Secret of the Thorns: Political Thriller (Donavan Chronicles Book 1)

by Tom Haase

  “It’s also obvious that I have something you want.” Perhaps this Stephen was in league with the kidnappers after all, Scott thought.

  Stephen nodded. “I have a great interest in recovering the ancient Latin text. It could change my life just as the discovery of previously unknown text in your field could bring fame and riches to you and your sister.”

  Scott knew he couldn’t totally trust this man, but Stephen could be a lifeline. At present Scott had no concrete idea of what to do next to save his sister. How would he get Bridget back if he didn’t have Stephen’s help? He decided on limited trust would be in order.

  Scott handed him the note.

  Chapter Thirty

  Vatican City,

  Office of the Secretary of State - 12:30 p.m.

  The Archbishop of Paris, Mathieu Durand bent his tall, thin frame and kissed the cardinal’s ring. “Good day, Eminence”

  “Mathieu, I’m pleased to see you and glad you came by,” Cardinal Puglisi said. He’d asked the Archbishop to meet, hoping to gain his support for the actions he planned to take. “I have a matter I need to discuss with you. Something I will favor to you as a senior senator of the society.”

  Durand removed his glasses. The cardinal waited while he cleaned the lenses and then put them back on. The archbishop then glanced around as if deciding on a seat before taking the chair opposite the cardinal.

  While Durand shifted around trying to get comfortable, Puglisi wondered if the archbishop was being deliberately disrespectful but decided Durand probably didn’t mean to irritate him.

  Once the archbishop settle and turned his attention to the cardinal, Puglisi continued, “A certain group of manuscripts has come into my possession, and I think we, the society, can use them to advance our cause.”

  “Excuse me, Eminence, exactly to which cause do you refer?”

  This archbishop always managed to press Puglisi’s anger button and this meeting was no exception. Durand’s pretended denseness had Puglisi reconsidering his earlier hope to have the man as an ally in the meetings that would follow. In the past, the archbishop had supported Puglisi in the society’s actions and in the senate but now Puglisi felt a certain vibration from Durand, which made him uncomfortable. This conniving prelate might even aspire to replace him. Puglisi decided he needed to be careful in speaking to Durand. This conniving prelate might even aspire to replace him.

  “I believe we acquired some writings of the first Pope,” he said, ignoring the archbishop’s question. “A group of eminent scholars are coming in a few minutes to get instructions on what I want done. Many other documents of great value have also come into our hands.”

  “How did we come into this unexpected, even miraculous, treasure?” Durand asked with a sarcastic edge to his voice.

  Puglisi recoiled in his mind. We? What does he mean by we? It was I who acquired them. Durand is suspicious of something, but what?

  “One of our members provided them to me for the society’s use,” Puglisi said.

  “Excellent, to what use do you intend to put them? Will you release them to the world?”

  He’s pushing me. He suspects something.

  At that moment Puglisi’s secretary opened the door and announced the scholars had arrived. “Send them in. Archbishop, stay for this meeting, if you have a moment.”

  If Puglisi could somehow get this insolent archbishop’s support, his task in the senate would be much easier. Perhaps if Durand heard more about the documents his favor could be gained.

  The cardinal’s thoughts were interrupted as the secretary escorted the six priests into the Cardinal’s office. After proper greetings, the Cardinal got down to business.

  “I want these manuscripts,” he pointed to the box on his desk, “translated immediately. No stopping. Work round the clock. Just get it done.” He waited a few seconds to make sure his instructions registered. Maybe the full translation would reveal the entire gospel of Peter. That would probably be the best result of all.

  “I realize there are many pages in different languages. Nevertheless, I insist on having the translations before I go to the United States for the Irish Bishop’s Conference in Savannah, Georgia in two weeks; the priority is any text in Latin.” He gave a signal with a wave of his hand, to indicate the meeting was over. The scholars quickly departed.

  Durand rose from his chair before turning and fixing squinted eyes on Puglisi.

  Damn the man’s impertinence, Puglisi thought.

  “Aren’t you pleased?” the cardinal demanded. “We may have the gospel of St. Peter once again in our hands.”

  “Indeed I’m delighted,” Durand answered. “My concern is about the use you plan for the documents. Not philanthropic, surely. In all the years of our acquaintance charity has not been in your character. You must have an ulterior purpose.”

  How dare the man speak to me in such a way, thought Puglisi. The archbishop’s actions and attitude marked the man as Puglisi’s enemy. Well, he will find that position is not a happy one.

  “Archbishop, I’m happy you came for a visit.” The cardinal held out his hand.

  However, the archbishop didn’t take understand he was being invited to leave…or, if he did, he simply intended to ignore it.

  “You are going to use the documents for your own ends,” the archbishop said in an accusatory tone. “Do you plan on being the next Pope once the present one departs this earth…or perhaps there too you intend to force the issue somehow?”

  “Mind your position, Archbishop,” the cardinal said while rising from his chair. He firmly planted his hands on the desktop in a gesture of exaggeration combined with ire. “You will regret this display of impropriety in the future.”

  “If you intend to use this historic discovery for your own ends and possibly to oust the Pope, I will not regret getting in your way. I demand a meeting of the Society’s senate. This matter must be decided in open forum, not by you alone.”

  “You have just crossed the Rubicon. You’ll get your demand as allowed by our charter. I’ll see you when the senate convenes. Now, good day.”

  After glaring at Puglisi for a few seconds, a huff burst from the archbishop. He turned and, without another word, strode from the office with his head erect, offering yet another blatant display of defiance.

  Puglisi vowed he would, in his own time and in his own way, have Durand dealt with. Using force was not new to Puglisi. He’d used it many on many occasions to get to his current position. No reason not to take care of this troublesome archbishop in the same manner. One call to a contact and it would be done. Later today would be in sufficient time. Right now he had to attend to other matters.

  The cardinal called for his secretary and told him to get McGregor on the line.

  On hearing Jonathan’s voice across the line, he demanded, “What progress have you made?”

  “Eminence, I am with the American Scott Donavan, but the Iranians have kidnapped his sister. I have offered to help him gain her return. I believe this course is our best hope. He has already told me he has a map and a code, which he unraveled.”

  After a few second pause, Jonathan said, “I must go, he is waiting for me.”

  “Good. Keep me up-to-date.” Puglisi replaced the phone in the cradle.

  Jonathan McGregor was his best man. He possessed military experience, which few pacifist and contemplative priests could ever understand. He was a warrior-priest. Something the church had forgotten how to employ over the centuries. Yes, he was his man for the job and when he completed his task, the time would be ripe to move him again to a better position to assist the Cardinal, perhaps his own praetor in the society.

  Now all he could do was wait on the translators to learn if the writings of Peter had returned to Rome and rely on Jonathan to eliminate any trace of a trail to the documents. His story would be that he accidentally found the original gospel documents while searching in the Vatican archives.

  With no trail leading to anywhere else, he
would be believed. He had the power to keep quiet any members of the society who might suspect otherwise…except for the French archbishop, Durand. Another reason to deal with him now rather than later.

  Soon there would be no impediment to Puglisi’s announcement. He would be the discoverer of the Gospel of Saint Peter and announce it to the world. Surely, all would believe that God had chosen him to find gospel as a sign that he should be made pope.

  Puglisi smiled. He felt one step closer to gaining the papal Triple Crown.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  San Matias District, Granada, Spain

  Hashim entered the storeroom where they held the kidnapped Donavan woman, carrying water and buttered bread.

  “Do you promise not to scream if I remove the tape on your mouth?” he said in perfect English. “No one will hear you. All you will achieve is to hurt my ears. Plus, the others may become irritated and change their minds about allowing me to give you something to eat.”

  He waited for the woman to indicate acceptance. When she nodded, he ripped the tape from her mouth. Hashim had to admit this Donavan woman was beautiful even in her current position.

  “Ouch,” she mumbled through gritted teeth.

  She opened her mouth again, but Hashim rushed to interrupt, “Don’t say anything.” He hurriedly removed the rope from her hands. “Just drink some water and eat the food.”

  “You bastard,” she whispered.

  “Maybe, lady, but I want to tell you something and you’d better remember it. I’m the only friend you’ve got here. The rest want to kill you right now. You’re alive because I convinced them we might need you to get your husband to cooperate and give us what we want.”

  “What the hell do you mean? We don’t have anything you want,” she hissed.

  “Ah, but you do. The Holy Koran found by the curator in Warsaw.”

  Her eyes widened. “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play dumb. We know you have the manuscript.”

  “Bullshit. I’m going to kill you for this, just like —” She stopped. She realized she had said too much.

  “You,” Hashim said in an incredulous voice. “You killed Akram?” He slapped himself on the head in understanding. “Wow, I never expected that.”

  “You bet I did and I’ll kill you too.”

  “Slow down lady. What’s your name?” Hashim said.

  “I don’t give information to terrorists.” She said this to him in a very slow and deliberate manner.

  “Quit being so damn hostile for God sake. Go ahead and eat something. It may be a long time before I can get back with anything else.”

  “Where did you learn to speak such good English? Are you doing this on your own or are the others ordering you to do it?”

  The woman asked too many questions.

  His use of American language obviously caught her by surprise. He almost regretted that his use of English contained no hint of a foreign accent.

  “Only one man here is important,” Hashim said. “He’s from Iran and he’s here for the manuscript of the Holy Koran.” Hashim stopped and glanced around concerned that they not be overheard. “Listen to me, lady. Pay attention.” In a lower volume he continued, “The other guards are just locals but the man from Iran is serious business. He means to get his hands on the manuscript. You or your husband have it or know where it is. If you get your husband to turn it over, I might be able to save you.”

  “He’s not my husband,” she said.

  She appeared to be softening a little by revealing this piece of information. He had given her some information and he did expect to get some in return.

  Now her face flushed as she certainly grasped her mistake. “He’s my brother.” She tried to spit on him, but he ducked.

  “Okay, lady, enough. Your brother has a ransom note from us. If he doesn’t deliver the document by noon tomorrow you die.” He wanted to scare her to get her talking.

  “You creep. What the hell do you care?”

  “That’s another story. So where is it?”

  “You threaten to kill me and my brother, you kidnap me, you try to blackmail him and you want me to tell you where it is. Go to hell.” She laughed at him and took some water. “Do the letters F.O. mean anything to you?”

  He decided to take another tack. Playing the hardcore terrorist wasn’t getting him anywhere. Softening his tone, Hashim said, “My name is Hashim. What’s yours?”

  “None of your business.” Her lips clamped shut in a mutinous line.

  “Listen, lady, whatever your name is, I made a small miscalculation in Warsaw or we would already have the documents.” He raised his eyes toward the top of his head as he remembered. Would that I had never heard the curator and the priest. I have to watch what I say to this woman.

  “How did you find out about the Koran?” she asked.

  He decided to tell her a little to see if he could get some answers from her.

  “A fluke really,” Hashim said. “I overheard the curator tell of the manuscript in a conversation with a priest during a reception at the Archbishop’s residence. Based on the source, the curator of the national museum, my Imam informed the Iranian government who sent two men to recover the sacred text.”

  “You’ve been after us since Warsaw?” she said more as a statement than a question.

  “Yeah, now I’ve told you a lot of information. I expect something in return.”

  “No way asshole.” She turned her face away.

  “Yes.” He picked up the small plate she had emptied and retrieved the water glass. “Where is the original manuscript?”

  Bridget looked down, but did not face back toward him, and said, “I don’t have any idea. Besides, I’m going to repeat myself. Go to hell.”

  He whipped her head around and slapped the tape back over her mouth. He made a fist with his right hand and pounded it into his left palm.

  Damn woman. She didn’t know what was good for her. And now how am I going to solve this problem?

  * * * *

  Bridget let her head slump down; her mouth again taped shut. She did not look up until after the terrorist called Hashim had closed the door

  What was that all about? He was after something besides the manuscript. He used English like a native, not like a foreigner who had studied the language. He seemed too polite for a terrorist but he was one. Scott must be going mad with worry. She had to get away.

  She looked around her prison but couldn’t discover a thing to help her get out of her predicament. She saw nothing but bare walls and not another thing in the room to use as a weapon or anything to help in an attempt to escape. She could barely move after Hashim had rebound her hands before leaving. To remove the duct tape on her legs, combined with the bindings on her arms, would require someone to cut it off.

  Whoever they were, they had followed Scott and her from Warsaw. But they didn’t know the originals in Warsaw were not in the curator’s office when they arrived and they didn’t get them. So they think we have them.

  She attempted again to twist her arms free but the bindings cut into her skin, allowing no movement in any direction. By tugging she only cut into her skin and now a trickle of blood flowed from the cut. She continued attempting to loosen her bonds for another few minutes. The pain increased in her arms and the restraints didn’t give even a little. Realizing the futility of further efforts to loosen the bindings, she relaxed for a few minutes and focused on the whole scenario.

  Based on her observations since her capture, Bridget concluded that if Hashim told the other terrorists she and Scott were the ones who killed the man in Warsaw; they would certainly be killed. He had no reason not to. She now harbored no doubt about their fate.

  How would Scott handle this situation? She still thought of him as the little brother, and she was the one who protected him. Now, somehow, maybe he would emerge from the academic cocoon he had surrounded himself with and realize there are other things in life.

  D
amn, she had to get away, to help him. She renewed her struggle with the bindings holding her. After what she thought must be hours, Bridget eventually gave up. She was afraid of never escaping. She looked around the room for some way to escape.

  Nothing. It seemed hopeless.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Plaza de Bibarrambla, Granada, Spain

  Jonathan led Scott to the plaza. At this time it was crammed with tourists. The sun beat down on the concrete, heat waves shimmering upward as hundreds of bodies pushed and shoved their way around the market areas of the plaza. A burly man bumped against Scott’s shoulder. Jonathan pulled him by the arm to veer around large groups of tourists.

  “What’s your plan, Scott?” Jonathan asked.

  “I’ll figure something out, Stephen.” Scott dropped his head. Jonathan assumed Scott was either in a state of shock or outright denial. Jonathan let Scott meander ahead for a few minutes before he moved up beside him. “Listen. I’ve changed my mind. I think I should do this myself.”

  “I’m willing to help you,” he said. “I think we can work together. There is more than one of them. You’ll need help.”

  “No, but thank you anyway.” Scott turned to leave.

  “Your sister will certainly be dead if you, and I now say we, don’t do something. You realize that? I believe you have a map to find the thing you seek. Let me help.”

  “How the devil . . . what makes you think I have a map?”

  “It’s logical. You’re searching for something and need some type of guide to get you there. But there must be something to solve before you can get it. If not, you would already possess it. Therefore, you did not have the knowledge from the beginning of exactly what and where to go.”

  Scott stopped and turned back to face Jonathan. “I get the feeling there’re many things you are not telling me. I want to trust you but I think you’re keeping something from me.”

  “I’m speaking the truth when I tell you I can help. I assure you that I personally intend neither you nor your sister any harm.”