by Tom Haase
Pulling the collar of his overcoat up, he headed toward Metro center. Even this late in spring, he felt cold with all the recent rain. A half hour later, he emerged from the Metro stop in old town Alexandria. After a brisk walk, he made it to the Irish pub on King Street. He found a quiet table against the back wall, ordered a pint of Guinness, and started his usual evening ritual.
He reminisced on the less than spectacular career of Cornelius Jake. He’d started forty-four years ago as a cub reporter when he covered the Six Days War from the front lines and had received a Pulitzer for it. To this very day that remained the highlight of his life. After returning to the States, most of his newspaper-reporting career went downhill. Yes, from time to time, he wrote some stories that made it to page two or three but never the big headlines or front page again.
Tonight he sat in his booth and observed people as they came and went on their way home from work. He did this most nights to pass the time and to keep himself from going home alone to a single bedroom apartment on Duke Street. The events of this morning may have changed his fortune and perhaps his future. When he saw the Donavan boy at the Smithsonian, his interest triggered anew. He recalled the story of how Scott and his sister had been dismissed from two separate universities for allegedly perpetrating an historical and archaeological hoax.
Maybe it embodied his journalistic instinct, but he suspected there might exist facts that could unravel that tale and no one had attempted it as far as he knew. His gut usually proved reliable in the past and kept him gainfully employed at a major newspaper for all these years. Something about that story of the Donavans' dismissal didn't have the right ring about it. He hadn't believed the story from the first time he heard about it but lacked anything to get his teeth into to discover if it was accurate or not. The story remained out of his bailiwick, besides he’d been on another story for the paper at the time.
Most of the young reporters at the Post he knew viewed him with a bit of respect but lately with something akin to pity. He had gotten too old to be on the beat. They perceived his good days were now behind him. He hurt a bit financially, but he kept in good physical shape. His globetrotting life around the whole world kept him from ever establishing a permanent relationship with a woman, and he had been happy with that. Now as a confirmed bachelor, he liked his lifestyle, and he cherished no use for gays, perhaps that demonstrated why some of the younger men at the paper showed open hostility toward him. But he didn't care because he would be retiring in another two months. He collected a small nest egg that should adequately support him in the years ahead.
His thoughts returned to that brief moment he saw the Donavan boy. Scott once looked forward to a bright future ahead of him as a professor, and now he worked for an hourly wage as a ground floor laborer at the Smithsonian. The youth had cut his long black hair since the pictures of him in the papers months ago in which he cut a handsome profile, enhanced by the look on his face that displayed intelligence. Jake believed from his experience in reading people that the boy's cold blue eyes showed the capability of dissecting a person equally as well as a scholarly paper.
The last Cornelius heard about Bridget Donavan centered on her taking off to somewhere in the Amazon to find herself after her ignominious demise from a prestigious New England college. They published a two-page text that they’d claimed were part of the Gospel of Saint Peter and some writings from the original Koran. They spent a lot of money attempting to support their claims. The Vatican disavowed any knowledge of the find. The Donavans claimed that they gave all the documents to the Apostolic Nuncio to the United States. No one in the Roman Catholic Church would even comment on the claim they made to having handed over the real Crown of Thorns from Christ's crucifixion. The DVD they possessed and claimed contained the documents now considered fake by all of academia, and without the actual papers they maintained no leg to stand on.
Perhaps he jousted at a windmill, but maybe Cornelius would go back and visit the Smithsonian to follow up and see if there was any story that he could investigate to bring new light to the Donavan saga. He would interview Scott to try for a sequel story of their revelation that caused such a stir the previous year. Maybe he could go out in a blaze of glory with a final front-page story.
Perhaps there survived one last great byline left in him. Maybe there existed something nobody else ever found out and that this would be his final contribution to journalism before his retirement.
Yes, Cornelius would investigate the Donavans' saga and get to the bottom of it.
Chapter 8
Belem, Brazil
Scott's voice sounded clear. Bridget focused on the task at hand because she needed to convince him they should undertake a new quest.
“How are you?” she queried.
“Fine, sis, where are you?”
“I'm in Brazil. I've made an amazing discovery. Well, maybe ….” She could almost see his reaction. His shoulders probably drooped and he would frown. She didn't want to rush or push. The right technique now would be to wait a few seconds.
“Come on, I thought we were down as far as we could fall. Let's see, I bet you want us to undertake a new venture. I'm afraid to even ask what it is.”
Bridget smiled. She wanted to sound happy and enthusiastic without being overly gushing with energy. She took a long inhale and slowly released it.
“Have you ever heard of the Bibles of Constantine?”
“Forget that. They don't exist, you hear me. You'd be on a wild goose chase, and I don't want to go along. I'm just an hourly worker now, but a wild goose chase like that would ruin us forever. You know we're almost broke. What are you trying to do, make sure that we can never get back into academia?”
“Scott, listen, please. A Roman Catholic priest in a village where I stayed talked to some people and I overheard him. He gave the story of how he had been with a man who saw one of the books that Constantine ordered copied in 326. It's in Jerusalem.”
“We barely have enough money left out of what the Vatican gave us to live on and now you're talking about going on an expedition to Jerusalem to look for a Bible that doesn't exist.”
She knew it was going to be tough, but this now turned into a little more than she anticipated. She needed to regroup and be more pedantic. Step-by-step to show him the logic that she used to reach her conclusion.
“Scott, I have done the research. I know what is being said currently about the existence or nonexistence of these books. But after some research, I have found that many of these books were supposedly returned to the papacy when the bishops or archbishops or cardinals to whom they were given died or were killed. They were not returned to the Emperor, and after the fall of Constantinople the remained only one of two places to go, either to the patriarch or to the pope.” She spoke in a short staccato manner trying to emphasize her belief.
“I investigated in detail,” she continued, “what happened to the Bishop of Kiev, and to the Patriarch of Alexandria, as well as a few other key bishops around the Christian Mediterranean. From what I could learn, they all had Bibles given to them by the Emperor Constantine, and for some reason upon their death they willed those books to the Pope in Rome. I'll fill you in on each one later.”
“You mean to tell me you think that all those books are in the Vatican Library?” Scott said this with obvious skepticism.
She may not have convinced him totally, but at least she got him asking questions. A good sign. His mind would want to know more about it now that he had started asking questions. She knew him that well.
“No, I can't confirm that they have any of them. But I can confirm that they did exist. There is, however, no mention of the Bishop of Jerusalem ever giving up his Bible.”
“So you think he still has his Bible? Come on, get real.”
“It's possible.”
“That possibility seems to me to be between zero and none. Why hasn't he revealed it to the world and debunked the story that none exist today? It doesn't make sense.”<
br />
She could see that his interest now waned. She needed to bring out her final guns, now or never.
“When I worked in Egypt three summers ago on a dig, I often visited the Coptic Church there. In one of their books, in Greek, I found the reference to a sacred book they called the book of Constantine. It reported that the book rested in the possession of the Bishop of Jerusalem. It contained even a quote from it. I remember that, but at the time it displayed no significance to me at all. I pulled those files out of my computer and there it was. I reread it this morning and saved the files for future research, but they lay dormant until I had time here in Belem to remember. So that is an independent corroboration that the Bishop of Jerusalem had a book or Bible of Constantine.”
Scott did not respond. His breathing caused a sucking sound from an exceedingly deep inhalation on the phone, and she thought she could hear the gears going around in his brain. She switched the phone to her other ear and waited.
“If this book exists and we can get it—”
“We'll recoup our losses.” She cut him off.
“Not so fast. I haven't decided.”
She breathed easier. He might be seeing salvation at the end of this unexpected road. If successful, they could regain their reputations, potentially even justify their previously spurned claims by the media and academia. She again switched the phone to her other ear.
“You see, all we need is for you to do some research on specific topics I have identified. You're at the center of the world in Washington and have access to all the resources we need.” She gave him the list of a few things she wanted checked.
Scott seemed to hesitate. He didn't answer her for the longest time. Maybe she made a mistake and he wasn't with her.
“Is there something you're not telling me? You seem distracted instead of focused on this.”
“No. Nothing. I'm sorry. This is really what we might need,” Scott said, his voice sounding a little more positive.
“I don't know about the money,” she said. “I'll work on that. It'll take a couple of hundred thousand to do this, maybe five. We'll have to pay off a lot of people, baksheesh money, and will need a lot of spending money. We'll need some help.”
“A funny thing happened to me at work yesterday,” Scott said with a lighthearted voice. “I heard about a Mr. Schultz. That might be the way to go, if I go at all. I think I'll approach him on this and see if he is interested. He's supposed to be fascinated by early Christian items. He gave a large donation to the museum. Can't hurt. All he can do is say no. If he is in, that may solve our money problems. If not, it's a no go.”
She had him with that comment.
“Only one more question. Who the hell is Mr. Schultz?”
Chapter 9
Washington, D.C.
Scott continued to perform all his duties for the remainder of the day. It had taken a great deal of effort not to tell Bridget about the bomb incident, but he didn't want to hear a lecture from her about staying out of the public eye. Besides, no one would remember him from this morning.
He rotated his thoughts, pondered the things he had heard concerning this Schultz character, and reached a decision. When he finished work, he put on his coat and exited the museum. The sky cleared for the first time in days. The setting sun reflected off the puddles on the Mall with brilliant intensity.
Scott needed to take action. His sister's call gave him new hope. If they could redeem themselves in the academic world, his future would be entirely different from that of an hourly laborer. He moved to an area without any pedestrians and made the call. He found the number on the web during his lunch break. The phone rang three times before a woman's voice answered.
“My name is Scott Donavan,” he said as soon as a voice came on the phone confirming that it was the office of Mr. Benjamin Schultz. “I have a proposition for Mr. Schultz. He will want to hear about it.”
“I'm sorry sir, but Mr. Schultz is out of town, and you have to go through his trust company to request funding for any projects. I can give you their number.” She spouted it out.
“Please tell him that Scott Donavan from the Crown of Thorns called. It concerns the Bibles of Constantine.” Scott gave her his number and disconnected.
This wasn’t going to be easy. He had to figure out a way to get through to the man who might have the money and interest to help fund their new project. He completed more Internet research over lunch on the man and discovered he indeed gave many things to museums from various historical and archaeological finds. The man definitely maintained an interest in early Christian artifacts. The Bible of Constantine certainly qualified in that category.
Scott returned to his apartment and put his cell phone on charge. Just as he finished plugging it in, the cell phone rang. He checked the ID and the number came from a New York area code. He clicked on the phone.
“Mr. Donavan, this is Benjamin Schultz. I just returned to my office and my secretary told me that you called in reference too what she said, I believe, concerned the Bible of Constantine. I am well aware that none of these exist. So I had to wonder what you are up to, especially if you're the ex professor in disgrace, if I may be so bold? If not, then this conversation is over.”
Scott took a deep breath. He couldn't lie, the man had him. No use stalling.
“That would be the former professor, sir.”
“I followed with great interest the story of your quest for the Crown of Thorns. One question if you would, please.” He paused and made Scott wait for the question. “Did you really find it?”
Scott let the question linger for a moment as he contemplated how to respond. He could explain all the things they did, go into great detail of how they tracked it down, or he could do the smart thing. He decided to keep it simple.
“Yes.”
He said this response with emphasis and finality. Now he waited as the man on the other end seemed to be contemplating what he should say.
“Mr. Donavan, would it be possible for you to come to visit me tomorrow evening? I could have my plane pick you up at Reagan National airport and bring you up to New York. We could discuss your topic over dinner and then you could return to D.C. afterward.”
Holy cow. This couldn't be true. This could be a trap. Something remained dysfunctional in his offer. No one invited a person for dinner with a private airplane ride thrown in, especially someone who called out of the blue. What reason did he have for doing this so quickly? The man could just want to pump him for the details of the last adventure. They swore to one another never to tell all the details. It had to be something else. The man could read what they were prepared to reveal in the newspapers. In the far reaches of his mind, Scott remembered that a lot of eccentrics, wealthy eccentrics, might consider doing anything if they thought they could get their hands on something no one else had. From what he knew of Mr. Schultz, the man possessed money and a desire to find unusual items. On the other hand, perhaps he wanted the knowledge Bridget imparted to him and would go after the Bible himself, thereby cutting them out.
“Yes, sir, I could be available then.”
“Good, I look forward to seeing you tomorrow evening.” He gave Scott the instructions to meet the airplane. “Until tomorrow, Mr. Donavan.” The phone went dead.
Scott flopped down on his couch. What was going on? In all his years of applying for research grants and funds to carry out research, no one ever moved faster than a glacier to reach a decision. This man moved at the speed of a flash fire.
Deep down, he believed that anything that appeared too good to be true usually was. He knew of the man's credentials. He learned the man's first love centered on collecting Christian items, like crucifixes, koine Greek gospels, Melkite Icons, and statues of the Blessed Virgin. His passion appeared to revolve around ancient Christian culture and writings. His most prized collectables cost him a king's ransom. Scott's research showed that the earliest metal crucifixes known to exist from the Coptic Church in Egypt hung in his private coll
ection. What Scott could not know was that all the best of his trading and bartering and in some cases stealing resided in his personal walk-in safe. There he could relish the inestimable value and the universal significance of his treasures. Only Gertrude knew about them.
Scott asked his boss about Schultz.
“I can tell you that Mr. Schultz made significant contributions to the major New York museums, especially those interested in archaeology and religion, and he holds a relatively high place in the social standing within the city. These days, he moves among the high-ranking rollers and shakers since he made his contributions to all the right charities to ensure being included in the critical events or fundraisers.”
Scott could surmise that at those venues Schultz could meet people who might want the objects that he traded. Of course, the charitable works and his monetary assistance to the major museums, including the Smithsonian, left him in the most advantageous position to find out everything that went on in the various fields of study and the research into rare antiquities.
What Scott didn't know at the time, but found out later in his research of the man, concerned how Schultz used the knowledge so gained to contact retainers to ensure he acquired the object before anyone else. His goal remained to acquire what he wanted before anyone else could act.
As a graduate of an Ivy League university, with a master’s degree in archaeology, he possessed the credentials to carry off any charade he perpetrated to acquire for himself the most valuable and precious items. Scott wondered if Schultz would do that in this case?
He concluded that nothing became too far-fetched in dealing with a man like Schultz.
Schultz must want something, but what?
Scott determined to be careful.
Chapter 10
Washington, D.C.
FBI Headquarters