THE WEAPON LAY dormant in its glass case, its master long forgotten except for the placard at the foot of the case. Lechaim looked down to read what was written there.
'The 'BROADSWORD' is a broad-bladed weapon used for cutting rather than stabbing. It is also known as the 'BACKSWORD'. This particular broadsword belonged to Sir Anthony Saint Leger also spelled Sentleger (b. 1496 -- d. 1559, Ulcombe, Kent, England). Sir Anthony Saint Leger was the English lord deputy of Ireland from 1540 to 1546 and from 1553 to 1556. Considered by many historians to be the ablest 16th-century English viceroy of Ireland, he maintained peace throughout the country by upholding the feudal privileges of the powerful native chieftains.'
“It's a wicked-looking weapon isn't it!” the monsignor standing by his side declared.
“A weapon is only as wicked as the person using it, monsignor.”
“That's true I suppose.” the monsignor agreed. “It would take a powerful man such as you to fight with such a weapon, I would think.”
Lechaim fended off the compliment. “Even a powerful man would soon tire using such a weapon.”
The monsignor opened the case, which was not locked, and gestured to Lechaim. “Test the weight. I'd be interested in hearing what you think of it as a weapon.”
Lechaim was surprised by the monsignor's offer. Surely, this was a museum piece. Would it be right to handle it? However, he too was curious and did what the priest suggested. Lifting the heavy double-edged sword by its long handle, which was interwoven with fine strands of wire, he found that it balanced well in his hands.
“I was right! It would soon tire anyone fighting with it!” As he spoke, Lechaim ran his fingers along the edges of the blade which was slightly pitted in places but still very serviceable. “These days we have far more efficient ways of killing people!” With that, he gently replaced it back in the case and the monsignor closed the lid.
Lechaim, his curiosity aroused, then asked, “What's such a weapon doing here in the abbey?”
“To tell you the truth, I'm not certain!” the monsignor answered. “I believe it was a gift from the man's estate.”
Lechaim glanced at his watch. “Excuse me monsignor!” he said reaching for the walkie-talkie attached to his belt.
“Alpha one - do you copy?”
“Yes, I copy Beta leader! Six, four, two, seven here” an articulated voice echoed down the receiver
“Bravo one - do you copy?”
A short pause and then a guttural voice answered.
“Yes, I copy Beta leader! Eight, four, six, nine here”
This went on until Lechaim had made contact with every member of the backup team. There were eight men in all on the grounds and inside the building that night. Lechaim needed to check with every one of them every half hour for security reasons. Each man in the group had been assigned an individual code number response and Lechaim's own designated code number differed for each man. This was a precaution in case any member of the team became compromised.
The monsignor smiled at Lechaim when he had finished. “It does seem a trifle melodramatic.”
“It's better to be safe than sorry!” Lechaim said as he smiled back. The priest had a point though. There had been no incidents of any kind during the monsignor's visit to Ireland and this type of security was beginning to look like overkill.
“A nightcap perhaps?” the Monsignor enquired.
“Yes, but just a coffee thanks!”
Both men returned to the two armchairs they had left minutes before, and the Monsignor summoned the priest assigned to tender to his needs by way of a cord hanging close by which was connected to a bell in another part of the abbey. Father Dominique soon ambled in.
“A coffee for Captain Lewis and a whiskey and dry for me, if you please, Father!”
“Certainly!” the portly bald-headed rather ancient priest replied and disappeared almost as quickly as he had arrived.
The men settled down in their chairs situated next to an electric heater set within the confines of what had long ago been a fireplace. The heater was failing miserably to provide sufficient heat for the large room they were in; the ghost of the fireplace rendered obsolete by progress silently mocking its paltry efforts. The room itself contained tapestries, which adorned its oak panelled walls, where they hung along with thick-framed heavily varnished paintings of indiscriminate age depicting dead dignitaries. The high beamed ceiling had two ornate chandeliers hanging down but they were dormant; just two table lamps now lighting the room’s interior.
The monsignor sat eyeing Lechaim and then uttered in that humorous way of his, “Well, it's our last night together. I hope I haven't been too much trouble?”
Lechaim had come to know Shaun's brother well and liked the man enormously. “No, not at all, Monsignor,” he replied. However, much as he enjoyed Michael's company, Lechaim was secretly relieved that his assignment would finish tomorrow, and he would then have more time with Sinead.
“I can't tell you how pleased I am that you and Sinead are thinking of getting married. I've never seen her so happy and Paddy and Maureen speak highly of you.” Seeing the surprise in Lechaim's eyes, he held his hand up, “I know, it's supposed to be a secret for now, but Sinead could never keep a secret from her uncle!” Smiling at Lechaim, he continued, “Don't worry, my lips are sealed.”
“Thank you, Monsignor. She's a wonderful girl. I consider myself a lucky man.”
“She is that!” the monsignor acknowledged. With a twinkle in his eye, the monsignor held Lechaim's gaze for a moment before adding, “I think, my son, that Sinead is also a lucky woman.”
Embarrassed, Lechaim could only mutter, “Thank you, Monsignor,” and quickly added, “We were hoping that you'll be able to return for the wedding?”
“I wouldn't miss it for the world, my boy. We Irish know how to throw a wedding. Just wait and see! Bye the bye, when do you plan to get married?”
“Well, I have to get Shaun's permission first, of course, but we thought in about six months or so.”
“Listen, if Shaun doesn't give you his blessing, I'll give her away myself,” the monsignor said jovially.
Looking at the monsignor now, Lechaim was struck by the difference between the two brothers. They were both very likable individuals but complete opposites in every other way. Lechaim voiced his thoughts aloud, “I wouldn't have picked you and Shaun for brothers!”
“That's probably because we're not really brothers in the strict sense! Shaun's parents adopted me when I was a child. Still, I couldn't have asked for a better brother than Shaun. God smiled kindly on me.”
Lechaim was taken by surprise. No one had mentioned to him that Michael was not Shaun's real brother but then why should they.?After all, it had nothing really to do with him.
“And your natural parents. Did you ever find out who they were?”
“That’s a little hard to do! You see I was left on the steps of this Abbey when I was a baby! No one knows where I came from! Shaun's parents, the people that brought me up, are dead now, but I always looked on them as my own parents. I had a happy childhood and couldn't have wished for more so I'm content.”
The Monsignor thought hard for a moment and then added, “You know, when they found me on the doorstep, apparently, they also found a body close by!”
“A body?” Lechaim repeated intrigued by the monsignor’s words.
“Yes! A young man’s body! It was apparently strung up on a fence! Rather gruesome really! You see the heart had been torn out!”
“Good God! Did anyone find out who he was?”
“Apparently a lad from Cork. His name was…” He searched his memory for the name. “Patrick Grogan, that was it! What he was doing in these parts or who killed him has always remained a mystery!”
Lechaim was intrigued by the story but before he could question the Monsignor further, the priest changed the subject.
“And what of you? 'Lechaim' seems a strange name for a Christian! You're a Catholic, I believe, and yet you have a Jewish name?”
“Jewish!” Lechaim echoed. “I always assumed it was a Gaelic name.”
“I think you'll find that it is Jewish. Some form of drinking toast if my memory serves me correctly!” The monsignor rose from the armchair in which he had been comfortably ensconced and went over to the large bookcase fronting one of the richly panelled walls where he stood for several seconds searching for a dictionary. “Ah, yes, here we are,” he muttered as he plucked a “Collins English Dictionary” from one of the rows of the many books before him and flicked through its pages. “Lechaim, Lechaim”, he murmured to himself as his eyes searched hungrily. “Yes, here it is!” he exclaimed and brought the dictionary over to Lechaim.
Lechaim saw where his finger pointed and read the notation:
'....Lechaim, Lehaim, or L'chaim (Judaism. interj.)
1. a drinking toast.
2. a small drink with which to toast something or someone.[from Hebrew, literally: to life]....'
“A strange name to give a child and a Catholic at that,” the monsignor said as he glanced over Lechaim's shoulder at the description in the dictionary. “Do you have Jewish blood somewhere in the family?”
“Not as far as I'm aware!”
“Anyway, it's very apt,” the monsignor said. “There will be plenty of 'lechaims' at your wedding, and, I hope, many Lechaims to add to the family tree in the future.”
The monsignor's obvious inference that Sinead and Lechaim would have many children was almost sensual to Lechaim in its connotation and sent a warm glow through him. The thought of Sinead swollen with child increased his longing to possess her. They had not yet coupled sexually because she was old-fashioned in her outlook and believed that marriage was the appropriate time for such an act. However, he loved her the more for it. They were both eager to explore each other physically and waited for that day in eager anticipation.
Closing the dictionary, Lechaim got up and returned it himself to its place in the bookcase. When he returned to his chair, he decided to broach a matter that had been on his mind of late. “Can I ask you what will probably appear to be a rather strange question?”
“Go ahead!” the Monsignor said leaning forward with interest.
“Do the letters 'Y', 'H', 'W', 'H' mean anything to you?” He felt idiotic asking such a question but he had to be sure.
The Monsignor looked at him intently. “Hmm. Why do you ask?”
“Oh! Just something I've seen somewhere. I'm sorry, it was a foolish question,” he said quickly to hide his embarrassment. “Forget it!”
“Not at all. The letters 'Y', 'H', 'W', 'H' is very significant. These four letters make up the Hebrew name for God revealed to Moses on Mount Sinai. They are, in fact, a reference to the Holy Tetragrammaton. There are some other variations such as 'Y', 'H', 'V', 'H'.,”
The monsignor considered the matter further, before continuing, “The Jews regarded God's name as too holy to be uttered in its true form so they referred to God as 'Yahweh' inserting the vowels ''a' and 'e' between the sacred letters.” He thought for a moment before adding, “The name Jehovah is another variation on this theme. Does that answer your question?”
“Yes, very much so!” Then Lechaim thought to ask, “And the numbers: six, seven, two, four, seven, eight, three, seven, four! Do they mean anything to you?”
The monsignor considered further before answering. “No! Should they?” Then he appended his reply. “Cardinal Tsana in Rome would be the man to consult on the meaning of numbers. He has made a study of numerology in relation to the occult. A strange occupation for a Cardinal, you might conclude. In fact I think so as well. However, his eminence contends that if, to use his words, you're armed with the knowledge that Satan's followers possess, then the Church is better equipped to overcome the evildoers. It's a controversial viewpoint at odds with some of his colleagues, myself included. However, his eminence would certainly be your man.” He could see the interest on Lechaim's face. “If you like, I'll ask him when I return to Rome?”
Before Lechaim could reply, his walkie-talkie crackled back into life briefly and then went dead. Something was wrong.
“Alpha one! Do you copy?” No answer. “Alpha one! Do you copy? Come in Alpha one!”
“Anything the matter?” the monsignor inquired.
“I shouldn't think so! Probably the man's in the toilet.” But, deep down, even as he was saying it, Lechaim had his doubts. Members of the SAS are trained to have bladder and bowel control. It can be a prerequisite to staying alive. Lechaim tried to reach the other seven men but all were mute. Could it be, the walkie-talkie itself was out of action? A short sharp burst of gunfire echoed through the building and Lechaim had his answer. He observed the fear registering in the monsignor's eyes seconds before the lights went out. The place was under attack and Lechaim had no sidearm.
It had been the monsignor, himself, that had insisted that his personal escort, namely Lechaim, be unarmed. “It is not seemly,” he had suggested, “for a monsignor of the Church to be seen with an armed escort. Besides, shouldn't the plainclothes men assigned provide any protection I need?” On reflection, it was a valid point. Lechaim's role had, therefore, been relegated to one of co-ordinating the security efforts and solving any minor problems that arose.
“In fact your presence now is more a public relations one. You know - soothing the monsignor's feathers so to speak,” Colonel Ryan had explained to Lechaim at the time, “After all, the SAS team members are experts in this sort of thing and it is practically impossible to penetrate their type of operation”, the Colonel had then amplified.
And the 'Titanic' was thought to be “unsinkable, Lechaim thought grimly as the Army's lack of foresight came home to haunt him.
“What's happening?” the monsignor asked calmly although he didn't feel calm.
Lechaim couldn't see the monsignor's face now, but the man's voice was steady enough. The man has courage, Lechaim decided - he would need it now.
“Get in the corner and stay on the floor!” The command was short and sharp with no niceties attached and the monsignor obeyed instantly.
Lechaim only had seconds to act so his mind was working overtime. Without a weapon, he felt helpless and then he remembered. Ripping his shoes off, he ran softly and silently over the expensively carpeted floor to the glass case where the medieval sword lay. Opening it he reached in and grasped the sword by its hilt. The sword, which sometime before felt heavy and awkward in his hands, now had no weight at all. Holding it up before him, he could only wonder at the feeling of strength that was surging through his body. Could it be from pure adrenaline alone? The danger outside seemed suddenly irrelevant as a feeling of euphoria took over his being. He found himself in a dream-like state where everything was shadowy and unreal; a sensation of floating in a disembodied etheric atmosphere separated from the real world.
The monsignor crouched down in one corner of the room and confronted his fear. He tried to focus on a prayer but his intellect refused to obey. The blackness around him offered little protection from the forces that were about to rain down on the room. More than a minute passed. and still, no one came. Just when it seemed the danger was over, the monsignor caught the sound of people running along the corridor outside. Seconds later the doors shattered and splintered apart as machine gun bullets tore into it.
The monsignor hugged the floor and waited for the end to come. The remains of the door were kicked in and a flashlight played around the room and then settled on him.
“Here he is!” Frank Hennessy shouted excitedly in his strong Irish brogue, as he played the beam of light over the crouching priest. Four men rapidly appeared by Frank’s side. Michael bunched his body and averted his face as he prepared for death. Something swished the air close by and Frank screamed and let go of his flashlight which clattered to the ground as the pain shot through his severed wrist. Something swished again and Frank’s scream was cut off. Something landed on the monsignor’s side and bounced away across the carpet. A fountain of warm liquid, with a distinctive smell saturated his clothes and a pungent smell pervaded his nostrils. The monsignor realized with horror that it was the smell of blood.
“What the hell!” he heard someone else in the darkness exclaim. Then the air was rent with the almost inhuman screams of the intruders as something descended on them. Bullets tore the room to pieces as the men vainly shot into the darkness to ward off their annihilation but it was no use. More men piled into the room firing as they came but they too met the same end. The sounds of bone splintering and the dull thud as flesh was sliced apart would live with the monsignor forever. The terrified shouts and pleadings of the men were to no avail as they were all cut to pieces. It was all over in a matter of minutes, then silence reigned and nothing stirred.
The monsignor waited and waited with his eyes tightly shut and his head pressed up against the wall. The overpowering smell that permeated the air was nauseating and he felt sick. Eventually, he dared to open his eyes and he turned slowly around. The discarded flashlight was still working and its powerful beam picked out the floor quite clearly in front of where it lay. A large hairy coconut-like object was caught in the light; the same object that had hit the monsignor in the ribs an eternity before. From the blood-stained face, Frank Hennessy’s glassy vacant eyes peered out accusingly at him. The monsignor reeled away in terror as he realized that it was a man's decapitated head.
Trembling, he regained his feet, scooped the flashlight from the floor, and shone it around what had become a chamber of horrors. Body parts littering the floor were intermingled with internal organs, intestines, and all the other paraphernalia that once made up the nine men that had died there. The frightened man then became conscious that he was not alone. Standing in the center of the room there was a man, more spectre than human, covered in blood, a uniform hanging in tatters about him. In one hand he held aloft as if in salute the sword, which had been used in so a deadly a fashion. Its blade was replete with human tissue and gore, its steel stained red by the men it had recently slaughtered. However, it was the eyes of the man who held the weapon that transfixed the monsignor. They were red like balls of fire and there was only death to be seen in them.
The figure lowered the sword and moved towards him, the rags about the legs doing nothing to conceal the markings on the man’s thigh as he approached. The monsignor felt his head spinning and a black curtain descended over his eyes shutting the spectre out as he slumped to the floor unconscious.