12
Maria and Jeremy led Jack and Costas through the imposing west entrance of Iona Abbey and down the worn flagstones of the nave. It was cool inside, a refreshing break from the tepid summer air outside, and the east window above the altar bathed the interior in a rich light. Standing off to one side was a tall, blond man gazing contemplatively at the window, his arms folded across his chest and one hand on his chin. When he saw Jack he seemed to know who he was and pointed towards the doorway opposite him. Jack nodded in acknowledgement and followed the others through a low stone entrance into the open courtyard of the cloister beyond.
“Father O’Connor is waiting for us,” Jeremy said. “He’s a long-standing member of the Iona community, and he has a room in the north range where he retreats for research and writing when he can get away from the Vatican.”
“Do we trust this guy?” Costas said, his voice sounding loud in the cloister. “I mean, he’s a bit of an unknown quantity.”
Maria stopped and turned sharply on him. “You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t trust him.”
“Okay.” Costas saw Jack gesturing at him to back off. “Sorry. It’s just a hell of a long way to come.”
“He insisted that we meet him here.” Maria’s voice was still curt, and she stopped and took out her cellphone. “I’ll join you. I’ve got to make an urgent call. Jeremy knows the way.”
That morning they had flown in the IMU Embraer from Greenland to Glasgow in Scotland, and then taken the waiting helicopter one hundred miles northwest to the island of Mull. It had only been twenty-four hours since Jack and Costas had escaped from the perils of the iceberg, and both men had slept soundly most of the way. On Mull they had joined the well-worn pilgrim route to the holy isle of Iona, taking the ferry across the narrow channel to Port Ronain, then walking up through the village to the abbey buildings in their setting of meadows with the sparkling blue sea beyond. As they gazed at the abbey Jeremy had explained that a building had stood on this spot since the time St. Columba arrived from Ireland almost fifteen hundred years before, had survived Viking raids, the Reformation and abandonment, and was now once again a thriving monastery and one of the holiest sites in the British Isles.
They passed along the sunlit alley of the cloister to another small door and ascended a wooden staircase to an attic corridor with windows overlooking the abbey. Jeremy knocked on a door and a moment later they heard the clatter of a bolt being unlatched and a chain withdrawn.
“Gentlemen. Welcome.” Father O’Connor ushered them in, then locked the door again behind him. He had discarded his Jesuit cassock in favour of the plain brown robe of a monk, and with his cropped white hair and the simple wooden cross hanging on his chest he seemed straight out of the Middle Ages. He looked pale and worn, older than when they had seen him a few days before in Cornwall. The room was small, piled high with books and papers, and they could see where O’Connor had been working at a laptop on a desk in the corner. They picked their way across the floor and sat down on wooden chairs arranged in a semi-circle in front of the desk. Above the small fireplace opposite, Jack recognized a scaled-down reproduction of the Hereford Mappa Mundi. Propped up beside it he could see a scanned copy of the exemplar for the map Jeremy and Maria had found in the sealed-off staircase in Hereford Cathedral, showing the extraordinary image of the New World in the lower left corner.
“Let’s get straight to the point,” O’Connor said. “It’s been a long journey.”
“Thank you,” Jack said. He opened the bag he had been carrying and took out the Nazi dagger and the gold ring with the menorah symbol, and placed them on the desk in front of O’Connor. The older man glanced at the objects and flinched slightly, averting his eyes. But then he looked up, staring at Jack.
“First let me apologize to Jeremy for the burden I placed on him. I took him into my confidence over a year ago, when he first came to study the early runic inscriptions on Iona. I had been seeking a younger colleague, a scholar who could carry on the flame. I swore him to secrecy, but told him when we met in Cornwall that the time might come when we would need to reveal everything to you. Even Maria knew nothing until yesterday.”
“Whatever it is, you could have told us when we discussed the Mappa Mundi and the menorah,” Jack said testily.
“I had to be sure of you. Believe me, I am on your side and we have a common enemy.”
“I’m not aware of any enemy.”
O’Connor shifted on his chair, stared distastefully at the objects in front of him and then leaned forward on his elbows. “We’ll begin with the Nazis. As you’ve probably guessed, you’re not the first ones to hunt for the menorah.”
“I never did buy the idea that we were,” Costas said cheerfully. “Stuff like that doesn’t happen. Someone, somewhere will have been searching for it. People never forget lost treasure.”
O’Connor smiled thinly and then turned grim. “It’s not as straightforward as it seems. And it’s not a game. The best way to show you what we’re up against is to tell you something about the characters on that Ahnenerbe expedition in 1938.”
“We know about Kunzl, but we’re still trying to identify the one with the armband.” Relaxing slightly, Jack took out copies of the photographs Kangia had given him and tossed them on the desk.
“I can help here,” O’Connor said quietly. “Ever since the scandal over Pope Pius XII’s failure to condemn the Nazis during the Second World War, the Vatican has been particularly sensitive on this issue. I’ve recently taken over as Vatican spokesman on the Holocaust. Officially we liaise with Jewish groups and apprehend surviving war criminals. Unfortunately most of those who escaped punishment are now dead, but we still try to tie up loose ends for the sake of history.”
“I can’t imagine any of them making it past St. Peter,” Costas said grimly.
“God will make the final judgement,” O’Connor replied. “But most assuredly there is a special place in hell for those who murder children.”
There was a knock on the door, and O’Connor got up and stared through the spy hole before unlatching it and letting Maria in. She sat down in the empty chair beside Jack and they looked expectantly at her.
She was pale, distracted. “I was right,” she said. “I’ve just spoken to an old friend who works for the Simon Wiesenthal Center.” Jack suddenly remembered Maria’s Jewish background, her father’s Sephardic roots. “Our Nazi was a failed student at Heidelberg, with delusions of being a famous anthropologist. He joined the SS in 1933. After the Ahnenerbe expedition he volunteered for the SS-Totenkopfverbande, the death’s-head units. The ones who ran the concentration camps. His name was Andrius Reksnys.”
“Not German?” Jack asked.
“Lithuanian,” she replied.
“There were plenty outside the Fatherland willing to heed Himmler’s call,” O’Connor said. Maria’s cellphone chirped, and she looked apologetically at them and quickly slipped out of the door. O’Connor tapped his laptop and clicked through a series of websites. “I know this man,” he said quietly. “Here he is.”
He swivelled the screen so they could see and read from a scanned document, translating from German.
The Chief of the Security Police and the Security Service, Berlin, 5 November 1941
55 copies
(51st copy)
OPERATIONAL SITUATION REPORT USSR NO. 129a
Einsatzgruppe D
Location: Nikolayev, Ukraine
Addendum to Report No. 129 concerning the activity of the Einsatzkommandos in freeing places of Jews and finishing off partisan groups. SS-Sturmbannfuhrer Andrius Reksnys personally executed 341 Jews. Revised total for the last two weeks: 32,108.
“Einsatzgruppen.” O’Connor forced out the word with revulsion. “Himmler’s mobile death squads. Responsible for murdering over a million Soviet Jews, among others.”