you?”
“Hammid, now’s not the time to be checking my credentials and qualifications. Just leave me alone and I’ll get what we came for.”
“Ok. I’m going to take a look outside. If you need me, call me on the cell phone.”
“Ok. I think I understand how things are arranged here. It shouldn’t be long.”
When Hammid left, Jean consulted a listing that hung on a clipboard on the wall and pulled out several long, flat document drawers before she found the one she wanted. She wore cotton gloves over the latex gloves both she and Hammid had worn so she didn’t damage anything in the collection. She had no patience for unwitting vandalism.
She pulled the drawer out, laid it on the work table, and lifted the lid off the drawer. She dug through a pile of ancient manuscripts, most in Latin, until she found what she wanted. So, this was the Treaty of Tuscany. Her research showed no mention of it in any history book, no references in any libraries, no articles about it, and nobody looking for it. It had been forgotten. As far as the world was concerned, this treaty had never existed. Yet here it was in front of her.
The data slip with it said it had been found between the pages of a Sixteenth Century collection of biblical commentary, and was awaiting examination by a curator. That meant the Vatican Library really didn’t know what it was. That happened. Things were “discovered” in old collections all the time. It was in surprisingly good shape for a manuscript drawn up in 1189. The parchment was brown with age and the ink had faded, so she took a magnifying glass from a work table and bent over the treaty.
The center of the treaty was too dark to read, but she knew from experience that it would be readable under the proper filtering light.
But when she finished reading the Latin that was readable, she knew why it had been forgotten, and why it should probably remain forgotten. She also knew why certain people desperately wanted it remembered. What had she gotten herself into? Who was Hammid? Really? But there was no turning back now.
Back to work. It was unusual in another way, too. The page was about twenty-two inches long, and that wasn’t unusual. But what was unusual was that only half of the page had been taken by the script and the seals of the signatories. The other half was blank.
She pulled a small, but very high resolution Nikon from her bag and took several pictures of the treaty in its original condition. Then she went to work. When she was finished, a plastic sleeve with the treaty went into a leather case. Then she securely taped a plastic bag to her thigh, high up under the nun’s habit she wore.
Hammid came back just as she dropped her dress. “Got it?” he asked.
She held up the leather case. “Right here. Want to take a look?”
“No. You can show it to me back at the hotel.” He took the leather case from her and they headed back the way they had come.
Chapter Three
Vatican - Easter Sunday, March 22
Seconds after the blast, the inside of the Basilica was stone silent. No moans. No calls. No falling statuary. No breaking glass. Aside from some surface blemishes, the enormous interior of the Basilica had absorbed the blast, ignored it, and proudly stood as it had for four hundred years. Windows blew out, venting some of the force, and bright shafts of sunlight shot through the sparkling dust hanging above the carnage.
The structure shrugged off the explosion, but the people inside didn’t have that choice. Then the screaming began.
Anyone within one hundred feet of the bomb died instantly. Within two hundred feet, the effect varied. Some died, others were mangled, maimed, blinded, or completely unhurt. Naked and shocked survivors whose clothes had been completely blasted off slipped and fell in the gore. The explosive cared nothing for rank or privilege. Cardinals, visiting dignitaries, guards, pages, babies, and eleven-year-old candle bearers all lay in the
“Hammid, now’s not the time to be checking my credentials and qualifications. Just leave me alone and I’ll get what we came for.”
“Ok. I’m going to take a look outside. If you need me, call me on the cell phone.”
“Ok. I think I understand how things are arranged here. It shouldn’t be long.”
When Hammid left, Jean consulted a listing that hung on a clipboard on the wall and pulled out several long, flat document drawers before she found the one she wanted. She wore cotton gloves over the latex gloves both she and Hammid had worn so she didn’t damage anything in the collection. She had no patience for unwitting vandalism.
She pulled the drawer out, laid it on the work table, and lifted the lid off the drawer. She dug through a pile of ancient manuscripts, most in Latin, until she found what she wanted. So, this was the Treaty of Tuscany. Her research showed no mention of it in any history book, no references in any libraries, no articles about it, and nobody looking for it. It had been forgotten. As far as the world was concerned, this treaty had never existed. Yet here it was in front of her.
The data slip with it said it had been found between the pages of a Sixteenth Century collection of biblical commentary, and was awaiting examination by a curator. That meant the Vatican Library really didn’t know what it was. That happened. Things were “discovered” in old collections all the time. It was in surprisingly good shape for a manuscript drawn up in 1189. The parchment was brown with age and the ink had faded, so she took a magnifying glass from a work table and bent over the treaty.
The center of the treaty was too dark to read, but she knew from experience that it would be readable under the proper filtering light.
But when she finished reading the Latin that was readable, she knew why it had been forgotten, and why it should probably remain forgotten. She also knew why certain people desperately wanted it remembered. What had she gotten herself into? Who was Hammid? Really? But there was no turning back now.
Back to work. It was unusual in another way, too. The page was about twenty-two inches long, and that wasn’t unusual. But what was unusual was that only half of the page had been taken by the script and the seals of the signatories. The other half was blank.
She pulled a small, but very high resolution Nikon from her bag and took several pictures of the treaty in its original condition. Then she went to work. When she was finished, a plastic sleeve with the treaty went into a leather case. Then she securely taped a plastic bag to her thigh, high up under the nun’s habit she wore.
Hammid came back just as she dropped her dress. “Got it?” he asked.
She held up the leather case. “Right here. Want to take a look?”
“No. You can show it to me back at the hotel.” He took the leather case from her and they headed back the way they had come.
Chapter Three
Vatican - Easter Sunday, March 22
Seconds after the blast, the inside of the Basilica was stone silent. No moans. No calls. No falling statuary. No breaking glass. Aside from some surface blemishes, the enormous interior of the Basilica had absorbed the blast, ignored it, and proudly stood as it had for four hundred years. Windows blew out, venting some of the force, and bright shafts of sunlight shot through the sparkling dust hanging above the carnage.
The structure shrugged off the explosion, but the people inside didn’t have that choice. Then the screaming began.
Anyone within one hundred feet of the bomb died instantly. Within two hundred feet, the effect varied. Some died, others were mangled, maimed, blinded, or completely unhurt. Naked and shocked survivors whose clothes had been completely blasted off slipped and fell in the gore. The explosive cared nothing for rank or privilege. Cardinals, visiting dignitaries, guards, pages, babies, and eleven-year-old candle bearers all lay in the
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