The Illumination

by Karen Tintori

  Barnabas stopped abruptly in his tracks. He was opposite the Coliseum when it hit him.

  Wrong pew.

  Streams of people flowed around him as he remembered that the Landau woman was a Jew. He’d seen that Star of David in her jewelry case. How could he have forgotten?

  He flipped through the pages of his tour guide. She would head to a synagogue. There was only one of any note listed. It had a museum. Right up her alley.

  He memorized the address, folded the guide, and stuck it back in his hip pocket. In two quick strides he beat an elderly couple to a cab disgorging a trio of chattering college girls at the corner. And a moment later he was on his way to the Great Synagogue of Rome.

  30

  “Where did you get that gun?” Natalie demanded as they raced down the ancient stone stairs.

  “Where do you think?” D’Amato shoved the Glock back into his windbreaker pocket as they reached the lobby. Not that anyone would have noticed he had it—the lobby was still deserted.

  “And it’s a good thing I got it this morning, since it looks like we’ll need it. This way.”

  She followed him into a corridor off the lobby that she hadn’t noticed before. “Are we getting the car?”

  “No. Sure as they’ve found us, they’ve got a tracker on it. Put this on.” He yanked off his baseball cap and shoved it at her. “Backward.”

  “I was beginning to hope we were safe here,” she muttered, sweeping her long dark hair under the elastic band, her heart racing. She lengthened her strides to keep up with his. “How could someone have found us already?”

  “A better question is, how do we keep them from finding us again. Especially if that pendant you’ve got is as special as a lot of people seem to think.” As they ran, D’Amato reached into his left jacket pocket, yanked out a cell phone, and thrust it at her. “World phone. Untraceable. I’ve already programmed my number into yours and vice versa.”

  “My, you were busy this morning.”

  “It helps to have friends—and people who trust me.”

  “So the man you met—”

  “Let’s do this later, Natalie, okay? We need to concentrate on one thing at a time.”

  She chose not to reply. She was still furious with him, but she knew he was right. The danger had found them, and she and D’Amato needed to work together—at least for now. Whatever he was up to with those fake IDs, she couldn’t believe he meant her any harm. She noticed the tension that seemed to vibrate through his entire body. He seemed different somehow. The efficient, thoughtful reporter seemed colder, more brusque than she’d seen him. He guided her through a side door that led to the back of the courtyard, where elaborate cement planters with ferns cascading from them appeared to seal off the small yard. But he pulled her between the greenery and through a black wrought-iron gate, ivy rustling as they swept past. Natalie doubted she’d ever have spotted the gate on her own.

  The alleyway they entered was narrow and winding, a mere ribbon of cold, cobbled stone threading between buildings just tall enough to block the sun. Brightly colored laundry blew gently overhead, pinned on the web of clotheslines stretching between opposite apartment building windows. Running to keep up with him, she wondered when and how he’d discovered this way out—and if she’d live long enough to ask him all the questions percolating through her head.

  Moments later they emerged into the watery March sunshine bathing Via dei Salumi, two blocks south of the hotel’s entrance.

  “We’ll need to backtrack some now,” D’Amato told her, slipping on sunglasses. “But once we hit Piazza in Piscinula, it’s only a short walk to the bridge. We’ll be able to spot the synagogue’s dome from there. It’s the only squared, aluminum one in all of Rome.”

  Piscinula, Natalie knew, had been Trastevere’s port until it was destroyed to make way for the current embankments. The streets here near the old Jewish Ghetto were narrow and twisting. Hurrying through the congested heart of Trastevere, she found herself confused by the complicated maze of tight winding lanes lined with medieval buildings, restaurants, and shops. Without a map, without D’Amato, she’d have easily gotten lost trying to find her way. On her previous visit to the synagogue, she’d taken a cab from the Coliseum.

  She glanced repeatedly over her shoulder as they charged past lesser piazzas scattered around the main piazza, past waiters already at work setting out starched linens and arranging plates, glasses, and flatware, even though il pranzo, lunchtime, wouldn’t start until well after noon.

  “The bridge—this way.” He slowed his pace now that they were out in the open and slipped an arm around her waist. “Pretend we’re tourists,” he told her under his breath, as he bought them each a cup of coffee from a street vendor. “A normal couple on a walking tour of the medieval quarter.”

  It was all she could do to paste on a carefree expression. As he made a show of pointing out the landmarks they passed, she responded mechanically, feeling none of the relaxed enjoyment of a tourist—let alone a lovey-dovey honeymooner. In fact, she barely heard D’Amato’s voice and had to force herself to feign interest when all she could picture was that bloody eye on the wall. With that knife plunged into its center.

  Her pulse quickened as they left the heart of the Jewish Ghetto at last and stepped onto the Ponte Cestio, the bridge leading to the island in the bend of the Tiber. Isola Tiberina—Tiber Island—was in turn connected to the opposite side of the river by the Ponte Fabricio, the oldest bridge in all of Rome, built in 62 B.C.

  A wave of relief nearly buckled her knees as she saw the synagogue at last. Tall, imposing, and yet graceful, it stood at the corner of Lungotevere dei Cenci and via Portico d’Ottavia, opposite Julius Caesar’s curved, ancient Theater of Marcellus—which had by now been morphed into an apartment building.

  She fixed her gaze on the Great Synagogue of Rome. Built in 1904, after the emancipation of Italian Jews following Italy’s unification, its style was an eclectic mix of Roman, Greek, and Assyro-Babylonian.

  II Tempio Maggiore di Roma. Guarded. Impregnable. Safe.

  “How many men do we have covering the airport?” Hasan stared out the car window, scouring the faces on the streets as Jalil circled back yet again through the intricate maze of the Jewish Ghetto.

  “Double that number,” the Iranian barked into his phone, his face red with anger. “They must not get out of Rome.”

  He’d sent Aziz to the Termini, the central train station, ahead of the cell members converging on Rome. Those men were stationed now throughout the teeming terminal, roving between the trains and the ticket office.

  But just as he had found no luck here in Trastevere, his brothers in the Termini were coming up empty-handed as well. He clamped the Hand of Fatima charm that had belonged to Landau’s sister in his fist, its metal edges pressing into his flesh.

  He needed the Eye of Dawn by tomorrow. The President of the United States was already en route to Tel Aviv. The triumph of the khalifate was imminent.

  The Eye of Dawn would assure their victory. Wasn’t it written by the mullahs? The khalifate will rule once more, uniting all of Islam, and then the world, when the Eye of Dawn shines forth from Al-Haram al-Sharif.

  The Eye of Dawn, Allah’s beacon, was right here in Rome. And he would soon have it.

  Armed Rome police were first stationed at the Great Synagogue of Rome following the 1982 Palestinian attack, and they continued to patrol the street to this day—twenty-four/seven. Natalie began to breathe easier only when she spotted them along the building’s perimeter.

  Israeli security manned the revolving glass front door, allowing entry to only one visitor at a time.

  “Hold on. I’ll need to stash the Glock if I want to get through that door,” D’Amato said into her ear. He held out his hand for her paper cup. “Finished with your coffee?”

  Nonchalantly, he strode toward a trash receptacle ten steps away, and Natalie watched as he pushed both of their cups into the bin, his thick wrists disappeari
ng deep inside. She hadn’t seen the gun in his hand, but she knew he’d hidden it. Since when did they teach this stuff in journalism school?

  He loped back, looking far more relaxed than she was feeling. “You first,” he told her quietly, as they passed one of the palms that flanked the synagogue.

  “You’ll need to wear this.” Natalie handed him back his baseball cap. “Men need to have their heads covered in the synagogue—a sign of respect.”

  A dark-skinned, fine-featured Israeli guard at the door studied her passport. He was an Ethiopian Jew, a descendant of those rescued from religious persecution, war, and famine in their native country and brought to safety in Israel between the late seventies and the early nineties.

  “Step inside,” he instructed in Hebrew-accented English, as he returned her passport and reached for the one D’Amato offered along with his press credentials. The muscular soldier was all business as he studied both sides of the Israeli press pass D’Amato still carried from his days as Jerusalem bureau chief.

  The guard’s large, round eyes gazed long and hard into D’Amato’s, as if trying to discern his thoughts. Natalie found herself holding her breath until at last he nodded and waved D’Amato through.

  Natalie felt relieved to be inside. Rome held danger for them, but their enemies couldn’t touch them here.

  They moved toward the ticket counter, where a sophisticated fortyish woman collected their 7.50 admission fee. She had cherry-red hair and a beauty mark near her upper lip. Oversized gold hoop earrings swung on her ears and a long gold necklace grazed the swell of her ample breasts. Her name tag said she was Giovanna Trentini.

  “Is the museum director available?” Natalie asked her quickly. “I’m a curator from New York, here on a professional basis. I have some archaeological questions I hope he or she can help me answer.”

  “Uno momento, signora.” With an eye-crinkling smile, the woman flicked a switch on her walkie-talkie and spoke in rapid Italian before turning back to Natalie.

  “If you’ll have a seat in the sanctuary, Dr. Sonnino will be up in a few moments. She is more than happy to speak with you.”

  Natalie led D’Amato into the large, vaulted sanctuary, knowing it would hold its own among the countless gilded Italian churches and cathedrals D’Amato must have seen in his day.

  They walked through pale prisms of light that poured from the stained-glass windows—most of it tinged in shades of yellows and blues. The light spilled to the floor and across the rows of wooden pews like a liquid kaleidoscope. The ceiling was painted with stars, and beautiful Moorish designs adorned the walls in rainbow hues from the floor to the ceiling. There were only a handful of tourists wandering through at this hour.

  “What’s up there, the women’s seating?” D’Amato asked, glancing upward past the soaring columns that supported the galleries cloistered behind a wrought-iron balcony that wrapped north, south, and west.

  “Yes,” she said tightly. “The style is similar to the Sephardic.”

  She walked away from him, toward the plaques that listed the names of Italian Jewish victims of both world wars. She wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

  He followed her to the plaques. “Look, I know you’re upset. You think I’m a liar and God knows what else. But I’m on your side—you have to believe that.”

  “Not good enough, D’Amato.” Her gaze was fixed stoically on the plaques. “If you don’t level with me right now, I’ll walk out of here alone. I don’t need help from someone who’s not going to be up-front with me.” Then she faced him, challenge in her eyes. “Why all the passports? What are you hiding?”

  “If I tell you, I’m supposed to kill you.”

  “Get in line.” Despite his facetious tone, she’d heard an undercurrent of truth that made her very nervous.

  He lowered his voice. “Natalie, I’m exactly who I say I am.” He looked away. Conflicted. “And something more.”

  She waited.

  “During my stint in Jerusalem I was approached by our government. They told me I was in a position to help—as a journalist I had my eyes and ears on the ground. Exactly what they needed. So they trained me.”

  “The CIA?” Suddenly it was starting to make sense. “That guy you met this morning . . .”

  “A Rome asset.”

  “He didn’t only give you the phones; he gave you the gun.”

  “Unofficially. It was a personal favor. I’m not on active status anymore. They relieved me of duty when I first went into rehab.”

  “So what’s the real reason you’re helping me?” Natalie kept her voice level. “To get back in the CIA’s good graces?”

  His eyes narrowed. “I told you, Natalie, this has become personal. I’m not interested in impressing the CIA. I’m doing this because the two of us were shot at. I’m doing it for Dana. And for Rusty. And because I can.”

  Before she could think how to respond she noticed a tall, slim woman striding purposefully toward them.

  Elena Sonnino was an elegant woman of about fifty. Her long brown hair, shot with a few strands of silver, was caught in a loose chignon at the nape of her neck, in a style that was effortlessly classic.

  “Buon giorno,” she said, extending her hand.

  Natalie introduced herself and D’Amato, and thanked her for seeing them on such short notice. Then she opened her bag and withdrew the photocopies of the infrared enhancements Dr. Ashton had made.

  “I believe this is Aramaic, but I’m having difficulty deciphering it. Some of the characters are only partially visible. I realized that most of your collection is Italian, but I’m hoping you might direct me to someone who could shed some light on this.”

  Dr. Sonnino glanced at the enhancements. “Mi dispiace. I’m so sorry, but I, myself, can’t read Aramaic.”

  “Are there any Aramaic parchment fragments here we could use for comparison purposes?” D’Amato asked quickly.

  “I’m afraid not. Our collection here focuses on Italian Jewish art—tapestries, Torah mantles, silver ritual objects. For example, menorahs, havdalah sets, and kiddush cups,” she explained. “We have many unique examples of Jewish culture as it evolved here in Rome since we were brought into captivity by Titus. But unfortunately, I don’t believe we have a single fragment written in Aramaic.” She handed the enhancements back to Natalie.

  “Our rabbi may be able to help you, however,” Sonnino added thoughtfully.

  “Is he here? Could we show this to him?”

  The museum director lifted a tanned arm and checked her watch. “Rabbi Calo is finishing up with the small study group he meets with twice a week. You’re welcome to wait in his office, and I’ll send him in to see you as soon as he’s done.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Natalie said.

  Sonnino left them seated in small wooden chairs in the rabbi’s study, where countless dusty volumes in cracked leather bindings gave off a faint musty odor reminiscent of old school buildings that have been closed up all summer. Opposite a small oak desk littered with papers hung a magnificent tapestry in shades of plums and golds, pumpkins and greens. It was a vibrant wedding scene depicting a bridal couple facing each other beneath their chuppah, surrounded by smiling relatives in fifteenth-century finery.

  D’Amato contemplated the rich nuptial scene. “How about you? Ever been married?”

  “Engaged. It was a close call.”

  He turned toward her with a raised eyebrow.

  “Trust issues.” She threw him a pointed glance. Then the creak of footsteps sounded from the wooden stairs, and they both stood as a small, wiry man with ebony hair came bounding into the room.

  “Rabbi Calo?” Natalie had expected someone older.

  “Si, si. Israel Benjamin Calo. Sit, sit, and welcome to Rome.”

  Barnabas alighted from the cab and studied the armed soldier at the synagogue’s entrance. He was scrutinizing a woman’s documents as she waited to enter.

  He walked past the building, then around it, casua
lly checking for exits and side doors. Then he returned to the front, strolling at a leisurely pace, the tour guide tucked under his arm. He leaned against a palm tree ten yards east of the entrance, pretending to study the guide.

  But he had a clear view of the front door in his peripheral vision. They wouldn’t get in or out without him knowing.

  31

  Ralph Gallagher had smelled death in the lobby of the Marcello di Montagna even as the policeman barring the door waved him through. It was a familiar metallic smell, one that never failed to trigger a spasm of nausea.

  He suppressed the bile rising in his throat as Inspector Franco Rossini strode toward him. Rossini’s fleshy face was morose beneath the heavy shadow of facial hair no amount of shaving could ever fully eliminate.

  “Animals, my friend,” the police inspector muttered, swiping a handkerchief across his brow. “They shot the poor desk clerk through the back of the head. A double tap. She was only twenty-three, and was four months pregnant.”

  “What about the Americans?” Gallagher had no time for niceties. He and the NSU team who’d been scouring Rome for Natalie Landau and Jim D’Amato had finally caught a break, but it had come too late. All night they’d been combing the city for Landau and D’Amato while the pair had been at this hotel. And now they weren’t.

  Someone, however, had discovered they were staying here and had left them a message written in blood. Gallagher needed to see that message.

  Rossini had called him at the embassy as a courtesy, since the room that had been violated belonged to two Americans. In addition, the Rome police department was interested in any information the embassy could share about who these Americans were and why this attack had transpired.

  “The Americans are gone. No sign of them.” Rossini turned to shout a directive at the gloved policeman gathering room keys from the reception counter into a plastic zippered bag.

  “They haven’t checked out”—he shrugged—“they haven’t returned.”