by Tom Haase
Puglisi recoiled in his mind. We? What does he mean by we? It was I who acquired them. Durand is suspicious of something, but what?
“One of our members provided them to me for the society’s use,” Puglisi said.
“Excellent, and to what use do you intend to put them? Will you release them to the world?”
He’s pushing me. He suspects something.
At that moment Puglisi’s secretary opened the door and announced the scholars had arrived. “Send them in. Archbishop, stay for this meeting, if you have a moment.”
If Puglisi could somehow get this insolent archbishop’s support, his task in the senate would be much easier. Perhaps if Durand heard more about the documents his favor could be gained.
The cardinal’s thoughts were interrupted as the secretary escorted the six priests into the Cardinal’s office. After proper greetings, the Cardinal got down to business.
“I want these manuscripts,” he pointed to the box on his desk, “translated at once. No stopping. Work round the clock. Just get it done.” He waited a few seconds to make sure his instructions registered. Maybe the full translation would reveal the entire gospel of Peter. That would be the best result of all.
“I realize there are many pages in different languages. Nevertheless, I insist on having the translations before I go to the United States for the Irish Bishop’s Conference in Savannah, Georgia in two weeks. The priority is any text in Latin.” He gave a signal with a wave of his hand, to indicate the meeting’s end. The scholars departed.
Durand rose from his chair before turning and fixing squinted eyes on Puglisi.
Damn the man’s impertinence, Puglisi thought.
“Aren’t you pleased?” the cardinal demanded. “We may have the gospel of St. Peter once again in our hands.”
“Indeed I’m delighted,” Durand answered. “My concern is about the use you plan for the documents. Not philanthropic, surely. In all the years of our acquaintance, charity has not been in your character. You must have an ulterior purpose.”
How dare the man speak to me in such a way, thought Puglisi. The archbishop’s actions and attitude marked the man as Puglisi’s enemy. Well, he will find that position is not a happy one.
“Archbishop, I’m happy you came for a visit.” The cardinal held out his hand.
However, the archbishop didn’t understand his invitation to leave…or, if he did, he intended to ignore it.
“You are going to use the documents for your own ends,” the archbishop said in an accusatory tone. “Do you plan on being the next Pope once the present one departs this earth…or perhaps there too you intend to force the issue somehow?”
“Mind your position, Archbishop,” the cardinal said while rising from his chair. He planted his hands on the desktop in a gesture of exaggeration combined with ire. “You will regret this display of impropriety in the future.”
“If you intend to use this historic discovery for your own ends and possibly to oust the Pope, I will not regret getting in your way. I demand a meeting of the Society’s senate. This matter must be decided in open forum, not by you alone.”
“You have just crossed the Rubicon. You’ll get your demand as allowed by our charter. I’ll see you when the senate convenes. Now, good day.”
After glaring at Puglisi for a few seconds, a huff burst from the archbishop. He turned and, without another word, strode from the office with his head erect, offering yet another blatant display of defiance.
Puglisi vowed he would, in his own time and in his own way, have Durand dealt with by using force, not a new thing to Puglisi. He’d used it on many occasions to get to his current position. No reason not to take care of this troublesome archbishop in the same manner. One call to a contact and it would be done. Later today would be in sufficient time. Right now he had to attend to other matters.
The cardinal called for his secretary and told him to get McGregor on the line.
On hearing Jonathan’s voice, he demanded, “What progress have you made?”
“Eminence, I am with the American Scott Donavan, but the Iranians have kidnapped his sister. I have offered to help him gain her return. I believe this course is our best hope. He has already told me he has a map and a code, which he unraveled.”
After a few seconds pause, Jonathan said, “I must go, he is waiting for me.”
“Good. Keep me up-to-date.” Puglisi replaced the phone in the cradle.
Jonathan McGregor was his best man. He possessed military experience, which few pacifist and contemplative priests could ever understand. He possessed all the attributes of a warrior-priest. Something the church forgot how to employ over the centuries. Yes, McGregor remained the man for the job and when he completed his task, the time would be ripe to move him again to a better position to assist the Cardinal, perhaps his own praetor in the society.
Now all he could do was wait on the translators to learn if the writings of Peter had returned to Rome and rely on Jonathan to eliminate any trace of a trail to the documents. His story would be that he found the original gospel documents while searching in the Vatican archives for another item.
With no trail leading to anywhere else, he would be believed. He held the power to keep quiet any members of the society who might suspect otherwise…except for the French archbishop, Durand. Another reason to deal with him now rather than later.
Soon there would be no impediment to Puglisi’s announcement. He would be the discoverer of the Gospel of Saint Peter and announce it to the world. All would believe that God chose him to find gospel as a sign that he should be the next pope.
Puglisi smiled. He felt one step closer to gaining the papal Triple Crown.
31
Granada, Spain
San Matias District
Hashim entered the storeroom where they held the kidnapped Donavan woman, carrying water and some buttered bread.
“Do you promise not to scream if I remove the tape on your mouth?” he said in perfect English. “No one will hear you. All you will achieve is to hurt my ears. Plus, the others may become irritated and change their minds about allowing me to give you something to eat.”
He waited for the woman to indicate acceptance. When she nodded, he ripped the tape from her mouth. Hashim had to admit this Donavan woman was beautiful even in her current position.
“Ouch,” she mumbled through gritted teeth.
She opened her mouth again, but Hashim rushed to interrupt, “Don’t say anything.” He removed the rope from her hands. “Just drink some water and eat the food.”
“You bastard,” she whispered.
“Maybe, lady, but I want to tell you something and you’d better remember it. I’m the one friend you’ve got here. The rest want to kill you right now. You’re alive because I convinced them we might need you to get your husband to cooperate and give us what we want.”
“What the hell do you mean? We don’t have anything you want,” she hissed.
“Ah, but you do. The Holy Koran found by the curator in Warsaw.”
Her eyes widened. “What? What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb. We know you have the manuscript.”
“Bullshit. I’m going to kill you for this, just like —” She stopped. She realized she said too much.
“You,” Hashim said in an incredulous voice. “You killed Akram?” He slapped himself on the head in understanding. “Wow, I never expected that.”
“You bet I did and I’ll kill you too.”
“Slow down lady. What’s your name?” Hashim said.
“I don’t give information to terrorists.” She said this to him in a very slow and deliberate manner.
“Quit being so damn hostile for God sake. Go ahead and eat something. It may be a long time before I can get back with anything else.”
“Where did you learn to speak such good English? Are you doing this on your own or are the others ordering you to do it?”
The woman asked too many question
s.
His use of American English language caught her by surprise. He almost regretted that his use of English contained no hint of a foreign accent.
“Only one man here is important,” Hashim said. “He’s from Iran and he’s here for the manuscript of the Holy Koran.” Hashim stopped and glanced around concerned that they not be overheard. “Listen to me, lady. Pay attention.” In a lower volume he continued, “The other guards are just locals but the man from Iran is serious business. He means to get his hands on the manuscript. You or your husband have it or know where it is. If you get your husband to turn it over, I might be able to save you.”
“He’s not my husband,” she said.
She appeared to be softening a little by revealing this piece of information. He had given her some information and he did expect to get some in return.
Now her face flushed as she grasped her mistake. “He’s my brother.” She tried to spit on him, but he ducked.
“Okay, lady, enough. Your brother has a ransom note from us. If he doesn’t deliver the document by noon tomorrow, you die.” He wanted to scare her to get her talking.
“You creep. What the hell do you care?”
“That’s another story. So where is it?”
“You threaten to kill me and my brother, you kidnap me, you try to blackmail him and you want me to tell you where it is. Go to hell.” She laughed at him and took some water. “Do the letters F.O. mean anything to you?”
He decided to take another tack. Playing the hardcore terrorist wasn’t getting him anywhere. Softening his tone, Hashim said, “My name is Hashim. What’s yours?”
“None of your business.” Her lips clamped shut in a mutinous line.
“Listen, lady, whatever your name is, I made a small miscalculation in Warsaw or we would already have the documents.” He raised his eyes toward the top of his head as he remembered. Would that I never heard the curator and the priest. I have to watch what I say to this woman.
“How did you find out about the Koran?” she asked.
He decided to tell her a little to see if he could get some answers from her.
“A fluke really,” Hashim said. “I overheard the curator tell of the manuscript in a conversation with a priest during a reception at the Archbishop’s residence. Based on the source, the curator of the national museum, my Imam informed the Iranian government who sent two men to recover the sacred text.”
“You’ve been after us since Warsaw.” she said more as a statement than a question.
“Yeah, now I’ve told you a lot of information. I expect something in return.”
“No way asshole.” She turned her face away.
“Yes.” He picked up the small plate she had emptied and retrieved the water glass. “Where is the original manuscript?”
Bridget looked down, but did not face back toward him, and said, “I don’t have any idea. Besides, I’m going to repeat myself. Go to hell.”
He whipped her head around and slapped the tape back over her mouth. He made a fist with his right hand and pounded it into his left palm.
Damn woman. She didn’t know what was good for her. And now how am I going to solve this problem?
* * *
Bridget let her head slump down. Her mouth again taped shut. She did not look up until after the terrorist called Hashim closed the door.
What was that all about? He was after something besides the manuscript. He used English like an American native, not like a foreigner who had studied the language. He seemed too polite for a terrorist but he was one. Scott must be going mad with worry. She had to get away.
She looked around her prison but couldn’t discover a thing to help her get out of her predicament. She saw nothing but bare walls and not another thing in the room to use as a weapon or anything to help in an attempt to escape. She could barely move after Hashim rebound her hands. To remove the duct tape on her legs, combined with the bindings on her arms, would require someone to cut it off.
Whoever they were, they followed Scott and her from Warsaw. But they didn’t know the originals in Warsaw were not in the curator’s office when they arrived and they didn’t get them. So they think we have them.
She attempted again to twist her arms free but the bindings hurt, allowing no movement in any direction. By tugging she cut into her skin and now a trickle of blood flowed from the cut. She continued attempting to loosen her bonds for another few minutes. The pain increased in her arms and the restraints didn’t give even a little. Realizing the futility of further efforts to loosen the bindings, she relaxed for a few minutes and focused on the whole scenario.
Based on her observations since her capture, Bridget concluded that if Hashim told the other terrorists she and Scott were the ones who killed the man in Warsaw they would be killed. She now harbored no doubt about their fate.
How would Scott handle this situation? She still thought of him as the little brother, and she was the one who protected him. Now, somehow, maybe he would emerge from the academic cocoon he surrounded himself with and realize there are other things in life.
Damn, she had to get away, to help him. She renewed her struggle with the bindings holding her. After what she thought must be hours, Bridget gave up. She became afraid of never escaping. She again looked around the room for some way to escape.
Nothing. It seemed hopeless.
32
Granada, Spain
Plaza de Bibarrambla
Jonathan led Scott to the plaza, at this time of day it was crammed with tourists. The sun beat down on the concrete, heat waves shimmering upward as hundreds of bodies pushed and shoved their way around the market areas of the plaza. A burly man bumped against Scott’s shoulder. Jonathan pulled him by the arm to veer around large groups of tourists.
“What’s your plan, Scott?” Jonathan asked.
“I’ll figure something out, Stephen.” Scott dropped his head. Jonathan assumed Scott was either in a state of shock or outright denial. Jonathan let Scott meander ahead for a few minutes before he turned around.
“Listen. I’ve changed my mind. I think I should do this myself,” Scott said.
“I’m willing to help you,” he said. “I think we can work together. There is more than one of them. You’ll need help.”
“No, but thank you anyway.” Scott turned to leave.
“Your sister will be dead if you, and now I say we, don’t do something. You realize that? I believe you have a map to find the thing you seek. Let me help.”
“How the devil . . . what makes you think I have a map?”
“It’s logical. You’re searching for something and need some type of guide to get you there. But there must be something to solve before you can get it. If not, you would already possess it. Therefore, you did not have the knowledge from the beginning of exactly what and where to go.”
Scott stopped and turned back to face Jonathan. “I get the feeling there’re many things you are not telling me. I want to trust you but I think you’re keeping something from me.”
“I’m speaking the truth when I tell you I can help. I assure you that I personally intend neither you nor your sister any harm.”
Jonathan observed Scott search his eyes so he held his gaze without blinking. After a few seconds Scott seemed to make his decision. He gave a wry smile, and said, “I want to believe you. I guess I’ve got to have help so I’ll tell you what I know.”
Despite reservations, Scott led Jonathan back to his hotel room and explained the entire map, chess set up, and code. He realized that Scott still reserved his judgment and probably some knowledge, as he remained the stranger who somehow had inserted himself into their lives. Scott finally realized that he did need some assistance if he were to rescue Bridget. That alone made him reveal as much as he had.
“What about a list of items in the trove?” Jonathan asked, going to the window to look out. Just as he suspected, the two Iranian kept watch. Sitting in an open-air café fifty yards up the street they could ob
serve the front of the hotel.
He turned back to Scott but didn’t mention what he saw from the window. Not yet, he needed to find out everything Scott Donavan knew. He would tell Scot about them in a few minutes. In the end, he would help him get his sister back. He couldn’t allow the Iranians to kill her and he understood that those fanatics would do it.
* * *
Scott knew he shouldn’t be spilling so much information. But the man calling himself Stephen already seemed to know most of it anyway. And Scott needed him to help find Bridget. It made sense that the Iranians had her. Once they’d gotten what they wanted they would kill her. Even now they might be subjecting her to torture. The police couldn’t help. Would they even believe Scott if he told them what happened? And if the police found out about the killing in Warsaw would Bridget and Scott be charged with the death? No. Stephen was the best option.
“There are clues in the code for the map,” Scott said. “The notation next to the position of the king for example. It reads, ‘the altar moves the stone.’ I’m not able to determine what that phrase means right now. We need to go to the cathedral. That’s where the king’s position is on the map of Granada.”
“Any more clues? Anything to tell exactly where it is?”
“No. I think it’s designed to lead one to the location of the items listed in the directory. The list isn’t specific, only general. If we find the place, there may be other clues.” Scott didn’t mention the note saying there were gold statues, two tonnes —the old name for ton— and silver. Nor did he reveal that some documents were mentioned but not by any title. There still remained the matter of whether he could trust this man. Better to play it cool for now and tell him as little as he could get away with.
Stephen moved from the window and addressed Scott, “Men are watching the hotel. I believe they are your sister’s kidnappers.”