I, Saul

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  “Ridiculous,” Malfees said. “We’re partners. He’d have to kill us all if he tried that.” A look came over him, as if he finally understood Sardinia’s plan. “We will all go.”

  As they headed to the elevator, Augie got another text from Emmanuel telling him where to send Sardinia. Then get as far away from him and Trikoupis as possible.

  The cafe wasn’t more than a hundred feet from the hotel. Whoever Emmanuel and his people worked with had succeeded in leaving empty an area near the bathrooms and the office. The five of them took a booth there and told the waitress to give them a few minutes.

  Sardinia said, “Now what?”

  “Knock twice on the manager’s door,” Augie said, nodding toward it.

  “Classy. Hope he’s got the thing packaged properly.”

  “You should worry more about whether our checks are good.”

  Sardinia approached the office, and when he raised his hand to knock, Augie said calmly, “Sofia, Roger, follow me, right now.”

  They slid out of the booth and headed for the entrance. Trikoupis hollered, “Where are you going? Aldo! It’s a setup!”

  Augie pushed open the door and held it for Sofia and Roger as he looked back. The manager’s door burst open and Art Squad agents poured out. Some surrounded Trikoupis, still frozen in the booth, as Sardinia bolted toward a rear entrance, pulling his gun. He sprinted around to the front of the cafe and met Roger and Sofia as they emerged. Leveling his sidearm, he ordered them to kneel.

  Augie watched from the door as a dozen more agents swarmed from every direction. “Everybody stand down!” Sardinia screamed. “I’ve got them! Hold your fire!” While he couldn’t know he’d convicted himself on Augie’s recordings and in the suite that had been wired for sound, he had to know he was almost out of options.

  As Augie stepped out behind the kneeling pair, his hand on the butt of the nine millimeter at his back, Sardinia said, “You too, Knox! On the ground!” When Sardinia cocked his weapon, Roger and Sofia lunged at him. He took aim at Sofia, but Augie was too fast. From less than ten feet away the high velocity hollow point slug slammed into Sardinia’s shoulder, and the back of his head hit the pavement.

  In an instant carabinieri were atop him while others checked on Sofia and Roger and Augie. “We’re trained not to shoot into a crowd,” one said.

  “Well, I wasn’t trained, and he was about to kill my fiancee.”

  Augie felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Emmanuel. “Going to have to confiscate that Smith & Wesson for a while,” he said.

  “I’ve got a permit.”

  “Do you now?”

  Sofia scrambled to Augie and wrapped her arms around his waist. “You hurt?” she said.

  “No, I’m great.”

  “Me too, thanks to you.”

  Augie turned back to Georgio. “I’d hug you, Colonel, but I’ve got priorities.”

  “And taste. I’ve heard a lot about you, ma’am.”

  “As I have about you.”

  Roger, who had stayed on his hands and knees until Sardinia had been secured, joined them. “Looks like he’ll survive to face charges.”

  “I don’t expect it’ll be much of a trial,” Emmanuel said. “We’ve never given the prosecution as much as we’ve got on him and Trikoupis. We even found the original first page and the photocopies in the trunk of Sardinia’s car. I almost feel sorry for him.”

  “Feel sorry for Augie,” Roger said. “I drag him halfway around the world to save my tail and we’re no closer to finding the original memoir than the day Klaudios hid it.”

  “Rest assured,” Emmanuel said, “the Art Squad will never quit searching. And in the meantime, the first page can be authenticated and you can testify that the photocopies are of the real manuscript.”

  “No, no,” Augie said. “Klaudios wasn’t pulling Roger’s chain. He wants us to find the memoir. The clues are in the letter. We just have to figure it out.” He looked at his watch. “It’s early afternoon in the States. I’m going to call somebody who might be able to help.”

  Augie dialed his father’s hospital room.

  48

  The Unspeakable Gift

  FIRST-CENTURY ROME

  FROM PAUL’S MEMOIR

  Though my ministry since the time of my miraculous conversion has consisted of preaching and writing in defense of the gospel of Christ, I confess it is difficult for me to put into words how I felt at that time. In the years since hearing the voice of Christ, I have daily strived to preach the gospel to all men, primarily Gentiles—for this is what I was called to do from the moment I became a believer. But in all that time, I have never witnessed another conversion like my own.

  I know it is the Holy Spirit who is responsible, but I feel privileged to have played a part in enlightening many men and women. Yet to convert my own mind and heart, God used none of the methods I have employed to persuade people. I was dead in my trespasses and sins, so deeply entrenched that not only did I not see them as such, but I also thoroughly believed in my own righteousness. Though to that time I had never succeeded in developing the kind of relationship with God I had longed for, I could not have been more learned and devout and strict in obeying the laws of God.

  It took a miracle to make the old things pass away and for all things to become new. There could have been no talking me into this. I went from a life of service to God characterized by persecuting people who believed Jesus was the Messiah, to being convinced by Christ Himself that He was indeed the Son of God. I traveled to Damascus as one person and arrived there as someone else entirely.

  If it stunned and amazed people who knew me by reputation, imagine what it was like for me to barge into a synagogue one day to drag out the believers in Jesus, and the next day go there to proclaim that He was the Messiah.

  When threats upon my life drove me from Damascus, I could not go back to my home. If I was a marked man in Damascus, I was a dead man in Jerusalem. It would have been a thrill to steal back there one night and inform the original disciples of Jesus that I had become one of them.

  But why would they believe me? Even when I tried this, three years later, they were skeptical. I had to have others speak in my defense and then spend months earning their trust. And rightly so.

  In the meantime, I realized God had used the threat on my life to send me to Arabia, where He could best reveal His Son. During nearly three years there—which, for the first and only time I will reveal in detail followingthese thoughts—God Himself impressed upon me all the truths that would characterize my ministry. At one point while I was alone, meditating and enjoying that sweet fellowship with God the patriarchs had enjoyed—which had so eluded me when I was a zealous cleric—I was afforded a singular privilege so overwhelming that I dare not describe its details. All I will say is that I was supernaturally transported into the third heaven where I heard things I dare not utter.

  I have come to believe that this miraculous journey was bestowed upon me because God, in His infinite wisdom, knew the trials I would later endure for His sake. He had called me to a life of endless work and self-sacrifice I might not have been able to survive, but for the memory of that gift.

  I have often been persecuted and will ultimately give my life for the cause of Christ. Somehow God was preparing me for all this by a unique manifestation. I took with me a knowledge of the heavenlies that gave me confidence and assurance that what I was teaching was true and that I would return to that matchless realm when my days on earth ended.

  I returned briefly to Damascus before finally returning to Jerusalem to meet with Peter for fifteen days. I saw none of the other apostles except James, the Lord’s brother. Afterward I ministered in Syria and Cilicia. For years I was unknown by face to the churches of Judea which were in Christ. They heard, “He who formerly persecuted us now preaches the faith which he once tried to destroy.” And they praised God for my testimony.

  Eventually Barnabas took me to the apostles and declared to them that
I had seen the Lord and that He had spoken to me, and that I had preached fervently at Damascus in the name of Jesus. Finally I was able to minister with the disciples, speaking boldly in the name of the Lord Jesus and disputing the Hellenists, another faction of Jews who attempted to kill me. The brethren sent me to Tarsus again, and soon the churches throughout all Judea, Galilee, and Samaria walked in the fear of the Lord and in the comfort of the Holy Spirit.

  The same zeal I had brought to my former life I now dedicated to the gospel of Christ, which I determined to proclaim for as long as the Lord Himself gave me breath. I am eager to recite here many details I have only summarized in many letters to the churches.

  49

  Solving the Riddle

  PRESENT-DAY ROME

  MONDAY, MAY 12, 9:30 P.M.

  “August!” his mother said. “Edsel, it’s Augustine!”

  “I had an inkling when you shouted his name, Marie.”

  “Here, you can hold it yourself. Say hi!”

  “Your mother’s going to tell me every word to say, Augustine.”

  “Be nice, Dad. She’s just excited.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  Augie was stunned to hear his father sounding much better. He seemed to be working to make each word understood, but he was making sense. “How’re you feeling, Dad?”

  “Like I’ve been in a coma. How’s Rome? Have you seen Michaels?”

  “Yes, I told you I was with him. Listen, Dad, are you up for a puzzle?”

  “I’d love to do a crossword or an anagram again, but I can’t hold a pen.”

  “A friend of mine hid something for Roger and me to find, and he left us a clue we can’t figure out. Let Mom listen in and she can write this down for you.” Augie heard his mother rustling to find pen and paper.

  Augie described the plain white sheet and lavender ink, and then read the handwritten couplet. “It’s from a poem from the—.”

  “I know,” his father said. “St. Bernard in the 1100s. The thing’s been made into a Catholic hymn.”

  Edsel Knox’s prodigious mind never ceased to amaze Augie.

  “Could be something simple if the author is the key,” his father said. “He was known as Bernard of Clairvaux. French. He was an abbot, ‘a doctor of the church’ they called him at one point. He judged pope candidates once. Considered Pope Eugenius his best friend. Kind of a friend to Protestants now, because he was skeptical of the Immaculate Conception of Mary and an early proponent of justification. That help at all?”

  “I’m scribbling, Dad. I don’t know. Somehow we’ve got to narrow this down.”

  “I’ll work on it.”

  “I appreciate it. You need a goal, something to shoot for? I’m going to ask Sofia to marry me in Texas in August.”

  “That’s not the way these things go, Augustine. Her father will be paying for the wedding, so you just show up, I assume in Greece.”

  “But if we have it in Texas, I’d love to have you there.”

  “Who cares if I’m there?”

  “I just told you who cares.”

  TUESDAY, MAY 13

  The scandal exploded in the Italian press and swept the globe by late morning. Sofia’s father’s involvement seemed to shock all of Greece, and the prosecution laughed off his lawyer’s attempt to plea bargain in exchange for testifying against Aldo Sardinia. The chief prosecutor told Emmanuel, “Se avessi qualsiasi ulteriori prove contro Mr Sardinia, mi sentirei colpevole per l’eccesso” [“If I had any more evidence against Mr. Sardinia, I would feel guilty about overkill.”]

  Sofia rushed home to be with her mother, who was desperate to defend herself against the vultures already circling their business. Augie had driven her to the airport at dawn and offered to fly with her, but Sofia insisted he stay and work with Emmanuel and Roger until they found Paul’s memoir.

  “Does your mother believe the charges, Sofia? Or will your dad convince her he was framed?”

  “Too late for that. The first thing she said was, ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ She told me she knew his reputation would come crashing down someday, because she was once in charge of his books.”

  Georgio Emmanuel said Malfees would wind up in an Italian prison. If that happened, Augie hoped to persuade Mrs. Trikoupis to move to the United States with her daughter, but all in good time.

  Roger immediately moved back to his apartment and began letting his hair and beard grow again. He broadcast online notices to travel companies, letting them know he was back in business. The press hounded him for interviews, few of which he turned down.

  Augie phoned Les Moore to let him know he would be at least a few days late for his summer-school assignment, expecting a threat or at least a lecture. But Les said, “You’re all over the news here. It’s as if you’re our own Indiana Jones. Don’t come back without the memoir!”

  Augie laughed. “It won’t likely ever leave Italy again, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Augie talked to his parents at least once a day, careful not to push but eager to know whether his dad had made any progress on the puzzle. Meanwhile Augie worked with five analysts assigned to Emmanuel’s office. They had been poring over Giordano’s letter and generating lists of potential target cities suggested by every detail they could uncover about St. Bernard of Clairvaux.

  Despite the colonel injecting himself into the effort, they had accomplished little. Italians were already clamoring for recovery of the artifact, and guesses to its nature ranged from the Holy Grail to the Ark of the Covenant.

  FRIDAY, MAY 16, 10:05 A.M.

  Colonel Emmanuel was giving a pep talk to Augie and the other analysts, urging them to concentrate on Greece, “because despite all the other possibilities raised by the Bernard connection, one thing we know for sure is that Giordano flew there and back the day after the heist.”

  Augie had forgotten to silence his phone, so when it rang he stepped into the hall.

  “Mom, what time is it there?”

  “Three in the morning,” she said, “but your father insists on talking to you. He made me turn on the light and find my notes. He ignored the poem and kept asking about my other scribbles.”

  “Let me talk to Augustine!”

  “All right, Edsel. Calm yourself. Here.”

  “Philippi,” Augie’s father said. “That’s where you’re going to find what you’re looking for.”

  “How in the world did you figure that out?”

  “The guy who wrote this, where’s he from?”

  “Here. He’s Italian.”

  “Yet he wrote this in English. That’s important. You said he wrote it in colored ink. Think that through and concentrate on the first two words, and you’ll see it works only in English. Then it’ll dawn on you.”

  “Just tell me, Dad. I’ve been working on this for days.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get it” Click.

  Augie rushed back into Emmanuel’s office. “Excuse me, Colonel, but forget the author. Focus on the fact that Klaudios wrote this in English and in colored ink. We’re supposed to get Philippi out of that.”

  “Where in Philippi?”

  “It’s supposed to be obvious, but I have no idea.”

  A young woman at a laptop spoke as if thinking aloud. “Color. Lavender. Purple.”

  “That’s it!” Augie shouted, smacking his head with both hands. “Give me an anagram for Daily ….”

  Georgio was the first to respond. “Lydia!”

  Augie dropped into a chair. “The Apostle Paul met Lydia of Thyatira, the seller of purple-dyed cloth, at a riverside in Philippi. She became the first European and the first female convert to Christianity.”

  Georgio dismissed the others and told Augie, “If we can connect Klaudios to Philippi, we’ll find the manuscript.”

  “Roger knew him better,” Augie said, punching in his number.

  As soon as Augie told him of his father’s solution to the mystery, Roger said, “I know right where we’re going to
find the memoir. Remember that beautiful outdoor chapel in Philippi, with the little brook and the Baptistery of St. Lydia?”

  “Sure.”

  “And the gorgeous little Greek Orthodox Church of St. Lydia on the grounds there—all kinds of original art on the walls?”

  “Been there many times.”

  “Ever seen that wiry little guy, looks like he’s two hundred years old, who hands out pamphlets in there?”

  “Yeah, but he hardly says anything.”

  “That’s him. You ready for this? He’s some distant relative of Klaudios.”

  “Get out! I thought Klaudios’s whole family was Catholic.”

  “I’m telling you, they squabble like brothers, but they’re related. We find that guy—I’m trying to remember his name, it’s got a z in it—and I guarantee we find the memoir.”

  “Tell Roger we’ll pick him up,” Georgio said. “We’re going to pay a visit to Klaudios’s widow, then the three of us will fly to Philippi.”

  Somehow Emmanuel talked his superiors into the use of a private jet and also put someone to work determining an appropriate reward for the two men responsible if Italy were to recover the most prized antiquity in history.

  Just before noon, Mrs. Giordano confirmed that Yuri Zodiates, a caretaker at the Church of St. Lydia in Philippi, was Klaudios’s uncle. “Most of the family shunned him, but Klaudios enjoyed him and saw him whenever he traveled to Philippi.You will find that he also does not believe Klaudios would ever steal.”

  On the way to the airport, Emmanuel said, “I didn’t want to spoil her image of her husband. Down deep she must know. Still, Klaudios should have been charged, not murdered.”

  “Philippi is less than 150 kilometers from Thessaloniki,” Augie said. “I’d hate to leave Sofia out of this when she’s so close. No idea whether she’d leave her mother for a while ….”

  “It’s all right with me,” Georgio said. “She can pick us up at the airstrip in Alexandros and save us a few euros. She deserves to come.”