by Tom Haase
“It will be as you order. Good night, Captain,” came a crisp reply.
The second phone call went to the curator of the Vatican library. “Good evening, Father. I'm sorry to bother you so late, but I need to speak with you as soon as possible. May I come to your quarters now?”
“If it is so important for the commander in the Swiss Guards to call at this hour, then of course. I await your arrival,” the priest said.
He grabbed his suit coat and headed for the ancient priest's quarters. It took him ten minutes to arrive. He knocked on the door.
“Come in,” the priest said. “What can I do for you? By the way, I never had a chance to congratulate you on saving the pontiff. Well done.”
“How did you know about that?” Captain Grossman asked. He involuntary frowned because no one, or at least only a few should have known about his connection with the monsignor. He met Monsignor McGregor, then Father, just after Jonathan took his position in the papal office. The captain’s background investigation on all who had direct access to the pontiff had revealed Jonathan’s past in the military. Their initial encounter reminded him of two soldiers meeting for the first time. Talk of units in which they had served, battles fought, won and lost, places of assignments, and other general topics concerning soldiers. They bonded at once and that respect continued to the present.
He remembered how Jonathan tipped him off to the plot to assassinate the pontiff. He then took care of the underground scoundrel who planned to poison the pope and allow his cousin, the Cardinal Secretary of State to ascend to the Chair of St. Peter. A car bomb solved the problem and eliminated the chief plotter. He’d also believed that his feat remained unknown by anyone in the Vatican.
“My dear Captain, there is not a thing that transpires in this holy city that is ever a complete secret. Surely, you must know that.” The priest led him into a small apartment living room with a two-seat couch and two armchairs. The room was otherwise plain except for the desk in the corner with papers piled at a precarious angle and defying gravity by their tilted position and height.
“I believe a friend of ours who is looking for a certain book is in trouble. I need you to tell me everything you told him. He has requested my immediate assistance in a matter of great urgency. I am going to fly to meet him tomorrow morning in Cairo.”
“I was afraid something might happen to him in his search,” the priest said. He went on to explain to Captain Grossman the conversation he had with Jonathan when he visited with him in the library. When he concluded, he offered the captain a drink of brandy.
“I'm curious,” Captain Grossman said as he sipped on his brandy, “what is really so important about this Bible?”
“There are many theories. But the one that seems to fit history is based on the historical notations in some Byzantine texts that the mother of the Emperor Constantine, Saint Helena, found more than the true cross on her trip to Jerusalem in 326 A.D. Many believe, based on later Greek texts that appeared after the reign of Justinian in the sixth century, that she also found something too monumental to let anyone else learn. The various references to her trips and to the items she returned to the Roman Emperor purport the secret she bore to the capitol of the Eastern Roman Empire told only to the Emperor. In each one of the Bibles Constantine had commissioned, he wrote citations and greeting to the recipients on the second and third pages of manuscripts in his own hand. But in the first Bible of the fifty that the Bishop delivered to the Emperor, it is believed that Constantine wrote in that Bible the secret his mother revealed to him.”
“So what? How does that affect us today?” the Captain asked.
“Let me finish,” the old priest insisted. “The emperor ordered the Bishop of Jerusalem to come to Constantinople to receive his Bible as thanks for having the other forty nine copies made. It is held by many historians of the time that Constantine imparted the secret to the Archbishop and made him swear to protect its contents forever. The oath he imposed on the bishop, not only for himself, but also for all of his successors to swear to on pain of death.”
“Surely, today, no one would keep such a secret. If it were anything important someone would have revealed it,” the Captain interrupted.
“I do not think you understand the eastern mind. The oath would be binding and all those who followed would know the eternal consequences if they failed to fulfill the condition of the oath and they would forfeit their immortal souls.”
“So what happened?”
“Constantine went to his grave never telling anyone else about the secret his mother brought back from Jerusalem,” the priest said. “Based upon historical events at the time, it is assumed that it involved something to do with the very foundations of Christendom. The Emperor had converted the Roman Empire to Christianity a few years before. Pagan sects were still attacking his decision. It is speculated the secret would impact the fundamental teaching of the church and thereby weaken his position and perhaps overturn his decision making Christianity the religion of the realm. I wish I could tell you more, young man, but that's all I know.” The priest sat back, raised his glass to the captain, and took a sip. “The Holy Father has ordered us to get that Bible. He is adamant on that point. I heard him tell the head of the Jesuits and the Cardinal head of the Propagation of the Faith to obtain it. This is no trivial matter.”
“So our friend is out there trying to get the Bible at any cost?”
“Those are his orders,” concluded the old priest.
Grossman left the priest and made another call to ensure that the airport facilitators would allow anything through on his Vatican diplomatic flights. He collected a 1911 .45 caliber pistol from the armory that he thought might be of use and included stun guns and two nine millimeter Berettas with two extra clips for each. He returned to his room.
He pulled out his cell and typed a text message to McGregor indicating that he would be at the airport in Cairo at seven in the morning. He relaxed with a beer before going to bed but needed to make one more call.
After that conversation, he felt better. He received approval and breathed easier knowing the head of the Roman Catholic Church sanctioned what he now would undertake.
47
Outside Cairo, Egypt
Bridget huffed and gagged for air. She felt like they had walked a hundred miles when they reached Cairo. Her throat felt scratchy and her water gone. After she looked at her watch for the hundredth time, she guessed the sun would be up soon. Glancing back, she saw a glimmer on the horizon. That must be the first sign of the new day, she guessed, but the color of the light morphed to white. She realized after a few seconds that a vehicle approached on the road, the first one in hours. She shouted for Scott and Jonathan, and they all waved at the approaching truck. It stopped less than a hundred feet beyond them.
The truck deposited them on the outskirts of Cairo. Jonathan found a taxi. They rode in moderate comfort to the airport in the battered old vehicle, at least compared to the fragrant back deck of a thankfully empty sheep-hauling truck. The morning sun now reflected off the windows of shops as they sped past. Bridget still felt the sand in her mouth. It would take a lot of water to cleanse it from the all-night march.
“I have a confession to make. Last night I used my special phone. I asked the Vatican to check on the flights out of here and to check on any reservations for Jake. He is on the direct flight to New York leaving in a few minutes,” Jonathan said.
“Damn, why didn’t you tell us you had a phone? We won't catch him now,” Bridget said.
Scott leaned forward and placed his head in his hands. “I'm exhausted. If we can't get him then at least let's get some rest. We have been at it for over thirty-six hours. Anyone got a plan?”
The taxi approached the main entrance to the airport.
“Driver, take us to the general aviation area,” Jonathan said and then faced the Donavans. “There's a fixed base operations facility here where all the private planes operate from and we need to go there”<
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“What for?” Bridget blurted out. She let her fatigue override her better judgment and relented. “I'm sorry. You must have a reason for that, and I'd appreciate if you would share it with us.”
“We all need some rest. There'll be a plane waiting for us. We can sleep on board.” He smiled at both of them. “We'll get to New York in time to handle Mr. Jake.”
“How in the hell did you manage that?” Scott asked. “Hey, never mind. You can explain it later on. After we have some shut-eye on the plane, we will want to hear it all.”
“I want to hear it now,” Bridget said. “Is the Vatican trying to steal this just like the last time?” She faced Jonathan with glaring eyes and waited for an answer.
“It's merely a way for all of us to stop the disappearance of this Bible and to ensure you get credit for the discovery.” Jonathan turned away and looked out the window. “I do want the Bible, but before we can do anything about who gets what, we have to find it. I'm attempting to expedite our quest.”
The taxi stopped in front of a building with a sign indicating the general aviation terminal. They all got out and followed Jonathan inside.
Bridget realized that to achieve their goal they would have to go along with the plan Jonathan put in motion. She had no other option. Fatigue stopped her from arguing further as she became aware that her head pounded from a lack of sleep, which now caught up to her. In no condition to argue, she needed to accept the offer and solve the details later when she would be back on her game.
“There will be someone here to provide assistance and protection,” Jonathan said. “I ask you to trust me, as I have trusted you. We'll get to New York and attempt to rescue the Bible.” He waved at a large man and waited for him to approach.
“Bridget and Scott, this is Captain Grossman. He'll assist us in our journey and in our efforts to secure the Bible. He is the head of the Papal guards, responsible for the personal protection of the Roman Pontiff.”
All shook hands.
“We must leave immediately. The flight you want to beat to New York is already pushing back from the gate. Follow me.” He escorted them out to the tarmac and the waiting Gulfstream aircraft.
While they stood on the tarmac outside the building, Bridget said, “Jonathan, I want to know—”
“Bridget,” Jonathan interrupted, “let's get on the plane, get cleaned up, get some food and rest, and then we can talk. We have a ten-hour flight to work it all out. Right now we need to rest. Please.”
Bridget nodded. “All right. I don’t care right now because I’m tired. But when I get some rest, you will explain what the hell you’re up to.”
They walked across fifty yards of open area to reach the plane.
48
Cairo Airport
Matt boarded the same aircraft as had Cornelius Jake. He’d observed Jake from the time he arrived until he passed through the boarding door to the jetway leading to the plane. The Donavans failed to appear. His concentration on apprehending the bomber didn't allow for him to make any phone calls. With his luck, the Donavan boy would appear right at the same time he made his phone call. Not worth the risk of missing him by being diverted. Matt waited until the last person boarded the aircraft. Seeing no passengers and with no other option, he boarded. From what he learned in Jerusalem, the Donavans would appear somewhere, at sometime, close to Mr. Jake. He would be there when they did. He hoped he would capture that devil of a terrorist bomber on foreign soil, but now it looked like it might be back in the United States.
Matt settled into his window seat and took out his phone. Just as he pushed the power button on the iPhone, a flight attendant informed him that the cabin door had been closed and that the use of phones was prohibited. As he had entered the plane last, the door closed soon afterwards. He put it back into his pocket. After they got to altitude he might turn it on just to see if there were any messages. What could it hurt being on for just a minute?
The aircraft started and the normal safety announcements were being made. Having no interest in listening to the safety announcements, he looked out the window as the aircraft taxied toward the runway. Then he saw him.
Matt tried to spring out of his seat, but the restraint of the seatbelt checked him. He stared in disbelief at seeing Scott Donavan walking across the tarmac toward a small jet. He flipped open the buckle on his seatbelt. He had to get to the captain to stop the airplane. A flight attendant yelled at him some idiotic warning and indicated he must take his seat while the plane taxied.
He stood up and rushed toward the exit door.
A large male flight attendant blocked his path. “Return to your seat. Now, sir.”
“I'm an FBI agent, and I need to have this aircraft stopped.” He fumbled to get his credentials out.
“I don't care if you are the President. Sit down now, sir. That is a lawful order from a member of the flight crew. Failure to obey can lead to federal prosecution when we arrive in New York.” The man moved toward Matt with deliberate steps. He meant business.
Matt felt frustrated. The attendant escorted him to his seat. He stared out the window again and memorized the tail number of the aircraft. The big jet turned to go onto the main runway, and he lost sight of his prey. A few minutes later, when the aircraft reached ten thousand feet, the captain turned off the seatbelt sign. Scott got up and moved toward the nearest flight attendant.
“Who is the chief flight attendant?”
The petite blonde flight attendant pointed to a tall man standing beyond the curtain near the steps going into the upper deck on the Boeing 747-400. Matt moved toward him, glad to see it wasn’t the one who had forced him to his seat.
“Excuse me.” He produced his credentials. “I need to speak with the captain.”
“I'm sorry, sir, but that—”
“Listen, I'm an FBI agent, and I just saw a known terrorist on the runway back there getting on an aircraft. I need to get to the captain to find out the destination of that flight. I need to alert law enforcement wherever that plane is headed. Do you understand?” Matt tried to control himself, but his words came out stronger than he intended.
“Follow me, sir.” The flight attendant moved to a galley area and took a phone off of the wall. “Captain, there's an FBI agent on board, and he insists on seeing you on a matter dealing with terrorism.” The chief flight attendant indicated for Matt to follow him. They climbed up the stairs to the upper deck and as soon as he emerged there he saw a uniformed flight officer approaching him.
“I'm Captain Goldberg. Come on back here to the galley where we can talk.”
Matt followed him, and when they reached the galley he produced his credentials. He then proceeded to tell the story of what happened on the Washington Metro bombing and how he followed the perpetrator and just saw him walking toward an aircraft on the tarmac at Cairo International Airport.
“I need for you to find out for me where that aircraft is going. Then I need to contact FBI headquarters, or even better, my partner, so that we can take any action we can to prevent a further terrorist attack on U.S. soil. Can you help me?”
The captain nodded and led him to the flight deck. There he made a radio call back to air traffic control, giving them the tail number of the aircraft, and ascertained the destination of the Gulfstream jet. He looked up at Matt.
“They tell me the aircraft is headed toward England for a refueling stop and then on to New York. His scheduled arrival time is about the same as ours. They make it there a few minutes earlier but not by much. You can use our company radio to hook you up to a number in the States if you would like.”
Matt nodded. He put on a headset that the first officer provided him and gave him the number for Liz's cell phone. He got her voicemail. In short phrases he explained the situation and asked her to meet the aircraft when it arrived in New York. He informed her of the details of his own flight.
“Thank you, Captain, for your help. There's not much else we can do from here, so I guess I'll go
back and enjoy the flight.” Matt returned the headset to the first officer and shook the captain's hand. He went back to his seat feeling frustrated and stymied.
After an hour, he decided that when they got over northern Europe he would go back into the restroom and turn on his phone. In that area of the world there should be plenty of cell towers. He wanted to see if there were any voicemails or text messages for him after not being on the phone for so many hours.
He dozed off, thinking of how much he wanted to terminate the terrorist bomber Scott Donavan.
49
Onboard the Boeing 747 Bound for New York
Cornelius Jake relaxed in comfort in the first class section in the forward area of the airplane under the flight deck that was one story above. The seats provided ample room to stretch out, and the flight attendants served champagne. The idea to upgrade to first class occurred to him when he arrived at the airport. Why not? He was going to be a millionaire soon. Might as well get used to the trappings of wealth.
The seat next to him stayed unoccupied. After takeoff, he decided to stretch his legs and walked back to the bar of the first class area.
“A scotch and water, please,” he requested.
The incipient stages of his plan had been started with his phone agreement with Schultz, but he didn't know how he could pull the whole thing off. He must protect this book until he received the money. Somehow, his luck had changed recently. Maybe it would continue to swing in his favor.
“Hello, I'm Stephanie Palin,” said a twentyish looking female at the bar. She possessed no beauty and straight brown hair cropped just below her ears. Her sartorial deportment, however, exhibited good taste in a beautiful royal blue blouse and leather pants. She did produce a great smile that almost overcame the ungainly thick glasses she wore.