Destiny of Coins (12 page)

Francisco frowned.

“That isn’t possible,” he murmured. “Moroni told me himself the Russian had just arrived, and that it appeared he was taking his time in studying the cathedral’s immediate area. It’s not likely he will make a move before nightfall, which gives time for our police authorities to infiltrate the area and give my good friend Ramon Espinoza enough time to remove the map from the wall’s vault and hide it somewhere else.”

“Huh?! Wait…wait a moment, Francisco,” said Cedric, seemingly fighting the urge to go off on our host for being clueless about the most recent events taking place in La Paz. “When was the last time you talked to Mr. Espinoza?”

“We spoke this past Tuesday night, when I called him to confirm he remembered the location of the map,” said Francisco. “It first came up in conversation a few years ago, when Ramon called to ask me questions about a ledger entry about it that also mentioned my father. Since we have been good friends for the past fifteen years, I told him the story of Giuseppe, and we shared a good laugh about it being the only map ever created to accurately lead someone to our home. He was surprised to learn from me that a foreigner would soon be calling on him to either purchase or steal the map. Our sources told us that we could expect the attempt to take place by tomorrow, and Ramon assured me that he would protect it from being taken.”

“So, this is happening tomorrow, Monday?” I sought to confirm.

“Tomorrow is Friday,” said Rafael, giving me yet another third eye in the forehead look.

“Are you on crack? What in the hell’s wrong with you people?! Today is
Sunday!”

Alistair’s exasperation matched Cedric’s expression. Amy looked as confused as Francisco and Rafael. Roderick, meanwhile, appeared to be mentally checking a calculation. Tampara simply observed everyone else, wearing a knowing look, as if he alone knew the answer to everyone’s
puzzlement.

“No…today is indeed Thursday,” said Francisco, looking increasingly irritated. “Rafael, please bring me the satellite phone.”

A thick invisible cloud of tension descended on us, while we waited for Rafael to return.

“Who are you planning to call?” Roderick asked, keeping his tone nonchalant.

Francisco shifted in his seat uncomfortably while pointing a tiny remote toward a large LED screen upon the wall opposite the fireplace. Rather than provide a verbal answer, he turned the television on and immediately changed the station from a Spanish speaking sitcom to CNN.

I believe Amy was the first to gasp this time, as the news report was from three days ago. While it remained remotely possible it was taped, the active date and time in the upper right hand corner of the screen read ‘5:38 p.m.’, and the date was exactly one week prior to Thanksgiving. Somehow, someway, it was looking more and more as if we had truly gone back in time by roughly seventy-two hours.

“This no longer is the least bit amusing!” Alistair seethed, looking at me for answers, after we both realized the senatorial election aftermath program on the air right then was the very same one we had watched in the States this past Thursday evening. I was still formulating my opinion on what this could mean, but it appeared Roderick’s earlier advisement of losing or gaining significant portions of time while traveling through the Yitari’s dimension had been proven true.

Rafael soon arrived with the portable telephone and gave the handset to Francisco.

“I ask that for the next few minutes everyone remain as quiet as possible, since our reception from here to La Paz is often sketchy at best, “ he advised. “I will see if I can catch Ramon before he leaves his office for the night.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Francisco,” advised Cedric, rising from his seat as if he intended to prevent the call from happening. Tampara intercepted him before he could take a second step. “The chances of you speaking with the dead archbishop are less than La Paz getting hit with a summer snowstorm.”

“What do you mean?”

I watched Francisco frantically dial the number despite his response to Cedric.

“Well, we don’t have a conclusive DNA match yet, but from the cloak and bloody mess we scraped out from the back of Mr. Espinoza’s Mercedes sedan, we’re ninety-nine point nine percent certain the remains we found belong to him,” Cedric advised.

Francisco nodded solemnly to acknowledge what Cedric said, although the rest of the Essene Superior’s actions made it clear he wasn’t ready to concede it as the truth. Suddenly his eyes lit up, as someone on the other end of the line picked up and said hello in Spanish.

From what I could tell, it was a man named Pedro, whom Francisco seemed familiar with. Then Francisco asked to speak with Ramon. Francisco switched the phone to speaker, so we could all listen in, after the man named Pedro advised the archbishop had just received a visitor and it might take a moment to bring him to the telephone. Francisco told him that he would gladly wait, shooting a pleasant smile to Cedric and my son, since they were presently the biggest thorns in his side.

We waited nearly five minutes, hearing virtually nothing until two sets of footsteps resounded, echoing upon the marble floor as they approached the phone. An older man conversed in Spanish with another man who wasn’t Pedro. The timber was different and so was the accent. It sounded eastern European at first…until I realized it was Russian.

Viktor Kaslow.

My heart raced as the voices and footsteps grew closer to the phone, and the tone of this other man grew more menacing. Finally, Ramon Espinoza picked up the receiver on the other end.

“Hola.”

“Ramon, this is Francisco,” said our Essene host, obviously moving the conversation from Spanish to English for our benefit. “Are you all right?”

“Yes…all is well,” he said, although his voice sounded tense. Francisco’s expression darkened slightly, revealing his growing worry.

“What day is it, Ramon?”

“It is Thursday.”

“Good. Very good, actually,” said Francisco, looking somewhat relieved, like what we had related was no more than a bad dream or a bad joke, depending on how one looked at it. “The map is still secure, no?”

Silence. I should’ve known at that moment something terrible was about to happen.

“Ramon?”

Suddenly a surprised yelp resounded loudly into the phone’s receiver that was followed by gut wrenching cries. I winced for this older man and the terrible torture that had just commenced. It went on for nearly an excruciating minute. Amy began to weep, as did Alistair. My heart ached, and I could tell Tampara, Rafael, and Roderick were suffering similarly. Francisco likely felt the same, but his expression was now one of shock. Cedric was stoic, which I understood was his way of dealing with something he could do absolutely nothing about. More than thirty years in law-enforcement had honed that behavior to where it was a predictable habit for him.

When the howling fell to a painful whimper, Viktor Kaslow picked up the phone.

“Hello?” said Francisco, cautiously.

“Who is this?” asked the Russian, whose menacing tone took us all aback.

“I am Francisco de Luciano. You had better hope my friend Ramon Espinoza is not seriously harmed.”

His words were delivered with the perfect blend of coolness and dignity I’d expect from a true leader. Nonetheless, Kaslow laughed. Or, rather, he took a deep breath and released a sardonic chuckle.

“Well, well, well…. What have we here?” sneered Kaslow, and then he gave in to a short burst of uproarious laughter. “What a marvelous trick this is! But did you know I can smell you, William? You are in the present…and yet, you’re not. Even so, I smell your fear, and that of your cur and his bitch!”

I wanted to immediately retaliate, but Roderick stopped me from saying what was on the tip of my tongue.

“Hmmmm…clever gimmicks will never protect you or those you care about…Judas. Regardless of where you hide in dimensional time, I will still find you. When I do, you and your friends will suffer far worse agony than what the good bishop and his assistant are about to endure. Count on it.”

The line went dead.

Based on everyone’s reaction to what we heard, death wouldn’t stop in La Paz. If Kaslow has his way, death will soon come for us all.

Chapter 10

Dinner must be extraordinarily important to our hosts. The dining hall’s immense lone table was set up for magnificent feasts, and could easily seat sixty people comfortably. In addition to our group of six visitors and our two hosts, roughly forty Spanish men of Essene/Aymara descent joined us that evening. As was the case in the reception area, young children waited on us all. I thought of them at first as orphans, but then saw several young women peering out from the adjacent kitchen. While these ladies might’ve worried about our eclectic band sitting near Francisco and Rafael, at the head of the long oak table, most likely they kept their watchful eyes on the little ones designated to serve us.

But the attendant help was not what made me think of holiday feasts as daily events here. It was the exquisite cuisine served in abundance—or,
over
-abundance, in my opinion. Several large silver platters were filled with marraqueta rolls, empanadas, and other assorted pastries. A half-dozen other platters were stacked high with beef steaks—the finest Argentina Black Angus, according to Rafael.

“Perhaps you would care to join me for a glass of wine,” suggested Francisco, soon after we were seated. At his behest, I sat in the seat of honor to his right, with Roderick next to me and my kid and his gal—the lone female sitting at the table—in the seats next to Roderick’s. Tampara, Cedric, and Rafael sat across from them. “It is the finest Cabernet Sauvignon, from the oldest and most respected vineyard in Bolivia, the Casa Vieja in Tarija.”

“I’m familiar with Casa Vieja, as they import to the States. It would indeed be my pleasure to join you,” I said.

After the day’s events thus far, a drink—especially one without diluted alcohol content—had become a necessity. Despite the impairment to my keen intuitions, I needed something to calm my agitated spirit. We had a head start on Kaslow, but it was now only a matter of time before he found the castle.

Alistair, Amy, and Cedric soon echoed my acceptance of the wine. My former boss seemed extremely tense, and he surely felt as if he had just fallen down the rabbit hole. Rafael eagerly advised of his intent to join us, prompting Francisco to request three bottles from the youthful servers. Tampara and Roderick both declined, and I had expected as much from my druid buddy. That evening would be quite interesting, since Roderick was also trying to maintain a recent personal commitment to live as a true vegan. I had wagered a case of Dewar’s with my son that Roderick wouldn’t make it through the trip without some compromise to that pact.

“Excellent!” said Francisco, in response to us joining him for a drink.

He seemed quite relieved, although the jovial nature we had first encountered from him upon our arrival was largely subdued, following the telephone conversation with Kaslow. For the next half hour not much was discussed, other than casual conversation about Amy and Alistair’s wedding plans— about which I knew very little—and the chances of the Redskins making a late season push for the playoffs. But the overall mood at the table seemed to be lifting, which drew occasional glances from the other men who kept their whispered voices low while they dined.

The moments of laughter gave me more time to study the hall’s environment, and I was fascinated by the evolution of original design to the practicality of modern convenience. Still, in some ways these aspects seemed at war with one another. The twin fireplaces were nearly as large as the one in the reception area, and carried taller flames at present, despite warm air blowing softly through vents in the floor from a furnace. Perhaps the room had a different function long ago, as by my estimate it seemed to be at least three to four times larger than the reception area. Four large silver candelabras were evenly spaced down the table, and every candle had been lit—despite ambient lamps in each corner of the room.

Upon our arrival at the castle, there were hints of tremendous artistry on display, such as the long row of tapestries that lined the main corridor. As I mentioned earlier, the intricate details in the reception area’s ceiling art were even more remarkable. However, the simpler details portraying religious events in the frescos upon all four walls in the dining hall somehow carried a more lifelike feel.

“So, you find the room’s environment fascinating, Judas?” said Francisco. I was unaware he had been following my admiring gaze, as I heard him laugh at one of Cedric’s more humorous stories about a tailgate party gone wrong several years ago. But to gauge the line of thought accompanying my eyes’ path around the room was a little unsettling. It reminded me of how Roderick and lately Viktor Kaslow could steal peeks inside my head.

“Yes, I do,” I confessed, nodding my approval. “I can see so many levels of history here. Roderick tells me that your order has occupied the castle since early in the second century A.D.”

“That is correct…on all counts,” said Francisco. “But despite your observant eyes, you have not mentioned the most intriguing aspect of this place.”

“What do you mean?”

Rather than tell me, Francisco merely pointed to the room’s entrance. At first glance, I still didn’t see the significance of what he sought to reveal to me. Perhaps it was because the door was half open. Then I suddenly saw it.

“The doorway…it’s enormous!”

I couldn’t believe I’d hardly noticed the wide breadth of the door when we first stepped into the dining hall. The main entrance was just as large—an identical arch roughly twenty feet across and fifteen feet high, by my estimation. But the size wasn’t unusual for a castle entrance. Frankly, I had seen much larger entrances down through the centuries. But doorways inside a castle or fortress are much more manageable than the main one. Practicality usually wins out over the ostentatious desires of the most foolhardy monarchs in that regard, unless for a chapel or ballroom.

The door appeared to be made from the same sturdy grade of oak as the room’s massive table. A large gold ring was located near the top of the door, and as I studied it, an adolescent boy used a long pole with a hook at the end of it to grasp the ring and pull the door fully open. It wasn’t an easy task, for the door’s considerable weight groaned noisily when it opened—an aspect I would’ve noticed had the door been closed when we first entered the hall. Several additional young servants entered the hall, including two carrying the wine requested by Francisco. The boy closed the door behind them.

“There are more than three hundred such doorways in the castle, and as you can see, something like this is fairly impractical for human beings to put up with,” explained Francisco. “But, considering the castle was empty and waiting when our ancestors arrived nearly 1900 years ago, we’ve always worked with what was here—and will continue to do so until we are forced from our home, like what happened at Qumran when Jerusalem was sacked by the Romans.”

“Do you know who built the castle?” asked Alistair, as one of the servants carrying a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon—a young girl no older than seven years—offered to pour him and Amy each a glass.

Alistair lost his train of thought for a moment, watching the youngster pour two glasses flawlessly before moving over to me. It was an impressive and disturbing sight, since kids are allowed to be children in most of the civilized world these days…but it used to be just like this anywhere in the world up until the mid-nineteenth century.

“Yes, we do,” said Francisco. “It is where we get our name…something that differentiates our Essene tribe from all the others scattered throughout the world.”

“It’s why these men are known as
‘Servientes De los Angeles’,”
said Roderick, chuckling. “Which is why your father, Ali, has avoided visiting this place like the plague.”

Unfair. I should mention that one of the habits I’ve always loathed of Roderick’s is his need to tease at my expense. As noble as he truly is, he can’t resist a dig now and then. I used to be the same way toward others, I’ll admit, until my first encounter with the Native Americans in the mid-fifteenth century. When that behavior resulted in too many hurt feelings among my Cherokee friends, whose humor was far kinder than Roderick’s and mine, I resolved to quit teasing by use of hurtful barbs. Yes, I’m sure there are those out there who point to my sarcastic asides in my previous tomes. But that’s not the same thing…or is it?

“The Servants of the Angels, huh?” said Amy, thoughtfully. “My father talked about that name. I guess he was referring to you, then.” She frowned, obviously thinking about her parents, who were murdered horribly by Viktor Kaslow’s former employer. Alistair gently wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to him.

“Yes, that’s who we are, and have always been,” said Rafael, pausing to look over at Francisco, as if he had just stepped out of line by not allowing Francisco center stage for this subject. The Essene leader smiled and nodded for Rafael to continue, and so he did, wearing a relieved expression. “We once had a chosen name in Hebrew, but we adopted the Spanish one when Pizarro invaded what is now La Paz.”

“So, the next thing you’re going to tell me is real live angels reside in this hallowed place,” said Cedric, whose insolent tone revealed his disdain for what he expected to hear next from either Francisco or Rafael. “Ain’t that about right, Francisco?”

Francisco studied Cedric’s face before answering, surely reassessing his original read on this CIA maverick.

“Is it so difficult to believe in angels residing here, Agent Tomlinson?” Francisco’s eyes flashed with a touch of anger. “Aside from what you witnessed upon your arrival at the edge of our domain through Tampara’s spyglass, you are among three immortals. These are men whom most of the world would never believe exist—any more than the world’s vast population believes in your Paul Bunyan, Santa Claus, or Peter Cottontail…no? If nothing else, look at the circumstantial evidence around you. Who on earth would need doorways like the ones you have seen—unless they were created by creatures concerned with having enough room for their immense wingspans?”

It appeared Cedric was on the verge of yet another smartass response, but then caught himself. Perhaps this had something to do with the angel remark he had made to me as we prepared to step inside the castle. More than likely, though, his silence was procured by the irritated stare from the pasty druid sitting across from him, and the perturbed grunt from the powerful eight-foot warrior sitting to his right.

“Tell you what,” he said, still somewhat insolently. “You show me a genuine angel and I’ll shut the hell up about it.”

“Be careful what you wish for, old friend,” said Roderick, his tone subdued. “Not every angel is of the Christmas card variety. You might soon regret such a wish—especially here.”

“Only if it is the demons of Bochicha,” countered Rafael, casting another glance toward Francisco, and only continuing when Francisco nodded for him to do so. “They were once all the same—all beautiful, and the protectors of mankind. But the Children of Elohim changed more than a third of the angels into emissaries of hatred and destruction. Is it not so, Francisco?”

“Children of Elohim…what in the hell?”

Cedric covered his mouth in an effort to keep from laughing, and at least this was an attempt at some respect…though by then his act was wearing razor-thin with our hosts.

“Actually, I have heard of them, as well,” said Amy, smiling demurely. She tightened her grip on Alistair’s right hand with her left. “It’s all related to the Servants of the Angels…correct? My father, Dr. Stephen Golden Eagle, once read to me a Hebrew legend he recovered from an ancient sheepskin document he unearthed in Syria. The carbon dating put it at eight thousand years old. According to Dad, Elohim—the oldest verifiable name for ‘God’ in Hebrew—cursed the deities that were part of an ancient eight-pointed star. Elohim took issue with His children’s love of blood sacrifice. As a result, all were banished into a state of limbo, and a third of the angels willingly joined them—an event told a different way in the Bible. These lower deities themselves were once beautiful, and were Elohim’s offspring. But they all became demons, and the former angels took on the hideousness of each bloodthirsty god and goddess they served in exile.”

Both Francisco and Rafael studied Amy for a moment in silence, nodding thoughtfully. They were obviously impressed, but said nothing.

“One of your ancestors, Francisco, once talked about the same thing,” said Roderick, shooting a look of admiration Amy’s way before returning his attention to our host. “
Yael Mordecai once referred to this star that Amy mentioned as the
‘Estrella De la Sangre’
.”

I found the entire discussion fascinating, and Alistair seemed just as impressed. But the subject seemed to hold minimal interest for Tampara, who politely looked on. Cedric, meanwhile, looked to still be debating as to whether this was a truckload of fresh bullshit or not.

“What a fantastic prelude to the evening this has become!” beamed Francisco. “Your knowledge, Roderick and Amy, has left me greatly impressed. Even so, I urge you all to take Rafael’s advisement about Bochicha’s emissaries very seriously. We had an incident here a couple of years ago with a pair of Americans we are quite fond of, and these demons found a way to escape their dimensional prison. While they rarely have made recent appearances, it still can happen…. If you are fortunate to encounter an angel during your stay with us, Cedric, pray it is one that regards you favorably. May it be one of His holy angels and not one of Bochicha’s. Otherwise, it may prove impossible to save you from being devoured.”

It appeared Cedric wanted to continue the discussion, but Francisco insisted we should eat before the steaks cooled any further. Before long, the mood at the entire table turned merrier as the wine and
chicha
(I later learned this was a powerful maize liquor) flowed freely. A drink Tampara seemed to favor, he somehow managed to get Roderick to join him and Rafael in downing multiple shots.

Only Francisco and I went easy on the liquor that evening, limiting ourselves to two glasses of wine apiece. While everyone else drank to their heart’s content, he engaged me once more in conversation.

“As I mentioned earlier, Moroni foretold of your return to Bolivia in search of your coin. A coin we have regarded as one of our most cherished relics for nearly two millennia,” he said, keeping his voice low to avoid obvious involvement of the others. “Our very first Superior, Micah Albidan, brought the coin with him from Qumran, along with a treasure trove of items our Order had collected for nearly a thousand years before we were forced to flee Israel.”

“How did it end up in Qumran?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

He chuckled as he regarded me. A playful glint danced in his eyes, as if he had a fun secret. Fun for him, anyway. I truly hate trying to guess what someone might know about me.

“No…I have no idea.”

“Then you were unaware that Joses, brother of Jesus and James, was the one to collect your coin after you hid in the Pharisee’s vineyard after you dropped it?”

Holy shit!

“I watched Joses pick it up,” I said, studying his face to see if I could discern anything that could help me predetermine what the next surprise might be. “But how did he know I was in the vineyard? They never came looking for me, and I sneaked out of there just before Caiaphas’ guards and the Roman soldiers dragged Jesus away in chains.”

True. As I mentioned, once I heard the extent of the beating delivered to Him and the anguished cries of my former peers, I couldn’t bear to stay any longer. It was a night of one regrettable move after another, and every one of them resulted in supreme cowardice that has haunted me ever since.

“Legend tells us an angel told him that you were there,” said Francisco. “Joses never saw you. But when the archangel Gabriel appeared and advised him not to rise up and take arms with James to defend their brother—that it was Elohim’s will for Jesus to die unjustly—he kept the coin. Joses believed it was a holy relic, and he was the one to name it the ‘Singing Coin’. He took it with him back to Qumran, which, as you know, was his home with the other Essenes. He gave it to his mother, Mary, for safekeeping. It was later added to the sacred collection eventually carried across the Mediterranean and then over the Atlantic to South America….”

I didn’t hear the rest of what he said.

The vision had seized my mind’s eye, dragging me back to Simon Zelotes’ spacious home in Jerusalem. I could hear the ripping of Jesus’ clothes as they shackled Him after beating Him mercilessly…I could hear the sjambok rip through His skin, and the terrible screams. But that was nothing compared to the single, accusatory word that had pursued me through the centuries….

Judas?

Francisco gently touched my wrist, pulling back to the present.

“Sorry about that…I’m feeling a little light headed,” I said.

“Perhaps it is weariness from the trip?”

Francisco eyed me with a level of compassion I hadn’t seen since when I toured Judea with my Lord. It was eerie to me how his facial likeness bore such strong similarities to Joses and James.

I shuddered.

“Maybe it is, since we had a long flight and a few mishaps on our way here…. I could use another drink.”

“I wasn’t talking about that journey,” he said, and his gaze seemed to penetrate past my physical being. “I’m referring to the trip you just now took back in time.”

I felt incredibly vulnerable and suddenly hated being there. Maybe it was a mistake to come. A wave of nausea swept over me, accompanied by a high pitch I hadn’t heard since the night of Jesus’ betrayal so many years before.