Shrouded In Silence

by Robert L. Wise

  Tears edged their way forward. Since coming out of the hospital, Jack had not allowed himself to think about what had occurred the day of the bombing. Getting his head back together had been difficult enough that he had avoided mentioning Dov to Michelle. Going on without his friend seemed almost impossible. For the first time, he let himself feel what had been lurking beneath the surface. Tears broke loose and ran down his cheeks. For several minutes, he kept his head ducked while his body shook gently beneath the weight of the loss of Dov's life. Finally, the heaviness settled some and he felt he could breath easier. Jack sighed and tried to let the pain slide. He quietly allowed a sense of resolution to set in and kept nibbling at the artichokes.

  Abruptly, his mind opened as clearly as turning a page in a book. He could hear Dov speaking to him almost as surely as if he were sitting across the table from him.

  "James grew up with Jesus and must have watched his brother become an entirely different person . . ." The remembrance of the voice drifted away and then returned. "Did he consider Jesus a fanatic? a genius? deluded?" Once again the voice slipped away.

  Jack sat entranced, staring at the empty chair. He could almost smell the ancient stale scent of their old office. It carried the odor of carpets left on the floor through decades and seldom cleaned. The walls imparted a tasteless hint of peeling paint. The memory of the day of the bomb rushed back to him.

  "Something in that document profoundly troubles the Roman Catholic Church," Dov had said. "That's why they've kept it concealed under lock and key. I now know where it is hidden."

  The scene disappeared like a soap bubble popping. Jack lurched forward. One second it was there; the next it was gone. Whatever Dov started to tell him about the location of the document vanished into blackness. But one fact remained. Jack was certain that Dov had told him where The Prologue of James was hidden. Unfortunately, the revelation had disappeared with the blast.

  Two old cronies walked by. Like typical Italians, the first man wore an old fedora hat with a sport coat that he must have slipped on his back every day for the past thirty years. A gray sweater covered a maroon shirt buttoned at the neck. The white-haired man talking next to him wore a light blue sweater under his dark blue sport coat with gray worn-slick pants. Both men were shaking their hands fervently as they talked. The Italian language was as much about gesture as about words. Like the multitude of old men all over Rome dressed exactly like them, they went on down the street indifferent to the explosive circumstances erupting across the city.

  Jack couldn't be like them, not allowing tragic events to roll on down the street like the Tiber River on an endless journey. He couldn't let his sudden insight be just another blip in his memory. He had to recover what Dov had told him. The trouble was the mirage had disappeared, and he couldn't open it by exerting sheer willpower.

  Finishing his artichokes, he opened the newspaper. Il Messaggero's headline story described the bombing of an American airplane at Ciampino airport. Terrorists with The Scorpion organization had broken through a back fence and shot a couple of guards before damaging the American Super ATR parked on the tarmac. A message had been sprayed on the cement warning American capitalism to stay out of Italy. Anarchist were still on the loose. Jack immediately folded the paper and stuck it under his arm. Laying the money on the table with a tip for Luichi, he trotted back to the subway. He had to get home before Michelle picked up this story so he could attempt to soften the blown.

  The subway lurched back and forth in predictable unpredictable jerks. Hanging on to a pole, Jack tried to read the article again. Some guard had seen three men leave through a hole cut in a wire fence, but wasn't sure if that was the number of the assault team. Maybe more than three men had been involved. The police thought so. The story said national security was at stake, and the police would be beefing up their watch. Nice thoughts, but it didn't mean much. Jack had seen the police at work up close and wasn't reassured. Michelle certainly wouldn't be.

  For a moment he thought again about the sudden encounter that had returned only minutes earlier. Had that experience of Dov talking to him been real or did it pop out of the disorder that had ruled his mind during the past weeks? Could he have just made it up? Maybe the bombing had made him unstable. Then again, the recollection could be extremely important. Everything about the recall had seemed real, but what if it wasn't? The idea felt unnerving. It wasn't only a memory, but the entire episode might be an exposure of his crumbling stability.

  The subway car slid to a stop and Jack bounded through the door. Without slowing, he rushed for the gate. Within the usual time, he was back at the apartment where Michelle sat at the kitchen table reading. Attempting to create a look of casualness, Jack walked into the living room at a much slower pace.

  "How's things going?" he ask.

  Michelle looked at him for a moment. "Why do you ask?"

  "Oh, just wanted to make sure you were OK."

  "Because if I heard that the Ciampino Airport got bombed last night, I might freak out?" She held up the Il Messaggero newspaper.

  Jack caught his breath.

  "Yes, the story is all over Rome this morning and I haven't gone crazy yet," Michelle said. "Who knows? I may slide over the edge at any moment. Actually, I'm doing quite well. Living through a bombing and two attempts to kill me seems to have helped suppress my problem. You can breathe easier, Jack. I'm as cool as a candy bar."

  "What a relief," Jack said. "I thought that maybe—"

  "Yes, I know what you thought and you can stop being my father. All right?"

  Jack walked in and sat across the table from her. "I'm not trying to play parent. I simply worry about you."

  Michelle leaned across the table and kissed him. "You're the kindest man in the world and I appreciate your constant concern, but I'm truly fine."

  "Michelle, I've been down the street," Jack paused.

  "At Dar Poeta," Michelle's voice took on a condescending air. "I can smell the artichokes on your breath. Let's be a little more exact."

  "OK. OK. I was sitting down there reading the page when I had a flashback. At least, I thought I did. It seems that Dov did tell me where The Prologue document was hidden, but I simply can't bring it back to mind. The entire experience might be a figment of my imagination, but I can't lay it down. Before we go any further in our search with Guido, I think I ought to go see that priest who leveled with him. I believe his name was Father Donnello. Maybe he would be equally straightforward with me."

  "You had some kind of remembrance about what happened just before the bomb went off?"

  "Yes, it sort of popped up when I remembered how much I mourned Dov's death." Jack stopped and couldn't say anymore. His eyes filled with tears. "I guess I've been avoiding allowing myself to think about him." It became harder for him to speak. "Sorry." He choked up.

  "Dear, it's OK. Don't fight it. You need to let your emotions out."

  Jack wiped his eyes. "Sure." He sniffed. "I have to give remembering a big try," Jack said. "I must talk to that old man. If for no other reason than my own sanity."

  45

  Because vatican security agents knew Dr. Jack Townsend, passing through their check points proved to be only a momentary pause. Even though he was a Protestant, Vatican officials liked his and Michelle's An Answer to the Cynics and had on occasion recommended the book. Controversy over the book from the theological Left had only propelled his reputation up the ladder with the Roman overseers. Being considered a friend provided freedom in wandering through the Vatican Library and Secret Archives.

  Once beyond surveillance, Jack walked quickly down the elaborate corridor. The ceilings towering above him had been covered with gold designs increasing a sense of their height. Artists had massaged frescos of saints and theologians into the exquisite designs giving the hall an overpowering sensation. Once inside the second room in the Secret Archives, Jack paused to study the dramatically colorful ceilings covered with angels flying through a painted sky of elegant pr
oportions. Around the walls, pictures of long-dead heroes like Steven I the Saint, Duke of Hungary, and Demetrius, Duke of Croatia, as well as the coat of arms of Cardinal Scipione Borghese reflected an era when the Pope reigned as king of all kings rather than only a spiritual leader. Jack had studied the details of the lives of the saints and didn't pause for a second look. Unfortunately, the ornamented room reeked of medieval opulence. As he had previously done with Dov at his side, Jack worked his way toward the back of the archives, stopping here and there to study some obscure detail in order to leave an impression that he was working in the archives on an assignment.

  Once he reached the rear, he entered the room where Dov had first worked with the collection of fragments unearthed in a street excavation in Rome. The dusty box containing pieces of manuscripts sat just as he and Dov had last left it. Once assured no one was observing him, he slowly disappeared through the obscure door that opened into steps descending to the final basement and the area of an ongoing archaeological dig. Shutting the door carefully so as to not make a sound, he started down the worn granite stairs.

  A few lightbulbs attached to the walls kept him from dropping into opaque blackness. Dov had come down this same hidden descent over the slick granite. No one would go bounding down this chasm with any speed.

  No record existed of how this hidden area had been developed, which meant the Vatican was still keeping it under wraps. Probably they wanted to plumb the depths of whatever had once been down there in the Circus of Nero and Caligula dig before they let anyone in on the big secrets. The fact that old Father Donnello had been banished to the bottom of the ladder had its own implication. Whatever he had done, Jack figured the old man had probably offended somebody big time.

  A musty smell drifted up from the bottom as if someone were digging in soft dirt. Probably archaeologists had already gone to work for the day. Jack turned the corner and observed three men bending over holes in the ground far back in a recessed area, slowly, painfully working to expose what had once been a wall at the side of the racetrack. Chariots must have once raced around the outer perimeter of the track two thousand years ago. For a moment, he allowed his imagination to re-create the horses with their imperial officers trotting around the arena while the crowds cheered wildly. The scene reminded him of the majesty that had once been the Roman Empire.

  When Jack reached the bottom of the stairs, the office of the priest stood not far ahead next to racks of books and manuscripts of antiquity. To descend to this pit of ancient history day after day took a special variety of endurance. Perhaps the old priest had a gift of tenacity. Jack walked toward the door and knocked.

  "Che?" echoed from the office.

  "Un amico," Jack answered.

  "A friend?" The door opened slightly and a white-bearded head poked around the door.

  "It's Jack Townsend. Remember me?"

  "Why, yes! You are Dov Sharon's colleague. The author of An Answer to the Cynics. A surprise indeed.

  "Might I come in for a moment?"

  The old man nodded. "Most certainly. I seldom get visitors down here. In fact, Dov was about the only new face I've seen in this hole in years." Father Donnello sneered. "I think they do everything possible to keep me in isolation."

  Jack walked in and glanced around. Sitting down on the only footstool in the small room, he noticed that the white-haired old man's scraggly beard hung at odd angles from his face. Bent over with a slight hump on his back, his skinny arms dangled like toothpicks. Probably always small in stature, Donnello left the impression that time and a touch of some disease like osteoporosis had shrunken him. Wearing a clerical collar with a faded black shirt and pants, he gave the appearance of a figure emerging out of antiquity.

  "A little tea?" The priest pointed to his beat-up old tin pot. "Maybe a coffee? The water's hot." He rubbed his hands together. "It can get cool down here."

  "Thank you," Jack said. "Some hot tea would warm me on this cool November day. Certainly."

  "I haven't seen Dov in weeks." Father Donnello scurried around setting out the cups. "I suppose he has been busy."

  "No," Jack's voice fell. "I'm afraid not." He took a deep breath and looked at the floor. "You haven't heard?"

  "Heard?" Father Donnello stopped. "What do you mean?"

  "A bomb was placed under our offices," Jack's words tumbled out with awkwardness. "We've had a hard time making sense out of the explosion. I barely survived, but Dov was killed."

  The old priest froze. Color drained from his already pale face. For a moment, he stood speechless with his mouth partially open. "No," he barely whispered. "Please, no."

  Jack could only nod his head.

  Father Donnello dropped into his desk chair like lead hitting the floor. He pounded his chest as if trying to make his heart start to beat again. "I-I d-don't know w-what to say." He rubbed his mouth and shook his head. "I-I'm speechless."

  "Dov's death has been difficult for me to face," Jack said. "I've only been able to think about it quite recently. His demise has been a stunning blow."

  The priest looked away, but tears formed in his eyes. "I didn't know Dov long, but our relationship quickly became intense. The young man touched a nerve that ran through everything I have been about. I wanted to help him, befriend him." He kept shaking his head. "I-I just can't believe he's gone."

  "We worked together closely and were intensely involved in a couple of current projects. His help always proved invaluable . . . but . . . now . . . it's over."

  Father Donnello pushed his coffee mug aside. "Yes, he talked about your work in finding the original ending to the Gospel of Mark. I admired the effort, and we discussed it in some detail."

  "And we were working on the project that you call the Brown Book."

  The priest flinched. "We don't speak of that document down here."

  "I understand, but it has raised several questions that I must ask you today. Will you allow me the time?"

  Getting up out of his chair, Father Donnello went to the door and looked out. Seeing no one, he turned to a small window in the back and opened a Venetian blind. The only people in the area were the three archaeologists working far away on their dig. Closing the blind, he pulled his chair closer to Jack's stool.

  "Dov understood how confidential these matters must be. His life had been lived under the cover of threat and danger. He knew well that some issues can only be whispered about and never spoken of in public."

  Jack nodded. "I didn't live in his Jewish world, but I understand it well. In addition, to surviving the bombing, my wife and I have been under attack and endured gunfire twice since the explosion. We currently must fear for our lives as well."

  "You too!" The old man's eyes widened in shock. "Oh my! How terrible!"

  "I don't come here casually, Father Donnello. I need your help because we are now boiling in the same cauldron of hot oil that Dov perished in. This is why I ask for your confidence."

  "What do you need to know?"

  "Did anyone else besides you and Dov know about our search for The Prologue of James?"

  The old man shook his head. "I don't think so."

  "You know that my wife and I work to protect the integrity of the Scripture. Our response to the cynics was just such an attempt."

  "Yes, I know and am deeply appreciative."

  Jack scooted closer and lowered his voice further. "I can't imagine anyone in the Vatican wanting to attack us over our search for the ending to Mark's Gospel. Apparently The Prologue is another matter. Do you know of anyone in the Vatican who would try to kill us because we were looking for this book?"

  Father Donnello kept rubbing his chin. "You are a scholar and know our history through medieval times well. We've had everyone from Cesare Borgia and his murderous ways to Popes promoting their own children for high office. The Vatican has been behind monstrous crusades, and some say Pius XII failed to protect the Jews when Hitler came to town. We've had great and powerful spiritual leaders as well as popes who were
nothing more than conniving charlatans. Yes, there have been a few scoundrels around capable of killing, but I know of no one who knew about Dov's interest in The Prologue. I think I can absolutely tell you that no one in the Vatican has been after you."

  Jack ran his hand nervously through his hair. "I appreciate your candor. It's most helpful to be able to eliminate the Vatican from our list of potential attackers."

  "I truly believe you can," Donnello said. "If for no other reason than no one knows about what's going on but me."

  "Then, I have one more question. Before Dov died, he led me to believe that you had told him where The Prologue of James was hidden."

  The priest said nothing.

  "I think Dov told me where the document is hidden. Moments later the bomb exploded, and for days I didn't know who I was. Slowly, my memory began returning, but this piece of the puzzle hasn't come back. I can't decide if Dov told me or I dreamed the idea. Can you help me by clarifying what happened?"

  Once again, the priest pulled at his chin. "I never speak of these matters. Dov was an exception. My love of the Jewish people cracked the veneer that I learned to keep around myself as a priest. I should never have told him what I did."

  "Then, you did relate confidential information to him about where this document is hidden?"

  "Why do you want to know?" Donnello's voice took on a more disdainful inflection.

  "I have two reasons," Jack said. " I am concerned about my own stability. The hospital thought that I wouldn't survive the bombing. Then, it took me some time to regain much of my stability. It's important that I not walk around like some sort of zombie, thinking that I remember what never happened."

  "Hmm, I can appreciate that posture. What else is rattling around in your head?"