Shrouded In Silence

36





The Townsends' apartment had stairs leading up from the street, making it a challenge for Jack to come and go easily. Small, the flat had one bedroom with a kitchen, living room, and dinning room almost comprising the entire area. On a side wall, books sat on a large brown shelf piled up nearly to the ceiling. Most of the flat looked pedestrian and only functional. The bedroom barely accommodated a bed and a chest of drawers. Jack's heavy cast still required some assistance to get him out of bed and this morning wasn't any different. Holding him tightly, Michelle eased Jack through the bedroom door and onto the couch in the living room.

"You don't need to hold me like a china cup," Jack said. "I'm doing much better, and my memory is improving.

"Remember anything more about Dov Sharon?"

"What a funny, brilliant guy he was, but none of the other details are there. I just know he worked for us and you said he had been killed."

"You don't remember any aspects of the search for The Prologue of James?

"Sorry dear. It's just not come back yet."

Michelle sat down across from him. "We could certainly use any hints about where it's hidden. The Prologue would be an extraordinary find."

"Right now I'm walking again and that's big time for me. I'm not to worry about our projects yet. Lying in that bed on my back for days didn't help my stamina, but a little physical therapy put the punch back in me. I just hate having to lug this cast around day and night."

"Won't be long until you get those lovely biceps out of the box again."

"Lovely nothing. I'll be shriveled into diminished flab. Don't kid me. It must have been a bad break."

"Jack, the conference table saved your life. If it hadn't hit your arm so hard, the blast would undoubtedly have killed you. We're talking serious stuff here."

"I know." Jack shrugged. "Nothing of that day remains in my head, and my memories of Dov are only fleeting. Let's pray the rest of the story filters back in."

"Absolutely." Michelle stood up. "Let me fix you a cup of coffee. A little java might offer some encouragement."

"Good idea."

A knock sounded from the door.

"Who in the world could that be?" Michelle said. "Only a few people know our address."

"Beats me. Take a look."

Michelle opened the door. "Buongiorno."

"Buongiorno, indeed!" Father Donald Blake said.

"Why, it's our American compatriot and foremost male chauvinist," Michelle said.

"Ah, you women are all alike. Never let a poor man off the hook. Are you going to let me in or make me shout at your husband from out here in the hall?"

"You old fraud," Michelle jabbed back. "Come in before we call the police on you for disturbing the peace."

Father Blake walked briskly into the small living room with his overcoat hanging heavily from his shoulders. "Jack, my boy! How are you?"

"I'm still struggling to get my memory back. Forgive me, but I don't recognize you."

Blake sat down slowly. "I'm an American priest in Rome. I went to the hospital with your wife the day of the bombing and stayed with her most of the day when she was unconscious. We've been friends for some time."

Jack smiled. "Please forgive me. Pieces of my memory were simply blown away, but much has come back. I hope the Father Blake portion returns quickly."

"We've missed you," Michelle said. "You've been gone awhile."

"I had to go back to the United States. It was a personal matter, but I'm back again and making my rounds of my parishioners on the street. Always fascinating to have my many friends share with me."

"Interesting," Jack said. "We appreciate your dropping by."

"I didn't know you had our address," Michelle said.

"Oh, I have my ways of coming up with whatever I need. I'm simply pleased to see both of you doing so well. I see that you're out of that ball of bandages they had around your head, Michelle."

"They've even taken the staples out of my skull. A little on the ouch side, but I'm glad to be nearly healed. It was quite a blow that hit me when some part of the house flew by and knocked me to the ground."

"Indeed! I was there not long after it occurred. The bomb proved to be a highly nasty event. Jack, you probably don't remember me warning you that Americans could be the target of such explosions."

"He doesn't, but I do. I overheard your confidential conversation. Unfortunately, we didn't take you seriously enough."

"Exactly," Father Blake said. "I hope you'll take what I'm about to tell you far more earnestly this time."

Michelle stiffened. "Don't tell me you have more bad news."

"Afraid so." Father Blake stood up and reached into the pockets of his overcoat. "I know good Christians don't believe in violence and that you practice peaceful responses. I'm hoping you'll listen to me and also practice a little self-protection." He pulled two pistols from each pocket and lay them on the coffee table.

"Guns!" Michelle gasped.

"Hear me out," Blake insisted. "Jack has a broken arm and is still recovering. No condescension intended, but you are a woman, Michelle. Brilliant, beautiful, a scholar, but a frail creation if you had to fight off an attacker. The two of you are completely vulnerable to another attack. Whoever set off that bomb isn't through. Finishing you off could well be their next line of attack. You need a gun."

Michelle felt the inner throbbing that usually preceded an emotional attack. Light-headedness settled in, and for a moment she felt as if a tsunami was about to land on her. Gripping the chair tightly, she swallowed hard and fought to stop the assault.

"Believe me, you need to be armed," Blake said.

Jack stirred nervously in his seat. "I've never kept a gun. We've always believed that Providence provided our security. "I-I don't know what we'd do with a weapon."

"You're talking to a priest. I'm surely not casting any aspersions on divine guidance, but that didn't stop the bomb from nearly killing both of you, and you're sitting there with a broken arm. When Father Raffello was stabbed, the heavenly hand didn't shelter him from the knife. I'm concerned that neither of you end up lying on the lawn with another blade in you. Remember that God helps those who help themselves. It's not in the Bible, but it should be. Understand me?"

"You're walking on the edge of heresy," Jack said.

Michelle's heart kept beating faster, but the attack had stopped before her memories went wild. Breathing more heavily, she kept trying to push the surging wave of emotion back.

"Exactly what are you suggesting?" Jack asked.

"I've brought two pistols with me and the papers that allow you to carry them legally. Jack, I thought a Browning double action 9mm would fit you well. It's a heavy enough pistol to stop an attacker dead in his tracks. For Michelle, I came up with a Walther PPK that's lighter. It only carries seven rounds but is more easily concealed. I want both of you to start carrying these weapons."

Michelle took another deep breath. "I-I don't know if I could."

"You most certainly can," Blake demanded. "Your life may well depend on it. Put these weapons in your briefcases or a purse. If the bad boys come sneaking around again, at least you're armed. Surely, you get the significance of what I'm saying."

"Yes," Jack said slowly. "It's a little hard for a couple of biblical scholars to imagine running around with guns like we're James Bond. That's not even close to our world. I don't know. We'll have to think about it."

"Think hard," Blake pushed. "This problem is far from over, and I can assure you more trouble is coming."

"Jack," Michelle said slowly with a reserved tone in her voice. "I didn't tell you this earlier because I didn't know if you'd remember the name, but there is an important piece of this puzzle you should know about. Remember Dr. Albert Stein?"

"Stein! Good heavens, I couldn't forget him. Yes, of course. I remember Stein."

The morning after the explosion Guido caught Stein walking through the ruins. I didn't know the significance of this fact, but the man could be dangerous."

Jack stared at her for several moments. "I trust God has strongly as I ever have, but I recognize the peril Father Blake is talking about. Yes, we could be in jeopardy. That's a fact we can't ignore. Leave the guns."



Albert Stein leaned next to the curtains and looked out the window. From the corner of his eye, he kept observing Klaus Burchel, sitting like a statue across the room and staring straight ahead with a frown across his face.

Stein turned around. "Something eating at you, Burchel?"

Klaus blinked several times and ran his tongue over his teeth. "I've been in on a few police chases and I've had my share of run-ins with authorities. You know I've been high on coke and smoked pot. Yeah, I was even forced to listen to the denazification indoctrination at school." He shrugged and turned nervously in his chair. "Sure. I was running from the police on this last trip to Munich. I've already told you that I panicked. But when I realized how much the Americans ruined my family's way of life, which led to my grandfather's death, it really flipped me out. Torched me." He looked up at Stein with a hard, stern stare. "Yeah, it bothered me a lot."

Stein nodded. "The Americans put the sharp blade in all Germans." He uncharacteristically softened his usual arrogant voice. "My family came out of the war better than yours," he said in an unusual thoughtful reflection. "We were lucky that the Americans needed what we could produce. Didn't stop me from hating them though." He cursed violently.

"Twice they brought Germany down," Klaus continued. "Those dog-faced Yanks pushed our heads underwater. Makes me want to put a gun in Townsend's face and blow his head off."