by Tom Haase
“I now believe the original copy of the Holy Koran is in Poland— in Warsaw to be specific. I urge you to take immediate action to recover it. The information comes from one of my most trusted Imams in the west. He has always been accurate in his information in the past.”
He paused and waited for the questions, allowing time for the slow-witted Peacock President, a disparaging reference to the Peacock Throne of the former Shah, to come to the correct conclusions. After answering all of the President’s queries with the information the Imam in Poland provided, he added, “I believe they could be the original. We know the army of Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent, commanded by the Grand Vizier Kara Mustafa, carried the documents with him to demonstrate to Almighty God that he was carrying out his command to convert the entire world to Islam.”
The ayatollah remained convinced this dimwit didn’t know a pittance about history, as he made obvious in his speeches. A little education on the facts might penetrate through to his limited powers of understanding.
He stood, and continued, “For centuries, we assumed the holy writings were destroyed in 1683 during the fighting at Vienna and never recovered. Now I urge you to recover them. Some of the documents might be from the time our armies’ sacked Constantinople. Besides the inherent religious value, if we obtain them the Sunnis will be devastated by our possession of the original Prophet’s writing. If anything in the book goes against our current beliefs, we will be in a position to control it.”
He waited, at last nodding his head, agreeing with whatever the president said. Then he put the phone back in the receiver. He stared at Habib and smiled.
“You did well to break my rule,” he said in a pleasant voice. He observed the aide’s face. The boy relaxed his posture, smiled and took a deep breath.
“May I bring you tea?” the boy asked.
The Imam decided as a reward he would give him some privileged information, which he would in all probability overhear anyway. “Yes, but first, connect me again to the Imam in Poland. Do not use a cell phone. He will be glad to hear that our leader has ordered two of his personal guards to go there to bring back the documents. To ensure the recovery these sacred manuscripts the president sanctioned the use of extreme measures. I need to inform our Polish Imam of the President’s orders before those men arrive.”
7
Warsaw, Poland
Archbishop’s Residence – 9:15 p.m. local time
“Stanislaw, I have a car waiting outside to take us to the museum,” Father Jablonski said, taking Wozniak’s arm and leading him to the door.
As they exited the archbishop’s residence, the priest noticed the sun still shone at this late hour. It was normal for the daylight to continue well past ten in the evening during midsummer in this northern country. A light warm breeze churned the leaves of the nearby trees allowing the stifling automobile exhaust smells of the busy day to give way to the fresh evening air. He loved the heat, so much better than the arthritic cold of Polish winters.
A Mercedes stood parked at the curb, with the chauffer standing at the open back door. The two men cut through a group of Japanese tourists passing on the sidewalk and climbed into the backseat of the black car.
“Exactly what have you found? What do you plan to do with it? I’m extremely curious.” Jablonski said. “I want to hear all the details. Please tell me.”
Wozniak relaxed as he started to recount in great detail the story of the day he made the discovery. “On Wednesday, I went down into the deepest section of the museum on an inspection of an area. I hadn’t visited it in years. On descending to the basement, I noticed an old picture of Count Komorowski, a person I loathed because the apostate fought for the Protestants, and decided to donate it to an art academy. I dropped the gold-framed oil painting onto the floor and pulled out the nail that previously supported the picture frame. My effort caused a brick to tumble from the wall.”
The car went over two or three ruts in the road and made the curator almost fall out of his seat. He recovered his cane and used it to steady himself on his seat. He looked at his companion and made a wiping motion with his hand.
After a few seconds, he continued, “I observed an empty space revealed by the brick’s absence. I knew that there was no space like that on any building plans I ever saw in my many years as curator. It was not on the old drawings in the original construction over an ancient monastery that eventually expanded to become the National Museum of Poland.”
“It seems like yesterday we were at those Olympic Games,” Father Joblonski observed. “How many years have you been the curator of the National Museum?”
“Way too many, my friend, but I don’t want to stop anytime soon – especially now.”
“Please continue with your story.”
“I assure you I had always understood this wall abutted nothing but earth in the basement recess of the National Museum. I used a small halogen flashlight, which always proved invaluable to me in many areas of the museum and I habitually carry it in the museum. Standing on my tiptoes, using my cane for support, I directed the beam into the cavity behind the wall. I froze at what I saw.”
“You have a knack on how to spin a tale Stanislaw. What did you find?” the priest asked and gave a thin smile.
“My light flicked around inside a chamber. Then a putrid smell filled the air, coming through the spot exposed by the brick’s absence. With the light I could distinguish some papers stacked on a table. The cavity appeared to me like a depository sealed long ago.” He shifted in his seat and removed his glasses.
“As you might imagine, my hands shook. I removed another brick and, applying some force, jimmied out the surrounding bricks. I climbed on top of a nearby stool, turned on the flashlight, pushed it into the hole, and my heart started to pound in my chest and in my ears, loud enough for me to fear a heart attack.”
Wozniak continued his narration of the discovery as the car wound its way to the museum.
He related that when he took a deep breath with his face close to the hole provided by the absent bricks, the full force of the bile-producing odor escaping the cavern again wafted over him. Stanislaw gagged, coughed, and grabbed his handkerchief to cover his nose as the air inside the room whisked past him after centuries of confinement.
He swung the flashlight to another section of the hidden room, and stared at the sight of a male skeleton slouched in a chair wearing the remnants of a uniform. The body’s tattered clothes, the insignia, the sword and the man wore the uniform of a Polish army officer during the Napoleonic wars. Stanislaw admitted that fear became his first reaction on seeing the corpse. His conclusion became verified as his beam of light revealed the soldier wore the insignia of a Polish major. A similar uniform was at that moment on display in the military section of the museum. Why was a man sealed up in a room centuries ago with documents and how important could they be?
“What did the Napoleonic era soldier have to do with the documents?’’ Joblanski asked.
“I didn’t know, but I believed that I discovered something after all these years and decided to keep his unearthed chamber a secret until sure of its importance. I knew that I needed help, so I plan on getting Cezar Zamoyski, to help me next week. Cezar is the museum archaeologist. I have known him since college days, so I know he’s trustworthy.”
Wozniak continued with his story, recounting how he removed bricks and at last succeeded in creating a hole big enough for him to enter the room. On entering, he could see a large pile of manuscripts of various types lay on the table beside a small chessboard with pieces arranged on it. At first, the documents appeared to be like ancient parchments, maybe even rolled papyrus. Many lay in small stacks on the floor near a wood chest.
Wozniak related that he examined, with great care, one document without touching it. Precautions were primary when handling the items but he needed to copy them before any damage occurred from atmospheric or climatic damage. He bent over to examine the paper at close range. The writing, obv
iously Arabic, displaying the flowing curly script so foreign to Europeans. Also there had been a fire built in front of the chair, using and burning some of the documents.
“Why build a fire in an enclosed space and die of smoke inhalation?” Wozniak speculated aloud.
“Perhaps that’s what the man had wanted to do,” responded the priest.
“Yes,” Wozniak agreed, “he must’ve given up on ever escaping and decided to go quickly instead of starving to death. The fire would have consumed the oxygen in the sealed space and helped to preserve the documents in the resulting partial vacuum.”
Based on Wozniak’s recollection of Napoleonic history, he thought the king, in that era, ordered Warsaw evacuated to prevent its capture. He told Father Joblonski that the man in the chair must have considered the manuscripts too valuable to take on any evacuation road in wartime. Perhaps the people who knew about him, who planned to return to let him out, died before they could return to Warsaw. At that point in his thinking the value of these documents geometrically increased in Wozniak’s mind.
“Nobody dies for pieces of paper unless they are of supreme political or religious importance,” Wozniak said. “The dead man must’ve known something of the documents’ contents as well as their value, if that soldier sacrificed his life for them.”
“I agree with that conclusion,” Joblonski said.
“The museum has no Arabic scholar on staff and I don’t want to hire any local Muslims who might be able to read and translate the Arabic documents.” The present flood of Muslim workers into Poland and his dislike for their religion prevented him from following such a course. “I believe there are at least six parchments in Arabic. I didn’t see the Latin and Greek documents until today.”
“And those could have the most significance,” the priest said.
“Yes.” Wozniak nodded, turning in the seat to face Joblonski. “They could change Christianity as we know it.”
8
Warsaw, Poland
Joblonski waited in silence as Wozniak stopped his story to arrange his cane between them in the backseat.
“This afternoon I discovered the document I showed you earlier.” Stanislaw Wozniak turned in the seat in the Mercedes to face Joblonski. “There were also some Greek texts, but the majority are Arabic from what I can tell. I have found a mere two pages of the Latin text so far.”
The car stopped at the museum’s side entrance, the one used by employees. Jablonski allowed the curator to lead him into the building after he entered the code into the pad on the door. They climbed the stairs to his second floor office.
On entering, the priest noticed the sparse office. An old framed copy of the cavalry charge under King John at Vienna hung on the wall. Three desks with the usual paraphernalia occupied the small office. One of the desks held a computer and an array of scanners. The largest desk against the back wall separated from the rest of the office by a few chairs surrounding it, displayed Mr. Stanislaw Wozniak in white letters on the black background of a nameplate.
“I can make some coffee,” Wozniak said.
“No, thank you.” The priest moved toward the computer’s location. The safe holding the documents filled the wall next to the secretary’s desk. This must be the safe Wozniak told him about in the car. The wall sported all manner of keypads to control the atmosphere in the safe.
“This is some discovery,” Jablonski said. “But I hoped for more of the Latin text.”
“Sadly, not at this time. Still these few pages definitely provide proof as far as I am concerned that there existed a so-called gospel, for want of a better word, written by Saint Peter the Apostle. But we have not yet gone through all the material.”
Smiling, Wozniak walked with him over to the safe, entered two different codes on separate panels. “I plan to tell the world of my discovery on Monday and I have the documents to back up my claim. We’ll have it translated before I announce it. Don’t you think it’s momentous?”
Jablonski took the copied pages from Wozniak’s hand and examined them further. He looked at the curator, and asked, “Did you make any other copies of any of these documents?”
Wozniak moved his hand to his mustache and mumbled, “No, not yet. Everything is here. She only made the copies you have in your hands. The rest are there in the safe.”
“Are you sure?” The priest stared at him and waited.
“I found them a few days ago.” He went over, hit another keypad, and pulled the safe door wide open. “See, they are here for my secretary to photocopy and to scan on Monday. We have elaborate procedures to comply with for the rendering of an image of these ancient documents and have the latest equipment to carry out such an undertaking and protect the documents. You can see they are in the containers ready for when she comes. Of course, we will have to obtain outside verification of the find’s authenticity in the light of so many attempted hoaxes in recent years.”
Jablonski didn’t like the way the curator sidestepped his questions. On the other hand, what Wozniak said made sense, and he presumed the man would have told the world already if he had recognized what they were before today. Glancing at the document in his hand, the priest asked, “Did anyone else gain access to these documents?”
“No, just my secretary who saw me place them where they are now. Why all the questions? I thought you would be happy I told you about the writings of St. Peter.”
“I am. I am. But there’s a small problem. I need to take all of the documents. There must be no record left here that the Latin text ever existed. Rome has ordered it.”
“What?” Wozniak yelled. “No, no way! To hell with Rome.” He moved toward Jablonski. “This is my discovery and it will make this museum and me famous. Sorry, even for our friendship, I can’t do that.”
He reached to grab the documents from Jablonski’s hands. He was too slow. Jablonski jerked away and moved away. Wozniak then raised his cane and became agitated well into the red zone of aggression.
“Give me the papers. Give them to me.” Wozniak shouted, his eyes wild. He swung his cane and charged at Jablonski. With speed he stepped aside and planted his left foot.
The curator moved fast, faster than the priest thought possible. “Stop Stanislaw,” he shouted.
Wozniak tripped on Jablonski’s outstretched foot and careened into the sharp side of the metal desk’s corner. A loud thud filled the room. The curator’s body crumbled when it hit the floor. He lay sprawled by the desk, his glasses continued their slide across the floor and stopped somewhere under the desk. The cane clanked twice on the wood floor before it rolled to a stop.
“Oh, my God,” Jablonski mumbled. He saw the left side of Wozniak’s head caved in and blood and brains oozing out. The impact a result of the man at a full gallop. Checking for a pulse, he found none. It took a moment for him to comprehend that his old friend lay dead. Jablonski’s hands trembled as he administered general absolution and a blessing to the prone figure. He orders were to recover the text of St. Peter and transport it to Rome. His friend was dead. He must to call the police. He needed to call the Cardinal.
His eyes watered. Shaking, trembling, he stood up and looked around the room. He used his cell phone.
“Eminence, I have a problem.” He told him what had happened, his voice failing as he relayed the story, and said he would now call the police.
“Father, you took an oath to our society and swore allegiance to obey. That is the foundation of our order. We are the secret guardians of the traditions of the church. You must get hold of yourself. Follow our commands as a soldier priest. We also ordered the knight monks of the Templars. Remember, you are a soldier in the war to preserve the church. Live up to it.”
The Cardinal waited for his answer. He stared at the phone in consternation at this Polish priest’s audacity to challenge his authority
Joblonski remembered the oath, the pledge of obedience and knew the consequences of failure. One priest he knew of failed the society’s order and a car bomb
had ended his life the next day.
He wiped his tears. “Yes, Eminence, it will be done.”
“Do not call the police. Take whatever actions are necessary to protect yourself and get out of there. Get the documents to me immediately.” The call ended before Jablonski could reply.
Joblonski noticed a package of books on the secretary’s desk. He placed the package near the position where his foot tripped Wozniak, hoping the people who discovered the body would assume the curator stumbled and smashed his head on the end of the desk. He would tell anyone who asked the curator stayed after he visited with him in his office following the archbishop’s reception. The splotch of red blood on the desk’s corner would aid in the deception.
The documents he sought lay inside the open safe. His hands shook and his vision remained foggy. He stooped down and after filling the original container with all the documents, hefted the chest - surprised by its weight. He remembered the curator said that it took four trips for him to carry all of the documents and the chest to the office. Jablonski’s stocky weightlifter frame and the physical training he performed at least twice a week provided the necessary power to lift the chest. He carried the box down the steps.
The driver saw him emerge from the side door and opened the trunk. After depositing the chest, he slid into the backseat and directed the chauffeur to take him to the home of a parishioner, the DHL manager in Warsaw. After returning to the archbishop’s residence he sent the fax of the two copies Wozniak gave him to Rome, and then shredded them.
He called the Cardinal with his updated report.
9
Vatican City
Cardinal Puglisi answered the phone on the second ring. After giving the response to the Agnus Dei, he listened to the Polish priest give an account of the events in Warsaw concluding with the sending of the fax, which arrived a minute ago.