The Virgin of the Wind Rose: A Conspiracy Thriller

CHAPTER ONE

Lalibela, Ethiopia

January 20, Present Day

SOPPED IN SWEAT, THE TEN-YEAR-OLD Ethiopian boy prayed to St. Georgis the Dragonslayer for protection as he wormed his way toward the tomb of the first man on Earth.

The tunnel’s gritty sandstone, stained red from the blood of Satan’s serpents, punished his hands and knees. To preserve the precious air, he slowed his breaths as he crawled. The settling night had cooled the mountain village above him, but here, sixty meters below the surface, the trapped midday heat could roast a chicken. Faint from hunger, he stopped and pulled a crust of bread from his pocket. He chewed the morsel slowly, taking care to muzzle its aroma with his tunic’s sleeve to avoid being swarmed by the bees that hived in the crevices.

His dizziness eased, and he resumed his quest, groping blindly on all fours along the narrowing walls. At last, he came to the Armory of the Shining Ones, the long notch in the floor where the angels had once stored their lances.

Mäqäraräb, he whispered. Not far now.

He knew every bend and cranny in this secret passage by memory, having accompanied the priests on their daily inspections of the subterranean churches. That was the only godsend from his miserable duties. His father, the High Priest of Lalibela, had marked him at birth for religious service by tattooing a blue cross on his right temple. As a result, he was forbidden to play football or chase tourists for candy, and he would have to slave six more years carrying sandals just to become a deacon. Everyone said he should be grateful for the honor, but he had no desire to waste away his life mumbling incantations. Tomorrow he planned to stow away in the cargo bin of the bus to Addis Ababa, where he would find prosperous construction work and a beautiful girlfriend.

Before leaving home, however, he craved an even more exciting escape, one that promised a glimpse of Paradise. In a few hours, at dawn, his fellow villagers would celebrate Timkat, the holiest of their many religious festivals. The elders of the monastery had retired early to their cloisters to fast and prepare themselves with chants. This night, the tenth of Terr, was the only time of the year that Bet Golgota––the underground church of the Crucifixion––was left unguarded. It would also be his last chance to pierce the veil that shrouded Heaven’s wisdom and delights.

 He came hovering over the yawning trench that protected the entrance to the nave, and ran a finger across an inscription on a stone carved in Ge’ez:

The opening verse of Genesis.

He kissed the ground that covered the bones of the biblical Adam. Then, he reached up and inserted the stolen key into the lock just beyond the grave. After several turns of the rusty tumbler, the pitted door squealed open.

He slithered inside the trapezoidal cavern. Overhead, lit by ambient moonlight from the fissures in the ceiling, faded frescoes of the martyred saints stared down at him. Turning away from their accusing glares, he climbed to his feet and approached the Selassie Chapel. The sanctuary was so sacred that for ages only the head priest had been allowed to enter it. With a shaking hand, he drew aside a ratty curtain that covered the burial vault of King Lalibela, the monarch who had ruled Ethiopia during the time of the White Knights.

Yes, it was here, in this very vault, where he had spied his father hide the precious Leaves of Eden. How long he had dreamed of the ecstasy now so near his grasp. He heard a whisper of warning from his soul: He who gazes upon the hidden treasures of Lalibela will be struck blind and mute for eternity.

That ancient curse gave him pause, but only for a moment. He wasn’t fooled. The priests spread such tales to scare off grave robbers. He pushed hard against the slab. Finally, after several attempts, the adhesions of centuries gave way. He took a deep breath and reached blindly into the sarcophagus. His palm brushed against the trove.

Egziabhiyär Ymäsgn, he cried softly. May God be praised.

Clutching his discovery to his chest, he shoved the heavy lid back into place with his shoulder and spread dust over it to conceal the––

A bolt of light radiated through the chapel.

The foundations shook and buckled the ceiling. He ran through the arches to avoid being buried alive––a second flash blinded him. He covered his face and screamed, Abba!

Seconds passed, and he took another shallow breath, then opened his eyes. His mouth gaped in horror—he tried again to call for his father, but this time he couldn’t force a sound past his quivering lips.

Washington, D.C.

January 20, Present Day

JAQUELINE QUARTERMANE––‘JAQ’ TO HER friends and fellow lawyers at the State Department––dashed through the doors of the agency’s Foggy Bottom headquarters. She slid into a waiting taxi and gave her destination: EEOB.

As the cabbie sped off, she congratulated herself for remembering the inside-the-Beltway lingo for the Eisenhower Executive Office Building. She was a player now, one of the chosen charged with spreading Freedom and Christ around the world, and she had learned the importance of the shorthand code used by Washington’s power elite. To save money, she usually walked the half-mile to her weekly prayer breakfast, but today she didn’t want to be late. Her mentor, Rev. Calvin Merry, founder of her alma mater, John Darby School of Law, would be speaking. The televangelist had flown up from Knoxville that morning to lobby for a faith-based initiative that would earmark federal funds to bring the Gospel to Third World countries. She hadn’t seen the reverend since graduation and was eager to thank him in person for greasing the wheels on her new job at the Office of Legal Advisor.

The taxi turned east onto G Street, and on both sides of her, sleepy students trudged down the sidewalks to their early classes at George Washington University. She smiled and sighed with relief, so glad to be done with school. She had been working in D.C. for six months, but there were still times she couldn’t quite believe a poor farm girl from eastern Kentucky had really made it to—

The cab screeched to a jolting stop. The gnomish driver, whose copper skin looked to have the texture of a cigar’s binding, grinned at her through the rear-view mirror. "Temos chegado."

Sent flying across the back seat, she came back upright. Excuse me?

"We arrive. … You are from Brasilia, no? Muito bonito. Like our senhoras."

Flustered by the creepy compliment, she paid the fare and bolted the taxi. She often got that sort of reaction here because of her lithe Caribbean figure, black olive eyes, and luscious sable hair tangled with wild Medusa curls. Many in this city of embassies and consulates simply assumed she was from South America or the Middle East.

She climbed the EEOB steps still muttering to herself. She’d always had dark skin with light patches splotched across her back. Growing up, she had suffered such merciless teasing about this oddity from the other kids that she still reacted defensively when anyone, even a homesick cabbie, perceived her as different. She finally made it past the security guards, who scanned her a second time with their leers. Hearing Rev. Merry’s booming drawl echoing down the hall, she rushed up to the conference room and, smiling, opened the door.

Fifty pairs of interrogating eyes turned on her.

Mary Magdalene emerging from the Holy Sepulcher couldn’t have been met with a more skeptical reception. She saw at once that this wasn’t the usual gathering of low-level staffers. Today’s invitation-only guests were middle-aged men and older, Republicans mostly, with the typical Washington mask of placid authority etched into their pasty jowls. She recognized a couple of senators, a few representatives and cabinet members, all being served eggs and grits around a long mahogany table lit in amber by a Georgian chandelier.

Press room’s on the first floor, mumbled one of the grayheads while he stuffed his mouth with toast.

For once, she was thankful for her dark complexion, to hide the blush of embarrassment. Being branded a member of the media was a Washington insult comparable to being born into the lowest caste in India. She was about to retreat to the hallway when a command froze her.

Please stand, gentlemen, Rev. Merry ordered.

She locked eyes with him. The pastor looked more tired than usual, she thought, and there was a little less gold in his thinning hair. But his round face, a bit liverish from too much fried food, still featured that famous forbearing smile that channeled God’s forgiveness. His ample girth, as always, was immaculately draped in a charcoal merino suit, fitted by the same Nashville haberdashery that had tailored General Pat Cleburne’s butternut uniform before both wool and wearer were ripped to shreds by Union lead at Franklin.

Rev. Merry abandoned the head of the table and, in more of a demand than a request, boomed: Would you captains of government join me here on this side of the room?

The men traded vexed glances, but they slowly stood and gathered as ordered. None of them dared disobey the most prolific GOP fundraiser in the country, for even a gentle scolding sent out across the airwaves of the reverend’s Glorious Resurrection Network could bring a penitent congressman crawling to Knoxville for absolution.

Surrounded now by his disciples, Rev. Merry thumbed opened his well-worn bible like a casino dealer who could stop a shuffle and identify a card without peeking. ‘And He shall separate them from one another, as the shepherd separates the sheep from the goats.’ Who knows the verse?

When no one risked a guess, Jaq sheepishly offered: Matthew Twenty-Five: Thirty-two.

The reverend broke a gold-capped grin and threw open his arms in welcome. Jaqie, darling, come bless me with a hug. And don’t give a moment’s thought to these old billies. They’ve forgotten the manners their mamas taught them. I suspect some have a deficient Northern upbringing to blame.

Wrapped in the pastor’s loving embrace, Jaq saw a distinguished-looking man with cropped silver hair and penetrating cobalt eyes come forward and extended his hand to her.

I’m the damned Yankee he just slandered.

She was shocked that anyone would use an expletive in the pastor’s presence, but Rev. Merry merely chuckled at her nonplussed reaction.

This is Josiah Mayfield, the pastor said. Deputy Director of the National Security Agency. His Indiana forefathers probably shot at our kinfolk, so don’t trust him with any of our Confederate secrets.

Informed of the powerful pastor’s affection for Jaq, the other men came up and gathered around her as if she were Scarlett O’Hara at the cotillion ball.

Quartermane is Scottish, isn’t it? Mayfield asked her.

She was a little unsettled to learn that the NSA official knew her last name. I’m embarrassed to admit, I don’t know. I was always told my kin came west through the Cumberland Gap.

Mayfield curled a discerning smile at her discomfort. Don’t worry. We haven’t started a dossier on you yet. Actually, we have something more in common than hailing from bordering states. The Reverend here has parted the waters many times during my exodus through the desert of public service.

Jaq was anxious to divert the attention. We should give him the pulpit.

Amen to that. Mayfield finally broke off his wilting scrutiny on her and turned to fire a quip at the pastor. Cal, I trust there’s no commandment against me finishing my oatmeal while you save our souls?

Just don’t ask me to multiply the loaves. Amid the chuckles, Rev. Merry saw Jaq trying to escape to the corner. He caught her hand to delay her. But first, I have an announcement. In a few weeks, I’m going to have the honor of marrying off our lovely guest here.

Over the applause, Mayfield asked the pastor: Who’s the lucky guy?

Paul Merion, Rev. Merry said. A fine young man doing God’s work in Kenya. Y’all can send your generous gifts to my office.

Jaq squeezed his forearm in a plea to move on. That’s not necessary.

The pastor laughed. They have so much PAC money in their war chests, darling, you’ll be doing them a favor by taking some off their hands.

Signaling for all to return to their seats, Rev. Merry took his place again at the head of the table and bowed his head in prayer. After nearly a minute of this inward contemplation, he looked up and bore down on his audience with his eyes blazing holy fire. Now, y’all are here today because you live the Word of God. I’m not going to sugarcoat the situation in the world today for men and women who have front row seats. He paused to underscore the gravity of what he would next reveal. The Rapture, my good friends in Christ, is imminent. It will be sudden and it will be shocking. Mothers will be separated from their children and husbands from their wives. There will be seven years of Tribulation before we are taken up to abide with the Almighty and His saints.

Jaq marveled at how swiftly the eloquent minister had captured the attention of men not easily impressed––of all except the NSA guy, who seemed more interested in waving down the waiter for more coffee.

How do I know this? Rev. Merry asked rhetorically. I read the signs prophesied in the Bible. The nations have unified their currencies with the global markets and the Zionists have brought peace to Israel. With the United Nations and the European Union, we are nearing a one-world government. There is only one condition left to fulfill. … Anyone?

Jaq saw him glance at her, but she didn’t dare upstage the room again.

The Temple, Josh Mayfield finally answered, as matter-of-factly as if he had just ordered another item off the menu.

Nodding pensively, Rev. Merry turned toward the window to gaze at the columns of the Lincoln Memorial on the mall. The Jewish Temple must be rebuilt and the Holy of Holies restored. Only then will the Antichrist be revealed and the Kingdom of God installed on Earth.

Senator Barkin from Arizona cleared his throat. Cal, let’s cut to the chase. We can all read about the Rapture in those dime-store novels they sell at the airport. What is it you want from us?

After stealing a glance at Mayfield, Rev. Merry stepped closer to the senator and towered over him. John, my duty is to proclaim God’s commandments. Yours is to see that they’re not ignored by the secularists who have infiltrated this government like a plague of Massachusetts boll weevils.

Meaning what, exactly? Sen. Barkin asked.

I received a call this week from Jerusalem, Rev. Merry said. Prime Minister Aronowitz says you’ve been dragging your feet on the foreign-aid bill.

His appetite ruined, Sen. Barkin shoved his plate away. The Israelis are asking for another five hundred million. Aronowitz won’t tell us why he needs it. We’re already giving him three billion a year. Is he planning to use the money to build more West Bank settlements? I can’t justify this to the Dems on Appropriations unless Aronowitz and his Likudniks come clean.

The pastor glared sternly at the senator. We Americans have been given a biblical mandate to stand by our Jewish brethren.

Sen. Barkin shrugged. Why even worry about Israel if the Jews are going to be left behind at the end of it all anyway?

God placed the sons and daughters of the Old Testament on Earth to fulfill a vital purpose, Rev. Merry said. The Second Coming cannot unfold until the Jews first prepare the way.

Jaq had heard the reverend talk many times from the pulpit about the destiny of the Jews, and still his passion on the subject never failed to stir her. She was about to murmur an amen when the door opened.

A female aide stuck her head inside. With a worried look, she glanced at Rev. Merry, then at Jaq. Miss Quartermane, Under Secretary Darden needs you back at State immediately.

Sana’a, Yemen

January 20, Present Day

JAMALL AL-SOUROURI DRAGGED HIS CRIPPLED right leg down a trash-littered alley, taking his usual route through the slums to avoid being recognized. In front of him, three barefoot boys stopped kicking a soccer ball and laughed at how he was forced to crouch to ease the excruciating pain caused by the infidel beatings. He reached for the dagger in his thwab belt to chase them away.

Fools! Their mortification was fast approaching. Could they not see the signs? The televisions in the coffee houses showed Iran’s Al Quds militia waving their black flags in triumph. People chattered about the strange weather, ninety degrees in winter, and homosexuals now walked openly in the streets, dancing while demonic American music played on radios. Women were even making themselves barren with potions. All of it had been prophesied long ago.

The Time of Trials was at hand.

He winced from the aching in his bones. The memories of his wasted life dogged him with each agonizing limp. He too had once been blind to Allah’s will. The stench of vomit in that Saudi prison still filled his nostrils. After torturing him for a week, the Riyadh police had shipped him to Guantanamo on the false charge of being a soldier for Al Qaeda. Even after the Americans discovered that he had been delivered up as a scapegoat for a nephew of the Royal Family, they’d kept him locked away for five more years. He had tried to hang himself, but the devils had built the cage ceiling too low.

His nightmare should have ended with his release, but it had only just begun. Dumped into an Albanian refugee camp, he had been forced to beg his way back home to Yemen. It was only then that he discovered his wife, thinking him dead, had married another man. Now, even his old friends shunned him, convinced that the Americans had recruited him for a spy.

He tried to calm himself by thinking back to that night three months ago when he had climbed to the roof of his tenement to jump to his death. Before he could launch himself over the edge, an old man sneaking a cigarette in the shadows of the stairwell had whispered, You are persecuted for your faith.

Let me die!

Do not waste your life. The Awaited One requires your service.

On that fateful night, his intercessor revealed himself to be Yahya the New Baptist, the advance lieutenant for the Mahdi. In truth, he could still not be certain if Yahya had been an angel or mortal, for he had not seen him since. A week after his salvation, masked fighters had taken him away to be initiated into the Mahdi’s mujahideen, tattooing his biceps with the secret hadith. His suffering, he had been promised, was ordained from above to harden him for the coming apocalyptic battles.

Now, as a servant of the Islamic messiah who would defeat the Great Deceiver and rule the world, he received his orders every Sunday by email.

He lived only for these communications.

He turned a corner and levered his useless leg up the steps of an Internet café. When the clerk at the front desk, a lazy Iranian student, refused to look up, he threw four coins on the counter and snatched the access code. Careening down the row of computers, he landed on an empty chair and began pecking furiously on the keyboard. Waiting and waiting, he cursed the slow processor. Finally, the browser popped up. He inserted his password, concealing it with his jittery hand. One email. Yes, it was from Yahya.

Inspired by Allah, he had spent those many months in prison learning English, vowing to turn the vile language against its users. Now, he quickly converted the message from Arabic, having been instructed that the American intelligence agents placed a lower priority on emails in English: The Awaited One offers His blessings, my son. He wishes to know if His will is done.

He tapped a reply: I have obeyed His command.

Several seconds passed. Where was the response? Was the infidel machine going to crash? He was about to kick it when another email arrived:

Do you return from your journey with God’s Mercy?

He lowered his head in shame. Finally, he found the courage to type: No.

Seconds later, Yahya’s reply appeared on the screen: The Awaited One will be disappointed.

Distraught, he frantically typed the reason for his failure: The Ethiopian would not surrender it.

At last, more words from Yahya––these cold in their brevity––scrolled before his eyes: Go to Cairo. Wait for instructions.

The clerk at the desk shouted down the aisle, Time is up!

His cheeks hot with tears of shame, Jamaal angrily yanked the computer’s cord from its socket. He limped back down the row of cubicles and grinned at the haughty clerk with a vision of him being incinerated in the coming holocaust. Showing off his English, he whispered to the student’s ear: "For once, Persian monkey, you speak the truth. Soon—very soon—your time is up."

CHAPTER TWO

Beira, Portugal

March 1455 A.D.

COLD AND WEARY, PERO DA COVILHA struggled to keep up with his father as they led their two Lusitano stallions through the drifting snow. If the storm did not let up soon, they risked becoming trapped on this desolate shepherd’s path along the foothills of the Serra da Estrela, a range of crags that divided Portugal like a scabbed wound across the chest. Holy Mother Church deemed travel on Good Friday disrespectful, but Pero knew his father, the king’s procurer of military mounts for the Monhantas province, was determined to reach Belmonte before dusk to find shelter for the animals.

"Pai, can we ride?" he begged.

Diogo da Covilha, short and bald with a lugubrious face set like a shriveled apple upon a hairy wreath of double chins, increased their pace to punish his eleven-year-old son for the shameful plea. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure that the thistles were not gouging the fetlocks of his new purchases. "We are merchants, not cavaleiros. We live by our feet."

Pero grudgingly resumed his battle with the iced needles. He had walked this path across the border at least a dozen times to the equestrian market at Ciudad Rodrigo, where his dark African features, suspicious Levantine eyes, and talent for picking up the Arabic tongue caused the Castilians to mistake him for a Morisco. He hated being treated like a converted Moor. But his father, aware that Andalusians were renowned for judging horses, had turned the ignominy into prosperity by tutoring him to play a breeder’s son. The ploy never failed to fool the sellers into abandoning their schemes of preening their nags to resemble El Cid’s Babieca. Then, after Covilha’s high altitude worked its disciplining effect, he and his father would take their bargains to Castelo Branco, where the horses with their enlarged lungs would outperform the pampered garrons from the Algarve.

They made a good living at the horse trading, but Pero found the work humiliating, and he dreamed instead of one day becoming a famous mariner. Risking his father’s wrath again, he asked, How long do you think it will take the Admiral Cadamosto to reach the Boiling Waters below Africa?

Diogo huffed. Why do you fill your head with such nonsense? The king will have no use for our services if he wastes his coin on sails instead of purchases for his cavalry.

Emilio says if Cadamosto falls off the earth’s disc, the admiral will be dragged away by Antipodian savages and roasted for meat.

Diogo rolled his eyes at that wild tale. Have you ever climbed a tree to see down a road?

Of course.

"If the world is flat, why then can you see farther from atop the tree? Receiving only a shrug in reply, Diogo kept boring in on his son. If two sticks are driven into the ground, one in Coimbra and the other in Lisbon, why are their shadows at different angles during the same hour of the day? Why do the sails of a ship appear to rise up from below the ocean?"

That last question stung Pero, for he had never even seen the ocean, a negligence considered a perverse abomination in Portugal. Padre Dinis says that the Devil took Christ to a high mountain and showed Him all the kingdoms of the world. He said such a feat was possible only because the earth is flat.

His father took out his anger by kicking a limb from his path. Padre Dinis would be hard pressed to find his own shadow on a cloudless day.

But the priest is educated.

Educated in the art of licking a chalice dry! Only once did I meet a truly learned man, and that was in Cordoba. He devoted his life to proving it impossible for truths arrived at by the intellect to contradict God’s revelations.

Who was this philosopher?

His father suddenly turned guarded. His name is of no consequence. You must never speak of what I just told you.

But why?

His father seemed to search for a reason. The priest might become jealous of the Cordoban teacher’s wisdom.

What then is the shape of the earth?

We can only arrive at the deepest truth concerning an object of reflection only by asking what is not true about it. His father surveyed the wilds to make certain no creature was within earshot, then he asked, Is God multiple?

You mean like the Trinity?

His father hissed for him to lower his voice. Can the Ultimate of all that exists be divided?

Pero knew from the Creed that such an assertion was contrary to Church teachings. Are you saying that God is only One?

I said no such thing, Diogo insisted. "I am only indicating what God is not. You must approach every object you encounter with this same test. I cannot tell you what form the Earth takes. But I can tell you with all certainty that it is not flat. And that is the first step to enlightenment."

Pero never failed to be impressed by his father’s knowledge of cosmology. After his mother died from the bloody flux three years ago, his father had given him the best education possible. Yet it was the other path of discovery that he truly yearned to blaze. Timidly, he asked, Have you ever sailed the seas?

Exasperated, Diogo snapped the reins in his hands. A wish to leave one’s home is more baneful than the pestilence. Our forefathers … He stopped, and then insisted sharply, I’ll hear no more talk of this.

Pero noticed that his father always saddened whenever their family’s past was mentioned. All Pero knew was that his grandfather, Aben, a saddler, had migrated to Covilha from an unknown land and had died from the flux before Diogo had been old enough to marry. A raven cawed overhead, yanking Pero from his thoughts. He had become so engrossed in their discussion that only now did he see the tower of Belmonte castle rising over the peak. His father led him down into the village, where they found the windows shuttered and the clanking of the hooves of their stallions the only sounds to be heard.

Somewhere in the distance, a woman’s scream pierced the eerie calm, and nesting pigeons flapped loudly in response. A low roar from the far end of the village erupted and became louder.

His father halted their approach. We must leave at once.

But you promised we would eat and—

Diogo glared a silent demand for his son's obedience.

As they hurried their retreat, Pero caught a glimpse through a window of a family dressed in black and sitting around a table. The mother met his eyes briefly; she quickly extinguished the lone candle on the table and hid it. He saw her children bring out playing cards from their pockets, and they began trading them, but appeared to be having no fun at the game. He wanted to linger there, trying to understand what he had just witnessed, but his father dragged him away toward the outskirts of the village.

They were nearly past the boundaries stones when a mob armed with cudgels turned the corner. A constable and two black-robed friars leading the pack prodded forward a disheveled and distraught woman who wore a yellow cross on her chest. Her face was bruised and bloodied. She stared at Pero with eyes so helpless and forlorn that it caused him to shudder.

You there! the constable shouted at his father. Halt!

Diogo froze. After a hesitation, he handed the reins to his son and bowed to the constable and friars. Our Lord’s peace be with you.

One of the friars came closer to examine their faces. You violate the day of Christ’s death.

Pero saw his father’s hand shaking as he produced the letter of agency.

The friar seemed disappointed as he read and returned the royal document. Be quick about your business. Even the king owes contrition to God.

Pero’s father bowed again. We will not impose on you further. My apprentice and I are on our way to Covilha.

Apprentice? Why did he not call me his son?

The constable answered the obsequious bowing by spitting a wad of bile at Diogo’s boots. Covilha is a pig sty. Be gone with you.

Diogo paled. Rather than defend the reputation of their home village, he led Pero away in silence.

WHEN THEY REACHED THE SAFETY of the foothills, out of sight of the village, Diogo tied the stallions to a tree. Without a word of explanation for their cowardly retreat, he staggered over to a boulder and retched.

Pero rushed to his father’s side. "Pai, are you ill? When his father did not answer him, he risked asking the question that had been plaguing him for the last hour. What crime did that woman in the street commit?"

Diogo wiped his mouth. She was caught preparing to celebrate the eve of the Sabbath.

But the Sabbath is not until Sunday.

For them, it is Saturday.

Now Pero was even more confused. Why did we not livery the horses there

In a sudden surge of violence, Diogo drove Pero against a tree and tore open his son’s shirt. Drawing his dagger, he dug its sharp edge into Pero’s upper arm and cut a slender chevron of flesh. When Pero finally stopped struggling and screaming, his father staunched the bleeding with his sleeve.

Terrified, Pero looked down at the blood dripping on his bare chest. I asked only—

His father silenced him by opening his own shirt, revealing an old scar in the same shape as the incision he had just made. We are Jews. … as was that woman in the town.

Pero feared his father had become unhinged. Jews? I was baptized! You take me to Mass every Sunday!

Diogo rubbed his hand over his own scar, as if remembering the day it was inflicted. I was marked like this by my father, and he by his. The Church forbids circumcision. We do this in its stead to preserve our tradition.

But you pray the Creed!

His father held his silence in a shameful admission that their adherence to the Church commandments had been a ruse.

"You lied to the priests?"

Diogo looked east, toward the border. "When I was a menino growing up in Valencia, a madness swept across Iberia. Thousands of our people were massacred. My own brothers and sisters were butchered before my eyes. A converso family took me in and forced me to be baptized for my survival."

You mean … you don’t believe in Christ?

Diogo cast his eyes down. I’ve kept the rituals of the true faith in secret, as have many in our country.

That family in the window …

"They were playing a game called barajas. After the friars conduct their Friday inspections, our people study Torah lessons written on the back of the cards."

Several moments passed before Pero found his voice again. Why did you not tell me of this until now?

Diogo blinked back tears. I thought it best to raise you as a Christian. But seeing that brave woman suffer, I can no longer stand by and allow our family’s faith to expire for all eternity. You must never reveal what I am about to tell you, not even to those you believe you can trust with your life. Do you understand?

"Sim, Pai."

His father grasped him by the shoulders to drive home the gravity of what he would next reveal. There is One God, not three in one. The Messiah has yet to come. Do not allow the friars to convince you otherwise. Their writings have not superseded the Law of Moses. And, above all, you must always remember this: Our faith will be restored to its former glory only when the Temple of Solomon is rebuilt in Jerusalem.

Pero felt unsteady, as if the world had suddenly collapsed under him. What was he now, a Christian or a Jew? Only that morning he had joined in the traditional Good Friday ritual asking that the veil of faithlessness be removed from the eyes of the perfidious Jews.

Had he been praying all along for his own damnation?

CHAPTER THREE

Washington, D.C.

January 20, Present Day

SPED TOWARD FOGGY BOTTOM IN in a State Department limo, Jaq checked her appointments calendar, baffled by the summons back to the office. Had she screwed up a case? As the newest lawyer on the foreign-assistance staff, she was assigned only minor projects, such as reviewing trade contracts and handling consular traffic violations, and those rarely raised a blip on the radar of Fred Darden. Although the Under Secretary of Political Affairs hadn’t attended the prayer breakfast that morning, he was a fellow Merryonette, the media’s moniker for the Rev. Merry’s many political friends. She had spoken to Darden only once, during her interview rounds, and had found him to be a cold fish, calculating and a bit hostile, with leaden eyes and a cadaverous pallor. Sometimes she got an odd vibe when passing him in the building, as if he considered her a rival because of her closeness to the pastor. But that was ridiculous. How could she, a rookie attorney, possibly threaten one of the most seasoned diplomats in Washington?

Her worry lines gave way to a grin. Of course. This had all the fingerprints of one of Paul’s pranks. Yeah, she’d bet a month’s salary that her fiancé had returned home from Africa early. He probably convinced his buddies at State to whisk her back for his grand entrance.

She couldn’t wait to be in Paul’s arms again. In law school, she had given up hope of ever finding love, but the Lord worked in mysterious ways—with a little help from Rev. Merry.

Only a year ago, during one of the pastor’s Sunday services at the Good News Cathedral, she had been seated next to a handsome man with shocks of tawny hair and a lantern jaw. Rev. Merry’s sermon that morning had been on Ephesians 5:21-33 and God’s holy covenant between husband and wife. Wives, submit to your husbands, another Paul had written two thousand years earlier. Her pew mate that day had leaned over to her and whispered: St. Paul never found a woman who would marry him. I wonder why?

She had laughed so loudly at his irreverence that half the congregation turned on them. The reverend, she later discovered, had conspired with the ushers to bring them together. Paul had been impressed enough with her potential for obedience—or was it the way she enjoyed his jokes?—that he had invited her to join him for banana pancakes at the IHOP that morning. Two months later, she was waving goodbye to him with an engagement ring on her finger.

Now, three weeks before the wedding, he was returning to become the new executive director of the Reverend’s foundation on K Street. Maybe they’d sneak out early today to search for a larger apartment.

As the limo wheeled up to the Truman Building, she saw Bart Ochley, the agency’s chief legal advisor and her immediate boss, waiting under the canopied entrance. Rail thin, he had the forlorn eyes of a bureaucrat who long ago had given up the idealism of youth. A news crew with a camera was tailing him. She chuckled, seeing how Paul was really pulling out all the stops on this little escapade of his. Climbing out, she decided to play along. Who called the paparazzi, Bart?

Ochley didn’t break even a smile as he hurried her through the security.

Strange. Why would Paul call his journalist cronies down here if they weren’t meant to be a part of the act?

He dug an energy bar from his pocket and pushed it on her. Take a bite.

She looked around, confused. Was he on some new jag against low blood sugar? She had barely gotten the first chew down when they reached Secretary of State Ben McCrozier’s office.

Inside, Darden and McCrozier stood and shepherded her to a couch.

It slowly dawned on her from their somber faces that this was no prank. Am I being fired?

McCrozier brought her a glass of water. Ms. Quartermane, I’m afraid we have some bad news.

She glanced at Darden, suspecting him of ratting her out. I had permission to attend the EEOB breakfast and—

Paul Merion is dead.

Nausea seized at her throat. Dazed, she tried to stand and nearly staggered into the curio. McCrozier eased her back to the couch, supporting her hand with the glass. Praying for a mistake, she coughed out, Are you sure?

McCrozier removed his jacket and poured two drams of Glenfiddich from the half-full bottle on his credenza. He offered her one before remembering she didn’t drink, then sighed heavily. Mr. Merion’s body was found last night in the northern Ethiopian village of Lalibela. He was shot several times in the head and chest. The Ethiopian authorities confirmed his fingerprints with the duplicates on record at the embassy in Addis Ababa.

Sobbing, Jaq finally managed to ask how Paul’s death had happened.

Darden held a dispatch marked with a classified stamp. The Ethiopians aren’t releasing many details. There’s been a recent surge in violence on the border. This is their holy week. Busloads of tourists were in Lalibela. Eritrean rebels apparently seized the opportunity to cross the border and stir up some bad publicity. He probably got caught in their crossfire.

McCrozier offered her his kerchief. He remained frozen in helpless silence over her until finally managing to mumble something about having been told of their engagement.

Jaq dabbed at her mascara while a hundred jagged thoughts pounded at her brain. She would have to tell Paul’s mother and sisters. God, that will be horrible! And they’ll need help making the funeral arrangements. She would have to be the strong one. Keep it together, Jaq. She looked up and realized that the men were staring at her, waiting for her to say something more. She coughed to regain her voice. When will his body be returned?

McCrozier returned to his desk. His bloodshot eyes bagged with exhaustion, he sank into his chair and took another bracing sip of his scotch. We’re sending Lawrence Barrington over to expedite the paperwork. Even though Mr. Merion was a civilian, we’ve put in a call to the Pentagon requesting a waiver for transport.

What about the investigation?

The three men stared blankly at her.

Finally, Darden asked, What investigation?

Confused, Jaq blinked through the tears. Aren’t you going to track down the killers?

We’ll let the Ethiopians handle it, Darden said. Internal police matter.

What if Paul was murdered because he was a Christian? There are Muslim radicals in Africa, aren’t there?

"Some of the Eritrean rebels are jihadists, McCrozier admitted. But it’s very unlikely they launched this raid because of Mr. Merion’s missionary work."

After taking a moment to gather her thoughts, she looked up at them through her filmed eyes. I want to go over there and bring him home.

That’s out of the question, Darden insisted. The region isn’t secure. Besides, you’re emotionally involved. We need to get this behind us quickly. The press is already sniffing around. We don’t want another problem.

How could my going over there create a problem?

Ethiopia is the only Christian government in east Africa, Darden said. And a vital source for intelligence on Al Qaeda in the Horn. The Ethiopians are very sensitive about any breakdown in their domestic security. This needs to be handled by an experienced diplomat.

Turning away from Darden, she pressed her case with McCrozier. Larry Barrington has his hands full with the Hague conference next week. I want to do this instead of taking bereavement leave. I sacrificed my time with Paul so he could go spread Christ’s message in Africa.

Moved by her tearful plea, McCrozier relented. Let her do it, Fred.

Darden reddened. Ben, in my judgment, that’s not wise.

McCrozier stood abruptly, his face pinched with anger. Hell, I’ve about had my fill of your judgment! You convinced me to authorize Merion’s extended visa in the first place. Give him consulate protection to feed and proselytize African Muslims, you insisted. Now, damn it! Let her go bring back the man she loved!

Woodshedded in front of his subordinates, Darden glared a silent promise of retribution at Jaq.

Too late, she realized that she had just committed one of Washington’s unforgivable sins. She had launched her end-run right under Darden’s nose, not behind his back, as was the usual modus operandi employed by the hordes of Judases in suits who populated this city.

Jerusalem

January 20, Present Day

COURBET RENAN, THE DIRECTOR OF the Israel Museum, pointed out every neglected detail as he strode through the galleries ahead of his staff and security detail. Within minutes, the cultural cognoscenti of France and Israel would be arriving for the evening premiere of The Lost Treasures of the Holocaust, an exhibition that had been diplomatically impossible just a year ago.

And he alone, the son of French Jews, had made this miracle happen.

After months of negotiations, he had obtained from the Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay a loan of those works once owned by the exterminated Jews of Europe. Museum boards on the Continent had always rejected such collaborations because of draconian laws allowing descendants to sue in Tel Aviv for the return of stolen art. But he had successfully lobbied the Knesset to require Israeli citizens to now bring these claims in the country where the pieces were held, an expensive and time-consuming ordeal.

He ran a manicured hand through his lustrous black hair and filled with preening triumph as he took in the breathtaking fruits of his accomplishment. Assured that all was in order, he nodded the signal.

The doors swung open amid a blast of symphonic fanfare.

He mingled with the first black-tie arrivals, accepting their congratulations and engaging in small talk. Among the masterpieces surrounding him were a magnificent Renoir stolen from Lazare Wildenstein, several sculptures confiscated from the Hamburger family, and a Matisse ripped from the home of the German socialite Sarah Rosenstein. He stopped to admire his exhibition’s crown jewel: A Delacroix painting of Christian Crusaders surging over the battlements of Caesarea. The work had once hung in the lodge of Hermann Goering, who had seen in it a prophetic allegory of the Nazi occupation of Paris.

He surveyed the gallery and took a quick head count. Determined to put the nervous French dignitaries at ease with a show of force, he turned to his security chief behind him and whispered: Get four more guards in here now.

The security officer delayed relaying the order. I need them at the doors. We’re understaffed as it is.

Renan grimaced with irritation. We’ve been over this. The guests have been prescreened with fingerprint IDs to speed the lines. Just do a quick body scan on every tenth arrival.

The security officer looked skeptical. That will leave us vulnerable.

Renan pulled the insubordinate officer aside and got into his face. I’m not going to turn this museum into Ben Gurion airport. Now do as I say or— His Bluetooth earpiece crackled with a report that the most important guest of the evening was waiting at the front entrance.

He rushed into the lobby and was relieved to see that the Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem had not yet been taken in his wheelchair through the security arch. The bent septuagenarian was a living icon of Israel, having survived three Palestinian attempts on his life, the last one requiring the amputation of his legs. Although the rabbi had led the opposition to the new art-recovery law, Renan was confident that he could win over the cantankerous codger with charm and flattery. Shalom, Rabbi Halevi! There is no need for you to be subjected to such an intrusion.

The rabbi growled something in Yiddish, his words becoming lost in his wild whiskers.

Renan wheeled the rabbi around the magnetic scanner and into the gallery wing. Amid thunderous applause, the director positioned his honored guest in front of the Delacroix. Justice has triumphed, Rabbi. This masterpiece was recovered from the Nazis.

The rabbi scowled at the painting. Who owned it?

Renan whispered into the rabbi’s hairy ear in an effort to coax him to lower his voice. It’s on loan from the Louvre.

The rabbi became even more agitated. I asked who owns it!

Renan tried to calm him. Great art belongs to the world.

One law shall be to him that is to the home born! So sayeth Exodus!

Ignoring the rabbi’s senile rant, Renan turned to the gathered guests and began his own prepared speech. It is my pleasure, ladies and gentlemen, to stand before you and––

The lights went out.

Moments later, film footage from World War II appeared high on one of the white walls. Scenes of Nazi brutality were be projected from a lens hidden somewhere in the chamber. Edward R. Murrow’s voice narrated news clips of S.S. thugs ransacking Jewish homes in Germany and storm troopers loading stolen paintings onto Paris rail cars.

Fuming, Renan nearly spat into his microphone. What the hell’s going on?

A fuse is missing from the switchbox, the security chief reported into Renan’s earpiece. Wherever the projector is hidden, it has its own power source.

The blinded guests began bumping into each other and spilling drinks.

Renan groped and whispered for his honored guest, but the rabbi was nowhere to be found. No need to be alarmed! he shouted to the stumbling crowds. A temporary power outage! The lights will be back up soon!

After a few minutes that seemed an eternity, the halogens flashed back on. Renan smoothed back his gel-slicked hair to compose himself as he looked around. The rabbi had apparently wheeled himself into the lobby to use the facilities. Not wishing to delay his speech further, Renan cleared his throat and announced: It is my great honor to welcome to Israel one of the great works of art. This painting by Euguène Delacroix behind me is a superb example of––

Are you sure that’s a Delacroix? a guest asked.

Interrupted yet again, Renan calmed and met the challenge to his expertise with a condescending smile. My good man, I was trained at the University of Paris. You don’t think I’d mistake a Delacroix?

A lady standing next to the questioner insisted, "It’s The Pillage of a Village by Sebastian Vrancx."

Renan spun toward the wall behind him—the Delacroix was gone. In its place hung a Baroque painting of Napoleon’s army ransacking a town in Flanders. Crimson-faced, he examined the substitute installed in the Delacroix’s frame. How had such a delicate transfer been accomplished during those few minutes the lights were down? The intended message was not lost on him: This scene of Napoleon’s