I, Saul (24 page)

So it was official. Augie was harboring a fugitive. He drove through the ancient streets shaking his head at what he'd gotten himself into.

Suddenly overcome by jet lag, Augie felt a deep love for Roger. Augie had always admired the man and looked forward to their trips together.

However, what he was feeling now was a deep concern for his friend's eternal soul. He honored Roger's right to believe—or not believe— whatever he chose. But what kind of a friend would he be if he didn't press the issue—given that he truly believed that if Roger was killed he might be forever separated from God?

Sofia would understand. He phoned her but first told her of the manhunt.

“It's all over the news here too,” she said. “My father is making me bring Dimos.”

“You said he would tell no one!”

“Fokinos is an expert. We need all the help we can get, don't we?”

Augie sighed. “This is complicated enough, Sof.”

“We'll be there tomorrow.”

Augie told her of his urgent concern for Roger's soul.

“I'll be praying,” Sofia said. “We just have to look for opportunities.”

“First we have to keep him alive.”

When Augie pulled to within sight of the train station the night sky was filled with flashing blue lights and the street was barricaded. He parked two blocks away and jogged to the barrier. “I need to get to my stuff,” he told a carabiniere. “It's in a locker.”

The cop signaled to a colleague who hurried over. “English,” the first said.

The second turned to Augie. “Yes, sir.”

Augie repeated what he needed.

“Apologies, Mister. Bomb threat. Locker contents are being moved to this gymnasium.” He handed Augie a card with the address. “You can retrieve your belongings there tomorrow.”

“I don't suppose the meatball sandwich place is open.”

The cop laughed and pointed down the street. “Try there. Just as good. Maybe better.”

On the way back, Augie called and filled Roger in.

“Oh, man,” Roger said. “Did you tell ‘em you need it now?”

“And make them suspicious? No.”

“If they open that envelope or the paper box or get curious about what's so carefully wrapped ….”

 After they devoured the food, Roger looked more discouraged than ever. “Goin' to bed,” he said.

Exhausted as he was, Augie found himself too agitated to sleep. What if he were arrested the next afternoon? What would happen to Roger? He slipped out of bed and padded to the door of Roger's room. Mustering his courage, he said, “Man, I've got to talk to you. You don't have to say anything, just hear me out.”

Augie rehearsed their history and assured Roger he knew how he felt about the differences in their beliefs. “But I wouldn't forgive myself if something happened to you and I didn't try one more time.”

Augie prayed silently as he spoke, asking God to give him the words to explain what it means to be a true believer in Christ. He quoted a lot of Scripture and finished, “I'm just hoping that Paul's memoir will corroborate everything you've read in the Bible and that you share Paul's heritage.You wouldn't be the first skeptic who became a believer.”

When Roger didn't respond, Augie said, “We can talk later. Just tell me I haven't offended you. I sure haven't meant to.”

Still nothing.

“Roger?”

But his friend was snoring.

Augie received a text from Sofia that she and Dimos Fokinos had landed.

Roger said, “I gotta get out of here. But I'll be back in time to camp out in the lobby behind a newspaper, and—.”

“Whoa, don't forget you're not as incognito as you were yesterday, François.”

“C'mon, I told you. They got my chin wrong. Plus I'm gonna go
crazy sitting here all day. I want to see if Sofia recognizes me.”

“She won't. I wouldn't have, but take your tablet with you. And you know what to do if you think you've been made.”

“Been
made?
Talking like a spy already.”

“Just be prepared.”

“I speed-dial you, and when you see my number but hear nothing, you know I'm in trouble.”

“How secure are these new phones you keep trading?”

Roger shrugged. “Not very. I don't use ‘em long.”

Eager as Augie was to see Sofia, he texted that she should let him know where they checked in and then come by the Terrazzo at three o'clock. “directly 2 r suite, look like u belong, draw no attention.”

Augie drove to the address the police had given him and stood behind half a dozen people in a line outside. As soon as the door was unlocked, they all hurried in. Black plastic bags lay on folding tables, some bulging, some nearly flat. Locker numbers had been written on cards and taped to them.

Augie peeked at his key and headed for his bag, only to be intercepted by a uniformed carabiniere. “
Identificazione e la chiave, per favore.”

“Sorry,
chiave?”

“
Parli Italiano, sir?”
the cop said, nodding when Augie produced his blue passport. “Aah, English. Key. I need to see your locker key.”

As soon as Augie produced it, the carabiniere said, “I have been instructed to inform you that you will not be allowed to leave here with all your contents unless you show me more documentation.”

Augie froze. “And what documentation is that?”

“I think you know, sir.”

He wanted to be neither belligerent nor a pushover. “If I knew, Officer, I would not ask.”

The cop leafed through his passport. “You are an experienced traveler. You know you are required to have official clearance on your person for one specific item in your locker.”

Augie smiled and shrugged.

“What is your work?”

“I lead tours, mostly to holy sites.”

“And to which of these have you been allowed to carry a handgun?” “Oh! The nine millimeter! That is not mine. It belongs to a friend” “I will need the name.”

“Will I be getting him in trouble?”

“He will have to come himself to retrieve it. But I must tell you, its serial number does not show up on any local police database. Our constitution does not recognize the right of citizens to bear arms.”

“It doesn't? Then I wouldn't want to deliver it to him.”

“His name?”

“That isn't necessary, is it? If I inform him it is unregistered, he would be wise to abandon it, wouldn't he?”

The carabiniere hesitated, a look coming over him. “It is a nice gun, sir.”

Augie nodded. “How about I tell him he should just forget about it?”

“To keep himself out of trouble.”

“Precisely. And would you personally dispose of it for him?”

“As his representative, you are instructing me to do that?”

“Yes, Officer, I want you to take personal responsibility for it. As you say, it is a nice gun. And that way, it doesn't have to be officially processed, does it?”

“Not if you are entrusting it to me.”

“I am.”

“Sign here.”

A multipart form listed the contents of his locker. “Oh, I don't read much Italian either,” Augie said. “Do you mind?”

The cop read, “One large sealed envelope addressed to R.M., unmarked. One five-hundred-sheet paper box, full. One wrapped and protected photograph or document.”

Augie leaned in to peek at the form. “No mention of the, uh ….”

“The …?”

“The nine.”

“What nine? Is something missing, Dr. Knox? Something else you want listed on this official police form?”

“No, I think that covers it.”

The officer grabbed the bag and swung it into Augie's arms, clearly without an inkling that the single page of parchment alone was worth millions of euros. “Be sure everything you just signed for is there.”

Augie peeked in at the three items, one drawing him like an undertow. He nodded and the officer walked away.

Augie started back to the hotel, driving as carefully as if he had been transporting cocaine. He tried to appear nonchalant as he strode through the lobby, reminding himself to slow down, maintain his composure. Only when the elevator doors slid shut did he realize he had forgotten to look for Roger lounging in the lobby.

In his suite Augie hung a Do Not Disturb sign outside, applied the dead bolt, and attached the quaint chain. He rummaged for a clean pair of socks. They weren't ideal, but they would have to do until he could find
cloth gloves. He sat at the desk and gingerly emptied the bag, setting Klaudios's envelope and the stationery box aside. He peeled the tape from the edges of the sheets protecting the parchment, making sure he kept the entire package out of the sunlight streaming through the drapes.

Finally, before him lay a parchment page about eleven inches by fourteen, sandwiched between thin, custom-cut, acid-free sheets. Augie slid the socks over trembling hands, then lowered his head to where he could softly blow on the top leaf until it began to slide away and expose the parchment.

Augie held his breath and slowly nudged it with his awkwardly covered fingers until the entire page came into view.
Oh, God,
he prayed silently.
Let this unspeakable privilege be real.

The page was written in Ancient Greek that appeared to be from the Hellenistic period. Earlier texts, and even some during the beginning of that period, were written both right to left and left to right, alternating every line so the writer barely had to lift his hand from the page. This one had been written right to left, and, as Roger had told him, the script was remarkably readable for being as old as he hoped.

He began reading, meticulously translating for himself as he went, careful not to touch the parchment even with a sock-covered hand.

Augie sat back and exhaled heavily. Was he actually reading something written in the Apostle Paul's own hand? It was almost more than
he could bear. Was Paul referring to his dramatic conversion experience on the road to Damascus? Or something earlier? Augie couldn't wait to find out.

Augie stacked everything on the side table in his bedroom, setting the heavy ream of paper over the one original page.

He heard footsteps outside the door and moved close to listen. Sofia's voice:
[“Dimos, would you give me a minute to greet my fiancé?”]