The Last Sicarius

by Van R. Mayhall Jr.

  “I’ll be here only an hour or two,” said Cloe.

  “Fine, ma’am; I’ll keep her close,” said the young man.

  Cloe passed through the automatic door and began to weave her way from the garage onto the main floor of the old hotel. It had been family-owned for goodness only knew how many years, but with the recent refurbishment and upgrades, Cloe thought it was spectacular. Criollo was a product of the makeover. Cloe had read that it was one of the best new restaurants in New Orleans.

  Once inside the foyer of the restaurant, she immediately saw Marco, the food and beverage manager. Before this, Marco had been a legendary, thirty-year veteran of another French Quarter landmark—one of Cloe and J.E.’s favorites. Marco knew everything and everybody.

  “Hello, Dr. Lejeune,” said Marco with a wry smile. “I believe there is a distinguished-looking gentleman awaiting you in the restaurant.”

  He led her to the table she had reserved, and there sat the monsignor.

  “Hello, Albert,” she said and gave him a warm, friendly hug as he stood to greet her. Cloe saw that her friend might have aged just a bit from the fight with the Kolektor, but on him it was just a touch more gray in his hair and a deeper wrinkle here and there. “Distinguished” truly was the right word, she thought.

  “Cloe, it’s good to see you,” he replied.

  They sat down and ordered drinks. Without request, Marco brought the house specialty, a gulf shrimp, blue crab, and avocado appetizer. Hot French bread pistolettes and an assortment of other homemade breads with three types of butter followed.

  The monsignor did not waste time on pleasantries. “Cloe, we need your help. A crisis is brewing that may affect everything you are doing. I need you to come to Rome and meet with key people there.”

  “You said that on the phone. You know I can’t go. I’ve told you that,” responded Cloe. “I’ve got too much to do on the journal.”

  “I can’t go into any detail here, but I would not have flown so far to make this personal entreaty if it were not critical,” replied the monsignor.

  “Albert, you have to tell me something,” said Cloe, conflicted by her work and her friendship with the monsignor.

  Marco returned, and they ordered. Cloe’s favorite dish was the pan-seared scallops, with a side of creamed spinach. It was always perfect. The monsignor ordered the soft-shell crab BLT. He also chose a nice white wine for them.

  They relaxed into lighter conversation, mainly about J.E. and all that had happened since their near-death brush with the Kolektor and his minions. She told him J.E. had been appointed to an elite intelligence course at the military college and was close to finishing. She spoke briefly of her struggle with the translation of a Jesus conversation with someone she thought might be St. John.

  The meal came and went, and over coffee, the monsignor leaned in close to Cloe. “I know this is difficult, but it could be a matter of life and death. The pope himself considers this to be of the utmost importance. Please come to Rome.”

  Cloe knew this was not an idle statement by the monsignor. She had been through enough with him to know this was serious. Still, she had her work on the journal. “Albert, come back to Madisonville with me, and we will talk further. I want to show you what I have done on the translation. I’ll keep an open mind.”

  “Fair enough,” said the cleric. “Do you have a car? I took a taxi from the airport.”

  “Yes, it’s down in the garage,” she said as a bright bolt of lightning appeared in the restaurant’s window, followed immediately by a terrible crash of thunder. The lights flickered but held.

  The monsignor paid the bill, and they went to the valet area of the garage, where rain was pouring down so hard that it was beginning to back up in the street. The hotel now had several young valets fetching customer cars. Cloe gave Etienne her ticket. He grabbed his yellow slicker and ran off into the maelstrom, no doubt thinking of a handsome tip. Cloe and the monsignor watched as the young man ran to the car in the lot just across the street, opened the door, and jumped inside. Five seconds later, as he apparently turned the ignition switch, the car exploded with a blast so mighty it drowned out the lightning and thunder. Pieces of the ruined vehicle sailed through the air in all directions. The blast knocked Cloe and the monsignor flat as debris rained down around them.

  Cloe looked up and screamed in horror. Her hair hung down over her face in soggy strings; she was soaking wet from the rainwater blown over them by the explosion. She rolled toward the monsignor and saw the look of shock on his face. Both of them were covered with debris.

  “Albert … what’s happened?” she yelled after a moment, when she could speak. “My God! What about the poor valet … Etienne?”

  “I’m afraid no one could have survived that blast,” he said, apparently beginning to come to grips with what had just happened and checking himself for injuries.

  He studied Cloe, saw the frightened look on her face, and said, “Are you hurt?”

  “No … Albert, are you hurt?” she cried out.

  “I think I’m unhurt, but I’m afraid our past has reached out to us,” he said miserably, getting to his feet and helping Cloe up.

  She considered this and said, “I have to go to Rome, don’t I?”

  The monsignor responded quietly. “Yes.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Less than forty-eight hours after the horrific explosion and its aftermath with the police, the carnage, and all of the questions, Cloe now focused on the fact that she was in the presence of the direct successor to St. Peter. In the rush to get to Rome, she had had little time to understand the ramifications of the bomb in New Orleans. That would come later. Right now she intuitively knew she had to be here.

  “Here” was the pope’s personal study in the papal apartment. These were not sumptuous quarters by modern standards. In fact, they had undergone an upgrade only a few years earlier when Pope Benedict XVI brought everything up to what Americans would call “code.” The electrical and plumbing had been completely inadequate, not to mention the heating and air-conditioning. Plus, a large library space had been added to house Benedict’s enormous personal collection of books. After Pope Benedict’s almost unprecedented resignation, the library had been moved to Castle Gandolfo along with the pope emeritus.

  Although Pope Francis had elected to reside in a more modest apartment, the pope’s quarters continued to serve much the same business function as the White House in Washington, DC, but on a considerably smaller scale. The political center of the Vatican was here, and this was where the pope conducted the most important and private aspects of his business.

  Clotile Lejeune studied the face of Pope Francis as he entered the room. Many said that his predecessor, Benedict XVI, glowed with the light of scholarship. Francis’s face showed … what? Humility, she thought, that and fatigue. Cloe worried that it was too early in his tenure for the newly elected Pope Francis to seem so tired. Although he smiled slightly, Cloe could see dark shadows under his eyes and deep wrinkles of age. This was undoubtedly a result of his newfound responsibilities. Pope Francis was not only the head of state of the Vatican, an independent though small country, but also the leader of the billion-plus-member Roman Catholic Church.

  Observing Francis, Cloe now felt her own weariness after the day’s long flight and the events leading up to this trip. Her thoughts went back to the scene at the hotel in New Orleans where poor Etienne lost his young life because of a bomb meant for her. There seemed to be no end to the violence that had swirled around her since her father had bequeathed the jar to her. Here she was again, this time meeting with the pope himself, on the verge of goodness only knew what. Of course, she had not known that she would be personally meeting with the pope. The monsignor had not told her about this until they were en route to the Vatican.

  “Dr. Lejeune, welcome to the residence,” said Francis in English with a tired but sincere smile.

  The monsignor had given her a rudimentary lesson in papal etiquette o
n the flight to Rome. Cloe bowed slightly and said, “Holiness, thank you.” She kissed the ring of St. Peter on the pope’s extended hand. Likewise, the monsignor made his greetings to the pope, who then ushered them to a small conference area in the study.

  When they were seated, a nun from the order that serves the papal residence brought fresh, hot coffee, which Cloe thought was as tasty as any in Louisiana. Somewhat refreshed, Cloe looked expectantly at Francis and then at the monsignor.

  “Albert has told me a little of your ordeal in Jerusalem at Hakeldama,” said the pontiff. “How are you and your son, J.E., doing in its wake?”

  “J.E.’s fine. He’s actually on detached, short-term duty at one of the intelligence schools in the United States. I expect him home at any time. We have talked about what happened in New Orleans and about this trip. If necessary, he will join me here later. My wounds have all but healed,” responded Cloe, unconsciously flexing and rotating her right shoulder near where she had been shot in the chest by the Kolektor.

  The Kolektor—even now she could hear his screams as he was crucified by the Sicarii at Hakeldama. Just desserts for a man—a monster—who had murdered her father, kidnapped her ninety-year-old uncle, and stolen an ancient relic of incalculable value. In a matter of a few weeks, this Kolektor had entered her life, totally changed its course, and almost succeeded in killing her entire family. All this was in the pursuit of his monstrous greed and lust for ancient things. Somehow the pope’s characterization of the experience as an “ordeal” seemed inadequate.

  The pope turned to the fourth occupant of the small study. “Dr. Lejeune, this is Father Sergio Canti. Father Sergio is the assistant camerlengo. Are you familiar with the office of camerlengo?”

  “Yes,” responded Cloe, studying the young man carefully. He was about J.E.’s age of twenty-six but with more of a doughboy physique. His eyes were sharp and betrayed an intense intelligence and something else, something she could not quite identify. Cloe thought there might be some steel under the soft exterior. “When Pope Benedict’s predecessor died, there were pieces in the American press on the camerlengo,” she continued. “If I understand correctly, the camerlengo has certain nondelegable duties to perform upon the passing of a pope.”

  “Yes, my child, while the office of camerlengo has meant different things at different times in the history of the Church, in this context the camerlengo is an officer of the papal household. Among the duties of this office is the formal determination of the demise of a pope. If the pope has passed, the camerlengo will strike the pope’s head gently three times with a small silver hammer used only for this purpose and call out his name, inquiring, ‘Are you sleeping?’”

  “Fascinating,” whispered Cloe.

  “Once the pope is declared dead, the camerlengo takes possession of the Ring of the Fisherman and cuts it in the presence of the cardinals to signify the end of the pope’s reign,” continued Francis. “He then notifies the Curia and the College of Cardinals and assists in the funeral preparations and in the convening of the all-important meeting of the cardinals to choose a successor.”

  “Such a tradition; it takes my breath away,” uttered Cloe, although she wondered how these duties would be relevant now.

  “Father Sergio is one of the clerks in the office of the camerlengo,” stated the monsignor. “In time, with experience and wisdom, he may aspire to become camerlengo, should that be God’s will. But every candidate who would hold an office so close to the pope must be tested and found worthy. He is trained in many things, and His Holiness has asked him to be here in case he can be of service in our efforts.”

  “What efforts are those, Monsignor?” asked Cloe, wondering if they were getting close to the punch line in this story.

  “Perhaps we should begin with what you have learned about the second jar the Sicarii left you after the firefight at Jerusalem,” suggested the pontiff.

  “Yes, the Sicarii,” Cloe responded, looking inward. “Holiness, as you may know, the mysterious appearance of the Sicarii saved us from certain, terrible death at the hands of the Kolektor at Hakeldama. He wanted to destroy anyone who had any knowledge of the oil jar found by my father, Thib, in Tunisia during World War II.”

  Cloe shuddered. If the Sicarii had not intervened, she, J.E., and Uncle Sonny would have died, crucified on those trees. As it was, the Kolektor’s men had been killed by the short blades of the Sicarii, and the Kolektor had himself suffered the excruciating death of crucifixion on an ancient oak. The Sicarii had decreed an eye for an eye, and the Kolektor that night reaped what he had sowed.

  Cloe lowered her head as she stepped through these only months-old events in her memory. She had not spoken of them to anyone but J.E. since Jerusalem. It had all begun when she received that ill-fated phone call from her Uncle Sonny notifying her that her father, Thibodeaux Lejeune, had died suddenly. She and J.E. had gone back to Madisonville for the funeral and had discovered her father had been murdered in his home as a result of a break-in. In due course, the police had determined that the murderer was a professional thief and sometimes killer who died from a shotgun blast from Thib as the older man sat bleeding to death in his bedroom.

  She had done what was necessary to bury her father and to take care of his affairs. At her father’s lawyer’s office, she had learned that Thib had bequeathed to her the old oil jar he had found in World War II. Tears came to her eyes as she thought about the will and the personal letter from her father.

  “Cloe, are you all right?” questioned the monsignor.

  “Albert, it’s still hard to believe that I, a simple languages professor in Seattle, became enmeshed in an international conflict with a billionaire ex-arms dealer over possibly the most important relic to be found since the birth of Christ. Now the jar has cost another life … the poor valet at the hotel.”

  “Time may prove the contents of the oil jar to be just that, earth-shakingly important,” replied the monsignor.

  “Perhaps. We have already discovered the earliest version of the Gospel of Judas Iscariot known to exist,” continued Cloe, “but it’s damaged. As we speak, experts are trying to restore the smudged interior pages of that manuscript so that it can be translated and understood.”

  “That is extremely interesting,” said Francis as he offered more coffee. “However, the true revelation may be about the journal. Dr. Lejeune, think of it—the possibility of a writing by one of the Apostles chronicling the daily details of the three years of Christ’s life before his death. Can you tell me what you have learned?”

  “Holiness, you realize such a diary, a firsthand contemporary account, if authentic, might refute what is written in whole or in part in the Gospels. The synoptic Gospels were not written until decades after Christ’s death, and the Gospel of St. John, the last to be written, was authored at the very end of the first century.” Cloe realized immediately that she had been impertinent, lecturing the successor to St. Peter on scripture. Hand to her mouth, she rose slightly to apologize profusely.

  Francis gestured to her to keep her seat and indicated that he knew no insult was intended. It seemed he had some experience with American frankness.

  “Cloe, the pope is well aware of the implications of such a writing,” said the monsignor, “but he also believes the document will only confirm and, more importantly, enrich what we already know. While only the pope, his private secretary, and a few others with need to know are aware of these developments, great excitement has been generated.”

  “Holy Father, I’m not able to say much about it as I have only just started on the reconstruction and translation of the snippets of paper that might eventually prove to be this journal. Right now I can’t say what we have is even a cohesive writing, much less a testament to Christ’s public ministry. It’s all just in pieces and scraps. I’m nowhere near being able to provide any sound scientific analysis of the document. I’m just not ready.”

  “I understand, my child,” responded Francis kindly. “But that
is not why I asked you to come here with such urgency.”

  “Cloe, there has been a development,” whispered the monsignor.

  “What is it?” she said sharply, suddenly on guard once again.

  “It may be only a rumor, but if true, it affects the timing of everything.”

  “For goodness’ sake, Albert, what is it?”

  “We don’t know for sure, but the Vatican has ears in even the most remote places.”

  “Albert,” Cloe said more shrilly than she intended, “what do you know, or what do you think you know?”

  The pope turned to her and said, “Our sources tell us the Kolektor is risen.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “Holiness, the Kolektor … alive? It can’t be. I saw him crucified at the Bloody Acre,” Cloe spewed out in shock. “There can be no doubt. The monsignor was there. He saw the man nailed to the tree by the Sicarii as justice for his unforgivable offenses.”

  “Cloe, this is true, and His Holiness does not literally mean that the Kolektor himself lives. Surely, he died of his wounds,” responded the monsignor quickly.

  “Well … what does he mean?”

  “We are not sure, but we think the Kolektor’s organization, or at least some substantial part of it, may still be intact,” summarized the monsignor.

  “But how can that be? They were all killed at Hakeldama, except for a few who were captured later,” asserted Cloe.

  “True enough,” agreed the monsignor. “But the Kolektor’s organization was much larger and more pervasive than we suspected. Even though we cut off the head, some parts seem to have survived. His riches may fuel some sort of continuing enterprise.”