Shrouded In Silence

9





Acting 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.

Michelle laughed. "You are full of it, you old fraud. I know how you priests operate. You float around all morning trying to sniff out a free cup of coffee. You don't fool me."

Blake laughed. "Hmm. I'm afraid I don't smell any coffee in here. You were expecting me and hid it in the back room?"

"You've shown up before we've got the pot on the burner," Jack said. "Everyone's up early this morning and—"

"Let's not dilly dally," Father Blake broke in. "How can I get that free cup if this woman doesn't put her mind to the task at hand?"

"I think I'm getting the message," Michelle said. "You're hounding me to get the pot fired up. The one that's sitting over there in the corner by you. I swear you can't even allow me time to sit down."

Blake grinned a sly smile. "You know what they say about a woman's work."

"You male chauvinist pig!" Michelle joked. "You never give up."

"I can't let the world go to rack and ruin because women keep trying to change the rules."

"Oink! Oink!" Michelle shook her finger at him. "Look. You and Jack go sit in the conference room, and I'll bring the coffee in when it's done."

"Ah, no finer words were spoken at this early hour," Father Blake said.

The two men sauntered into the adjacent room that had once been a bedroom. In the center a ramshackle old table made a center for discussion. Jack sat down at one end and Father Blake slipped in across from him.

"A fine morning," Blake said. "One of those days that makes me remember why I came to Rome."

"To make calls on people like me?" Jack laughed. "Come on. I see you wandering around St. Peter's and down the streets. What in the heck do you really do?"

"Why, I listen to people; hear their hurts and share a word of kindness. I can't imagine any more satisfying work."

"But you are a priest and I've never heard you say to what church you are attached."

Blake smiled broadly. "I don't want to work in one congregation. The whole world is my parish."

"Sounds vaguely like a Protestant preacher named John Wesley."

"I'm friends with all of them, saints and sinners alike." Father Blake leaned back in the chair and placed his hands over his round stomach. "Never object to being identified with anyone who counted, my boy." The priest began drumming on the table with his fingertips as if the questions made him nervous.

"Here you are, gentlemen." Michelle stepped into the room with a tray filled with two cups of coffee, a pitcher of cream, and a bowl of sugar with two spoons. "Nothing's better than freshly brewed coffee."

"I must take back the harsh comments I made when I came in," the priest said. "Your wife has redeemed herself by treating us with the honor due our status."

"Don't push your luck," Michelle said. "You're on the edge as it is."

"Ah!" Blake rolled his eyes and beat his chest. "How sad for me. Always living on the jumping-off point into the precipice."

"My heart bleeds." Michelle grinned and walked away.

"Well, Jack, how is your research coming along?"

Townsend shrugged. "You know how it is. I work for weeks and nothing happens. Then, one day I make a big breakthrough. Right now I'm only in the digging stage of investigation."

"I saw the article on you in Il Messaggero several days ago. Quite impressive."

"We thought it gave our work a nice boast. Can't buy advertising like that you know."

Father Blake took a sip of coffee. "If there's any paper that everyone in Rome reads, it's that one. No telling how many people got a glimpse into your work." The priest stopped and looked intensely into Jack's eyes.

Jack started to speak and then stopped. Blake's instant shift from being a jovial soul to becoming a probing interrogator had to be a signal of some sort. Something was going on. Jack set his coffee cup down on the table.

"Father," Jack said slowly. "Everyone knows that you're the happy priest who walks up and down the streets of Rome sharing a friendly word with everyone from waiters in the street corner café to the policeman directing traffic. You know all the officials processing people in and out of the Vatican. The smiling face of Padre Don is a symbol of good cheer." Jack took a deep breath. "I sense something else is at work this morning. You sound like you know more than you are telling me."

The priest pursed his lips thoughtfully. "You must remember that I listen to a wide range of voices and hear many rumors. And rumors are often no more than street gossip. However, you are right. I hear many things. Some of the banter does raise concerns."

"And you are here today because you've heard some chatter that bothered you?" Jack said.

Blake looked out the window. "We all know about that horrible bombing a few days ago that killed a number of people and destroyed the terminal station. The newspaper reports have been clear that the police haven't been able to identify what group was behind the blast." Blake drummed on the old conference table with his fingertips. "That doesn't mean they don't have some clues."

Jack chuckled. "What in the world would that have to do with us? We're innocuous scholars who are accused of living in the past. In fact, when it comes to the politics of Italy, I'm about as apolitical as you get."

"Unfortunately, none of that has any bearing on my concern. The problem is that you are an American."

"American? That's a problem?" Jack shook his head. "You've got to be kidding."

"Afraid not. One portion of the untold story about this bombing is that some evidence suggests that the terrorists were anti-American activists. Being a Yank who gets his story in the paper labels you as a possible target."

"Oh, come now, Father. You've got to be stretching the rubber band rather far to squeeze us into that picture."

"I'm only sharing information with a friend," the priest said. "However, I wouldn't discount anything that I am telling you." He crossed his arms over his rotund stomach and leaned back. "Have you seen anything unusual around here lately."

"No. No. Of course not." Jack stopped. "Well, this morning Michelle thought she saw a man across the street taking a picture of our facility, but I didn't—"

"Stop!" The priest bounded forward in his chair. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. Someone taking a picture of this building is cause for alarm."

"Michelle could have been completely wrong. When I went outside and looked around I didn't see anyone. This bomb explosion made Michelle a little hyper."

"And well it should!" Blake leaned closer. "All of this kidding about chauvinism aside, your wife is a brilliant woman, and I highly respect her. You can't write off what she thought she saw as hysteria. Listen to me, Jack. You need to take her concern seriously."

"I must say, Father, I didn't expect a warning to pay closer attention to what's going on around us this morning. Maybe, I should have reacted more quickly to Michelle."

"When you live behind a church that's famous for being a bone collection, I'd think you'd do well to pay attention to your own carcass, my boy. Life is short enough as it is. We don't want you to wind up down there in the basement with your skeleton on display like the monks from the sixteenth century. That's the word for today from your ol' buddy on the street."

"You're saying that just because we're Americans someone might be interested in giving us the same shock treatment the subway got?"

The priest leaned across the table and pointed his finger. "You've got it! Remember what I've told you."

Jack pulled at his lips apprehensively. "Hmm. Sure. We'll keep our eyes open." He rubbed the side of his face. "One newspaper article could set all of this off?"

"Whoever did this bombing hates Americans. Getting your story plastered across Italy's number one newspaper casts a spotlight on the fact that you're from aboard. Yes, that could make you a target." The priest abruptly stood up. "Think it over, Jack. It's worth the time." With a simple wave of the hand, Father Blake bounded out of the room, walking passed Michelle standing by the door.

Jack could hear him bidding Michelle and Dov good-bye, but Jack stayed by the table. Could this good natured soul be right? Of course, Blake always meant well, but he sounded like he might be only repeating gossip. Nothing reported in the newspapers substantiated his claims of Americans being the actual target of the bombing. Why blast a Roman subway if the terrorists hated Americans? Something just didn't fit right with Blake's story.

Michelle stuck her head in the door. "What'd the good priest have on his mind this morning?"

"Oh, nothing," Jack said. "Nothing at all." He kept staring out the window.