Destiny of Coins (2 page)

“No,” I lied. I’d heard the name, and had a vague recollection he had sparked my interest several centuries ago. So, technically, I was telling the truth.

“He witnessed one of your coins…and I believe you know which one.”

“Ah, yes,” I said, hoping my sudden increased heart rate remained unknown to Roderick’s keen sensitivities. “I’m aware of it. The one that rings.”

He chuckled sadly, and I had no doubt he shared my apprehension about this particular coin. “They call it the ‘Singing Coin’. Only the most holy individuals can hear it,” he said. “But, other documents I surveyed long ago in La Paz say it can also be heard by the most wicked souls.”

“You think Viktor is going after the coin?”

“Yes.”

“But, he’ll never find it…only the Essenes know where it is.”

“And you,” he said, his tone serious. “You and Giuseppe, who in 1574 found their remote castle nestled in the Andes.”

My chest constricted. The ramifications of Roderick’s revelation were many…too many for me to begin to sort out. He gently grasped my arm to keep me from collapsing. Roderick is aware of what this particular coin means to me, and my aversion to retrieving it. For numerous reasons I had been saving it for last, to be blood coin number thirty.

“My brother, let us pay for our liquor and finish our conversation outside,” he said, picking up the six-pack of Guinness I had my eye on earlier, along with his Killian’s. “I’ll tell you the rest of why I’m here, and what it is you and I must do.”

* * *

Once inside Roderick’s Z4, I thought the only distraction would be the steady rain, turning to sleet, as it pounded the ragtop. But, the swirling thoughts that had assaulted me inside the liquor store had yet to subside.

“Don’t panic yet, Judas,” said Roderick, relaxing in the driver seat. “We have time to take care of this.”

I nodded in silence, wondering where Viktor was at that very moment. Would he go directly to Bolivia? Or, could he be on the way to America’s capitol with evil intent toward me, or those closest to me?

“He’s not coming here…yet,” said Roderick, obviously privy to my thoughts. The usual guards protecting the fortress of my mind were disabled. It would be an excellent opportunity for my long time friend to pillage the hidden reserves I’ve shared with no one. He smiled wanly and shook his head. “You should know me better, old friend. If you were naked, I’d hand you clothing rather than gaze upon you. So, why would I do that to your mind?”

“Okay…you’re right.” I nodded my gratitude, as his words rang true. “Knowing you, you’ve already got a plan. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Well…what is it?”

“First, there’s more,” he said. “Bishop Ramon Espinoza from the Archdiocese in La Paz has been kidnapped. Surely, you realize these two events must be related. Viktor’s smug smile showed up in a camera image from a drugstore near the cathedral that was accessed by our CIA operatives who traveled to La Paz from Venezuela, following up on Espinoza’s disappearance.”

I was speechless. Viktor had gone from nowhere to everywhere in just a matter of days. He had a plan, as well, and I worried Roderick’s plan might be a dollar short and a day too late to make a difference in the end.

“Not if we leave tomorrow morning. If we leave early enough, we might reach the castle before Viktor does,” he said, pausing to scan the parking lot. Apparently satisfied our privacy remained un-breached, he continued. “Remember, Viktor must actually find the castle and then hunt for the coin. In addition to the priceless Torah and Talmud scrolls, and golden statues the Essenes keep in their castle, your coin is the most sacred relic they hold. It’s been safely hidden since Yael Mordecai learned of Giuseppe’s diary in 1686. I had a close relationship with this particular Essene, who served as Superior for the Bolivian tribe from 1662 until he was assassinated in La Paz in 1703.”

For a moment, Roderick’s voice sounded hollow from the grief he touched upon. It’s another unfortunate quality he shares with me. We always feel deeply about those whom we care the most. For our mental outlook, it’s vitally important to not reminisce long about those no longer with us.

“So, you are certain it’s safely hidden?”

“Yes…and I’m just as certain I can find it,” he said. “I know how Yael thought, and I remember the secret vaults he favored in the castle’s spires.”

“Hmmm…I see.”

Well, not really. Since I had never seen the castle, I could offer no more than a slight hope he was correct in assuming my coin was protected. Yes, I had known for centuries it was being held in Bolivia. In truth, my reason for saving this particular coin for the very last was that it would likely bring the worst emotional pain compared to any of my other coins. My assumption is largely based on the story following this coin. They all have tales, just as they all bring curses. But this one became tainted before my Lord’s arrest and subsequent execution.

As I tried to picture this castle I had long heard legends of, I thought of the genesis dooming this coin to be the worst of the thirty. Truly, it was an event so simple in its clumsiness it seems unbelievable it happened at all. The messenger from Caiaphas handed me the bag of coins outside the courtyard where Jesus preferred to meditate by Himself. I am ashamed to confess I was spying on His location inside the sprawling complex that belonged to Simon Zelotes. History has mistakenly portrayed the betrayal event to take place in the Garden of Gethsemane, at the foot of the Mount of Olives. But it isn’t true. We prayed there and then returned to Simon’s house.

I was spying to make sure the Lord was where I had advised Caiaphas He would be, and I grew impatient as the messenger, Caiaphas’s guards, and the Roman troops were late in their arrival. Jesus had finished His meditation and was returning to the main house when the messenger ran over to me. I could see the Romans circle the courtyard, blocking my Lord’s return to safety. Meanwhile, the messenger, in his haste to pay the fee agreed upon, shoved the leather bag filled with thirty silver shekels at me. The bag fell open. One coin escaped, and as it hit the stone walkway and bounced away, Jesus stopped and turned toward the sound.

“Judas?”

I had lowered myself against the wall, and I seriously doubt He could see me. But He knew I was there, hiding like a coward. Meanwhile, the other disciples came running out. The coin had rolled out of reach of me safely collecting it. Fearing being discovered, I shrank back from the courtyard and disappeared into Simon’s vineyard with the bag, now one coin short. The commotion that followed brought even more remorse. The Romans were beating Jesus. Beating Him as they dragged Him away in chains! He would not get the unbiased trial Caiaphas had assured me would happen. I realized I had made a terrible mistake….

“Judas? Snap out of it, man.” Roderick nudged me.

“Huh? Look, I’m sorry…. Just a bad memory.”

“Of what?”

“It’s not important,” I tried to assure him.  “You were saying something about a map and a church. Right?”

I couldn’t fully concentrate while memories of the very worst night of my entire existence played out for what must be the ten thousandth time. Thankfully, it was only the second time in the past two centuries. But I had hoped to avoid the experience until the other twenty-nine coins had been recovered.

I never dreamed it would come early.

Chapter 2

I took Roderick up on his offer to skip dinner with the family, since it seemed best to spring the news on my wife, son, and my potential daughter-in-law without the distraction of his presence. Of the three, only Beatrice had not encountered him in a face-to-face setting. Amy had met him last year, in September. Everyone but Beatrice attended a formal fundraiser involving Amy’s brother, the famed archaeologist Dr. Jeremy Golden Eagle. Only when we parted ways later that night did she hear the strangeness in Roderick’s voice. Amy whipped her head around to watch him leave our presence and walk to his car on the other side of the Westin’s parking lot. That night, he had worn lighter tinted eyewear and his makeup job was superb. As far as I could tell, no one noticed anything odd about him, until his parting goodbye.

“Did you get lost?”

Alistair greeted me with an
elfin smile as he said this, right after I stepped through the doorway to our condo. He was already dressed for dinner, and unlike the beatnik wardrobe he had fought to save as Amy and I tried to discard all of it last summer, he was wearing one of my favorite Armani suits. Perhaps it was a little much, despite the venue we had chosen that night. But he looked absolutely…dashing. At least that’s the word which came to mind first.

I’ve mentioned before how my boy strongly resembles Sean Connery, the famed Scottish actor, in both appearance and mannerisms. Not to mention, the strong brogue he brought with him to the United States when he and his mother immigrated here in the 1960s. But where until lately it had been a resemblance to the actor in his twilight years, Alistair is now a near-dead ringer for him in his early Bond films.

Even though my boy is aware of and quite pleased by the virile handsomeness he has regained, I suppose it’s a good thing he doesn’t take after the carousing nature I once nurtured shamelessly for centuries. Otherwise, Amy would have something besides the age and life experience disparity to contend with.

Yet, Alistair has never been that much like me, other than certain physical and personality quirks we share. He’s much more like his mother, which is something that especially endears him to my heart. Only the sarcasm is similar, which is where we sometimes get on each other’s nerves.

“It would’ve made the afternoon much better if I had, I’m afraid.” I handed the Guinness to him and hung my coat on the hall tree. “Where are the girls?

“Amy’s helping mom decide on what shoes to wear tonight, so they should join us in a moment. You’ll need to not primp as long, or it will be your fault we’re late to dinner,” he said, the twinkle in his eyes defying his perturbed scowl. “So, what’s with the beer? I thought you went to Allegiance to buy another bottle of Scotch?”

“I decided on something different this time,” I said, watching him deliberate on whether to take the six-pack to the kitchen or to the bar in the living room. I heard Beatrice and Amy laughing down the hallway in our bedroom. They would be here momentarily, meaning I truly had only a few minutes to pick my apparel. The choice would likely be something easy and unassuming. Something passable. “It was quite an internal debate.”

“Pops, when are you going to realize I can smell your bullshit?”

“What bullshit?”

“I heard the code when you were talking on the phone,” he said, deciding on the refrigerator for the Guinness. “That was what…a couple of hours ago? You left right away, so it means you had at least an hour to visit with whomever it was you met. I can count on one hand the ‘friends’ who use a code.”

He chuckled and shook his head, regarding me with some amusement. I had hoped to wait until after dinner to spring the news on everyone. Maybe there was still a chance to avoid broaching the fact dire circumstances had found us once again.

“Roderick came to see me today.”

“All the way from Abingdon?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it must be something really important. Doesn’t he hate taking a taxi around the city? Must’ve driven to see you, right? Which also means he’s trying to keep most of your old buddies out of the loop. Am I on point so far?”

Remarkably so, my dear boy. Perhaps you have a lot more of me inside you than I’m quick to give credit for.

“Yes, you are spot on…but can we wait to discuss the details until later?”

“Why not just give me the general gist?” he persisted.

Our ladies were moving down the hall to meet us.

“Because I’d hate to ruin anyone’s time tonight.”

Before he could say anything else to coerce from me the smallest hint of my conversation with Roderick, I stepped past where he stood, pausing only to straighten his tie for him. Sometimes primping builds useful social skills. And at least my vanity is nothing like that of my former CIA boss, Michael Lavoie.

“Ruin whose time tonight?” asked Beatrice, as she and Amy emerged from the hallway.

One trait I often forget is that her ears are damned near as sensitive as mine. During the Glasgow years, when Alistair was a small child, she’d be able to recite word for word the angry tirades I’d whisper to myself after a rare spat with her. Such whispering had become a centuries old habit of mine by then. She could easily discern these quiet rants from two rooms away.

“Not to worry, dearest. Just a small matter I must clear up,” I assured her, lightly pecking her left cheek.

I mentioned earlier that Beatrice’s age regression has taken her back to what she was like in her early sixties. Actually, she’s on the cusp of dipping into her late fifties—her physical age when I re-entered her world as a distant voyeur in the early 1980s. She and Alistair resided in South Carolina in those days, as my son finished the last two years of his doctoral work at Clemson.