by Tom Haase
He signaled his men and they departed without a look back.
* * *
Once outside the house, Bridget led as they walked in silence for two blocks to a local mom-and-pop type taverna. The restaurant contained a few tables and no décor to speak of. A rather plump elderly lady in black came over to serve them. There were no menus, so Bridget ordered using the few words of Greek she possessed.
"I want to thank you for what you did," Bridget said looking at Gerti. "You were able to convince him of exactly what I attempted to communicate, but failed."
"I want you to know,” Gerti said, “that he hasn’t forgiven you. He’ll extract the vengeance mentioned if you don’t deliver his money. He has tried to instill that method of business in me. I must admit, to a certain extent, he has succeeded. But I believe once the money is taken care of, I’ll be able to smooth over the other things."
Bridget realized what Gerti said rang true. She also concluded that probably nothing she found in Pella would allow her to accumulate the amount of money she needed in such a short time. Bridget took this opportunity to examine Scott’s appearance.
"My God, you look like somebody used you for a punching bag. Anything seriously hurt?" Bridget asked.
"No, it's all superficial. Gerti fixed me up before we left the dig."
"What do we do now?" Gerti asked.
"To tell you the truth, I have no idea. Let's examine our options," Bridget said.
The food arrived, and since they were famished, they dug in with gusto.
"You know we have to get some new cell phones," Scott said after they finished.
"I'm sure ours were destroyed by the goons that picked up Bridget," Gerti said.
At the mention of phones, Bridget snapped her fingers when she remembered her cell and the email from Matt. Her kidnappers hadn’t taken hers. She supposed they thought she would not be alive to use it. She dug into her purse and pulled it out. It took a minute for the pictures to load. The email contained no message, just two digital photos. She assumed he wanted to get her opinion on them. As an archaeologist, Bridget recognized the picture contained an image of a religious icon, not from the ancient Greek world but from sometime after the eighth or ninth century A.D. The writings on the first photo of the icon she viewed were not very clear, as the photo was taken too far away. She surmised on initial inspection they were either Russian or Greek orthodox in origin.
"What you got there, sis?" Scott asked.
"Right before those men grabbed me, I received an email from an old friend of mine, Matt Higgins, who served with me in the Army. Remember, he’s that FBI agent who helped me out when I rescued your father." Bridget pointed at Gerti as she said this.
Bridget returned to the email and flipped to the next picture. The image contained better definition and clearly showed a beautiful icon with some type of precious stones embedded. The writing above the head of the Christ child definitely scrolled in Russian. The Madonna wore a red robe. She really needed Matt to explain why he’d sent these pictures.
One thought went through her mind. If that icon was real, it could be worth a lot of money.
She needed to contact Matt.
9
Washington D.C.
Matt Higgins walked over the 14th Street Bridge and then proceeded along the George Washington Parkway. His mind raced, considering if he did the right thing in the deputy director's office. The more he reflected on it, the more he became certain about the correctness of his actions. He continued at a brisk pace past Reagan International Airport and now enjoyed the walk toward his apartment. Somehow he knew he would be all right. He just knew it.
A school bus passed him. He read the sign on its side. The yellow bus bore the name of a local Catholic grade school. His mind keyed from Catholic school, to religion, to the religious pictures — the ones he photographed near Roanoke. He recalled emailing them to Bridget Donavan shortly after the gun battle. He hoped she might be able to shed some light on that particular image. He pulled out his ringing cell phone and answered.
“Hello,” he said.
"Hello, Matt, Bridget here," she responded. "I just examined the pictures you sent. It’s a photo of an icon. What do you want me to do?" Bridget asked.
He described what happened at the farmhouse and how he found the icon. He explained it felt heavy and it looked like real gold with precious stones embedded in it, but when he went back, it had disappeared.
"I was hoping you could tell me something about it,” Matt continued, “as it might be important or very valuable. I need it as quick as possible. I know it's a lot to ask for in a short time, but I would really appreciate it. To show my appreciation would you be willing to have dinner with me this evening?"
"I would, but I happen to be in Greece. I’ll see what I can do. Let me call you back in a bit," Bridget said.
Matt closed his phone. He remembered Bridget Donavan quite clearly. He recalled the first time he laid eyes on her. She possessed outstanding beauty with piercing golden brown eyes and flaming red hair, about five eight with a slim build and amply endowed. He thought it might be a good thing to reconnect with her.
* * *
Bridget looked at her two companions. She smiled when she said, "There is an icon missing. Value unknown, but I believe it has to be worth a lot if it is made of gold. This picture was taken after an FBI raid on an arms transaction.” She passed around the phone with the picture. “We need to find all we can about it."
"Maybe we could actually locate that icon," Scott said.
“That might be the way to go. I don’t see securing the money in Pella with the time constraint we have,” Bridget said.
"So getting that icon might solve our problem," Gerti added.
"Let’s use some of the money I have remaining to allow us set up and operate. We're off on a new venture," Bridges said. She felt good for the first time that day.
A few hours later, equipped with new cell phones and computers, the trio checked into the Hilton in downtown Athens. Bridget didn’t know if they would need three rooms, but Gerti corrected her saying they would only need two.
* * *
In the hotel room, Scott flopped on the bed and stared at Gerti.
“What’s wrong? You have that pissed off look,” she said.
“We have gone through a lot together, but this is a bridge too far.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I’m having a hard time with your father threatening to kill my sister. He’s your father. Can’t you see this is a problem for me?”
“Listen, Scott. I love you. We are the team. Not my father, get it.”
“I don’t know what would happen to us if your father kills my sister. Yes, you saved her today, but maybe not next time. Can I be with you if your father kills my sister?”
“Scott, we’re the team. Not me and my father. That has changed since we became involved and we are going to get more involved if I have my way.” She moved over and sat on the arm of the chair. She turned his head to look into her eyes.
“I want you to hear this and hear it good. If for some reason that we can’t foresee at present, we don’t get the money back, I’ll tell father to keep his business and I won’t be part of it. He will lose the daughter he plans as his successor. He’ll back off, I promise. But in the meantime, we have to try to get his money back. If I took it out of my accounts to pay him he would find out, so that isn’t an option.”
Scott believed her. The sincerity in her voice conveyed the conviction of her words.
“I mean it. In the end, I have the trump card.”
“I see what you are saying,” Scott said, “and I believe you that we are now a team, but I don’t believe what you have promised will stop him.” He pulled her down into his lap and embraced her. “Do you really have that much money?” She laughed and shoved him back on the bed.
* * *
After cleaning up in her room, Bridget started to do research on the Internet. She
hoped Scott and Gerti were doing the same but somehow doubted it.
An hour later, she called Scott's room to see if they’d made any progress on the icon. She learned what she’d expected. They’d done no research and were now starting to set up their computers. Fancy that, wonder what they’d been doing, she mused.
They agreed to meet for breakfast early the next morning. She returned to her research, trying to find out anything about this mysterious icon. There didn’t seem to be anything on the Internet that could provide information concerning this particular sacred image. She felt frustrated at the lack of progress in identifying anything about it.
After she spent an hour, her search produced no results. She decided to up the game. At her old university, she maintained a good relationship with another professor in archeology. Robert Morrison held the distinction of being the foremost authority on Greek art during the Byzantine era. She decided to call him as it would be early evening in the States.
“Hello, Bob. Sorry to call so early, but I have an urgent request that I thought you might be able to help me with,” Bridget said.
“Great to hear from you, Bridget. Sorry about what happened to you and the way you were treated by the university. Hope you can get that reversed sometime. So, what is so important that you’re calling now?”
“I sent you a picture in your email of an icon that may be from your specialty field. I’m asking if you know anything about it,” Bridget said.
“Just a second. Okay, I have it on my screen. Definitely from the ninth to the twelfth century. I would say it is from about the time the Cyrillic alphabet was introduced to the Russians by the Greek monks. The Kievian Russians converted to Christianity in the ninth century. I don’t remember seeing this exact icon. It’s unique with the red robe on the Madonna, very unusual for a red robe to be on the Madonna.”
“Any idea about its history?” Bridget interrupted.
“Sorry. There is a specialist in the Vatican who might be able to help, but you know how they are. They aren’t going to help you unless someone there goes to bat for you. I wish you good luck,” Robert Morrison said and bid her a polite goodbye.
Bridget relaxed in her chair and unwittingly flashed back to a time many years ago and remembered Matt from their army days together. She and Matt had a mutual attraction. Once, it went beyond attraction. She remembered the night — what a night — but that happened many years in the past.
Bridget needed a break. This process on the icon proved to be exhausting and she didn’t like the direction it now took. From somewhere deep in the recesses of her mind, she knew what the next step would have to be. Damn. Damn, was all that she thought. She felt frustrated by the lack of results, but decided she would have to make one phone call. She didn’t really want to, but she needed answers about this sacred item and she needed them in a very short period of time. There happened to be one religious person whom she knew in the Vatican. He might be able to provide some information. In her mind, she liked him but sort of hated him at the same time.
Bridget felt she had little choice at this point in time and dialed the number she hoped she would never have to use.
10
Rome, Italy
Monsignor Jonathan McGregor briskly climbed the steps to his second-floor apartment on this November evening. The ten-minute walk from his new office in the Vatican Secretary of State's chambers allowed him to experience the first cold onslaught of the coming winter. The Roman evening now turned chilly for the first time, signaling the end of the hot and humid Italian summer.
He entered his apartment and took off his light jacket. His cell phone rang. The display read "out of area." Very few people in the world knew this number, so he decided to answer.
"Monsignor McGregor, I hope I am not interrupting anything," said the voice he immediately recognized. It had been months since he’d last seen Bridget Donovan, and he hadn’t expect to ever hear from her again.
"Hello, Bridget," Jonathan said in his Scottish accent and then waited. This call certainly surprised him.
"I recently found out what you did to me. That wasn’t very nice."
"We were both after the same thing and only one of us could win. I’m glad that it was me, and I regret that it wasn’t you. Realistically, both of us couldn’t get the prize. All I can do is ask you to forgive," Jonathan said.
"We've been through a lot together and I feel we have a certain bond from both the friendship and the competition. It pains me in a way to call you, but I think I’ve hit the end of the road in my search and this may be something you can help me with. Look at it as a way to make a little amends for your deceptions," Bridget said.
"I presumed, Bridget, that you called for a specific reason. Please do not keep me in suspense anymore. I confess that I owe you, but you are always after something. What is it this time?" Jonathan asked.
“I actually need five million dollars,” she said.
“I don’t owe you that much,” he said in a jovial voice. “What are you really after?”
"I believe that icons are not something commonly on display in the Vatican. But I’ve done research on all the means available to me and have found nothing about a particular one. I believe monetarily, it has great value. It also may be of significant religious value, probably to the Orthodox religions. I don't know anyone in those faiths, but I thought you might be able to help me and identify this item and perhaps its history. A friend of mine believes there is someone in the Vatican who has knowledge about icons."
"You're talking in riddles, just say what you want, Bridget." He waited for her response. She wanted something, and if Bridget Donavan followed a hot trail he wanted to know about it. “What have you got to start you on this line of query about an icon?”
"I have a picture that was taken by Matt Higgins. You remember him. He’s the FBI agent at our last encounter. He took this photo during a raid somewhere in Virginia. He says, based on its weight, the icon is real gold with many precious stones. The pictures show the icon in sufficient detail. He sent two pictures of it. Somehow it got lost after the FBI raid. My request is for you see if you can identify the icon for me. If it is gold, it has to be very valuable, yet there is no record of it. From my research, it doesn’t seem to exist."
"Now I understand what you want. I don't know whether I can be of any help. On the other hand, I think I owe you to at least try. Send me the pictures along with your phone number and current email address. I'll see what I can do, but I'm not promising anything. Give me a couple of days," Jonathan said.
"That’ll be great. What are you doing these days? When are they gonna make you a bishop?" She sounded like she wanted to put the call on a more friendly tone.
"I don't think that will ever happen. Right now I've been moved over to the office of the Vatican Secretary of State as a special assistant. It’s very interesting work. I get to see the entire workings of the church in foreign affairs on a worldwide scale."
"Congratulations. Thank you in advance for anything you can do. I'll send the pictures as soon as I hang up. Good night." With that she clicked off.
Jonathan closed the cell, set the phone down, and decided he would have a glass of wine. What in the devil really motivated Bridget Donovan this time? A feisty redhead with a gorgeous figure and a beautiful face she grabbed attention wherever she went. Priests might take the vow of chastity, but God gave them eyes to look at striking things.
He’d first met her many years ago when they were in their respective armies fighting the war in the Middle East. A few years later, he ran into her when she tried to chase down the location of the Crown of Thorns worn by Jesus Christ on the day of his crucifixion. He followed her and her brother to Warsaw, then to Spain, then to Florida where he managed to manipulate their search and acquire those valuable relics. The second adventure where he encountered Bridget occurred when she attempted to find a Bible of Constantine. After she actually located it, he switched the original she possessed with a fake. The Vatic
an subsequently ruined Bridget and Scott’s academic careers over the Crown of Thorns affair. He didn’t know any effects that could have resulted from switching the bible but assumed there had been some.
The beep on his phone signaled an incoming email. He opened it and viewed the pictures. He couldn’t believe what he saw. He threw the cell on the couch and grabbed the internal Vatican landline phone.
11
Two Weeks Earlier
St. Petersburg, Russia
Msgr. O’Neill walked briskly to the exit gate from the seaport. The sun shone brightly and he would enjoy this clear autumn day. He experienced the cold air even though the locals were still in short sleeve shirts. His blood had thinned, as they say, from all those years of living in the South and even when he visited his homeland, Ireland, he no longer could easily tolerate the Irish climate.
His silver hair flailed in the wind as he walked towards the first church he wanted to examine. After many years as a church architect expert, he now enjoyed his retirement as a chaplain on cruise ships, which gave him an opportunity to visit many churches and to evaluate them from an architectural perspective. His cruise ship moored in St. Petersburg for two days and it would depart tonight.
After visiting two of the great churches in the city, his hunger got the best of him, so decided to go into a local restaurant for food. He observed it wasn't the greatest neighborhood but he figured it would probably be safe in the middle of the day. The waitress came over. Since many tourists came here, he hoped she might know a few words of English.