The Last Sicarius

by Van R. Mayhall Jr.

  The servant was unsure of what to do. Should he attempt to go to the aid of his master? The sound of a single shot in the distance from the interior of the Bloody Acre galvanized his attention. It was followed by a long, keening scream. He had never before heard such a shriek, imbued as it was with equal parts horror and despair, but he knew in an instant that it came from his master. For a moment, he wanted to cover his head and ears. The screech devolved into a bawling and then abruptly cut off. Electrified by his terror, he jumped behind the wheel of the truck and turned the key, hoping that somehow the engine and other essential parts had not been seriously damaged in the gunfight. The engine fired up immediately, and he backed the vehicle out of the space and drove deliberately off to the south. In the rearview mirror he saw the other truck and his dead comrades framed like stick men in their death throes, but as he watched, no one followed.

  The servant had not survived in the Kolektor’s employ for so many years without being able to figure out what was happening. The master was surely in terrible trouble, if not already dead. But plans had been laid for such contingencies. The servant knew exactly what he had to do. He hurried back to the Kolektor’s bunker below the Jewish quarter of the Old City in Jerusalem.

  CHAPTER 2

  TURKISH-ARMENIAN BORDER

  The servant gazed out over the ice-capped peaks framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows in the rear wall of the dacha. This place, the Kolektor’s most sacred retreat, was near the small village where the Kolektor had been born. The village had been looted and burned by the Turks in World War II. The Kolektor’s parents had been murdered and his sister transformed into a babbling idiot by the atrocities. The Kolektor’s father had beseeched the local priest to help them get out. But the church either could not or would not help. His master had vowed vengeance.

  Years later, the Kolektor had returned and purchased land and built this sweeping sanctuary overlooking the mountains bordering Turkey and Armenia. In his most trying times, the Kolektor would return, reconnect with his roots, and be renewed. He spoke Armenian, as did his servant, and he had often visited with the surviving villagers, some of whom still remembered his family. The servant knew that the Kolektor would return no more.

  Head hung low, he sat and wondered what he should do now. The plan the master had laid out had been followed explicitly. After the fiasco at Hakeldama, he had retrieved the contents of the Kolektor’s personal safe. Upon arriving at the simple antiquities shop that was the facade for the underground bunker, he had seen that the door had been forced and the security system bypassed. The servant feared that the Israeli authorities had arrived before him and that he would be arrested. But everything was deathly quiet.

  The servant had gone directly to the master’s inner office and accessed his private safe, which had not been disturbed. Apparently, whoever had been there before him was after something else. There he found the master’s computer and account codes and a personal letter handwritten by the Kolektor. The envelope was not addressed to the servant, but when he saw the name on the envelope, he opened it anyway:

  Dearest One,

  Since you are reading this, I must be dead. I have lived long and well. Even so my life is not over. You have been lately in my most intimate thoughts. It is right that you should carry on in my absence. We are, and always have been, one in our cause.

  You will have the computer and bank codes to the vast riches I have amassed. You are my heir. To you I leave everything. You are my successor. You shall become the Kolektor. Find the rarest things and make them yours. Let nothing stand in your way. This is your destiny.

  The letter was signed by the master.

  The servant knew the rest of the master’s plan by heart. As he departed the bunker perhaps for the last time, he had noted that the jar and the manuscript were gone. Nothing else seemed to have been disturbed. Initially, he wondered who could have taken the relics. Who would have taken them but left all the other treasures untouched? Whatever had happened to the master at Hakeldama must somehow be connected with the break-in and theft of the manuscript and the old oil jar, he concluded. He would have to consider that when there was time.

  On the way to the airport, he had phoned the pilots. One of the Kolektor’s private jets was warming on the tarmac when the servant arrived at the general aviation depot of the airport. In a matter of minutes, he was on his way at five hundred miles an hour to this retreat. The servant studied the Kolektor’s final message over and over. Tears of rage came to his eyes as he thought of the years he had served his master. Should the servant not be the Kolektor’s rightful successor? He had been with him since their university days. He had earned this, had he not? Still, he was sworn to his master under his native ways. The servant had little choice but to begin to contemplate his destiny.

  A few hours later, the servant had landed at the nearest airport that could accommodate the jet. Here the servant switched to the Kolektor’s helicopter and was ferried to the chalet. He arrived to find the chalet freshly cleaned and provisioned as usual. A bevy of loyal servants had always attended to the master’s needs. He called them all together, greeted them, and told them the Kolektor would never return. He could barely control his grief—his anger!

  The servant had then finally retired to the master’s lounge and seated himself in his master’s favorite chair. He was accustomed to taking orders, not giving them, not making decisions for himself. He was shocked to think of the riches represented by the computer and account codes. The Kolektor had amassed billions, and now it was all up for grabs. The note left everything to the Kolektor’s heir. But who better to continue the master’s work than his most trusted servant? Had he served the Kolektor all these years to come to nothing? Still, what of his oath and his lifetime of devotion to his master? What of the old ways? The servant was sorely conflicted, and soon doubt began to worm its way into his mind. Could he even do it? What if something happened to the heir? What if the heir was dead? Even so, and even if he had the master’s blessing, was he up to stepping into the Kolektor’s shoes?

  The Kolektor had been after the Judas jar and the manuscript, items reputedly of incalculable value. He had captured the scholar, Dr. Clotile Lejeune, and her cohorts along with the jar, the manuscript, and all of her research. But something had gone terribly wrong at Hakeldama, and they had somehow thwarted the master and all his forces. The master was dead. The Kolektor dead? He could barely hold on to the thought. Now it seemed the Lejeune woman once again had the jar and the manuscript of the Judas Gospel. Somehow she or her allies must have been behind the break-in at the bunker.

  The Kolektor himself thought she had discovered something far more important than the Judas Gospel. There were whispers about a journal. Some said a diary had been kept by one of the Apostles, perhaps Judas, of the three-year ministry of Jesus Christ. The very idea had inflamed the Kolektor. Such a thing would have value beyond thought or calculation. It could upend the world’s religions or confirm them. The master had been mad to learn the truth and to possess its proof. It had resulted in his end.

  Shaking his head, the servant realized that the day had gotten away from him while he was lost in his thoughts. A fire crackled in the nearby fireplace. It was all very comfortable and familiar. He looked up as a servant slipped silently into the room.

  He approached with a tray of sweet meats and condiments and a carafe of wine.

  “You must be hungry,” the servant Noosh said in Armenian. “Would you consider some refreshment … master?”

  After a moment he replied, sharply, “The master is dead. I cannot be your master. I am your leader, your Karik.”

  CHAPTER 3

  RIO DE JANEIRO

  TWO MONTHS LATER

  Miguel jumped into the Land Rover next to his wife of fifteen years and his two boys, ten and twelve years old. Miguel’s eyes lit up every time he saw them. Their baggage had been loaded by his men, and all was ready for them to go into the city for a weekend holiday.

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p; His men, ex-soldiers, had positioned themselves strategically around the vehicle and the walkway from his mountainside home. Their weapons were at the ready. He hated that he and his family required such a high level of security no matter where they went. These were the wages of his business and the enemies he had made over his almost five decades of life.

  Both boys were going to be tall and thin but well muscled like their father. But unlike their dad, both boys had their mother’s deep brown eyes and high cheekbones. With some Spanish and some native Brazilian heritage, she had finely sculptured features and long black hair. Her father was a high-ranking patron in the Brazilian social hierarchy.

  As the boys fidgeted in the large backseat next to him, he felt his satellite phone buzz. He had told his office no calls, but this was his personal, secure phone, and only a few people had the number. Holding up the sat phone, he looked at his wife and said, “I have to take this in the open.”

  She glanced at him, smiled, and said, “Hurry, then.”

  “Come on out, boys, for a last stretch before the long ride,” said Miguel.

  Miguel stepped out of the Land Rover and glanced at his chief of security. In response to his unspoken question, the man nodded that all was okay. With the two boys trailing him, Miguel walked back toward the house, away from the trees lining the driveway, while looking at the tiny screen on the phone. The boys were kicking a ball back and forth. He noted out of the corner of his eye that the security chief was walking up the driveway toward the rear gardens. The man was very thorough.

  As he mounted the steps, tiered landscaping on either side, he began to enter the call-back number. When he had entered all the digits, he checked them against the number on his screen.

  Just as he hit the green “send” button, one of the boys kicked the ball back toward the car, and they both turned and ran after it. Almost immediately, the Land Rover erupted into a massive explosion of fire, glass, and metal. Miguel was blown against the heavy front door of the mansion, and all went black.

  ***

  Searing pain tore through his body as he sought consciousness. At the edges, he began to perceive light. The agony doubled. Miguel blinked and began to take in some of his surroundings. A nurse sat in a chair in one corner of the room, reading a magazine. One of his men, fully armed, stood at the foot of the bed facing the door. He had no doubt there were others outside. The light faded, and Miguel once again found the refuge of unconsciousness.

  Time swirled around him. He knew there was something he had to do, but he was so tired. Still, it would not let him alone, so he began swimming toward the light. Struggling, he opened his eyes and saw the hospital room again. There were doctors, nurses, a couple of his bodyguards, and his number one, Tomás.

  “Water,” he croaked.

  One of the nurses put a straw between his lips, and he drank deeply. Nothing had ever tasted so good.

  He looked at Tomás and asked, “My family?”

  Tomás shook his head and said, “They were buried two days ago. You have been gone for five days.”

  Miguel closed his eyes. Why had the two boys run back toward the vehicle? He began to sob—deep, heaving, inconsolable sobs.

  “Tomás, who?” asked Miguel after he began to collect himself.

  “We don’t know yet, boss,” replied Tomás. “We have feelers out but no hits. We have checked on the most likely suspects. Right now, it does not look business-related. From what we have been able to find out, this seems to have been personal.”

  “Personal?” Miguel let the word roll on his tongue. “I need to get out of here.”

  The doctor stepped forward and said, “Out of the question. You must rest. Although you have no broken bones, you have suffered a severe concussion. It was necessary to keep you in an induced coma for a while to make sure there was no swelling in the brain. Now that you are awake, we will want you here for several more days for extensive tests.”

  “Doctor, I am tired. Please have the room cleared so I can rest,” said Miguel.

  When all save Tomás had gone, Miguel said, “Tomás, put our people on the street. Money is no object. There will be a trail or path. Find the people who killed my family.”

  CHAPTER 4

  MADISONVILLE, LOUISIANA

  TWO MONTHS LATER

  “Cloe, something has happened, and I must ask you to come to Rome to speak with me and some of my colleagues,” the monsignor said with some urgency when Cloe answered his transatlantic call.

  “Albert, that’s impossible,” Cloe responded, even though she knew the monsignor worked directly for the pope and would not make the request lightly. “I’m in the midst of the translation of the journal, and it’s not going very well. I cannot leave now. What can you tell me?”

  “I can’t talk about it on the phone,” he replied. “You must come. I would not ask if it were not important. I need J.E. as well.”

  “Well, that’s it then … J.E. isn’t here, and I can’t leave what I’m doing. I’m so sorry, Albert,” said Cloe firmly, feeling somewhat perturbed at the mysterious request.

  “Then I will come to you,” he said.

  ***

  Though Cloe was in Madisonville, Louisiana, they made plans to meet in the French Quarter at the Criollo Restaurant in the Hotel Monteleone two days hence for lunch. In a way, she felt relieved for the break. She was immersed in the journal the Sicarii had given her after Hakeldama, which she believed had been written by one of the Apostles and chronicled Christ’s three-year public ministry. It had been such a happenstance discovery. She had been translating the Judas manuscript from the jar her father had found in Tunisia during World War II. His unit had been detailed to knock out an Italian fortification in the Atlas Mountains that protected the Gafsa Pass for the Germans. During this mission, he had fallen into a cavern and had come out of this cave of jars with the Judas jar, which then sat on his mantelpiece for sixty years and had come to Cloe when he was murdered in his Madisonville home. Cloe had inferred the existence of the journal from her translation of the Judas manuscript.

  The Kolektor had learned of the existence of the Judas manuscript and the possibility of the journal. His determination to possess them had resulted in the murder of her father, the kidnapping of her uncle, the battle at the Church of St. John in Lyon, France, and eventually the showdown at Hakeldama, the very field where Judas may have died. Only the appearance of the mysterious guardians of the jars, the Sicarii, had saved them and caused the death of the Kolektor and the destruction of his criminal organization. The Sicarii had entrusted her with the second jar, which she believed might contain the journal.

  If this were such a journal, it would predate the earliest of the Gospels by at least two decades and, as a contemporaneous record, could have enormous influence on the Jesus story. It might end up being the Jesus story. Currently, she was stuck on a particularly tricky translation of the Greek text. She felt the weight of the Church on her shoulders. Such a journal might rewrite religious history.

  While she was in New Orleans to meet the monsignor, she would take the opportunity to visit the library at the Ursuline Convent, which was said to be filled with ancient documents. She knew there was a relationship between the order of nuns that owned the convent and Lyon, France, where the Church of St. John was located. There were many connections between Lyon and the Gospel of Judas Iscariot and, maybe, the journal that had been referenced in that Gospel.

  As Cloe dressed that morning in her small bungalow-style home in the riverside village, she wondered what the monsignor could possibly want with her. She was an ancient languages expert formerly in residence at the University of Washington in Seattle. After the recent harrowing series of events, including the murder of her father and the kidnapping of her uncle by the Kolektor, all leading to the discovery of the journal, she was back to her quiet academic life, except now she was in Louisiana, living in her childhood home, and connected with Louisiana State University. No matter what, she simply could not lea
ve this critical part of the translation at this time. The monsignor had led her to this work, and it had almost cost her life and the life of her son, J.E. What could he possibly ask of her now?

  When she had finished dressing, she packed her handbag and drove off. Since coming back to Madisonville, she had learned how to drive and had bought a car. She had never needed one before, but in Louisiana she did.

  As she gazed in the rearview mirror, she saw the neat home with its row of magnolias. She thought briefly about her long-dead mother, Marie Louise. Even now she could see her mother in the swing on the front porch in her apron shelling peas for dinner. She could not think of her mother without her thoughts shifting to her father, Thib. He had died violently at the hands of the Kolektor, defending his home and the Judas jar. As she remembered the last few days with her mother and her father’s death, her heart hurt.

  Pressing on, she turned off Water Street and crossed the swing bridge spanning the Tchefuncte River. Soon, she was on the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway, headed for New Orleans.

  The lake was turbulent with the short, choppy waves for which it was infamous with area mariners. Cloe couldn’t help but wonder whether the stormy conditions were not some sort of portent for her meeting with the monsignor. She shivered despite the car’s warmth as she remembered the Kolektor’s plan to crucify her and her cohorts at Hakeldama for interfering with his plans to possess the jar and the journal.

  Forty minutes later, Cloe entered the French Quarter from North Peters Street. This route ran along the Mississippi River, which sliced New Orleans neatly in half.

  The streets of New Orleans were filled with the human gumbo that inhabited or visited the city, from men in business suits to the homeless and lost and every kind of person in between. As she drove slowly along the crowded street, she looked up through the moonroof and saw that the weather was worsening. It looked like it might pour down any minute. She thought she heard the distant rumbling of thunder. Cloe pulled abreast of the automobile entrance to the Monteleone Hotel and saw that the “full” sign was not posted. She smiled at her good luck and turned into the hotel garage. The attendant, a young man whose badge gave his name as Etienne, took her keys and moved quickly to park the car.