Shrouded In Silence

by Robert L. Wise

  Stein flipped his cigarette into the ashtray. "Try this one. 'The kingdom of God must be taken by force.' "

  "By force?"

  "Yes, by the use of physical strength!" Albert slammed his fist onto the desk with such abruptness that Klaus jumped slightly. "I am following the path of truth when I exert my personal power. The Nazis understood this principle well." Albert jabbed his finger at Klaus. "Force is essential. I can teach you how to walk down this same route if you are inclined to learn."

  Stein watched Burchel's eyes carefully. The young man appeared bewildered and mystified. Albert could tell he was wrestling with what he had heard. Like a hypnotist dragging a victim under his spell, Albert could see Klaus sinking deeper and deeper into the sphere of his total control. In addition, to securing a new employee, Albert was gaining psychological superiority. His plan was working.

  "I must think about these matters," Klaus said with uncharacteristic maturity. "At this point, it sounds as if we are on the same page."

  Stein smiled. "I hope so. It is to your advantage that our thoughts stay as one." He stood up and leaned back on the desk. "If you are ready to practice taking the kingdom by force, your first assignment now awaits you." Motioning for Klaus to stand, he pushed across his desk a Smith & Wesson 459 pistol. The young man immediately sprang to his feet.

  "I want you to find where a couple lives and the address of their offices. If you get caught for some inane reason you must not indicate any relationship to me whatsoever." Stein shifted back into a hard, authoritarian voice. "Understand?"

  Klaus nodded.

  Stein handed him a piece of paper. "The names of the Drs. Jack and Michelle Townsend with there last address are here. That's all I have at this moment. It may take you some time, but there was a story on the Townsends in Il Messaggero several days ago. That should give you a lead. I want to know where they are and how to make contact should I choose to do so. Any questions?"

  Klaus shook his head.

  "Call me the moment you have uncovered them. I will be expecting a prompt response."

  To Stein's surprise, Klaus abruptly saluted with military precision like a soldier responding to a military officer. The young man turned on his heels and marched out of the room. Albert Stein watched in consternation, concluding that he had made far more of an impact than he would have anticipated.

  Klaus hurried down the stairs, patting the gun hidden in his suit coat. He knew Stein had been testing him by making him sit immobile, and he didn't like the strain. But Stein was no fool. Obviously, the man was brilliant and understood power. Not just because his grandfather had been an SS officer, Klaus had always admired the military for its precision and order. In contrast to his slovenly lifestyle in Rome, underneath it all, Klaus respected the saluting and heel clicking that had long been part of the German military. Today Stein was sending him off on a task that counted, and it felt good to be doing something responsible with a gun in hand. Yes. He could work for this strange scholar regardless of where the tide turned.

  8

  Jack Townsend stepped into the office and glanced around the room. Even though the clock hands had just turned a couple of minutes past 8:00 a.m., Dov Sharon had already arrived and was at work. Sitting hunched over his desk, he appeared to be studying a manuscript. Strange that he would be at work so early.

  "Hey, you're beating the clock this morning," Jack said.

  Dov looked up. "Didn't sleep well last night, so I showed up a tad early. No big deal."

  "That's what I call high-dollar positive motivation," Jack said. "I'd guess the last two days you've been working in the Vatican Secret Archives. We haven't seen hide nor hair of you. Anything turn up?"

  Dov pushed the manuscript away. "Mainly, I've been trying to identify what might have been overlooked in the past. Somebody up there at the top of the Vatican personnel chain likes you or I'd never have made it inside those forbidden chambers. I thought I would never get through their security. Obviously, they don't let many people down there in that pile of dust and deteriorating manuscripts.

  "You're right, Dov. The really ancient materials are extremely hard to find. After all, they bear witness to an archaic world that's long gone."

  "I thought one of those bulldog priests was going to make me strip to get in and out of the dungeon hidden down there under that library. They take their security big-time seriously."

  "Got to give 'em credit, Dov. They don't allow any slipups with priceless documents. Those boys keep a critical eye on everything. Did you come up with any specific material we can use?"

  "I found a box of manuscript fragments in a depository that's been sitting there unexamined for a long time. No one had worked through the basket of materials, and they aren't sure exactly where it originated, though they do know it was discovered during street work in Rome. So far I've found only business receipts, lists of transactions, materials of that variety from the first century, but I keep looking. Never can tell what's at the bottom of the heap."

  "You got it, " Jack said. "Some of the most important archaeological discoveries have occurred more by accident than intention. I'm sure you're looking in the right place regardless of what you haven't found."

  "I'll keep after it," Dov said.

  "What are you looking at this morning?"

  "I'm back on my study of the Sarajevo Haggadah," Dov said. "The copy I obtained fascinates me."

  "I'm acquainted with the name and know it's Jewish, but I'm afraid I don't know much more. Can you fill me in on a few details?"

  "In addition to its antiquity, the Haggadah is an important witness to our European Jewish heritage. The manuscript has survived as harrowing a journey as the Jews have trudged through during the last seven centuries."

  "Really?" Jack pulled a chair closer to Dov's desk. "Tell me more."

  "I believe the original Haggadah, the Passover ritual, was written in Seville, Spain, somewhere around 1480. That positions its origins in the late medieval period. That's a good starter for why it's important. Any material than reflects how that period operated is significant."

  "That's for sure," Jack said. "Did I understand correctly that the Nazis tried to steal the document?"

  "Absolutely. In 1941, Nazi General Johann Hans Fortner tried to grab the Haggadah, but a renowned Islamic scholar named Dervis Korkut smuggled the document out of the museum right under the general's nose. Korkut hid it in a mosque in the mountains around Sarajevo. Can you believe that? A Muslim saved a Jewish treasure?"

  Jack nodded his head. "Remarkable."

  "Along the way, the Haggadah was placed in a container with elegant silver clasps. Over the centuries many people have contributed to preserving the present condition."

  "The Haggadah's been around so long, it must have been with the Jews when they were expelled from Spain in 1492." Jack said. "Am I right?"

  "It's a complicated history, but around 1516 the first Jews settled in Venice. They came as loan bankers, and those who followed them were faced with social restrictions. Of course, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain issued their edict in 1492, expelling all Jews in a matter of days. I believe the Haggadah left Tarragona, Spain, at that time and was taken to Venice. At least, that's what the trail suggests. As our people were forced out of Spain, a book as important as this one had to have left with them."

  "It would be fascinating to get back inside that story and discover what pops up," Jack said.

  "Equally interesting would be the story of how the silver clasps on the manuscript were added as well as the bright colored illuminations. The broken old black clasps had originally been high-grade silver. To be able to put gold and silver leaf inside the Haggadah would have required a high level of affluence. Of course, no one knows who made the illuminations, which actually make the Haggadah look more like a Christian prayer book. Obviously, this document has a complex history."

  "My kind of stuff," Jack said. "I started pursuing research because it's like trying to solve a mystery. T
he data is often a puzzle wrapped in enigmas. I love the pursuit."

  "And often the chase has been deadly," Dov said. "In Venice, only the intervention of a priest named Vistorini in 1609 saved the book from being burned in one of the pope's Inquisitions. The more recent attempts of the Nazis to destroy the document still runs shivers down my spine. Hitler's pack of wolves would have stopped at nothing to destroy everything Jewish."

  The door to the office suddenly opened and Michelle hurried in. "Jack, I'm concerned."

  "Concerned? What's going on?"

  "There's a man standing across the street with a camera shooting pictures of our office building back here behind Santa Maria Church. He's crouched behind a light pole wedged at an angle that allows him to photograph between the church and the adjacent building. He particularly aimed at me."

  "Come on, Michelle. I think you're still in an overreactionary mode due to that bombing in the subway. Why would anyone want to take pictures of this house?"

  "Possibly the camera man read Corsini's story in the newspaper and it touched a nerve," Michelle said.

  "And what nerve would that be?" Dov smirked.

  "Stop it!" Michelle protested. "You guys aren't giving me the time of day on this problem. I'm telling you that the man took my picture several times."

  Jack rubbed his chin. "OK. OK. What did he look like?"

  "That's the strange thing. The guy didn't look like a tourist. He had on a brown business suit and a flashy purple shirt. He wasn't like the usual stroller shooting pictures."

  "Notice anything else about him?" Jack said.

  "Yeah. The man had a scar on his cheek and was completely bald."

  9

  Acting on michelle's prompting, Jack Townsend walked up and down the street in front of the Santa Maria Church but saw nothing unusual. A few tourists slowed to look at the church, but no one appeared suspicious. No one seemed to be taking pictures. Certainly, no man in a brown suit with a bald head. Finally, he returned to their offices behind the church.

  "I didn't see anyone out there who looks like the man you described," Jack said. "Sorry the purple shirt floated away."

  "You're suggesting I'm having hallucinations?" Michelle barked.

  "No, no. Probably the guy drifted on. I'm only saying he was probably a tourist interested in the church edifice and you . . . well . . . maybe just overreacted and—"

  "And nothing!" Michelle bristled. "I know what I saw, and I think we need to pay attention if that creep shows up again."

  "Sure," Jack said. "All agreed?"

  Dov held up his hand. "I vote yes. I'll hit him with my stun gun if he gets any closer to our building."

  Michelle glared, but only shook her head.

  "Let's get back to work as usual," Jack suggested. "Dov, you're going back to the Vatican Library today. Right?"

  Dov glanced at his watch. "They'll be open in thirty minutes, and I'll go over there to start digging into that heap of fragments I was working on yesterday. They've left everything in place for me to start in where I left off."

  The office door swung open and a man in a clergy collar popped in. "Are we having fun yet, children?" he boomed in a resounding voice that roared through the house.

  "Father Donald Blake!" Jack said. "What's an American Roman Catholic priest doing roaming in our secluded offices at this early morning hour?"

  "I'm making sure you're genuinely working and not just trying to fake out your financial supporters," Father Blake said. "I know how you academic types operate. It's that old trickster's act with smoke and mirrors."

  With only a fringe of hair around the edges, the priest's bald head mirrored his protruding stomach. Short and heavy, Father Blake's broad smile reflected a merry soul who walked on the sunny side of the street as often as possible. Around fifty, he appeared to be a man who accepted anyone regardless of their convictions, although his intense, probing eyes seemed to constantly search for inconsistency.

  Michelle laughed. "You are full of it, you old fraud. I know how you priests operate. You float around all morning trying to sniff out a free cup of coffee. You don't fool me."

  Blake laughed. "Hmm. I'm afraid I don't smell any coffee in here. You were expecting me and hid it in the back room?"

  "You've shown up before we've got the pot on the burner," Jack said. "Everyone's up early this morning and—"

  "Let's not dilly dally," Father Blake broke in. "How can I get that free cup if this woman doesn't put her mind to the task at hand?"

  "I think I'm getting the message," Michelle said. "You're hounding me to get the pot fired up. The one that's sitting over there in the corner by you. I swear you can't even allow me time to sit down."

  Blake grinned a sly smile. "You know what they say about a woman's work."

  "You male chauvinist pig!" Michelle joked. "You never give up."

  "I can't let the world go to rack and ruin because women keep trying to change the rules."

  "Oink! Oink!" Michelle shook her finger at him. "Look. You and Jack go sit in the conference room, and I'll bring the coffee in when it's done."

  "Ah, no finer words were spoken at this early hour," Father Blake said.

  The two men sauntered into the adjacent room that had once been a bedroom. In the center a ramshackle old table made a center for discussion. Jack sat down at one end and Father Blake slipped in across from him.

  "A fine morning," Blake said. "One of those days that makes me remember why I came to Rome."

  "To make calls on people like me?" Jack laughed. "Come on. I see you wandering around St. Peter's and down the streets. What in the heck do you really do?"

  "Why, I listen to people; hear their hurts and share a word of kindness. I can't imagine any more satisfying work."

  "But you are a priest and I've never heard you say to what church you are attached."

  Blake smiled broadly. "I don't want to work in one congregation. The whole world is my parish."

  "Sounds vaguely like a Protestant preacher named John Wesley."

  "I'm friends with all of them, saints and sinners alike." Father Blake leaned back in the chair and placed his hands over his round stomach. "Never object to being identified with anyone who counted, my boy." The priest began drumming on the table with his fingertips as if the questions made him nervous.

  "Here you are, gentlemen." Michelle stepped into the room with a tray filled with two cups of coffee, a pitcher of cream, and a bowl of sugar with two spoons. "Nothing's better than freshly brewed coffee."

  "I must take back the harsh comments I made when I came in," the priest said. "Your wife has redeemed herself by treating us with the honor due our status."

  "Don't push your luck," Michelle said. "You're on the edge as it is."

  "Ah!" Blake rolled his eyes and beat his chest. "How sad for me. Always living on the jumping-off point into the precipice."

  "My heart bleeds." Michelle grinned and walked away.

  "Well, Jack, how is your research coming along?"

  Townsend shrugged. "You know how it is. I work for weeks and nothing happens. Then, one day I make a big breakthrough. Right now I'm only in the digging stage of investigation."

  "I saw the article on you in Il Messaggero several days ago. Quite impressive."

  "We thought it gave our work a nice boast. Can't buy advertising like that you know."

  Father Blake took a sip of coffee. "If there's any paper that everyone in Rome reads, it's that one. No telling how many people got a glimpse into your work." The priest stopped and looked intensely into Jack's eyes.

  Jack started to speak and then stopped. Blake's instant shift from being a jovial soul to becoming a probing interrogator had to be a signal of some sort. Something was going on. Jack set his coffee cup down on the table.

  "Father," Jack said slowly. "Everyone knows that you're the happy priest who walks up and down the streets of Rome sharing a friendly word with everyone from waiters in the street corner café to the policeman directing traffic
. You know all the officials processing people in and out of the Vatican. The smiling face of Padre Don is a symbol of good cheer." Jack took a deep breath. "I sense something else is at work this morning. You sound like you know more than you are telling me."

  The priest pursed his lips thoughtfully. "You must remember that I listen to a wide range of voices and hear many rumors. And rumors are often no more than street gossip. However, you are right. I hear many things. Some of the banter does raise concerns."

  "And you are here today because you've heard some chatter that bothered you?" Jack said.

  Blake looked out the window. "We all know about that horrible bombing a few days ago that killed a number of people and destroyed the terminal station. The newspaper reports have been clear that the police haven't been able to identify what group was behind the blast." Blake drummed on the old conference table with his fingertips. "That doesn't mean they don't have some clues."

  Jack chuckled. "What in the world would that have to do with us? We're innocuous scholars who are accused of living in the past. In fact, when it comes to the politics of Italy, I'm about as apolitical as you get."

  "Unfortunately, none of that has any bearing on my concern. The problem is that you are an American."

  "American? That's a problem?" Jack shook his head. "You've got to be kidding."

  "Afraid not. One portion of the untold story about this bombing is that some evidence suggests that the terrorists were anti-American activists. Being a Yank who gets his story in the paper labels you as a possible target."

  "Oh, come now, Father. You've got to be stretching the rubber band rather far to squeeze us into that picture."

  "I'm only sharing information with a friend," the priest said. "However, I wouldn't discount anything that I am telling you." He crossed his arms over his rotund stomach and leaned back. "Have you seen anything unusual around here lately."

  "No. No. Of course not." Jack stopped. "Well, this morning Michelle thought she saw a man across the street taking a picture of our facility, but I didn't—"