I, Saul (18 page)

One thing Augie Knox had learned from his taciturn father was how to travel. Much as the old man had hated it, and happy as he was to turn over the bulk of it to his son, Edsel Knox knew all the tricks of the trade. Besides keeping his passport and visas up to date, he never checked a suitcase and carried on just one leather shoulder bag. It contained just three of every piece of clothing he needed. While having one cleaned he could wear the second and have one in reserve. He'd washed enough of his own shirts, underwear, and socks to get by in a pinch. He was wearing the one pair of shoes he would need for every contingency.

All his reading had been downloaded to his phone, with its nearly unlimited capacity, and his toiletries were the smallest, most compact he could find.

The only extra bulk on this trip was the dozens of blue books, but he had discarded each as he graded it and electronically stored his evaluation. Except for a brief layover in Atlanta, Augie had devoted about three-quarters of the ten-hour flight to plowing through the finals.

He had catnapped, and now as the plane taxied to the gate, Augie felt remarkably refreshed. He would grow drowsy by early evening, but finally finding out what was going on with Roger kept his mind off his own fatigue.

As Augie hauled his bag out of the overhead bin and slipped his passport into his pocket, he transmitted grades back to the seminary, then speed-dialed Sofia. It was an hour later in Greece, and she would be on her way to work.

“Glad you called,” she said. “You haven't tried Roger yet, have you?

“Soon as we hang up.”

“Don't. He still sounds petrified, Augie.”

“My phone is secure.”

“He's afraid his new one has already been hacked.”

“Yet he called you?”

“He's talking only in code now, Augie. Told me to tell you to go to the exact spot where you and he met to discuss the cruise to Malta. Said you'd remember.”

“I do, but that's—.”

“Don't be specific, Augie. He's frantic we not give anything away by phone. He doesn't think anyone knows you're coming, but don't bet on it. He'll be in disguise.”

“Disguise?”

“He made a big point of the
exact
spot.”

“I know the place.”
Problem is, it's in Naples.

“Augie, keep in touch, will you? I'm dying to know what's up, and I'm worried about you both.”

“Just wish I knew what he wanted from me.”

“I know you'll do whatever you have to do, love.”

Fortunately Augie knew his way through Fiumicino Aeroporto and instinctively followed the crowd through Terminal 3 to Customs, checking his phone for trains to Napoli. One was to leave a few minutes after nine for the 110-mile trip and would cost him eighty dollars.

“Business or pleasure?” the customs agent said, studying his face and his passport photo.

“Business. American tour guide meeting with—.”

“I can see where you are from, sir,” she said, smiling.

“My bad.Visiting a colleague.”

“Where?”

“Napoli and then probably back here in the city.”

“I see you're leaving your return open.”

He shrugged. “I do love this place.”

“Welcome to Italy, Dr. Knox.”

The temperature in Rome would be thirty degrees lower than Dallas by noon. Augie hadn't imagined enjoying 72 degrees again for months, but the cloudless sunny day was idyllic.

Onboard the train Augie texted Sofia. “Tell him my ETA is 11:15.”

She responded, “OK. Praying.”

Augie's phone bore nearly two hundred downloaded books for just such a time as this. But try as he might, he couldn't find a thing that held his interest. Nothing could take his mind off whatever jam Roger was in.

In all the years Augie had known Roger Michaels, he had never seen the man rattled. Unflappable, Marie Knox had called him. On tours,
schedules changed without warning. Bureaucratic delays were common. You never knew when to grease a palm or stare down an implied request for a bribe. Worse, the members of the tours themselves often proved difficult. Some were impossible to please. Others shadowed you, eager to ingratiate themselves.

Roger seemed to respect people of faith. Jewish by birth, he didn't practice that religion either. He didn't call himself an agnostic, let alone an atheist, “more of a deist.” He was deferential to the many Christians drawn to Augie's tours. Few people detected—without probing—that Roger was irreligious. He easily quoted from both the Old and New Testaments. Only if someone directly asked would he allow that he was “still on the path, searching, but not in the market for more input, if you don't mind.”

People all over the world who liked, admired, respected, yes, loved Roger Michaels were praying for his soul. Augie often teased him, “You're surrounded. You have no hope.”

If Roger's life was truly in danger, would he be more receptive? Or less?

Disguise. What might that look like? Augie thought he'd recognize him regardless. Roger was short, solid, and anything but fat. At about five eight and two hundred pounds, still he was agile and quick. He almost always wore tan hiking boots with one-inch soles, laced all the way up and double tied, revealing two inches of white sock. Unless he was at a site that required long pants, he wore khaki cargo shorts. Outlined in one bulging pocket were a half dozen or so granola bars, and in the other his phone and a passel of pens.

He wore flannel lumberjack shirts that had been crudely tailored into short sleeves, topped by a thin, breathable vest laden with guidebooks, maps, and more pens. Though he was fair-skinned, Roger's massive arms
were dark from the sun, sporting downy bleached hair. His watch could be mistaken for a small Buick.

He often wore a floppy fisherman's-style cap over longish hair that had gone from blond to gray in the years Augie had known him. Same with the full beard that started just below Roger's sun-reddened cheeks.

The most popular guide in Israel, largely because of his stentorian voice, Roger was good humored but never silly. His pale-blue eyes danced and he loved to weave stories. Augie could not remember even a hint of frustration clouding the man's face. He seemed to always be smiling, radiating confidence without conceit. He had been such a mentor to Augie, especially early in their relationship, which was why Augie considered Roger his best friend today.

As the train neared Napoli, Augie found himself fighting dread. He hated the idea of his mentor and best friend being worried about anything—let alone terrified.

The Malta cruise meeting had come on Augie's second solo trip. His father had finally fully ceded the work to him, and he and Roger spent an hour sketching out the six-day excursion. Roger had invited Augie to stay at his Rome apartment, but business had taken Roger to Napoli, so they met there at one of Roger's favorite haunts.

The South African had an affinity for local eateries. The Portauovo, a tiny square box decorated largely with rough-hewn wood, boasted a dozen tables and served breakfast twenty-four hours a day. It lay tucked between shops and bigger restaurants across the street from Piazza Giuseppe Garibaldi station, one floor down from Napoli Centrale, where Roger's train would pull in.

Roger had quizzed Augie about the name of the place the first time they ate there. Augie wracked his brain for the little Italian he knew. “Egg something?”

“Very good. The Egg Cup. I recommend the—.”

“Eggs?”

Roger had roared. Augie could never bring the man's face to mind without imagining a toothy grin surrounded by that massive beard.

Finally disembarking, Augie had to remind himself which escalator to take. When the Portauovo came into view, Augie looked for the very table in the back corner where they had met the first time. It was the only empty table as lunchtime approached and waiting customers spilled into the street. They had to wonder why a table sat empty with so many in line. But a tiny tented card read
Riservati.

Augie slipped to the front of the line in the face of scowls. The host frowned at him until Augie nodded toward the reserved table. “Knox,” he whispered.

“Si.
Seguimi.”

Augie followed him and as soon as he sat down his phone chirped. “1 minute,” Roger had texted. “no big greeting, K?”

When Roger approached, only his body was familiar, if not quite as broad. He wore navy Crocs, no socks, dress slacks, no belt, a tuxedo shirt, cuffs rolled up. The beard was gone, revealing a pasty, babyish face that contrasted with his rosy forehead and newly bony cheekbones. A beret covered his head, but when Roger doffed it at Augie's astonished look, he revealed a shaved head.

It felt strange not to bear hug the man, but Augie had to squint even to be sure it was the same person he'd known so long. Gone was the smile, the twinkle. And in place of the usual broad-shouldered posture, Roger sat slumped, folded in on himself. His eyes darted and his fingers twitched. Besides scared, Roger Michaels looked embarrassed.

“Sorry about my look,” he said simply.

“You do what you've got to do, Rog. Now what's going on?” A waiter appeared and pointed to the menu chalked on the wall. “Nothing for me,” Roger said.

“Nonsense,” Augie said. “We both want the three-egg omelet and a large orange juice.”

“I can't eat,” Roger said as the waiter left.

“Force yourself. You look gaunt. Now give ….”

Michaels looked around, leaned forward, and whispered, his voice shaky. “Augie, I've been entrusted with the greatest find in history.”

“What, the Dead Sea Scr—?”

“Bigger.” Roger wrenched around again, staring.

“Who are you afraid of?”

“I can't trust anyone. This is so huge, Augie. Have you ever known me to exaggerate?” “Never.”

“I'm talking about the most important document since the New Testament. You'll have to see it to believe it. Sometimes I wish I'd never laid eyes on it.”