The Artifact (64 page)

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Authors: Jack Quinn

BOOK: The Artifact
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“Gracias, Sister. We will speak again.”

Paula broke the connection and smiled at Jerry. “We’re in luck. The religious panel is scheduled to broadcast from DC at seven. Harrington plans to hit Callaghan at the same time, when they’ll be engrossed in that.”

“Now all we have to do is elbow Harrington and probably a hundred agents out of the way to get at Callaghan first.”

“The general won’t be stupid enough to let either one of us catch him on the crapper.”

Paula shook her head and snugged deeper into her double-breasted navy wool coat. “Harrington will send some guys in to draw fire, take casualties, if they have to. Then have justification to do the dirty deed.”

“Jesus, boss, how the hell are we going to stop that?”
“Saddle up, partner. We’ve got to get into that hideaway before Harrington’s troops,
who are damned sure going to take Callaghan down with every last one of his people.”
Us too, Jerry thought.

 

At thirty-three years old, Thomas Lowry was a twelve-year FBI agent, more than seven of which

had been dedicated to Special Weapons and Tactical training and operations. His dense brown hair shaped to a close crew cut, clean-shaven cheeks and muscular body had inspired his squad to refer to him as “Arnold.” The SWAT team leader had assembled his squad of fifteen men in the briefing room at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland. Standing before them with arms crossed over black coveralls he recalled his meeting with Deputy FBI Director Kevin Harrington that morning, considering just how much he could reveal to his men about the political aspects of their mission.

“This is going to smell like a damned skunk works,” he had told Harrington.
“Do it right and you’ll be covered,” the Deputy Director assured him.
“But no paper. Somebody will have to take the fall.”
“The world is so pissed at Callaghan they’ll build you a monument.”
Lowry swallowed that fabrication without comment, realizing that the only person who could save his tender ass was himself.

“The honchos upstairs don’t want any fallout from these people,” Lowry told his men. “If they fire first, we will respond.” He addressed two men with camcorders at their feet. “Keep those tapes running from the minute we exit the chopper.”

“I understand a couple of reporters are in there,” an agent said.
“Can’t be helped,” Lowry answered. “Nobody lives to tell their version of the story.”
“What about the original document?” another soldier asked.
“We’ll make sure it goes up in smoke with everything else.”
“Take no prisoners,” a third man quipped.
“You got that right.”

 

Sammy approached Callaghan, who was huddled with Geoff before the smoldering red/charcoal

logs the fireplace of the large living room, whose ambient light came from the dull gray winter

afternoon through bay windows, insistent white flakes pummeling the ground outside in a

swirling, angled slant.

“They’ve blocked our access to the satellite, Sammy told them.”
“Any problem with plan ‘B’?” the general asked.
“I have a call in to Nuzzo,” Sammy said. “Otherwise we’re set to go.”
“Keep me posted.”

Plan ‘B’ entailed the virtually assured cooperation of a major TV network to receive a final announcement from the artifact cadre via computer video and audio, plus their authorization to rebroadcast the message to other TV and radio stations around the world. Andrea was certain that Dick Nuzzo and NBC would jump at the chance to be the first to receive and disseminate the last issue from Callaghan’s group, along with the exclusive scoop Sammy would promise as sweetener. Sammy left the room to set the plan in motion, as Cassandra wheeled Andrea into it, rolling her chair next to Callaghan and setting the brake.

Cassandra handed Andrea’s copy to the general before taking a seat on the sofa. Callaghan read through the all-caps, double- spaced typed sheets of paper, smiled at Andrea, gave her a thumbs up, then passed the copy to Geoff. Sammy reentered the room with Bucci to set up the camcorder opposite Andrea’s position by the fire, from which the final chapter of their artifact escapade would be played out.

Geoff riffled the several pages of the statement Andrea would make to a global audience in less than an hour. “Not very positive, is it?”

“What else would we have wanted her to say?” Cassandra asked.

Geoff posed a question that had been at the back of his mind for months. “Do you ever wonder if we were wrong in publishing it intact?”

Callaghan’s reply was immediate and forceful. “Never!”
“It feels like we’ve tossed a pound of raw meat to a thousand lions,” Cassandra said.
A cold wind blew in through the front door as Palagi and Alvarez ushered Paula and

Jerry into the lodge.

“They just drove up like invited guests,” Alvarez said.

The two agents were told to take their coats off in the kitchen, where Palagi placed their weapons on the counter before bringing them into the living room and making the introductions.

“Just the two of them?” Geoff asked.
“For now,” Paula answered.
Palagi said, “We’ll go back out and wait for the others.”
Callaghan gestured toward a two-cushion sofa angled toward the fireplace. “Have a seat.”
“Just in time for the final act,” Geoff said.
Paula’s retort was without rancor. “In time to save your asses.”
“How is that?” Cassandra asked.
Paula looked shocked. “I thought you’d been killed.”
“My twin sister.”
“Phew! For a minute there....”
Geoff came back to the point. “What’s going down, Najarian?”

They heard the sounds of helicopters overhead before she could answer. “My boss is sending a SWAT team in to make sure you don’t go public with any sensitive info.”

Geoff got up and left the room. “Right on cue.”

“Which would cause great consternation around the world,” Callaghan said, “preventing a certain degree of closure to this admittedly disturbing revelation, and cast us in the role of criminals. Did you intend to kill the messengers, Ms. Najarian?”

“Not me. I need to keep you healthy,” Paula said. “For personal reasons.”
Callaghan smiled at her. “Earn a whole headdress of feathers for bringing us in?”
“You will be charged with disobeying a direct order, dereliction of duty and treason, for openers,” the agent told him.

“The only law we’ve broken is an Iraqi prohibition against removing ancient artifacts from their country. A country we’re at war with, whose religious fanatics were responsible for 3,000 American lives on 9/11. They would surely destroy the Shimon biography, a legitimately Christian document, if they ever got their hands on it.”

“You lied to your superiors,” Paula continued, “and released it without authorization.

Against specific instructions to keep it quiet,” she added, “and eventually turn it over to your

government.”

Callaghan leaned forward in the armchair facing the sofa occupied by Paula and Jerry. “I am not a renegade in this operation. I’ve spent my entire twenty-three year military career following orders, going into battle against the enemies of my country.”

Paula’s expression was skeptical. “You expect me to believe that your evasion and denial of this artifact theft was authorized by some high government entity?” The agent laughed. “Come on, General, I didn’t just get off the bus!”

“Suppose it were true. Suppose when I reported the contents of the document to someone in the Pentagon, they told me to quash it. That the world couldn’t handle it, the entire planet would be plunged into an interminable religious war. Then it must have gone upstairs, and higher

authority reversed that, ordering me to verify, translate it and surrender it to them.”

“You should have obeyed orders.”
“What would you have done?” Callaghan asked her.
A deep frown replaced the look of suspicion on Paula’s face. “That’s why Harrington wants to...take you?”
Callaghan leveled his hard stare at the FBI agent. “The government is afraid I’ll try

to exonerate myself and my people by revealing I was acting under orders until we knew

precisely what it was. Your boss doesn’t want to arrest, Agent Najarian.”

“He wants to stop any more broadcasts before you do any more damage,” Paula told him “or based on what you just revealed, tell the world that someone at the highest level in Washington was complicit in your evasion.”

“They kept their distance from the stolen document until we had it translated,” Geoff said. “Now they want possession to decide how to handle it.”

“When I seemed to go rogue, rejecting their order to destroy or turn it over,” Callaghan

continued, “and announced we’d reveal it to the great unwashed, they decided to take us out.”

Paula was getting verification of the full picture that she had only suspected. “Since they failed to stop that, they’re going to make sure you don’t try to save your skin by incriminating the administration in the artifact theft or their intention to trash it.”

“Harrington and his puppeteers would never believe we don’t intend to implicate the government,” Cassandra told her.
“That would just antagonize the American people and every nation in the world,” Callaghan added.
Paula’s tone was sarcastic. “Good, upstanding patriots.”
“Hard habit to break,” Geoff said.

Callaghan rose from his chair to stand before her with hands on hips, citing her options. “So you can either help us get our story out to the public and try to prevent more bloodshed. Or stay locked in a little room upstairs while we do our job.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

 

New York City

 

December 2005

 

That evening, a panel representative of the major Christian religions convened in the studios of FOX TV that would feed the program to all other networks, affiliates, independent channels and radio stations throughout the U.S. and international broadcast outlets via satellite. The overhead lights of studio ‘A’ were dimmed as electricians adjusted their spots on the individuals seated around the semicircular table. A group of pooled media reporters crowded into a high, glassed-in VIP booth above thee production floor-crew, and were hushed by the director as the audible countdown descended from ten to one. Camera three focused on moderator Sinclair Roberts, religions editor of the
New York Times
, as he opened the Artifact analysis and discussion.

Seated at the far right end of a curved table, Roberts was an atypical network anchor, distinguished, youthful journalist with sandy crew cut, gray cheviot jacket over blue chambray shirt and yellow butterfly bow tie. His appearance notwithstanding, he had matriculated from Yale Divinity School with honors and earned his masters degree in journalism at Columbia.

He spoke to the camera on signal: “Good evening. All but three of us seated around this table tonight are devout Christians. Most of us still maintain that Jesus Christ is the Messiah of the one true God, despite the irreverent postulations in the Shimon autobiography. These representatives of several major Christian religions and erudite historians feel bound to share with you our opinions of that amazing document tonight. Our faith is strong. We trust yours is, too. Please hear us out.”

Roberts completed his opening remarks with a brief summary of the document highlights, then introduced the panelists, inviting each in their turn to offer general remarks on the document text.

Episcopal Bishop Clarence Wooly, ruddy-cheeked, white-haired, ascetic septuagenarian, wore a black suit and shirtfront with the stiff white collar of a simple cleric. Wooly was far from that, however, having snared his position at the highest echelons of the Anglican church by dint of extensive knowledge of Christian doctrine and cogent defense of moral values, abetted by manipulation and guile.

“Shimon seems to have discredited several biblical tenets,” Woolly began. “The most outrageous is his denial of the Resurrection. Without that singularly miraculous event, Jesus is just another itinerant rabbi, which undermines His messianic qualities as the Son of God and Christianity itself. Whatever the motives or ignorance of his self-proclaimed sibling, we must challenge that assertion vigorously.”

University of Southern California Professor of Ancient History and cautious agnostic, Eleanor Buxton, was a matronly woman attired in a suit of green linen. Her shoulder-length graying hair was coiffed in bangs. She wore no jewelry, save a gold cross on her lapel, little makeup, and an expression of pleasant expectation. Buxton was the Chairperson of Religious Studies at USC, had authored several texts on early Christianity, and was considered one of the

foremost scholars on the emergence of Christianity during the first five centuries of its evolution.

“Doesn’t this forum have an opportunity, an obligation to clarify any biblical disputations made by Shimon? Most of us know the inconsistencies and contradictions of the Gospels, but we have hidden them from lay Christians for two millennia. This seems like an ideal time to share them and let our faithful decide for themselves.”

Camera three moved to Monsignor John Gallagher, S.J., arguably the leading Catholic authority on first century and biblical origins, a dark-haired, sharp-featured man in his forties with carefully trimmed Vandyke beard and alert demeanor, who wore a black soutane and mantel, the wide red sash and biretta of his office. A large gold cross hung from a gold chain around his neck. Gallagher was an American prelate on temporary assignment to the Vatican, who it was whispered had the ear of the pontiff, fluent in English, Italian, and conversant in ancient Hebrew, Latin, Greek and Aramaic.

“That could be extremely disconcerting for a great number of Catholics. I’d warrant that most Christians wish to feel confident in the clerical interpretation of our basic doctrine and leave the more esoteric debates to us. The Resurrection is documented in all four Gospels by the empty sarcophagus on Easter Sunday and subsequent appearance of Jesus to His apostles.”

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