Juan Gómez-Jurado: Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition

‘And who might you be?’

Odile took a step forward and stood next to the bed, trying not to look at the dead girl.

‘My name is Odile Cohen, Dr Graus. I am Elan Cohen’s mother.’

The physician looked at Odile coldly and then turned to the nurse.

‘Get these Jews out of here, Fräulein Ulrike.’

The nurse grabbed Odile’s elbow and with a rough push positioned herself between the woman and the doctor. Josef rushed to help his wife and struggled with the hefty nurse. For moments they formed a bizarre trio, pushing in different directions without anyone gaining ground. Fräulein Ulrike’s face grew red from the effort.

‘Doctor, I’m sure there’s been a mistake,’ said Odile, fighting to get her head past the nurse’s broad shoulders. ‘My son is not mentally ill.’

Odile managed to free herself from the nurse’s grip and turned to the doctor.

‘It’s true that he hasn’t talked much since we lost our house, but he’s not mad. He’s here because of a mistake. If you let him go… Please let me give you the only thing we have left.’

She placed the package on the bed, making sure she didn’t touch the body of the dead girl as she carefully removed the newspaper wrapping. Despite the dimness of the ward, the golden object cast its glow on the surrounding walls.

‘It’s been in my husband’s family for generations, Dr Graus. I would rather have died than give this up. But my son, Doctor, my son…’

Odile began to cry and fell to her knees. The younger doctor barely noticed since his eyes were transfixed by the object on the bed. However, he managed to open his mouth long enough to destroy any hope the couple had left.

‘Your son is dead. Go away.’

As soon as the cold air outside hit her face Odile regained some strength. Holding on to her husband as they hurried away from the hospital, she was more fearful than ever of the curfew. Her mind was concentrated solely on getting back to the far side of the city, where their other son was waiting.

‘Hurry, Josef. Hurry.’

They quickened their pace through the steadily falling snow.

In his hospital office, Dr Graus hung up the phone with a distracted air and caressed the strange gold object on his desk. Minutes later, when the sirens from the SS vehicles reached him, he didn’t even look out of the window. His assistant said something about fleeing Jews, but Graus paid no attention.

He was busy planning young Cohen’s operation.

Main Characters

Clergy

FATHER ANTHONY FOWLER, agent working with both the CIA and the Holy Alliance.

FATHER ALBERT, ex-hacker. Systems Analyst with the CIA and liaison with Vatican intelligence.

BROTHER CESÁREO, Dominican. Curator of Antiquities at the Vatican.

Security Corps for Vatican City

CAMILO CIRIN, Inspector General. Also Head of the Holy Alliance, the Vatican’s secret intelligence service.

Civilians

ANDREA OTERO, reporter for the newspaper El Globo.

RAYMOND KAYN, multimillionaire industrialist.

JACOB RUSSELL, Kayn’s executive assistant.

ORVILLE WATSON, terrorism consultant and owner of Netcatch.

DR HEINRICH GRAUS, genocidal Nazi.

Personnel on the Moses Expedition

CECYL FORRESTER, biblical archaeologist.

DAVID PAPPAS, GORDON DURWIN, KYRA LARSEN, STOWE ERLING and EZRA LEVINE, assistants to Cecyl Forrester

MOGENS DEKKER, chief of security for the expedition.

ALOIS GOTTLIEB, ALRYK GOTTLIEB, TEWI WAAKA, PACO TORRES, LOUIS MALONEY and MARLA JACKSON, Dekker’s soldiers.

DR HAREL, physician on the excavation.

TOMMY EICHBERG, head driver.

ROBERT FRICK, BRIAN HANLEY, administration/technicians

NURI ZAYIT, RANI PETERKE, cooks

Terrorists

NAZIM and KHAROUF, members of the Washington cell.

O, D and W, members of the Syrian and Jordanian cells.

HUQAN, head of the three cells.

STEINFELDSTRAßE, 6

KRIEGLACH, AUSTRIA

Thursday, 15 December 2005. 11:42 a.m.

The priest wiped his feet carefully on the welcome mat before knocking on the door. After tracking the man for the past four months, he had finally discovered his hiding place two weeks ago. He was now sure of Handwurz’s true identity. The moment had come to confront him.

He waited patiently for a few minutes. It was noon and Graus would be having his customary midday nap on the sofa. There was hardly anyone in the narrow street at that hour. His neighbours on Steinfeldstraße were at work, unaware that at Number 6, in a small house with blue curtains at the windows, a genocidal monster was peacefully dozing in front of his TV set.

Finally the sound of a key in the lock warned the priest that the door was about to open. The head of an elderly man with the venerable air of someone in an advertisement for medical insurance appeared from behind the door.

‘Yes?’

‘Good morning, Herr Doktor.’

The old man looked the person who was addressing him up and down. The latter was tall, thin and bald, about fifty years of age, with a priest’s collar visible under his black coat. He stood on the doorstep with the rigid posture of a military guard, his green eyes observing the old man intently.

‘I think you’re mistaken, Father. I used to be a plumber, but now I’m retired. I’ve already contributed to the parish fund, so if you’ll excuse me…’

‘You aren’t by any chance Dr Heinrich Graus, the famous German neurosurgeon?’

The old man held his breath for a second. Aside from that, he did nothing that might give him away. However, that small detail was enough for the priest: proof positive.

‘My name is Handwurz, Father.’

‘That’s not true and we both know it. Now if you’ll let me in, I’ll show you what I’ve brought with me.’ The priest raised his left hand, in which he held a black briefcase.

The door swung open in response and the old man limped quickly towards the kitchen, the ancient floorboards protesting with each step. The priest followed but paid little attention to the surroundings. He had peered in through the windows on three separate occasions and already knew the location of each item of cheap furniture. He preferred keeping his eyes fixed on the old Nazi’s back. Even though the doctor walked with some difficulty, the priest had seen him lifting sacks of coal from the shed with an ease that a man decades younger might have envied. Heinrich Graus was still a dangerous man.

The small kitchen was dark and smelled rancid. It had a gas stove, a counter on which sat a dried-up onion, a round table, and two unmatched chairs. Graus gestured for the priest to sit down. The old man then rummaged through a cupboard, took out two glasses, filled them with water and set them on the table before taking a seat himself. The glasses remained untouched as the two men sat there, impassive, regarding each other for over a minute.

The old man was dressed in a red flannel bathrobe, cotton shirt, and worn trousers. He had started going bald twenty years earlier, and the little hair he had left was completely white. His large round glasses had gone out of style before the fall of communism. The relaxed expression around his mouth lent him a good-natured air.

None of this fooled the priest.

Dust particles floated in the shaft of light created by the weak rays of the December sun. One of them landed on the priest’s sleeve. He flicked it away without taking his gaze from the old man.

The smooth certainty of the gesture did not go unnoticed by the Nazi, but he’d had time to recover his composure.