The Relic

By Joe Prentis

When Archeologist John Christopher accepted a position as the Vatican’s Ambassador-at-large in an attempt to get negotiations going in the troubled Middle East, he thought it would be just another routine series of meetings. He was soon proven wrong when he became immersed in a deadly tug of war between the area nations that are on a collision course with terrorism. There are forces at work that Christopher does not immediately understand. His hesitation as he attempts to keep the peace effort on course, leads him toward what many fear will be a catastrophic failure with world wide implications. Julia Siedman, his former colleague at the American State Department, is representing the American interest. Their broken engagement presents an almost insurmountable obstacle as Julia struggles with her own emotions. The many twist and turns in this book will keep you guessing as it pushes you along on a rollercoaster ride to a bone jarring conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe Prentis
• Release date: Apr 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458105424

Joe Prentis

Joe Prentis is the author of over 70 short stories and fifteen novels. He is currently working on the third novel in a series about the Middle East and doing research on a book set in the Colonial Era.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Zephan shifted the assault rifle to his left hand as the dusty Ford swung past the traffic barrier and rocked to a stop in front of the checkpoint. Most of the traffic at this early hour consisted of flatbed trucks loaded with produce for the markets in East Jerusalem. It was not unusual to see a passenger car among the early arrivals, but there was something about this car that brought all of his senses instantly alert. He knew that a terrorist would sometimes select a nondescript vehicle like this one and pack nails and iron bolts around an improvised bomb containing high powered explosives. As he looked down the length of the battered automobile, he decided it was setting level on its wheels. This was a good indication that a bomb had not been concealed inside the framework or underneath the rear seat. He stood for a few seconds longer behind the reinforced glass and then stepped out on the tarmac.

The other soldiers in Zephan’s squad had been assigned to this checkpoint no more than a week before. He hoped they would be able to perform their duties by the end of the day without his constant supervision. Five serious incidents had occurred over the past week. He hoped there wouldn’t be another one to contend with today.

Zephan studied the driver’s face as he approached the car and compared it to the photograph attached to his clipboard. The man in the photograph was tall and lean with most of his features hidden behind a wild tangle of beard. The driver was obviously not the Sheikh, but it didn’t mean he was not dangerous. In a military intelligence briefing, they told him that the army of insurgents commanded by the Sheikh probably numbered more than five thousand. It was rumored that his intention was to take Jerusalem by force and perhaps Israel in the coming months. It was easy to imagine the insurgents slipping into the city in groups of twos or threes. There was also the frightening possibility that the person serving next to you could be one of the Sheikh’s men. In these dangerous and unstable times, it was a sobering thought.

The driver’s placid smile seemed forced, but no more so than what he normally encountered each day from foreign nationals. He kept his attention focused on the driver’s eyes which were partly concealed underneath the bill of a Yankee’s baseball cap. He relaxed slightly after he decided these two were probably harmless Americans who wanted to get an early start at the tourist’s sites in Jerusalem. Zephan was just as eager to get back to the coffee and baklava he purchased in a village shop before daybreak.

He went through his checklist while Eleazar examined the underside of the car with a mirror attached to an aluminum pole. The man in the passenger seat wore an expensive suit with his tie pulled at a careless angle. He suddenly realized that the two men did not look as if they belonged together. After six months at this hazardous checkpoint, he knew it was the little things that made you aware of the possibility of danger. Sometimes it saved your life.

Zephan touched his index finger to the bill of his cap, a prearranged signal for Avram to remove the passenger from the car. When there was a possibility of trouble, it was important to separate the occupants with as little fuss as possible.

Eleazar remained motionless near the rear door for another few seconds, and then began to creep along the side of the car with his eyes fastened intently on the mirror. Zephan didn’t move until the three of them were out of his line of fire, and then he brought the rifle up with one smooth motion and pointed it at the side of the driver’s head.

Step out of the car, please, he ordered briskly.

Something wrong, officer? the driver asked in a heavy American accent. Zephan jerked the door handle with his free hand, then stepped back as the man swung around in the seat. Avram shouted a warning as a flash of light reflected back at them from an object in the man’s hand. The assault rifle jumped and slammed the driver against the side of the car. The passenger opened his mouth to scream, but Avram smashed the butt of his weapon against the back of his head.

Although the driver had taken more than a dozen hits at close range, he continued to stay on his feet with his knees locked and his body angled against the side of the car.

No one could have lived through that, Zephan told himself but didn’t relax his grip on his weapon. Suddenly, the man’s head jerked erect and a long, ululating wail emanated from his throat. It echoed up and down the wadi, setting the dogs to barking from the direction of the kibbutz. Zephan took a step backward and shivered violently. The man stayed on his feet for a few seconds longer and then slid to the ground in a lifeless heap. When Zephan moved cautiously toward him, he realized the object in the man’s hand was a small engineer’s daybook like the ones the supervisors carried at the construction sites. He moved it aside with the toe of his boot and cautiously picked it up. A picture inside the front cover showed a tall man dressed in casual clothes. He examined the photograph for a few seconds before he realized he was the American archeologist appointed by the Vatican as the new ambassador to Israel. Across the back of the photograph was the name, John Christopher, and the command ‘KILL HIM!’ written in Arabic. He called out to the other soldiers and motioned them away from the car as he rushed toward the telephone.

Chapter 2

The windows exploded inward, sending an avalanche of glass and jagged metal across the room, while the steady blat-blat of a high-powered weapon shattered the early morning stillness. Christopher rolled off the bed and covered his eyes with his hands. A fraction of a second later, two vases setting on a trestle table exploded, sending fist-sized chunks of fire-glazed pottery ricocheting from the walls and ceiling.

Get down! Christopher shouted when he heard Julia’s high pitched scream from across the hallway. In the sudden lull, he heard Daniella’s voice, faint and indistinct, from the opposite end of the house.

The row of floodlights along the top of the walls snapped on, illuminating the carpet in the reflected glow. Fragments of glass glittered like hoarfrost at the far end of the room. Christopher turned in the opposite direction and crawled around the foot of the bed. He stayed low, to keep his body below the level of the windows, as he moved rapidly through the doorway. The tall windows at the opposite end of the hallway extended almost to the floor. He hoped the next attack would not come from that direction.

Julia had evidently heeded his warning, for she remained silent, but in the eerie stillness, Christopher could hear the sound of bare feet running in his direction. He came up on one knee and caught Daniella around the waist, then swung her to the floor and covered her body with his own.

The shooter had evidently switched clips during the brief lull, for the sporadic firing commenced again. Chips of plaster exploded from the walls in the hallway as bullets whined away in the darkness like angry hornets. If Daniella had been a second or two later, she would have been cut down. Another weapon commenced firing from the direction of the gatehouse, a deep-throated thumping that drowned out the sound of the smaller weapon.

The firing stopped abruptly. A few seconds later the lights in the hallway snapped on. He heard the pounding of hard-soled boots as someone raced up the stairway from below. Was it possible that someone had breached the outer perimeter?

Ambassador Christopher! a familiar voice called from the landing. Lance Corporal Donavan ran effortlessly up the remaining flight of stairs carrying a M9 Beretta in his oversized hand.

Christopher attempted to roll away from Daniella, but her arms were locked securely around his neck. He realized she was trying to shield her scantily clad body from the guard’s inquisitive gaze. Donavan stepped past them and went cautiously into the wreckage of the bedroom. Broken glass and pottery crunched underneath the soles of his combat boots. Someone shouted a question from the lower terrace, and Donavan called back to assure him that everything was secure. Julia’s tousled head appeared in the doorway of her bedroom for a second, and then she darted back inside. A second or two later she was back with a robe that she tossed in her sister’s direction. Daniella caught it and wrapped it around her body as Donovan emerged from Christopher’s bedroom. The radio attached to his belt suddenly came to life. Christopher could hear the rapid-fire questions and Donavan’s terse replies. After a moment, Donavan came slowly back, frowning down at the radio.

This was apparently a mistake, Donavan said in an odd tone as if he couldn’t take it all in.

A mistake? Christopher echoed as he examined the young soldier’s expression.

Yes, sir. The shooter thought this was Eli Cohen’s house.

Cohen’s house is the next one down, Christopher offered, then realized Donavan was already aware of that. In the three days since the transfer of the Marine Security Detachment from Company ‘B’ Headquarters in Nicosia, they had reconnoitered the neighborhood with the same precision they would have used to plan an armed assault.

Did the attackers give an explanation? Christopher asked.

There was only one of them, sir, and they didn’t get much out of him before he died. If you’re sure everything is okay, I’ll report to Post One.

Post One was the way the Marine Security Guards referred to the guard posts they maintained near the front entrance of all American embassies. Dr. Siedman’s sprawling villa was not an embassy, but as special envoys to the upcoming negotiations they were qualified to receive the protection normally offered to embassy personnel.

I’ll be down in a minute, Christopher said as Donavan turned toward the head of the stairs.

Christopher walked to the door of his bedroom and looked at the wreckage. They were lucky the shooter hadn’t used a grenade launcher. Julia made a small sound of dismay as she surveyed the room. When he turned in her direction, she leaned her forehead against his shoulder. He thought at first that she was crying and then realized it was laughter bubbling up out of control.

A mistake? Julia said. This is too weird for words.

I don’t think weird covers it, he said.

Daniella remained motionless, looking down the hallway in the direction Donovan had taken. Is he going to come rushing up here at every little thing? she complained.

Christopher would have been amused if the situation had not been so serious. Donovan had seemed unaware of Daniella’s presence as he checked the hallway and the bedroom. At her age, being ignored was almost as bad as the advances of a stalker.

The house is secure, he said as he encircled her with his other arm and pulled her against his shoulder. When Julia made a small sound of surprise, he realized Daniella was trying to elbow her out of the way.

Go and check on your grandmother, he said. I’m sure the noise awakened her.

Daniella moved a few inches away while her gaze darted from one of them to the other.

What’s going on that you don’t want me to know about? she accused. I’m not a kid anymore, and I resent you guys trying to hide everything from me.

We’re not hiding anything from you, Julia said.

The frown line deepened between her eyebrows. Yeah, right, like I’d believe that.

It seemed for a moment that she was going to continue to argue, but she pulled resentfully away and went down the hallway without looking back. Christopher wondered if the situation had become too serious to allow her to remain in Israel for the summer. It would probably be a good idea to send her back to Harvard or to her mother in Washington. He decided he would wait until later to broach the subject with Julia. Some decisions would also have to be made concerning the other students. There would be over eighty of them arriving from colleges and universities around the world to spend their summer working at the archeological site. Hundreds of student workers in northern Israel were sent home the previous summer when rockets rained down on their area. After three days of relative peace, dangerous events were closing in on them again.

Julia continued to stand with her arms around his waist, her forehead leaned against his shoulder. When he kissed her forehead, she made a small sound of surprise but did not lift her eyes to meet his.

Everything is secure, Christopher said. As soon as I’m dressed, I’ll go down and see what the guards discovered. Julia pulled away with a show of reluctance and turned toward the door of her bedroom.

During the previous weeks, the excitement over the kidnapping of Congressman Danville had moved from the front page of the newspaper to the bottom of page five. Christopher wondered where Keith Maitland was at that moment, and what kind of spin he would put on this.

* * * * *

The small speaker directly above Maitland’s head came to life with a loud squeal, and then someone started to speak in a flat monotone like a boxing promoter announcing the next event in a sports arena. The pain in his shoulder had subsided to a dull ache, but the knot at the base of his skull seemed to swell and contract with each beat of his heart. The other prisoners had ignored him after their first inquisitive overtures. All of them seemed to be occupied with their own private demons, except for the big one who continued to cast sidelong glances in his direction. This man could have been an Arab, a Turk, or a member of a hundred other ethnic groups, but he was probably a long lost descendent of Goliath of Gath.

The speaker came to life again without the squawk that seemed to accompany each announcement. This time the spokesman was hung up on one nonsensical word until the voice seemed to echo inside Maitland’s head. He covered his ears, but he could still hear, Ma-te-lyon, Ma-te-Lyon, Ma-TE-lyon . . .

Maitland jerked his head erect when he felt a hand on his shoulder. The large man hovered threateningly in the center of his vision.

The man on the intercom said a visitor for Mr. Matelyon. Aren’t you Mr. Matelyon, that news reporter?

My name is Maitland.

Then go and be done with it! the man said, waving a massive arm toward the cell door. That intercom is giving me a headache, and you don’t want me to have a headache!

Maitland climbed hastily to his feet and stepped carefully around the hulking man as the guard swung the door.

You hab tube vis-e-tours, the guard said in halting English.

When the lock behind him clicked in place, Maitland turned toward the front entrance. He had only taken a step or two when the guard grabbed his injured arm and swung him roughly around, making him cry out in pain. A small sign painted on the wall in Hebrew and English said, ‘Interrogation.’ His feet resisted until the guard twisted his arm behind his back and frog-marched him along the corridor toward the back of the building.

Early in the night, as he huddled fearfully in the corner of the cell, a loud scream had echoed up the darkened passageway, high pitched and trembling in the night air. The pain and nameless terror in the cry made him aware that the officials in this jail would stop at nothing if he refused to answer their questions.

The door to the interrogation room was a dull, red hue. The hinges creaked ominously as the guard swung it open. It reminded him of the sound effects from a horror movie. He wondered if any of the stains on the door could be dried blood, and if his would be added to the grime and flaked paint before this night was over. The only spot of bright color inside the chamber was the clothes of the woman who sat on the opposite side of a metal table bolted to the floor. She had dark blonde hair, a round Irish face, and a light pattern of freckles across her nose. He realized she looked familiar, and then remembered that this was the woman who visited his hospital room after his traffic accident in Ashkelon. She badgered him with dozens of questions that seemed to have no relationship to the accident or his injuries. He could not imagine what she could want with him now. A man in an officious looking suit stood motionless in the corner of the room with a foul smelling cigarette held between his thumb and forefinger. The man appeared bored, while the woman had the focused intensity of a cat in front of a birdcage.

I’m Rachel Richardson from the FBI, and this is Ryan Hudson from the American Consulate, she said. We’re here to represent you and to clear up a few unanswered questions.

How about getting me out of here? Maitland said. It was not daylight yet, but they had come from the consulate in response to his phone call. Despite the brief flicker of hope, he realized their appearance might not be a good sign. His relief continued to diminish as he studied their expressions.

Have they treated you well? The woman asked in a disinterested tone that did not seem to go with the intensity of her gaze.

They’ve treated me wonderfully, he said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Richardson’s gaze dropped to the report in front of her and then her eyes came sharply up to meet his. So you have no complaints to make at this time?

No, he answered truthfully. His complaints would come later in the press as he rehashed the incident for the whole world to see.

That’s wise, I think, Richardson said. She extracted a page from the overflowing file in front of her and turned it around for him to sign. After he had read a line or two, he realized it barely stopped short of being a full confession. He was aware of the confident gaze the man from the embassy beamed in his direction. It took only a few seconds to consider his options before he picked up the pen and signed the document where there was a small ‘X’ penciled in the margin.

Thank you, Richardson said as she passed the papers to Hudson. He folded them carefully and placed them inside the lapel pocket of his suit.

If you’ll take a seat, we have several questions we would like to ask you, Richardson said.

They killed my companion at a crossing in the West Bank, Maitland said. They won’t listen to my explanation.

Richardson lifted a skeptical eyebrow. The detention report says you were driving a rented automobile without proper documentation. It doesn’t mention a passenger.

I was the passenger! he said angrily, then lowered his voice when he heard the scuff of a leather boot on the floor behind him. The man driving the automobile was an American. He told me his name was Matthew Bourke. They shot him a dozen times or more. He’s obviously dead.

I checked with immigration after reading the arrest report, Richardson said. There is no one in Israel named Matthew Bourke, American or not.

Then check the car. You’ll find bullet holes and blood. Quite a lot of it, I would imagine. It’s a miracle they didn’t shoot me as well.

He hadn’t noticed the envelope until Richardson picked it up and slid some glossy prints into the palm of her hand. Without bothering to look, she dealt them out with the finesse of a casino employee at a blackjack table. In the pictures, he was on his back with a folded coat underneath his head. A young woman wearing an IDF uniform was on her knees at his side. His hand was nestled between both of hers and it looked as if she were crying. Her hair obscured part of her face, but he was sure this was the woman guard who searched and probed at him while he lay nude and shivering on a cold metal table. When he had cried out from pain and terror, she called him her pretty baby and kissed him lightly on the corner of his mouth. He wondered if Richardson was capable of the same outrageous indignities.

These pictures are fakes! he said as he thumbed through the last of them. That isn’t even the same car.

Then he noticed something he should have noticed before. The soldier kneeling on the opposite side was wearing latex gloves― the kind used to gather evidence. The camera captured him as he dropped something into a plastic envelope with a pair of tweezers. They were small white capsules, and they looked like the Hydrocodone the doctor in Rome prescribed when he injured his back.

After looking at the photographs, I would say they were trying to help you, Richardson said. This young woman is crying. You can see that for yourself. The implied question hovered in the air between them.

Trying to talk to her was as useless as trying to talk to the guards. Have it your way, he said. I fell.

I think your attitude is commendable, she said. There’s nothing in the arrest report about the drugs, and I’ve made every effort to keep these pictures away from the press. If you would answer some of our questions, I’m sure we can clear up the other details.

Blackmail, he thought. This is nothing short of blackmail!

I’m tired of answering questions, he said, then felt a quiver of uneasiness as her eyes darted up to meet his. Those pictures could do more damage to his credibility than if he had burst naked from a birthday cake at a stag party. If they were trying to make him look like an incompetent fool, they were succeeding.

My questions don’t concern your legal problems, Richardson said. I’ve convinced the authorities that this was no more than a misunderstanding. If I explain the other difficulties to you, I’m sure you’ll want to help us.

Concerning what? he asked as his annoyance turned to anxiety. She let the seconds drag on without answering while she shuffled the papers together. When she looked at him again, her eyes were chilling.

Most of my investigation concerns Ambassador John Christopher. There are several areas of the investigation where you might be able to help us.

When Richardson leaned back in her chair, Maitland realized what it was about her that reminded him of a cat. It was not so much the way she watched him, but rather her eyes which had the flat opaque quality of a predator. Would she give him something in return if he helped her, or would she leave him in this appalling place to rot?

That depends, he said, feeling like a desperate gambler playing his last card.

She seemed amused now. You’re hardly in a position to bargain, Mr. Maitland.

I’m not sure I know anything that would be helpful, he said. Her long lashes lowered, obscuring her intense gaze for a moment, and then she went on speaking as if she was unaware of his comment.

If you’re willing to help us, I can have you released. My questions might take the remaining part of the day, but otherwise . . .

The way in which Richardson flipped the folder closed carried an implied threat. If he went along with what she suggested, there was little doubt that the jaws of a trap would close on a number of individuals, and this would probably include Christopher, as well. As he nodded his head in agreement, he couldn’t help wondering if he would be able to pull back in time to avoid being caught up in the same trap with the rest of them.

Chapter 3

Dr. Siedman listened to the sounds echoing up the hallway and wondered who had their television turned so loud at this early hour of the morning. Was that infernal noise some kind of movie Daniella was watching, or could it be music, or what passed for music these days?

During the last week, the progress on her novel had been slow and difficult, and there were days when she had not been able to work at all. She was pleasantly surprised when she checked the manuscript earlier and discovered there was more of it completed than she remembered. She was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s and the last visit with her doctor hadn’t been encouraging.

For almost forty years, she had been the director of the archeological project at Ashkelon, which involved the excavation of the ruins of one of the oldest cities on earth. During this time, she had published twenty-seven volumes that detailed her archeological discoveries. Her current project was the result of her publisher’s prodding. He seemed to think a historical novel might capture the imagination of the readers of mainstream fiction in the same way the Da Vinci Code had captivated the readers of suspense.

She turned her head toward the hallway and saw an eye visible through the crack of the door, and a mane of dark, tousled hair.

Daniella? she called. The door swung smoothly inward, and her youngest granddaughter floated across the darkened room and stopped in front of her chair.

I didn’t mean to intrude, but I just wanted to check on you.

Your visits are never an intrusion, my dear, but I must say your television is unacceptably loud. While it doesn’t bother me, it might disturb everyone in the household. What is that infernal noise I hear? It sounds like a helicopter.

Daniella blinked, and then she spoke rapidly, something about John’s unexpected return from Jerusalem.

Siedman tried to suppress a sigh. One of the most irritating things about being old was the younger generation’s mistaken idea that you would believe anything they told you. John had arrived before midnight and stopped by her room for a moment before he went to bed. None of what Daniella said made any sense, except for the fact that she was obviously lying to her. Julia never lied to her—never in all the years of her childhood had she told her a lie. Daniella was too much like her mother, which was not a comforting thought. Alexandra was legal counsel for the Republican National Committee in Washington, where politicians lied as a matter of policy. With Alexandra, it wasn’t policy, but was something honed to a fine edge during the years she was married to that awful husband of hers. She pushed these troubling thoughts aside and gestured toward the other chair. Daniella dropped into it with a little bounce and placed her hand on her forearm.

Are you feeling . . .

I feel perfectly fine, she said, unable to keep the irritation from her voice, but as she gazed into a pair of eyes remarkably like her own had looked at that age, she smiled fondly at her.

I feel better than I’ve felt in months. The doctor changed my medication, and I don’t seem to be having as many problems. I suspect you’ve came here to talk. What is the problem? You’re not in love, are you?

Daniella made a snorting sound- very unladylike to say the least- and then she tilted her head back and laughed. Are you sure you want to hear a scandalous story at this hour of the morning?

From you? she asked, and then frowned as she examined Daniella’s pleased expression. Her mood swung from amusement to concern. Surely, she wasn’t involved with some young man who would destroy all of her bright dreams. Daniella possessed a remarkably high IQ, but romance had nothing to do with intellectual ability. Everyone was a fool where love was concerned.

You’re fourteen, Daniella, which is much too young to be serious about anyone. You must finish college and then you need to consider your career choices.

Most people think I am eighteen, Daniella said, staring directly into her grandmother’s eyes as if she dared her to disagree.

She started to speak, then bit back the comment forming on the tip of her tongue. Daniella certainly looked eighteen. The fact that she was going to be starting her sophomore year at Harvard in September made people assume she was the same age as her classmates. She suddenly realized Daniella was watching her anxiously while she was woolgathering.

Do you want to ask me something? she said carefully.

Daniella didn’t reply for several long seconds, and then she leaned forward, her fingers moving lightly along her forearm. Actually, I wanted to tell you something.

Then you might as well get on with it, although I have a feeling I won’t like what I’m going to hear.

Daniella didn’t immediately reply, and then her mouth moved as if it took all of her strength to form the words. I heard from him recently, she said in a soft voice tinged with happiness and wonder.

Siedman tried not to sigh. Her initial suspicions were obviously correct. This was what happened when a child was allowed to mingle with students who were more mature than she was.

Who is this young man? she asked, waiting fearfully for her answer.

Daniella’s eyes darted back and forth for a few seconds, and then she looked intently at her again. "It isn’t a young man. Don’t you understand? My father contacted me.

Siedman felt a surge of fear and confusion race through her body with the force of an electrical shock. Surely, this vile, wicked man wasn’t alive! If there was a God in heaven, as she was thoroughly convinced there was, then why did He not strike him dead?

I don’t understand, she said in a voice that sounded calm, while her heart hammered away at an alarming rate. When she looked back into her granddaughter’s eyes, she knew there was no mistake. For more than a decade, everyone believed this horrible man was dead. Was it possible he had somehow survived the relentless efforts of half a dozen world governments to kill him? The governments involved made an effort to see that none of it appeared in any news reports. Did Daniella’s mother, in her own devious and unprincipled way, explain all of these horrible events to her?

Daniella’s hand moved hesitantly toward the collar of her robe and grasped a thin gold chain. The pendent suspended between her breasts came slowly into view. Siedman remained immobile as she stared at the emblem. After a few seconds of mind-numbing terror, she realized she was powerless to act. She wondered if John knew. She closed her eyes briefly, and then looked back at Daniella’s pleased expression.

Such a lovely young woman, Siedman thought, and then she realized she had asked her a question, but could not remember what it was.

* * * * *

Father Sangallo took a final sip of his caffé, then set the half filled cup back on the table. The drink was lukewarm with a bitter aftertaste that convinced him that the coffee had not been brewed with fresh coffee beans under the watchful eye of a barista. Instead, it reminded him unpleasantly of the years he spent as a boy fighting against the Germans. Their food was usually cold, the coffee bitter, and the future uncertain.

For more than two weeks, Sangallo had maintained a low profile, but he knew that time was running out for him. He had been under constant surveillance by agents from the SISMI, one of Italy’s most secret intelligent agencies. In the last three days, he became aware of the other two men hovering almost invisibly in the background. As he considered his options of slipping out of Rome and returning to his remote village, a reporter from Al Jazeera had contacted him with the suggestion that it would be to his advantage to meet with her. The fact that she had learned of his whereabouts so easily made him aware that others could do the same.

He looked around the room feeling exposed and vulnerable. This old fashioned restorante was in a warren of side streets just off the busy Via Del Corso. It was quiet, and the smell of food from the kitchen was heavenly. It seemed at the time to be the perfect place for a clandestine meeting, but now he wasn’t so sure.

He glanced toward the door as a fashionably dressed young woman entered and threaded her way between the tables. He glanced away, and then he turned his head back for a second look. She was not recognizable without the army fatigues he was accustomed to seeing when she appeared in a newscast on Al Jazeera.

Some of the patrons continued to cast sidelong glances in her direction as she moved toward his table in the back corner of the restaurant. The long dark hair, which made her one of the most recognizable women in the world, was tucked underneath a leather newsboy’s cap. It was a rare event, even in Rome, to see someone so fashionably dressed. Her suede leather jacket, with its small brass buttons and lace trim, looked as if it might have come from the windblown steppes of Asia. Her skirt hung in loose, shimmering folds that almost brushed the surface of the floor.

He stood as she arrived on the opposite side of the table. Without pausing, she slid her chair out and seated herself before he had time to move in her direction. She was tanned and healthy appearing. Her smile lit up the room.

I’m Sanura Hamada, she said in a soft, cultured voice. I would like to ask you some questions if you don’t mind.

He glanced toward the menu the waiter left on the table. He was hungry and almost penniless. He couldn’t ask a woman to pay for his meal, and he certainly couldn’t pay for hers. Before he could look away, she took the menu in her hands and flipped it open.

I’m famished, she said. The least I can do is to buy your dinner. What would you recommend?

I’ve never eaten here, he said, savoring an aroma from the kitchen that could only be pancetta roasting over an open fire of apple wood.

Is someone following you? she asked.

She seemed totally at ease, as if the possibility of impending danger did not alarm her.

Someone was following me, he admitted, but I believe I lost them. I assume you want to inquire about the photographs I passed along to John Christopher.

A waiter appeared at the table, and they studied their menus in silence before they ordered. He selected the spaghetti alla carbonara, and the coda alla viccinara for the main course. She nodded her head in approval, but waited until the young man disappeared in the direction of the kitchen before she answered.

Actually, I wanted to know how the artifacts came into your possession.

I assumed you’d already learned that from your conversation with Dr. Christopher, he said cautiously.

Her chin came up and her eyes fastened on his. Sangallo had informed the officials at the Vatican that the artifacts had been passed along to him by a Nazi officer who obtained them toward the end of the war. His explanation was not one-hundred percent accurate, but close enough to the truth that it was not a deliberate lie. No one had been able to translate the text on the artifacts, although several experts from the Vatican had tried.

He did inform me of what you told the authorities at the Vatican, she said. "I want to know where they really came from."

She fell silent as the waiter approached with a chilled bottle of Frascati and two steaming plates of antipasti. As Sangallo looked through the leaded glass windows, he could see two of the men who had followed him relentlessly for the last two weeks. The waiter poured the wine while he considered the problem. Their discovery of him in the presence of this reporter had changed the situation dramatically. He took a sip of wine, savoring the sharp, fruity taste, and then he told her what she wanted to know.

* * * * *

The bright glare from the spotlights reached into every corner of the courtyard. Jamaal had obviously been waiting for his appearance, Christopher decided as the boy hurried up the walk in a loose-limbed, shambling gate.

Christopher paused on the bottom step while he examined the pockmarked wall and the shards of roofing tile in the courtyard. Some of the rounds had clipped the rim of a terracotta urn on the right side of the entrance. The statuary on top of the fountain was missing both arms, making it look like the statue of Venus de Milo.

Julia and Daniella had arrived less than an hour before the terrorist’s attack, when Julia was unable to meet with an Israeli official in Tel Aviv. He didn’t want to think of what might have happened if they had been caught in the open courtyard.

Until this occurrence, he had not believed the house required an elaborate security system. The only problems in recent years involved a few persistent reporters who demanded interviews with Dr. Siedman, and refused to take no for an answer. The opinion makers in Washington referred to the current state of affairs as the ‘new normal,’ while terrorism continued around the globe.

Jamaal came to a halt in front of Christopher in an obvious state of agitation. Jamaal was one of the younger sons of Dr. Siedman’s housekeeper. In the glare from the overhead lights, he could see where tears had traced a track down the sides of Jamaal’s face.

I’m sorry for what happened, Dr. Christopher, but it is their fault, Jamaal said, waving an arm in the