The Complete Donavan Adventure Series

by Tom Haase

  “No big deal?” she shouted back at the phone. Scott would never get it. He’d betrayed her and that betrayal he now called no big deal?

  “Think about getting a look at the Greek manuscripts,” he tempted her. “They’re right in in your area of specialty.

  The mention of Greek manuscripts sent her mind into hyper drive. Scott knew Greek and would be able to tell if they were old writings. If they were some lost or to date unknown ancient texts, this discovery could end up being a feather in her cap as well.

  “Do you have copies of all these papers?” she asked.

  “No. I plan to copy a few more pages, but tomorrow I can examine all of them again. I’m meeting with the curator and the museum archeologist this evening. He’s going to tell me how he made the discovery of what he believes are old Arabic scrolls.” Bridget now noticed his voice sounded louder in his anticipation of learning more.

  “Make sure you ask questions. Don’t just sit there and believe everything they say. Remember, they’re after money and credit for any such find,” Bridget said. She clenched her hand into a fist and banged the side of her leg. He needed to understand the stakes here.

  “I believe some of the Arabic parchments may be translations from Greek documents we know about from references by others. They may be the transliterations, or in some cases exact translations, of the originals into Arabic.” He stopped. She could almost hear the gears spinning in his head.

  “What? There’s something you’re not telling me?”

  “There’s a map and I believe a detailed listing of a treasure. I…don’t know how to figure out…the code on the map, so—”

  “This can’t be. They’re probably fakes, including the Arabic text. You can’t believe they’re authentic.” A plan blossomed in Bridget’s mind. The ride to the airport would take three hours and from her previous departures, she knew that the last plane left around nine at night. And if she thought about it, she wanted to make sure Scott didn’t get himself into any danger. She remained furious with him but he remained her baby brother. If anyone killed him, it was going to be her, not some stranger. Bridget thought about her brother’s piercing black eyes and his long, black hair that no one could convince him to cut. His natural olive skin made him a handsome fellow in anyone’s book.

  Yes. A trip to Warsaw appeared in order.

  “Where are you staying in Warsaw?” she asked.

  He told her the name of his hotel.

  “This better not be a wild goose chase…or should I say wild text chase,” she warned.

  “All I can say,” Scott continued, “is they look genuine to me. I’ve handled these types of texts before in our national museum and know what they look like and how to handle them—which, I might add, they are doing a poor job of at this museum. But you’re the best person I know who has the Greek knowledge and is an ace at figuring out puzzles. I know for it to be real we must have them authenticated.”

  She could hear his rapid breathing as he continued, “Someone will need to discover the location of the treasure. You were always the genius in that area. I need your help in this. It may be an extraordinary find. We have to be the ones who discover this historic and potential multi million dollar treasure.”

  “They’ll think the writings of Peter are the most important, but I think this map is. There are but two pages of Peter’s writing — let’s say his gospel. No one knows about it. Even the curator missed it because he thinks all the documents are in Arabic. Can you come? Do you believe this is happening to me on my first—”

  “You’re losing your objectivity. But the remainder of the text has to be found. Two pages do not a gospel make. Calm down. You probably have nothing but a mythical treasure and some fake Latin and Greek documents. How in the hell could they be in Warsaw? No historical proof suggests such a thing. Wait a minute.” She heard a beep from her phone. On examination of the display the battery low light blinked.

  “My battery is running low. Don’t tell anyone anything. Don’t say any more. Keep those pages in a safe place. I’ll be there.” She disconnected and shook her head in wonder. What the hell had little brother gone and done?

  This discovery would make both of their careers and might even provide world-shattering…hell no. Stop it. That is too far down the road. Get real, girl. She punched the end button on the phone, and moved toward the truck, determined to protect Scott from making a fool of himself. If what he said proved true— but no, it couldn’t be.

  She needed to convince him to drop the matter before he lost credibility. If he became associated with such a find and it proved a forgery or a deliberate fake, he would be ruined and become the laughing stock of the experts in his Arabic and Islamic studies area. Her little brother might mess up his new career before he even got started. She must prevent that catastrophe, no matter what happened to her before.

  As she travelled to the airport, she took the time to wonder about the attackers. Were those brigands who just after money or something else? One white man seemed very strange. She would have expected two Africans. Besides, why would they raid an archeological dig where no one kept any amount of money?

  That might mean they weren’t after money. What if someone had sent them to kill her?

  2

  Warsaw National Museum – 3:34 p.m.

  When Scott hung up, an uncomfortable sense of doubt wormed its way into his brain. He should be more skeptical, his sister right. As a trained academic, he must force himself to slow down and not believe his assumptions without scientific proof, or at least a rational explanation concerning the discovery of the documents.

  He returned to the museum archives and delved into the writings. Scott lost track of time. He jumped when the door swung open and the curator entered. His half-rim glasses made Scott smile. The man looked and played the part of an old-world museum curator down to the ivory-tipped cane and his flowing snow-white hair.

  “Well, young Scott. What do you think of the documents?” The curator’s Polish accent acute when he spoke English.

  Scott couldn’t put his finger on it, but something didn’t seem right with the curator’s demeanor. A normal curator would exude delight at the find before revealing everything to the world. But Mr. Wozniak had kept the knowledge of the discovery to a select few. On the other hand there were, after all, the authentication problems and that must weigh on the curator’s mind.

  “It’s an amazing find. Have you determined how they came to be here?” Scott asked.

  The curator poured himself a cup of coffee from the side table, took a drink, and flipped his white hair back over his head and out of his eyes.

  “The museum archeologists, under the supervision of Cezar Zamoyski, our distinguished head of that department…” He stopped and wiped the sides of his mouth with a paper napkin before continuing, “After examining the chest I found, he concluded it may be part of the booty our king brought back to Poland. You will remember that John III Sobieski saved Europe from the Islamic invasion by defeating their army at the gates of Vienna in 1683. He brought much of the spoils of the battle, including gold and other items, back to Poland. Many believe he gave valuable manuscripts to a monastery, but we always supposed that to be a tall tale to increase the king’s stature. Now, however, we may have located at least some of those lost documents.”

  Scott took off his small reading glasses. His eyes were good at distance, superb, in fact, for weapon shooting on the pentathlon team at university. For up-close reading he often needed glasses, mainly in dim light.

  “That would explain all these Arabic texts,” Scott said. “I would like to hear the story of how you discovered this treasure. I believe these documents contain the writing of the Prophet Mohammed, and perhaps a large section of the Koran. I suggest you do more examinations to determine the exact age, but my first guess is you may have an early copy or even perhaps the originals based on the writing style and some of the archaic words used. It could help me date the Latin and Greek texts.”
Even as he slipped up, Scott damned himself. He did not intend to mention those at this time.

  Wozniak’s eyes narrowed as he fixed a stare on Scott.

  “I didn’t know there were any Latin or Greek texts. I only saw Arabic writing.” The curator then took on an affable smile. “My secretary just copied the manuscripts blindly, ensuring no damage occurred in the process. May I?” He reached for the copied document.

  Scott handed him the Latin text. As he examined it, the curator’s face glowed in excitement. His eyebrows rose as he continued to read. Scott assumed, in a predominately Catholic country like Poland, most of the older people probably received schooling in Latin during their academic years. Mr. Wozniak mumbled as he translated the text, and then looked up, a grin on his face.

  “Scott, do you realize what this is?”

  “I can, however, recognize the first words, ‘I am Peter the apostle of Jesus Christ’ I believe is what it states.”

  “You haven’t told anyone, have you?” Wozniak asked.

  Scott knew that years of scholarly research were needed to validate the find but the publicity for the museum would provide worldwide recognition. The curator, for some reason, seemed determined to keep his secret from the world.

  “Can you read any of the Greek documents?” Wozniak asked without waiting on an answer to his first question.

  “No, not really,” Scott admitted.

  “Let me call Cezar. He’s an expert,” the curator said, referring to another museum employee Scott saw a few times but never met.

  After making the call, he returned and soon a large man entered he room.

  “What have you got now?” Cezar demanded.

  Wozniak introduced Scott. Scott told Cezar of the Latin and Greek text and what the Latin text said.

  “It can’t be a gospel according to St. Peter, can it?” Wozniak asked.

  “I doubt it,” Scott chimed in, trying to mirror some of Bridget’s skeptical outlook.

  “Wait just a second,” Cezar’s voice boomed. “If I recall, there exists one reference of such a gospel from the second century. A Gnostic named Marcion provided the first list of books he felt appropriate for a New Testament. It contained a short list of books and the single time this gospel was mentioned and then dismissed as an error on the part of the writer. In reality, the first officially sanctioned list of books in the New Testament was by Irenaeus of Lyon. But there’s no mention made of a gospel by Peter. Church leaders solidified Irenaeus’s index in the fourth century. St. Jerome persuaded the church to adopt the list of books listed by Irenaeus as the inspired word of God.”

  “You tell me that a gospel by St. Peter could exist? I don’t believe it,” Wozniak said.

  Cezar looked at each in turn, and then said, “Many in the past believed the Popes kept selected documents in their personal possession and this one you uncovered might contain instructions given to Peter by Jesus. Some might even speculate it’s a secret the church doesn’t want anyone to learn.” He rubbed his chin, then reached for the document on Scott’s table.

  “Like what?” Scott asked, raising one eyebrow and shaking his head in wonder as Cezar picked up the text.

  “Maybe Jesus didn’t rise from the dead or ascend into heaven, maybe he married and lived happily ever after, or maybe he was gay. How the hell would I know?” Cezar asked with a wave of the hand. “It is possible that someone at the Vatican might know about it. I doubt they would ever admit to its existence at this late date.”

  “Why didn’t the world know about this gospel, or more accurately, this so-called gospel, if it even existed before now? Where has it been?” Scott asked.

  “Remember the Goths in the fourth century overran the Roman Empire and the Popes felt they had to send their treasures off to the safest place in the Empire. Well, at the time, that place was Spain. Rome was subsequently sacked. Later the Moors overran Spain. And all records over the following centuries were lost. It happened to many other documents as well.”

  “If there was a gospel, Cezar, it would have been in the Bible,” Wozniak said.

  “When St. Jerome persuaded the Pope to adopt the current Bible,” Cezar said, pointing at Wozniak, “he didn’t know about a gospel by Peter. There were plenty of gospels at the time to choose from to go into the New Testament but the list from Lyon emerged as the winner. You have to remember the Pope made the final decision on the books in the New Testament and if he had a private gospel from St. Peter he could have manipulated its absence no matter what Jerome wished.”

  “Someone would’ve been looking for this over the years. People would have known about it,” Scott said with defiance in his tone.

  Cezar put the document down. He walked over to the table with the coffee, turned and looked at Wozniak. “You have anything to drink besides this thin liquid piss you call coffee?”

  Wozniak tapped his cane on the floor. “Come on, Cezar, tell us. Haven’t you archeologists looked for such a thing?”

  “From time to time over the centuries scholars did bring up the subject of this Gospel of St. Peter, but they presumed it lost, if it ever existed. Some researchers in the Renaissance era decided to take up the search but after years found no trace or evidence of its existence. No record of such a gospel remained in Rome and the retreating Muslim army destroyed most church records in Spain.”

  He stopped and took a drink from his cup. He walked around the room and came to face Scott.

  “Over time,” Cezar continued, “scholars just dismissed a gospel by Peter as a myth or as something lost forever. Rumors existed that some important documents accompanied the Muslim army in its attack on the gates of Vienna, but no facts ever emerged concerning that.”

  “So you believe this gospel could be the real thing?” Scott asked.

  “From what we know,” the rotund archeologist pulled his jowl cheeks up into a disturbed smile, waited a few seconds, and then said in a deliberate manner, “it is possible. That’s all I’ll say.”

  “Detailed examination should prove its authenticity or that it’s a forgery.” Wozniak swayed back and forth using his cane as a fulcrum. “But a find of the Gospel of St. Peter and of the original Koran could impact the world’s great religions and would have monumental importance to both.”

  “We must leave for another meeting. Please excuse us, Scott. I’ll see you at five. We’ll talk more then,” Wozniak said. He grabbed Cezar by the arm. The man spit the coffee back into the cup and the curator led him to the door.

  After they’d left Scott alone, he continued to examine the manuscripts. The next time he glanced at the clock, it showed almost five. Scott started for the curators’ office, anticipating learning the more about the discovery of the documents.

  3

  Ethiopia

  Addis Abba Airport – 6:15 p.m.

  Bridget relaxed into her seat on the Ethiopian Air, Boeing 737-400. The airplane leveled off at cruising altitude of thirty four thousand feet and entered Egyptian airspace before continuing across the Mediterranean Sea to Italy. Exhausted from the earlier confrontation and the dash to the airport, she needed a hot bath to get all the sand out of every place on her body but there hadn’t been time.

  “Can I get you anything?” the flight attendant asked.

  “I’ll have a gin and tonic.” Bridget rewarded herself for her accomplishments of the day…staying alive. The first sip of the cool drink made her relax into her seat and she soon felt the tension go out her neck and shoulders. It would be great to see Scott again and maybe, just maybe to mend the fence, but could she forgive him? It was time to make that happen, she decided.

  On raising her hand for the second taste of the drink, she saw some specks of blood on her shirtsleeve and let out a sigh.

  What the hell? It isn’t the same as the last time I had blood on my sleeve. Not like it at all. That was in a different place but still a desert like the experience of earlier in the day. She remembered that day in the desert, another place – a desert in Ira
q. It seemed like yesterday. She guzzled her drink.

  It was in a war. A war she would never forget.

  * * *

  The small unit was returning from a long-range patrol. The mission hadn’t gone well. Two members of her squad were dead but she still remembered their names. There was Specialist Cunningham. As the unit medic, she treated the less injured Cunningham while the other, Specialist Schultz, died of mortal wounds. The one she treated didn’t make it either. After he died, she checked her watch. At least two hours remained before sunrise. The night was cold. She was walking toward her sergeant to find out how they were to get the remains back to their lines when she heard automatic weapons fire. The sound came from over the next ridgeline. Her sergeant indicated by hand signals for the unit to climb the ridge and observe.

  They ascended close to the top and crawled to the crest of the hill. With their night vision goggles they witnessed three Iraqi soldiers lining up a group of civilians. Bodies were already scattered around where the Iraqi’s civilians stood. The soldiers started shooting, slaughtering the unarmed group of people.

  “Upon my command open fire on those bastards,” the sergeant ordered. “Now.”

  Bridget aimed at the center man and fired until she saw him go down. The bastard just killed unarmed civilians. She felt no guilt at killing the man. He deserved it. This was different from last night when they engaged a regular Iraqi army unit. Then it was soldier against soldier.

  She detected firing coming from an adjacent ridge. They also aimed at the Iraqi renegades. All of the murdering Iraqi soldiers were down. The captives who were alive ran, disappearing into the desert night.