The Jesus Germ

by Brett Williams

  ‘Father Stephen, I have spoken for too long. Forgive my indulgence.’

  ‘A fascinating story, Abel.’ He remembered every detail. ‘Does the shop still exist?’

  ‘It’s now the Jordan Cafe which I own.’

  ‘What a coincidence. I ate breakfast there this morning. Have you ever thought about pulling up those boards to see if the boxes are still there?’

  ‘I had honestly forgotten about them till now, Father, but we can check.’

  ‘They could have some archaeological value, Abel.’

  ‘Then let’s take a trip to the Jordan.’

  Abel noted the two silver crosses on Father Stephen’s white collar and the expensive watch on his left wrist. He excused himself, returning in jeans and T-shirt, showing Father Stephen to his garage and a vintage, red Ferrari.

  ‘Jump in, Father.’

  They parked outside the Jordan Cafe, alighting onto the sidewalk into the shade of a portico.

  A man approached them.

  ‘Mr Borgnine, how great it is to see you, sir.’

  ‘Jamal, the pleasure is mine. How are your wife and the new addition?’

  ‘They are well, sir. Thank you for asking. Do you want coffee?’

  ‘Yes, Jamal, but first I must show Father Stephen through the shop.’

  Jamal bowed. ‘Pleased to meet you, Father. Follow me.’

  He led them via the cafe and the kitchen to a room at the rear. Structurally it had changed little in fifty years. The louvered windows were now solid panes of glass and the walls were freshly coated in pale-green paint. The floor was washed white but Abel knew exactly where the trapdoor used to be.

  ‘Jamal, did you know there is a cellar beneath the floor?’ Abel said.

  ‘No, sir, how long has it been there?’

  ‘Since the shop was built more than sixty years ago. We’d like to lift some floor boards but if it is inconvenient we can come back tonight after...’

  ‘Now is fine, Mr Borgnine. Three generations of our family are forever in your debt. I have some tools in the shed.’

  Jamal hurried away, returning with a chisel and rubber mallet.

  ‘I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,’ he said.

  Abel hammered the chisel into the gaps between the floorboards, levering them up until there were ten lengths stacked in a neat pile. He reached down and tugged on a cord under the floor, hardly expecting the old dusty bulb to light up the cellar.

  ‘A stroke of good luck, Father Stephen, shall we go exploring?’

  They eased down a ladder and surveyed the emptiness. Abel sensed Father Stephen’s disappointment.

  ‘Father, let’s have our coffee.’

  Father Stephen nodded in feigned resignation.

  But as Abel stepped back onto the ladder he spotted a brown canvas lumped behind some empty crates. He lifted one corner and the boxes underneath came toppling down.

  ‘It’s the boxes from the cave,’ Abel said.

  Father Stephen was desperate to examine them.

  Abel knelt, righted the first dusty box and removed the lid. It was empty. Father Stephen opened a second empty box. Abel examined the last box made of yellowed ivory whose lid was engraved with a charging bull elephant. It instantly captured Father Stephen’s attention. As Abel was about to open it, the cellar light blew, plunging them into darkness.

  Abel felt his way up the ladder out of the cellar. He found a torch and shone it down through the floor.

  ‘Pass the box up, Father.’

  Father Stephen handed it to Abel and followed out the cellar. The box was bare inside.

  ‘I guess that solves the mystery of the boxes, but you are welcome to have them, Father.’

  ‘Thank you, Abel. I am interested in this particular box.’

  ‘Be my guest,’ Abel said. ‘Let’s replace the boards and have that coffee.’

  Jamal poked his head in the doorway.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the boards, Mr Borgnine, I’ll fix them. Come, I have a table waiting for you.’

  The pair drank coffee. The ivory box sat at Father Stephen’s feet. The clay tube he’d secretly removed from the box was wedged in his trouser pocket.

  ‘When do you return to Rome, Father?’ Abel said.

  ‘Later this evening, midnight flight, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I wish you well. When next I’m in Rome we might share a meal and a glass of wine together. Here is my card. I’d be interested to hear what you find out about the box. Don’t hesitate to ring me. How shall I address you in correspondence?’

  Father Stephen hesitated imperceptibly, ‘Stephen Silvestri.’

  ‘Father, do you need a ride to your hotel?’

  ‘Thank you, Abel, but I have a couple of errands to run on the way. I’m grateful for your help, and will update you about the box when I can.’

  They shook hands, and Father Stephen left the cafe with the ivory box under his arm and the sun on his back. He hailed a taxi that groaned away from the kerb in a cloud of diesel fumes.

  Jamal brought Abel a second coffee. ‘This was on the kitchen floor.’

  He unfolded his fist and in his palm, was a silver cross.

  ‘It’s from Father Stephen’s collar.’ Abel took it from Jamal and slipped it into his jean’s pocket.

  38

  Roused by a gentle knock at the door, Father Stephen eased out of his chair. Sister Dorothea stood in the corridor and handed him a pile of mail.

  ‘How are you feeling today, Father?’

  ‘A little better, thank you, Sister.’

  ‘I’ll bring morning tea in about an hour.’

  ‘That will be fine, Sister, see you then, God bless.’

  Father Stephen closed the door and sat back down. He flipped through the mail, opening half a dozen envelopes containing get well cards and notes of encouragement. At the bottom of the pile was a padded envelope addressed to Father Stephen Silvestri, Vatican Archival Curator. No priest by that name resided in the Holy City.

  He tore off the end of the envelope and emptied a silver cross into his hand, the type commonly worn by Christian clergy. Inside the envelope was a handwritten note with a business card stapled in the bottom left corner.

  Dear Father Stephen,

  Enclosed is a cross that Jamal found in the cafe kitchen. I assumed it to be yours and pray its return relieves any anguish you may have felt at its loss. I trust you are well. I hope to travel to Rome on business next month and meet with you if at all convenient. Please feel free to call me at any time.

  Abel Borgnine.

  The envelope was postmarked in Tiberius, Israel. Perplexed, Father Stephen dialled the number on the business card and after an interminable wait the line connected.

  ‘Abel Borgnine,’ said a pleasant baritone voice.

  ‘Mr Borgnine, my name is Father Stephen, I ...’

  ‘Father, how good to hear from you again. Was the silver cross yours? Please call me Abel.’

  ‘Abel, I am ringing about the letter you sent me because unless my memory is failing, I don’t recall us ever meeting.’

  ‘Surely you remember, Father. You came to my house on the lake, we discussed the wallet, pulled up the floor in my cafe and you took the ivory box from there back to Rome.’

  ‘When was this, Abel?’

  ‘Just a month ago.’

  ‘Abel, for the past two months I have been convalescing in Gemelli Hospital and in my quarters in the Vatican. And my surname is Calmari.’

  ‘My apologies, Father. I clearly remember the man I met saying his name was Stephen Silvestri. Is there another priest working within the archives? He did mention religious icons.’

  ‘Abel, unfortunately there is no archivist in the Vatican with that name. Can you describe the man you met?’

  ‘He had an unusual feature. Though his hair was dark, the eyebrow and lashes of his left eye were blonde.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone of that description, Abel. Did he say what he was doing in Tiberiu
s?’

  ‘Oh yes. He was searching for an ancient leper colony somewhere in the mountains near here.’

  ‘What about the box you mentioned?’

  ‘Father, I gave him an empty box from the cellar under my cafe. It was made from ivory, and the lid was engraved with a charging elephant. He thought it might have some archaeological value. Said he would take it back to Rome to study then let me know more about it.’

  ‘Did he take anything else, Abel?’

  ‘No, but I noticed he wore a very expensive watch. Not the sort of instrument I’d expect to see on the wrist of a humble priest.’

  ‘Shall I return the cross to you, Abel?’

  ‘Please keep it, Father. I am sorry to have inconvenienced you.’

  ‘Not at all, Abel, and I hope you find your friend. Goodbye for now.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  Father Stephen rested the phone in its cradle as his stomach squirmed.

  He dialled another number from memory and it rang out.

  His muscles ached continuously, relieved only by regular doses of painkillers. The man with the blonde hair and dark-rimmed glasses captured on the hospital security cameras was yet to be apprehended. He’d dumped a green coloured solution into Father Stephen’s drip, flooding his veins and arresting his heart. Only the beep of the flat-lining monitor, and quick-acting medical staff had averted disaster. But there were complications. His heart, liver and nerve function were affected which all contributed to the muscle pain and spasms. Tests showed the poison was a cyanide derivative. After a month at Gemelli he returned to the Vatican, his room under 24-hour video surveillance. Swiss Guards regularly checked on his well-being, along with a host of nuns that tended the domestic chores and brought meals to his room.

  He redialled the number and was about to hang up when it answered.

  ‘Hel...’

  The echo of a gunshot exploded through the earpiece and the line cut out. He tried the number again unsuccessfully as his right ear rang like a cymbal. Then he called the Vatican Exchange.

  ‘Hello, this is Giuseppe.’

  ‘Joe, it’s Father Stephen. I need a favour.’

  ‘Name it, Father.’

  ‘I’ve just made a call to a cell phone but was suddenly cut off. Can you locate it?’

  ‘Give me the number, Father.’

  Father Stephen recited it.

  ‘You’re in luck, Father. Your call was answered in Sudan, just north of Khartoum.’

  ‘Thanks, Joe, you’re a gem.’

  ‘Any time, Father.’

  Father Stephen wondered why Zach was in North Africa and how he had travelled there across international borders, evading Interpol. Perhaps he’d found what he was after in Tiberius. Still, war-torn Sudan was a dangerous destination and he’d need powerful reasons to go there.

  Father Stephen sent a text message on his cell phone.

  39

  In frustration, Zachary lifted the gun off the table and fired it over his head. The noise was deafening in the confined space, and plaster and dust rained down.

  ‘The gun is for your personal protection, Mr Smith. It is not a toy. Another stunt like that and it will take more than your great wealth to guarantee your safety.’

  Joseph Mutabe spoke with authority in a sonorous voice that matched his tall, three-hundred-pound frame. He wore military fatigues that barely contained his giant chest and bulging arm muscles. Sweat beaded on his forehead, sliding down his jaw, the whites of his deep-set eyes flashing inside his black watermelon head. He stared at the lump of plaster on the table and where the bullet had punched through the ceiling and the tin roof. To make his point he swept the mess onto the floor with his slab of a hand.

  Zachary was not intimidated. ‘When can you take me to the ruins? Four days cramped in this house is wearing my patience, Joseph.’

  ‘Not too much longer, Mr Smith. I expect word from the field this evening. If the report is favourable, we may go tonight. If not, hopefully tomorrow. There will be no moon in two days. That will be to your advantage. The Janjaweed regularly patrol the area around the pyramids and currently they are thick on the ground, preparing to defend the region northwest of Khartoum. The road leading to the pyramids is also guarded by a permanently manned checkpoint. Their forces are concerned about an attack but their intelligence is faulty, Mr Smith. We will not engage them for at least two months.

  ‘The area you seek is small. All two hundred pyramids are confined to a relatively small square of desert. The photographs you have seen do not do them justice. In the light of dawn and at dusk they are truly spectacular. Unfortunately, Mr Smith, you will not be afforded the luxury of a daylight visit. Under the cloak of darkness, I will deposit you at the northwest corner of the royal cemetery and return for you after six hours. Arrive back late and you’re on your own, a white man without a passport or identification, in a country the outside world has conveniently forgotten. It will be of no consequence to me or any of my men. However, Mr Smith, I am an honourable man. I will uphold my end of the bargain; of that you can be certain. Follow the rules as I have explained and I will deliver you safely out of Sudan. Fail to adhere to the timetable and I guarantee there will be no search and rescue. Then I’d rate your chances of survival as nought.’

  Joseph grinned like a jackal.

  Zachary’s phone vibrated toward the table edge.

  ‘I warned you, Mr Smith. Put your phone away.’

  As Zachary picked up the phone he glimpsed the message on the screen and slipped the phone into his pocket, repeating the message over in his mind.

  I know where you are.

  ‘I find it intriguing, Mr Smith, that you are so readily contactable. I hope we are not being compromised. I suggest you get some rest on the chance we leave for Meroe tonight.’

  Zachary lay on a hard bunk, his bed for the past four nights. The room’s bright green walls were chipped, the ceiling yellowed by cigarette smoke, and the empty window frame a portal to heat and flies. He retrieved the message and details of the missed call, surprised they had not come sooner, doubting Father Stephen would ever trust him again. He closed his eyes, falling into a deep sleep.

  A hand gripped Zachary’s shoulder, shaking him gently as his mind stumbled to wakefulness.

  ‘Time to go, Mr Smith.’

  Zachary had slept for several hours.

  ‘Everything you need is in the jeep. Dress warmly, Mr Smith. The desert wind will cut you to the bone. We leave in five minutes.’

  Joseph flicked on the light. Zachary squinted, trying to locate the wool-lined jacket stuffed somewhere in his pack.

  Outside, the jeep idled with a rattle that shook its dull headlights. Joseph poured hot coffees into tin cups.

  ‘Drink up, Mr Smith. The potholed road to Meroe is not conducive to sipping coffee.’

  The strong brew made Zachary instantly alert but the fumes chugging from the jeep’s exhaust were almost overpowering.

  ‘Get in, Mr Smith.’

  The jeep was old, with no seatbelts or windscreen to protect them. Joseph revved the engine, moving off along a gravel road toward the sealed highway running north, the only artery to the endless expanse beyond Khartoum.

  Zachary wished he’d worn more clothes, and his eyes stung in the breeze. Joseph drove in silence, bumping and jarring along the highway that was little more than a badly maintained bitumen track. After two hours, he veered the jeep off the road, extinguishing the head lights. Zachary gripped the rail above the glove box as they churned steadily through boggy sand. He knew Joseph was enjoying the ride by the regular flash of his white teeth. Some distance west of the highway the jeep braked, slumping to a stop.

  ‘What’s wrong, Joseph?’ Zachary said.

  ‘Nothing is wrong, Mr Smith. We have arrived. Show me the map.’

  Zachary unfolded it and Joseph shone a penlight on two intersecting lines indicating the northwest corner of the site.

  Joseph pointed into the darkness. ‘O
ver there you will find a white cement post, marking the ruin’s boundary. Behind me, away to the east, in a line bisecting the cemetery is a security checkpoint. If you get into trouble, steer well clear. If the Janjaweed discover you they will be more than interested in your activities. Careless flies rarely leave the spider’s web, my friend.’

  ‘Why not drop me at the marker post?’

  ‘You will see, Mr Smith. Now time is ticking. I’ll meet you in six hours, no more, no less. Remember, if you are not back here at the appointed time, I will be gone. Synchronise your watch with mine, Mr Smith, and be on your way.’

  By the penlight’s beam Zachary adjusted his watch to match Joseph Mutabe’s at exactly 22:00. An icy wind kicked up. He leant into the back of the jeep, took out a short shovel and a sturdy steel torch, and jammed them into an army-issue backpack.

  ‘Good luck, Mr Smith.’

  Joseph roared off to the west, spewing sand from all four wheels.

  Zachary stood in the whistling wind under an endless starry sky. He trudged off to find the post, arriving at a high fence topped with razor wire not marked on the map. He spotted the white marker on the other side then followed the fence eastward a short distance, before taking a right-angled turn due north. Zachary froze at a shape moving in the dark. He flattened himself on the sand as it came toward him. A large camel materialized, sniffed the air and continued its silent plod, westward.

  Out of the desert loomed a steep monument, its crumbling apex visible against the smoky star bed. It was the tomb of a queen. Zachary examined his map by torchlight, walking around the pyramid to its eastern face, confronted by the four pillars he’d read about. Fierce owl-headed serpents, carved in stone, wound down their lengths, filling him with dread - 22:20.

  From the pyramid, Zachary took a compass bearing and headed in a south-easterly direction. He continued past more tall monuments to a smaller pyramid that stood apart and alone. At its northeast corner, he took the shovel from his pack and started digging - 22:57.