Shrouded in Silence (9 page)

"I want you to find where a couple lives and the address of their offices. If you get caught for some inane reason you must not indicate any relationship to me
whatsoever."
Stein shifted back into a hard, authoritarian voice. "Understand?"

Klaus nodded.

Stein handed him a piece of paper. "The names of the Drs. Jack and Michelle Townsend with there last address are here. That's all I have at this moment. It may take you some time, but there was a story on the Townsends in
Il Messaggero
several days ago. That should give you a lead. I want to know where they are and how to make contact should I choose to do so. Any questions?"

Klaus shook his head.

"Call me the moment you have uncovered them. I will be expecting a prompt response."

To Stein's surprise, Klaus abruptly saluted with military precision like a soldier responding to a military officer. The young man turned on his heels and marched out of the room. Albert Stein watched in consternation, concluding that he had made far more of an impact than he would have anticipated.

Klaus hurried down the stairs, patting the gun hidden in his suit coat. He knew Stein had been testing him by making him sit immobile, and he didn't like the strain. But Stein was no fool. Obviously, the man was brilliant and understood power. Not just because his grandfather had been an SS officer, Klaus had always admired the military for its precision and order. In contrast to his slovenly lifestyle in Rome, underneath it all, Klaus respected the saluting and heel clicking that had long been part of the German military. Today Stein was sending him off on a task that counted, and it felt good to be doing something responsible with a gun in hand. Yes. He could work for this strange scholar regardless of where the tide turned.

8

J
ack Townsend stepped into the office and glanced around the room. Even though the clock hands had just turned a couple of minutes past 8:00 a.m., Dov Sharon had already arrived and was at work. Sitting hunched over his desk, he appeared to be studying a manuscript. Strange that he would be at work so early.

"Hey, you're beating the clock this morning," Jack said.

Dov looked up. "Didn't sleep well last night, so I showed up a tad early. No big deal."

"That's what I call high-dollar positive motivation," Jack said. "I'd guess the last two days you've been working in the Vatican Secret Archives. We haven't seen hide nor hair of you. Anything turn up?"

Dov pushed the manuscript away. "Mainly, I've been trying to identify what might have been overlooked in the past. Somebody up there at the top of the Vatican personnel chain likes you or I'd never have made it inside those forbidden chambers. I thought I would never get through their security. Obviously, they don't let many people down there in that pile of dust and deteriorating manuscripts.

"You're right, Dov. The really ancient materials are extremely hard to find. After all, they bear witness to an archaic world that's long gone."

"I thought one of those bulldog priests was going to make me strip to get in and out of the dungeon hidden down there under that library. They take their security big-time seriously."

"Got to give 'em credit, Dov. They don't allow any slipups with priceless documents. Those boys keep a critical eye on everything. Did you come up with any specific material we can use?"

"I found a box of manuscript fragments in a depository that's been sitting there unexamined for a long time. No one had worked through the basket of materials, and they aren't sure exactly where it originated, though they do know it was discovered during street work in Rome. So far I've found only business receipts, lists of transactions, materials of that variety from the first century, but I keep looking. Never can tell what's at the bottom of the heap."

"You got it, " Jack said. "Some of the most important archaeological discoveries have occurred more by accident than intention. I'm sure you're looking in the right place regardless of what you haven't found."

"I'll keep after it," Dov said.

"What are you looking at this morning?"

"I'm back on my study of the
Sarajevo Haggadah,"
Dov said. "The copy I obtained fascinates me."

"I'm acquainted with the name and know it's Jewish, but I'm afraid I don't know much more. Can you fill me in on a few details?"

"In addition to its antiquity, the
Haggadah
is an important witness to our European Jewish heritage. The manuscript has survived as harrowing a journey as the Jews have trudged through during the last seven centuries."

"Really?" Jack pulled a chair closer to Dov's desk. "Tell me more."

"I believe the original
Haggadah,
the Passover ritual, was written in Seville, Spain, somewhere around 1480. That positions its origins in the late medieval period. That's a good starter for why it's important. Any material than reflects how that period operated is significant."

"That's for sure," Jack said. "Did I understand correctly that the Nazis tried to steal the document?"

"Absolutely. In 1941, Nazi General Johann Hans Fortner tried to grab the
Haggadah,
but a renowned Islamic scholar named Dervis Korkut smuggled the document out of the museum right under the general's nose. Korkut hid it in a mosque in the mountains around Sarajevo. Can you believe that? A Muslim saved a Jewish treasure?"

Jack nodded his head. "Remarkable."

"Along the way, the
Haggadah
was placed in a container with elegant silver clasps. Over the centuries many people have contributed to preserving the present condition."

"The
Haggadah's
been around so long, it must have been with the Jews when they were expelled from Spain in 1492." Jack said. "Am I right?"

"It's a complicated history, but around 1516 the first Jews settled in Venice. They came as loan bankers, and those who followed them were faced with social restrictions. Of course, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain issued their edict in 1492, expelling all Jews in a matter of days. I believe the
Haggadah
left Tarragona, Spain, at that time and was taken to Venice. At least, that's what the trail suggests. As our people were forced out of Spain, a book as important as this one had to have left with them."

"It would be fascinating to get back inside that story and discover what pops up," Jack said.

"Equally interesting would be the story of how the silver clasps on the manuscript were added as well as the bright colored illuminations. The broken old black clasps had originally been high-grade silver. To be able to put gold and silver leaf inside the
Haggadah
would have required a high level of affluence. Of course, no one knows who made the illuminations, which actually make the
Haggadah
look more like a Christian prayer book. Obviously, this document has a complex history."

"My kind of stuff," Jack said. "I started pursuing research because it's like trying to solve a mystery. The data is often a puzzle wrapped in enigmas. I love the pursuit."

"And often the chase has been deadly," Dov said. "In Venice, only the intervention of a priest named Vistorini in 1609 saved the book from being burned in one of the pope's Inquisitions. The more recent attempts of the Nazis to destroy the document still runs shivers down my spine. Hitler's pack of wolves would have stopped at nothing to destroy everything Jewish."

The door to the office suddenly opened and Michelle hurried in. "Jack, I'm concerned."

"Concerned? What's going on?"

"There's a man standing across the street with a camera shooting pictures of our office building back here behind Santa Maria Church. He's crouched behind a light pole wedged at an angle that allows him to photograph between the church and the adjacent building. He particularly aimed at me."

"Come on, Michelle. I think you're still in an overreactionary mode due to that bombing in the subway. Why would anyone want to take pictures of this house?"

"Possibly the camera man read Corsini's story in the newspaper and it touched a nerve," Michelle said.

"And what nerve would that be?" Dov smirked.

"Stop it!" Michelle protested. "You guys aren't giving me the time of day on this problem. I'm telling you that the man took my picture several times."

Jack rubbed his chin. "OK. OK. What did he look like?"

"That's the strange thing. The guy didn't look like a tourist. He had on a brown business suit and a flashy purple shirt. He wasn't like the usual stroller shooting pictures."

"Notice anything else about him?" Jack said.

"Yeah. The man had a scar on his cheek and was completely bald."

9

A
cting on michelle's prompting, Jack Townsend walked up and down the street in front of the Santa Maria Church but saw nothing unusual. A few tourists slowed to look at the church, but no one appeared suspicious. No one seemed to be taking pictures. Certainly, no man in a brown suit with a bald head. Finally, he returned to their offices behind the church.

"I didn't see anyone out there who looks like the man you described," Jack said. "Sorry the purple shirt floated away."

"You're suggesting I'm having hallucinations?" Michelle barked.

"No, no. Probably the guy drifted on. I'm only saying he was probably a tourist interested in the church edifice and you . . . well . . . maybe just overreacted and—"

"And nothing!" Michelle bristled. "I know what I saw, and I think we need to pay attention if that creep shows up again."

"Sure," Jack said. "All agreed?"

Dov held up his hand. "I vote yes. I'll hit him with my stun gun if he gets any closer to our building."

Michelle glared, but only shook her head.

"Let's get back to work as usual," Jack suggested. "Dov, you're going back to the Vatican Library today. Right?"

Dov glanced at his watch. "They'll be open in thirty minutes, and I'll go over there to start digging into that heap of fragments I was working on yesterday. They've left everything in place for me to start in where I left off."

The office door swung open and a man in a clergy collar popped in. "Are we having fun yet, children?" he boomed in a resounding voice that roared through the house.

"Father Donald Blake!" Jack said. "What's an American Roman Catholic priest doing roaming in our secluded offices at this early morning hour?"

"I'm making sure you're genuinely working and not just trying to fake out your financial supporters," Father Blake said. "I know how you academic types operate. It's that old trickster's act with smoke and mirrors."

With only a fringe of hair around the edges, the priest's bald head mirrored his protruding stomach. Short and heavy, Father Blake's broad smile reflected a merry soul who walked on the sunny side of the street as often as possible. Around fifty, he appeared to be a man who accepted anyone regardless of their convictions, although his intense, probing eyes seemed to constantly search for inconsistency.