Chase Baker and the Spear of Destiny Read online

  “The persecution of Judeo Christians,” I comment.

  He nods, wipes his tired, or are they anxious, eyes with the back of his hand.

  He says, “It’s a problem not seen since the days of the dark ages and the Crusades. These are dire times; and dire times means the church must rely on dire methods for combatting the slaughter of countless believers like us.”

  “Like us,” I say. Then, “why are you here, Father O’Brien? I would expect a man of your age and experience to be stationed back in the States, or in Rome even.”

  “Indeed, I was stationed in Rome,” he explains. “However, circumstances beyond my control, but for which I was entirely responsible, led to my transfer to this place. Of course, this is part of the bigger reason why I have sought you out.”

  Once more I gaze at Christ.

  “We’re all ears, Father.”

  He inhales a breath, pats his chest pocket, pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to smoke in a house of God, Father,” I say.

  He laughs. “Of course not. But just holding them in my hand helps me think better. Helps me collect my thoughts as it were. I’ve been under a lot of pressure as you can imagine.”

  He begins to tell me about a relic stored in the archives of the Vatican. Archives for which he was responsible as one of the chief operating custodians. He explains about the Pope’s ever-growing concern over the slaughter of thousands of innocent Christians and the destruction of Christian holy sites and relics. It’s precisely because of this destruction that the Pope personally ordered a comprehensive inventory of the world’s most precious relics. Along with the collection would be the testing of their veracity. One of these relics is the lance or spear that pierced Jesus' side during the crucifixion.

  “Are you aware of the relic, Mr. Baker?” he asks.

  “There was harsh weather coming when Jesus and the two thieves were crucified on Golgotha. It was also the beginning of the Passover. Lots of Jews flocking into Jerusalem and Pilot needed all the security he could muster. Since it could potentially take the men nailed to the crosses two or three days to die, Pilot wanted to speed the process up and thereby free up the Centurions assigned to watch over them. They broke the legs of the thieves, but when they came to Jesus, he supposedly was already dead. So, they made Longinus pierce him with the spear. Blood and water came out, cured Longinus of his cataracts on the spot.”

  “You know your stuff, Mr. Baker,” Father O’Brien says. “Did you major in Biblical studies in college?”

  “I attended a Catholic college run by Dominicans. I took a lot of archaeology courses and some Bible courses also. I also went to the First Gulf War as an Army Ranger, and then earned a masters in fiction writing from Vermont College. I can say that without being smug because the writing part of my life doesn’t make me much more than beer money.”

  “But writing is no doubt a priestly endeavor.”

  “Touché, Father,” I say. “So, where’s all this going?”

  He pats one of the cigarettes out of the pack, places it between his lips, but doesn’t light it.

  “Back to the beginning of our conversation which concerns why I am in charge of this church instead of my old job at the Vatican.” Nervously removing the cigarette from his lips, and twisting it between his fingers. “The Spear of Longinus. You see, I was one of the professionals in charge of the transfer of the spear from the Vatican to Florence where it was to be tested for authenticity. That is until it was pirated.”

  The little hairs on the back of my sunburnt neck stand up.

  “Pirated,” I say. “Pirated by whom?” The obvious question.

  Placing the cigarette back between his lips he reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a piece of eight and a half by eleven-inch paper that’s been folded in half. He opens it, hands it to me.

  The paper contains a photo that’s been printed off a high-def printer. Correction, the paper contains two photos, both placed side by side. On the right side is the photo of a young man wearing the officer’s cap of a Nazi SS officer. Just looking at the two side-by-side S’s, superimposed over the skull and cross bones sends chills up and down my spine.

  The photo set beside that one is of an old man, cheeks hollow and caved in, nose long and crooked, chin pointed, head bald, eyes wet, bloodshot, and filled with something. I’m not entirely sure what they are filled with, at first, until hatred comes to mind.

  “If you haven’t already deduced it yet, Mr. Baker,” Father O’Brien states, you are looking at the same man. “His name is Adolf Rickman, and he was the man who originally stole the true Spear of Destiny from the Nuremberg Cathedral at the very end of World War Two when Hitler was hiding down in his bunker, and the Russians were invading Berlin, burning everything in their path, raping women and girls, executing the young and old. He also stole many other relics of the church, along with many priceless works of art and antiquities. But the lance was his most prized and coveted acquisition by far.”

  “Why?” I question. “I mean, why the spear? I imagine there would be a thousand, maybe ten thousand fakes out there. How did this Rickman know what he was delivering to Hitler was the real thing?”

  “First of all,” the priest goes on, “Hitler was obsessed with the occult, and he was intent on acquiring all the relics he could have his SS get their hands on. But only true relics. He even formed a special task force within the SS to go after the relics in both Europe and far off countries like Nepal, India, and Africa.”

  “I’m sensing a big but here.”

  “But, Hitler wanted only the real thing. Fakes would not do. You see, Mr. Baker, the Fuhrer knew that only the true relics contained special powers. That given the right circumstances, the relics could be used to reign down destruction on one’s enemies. To Hitler, the spear that pierced Christ’s side would be just the instrument of death he would need to turn the tide of the war in his favor. But . . . ”

  “Another but.”

  “But as soon as it was placed in his hands, something overcame Hitler. You see, the Fuhrer was down in his bunker along with a select group of his SS and Gestapo cronies, including Minister Goebbels and his entire family. According to Rickman, the Fuhrer trembled and his face turned pale white. His body was said to have levitated from the bunker floor. The rumors are the lance took on a glow and a power radiated from it that frightened Hitler and all the SS and Gestapo agents inside the room.”

  “Maybe their fear had something to do with the spear having pierced the side of the most famous Jewish carpenter in the world.”

  “Legend has it that although the Fuhrer knew he had something all powerful in his possession, he also ordered it out of his sight. Within the hour, Hitler was dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, while Goebbels killed his entire family before blowing his own brains out. The evil beasts were dead, and the equally evil war was over.”

  More fine hairs stand at attention and another wave of cold runs up and down my body.

  “So, let me get this straight,” I say. “You believe because Hitler killed himself after coming into the contact with the Spear of Destiny as you call it, it must be the one true spear.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Baker. You see, the spear is not an inanimate object. It is blessed with the body and blood of Christ. Therefore, it was able to recognize the evil inherent within Hitler and his private army. Because of the spear’s power, the war came to a swift and bitter end for the Nazis.”

  “But now this man Rickman, a former Nazi, has taken possession of it again. Why isn’t he dead already if the spear is that powerful?”

  “Rickman has reformed a Neo-Nazi movement in Germany, Mr. Baker,” Father O’Brien says, pulling a Zippo lighter from his pocket and nervously lighting his cigarette. “I suspect he has taken precautions against touching the sacred relic.”

  “Or perhaps, he’s not as evil as Hitler was.”

  “I have another idea,” he says, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke that
slowly rises to the heavy wood rafters. “You see, when the lance was returned to the church by General George S. Patton, it was discovered to be broken.”

  “Broken?”

  “Yes, the tip had somehow been broken off soon after it encountered Hitler and Goebbels, and the church received it in two pieces.”

  “This Nazi, Rickman,” I say, “he has the two pieces in his possession?”

  “No, Mr. Baker,” he says. “He has only the larger piece. The tip resides with the Pope. It’s kept on a chain which is hung around his neck underneath his robes. It goes wherever he goes at all times. He is said to even sleep with it.”

  I slip out of the pew, take another good look at Christ and the wound in his side.

  I say, “What you’re telling me then, Father, is that since the lance in Rickman’s possession is incomplete, it does not possess the power necessary to kill him.”

  “Exactly, Chase,” he says. “Only when the tip of the spear is reunited with the larger lance, will it be authenticated and the power of God restored.”

  That’s when it hits me like a hammer to a nine-inch nail.

  “Father,” I say, reaching out, taking hold of his arm, “do you realize what this means?”

  He smokes, exhales, smokes again. His display of nerves tells me he knows exactly what I’m trying to say, but has been trying to talk himself out of it for hours or even days.

  “It means, Mr. Baker,” he says, “that the Pope’s life is in peril.”

  I say, “And since just assassinating the Pope isn’t going to get anyone, never mind our boy Adolf Rickman, that lance tip, it means they’re going to try to kidnap him. Am I right, Father?”

  “The spear was pirated a few days ago, Mr. Baker. At first, I thought it would be okay since the spear wasn’t complete. But then it dawned on me that they would figure out who has the tip and that it would be our Papal Father.” Smoking furiously. “I’ve been trying to tell myself they would never go after the Pope because if they do, it’s my fault.”

  My temples pound, pulse races.

  “Regardless of whose fault it is, Father O’Brien,” I say, “we need to get to the Pope, and get to him fast.”

  He stands, slides out of the pew.

  “Not only is the Holy Father untouchable, but he does not respond to threats.” Nodding in the direction of the crucifix. “He trusts only in Jesus. In God.”

  I take a moment to think it over.

  Then, “Is the Pope making any public appearances that you know of?”

  The old priest smokes, thinks. Then, his eyes light up.

  “He will be saying a special mass in the center of Piazza San Pedro on Wednesday at ten in the morning. A mass on behalf of the newly canonized St. Mother Theresa of Calcutta.”

  I listen to my gut.

  “That’s it,” I nod. “That’s where Rickman and his merry band of Neo-Nazi thugs are going to try and steal the Pope along with the tip of the spear.”

  “The Spear of Destiny,” he repeats.

  “Father,” I say. “What day is it?”

  “Tuesday afternoon, my son.”

  I pat my pants pockets. I have my wallet, which means I have credit cards. I pat the pockets on my bush jacket. I have my passport, and I have my .45. I have extra bullets. Chase the always prepared.

  “Grab your things, Father O’Brien,” I say. “We’re going to Rome.”

  He smiles again.

  He says, “I knew your sudden presence in my life was a miracle, Mr. Baker.”

  We both make our way quickly toward the altar and the open sacristy door.

  “Speaking of that,” I say, coming to a stop by the holy water-filled baptismal font, “how did you know I was even in the area? I was held up in a Berber nomad camp up a mountain in the middle of nowhere.”

  He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his smartphone.

  “Even the nomads have cell phones these days, Mr. Baker.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” I say. Then realizing what I just said, I gaze back up at the crucified Jesus. “Sorry about that, big guy.”

  Father O’Brien laughs, until he issues a sharp, “Ouch.” The lit cigarette has burned down to the tips of his fingers. Panicked, he tosses it into the baptismal font where it hisses. He pinches his earlobe with his burnt fingers—an old trick many cooks and chefs use when they accidentally burn themselves on a hot pan.

  For a moment, we both gaze at the ugly cigarette butt floating in the crystal clear holy water.

  “Fear not, Chase Baker,” the priest says, after a beat. “Is there no one who is without sin?”

  Chapter 6

  I use my Amex to pay for two Easy Jet tickets to Rome’s Leonardo Da Vinci International Airport which is located about forty minutes outside of the city center. Both tickets cost a whopping sixty Euros. You gotta love flying in the European Union.

  Once we’re through customs, I point out the overhead sign that will lead us to the exit and the taxi cue. But Father O’Brien shakes his head.

  “I have arranged for our pickup, Chase,” he informs. “A woman who is very close to me will be arriving any minute.”

  “A woman,” I say, a wave of optimism shooting through my veins. “What woman?”

  “A woman employed by the Vatican as a relic’s scholar. She will be of tremendous help in our mission.” He pats me on the shoulder like a father would his son. “She is also very beautiful,” he adds. “I am well aware of your reputation as a man who enjoys amore.”

  I can’t help but smile. Chase the always in love.

  “Is she a nun?” I ask.

  “Hardly,” he laughs. “Come to think of it, I’m not even sure she believes in God. She is all about the science.”

  Father O’Brien’s eyes light up. He’s focusing on the sidewalk and the car pull-up outside the automatic sliding glass doors.

  “There she is now,” he says. “Right on time.”

  Suddenly, I’ve got butterflies in my stomach. Just a like a high school kid.

  ***

  Turns out she’s more beautiful than the priest gave her credit.

  Maybe that’s because he’s a priest.

  Her name is Andrea, which in Italy is a man’s name, but then she’s from South America, so it all makes perfect sense. She’s tall, taller than me, and slim but wiry like she takes her workouts very seriously. Her eyes are big and gray-blue, and her hair is dark, if not black, and long. It’s parted neatly above her left eye. She’s dressed in black jeans and lace-up combat style boots, and for a top, she’s wearing a matching black, sleeveless tunic that shows off her colorful tattoos.

  Her arms are covered in them.

  I’ve never been much of a tattoo guy one way or another, but on her, they are very sexy. I peg her for maybe forty or early forties anyway, but one of those women who are both A-personality and forever young for their age. Their youth has nothing to do with immaturity, however. It’s more an attitude. An independent attitude.

  ***

  As I sit in the front shotgun seat of a Mercedes 4-door sedan being piloted by Andrea as she races along the highway toward downtown Rome, Father O’Brien in the back smoking yet another cigarette, I make the decision to get to know the Vatican scholar as well as I can. Which, of course means, inside and out, clothed and unclothed.

  But for now, anyway, I plan to put aside all plans of amore for the bigger picture, which is saving the Pope and finding Adolf Rickman, and in the process, retrieving the holy spear.

  It takes only five minutes for Father O’Brien to bring Andrea up to speed. Naturally, she’s aware the lance has been pirated, but the whole thing about the Pope being abducted while he says mass to honor St. Mother Theresa is an entirely new plot point for her. But, and these are her words, “An abduction to retrieve the spear tip could make perfect sense. So, tell me, Father O’Brien . . . Mr. Baker, how exactly do you plan on stopping the abductors from stealing the Papal Father? That is, such a plot exists in the first place.”

&
nbsp; “First of all,” I say, “call me Chase. Or you can call me Baker. But don’t call me Mr. Baker. Mr. Baker was my father.”

  She peels her eyes off the road, offers me a smile that makes me want to melt.

  “And second of all,” I go on, “way I see it, we got two choices. Immediately contact the police and immediately contact the police.”

  Andrea turns to me quick. This time, she’s not smiling.

  “Chase,” she says. “Do realize what could happen if we contact the authorities about a plot that might, in fact, be a figment of your imagination?”

  “Gee,” I interject, my face taking on the frown of the scolded, “I hardly even know you, Andrea.”

  “I don’t mean to be harsh,” she says. “But we have no proof someone is planning on kidnapping the Pope.”

  “She’s right, Chase,” Father O’Brien says from the backseat. “If we go off half-cocked to the police about some plot to steal the Pope, they might think we’re crazy and ban us from St. Peter’s altogether. The Italian authorities are funny like that.”

  “Okay,” I say, “I see your points. But nothing overrides the safety of the Pope, so we have no choice.”

  “There’s something else you’re not considering Chase,” Andrea goes on.

  “I can be taught,” I say with a grin. “Lay it on me.”

  “If it’s true Rickman and his Neo-Nazis plan on kidnapping the Pope,” she says, “and they spot a bunch of police, or if the police insist the Pope cancel his mass altogether or at the very least, move it inside, they will know we are onto them. They might do something entirely rash, like destroy the spear.”

  “Why would they destroy it if they want it so badly?” I pose.

  “Remember your history, Chase,” Father O’Brien speaks up. “The moment Hitler knew the German people were no longer going to support his dream of a one thousand year long Third Reich, he allowed the country to be destroyed. In fact, I believe some of his final words went something like this: If I can’t have what I want, then I will destroy it so no one will have it.”

  In my head, I’m rerunning all those old black and white newsreels of Nazi Germany in tatters. The Russians moving in on Berlin with their big tanks and big guns, blasting their way through the tall brick buildings, leaving the place in absolute apocalyptic shambles. The last film footage of Hitler, rising up for the last time from out of his deep underground bunker, his face withdrawn, heavy and old, eyes glassy and bloodshot, his hands trembling from what we now know was the onset of Parkinson’s disease. He was reviewing a pathetic line of little boys who he was sending into battle against experienced, blood-thirsty Russian soldiers, which was another way of saying he was sending little kids to their deaths. That film must have been taken within hours of his touching the Spear of Destiny. Because it was shot on the very afternoon he killed himself.