Blood Symbols

by Izak Botha

  Dubois did not take his connection to the Vatican lightly. It only took a moment’s reflection to remind him that a pope had once yielded to a king, allowing the elite of the Knights Templar to be burned at the stake. In 1307, King Philip of France had ordered the arrest of all French Templar, falsely charging them with heresy to appropriate their immense riches. Many of the accused ‘confessed’ under torture, obligating Pope Clement to issue a papal bull instructing the Christian monarchs of Europe to arrest all Templar and to seize their assets. After petitioning for papal hearings to determine their innocence or guilt, many Templar recanted their earlier confessions, but King Philip reacted by threatening military action unless Clement complied with his wishes. Based on their original confessions, Philip sent numerous Templar to the stake. This scandal resulted in Clement dissolving the order. In the years that followed, many surviving Templar Knights and their assets became absorbed into the Order of Malta.

  The knights and dames of the Order of Saint John had, for nearly a thousand years, devoted their lives to caring for the needy and disadvantaged. Operating with complete impartiality and, at times, putting their own lives at risk, they cared for all, regardless of race or religion. Their mission included providing medical and social assistance, disaster relief and emergency services, as well as supporting the elderly, handicapped, destitute and orphaned.

  Although the order had, through the ages, suffered considerable setbacks at the hands of enemy sovereigns, it had remained a formidable organization. The order now included more than thirteen thousand members, eighty thousand permanent volunteers and twenty thousand medical personnel in one hundred and twenty countries. Indeed, lending credence to its position as one of the planet’s most powerful religious charities, its membership included CIA directors, Young Americans for Freedom leaders, high-profile military and intelligence personnel, NATO generals and even a former US Secretary of State.

  Dubois acknowledged the knock on his door from the antique cherry wood table, which stood on the elegant Persian rug in the center of the room.

  On entering, the guard bowed low. ‘Your Most Eminent Highness, your visitors have arrived.’

  ‘Show them in.’

  Cardinal Santori entered before the guard had a chance to announce him. He moved swiftly to the chair farthest from the entrance, which position gave him a view of the whole room. Approaching Dubois cap in hand had embarrassed him, and his profusely sweating brow reflected this.

  After Santori’s entrance, Cardoni slumped in, seeming drained. In addition to the dramatic events of the morning, he had had to endure Santori’s jabbering about the Order’s excessive use of insignias on their paraphernalia and palace. In criticizing the Order, his dear colleague seemed to have conveniently forgotten the Vatican’s own profusion of ceremonial gear and regalia. He grimaced as the parable of the mote and the beam crossed his mind.

  ‘We must thank you for your help, Pierre,’ Cardoni said, seating himself on the couch against the wall.

  Dubois offered them drinks, but both declined. He then sat down opposite Cardoni. ‘I’ve arranged for someone to assist your men in Turkey,’ he said.

  Cardoni needed a moment to catch his breath. The two flights of steps to the third floor, on top of such a hectic day and the two packs of cigarettes he had already chain smoked, made him truly wish someone else could have come in his stead.

  ‘We hope to return the favor one day, Pierre,’ he said finally.

  ‘This can’t go public. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s not why we’re here,’ Santori said, adjusting the cushions behind his back.

  Dubois’ gaze settled on him. The man looked grim. ‘Did anyone ask for a ransom yet?’

  Santori swallowed hard but held his gaze. ‘I doubt it will come to that.’

  The cardinal sounded anything but confident. Dubois sat silently for a moment, before continuing, ‘Is there anything else I can do?’

  ‘Our men are very capable,’ Santori said. ‘They’ll bring it back.’

  ‘What about the suspects?’

  ‘That’s why we are here, Pierre,’ Cardoni interjected. ‘We need a place to finalize this matter.’

  Dubois looked at Cardoni. As an affiliate of the Holy Roman Catholic Church, his order could not afford a calamity like this. That was why he had given in to their request for assistance. ‘I’m not saying yes necessarily, but what did you have in mind?’ Unlike the Vatican, which was a skilled, high-profile player, his order was involved in clandestine operations.

  Cardoni hesitated; seeking favors never sat well with the Holy See. Such arrangements inevitably had unforeseeable consequences. But right now, they had no choice. ‘We need somewhere else to operate once they’re back,’ he said at last.

  ‘For God’s sake! You can’t bring them here. Have you seen all the people in the street? The moment you attempt to transport them they’ll be in foreign jurisdiction.’

  ‘We can’t return them to the Vatican, Pierre. There’s too much scrutiny on us now.’

  ‘That’s if your inspector gets them. My men didn’t think much of him—said he was carrying on like a clown, brandishing guns like he was Sylvester Stallone. Has he actually ever been involved in anything serious like this before?’

  ‘No, but that’s beside the point. We really can’t have those people in the city.’

  ‘Why not get straight to the point, Giovanni?’ Santori snapped. ‘Can we use your villa, Pierre, on Aventine Hill?’

  Santori disregarded Dubois’ raised eyebrow. Feeling an anxiety attack coming on again, he stood up. He walked to the cherry wood table and toyed with the order’s brass seal, which lay on a silver tray. ‘You are equally responsible for all this, Pierre,’ he said, stamping the seal down onto a bar of red wax. ‘You forget it was your order that found that letter in the first place.’

  Dubois turned to face Santori. Was that a threat? ‘That was a thousand years ago, Leonardo. Just because members of our order handed the Church a musty piece of paper doesn’t make us all co-conspirators in the deceit perpetrated before or since.’

  ‘You know as much as us, Pierre!’ Santori shot back. ‘I don’t see you rushing to expose the truth.’

  Dubois rued the day the order had formed a pact with the Holy See. Santori was right though. Their suppression of critical information made them equally responsible. They might have avoided centuries of scrutiny, but as co-conspirators, every member of the order bore as much responsibility as the Holy See. The letter struck at the heart of both their creeds. He hated the mess they were in. He would try once more: ‘Can’t you take them somewhere else?’

  Santori did not respond but, instead, headed for the door. ‘We’ll let you know as soon as we have more information, and thank you for the use of your facilities.’

  ‘Yes, we must go now, Pierre,’ Cardoni said, following his colleague. ‘But we’ll keep you informed.’

  It took a few minutes before Dubois managed to walk to the window. He pulled the curtain back as the limousine drove off in the Via dei Condotti below. Soon the taillights of the Mercedes merged with the street and shop lights. The sound of laughter could be heard drifting up from the streets. The grand master scanned the sea of faces.

  ‘No doubt they’re Catholic, most of them,’ he thought. ‘God help us if they no longer think God exists.’

  Chapter 39

  Simon thought of jumping stop signs and passing slow traffic on solid lines, but prudence prevailed. It was better not to get caught for reckless driving; they were in enough trouble as it was.

  Jennifer sat quietly staring out of the window. She did not feel like talking. After a day of nonstop action, the drive to Adana provided a much-needed break. It also gave her time to reflect on her new role as an investigative journalist. Every incident that day had potential for a major story: her failed interview at the Vatican, the murder at the Penitentiary, her flight from Rome with a suspected murderer, the letter and discovery of the appare
nt remains of Apostle Peter in Turkey—reporting on any one of these could win her a Pulitzer.

  Of all these events, the letter was the most problematic. Rabin had not finished translating it, and even if he had and it supported her conjectures, any serious reader would struggle to accept that Pontius Pilate and Saint Paul had conspired to kill Jesus and His Apostle Peter. It implied that the Roman Church’s original leadership had appropriated the Nazarene faith by eliminating its leaders. It also implied that Paul’s claim of Christ’s divinity had become doctrine over Peter’s dead body. Peter’s insistence on Jewish principles had made it impossible for the gentiles to claim the religion as their own without radically changing their lives and habits; of course, they would not have wanted to be circumcised or abstain from eating pork or ritually cleanse themselves every time they had sex. By silencing the Nazarene leadership, Paul would have had carte blanche to preach his version of Jesus as the gentiles’ savior in and around Rome. The apparent ease with which he had preached a new religion was surely indicative that the Roman government was sanctioning his activities. A multi-decade ministry would not have passed unnoticed. To this day, verification of Paul’s persecution and execution had eluded scholars. Some even believed the self-appointed apostle died of natural causes in France. Jennifer would have to wait for more information from Rabin to strengthen her argument, but she was certain of what she believed herself. Assuming the evidence was compelling enough, the sea of change that would ensue once she had published her story was too immense to even imagine.

  Luckily the evidence was now safe with Rabin, and already, without verification or completing the translation, they partially demonstrated a truth, which contradicted canonical Church doctrine. Yet, until Rabin completed his analyses, she would be unable to corroborate her story. Readers would dismiss her claims as fantasy. She should have tried to keep that heel bone for herself at least. She could have slipped it into her pocket without showing it to Rabin and simply presented it to Geographic America on her return home.

  Simon checked the time on the dashboard clock. The two-hour drive would probably prevent his attempt to get Jennifer on a flight from Adana. Her damned thirst for answers to a failed faith had made that near impossible. They would probably have to find a place to stay for the night, leaving them more vulnerable to capture.

  Leaving Turkey just hours after arriving might also be problematic for Jennifer. As a smartly dressed westerner, she was already conspicuous, and arriving at the airport covered in dirt as she was would arouse suspicion. She looked a mess. In his imagination, he could see a customs official accosting her for smuggling contraband. Seeing her staring out of the window made him realize just how impossible it would be for her to board a plane. Fortunately, Turkey no longer conformed to strict sharia dress code, so at least she did not need to wear a hijab and full-length abaya.

  Maybe they should escape to Israel. But that meant driving through Syria. He had done countless road trips in the past, but it was no longer a good idea driving a pale-skinned westerner through the area, especially not at night. And not with an armed conflict in process. After the Syrian Civil War began in March 2011, ISI fighters had sent delegates into Syria and established a large presence in Sunni-majority areas such as Ar-Raqqah, Idlib, Deir ez-Zor and Alepp, some of which cities lay directly between them and Israel. With reports of westerners being the target of Islamist extremists, they could not risk falling hostage.

  Simon’s sudden turning off the E93 and onto a dirt road caught Jennifer off guard. He headed for the valley between two mountain ranges, and she felt her heart beating faster. Realizing it could not be the road to Adana, she asked, ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘My place,’ he said. ‘You need to freshen up.’

  ‘It can’t be that bad, surely.’

  ‘Have you see yourself.’ He flipped down the sun visor above her head and switched on the light. ‘You’re covered in dirt.’

  She positioned the mirror to reveal her face. She did look a mess.

  ‘Even if we made it on time, you can’t fly like that,’ he said irritably.

  She wiped her cheeks, but the caked sweat and dirt stuck to her skin. Even her hair was standing on end and covered in sand. He was right, arriving at customs looking like that she would attract too much attention, but it was hard to accept defeat. She wanted to know what the rest of the letter said. Now she would never know.

  Realizing her selfishness, she glanced over at him. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going back with Giorgio in the morning. We’re leaving at ten. Well, we were; but I don’t know anymore. It depends on how quickly I can get you out of here.’

  The idea of him going back to Rome made her uneasy. Not that it was any of her business, of course. Once she was on a flight to Israel, she would be on her own again. She had had one of the most incredible experiences of her life, both at the Vatican and in Turkey, but she had to look to her own future. Her way forward had nothing to do with Simon’s fate. She felt for him, but she could not involve herself with his destiny. How could she? She hardly knew the man—not to mention how only a few hours had passed since she had believed he was a murderer. She felt the pain in her chest return, and resolved to stop thinking about him and just relax. It would be an understatement to say she had had a full day. She needed something to take her mind off Simon, but there was nothing in the car, no magazines or books, and she again found herself contemplating her attitude towards him. She felt guilty. It was not like her to be so cold. Perhaps she did care. … Yes, she cared a lot.

  ‘It’s too dangerous, Simon. What if they discover he’s your brother?’

  ‘They don’t know that yet.’

  ‘But what if they do? They’ll be waiting.’

  ‘I’ll use the letter.’

  ‘To bargain with …?’

  Jennifer was still wondering how she could convince him not to go when he turned off the dirt road and onto a driveway. Persian oaks lined the path, bringing back memories of a wine estate she had visited in South Africa. Beyond the trees and open fields, mountains framed the landscape like a theatre backdrop. Although the new moon prevented her from appreciating the landscape fully, the sky was clear enough for starlight to reveal some of its secrets. Her eyes were riveted to the drawn bow of the Milky Way reflecting in the ripples of a pond beside the driveway. She had never seen the stars shining so brightly. She opened her window, reveling in the cool lick of wind on her hair and face. She listened. In the distance, she heard crickets and frogs calling to their mates. The drone of the engine and sound of pebbles chipping away at the Range Rover’s undercarriage reminded her of a discordant orchestra. She inhaled the scent of damp soil and wild scrub. The aroma filled her mouth with a zesty savor. It was like smelling a good burgundy before tasting it. That was something she had not had for some time either. The land had rawness to it, as if it had experienced hardship. Yet it seemed a strong, rugged and determined land. It made her feel more alive.

  Flickering lights penetrated the vegetation, harnessing her thoughts. Simon was approaching a ten-foot wall. With a remote control, he opened a steel gate and drove into a large courtyard. On both sides, garages and stables lay between trees and shrubs. Two horses peered curiously over their stable doors. Simon rounded a fountain and stopped in front of a stuccoed veranda. He hopped out and ducked around the back of the Range Rover to open her door, but she got out and closed the door herself.

  Jennifer was, however, in awe of what, based on Simon’s brief description, she had assumed was no more than a humble farmhouse. Before her stood a work of art, a play of geometrical forms and angles entirely foreign to her. Unlocking the door and stepping into the foyer, Simon deactivated the alarm. She could sense from the powerful smell of fabric, leather and wood that the house was still new. As he lit up the spaces from a computerized pad on the wall, the interior transformed into a panorama of light and shadow. A circular table with a vase of wild flowers adorned the center of t
he foyer. Beyond, the living room flowed into a spacious garden. To the right, at the back of the house, was the kitchen. To the left was Simon’s study. Behind that, a hallway linked a TV room and bedroom. Together with the table lamps, sculptures and rugs, these features spoke of hermetic refinement, an apt expression of Simon himself. With a contemporary, open plan and combination of single- and double-volume spaces—with subtly placed stone and brick walls counterbalanced with floor-to-ceiling windows and water features—the ground-floor area was breathtaking. Considering her father had been an architect, her reaction was quite a compliment. She knew of no other man who would appreciate standing there more than her dad. She wished he was there with her.

  Her desire for a tour fell on blind eyes.

  Without hesitation, Simon set off for his bedroom to the left. He opened the top drawers of his teak bureau and selected a light ash-grey lamb’s wool jersey. He draped the garment in front of her to see if it would fit before passing it to her. Satisfied with the result, he set off again.

  Jennifer followed as he strode into the en-suite bathroom, which walls he had painted desert red contrasting with a floor tiled in cream-grey marble. The décor was complemented by dark wood furnishings.

  Simon started the shower for her and admonished her to be quick. He was praying they would not arrive at the airport too late, but felt it to be a vain prayer. They certainly would not make it in time even for the last flight. Retrieving a fresh towel from the linen closet and handing it to her, he turned to leave. As he passed through the bedroom, though, he stopped, suddenly feeling anxious. It was as if a cold fog had fallen over him, and the skin on the back of his neck felt clammy. Something was about to go wrong; he was sure of it.