temples, rippled in the wind like a lion’s mane. He reminded her of an oil painting she had once seen in a New York art gallery. The artist had depicted a Stone Age warrior with painted cheeks rescuing a defenseless woman and child from a burning village. The painting symbolized how an individual can shape human destiny. Simon had a similar martial presence to the warrior. But Jennifer quelled her budding fascination as soon as it entered her mind.

  She tilted her head slightly. ‘How did you know my name?’

  Simon turned. ‘I overheard it at the library. You created quite a stir.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘You mean we.’

  ‘No, I mean you.’

  He flipped his arm over the backrest. ‘Well then, I mean we. You can’t stay here—not after what has just happened.’

  Jennifer remained unconvinced. She did need to know where he was heading though: ‘Just tell me then. Where are, we going?’

  ‘Turkey.’

  ‘Let me out!’

  ‘I can’t leave you here. If they catch you, they’ll do who-knows-what—and at the very least, getting yourself a lawyer will cost more than you can afford. I know that. Giorgio knows that. Really, if you think about it, you know that too. With us on the other hand, you’ll have a chance to get out of here and eventually clear your name.’

  Jennifer had missed numerous opportunities to escape from Simon. She could have called for help when they crossed the Pio XI reading room. There had been another chance when he had pushed her into the cart in the gardens as well. If she had put up any fight at all, the driver had been close enough to help her. Nor did she have to get on the rail grinder with him or climb up the airshaft in the subway tunnel. Her best opportunity had come in the piazza where they had met Giorgio. They would not have managed to force her into the Maserati before the gendarmes arrived. So, if the pair were a couple of sadistic serial killers, she had only herself to blame.

  ‘Where in Turkey?’ she asked at length.

  ‘Antakya.’

  Now she knew they were crazy, and catching the first US bound flight from Leonardo da Vinci airport became her priority. Or, if that did not pan out, she would go to France or England—anywhere would suffice.

  ‘You can’t expect me to come with you,’ she said, but her words had hardly crossed her lips when she remembered something Cardinal Cardoni had said—the Q manuscript had been found in Antioch, or ‘Antakya,’ as the Turks called it. Now she was faced with a real dilemma: as a journalist, her urge was to investigate the artefact currently in Simon’s hands, and the whole murder situation at the Vatican was an absolute scoop; then again, was she not risking her life following a potential killer. This was not like interviewing a couple of mullahs who wanted to spew hatred on American television; this was sharing a car with someone who might slice her open and fry her left breast for breakfast. She sat staring blankly at the road ahead. She must be out of her mind. Going with Simon was the last thing she should be doing. The artefact would have to wait.

  Simon’s eyes were still locked on her. ‘You have a doctorate in religion, yes?’

  Now he was scaring her. What was this? How could he know so much about her? ‘Are you guessing?’ she asked warily.

  ‘Not really. The archives only accept high-profile researchers, those with or pursuing their doctorates.’

  He was right. Maybe she should trust him. Something about him made that difficult though. ‘No,’ she said under her breath. ‘I haven’t finished yet.’

  There. She had finally said it. She had admitted her failure. That, at least, was honest. She still felt horrible for lying at the libraries, but really, she had no choice. This was different though. Simon’s gaze was piercing her soul. She felt as if he knew everything about her. Not many people saw through her defenses. For some reason, he did. He must be intuitive.

  ‘I’m an investigative journalist,’ she said at last. ‘Or trying to be. ...’

  Tears pricked her eyes, and she blinked hard, refusing to give way to them. Her mind was playing tricks on her. She had had so many opportunities to escape yet had not.

  Simon’s gaze grew more intense.

  Looking back up at him, she said, ‘I don’t know if I can come with you.’

  ‘You have to decide now. It’s one thing for me to drag you from the Vatican. It’s another to take you to Turkey. That would be kidnapping. With murder and theft charges already assured, I’d prefer you made your own decision.’

  ‘What if I don’t?’ When he did not answer, she edged forwards. She studied the silver casket beneath his hand. ‘Is that locked?’

  ‘You know it is.’

  ‘Can I look?’

  He waved her off, and she felt silly. She did not trust him; so why should he trust her? She sat back again. She simply had to know what lay in the casket. If it was a letter, she needed to know what it said.

  ‘Do you have the key?’ she asked.

  His silence was frustrating. ‘He knows exactly what he’s d
oing,’ she thought. But her curiosity left her no choice. Sitting with her hands folded in her lap and staring at the tails of the planes rising upwards in the distance, she reminded herself that going with him offered the chance of a lifetime, any journalist’s dream come true. Stories like these jumpstarted careers. She would not forgive herself if she let it slip by. She consoled herself that she still had time to decide.

  When Simon turned again she looked him in the eye and said, ‘I’ve never been to Turkey.’

  The corners of his mouth turned upwards ever so slightly. ‘Have you been to Rome before?’

  She had to give him points for tenacity. ‘There is one problem. I don’t have a visa for Turkey.’

  He handed her passport back. ‘Americans can get multi-entry, 90-day visas on arrival. It only costs thirty dollars. Giorgio, on the other hand—well, let’s just say Italy and the Vatican, and San Marino, for that matter, weren’t on speaking terms with Ataturk when the Republic was founded.’

  ‘They definitely won’t be on speaking terms now either,’ Giorgio quipped nervously as they approached Ciampino’s customs gate.

  Realizing this was her last chance, Jennifer quietly grasped the door handle and, summoning all her courage, looked for a place to jump out. That damned artefact. She had to be crazy. God help her! She turned her gaze to Simon. ‘What if the customs officers are expecting us?’

  He kept his hand firmly on the casket. ‘I don’t think the Vatican can afford that kind of setback.’

  He was right. If the letter contained proof of anything substantial, the cardinals would not want customs finding it. All-important contraband in Italy would first have to pass through Interpol, at which point, even the press could get hold of it. She reflected on her escape again. Simon did not have to take her with him, and he was not insisting on it either. He had had many opportunities to abandon her. And imagine the trouble they would be in if she betrayed him at customs.