The Testimonium (50 page)

Now it was Henderson’s turn to roll his eyes, and Wombaker tried to cut in again, but Mayor interrupted both of them. “Well, with that, folks, looks like time for this segment is up. Next up: the governor of California and Texas Congressman Rick Roberts on the topic of welfare reform. Thank you, Dr. Hubbard, Pastor Wombaker, and Dr. Henderson for your time.”

Josh turned off the TV with a yawn. It was nearly midnight, and he was exhausted. His bruises and abrasions still ached a little, but he decided to forego the pain meds and see how he did without them. He was dreading the next two days—he hated funerals, and saying goodbye to Simone and Giuseppe was going to be very hard. He took his well-worn travel Bible off of the desk and read a couple of Psalms before bed, taking comfort in the three-thousand-year-old words of a shepherd boy named David. Then he said a prayer—for the souls of his departed friends, for their grieving families, and for Isabella—especially for Isabella. He had never wanted anything in the world as much as he wanted to make her his wife, but he wanted her to belong fully to God before she came to belong with him. He reflected on the verse he had just read from Psalm 37: “Delight thyself also in the Lord, and He will give thee the desires of thy heart.” For the first time in his life he really knew what his chief desire was.

<<>>

CASTOLFO: Good evening, Chief Zadora.

ZADORA: Dr. Castolfo! I am afraid there is nothing new in the investigation of the bombing, but we are keeping security around the museum as tight as we can.

CASTOLFO: Your efforts are much appreciated, sir. I am sure you will find any accomplices that Ali bin-Hassan may have had very soon. But that is not why I called you tonight.

ZADORA: What else is going on, Benito?

CASTOLFO: I am concerned about transporting the scroll to Rome Friday. If Hassan has any accomplices out there, that would be the time for them to strike again and try to finish what he started. I think we will need massive security when we move the scroll.

ZADORA: Agreed. A full police escort, perhaps an armored car and even air support might be in order.

CASTOLFO: I was afraid you might think I was being paranoid.

ZADORA: These animals already blew up a research lab in the heart of a major Italian city in order to destroy one two-thousand-year-old piece of paper. It is obvious they will stop at nothing. I am not a religious man, but that Testimonium is a national treasure of the Italian people. Those bastards will not destroy it on my watch!

CASTOLFO: That is a great relief, Chief Zadora. I have to bury two dear comrades this week. I do not want to attend any further funerals anytime soon.

ZADORA: I will do my best to see to it you do not. Good night, Benito.

CASTOLFO: Good night, Chief!

Josh woke the next morning surprisingly rested. His bruises still ached, but less than they had since the day after the blast. He looked at the clock in his room and saw that it was 6:30, so he decided to see if his battered body could still do a few laps in the pool. He slid into his trunks and T-shirt, grabbed a towel and his room key, and headed downstairs. He had the large, heated pool to himself, and the water felt wonderful as he stroked back and forth. He could feel the knots in his back and limbs unkinking as he swam.

He swam back and forth for about twenty minutes, then looked up and saw, to his surprise, that his dad was standing beside the pool watching. Josh climbed out and grabbed his towel.

“A long way from Lake Hugo, isn’t it, son?” his dad asked.

“Sure is, Pop,” he said. “But for all the sadness of the last few days, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

“Why don’t you join your mother and I for breakfast?” Brother Ben asked. “We found an American restaurant not far from here, and I sure would enjoy some old-fashioned pancakes or biscuits and gravy!”

“I’d love to,” Josh said, “but I need to run out and buy a suit and tie this morning for the funeral, and I don’t know how long that will take.”

His dad smiled. “Son, you are selling your mother and I short! As soon as we heard the news, and then got word that you were OK, we knew that you would be attending your friends’ funerals. So we brought both your suits, several dress shirts, and a selection of ties for you.”

Josh embraced his father. “You never quit looking out for me, do you, Dad?” he asked.

“Of course not!” Ben Parker replied. “That’s my job—at least, until it’s your turn to look after me!” He looked at his son with great affection. “I hope you know that my heart sunk in my chest when I saw the news of the attack. Your mother and I were sure we had lost you.”

“If Isabella and I had walked out of the building a few seconds later, you would have!” Josh said. “I thought I was a goner when that blast picked me up and tossed me into the side of the museum. But we Parkers are made of pretty tough stuff, I guess.”

“That Isabella is a real beauty,” his dad said. “And she has a sense of humor, too. Your mother and I are quite taken with her.”

“Not half as taken as I am,” Josh said. “I really think she may be the one, Dad. So please tell Mom not to scare her off!”

His dad chuckled. “I don’t think you have much to worry about there,” he said. “I don’t believe Dr. Sforza scares too easily.”

“You’ve got that right,” Josh said. “She does scare me a little, sometimes. I don’t ever want to be on her bad side. But she is just—well, what can I say? I find her amazing, fascinating, and completely awesome!”

Ben Parker laughed out loud. “You’ve got it bad, boy!” he said. “But, all joking aside, after over forty years together, your mother still takes my breath away every time I wake up and see her by my side. The world may see a graying senior citizen, but I still see the black-haired beauty that caught my eye at the County Fair in 1968.”

Josh rolled his eyes, but in his heart he adored his parents’ incredible love story. He never doubted his own place in their affections, but when they looked at each other he knew that the bond between them was something unique, and he had prayed for years that God would send him someone that he could share that same incredible closeness with. Now he hoped that his prayer had been answered.

He wondered if Isabella had read the Gospel as he asked her too. He wanted to guide her toward the same bright faith that had burned in his heart since he was a child, but he also knew that he could never push another person into a saving relationship with Christ. In the end, all he could do was model that relationship and try to nudge her toward it. But his heart ached with the knowledge that she had not yet made that personal commitment. When they were one in the Lord, they could be one with each other, and he could imagine no greater joy. Give me patience, Lord, he prayed. Let me be a stepping stone under her feet and not a millstone around her neck.

Suddenly he realized that his dad was speaking to him again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was a million miles away for a minute there.”

His dad grinned at him. “I think I know what country you were visiting,” he said. “But what I was telling you was that I don’t think the restaurant will let you in wearing swim trunks and a towel!”

Josh looked down and realized that he had walked to the elevators without even putting his T-shirt on. He shook his head, shrugged it on, and punched the button. “You’re right,” he said. “Give me a few minutes to get changed, and I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

“Sure thing,” his dad said. “And feel free to call your lovely Italian friend and invite her along. I’d enjoy spending some more time with her.”

“Only if you tell Mom to quit being such a walking cliché!” Josh said over his shoulder.

Back in his room, he grabbed his cell and dialed Isabella’s number. She answered on the second ring.

“Hello, love!” he said, amazed at how naturally the word rolled off his tongue.

“Good morning, Josh!” she replied. “How are you feeling?”

“Tons better,” he replied. “I don’t think I am going to need these pain pills any more. I took a nice swim and worked my muscles out, and it’s amazing what a little exercise did! Listen, I am going to breakfast with my mom and mad. Would you like to come with us?”

“Yes, I would,” she replied. “It’s going to be a long, sad couple of days, and I would like to start it doing something happy. Your folks make me smile.”

“They have that effect on me, too,” Josh said. “We are heading out in a half hour, if that is not too soon for you.”

“Not at all,” she said. “I woke about an hour ago, showered, and dressed. I will see you in the hotel lobby shortly. And Josh—”

“Yes, Isabella?” he asked.

“I read four chapters last night. I really didn’t want to start, but I decided I would just read a few verses so I could say I kept my promise—and kept going! I must admit, John paints a compelling picture of Jesus,” she said.

“Wonderful!” he replied. “The story just gets better as it goes along. Maybe we will have time to talk about it soon.”

* * *

On the other side of Naples, Ibrahim Abbasside was listening to a conversation recorded the previous evening. The president of the Bureau of Antiquities was speaking to the Naples police chief, asking for armed escort when the scroll was transported. He was not surprised, since Hassan’s failed attack had alerted the world that the soldiers of Islam wanted to destroy this accursed document. But the Italians would soon see what kind of firepower Allah’s jihadi
could bring to bear. He had already alerted the two sleeper cells in Southern Italy that he might require their services, but it was time to make sure they were properly equipped.

He picked up his secure cell phone and called a number he had committed to memory before leaving Libya.

“Ali’s African Pets,” said a voice on the other end in heavily accented Italian.

“Hello, Ali, my old friend!” he said in Arabic. “Do you still have those gerbils ready for Suleiman to pick up?”

“Two cages full!” said the voice on the other end. His name was not actually Ali, of course, but Ismael Falladah, a former Red Brigade member who had embraced the Religion of Truth after the end of the Cold War. Ibrahim had recruited him fifteen years before and sent him into Italy with a small, dedicated team of fanatical jihadists. All of them spoke passable Italian, and had acquired jobs, families, and cover stories that masked their actual purpose. The second “cage” was another cell, led by a portly restaurateur who went by the name Achmed, although his real name was Muhammad Sharif. He was a vicious killer whose plump build and deep laugh masked a truly psychotic nature that sometimes even frightened Abbasside. The two cell leaders were acquainted, but the members were all completely ignorant of each other’s existence.

“Excellent!” Abbasside continued. “I need you to deliver them Friday, and I think we need a complete shipment of accessories to go with them. Food, cage litter, exercise wheels, and anything else you have available.”

“They will be ready for delivery,” said Ali. “Just name the place and we will deliver the animals and their supplies.”

“I seem to have lost the address,” said Abbasside. “But I will call you with it by Thursday morning at the latest. I’ll talk to you then,” he said before hanging up.

The simple code system had been worked out years before. The “supplies” were a huge cache of weapons, some smuggled in from North Africa, but most left over from the Red Brigade cell that Ali had once belonged to. RPG launchers, AK-47s, and even a surface-to-air missile launcher! That would take care of the police chopper that would escort the convoy. Abbasside already had the device he would use to destroy the papyrus scroll—a small flamethrower in the shape of an aerosol can that could shoot a jet of intense flame three meters’ distance. He had only used it once before, on a captured CIA agent, and barbecued the man’s face from across the room in a matter of seconds. The memory of the screams made him feel warm inside. Perhaps, he thought, if there was enough juice left after the scroll was ash, he might use the flamethrower on the American infidel and his Italian whore. The thought only made his heart warmer.

* * *

Josh came down to the lobby about twenty minutes after getting off the phone with Isabella, dressed in a pair of cotton slacks and a polo shirt. His parents were waiting for him, and as he greeted his mother with a hug and a peck on the cheek, he saw Isabella over her shoulder, entering the hotel. He greeted her with a more enthusiastic hug.

“Thank you so much for inviting me along,” Isabella said.

“Don’t mention it, dear!” his mother replied. “As long as you are part of our Joshua’s life, you will be a part of ours too.”

“Then I hope to be a part of your life for years to come!” she said, hugging Joshua. “Now, where are we going for breakfast?”

“I found an American-style restaurant not far from here,” said Josh’s mother. “They say they have Southern-style cooking!”

Isabella looked interested. “I have only been to New York,” she said. “But I have heard food in the South is very different!”

Josh laughed. “As long as you like bacon grease, you should be fine!” he said.

“That and fried chicken!” Ben Parker added.

“For breakfast?” the Italian asked in horror.

“No better breakfast when you are up early and in a hurry than cold fried chicken from the night before!’ Josh said.

Isabella rolled her eyes. “Lead on,” she said. “But tonight I take you lovely people out for a proper Italian meal!”

The four of them headed for the door. The press was still camped outside the hotel, waiting to photograph Josh and Isabella together.

“Dr. Parker!” shouted one florid Englishman. “Any thoughts on today’s funeral service?”

“Yes!” Josh answered. “I wish it were unnecessary!”

“Are these your parents from America?” the man persisted.

“Yes, and they are hungry!” Josh replied. “Now please excuse us while we go get breakfast!”

With that they climbed into a waiting cab and drove off.