Shrouded in Silence (15 page)

"They must have gotten everything they needed yesterday," Jack said. "All that's left is yellow plastic tape sealing off the area as a crime sight. I'm sure they'll let us know when we can come in the front way again."

"Dov," Michelle said, "we never did get back to what you found in the Vatican Archives. You hinted that the priests keep something hidden. I'd like to hear more about what you're on to."

Dov nodded. "Sure nobody's listening?" He looked around. "The matter's sensitive and must be kept in the highest confidence."

"Sure," Jack said. "That's a given."

"Yesterday afternoon while the police investigation was going on, I went back to the bottom basement of the Vatican Archives and did some intense nosing around. In the far back, they have several rooms where no one's admitted, even with a pass. I had a hunch that the material we're looking for might be in there."

"What's in there?" Michelle ask.

"Like Codex Vaticanus and Codex Sinaiticus, there are a stack of sheets of papyrus lying on top of one another. Of course, these texts are all hermetically sealed to protect them from contamination because of the air. The manuscripts are not large and may only be a few pages. The scuttlebutt I picked up is that there is a text in there from the first century. That alone makes the manuscripts of a priceless value."

"Wow!" Jack said. "That is big time."

"I found one old priest down there in that dungeon who liked me," Dov continued. "When I got to talking about my Jewish background and what happened to my grandparents during World War II, his lights came on. Apparently, he'd had some connections with smuggling Jews out of Italy during the Holocaust. My stories unlocked the conversation and we were on. I took Father Donnello out for coffee and filled him up with cream and strawberries. The strawberries really hit his button. Somewhere in the conversation the priest told me that they refer to the materials as 'The Brown Book.' He whispered that the actual name is
The Prologue of James.
Father Donnello wouldn't talk about what it contained but was convinced that the authorship was apostolic."

"My, my!" Jack exclaimed. "Highly significant. This is exactly what I was hoping for. It could be that you are right on target. What a discovery! That name's intriguing.
The Prologue of James!
You've made a major breakthrough, Dov."

"Father Donnello tossed the title out during our conversation, but if it's not what we're looking for, we have to be close to our target. The problem is going to be getting a good look at this brown book. I'm sure we would never receive official permission to nose around in those dark, musty stacks."

Jack rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Yes, that's going to be a real problem. We've got to think this over carefully. Dov, could you go back today and pump that elderly priest for a little more information? Possibly, he knows more about what's inside that brown book, as he called it. It's a long shot but worth a try."

"Jack, why don't you go with me. You've got a reputation, and he might have heard of your book. You could ask better questions. I think you could make progress down there in that dank old basement."

"Excellent idea! Why don't we leave now and we can—"

"Can stop at Dar Poeta and munch on their goodies," Michelle interjected. "Who are you kidding?"

"I can't believe that you'd accuse me of such a thing," Jack said. "Really! Nothing but insensitivity."

"You think I don't know what goes on when you go sneaking out the door?" Michelle grinned. "I know all about where you're going. Just make it after you've been to the library. You boys keep your collective noses clean."

Almost unable to believe his ears, Albert Stein settled back on the footstool and stared at the receiving unit attached to the inner side of the van. "
The Prologue of James?
So, this is what the Townsends are after."

The title was unknown to him, but no question that the Americans were on to something that was important, but this time he was ahead of them. It was almost too good to be true. He had a title and a location. It would take some doing, but he was looking at the challenge of a lifetime to beat them in finding that manuscript.

"What could be in that parchment?" Stein mumbled to himself. "What have they stumbled on to?"

Because Klaus Burchel hadn't shown, he had been in the van long enough for his bones to feel like it had been forever. More than an entire day had passed since Burchel had disappeared. It made no sense that the man had simply walked away unless he'd gotten himself in real trouble and that remained a significant possibility. Such a problem could put Stein in an even more difficult position. His initial anger began turning to concern. Where was Burchel, and what was he doing?

The farther down the ancient stone steps Jack walked, the more aware he became of descending into the lowest level underneath the Vatican. Dov walked ahead of him, holding tightly to the railing while Jack followed.

"You're having fun," Dov said. "Following me has to be the highlight of your day so far."

"I'm easily pleased," Jack quipped. "What could be more meaningful than tickling your elbow?"

"Just about anything," Dov said.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Jack glanced across the vast room with an archaeological dig going on at the far side. "That's one big area," he said. "We must be on the ground level of what was once first- century Rome."

"We are," Dov said. "I discovered that this portion once was part of the Circus of Caligula and Nero. They tell me excavations have revealed that citizens once lived over there in those ruins from twenty centuries ago. Can you imagine the Romans racing chariots around this exact area?"

"Stretches the minds," Jack said. "Fascinating to imagine what once went around that ancient racetrack."

"Yeah, and if we find anything today from the ancient first century, it will really twitch your wires."

"You bet. Where do we find this Father Donnello?"

Dov pointed toward a small office with a closed door near the center of the area. "He's usually in there working on some document. The man's a genius with languages. You'll like him. Let's take a look."

Dov trudged across the stone floor toward the door. The sound of a chair scrapping across rock signaled that the priest was inside. The door opened slightly and a bearded face peered around the corner.

"Aha!" Father Donnello beamed. "It's my little Jewish friend. Come in and rest a spell." The skinny priest swung the door wide open, revealing the brown habit of a Franciscan. A beard hung down to the end of his neck. "I see you brought a friend today."

"You'll like him," Dov said and walked in. "This guy's a big-time scholar."

Father Donnello stroked his long, grey beard. "Interesting. What does he study?"

"Scripture," Dov said. "Please meet Dr. Jack Townsend."

"Townsend? Not the Townsend who wrote
An Answer to the Cynics?"

"The same," Dov said.

Then Father Donnello extended his hands. "Saints preserve us! I've read your book three times and devoured it. Brilliant answers to the hostile critics of Scripture."

"Actually my wife, Michelle, and I wrote it together," Jack said. "Credit goes to her as well."

"Certainly," the priest said. "Sit down. I am honored by having you two come to see me. Most of the time I am down here virtually alone except for the archaeologists working over there in the ruins, and they're a silent bunch anyway."

Jack smiled. "I understand. "We're here because we take the Scriptures seriously."

"Ah," Father Donnello exclaimed, "Excellent." He picked up a small coffeepot sitting on top of a single-coil electric heater. "Can I fix you some coffee or maybe hot tea?"

"Thank you," Jack said, "but we'll pass for the moment. We came to talk to you about a particular document."

"Oh?" The priest smiled. "I am delighted to share whatever I can."

"Can you tell me more about what is called
The Prologue of James?"

Father Donnello stopped and immediately set the coffeepot down. "We never speak of such a matter."

17

K
laus Burchel sat hunched over a table in the
Hofbrauhaus
beer hall just off of the main square in the center of Munich. A small German band with a boisterous tuba player tried to chase away the coldness of the fall afternoon with their strident folk songs. In their lederhosen and Bavarian hats with feathers sticking out the side, the potbellied ensemble kept pounding out loud drinking songs. The two-story pub amounted to a huge beer hall with women in native costumes flying around the rooms holding large steins of beer in their hands to keep the patrons happy and drinking.

"Mein herr." The buxom barmaid in the Bavarian dress whirled in front of Klaus's table holding three mammoth glass steins overflowing with beer. "What'll it be, pretty face?"

"Lager," Klaus said.

"Coming up." the woman swirled away almost as if she was dancing to the um-pa-pa the tuba kept hammering away underneath the melody line of the song.

Klaus had started using his family name again because it felt more comfortable in Germany to be known as a Baer, but it had its problem. The surname problem was only a part of what depressed him. He had returned to the
Hofbrauhaus
hoping the raucous beer hall might offer encouragement. In the basement, Adolf Hitler had held some of his first rallies to gather support for his fledgling movement. Beneath this very floor, Hitler and Nazi Party members had stormed an official political meeting and declared that the revolution in Germany had begun. On November 8, 1923, the Beer Hall Putsch had set off a fire storm that resulted in Hitler landing in prison where he wrote
Mein Kampf.
Yet, it was this exact disaster that set the stage for his rise to power. Klaus could take comfort that the emergence of the Third Reich came out of the ashes of the Putsch. Even though sixteen Nazis and four policemen had been killed, the struggle had been worth the confrontation. That tidbit of history encouraged him to consider continuing even after killing the priest in Rome. What counted was the struggle, the continuation of the battle.

His parents had been alarmed when he showed up on their doorstep. It had been a considerable walk from the train station, but no one had stopped him for questioning. It seemed that the police had allowed his past felonies to slide and weren't interested in catching him. However, his parents weren't so sure. In the opinion of some, the name Baer and his grandfather Richard Baer's death in prison kept a cloud hanging over their house. The return of a son in trouble with the law wasn't positive. At best, they had no clue that he had killed a priest in Rome.