by Tom Haase
The Cardinal mentioned there were Latin, Greek and Islamic texts in the find at the museum. She’d admitted to knowing Greek and her brother knew Arabic. Maybe, just maybe, they had something to do with the discovered documents. Perhaps there were pieces of the trail to the discovery that were far beyond the confines of the museum, or of the Cardinal’s knowledge.
On the other hand, the fact that Bridget and her brother knew the languages needed to translate the documents and they would both be in Warsaw with those documents was pure coincidence. It could mean nothing.
But Jonathan didn’t believe in coincidences. In his experience, they occurred once every five thousand years.
* * *
On arrival in Warsaw, Bridget said a brief farewell to the priest and headed out of the airport because she carried her backpack and bypassed baggage claim. As she left the terminal, the morning sun struck her. The mild northern summer heat felt welcome on her tanned skin, after weeks in Africa desert, where the temperature at seven in the morning neared one hundred. She took a taxi and gave the name of the hotel her brother provided the day before. She wanted to find out everything from Scott and she yearned to be with him to solve the mystery of the map. If indeed, there was anything worth solving. One could hope and one could pray that this might be for real, but in actuality, it might not be.
Morning traffic did not appear heavy on Saturday. In a few more minutes she would see Scott.
* * *
Father Jonathan McGregor found Father Jablonski waiting for him in the baggage claim area. Jonathan took Jablonski by the arm. “Father,” he said. “We need to follow someone. It’s urgent we move fast.” If Bridget knew about the discovery, Jonathan needed to find out as soon as possible. In following Bridget, there existed a chance he pursued a wild goose – but a goose had laid the golden egg, hadn’t it?
“My car is around the corner and across the street,” Jablonski replied.
When they rounded the corner, Jonathan spotted Bridget just outside another terminal exit getting into a taxi.
11
Warsaw, Poland
Bridget unlocked the door and entered her brother’s hotel room, of typical two star European quality with a single bed and a small en suite bathroom. One small dresser the single piece of furniture, not even a chair, and the walls were devoid of any pictures. She didn’t expect much more from a student traveling around Europe in the summer. If he played it right, the museum might give him money to use during his stay. At least he should be able to get a better hotel.
She found Scott in bed, blanket over his head.
“Get dressed.” She slapped him on the bottom. “We’ve got a lot to do. I really need a shower. I can smell myself in this room. God, I stink.” She figured on cleaning up in his hotel room after the all night flight.
He didn’t move.
“Get your ass out of bed,” she shouted. “You know what time it is? You haven’t changed since you were a little brat.”
She decided while traveling that she wouldn’t mention the incident that strained their otherwise great relationship…at least, not now.
“What?” Scott mumbled, pushing back the covers and raising his head. He opened one eye. “How did you get here, sis? I thought you were in the desert.” He climbed out of bed and glanced at the door. “How did you get in here anyway,” he asked as he pulled on a gray t-shirt matching the color of his briefs and put on his jeans.
“I told the desk clerk I was your wife. My passport shows the same last name and I told him I came here to surprise you. For a tenner, he gave me a key and promised not to call you.”
“You devious bitch. You got here fast.” Scott hugged her. “It’s good to see you.”
“Yeah.” Bridget pulled out of his embrace and walked over to the small window.
The entrance to the hotel became visible not far below. On the street, she saw the priest from the plane getting out of a car. What a coincidence. Too much of a coincidence. Her military intelligence training from her Rangers days started to rumble in her mind. Probably nothing. Probably nothing, my butt.
Warning signals exploded in her brain like a fourth of July firework display. She’d been stupid. Not paying attention and concentrating on the problem with Scott. That priest on the plane might be that British officer from Iraq, Lieutenant Jonathan McGregor. Now she knew why the priest had seemed so familiar. She’d seen him in the early morning sunlight in the desert with that same Dennis the Menace look he still possessed. If he’d introduced himself on the plane she would have known him at once. Back in Iraq he served as a soldier, then he intended to be a spy, and now he was supposedly a priest. Maybe he became a spy…maybe a spy for the Vatican. How could she have missed him? Damn. There had to be more to his appearance. She wasn’t just paranoid. The priest, or the spy, appeared to be tailing her.
This wasn’t good. In fact, it sucked.
Something or someone might’ve let Scott’s secret out of the bag.
How could any intelligence agency find out so fast? Did the Vatican have spies or did the British secret service know about the documents her brother mentioned? Perhaps they monitored their phone call.
No, that was too paranoiac.
Perhaps Scott without thinking said something to someone, but that someone had to get to the Vatican in less time than she took to travel from her site.
No, that didn’t fly. Stop being skittish, she told herself. Scott wouldn’t have told anyone. If Scott didn’t talk then there would appear to be no way the Vatican could have found out about the writings of St. Peter this quick. But suppose, even on the remotest chance, this priest received a mission from the Holy See to get those documents. He hadn’t recognized her, had he?
She and Scott needed to get away from the hotel before the discovery fell into McGregor’s hands. Whether he worked for the Vatican or MI-6, she didn’t need his interference.
“Come on, Scott. We’ve got company. Let’s go. Now,” she shouted.
Her brother’s eyes widened in surprise, “Damn, you get here and the shit hits the fan. What’s going on?”
“Grab your things,” Bridget commanded. “We need to leave here now. Right now.”
Bridget grabbed his backpack and helped slam his few belongings into it. She picked up her own from the floor where she had dropped it on entering the room. They exited the room, ran down the rear fire escape stairs, and then exited at the back of the building.
“What’s going on?” Scott managed to get out as they left the hotel while he fumbled to get his belt buckle hitched.
“I think someone knows about your discovery.” While they walked a few blocks, she filled him in on her encounter with the priest. “I just saw him arrive at the hotel. I knew him before and he was in some intelligence organization. It is conceivable he somehow involved with these documents at the museum. I don’t know how. I just feel he knows about the documents from the way he acted on the plane. Nothing specific, but he may have recognized me. All together, way too many coincidences.” She rubbed her chin and then made a short negative shake of her head.
“Sis, you’re overreacting. He could have just come to register at the hotel.” He shook his head and grunted as he cleared his throat. “We’ll go to meet the museum curator at ten. We can tell him everything. After all, he made the initial discovery and he’s the boss here. We can’t hide what I found. It’s not ethical. I’ll return everything.”
“All right,” she said. “But let’s get some coffee and I need to eat while you tell me all the details.”
They went to the Old Town Market Square. They sat outside the Market Café and ordered. Scott told her about the photos of the sealed room, the map with the list of items, including a great quantity of gold, silver, and documents, which he believed still lay undiscovered. He explained how the curator found the room and what the photos showed.
“To find what is on the map, we need to break the code. The bit of information from the map on where it’s hidden has me stum
ped,” Scott confessed.
He placed the documents in front of her including the small piece of paper from under the chess set in the basement room of the museum.
Bridget scanned the papers. “This writing is in Arabic. Can you translate it?”
As Scott took the next minutes to write the text out in English, Bridget kept watch out the front window. No one passing seemed familiar and no one appeared interested in her or her brother.
Bridget swallowed a bite of toast and then sipped her coffee. The coffee shop contained no other customers on this early Saturday morning. The room contained a few modern pictures and several old-world wooden tables but the smell of coffee filled the air. No Wi-Fi Internet access to allow her to check email. Where was a Starbuck’s when you needed one?
Scott handed her the finished translation. To Bridget the letters and numbers looked all mixed up. As Bridget gazed at the sheet she let her eyes go soft, not focusing at any point on the paper but taking it all in without seeing a specific spot. Nothing. They still didn’t make sense.
“Is there anything else?” she asked.
“Here’s the little note I found under the chessboard.” He handed the piece of paper to her. “Right now let’s get to the museum. It’s almost ten. I’ll explain to Mr. Wozniak that I took the copies to be able to better read them. I’ll give them back to him and hope he’ll understand. My conscience won’t let me keep these, they’re valuable.”
After taking anther sip of coffee she devoured the remaining toast then said, “Scott, you’re such a stickler. Can’t you see this could make you? But you need to secure the credit for some of this discovery. Sure, give him his due, but you’re the one who uncovered the gospel and the map. That could be your entry to a higher position in the academic world after you secure your tenure.” She paused and then said, “Come on, wake up. The whole world is not a prim and proper place. Bad guys do live out there and they’ll eat you alive.”
“Bridget, I must do this my way.”
“I busted my ass to get here to try to help you on this. I think it’s possible that this is big, I mean a really big discovery you made. I don’t want you to lose it.”
He finished his coffee and stood up. Bridget believed the memories of his first love still haunted him. From the second grade, when he and Linda had been together and everyone assumed they would always be together. In college they became lovers, predestined for marriage on graduation. On the day before they were to be wed a truck, driven by a drunk driver, plowed into her as they rode their bikes on a city street. After that day Scott lost his desire, more specific the motivation, for everything except scholastic endeavors. Two years passed before he would even take a break from his university research for any type of social activity. Even then, Bridget knew he hadn’t enjoyed mixing with females, she found out to her chagrin. That became the problem that soured their relationship.
“Let’s go,” Scott said, breaking into her thoughts. He grabbed her arm and tugged her out of her chair.
“Oh, now you’re the tough guy,” she said, pulling out of his grasp. Still, she followed him out of the coffee shop and headed down the street toward the National Museum.
At five minutes to ten, they arrived at the building. He put in the code the curator had given him and entered through the museum’s side door. Taking one last glance behind them, Bridget didn’t see anyone following. Perhaps they’d lost Jonathan McGregor.
12
Warsaw, Poland
Diocesan Chancellery Office
After failing to find Bridget and her brother at the hotel, Jablonski drove Jonathan back to town and took him to the chancellery office. As Jonathan sipped his coffee he searched his mind to discover if somehow they’d simply missed Bridget and her brother. They must’ve slipped out the back. But why would they do that? Perhaps she had sensed she’d been followed from the airport? He remained loss in thought for a few moments.
Sitting across from Jonathan the polish priest wrung his hands. “Why are you here? I sent everything to Rome.”
“I’m here is to ensure no other record of the documents exists. If there is any, I must track it down and remove any trace of its presence in Poland. To your knowledge, could there be anything else…anything other than the materials you sent to Rome?”
The old Polish priest rose and walked the window. He took a few seconds before answering. “Anything is possible. I suppose the curator might have lied about not making any copies.”
“How big was the package you sent?”
“It weighed twenty kilos.”
“Describe what was in the chest.”
“I took a quick look before I handed them over for shipment. Most of the documents were in Arabic, a couple in Greek and only two pages in Latin that I saw. I read the Latin and the manuscript appears to report the story or gospel, if you prefer, of Peter. That’s all.” He held up his hands in an empty gesture.
“When does the museum open?” asked Jonathan.
“At ten. Why?”
“I think we should go to the curator’s office, gain access, and check if any evidence of the documents remains. Besides, Bridget Donavan, my friend from the flight might show up at the museum with her brother.”
Jonathan stood and faced the Polish priest. “If they show up, we’ll follow them when they leave. I must talk with them. We need to learn for certain if either of them knows about the manuscripts.”
“The museum doesn’t open to the public until noon but I know from years of visiting Wozniak that janitorial staff entrance at the side door opens at ten if you have the code. I know the code from last night. There shouldn’t be anyone else in the building at this time of day.”
* * *
A minute after Father Jonathan McGregor exited the airport, coming out the same doors the priest had used, two men with a Middle-Eastern appearance emerged. Hashim Mahdi recognized them from the pictures faxed from Tehran. As instructed, Hashim introduced himself and escorted them to the Imam’s home.
“Jabril, it’s good to see you again,” the Imam said. “You’ve done well since leaving here all those years ago to join the personal guards of our President.” The one called Jabril rushed to embrace the white-bearded cleric. The old man’s arms went up, spreading his religious robes as he embraced the man.
“Thank you. I believe my selection occurred because of your influence. Now the President has sent me on this mission. Let me introduce my friend here. This is Akram Sulieman.”
“Peace be upon you,” intoned the Imam while he embraced the man who gave the appropriate response. “Come let us take tea and discuss how we might assist you.”
“When will the man with the sacred text get to the museum?” Jabril asked.
“Hashim informs me that he learned the cleaning staff opens the building at ten this morning. We don’t know for sure, but the curator may be there at that time. There would be few employees around, but he would definitely be there at noon when the museum opens to the public,” the Imam said.
“Then we have time. We must be present at ten to get the Holy Koran.”
“Do you have weapons? Do you need anything?” the Imam queried.
“It’s so difficult to travel by air with weapons these days. A good knife is all we will need. I want to finish this business in time to be on the afternoon flight,” Akram said.
“You know I saw but a single sheet of text. I can’t be sure the whole Koran is present there,” Hashim inserted into the conversation.
At ten minutes to ten, Hashim Mahdi escorted them to a position from which they viewed the museum employees’ entrance. Jabril dismissed Hashim, telling him to wait in the front of the museum to observe, and they would enter through the side door. Hashim set off. He assumed they’d enter with others of their nationality that worked in Poland as laborers. They’d walk in with one of the workers who would not even question them.
“If we don’t find anybody meeting the curator’s description we’ll just go in at ten and find hi
s office. Hashim said the curator may or may not be in on Saturday.” Jabril assumed not many administrative staff would be in this morning so they shouldn’t have to deal with secretaries in the curator’s office.
“It’s almost ten. Some people have gone in that door, but I still haven’t seen our man go in. All those workers look like Arabs or Turks. Let’s just mingle and enter with them,” Jabril said.
“But we still must be careful and not raise any alarms,” Akram said. “If we can leave here undetected that would be the best solution.”
“Inshallah,” Jabril said. “I’m tired of waiting. It’s ten. See that worker entering the side door. He’s our ticket in. We go.”
13
Office of Museum Curator – 9:50 a.m.
Bridget followed Scott as he led the way to the curator’s office and pushed the door fully open. He allowed Bridget to precede him. They had arrived ten minutes earlier in hopes that Mr. Wozniak might be in early in light of the discoveries. Bridget blocked his way when she stopped in the doorway. Scott put his hands on her shoulder and pushed her forward.
“Stop it.” She turned her head back, and over her shoulder said, “There’s a body on the floor.” She hadn’t meant to shout it.
Scott pulled himself up onto his tiptoes behind Bridget. He nudged her forward into the room and shut the door behind them.
“It’s Wozniak, the curator.” He looked over Bridget’s shoulder at the prone body. Nausea swept over him. His hands started to shake and his right eye twitched.
“Get a grip,” Bridget said as she grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “This is the real world. Now concentrate. You can do this. Let’s go see if he is alive.”