Pandora's curse

Cardinal Peretti rifled through one of the batches of papers he’d brought to the meeting. “Seven thousand eight hundred books, mostly Jewish texts and torahs that we hid during the war, Islamic writings that were captured during the Crusades, and Eastern Orthodox material that we’ve held on to since the Council of Chalcedon in 451.”

“That’s it?” The pope’s eyes widened at such a low figure.

“You gave us only six months to prepare.” It was fact, not complaint. “There are two million books in the Vatican library as well as 150,000 manuscripts. This doesn’t include the seventy-five kilometers of documents in the archives. We’ve only begun to comb through to find material that belongs to others.”

“I’m sorry.” Leo smiled. “Forgive me. What else is being given back to the proper owners?”

“Five hundred icons that belong to the Eastern Orthodox Church. They will decide what particular group gets what. There are also forty statues, about two hundred paintings and a great many religious pieces such as candlesticks, menorahs, ornamental crosses, and reliquaries. In all, we’ve shipped eleven containers to the docks in Belgium. I’ve already drawn up a manifest of what goes to whom, and we’ve kept some of the more symbolic pieces separate so you can give them out directly.”

“And you say that the world’s interest in this step is high?”

“Despite the best efforts of our press office, many journalists are focusing on the restoration more than the synod, which by the way we can’t seem to dissuade them from calling the Universal Convocation.”

“It is our synod, but it is also a universal gathering,” the pope countered. “I actually prefer the title they’ve bestowed on the gathering. A synod smacks of secrecy. What we want is an openness that has never been seen before. This meeting is not about religion. It is about people and how to get them to improve relations with each other.”

Albani, who would be leading the synod, picked up the thread. “Modernism is dividing the world into fanatics or secularists. Evangelism has become such a bitter battle that many religious leaders have lost sight of why we spread our various beliefs. Souls have become a commodity, no different from oil futures or stock shares.”

Suddenly the pope laughed aloud, and it took him a moment to recover. “I’m sorry, Albani. In my head I heard a radio announcer quoting religions like a stock ticker.” He deepened his voice. “In today’s trading, Catholicism is up two points, Judaism up a quarter, and Buddhism down an eighth.” He laughed again before the reality of his joke hit him. He became subdued once more. “We have to put an end to this way of thinking. I hate to think what will happen if we don’t. Politics and race breed fanaticism on their own. The world does not need its religious leaders adding fuel to such an incendiary mixture.”

MUNICH, GERMANY

Anika Klein spent her morning packing for her trip. She was leaving tomorrow, Monday, to spend a few days in Iceland before the rest of the team assembled for the ship to Greenland. Her domestic chores took her longer than expected but still she went for a run after lunch and returned to her apartment an hour and a half later.

After a long shower, she spent thirty grudging minutes in front of the mirror attending to beauty details she’d put off for too long. Her eyebrows were particularly bothersome since they hadn’t been tweezed in three months. The ritual left her eyes swimming in tears. She purposely kept her glossy black hair trimmed almost like a man’s, with short bangs and just a little length at her neck. A dollop of gel and a quick slash with a brush was all it took to tame it.

Her face was angular, with large, almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, and a sharp chin. Her mouth was wide, luxurious. Except on dates, she’d learned to not wear lipstick because of the distraction her pout caused. Her ears were tiny, with a total of nine rings, five in one, and four in the other. Anika was thirty-six years old but had the style of someone half that age. And she could get away with it. Studying her reflection closely, she decided she could maintain the ruse for a few more years. Because she’d rarely allowed herself to tan, her skin, which would eventually give her away, had yet to show lines.

She gave her reflection a smile. It was only then that her face lost the intensity she showed to the outside world. Her smile made Anika look like a teenager. Her ex-husband had often compared her beauty to Audrey Hepburn’s. She’d done little to dissuade him of that opinion.

Normally she wore all black in a pseudogothic look that hadn’t yet gone out of fashion in Europe. For today, she was meeting someone for her grandfather, so she threw on a bright but modest skirt, a creamy silk blouse, and flats. She was comfortable enough with her height to wear heels only when necessary.

In the kitchen on her way out of her apartment, she grabbed a liter bottle of water from the fridge and a container of oily kalamata olives. She had chewing gum in her car for her breath later. Her purse was a small leather backpack. Anika tossed the water inside, fished the keys to her battered Volkswagen Golf from the bottom, and popped a handful of the rich olives into her mouth. Her car was in the garage under her building; it started after a mere five attempts.

The town of Ismaning was only about a half hour from her apartment, which worked well for her grandfather. Had this Otto Schroeder he’d asked her to speak with lived any farther from Munich, she would have postponed the interview until after her trip to Greenland. Opa Jacob had insisted that she visit him before heading north, but he treated everything about his work as a matter of urgency.

Anika did what she could to help. He knew she would never take up the crusade, but by assisting him when she could, Anika hoped that Opa knew she wouldn’t forget either. He’d often said that people aren’t truly dead until they are forgotten. He’d told her that the first time when her own father, Opa Jacob’s son-in-law, died from a heart attack. As long as she remembered her father, he was alive. That was why Jacob worked so hard. As long as he remembered, the six million were still alive, and if Anika could carry even a part of the memory, then the victims would not fade for another generation.

The traffic was heavier than she expected. She’d forgotten that road repairs were under way even on the weekend. The Volkswagen’s air conditioner had not worked since she’d bought it thirdhand and heavy blasts of hot air percolated from the asphalt. Anika felt constricted, the seat belt like a band of iron across her chest. The back of her blouse was sticky. She tried to take a deep breath and managed to inhale a dose of diesel exhaust from the truck idling next to her.

The frustration pricking her skin was only partially due to the delay. She’d hoped the distraction of driving would banish thoughts of work but the constant starts and stops served as a reminder. Was her career going to go forward or end? The choice was hers.

She dug out her water bottle and took a gulp, forcing herself to calm down. Rather than deal with the decision, she fumbled through her bag for the directions to Otto Schroeder’s farmhouse that Opa Jacob had dictated a few days ago from Vienna. She knew from the research she’d done for him in the past not to be surprised how he had tracked the former military officer. Jacob Eisenstadt could find anyone, it seemed, once he put his mind to it.

On the sheet of paper with the directions was a list of questions Jacob wanted answered. Anika had read through the list once after writing them down and found herself more intrigued with this interview than the previous ones she’d done. It appeared that Schroeder might know the whereabouts of a huge shipment of gold spirited out of Russia in 1943. According to Jacob, this wasn’t one of the fabled “lost shipments” that had never been recovered. Until very recently neither he nor Theodor Weitzman had even known of its existence. They were convinced that they were on the trail of something completely new.

Anika doubted that anything would come of her interview. Opa had learned that Schroeder had been a career soldier from before Hitler came to power. He hadn’t been part of the Nazi elite. In fact, he hadn’t even been a member of the party. It wasn’t very likely that he would be privy to secrets of stashed gold or anything else for that matter. She had said this to Opa Jacob, and he had reminded her that, even if Otto Schroeder was simply another link in the chain, it put them one link closer to their goal. His absolute dedication and unshakable faith was something Anika knew she could learn from. She was sorely lacking in both.

In the center of Ismaning stood a tall stone tower, a medieval leftover whose original purpose was lost to time. She turned right and very quickly the urban congestion vanished. It was as if she’d traveled a hundred