Authors: Michael Byrnes
“
Salve!
Welcome,” Father Martin warmly greeted them at the wide entryway. He gave Donovan and Charlotte a double-clasped handshake.
“This is quite impressive, James,” Donovan said. He’d never actually been inside this room. The man was full of surprises.
Charlotte thought “impressive” was an understatement. The Apostolic Palace’s main entryway was over twenty-four feet high, flanked by Bernini’s mammoth doors sheathed in bronze, which had been taken from ancient Roman temples. The Clementine Hall—the main reception foyer—was cavernous, covered in marble and trimmed with friezes. Three frescoes paid tribute to St. Clement’s baptism, martyrdom, and apotheosis; a fourth honored the arts and sciences. Swiss Guards in full regalia were posted throughout.
“When I informed His Eminence that the legendary Father Patrick Donovan was making a return with a world-renowned guest . . .” He spread his hands. “How could he refuse?”
“I’m not exactly the prodigal son,” Donovan reminded him in a whisper. He was trying to keep things lighthearted, but he couldn’t help but look back at the two armed Swiss Guards standing at attention beside the door. “So the honor is all yours, Charlotte,” he said to his companion.
“If you put it that way ...I’m flattered,” she said.
“Come, let us sit,” Martin said, his right hand sweeping an arc to the far end of the room, where a cozy cluster of chairs faced the tall windows overlooking Piazza San Pietro and St. Peter’s Basilica.
The dining hall pulled Charlotte’s eyes in all different directions as she walked the ornate parquet floors around the grand Louis XIV dining table set beneath a magnificent chandelier.
There were more frescoes painted by the hands of masters—Cherubino Alberti and Baldassare Croce among them, Martin subtly boasted. Furthermore, he was quick to point out that the magnificent tapestry dominating the north wall was an original Raphael that had been among those used to cover the walls of the Sistine Chapel during the 2005 conclave.
Martin smiled when Charlotte picked a wingback chair, making her think she’d violated etiquette. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, no,” Martin said, holding up a hand. “It’s just that your country’s president sat in that same chair during his visit with us last month.”
Charlotte instinctively raised her arms off the elegant fabric as if it were on fire. “Seriously?”
“Oh yes. But if you don’t mind me saying so, it suits
you
much better.”
She laughed genuinely, knowing that his preference referred to something other than appearances.
“I was thinking we could have a drink before we eat,” Martin said.
“Sounds great,” Charlotte replied.
Two glasses of Italian red wine and an Irish whiskey on the rocks were delivered by a nun wearing a white habit that covered all but her face and hands. Martin gave a toast, then settled into his chair. “It’s good to have you back, Patrick,” he said. “You’ve been missed.”
“I’m sure the archives have functioned just fine without me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. As luck would have it, the prefect’s position is still vacant.” He gave Donovan a look of anticipation.
Donovan’s noncommittal smile hinted that nothing was beyond the realm of possibility.
For the next fifteen minutes, they spoke of happenings inside the Vatican, both pleasant and distressing. Martin was good at pulling Charlotte into the conversation, but every so often, she was content to sip her Chianti and gaze out at Bernini’s colonnades and Michelangelo’s dome.
Soon thereafter, Martin sensed that Donovan was ready to segue into an explanation for his surprise return. So he allowed a gap of silence to encourage him.
Not knowing quite how to begin, Donovan explained, “Lest I state the obvious . . . our visit doesn’t concern my return to Vatican City.”
“I had a feeling that was the case,” Martin replied.
“And I’m sure you’re wondering why Dr. Hennesey has accompanied me here.”
The priest’s lips puckered. “I would be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about that too,” he confessed, watching Donovan’s expression turn conflicted, contemplative. “Tell me. What’s troubling you?”
Some clarification of the events preceding his July departure was required. “I’m sure you recall the secrecy of the project we’d arranged for Dr. Hennesey and Giovanni Bersei?”
“Certainly.” Then he looked to Charlotte and said, “Let me express my deepest condolences for Dr. Bersei’s passing.”
At a loss for words, Charlotte nodded.
“Though I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of that project . . . ,” Donovan continued.
“I understand.”
Tentative, Donovan went on. “It seems that someone outside the Vatican has information on the work that took place here—the analysis performed on certain relics acquired for the museum. Relics of extreme significance . . . and value.” Donovan paused to drain his whiskey—a superb pot-stilled Jameson—down to the halfway mark.
Keep it simple,
he reminded himself. “Both Charlotte and I were separately approached by two men looking for these relics. There were threats. They had guns—”
Martin gasped. “That’s unbelievable.” His wide eyes rolled to Charlotte, and his mouth was agape. Recalling how the two men had thrown him into the back of the van made his response seem sincere.
“Bottom line is . . . I feel we’re in serious danger. And I’ve come here to seek help—and protection.”
“There’s no safer place for you to be than inside these walls,” Martin said with forced conviction. “And you
are
officially a citizen of Vatican City.”
These words gave Donovan great comfort, because only roughly seven hundred clergy and one hundred Swiss Guards were granted official Vatican citizenship. The other three thousand lay workers, including Father Martin himself, lived outside the city—most in Rome. In accordance with Italy’s Lateran Treaty, Vatican citizenship was granted
iure officii,
meaning that once employment was terminated, the cleric’s citizenship would revert back to his original country of origin. Martin had assisted in arranging documentation with the secretariat’s office to make Donovan a dual citizen—a privilege granted to only two hundred and fifty others. Therefore, his “leave of absence” to attend to “family matters” was still considered temporary.
“You are still provided full legal representation,” Martin confirmed, “as well as complete access to the secretariat’s resources, which, as you know, are quite extensive. If you are both in some kind of . . .” He paused. But he could tell they had already filled in the blank. “Let’s just say that there’s no better place to be.”
“That’s what I was hoping,” Donovan said, visibly relieved. “Thank you.” Being a fellow Irishman, Donovan felt his bond with Martin went deeper than the cloth. And once again, Father Martin had come to his rescue. He emptied the glass, rattling the ice. “And Dr. Hennesey?”
“I’ll see to it that she’s given the same protections.”
“Thank you very much, Father,” Charlotte said. She noticed his mood was confident and his complexion was looking much better this evening. Perhaps it was the ambient lighting. But she also registered a lingering suspicion about the man. After all, he’d reported directly to Cardinal Santelli—the lunatic who, according to Donovan, had ordered Conte to murder her.
“I know this may be uncomfortable for you,” Martin urged, “but perhaps you could tell me more about these relics. Then maybe I can better determine how to direct my inquiries.”
The nun silently approached with a tray holding a fresh tumbler of whiskey. Donovan invited the interruption, because he wasn’t sure how to respond to Martin. Slowly, he swapped glasses, then took a deep breath.
“You can trust me, Patrick,” Martin stated. “You know that.”
If it hadn’t been for Martin, Cardinal Santelli’s untimely demise might have been scrutinized far more closely—particularly since Donovan had left the cardinal’s office just before Martin had found him dead. If an autopsy had been permitted, the poison Donovan had emptied through a syringe into the cardinal’s shoulder could have been traced. But trust wasn’t the issue. There was so much more at stake. Then again, it was the Vatican that had gotten Charlotte and him into this mess. And as it stood now, the Vatican provided the only hope of resolving matters.
Donovan looked over his shoulder and waited for the nun to disappear from the room. Then he looked to Charlotte for any sign of disagreement. She nodded for him to continue. “Earlier this year, I was given a book,” he explained. “A very, very old book . . .”
Egypt
Next to a keypad on the door frame, Rabbi Aaron Cohen pressed his thumb on a small glass pane. Within seconds, the biometric “key” was accepted and the keypad illuminated. Next he punched in the twelve-digit password, each keystroke emitting a tiny digital chirp. The panel flashed three times, then a series of mechanized bolts slid out from around the door frame. The massive door disengaged, automatically opening inward on smooth hydraulic pistons. A motion sensor turned on the crisp LED lights in the space beyond.
On the right side of the door, Cohen placed his fingers over a slim golden mezuzah case angled toward the open door and inscribed with the Hebrew letter shin (
w
), representing one of God’s Old Testament names, Shaddai.
Stepping across the threshold, the rabbi paused at the beginning of what resembled a mine tunnel. He vividly recalled the claustrophobia he’d felt when he was first introduced to this place by the Levite priests.
The year was 1974—a time of both great tragedy and personal transformation . . .
Aaron had just celebrated his twentieth birthday and had been in the second term of his junior year at New York’s Yeshiva University. It was a snowy afternoon in late January when he received the portentous call from his oldest sister, Ilana. “Father is dead” were the first words she’d said, in an eerily clinical fashion (at the time, she’d been an RN at Beth Israel). As shock had chilled over him, she’d gone on to explain in certain terms that earlier that fateful morning, the B41 bus slid on ice through a Flatbush Avenue intersection and plowed over three pedestrians caught in the crosswalk, injuring one critically, two mortally—including Mordecai Cohen.
“A father should never outlive his son,” Grandfather had said, weeping for the first time Aaron could recall. Not until his son had been put into the ground had the old man stopped rending his garments and chanting, “
Baruch dayan ha-emet
”—“Blessed is the Judge of truth.”
Following the prompt burial and compulsory seven-day shiva, Grandfather had summoned Aaron to his office and, without a word, handed him a first-class ticket to Cairo. When Aaron had asked him what it was for, Grandfather cryptically replied, “It is up to you now, my honorable grandson. Your future awaits. The fate of Zion rests with you.” Instructions had been provided, along with what would prove to be Grandfather’s last pearls of wisdom. Aaron would later learn that Grandfather had died in his sleep as his plane departed for Egypt.
When his flight arrived at Cairo International’s terminal, young Cohen was greeted outside customs by a white-robed Egyptian with crooked teeth and a horribly pockmarked complexion partially camouflaged by a patchy beard. The man discreetly presented a dolphin-and-trident talisman before asking Aaron to do the same. The Egyptian then escorted him to a beat-up pickup truck and insisted on blindfolding him for the ride to the warehouse—a scary episode for a young Jew in a hostile, foreign land less than a year after the Yom Kippur War.
The first thing he recalled about the warehouse was its grimy odor. When the blindfold finally came off and he found himself in the back office of a huge garage surrounded by a group of similarly dressed Egyptians, confusion and anxiety racked his thoughts. He remembered wondering how this place could possibly be the sacred ground Grandfather had spoken of.
“Sorry for this,” one of the men said, dangling the blindfold. “I’m sure you understand that precautions are necessary.”
Though Grandfather had told Aaron that the Diaspora had scattered the bloodline all over the world, he’d been nonetheless taken aback when he first saw the Egyptian man’s dark skin. Later in life he’d recall the episode when he learned that 99.9 percent of the human genome was identical, despite any outside appearances. The priest’s amazing aquamarine eyes and the gleaming silver talisman hanging over his heart on the front of his white tunic, however, further confirmed a distant yet distinct familial bond.
“You look just like your father, Mr. Aaron. A bit taller, perhaps. He was a very, very good man. God’s light will shine perpetually upon him.” The man’s English was nearly perfect. “My name is Khaleel.” He’d offered a warm handshake. “It is an honor to have you here.”
Aaron was speechless, though Khaleel’s kind words had eased his anxiety. He watched as one of the men worked on opening a door built into the floor.
“I trust your trip was comfortable?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Please, Aaron, call me Khaleel.”
His tone was remarkably calm. Aaron nodded.
Khaleel grinned. “Well then, come. Let us begin,” he said, pointing to the dark opening. “We have so much to discuss.”
In the cramped, dank basement, Khaleel had unlocked a crude, dented metal door with a skeleton key. Its hinges groaned grittily when he opened it. On the other side, he groped for a light switch that brought to life a string of work lights dangling along the center of a tunnel. “Not great,” he admitted, looking up at the dull bulbs, “but it’s a huge improvement over the torches we’d been using up until the twentieth century.”
That managed to bring forth Aaron’s first smile. Khaleel, he’d quickly determined, was a gentle, wise man.
Aaron watched the Egyptian swing the creaking door back into place, his long fingers turning the dead bolt. Realizing he’d been locked in an obscure pit in the Egyptian no-man’s-land, he felt his hands begin trembling. He stuffed them into his pockets. Grandfather wouldn’t have liked it, but even God would have trouble seeing his hands (or his head) down here.