The Lost Book of Wonders

by Chad Brecher

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Legal Page

  Prologue Venice15 April, 1355

  Rome, Italy1998

  Mosul, Iraq

  2005

  Fourteen Months Later

  1 Venice, Italy

  2 NYC

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9 Cape Town, South Africa

  10 Venice, Italy

  11

  12 NYC

  13 Venice, Italy

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42 Tomar, Portugal

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  Mongolia

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  76

  77

  78

  79

  80

  81

  82

  83

  84

  85

  86

  87

  88

  89

  90

  91

  92

  93 New York

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 — Chad Brecher

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED—No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the authors, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Published by Deeds Publishing in Athens, GA

  www.deedspublishing.com

  Cover by Mark Babcock

  Printed in The United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publications data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-1-944193-86-7

  EISBN 978-1-944193-87-4

  Books are available in quantity for promotional or premium use. For information, email info@deedspublishing.com.

  First Edition, 2017

  for Sara

  “…because there are many great and strange things in his book, which are reckoned past all credence, he was asked by his friends on his death bed to correct it by removing everything that went beyond the facts. To which his reply was that he had not told one half of what he had actually seen!”

  — Dominican friar Jacopo d’Acqui, Imago Mundi, on the death of Marco Polo

  Prologue

  Venice

  15 April, 1355

  A Piazza San Marco!

  The voices were growing more frantic outside, joined by echoing footsteps across the stone.

  Domenico scampered to the window, withdrew the curtain slightly, and peered through the glass. Cloaked forms jostled each other as they passed by the window and made their way towards the bridge. Domenico momentarily caught a metallic glint in the crowd as a man attempted to cover his sword with his cape. A parade of torches filled the courtyard with orange and red.

  There isn’t much time, Domenico thought with alarm as he retreated from the window and crawled across the wooden floor until his fingers found the edges of the oversized rug. As the torchlight cast menacing shadows against the far wall, he struggled to push aside the heavy fabric.

  The floorboards beneath the rug were newer than the surrounding wood. Finding the edge of a strip of wood, Domenico drove the tip of the metal rod under the plank and eased the fulcrum to the floor with a grating sound. The plank suddenly released with a snap, sending two nails skipping across the floor. He reached down, his fingers finding the back side of the adjacent plank. A scream from outside caused him to hesitate and glance back at the front door.

  It is all unraveling!

  Domenico gripped the piece of wood and pulled upward with all his strength. The second plank gave way with a crack. Able to right himself, Domenico tossed the piece of wood aside.

  This is taking too long, he thought anxiously as he looked down at the small hole. His hands searched in the darkness until his fingers found the hatchet resting on the floor beside him. Gripping the ax, he began to swing it repeatedly against the wooden floor, splintering the planks. He stood up, raised the heel of his boot, and drove it hard into the floor. The wood disintegrated beneath his foot, nearly sending him toppling forward into the darkness before he was able to regain his balance.

  He dropped to his knees with urgency, lowered his torso to the ground, and extended his arms into the blackened pit. His hands explored the darkness until he was able to locate the metal chest. With his muscles straining, Domenico withdrew the chest from the hiding place and, with a final grunt, set it safely on the floor beside the hole.

  Domenico stared at the ducal coat of arms as he caught his breath. The throng outside was growing more raucous. Springing to his feet, he lifted the chest and made his way towards the back door. As his right hand found the handle, the front door swung open with a bang. The cacophonous voices from the mob immediately filled the room. Domenico froze, his hand instinctively gripping the handle of the dagger he had slid under his belt.

  Isabel stood in the doorway, nearly out of breath. She looked at Domenico with confusion and alarm.

  “It’s the Doge!” she cried out, her eyes wide with concern.

  Domenico sighed, relieved to see that the intruder was his wife. “I know, Isabel. I know!” He pulled at the knob and opened the back door.

  Isabel stared with apprehension at the shattered wooden planks haphazardly piled beside the gaping hole in her floor.

  “What is going on? What is this all about?” she asked.

  “Close the door!” Domenico barked back. “You will get us both killed.”

  Isabel reached for the door and closed it as if in a trance. Behind Domenico, the opened back door revealed the flickering water of the canal. Domenico maneuvered down a small series of stone steps, teetering precariously as the weight of the chest threatened to topple him into the water. With a final heave, he hoisted the chest into the small flat-bottom boat.

  He looked back at his wife before climbing into the boat. “I have something I must do. Do not speak of this night ever. If all goes well, I will be back soon.”

  “Where are you going?” Isabel begged as she ran to the steps.

  Domenico pushed off with the edge of a paddle, sending the boat floating slowly away from the back of his house. He peered over his shoulder a final time, spotting his wife’s form still on the landing. The less she knows, the better, he thought sadly, regretting that he had unwittingly dragged her into danger. Domenico looked down at the black water as his paddle broke the surface with a ripple.

  We waited too long! he thought. We will be lucky if a
ny of us survive this night!

  Domenico silently navigated through the mazelike canals as the sounds of panic echoed across the city. When the boat passed under a stone bridge, he watched as his fellow Venetians scampered across the bridges towards the piazza. He felt a sense of sadness at the thought that they would probably never know what this night was truly about. What lie will they create to mask this night? Domenico wondered. As he continued to row, the noise from the crowds grew fainter until it was a mere rustle. The waterway grew tranquil, the moonlight giving the black water a silvery glow.

  I must get to the Arsenal, he thought desperately. A boat would be waiting to secret away the chest — far away from Venice — to safety. What had the Doge said? Domenico asked himself.

  “Domenico, they must never take possession of this chest. Never.”

  Domenico could see the masts of ships looming over the buildings. He allowed himself to sigh with relief. Not much farther!

  Domenico drew the boat alongside a wall that lined the waterway to prevent detection. The sound of whispering and the flap of footsteps against stone broke the silence. Withdrawing the paddle from the water, he allowed the boat to drift with the current. Domenico stiffened his body and listened. An eerie quiet settled in, interrupted by a faint, rhythmic splish-splash noise, like waves meeting the shore and then retreating.

  As he turned the boat down the canal towards the docks, he froze with horror. A human form hung from a bridge, swaying to and fro. As the boat neared the body, Domenico could see a man with hands bound behind his back, his chin dipped down towards his chest as if he were asleep. The man’s feet were partially immersed in the water, allowing the current to lap at them periodically. A sign was suspended from the man’s neck with scarlet red wording:

  THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS TO TRAITORS

  Domenico maneuvered the boat under the bridge, avoiding the hanging man. As he passed by, he looked up at the face and whimpered. The Captain! This was the man he was supposed to deliver the chest to. This was the man who was going to spirit away the box and its contents before it was too late. Domenico moaned.

  He slowed the boat and brought it up against the wall of the canal. In the distance, he could see that all the outlets to the lagoon were blocked by men dressed in black, holding torches. There was no escape. The secret was out. They had been betrayed!

  His mind raced as he tried to weigh his options. He could try to evade the boats, but he knew that was futile. He recognized what these men were capable of. He had witnessed the torture, heard the screams echoing from the inquisition chambers, seen the entrails coiled across the stone floors, smelled the feces, bile, and blood. If caught, one thing was certain — a horrible death.

  There are better ways of dying, he thought as the boat bobbed up and down.

  He slowly advanced the paddle into the water and directed the boat backwards until he was out of sight of the lagoon. Gripping the chest, he lifted it up. The boat teetered dangerously, threatening to send both him and the chest overboard. Domenico spread out his legs, regained his balance, and planted the chest on the edge of the boat. He looked down at the box a final time. The ducal coat of arms was exquisite — a wedge of yellow in the upper left, a wedge of black in the upper right, and a semicircle of beige on the bottom. The chest had been sealed with a resin, as instructed for ocean travel. There was still hope.

  They must never take possession of this chest. Never.

  Domenico rested his palms against the side of the chest and pushed. The container dropped into the dark water with a splash, sending the boat bobbing back and forth. He watched as it slipped beneath the surface and disappeared.

  The boat began to drift away with the current towards the lagoon. In the distance, a darkened form on another vessel yelled, “You, come forward. We must inspect your boat on order of the Council of Ten.”

  Domenico fell backwards into the boat with exhaustion. His hands searched his pockets and pulled out a flask. He uncorked it, brought it to his lips, hesitated, and smiled. The apothecary had looked at him with a mix of suspicion and devilish amusement when he had bought it. “How big a rat, you say?” the man had asked. Domenico drew his hands far apart and muttered, “It’s for a very, very big rat.”

  The liquid tasted bitter and he fought to keep it down. He threw the paddle over the side of the boat and lay down upon the wooden deck. As the boat floated slowly and serenely towards the lagoon, Domenico looked up at the stars and the moon.

  There are better ways of dying.

  Rome, Italy

  1998

  Father Italo Marconi felt sick.

  It was not the sickness that accompanied a cold, but a more sinister illness that had crept into his body and dug in deep, wrapping itself tightly around his core, his soul. It had only gotten worse since he crossed the Tiber River and left Vatican City behind.

  His legs felt rubbery as he slowly made his way down the center aisle of the bus. He avoided the stares of the passengers while his trembling hands gripped each metallic ring suspended from the ceiling, one after another. The priest could see the impatient eyes of the bus driver following his measured movements in the mirror until the driver caught the white of Father Marconi’s collar poking out from under his overcoat, made the sign of the cross, and looked away with embarrassment.

  An elderly woman in the front seat suddenly reached out and gripped his wrist. “Father, you do not look well.”

  The priest managed a crooked smile and nodded in silence, gently breaking the woman’s hold. He momentarily caught his reflection in the mirror and was horrified to see the ghostlike pallor of his skin.

  He took the steps one at a time until he was left standing alone beside the bus. Father Marconi watched as the bus hissed like a vicious snake, pulled away from the curb, and sped off down the street, leaving behind a black cloud that slowly dissipated. He looked down at the archival tubing that he clutched firmly against his body. Although weighing just a few ounces, it felt as heavy as lead in his hands.

  The priest glanced at his surroundings. A billboard showed a bare-chested man looking intently at a gold watch. Several tourists sat at small tables pushed up against the storefront of a café, flipping through a guidebook. Beside the café was a lingerie store with scantily clad mannequins in the window.

  Rome.

  He wished he were back across the river and not in such a place of decadence. For a city of so many churches, Father Marconi could not help but feel a sense of dismay at the spiritual depravity of the modern city of Rome. And now, he was being sucked into its vortex.

  He grimaced and walked a short distance down the street, finally stopping in front of a bank with elaborate Roman columns and a domed roof. He glanced down at the address written in his shaky handwriting and tried to muster enough saliva to swallow, but found his mouth unbearably dry.

  What am I doing?

  Father Marconi had worked for over thirty years as the chief librarian at the Vatican Central Library. He was the entrusted gatekeeper of information, the organizer of a seemingly infinite collection, and the protector of secrets long since buried behind the stone walls. He had no doubt that his betrayal would go unnoticed. There were, after all, levels of secrets. Some secrets were hidden until they were ultimately forgotten as the generations passed and bled into the centuries. No, there would be no grand discovery of its absence, no formal trial. In any event, he could deal with the repercussions of this world. It was the next world that weighed profoundly on him — his spiritual salvation. He was now a sinner.

  Father Marconi pushed open the glass-paneled door and entered the bank. The noise of the busy street disappeared and was replaced by the hushed silence of the interior. The modern space contrasted sharply with the classical exterior. The bank was empty except for a teller, a guard, and a receptionist. He walked past the guard and approached the young woman behind a desk of frosted glass.

  “Mi scusi, signora. I am supposed to give this to you,” Father Marconi said. He unfo
lded a piece of paper and handed it to the woman.

  The woman examined the paper and smiled at the priest. “Yes. He has been expecting you. Please follow me.”

  Father Marconi followed the woman down a narrow hallway. They arrived at a metal door. A guard rose from a desk and approached the door. The priest watched as the woman withdrew a key, placed it in the keyhole, and waited as the guard did the same in another keyhole a distance away. After simultaneously turning the keys, the metallic door opened.

  The woman motioned for Father Marconi to go forward. As he advanced, the door was fastened shut behind him. He could hear the woman say, “Father, this bank is very discrete. Please go to room eight and knock.”

  The priest found himself in a large vault with an endless number of silver safe-deposit boxes that made up the walls. There were several doors labeled with numbers. He found room eight, brought his knuckles against the door several times in quick succession, and waited. Soon thereafter, a man opened the door.

  The man was in his late thirties, with tightly cropped, jet-black hair. He wore a smart, black Armani suit that was fitted to his muscular frame. His eyes, as dark as his suit, were calm and controlled. This is the man behind the voice, the priest thought. It seemed so long ago that he was first contacted after leaving the hospital.

  “Father, please.” The man directed Father Marconi to sit down on a silver, metal chair. As he sat down, the man walked to the opposite side of the black table and sat down himself.

  “You are the man I spoke to on the phone?” asked the priest.

  “Yes. I am Jonas,” the man replied nonchalantly.

  “Are you him, the man who can make things happen?” The priest started to ask more, but stopped after realizing how confusing his statement sounded.

  Jonas chuckled briefly. “I think I know what you mean. No, I am not him. He is…how shall I put it…a patron. I make things happen for him…and you for that matter. I am here to ensure that our transaction is completed. If you fulfill your side of the deal, you will only see me today and never again. Do you have it?”

  The priest looked below the table, aggrieved. He leaned down, retrieved the tubing, and slid it across the table. Jonas lifted the tubing, popped off the top, and put on acid-free gloves. Reaching into the container, he withdrew the contents. He smiled, uncurled the parchment onto the table, and examined it closely. Satisfied with what he saw, he re-curled the document, slid it back into the tubing, and set the cylinder aside on the table.