Shrouded In Silence

by Robert L. Wise

  "Yeah, and we've got to make sure that nothing happened to Guido during the struggle."

  42

  Tourists walking around the ruins of ancient Rome watched from a distance while police combed the area around the drain hole. Detective Alfredo Pino walked back and forth in front of Jack and Michelle sitting on a broken marble column, seeming genuinely upset. The Townsends sat quietly, saying little.

  "If I hadn't worked on my English for years, I wouldn't even know how to talk to you people," Pino said. "I have more trouble keeping up with you than any five criminals in Rome." He kept scribbling in a small notebook.

  Jack looked at the ground and said nothing.

  "You've gotten yourselves involved in a murder, an explosion, a personal attack in a church with a man killed, and now a gunfight in an archaeological ruins. Don't you think that's amazing for two people who say they're nothing but scholars?"

  "Remember that the explosion put Jack in the hospital and killed our associate," Michelle protested. "We certainly wouldn't have been responsible for such a tragedy."

  "That's the only thing that keeps me from thinking you're running drugs or pushing stolen automobiles," Pino said. "I swear! How can you get into so much difficulty when you say you're only trying to figure out Bible problems."

  "Look, Alfredo," Jack said. "We are as baffled by these attacks as you are. We simply don't have any better explanation than what we've discussed so far. Some people think it's all connected to that explosion in the metro system back in September. Others feel the Vatican has been offended by our explorations."

  "The Vatican!" Alfredo Pino exploded. "Lord, help us out on that one. Please, don't mention that idea again around me."

  "I'm only trying to help."

  "That thought isn't helpful for certain," Pino said.

  "I honestly don't know what else to tell you except the shooter was definitely trying to kill us," Jack said. "Getting shot under an archaeological dig isn't exactly my idea of an indoor sport."

  Alfredo Pino shook his head. "We have our staff working on your problems night and day. It hasn't been easy. I'd suggest you limit what you do on the streets until we get this mess cleared up."

  "Believe me, we'll do our best," Michelle said. "We're not interested in being used for target practice. Please believe me. We're not out looking for trouble."

  "Everything OK?" Father Blake came walking up. "I heard you were being chased again."

  "Ah!" Jack exclaimed. "Father Blake, please tell this detective that we're not causing all the trouble we have experienced. I'm afraid the police think that we're the source of all the turmoil. Can you help us?"

  "I can vouch for them," Father Blake said. "These are good people being chased by bad men."

  Alfredo Pino scratched his head and flipped his notebook shut. "I'll take your word for it, Father, but this is getting old. Tell them to keep their heads down next time." The detective walked away.

  "I think I once mentioned something about a hate group chasing Americans like they were wild turkeys in hunting season," Blake said. "As I recall, no one listened to me."

  "We're listening," Jack said. "Carrying those guns you gave us saved us down there in the Minerva Temple or we'd have bullet holes in our heads."

  "If nothing else, guns are a step forward in keeping you alive. I'm telling you these terrorist are mean guys. By the way, have you seen that Dr. Albert Stein guy lately? Seems like he's disappeared."

  "No one's heard of him since the first day after the offices got blasted," Michelle said. "Maybe he went away."

  "I don't think so," Blake said. "Just wondering."

  "I guess we're free to go," Jack said. "Want a ride anywhere, Father? Guido will be waiting to pick us up. We can take you."

  "No, no," Blake said. "I'll be off on my rounds, but you people need to pay careful attention to who's following behind you."

  "We were," Michelle said. "That's how the whole chase scene started. The thugs were following us in a black Audi. We ran down the underground tunnel to keep them from blasting us."

  "Black Audi? Hmm. Well, you got away this time," Blake started walking away. "Keep watching your back."

  "Sure thing." Jack took Michelle's hand. "Believe me. We're trying harder to stay out of trouble than either of you two guys believe."

  Wearing a black overcoat, leather gloves, and a wide-brimmed hat to protect against the cool wind as well as to conceal his identity, the man hurried across the piazza and crossed the street. Staying close to the walls of San Pietro in Vincoli Church, he looked up and down the street before entering a side door. Staying in the shadows, he looked carefully to make sure no one was nearby. An inside contact had already told him that this one door would not be locked even though the front doors were secured. Certainly, none of the staff would be around at 2:00 in the morning.

  For a moment, he paused to stare at the magnificent ceiling decorated with a fresco commemorating the supposed miracle of the chains. San Pietro's claim to fame was their possession of the relic of the chains that held St. Peter. Supposedly one set was used in Jerusalem and another set fashioned when Peter was held in the Mamertine Prison in Rome. The legend proclaimed that when placed side by side, the two sets of chain merged into the one chain and cuffs that the church now exhibited. Overlook the fact that there's no record Peter was chained in Jerusalem before he was captured in Rome.

  Forget the medieval nonsense, he thought. The ceiling is impressive and let it go at that. I've got business elsewhere. He hurried toward a side chapel waiting behind closed doors.

  Pulling a black face mask from his pocket, he positioned it over his face. His connection with the church had garnered a promise that the chapel door would be unlocked, and he could expect his two comrades to be waiting inside. Inside the chapel only light from the street cast shadows over the chairs. Two men sat in the rear with face masks concealing their heads. He hurried to the back and sat down in from of the men.

  "Any problems getting in the church?" the general asked.

  Both men shook their heads.

  "Unlocked just as you said it would be," the first man said. "Walked in like I owned the works."

  The second man only grunted.

  "OK," the general said. "Where are we tonight?"

  "Nobody's getting our message," the first man said. "They're not finding what we left behind telling what we're about."

  "At least, they haven't caught us," his associate replied.

  "Not much consolation in that twist of fate," the first man said. "The whole point of these strikes was to warn about American intervention. This last go-round didn't even touch that issue. Lucky I didn't get shot. We fell on our faces again."

  "We've got to do better," the general said. "Be more decisive. The newspapers like to call us The Scorpion. We've got to strike like one. Really stick the stinger in deep."

  "Forget the American Embassy," the second man said. "I've been casing that bull pen and noticed they've beefed up the police. The only reason to mess with them is if we wanted to commit suicide."

  "Here's what I think," the general declared. "Tonight we hit an American airplane parked at Ciampino Airport. There's one out that was flown in this morning. A nice small American Super ATR sitting out there waiting for us to smash it. It shouldn't be any hassle to get in because security at Ciampino is nothing like Leonardo da Vinci airport. We can hit 'em fast, hard, and get out. May have to shoot a couple of guards, but that should be about it."

  "Now wait," the second man said. "We haven't even cased the field, and killing our own countrymen is another matter"

  "I checked out the scene," the general said defiantly. "And I've got wire cutters in my car to get through the back fence. The fact we do the job tonight will catch everyone off guard. And if we hit an Italian or two, it's regrettable but necessary."

  "Yeah, but—"

  "This time we're going to spray a big painted message on the tarmac showing them that The Scorpion has struck and the target
is American intervention in the world economy," the general said. "No question about our purposes after they read that script. Everything is in my car, and we can leave now."

  "Excellent," the first man said. "This will make up for our botched attempt on the Townsends."

  "Oh man!" the second man mumbled and cursed. "We could lose our necks on this one."

  "What are you grumbling about?" the general hissed. "When we started these strikes you were with us from top to bottom. You turning jelly-belly on us? Getting gutless?"

  The man glanced back and forth between the two men and squirmed. "No, no. Nothing like that."

  "Then cut the whining and let's get moving."

  "Can't we at least give this a day to think about?"

  Reaching into his heavy topcoat, the leader pulled out a Beretta 81 handgun. "Do I hear resistance? Maybe I'm hearing wrong."

  "OK, OK." the man's voice rose an octave. "I withdraw my question."

  The leader kept the Beretta leveled straight in front of him. "I've got night-vision goggles and a personal-size 20-watt fuel cell should we need power for some reason. Explosives are in my trunk. I'm ready to hit the airport."

  The first man nodded. "This ought to prove interesting."

  The second man said nothing.

  43

  Klaus Burchel picked up the Il Messaggero newspaper and glanced at the headlines. After a second look, he hurried to Dr. Albert Stein's apartment behind the Pantheon. Clamoring up the stairs, he knocked on the door and waited to be summoned.

  "Enter," Stein's growl echoed from a distance. "Make it snappy."

  Burchel entered quickly, made a slight bow, and extended the paper to his boss.

  "So?" Stein glanced at the Il Messaggero but didn't take it. "What?"

  "Another bombing last night," Burchel said. "The story says that this Scorpion group struck at the Ciampino airport and damaged an American airplane as well as leaving a message sprayed on the concrete. Shot a couple of guards. Those guys really hate Americans."

  "Good for them," Stein grumbled.

  "Yes, and the police don't have any clues about their identity yet."

  "The police are morons," Stein said. "Absolute pack of fools."

  "I thought you'd want to know what's happened."

  "Let's see." Stein snatched the newspaper. For several moments, he glanced at the article. Finally, he said, "If they hate Americans so much, maybe they'll go after the Townsends."

  "I wonder if they have not already struck," Klaus answered. "The explosion at the house might have blown away some message they left behind. Who else would have hit the Townsends' office after I went to the trouble of wiring the whole building for communication?"

  "It fits," Stein said. "The police certainly ran me off before I got to take a good look through the wreckage. Yes, it makes good sense even if these Scorpion boys are rank amateurs." He pointed his finger at Klaus. "And that's what they are! Real pros would have blown that American airplane into a million pieces, not just damaged it."

  "Agreed."

  "You've done better since you returned." Stein leaned back in his chair and eyed his lackey cynically. "Any explanations? Have you learned anything?"

  "I was surprised you sent a man to bring me back. Even though the guy frightened me, your allowing my restoration has inspired me to work harder."

  Stein snorted. "You've had your problems, Burchel, but you also have promise and that grabs my attention. Of course, I never knew your grandfather, but Richard Baer was a great man who performed an expeditious job in running Auschwitz. I am sure he passed on significant heredity that still resides in you somewhere. You've got to release it! Let it grow! Even though you have wallowed in decadence, I am depending on that hereditary dimension from your past to arise to the occasion. Is that possible?"

  "I am doing my best."

  "About time." Stein crossed his arms over his large chest. "We will anticipate results."

  Klaus shrugged. "I'm trying."

  Stein turned back to his desk. "We have learned two important matters from the Townsends so far. They are still searching for the lost ending of Mark's Gospel, which is hidden somewhere in Rome. Along the way, they stumbled on to a second gem. This so-called Brown Book, The Prologue of James, could be the jackpot. Since we are the only ones who know the full truth about their two objectives, we are positioned to steal either or both documents before the Townsends make another smash publishing hit with a breakthrough discovery."

  "You've heard of this Prologue of James?" Klaus asked.

  "Never! And I've studied everything in the library. It's either a total fraud or the breakthrough of the century." Stein pulled at his shagging chin. "The Nag Hammadi Library unearthed in Egypt by some local numskull peasant was a collection of twelve leather-bound papyrus books and an individual tractate. At first, everyone thought it was nonsense or a fraud. Quickly, they concluded it was three cherries on a million-dollar slot machine. Takes a while but once the truth is out, the archaeologist discovering the find goes right up to the top of the ladder."

  "So, this Prologue might be nothing?"

  "Wouldn't say nothing, but it might be a dead-end street."

  Klaus scratched his head. "What would you bet on, Dr. Stein?"

  "With the Roman Catholic Church trying to hide it? I'd bet it's bigger than Piazza San Pietro. We could be talking blowing the lid off the church."

  "That would be some accomplishment," Klaus said.

  "Absolutely."

  "Unfortunately, the Townsends' windows have been shut since it turned cold, and I haven't been able to pick up much of anything with my eavesdropping device. It's hard to say where they are in their search at this point."

  "This only means we must keep on their trail with constancy," Stein said. "Townsend's wife has been working more than I expected. So far, we've been able to stay on top of where they're going. Following them through Rome's heavy traffic wasn't easy, but they didn't lose us. That's an important sign that we can keep up with them."

  Klaus scowled. "We know for sure they're carrying weapons now. I wouldn't have expected either of them to be shooting back. Of course, this raises the ante. It's going to be much more difficult to stop them when they're running around armed to the teeth."

  "And what does that mean to you, Burchel?" Stein asked with more than a touch of cynicism in his voice. "Makes you run for the cellar?"

  Burchel shook his head. "I swear I'm going to kill that worthless dog yet."

  "OK. Next time do it."

  44

  With police stationed outside the Townsends' apartment, their abode felt much safer. Over Michelle's protest, Jack still took his morning subway ride to the Dar Poeta café for the newspaper, a survey of the people walking by, and his favorite artichokes cooked alla giudia. With the continuing upheaval in their lives, starting a day with style put tranquility back in the turmoil and seemed to press order into disorder. He needed to think and did that best alone.

  Jack massaged his arm where the plaster cast had been and felt muscle returning. Before long, he'd be exercising with heavy weights and then the right proportions would return. How could he languish in despair when they'd been able to slip by the catastrophes? With police watching the street and the alleys, they could sleep at night without fretting over an assailant dropping in from some unguarded entry. Normality might be on the horizon. As soon as he got back on his exercise routine, even his body would be completely in shape to take on the chaotic world.

  Guido would be returning, and they'd go after unearthing the ending to Mark's Gospel. He had disappeared after the attack under the Roman ruins to give the excitement and confusion time to settle, but time was running out, and he'd be back soon to continue the search. Unfortunately, he didn't get a look at who was in the black Audi pursuing them.

  "Your artichokes alla guidia." The waiter set the dish in front of him. "You are the first person to order our specialty this morning." Luichi smiled. "A little early for most folks."
/>
  "Of course. Then again, I live on the unusual side. Thank you, Luichi."

  The waiter smiled and sauntered away.

  Jack took a bite and closed his eyes in a moment of delight. "Excellent," he murmured to himself and took another fork full.

  A rotund woman wearing a solid green dress came strolling by. Over the top of her attire, she had a white baker's apron with a bright pink scarf tied over her black hair and hanging loose down her neck. Her ponderous body bounced down the street like a half-inflated basketball as she made her way to what was probably a meager paying job in one of the many piazzas. The clash of pink and green seemed strange and out of place, but a collision of colors reflected so much that was Rome. The Santa Maria Church made for worship was actually a bone collection. Detective Alfredo Pino worked on finding their attackers but seemed to think them guilty of something or the other because of the continuing assaults. An ancient city filled with thousands of years of priceless buried treasures hid the hoard of the past so completely it was nearly impossible to find anything. Contradictions hid in every alley and lurked behind the endless monuments on every street corner. He and Michelle had taken on a formidable task when they waded into the sea of paradoxes in trying to find the ending to Mark's Gospel.

  Jack bit into another artichoke and held it in his mouth, savoring the flavor. Artichokes had a smooth, gliding sensation, sliding across his tongue. The aroma of the Roman-Jewish style of cooking lingered. The problem was that Rome had a billion hiding pockets. Everywhere one turned, new excavations turned up. Jack knew that the document could be anywhere and that was what made their chase so frustrating.

  He thought of Dov Sharon. Even though much younger than either he or Michelle, Dov had been like a teasing brother who could turn anything into a chuckle. His dry sense of humor had kept them going and giggling through the hardest of times. The tragedies his family endured decade after decade had taught him it was better to laugh one's way through difficulty than to succumb to moroseness. And now he was gone.