“We have import/export partners in Marseilles,” replied Tomás. “Why? What do you see?”
“Unless my guess is wrong, I see the answer to who tried to kill me and did kill my family,” said Miguel. “I know this number. I have used it before. It’s on here several times.”
“Then it’s someone you know,” said Tomás.
“No, the person I knew is dead. This is someone else, but this may lead me to him,” Miguel concluded. “Contact our people in Marseilles and get someone to the Church of St. Irenaeus in Lyon. He is to wait there unobtrusively until I say otherwise. I don’t care how long it takes. He is to observe the church.”
“What are we looking for?” asked Tomás.
“Anything,” said the boss. “After you make the call, I’ll tell you a story, and then it will be payback time.”
CHAPTER 9
The papal jet flew northwest, chasing the setting sun on its port side. The airplane was a version of the small commuter jets that served minor population centers, but it was big enough to carry the Swiss Guard and Cloe, J.E., and the two religious in comfort. The crew included a pilot, copilot, and engineer.
The group seated around the small conference table in the center of the papal jet had grown in size and skills. J.E. had joined Cloe in Rome and had been briefed on everything that was known. Cloe smiled with pride as she watched her son. He stood over six feet and had dark wavy hair and a solid physique like his grandfather Thib. He had many skills, including tactics, intelligence, and ranger hand-to-hand training, and he was a master at several weapons systems. J.E. had earned a theater ribbon and the Silver Star in Iraq. He was quite at home with the squad of fifteen Swiss Guards who now provided their security.
Their leader was Vicar General Antonio Sigliori, who had also joined the little group. Father Anton had been with them at Hakeldama and was the Vatican military ordinariate, controlling papal field operations. He was about J.E.’s height but leaner and maybe fifteen years older. His gaze said he had seen many things.
Cloe considered the magnitude of the task at hand. From her father’s letter, she knew the cave containing the jars was somewhere in North Africa near the Gafsa Pass in the Atlas Mountains, but this could cover hundreds of square miles. It was critical to somehow pare the search area down to something manageable. They had the field notes from the first search the Vatican had commissioned after initial interviews with Thib thirty years earlier. However, that expedition might have walked right over the site and not have known it. So everything had to be searched. Cloe wondered if the task was hopeless.
The monsignor, seeming to have read her mind, said, “Cloe, this is a monumental job without a map or, at least, a direction. Where do we start?”
“Albert, all of our resources won’t find the cave unless we have some sort of advantage,” Cloe responded.
“But what could that be? Have you found anything from the second jar that helps us?” queried the camerlengo-in-waiting.
“No, thus far there have been no clues from the text in the second jar, and I wouldn’t expect there to be any,” said Cloe.
“Why not?” asked the young priest.
“Because the timing is all wrong. If the contents of the second jar originated during the three years of Christ’s public ministry, that would have been years before the Sicarii were supposedly wiped out at Masada. Still more years would have passed before the survivors began their campaign to collect ancient religious works and store them in the cave,” concluded Cloe.
“We have to contact the Sicarii and convince them to lead us to the cave,” said J.E.
“When we parted company in Jerusalem, the Sicarii left no means for me to contact them,” said Cloe. “As you know, they are few in number and have survived all these centuries by living in the shadows, in secret. The Vatican ops center has put out feelers, but it will be easier for them to find us, if they want to do so, than for us to find them.”
“Fine, but that still leaves us looking for clues. Where do we start?” asked the monsignor.
“Why, Albert, I thought you might remember,” responded Cloe. “We start where we left off … at the library of St. John.”
CHAPTER 10
“The library of St. John?” repeated the monsignor as they flew on. “But, Cloe, we learned when we fought the Kolektor in Lyon that there was no such library, or if there ever was, it had been destroyed with the razing of the church centuries earlier.”
“Whoa, I don’t follow any of this,” said Father Sergio, throwing his hands up. “Lyon, Kolektor, Church of St. John, library? What’s this all about?”
“I thought you were fully briefed on our battle with the Kolektor,” said J.E.
“I read everything we had on the final fight at Hakeldama near Jerusalem, but there wasn’t time to go behind that,” replied the young cleric.
“Well, here’s the fifty-cent version,” said J.E. with a smile, before turning serious. “During World War II, my grandfather found a cave with this strange jar in it. The jar was very special to him, and he brought it back to Madisonville, Louisiana, his home. The Kolektor hired a thief to steal the jar, and Thib walked in on him. He shot Thib, but Thib blasted him with his old shotgun. Upon Thib’s death, Mom received her odd inheritance—the old oil jar. We took it to the university—LSU—in Baton Rouge, and it was carefully opened.”
“Yes, and it contained the oldest known version of the Gospel of Judas Iscariot, the now so-called Lejeune Manuscript,” Cloe added. “The monsignor and I were in the midst of beginning to translate it from ancient Greek to English when the Kolektor contacted us demanding the manuscript. The man tried and failed to kill J.E. and me at the university. We believe he did have our friend Father Aloysius from Madisonville killed. But we laid a trap for him at the lab where the jar was being studied. Our people, including the Swiss Guard plus local authorities, killed or captured all of the Kolektor’s men. We even found and seized his multimillion-dollar airplane. It looked like he was finished, so when he called again demanding the jar and the manuscript, we ignored him. But we underestimated him, and he had the last laugh when we learned he had kidnapped Uncle Sonny and was holding him hostage.”
“The Kolektor proposed a swap: Uncle Sonny for the jar, the manuscript, and all of our research to date,” continued the monsignor.
Even now, months later, Cloe could feel her anger rising, and her face began to flush. The monster had taken ninety-year-old Uncle Sonny and made him a pawn in his quest to satisfy, however temporally, his lust for old relics. She had promised her father she would find out why the jar was special, and she had promised herself she would find Thib’s murderer. She and J.E. had sworn a terrible oath that they would get Uncle Sonny back.
“The exchange was arranged for Lyon at the Church of St. John, now the Church of St. Irenaeus,” finished the monsignor.
“Why there?” asked the priest over the sounds of the engines.
“Because when we translated language from the Lejeune Manuscript, it indicated that the Bishop of Lyon, St. Irenaeus, may have been involved in commissioning the Judas Gospel,” said Cloe.
“That’s ridiculous,” responded the assistant camerlengo. “Everyone knows Irenaeus was a devoted apostolic and fought heresy at every front. He published the last word on such things in a second-century work popularly known as Against Heresies. He never would have supported a gospel by someone he would have considered the betrayer of Christ.”
“And yet our research suggests that he did,” stated the monsignor.
“There is little question that text translated from the Lejeune Manuscript, the original Greek version of the Gospel of Judas, implicates Irenaeus as being involved,” said Cloe. “The evidence suggests that Irenaeus saw something, a writing of some kind, that caused him to reevaluate the motives of Judas as told in the Jesus story.”
“Oh my God,” cried the young priest, jumping up. “The journal! You believe he saw the journal the pope spoke of. This is what changed Irenaeus
’s mind.”
“Bingo,” said J.E. “Now you have some idea what’s been going on.”
Cloe watched as Father Sergio settled back into his seat and looked down as if examining the palms of his hands in close detail. She knew he was trying to absorb the enormity of what he had just heard. She still had trouble getting her mind around the possibilities.
“I don’t know what to say,” Father Sergio continued softly. “This is unprecedented. This could change everything.”
“Hold up there, Serge,” remarked J.E. “Believe me, we have been through all the highs and lows. We have suggestions and implications from what we have uncovered. But although Mom is working hard on what may end up being this journal, it remains to be proven. And we still don’t know who wrote it and why.”
Cloe chuckled to herself to hear J.E. give the young cleric a nickname and to hear them communicating in a youthful vernacular. He might be the assistant camerlengo, and J.E. might be an officer and a gentleman, but they were both twentysomethings. Just then Cloe felt the airplane roll to port and begin its descent into Lyon, France.
Twenty minutes later, after the plane had landed, Cloe looked around and shivered upon remembering that the last time she was here on the tarmac, she was outbound as the Kolektor’s captive. As she walked toward the terminal in the gathering darkness, she asked the monsignor, “Do you think the Kolektor’s people are here?”
“Cloe, the Kolektor is most assuredly dead, so he can’t have anybody here,” responded the monsignor. “If you mean, could our newfound enemies be here, I think we would have to say yes. But they are under control of someone else, either the high-ranking associate of the Kolektor or this ‘other,’ this Q, of whom people whisper.”
“I’m not sure the distinction helps, Albert,” said Cloe. “You think our enemies are here, don’t you?”
“They could be, but they would not know we are here. I think we probably have the element of surprise. We need to take care of our business and get out,” said the monsignor as they walked along.
Cloe reflected on this, glanced over her shoulder, and said, “Yes, and we thought we had the element of surprise the last time we were here, and we ended up the Kolektor’s prisoners.” Cloe looked around feeling very small and vulnerable as a wind much too cool for this time of year blew across the tarmac.
CHAPTER 11
As much as Cloe liked the little inn at which they had stayed the last time in Lyon, the group elected to go to a different hotel on the off chance that the Kolektor’s thugs might be waiting for them at the first place. She was hard-pressed not to think of them as the Kolektor’s people. She accepted the fact that the Kolektor himself was dead, but these were his minions financed with his wealth. Someone had taken up the dark mantle of leadership of the Kolektor’s organization and was now the Kolektor’s standard-bearer. It really was as if he were still alive. Certainly, the evil that was within him still existed and had been somehow passed on.
As they ate dinner in the dining room of the small hotel, they discussed the plans for the next day. The room was cozy, furnished with antiques. The tourist season had not yet begun, so they had the place pretty much to themselves. Candles were in abundance, giving the area a warm atmosphere. Cloe wondered, not for the first time, whether this was just the eye of the hurricane.
Father Anton—or Tony, as he had insisted on being called—had taken most of their Swiss Guard directly to the church. He had detailed three of them to go to the hotel to watch after Cloe. The church had been decommissioned and was closed. It would not reopen until the tourist season.
As they ate, J.E.’s cell phone rang. He listened for a few seconds and then said, “Mom, it’s Tony. He says they have thoroughly swept the church grounds, and everything is quiet. He says it’s almost deserted.”
“J.E., ask Father Anton … Tony … if he has checked the tunnel under the church,” said Cloe.
J.E. whispered into the receiver, waited, and then responded, “Mom, the exit side of the tunnel is clear. That’s the first thing they checked, and guards are posted there.”
The phone conversation over, J.E. turned back to the group now sitting in silence.
“Well, everything seems secure,” said the monsignor, finally. “The Swiss are very thorough and will be there all night to keep things secure for when you arrive tomorrow.”
***
Later, in her room, Cloe reflected on the message from Father Anton. Secure. How could she be sure? The Kolektor and his henchmen had been so clever that first time. Preparing for bed, Cloe couldn’t help but flash back to her last trip to the Church of St. Irenaeus. They had found themselves hostages, at the mercy of the Kolektor and his armed mercenaries, with their Swiss friends and protectors locked outside the church. Cloe remembered thinking that it was only a matter of time before the Swiss broke in and rescued them. But the Kolektor had activated a hidden lever behind the altar, and a trap door and spiral staircase had appeared. The Kolektor, his men, and his hostages had all escaped into a tunnel under the church. They were out and headed to the airport before the Swiss even knew they were gone. Everything had seemed so well planned and executed by the Kolektor, Cloe had almost lost hope for being rescued. Now, as she climbed into bed, she felt a terrible trepidation, as if she was on the eve of reentering the lions’ den.
CHAPTER 12
The Karik sat at his massive desk in the study overlooking the mountains rising from the opposite rim of the valley. The Kolektor had used a more intimate area in the remote chalet for his office and work space. That had been a terrible waste of this wonderful view. One of the first things the Karik had required of the staff was that they get rid of all of the Kolektor’s furniture and personal items. Everything not related to the work was burned in the rear garden. The Karik knew these actions would tell everyone that the era of the Kolektor was over.
Once that was done, the Karik had taken as his own the large central room with the cathedral ceiling and the floor-to-ceiling windows across the rear. He had had a raised platform built across the rear half of this area to house his office. The rest was made into a smaller, more intimate living room. Even now the large fireplace crackled with the warm glow of a natural fire.
The Karik smiled as he surveyed what he had wrought. The Kolektor was dead and gone, and all that had been his was now in the Karik’s hands. This was by right of possession if not by right of law. He had taken care of the few who had raised questions. They would never be heard from again. Now he had the undying loyalty of everyone who remained a part of the organization. He smiled to himself. To paraphrase the English, the Kolektor was dead; long live the Karik.
The house satellite phone jangled, arousing him from his reverie.
“Yes,” he said into the device.
“Karik,” said the distant voice. “It is as you said. They have arrived.”
“Elaborate,” the Karik said curtly into the phone.
“Our people have been waiting near the airport for some time, as you know,” responded the voice. “Last evening a large private plane arrived with no markings beyond the required tail numbers. From the descriptions you provided, we can be sure the woman, her son, and the priest are all here now.”
Although he had teams in other cities looking for them as well, the Karik had suspected they might go to Lyon. From what the woman had been forced to divulge to the Kolektor on the night of Hakeldama, he knew that she and her colleagues had gone to the church a day earlier than the rendezvous date agreed to with the Kolektor to pursue some research. He knew some discoveries had been made, but apparently she was not finished.
“Karik, there’s more,” continued the man. “There are two more priests with them and at least a dozen men who look like soldiers of some sort.”
“Well, they have come prepared for something,” the Karik said, smiling to himself. “This is the Vatican’s work, maybe that of Francis himself. One would think the new pontiff would have better things to do. This proves that the woma
n and the Vatican believe there’s still something worth seeing at the church.”
“We searched the church and grounds very thoroughly. We found nothing,” the field operative replied.
“The woman found something before. She is very resourceful,” said the Karik.
“What are your instructions, Karik?” asked the operative.
“Observe. Do not engage them,” he ordered. “Let’s see what they find.”
“A wise decision, Karik,” the employee said.
But the Karik was not finished. “As to our bomber, he has now failed twice. See to him and his family with the usual punishment.”
***
Later the Karik sat alone in the darkness in his new study, contemplating the conversation with his servant. He had been present on many occasions when the Kolektor had instructed his agents and had been present not a few times when he had ordered swift and terrible retribution on those who had not met his standards. The words had just seemed to roll off the Kolektor’s lips. It was just business. Had he acted as the Kolektor would have acted? He thought so, but how could he be sure? Had he given the orders the servant would expect? He did not want anyone to sense that he was unsure about what to do. Indecision and uncertainty could be fatal in his business. Still, when he thought about the instructions he had given for the bomber’s family, his hands shook, and he hung his head.
CHAPTER 13
Cloe looked up as they approached the entrance to the church. Though old by modern standards, the church was a nineteenth-century replacement of the ancient structure, dating from the first or second century, that had once been on this site. It had been the primary place of worship of those known as the Lyon martyrs, the second-century Christian martyrs in Gaul, now France. Cloe knew that Irenaeus himself had been buried in the church. She wondered what else was there.
The Last Sicarius Page 5