by Tom Haase
Too soon, it seemed, he reached the hotel and went into the lobby.
“Good evening. I wish to deliver a note for the American who checked in with his lady this afternoon. My boss is out of town and wanted me to get it here earlier, but . . . you know how things happen. It’s just an invite to dinner tomorrow. Could you see he receives it?”
“Of course, sir.” The night clerk turned and put the letter into a cubbyhole with the number 23.
When Hashim left the hotel he took the long route back to the Imam’s house so that he would pass an Internet café he’d seen earlier. Once there, he glanced around him and, seeing no one watching, he ducked inside, his first time alone since Warsaw.
He sent an email to the Imam to keep him informed. Hashim wanted to make sure he was recognized for the success of this mission. Next he sent some emails that would be fatal if sent from the Imam’s house and later discovered. Again, Hashim cursed the fact he did not have his secret cell phone with him. He’d been unable to retrieve it from his apartment in Warsaw because the Imam had ordered them to go without delay to the airport. The iPhone with the extra capabilities would have been more secure. There was no option but to use this public computer to contact a special lady.
He knew he couldn’t tell the Donavan woman anything in case she broke and spilled any information to Jabril. She would have to remain ignorant, a safety precaution he needed to take. But while she wouldn’t know about Washington, Washington he knew needed to know about her. This message must go out today with all the details. Tomorrow might be too late.
28
Granada, Spain
Gran Via de Colon - 2:02 a.m.
Jonathan McGregor observed from his car as the Iranians snuck up behind Bridget.
They are going to kill her, he thought, and grabbed for the door handle to help her. Before he could get out, he observed them cram her into the backseat of the Ford and then he realized they were kidnapping her and not executing her on the street. He relaxed back into this car. The whole operation to snatch the girl took nine seconds. Not enough time for him to do anything. But if he did and it went wrong he could lose everything. Before he could move, they grabbed her and the car pulled away. Too late to attempt anything, they had Bridget.
Jonathan jumped back into his Mercedes, started the car and waited for their next move. After the Iranians passed him in their car, he followed the assailants at a safe distance. If he lost the kidnappers he would activate the tracker.
Do like they taught us in training for following without backup, he ordered himself.
There were few cars moving at this time of night. He stayed farther back than he would have liked but he knew there were no percentages in getting closer. The car traveled in a circuitous route through the town. Jonathan guessed they were trying to make sure no one followed them.
In a few more minutes they turned into a small street in the San Matias district off the Calle Reyes Catolicos. The traffic on the main streets was no longer a factor, and the side streets remained deserted.
Jonathan pulled over before reaching the corner. He got out and ran toward where the tan Ford had stopped, and then he hid in a recessed alleyway. Careful to avoid being seen, he peered around the corner as the two men carried the woman into a house.
Sweat collected under Jonathan’s shirt collar and he rubbed his hand around his neck, trying to let some air into his shirt. Between the heat and the pressure of the situation, he was sopping wet with perspiration. Lurking in the alley, he waited until the younger one got back in the car and drove off. Jonathan returned to his car and drove by the house, noting the number.
The Iranians wouldn’t kidnap her if they only wanted revenge for killing one of their own in Warsaw. They would have knifed her on the street and let her die. They had a reason to take her, to keep her alive. He guessed it centered on the manuscripts. There didn’t appear to be any other reason. They were after the documents, the writings of their Prophet.
The Iranians would have to send some demand to Scott if they wanted to use Bridget to get the manuscript. The kidnappers would have to deliver a note. He assumed they wouldn’t just telephone. When Scott received the note in the morning, Jonathan wanted to be present at the hotel to offer his help to Scott. It had became obvious to Jonathan that the terrorist needed a reason to keep the girl alive. Getting their hands on the Koran must be the compelling reason to keep her alive.
Plus, Scott didn’t know him. Jonathan needed to invent a cover to convince the Donavan boy of his trustworthiness. The woman would be safe enough as long as the kidnappers didn’t acquire what they wanted. She was their bargaining chip and she had to be alive to serve that purpose.
Jonathan returned to the rectory of Father Castile for a night’s rest. There would be no way he could intervene and save the Donavan woman if he became exhausted.
At six the next morning, he rose and by prior arrangement he went to the church where he said Mass in a small side chapel dedicated to Saint Joseph. In the church, the air conditioning made him comfortable, even while wearing the vestments as he performed the liturgy. He prayed for Scott and Bridget and for himself to accomplish the mission the Cardinal entrusted to him. After a quick breakfast he headed for the Lus Tilos Hotel.
When he arrived, he approached the desk clerk, and asked, “Is Mr. Donavan in?”
The man turned to the key box and Jonathan followed his eyes. Sure enough, an envelope lay in the cubbyhole and the key absent.
“I believe he is, sir. Would you like me to ring the room?”
“No. Thank you. I don’t want to wake him.”
Jonathan seated himself in the foyer of the hotel to wait for Scott Donavan.
He decided not tell Scott he knew his sister. He also didn’t plan to reveal where the Iranians held her. Scott didn’t need to have all the information at this time. If he did, he might make a foolish attempt to rescue her. The men holding her would kill them both. He needed to help Scott find whatever he searched for so he could return it to Rome.
He remembered what it was like to walk into a set up and witness most of his men butchered in a few seconds of pure hell. He didn’t want them to have a similar experience. He would rescue the girl but on his terms and not theirs. The Donavans might be smart and a little lucky to have gotten away from the knife man in Warsaw. He suspected in a head on confrontation with a group of armed Iranians, they would lose.
Jonathan waited for two hours before Scott appeared and approached the desk. After a short conversation the clerk handed the young man a note. Scott opened it and began to read. He paled and stumbled a little as he made his way to a sofa a few steps away.
Remaining seated until after he glimpsed Scott’s reaction to the note, he watched him sit down on a couch in the hotel’s foyer. Waiting a minute to allow the youth to absorb the full impact of what the note contained, Jonathan approached him.
29
Hotel Lus Tilos
Granada, Spain – 10:35 a.m
Scott’s eyelids opened with difficulty. A few seconds passed before his eyes focused and he saw his watch on the nightstand.
10:35
“Holy cow.” Almost half the day gone.
Scott jumped out of bed, grabbed some cloths out of his pack, and squirmed into them. When he checked Bridget’s room, he saw no one had slept in the bed.
“Bridget,” he called, thinking she might be brushing her teeth or something. No response.
He checked the bathroom just in case, but no Bridget.
“She must’ve had a great time last night,” he mumbled.
He dressed and then went down to the desk and asked the clerk whether he’d seen Ms. Donavan that morning.
“No, sir, but I have a note for you.” The clerk took an envelope from the cubbyhole bearing Scott’s Room number and handed it to him.
Was it from Bridget? No writing on the outside. Scott tore open the envelope open and he read it. When he saw the contents he felt his face turn hot and then c
old. His hands trembled and Scott almost dropped the paper.
He managed to get to a sofa in the foyer. Sitting down, he reread the handwritten note.
“We have Miss Donavan. Do not contact the police or you will never see her again. We want the manuscript you found of the Holy Koran. Give it to us and she lives. You have one day, starting this morning, to deliver it to the headwaiter, Juan, at the Alhambra cafeteria. Do it by noon tomorrow or she dies.”
Scott lowered the note, put his face in his hands to stop them from shaking, and then he felt a touch on his shoulder.
“May I sit down?” A baritone voice with a Scottish accent asked the question.
“I’m sorry,” Scott mumbled. He glanced, still stunned from reading the note. “I’m just leaving.”
“Perhaps I can be of some help, Mr. Donavan,” the stranger said.
Scott looked at the tall, sandy-haired stranger and blinked his eyes as if just waking up. “Do I know you?”
“My name is Stephen. I believe I know what’s in your hands,” the man said.
Scott didn’t remember ever seeing the man before. “You must be mistaken, sir. I have to go now.”
“You won’t find your sister,” the man said in the same low deliberate voice. The sandy-haired man’s cold, gray eyes locked with his and a shiver of fear passed through Scott.
“What do you mean?” Scott started to get up, but the man pushed him back onto the sofa. His mind raced. Could this be one of the kidnappers? Maybe he was with the police. Or he could just some con artist trying to sucker him. He’d called himself Stephen but somehow Scott doubted it.
“Who are you?” Scott demanded, glaring up at the man towering over him.
“I’m a friend who thinks he might be able to help you. Please, may I look at the note?” Stephen’s face softened from the iron mask it projected a few moments ago.
“I don’t think it’s any of your business,” Scott said. He wanted to get away from this intrusion and go to his room. His mind raced. He needed quiet to plan what to do next.
“You need to listen to me,” the man who called himself Stephen said. “I believe when I’m finished you will appreciate the need for my help.”
Scott nodded, figuring he might as well hear the man out. If Stephen was one of the kidnappers, Scott would soon know it.
Stephen took a seat beside him. “Back in Warsaw, I had intended to meet with Mr. Wozniak at ten on Saturday morning in his office. When I arrived at the museum, I saw you leaving from the front door. You, however, didn’t notice that two men followed you.”
“What! Why were you there?” Scott could think of many more questions now like how did guy follow Scott and Bridget so easily?
“Let me finish, please. My story will take some time. Perhaps we should go to the café to continue. I don’t want to go outside just yet as I believe they could be watching the hotel to follow your actions.”
“What? Who is? How do you know that?” Scott couldn’t believe his life could now resonate like a spy thriller.
“Please, Mr. Donavan, let’s move out of the foyer to a more private place to continue.”
Scott nodded and they proceeded to the small café inside the hotel and ordered coffee. “You seem to know a lot about me. How come?”
“I can explain. As I was saying, I saw two men apparently trailing you and — “
“Are you a spy? How did you know they were after me?” Scott stayed wary of this being a coincidence. He needed to be careful here. His sister’s life now depended on him.
“To answer your question, no, I’m not a spy but I’ve had extensive training in a related area. It struck me as out of the ordinary when I saw two men looking around for someone to help them enter the Warsaw museum by the side door, being Middle Eastern looking. I realized that they were not part of the crew by the way they hung around and then approached a stranger and introduced themselves, but early on a Saturday morning, odd I thought.” He took time to sip the coffee.
“I waited in a car across the street and watched you and your sister enter the side of the building, not knowing anything about you.” Jonathan relaxed in his chair.
“A few minutes later,” he continued, “you came out the front. One of the Iranian men exited the side door and joined a third man who must have remained outside. The one who had remained outside ran in the direction you took. I decided to follow to see what it all meant. Curious is all I can say. I called Mr. Wozniak to tell him I would be late but no one answered. When I realized the destination was the airport, I returned to the museum. I found what you did in the curator’s office.”
“The man attacked Bridget and she defended herself,” Scott said in a rapid-fire manner. He tried to stop himself, but blurted out, “The curator was dead when we arrived.”
“Why did you run? Why not call the police and let them handle it?”
Scott stood and went over to the counter and ordered two more coffees. This man did possess a great deal of knowledge about the events, but what were his motives? What was he after? Was he a friend? He had to discover that before he would tell him anything else. He returned with the drinks and sat down. “Go on with your story,” he said, failing to answer the man’s questions.
Stephen relayed in cryptic terms how he followed the Iranians and the Donavans to Granada.
As he spoke, Scott tried to evaluate Stephen. The man, well spoken and seemed to be well educated, but Scott again noticed how Stephen’s steely eyes scrutinized him on return. Scott knew he wasn’t an expert on reading people but from Stephen’s demeanor Scott decided that the man might not be telling the whole story, but the part Stephen had told Scott seemed truthful.
“May I look at the note?” Stephen asked again.
“Before I let you, tell me what you’re after in all this. Why were you at the museum?” Scott demanded.
“Stanislaw Wozniak called me on Friday evening to tell me about a Latin text he found. I had met him at a conference the week before and we talked for a good while and got on well. He remembered my position as a teacher in Rome and my field is the study of Latin. I suppose that’s why he called me. Similar I suspect to the reason he called you. I would have to guess your field is Arabic since he mentioned he uncovered documents in that language.”
Stephen waited for a few seconds and Scott saw his examining eyes trying to ascertain if he believed him. True, the curator had not known about the Latin text until Friday. That made the timeline for calling Stephen correct.
“I came to Warsaw when he told me it was a monumental discovery but I arrived too late,” Stephen continued.
Scott noticed the consistency in his story and decided to pay close attention to Stephen’s next words.
“You, on the other hand, copied the files from his computer,” Stephen said. “I found the destroyed hard drive and think you’re the one responsible. The Iranians didn’t have time to copy the data. Sure they could have destroyed the disk, but if they had, they wouldn’t be after you now. They would have killed you in revenge and gone home. They have seen you here in Spain and haven’t acted until now. Yes, they are here and I believe that note confirms my story. With that, I can conclude you have something they want.”
“It’s also obvious that I have something you want.” Perhaps this Stephen was in league with the kidnappers after all.
Stephen nodded. “I have a great interest in recovering the ancient Latin text. It could change my life just as the discovery of previously unknown text in your field could bring fame and riches to you and your sister.”
Scott knew he couldn’t have complete trust in this man at this time, but Stephen could be a lifeline. At present Scott couldn’t devise a concrete idea of what to do next to save his sister. How would he get Bridget back if he didn’t have Stephen’s help? He decided on limited trust would be in order.
Scott handed him the note.
30
Vatican City
Office of the Secretary of State - 12:30 p.m.
> Cardinal Puglisi viewed he Archbishop of Paris, Mathieu Durand, as he bent his tall, thin frame and kissed the cardinal’s ring saying, “Good day, Eminence.”
“Mathieu, I’m pleased to see you and glad you came by,” Puglisi said. He’d asked the Archbishop to meet, hoping to gain his support for the actions he planned to take. “I have a matter I need to discuss with you. Something I will favor you with as a senior senator of the society.”
Durand removed his glasses. The cardinal waited while he cleaned the lenses and then put them back on. The archbishop then glanced around as if deciding on a seat before taking the chair opposite the cardinal.
While Durand shifted around trying to get comfortable, Puglisi wondered if the archbishop displayed disrespectful but decided Durand didn’t mean to irritate him.
Once the archbishop settled and turned his attention to the cardinal, Puglisi continued, “A certain group of manuscripts has come into my possession, and I think we, the society, can use them to advance our cause.”
“Excuse me, Eminence, exactly to which cause do you refer?”
This archbishop always managed to press Puglisi’s anger button and this meeting was no exception. Durand’s pretended denseness had Puglisi reconsidering his earlier hope to have the man as an ally in the meetings that would follow. In the past, the archbishop supported Puglisi in the society’s actions and in the senate but now Puglisi felt a certain vibration from Durand, which made him uncomfortable. This conniving prelate might even aspire to replace him. Puglisi decided he needed to be careful in speaking to Durand.
“I believe we acquired some writings of the first Pope,” he said, ignoring the archbishop’s question. “A group of eminent scholars are coming in a few minutes to get instructions on what I want done. Many other documents of great value have also come into our hands.”
“How did we come into this unexpected, even miraculous, treasure?” Durand asked with a sarcastic edge to his voice.