I, Saul

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  “Can they do that?”

  “You want me to tell ‘em they’re breaking the rules? We’ve got to figure out how to get back to Rome.”

  “Train?”

  “I don’t want to risk bluffing my way past the authorities again. Other carabinieri down there may not be so easy to fool. We need to rent a car. In your name.”

  “Sure,” Augie said. “But where will we go? Where’ve you been staying?”

  “On the streets. I was hoping we could upgrade your room to a suite.”

  “I’m in this deep,” Augie said. “Might as well harbor a fugitive.”

  SATURDAY, MAY 10, 2:00 P.M.

  Wending his way out of Napoli at Roger’s direction, Augie said, “You didn’t leave any evidence or anything of value in your apartment, did you?”

  “Only everything I own. Clothes, computer, all of it. I’ve been on the run since the first time I called you.”

  “But you left nothing that would hint at what you’ve done with what Giordano gave you.”

  “No. I put your gun, the original page, the photocopies, and Klaudios’s instructions in that locker. He said he had put the rest of the memoir where only he could find it.”

  “But this Sardinia is convinced Klaudios told you where, right? That’s why you’re in trouble.”

  “That’s why he had Klaudios killed. Giordano was in the way of Sardinia’s lifetime score.”

  “And now so are you.”

  “Now you’re getting the picture. But what he doesn’t know is that I don’t know any more than he does. What he wants is in the envelope I promised not to open unless something happened to Klaudios. Once he was murdered, I couldn’t risk going back to the locker. I changed my look, got new documents, and tried to disappear. It’s the only way I know to stay alive. This guy’s got the resources of the biggest antiquities protection agency in the world.”

  “But if you’re right, Rog, Sardinia is your life insurance policy. Without you, he has nothing.”

  “And without the envelope, I wouldn’t know what to tell him if I was being waterboarded. And I’ll never give it up.”

  “Why not just send the envelope to the head of the Art Squad? Let them find the parchments, keep Sardinia from marketing them to the Tombaroli, and give scholars all over the world a chance to translate and parse every word? It’d be a gift to the whole planet.”

  Roger fell silent and turned to face the passenger-side window.

  “What did I say?” Augie said. “You haven’t stolen anything. You’d be in the clear. You’d be following the law. The memoir would be protected and eventually get to where it belongs. What am I missing?”

  “You’re just underestimating Sardinia. You think my new look is for the Tombaroli?”

  “You’re sure this guy is really who he said he was this time?”

  “Yep. Looked him up online.”

  “Risking his career for this, not to mention his life.”

  “Paul’s memoir is the once-in-a-lifetime prize that could turn the best carabiniere anywhere. You realize what he and the Tombaroli could do with this, Augie? A few square inches of each page would be worth a fortune.”

  “Cut it up? They wouldn’t.”

  “Because it’s sacred? Don’t kid yourself. It’s gold.”

  24

  Shammai

  FIRST-CENTURY ROME

  Luke was fascinated to read of events Paul had never mentioned but which had clearly shaped the man he knew today. And he was eager to learn what went into the decision of where to train to become a rabbi. Luke knew where Paul had studied, but how did young Saul and his father choose?

  I was so excited in the morning that I was up before Father and tempted to go looking for breakfast for the two of us. But I knew he would be displeased if I did anything before Tefillah, so I strapped on my phylacteries and waited for him. Soon we were reciting the Schacharit, including one of my favorite parts, the 100th Psalm:

  Make a joyful shout to the Lord, all you lands!

  Serve the Lord with gladness;

  Come before His presence with singing.

  Know that the Lord, He is God;

  It is He who has made us, and not we ourselves;

  We are His people and the sheep of His pasture.

  Enter into His gates with thanksgiving,

  And into His courts with praise.

  Be thankful to Him, and bless His name.

  For the Lord is good;

  His mercy is everlasting,

  And His truth endures to all generations.

  What a thrill it was, half an hour after breakfast, to hear this same psalm recited as an incantation by a choir in the court of Herod’s Temple. The holy site, which had already been under construction for years and which—Father told me—would not likely be completed for many more, proved so overwhelming to him that suddenly he could no longer speak.

  I was in awe too. I told him, “When we move here, I’m going to study this place inside and out and know everything there is to know about it.”

  I didn’t know then how significant it was that the two rabbinical schools we were to visit that day sat on opposite sides of the temple. All I knew was that both had been founded in the previous century and that one, Beit (House) Shammai, was stricter about Jewish law than the other, Beit Hillel.

  For all I thought I knew back then, it’s hard to imagine how little I understood. I was thirteen years old, but I felt like an adult. I believed I was equal with men my father’s age. I should have known better, because Rabbi Daniel privately reminded me that “much responsibility comes with the recognition we have bestowed upon you. You realize that you are now accountable under the law for the full penalty of breaking the commandments.”

  Certain freedoms had attended being a child, smart and learned as I had been. But I should have known that the mitzvah (the biblical commandment to serve God) brought with it this adult accountability.

  That all came rushing back to me in the shadows of the great walls of the temple in Jerusalem. Eventually Father was able to speak, and he rhapsodized in hushed tones about this fulfillment of a lifelong dream and how much it meant to him that I would one day be a rabbi, “perhaps right here in this place. You could be a leader, Saul, a doctor of the law, a member of the Sanhedrin …”

  We trekked out of the temple and down a broad street that led to the Shammai rabbinical school, which proved to be a compound of long, one-story buildings encompassing a courtyard where mostly the young boys ran and played. We were greeted by the director of the school, a pale man of about forty with long, light-colored hair and generous lips. He introduced himself as Rabbi Enosh and took us on a brief tour of small rooms where classes of young men and boys gathered near—and “sat under” or “sat at the feet of”—the teacher. Soon we found ourselves in Enosh’s small office, where he offered us chairs and he sat beside his wood table.

  “Your rabbi, Daniel of Tarsus, has informed us that you are an exceptionally outstanding student,” he said, “gifted in memorization and meticulous about the Law. That is why Shammai is the place for you. Our founder, Rabban Shammai, believed only worthy students should be allowed to study the Torah. You will flourish here. Those who receive our training have gone on to become some of the most respected and accomplished rabbis and temple leaders in all of Judaism.”

  Eventually he got around to one of the differences between his school and the competition. “They would allow what they consider a harmless lie, like telling an ugly bride that she is beautiful. Would you do that, Saul?”

  “A lie is a lie,” I said. “I’d sooner say nothing than to bear false witness.”

  Enosh looked pleased. “And what about divorce, young man?”

  “Divorce? I’m a little young for—”

  “But you’re old enough to think this through. We hold that the law teaches that a man may divorce his wife for only a dire transgression. Do you know that there are those— again, claiming to be Pharisees—who would allow a divorce
over something as trivial as a wife preparing a bad meal?”

  “That’s terrible,” I said.

  “Of course it is. As advanced as you are and as far ahead of your contemporaries as you may be, here you will be challenged, tested, perfected in the Law of Moses. You will have not only memorized the Scriptures, you will understand them, be able to teach them and, best of all, strictly live by them. A devout Jew, especially one committed to becoming a rabbi, should want no less.”

  I resonated with this from the core of my being. I wanted, above all, to please God, and I knew of no other way than to be perfect in His sight. What I really wanted to know was whether the Shammai school had graduates who had reached a point where they were worthy to walk and talk with God, and to hear God speak.

  “With the support of your rabbi and the elders from your synagogue, I know our council would quickly approve your admission.”

  “Let’s not be hasty,” Father said, and I saw Enosh’s smile fade. “We have much to think about, and another house of learning to visit.”

  Enosh grew rigid. “Tell me, Y’honatan, is the other school Hillel?”

  “Is there another in Jerusalem worth perusing?”

  “No,” Enosh said, sniffing. “But I don’t consider Hillel worth looking into either.”

  “Perhaps we will come to the same conclusion,” Father said. “But it is only fair that we base our decision on a thorough evaluation of both.”

  Enosh was clearly not pleased, and I have to say I was alarmed too. If Shammai was the stricter of the two schools, wasn’t that all we needed to know?

  “Let’s leave it at this,” Enosh said, “why don’t you come back and visit me tomorrow only if your decision is that Saul attend here. If you do not reappear, I will know your decision and would not care to see either of you again anyway.”

  Father cocked his head. “You feel that strongly against Beit Hillel?”

  “Frankly, Y’honatan, it concerns me that you would even consider entrusting the religious education of your son to apostates. We have not even broached the subject of their view of Rome, sir. They do not deny that they remain open to commerce between Jew and Gentile. This in light of that fact that the pagan nations all around us side with Rome in our disputes with the Empire. A man, a nation, is either a friend of God or he is not.”

  Enosh shook hands with us. “I hope to see you tomorrow, but if not, may God have mercy on you.”

  25

  Manhunt

  PRESENT-DAY ITALY

  SATURDAY, MAY 10, 2:30 P.M.

  During most of the more than 120-mile drive from Napoli to Rome, Roger sat with his head in his hands, moaning about what would happen to his car—and to him—when he never returned for it.

  “This isn’t like you, Rog,” Augie said.

  “Excuse me if I’ve never been an assassination target.”

  “C’mon, man.You’re the only one with a clue as to where the parchments are. As long as you keep that to yourself ….”

  “What happened to Klaudios was a message for me.”

  “That’s why I’m here, Rog. Your life is my only priority.”

  “Be real. You’re dying to see the memoir yourself.”

  Augie’s phone vibrated. He put it on speaker and punched the connection. “Hey, babe.”

  “I need news, Augie. Roger okay?”

  He told her everything, interrupting himself only when he saw Roger’s terrified look. “This is secure, Rog. Untappable, guaranteed.”

  “Nothing’s guaranteed anymore,” Roger muttered. “How about her phone?”

  “Who would even know to tap it?”

  “They discovered yours, Augie! I was calling her too, you know.” Augie winced.

  “Do you need me there?” Sofia said.

  Augie hesitated. He didn’t want to subject her to mortal danger, but neither did he want to make her decisions for her.

  “I only want to help, love,” she said. “What can I do?”

  “We’ve got a lot to do, and with Roger having to stay out of sight ….”

  “Say no more,” she said. “I’ll book a flight and let you know when I’m arriving.”

  “Keep track of your expenses and I’ll—.”

  “Augie, stop! I’ve got this. Or at least my father’s got this.”

  “You think it’s wise to tell him what’s going on?”

  “If I can’t trust him, who can I trust? Anyway, he may have an idea or two.”

  “Won’t he try to talk you out of coming?”

  “I’m coming either way, Augie.”

  “He’ll understand how crucial it is to—.”

  “Please. He keeps confidences better than anyone I know. In his business, he has to. I’ll rent a car as soon as I get there. Where will I find you?”

  Roger chimed in, telling her where Augie’s hotel was. “Just to be safe, you should stay somewhere else. I’m hiding out there too.”

  “You sound better, Roger.”

  “I don’t feel better, but it’s nice to not be alone in this.”

  “You were never alone,” she said. “You knew we’d be there for you.” “I hoped.”

  “Don’t be silly. We love you.”

  The men agreed that when Augie checked in he should upgrade to a suite and add François Tracanelli to the account. “Then you can head out and round up clothes and stuff for me. After that it should be dark, and you can take the key to the train station. I don’t want that stuff in there a minute longer.”

  “What’re we gonna do, put it in the hotel safe?”

  “Got to be more secure than the train station. But at least there I didn’t have to fold it to make it fit.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that,” Augie said. “No way we’re folding it. It’s protected, right?”

  Roger nodded. “Klaudios sandwiched it between acid-free sheets and wrapped it with cellophane.”

  “Can’t wait to see it. Gives me chills.”

  SATURDAY, MAY 10, 4:45 P.M.

  Only when he was deep enough into Rome that he sensed he was nearing its northern border did Augie realize that Roger had never told him where to turn and was clearly no longer just gazing out the window.

  He laid a hand on his stocky friend’s shoulder and said, “I’ve gone too far, haven’t I?”

  Roger’s breathing was even and deep. He must have been drastically sleep deprived if even a touch didn’t rouse him. Eager as Augie was to get settled in and get his errands run, he couldn’t bring himself to wake the man. He entered Roger’s address into the navigation app on his phone and turned down the volume. As soon as his phone had geo-synchronized with the satellite, a woman’s voice said, “Fare una inversione a u quando possible.”

  He knew enough Italian to know he had indeed ventured north of where he wanted to go. Augie switched the narration to English. “Make a legal U-turn when possible.”

  It would have been safer to do this alone and at night, but with Roger asleep and unrecognizable, Augie followed the directions to Roger’s apartment. Was there a chance he could slip in and out without being detected?

  But the place was crawling with men in suits and unmarked cars the same make and model as police cars. He drove past, wishing he’d paid attention when Roger had told Sofia. All he knew was that it was within half a mile of Roger’s apartment.

  Augie pulled onto a side street and parked, reclining his seat and selecting a novel on his phone. He was determined to let Roger sleep, imagining how long it must have been since his friend felt safe enough to soundly slumber. Augie opened his window an inch and felt the cool air. Before he turned off the engine he noticed the temperature had dropped to 57 degrees.

  6:15 P.M.

  The last thing Augie was aware of was that the words of the novel began to swim and he had to fight to keep his eyes open. He was startled awake by a gentle rap on his window and squinted up into the face of a female carabiniere.

  “Identificazione, per favore.”

  “Um, y
eah, sorry. English, please?”

  “Identification, please.”

  Augie handed her his passport.

  “And your companion?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “I see that. Also American?”

  “Oh, no.” Augie gently reached into Roger’s bag and pulled out his wallet, from which he produced the phony driver’s license. “Need me to wake him?”

  “That may not be necessary,” she said. “Excuse me one moment.”

  When she went around the front of the car, Augie noticed her partner through the rearview mirror, standing near the left taillight. The female officer bent and compared the license photo to Roger’s face, which Augie guessed was mashed against the window. She went to her polizia car and returned several minutes later.

  “Are you lost, Mr. Knox?”

  Augie explained that his friend knew the way to his hotel but that he didn’t want to wake him.

  “I see you have arrived in Italy today. We cannot have you sitting idle at the curb. Please wake your friend so you can proceed to your destination. And welcome to Rome.”

  “Thank you.” Augie stared at her, wondering if she expected anything else.

  “I’ll wait,” she said.

  “Oh.” He shook Roger. “François,” he said. “The carabinieri need us to move along to our hotel.”

  Roger sat up with a great heave, grunting. “What? Augie, what?”

  Augie calmly referred to him as François again, hoping Roger would have the presence of mind to affect his French accent. “Just need you to tell me how to get to our hotel.”

  “Sacrebleu!” Roger said, and the carabiniere immediately bent to stare past Augie at him.