The Byzantine Connection: Book 3 of the Peacetaker Series, #3

By Edita A. Petrick

Second changes are hard to get….

 

It's hard to understand modern day atrocities, much less those that occurred five thousand years before you were born.

Carter never believed that something that's been dead for thousands of years could be so interesting…so determined, so cunning and so deadly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edita A. Petrick
• Release date: Jan 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524217488

Edita A. Petrick

I'm a writer. That's all that can be said here. I love writing and I absolutely hate marketing. It just goes to show you where your natural talents lie. Writing comes easy. Marketing...that's something I will be learning until the day I die. All I can say about my books is that they're meant to entertain.

Book preview

Chapter One

THE MOMENT CARTER WALKED across the vestibule and emerged into the nave, he felt chills run down his spine. Churches had that kind of effect on him, and Detroit’s Saint Hedwig’s church was no exception. He tilted his head back, and the soaring height of the magnificent edifice made his head spin. Colors started to seep out of the stained glass windows, coagulating in the air and giving an impression that another bright colorful scene was about to be painted. For some reason, he felt it would not be religious or peaceful.

This place has a shitload of stained glass windows, he murmured, lowering his head and rubbing his eyes.

Remember where you are, mister, and mind your language, Stella said from beside him in her lecture-dry voice. He half expected her to rap him on the head or smack his shoulder to emphasize her warning and reflected that the only reason she didn’t do it was because she’d have to raise herself on tiptoes to administer such punishment.

It’s a pretty impressive shrine, he said, turning his head and grinning at her to show that from now on, he was going to be on his best behavior. How many worshippers can it accommodate?

She made a displeased, throaty sound and said, Why don’t you just ask how many people can fit into the church?

He capitulated. How many?

About two thousand.

How long do you think it’s been since such a crowd actually packed into this church?

She moved her head uncertainly from side to side. It might get pretty crowded in here during Christmas and maybe Easter, but doubtful that it would be packed full.

Well, I guess the religion’s been on the decline for some time now, he said, leaning to a side to see down the long aisle, running like a carpet through a completely empty church, that ended with the sanctuary and its two altars.

And what better way to remedy that than you going to sit down there, she waved ahead, right up front, close and personal, for a much overdue spiritual session with the Lord our Creator and all His servants.

I gather then that you don’t want me to go with you to find Father Malvan, he said, keeping a straight face. He knew why she wanted him to embrace religion and communicate with the saints staring at him from every direction. Six months ago, when her children came to visit at Christmas, she didn’t have to explain his presence in her house in Sunburst. They were products of a generation that considered co-habitation natural. If anything, to them marriage was something to be avoided because it seldom if ever worked. A couple of months later, when her old department head from Michigan University and his wife stopped by to visit, Stella cleared her throat several times before she introduced him as my significant other. And everyone in Sunburst believed he was her husband. Since he picked up Gabriel from the school bus stop, did all the food shopping and car maintenance, she escaped being quizzed about him in greater detail and he never corrected anyone who assumed he was her husband.

Father Malvan was Stella’s old friend. She’d told Carter that she first met the priest twenty-four years ago, when she was finishing her doctorate at Michigan University. However, no matter how good of a friend Joseph Malvan was, he was first and foremost a Catholic priest who subscribed to the traditionalistic values. He would do more than just flinch if Stella introduced Carter as her companion or significant other. Traditional Catholics believed in restoration of many customs, traditions and teachings of the Church before the Second Vatican Council held in the sixties. In his eyes, neither the church nor his religion succumbed to the pressure of the modern world. He might even withdraw his offer to help Stella identify the script and thus authorship of an old Byzantine text—and a treasure map. Carter knew that’s what worried her the most, because she needed to correctly attribute and reference the text in her new book.

He got an urge to tackle the marital status issue here and now—and suppressed it just as quickly as it came over him. A church wasn’t a place for arguments…unless one wanted to argue with Almighty and he had no complaints today.

Father Malvan and I will be in the archives. You’ll only get bored or fall asleep, Stella said, moving ahead of him as she spoke. This is a beautiful church. Take a look around, sit down, meditate…un-stress for all I know. A rest can only do you good.

Uhm, he mumbled and watched her quicken her stride as she walked down the aisle of the nave. When she reached the sanctuary, she knelt down and bowed her head. He’d have bet that only half of her thoughts were pious, while the other half would be on the ancient texts Father Malvan brought back from the Sintorini Monastery that waited for her in the archives. The topic of her second book was firmly rooted in her academic specialty—medieval literature and Byzantine history…with just a few excursions into castles, churches and monasteries. She was going to nail the Serbian fraud whose academic credentials couldn’t be substantiated since all such records were casualties of the civil war. He’d published a book three years ago claiming that every castle and monastery in Europe was hiding a treasure.

"Dr. Jovanov was just probably trying to eclipse the notoriety that your book, The Ribbons of Truth, created," he’d remarked just to gauge her reaction.

If only that were the case, I might be willing to overlook the scumbag’s ‘perished’ academic credentials, she said. But that’s not even close.

He didn’t want to plumb the depths of academic waspishness and dropped the subject, figuring that in a day or two, some other academic authority would raise her ire. Unfortunately, her fixation to unmask Jovanov for what he was, a fraud and a scumbag, lasted longer than he expected. Two days after Gabriel’s school year ended, they set out for Detroit.

Shaking his head to banish the reflections, Carter walked up to the transept aisle and sat down in the front pew. Stella might have wanted him to go all the way to the sanctuary and no doubt sit down in front of the high altar, but he wanted to keep a safe distance between him and the headwall crammed full of wildly colorful saints. The plethora of stained glass windows gave him a headache. His idea of a restful place of worship would have been an empty mess hall or a cave.

Suddenly he heard footfalls and leaned over to see a couple emerge from what had to be a side entrance to the church. They walked slowly, almost shuffling. As they approached, he saw they were Asian, no doubt a husband and wife. They had to be ancient and were remarkably alike. The wife was on better terms with gravity because Carter felt that even when young, she was petite. Her husband’s head was in line with hers so the gravity must have robbed him of a couple of inches. They both had short white hair and wore their heritage loose gray pants and shirts. As they shuffled past Carter, they smiled and gave him a slight bow then continued down the aisle all the way to the sanctuary. The husband knelt and bowed his head, while the wife bowed hers but remained standing. After a few moments, she leaned over and helped her husband to rise and then she knelt down.

Carter smiled when he saw the husband help his wife rise and wondered whether years down the road Stella would perform that service for him.

Cautiously, Carter raised his head and stifled a groan when the colorful anarchy of the stained glass assaulted him as if indeed the colors had the power to pound inside his head. When still in the church vestibule, Stella told him that there were more than thirty stained glass windows, mostly saints and, of course, the members of the Holy Family.

What the hell? he mumbled and started to rise, intending to head for the Blessed Virgin Mary Altar where Stella had disappeared through the angled door. He heard a soft shuffle of feet and saw that the Asian couple was once again indulging in their personal ritual of kneeling and then helping each other stand up and reconsidered. He’d wait until they left the church before going to meet Stella and her cleric friend in what would no doubt be an awkward moment when introducing him as her…whatever. He stared at the couple as they walked slowly toward him, indeed like a bride and groom walking down the aisle post marriage ceremony. The air around them seemed to ripple as if they were an illusion. He shook his head to clear his sight but the ripple effect persisted. It was as if they were walking through a denser medium than just air. When they reached about halfway down the aisle, Carter sucked in his breath and then ground both knuckles into his eyes because he was sure the stained glass window effect had messed up his vision. He exhaled and felt as unreal as if suddenly he’d lost all substance. The walking couple was no longer the same height. The man was clearly at least half a head taller than his wife and both were younger.

Jesus Christ! he moaned when the couple were about ten feet away, walking much faster and with a springier step. They were about his age, if not younger. Five feet later, when they passed him, they were indeed a young newlywed couple. Carter didn’t have the courage or strength to turn around and see them walk all the way to the vestibule.

He sat there, staring ahead at the main altar, breathing evenly and trying to banish the image. He’d had a vision or he was hallucinating from stress…but he wasn’t stressed out at all. Maybe he fell asleep and was dreaming. He raised his hands, clasped them behind his back and winged his elbows. The pain let him know that he was awake and foolish for testing his afflicted muscles and the nerve endings. Just then, a door opened and Stella and a man in a full-length cassock walked outside. He had to rally, for his and Stella’s sake.

He rose and met them in the transept section, hoping that nothing odd showed on his face.

Father, this is…my husband, Tim Carter. Stella made the introduction with only a slight hesitation, standing in profile, which was a good strategy.

Carter offered the priest a handshake. You have a beautiful church, Father. I haven’t seen so much stained glass since the Roman basilica.

You’ve been to Rome? Father Malvan asked, smiling.

Vacation, last year, Stella quickly stepped in. We should be going. I’m sorry for the inconvenience—

The priest interrupted her. No, Stella, it is I who should be apologizing to you, since we had a proper appointment. I would have continued our session but, like I said, I have to take care of this problem, before the Bishop arrives tomorrow.

Anything I can help with? Carter asked, well aware that Stella was glaring at him.

The priest shook his head, looking distressed. Thank you, but it’s not something…it’s a bit of a mystery and very annoying at that. Well, come. I’ll show you. He waved them on, turning and heading for the side door that the Asian couple had used to walk into the church.

This is a side entrance, the priest said, indicating the regular door to the outside. And there is a matching one on the other side of the church. At eleven o’clock, we lock the front door and one side entrance but this one stays open until two o’clock, when the cleaners lock it after they leave. Only our regular parishioners know that they can enter the church this way after eleven o’clock. Last night, someone used this entrance to make a delivery—of that. The priest stepped aside and waved ahead where Carter saw something that looked like a small prison cell.

In the early 1900s, the alcove you see beyond that’s barred with the iron gate was much larger. It was a proper entrance, perhaps as large as the main one is today. Renovations in the seventies reduced it to the size it is now. Since the wrought iron gate and bars are more than a hundred years old, they were declared heritage features and can’t be removed, the priest said.

Carter walked up to the wrought iron bars, craned his neck to see better what stood beyond, then turned to face the priest. Is that a statue in there?

A granite statue, the priest said, briefly closing his eyes. Either it’s unfinished or it’s poorly made—I can’t decide which is the case, but whoever brought it here must think that the church has a closer connection to the cemetery because it’s that kind of monument.

Stella reached for the iron bars but Carter stopped her from grabbing hold.

Heritage feature, remember? he said, tipping his brow at her.

The statue was odd because it wasn’t even a monument as Father Malvan seemed to think. All Carter could distinguish was the head and an elongated torso with legs discernible only by the fact that the left one seemed to be raised as if the sculptor wanted to capture his subject in mid-step. The legs were not carved as individual limbs. They were merely outlines in the stone. It stood on a wooden platform, looking like a crude attempt by a stone carver with little or no talent at all.

How did you get it on a dolly? Stella asked the priest.

Oh, it came on a dolly. Otherwise I’d not have been able to wheel it in there, behind the gate, though it certainly is not out of sight. Even then it was an effort, pushing it where it now stands.

I’m sure there are disposal services that would come to haul this chunk of stone away, Carter said, looking at the priest. For some reason, Father Malvan grimaced as if he found such a practical suggestion painful.

Stella must have noticed the priest’s discomfort as well, because she said, Father, the Bishop doesn’t have to come here through the side entrance. He doesn’t have to see the donated artifact.

No, no, he won’t come through the side entrance, the priest murmured, looking around as if he felt trapped.

Stella walked up to him and touched his arm. Father, what’s troubling you about this…monument? Indeed, if someone left it here last night, why haven’t you already called someone to dispose of it?

Lighting is poor in here. That must have been the reason, the priest murmured.

Stella lifted her head and stared at the bright lighting strip on the ceiling. The lighting is actually very good in here, Father. What’s troubling you?

Then it must have been the shadows in the alcove, he said.

Stella tilted her head and stared at the statue behind the iron bars. No shadows from where I’m standing. I can clearly see a red and gray chunk of granite that someone tried to chisel into a human form and failed—badly.

Then I must have been tired. It was late when I came here…heard a noise…. His voice trailed off.

Why don’t you want to get rid of that stone? Stella asked in her dry academic voice.

Father Malvan was in his seventies but he was in robust health, according to what Stella said on their way here. He was the epitome of reason and rationale—for a man of cloth. The nervous, muttering man Carter saw was at odds with her description.

Do you perhaps suspect who might have brought the statue here? Carter asked.

The priest shook his head. No, no. It’s something else—last night, when I came down and saw it standing on a dolly…well, just about where you now stand, I was sure I saw dark cracks in the stone.

Carter moved closer to the alcove without touching the wrought iron work and inspected the granite statue. There were no dark cracks in the otherwise boring looking red-and-gray speckled granite stone.

They’re not there now, but I saw them last night and they were bleeding, the priest said.

Bleeding…? Carter echoed.

You mean as in stigmata? Stella asked.

The priest shook his head. I saw puncture wounds and blood seeping out of them, but the wounds were in the wrong place to be stigmata. One was in the left shoulder, another on the right side of the neck and the third one in the left thigh on the leg that’s straight.

Well, they’re not there now, Carter said, walking back to stand next to Stella.

The priest sighed and brought the brass-colored crucifix that hung around his neck to his mouth. He kept it pressed there a lot longer than it normally took to kiss it.

Thirty years ago, you were down in South America, Peru to be exact, Stella said softly. That’s where you witnessed your first stigmata and it’s been your….

Obsession? Father Malvan said with a pained grimace.

I’m sorry. I was actually going to say a hobby but I realized that’s not appropriate for a priest.

It’s more than a hobby but I’d hate to think of it as an obsession, the priest said. It’s more an acute interest in the phenomenon because there is little physical or psychological correlation between the people chosen to be blessed with the sign of our Lord, Jesus Christ.

Stella smiled. I keep forgetting that you already had a medical degree and even started to specialize in psychology when you received the calling and went to the seminary.

For the first time since they walked into the side entrance vestibule, the priest smiled. It’s the doctor in me far more so than the man of cloth who is fascinated by the psychological aspects of those chosen to be blessed with stigmata.

Well, this red piece of granite is not cracking and not bleeding, Carter declared in a high voice. He wanted to snap not just the priest but Stella out of their reminiscing mode. Do you want me to call disposal services for you, Father?

No, no, thank you, the priest said, sounding quite normal. I’ll do that myself. Tomorrow, when the Bishop arrives, that place, he motioned at the alcove, will be empty. He nodded at Stella. And I’ll see you at three o’clock. That should give us plenty of time before the eight o’clock mass—that you will attend, correct? He smiled at her when she reassured him that not just her but her ‘husband’ wouldn’t dream of missing a two-hour mass in Saint Hedwig’s.

When they were already in the parking lot, walking toward their shiny black SUV Volkswagen Tuareg, Carter said, Weren’t your parents missionaries, graduates of Nyack College? I thought you were raised a Presbyterian.

That’s correct, she said.

But you’re willing to sit through a Catholic mass?

That’s correct.

Father Malvan thinks you’re a Catholic.

I’m a Christian and there are many sects of Christianity. I just didn’t correct his assumption, that’s all.

Sects? Wow, is that your justification for lying to the man of cloth?

I didn’t lie.

He stopped and stared at her. You’ve known the man for more than twenty years and never told him that you’re not a Catholic?

That’s correct, she said and since he’d already clicked the doors open, climbed into the passenger seat.

He got in, started the truck and before he put it in drive, he said reflectively, So, I guess tomorrow I’ll be a husband again.

Shut up and drive.

Chapter Two

THEY WERE STAYING DOWNTOWN , at the Renaissance Center—in the Detroit Marriott, in a penthouse suite because Stella nixed anything closer to the ground. Even before he pulled out of the church parking lot and merged with the traffic, Stella was tapping on her cell phone.

Just checking on Gabriel—keep your eyes on the road, she said, since she must have felt him stare at her.

He’s fine, she said when she finished speaking with what sounded to him like every member of the old Hunter household in Foster.

He nodded, pretending to be a conscientious driver. He was trying to settle on the right approach—find the right words—to tell her about the Asian couple and not having much success.

Did you get something useful from your brief session with Father Malvan? He gave up on trying broaching the subject of his bizarre experience in the church. He had probably nodded off and taken the tail end of a dream to be real.

Not as much as I hoped, she said. He believes that the text was written by three sets of scribal hands over a period of five or six decades. There is a visible difference between certain capital letters.

What language are we talking here? he asked.

The text was discovered in the Greek monastery so Greek, naturally—what did you think?

When it comes to you and ancient texts, Stella, I don’t dare to think. I do the sensible thing—I ask. How come an ancient text was allowed to leave Greece then?

It’s not really ancient, it’s just old. It’s on loan, and will go on exhibit in a museum as soon as Father Malvan finalizes the arrangements. I guess that will be one issue that he’s going to discuss with Bishop Hagerty.

Were you able to take a few pictures?

Just a couple, with my cell phone. I’ll do more with a camera tomorrow.

So, how old are we talking here? he asked, more to keep the conversation going than from curiosity.

The text dates from the ninth century. It’s not ancient. It’s Byzantine. The three scribes had different handwriting talent. The first one was a sloppy writer. Whoever succeeded him was careful and pedantic. Thirty years later, the last scribe to make his contribution was impatient and rushed his scripting duties. It shows in his hurried cursive writing. Today, there are only about forty thousand Byzantine manuscripts. This one is somewhat unusual, even unique, because it’s not an ecclesiastical manuscript, even though it was found in the basement library of the Sintorini Monastery.

I’m listening, he said when she stopped. I’m just concentrating on driving. Detroit’s traffic signals are not for the faint of heart. What’s so unique about this text?

It’s secular.

Translate that for me.

I’m speaking English.

That may well be, but it’s not my business English.

It’s not a religious text. It’s…well, almost a folktale. The first scribe talks about a fleet of what he claimed were the last great ships used to transport grain from Alexandria to Rome. This fleet, however, carried treasure—gold, precious stones and priceless artifacts to top up the coffers of Pope Gregory II, who was at the religious helm in Rome from 715 to 735. The pirates threatened the fleet from the moment it left Alexandria. That was probably the reason why the fleet headed for the Greek islands and the Aegean instead of sailing on its original course for Rome. The fleet commander figured he’d shake the pirates in the Aegean archipelago. Unfortunately, you need lighter, smaller ships to navigate the Aegean and the fleet ships were loaded with precious metals and stones. They couldn’t outmaneuver the pirates.

The pirates sank the fleet, he said, to show her he was an attentive listener.

Nope. They captured it, sailed for one of the islands that was their designated repository of all things looted, unloaded the precious cargo—and then sank the empty ships along with all their crews. Then they sailed away for another profitable run. That’s the first scribe’s version of the tale. The second scribe agrees with his predecessor, save one detail—he claims that one sailor survived and lived to tell the tale to a traveling Sintorini monk. The third scribe agrees with the second—save a few details. He claims that the Sintorini monks found a half-dead wretch collapsed outside the walls of their monastery. They took him in and tended him until he was well again. To repay their kindness, the sailor gave the Abbot a treasure map, showing the location of the island, and the scribe was asked to copy it to substantiate the tale.

Which version do you believe? he asked.

She laughed. All of them, but the one that would definitely boost the sale of my new book is the last one.

Did you see the map then?

She made a displeased sound. Father Malvan was about to take it out when his cell phone buzzed. It was Bishop Hagerty and we had to call it quits, at least for today. We’ll go back tomorrow.

Do you want to have dinner at the center or you want me to find a restaurant downtown? he asked, because the Renaissance Center was already looming ahead.

We are downtown, Carter. Let’s eat at the Shoebox.

That’s a horrible name for a restaurant.

Yep, but this is Detroit. What did you expect?

IN THE MORNING, STELLA was still in the shower when the waiter wheeled in the breakfast table since Carter had ordered room service. He preferred to eat his morning meal dressed in his gray sweat pants and a lilac T-shirt Stella bought for him. He refused to wear it anywhere outside in Sunburst, but to make her happy, he occasionally chose it as his sleeping apparel.

The waiter also brought The Detroit News and Detroit Free Press, no doubt judging him to be an eccentric businessman who was certainly wealthy enough to stay in the penthouse suite but who’d probably shopped for his wardrobe in thrift stores.

Stella, breakfast is here, he yelled, shaking the paper to free the sports section when a headline caught his eye.

Miracle or Hoax? Underneath was a picture of a young Asian couple flanked by a group of elderly men and women. He read the story that must have made quite a few Detroit folks wonder whether their respectable newspaper hadn’t been bought out by a tabloid consortium, alternately feeling hot and chilled. Mr. and Mrs. Wong, looking not a day older than they looked when they were married, sixty-five years ago, were flanked by their adult children, all of them seniors and two middle-aged grandsons. He let the front page of The Detroit News fall down on the floor and picked up the Detroit Free Press. He saw the same picture and read the same insane story. At four o’clock yesterday, the Wongs left their house on Otis Street where they lived with their eldest daughter and her husband, for their daily afternoon walk. They returned an hour later, looking as if they’d stepped out of the old faded photograph in their wedding album. Their daughter, who recently had their wedding photo re-finished and framed to commemorate her parents’ sixty-fifth wedding anniversary, fainted when she opened the door and saw the two youngsters laughing and chatting excitedly in Cantonese. An hour later, four of the five Wong children who lived in the greater Detroit area were at their eldest sister’s house. Carter could imagine the level of noise produced by the couple’s senior citizen children when they saw their parents as they looked before they were born.

What’s so interesting? He jerked his head up at the sound of Stella’s voice. She walked up to him, and he let her take the newspaper from his stiff, cold hand and waited until she finished reading the article.

Tabloid shit, she said, dismissing the front-page story with a grimace.

Right, he said and sat down. It was possible that overnight The Detroit News had undergone a bizarre metamorphosis and the morning edition came out as a tabloid. The sensationalistic story might have been chosen as a forerunner of bigger and better miracles to come. The whole story could also be a hoax. However, what was not possible was that the Asian couple Carter saw praying in Saint Hedwig’s church would have been arbitrarily chosen by the press to star in today’s tabloid headlines.

Why would they make up something like that? he murmured, poking the mushroom omelet with a fork to make sure it was firm and not runny.

It sells newspapers, I guess, Stella said.

"But The Detroit Press is not that kind of newspaper."

Oh, stop mumbling and eat your breakfast. You’re still not dressed and we have a full day ahead of us.

He didn’t finish his breakfast because his eyes wanted to track the floor where he dropped the newspaper sections. Stella started to lecture him for ordering a breakfast large enough to feed a troop but cut it short. She must have realized that it would stall them even more, and she wanted to get going as soon as possible. They had to drive out to Westland where Russell Oren had his Phantom Rare Books and Manuscripts, bookshop. Oren was Frank McEwen’s friend and colleague. Yesterday, Stella spent an hour trying to decide what should be their first stop—Saint Hedwig’s or Oren’s bookshop. The church was in Dearborn, on Junction Street. Carter made it to Michigan Avenue just past the I75 and W Jeffrie’s Freeway junction when she made him turn around and head for I96. He almost made it to Southfield Freeway junction when she changed her mind and they took the next exit and headed back down to Dearborn. Fifteen minutes later, she tried to make him take I94 and head west for Westland again but he turned deaf.

When he shut off the truck in the church parking lot, she mumbled that she forgot to confirm the appointment and Father Malvan was probably still waiting for her reply.

You have a cell phone, he said as evenly as he could manage. Call him and confirm the appointment—then tell him we’re already sitting in his church parking lot.

It turned out that Father Malvan would make time for Stella even in the middle of the night so she worried needlessly. The bishop’s call cut short Stella’s time in the archives but they were going back today. She’d get her chance to study the pirate treasure map.

Westland was only twenty-five miles east of Ann Arbor so they could have dropped by the Hunter household to check on Gabriel but uncharacteristically Stella