Chapter 32

St. Mark's Books was a small shop situated only a couple blocks off St. Mark's Square. Pedestrians, a mix of tourists and residents, filled the sidewalks and alleys. Since there were no automobiles or bicycles, all traffic – except for the canals – was by foot.

After making certain no one was at the bookshop, Annja rejoined Roux and Stanley at the open-air bistro across the street. They'd ordered breakfast and it was waiting by the time Annja took her seat.

"Don't be impatient," Roux advised.

"I'm not impatient," Annja said. It was hard to be irritable with him when she was wearing clothes – really good clothes – that he'd bought for her in the dead of night. "I'm anxious. I keep expecting Garin."

"He's not here." Roux helped himself to a ham-and-cheese frittata, then added another sweet roll, as well.

Annja didn't hold back. Roux wasn't the only one gifted with a fast metabolism. She piled her plate high. "How do you know he's not here?" she asked.

"He called me last night."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I knocked. I heard you snoring, so rather than wake you, I thought I'd wait until this morning."

"I don't snore."

"You snore," Stanley said.

Annja shot him a look.

"In a ladylike manner," he added. "A loud ladylike manner."

"What did Garin say?" Annja asked.

"He was glad to see that we hadn't been killed. Then he told me he'd be happy to do the job himself if we continued to interfere."

"Where is he?"

"Austria, if his phone number was legitimate. I've heard those can be artificially altered."

"Who's Garin?" Stanley asked.

Annja let Roux field that one.

"A former associate. He's become somewhat disenchanted with us, I'm afraid."

"That's too bad. You guys are a blast to be around. Gunfights. Car chases. Never a dull moment. I've already started fleshing out my next plot. It's gonna be a doozie. It's going to feature a young woman who's struggling to get her independence from her doting archaeologist grandfather, who's kind of a passive-aggressive control freak, only he's gone missing in the wilds of... of somewhere – I'll work that out later – and she's the only person in the world who can find him. Their minds think alike, see?"

"We don't think alike," Annja said.

"And I don't picture myself as a doting grandfather," Roux said. "Furthermore, how can you possibly be both doting and a passive-aggressive manipulator at the same time?"

"If he's never around to share things with her – " Annja shot Roux a glance " – how can he be controlling?"

Stanley sighed and held his hands up, palms out. "Guys, could we take an ego break here? I'm going to be writing a novel, not a biography. Those two characters aren't you guys. They're the people I imagine them to be." He frowned. "You know, this is why writers never talk about their books to their friends. The friends keep trying to see themselves in the plot."

Roux muttered something under his breath.

"And this is novel writing," Stanley continued, "not brain surgery. You can't take fiction too seriously. If it was too much like real life, it would be boring." He looked around. "Although I'll be the first to admit that you guys don't have boring lives."

****

The owner of St. Mark's Books was a man named Michelangelo DiBenedetto. He was in his late fifties or early sixties, portly and had a habit of running his hand through his longish cotton-white hair. He arrived at ten minutes before ten, put the open sign in the door, and was just setting out a stand of clearance books when Annja approached him.

"Good morning," he greeted in English.

"Good morning," Annja said.

DiBenedetto looked at Annja strangely. "I know you. You're Annja Creed. Mario's friend."

The words hurt. It was one thing to be remembered as the cohost on Chasing History's Monsters, which she got a lot – but the association DiBenedetto made reminded her of what had been lost to bring her to this point of her journey.

"You're also supposed to be dead," DiBenedetto went on. "At least, the police keep denying that you are so dogmatically that the media is certain that you are."

"Dead?" Annja repeated.

"In the terrorist attack at the airport."

"They're saying it was a terrorist attack?"

DiBenedetto nodded. "One of those fruitcake fringe groups called in and took credit for it." He looked past Annja and spotted Stanley. A grin split the shopkeeper's face. "You'd be Stanley Younts."

"I am." Stanley was obviously happy to be recognized.

"I would have known you from your picture on the back cover of the books," DiBenedetto said. "Even if there hadn't been all the press coverage this morning."

"Well," Roux said sourly, "I can see that disguises will be in order before we go much further in this endeavor."

They went inside the store, and Roux and Stanley combed the book racks. Both of them wanted to stock up on reading material, and DiBenedetto had some first editions of Younts's books that he wanted autographed.

While they were busy with that, the bookstore owner got the package Mario had left for Annja.

The package was rectangular and five inches thick. Covered in brown paper and secured by twine, it looked unassuming.

"Do you know what it is?" Annja asked.

"No. Mario didn't say. He just asked me to keep it here for him. Until he returned or you came for it."

Annja took her Swiss Army knife out and cut the twine. "Do you know what happened to Mario?"

DiBenedetto nodded somberly. "The family called me and told me. They're going to have the funeral in a couple of days – when they get his body back from the United States. I'm going to shut down the shop and go. He was always in and out of the shop, always talking about things he was researching. I enjoyed our conversations."

The revelation caught Annja's attention. "Had you known him long?"

"Sure." DiBenedetto shrugged. "Since he was a boy. He was my nephew. I married his mother's sister."

Mario had left the package with family. It made perfect sense to Annja then. She unwrapped the contents of the package.

Two books, both leather covered and thick, came loose in her hands. One bore the stamp of the Vatican and looked very old.

"If I didn't know any better," DiBenedetto said, "I'd say that was the genuine article."

"It is genuine," Annja said. The reverent tone in her voice drew Roux and Stanley close. They looked over her shoulder.

An outdated cursive script covered the pages, written in Latin. The first entry was dated January 23, 1209: "Here Opens the Personal Narrative of Janis Ozolini, Town Historian."

"That book is eight hundred years old," Stanley said.

Annja nodded.

"But it's gotta be a fake."

"Why?" Annja asked.

"Because the pages are too white. A paperback has a shelf life of about three weeks and begins to yellow on day one."

"This is the way paper used to be made," Roux said. "The way it should always be made. If you get the chance to look at some of the books that were made six and seven hundred years ago, and longer, I think you'd be surprised at how well they were made, from the paper to the stitching to the binding." He shook his head. "You just don't see that kind of quality anymore."

"I'll take your word for it," Younts said.

"Come to my house sometime," Roux invited. "I'll show you the private collection I've put together."

Annja looked at Roux in irritation. He usually wasn't so generous with his things.

He refused to meet her gaze.

There was a note from Mario in the first book. Annja read it aloud to the others.

 

Dear Annja,

If you're getting these books from Uncle Michelangelo, then I guess that means something has gone horribly wrong.

I wasn't looking for this story when I found it. But that's the way things are sometimes in our field, isn't it? Looking for one thing and finding another.

Of course, I was looking for embarrassing discrepancies committed by the Holy Roman Church because that seems to be all the rage these days. While doing that in my copious spare time – the job there as an archivist was not only boring, but there wasn't much of it – I started researching the Teutonic order. You know, the German knights in black and white that went forth to smite religion into the heads of unbelievers?

I found this journal – please see to it that Archbishop Morelli gets it back because he is really a decent person who loves books and I didn't exactly tell him I was taking it with me when I left – and the story it contained. It's not really a big secret, but apparently it was enough of one.

It seems there was this Austrian baron, Frederick of Schluter, who got the story of a Viking who lived among the Curonians. As the tale was told, this Viking was named Thor and he had an enchanted hammer that gave him power against all his enemies.

One of the stories involved Thor's untold wealth that he brought with him from wherever it was that he hailed from. No one has said and I haven't found that story. Yet. Hopefully you will.

Apparently Frederick of Schluter was obsessed by the treasure story and went to Riga to find it. He and his men ran roughshod over the local villagers. Ozolini's journal describes the murders the baron committed, as well as the rape and torture of the villagers. Evidently Frederick was cruel and sadistic.

Ozolini, as you'll see, was appalled by the baron's bloodthirsty ways. He documented the atrocities in this journal. I've marked the sections for you. Ozolini states his intention of presenting the case before Pope Innocent III, hoping to get Frederick of Schluter thrown out of the Teutonic order. He sent the journal by messenger while he came back by another route. Evidently he'd told Baron Frederick his intentions.

As you'll doubtless remember from history class, Innocent III's reign was supposed to return the Catholic Church to power during his term. He succeeded and failed. There was enough political infighting going on during those years that the journal arrived and was promptly shelved.

I found a few letters by archivists suggesting the pope take a look at the journal. Unfortunately, Innocent III had his hands full dealing with the fallout from the Fourth Crusade. He was totally ticked at how the crusaders handled the situation. They were supposed to open a way to the Holy Land. Instead, they attacked and eventually sacked Constantinople.

As a result, the split between the Catholic West and Orthodox East became irrevocable, and the church's power was forever affected. Several more years of accusations and attacks on the church followed.

It's no wonder that this journal was lost. Plus, I think Frederick of Schluter had friends in the church who searched for the journal. The archivist who championed the journal was eventually murdered. I looked him up in the papal histories. His murderers were never caught.

As for Ozolini, he was killed by brigands not far outside the village where he'd lived his whole life. Personally, I believe Frederick of Schluter hired someone or masked his identity while he did it himself. Ozolini's death was recorded in a book kept by the father who kept the church there. I found that out when I visited.

So the only person who's truly following this story now is you, Annja.

On a more personal note, I fell in love with a woman. Believe it or not, I was smitten with her almost as soon as I laid eyes on her. There's something about falling in love at first sight that I never expected. I didn't believe it, either. My sisters tried to explain it to me, but I wouldn't listen. I was too busy chasing the past to live in the present, they said, and maybe they were right.

Her name is Erene Skujans. She's a hedge witch in the community where I was staying. I know you know what a hedge witch is. But she's something more, too. I didn't find out the whole truth until it was too late.

After I'd lived there for a few months, I discovered inadvertently who she truly was. I'd known she'd left the village for a while, but I hadn't known where she'd gone or what she'd done. Her grandmother before her had been the village hedge witch. Erene had been trained to take over for her. She didn't want to, and chose to run away. Personally, I could understand a teenage girl wanting to broaden her horizons.

I met a man in town who told me that Erene was a professional thief and confidence woman. At first, I didn't believe him. But he had arrest records and photographs. The evidence was right there. He told me he was an international bounty hunter there to take her in. He said he'd been a policeman and had pursued Erene for a time, but he'd never caught her.

I may be slow, Annja, and a little off my game when it came to this woman, but you can't ignore an oversight like that. She'd lied to me by omission. You can't take back something like that. One thing living with my family has always taught me is to always be truthful in a relationship.

I left the next day. Erene had shown a lot of interest in the treasure, though I doubt it's there, but there might be other artifacts. I thought she was just excited to see me succeed. But now I don't think that was the case at all. Erene went back home to hide out and regroup after a particularly nasty failure.

I had these books sent in secret to Uncle Michelangelo, then sent a more obvious package to your address in Brooklyn.

Whatever's happened to me, make sure you take care of yourself. This find, if it's Viking treasure, I hope will be significant. But there are other people looking for it.

While researching the facts in Ozolini's book, I contacted Baroness Schluter. She still lives in the family castle outside Vienna. I was surprised she knew as much of the story as she did, but I could also tell she was reticent to share much with me.

Baron Frederick's vile treatment of the locals while in pursuit of the treasure was graphically described by Ozolini. If the story gets out today, there might be repercussions. The Schluter family remains a member of the Teutonic order, but that would probably change given the circumstances of Baron Frederick's service. He did manage to build a church, but he also filled a graveyard with victims.

The baroness told me she'd see me burn in hell before the story of her ancestor came to light. I believed her. She's eighty-something years old and a scary old bat. Not to mention the grandson. Wolfram Schluter is aptly named. There's a hunger and evil in him that you can see. I found out later, while researching the family, that the barony is almost destitute. Greed has always motivated treasure hunters.

As you'll see in Ozolini's journal, when Thor died, the belief is that he was given a Viking funeral. He was put in a small boat in the harbor and set on fire. No mention was made of what became of his hammer or the wealth he'd amassed.

It's there, Annja, and I think I've almost found it. Hopefully you and I will be able to find it together. You were a lot better at site surveys than I was. As near as I can figure, there's a catacomb of old Roman graves somewhere out there that Thor used to hide his treasure.

 

There was more to the letter, but it was of a personal nature. Annja didn't read it aloud. Mario had intended that part for her only, and she wanted to keep it that way.

Continuing to leaf through the journal, Annja saw the book contained drawings of people and places, as well as maps of the general area. She shifted her attention to the second book.

"Fellini was making a copy," Roux said.

"Why didn't he just photocopy the original?" Stanley asked.

Annja leafed through the second book. She noticed the change from the original notations to extra patches of narrative that Mario had written in.

"Because he was annotating this copy," Annja realized. "Adding in details from his personal observations and on-site fact-finding."

"In Riga?" Roux asked.

"Outside Riga," Annja said. "He said he stayed in a village he guessed was near the original site where Thor landed and repelled the Vikings." She looked at Roux. "I need some time to read through this."

Roux looked troubled. "We don't have a lot of time. There are others obviously seeking the same treasure."

"They haven't found it yet," Annja reminded him. "We have some time."

"It will take a while to set up a means to get out of Venice and to Riga. You can work en route."

"Terrific," Annja said. "Generous much?"

Roux scowled at her. "Sitting around isn't the way you do things, and you know it. Nor is it how I do things."

"Okay," Annja agreed. "Guilty as charged." She was itching to be on the move herself.