Shrouded In Silence

4





Uncertainty and fear rumbled down the ancient streets of Rome. The police had not found significant clues to identify the perpetrators of the terrorist crime during the three days following the bombing in the subway. With the police stymied, the citizens of Rome became more agitated over what might happen next. Yet, the furious speed of cars on the narrow boulevards and overcrowded thoroughfares did not diminish. The press of Rome's always urgent business of merchants and tourism continued to hammer out a daily tempo that never slackened. Constantly studying the social terrain through glasses thick enough to be prisms, Dr. Albert Stein understood these facts well.

Stein had moved to Rome from Munich, Germany, a few months before and had taken up residence in a flat on Via del Gracchi not far from Vatican City. Having studied at and departed from Tübingen five years before the Townsends arrived, the short, thick professor had completed his PhD studies at Stuttgart and then gone on for more detailed work in biblical form criticism at Oxford, England, before coming to Rome. He had selected the small residence on Via del Gracchi because it was not ostentatious and the location gave him close access to the Vatican's vast library. A harsh critic of Scripture, Albert Stein had been smitten with the desert discoveries near the village of Nag Hammadi in Egypt. Studying the Gospel of Thomas as well as The Gospel of Judas had captivated his interest. Subsequent ancient tracts like The Gospel of Truth and The Gospel of the Egyptians pulled Stein into Gnosticism. Brilliant, Stein remained equally caustic and acrimonious. Hoping to become a renowned household name with worldwide recognition, his lack of notable achievement had left him frustrated.

As the recovery of the automobile business climbed after World War II, money had poured into the Stein family coffers more by good fortune than by design. Having been part of the Nazi war machine, their manufacturing industry fell with the state. The Steins expected harsh reprisals from the Allies, but the Americans needed the Stein factories for the rebuilding of Germany, and out of the ashes a new promise had risen. With the private fortune of the Stein family's holdings in Germany's automobile industry behind him, Albert Stein had the resources to pursue his private interest in any direction he chose. Nevertheless, the Stein family maintained an irrational hatred for all things American. Six decades later, Albert Stein still carried an abiding disdain for anyone from the United States.

Albert knew that a streak of cruelty ran through his personality. In sharp contrast to his academic achievements, a hidden malevolent urge could erupt when he became highly agitated. For years he had tried to control these outbursts, but when the surge of rage overpowered him, he was capable of murderous responses. With time he had written off the problem with the quip "everybody has their problems."

The loud honking of a car in the street below his balcony interrupted his reading. Stein looked at his watch and walked to the window. Another tie-up in traffic had shut the street down, but he needed to take a break from his work to keep an appointment he had made earlier. Putting out the cigarette he had been smoking, he reached for the files on his desk and pulled out a manila folder marked "Klaus Burchel." Satisfied after making a quick survey of the contents, he grabbed a sport jacket and stopped in front of the mirror beside the front door, which he always did to make sure his appearance was proper.

Albert could see that his blond hair and the unusually thick lenses in his glasses made him look somewhat older than forty-eight, but he had an Aryan face for which the Germans maintained pride. His high forehead fit the aristocratic background he liked to claim. Albert picked up the black fedora he habitually pulled low over his eyes to cover his face. The reflection always told the same story of man with a well-defined nose that suggested a forceful personality. Because of his disposition that could explode in violent behavior, Albert knew he needed the appearance of the elite to cover this flaw in his character. Even with his financial resources, beating someone with a cane could turn into an enormous problem. His elegant dress attempted to add to the appearance of a patrician. The mirror seemed to say he looked dapper and was ready for a stroll down to the restaurant.

The explosive side of his personality seemed to have developed out of nowhere. Of course, his father had a nasty habit of beating the children, but the savage tendency had been fed by his conflicts with Albert's older brother Rune. Whatever superiority that age gave Rune, Albert had learned that ferocity could equalize. Time and repetition had ingrained these tendencies. Obviously, few PhD's had a disposition for cruelty, but he did. Forget it. Life had to go on as it was.

Albert paused and glanced around his small living room at the strange assembly of electrical equipment he had accumulated for his secret project. Mix-and-match surveillance camera equipment sat next to weatherproof security cameras. Infrared light sources had been stacked in one corner with splitters and audio recovery monitors. A digital video recorder stood on a small antique table. Boxes with small microphones were pushed together. Wires and cables lay strung out on the floor. Albert smiled, knowing he was prepared for serious espionage.

Closing the door behind him, he hurried down the stairs and out onto the street, walking toward Ristorante Il Matriciano. The family-run establishment specialized in uncomplicated country fare, which Stein always enjoyed. Their classic bucatini alla matriciana, richly flavored with bacon, tomatoes, and basil, remained one of his favorites. Albert intended to arrive early before his contact showed and take time to glance at a newspaper. He increased his pace and quickly found an outdoor table to his liking. Sitting down, he snapped his fingers at a man selling papers and signaled for him to bring one over.

"A Signor!" The vendor hurried over. The old cap pulled down over his head modestly shielded his eyes. "A newspaper?"

Stein nodded, and the man handed him the paper. Albert placed one euro in his hand then brushed him away. The man tipped his hat and humbly returned to his stand.

The headlines remained the same, shouting their reports on the subway tragedy. Albert scanned the big stories and quickly turned the page. After reading about a blast in a subway, he pressed on. Suddenly he stopped. The smaller headline read, "Americans Track Lost Scripture." Stein lunged forward and caught his breath. It was a story about Jack and Michelle Townsend doing research in Rome. With a hard thrust of his fist, Stein pounded the table.

If there was anyone that Albert Stein despised, it was Jack Townsend. He had been a stumbling block for Stein's research for the last several years. Constantly posing questions that made Stein's insights seem shallow, Townsend inevitably kept Albert from the recognition he thought his work deserved. Albert had printed a book contending that during the period of oral tradition immediately following Jesus' death, the actual story of his life had been fabricated and twisted by his followers. It was not possible to know anything Jesus actually said from the Gospels that were written a generation later at the earliest. Stein would place their creation in the second century, although this was contested by many scholars. Townsend had countered that the words of Jesus were inseparable from his person. Jesus and his teaching were not like the oral transmission of the scribes because he always remained present in his words. That argument had cost Stein and created in him a hatred for Townsend that simmered to this very moment.

One of the reasons Stein had come to Rome was to get the jump on Jack and Michelle Townsend. When he learned they were headed for Rome, Albert immediately anticipated arriving in the city ahead of them and spying on what they were researching. While he had other work to do, he had to beat them to the punch, particularly with such a project as described in the Il Messaggero newspaper. Now this article splashed the Townsends' enterprise all over the world! Stein's endeavors deserved such headlines, not these upstart Americans.

The edges of the newspaper curled up in Albert's hands and his fists tightened. How could it be that Jack Townsend had gotten ahead of him again? It was the exact thing he hated. The Townsends were not only scholars at the opposite end of the theological scale, they were Americans, which made the injury a double insult. The denazification program that followed Germany's World War II defeat had been an affront that lay buried in Stein's soul. Nothing about these arrogant Americans sat right with him. The story in the newspaper only inflamed an already chronic wound.

Albert abruptly crushed the paper in his hands with a loud crackling noise. Other customers turned to see what caused the sound, but Albert threw the newspaper on the sidewalk. The vendor who had sold him the newspaper looked up in surprise. Stein returned a hostile glance, knowing that his thick glasses made his anger appear even more intense.

Albert crossed his arms over his chest and cursed under his breath. This was the last thing he expected. He glanced at his watch; his appointment should be showing up. If there was ever a time when he needed an assistant, it was now.

Albert visually scoured each person walking down the sidewalks, looking for the man. Ambling down the street in a slow shiftless pace, Albert could see a skinny young man who looked to be around thirty, shuffling along in worn tennis shoes and torn blue jeans. From his right eye the remnants of a nasty scar ran down the side of his cheek. The injury made him easy to identify, but it also meant he had been a risk taker and Stein needed a daredevil more than an invisible man. As he drew closer, Albert could see that his shaved head added to a sinister appearance, but time or a wig could erase the lack of hair. The young man had large, strong looking hands with calloused sides that supported his claim to skill in Karate. He looked exactly like the surveillance report said he would. Albert raised his hand to signal Klaus Burchel to come in his direction.

The German nodded that he understood, but his leisurely shuffle didn't pick up the pace. Klaus Burchel swung into the eating area and eased down opposite Stein.

"Hey man, you must be Dr. Albert Stein," the young man said casually.

"And you are Klaus Burchel?" Stein said in a flat voice with no movement in his face.

"You got it, dude." Burchel jutted his lower lip out arrogantly. "At your service."

Stein studied him for a moment. He looked like one of the despicable pack of displaced students wandering around Rome with weird haircuts and drug-induced mentalities. Albert watched the man's eyes and guessed there was much more here than a brain fried from popping pills. Burchel might look like a punk, but he had more between his ears even though he was keeping the fact concealed. Stein already knew far more about the young man than Burchel would have dreamed possible.

"Then, let us begin at the beginning and proceed. You will always call me Dr. Stein and never allude to me by my first name or any asides such as 'man,' or 'dude,' and I intend that you do the same in private. Is that understood?"

Burchel blinked several times. "Sure, yeah."

"I don't want to hear 'yeah' either. Your answers will be 'yes' and 'no,' and I expect you to be candid and straightforward. No jive talk. No drug lingo. Understood?"

"Whatever."

"One more of those cute replies and you're finished."

Burchel's eyes narrowed, and his mouth dropped slightly, but he said nothing.

"If you are going to work for me, our relationship will be on a professional basis with you doing exactly as you are told." Stein leaned forward so he could stare straight into Burchel's eyes. I will always refer to you by the name of Klaus Burchel although I know your real name and who your grandfather was."

Klaus Burchel jerked and the breath seemed to leave him. A defeated look swept over his face and all swagger vanished. "You do?"

"I know you are financially overextended and need the work," Stein continued. "You are in Italy because you needed to get out of Germany for legal reasons as well as a few financial problems. If you perform as you are capable, I will reward you significantly. I am hiring you to be my bodyguard and driver. You will be asked to do a number of things that are illegal. You've done such in the past, so those jobs should not be a problem for you. As your service to me increases, so will your pay. If you don't, you will be instantly terminated. I know that you can become difficult and resistant. I also know you were raised to be conforming. I expect instant obedience. Understood?"

Burchel swallowed hard. "Yes . . . yes. I agree."

"Can I take it you are willing to work on this basis?"

"Absolutely. Yes. I do need the money, but how did you find out about . . . my grandfather?"

"I made a complete check of your background because I have the resources to do so." Stein bounced his long thin fingers together. "I know all about you. For example, I know that you hate Jews and Americans."

Burchel's mouth dropped.

Stein reached in his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. "I am giving you a thousand euros to buy new clothes. Get rid of those despicable tennis shoes and worn pants. Throw them away and start dressing like a competent human being. When I see you again I want you in a suit. Any problem with that?

"No sir!" Klaus Burchel stuck out his hand for the money.

Stein kept the bills in his hand. "Once you take this cash you are working for me and I expect absolute fidelity. You will be at my beck and call twenty-four hours a day. I expect to reach you by cell phone at a moment's notice. Is that clear?"

Burchel's mouth dropped slightly as he nodded his head.

"How long you been snorting coke?"

Burchel caught his breath and reeled back in his chair. He bit his lip. "Too long. I will quit doing drugs."

"You will, indeed," Stein said. "And don't renege on me if you want to keep this job?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right," Albert Stein said and handed him the money. "You can leave. Get yourself cleaned up and report to my apartment by 9 a.m. tomorrow." He shoved a card across the table. "The address and phone number."

"My phone number is—"

"I already have it, " Stein cut him off. "Now get on your way."

Klaus Burchel stood up. All signs of arrogant indifference had disappeared. His head kept bobbing as he backed away. Finally, he turned and walked swiftly down the street.

Through his thick glasses, Albert Stein watched him disappear into the crowded thoroughfare. As usual, he had started the relationship by putting himself in firm control. He had no question in his mind but that Burchel would do as he had been told. He needed the money. Whether Burchel liked it or not, following orders was simply part of the German militaristic disposition that flowed in his bloodstream as it had with his grandfather, Richard Baer, who Albert still admired. He would make that inclination work for his interests.



Klaus Burchel blended into the crowd and disappeared down the stairway running into the subway system. At the bottom, he stopped to count the euros again. A thought floated through his mind. He could take the money and run. What a plum gig he could throw! A thousand euros would buy several nights of premium highs. On the other hand, the old freak could turn up information like a magician making canaries appear out of thin air. Running might end up with getting his head smashed. The old man even knew about his grandfather and Klaus's true name.

Burchel needed the money badly. Rome was expensive, and it cost even to bed down in flop houses. He'd gotten his butt hung out to dry once too often. In the shadows of the subway, Klaus Burchel made a decision. No matter how much he hated this arrogant jerk's demands, he'd buckle under. If Stein could gather the information that he had, he might be useful if a possible run-in with the police bubbled up. But most of all, Klaus simply needed the money. He'd keep his mouth shut and, to keep the cash flowing, kiss the old man's backside as faithfully as a guard dog welcoming the master home.