“Enterprise?” Cloe said hoarsely, fear for herself and for J.E. welling up inside her. “You speak as if this were some sort of business being transferred from one generation to another. The Kolektor and his forces almost cost me my life and that of my son. Monsignor, I remind you that you were tied to the tree as well and in line for execution.”
“Child, this must have been such a terrible experience for you and your son,” the pontiff interjected. “I’m also aware that your aged Uncle Sonny was in dreadful jeopardy as well. The weight of these things on your shoulders must even now be overwhelming.”
Cloe heard the genuineness of the pope’s concern as he spoke. She had indeed often, in honoring her promise to her dead father to find the origins of the jar, felt the weight of the world on her shoulders. But she had come through that and thought the Kolektor and his evil organization dead and gone. Now this.
“Holy Father, how can this be?” she asked. “Does this have anything to do with what happened in New Orleans?”
The young camerlengo-in-waiting found his voice. “We don’t yet know the origin of the bomb, Dr. Lejeune, but our intelligence sources tell us not all the Kolektor’s men were killed or captured. One, in particular, is unaccounted for. The Israelis report that the Kolektor’s personal safe was emptied by someone with the combination, and one of his planes departed the Jerusalem airport not long after the incident at Hakeldama.”
Cloe turned to her friend and asked more sharply than she had intended, “Monsignor, who is it?”
“The missing man’s name and identity are not clear,” replied the monsignor. “But from the Israeli intelligence, we have surmised he was at the very top of the Kolektor’s organization and trusted implicitly.”
“I had very little opportunity to learn the names of any of the Kolektor’s men,” Cloe responded. “The monsignor, J.E., and I were kept isolated from everyone in that bunker in Jerusalem except the Kolektor and his servant, Dadash. But he seemed to be just a humble manservant. I doubt we have anything to fear from him even if he survived.”
“Hmmm … Dadash; in Armenian it means ‘brother,’” replied the monsignor.
“He was initially kind to me, providing food and a place to rest,” said Cloe. “But he had Uncle Sonny, J.E., and the monsignor locked up under terrible circumstances and kept them trussed up even when the Kolektor finally allowed them to come to his office. I don’t remember him being at the little clearing at Hakeldama. But of course, in my condition, I could have missed him.”
“I tend to think you are correct. He was a simple house servant and is probably a dead end in our search,” stated the monsignor.
Father Sergio added, “The person who emptied the Kolektor’s personal safe probably took with him the most valuable materials and information the Kolektor had secreted. More than likely this included account codes, bank locations, and other information, putting the vast wealth of the Kolektor under that person’s control.”
“My God,” Cloe whispered. “It’s not over, is it? In some ways it’s only just begun.”
“Cloe, I’m afraid you may be right,” said the monsignor. “Someone has all of the Kolektor’s knowledge and his incredible resources, and that someone may have helped carry out the Kolektor’s most ruthless orders. The only remaining question is what the person’s motives will be. Will he be driven by a covetousness similar to the Kolektor’s? Will he seek revenge?”
“Father Sergio, what do we know of where this person may be?” asked the pontiff.
“Holy Father,” replied the assistant camerlengo. “Our intelligence people are working on this, but as of now we know relatively little. The Kolektor is thought to have had some sort of retreat in the mountains on the Turkish-Armenian border, but no one knows where. Given the direction and trajectory the plane took leaving the Jerusalem airport and where it dropped from radar and satellite detection, it’s a good bet that is where this person went after Hakeldama. That’s probably his base of operations.”
“Operations?” queried Cloe. “What operations? Holiness, why am I here? You haven’t brought me all this way just to hear these things. You have something in mind for me. What is it?” Cloe worried that she was getting sucked into another quest and that this time, it might not end so well for her and J.E.
“No, my child,” said the pope. “You are quite right. There is more—matters of great concern to me and to the Church. I need your help.” He turned to the monsignor and said, “Albert, if you please.”
“Cloe, we have reports from several different areas that retainers in the service of unknown persons are making inquiries about the cache of oil jars your father found in Tunisia during the El Guettar raid in World War II. Although he brought only the single jar back to his home, he reported that there were scores, if not hundreds, of jars in the cave. A lot of money is being spread around in the effort to find the jars. Isolated intelligence from Lyon, France, and Jerusalem and Tunis normally would not have attracted much attention, but the monks manning our special operations intelligence center have put two and two together.”
Cloe knew from prior experience that the Vatican had an order of monks in its ops center who had access to most of the world’s intelligence agencies plus their own resources. Eyes and ears were everywhere, but it was a matter of connecting the dots. These monks were as good as anyone at that.
“But Albert, the Vatican tried to find the cave of jars years ago and failed,” she responded. “Why should we believe this person could find what the Vatican’s experts could not find?”
“Cloe, a number of things have changed since that expedition thirty years ago,” the monsignor began. “First, modern exploration techniques and equipment are far superior to what was available to the original Vatican team. With ground-penetrating radar, infrared, and other aids, we cannot rely solely on the hope this new search will fail.
“Moreover, there is the matter of the Sicarii,” continued the monsignor. “Not only we but also perhaps the remnants of the Kolektor’s forces know the link between the Sicarii and the cave where the treasure of oil jars rests.”
“Yes,” commented Cloe, tendrils of concern beginning to swirl around her. “The survivors of the Sicarii massacre at Masada changed the group’s mission from violent rebellion against the Romans to destruction of the Roman Empire through the propagation of Christianity. With early Church leaders, they fostered religious writings and expansion of the Catholic Church until, in the third or fourth century, Constantine converted to Christianity and the pagan juggernaut that had been the Roman Empire was finished. The Sicarii told me while I was with them right after Hakeldama that many of these writings, some thought lost for all time, were preserved by them and placed in the cave my father found.”
“Quite so,” whispered the monsignor, looking directly at Cloe. “The Sicarii know where the cave is located. The Kolektor’s successors are not only looking for the cave; they are looking for the Sicarii.”
***
Cloe sat absorbing the apparent fact that someone had taken over and was running the Kolektor’s organization and that the same person was after the Sicarii. After they had meted out justice to the Kolektor at Hakeldama, the Sicarii had cared for her. Cloe had been shot by the Kolektor and had lost a lot of blood. She spent a full day with them while they made arrangements for her to be treated confidentially at a private sanatorium outside Jerusalem. She had made deep friendships with the women of the Sicarii who had saved her and her son. Though they had had only a short time together, the bond had been forged. Now the Sicarii, her comrades, were the quarry. And judging from the events in New Orleans, so was she.
“Whoever these people are, they will never find the Sicarii,” said Cloe with hope in her voice. “They have lived in the shadows for almost two thousand years. No Armenian thugs will be able to uncover their secrets.”
“Perhaps,” said the monsignor, pausing.
Cloe knew a bucket of cold water was headed her way. The monsignor had that irr
itating talent. Still, she cared deeply for him, like a member of her family. They had been through a lot together.
“As we sit here tonight, whoever is looking for the Sicarii has been in Jerusalem and at the sanatorium where you were hospitalized. We think the Sicarii arranged for you to be brought to the sanatorium after the fight at the Bloody Acre. Your care was set, and all was paid in advance. These operatives will follow the money wherever it leads. Let us hope the Sicarii are not at the end of the trail,” concluded the monsignor.
“Albert, I know you well now, and I can see that this is not all,” said Cloe, bracing herself. “You would not have interrupted my research and brought me here just for this.”
“Dr. Lejeune, it’s only a rumor,” whispered the pontiff. “But we had to bring you here to tell you what we have heard.”
“What is it?” pleaded Cloe.
“Well, there is talk of … another,” said the monsignor. “One who may be more ruthless than the Kolektor, one who springs from the Kolektor himself.”
“From the Kolektor?” queried Cloe, a chill running up her spine. “You already said someone has succeeded to the operations of the Kolektor’s empire. Is that who you mean?”
“No,” replied the monsignor. “We think this is someone else—perhaps blood-related. Internally, we refer to him only as ‘Q,’ after the Armenian word dwnwuq.”
“Q? Dwnwuq? What does this all mean?” Cloe inquired, dreading the answer.
“Cloe, the Armenian word dwnwuq means ‘heir,’” replied the monsignor. “Heir!”
“Heir?” repeated Cloe disbelievingly, struggling to accept that not only had the Kolektor’s organization arisen but that the Kolektor also might have a blood heir.
CHAPTER 7
“Dr. Lejeune, nothing less than Christianity itself needs your help,” pressed the pope. “I do not say this to be dramatic or to overstate the matter. Our situation is critical. Not only must your work not fall into the hands of whoever is operating the Kolektor’s organization, whether it be this supposed heir or one of the Kolektor’s former lieutenants, but you must find the Sicarii’s cache of jars before the Kolektor’s thugs find them. In the wrong hands, the knowledge that may be contained in the jars could be corrupted into a tool of the evil forces bent on the complete destruction of Christianity. This was the goal of the Kolektor, and it may also be the goal of his successor. This cannot be allowed. The cave of jars must be found, and the information put in the hands of scholars to be translated and given freely to all.”
“Cloe, His Holiness and I have discussed this in detail, and you are the only one who can do this,” added the monsignor. “You are already working on assembling and translating what may be the rumored journal itself, or at least a path to it, if it exists. This is clearly why the Sicarii left the second jar with you.”
The young camerlengo noted, “You have engaged the Kolektor’s forces and have come out victorious with the help of your friends, the Sicarii. You have as much knowledge of these people as anyone alive. This would be a huge advantage.”
Cloe, beginning to get angry at what they were suggesting, responded, “Yes, and my son, my uncle, and I only barely survived our last encounter with the Kolektor. This is a job for the police or the army, not me.”
“I know your concerns. We all share them. The problem is that you and J.E. are already involved in this. The Kolektor’s people know you have the first jar and the earliest version of the Judas Gospel. It is possible they know the Sicarii gave you a second jar. Certainly, the Kolektor was aware of the cave your father found in Tunisia containing possibly hundreds of such jars, and we have to assume his people know as well. They know where you are and where your family is. They have proved themselves beyond any civilized, human restraint in seeking what they want. Possibly, you could avoid them by giving up both jars, the manuscripts, and all of your work to the authorities in the United States or even to the Vatican. Could you do that?”
Cloe reflected on this and knew she could not give up her life’s work. Even if she did, this might not help because stored in her brain was research and information that would be invaluable to the Kolektor’s organization. She was stuck, and she knew it. “Why not turn your suspicions over to the authorities?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“Which authorities?” asked Father Sergio.
Cloe considered this and realized she was beginning to not like this cleric with the biting tongue.
“This is a problem,” said the monsignor. “There is no overarching jurisdiction that we could use. Evidence of the Kolektor’s activities has been found in Turkey, Armenia, Israel, France, and the United States, and the cave, we believe, is in Tunisia. Also, the police authorities are generally, by nature, reactive. If a crime has been committed, their resources are dedicated to finding and punishing the guilty parties. It’s unlikely they could be convinced to search for a supposed treasure trove of ancient texts.”
“Besides,” observed the now annoying camerlengo, “most of the governments who might get interested in this would confiscate anything that may be found. It could be years before competent scholars could have access to study the materials—or never.”
“Do you mean a situation like the Shroud of Turin, where the Church, for hundreds of years, prevented scholarly inquiry, until very recently?” asked Cloe.
“Precisely,” said the cleric, apparently not seeing the irony.
“Dr. Lejeune,” said the pope, “it is our duty to try to safeguard you and your family since we helped you get in this predicament in the first place, plus you have done a great service to your faith with your work to date. You and J.E. will not be alone. Swiss Guards will be assigned to protect your uncle back in your hometown. Do you remember Father Anton?”
“Yes, certainly, Holiness,” replied Cloe. “He is the director of Vatican field operations—the ones J.E. refers to as your special operations personnel. He was crucial to our survival.”
“Yes, my child. Father Anton and a suitable contingent of the Swiss Guard will be at your service, as will Father Sergio and the monsignor. The monks in the operations center will provide intelligence. You will have transportation and all the equipment you need. I pray you will agree to put the journal translation aside for a bit and find your father’s cave of jars,” concluded the pope.
The walls of the pope’s now-empty library drew in around her, seeming to squeeze the breath from her body. The pope and the others said nothing, waiting.
She looked up and said with a hoarse voice and courage that came from the seventeen-year-old runaway she had once been, “This time we make an end to the Kolektor!”
CHAPTER 8
In his office in a skyscraper high above Rio, Miguel sat at his desk shuffling papers and, more than occasionally, staring out the window. His desk was a series of tables bridging the two huge windows in the corner office. It was more like an architect’s office than a … a what? He wondered now what he really was. He had called himself a businessman, but much of what he did was above and beyond the law. A specialist in black-market commodities, he filled a niche for unusual goods, from illegal guns to stolen Picassos.
He reflected on what had happened since his release from the hospital weeks ago. He had fully recovered from the explosion that had taken the lives of his wife and two boys. At least, he was physically whole again. Even so, he had spent most of his time dwelling on the loss of his boys.
The door to his office suite opened, and Tomás quietly entered the room. He and Tomás had been together for many years, and Miguel had come to depend on him, trusting him completely.
“Boss, I have some news,” said Tomás.
“I’ve had enough business for today,” said Miguel. “I think I’ll head to the gym.” He knew he had not put in a full day at the office since he had come back from his wounds. He had all but abandoned the hillside villa where the family had lived and had moved into an apartment in the office building.
“Our people have located Juan,�
� Tomás said softly.
Miguel spun his chair away from the window, eyes now locked on Tomás. Juan was his former security chief. “Where? Where is he now?” queried Miguel.
“He is dead,” replied Tomás. “He was killed in the firefight with our men when they tried to capture him. They had tracked him to a remote mountain village where he had some kin. Our people had to fight their way out of it.”
“How?” asked Miguel.
“We found him by means of cell-phone tracking and other technology, along with good detective work,” Tomás continued.
Miguel knew that Tomás had never completely trusted Juan for reasons that were more dependent on intuition than fact. Still, it must seem to Tomás that he had been proven correct.
“Well done, my friend,” said Miguel, “but with him dead, the chain is broken, and there is no one to lead us to whoever killed my family and tried to kill me.” He hung his head as the memory of that day washed over him.
“Not entirely true, boss,” replied Tomás. “We got his computer and his cell phone. Actually, he had two phones—one he was issued when he worked for you and the other, a satellite phone, with a private account that we have been able to penetrate.”
Miguel reflected on this. Statistically, almost every crime was either planned using a cell phone or talked about on a cell phone during or after commission. A satellite phone was just as good a lead. Of course, Juan, his former chief of security, would have known that.
“A private phone account like this may suggest that somebody got to him, boss,” said Tomás. “Why would he need it unless he was doing something he didn’t want known? Here’s a printout of the list of numbers that called or were dialed from the satellite phone account for the thirty-day period before the bomb went off. This cost you plenty to get.”
“I’m not concerned with the cost,” said Miguel, scanning the list. After a minute or two of studying the numbers, he sat bolt upright. “Tomás, what connections do we have in France?” Miguel asked with urgency.
The Last Sicarius Page 4