Shrouded in Silence (33 page)

Jack massaged his arm where the plaster cast had been and felt muscle returning. Before long, he'd be exercising with heavy weights and then the right proportions would return. How could he languish in despair when they'd been able to slip by the catastrophes? With police watching the street and the alleys, they could sleep at night without fretting over an assailant dropping in from some unguarded entry. Normality might be on the horizon. As soon as he got back on his exercise routine, even his body would be completely in shape to take on the chaotic world.

Guido would be returning, and they'd go after unearthing the ending to Mark's Gospel. He had disappeared after the attack under the Roman ruins to give the excitement and confusion time to settle, but time was running out, and he'd be back soon to continue the search. Unfortunately, he didn't get a look at who was in the black Audi pursuing them.

"Your artichokes
alla guidia."
The waiter set the dish in front of him. "You are the first person to order our specialty this morning." Luichi smiled. "A little early for most folks."

"Of course. Then again, I live on the unusual side. Thank you, Luichi."

The waiter smiled and sauntered away.

Jack took a bite and closed his eyes in a moment of delight. "Excellent," he murmured to himself and took another fork full.

A rotund woman wearing a solid green dress came strolling by. Over the top of her attire, she had a white baker's apron with a bright pink scarf tied over her black hair and hanging loose down her neck. Her ponderous body bounced down the street like a half-inflated basketball as she made her way to what was probably a meager paying job in one of the many piazzas. The clash of pink and green seemed strange and out of place, but a collision of colors reflected so much that was Rome. The Santa Maria Church made for worship was actually a bone collection. Detective Alfredo Pino worked on finding their attackers but seemed to think them guilty of something or the other because of the continuing assaults. An ancient city filled with thousands of years of priceless buried treasures hid the hoard of the past so completely it was nearly impossible to find anything. Contradictions hid in every alley and lurked behind the endless monuments on every street corner. He and Michelle had taken on a formidable task when they waded into the sea of paradoxes in trying to find the ending to Mark's Gospel.

Jack bit into another artichoke and held it in his mouth, savoring the flavor. Artichokes had a smooth, gliding sensation, sliding across his tongue. The aroma of the Roman-Jewish style of cooking lingered. The problem was that Rome had a billion hiding pockets. Everywhere one turned, new excavations turned up. Jack knew that the document could be anywhere and that was what made their chase so frustrating.

He thought of Dov Sharon. Even though much younger than either he or Michelle, Dov had been like a teasing brother who could turn anything into a chuckle. His dry sense of humor had kept them going and giggling through the hardest of times. The tragedies his family endured decade after decade had taught him it was better to laugh one's way through difficulty than to succumb to moroseness. And now he was gone.

Tears edged their way forward. Since coming out of the hospital, Jack had not allowed himself to think about what had occurred the day of the bombing. Getting his head back together had been difficult enough that he had avoided mentioning Dov to Michelle. Going on without his friend seemed almost impossible. For the first time, he let himself feel what had been lurking beneath the surface. Tears broke loose and ran down his cheeks. For several minutes, he kept his head ducked while his body shook gently beneath the weight of the loss of Dov's life. Finally, the heaviness settled some and he felt he could breath easier. Jack sighed and tried to let the pain slide. He quietly allowed a sense of resolution to set in and kept nibbling at the artichokes.

Abruptly, his mind opened as clearly as turning a page in a book. He could hear Dov speaking to him almost as surely as if he were sitting across the table from him.

"James grew up with Jesus and must have watched his brother become an entirely different person . . ." The remembrance of the voice drifted away and then returned. "Did he consider Jesus a fanatic? a genius? deluded?" Once again the voice slipped away.

Jack sat entranced, staring at the empty chair. He could almost smell the ancient stale scent of their old office. It carried the odor of carpets left on the floor through decades and seldom cleaned. The walls imparted a tasteless hint of peeling paint. The memory of the day of the bomb rushed back to him.

"Something in that document profoundly troubles the Roman Catholic Church," Dov had said. "That's why they've kept it concealed under lock and key. I now know where it is hidden."

The scene disappeared like a soap bubble popping. Jack lurched forward. One second it was there; the next it was gone. Whatever Dov started to tell him about the location of the document vanished into blackness. But one fact remained. Jack was certain that Dov had told him where
The Prologue of James
was hidden. Unfortunately, the revelation had disappeared with the blast.

Two old cronies walked by. Like typical Italians, the first man wore an old fedora hat with a sport coat that he must have slipped on his back every day for the past thirty years. A gray sweater covered a maroon shirt buttoned at the neck. The white-haired man talking next to him wore a light blue sweater under his dark blue sport coat with gray worn-slick pants. Both men were shaking their hands fervently as they talked. The Italian language was as much about gesture as about words. Like the multitude of old men all over Rome dressed exactly like them, they went on down the street indifferent to the explosive circumstances erupting across the city.

Jack couldn't be like them, not allowing tragic events to roll on down the street like the Tiber River on an endless journey. He couldn't let his sudden insight be just another blip in his memory. He had to recover what Dov had told him. The trouble was the mirage had disappeared, and he couldn't open it by exerting sheer willpower.

Finishing his artichokes, he opened the newspaper.
Il Messaggero's
headline story described the bombing of an American airplane at Ciampino airport. Terrorists with The Scorpion organization had broken through a back fence and shot a couple of guards before damaging the American Super ATR parked on the tarmac. A message had been sprayed on the cement warning American capitalism to stay out of Italy. Anarchist were still on the loose. Jack immediately folded the paper and stuck it under his arm. Laying the money on the table with a tip for Luichi, he trotted back to the subway. He had to get home before Michelle picked up this story so he could attempt to soften the blown.

The subway lurched back and forth in predictable unpredictable jerks. Hanging on to a pole, Jack tried to read the article again. Some guard had seen three men leave through a hole cut in a wire fence, but wasn't sure if that was the number of the assault team. Maybe more than three men had been involved. The police thought so. The story said national security was at stake, and the police would be beefing up their watch. Nice thoughts, but it didn't mean much. Jack had seen the police at work up close and wasn't reassured. Michelle certainly wouldn't be.

For a moment he thought again about the sudden encounter that had returned only minutes earlier. Had that experience of Dov talking to him been real or did it pop out of the disorder that had ruled his mind during the past weeks? Could he have just made it up? Maybe the bombing had made him unstable. Then again, the recollection could be extremely important. Everything about the recall had seemed real, but what if it wasn't? The idea felt unnerving. It wasn't only a memory, but the entire episode might be an exposure of his crumbling stability.

The subway car slid to a stop and Jack bounded through the door. Without slowing, he rushed for the gate. Within the usual time, he was back at the apartment where Michelle sat at the kitchen table reading. Attempting to create a look of casualness, Jack walked into the living room at a much slower pace.

"How's things going?" he ask.

Michelle looked at him for a moment. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, just wanted to make sure you were OK."

"Because if I heard that the Ciampino Airport got bombed last night, I might freak out?" She held up the
Il Messaggero
newspaper.

Jack caught his breath.

"Yes, the story is all over Rome this morning and I haven't gone crazy yet," Michelle said. "Who knows? I may slide over the edge at any moment. Actually, I'm doing quite well. Living through a bombing and two attempts to kill me seems to have helped suppress my problem. You can breathe easier, Jack. I'm as cool as a candy bar."

"What a relief," Jack said. "I thought that maybe—"

"Yes, I know what you thought and you can stop being my father. All right?"

Jack walked in and sat across the table from her. "I'm not trying to play parent. I simply worry about you."

Michelle leaned across the table and kissed him. "You're the kindest man in the world and I appreciate your constant concern, but I'm truly fine."

"Michelle, I've been down the street," Jack paused.

"At Dar Poeta," Michelle's voice took on a condescending air. "I can smell the artichokes on your breath. Let's be a little more exact."

"OK. OK. I was sitting down there reading the page when I had a flashback. At least, I thought I did. It seems that Dov did tell me where
The Prologue
document was hidden, but I simply can't bring it back to mind. The entire experience might be a figment of my imagination, but I can't lay it down. Before we go any further in our search with Guido, I think I ought to go see that priest who leveled with him. I believe his name was Father Donnello. Maybe he would be equally straightforward with me."

"You had some kind of remembrance about what happened just before the bomb went off?"

"Yes, it sort of popped up when I remembered how much I mourned Dov's death." Jack stopped and couldn't say anymore. His eyes filled with tears. "I guess I've been avoiding allowing myself to think about him." It became harder for him to speak. "Sorry." He choked up.

"Dear, it's OK. Don't fight it. You need to let your emotions out."

Jack wiped his eyes. "Sure." He sniffed. "I have to give remembering a big try," Jack said. "I must talk to that old man. If for no other reason than my own sanity."

45

B
ecause vatican security agents knew Dr. Jack Townsend, passing through their check points proved to be only a momentary pause. Even though he was a Protestant, Vatican officials liked his and Michelle's
An Answer to the Cynics
and had on occasion recommended the book. Controversy over the book from the theological Left had only propelled his reputation up the ladder with the Roman overseers. Being considered a friend provided freedom in wandering through the Vatican Library and Secret Archives.

Once beyond surveillance, Jack walked quickly down the elaborate corridor. The ceilings towering above him had been covered with gold designs increasing a sense of their height. Artists had massaged frescos of saints and theologians into the exquisite designs giving the hall an overpowering sensation. Once inside the second room in the Secret Archives, Jack paused to study the dramatically colorful ceilings covered with angels flying through a painted sky of elegant proportions. Around the walls, pictures of long-dead heroes like Steven I the Saint, Duke of Hungary, and Demetrius, Duke of Croatia, as well as the coat of arms of Cardinal Scipione Borghese reflected an era when the Pope reigned as king of all kings rather than only a spiritual leader. Jack had studied the details of the lives of the saints and didn't pause for a second look. Unfortunately, the ornamented room reeked of medieval opulence. As he had previously done with Dov at his side, Jack worked his way toward the back of the archives, stopping here and there to study some obscure detail in order to leave an impression that he was working in the archives on an assignment.

Once he reached the rear, he entered the room where Dov had first worked with the collection of fragments unearthed in a street excavation in Rome. The dusty box containing pieces of manuscripts sat just as he and Dov had last left it. Once assured no one was observing him, he slowly disappeared through the obscure door that opened into steps descending to the final basement and the area of an ongoing archaeological dig. Shutting the door carefully so as to not make a sound, he started down the worn granite stairs.

A few lightbulbs attached to the walls kept him from dropping into opaque blackness. Dov had come down this same hidden descent over the slick granite. No one would go bounding down this chasm with any speed.