“The Israelis have agreed to keep this quiet, but ask that we cooperate in sharing all information uncovered through our internal investigations.”
Razak fingered his cup and looked up. “I’m assuming the police have already begun preliminary investigations?”
“Of course,” Farouq interjected. “They arrived minutes after the episode occurred. Problem is they’ve yet to present any definitive evidence. We suspect important facts are being withheld. That’s why we’ve summoned you. Confrontation seems inevitable.”
“If only—” Razak began.
“Time’s limited,” another Waqf member with a thick head of silver hair overrode him. “Both sides are concerned it won’t be long before the media starts drawing its own conclusions. And we all know what that will lead to.” His grave eyes circled the table to draw support. “Razak, you know how fragile our role is here in Jerusalem. You see what’s happening outside on the streets. Our people rely on us to protect this place.” He stuck out an index finger and tapped it on the table twice. “There’s no knowing how they’ll react. Unlike most of us,” he eyed the first outspoken elder, still purple from rage, “they will assume the Israelis are responsible.”
Farouq came in again. “You can well imagine that Hamas and Hezbollah are both anxious to lambaste the Jews for this.” His face darkened.
“They’re asking for our support implicating the Israelis to further Palestinian liberation.”
The situation was far worse than Razak had imagined. Tensions were
already running high between the Israelis and Palestinians. Both Hamas
and Hezbollah had garnered much support over the past few years in their
efforts to outwardly oppose Israeli occupation and this incident would
surely bolster their political agenda. Razak tried to not think about even
more drastic consequences that were likely to occur. The Waqf was now
stuck in the middle of a very precarious political situation—one that felt
impossibly fragile to Razak. “So what do you wish of me?” he asked, looking round the table.
“Determine who stole the relic,” replied the soft-toned elder. “We need
to know who committed this act so justice can be served. Our people deserve an explanation as to why such a sacred place has been so maliciously
violated.”
In the ensuing silence Razak could hear the taunting, muffled sounds
of protestors through the window, like voices from the grave. “I’ll do
whatever’s necessary,” he assured them. “First I’ll need to see where this
happened.”
Farouq rose to his feet. “I’ll take you there now.”
4
******
Vatican City
Charlotte Hennesey was battling the unforgiving eight-hour time difference, and three espressos earlier that morning hadn’t helped to settle her. As instructed, she was waiting in her guest suite until summoned. Unlike the limousine and first-class service that had whisked her from Phoenix to Rome, her accommodation at the Vatican City’s Domus Sanctae Marthae residence hall was austere. White walls, simple oak furniture, twin bed and nightstand, though she did have her own bathroom and a small refrigerator. Seated at the sun-filled window, she gazed out over the tiled roofs of Rome’s western sprawl. Having finished her novel on the plane—Anne Tyler’s Saint Maybe—she’d now had to settle for the English edition of L’Osservatore Romano, reading it from cover to cover. Sighing, she set the paper down and looked over at the nightstand’s digital alarm clock—3:18. She was anxious to get to work, but wondered what purpose an American geneticist could possibly serve here. As the head of research and development at BioMapping Solutions, Charlotte typically made off-site visits to pharmaceutical and biotech companies looking to apply the latest discoveries in the human genome to their research.
It was her boss, BMS founder Evan Aldrich, who had taken the call al
most two weeks ago from a Vatican cleric named Father Patrick Donovan. Having heard the priest’s compelling proposal, Aldrich had volunteered her services for a highly secretive project. Few things could divert Evan Aldrich from his work, especially when the request required him to hand over his best researcher.
Clearly this was one of them.
At thirty-two, Charlotte was a lithe five-nine with striking emerald green eyes and a smooth, healthily tanned face framed by shoulder length curls of chestnut hair. With a rare balance of intellect and charm, she’d become her company’s chosen spokesperson for an industry typified by gray scientists. Human genetics was often misunderstood and always controversial. With BMS aggressively promoting its latest gene-mapping technology, the right public image was important.
Recently she had added media appearances to her arsenal of talents— talk shows and news programs. Aldrich had told her that the Vatican priest mentioned seeing one of her most recent interviews concerning the reconstruction of maternal lineage through mapping mitochondrial DNA, prompting his request for her services.
Now that her time was split between research and public relations, she wondered exactly what role she’d be asked to play here. After all, the conservative papacy was surely not one of her biggest supporters.
Her thoughts drifted back to Evan Aldrich.
Aldrich had abruptly shifted his career ten years ago, abandoning his secure tenure as a Harvard professor of genetic science to enter the uncertain world of business. And he had handled the switch brilliantly. Not for the first time, Charlotte mused about what made Evan tick. Not money, though when BMS eventually went public he would
