Blood Symbols Page 16

  Jennifer could imagine people underestimating Giorgio. He was not tall. Neither did he cut much of a figure with his informal attire. Yet everything he owned was the best money could buy; even the tacky, creased Hawaiian shirt he had put on since they had boarded the plane was a Saint Laurent. Beneath his simplicity, informality and apparent boorishness, then, Giorgio was a very smart, and very rich, man.

  ‘That still doesn’t answer my question though,’ she said, deciding she would test his acumen.

  ‘Oh, you mean my toys? Ha! You are very persistent, Miss Jaine. Well, let’s just say I was born with the proverbial “silver spoon”. But I do work hard, too. My car is transport between the airport and my house in Rome. The Lear I bought a few years ago to fly American produce buyers to my farms in Sicily and to fly family around occasionally. All my family members are technically shareholders—so that takes care of the taxman—but they also love visiting the farms, so I take them there every holiday. Of course, my family’s pretty big, and we don’t have to tell the taxman my cousins Simon and Jennifer were adopted, now do we?’

  Giorgio’s levity relaxed the fear-induced spasm in Jennifer’s neck, making her sink into the chair. Her lungs inhaled easily and she noticed that her diaphragm was relaxed. She listened as Giorgio related how, in the early 1980s, magistrates Falcone and Borsellino had tried four-hundred-and-seventy-four Mafiosi, and how his father had been one of the three hundred and forty-two convicted. He had adored his father, irrespective of the bad things he had done, and although his dad had been a criminal, he had only overseen the syndicate’s betting schemes; otherwise, he had been a goodhearted man.

  After his father passed, Giorgio’s mother had driven him to the bank, opened an account in his name and transferred funds. Before returning home, she had led him inside the bank’s vault, where she showed him a safety box containing bonds and precious stones worth millions. The Vatican Bank had received them with open arms.

  Giorgio was the youngest of four children. His eldest brother had lived and died by the gun. His second brother, who lived in Sicily, had, sadly, fallen prey to alcohol and drugs, and now lived on one of Giorgio’s farms. His twin sister had married a Sicilian and had two children a little older than his own.

  ‘And your mother?’

  Giorgio smiled. ‘Ah, la mia mamma. She lives with me and my wife and helps with the kids and the cooking.’

  ‘How many children do you have?’

  ‘Four: two boys, two girls. A fifth is on his way. We already know it’s another boy. We Sicilians—well, amiamo le famiglie numerose.’

  It must have been difficult for Giorgio to be the son of a convicted Mafioso, especially during his childhood. She could only imagine the ridicule he must have endured.

  ‘So now for my last question …’

  ‘Oh, shush, Miss Jaine. You ask more questions than my attorney. Why don’t you tell me about you instead?’

  Jennifer’s face turned quizzical, almost impertinent. ‘Well, I would, but there’s not much to tell.’

  He scrutinized her through narrowed eyes. Her insistence in diverting attention from herself meant she still did not trust him. Eventually, he leaned forward conspiratorially and said, ‘You’re wondering why a Catholic like me is helping a man like Simon, yes?’

  She blushed a deep rose-pink. ‘Yes—I mean; it is unusual to say the least.’

  Giorgio’s mood changed suddenly to absolute seriousness. ‘I owe him, Jennifer,’ he said. ‘He saved my life once.’

  He looked over his shoulder to see if Simon was listening, but his friend had his eyes closed. Still, he continued in a whisper: ‘I was skiing in the Alps, and like a complete newbie, I was there alone. But where I went wrong is when I miscalculated a ten-meter drop and clipped a rock on my way down. My leg was broken in three places, with the bone pushing through my leg right here. You have no idea of the pain, the blood! Worst of all, though, was that in all that snow my body temperature dropped just as shock was setting in. I thought I was going to die right there, and I probably would’ve if Simon hadn’t seen me from a nearby slope. The guy’s absolutely nuts. He used branches and strips of his own shirt to brace my leg. Then, he carried me down the mountain to a place flat enough for a helicopter to drop a basket. I was barely conscious when the rescuers arrived, so I didn’t realize it at the time, but Simon was only wearing long-sleeved vest and trousers. It took the rescuers longer to save him from near hypothermia than it did to reset my leg. Believe me, Jennifer, that guy will never let you down.’

  Jennifer’s eyes grew cold. ‘He killed a priest.’

  Giorgio sat with intertwined fingers, his elbows pressed into the armrests. He pushed his palms together until knots of tension shone through his knuckles. Before he answered, he reflected on her accusation. He decided she was being straightforward, not malicious, and said softly, ‘You couldn’t be more wrong, Miss Jaine. John came to see Simon a while back. He wanted his help breaking into the Penitentiary. He’d heard about a hidden artefact that casts a shadow on Catholicism. His obsession with it became so overwhelming that he couldn’t refrain from going after it. I don’t know if it was guilt or stupidity that made Simon go, but in the end, he joined him. That’s why he was there today, to help John. He couldn’t bear to see his little brother go it alone.’

  A shocking numbness coursed through Jennifer’s body. She could not believe what she had just heard. She shifted her gaze to Simon who was still sitting on the sofa with his head reclined against the backrest. He seemed to have lost track of the world around him.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. He’s the one accused of his brother’s murder.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘How could you?’ Giorgio sat up. ‘Their parents died when they were both young. Simon was tiny; John had just been born. Their grandmother raised them until they left school.’

  With so much to digest, Jennifer’s mind drifted. When Simon told her that a priest had been killed, she had immediately assumed he had had a hand in it. What else could she have thought? Even if he had denied it, she would not have believed him.

  She snapped out of her reverie, when Giorgio mentioned a name. ‘Professor Rabin from Jerusalem?’

  ‘He’s waiting at the airport. Are you familiar with his work?’

  Professor Uri Rabin? Perhaps the better question would be: who in her field had not heard of him? Rabin had assumed the Israel Antiquity Authority’s directorship in 1967, soon after the Six Days War, and now managed all five of the IAA’s departments. His knowledge of Judaism and Christianity was unrivalled, and the decades he had spent overseeing digs on some of the world’s richest archaeological treasure troves had placed him at the apex of his profession. Moreover, he was one of the elite few both fluent and literate in ancient Hebrew, Aramaic and Greek.

  ‘Yes,’ Jennifer replied at last. ‘I’m familiar. In fact, we’ve met—in New York.’

  When the pilot announced their passing Tarsus on their left, Giorgio excused himself. ‘I have to go now,’ he said, hoisting himself from the chair. ‘It’s time for our descent.’

  Martina started clearing the table, but Jennifer stopped her. ‘I’ll do that. I’ve often thought of becoming a flight attendant. Besides, I have to stretch my legs a bit.’

  Giorgio’s exit had left Jennifer with a sense of loss. Maybe it was a result of the stress of their escape and the chase, but in the short time they have spoken she felt she had become closer to him than she was to her own friends back home. Moments like these were rare; in fact, they were non-existent. Never had she found herself becoming best friends with someone in a matter of hours. It was as if they had known each other all their lives.

  With so much to digest, she became manic. As she helped stack the glasses and plates in the basins, her hands trembled slightly. She lowered her head and closed her eyes. How could she have landed in so much trouble? She was mulling over this question when she felt a presence behind her. Her bod
y stiffened when a hand touched hers. She had felt that touch before, but this time it was different. This time it was gentle.

  Simon drew her round. ‘We’re about to land. Come.’

  She looked up at him. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’ She hoped he understood.

  ‘You have to take your seat.’

  As Simon sat down opposite her, she looked out of the window. She could not now meet his gaze. She felt terrible. For the first time since they had met, her thoughts were focusing on him. She had been so wrong about him. Until a few minutes ago, she had thought he was a killer. But he was the slain priest’s brother—and her savior. She forced herself to look at him, her eyes softening into a subtle smile. She yearned to apologize, but she found it impossible to speak. She looked down at his hand, which rested on the side of the table between them. She thought of slipping her hand under his curled-up fingers. She wanted to comfort him and for him to reciprocate, to squeeze her hand lightly and forgive her for her presumptions. Inwardly, though, she ridiculed herself. The stress of this horrendous day was obviously playing on her hormones. She looked up and noticed that something troubling had darkened his eyes.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.

  ‘I have to go back tomorrow.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘I have to bring John back.’

  ‘But you can’t, Simon. It’s suicide.’

  ‘I’ll make them a deal.’

  ‘The letter?’

  He nodded. ‘First I have to make sure you’re safe though.’

  His concern was thrilling, but she knew she would be okay. ‘I can look after myself from here.’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘No, they’ll come after you.’

  ‘Simon, don’t say that! Not in Turkey. They’d have to go get an okay from the Turkish government to extradite me, and that would mean revealing their secret.’

  She said this with absolute conviction, but then reminded herself of the crusades: how Pope Clement had convinced the faithful to wrest Palestine’s Christian sanctums from the hands of the Mohammedans; how thousands had affixed the cross to their garments and taken up arms; and the eight crusades in which the faithful had wantonly murdered and even cannibalized Muslims. Things had not changed much in a millennium, she realized. People still killed to defend their faith, even when that faith ironically, preached peace and nonviolence.

  ‘Giorgio said Professor Rabin is meeting us in Turkey. He knows me. He’ll get me back to the States. I can catch a flight from Antakya.’ She waited for a response. When none was forthcoming her eyes grew wide. ‘I can, can’t I?’

  Chapter 30

  Simon’s watch said it was nearly three o’clock. To account for the Rome-Antakya time difference, he set it an hour ahead. As he fastened his seatbelt for landing, he decided they would have to divert their flight to Ben Gurion International in Tel Aviv instead. Not only did Israeli airports provide tighter security, they also offered direct flights to the United States. Still, they would have to refuel. Their quick stopover at Havaalani Airport would give him a chance to meet with Professor Rabin. Knowing his old undergraduate tutor, Uri would already be waiting in the arrivals hall, bookishly studying photocopies of something no one could read in two thousand years.

  The approach from the Latakia Basin at the northeast corner of the Mediterranean gave Jennifer a perfect view of Antakya to their right. Between scattered clouds, mountains surrounded the city like cupped hands. Further north, shadows crept lazily across the landing strip. A momentary glance and she knew exactly why there were no direct flights between the airport and the States. Despite apparent renovations, a humble terminal ostensibly last upgraded in the seventies could certainly not offer the kind of security needed for transatlantic flights, though Jennifer suspected this lack of security would be advantageous to concealing their movements.

  As the Lear rolled towards the terminal, Jennifer’s nausea returned. Simon’s asking her to wait on the plane while he met with Rabin did not help matters either. When he got up to leave, she decided she was not staying. Despite Giorgio’s reassurances, she was not going to just sit there while they refueled the jet. As far as she knew, that was the most vulnerable time to be on board. She saw her chance when Giorgio’s pilot opened the cabin door to lower the steps. Simon had barely retrieved the silver casket from the overhead compartment when she skirted past him. She hit the tarmac at a pace and powerwalked towards the terminal, counting on Simon’s reluctance to cause a scene. She did not stop until she was inside customs, and Simon only caught up with her as she stood showing an official her passport. She prayed Simon’s assurance that she could get a temporary visa was true. Please let her not be arrested for illegal entry.

  Surprisingly, though, entry into Turkey was the smoothest check-in she had ever experienced. Not that she had travelled much, but the Turks were polite and helpful. Twenty minutes later, and with Simon beside her, she entered the arrival terminus. The knots in her neck softened, for there, just several feet away and staring around blankly was Professor Rabin. He was just as she remembered him: his greying nest of curls as rampant as Einstein’s on a bad-hair day and his salient forehead and lynx-like gaze still hinting at the genius that had made him one of the world’s foremost authorities on biblical history. He must have come straight from an archaeology site, as his short-sleeved cotton t-shirt, baggy khakis and brown penny loafers were all worn and caked with mud, making him look as if he were wearing a sundried buffalo carcass; indeed, his appearance was the complete antithesis of the dapper figure he had cut wearing the tweed jacket and tie for the seminar he had given two years earlier. He spotted her coming towards him, bemusement written all over his face.

  After embracing Simon with compassionate warmth and whispering condolences, Rabin stepped back. Discussing John’s death was not appropriate here. He turned to Jennifer, extending his hand.

  ‘Miss Jaine,’ he said smiling. ‘I take it you’ve resolved the matter you were struggling with?’

  ‘Please, call me Jennifer, Professor,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘And no I haven’t. In fact, you’ve made my life hell—but only indirectly.’

  ‘You read the book then?’

  ‘And others,’ she said, her eyes absorbing his. ‘But I’m not sure I know what to make of it yet.’

  ‘Faith cannot stand on bias alone—you of all people should know that. Anyone studying religion must also consider opposing views. In any case, the stuff in the book was nothing new, unless by new you mean centuries-old.’

  Simon looked on perplexed. What his old mentor had done to Jennifer was not clear, but then, she was one of the most dogged people he had ever met.

  Jennifer, meanwhile, did not expect Rabin to recognize her. He taught scores of students every year, and she had only taken one of the seminars he gave as a visiting fellow. Her meeting with him had lasted only an hour, and she assumed it impacted on her life far more than it did his. The seminar had been at the Waldorf Astoria in New York. She had approached him in the hotel lounge afterwards, as he sat sipping a gin and tonic and speaking with an older couple. She had waited until he had finished before introducing herself. Then, she had asked him about his comments on faith, and he had cut her short. His back was killing him, and his stomach was starting to dissolve itself he was so hungry.

  Jennifer recalled Rabin inviting her to join him for dinner, adding that he considered the prime angus steaks there amongst the best in the world. She and Rabin hardly placed their orders when Jennifer began voicing her frustration: ‘How can one not believe, Professor? Life without faith is impossible.’

  ‘Oh, faith—dear, dear faith,’ he said sardonically. ‘Faith is the measure of one’s ignorance. That’s all. And it certainly is no substitute for reason.’

  ‘But I and many others might find that offensive. Faith comes from the heart. It is the essence of being. It is our way of connecting with God. Without it, souls are lost. It takes faith to receive Christ and let His blo
od cleanse our sins. It takes faith to know we will one day stand before God and be judged for the lives we have lived. It takes faith to know we’ll go to Heaven.’

  Rabin ignored this as if Jennifer had not spoken at all and proceeded to talk about fishing. Fishing allowed him escape from life. His least memorable trip had taken place in Key West, where he had gone to fly fish for Atlantic tarpon, a protected species. The prehistoric fish could grow to be more than six feet and weigh in at around two-hundred-and-eighty pounds. Its strength, stamina and leaping ability made it one of Florida’s premier game fish. Not knowing which tour operator to hire from the slew of brochures he had picked up at the hotel, he had booked his trip with the most highly recommended company and was looking forward to setting out the next morning.

  Up at dawn, Rabin had met the skipper at a nearby jetty. The guy was a youngster, no more than twenty-five, sporting a bronze tan, with hair that curled down to the small of his back and arms lavishly decorated with tattoos. The boat, an eighteen-foot Beavertail with a one-hundred-and-twenty-five horsepower Yamaha engine, had propelled them across the Gulf’s silver-blue waters beneath a red and amber sky. The skipper had chased the horizon for quite a while before stopping, and the coastline had completely disappeared. That was when Rabin had become suspicious. Tarpon did not live in deeper water; they roamed the shallows of brackish estuaries and coastline reefs. Adding insult to injury, the skipper had pulled out a drop-shot rod with a spinning reel. Rabin had protested that he specifically requested a tarpon trip with fly tackle, but the kid only responded that it was now too late to change, for, by the time they reached land again, the time Rabin had paid for would be over. In the end, Rabin had spent a frustrating three hours casting with a rod he had not planned to touch that day.