had involved her in the Golden Horn project from the outset, and it made sense that he was the first person she would call with news of the astonishing discovery in Hereford Cathedral.
Maria’s dark Spanish features creased into a smile as she embraced Jack and Costas in turn. “Jack, you’ve met Jeremy, my American graduate student.” The tall young man who loped behind Maria swept his blond hair from his face and proffered his hand. They had met several weeks earlier when Jack had visited the Institute of Medieval Studies in Oxford to have a translation made of the newly discovered Topkapi manuscript, the eyewitness account of the Crusader siege of Constantinople that contained the crucial position-fix for the chain across the harbour. Jack had been impressed by Jeremy’s facility with the medieval Greek, and had no reason to doubt Maria’s enthusiastic judgement of his potential.
“How long have you been out of the States?” Costas asked amiably.
“Three years.” Jeremy peered down at the shorter man through his glasses. “I’ve got a fellowship waiting for me at Princeton, but I just don’t seem to be able to get away from this place.”
“I know the problem,” Costas said. “I keep trying, but every time I do he finds some reason to keep me here.” He jerked his head towards Jack and grinned.
“Luckily, working for an international outfit means I’m not trapped in English drizzle all year long.”
“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Father Patrick O’Connor.” Maria gestured towards the helicopter, and they turned to watch the figure being helped down by the pilot. In startling contrast to the flight suit and helmet of the crewman, he was wearing the distinctive black cassock of a Jesuit priest and was carrying two battered leather briefcases.
After nodding to the pilot, he strode confidently across the helipad, dropped his cases on the tarmac and shook Jack’s hand firmly. “Dr. Howard. Delighted to meet you at last. Maria’s told me all about you, and of course I’ve seen you on TV following your remarkable discoveries last year.”
Jack eyed the other man keenly. The accent had a hint of Irish brogue, but could as easily have been Boston. He guessed that O’Connor was a youthful fifty-five, his remaining hair grey and cropped close but with the weathered face and fit body of a man who had not spent his entire life in the cloisters.
“Maria tells me you have a PhD in early Church history,” Jack said.
“Trinity College, Dublin, then Heidelberg,” O’Connor replied. “Then I found my vocation. Twenty years in Central America, mainly Mexico, doing what we Jesuits do best, building schools, ministering to the sick, trying to bring humanity to places where there’s sometimes hardly any left at all.”
“And then you found academia again.”
O’Connor nodded. “Five years ago. I’d done my tour of duty and applied for a vacancy in the Vatican library. To my delight they offered me a tailor-made position in the Antiquities Department, as inspector of early buildings and archaeology. My remit covers everything in Rome under Vatican control up to the time of the Renaissance, with plenty of time for my own research. I was in Oxford to hear Maria’s seminar on Richard of Holdingham and the Mappa Mundi, one of my special areas of interest. I believe I may have something to offer.”
“That’s the reason we’re here now,” Jack said. “Let’s get down to business.”
After a quick coffee on the patio, Jack led them into his office. Almost the entire length of the old drawing room was occupied by a massive wooden table, its gnarled oak surface made from timbers reputedly salvaged from the ships that had brought the Norman invaders to England. Every time Jack sat at the table he felt the power of his own ancestry, as if his forebears who had plotted wars and voyages of discovery from this very table were keeping him ghostly company and egging him on. Now, instead of nautical
Maria’s dark Spanish features creased into a smile as she embraced Jack and Costas in turn. “Jack, you’ve met Jeremy, my American graduate student.” The tall young man who loped behind Maria swept his blond hair from his face and proffered his hand. They had met several weeks earlier when Jack had visited the Institute of Medieval Studies in Oxford to have a translation made of the newly discovered Topkapi manuscript, the eyewitness account of the Crusader siege of Constantinople that contained the crucial position-fix for the chain across the harbour. Jack had been impressed by Jeremy’s facility with the medieval Greek, and had no reason to doubt Maria’s enthusiastic judgement of his potential.
“How long have you been out of the States?” Costas asked amiably.
“Three years.” Jeremy peered down at the shorter man through his glasses. “I’ve got a fellowship waiting for me at Princeton, but I just don’t seem to be able to get away from this place.”
“I know the problem,” Costas said. “I keep trying, but every time I do he finds some reason to keep me here.” He jerked his head towards Jack and grinned.
“Luckily, working for an international outfit means I’m not trapped in English drizzle all year long.”
“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Father Patrick O’Connor.” Maria gestured towards the helicopter, and they turned to watch the figure being helped down by the pilot. In startling contrast to the flight suit and helmet of the crewman, he was wearing the distinctive black cassock of a Jesuit priest and was carrying two battered leather briefcases.
After nodding to the pilot, he strode confidently across the helipad, dropped his cases on the tarmac and shook Jack’s hand firmly. “Dr. Howard. Delighted to meet you at last. Maria’s told me all about you, and of course I’ve seen you on TV following your remarkable discoveries last year.”
Jack eyed the other man keenly. The accent had a hint of Irish brogue, but could as easily have been Boston. He guessed that O’Connor was a youthful fifty-five, his remaining hair grey and cropped close but with the weathered face and fit body of a man who had not spent his entire life in the cloisters.
“Maria tells me you have a PhD in early Church history,” Jack said.
“Trinity College, Dublin, then Heidelberg,” O’Connor replied. “Then I found my vocation. Twenty years in Central America, mainly Mexico, doing what we Jesuits do best, building schools, ministering to the sick, trying to bring humanity to places where there’s sometimes hardly any left at all.”
“And then you found academia again.”
O’Connor nodded. “Five years ago. I’d done my tour of duty and applied for a vacancy in the Vatican library. To my delight they offered me a tailor-made position in the Antiquities Department, as inspector of early buildings and archaeology. My remit covers everything in Rome under Vatican control up to the time of the Renaissance, with plenty of time for my own research. I was in Oxford to hear Maria’s seminar on Richard of Holdingham and the Mappa Mundi, one of my special areas of interest. I believe I may have something to offer.”
“That’s the reason we’re here now,” Jack said. “Let’s get down to business.”
After a quick coffee on the patio, Jack led them into his office. Almost the entire length of the old drawing room was occupied by a massive wooden table, its gnarled oak surface made from timbers reputedly salvaged from the ships that had brought the Norman invaders to England. Every time Jack sat at the table he felt the power of his own ancestry, as if his forebears who had plotted wars and voyages of discovery from this very table were keeping him ghostly company and egging him on. Now, instead of nautical
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