by Tom Haase
“I sent you a picture in your email of an icon that may be from your specialty field. I’m asking if you know anything about it,” Bridget said.
“Just a second. Okay, I have it on my screen. Definitely from the ninth to the twelfth century. I would say it is from about the time the Cyrillic alphabet was introduced to the Russians by the Greek monks. The Kievian Russians converted to Christianity in the ninth century. I don’t remember seeing this exact icon. It’s unique with the red robe on the Madonna, very unusual for a red robe to be on the Madonna.”
“Any idea about its history?” Bridget interrupted.
“Sorry. There is a specialist in the Vatican who might be able to help, but you know how they are. They aren’t going to help you unless someone there goes to bat for you. I wish you good luck,” Robert Morrison said a polite goodbye.
Bridget relaxed in her chair and unwittingly flashed back to a time many years ago and remembered Matt from their army days together. She and Matt had a mutual attraction. Once, it went beyond attraction. She remembered the night — what a night — but that happened many years in the past.
Bridget needed a break. This process on the icon proved to be exhausting and she didn’t like the direction it now took. From somewhere deep in the recesses of her mind, she knew what the next step would have to be. Damn. Damn, all that she thought. She felt frustrated by the lack of results, but decided she would have to make one phone call. She didn’t really want to, but she needed answers about this sacred item and she needed them in a very short period of time. There happened to be one religious person whom she knew in the Vatican. He might be able to provide some information. In her mind, she liked him but sort of hated him at the same time.
Bridget felt she had little choice at this point in time and dialed the number she hoped she would never have to use.
CHAPTER 10
Rome, Italy
Monsignor Jonathan McGregor briskly climbed the steps to his second-floor apartment on this November evening. The ten-minute walk from his new office in the Vatican Secretary of State's chambers allowed him to experience the first cold onslaught of the coming winter. The Roman evening now turned chilly for the first time, signaling the end of the hot and humid Italian summer.
He entered his apartment and took off his light jacket. His cell phone rang. The display read "out of area." Very few people in the world knew this number, so he decided to answer.
"Monsignor McGregor, I hope I am not interrupting anything," said the voice he immediately recognized. It had been months since he’d last seen Bridget Donovan, and he hadn’t expect to ever hear from her again.
"Hello, Bridget," Jonathan said and then waited. This call certainly surprised him.
"I recently found out what you did to me. That wasn’t very nice."
"We were both after the same thing and only one of us could win. I’m glad that it was me, and I regret that it wasn’t you. Realistically, both of us couldn’t get the prize. All I can do is ask you to forgive," Jonathan said.
"We've been through a lot together and I feel we have a certain bond from both the friendship and the competition. It pains me in a way to call you, but I think I’ve hit the end of the road in my search and this may be something you can help me with. Look at it as a way to make a little amends for your deceptions," Bridget said.
"I presumed, Bridget, that you called for a specific reason. Please do not keep me in suspense anymore. I confess that I owe you, but you are always after something. What is it this time?" Jonathan asked.
“I actually need five million dollars,” she said.
“I don’t owe you that much,” he said in a jovial voice. “What are you really after?”
"I believe that icons are not something commonly on display in the Vatican. But I’ve done research on all the means available to me and have found nothing about a particular one. I believe monetarily, it has great value. It also may be of significant religious value, probably to the Orthodox religions. I don't know anyone in those faiths, but I thought you might be able to help me and identify this item and perhaps its history. A friend of mine believes there is someone in the Vatican who has knowledge about icons."
"You're talking in riddles, just say what you want, Bridget." He waited for her response. She wanted something, and if Bridget Donavan followed a hot trail he wanted to know about it. “What have you got to start you on this line of query about an icon?”
"I have a picture that was taken by Matt Higgins. You remember him. He’s the FBI agent at our last encounter. He took this photo during a raid somewhere in Virginia. He says, based on its weight, the icon is real gold with many precious stones. The pictures show the icon in sufficient detail. He sent two pictures of it. Somehow it got lost after the FBI raid. My request is for you see if you can identify the icon for me. If it is gold, it has to be very valuable, yet there is no record of it. From my research, it doesn’t seem to exist."
"Now I understand what you want. I don't know whether I can be of any help. On the other hand, I think I owe you to at least try. Send me the pictures along with your phone number and current email address. I'll see what I can do, but I'm not promising anything. Give me a couple of days," Jonathan said.
"That’ll be great. What are you doing these days? When are they gonna make you a bishop?" She sounded like she wanted to put the call on a more friendly tone.
"I don't think that will ever happen. Right now I've been moved over to the office of the Vatican Secretary of State as a special assistant. It’s very interesting work. I get to see the entire workings of the church in foreign affairs on a worldwide scale."
"Congratulations. Thank you in advance for anything you can do. I'll send the pictures as soon as I hang up. Good night." With that she clicked off.
Jonathan closed the cell, set the phone down, and decided he would have a glass of wine. What in the devil really motivated Bridget Donovan this time? A feisty redhead with a gorgeous figure and a beautiful face she grabbed attention wherever she went. Priests might take the vow of chastity, but God gave them eyes to look at striking things.
He’d first met her many years ago when they were in their respective armies fighting the war in the Middle East. A few years later, he ran into her when she tried to chase down the location of the Crown of Thorns worn by Jesus Christ on the day of his crucifixion. He followed her and her brother to Warsaw, then to Spain, then to Florida where he managed to manipulate their search and acquire those valuable relics. The second adventure where he encountered Bridget occurred when she attempted to find a Bible of Constantine. After she actually located it, he switched the original she possessed with a fake. The Vatican subsequently ruined Bridget and Scott’s academic careers over the Crown of Thorns affair. He didn’t know any effects that could have resulted from switching the bible but assumed there had been some.
The beep on his phone signaled an incoming email. He opened it and viewed the pictures. He couldn’t believe what he saw. He threw the cell on the couch and grabbed the internal Vatican landline phone.
CHAPTER 11
St. Petersburg, Russia
Two Weeks Earlier
Msgr. O’Neill walked briskly to the exit gate from the seaport. The sun shone brightly and he would enjoy this clear autumn day. He experienced the cold air even though the locals were still in short sleeve shirts. His blood had thinned, as they say, from all those years of living in the South and even when he visited his homeland, Ireland, he no longer could easily tolerate the Irish climate.
His silver hair flailed in the wind as he walked towards the first church he wanted to examine. After many years as a church architect expert, he now enjoyed his retirement as a chaplain on cruise ships, which gave him an opportunity to visit many churches and to evaluate them from an architectural perspective. His cruise ship moored in St. Petersburg for two days and it would depart tonight.
After visiting two of the great churches in the city, his hunger got the best of him, so decided to go int
o a local restaurant for food. He observed it wasn't the greatest neighborhood but he figured it would probably be safe in the middle of the day. The waitress came over. Since many tourists came here, he hoped she might know a few words of English.
"Do you speak any English?" he asked.
"A little," came the answer from the middle-aged lady, slightly chubby, wearing a white apron.
"A cup of soup, some bread, and hot tea."
The waitress nodded and walked off. He pulled out the English language newspaper purchased that morning on his walk. After he put on his glasses, he read. In a few minutes his soup arrived. He put down the paper and started to indulge in his meal. The first time he looked up from his soup, he noticed a group of four men sitting slightly off to his right against the back wall. They all wore black leather jackets and looked to be what he would consider gangster types. None of his business he thought, and continued eating his meal.
Out the corner of his eye, he noticed the front door of the restaurant fly open. Five men, looking similar to the four sitting in the corner and dressed approximately the same, rushed into the restaurant. The first man pulled out a pistol.
Msgr. O’Neill almost had a heart attack on seeing this, being that his heart was not in great shape at seventy years of age. He didn't need this. He watched as if in slow motion as the other men who entered drew their weapons. Glancing to his right, he saw the four men sitting at the table were now rapidly diving for cover and producing weapons. This must be a local gang fight, he thought, and grabbed the tabletop not knowing what to do.
The sound of gunfire reached his ears as he started to pull on the tabletop to turn it over. Adrenaline coursing through his body gave him the necessary energy to quickly turn over the table, tea spilling on his face, which he didn’t even notice, and then curled on his side on the floor. The cacophony of many calibers of weapons firing in close proximity inside of the small restaurant created a deafening effect. He put his hands over his ears, but this didn't seem to help much. He heard footsteps running and a man's body suddenly slumped over the top of his overturned table.
O’Neill looked up in time to see the man's hand slide a bag over the top and it landed right between his curled up knees and his stomach. The man stared at him through blood streaming down over his eyes. He must've seen the Roman collar. In his last breath, he pushed the bag into O’Neill's hands.
The gun battle decreased in intensity, and based on the sounds he heard, he believed the gunmen had left the restaurant. O’Neill's heart still pounded so loudly he thought it would explode. When he stuck his head a few inches above the tabletop, he breathed in the acidic smell of the gunpowder. Silence permeated the place. He slowly got to his knees and looked at the dead man sprawled over his table. He blessed him and prayed for him.
Then the noise, the shouts, and the race to the exit began. Chaos reigned everywhere in the restaurant. O’Neill looked around and saw patrons and employees pushing one another aside to get out faster. He also decided that a quick exit would be the smart thing to do. He grabbed the bag the man thrust at him and walked toward the exit, the last person out. No one stopped him outside, but the sound of the police sirens reached his ears. He walked as fast as he could back to his ship and this time did not notice the cold.
On reaching his stateroom, he dropped the bag on a chair and collapsed on his bed. What should he do? In his mind, he went over the horrific events that transpired in the bloodbath at the restaurant. He remembered that as he made for the door to get away from that restaurant, he saw three other bodies lying in different grotesque positions on the floor. It had been a massacre at close range.
After walking all morning and then all the excitement of the events at the restaurant he felt exhausted. He easily dozed off. The short nap lasted only ten minutes, and then he awoke and decided to look at whatever the man had thrust at him.
He picked up the bag and opened it. In his excitement at the time, he hadn’t noticed the weight of the bag, but now he did. He estimated it probably weighed three to four kilos. His hand moved inside and he thought he felt what could be an object wrapped in cloth. He pulled it out, placed it on the bed, and started to unwrap the burlap material that encased the object.
To his amazement, a beautiful icon appeared. It looked like an image of St. John the Baptist as he baptized Jesus. A gem-encrusted halo surrounded Jesus’s head and the Cyrillic annotation of Son of God adorned the top. He realized the metal used in the construction of the icon must be gold. That would account for the weight.
The monsignor stared at the beauty of this icon and started to wonder why such a beautiful religious symbol had been present in a shoot-out in a restaurant in the middle of St. Petersburg. It made no sense to him. He would give it to the authorities in a few minutes and explain how he possessed of such a valuable piece of artwork. He didn’t believe he could give it to a church, as it surely comprised part of what the police would need for their investigation of that crime scene. He picked it up and moved to place it on the small desk in his cabin. As he did so, he turned it over and looked at the backside.
Etched in the wood on the backside, down on the rightmost corner, he saw something that made him stop. He put on his glasses to clearly see and observed a paper backing on the icon which bulged. He decided not to take it off, but his eyes opened fully with what he read in the inscription on the bottom of the back.
"Vatican #13366/1252.”
O’Neill didn’t know what this meant, but he decided to do some research on the Internet. After forty minutes, he discovered the Vatican employed a system of marking its exhibits with a number and the year acquired. That appeared to be exactly what the etching on the back of the icon signified. In his mind, this meant this icon, at some time, rested in the Vatican archives. How the hell did it get in the middle of a gangland shoot-out in Russia?
O’Neill would finish with this cruise when it reached Copenhagen in three days. He had scheduled himself to be in Rome for a six-week course on modern church architecture in two weeks. He would just move that timeframe up and go by train from Copenhagen to Rome to visit his old friend from their days at the Irish College in the Vatican. He had more recently spoken to him in connection to the Crown of Thorns recovery in Florida. In Rome, with his friend’s help, he could find the answers to this emerging mystery.
He would keep the icon in his personal possession. He wouldn’t have to go through any security checks on the train that might set off alarms that could happen in any airport because of the metal on the icon. If he didn’t use any type of checked baggage on his trip, there should not be any fear of losing it. Once in Rome, he might be able to investigate and perhaps to solve this mystery. He hadn’t seen his friend since he became the new special assistant to the Vatican Secretary of State.
CHAPTER 12
Washington, D.C.
Present Day
Matt reached his apartment, went to the condo’s refrigerator, and pulled out a beer. He used this time to contemplate his future or the total lack of it. He felt fatigued after being up all night, but he wanted to relax and unwind for a few minutes before he went to bed. He walked out onto his balcony, sat down, and started to drink his beer. His cell phone rang.
He glanced at the number on the cell face but didn’t recognize it. What the hell, he might as well see who would be calling him on this line, probably somebody trying to do a survey.
"Matt Higgins?" came a voice he thought he recognized.
"Yes. Who is this?"
"This is Tom Eastwood. Do you have a minute?"
The director of the FBI is on my phone asking me if I have a minute.
"Yes, sir. What can I do for you?" Matt asked.
"Can you meet me at the Old Ebbitt Grill, as soon as possible?"
This came as a complete shock. What the heck? Why would the director want to meet him somewhere other than his office? His curiosity peaked. He wanted to find out what the director had on his mind that could possibly concern him.
"I'll be there in an hour," Matt said.
The director hung up.
Matt arrived at the appointed place a few minutes early. On entering, he did not see the director. He asked the receptionist for a booth and he escorted him to one. Five minutes later the director slid onto the seat opposite him.
"I'm sure you're curious what the hell this is about. I’m aware of what happened this morning in the deputy director's office. I want to congratulate you on what you did during the arms bust in Virginia. In my opinion you did the correct thing." The director relaxed back into his seat and looked at Matt.
"Thank you, but I don't think everyone sees it that way. Why meet here instead of in your office?"
"At the President’s direction, I have a highly classified proposal for you. The president called me after your short conversation with him earlier today. He has an idea that I totally concur with. With your approval we can make this happen," the director said.
"My future is completely open at this point," Matt said.
"As you know, most of the letter agencies — CIA, DIA, NSA, etc. — all possess what in the jargon is known as black ops capability. They are able to conduct operations completely off book. The FBI has no such capability. I am proposing with your help that we create one."
A waiter appeared and they both ordered a drink. Matt watched the director to see if he intended to laugh and this meeting a joke. His mind didn’t comprehend in any detail the director’s proposal.
"I'm sorry, sir. I think you're going to have to break this down and explain in specific terms that I can get my head around. You’ve obviously thought it through and I'm coming in on the end of that process."
"You are right, Matt, very perceptive and quite correct. Let me spell it out," the director said.