by Tom Haase
The man will kill them for what they did to his friend, Hashim thought.
He understood the reasoning. But now he questioned whether he should have told the Imam about what he had overheard at the reception. He had to admit the information had served its purpose by helping him gain access to the inner workings of the Islamic terrorist leadership in Poland. And he was meeting contacts in Spain. Hashim was building a new and a different version of himself for the Islamic leadership.
But killing the Americans wasn’t in his plans. The fact that Jabril would try to kill them was a complication Hashim could do without.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Granada, Spain
Jonathan McGregor walked away from the terminal building at Armilla airport and searched for the taxi rack. He intended to observe the Donavans in order to follow them at a distance.
“Father McGregor?” The sound of his name startled him. Perhaps the man calling was looking for someone else, but “father” removed that possibility. He sighted a heavyset individual in a Roman collar staring at him and then checking a picture he held. No mistake. The man knew who he was.
Keeping an eye on the entrance, he said, “Yes.”
“Agnus Dei,” the short priest said.
“Dona nobis pacem,” Jonathan mouthed realizing the Cardinal had arranged this meeting. The Vatican travel office must have provided the cardinal with his travel times to Granada and then he ensured someone locally was there to assist.
“I’m here to provide transportation. My instructions are to leave you alone unless you request any support. My name is Father Juan Castile.” The priest handed him a slip of paper. “Here is my cell phone number if you need anything while you are here.” He wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.
“Thank you for meeting me. Is your car nearby?”
“Just over there.” He pointed to a black Mercedes fifty feet away that a policeman seemed to be guarding.
“Good. Let’s get in and I’ll tell you what we need to do.”
The large bellied priest led the way. Jonathan scanned for the pair. As he crossed the street, he could feel the heat of the Andalusia sun on his head. He already started to perspire in just a few minutes under its powerful strength. Searching the terminal exit for arriving passengers, he sighted the Donavans heading for the taxi stand.
“Look. See those two people crossing?”
“I see them,” the Spanish priest responded.
“Follow them to wherever that taxi takes them.”
Jonathan relaxed in the car seat. As he gazed out the side window, he noticed a familiar man stride to a car parked on the other side of the street.
Couldn’t be the same man he observed at the museum in Warsaw, could it?
The man wore the same green windbreaker with the white collar, same height, same hairstyle, same skin color. When the jacketed man rotated to talk to the driver, Jonathan saw the man’s face, the wide nose and high cheekbones.
Confirmation. This was the same man one who came out of the museum in Warsaw, the one at the airport in Madrid, and the one with his tracker.
What kind of mission was this? Too many people circled around these Donavans, from the Cardinal to the local priest, to the Iranians. Somehow, he now occupied a seat in an unstructured drama. He prayed no more participants would appear on stage. The Americans, to his way of thinking, still didn’t act as if they had any idea someone followed them.
“Wait a second after the taxi with the Americans moves away. See that car over there?” Jonathan pointed to the tan vehicle across the street. “I want to see if it is going to follow them. If so, you follow too but try to avoid anyone seeing you.” Jonathan saw no reason to use the tracking device, as they were able to follow by visual means. Besides, once he activated it the life of the battery would only last a few hours.
The taxi with the Donavans moved away. The tan car with the two Middle Eastern men followed. After a few seconds, Father Castile pulled from the curb and went after them.
“Father, may I borrow your cell phone?” Jonathan had his own but decided to check something out.
The priest took one out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Jonathan. “Push speed dial number three for the Cardinal,” he said.
“To hold the Cardinal’s number you are —” That’s what he expected but had to prove it to himself.
Confirming Jonathan’s suspicion, the priest interrupted. “I am the local centurion of the society. Five of us are in the Spanish legion under our senator to the society.”
Jonathan reached into his bag and retrieved his sunglasses. The glare in the windshield impeded his vision. The glasses helped and would be useful outside the car, both for the protection from the sun and for a limited disguise. He pressed number three on the cell phone and waited.
“Jonathan,” the sound of the Cardinal’s voice came from across the miles. “You must be in Granada. Are the Americans there too? Have you learned anything about what they have? Give me a report.”
Jonathan squeezed his eyes and took a few seconds before answering. He comprehended exactly what the Cardinal wanted, but he couldn’t provide him absolute assurances. “Eminence, the pair have made no attempt to contact any media or press. They appear to be looking for something but what it is I’m unable to say at this time.”
“What are you doing to find out?”
“Right now I’m trailing them to wherever they go, but there are complications.”
“What complications? This is a simple assignment. I expected you to have it completed by now. The documents would be ours.”
“Others are following the Donavans. It appears they may also be after what we seek.”
“What? What are you talking about?” The voice had risen to an unusual high pitch and a sense of urgency permeated his tone.
“An Iranian team is tracking the two Americans here in Granada. I saw one of these same men in Warsaw and one of them was present in the curator’s office. They apparently seek the ancient Koran pages. I believe it was the Iranians who attacked the Americans and the Donavans managed to kill one of them.”
“How did they learn about the documents?”
“My guess, they learned about it at the same time we did: from the curator.” I don’t know how they did it but that’s my best estimate. I didn’t get to talk to him. If so, their arrival in Warsaw at about the same time as me is easily explained.” Jonathan hoped his response would allow him a respite from the Cardinal’s wrath.
Jonathan noticed the taxi had stopped in front of the Hotel Lus Tilos. The tan car continued for a hundred feet and stopped. Father Castile pulled into a parking space half a block short of the hotel and waited.
“I believe the Americans hold something important; otherwise they should have stayed in Warsaw and explained everything to the police. They’re not aware, as far as I can see, that someone is tailing them. I want to make sure they reach their final destination and recover whatever they are searching for.”
“Do that.” The Cardinal repeated his previous instructions in an elevated voice and then asked, “Do you understand that you must be certain.”
“Yes,” Jonathan said.
“Good. Because your life depends on it.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Granada, Spain - Hotel Lus Tilos - 6:00 p.m.
After a hot bath and a nap, Bridget put on a loose fitting green dress, which accentuated her flaming red hair and did nothing to hide her intrinsic sexuality. She walked into her brother’s room precisely at six.
Scott smiled at her. “You clean up good.”
“Listen you. I’ve been in the desert for three weeks and running like crazy since I left Ethiopia,” Bridget said. “I’m a little hungry. I want to go out and devour a decent meal, hit a nightclub or two, and then do my own thing. We can attack this problem tomorrow. We need some down time. I don’t think anyone is going to kill us tonight. But moi needs a fix of nightlife and anything else I can find.”
“How crude, you plebeian,” she said.
“Really? I’m crude?” he teased.
Bridget picked up the pillow from the bed and attacked him. The pillow fight lasted only a few seconds. She laughed and rolled over on the bed into a ball. Scott sat back on the bed seemingly amused at the mock battle.
“Why don’t try to find us a chess set?” Bridget suggested. We’ll need it to get to the bottom of this mystery.”
Scott nodded. “Just think, by tomorrow night we might learn where the treasure is.”
“Exactly what secrets do you think these documents hold, little brother?”
“The manuscript describes gold statues, a gold box, goblets, inlaid jeweled swords, coins in gold and silver and a group of manuscripts most of which will take time to identify. The gold alone must be worth a mighty big fortune at current prices.”
“Why did you think we had to come to Granada?” She glanced back at Scott, and asked, “I heard you when you said it was the last bastion of the Moorish kings in Spain. Do you have anything else to go on?” Bridget crossed to the mirror and combed her hair messed up while ducking a flying pillow.
“Well, sort of,” Scott admitted. “You see, there’s some evidence in the Sacromonte Lead Books of early Christian writings, ostensibly from the first century, about some articles or maybe relics from the apostle Peter. The monks of later centuries discovered the Lead Books near here, at a Benedictine monastery outside this city. The text included words spoken by the Virgin Mary, St. Peter, and other apostles. I found out about them in an article at university that highlighted the fact they were written in Arabic, some Latin and a few in Greek. That struck me as unique and led me to believe, in light of the findings in Poland, that this was the most likely place we should investigate.”
“Is there something else you forgot to tell me?”
“I didn’t forget. I just now got around to it.” He gave a sheepish smile.
“So there’s reason to believe the gospel, or maybe it is only an extension of the Acts of the Apostles in the Bible, actually existed here in Granada. Wait a minute…What relics?”
“I have no idea,” Scott said. “There’s no mention of the nature of the relics but the monks buried the documents and much treasure before escaping the Moorish onslaught in 711 A.D.”
Bridget finished combing her hair and came over beside the bed where he sat. “Someone must’ve known where these things were.”
“Yes, they were later rediscovered. That’s all the reasoning I used to guide us here. Now we need to find the location where the Moors hid the items before they evacuated the Iberian Peninsula in 1492. I’ll get us a chess set after dinner and try to unravel the code.”
“Boring. You know the king is the most important piece. So, wherever we position him is where the treasure is located. Now, come on out and take a night off. You might find someone cute to —”
“No. I’m going to do what I said,” Scott said.
“By the way, I saw some music discs in your backpack. Can I make a copy of them so I can put them on my iPod?” Bridget asked. “My music recordings are old, and after a hundred plays in the desert, I need something new. You gotta lighten up, little brother, start to live a little.”
“Take them, but don’t lecture me. I don’t need that now. Now we’re going to find the manuscripts or, for a better sounding goal, the treasure. You can borrow my discs, but I don’t think you’ll like them.”
“Come on, give me a good answer. Why is it so important for you to do this?” Bridget rummaged through his pack to retrieve the discs.
“It will let me be the one to discover a gospel, something no one has accomplished in ages. I’ll get the credit for finding the Koran —”
“Scott, that sounds like bullshit from academia. You need to grow up. Life is not all books and universities. I used to think that way but now we have a chance to do all that and get rich while we are doing it. Please, come out with me and enjoy a night off. You’re taking this whole thing too seriously. We’ll get it. What the hell difference does a day or two make after remaining undiscovered for hundreds of years? Really? Don’t worry I’ll be thinking about the problem all the time. Okay?”
Scott looked at her wide-eyed but he nodded. She could see that he didn’t understand. Slowly Bridget started to comprehend. This thing had become such an idée fixe of his life nothing else mattered.
“Besides,” Bridgett continued, “there’s no way anyone is chasing us. Not now. There’s no way anyone could know where we are. I don’t have any idea of how that bastard found us in Madrid, maybe it’s because we are using our own names and they somehow hacked into the hotel or fight data servers. We got out of Madrid before even I knew where we were going. Did you see anyone chasing us? Of course, we should be careful and we will. Besides now you are thinking of being rich instead of being an academic flash in the pan. Isn’t that about right? We both think this could make us rich, so get over it.”
Scott shrugged his shoulders. “Well if I’m not doing it for the academic accolades, I might as well do it to get rich.”
“See, I’m right,” she intoned. “So forget about it. Now, let’s eat. You’re buying.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Outside the Hotel Lus Tilos - 8:13 p.m.
Jonathan waited in a street-side restaurant for Father Castile to return. The old priest hadn’t been happy with Jonathan’s request for a weapon but the priest’s feelings were the least of his concerns. The old military axiom of always being prepared for the worst, controlled his planning, especially with the presence of Iranians on the scene.
Still Jonathan wished that rush like he’d experienced in the old days working for the British Secret Service, would kick in.
Jonathan took a sip of his drink. Heat spiraled upward in waves off the asphalt and the coolness of the liquid soothed his throat. He’d wanted a beer, but decided on a Coke. From his position he could view both the hotel entrance and the tan car containing the two Iranians parked at the curb. They were observing the hotel entrance also, but though they might be trained warriors, they were not good in spy craft.
He’d just finished his drink when the young Iranian, with green jacket sleeves tied around his waist, got out of the car, walked across the street and entered the restaurant. Jonathan took a sudden interest in the menu on the table, but he needn’t have hidden behind the laminated card because the Iranian took no notice of him. The Iranian ordered two drinks, paid, and left carrying his purchases. Jonathan decided to leave this place in case the stakeout went on for a long time and the Arabs had to buy something else or to use the toilet.
What did these Iranians intend, he wondered. They had obviously cottoned onto the Americans as having something, otherwise they wouldn’t have followed them. Perhaps they simply wanted to kill them. No easy opportunity had presented itself so far. They were either good or lucky to keep up with the Americans from Warsaw to Granada. They had to have some outside assistance. They were not equipped by themselves to track these Americans anywhere they went. There must be a cell of their organization assisting them in their tracking efforts.
Just as Jonathan stepped outside the restaurant Father Castile returned. The old Spanish priest’s eyes darted around nervously as he handed Jonathan a bag.
“Thank you, Father. I’ll call if I need anything else.” Jonathan looked around the area to see if anyone observed the exchange. He saw no one paying attention to them.
“I hope you don’t,” Father Castile said. “The key to the car is in the bag.” The Spanish priest then trundled off, walking past the parked Mercedes and on down the sidewalk. In a call to the Cardinal he confirmed that Father Castile held the rank of centurion of the Spanish legion in the society. That was indeed a privilege for anyone in the organization and a rank Jonathan had not so far achieved. Even so, J
onathan realized taking care of the Cardinal’s representative from Rome trumped all other duties for any member of the society. For a few moments more he wondered what the man had accomplished to achieve the rank of centurion. If he had a chance when this was over, he would ask him.
Before Jonathan could take up a new surveillance position, The Donavans stepped outside their hotel. He had to find out what they knew, but, so far, they didn’t seem to know about the Iranians nor did they show any indication of spotting him. He wanted to keep it that way, at least until he decided to change the status quo.
The Iranians, on the other hand, presented a source of trouble. They either knew about the documents, including the Koran, or they had a score to settle with the pair for killing one of their men. He couldn’t let anything happen, at least not until he confirmed the existence of a trail leading to any manuscripts. Somehow he suspected the Americans were the only lead to follow.
Jonathan followed at a distance, watching as Scott stopped on the street at a kiosk to buy something. Then Bridget and Scott entered Alhambra Cafeteria restaurant about a block away from the hotel on the Plaza de Bibarrambla. After finding a table near the front, they sat with a view of the street. Jonathan watched the two Iranians when they left their car and then ducked into a small side street where they faced one another and acted like they were just standing around talking.
Jonathan returned to his black Mercedes and stayed in a position to see them at all times. It would take at least half an hour to eat and maybe more, he calculated. Consequently, he didn’t plan to stand around or try to hide in the open area of the plaza. After a half hour, he parked near the restaurant and watched from his car. He located the perfect position to be able to scan both the Arabs and the pair dining.
The nightly tourist traffic swelled the area. The warm Spanish air and the cacophonous music from the various establishments on the main street filled the night. This month, which marked the high mark for tourist season, the visitors pumped a fortune into the town of Granada. Not one of the thousands of passers-by paid any attention to him or the two Iranians occupying their observation posts.