Sign of the Cross

by Glenn Cooper

  She checked the photo, entered the passport number and said, ‘Thank you, Mr Egger.’ When she handed it back to him she noticed something on the heel of his hand and frowned. ‘Did you know you’re bleeding, sir?’ She paused.

  ‘What is the purpose of your visit, Mr Egger?’

  As the passport control officer looked Giovanni up and down the priest felt his skin prickle. He’d been careful to re-bandage his wrists with fresh gauze in the lavatory shortly before landing, so he wouldn’t bleed all over the desk. But did the officer spot his false passport? Did he suspect something? Gerhardt had told him that the security at Ben Gurion Airport was tough, especially for young men traveling alone.

  ‘I’m a tourist.’

  ‘What are you planning on seeing?’

  ‘Biblical sites mostly.’

  ‘This is your first time to Israel?’

  He said it was.

  ‘Do you consider yourself a biblical tourist?’

  ‘Yes, exactly.’

  ‘Are you a Christian?’

  ‘I am, yes.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Catholic. I’m a Catholic.’

  ‘And what is your profession?’

  Again, he’d been prepped. ‘I work in a toy store. I sell toys.’

  ‘What can they say about a man who sells toys?’ Gerhardt had told Giovanni. ‘It ends a conversation.’

  ‘Toys,’ the officer said dismissively. ‘Where do you sell toys?’

  ‘In Locarno.’

  ‘Your accent isn’t Swiss.’

  ‘It’s Italian, I know. My father is Swiss, my mother is Italian. They moved to Locarno from Trieste when I was a teenager. I think I’ll talk like this always.’

  ‘And you have reservations at this place, the Hotel Seven Arches in Jerusalem?’

  ‘Yes, I have a reservation. For one week.’

  ‘You didn’t check any luggage. This bag you have? It’s enough clothes for one week?’

  He’d been selected for an additional security check in Barcelona. His bag had been thoroughly searched.

  ‘I like to travel light. I’ll probably use the hotel laundry.’

  The passport was returned. The trial was over. ‘Enjoy your biblical tourism, Mr Egger.’

  As instructed by Gerhardt, he took a Nesher Tours taxi to Jerusalem, a highway ride that took just over an hour. He pretended to nap to avoid conversing with the driver.

  As the taxi climbed the Mount of Olives toward the hotel, the Old City of Jerusalem revealed itself in all its glory. He could see the city walls, the Dome of the Rock, and to its rear, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. These were landmarks he had always dreamed of visiting and now that he was here, rather than feeling joy and excitement, he was consumed with dread. His family was being held and he’d been told their fate rested in his hands. He had one simple task to accomplish, like Gerhardt had said, almost trivial in its execution. Once done they would be released and his travails would end.

  One clear photograph. That was all.

  Then he would be free to return to his life as a priest and would never hear from these men again.

  He had asked, why couldn’t they do it themselves, why force him?

  Gerhardt had explained it to Giovanni this way: he and his accomplices were known to the authorities for reasons he would not elaborate upon. They were on no-fly lists and even with fake papers they were liable to be picked up with facial recognition software or other means.

  And before Gerhardt let him out of the car at the Barcelona airport, he had warned him that any attempt to contact the authorities, call a friend, a priest, a family relation, would be detected and his mother and the others would have their throats cut. We have ways of monitoring you, Gerhardt had said. Doubt this at your family’s peril.

  Had he believed all of this? Any of it? He didn’t even know. He was too tired, too worried, too scared to process the instructions and the threats. All he felt able to do was robotically follow their demands. And pray. He would place himself in the cradling hands of God.

  The front-desk clerk at the hotel, a young man with a close-shaved head and small skullcap, welcomed Giovanni and took his passport.

  ‘I see you requested a specific room,’ he said.

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘No it’s not a problem at all. Have you been here before? I don’t find you in our system.’

  ‘It’s my first time.’

  ‘How did you know about the room?’

  ‘From a friend. He told me it had a view.’

  ‘I think you’ll be happy you took the advice of your friend,’ the clerk said giving him his room key.

  ‘Oh, Mr Egger,’ the clerk called out as he was heading for the elevator. ‘It seems you have a FedEx waiting for you.’

  When Giovanni entered the room, he dropped his bag and almost floated toward the picture window. The high, panoramic vista over the Old City was stunning and there, in the foreground, was the golden dome, the Dome of the Rock.

  The FedEx was still in his hand. He pulled the tab. A sealed letter was inside bearing the typed name of Hugo Egger. He opened it and removed a folded piece of stiff cardboard, taped on one end. He had been told in advance what was going to be inside but seeing it, gently holding it between thumb and forefinger, was a surprisingly moving experience.

  A thorn.

  A Holy Thorn that had painfully adorned the head of his savior, Jesus Christ.

  Suddenly he felt a sharp, stabbing sensation in his scalp and he winced in pain. He put his forefinger against the painful area and felt warm liquid bathing his fingertip. The rivulet of blood coursed down his forehead to his cheek and onto the collar of his shirt.

  Then he saw the face, that wonderful face and he stood immobile until the vision was gone.

  He put the thorn back in its cardboard holder, sat on the bed and intently stared out the window at the holy city, looking in the direction of Golgotha, the place of the crucifixion.

  They were in the sitting room of the flat on Via Veneto when the vision hit, catching them in the middle of a conversation and cutting off the flow of words.

  It was vivid and bright and full of color and light. It didn’t seem to last a very long while, though they would both say that the passage of time was hard to gauge.

  Then Irene said, ‘Ow,’ and rubbed at her hairline while Cal did the same thing.

  The vision winked out as abruptly as it had come.

  Irene looked over at Cal and asked, ‘Did you …?’

  ‘Yes,’ was all he needed to say before she urgently asked for paper and a pen.

  He hurried for his bag and stood over her while she furiously sketched. He didn’t bother trying to make his own drawing. Within a minute he saw that she was faithfully reproducing what he had seen himself.

  While she was still adding the detail of a window frame and draperies, he shocked her by saying, ‘I know where that is.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Jerusalem.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m absolutely sure. I’ve been there many, many times. That’s the Dome of the Rock. The dome is golden.’

  ‘Yes, golden,’ she said breathlessly. ‘And the building is blue and white. I need colored pencils or paint to do it justice.’

  When she was done she got up and stood by him to inspect the drawing from a distance.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ he said.

  ‘Giovanni’s in Jerusalem?’ she said. Her voice was shaky.

  ‘He’s got to be,’ Cal said. ‘Look, I know the city like the back of my hand. I know it from every angle, every quarter. The view out this window is from the Mount of Olives. There’s only one place to stay up there. I stayed there myself when I spoke at a meeting of biblical archaeologists. It’s called the Hotel Seven Arches. And Irene …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You felt it too, just here,’ he said pointing to a spot on his scalp.

  ‘That’s where a crown would rest on a man
’s head. A crown of thorns.’

  Cecchi arrived within an hour of Cal’s call.

  He studied the drawing and compared it to the scenic photos Cal had bookmarked from the hotel’s website.

  ‘So your brother is communicating with you again,’ Cecchi said.

  ‘I don’t know if he’s consciously trying to reach out to us,’ she said, ‘but he is.’

  ‘So someone’s taken him from Spain to Israel,’ Cecchi said.

  ‘I thought you said there was an international alert out for him,’ Cal said. ‘Wouldn’t he have been spotted at an airport?’

  ‘If he had used his own passport, probably yes.’

  ‘Do you think the people behind this are that sophisticated?’ Irene asked.

  ‘They are certainly not ordinary criminals,’ Cecchi said. ‘What is their goal? Only God knows, but they’re quite sophisticated. May I take your drawing?’

  She gave it to him.

  ‘My mother. My aunt. My nephew. You said you’d call.’

  ‘I will. I need a little more time. I have my work cut out for me.’

  Comandante Caral parked his official car outside Terminal One at the Barcelona Airport and went straight to the security operations center. The security director was an ex-Civil Guard officer he knew quite well. They exchanged pleasantries and got down to the business at hand. The fellow had the photo of Giovanni that Caral had emailed earlier.

  ‘Acting on your request, Comandante, we searched for a Giovanni Berardino on all reservation and check-in systems and flight manifests. No one by that name passed through this airport during the days I searched.’

  ‘It’s possible he was traveling on fake identity papers.’

  ‘Always a possibility, sure. So we had to review security camera footage for the last three days at the check-in desks for all the flights to Israel. By the way, did you know how difficult this was?’

  ‘Difficult, why? How many airlines could fly this route?’

  ‘Non-stop, not many, only Iberia, El-Al and Arkia. One-stop – you don’t even want to know. Over a dozen.’

  ‘Look, I appreciate your efforts. This is a high-profile case. I owe you, Pau.’

  ‘Well, we had no luck at the check-in desks. There were too many poor images to conclude that your man was or wasn’t here.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘But since you say you owe me, you should be prepared to pay. I found him, at least I think I did.’

  ‘Show me.’

  ‘I found this man at the security checkpoint passing through the magnetometer. You tell me if you think he’s the same guy.’

  Caral held the two photos next to one another. The photo in his left hand was a clear shot of a hatless Giovanni in his black shirt and clerical collar. The other photo was less clear, of a man in civilian clothes and a cap.

  He studied the pictures and asked, ‘Any other views?’

  ‘That was the best.’

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone with him,’ Caral said. ‘There’s a family with kids that’s gone through and two old ladies behind him.’

  ‘I agree. It looks like he’s traveling on his own.’

  Caral looked at the photos again and said, ‘You know, I think it’s our man. I think it’s definitely him.’

  Armed with the information from Caral, Cecchi contacted his counterpart at the SISMI, the Italian Military Intelligence and Security Service, and laid out his case for getting the cooperation of the Israelis.

  ‘Is this some kind of joke?’ the deputy director asked.

  ‘You’re where I was on this a few days ago,’ Cecchi said. ‘But a picture like this one led to finding the gang’s hideout in Spain. The DNA evidence from there confirmed that the priest was kept there.’

  ‘You believe this shit.’

  ‘I absolutely do.’

  ‘And you want me to contact the people at Mossad, the most humorless sons-of-bitches in the intelligence community and tell them we’ve got a psychic lead that there’s a missing, kidnapped Italian citizen at a hotel in Jerusalem.’

  ‘That’s right, I do.’

  The intelligence man shook his head and said, ‘Christ almighty.’

  It was dark when Cecchi returned to the VIP flat on the Via Veneto.

  Cal could tell immediately that something was wrong. He saw Cecchi eyeing the glass of wine in his hand and offered him one.

  Cecchi tasted it. ‘Was this here?’

  ‘It was,’ Cal said.

  ‘Not bad for a government guest house,’ Cecchi said.

  Irene was impatient and wanted to know what he had to say.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t have good news,’ the officer said. ‘Our intelligence services talked to Mossad. They didn’t take our request for assistance seriously. In fact, I’m told the Israelis were quite rude. Something along the lines of having too many important security issues on their plate to divert resources to chase after clues from a so-called psychic source.’

  Irene looked despondent. ‘So they won’t help,’ she said.

  ‘They will absolutely not help.’

  ‘And you can’t go there yourself?’ she asked.

  ‘The Carabinieri have no jurisdiction in Israel,’ he replied. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Then guess what?’ Cal said.

  Both Cecchi and Irene said ‘what?’ at the same time.

  Cal finished his wine. ‘Then we’re going.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  Giovanni had taken all his meals in his room, as instructed. His only contact with people had been telling the maid through the door that he did not want to have cleaning done and asking the room-service waiter to leave the cart in the hall.

  He ate his breakfast staring out the window at the Old City, wishing in the midst of his misery that he could at least get a measure of solace from visiting the sacred sites. But he’d been warned. Any deviation from the plan and his family would be butchered like farm animals.

  The hotel phone rang sending his heart into overdrive. It was the first call he had received.

  He recognized Schneider’s voice. ‘Good morning, father. Have you enjoyed your breakfast?’

  Was he really being watched? Or was this an educated guess to keep him under control?

  ‘How is my family?’

  ‘They are well. They have been told they will soon be released if you complete your assignment. You received the thorn yesterday.’

  ‘It came.’

  ‘Keep it safe. The fate of your family is in play. You will receive the next delivery this morning. It will be one of several items packaged together. This was done to confound Israeli customs. You will know the true relic. Please repeat the key instruction.’

  ‘Why?’

  The tone was stern and impatient. ‘Because I need to know you will do the task properly, that’s why.’

  ‘I’m supposed to keep the relics as far away from each other as possible until the last moment. I am to take a photo of myself with each relic with Jerusalem in the background, with the phone you gave me. I am to text the photos back to you.’

  ‘That’s correct. And don’t forget to keep one relic by the window, one in the bathroom, one in the hotel safe.’

  ‘Will you tell me why?’

  ‘There are certain things I am not at liberty to explain. You must simply accept my orders and act accordingly. Do you like the room we chose? Isn’t the view quite stunning?’

  Giovanni didn’t want to normalize the situation with pleasant banter. He stayed quiet.

  ‘Well, all right then,’ Schneider said curtly. ‘I will be in touch with you soon regarding the second package. Remember to remain in your room, out of sight.’

  Schneider hung up the phone. The only other person in his Berlin office was Gerhardt, his feet resting on the coffee table. No one else would have acted so casually in front of the bank chairman, but Gerhardt was always a special case – a son, neither biological nor officially adopted, but nevertheless the closest thing Schneider would
ever have to a child. Gerhardt was now a full decade older than his father, Oskar, had been the day he was killed in Antarctica, but in Gerhardt, Schneider could vividly see his old friend. The same irreverence, the same individuality, yes, even the same kind of coarseness. Schneider’s wife didn’t know it, but a quarter of his fortune would go to Gerhardt upon his death, a quarter to his wife, and the rest to the Knights of Longinus to further the cause. He almost shuddered to think what Gerhardt would do with the riches. How many whores, how many automobiles could a man buy? But he wouldn’t be around to see it, would he? All he cared about was that his promise to Oskar would be fulfilled.

  Gerhardt stretched his arms and yawned. ‘Are you sure there’ll be an explosion when they touch?’

  Schneider placed his fingertips together pensively. ‘We know from Rahn’s letters to Himmler and our own personal experience that if they get close to one another, heat is generated. Rahn speculated that somehow the relics in Vienna came into direct contact while he was at lunch. That blast involved only a tiny piece of metal from a nail. This one will involve the entire relic. There should be quite the explosion, far more powerful than the one that rocked the Imperial Treasury back in 1935. We can only wait and hope. If fate is kind, the explosion will be massive and Jerusalem will be destroyed. If extraordinarily kind, then we will wipe out the whole of Israel and then some. This will go a long way to finishing the job that Hitler started.’

  ‘Not only Jews live there,’ Gerhardt said.

  ‘Killing Arabs is icing on the cake.’

  ‘Then what?’ the big man asked.

  ‘Once it’s happened, we’ll release a communiqué from the Knights of Longinus detailing what we’ve done and how we’ve done it. We’ll release the photos of the priest with the relics. How delicious! The relics of Christ in the hands of a revered and holy priest as the instrument of Israel’s destruction. There will be condemnation, of course, from all the usual quarters. But also, there will be a call to action, a rallying cry from nationalists and patriots across Germany and Europe who will see this for what it is; the first volley fired in the new war that some will call a holy war, that will usher in the beginning of the Fourth Reich. Out of the chaos of a fractured Middle East and the turmoil of Jews and Arabs and Christians at each other’s throats, we will rise to fill the bloody void.’