by Glenn Meade
The image of his brother’s body being tossed around made Hassan’s heart stutter and he wiped his eyes. We are all dust and to dust we will return.
He reflected on the last five hours. After the doctor had falsely signed the death certificate, Hassan had laid out his brother in the private prayer room at the back of the villa. There he had respectfully washed Nidal’s body with scented water before wrapping him in the simple white kafan shroud.
Then Hassan sat alone, praying over the body, grief like a dagger in his heart, his mind tormented, and then it came time to leave for Rome’s airport and the two-hour flight to Amman.
The Lear landed at 2 A.M. but it took another hour for Jordanian customs to clear the paperwork for Nidal’s remains, stored in aircraft’s hold, before the cortege drove to the Bedu graveyard near the Dead Sea, opposite the Israeli border. Now Hassan emitted an anguished sigh as the cortege turned into the burial ground and slid past granite tombs.
He had dreaded the finality of this moment as the cortege came to a halt near a bank of olive trees. A fresh grave was opened, uprooted earth piled by the plot. An imam appeared out of the first limo, and two gravediggers wearing white Arab gowns and carrying shovels materialized like ghosts in the twilight.
The Serb stepped out of the Mercedes and eased open the rear door. Hassan climbed out, choking back his tears.
It was time to bury his beloved Nidal.
The ceremony was brief. The gravediggers helped carry Nidal’s body from the hearse and Hassan touched the cloth that held his brother, kissed it, let it go.
Then, in accordance with Muslim custom, the gravediggers placed the body in the open grave, lying on its right side, the eyes closed, the shroud removed from the face, the head facing Mecca.
The imam recited his prayers for the dead, and then each man present took a turn to pour three handfuls of soil into the grave while reciting from the Quran. “We created you from clay and return you into it.”
Prayers over, the gravediggers and the others withdrew out of respect, the red taillights of the remaining two limos disappearing into the darkness.
Hassan went to kneel in front of the grave. He touched the earth, felt its coldness seep into his fingers, and he exhaled. Tonight and forever Nidal would be as cold as the soil. Hassan said his anguished prayers and when he finished, a violent crack of thunder sounded and he looked up. Storm clouds drifted, the Mediterranean sky the color of dark chocolate.
A thunderbolt sizzled and rain spattered the parched soil. Hassan looked back at his brother’s resting place and his mind boiled with a rage so powerful it made his hands tremble.
He wiped his eyes. It was time to finish what he came to do.
106
“WHO DID IT, Jack? Who stole the scroll and killed Green?”
They sat in the back of the taxi that Jack had flagged down. As it drove through the Sunday morning streets toward their hotel, Rome was no longer a traffic asylum.
Jack said, “My gut feeling tells me the Vatican. I still can’t figure out exactly what Father Novara’s twin cross symbols mean but I have my suspicions.”
“Go on.”
“Novara was an expert in old Aramaic, sure, but he could have simply meant to suggest that there was more than one messiah. I also think maybe he was trying to convey by implication that the Catholic Church had a hand in his death. That’s what my instinct tells me. Novara was dying, his life ebbing away. He used the twin cross symbols as a kind of desperate shorthand, a clue. It’s about all that makes sense.”
Lela stared back at him. “That’s a lot of supposition. You can’t make such a bold statement without backing it up with evidence. The Vatican doesn’t exactly have a reputation as a den of killers and thieves, at least not since the Reformation. What evidence have you got?”
Having spoken to the driver, Jack was certain that the man didn’t speak English, which was just as well—he probably would have crashed the cab had he understood the conversation. “How about motive? Who stands to gain most by possessing the scroll? Some rich and powerful collector?”
“Obviously you don’t think so.”
“No collector, no matter how rich or fixated they are about possessing a Dead Sea scroll, would risk multiple homicide charges and a lifetime in prison just to add to their collection. They wouldn’t be that dumb or desperate.”
“What if they had someone steal it for them?”
“They’d still be putting themselves in jeopardy. When I was in the monastery at Maloula, Father Novara said something that made me think.”
“What?”
“He said that the scroll was destined never to be seen, along with the others. Meaning, I can only guess, that other scrolls like the ones found at Qumran have been kept out of circulation. Only a very powerful and wealthy organization could afford to bankroll buying a whole bunch of scrolls. And the Vatican’s got a powerful motive. A controversial reference to Jesus that could undermine the faith, maybe even destroy it. You want to know something else?”
“What?”
“Now that I’ve put my suspicion into words my mind’s turning cartwheels. The first people to arrive on the scene of my parents’ crash were two Catholic priests and that scroll also goes missing. How’s that for a coincidence? Your own father had his suspicions that the pickup’s brakes may have been tampered with.”
“You’re starting to sound angry, Jack.”
“And the more I think about it the angrier I get. What if there was more to my parents’ deaths than just a simple accident? If the crash was deliberate to gain possession of my father’s scroll?”
“Except there was no solid evidence.”
“You’re the cop. You know as well as I do that evidence doesn’t always turn up and that sometimes the guilty go free.”
“True, but—”
“Can you even think of any other prime suspects who’d be prepared to kill to get their hands on my scroll?”
“I hate to admit it, but Mossad’s been known to carry out assassinations in Israel’s name.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “I’ve thought about that. But Mossad’s the heavy brigade and usually deals with state security. This isn’t exactly their territory. I mean, it’s not like Israel’s nuclear secrets have gone missing. It’s a two-thousand-year-old scroll, for heaven’s sake.”
“But a controversial one. Mossad’s boss said the scroll was vital to Israel.”
“How could it be vital? The document’s got to do with Jesus. He’s not exactly center stage in Jewish religion.” Jack slapped a fist in his palm. “We’re missing something, Lela. We just haven’t figured it out. Let me see the stuff you found in Pasha’s pockets.”
Lela fumbled in her jacket and handed across the cell phone and wallet.
Jack emptied the wallet on his lap. A few euro notes and coins fell out, but no ID. “Pasha wasn’t taking any chances. Let’s have a look at the phone.” Jack stuffed the money back in the wallet and flicked on Pasha’s cell phone. It played its opening theme tune and the window lit up, the cell going through its power-up sequence as the screen illuminated. “That’s a bummer. He’s got a pin code.”
“There are always ways to crack a cell phone pin.”
“We’ll worry about that later.” Jack flicked off the phone, stuffed it into his pocket, and found the embossed business card that Cardinal Kelly had given him. He waved it between his fingers. “Meantime, we need to bang a few heads together to get some answers. Talk to someone at the top of the Vatican totem pole. Someone who ought to know everything that’s going on.”
“Who?”
“How about we begin with our old friend, John Becket? The way my mind’s been working, Becket’s got a whole bunch of questions to answer. A couple of big ones in particular.”
“What questions?”
“Did he steal my father’s scroll and commit murder?”
107
THE SKY WAS still dark, rain hammering down as Hassan’s Mercedes S600 turned to
ward the edge of the village. Minutes later it cruised into a lemon grove on the outskirts and halted. Ten paces away stood a ruined corrugated metal hut with filthy white walls.
The Serb held open the car door as Hassan stepped out into the drenching rain. He led the way into the hut, a goatherd’s ruin that stank of urine and stale fodder. He recognized Josuf waiting inside. The Bedu wore a djellaba and carried an electric lantern, his curved blade stuck in his belt.
They kissed in the Arab fashion and Josuf grasped Hassan’s arm with an expression of grief. “I am sorry for your loss, Hassan. May Allah protect your brother’s soul. May his angels comfort him.”
“You did everything I asked of you, Josuf. You carried out my plans and now you must have your promised reward.”
The elderly Bedu’s eyes glittered. “I thank you, Hassan. You are a man for whom I would do anything.”
Hassan withdrew his hand. “Indeed, Josuf. Even betray me to the Israelis.”
The words made Josuf freeze, his face gaunt. “What—what are you saying, Hassan? I took Cane to Maloula to try to recover the scroll, just as you instructed. You and I are old friends. I did everything you asked of me.”
“And some things I did not ask.”
“No—”
“I am no fool, Josuf. I have ears and eyes everywhere. You involved the Israelis, you took their money. You told them you were taking Cane to the monastery.”
Josuf’s brow sweated and he had a trapped look. “I—I only told them a little, Hassan. Nothing to compromise you, I swear. Just enough to wheedle some money from them. You know how it is. We only tell the Jews what we want them to know.”
“You are their spy. You betrayed me and your treachery may have cost my brother his life.”
“No, Hassan, I swear—”
Hassan clicked his fingers at the Serb, who tore Josuf’s curved Arab knife from his belt.
Josuf recoiled. “In the name of mercy, Hassan, I beg you—”
The words died in Josuf’s mouth as the blade flashed through the air and cut his throat. He collapsed in a heap on the floor, blood spewing from his gaping neck wound. The Serb tossed the blade on the body.
Hassan’s face twisted with venom as he stepped over to Josuf’s corpse and spat on it, then wiped his mouth, moved out into the rain, and climbed into the back of the Mercedes. The Serb slipped into the driver’s seat, his clothes drenched in rainwater. “What do you want me to do about the body?”
Hassan stared beyond the limo’s smoked glass as the two gravediggers appeared again from out of the downpour and moved into the hut. “Don’t worry, it will be buried in the desert for the vermin to eat. Now let’s get back to Rome. It’s time to finish this once and for all.”
108
CARDINAL LIAM KELLY had an anxious frown as he rose from behind his desk and crossed to the window of his Vatican office.
As he stared out at the throngs of tourists assembling on St. Peter’s Square, the door behind him opened and Umberto Cassini strolled in, looking regal in his cardinal’s red cassock and hat. He made a point of checking his wristwatch. “Ah, Liam. You wanted to see me. Can we make it quick? I have a meeting with the Bishop of Paris in ten minutes.”
Kelly looked troubled as he came away from the window. “I think you’re going to find this a lot more interesting, Umberto.”
“How so?”
“I just had a strange phone call and an even stranger request from Jack Cane. He wanted me to arrange an immediate private audience with the pope. Demanded it—would you believe?”
Cassini riveted his attention on Kelly. “Go on.”
Kelly’s craggy face darkened. “Cane says he now knows the location of the stolen scroll. He also says that its contents will rock the church and the world.”
Cassini’s jaw twitched nervously. “Those were his exact words?”
Kelly nodded. “He said he would only discuss it with the pope. And that if we don’t comply with his request within the next hour, he’ll divulge what he knows to the newspapers. He says if that happens, then tomorrow’s headlines would make for interesting reading.”
“What else did he say?”
Kelly wrung his hands worriedly. “Nothing, but I got the feeling he was hinting that the Vatican could be in the firing line for some kind of scandal if his wishes aren’t met.”
“What kind of scandal?”
Kelly restlessly came away from the window. “I’ve no idea, Umberto. I told Cane that a papal audience can’t be arranged just at the drop of a hat. Besides, his request was highly irregular.”
Cassini slumped into the chair in front of Kelly’s walnut desk and ran a hand over his face, his mind working overtime. “Did Cane say where he was calling from?”
“No. Why?”
“Just curious.”
“He didn’t stay very long on the phone either. I got the impression he was afraid his call might be traced.”
“Did he now?”
Kelly added worriedly, “This has a bad feel to it, Umberto. I can sense it in my bones. What are we going to do?”
Cassini’s mouth twisted in a scowl as he pushed himself up from the chair.
“Apparently the only thing we can do. Arrange for Cane to speak with the pope at once.”
Angelo Butoni no longer wore his Levi’s T-shirt and corduroy jacket, but a shirt and tie. As he ushered Sean Ryan into his office, the monsignor said expectantly, “You told me you followed the pope back to the monastery. So where exactly did he go?”
“As I explained on the phone, he drove to a house not far from the railway station, about a block from the red-light area,” Butoni answered.
“Give me the details,” Ryan demanded.
“He went in the front door, which was opened by an attractive middle-aged woman.”
Ryan sighed deeply. “Don’t tell me we’ve got the makings of a scandal here, Angelo.”
“I checked. The house is registered to a Father Kubel. The woman in question was Kubel’s sister and housekeeper.”
“Was?”
“A doctor visited the house about half an hour after the pope arrived. It seems Father Kubel was terminally ill with cancer and passed away. I saw his body being removed by paramedics and got the gist of the story from his neighbors.”
Ryan sighed again, this time with relief. “Kubel, you say?”
“Franz Kubel. I checked on him with the diocese. He was an archaeologist as well as a priest, and spent years working in Israel. Why, do you know him, Monsignor?”
“The name rings a bell.”
“It seems the pope may have been privately visiting Kubel these last few days. The priest was on his deathbed.”
Ryan wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. “Well, thankfully we’ve got a simple enough explanation, that’s all I’ll say. But why all the secrecy on the pope’s part?”
A knock came on the door and a plainclothes Vatican security officer appeared. “The lab results you wanted, Angelo.”
He handed a sheet of paper to Butoni, who read the contents, frowned, and looked up at the man. “You absolutely certain about this?”
“A hundred and ten percent, boss.”
“Thanks, Rico, you can go.”
The man left and Ryan said, “What was that all about?”
Butoni held up the paper in his hand. “The threatening letter to the pope that you asked me check for prints. The one that Cardinal Cassini received. And the videotapes of the Vatican archive building, where the secret archive documents went missing. You asked me to review all the security tape footage since the day after the pope’s election.”
“Go on, Angelo.”
“We didn’t find any fingerprints on the sheet, but I got samples of printed letters from every cardinal’s office, going back several years, and checked them against the paper type and printer font in the original threat letter.”
Ryan smiled and his ears pricked up. “Good man, Angelo, that’s what I like to hear. Find anything interesting?
”
“I think you could say that. And I’d like you to have a look at one of the archive’s security videotapes while we’re at it.”
“Why?”
“I think we’ve found our thief.”
109
AVENTINO
ROME
THE TAXI PULLED up outside the gates of a centuries-old sandstone villa and Jack climbed out. A marble inscription on the wall said: “White Fathers. Monastery of Aventino.”
Jack approached the wrought-iron entrance gates, manned by two plainclothes guards, stern-looking men whose stare never left him. He presented his passport, told them his business, and one of the guards spoke into a walkie-talkie. When he received a reply, the man unlocked the gate.
The moment Jack stepped inside, the gate was locked again. He had left the pistol he’d taken from Pasha with Lela, which was just as well because the second guard used a metal detector and then frisked him before the front door opened and a cheerful, bearded monk appeared. “I’m Abbot Fabrio. We’ve been expecting you, Signore Cane.”
Jack followed him inside. Two more cautious guards lingered in the corridor, keeping watch on the door and eyeing their visitor.
“This way, please.” The abbot led Jack down the hallway to an open doorway. Beyond lay a lush garden full of palm and olive trees. A fountain resembling a stone fish spewed water from its mouth into a pond covered with water lilies.
Another pair of watchful plainclothes guards strolled in the far end of the garden. One of the men had his jacket open to reveal a holstered automatic pistol. His companion wore a Heckler & Koch machine pistol draped across his chest.
The abbot grimaced. “Guns, I hate them. But they’re a necessary evil to protect the pope.” He gestured to a bench facing the fountain. “Please, take a seat and I’ll tell him you’ve arrived, Signore Cane.”