Sacred Bones : A Novel

THE

SACRED BONES

A NOVEL

MICHAEL BYRNES

PROLOGUE

******

Limassol, Cyprus April 1292

Looking out from the eastern parapet of Kolossi Citadel’s square tower, Jacques DeMolay gazed across the open expanse of the Mediterranean, his white mantle and thick auburn beard fluttering against a warm breeze. For a knight nearing fifty, his regal features—long nose, penetrating gray eyes, firm brow, and sculpted cheekbones—were surprisingly youthful. His cropped hair was thick and peppered with gray.

Though he couldn’t actually see the shores of the Holy Land, he swore he could smell the perfume of its sweet eucalyptus trees.

It had been almost a year since Acre, the last major Crusader stronghold in the eastern Kingdom of Jerusalem, had fallen to the Egyptian Mamluk’s. The siege lasted six bloody weeks, until the then Grand Master, Guillaume DeBeaujeu, had thrown down his sword and retreated from the citadel wall to the rebukes of his men. DeBeaujeu had responded: “Je ne m’enfuit pas...Je suis mort.”—“I’m not running away. I am dead.” Raising up his bloody arm, he had shown them the arrow plunged deep into his side. Then he had fallen, never to rise again.

Now, DeMolay wondered if DeBeaujeu’s death had foretold the fate of the very Order itself.

“Monsieur,” a French voice called over to him.

He turned toward the young scribe standing by the steps. “Oui?”

“He is ready to speak with you,” he announced.

DeMolay nodded and followed the boy down into the belly of the castle, the chainmail body armor worn beneath his mantle jingling as he descended the stone steps. He was led into a vaulted stone chamber where the new Grand Master, a haggard Tibald DeGaudin, lay in a bed positioned at its center. The fetid air reeked of physical neglect.

DeMolay tried to not focus on DeGaudin’s bony hands, covered with open sores. His face was equally appalling—ghastly white with yellow eyes bulging from sunken sockets. “How are you feeling?” The attempt at being cordial sounded forced.

“As well as I look.” He contemplated the bloodred pattée cross that decorated DeMolay’s mantle, just above his heart.

“Why am I here?” Regardless of the Grand Master’s unfortunate condition, he was first and foremost DeMolay’s rival.

“To discuss what will happen when I am gone.” DeGaudin’s voice was scratchy. “There are things you need to know.”

“I know only that you refuse to gather a new army to take back what we have lost,” replied DeMolay defiantly.

“Come now, Jacques. This again? The pope is dead and with him, any hope of another crusade. Even you can admit that without the support of Rome, we have no chance of survival.”

“I will not accept that.”

Pope Nicholas IV, Catholicism’s first Franciscan pope and an advocate of the Knights Templar, had tried in vain to garner support for another crusade. He had held synods attempting to unite the Templars with the Knights of St. John. He had raised funding to equip twenty ships, even sending emissaries as far as China to foster military alliances. Only days earlier, the sixty-four-year-old pope had died abruptly from natural causes in Rome.

“Many in Rome claim that Nicholas’s death was no accident.” DeGaudin’s tone was conspiratorial.

DeMolay’s face tightened. “What?”

“The pope’s devotion to the Church was undeniable,” he continued. “But he made many enemies, particularly in France.” The Grand Master raised a faltering hand. “As you know, King Philip has been taking drastic measures to fund his military campaigns. Arresting Jews in order to seize their assets. He’s levied a tax of fifty percent on French clergy. Pope Nicholas protested these things.”

“Surely you are not saying that Philip had him killed?”

The Grand Master shielded a cough with his sleeve. When he pulled it away, spots of blood dotted the fabric. “Just know that Philip’s ambition is to control Rome. The Church has a much bigger problem to contend with. Jerusalem will have to wait.”

For a long moment, DeMolay was silent. His gaze shifted back to DeGaudin. “You know what lies beneath Solomon’s Temple. How can you ignore such things?”

“We are only men, Jacques. What lies there, only God himself protects.

You would be a fool to think that we have done anything to change that.” “What makes you so certain?”

DeGaudin managed a thin smile. “Need I remind you that for centuries before we arrived in Jerusalem, many others had also fought to protect those secrets? We have only played a small role in this legacy, but I am certain that we are not to be the last.” He paused. “I know your intentions. Your will is strong. The men listen to you. And when I am gone, you will no doubt try to have your way.”

“Is that not our duty? Is that not why we swore an oath to God?”

“Perhaps. But maybe what we have hidden all these years needs to be revealed.”

DeMolay drew close to the Grand Master’s haggard face. “Such revelations would destroy everything we know!”

“And in its place, something better may emerge.” DeGaudin’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Have faith, my friend. Put down your sword.”

“Never.”

1

******

Jerusalem Present Day

Salvatore Conte never questioned his clients’ motives. His many missions had taught him how to remain calm and keep focused. But tonight was different. Tonight he felt uneasy.

The eight men moved through the ancient streets. Entirely clothed in black, each was armed with lightweight Heckler & Koch XM8 carbines equipped with 100-round magazines and grenade launchers. Padding along the cobblestone in soft boots, every man scanned his surroundings with infrared night-vision goggles. History loomed all around them.

With an abrupt hand signal to hold position, Conte paced ahead. He knew that his team was just as apprehensive. Though Jerusalem’s name meant “City of Peace,” this place defined turmoil. Each silent road was bringing them closer to its divided heart.

The men had traveled separately from a handful of European countries, convening two days earlier at an apartment leased in a quiet part of the Jewish Quarter overlooking Battei Makhase Square, their accommodation booked under one of Conte’s numerous aliases, “Daniel Marrone.”

On arrival Conte had played tourist to familiarize himself with the web of alleyways and winding streets surrounding the thirty-five-acre rectangular monument in the center of the fortified Old City—a massive complex of bulwarks and retaining walls standing thirty-two meters high that resembled a colossal monolith laid flat upon Mount Moriah’s steep ridge. Easily the world’s most contested parcel of real estate, the Islamic Haram esh-Sharif, or “Noble Sanctuary,” was more familiar by another name— Temple Mount.

As the cover of buildings gave way to the towering western wall, he motioned two men forward. The wall-mounted floodlights cast long shadows. Conte’s men would blend easily into the dark pockets, but then so could the Israeli Defense Force soldiers.

The endless dispute between Jews and Palestinians had made this the most heavily guarded city in the world. However, Conte knew that the IDF was rife with conscripts—teenage boys whose sole purpose was to fulfill three-year service requirements and no match for his hardened team.

He peered ahead, his night-vision goggles transforming the shadows to eerie green. The area was clear except for two soldiers loitering fifty meters away. They were armed with M-16s, donning standard-issue olive green fatigues, bulletproof vests, and black berets. Both men were smoking Time Lite cigarettes, Israel’s most popular—and, to Conte, most offensive— brand.

Glancing over to their intended entry point at Moors’ Gate, an elevated gateway on the platform’s western wall, Conte quickly surmised there was no way to gain access to the Temple Mount without being detected.

Shifting his fingers along the barrel, he flicked the XM8 to single-shot mode and mounted the rifle on his left shoulder. He targeted the first green ghost with the red laser, aiming for the head, using the glowing butt of the dangling cigarette as a guide. Though the XM8’s titanium rounds were capable of piercing the soldier’s Kevlar vest, Conte found no sport—let alone certainty—in body shots.

One shot. One kill.

His index finger gently squeezed.

There was a muffled retort, slight recoil, and he saw the target buckle at the knees.

The scope shifted to the remaining man.

Before the second IDF soldier had begun to comprehend what was happening, Conte had fired again, the round penetrating the man’s face and cartwheeling through the brain.

He watched him collapse and paused. Silence.

It never ceased to amaze him just how token the expression “defense” really was—offering little more than a word to make people feel secure. And though his native country had a laughable military competence, in his own way, he felt he had become its equalizer.

Another abrupt hand signal ushered his men onto the sloping walkway approaching Moors’ Gate. To his left, he glimpsed the Western Wall Plaza nestled along the embankment’s base. Yesterday he had marveled at the Orthodox Jews—men separated from women by a curtained partition— who gathered here to mourn the ancient temple they believed had once graced this holy place. On his right lay a small valley littered with excavated foundations—Jerusalem’s oldest ruins.

A substantial iron gate sealed with a deadbolt denied access to the platform. In less than fifteen seconds the lock had been picked and his team funneled through the tunneled entrance, fanning out across the broad esplanade beyond.

Slipping past the stout El-Aqsa Mosque abutting Temple Mount’s southern wall, Conte turned his gaze to the esplanade’s center where just over tall cypress trees, a second and much grander mosque stood on an elevated platform, its gilded cupola illuminated like a halo against the night sky. The Dome of the Rock—embodiment of Islam’s claim over the Holy Land.

Conte led the team to the esplanade’s southeast corner where a wide opening accommodated a modern staircase, cascading downward. He splayed the fingers of his gloved right hand and four men disappeared below the surface. Then he signaled the remaining two men to hunker down in the nearby tree shadows to secure a perimeter.

The air in the passage became moist the further the men descended, then abruptly cold, giving off a mossy aroma. Once they had assembled at the base of the steps, rifle-mounted halogen lights were switched on. Crisp, luminous beams bisected the darkness to reveal a cavernous, vaulted space with arched stanchions laid out on neat avenues.

Conte remembered reading that twelfth-century Crusaders had used this subterranean room as a horse stable. The Muslims, its latest occupants, had recently converted it into a mosque, but the Islamic decor did little to mask its uncanny resemblance to a subway station.

Running his light along the room’s eastern wall, he was pleased to spot the two brown canvas bags his local contact had promised. “Gretner,” he addressed the thirty-five-year-old explosives expert from Vienna. “Those are for you.”

The Austrian retrieved them.

Slinging his carbine over his shoulder, Conte took a folded paper from his pocket and switched on a penlight. The map showed the exact location of what they’d been charged to procure—he didn’t favor references to “stealing”—the term demeaned his professionalism. He aimed the penlight along the wall.

“Should be just ahead.” Conte’s English was surprisingly good. To keep communications consistent and less suspicious to local Israelis, he had insisted that the team converse only in English.

Securing the penlight between his teeth, he used a free hand to unclip the Stanley Tru-Laser electronic measuring device from his belt and punched a button on its keypad. A small LCD came to life, activating a thin red laser that cut deep into the darkness. Conte began to move forward, his team trailing closely behind.

He continued diagonally through the chamber, weaving between the thick columns. Deep into the space Conte abruptly stopped, verified the measurements on the LCD and swung the laser till it found the mosque’s southern wall. Then he turned to face the northern wall, the gut of the Temple Mount.

“What we’re looking for should be just behind there.”

2

******

Salvatore Conte rapped a gloved hand on the wall’s limestone brickwork. “What do you think?”

Setting down the canvas bags, Klaus Gretner unclipped a portable ultrasound device from his belt and held it over the wall to gauge density. Seconds later the result appeared on the unit’s display. “About half a meter.”

From the first bag, Conte pulled a sizeable handheld coring drill—the Flex BHI 822 VR model he’d specified—the chuck already fitted with an eighty-two millimeter diamond drum-bit. Glinting beneath his penlight, it looked like it had just come out of its box. He passed it to Gretner. “You should have no problem dry-cutting it with that. Plenty of outlets along the wall there,” he said, pointing. “The extension cord and adapter are in the bag. How many cores you going with?”

“The stone’s soft. Six should do it.”

From the second bag, Conte took out the first brick of C-4 and began molding the gray putty-like explosive into cylinders while the Austrian drilled into the wall’s mortar seams.

Ten minutes later, six neat cores were packed and plugged with remote detonating caps.

Wiping down the drill, Gretner discarded the Flex by the wall. Then he and Conte took cover with the others behind the columns, covering their faces with respirators. Using a handheld transmitter, Gretner triggered a coordinated detonation.

The ear-numbing blast was immediately followed by a rush of debris and billowing dust.

After pulling away some more loose bricks to widen the blast hole, Conte climbed through the gaping opening, followed by the others.

They found themselves inside another chamber, its details obscured by the clouds of dust. Stout earthen pillars could be made out supporting the low ceiling. Even with respirators, the air was thin and difficult to inhale, tinged with the lingering fumes of cyclotrimethylene, which smelled like motor oil.

This place had obviously been sealed for a long, long time, Conte thought and for a brief moment he wondered how his client could have possibly known it even existed. He turned sharply to the man next to him. “Give me some light.”

Moving forward into the gloom, the lights played across a row of ten rectangular forms resting on the floor against the chamber’s side wall. Each was about two-thirds of a meter in length, cream-colored, and slightly tapered from top to bottom.

Perusing the inventory Conte paused over one at the end of the row, kneeling down to get a better look. Choosing the correct one was much easier than he’d have thought. Unlike all the others, this was covered in ornate, etched designs. Tipping his head to view the left side of the box, he compared the distinctive carved symbol to the image on a photocopy he pulled from his pocket. A perfect match.

“This is it,” he announced to the others, pocketing the papers. “Let’s keep moving.” Though they were deep beneath the Temple Mount, Conte knew that the sound of the explosions would have been heard beyond the outer walls.

Gretner stepped forward. “Looks heavy.”

“Should be about thirty-three kilos.” Somehow, his client knew that as well. Rising up, he stepped aside.

Slinging his XM8, Gretner laid a web of nylon strapping on the floor. He and another man lifted the box onto the webbing, hoisting it off the floor.

“Let’s get out of here.” Conte waved the team forward.

They worked their way through the blast hole and back into the mosque. Before ascending the staircase Conte collected their respirators, stuffing them into his bag.

Emerging onto the esplanade, Conte scanned the area intently and verified that his two sentries remained posted securely in the shadows. He signaled to them and both men sprinted ahead.

The rest of the team assembled on the esplanade.

Moments later, when the sentries’ silhouettes swept across the opening of Moors’ Gate, they were instantly forced back by automatic gunfire emanating from the plaza below.

A pocket of quiet.

Distant screams, then more shots.

Motioning for the others to remain, Conte ran over to the gate, dropping onto his elbows as he neared the opening. Peering out he saw Israeli soldiers and police swarming into the vicinity, blocking the walkways down by the Western Wall Plaza. Someone must have either found the two dead IDF soldiers or heard the detonation.

The Israelis were hunkered down, waiting for them to make a move. Other entrances provided access to Temple Mount and Conte rapidly considered a revised exit strategy, but he was certain the IDF would be sending reinforcements to those gates as well. It wouldn’t be long before they scaled the platform.

He knew that using the rented van parked in the Kidron Valley was no longer an option. Turning back from the gateway, he signaled for the sentries to follow him back to the group.

As he ran by the El-Aqsa Mosque, Conte grabbed the encrypted radio transmitter from his belt. “Come in Alpha One. Over.”

Nothing but static.

He moved away from the interfering mosque wall.

“Alpha One?”

Through the haze a choppy voice was just audible.

Conte cut in with the transmitter button. “If you can hear me, we’ve got a change of plan. We’re under fire.” Raising his voice, he carefully articulated his next command. “Pick us up on the southeast corner of the Temple Mount esplanade, beside the El-Aqsa Mosque. Over.”

A pause.

More static.

“Roger. On my way,” a faint voice crackled back. “Over.”

Conte concealed his relief. Just over the jagged mountain range to the south he detected a dark shadow against the night sky.

The chopper was approaching rapidly.

He clicked his XM8 to fully automatic, activating the grenade launcher and the others did the same. Fearing they might inflict damage on this sacred place, he knew that the Israelis would be reluctant to fire heavily on them. But his team wouldn’t be nearly as accommodating.

“We’ll need to take those guys down to clear the area,” Conte commanded. On his signal, the mercenaries rushed toward the gate in neat formation, carbines drawn.

The chopping sound of rotor blades now had the Israelis’ attention, many gazing skywards at the black shadow gliding low and fast toward Temple Mount.

From their shadowed position high up on the retaining wall, Conte and his men sprayed the soldiers with a curtain of firepower. Within seconds, eight had fallen. Others were scurrying for cover in the open plaza below, while reinforcements spilled into the area from the network of narrow streets feeding in from the Jewish and Muslim Quarters.

The Israeli Air Force Black Hawk suddenly rose over the embankment’s southeast corner, its profile decked out in desert camouflage temporarily confusing the IDF soldiers with its familiar markings. But Conte could also see a group of men maneuvering to better positions along the embankment’s southwest corner. Immediately to his right, Doug Wilkinson, the assassin from Manchester, England, suddenly recoiled, clutching his upper arm, dropping his XM8.

Sliding his finger to the carbine’s second trigger, Conte centered his sights on the cluster of soldiers below and fired. The grenade rocketed off its rifle mount streaming an arc of smoke and orange sparks until it exploded, hurling fragments of stone into the air. Other grenades followed with a fiery barrage of exploding stone and shrapnel that forced the Israelis back in chaos.

The rotor blades were close behind the team now, throwing up a dust storm. The Black Hawk bounced down on the platform, coming to rest beside the El-Aqsa Mosque.

“Go now!” he yelled, waving the team toward the chopper. “Get the cargo on board!”

Retreating from the gate, Conte spotted yet more IDF soldiers between the cypress trees on the opposite side of the Temple Mount, quickly closing in on the vicinity surrounding the Dome of the Rock platform.

It was going to be close, he thought.

The box was rapidly stowed in the chopper and then his men clambered aboard. He ducked under the rotor blades, jumping inside.

Under heavy gunfire, the Black Hawk lifted off the platform and tore away from Temple Mount. Hugging the Ha-Ela Valley floor, it swept across the barren expanse of the Negev Desert, heading southwest. The chopper’s low flight path was well beneath radar range, but even at higher altitudes its state-of-the-art cloaking technology would render it virtually untraceable.

Within minutes the lights of the Palestinian settlements along the Gaza Strip came into view. Then Gaza’s beaches rapidly gave way to the dark expanse of the Mediterranean.

Eighty kilometers off Israel’s coast, a custom-built twenty-meter Hinckley motor yacht had been anchored at precise coordinates programmed into the flight console. The pilot maneuvered the Black Hawk over the yacht’s aft deck, easing down to hover in the hold position.

The box was carefully lowered to the Hinckley’s crew, then one by one the team rappelled down the line. Wilkinson tucked his wounded arm tightly to his side as Conte clipped him to the line. All things considered, the wound was relatively minor. When Wilkinson had made it on deck, Conte went next.

Setting the autopilot controls to hover, Conte’s pilot evacuated the cockpit, stepping over the two dead Israeli pilots who earlier that evening had set out from Sde Dov airbase on a routine surveillance mission along the Egyptian border, blissfully unaware of their heavily armed replacement hidden in the rear.

With cargo and passengers secured, the Hinckley’s engines fired up and the craft moved off, slowly gathering speed. Conte loaded another grenade and found the chopper fifty meters away. A split second later the latest state-of-the-art in American military technology ripped apart, lighting up the night sky in a flaming ball.

The yacht accelerated to its cruising speed of twenty-two knots and headed northwest across the Mediterranean’s choppy waters.

There would be no more fighting that night. As Conte had anticipated, the Israelis had been totally unprepared for an orchestrated stealth attack. But the messy confrontation and high death toll meant his fee just went up.

3

MONDAY

Three Days Later

******

Tel Aviv

As the El Al captain announced the flight’s final descent into Ben Gurion International, Razak bin Ahmed bin al-Tahini gazed out of his window to watch the Mediterranean yielding to a desert landscape set against an azure sky.

Yesterday, he had received a disturbing phone call. No details had been provided, merely an urgent request from the Waqf—the Muslim council that acted as the Temple Mount overseers—summoning him to Jerusalem for assistance in a sensitive matter.

“Sir,” a soft voice called to him.

He turned from the window to find a young flight attendant dressed in a navy suit and white blouse. Razak’s eyes were drawn to the El Al insignia pin on her lapel—a winged Star of David. “El Al” was Hebrew for “skyward.” Yet another reminder that here, Israel controlled more than just the land.

“Please bring your seat to the upright position,” she politely requested. “We’ll be landing in a few minutes.”

Raised in the Syrian capital of Damascus, Razak was the oldest of eight siblings. Growing up in a close-knit family, he frequently helped his mother shoulder household responsibilities since his father was an ambassador for the Syrian embassy and traveled endlessly. With his father’s help, he had begun his political career as a liaison between rival Sunni and Shiite factions in Syria, then throughout the Arab region. After studying politics in London, he’d returned to the Middle East, where the scope of his duties had broadened to include diplomatic missions to the UN, and liaising between Arab and European business partners.

For almost a decade now, Razak had been intimately involved in Islam’s most problematic issues, becoming a reluctant—yet increasingly influential—political figure. Faced with its maligned association to radical fanaticism and terrorist acts, and the neck-breaking onslaught of globalization, the sanctity of Islam in the modern world was increasingly difficult to preserve. And though Razak’s aspiration in accepting his role was to focus on the religious aspects of Islam, he had quickly learned that its political components were inseparable.

And at forty-five, his responsibilities were showing. Premature gray streaks had sprouted from his temples, spreading through thick black hair, and a permanent heaviness showed under his dark, solemn eyes. Of medium height and build, Razak wasn’t one to turn heads, though in many circles, his knack for diplomacy was sure to leave a lasting impression.

Substantial personal sacrifice had quickly transformed his youthful idealism into tempered cynicism. He constantly reminded himself of the wise words his father once told him when he was just a young boy: “The world is a very complicated thing, Razak, something which is not easily understood. But surviving out there”—he had pointed somewhere far out into the distance— “means never compromising your spirit, because no man or place can take that from you. It is Allah’s most precious gift to you,...and what you do with it is your gift to Him.”

As the Boeing 767 touched down, Razak’s thoughts shifted to the mysterious altercation in Jerusalem’s Old City three days earlier. The worldwide media was circulating reports about a violent exchange that had taken place at Temple Mount on Friday. Though the nature of the altercation was still highly speculative, all accounts confirmed that thirteen Israeli Defense Force soldiers had been killed by an as-yet unknown enemy.

Razak knew it was no coincidence that his services were now required here.

As he retrieved his suitcase from the baggage claim carousel inside the terminal, his watch alarm beeped. He had programmed it to ring five times a day, and in five differing tones.

Two thirty.

After stopping in the men’s room to ritually wash his face, hands, and neck, he found a clean spot along the concourse and set his bag down. Reexamining his watch, he referenced a miniature digital readout data-fed by a global positioning microchip. A small arrow shifted on the face pointing him in the direction of Mecca.

Raising his hands up, he declared “Allah Akbar” twice, then crossed his hands over his chest and began one of the quintet of daily prayers compulsory in Islamic faith.

“I bear witness that there is no God but Allah,” he softly muttered, easing down on his knees then bowing in submission. In prayer he found a solitude that silenced the noise around him, reconciling the compromises he was asked to make in the name of Islam.

Deep in meditation, he blocked out the group of Western tourists scrutinizing him. To many in the modern world, devout adherence to prayer was a foreign concept. It didn’t surprise him that the sight of an Arab man in a business suit kneeling in submission to an invisible presence so easily captured the curiosity of most non-Muslims. But Razak had long ago accepted the fact that piety was not always convenient or comfortable.

When he had finished, he stood and buttoned the top button of his tan suit jacket.

Two Israeli soldiers watched scornfully as he made his way through the exit, staring at his rolling suitcase as if it contained plutonium. To Razak, it was indicative of a much broader tension that defined this place and he ignored them.

Outside the international terminal he was greeted by a Waqf representative—a tall young man with dark features who led him to a white Mercedes 500.

“Assalaamu ‘alaykum.”

“Wa ‘alaykum assalaam,” Razak replied. “Is your family well, Akil?”

“Thank you, yes. An honor to have you back, sir.”

Akil took his bag and opened the rear door. Razak dipped into the airconditioned interior, and the young Arab took his place behind the wheel.

“We should be in Jerusalem in under an hour.”

Approaching the towering ancient limestone block wall that wrapped around Old Jerusalem, the driver turned into a parking lot and reclaimed his reserved spot. They would have to make it the rest of the way on foot since the Old City, with its prohibitively narrow streets, was off-limits to most vehicular traffic.

Outside the Jaffa Gate, Razak and the driver were queued into a long line by heavily armed IDF guards. Nearer the opening, they were subjected to a thorough body pat down while Razak’s bag was inspected and passed through a portable scanner. Then came an exhaustive verification of their credentials. Finally, they took turns being funneled through a metal detector, all the while being monitored by a set of surveillance cameras mounted high up on a nearby pole.

“Worse than ever,” Akil remarked to Razak, relieving him of his luggage. “Pretty soon we’ll be locked out all together.”

They went through a narrow, L-shaped tunnel—a design from centuries earlier meant to slow marauding attackers—and emerged into the busy Christian Quarter. Climbing the sloped cobblestone walkways into the Muslim Quarter, Razak breathed in the complex aromas of the nearby Souk—fresh bread, spicy meat, tamarind, charcoal, and mint. It took them fifteen minutes to reach the high staircase on Via Dolorosa that climbed up to the Temple Mount’s elevated northern gate. There, a second security check was required by the IDF, though not nearly as intrusive as the first.

As Akil led him across Temple Mount’s expansive esplanade, Razak could hear the raucous cries of protestors down near the Western Wall Plaza. He didn’t need to see them to know that Jerusalem’s district police and reinforcements from the IDF would be there in large numbers, holding the crowds at bay. Focusing on the spectacular mountainous panorama afforded by the Temple Mount’s high vantage point, he tried to block out the distressing sounds.

“Where will we be meeting?” Razak asked.

“Second floor of the Dome of Learning building.”

Taking his bag, Razak thanked Akil, leaving him at a freestanding archway and headed toward a squat, two-story building situated between the sacred Dome of the Rock and El-Aqsa Mosques.

Entering the northern door, he ascended a flight of stairs and strode down a narrow corridor to a private room where he could already hear the voices of the Waqf officials awaiting him.

Inside, nine Arab men—middle-aged and older—were convened around a heavy teak table. Some wore traditional kaffiyeh head wraps and business suits; others had opted for turbans and colorful tunics. When Razak entered, the room fell into a hush.

At the head of the table, a tall bearded Arab wearing a white headdress stood and raised a hand in greeting.

Making his way over to him, Razak raised his own. “Assalaamu ‘alaykum.”

“Wa ‘alaykum assalaam,” the man responded with a smile. Farouq bin Alim Abd al-Rahmaan al-Jamir had presence. Though his real age was unknown, most would correctly place him in his mid-sixties. Lucid gray eyes revealed the burden of many secrets, but showed little of the man within. A thick scar ran across his left cheek and he wore it proudly as a reminder of his days on the battlefield. His teeth were unnaturally symmetrical and white, obviously replacements.

Ever since Muslims regained control of the Temple Mount in the thirteenth century, the Waqf had managed this sacred shrine and a “Keeper” had been appointed as its supreme overseer. That responsibility, entrusting all matters concerning the sanctity of the site, now lay with Farouq.

As they took their seats Farouq reacquainted Razak with the men around the table then quickly got to the matter at hand.

“I make no apology for summoning you here on such short notice.” Farouq stared round the table, while tapping a ballpoint pen against the polished teak surface. “You all know about the incident last Friday.”

A male servant bent to pour Razak a cup of spicy Arabian coffee—qahwa.

“Enormously troubling.” Farouq continued. “Sometime in the late evening, a group of men broke into the Marwani Mosque. They used explosives to access a hidden room behind the rear wall.”

The fact that the crime had occurred on a Friday, when Muslims from all over Jerusalem would gather on Temple Mount for prayer, was particularly troublesome to Razak. Perhaps the perpetrators meant to strike fear into the Muslim community. He settled into his chair, trying to compute the audacity it would take to desecrate such a sacred site. “For what purpose?” He sipped his coffee slowly, letting the smell of cardamom fill his nostrils.

“It seems they have stolen an artifact.”

“What kind of artifact?” Razak preferred forthright answers.

“We’ll get to that later,” Farouq said dismissively.

Not for the first time Razak wished the Keeper didn’t play his cards so close to his chest. “Professional job then?”

“It appears so.”

“Did the explosions damage the mosque?”

“Luckily, no. We immediately contacted a structural engineer. So far it seems the damage is contained to the wall.”

Razak frowned. “Any idea who could have done this?”

Farouq shook his head.

“It was the Israelis I tell you!” one of the elders burst out, quivering with rage, his lower lip dramatically curled.

All heads turned to the old man. His eyes shifted away and he eased himself back into his seat.

“That is not certain,” Farouq firmly cut in. “Though it’s true that eyewitnesses reported an Israeli Black Hawk was used to transport the thieves.”

“What?” Razak was stupefied.

Farouq nodded. “It landed in the esplanade outside the El-Aqsa Mosque and took them away.”

“But isn’t that restricted airspace?”

“Absolutely.”

Though he wouldn’t admit it, Razak was impressed that anyone could pull off such an operation, especially in Jerusalem. “How?”

“We don’t have details.” Farouq’s pen resumed its tapping. “All we know is that the helicopter was spotted over Gaza minutes after the theft. We’re awaiting a full report from the IDF. But let’s not forget that thirteen Israelis were killed during the attack and many more injured,” Farouq reminded the assemblage. “Policemen and IDF soldiers. To assume Israelis were responsible...for now that wouldn’t seem to make sense.”

Another elder spoke up. “This situation’s very complicated. Clearly this theft has occurred within our jurisdiction. However, that so many IDF soldiers were killed does matter greatly.” He spread his hands and paused. “The Israelis have agreed to keep this quiet, but ask that we cooperate in sharing all information uncovered through our internal investigations.”

Razak fingered his cup and looked up. “I’m assuming the police have already begun preliminary investigations?”

“Of course,” Farouq interjected. “They arrived minutes after the episode occurred. Problem is they’ve yet to present any definitive evidence. We suspect important facts are being withheld. That’s why we’ve summoned you. Confrontation seems inevitable.”

“If only—” Razak began.

“Time’s limited,” another Waqf member with a thick head of silver hair overrode him. “Both sides are concerned it won’t be long before the media starts drawing its own conclusions. And we all know what that will lead to.” His grave eyes circled the table to draw support. “Razak, you know how fragile our role is here in Jerusalem. You see what’s happening outside on the streets. Our people rely on us to protect this place.” He stuck out an index finger and tapped it on the table twice. “There’s no knowing how they’ll react. Unlike most of us,” he eyed the first outspoken elder, still purple from rage, “they will assume the Israelis are responsible.”

Farouq came in again. “You can well imagine that Hamas and Hezbollah are both anxious to lambaste the Jews for this.” His face darkened.

“They’re asking for our support implicating the Israelis to further Palestinian liberation.”

The situation was far worse than Razak had imagined. Tensions were

already running high between the Israelis and Palestinians. Both Hamas

and Hezbollah had garnered much support over the past few years in their

efforts to outwardly oppose Israeli occupation and this incident would

surely bolster their political agenda. Razak tried to not think about even

more drastic consequences that were likely to occur. The Waqf was now

stuck in the middle of a very precarious political situation—one that felt

impossibly fragile to Razak. “So what do you wish of me?” he asked, looking round the table.

“Determine who stole the relic,” replied the soft-toned elder. “We need

to know who committed this act so justice can be served. Our people deserve an explanation as to why such a sacred place has been so maliciously

violated.”

In the ensuing silence Razak could hear the taunting, muffled sounds

of protestors through the window, like voices from the grave. “I’ll do

whatever’s necessary,” he assured them. “First I’ll need to see where this

happened.”

Farouq rose to his feet. “I’ll take you there now.”

4

******

Vatican City

Charlotte Hennesey was battling the unforgiving eight-hour time difference, and three espressos earlier that morning hadn’t helped to settle her. As instructed, she was waiting in her guest suite until summoned. Unlike the limousine and first-class service that had whisked her from Phoenix to Rome, her accommodation at the Vatican City’s Domus Sanctae Marthae residence hall was austere. White walls, simple oak furniture, twin bed and nightstand, though she did have her own bathroom and a small refrigerator. Seated at the sun-filled window, she gazed out over the tiled roofs of Rome’s western sprawl. Having finished her novel on the plane—Anne Tyler’s Saint Maybe—she’d now had to settle for the English edition of L’Osservatore Romano, reading it from cover to cover. Sighing, she set the paper down and looked over at the nightstand’s digital alarm clock—3:18. She was anxious to get to work, but wondered what purpose an American geneticist could possibly serve here. As the head of research and development at BioMapping Solutions, Charlotte typically made off-site visits to pharmaceutical and biotech companies looking to apply the latest discoveries in the human genome to their research.

It was her boss, BMS founder Evan Aldrich, who had taken the call al

most two weeks ago from a Vatican cleric named Father Patrick Donovan. Having heard the priest’s compelling proposal, Aldrich had volunteered her services for a highly secretive project. Few things could divert Evan Aldrich from his work, especially when the request required him to hand over his best researcher.

Clearly this was one of them.

At thirty-two, Charlotte was a lithe five-nine with striking emerald green eyes and a smooth, healthily tanned face framed by shoulder length curls of chestnut hair. With a rare balance of intellect and charm, she’d become her company’s chosen spokesperson for an industry typified by gray scientists. Human genetics was often misunderstood and always controversial. With BMS aggressively promoting its latest gene-mapping technology, the right public image was important.

Recently she had added media appearances to her arsenal of talents— talk shows and news programs. Aldrich had told her that the Vatican priest mentioned seeing one of her most recent interviews concerning the reconstruction of maternal lineage through mapping mitochondrial DNA, prompting his request for her services.

Now that her time was split between research and public relations, she wondered exactly what role she’d be asked to play here. After all, the conservative papacy was surely not one of her biggest supporters.

Her thoughts drifted back to Evan Aldrich.

Aldrich had abruptly shifted his career ten years ago, abandoning his secure tenure as a Harvard professor of genetic science to enter the uncertain world of business. And he had handled the switch brilliantly. Not for the first time, Charlotte mused about what made Evan tick. Not money, though when BMS eventually went public he would make a great deal of it. What really drove the man was his sense of purpose, his belief that the work they did and the choices they made really mattered. It was his passion and genuine charisma that first attracted her to him. The fact that she thought he looked like a movie star didn’t hurt either.

Almost a year ago, she and Evan had begun dating, both very cautious about the potential work-related conflicts such a relationship might bring about. But if there could exist a natural fit between two people, Charlotte had certainly found it—like the inevitable laws of physics she found herself hopelessly drawn to him. Only four months ago, things between them seemed perfect.

Then fate decided to throw a curveball at her.

A routine blood test taken during her annual physical detected abnormally high protein levels in her blood. Further testing followed that included a painful bone biopsy. Finally came the devastating diagnosis: multiple myeloma.

Bone cancer.

At first, she was angry. After all, she was practically a vegetarian, rarely drank, and exercised like a fiend. It just didn’t make sense, especially because at the time, she felt perfectly fine.

That wasn’t the case now. Just a week earlier, she began taking Melphalan—her first round of low-dose chemotherapy. Now she felt like she was battling a permanent hangover, complete with intermittent waves of nausea.

She didn’t have the heart to tell Evan. Not yet, at least. He had already been talking about a more permanent future, even kids. None of that seemed possible now and it crushed her. Over the past few weeks, she had grown more despondent. In all fairness to him, she needed to be absolutely certain that she would be among the ten percent who actually beat this disease before she could commit to anything more serious.

A discreet knock pulled Charlotte from her thoughts.

Reaching the door in four strides, she opened it to see a bespectacled bald man barely her height, dressed in a black suit and shirt. His complexion was smooth and pale. Maybe in his late forties or early fifties, she guessed. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the white priest collar.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Hennesey. I’m Father Patrick Donovan.” His English was flavored with an Irish brogue. Smiling pleasantly, he extended a thin hand.

My Vatican admirer, she thought. “A pleasure to meet you, Father.”

“I so much appreciate your patience. I apologize for the delay. Shall we go?”

“Yes, of course.”

5

******

Temple Mount

Deep beneath Temple Mount, Razak and Farouq stood amidst the rubblestrewn floor of the Marwani Mosque. As the Keeper had indicated, the damage to the site had been considerable, yet contained. Pole-mounted spotlights had been erected to illuminate a gaping hole in the rear wall about a meter-and-a-half in diameter. On seeing it, Razak felt his stomach twist into a knot.

The first time he had seen this place was in the late 1990s. Back then, rubble and debris had completely filled the space, floor to ceiling. But that was before the Israeli government had allowed the Waqf to initiate excavation and restoration. In exchange, Jewish archaeologists had been permitted to excavate the Western Wall tunnel—an underground passage far beneath the buildings of the Muslim Quarter, connecting the southern Western Wall Plaza to the Via Dolorosa on the embankment’s northwest corner. As usual it was a compromise that wasn’t without bloodshed. Riots had broken out between Palestinians and Israelis opposing the excavations, resulting in the deaths of over seventy soldiers and civilians, including Razak’s closest friend, Ghalib, who vehemently opposed Israeli digging beneath his home that abutted the Temple Mount’s western retaining wall.

Some Muslims had clung to the belief that a demon called the Jin had deliberately filled this underground room with rubble to deter entrance. And now that its restoration was nearing completion, Razak couldn’t help but feel a malevolent presence still lurked here in the shadows.

Approaching the aperture, he ran his fingers along its jagged edge, feeling a gummy residue. He peered into the secret chamber beyond where the rubble was minimal.

Farouq appeared beside him holding a piece of masonry and handed it to Razak. “See this?” He indicated a smooth arc that ran along one edge of the brick. “The Israelis found a drill the thieves left behind, used to make cores that were then packed with explosive.”

Razak examined the brick. “How could explosives be smuggled into the heart of Jerusalem, past all the checkpoints?”

“Explosives and guns. These people were smart.” Farouq leaned through the hole and peered into the chamber. “I didn’t want to mention it in front of the others, but this seems to suggest that someone on the inside helped them. Perhaps the Jews did have something to do with this.”

Razak wasn’t so sure. “You said the police have already seen this?”

“The police and the IDF’s intelligence people. Studied it for two solid days following the theft.”

Their thoroughness didn’t surprise Razak.

“We’ve been awaiting a full report,” Farouq added. “It has yet to come.”

Both men climbed through the hole into the space beyond.

Additional pole lights illuminated the inner chamber clearly carved from Mount Moriah’s soft limestone bedrock with thick earthen pillars supporting its rocky ceiling. The walls were bare of any ornamentation. Here the stagnant air still smelled of explosives.

Razak turned to face the Keeper. “Did you know about this chamber before?”

“Absolutely not. Our excavations were contained within the mosque itself. Any unauthorized digging would have been strictly forbidden.”

Farouq’s gaze was steady, but Razak was well aware that, when it came to excavations, the Waqf had taken some liberties in the past.

Against the east wall, Razak detected a line of nine compact stone boxes, each etched in a language that looked like Hebrew. He moved closer. At one end, a rectangular depression in the earth suggested a tenth box had been removed and he moved closer.

Unexpectedly, a voice broke in from the other side of the blast hole. “Gentlemen. Can I have a moment?”

Razak and Farouq whirled round to find a plain looking middle-aged man peering through the aperture. His face was pale and streaked by sunburn, topped off by a nest of unruly brown hair.

“Sorry, do you speak English?” The stranger had a refined English accent.

“We do.” Razak rapidly approached the hole.

“Marvelous.” The stranger smiled. “That’ll make things easier. My Arabic’s a little ropey.”

Farouq elbowed Razak aside. “Who are you?”

“My name is Barton.” He moved forward through the opening. “Graham Barton, I—”

Farouq threw oversized hands in the air. “You dare come in here? This is a sacred place!”

Barton stopped in his tracks, looking like he had just stepped on a landmine. “I’m sorry. But if you’ll just let me—”

“Who let you in?” Razak moved past Farouq to shield the chamber.

“I was sent by the Israeli Police Commissioner, to assist you.” He pulled out a letter on police department stationery.

“An Englishman!” Farouq was gesticulating wildly. “They send an Englishman to assist us. You see where that got us in the past!”

From the extensive time Barton had spent on projects in Israel, he was painfully aware that here the English were still best known for their botched colonization efforts in the early 1900s—a debacle that only served to deepen Palestinian resentment toward the West. He grinned tightly.

“Need I remind you,” Farouq warned, “that non-Muslims are banned here?”

“My religious affinities aren’t so easily defined,” Barton scowled. There was a time when he regularly attended Anglican services at Holy Trinity Church near his Kensington home in London. But that was a long time ago. Now he considered himself a more secular believer who shunned the establishment, but still sought a better understanding of his belief that there was indeed something bigger than himself in this miraculous universe. That search had yet to exclude elements of most faiths, including Islam, which he regarded highly.

“So what is your purpose here?” Razak demanded.

“I work with the Israeli Antiquities Authority,” Barton persisted. He was already feeling that accepting this job had been a very bad idea. The guppy was now in the piranha tank. “Ancient Holy Land antiquities are my specialty.” Biblical antiquities was more like it, he thought. But mentioning that to this pair didn’t seem smart. “I’m well regarded in my field.” Renowned, in fact, he thought. Trained at Oxford University, head curator of antiquities for the Museum of London, and a resume that read like a novella—not to mention the countless archaeological digs he’d managed in and around Jerusalem and his regular pieces in Biblical Archaeology Review. And just prior to the theft, the IAA had commissioned Graham Barton with a generous stipend to oversee a massive digitizing campaign that would catalogue the entirety of its priceless collections throughout Israel’s museums. Wisely, he chose not to elaborate on those details.

Farouq was dismissive. “Credentials do not impress me.”

“Right. But I can save you a lot of time,” Barton added, dodging the Keeper’s outright hostility. “Besides, the IDF and Israeli police have retained my services. I’ve been told you’re committed to full cooperation in order to determine what happened here. I have a letter of introduction.” His tone was more assertive now.

Farouq’s eyes met Razak’s, registering displeasure for the Israelis’ sneaky tactics.

“I was informed that the incident here possibly involved an ancient relic.” Barton was trying to peer over Razak’s shoulder.

The two Muslims were still grappling with what was happening.

“The thieves must have had very precise information,” Barton forged on, “to know the exact whereabouts of a room so well hidden beneath Temple Mount. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“A moment, please.” Farouq raised a finger and motioned to the archaeologist to move back through the blast hole.

Sighing, Barton retreated into the mosque. The tricky politics of this place exasperated him.

Razak watched him go. “Strange. I wonder if they—”

“An outrage!” Farouq’s face was close.

Razak’s voice sunk to a whisper. “Did the Israelis mention this to you?”

“Not at all. And I will not permit this.”

Razak drew a deep breath. He didn’t like the idea of allowing this Barton—apparently a delegate from the Jewish authorities—to intervene in such a sensitive investigation. After all, the Israeli police and the IDF had already spent two days inspecting the crime scene without apparent results. Now they were sending in an outsider? Perhaps Barton would not simply replicate the investigation. There was no telling what their motives could be. However, time wasn’t on Razak’s side and his knowledge of archaeology and antiquities was limited at best.

Farouq drew even closer. “What are you thinking?”

“We don’t have much time. Since Barton claims to be an expert...”

“Yes...”

“Well, it’s obvious the Israelis already know what happened here. Perhaps he can give us information. Something to start with. It’s in everyone’s interests to resolve this quickly.”

Farouq stared at the floor. “Razak. Trust requires merit. Every man needs to prove his character. You are a virtuous man. But not everyone’s like you. You and I—we trust each other. But with this Barton we have to be very careful.” He marked the point with a raised finger.

Razak raised an eyebrow. “Of course, but do we really have a choice?”

Farouq returned Razak’s gaze. Finally, the creases in his brow softened. “You could be right,” he relented, sighing dramatically. “I just wish he wasn’t an Englishman.” The Keeper forced a smile. “Take his letter and check his credentials with the police. Proceed how you see fit. I’m leaving.”

Back out in the mosque, Razak took the letter and instructed the Englishman to wait for him to return, then walked Farouq to the stairs.

“Keep a close eye on him,” Farouq reminded Razak, leering back at Barton.

Taking off his suit jacket, Razak asked Farouq if he wouldn’t mind taking it back to his office. He watched as the Keeper disappeared into the sunlight above.

After rolling up his sleeves, Razak pulled out his cell phone and punched in the number for the Israeli police commissioner who had signed the letter. Two transfers later he was put on hold and subjected to a banal Israeli pop song. Watching Barton pace in small circles in the Marwani Mosque, he shifted back and forth on his feet, holding the phone at arm’s length, trying his best to tune out the song’s headache-inducing techno beat. A minute later, there were two distinct clicks followed by a ring.

A strong, nasal voice came on. “Major Topol speaking.”

Razak did his best to filter the Arabic undertones out from his nearperfect English. “My name is Razak bin Ahmed bin al-Tahini. I’ve been commissioned by the Waqf to oversee the investigation at the Temple Mount.”

“Been expecting your call,” Topol said between sips of burned coffee from a paper cup, clearly unimpressed. “I take it you’ve met Mr. Barton?”

Razak was thrown by the man’s directness. “Yes, I have.”

“He’s good... used him before. Very objective.”

Razak refrained from comment. “I must inform you that his presence wasn’t well received. We understand the need for your department’s intervention, but Mr. Barton entered the mosque without authorization.”

“Apologies for not notifying you sooner,” Topol replied, stifling a yawn. “But Graham Barton has been authorized to act on our behalf. It’s all in the letter he’s carrying. I’m sure you’ll understand that the nature of this crime requires us to play an equal role in the investigation.”

“But he’s an archaeologist, not an investigator,” Razak challenged. “Israeli police have already analyzed the crime scene.”

“Sure, our people have been there,” Topol admitted, “but this crime seems to center on a missing artifact. We’re the police. Stolen cars, burglaries, murders, we understand. We don’t know from artifacts. So we felt the investigation could benefit from Barton’s knowledge of archaeology.”

Razak said nothing. It was routine for him to choose silence over confrontation. When negotiating, the opposition often blurted out significant information just to fill the silence. The pause allowed him to consider Topol’s argument. For the most part it seemed sensible.

The policeman lowered his voice and spoke conspiratorially. “I think we’ll both need to put aside our differences, so that justice can be served.”

“My colleagues and I share your concern. Can we trust all information will remain confidential until our investigation is complete?”

“You have my word on that. We’re looking for a quick, peaceful resolution here. Rumors are spreading like wildfire. We could soon have a much bigger problem on our hands.”

“I understand.”

“Good luck to you.”

The line went dead.

Razak returned to where the Englishman stood near the blast hole, hands folded behind his back, whistling and admiring the Marwani Mosque’s impressive interior. Barton turned to him. “Everything okay?”

He nodded and offered his hand. “Welcome, Mr. Barton. My name is Razak.”

6

******

Vatican City

At the end of the dimly lit corridor Charlotte Hennesey and Father Donovan descended two flights of switchback steps and emerged into the Domus’s modern lobby. They strode across the expanse of white marble tile, passed a bronze bust of Pope John Paul II, and exited the building into bright afternoon sunshine.

Charlotte was accustomed to the dry desert heat of Phoenix. Rome’s heat came with oppressive humidity. And then there was the Vatican’s strict dress code—arms, legs, and shoulders had to be covered at all times. No shorts or sleeveless tops. It was like high school—no tube tops or halters. For the next few days it would be khaki pants and long-sleeved blouses with uncomfortably high thread counts. Back home, she typically ended her day lying poolside in the backyard of her Spanish-style ranch, sporting a bikini. At least, when she was feeling up to it. It was quite evident that wouldn’t be happening here.

“I’m sure you’re curious as to why you’ve been asked to come here,” Father Donovan said.

“The thought had crossed my mind,” she politely replied.

“The Vatican is proficient in theology and faith,” he explained. “However, you won’t be shocked to hear that in the field of natural sciences, there are some obvious deficiencies in our capabilities.” He offered a selfdeprecating smile.

“That’s perfectly understandable.” The priest had a gentle spirit, she thought. His Irish accent was calming and she noticed that he gesticulated often, the by-product of years behind a pulpit.

They strolled past Piazza Santa Marta, circling the rear walkways along the apse of the basilica. Charlotte marveled at its marble and stained glass exterior.

“Take me for instance,” he offered. “Prefetto di Bibloteca Apostolica Vaticana ...a fancy way of saying head curator of the Vatican Library. My expertise is books and Church history. I must confess that I know little about your field. But when I saw you on television, I was convinced that you could really help me with a project I’ve been asked to undertake.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, I’m surprised my field intrigues anyone in Vatican City.”

“Indeed, many within these walls would have reservations about the intentions of genetic research. I, however, like to keep a more open mind.”

“That’s good to know,” she said, smiling. “So what exactly is it that I’ll be studying?”

The priest didn’t respond right away, allowing a pair of strolling clerics to pass a comfortable distance before quietly saying, “A relic.” He considered enlarging on the idea, but decided against it. “It’s best to see it with your own eyes.”

Heading north on Viale del Giardino Quadrato, they crossed through the lush greenery of the Vatican Gardens, passing the Casina of Pius IV, the lavish sixteenth-century neoclassic papal summerhouse.

The straight pathway ran behind the massive Vatican Museum. Charlotte remembered reading that the Vatican’s extensive art collection was housed there, within the former palace of Renaissance-era popes. It was also the place where countless visitors from around the world came to marvel at the city’s most famous exhibit—the Sistine Chapel—its walls covered in narrative frescoes; its ceiling painted by Michelangelo.

She could tell Father Donovan wasn’t yet ready to divulge any more. Though she wanted to inquire why the librarian was handling the study of relics, she decided to change the subject. “This place is enchanting,” she said, gazing at the flowers, ornate fountains, and fantastic Renaissance architecture. “It’s like a fairytale. Do you actually live here?”

“Oh yes,” he said.

“What’s it like?”

The priest looked up at her, grinning. “The Vatican is its own world. Everything I need is right within these walls. It’s kind of like a college campus, I guess.”

“Really?”

He held up both hands. “Without the night life, of course,” he said with a laugh. “Though I must admit, we do have our own equivalents to fraternities.”

They were just approaching the museum’s service entrance. Even at a leisurely pace, in less than ten minutes they had walked about six hundred meters—almost the entire width of the country.

7

******

Temple Mount

Razak led the Englishman over to the blast hole, motioning him through the aperture.

Stepping inside, Barton’s analytical gaze immediately swept the chamber.

Coming in behind him, Razak remained standing near the opening, uneasy with the gloomy, subterranean atmosphere.

Energized, Barton didn’t hesitate to start airing his thoughts. “In the late first century BCE, King Herod the Great employed master architects from Rome and Egypt to design the Temple Mount. It was a huge undertaking that required the construction of an enormous platform that incorporated solid bedrock at the northern end”—he gestured behind him—“and expanded south, using vast retaining walls where Mount Moriah’s bedrock slopes down.” He swiveled round, pointing in the opposite direction. “That’s why the southern end of the platform can easily accommodate vaulted rooms, like the space that is now the Marwani Mosque. And archaeologists have long theorized that other similar spaces existed beneath the Mount.”

“Are you telling me the Israelis were aware of this room’s existence?”

Barton knew Razak was looking for suspects so he knew he had to tread lightly. Though he was aware that Jewish archaeologists had performed thermal scans on the Mount that had shown questionable subsurface anomalies, he was fairly certain that this particular chamber had remained completely undetected. “Absolutely not. I’m sure that if they had, the Waqf would have been informed.” He could tell that Razak didn’t believe a word of it.

Barton focused his attention on the stone boxes, crouching down to get a better look, moving from one to the next, his excitement building with each new discovery.

Meanwhile, Razak’s haunted gaze wandered over the stone walls. “So what is this place?”

Barton stood and let out a prolonged breath. “You’re standing in what appears to be an ancient Jewish crypt.”

Razak crossed his arms tightly across his chest. The idea of being amidst death and unreconciled souls was unnerving, only underlining his sense of foreboding. And Jewish, to boot! The place felt instantly smaller. Suffocating.

“And it looks like your thieves removed one of the permanent occupants.” Barton was shifting from foot to foot, pointing to the rectangular depression in the dirt at the end of the row.

“But aren’t those boxes far too small to be coffins?”

“Let me explain.” The archaeologist paused to gather his thoughts. “During the ancient Jewish burial ritual—the tahara—bodies of the deceased were cleaned, then covered with flowers, herbs, spices and oils. Next, the ankles, wrists, and jaw were bound and two coins placed over the eyes.” He cupped his hands over his eyes. “Finally the entire body would be wrapped in linens and covered with a shroud.” At this stage Barton knew that the prepared body would be placed inside a long niche, or loculus. There were none here, but variations in tomb design weren’t uncommon and he didn’t want to complicate matters.

Trying to visualize the inner dimensions of the box, Razak couldn’t compute how a body could fit in such a cramped vessel. “But I still don’t see—”

Barton held up a hand. “Please,” he gently cut in. “They believed that the body needed to expiate sin, shed it through the process of decaying flesh. So the family would allow the corpse to putrefy for a year, after which, they would come back to place the bones in a sacred stone box—a miniature coffin called an ossuary.”

Razak stared at him. Islamic burial practice—interment within twenty-four hours in a modest tomb facing Mecca, preferably without a casket—was in stark contrast to elaborate ancient Jewish rituals. “I see.” Razak fingered his chin.

“This type of burial was common in this region,” Barton continued, “but only practiced during a very brief period—roughly 200 BCE to 70 CE. That helps us to date ossuaries pretty accurately, even without fancy tests. As you can see,” Barton pointed to the row, “the boxes are just large enough to accommodate a dismembered skeleton.”

“Why did they save the bones?” Razak thought he knew the answer, but wanted to be sure.

“The ancient Jews believed strongly in their eventual resurrection, ushered in by the coming of the true Messiah.”

Razak nodded. The bodies of Muslims also waited in the grave for a Day of Judgment, reminding him how Judaism and Islam shared many common roots.

“The same Messiah,” Barton added, “whom the Jews believe will rebuild the third and final temple up there,” he pointed above his head toward the Temple Mount esplanade.

“That will never happen,” Razak defiantly stated.

That’s precisely what Barton would have expected the Muslim to say. “Yes, well, anyway, this was considered preparation for that day. Without the bones, there would have been no chance for resurrection.”

“Are ossuaries valuable?”

“Depends. The stone would need to be in pristine condition.” Barton surveyed the nine remaining relics. “And these look to be in excellent shape—no obvious fractures, plus they all have their lids. Etchings can be important too. Often an engraver would mark the surface with the corpse’s identity. Sometimes they’d have decorative patterns and scenes. If the engravings are impeccable, it pushes the price up.” Barton had seen hundreds of similar boxes that had been recovered throughout the region, many more impressive than these. “These ossuaries look fairly standard.”

“Then what would one of them be worth?”

Barton pursed his lips. “Depends. Maybe six thousand pounds, or perhaps ten thousand dollars, assuming it could be sold in the antiquities market. Big problem is that the relic probably wouldn’t be particularly unusual. To fetch a high price, it would need to be in perfect condition and purchased by an avid collector or museum. But these days museums tend not to like pieces obtained through the antiquities markets.”

Razak was starting to get used to the archaeologist’s English accent. “Why not?”

“Well, desirable artifacts would be those with a high degree of provenance. A serious buyer needs adequate proof that a relic had been excavated from a specific site, validating its authenticity. The earth and commingled artifacts around an archaeological dig provide lots of clues to an artifact’s age. Remove the relic from the earth, and . . .” He shrugged his shoulders.

Razak squatted down. This was all a lot to absorb. “So what you’re really saying is...since its value can depend on substantiating its origin, this stolen ossuary might not be worth much at all on the open market?”

Barton nodded. “Absolutely. Value also relies heavily on the credibility of the seller. If its provenance is suspect, the ossuary’s value would be severely reduced, which means we can rule out the possibility of a museum or well-known collector as the thief.” Barton eyed the squatting Muslim, considering whether or not he should reciprocate by sitting. Would he expect that? Unsure, he decided to remain standing. “The potential consequences are too severe. I might also point out that many relics that have come out of Israel in the past two decades have been proven fakes, only after European museums paid exorbitantly for them.”

Razak looked up at him. “So putting the ossuary on display in a gallery would be a waste of time for them?”

Barton nodded.

The Israeli death toll just didn’t tally with the relic’s questionable market value. “Why would someone go to so much trouble—with such violence—to steal just one?” he countered. “Why not steal them all?”

“Good point,” Barton concurred. “That’s what you and I will need to determine. I’ll need to analyze the etchings on these. I will also need to study this crypt for clues as to whose family was buried here. My guess is the thieves knew precisely which ossuary they wanted and were unconcerned about establishing provenance. That rules out serious archaeologists, who are not known to blast holes through walls.”

Razak allowed himself a smile. “What does one of those things weigh?”

“Probably about twenty-two kilos, plus the bones...around thirtyfive in total.”

“And how would one go about shipping it?”

“A standard crate, I’d guess. You’d need to wrap it in a fair amount of packing material. If it left one of Israel’s ports, the contents would have to clear Customs. And I’ve been told that since Friday, all cargo awaiting shipment is being inspected piece by piece. It would never get through.”

“Most likely the IDF secured all roads immediately following the crime,” Razak added. “That would rule out the ossuary being driven from Israel.”

Quizzically, Barton eyed the Muslim. “Yes, but aren’t the police saying a helicopter was used during the theft?”

Razak nodded. “That’s what eyewitnesses have been saying.”

“I don’t mean to state the obvious, but don’t you think they probably flew it directly over the border somewhere?”

Razak’s expression was squeamish. He had thought the very same thing, but didn’t even want to consider that prospect. “Anything’s possible.” The idea that the relic might already be far from reach was daunting. This was way beyond his usual role and he silently cursed the Waqf for involving him in all this. “And apparently eyewitnesses reported a helicopter over Gaza shortly following the theft.”

“Oh dear, that’s not good,” Barton said.

“No, it’s not,” Razak somberly replied. “Not when the helicopter has yet to turn up.”

“There’s always a remote possibility that the ossuary is still in Israel,” Barton offered.

Standing, Razak brushed away dust from his pants. “I think that’s unlikely.”

Sensing that the Muslim delegate seemed overwhelmed, Barton thought it wise to shift gears. “I’m no expert on crime scenes,” Barton continued, “but I believe the ossuary contained more than bones. I would wager those thieves knew exactly what was in it.” He placed a hand nonthreateningly on Razak’s shoulder. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. I’ll do my best to see what these inscriptions say.” Seeing the Muslim’s discomfort with the gesture, he pulled his hand away.

“How much time will you need, Mr. Barton?”

“About an hour should do it.”

“Let’s reconvene in the morning,” Razak suggested. “I’ll have one of our men from the Waqf, Akbar, meet you at the top of the steps. He’ll escort you down so you can get started.”

“You mean watch me.”

Razak ignored him.

“Look, I don’t blame you.” Barton held out his hands, palms up. “I know this place is sacred. And I’m not a Muslim.”

Silence, not confrontation, Razak reminded himself. “Shall we say around nine o’clock?”

“Right.”

Razak passed him a business card. “In case you need to contact me.”

Barton glanced at it. Just the name and mobile phone number. “Thanks. And just for the record, Razak...I’m notinterested in politics. I’m an archaeologist. Please remember I’m here to help you. Thirteen men died on Friday and I’m confident that the clues here will help to determine why.”

Razak nodded affably and the two men made their way out of the crypt.

8

******

Vatican City

Father Donovan and Charlotte rode a noisy freight elevator down one level beneath the Vatican Museum.

When the doors opened, the cleric led her out into a wide, fluorescentlit corridor that she would have expected to see in a hospital. Their feet echoed off the vinyl tiles and blank white walls. The place was a gallery of doors. Most likely storage, she guessed.

“We’re just up ahead,” Father Donovan said, pointing to a wide metal door situated at the end of the hall.

The priest slid a key card through a reader mounted on the doorframe and a heavy lock disengaged. He opened the door and motioned her inside.

“You can keep this key.” The priest handed it to Charlotte. “It also opens the rear service door after hours. Please don’t lose it.”

She nodded, pocketing it.

Beyond the threshold was a spacious laboratory. The walls were lined with sleek, glass-paneled cabinetry that housed a broad range of chemical containers, bottles, and small boxes. The cupboards beneath boasted an armada of state-of-the-art scientific gadgetry. Crisp halogen lighting illuminated every surface and hulking stainless-steel workstations dotted the main floor like islands. An air-conditioning and purification system hummed quietly in the background, removing dust and microscopic contaminants, while regulating the laboratory’s humidity and temperature.

If the Vatican wasn’t interested in science, it sure didn’t show down here. This was one of the most impressive workspaces she had ever seen.

“It’s our newest addition to the museum,” Donovan explained. “Hasn’t even been opened to our residents yet.”

“Impressive.”

“Our art collection requires constant maintenance,” he went on, as if in justification. “Lots of marble sculptures, paintings, tapestries.” His hands were moving again as if delivering a sermon. “This is where our most precious treasures will be maintained so that the coming generations can enjoy them.”

A man emerged from a doorway to an adjacent room in the rear of the lab. Seeing him, the priest smiled.

“Ah, Giovanni, come sta?”

“Fantastico, padre. E lei?”

“Bene, gratzie.”

Hearing the Irish priest effortlessly switching languages impressed Charlotte. She watched the middle-aged man, dressed in a crisp white lab coat, as he approached to shake the priest’s hand. With hazel eyes and thick whisps of black and gray hair, he had a pleasant face that was wrinkled only in the areas where his continuous wide smile had left its marks.

“Dr. Giovanni Bersei, I’d like you to meet Dr. Charlotte Hennesey, a renowned geneticist from Phoenix, Arizona.” Donovan placed a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder.

“A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Hennesey,” Bersei kindly replied, in accented English. He offered a handshake. Like many others who had met Charlotte Hennesey for the first time, he too was captivated by her striking green eyes.

“Likewise.” She shook his smooth hand and offered a warm smile. Wishing she could say something nice in Italian, she realized how she, like most Americans she knew, was deficient when it came to linguistic skills, although in Phoenix, she had learned some basic-survival Spanish.

“Dr. Bersei has helped us many times in the past,” Father Donovan informed her. “He is an anthropologist whose specialty is ancient Roman culture.”

“Fascinating.” Immediately she wondered how their diverse disciplines could possibly complement one another. Now she was even more anxious to see this mysterious relic Donovan had alluded to earlier.

Donovan held out his hands, as if an invisible communion chalice had been set before him. “I actually have to leave for about an hour to go and pick up our delivery from Termini. I figured the two of you might get acquainted while I’m gone.”

“Great,” Charlotte said, eyeing Bersei who also seemed pleased with the recommendation.

Before making his way out the door, Father Donovan added, “I’ll see you both shortly.”

The priest left.

Charlotte turned to Bersei wearing a puzzled look. “Any idea what this is all about?”

“No idea,” the anthropologist shrugged. “I have to admit, I’m a bit curious. I’ve done plenty of work for the Vatican in the past, but never had to sign confidentiality agreements. You too, I suppose?”

“Yes. I thought that seemed odd.” Three pages of legal disclaimer stamped with a raised papal seal and witnessed by a Vatican notary. Obviously, the project’s secrecy was more than just a tacit request. She was tempted to ask about the financial retainer, but felt it might be inappropriate. Aldrich didn’t say exactly how much money had been wired to BMS’s corporate account, but she guessed it was plenty.

“And I’ve certainly never been paired up with a geneticist,” he said, puzzled. “Not that I’m complaining, of course,” he quickly added.

“Do you live in Rome?”

“Two kilometers away. I ride my Vespa when I do work here.” He flitted his eyebrows.

Charlotte laughed. “I hope you’re careful. Everyone seems to drive pretty fast around here.”

“Craziest drivers in all Europe.”

“So tell me, what type of work have you done here in the past?”

“Oh, a few different projects,” he said. “I suppose my claim to fame is my papers on the ancient catacombs throughout Rome. A Vatican commission oversees the sites, so I interact with them quite often. But I’m rarely called inside the Vatican itself. It’s a bit intimidating, no?”

“Certainly is,” she agreed. “Lots of guards.”

“So you’re a geneticist? Sounds exciting. Very modern.”

“I mainly do human genome research, analyzing cell structure and DNA to spot genetic flaws that cause disease.”

Bersei stroked his chin. “Amazing. So remarkable, the human organism.”

“It’s always fascinated me, ever since I was a girl.”

“Well Dr. Hennesey, I’m not sure why fate has brought us together, but I certainly look forward to working with you.”

“Thanks. And please, call me Charlotte.”

“Come,” he turned and motioned for her to follow him to the rear room. “Let’s get you a lab coat. I’m sure Father Donovan will be anxious to start as soon as he returns.”

9

******

Jerusalem

Returning from his meeting with the archaeologist, Razak found Farouq in the same room the Waqf council had convened earlier that afternoon. The Keeper wound up his phone call and placed the receiver back in its cradle.

“So what did you think of Barton?” Farouq eased into his chair. “Seems to know what he’s talking about,” replied Razak.

“That was Topol.” Farouq nodded toward the phone. “Apologizing he

hadn’t contacted us earlier. Offered to pull Barton if we weren’t comfortable. I told him I’d speak to you.”

Razak knew Farouq was indirectly asking if he was willing to take responsibility for Barton’s actions. “I think we can trust him. He’s already given me valuable information.”

“Should I tell Topol we’ll cooperate?”

“It would show good faith,” Razak urged. “After all, this affects both sides. If we keep the Israelis involved, it will alleviate suspicion—delay any violent protest.” Sometimes politics, like inner peace, was largely about damage control.

“Just be sure to keep a close eye on him,” Farouq reiterated. “Does he know what was stolen?”

“Yes. An ossuary.”

“A burial box? Why so much trouble for such a thing?”

“Still unclear.” Razak shook his head. “Barton needs time to determine exactly what was in the ossuary. He’ll be conducting a study of the crypt tomorrow morning to understand more.”

“I see.”

“Heard anything else about the helicopter?”

Farouq shook his head.

“Until it’s determined what happened,” Razak said, “we should request copies of all outgoing shipping manifests at the ports for the past three days, starting with Tel Aviv. Also check the airports. According to Barton the consignment would weigh about thirty-five kilos. Most likely the crate would be about a meter in length, about two-thirds of a meter in height and width. That should narrow things down.”

“I’ll request copies of shipping records for air, rail, and water transport,” he said unenthusiastically. Putting on a pair of glasses, Farouq jotted some notes on a pad.

“Is it safe to assume all the roadway checkpoints have been secured?”

Farouq grimaced. “Come now, Razak. When has that ever been a safe assumption? Nonetheless, all vehicles are being thoroughly inspected. But I highly doubt they’d risk driving this thing out of Israel.”

“Do you think the helicopter may have flown it out of the country?” The fact that Barton had himself mentioned the idea really had Razak thinking it through more seriously now.

“It hasn’t turned up in Israel yet, so the odds are it’s already gone. By the way,” Farouq continued without pause, “the police are looking into a call from a landlady in the Jewish Quarter. Told them a stranger had rented a room from her. He shared it with several men she thought were part of a tour group. They all disappeared late on Friday evening some time before dawn. The chambermaid’s agreed to meet with a police photofit expert first thing tomorrow.”

“Think it’s anything?”

“Perhaps. But it’s taken this woman three days to come forward. Seems odd.” Farouq eyed his notepad. “The name on the room was Daniel Marrone—the same one used to lease a rental van found abandoned on Haofel Road. No surprise that it appears to be an alias. The Israelis also ran ballistics tests on the munitions,” he continued. “The thieves were armed with XM8 assault rifles, apparently very sophisticated weapons, manufactured by Heckler & Koch for the United States military.”

“Interesting.” The Israeli forensic crime labs never ceased to impress Razak. As a matter of ongoing national security, they’d invested heavily in counterterrorism technology that included a highly sophisticated database with profiles of every known manufactured weapon. “But that doesn’t seem to make sense.” Razak was frowning.

“What do you mean?”

“Barton says the ossuary is probably only worth a few thousand dollars.”

“Hmm.” Farouq considered it. “Let’s wait and see what the archaeologist comes up with.” Farouq looked at his watch. “Before this relic is completely out of reach.”

10

******

Rome

On the wide cement walkway along Stazione Termini’s loading zone, a young baggage clerk was working a bulky wooden crate onto a hand truck. “Tananài,” a sharp Italian voice cut the air, “make sure you handle that with care.”

Squinting into the bright summer sunlight, the clerk looked up to see who had just called him a dickhead. Standing stiffly against the backdrop of the terminal’s modern glass and steel structure was a tall, thickset man dressed in chinos and a white shirt. The brawny stranger didn’t look like the type who would respond well to a smart reply. “Si, signore.”

Turning slightly off Via Giovanni Giolitti’s busy thoroughfare, a white Fiat van pulled up and parked along the curb. Father Patrick Donovan jumped out and excitedly went over to meet Conte. “Everything all right?”

“Would be if baggage handlers gave a damn about doing their job right.”

The young clerk rolled his eyes, careful to not let the impatient Italian see him.

Conte eyed the priest disapprovingly. “Did you have to wear that getup? Do you really need to be so damn obvious?” He eyed the van’s tags. They weren’t Vatican City plates. At least Donovan had got that part right.

Father Donovan shrugged and let out a long breath.

Conte stared for a moment at the priest’s bald scalp, glistening in the sun. “You should put some lotion on that thing before you burn my eyes out.”

The clerk laughed.

The priest was not amused.

“Make yourself useful and open the doors,” Conte instructed Donovan.

Silent, Donovan made his way to the van’s rear. Such a brash man, he thought. Though he wouldn’t expect anything less from the Vatican’s notorious hired gun. He hated the idea of working with Conte—a thief, a killer. It all made him feel unclean. But he reminded himself how critical it was to make this work. So much was at stake. And if having to contend with the Contes of the world was part of it, then so be it.

“I’ll take it from here,” Conte huffed, urging the handler to the side with the wave of a hand. The mercenary stepped behind the hand truck and raised the load, his thick, corded arm muscles flexing.

Conte was still irritable from the return trip. If getting the secret cargo out of Jerusalem had been a harrowing experience, the two-day crossing of the Mediterranean in rough seas hadn’t been much better. Seasickness and a confrontation with team member Doug Wilkinson—those were the high points. After some heavy drinking, the young twat had dragged Conte out to the aft deck for a “friendly” discussion regarding the bullet he took to his right arm. “It’s my good arm for Christ’s sake,” Wilkinson protested. “Now I’m going to have a fucking infection. You should be paying me triple for this. It’s only right,” he’d insisted in a slurred growl. That was right before Conte coldcocked him and pushed him over the deck rail into the Adriatic. Shark bait.

Yes, after all that nonsense, Conte wasn’t about to risk having some pimply faced station porter dropping the damn cargo now.

Wheeling the crate off the curb and to the rear of the Fiat, Conte motioned for Donovan to help him lift it into the van. Stowed securely inside, Conte slammed the doors and returned the hand truck to the porter. No tip.

In the meantime, Donovan had made his way into the driver’s seat and started the engine, but Conte was having none of it. Sighing, he paced over to the driver’s side window and motioned Donovan out of the van.

Confused, the cleric hopped out onto the roadway.

“When I’m here, you’re over there,” the Italian said gruffly, pointing to the passenger seat. “Get moving.”

Weaving through Rome and heading south on Lungot Marzio, the van hugged along the riverbank of the sparkling Tiber. Donovan gazed out the window trying to calm himself, his thoughts tortured by the box in the rear compartment, hoping, praying that its contents were indeed genuine. Only the scientists whose services he had convinced the Holy See to commission could inevitably make that determination.

For the past three days, the priest had been closely monitoring news reports flooding out from Jerusalem. Every time he heard the death toll, a wave of nausea swept over him and he prayed to God for forgiveness in allowing such a thing to happen. But having lobbied for a more diplomatic way to extract the relic, he was once again swept aside. The political maneuvering he had witnessed in his twelve-year tenure at Vatican City would have made even Machiavelli gasp.

Fifteen minutes from Termini and Conte had yet to make small talk. Certainly not a man concerned about first impressions, Donovan thought, glancing over at the brooding mercenary. He directed his attention back outside.

Rising like a mountain on the Tiber’s western bank, Donovan’s eyes reached out to the brilliant white cupola of St. Peter’s Basilica—the heart of Vatican City—a beacon that could be seen from all over Rome. In 1929, the Vatican’s governing body, The Holy See, had been granted full property rights and exclusive sovereignty by Italy’s fascist dictator Benito Mussolini, thus making this place the world’s smallest independent nation—a country within a country. Amazing, Donovan thought. Here the supreme Catholic monarch, the Pope, and his trusted advisors, the College of Cardinals, managed worldwide operations for over one billion Catholics and diplomatic relations with almost two hundred countries around the globe.

Crossing Ponte Umberto I, Conte angled his way around the massive ramparts of the Castel Sant’ Angelo riverfront citadel.

Heading down Borgo Pio, the Fiat approached the Sant’ Anna Gate— one of only two secure vehicle entrances through the continuous fifteenmeter high wall that formed a tight three-kilometer perimeter around the Vatican City’s 109-acre complex. The van stopped behind a short queue of cars awaiting clearance from the Swiss Guards.

“Look at those guys,” Conte scoffed. “They’re dressed like clowns for fucks sake.”

Though the routine garb of the Vatican City’s 100-man Swiss Guard battalion was blue coveralls and black berets, it was their official uniform that had earned them the status of “the world’s most colorful army”—a sixteenth-century purple-and-yellow-striped tunic and matching pantaloons with red arm cuffs and white gloves, all topped off with a red felt beret.

Explaining to Conte that the tradition meant something would be fruitless so Donovan remained silent. Up ahead, he watched the guards shuffle in and out of their barracks just inside the gate. There was nothing to fear, but as the van was waved to the gate his heartbeat quickened irrationally.

Conte gently accelerated to cross the threshold into Vatican City. A guard motioned for him to stop, checked the license plates, then paced around to Conte’s open window. “Your business here?” he rigidly inquired in Italian.

Conte smirked. “You don’t really want to know that,” he answered coyly. “Why don’t you ask him?” He leaned back and pointed over at the priest.

The guard immediately noticed Father Donovan.

“It’s okay, he’s with me.” Donovan nodded.

“Of course, Father,” the young guard replied, suspiciously eyeing Conte again. “Have a good day.” Stepping back from the van, he waved them along.

Conte sighed. “What a bunch of buffoons. That kid’s not even shaving yet. Even more pathetic than the Israelis.”

Donovan cringed at the man’s callousness, deeply regretting that Cardinal Antonio Carlo Santelli—the Segretaria di Stato, or Vatican secretary of state—had commissioned the ruthless mercenary for such a momentous task. It was whispered that Cardinal Santelli was the reckoning force behind numerous Vatican scandals. But no one in the Curia, including Santelli, seemed to know much about Salvatore Conte, even if that was his real name. Some speculated that he was a retired Italian Secret Service operative.

According to Santelli, the only sure things about Salvatore Conte were his reliability and his mission-specific twenty-four-digit Cayman Islands bank account number. Lord only knew how many of those accounts a man like Conte had, Donovan wondered. Having seen the generous financial enticements that secured the scientist’s services, it was obvious that Santelli had spared no expense—in money or lives—to ensure this project’s success.

The Fiat lurched forward down the paved roadway that ran behind the Apostolic Palace and through a village of low buildings that included a post office, emissary, and television broadcast studio. Following Donovan’s directions, Conte continued through a short tunnel that led out onto a narrow driveway that snaked around the towering edifice of the Vatican Museum complex.

Near the service entrance, Conte parked the van, then unloaded the secret cargo onto a compact dolly. The priest escorted him inside to the elevator and down one flight.

Entering the lab, Conte parked the dolly to one side. Father Donovan trailed in as the two scientists made their way over.

“Thanks so much for waiting,” Father Donovan said in English. “Dr. Giovanni Bersei, Dr. Charlotte Hennesey”—he motioned to them, then over to the mercenary—“this is Salvatore Conte.” Anything beyond a name for this killer would be too much, so the priest chose not to elaborate.

Keeping his distance, Conte straightened, hands on hips. His eyes immediately glued to Charlotte, roving up and down her body, trying to assess what lay beneath her draping lab coat. He grinned. “If my doctor looked like you, I’d be sick every week.”

Charlotte smiled tightly and diverted her attention to the bulky wooden crate. “So this is it?” she asked Donovan.

Clearly embarrassed by Conte’s crassness, the priest said, “Yes. I think it would be best to open the crate now.” He turned to Conte expectantly.

“You’re a man of God, not a cripple,” Conte grumbled. “So give me a hand.” He leaned over and grabbed a crowbar off the dolly.

11

******

The wooden shipping crate was a sturdy, four-foot cube with a Eurostar Italia logo plastered on its lid. Conte worked one side of the lid, jerking the pry bar up and down, while Donovan steadied it to prevent it from flying off and damaging the new lab equipment.

Charlotte noticed that Father Donovan’s hands were shaking. If she hadn’t known any better, she’d have sworn that he suspected the container might be empty. Then again, maybe this character, Conte, had unnerved him.

Less than thirty seconds later Conte stripped the lid away. Father Donovan gently placed it on the floor.

Glancing briefly at the shipping label, Giovanni Bersei couldn’t help but notice the port of origin printed in large bold print: STAZIONE BARI. Bari was an eastern coastal city whose lure to tourists was twofold: its claim to owning the bones of Saint Nicholas and its spectacular seaport where wealthy Italians docked their oversized yachts.

The crate’s interior was covered by thick layers of bubble wrap. “We need to get these two side panels off,” Conte said, claiming one and pointing to the side closer to Bersei.

Bersei stepped forward and lifted the panel easily up and out along grooved tracks, exposing more of what lay inside.

Charlotte moved in closer.

“Don’t be shy, just tear it away,” Conte instructed both scientists, pointing at the thick layers of bubble wrap.

As her hands peeled back the last layer of wrapping, Charlotte’s fingers ran over a hard flat surface, cold and slick. She glimpsed blue-tinted plastic.

Seconds later a rectangular surface shrouded in the blue material was revealed.

Rubbing his hands together, Donovan looked up at them. “We’ll get it over to the workstation,” he said to Bersei. “Dr. Hennesey, could you please set that rubber matting on top of the table?” He pointed to a thick rubber sheet sitting on a nearby counter.

“Sure.” She noticed that Donovan seemed visibly relieved. She laid the sheet out on the nearest workstation while Conte wheeled the dolly closer.

Following Conte’s cue, Bersei crouched down, cupping his hands round the corners. It felt very solid. “How heavy is this?”

Conte’s hard eyes met his. “Thirty-three kilos. Lift on three.” The mercenary counted down and they manhandled it up.

Halfway into the lift, Bersei’s fingers suddenly slipped along the plastic cover, and the load jerked sharply to one side. Charlotte lurched forward to help, but Conte was able to thrust his arm out just in time to stabilize it.

Conte glared at Bersei. “Not good, Doc,” he chastised in Italian. “Let’s keep it together.” He nodded to the scientist to continue, and they shifted it over onto the matting.

“If there’s nothing else you need,” Conte grumbled, “I need a drink.”

“That’ll be all, Mr. Conte,” Donovan replied, trying his best to be cordial. “Thank you.”

Before leaving, Conte turned to face the priest with his back to the scientists. He pointed to his left eye, then at Father Donovan. The message was clear. Remember, I’ll be watching you. Then he was gone.

Turning back to the scientists, small beads of perspiration had welled up on Donovan’s forehead. “That was the hard part. Now let’s get this plastic off.”

“Just a moment,” Bersei said. “I think we should clean this up before we unwrap that.” He pointed to the empty crate sitting on the dolly and the splintered mess surrounding it.

“Of course,” Donovan hesitantly agreed. He’d waited this long...

Ten minutes later, the lab was once again tidy, the dolly and neatly packed debris rolled out into the corridor; the floor swept, vacuumed, and wiped with a damp mop.

Bersei disappeared into the rear room. Within seconds, he reemerged holding a newly pressed lab coat. He handed it to Donovan. “You should wear this.”

Putting it on, the coat hung awkwardly on Donovan’s frame.

“And these,” Charlotte passed over a box of latex gloves. “I hate them too, but we don’t want to contaminate the specimen.”

Each scientist took a pair, pulled them over their hands and donned sterile masks and caps.

Charlotte passed Donovan an X-Acto knife from the workstation’s tool drawer. “Would you like to do the honors?”

Drawing a deep breath, the Vatican librarian nodded, took the knife, and began slicing through the plastic shroud. When he finally drew the wrap apart, what he saw made his eyes light up in wonderment.

12

******

Father Patrick Donovan devoured what lay before him. Only weeks ago, he’d acquired an astounding manuscript whose ancient parchment pages chronicled the origin of this magnificent relic, complete with detailed sketches and maps to locate its secret resting place. He had tried to imagine what the box would look like in person, but nothing could have prepared him for this. Astonishing.

Giovanni Bersei was circling round the box, squinting. “This is a burial casket—an ossuary.” His voice was muffled by his mask.

Goosebumps ran up Charlotte’s arms.

“I hope Santa Claus isn’t inside,” Bersei said in a barely audible mumble.

“What?” Charlotte looked at him, puzzled.

“Nothing,” he said.

Bathed in bright halogen light, the ossuary’s ornate features seemed to come to life. On the front and rear faces, rosettes and hatch patterns had been painstakingly etched, not by cutting into the surface, but through chipping the soft stone into relief. The lid was arched and beveled along its edges. The short sides were flat, one blank, the other bearing a simple relief of a dolphin wrapped around a trident.

Hennesey was momentarily transfixed by the image. “Father Donovan—what does this symbol mean?”

Still trying to calm himself, Donovan studied it briefly then shook his head. “Not sure.” It wasn’t a complete lie. But—vitally—the symbol identically matched the manuscript’s meticulous description of the box.

Dr. Bersei’s head was pressed close. “It’s beautiful.”

“Certainly is,” Donovan agreed. The ossuary’s craftsmanship was impressive, far surpassing any other relic he’d examined from the Holy Land. Using the stylus to shape the soft limestone, the carver’s technique had been masterly. There were no cracks or imperfections. The decorative work easily rivaled that of master Roman sculptors—a feature that alone made the relic extraordinary.

Bersei ran a gloved finger over the thin gap along the lid’s edge. “There’s a seal here.” He pressed it cautiously. “Most likely wax.”

“Yes. I see that,” Donovan confirmed.

“It’s a good indication that what’s inside has been well preserved,” Bersei added.

“I’d like to open this now,” Donovan said. “Then we’ll discuss details of the analysis you will perform.”

Hennesey and Bersei looked at each other, knowing that their seemingly diverse disciplines had indeed found common ground. Opening a sealed burial box implied one thing.

A corpse.

Each peering through Orascoptic Telescopes—protective goggles equipped with flip-down miniature telescopes—Charlotte and Bersei worked the lid’s edges with their X-Acto knives, loosening the tight seal of wax that, despite its age, maintained a tight bond with the ossuary.

“Can’t you just melt the wax?” Donovan inquired.

Bersei shook his head. “You can’t apply heat to the stone. It could crack or discolor. Plus the wax would drip, making a mess inside.”

Minutes passed and the only sound other than the hum of the ventilation system was of the two blades carefully scratching against the ossuary’s seal.

The priest watched the scientists from a discrete distance. His thoughts swung violently between the astounding secrets that the manuscript promised were contained within this ossuary and the firefight in Jerusalem that had claimed so many lives. Not until he could verify the contents with his own eyes would he feel any relief.

Bersei took a deep breath as he made the final cuts. “Almost there.” The Italian was practically lying across the table finishing off the rear seam.

Charlotte completed the front side and removed her goggles. Seconds later, Giovanni Bersei set down his knife and did the same.

“Ready?” Bersei asked both of them.

Donovan nodded and moved to the head of the table.

The two scientists took position on either side of the box. With fingers hooked underneath the edge of the lid, they squeezed and applied steady upward pressure, gently moving it from side to side to loosen the remaining wax. There was a small pop as the ancient seal gave way, followed by a hiss of escaping gas. Even through their masks they all detected an acrid smell.

“Probably effluvium,” Bersei observed. “By-product of decaying bone.”

The three exchanged glances.

Donovan swallowed hard, anxiously motioning them to continue.

They removed the lid in tandem and placed it on the rubber mat.

13

******

Attached to a rail on the side of the workstation, Charlotte slid over what looked like an oversized desk lamp and swung its retractable arm so that the light was directly over the ossuary’s exposed cavity.

Beneath his surgical mask, Father Patrick Donovan was grinning from ear to ear. Staring back at him from inside the cavity was a neatly stacked pile of human remains. Each bone had a dark, grainy finish resembling carved maple.

Charlotte was the first to reach out and touch one, running her finger along a femur. “These are in extraordinary shape.” She silently wished that her own bones might look so good when her time would come. It almost seemed like a cruel joke that she had been called halfway around the world for this. After all, the one refuge that diverted her thoughts from her horrible prognosis was her work. So much for that.

Intrigued, Bersei turned sharply to Donovan. “Whose remains are these?”

“We’re not sure.” The librarian avoided eye contact. “And that’s precisely the reason you’ve both been selected, to help us reconstruct the skeleton’s identity. As I mentioned earlier, the Vatican lacks the professional resources to analyze such a unique artifact. That is why you have both been hired.” He touched both his gloved hands down gently on the ossuary’s rim and stared down at the contents again. “We have reason to believe that this amazing relic may help us to better understand the historical context of the Bible.”

“In what way exactly?” asked Charlotte. She preferred people to say what they meant.

Donovan’s eyes were frozen to the bones. “We won’t know until we can accurately date this specimen, determine the cause of death through forensic analysis, and reconstruct the physical profile.”

Bersei hesitated, sensing the same thing as Charlotte. The priest seemed to be holding back. “Much of the success of understanding antiquities relies on knowing specifics relating to its origin. Isn’t there anything you know about how this ossuary was procured? Where it came from perhaps? An archaeological dig?”

Donovan shook his head and finally glanced up at them and straightened. “We’ve been provided with little background. You can imagine an acquisition like this has to be approached very cautiously. The price is substantial.”

Charlotte’s expression was muddled. Two prominent scientists lured here to validate bones, both having to sign letters of confidentiality. Obviously the Vatican believed the ossuary and its contents were valuable. Why else would they have gone to so much trouble and expense?

“We’ll perform a complete study,” Bersei assured him. “A full pathology report. Physical reconstruction. The works.” He glanced over at Charlotte.

“And I’ll be wanting to do a carbon dating analysis and draw up a complete genetic profile,” she added. “It’s a fantastic specimen. From what I can see here, so far it looks like you’ve made an excellent acquisition. I’m confident the results will be impressive.”

“Excellent,” said Donovan, clearly pleased. “Please let me know when you’re ready to report your findings. If possible, I’d like to present a preliminary report in the next few days.”

The scientists exchanged glances.

“That should be fine,” Bersei said.

Donovan stripped off his gloves, mask, and lab coat. “Please direct any activity through me. I can be reached by using the intercom,” he pointed to the small control panel near the entryway, “or dial extension two-one-onefour on the phone.” Donovan looked at his watch—6:12. “Well, it’s late. Why don’t we call it a day and you can both start fresh tomorrow morning. Say around eight o’clock?”

The two scientists agreed.

“Dr. Hennesey, have you had a chance to see the basilica since you’ve arrived?” the priest inquired.

“No.”

“You can’t stay in Vatican City without seeing firsthand its heart and soul,” he insisted. “Nothing else compares. Many say its like stepping into Heaven itself.”

“He’s right,” Bersei agreed.

“Would you like to see it now?”

Her eyes lit up. “If you have time, I’d love that.”

“Visiting hours are just winding down, so it shouldn’t be too crowded. Giovanni, would you like to join us?”

“Sorry, but I must get home to my wife,” he humbly declined. “She’s making osso bucco for dinner.” Bersei leaned closer to Charlotte and whispered loud enough for Donovan to hear, “You’re in good hands. He’s the best tour guide in the Vatican. No one knows this place better.”

14

******

Outside the Vatican Museum, the sun was low over western Rome. Cypress trees swayed in a gentle breeze. Ambling beside Father Donovan, Charlotte breathed in the garden’s fragrant smell that seemed to capture the complex aroma of a bouquet of flowers.

“Tell me, Dr. Hennesey,” Donovan said, “now that you’ve seen the relic, are you comfortable with this project?”

“I have to admit that it’s not at all what I would have expected.” That was an understatement. Human bones didn’t seem like the typical acquisition for the Vatican Museum. And a librarian wasn’t exactly the person she would expect to handle their procurement. “I’m pleasantly surprised, though,” she added. “Should be very exciting.”

“It will be exciting for us all,” Donovan promised. Nearing the rear of the basilica, he gazed up at it, reverently. “In the first century, this place where Vatican City now stands was the Vatican Circus, later called Nero’s Circus. It was a forum where the emperor Nero held chariot races. Ironic, since he’s best known for his persecution of early Christians.”

“He blamed them for the fire that burned down Rome in 64 AD. And in 67 AD, he crucified St. Peter to entertain the crowds.”

Donovan was impressed. “You’re a Christian then, or just a good historian?”

“There was a time when I was very good at both.”

“I see.” The priest could see that religion was a touchy subject, but ventured to say, “You know, back in Ireland we had a saying: ‘I believe in the sun when it’s not shining, I believe in love even when I feel it not, I believe in God even when he is silent.’ ” He glanced over at Charlotte and saw that she was smiling. Thankfully, it looked like he had not offended her. “Sometimes the things we really cherish just need to be remembered.” Climbing a set of wide marble steps that accessed the rear of the basilica, Donovan led her to one of the largest bronze doors she’d ever seen. He produced a keycard and slid it through the reader on the doorframe. There was a metallic thunk as an electromechanical lock turned. With hardly any effort, the priest opened the huge door and motioned her inside.

“We’re going in through here?”

“Of course. One of the benefits of being a guest of the papacy.”

With all her media appearances, Charlotte had grown somewhat accustomed to VIP treatment. But nothing compared to this. Crossing through the arched entry, she instantly felt like she was being transported to another world.

Emerging from the entry grotto, Charlotte was blown away by the basilica’s cavernous marble nave. On the plane, she remembered reading in her Fodor’s that the Notre Dame cathedral in Paris could easily fit inside this grand basilica. But standing inside it completely distorted her spatial senses.

Her eyes were immediately drawn upward to Michelangelo’s grand coffered cupola. Covered in tiled mosaics, it soared four hundred fifty feet above the nave with shafts of sunlight spilling in from its west-facing windows to give it an ethereal glow.

Gradually, her gaze panned down to the famous bronze Baldacchino that stood above the papal altar, directly beneath the dome. Designed by Renaissance giant Giovanni Lorenzo Bernini, its four bronze spiral columns rose seventy feet high to support a gilded baroque canopy that stretched another twenty feet upward.

Even the floors were all inlaid with marble and mosaics.

“Wow,” she gasped.

“Yes, quite magnificent,” Donovan concurred, folding his arms and taking it all in. “I could easily spend a few hours here giving you a tour. There are twenty-seven chapels, forty-eight altars, and three hundred ninety-eight statues to see. But I find that the basilica is more of a spiritual journey and is best seen alone.” From a wooden kiosk along the wall, he retrieved a map and guidebook and handed them to Charlotte. “If you see something that interests you, refer to the book for a detailed description. I must be going now. Enjoy.”

After thanking Father Donovan she slowly began working her way along the side aisle along the basilica’s northern wall.

Like most pilgrims who came here, she stopped in front of the thirteenth-century bronze statue raised up on a sturdy marble pedestal that depicted a bearded St. Peter. Seated on a papal throne, the saint donned a solar halo and gripped a papal key in his left hand, his right hand raised up as if to deliver a blessing. A few visitors were queued up to take a turn in touching the statue’s foot. Referring to the guidebook, she read that this ritual was supposed to grant good luck. Typically, she wasn’t one to believe in superstition, but she convinced herself that given her current circumstances, every little bit could help.

Less than five minutes later, she stepped forward, staring up into the statue’s solemn face, reaching out to place her left hand on its cold metal feet. Then she amazed herself by doing something she hadn’t done in over ten years. She prayed, asking God for strength and guidance. Just like Donovan said, maybe she just needed to remember that she had once been a believer.

She had all but abandoned faith eleven years ago, after watching her mother, a devout Catholic, slowly eaten away by stomach cancer. God’s compassion, Charlotte quickly surmised, was not guaranteed to the pious, no matter how many novenas were recited, no matter how many Sundays were spent sitting humbly in a pew listening to sermons. Following her mother’s death, Charlotte didn’t go to church to find answers—she went behind a microscope, convinced that mom’s defect wasn’t faith, but simply a genetic imperfection; corrupted coding.

Somehow her father, even after losing his beloved wife so cruelly, had still managed to attend mass every Sunday, still said grace before every meal, thankful for every new day. How? Charlotte wondered. There was a time when she had asked him that very question. His response was quick and sincere, “Charlie,”—he was the only person, besides Evan Aldrich, who ever called her by that nickname—“I’ve made a choice not to blame God for my misfortune. Life is full of tragedy. But it’s also full of beauty.” When he said this, she remembered that he had smiled dotingly and gently touched her face. “Who am I to question the force behind such wonder? Remember sweetie, faith is all about believing that life means something, no matter how hard things might sometimes seem.”

Maybe now she really did want to believe that there was some divine reason for her own misfortune. But regardless of her dad’s spiritual resolve, she still didn’t have the heart to tell him about her own illness, knowing that it was just the two of them now.

Lacking the structure of religion made her feel spiritually empty— particularly as of late. Did Charlotte Hennesey believe in God? There was no place on earth that could push that question like this place. Perhaps she would find that answer here. Maybe coming to Rome was fate. After ducking into countless other grottos and niches to admire yet another beautiful shrine, she neared the front of the basilica where Michelangelo’s famous sculpture, the Pietà, was given its own marble-clad chapel, shielded behind glass. The image was dramatic and eerily lifelike—the fallen son draped across the mourning Madonna’s lap. For a long minute she stood there captivated by the emotions such an image evoked: suffering, loss, love, hope.

Almost forty minutes later, she was circling back beside the Baldacchino again where she came across a haunting sculpture that made her stop dead in her tracks. Tucked into a multitoned marble alcove flanked by massive colonnades, Bernini’s Monument to Pope Alexander VII loomed above her. Perched high up on a pedestal, the late pope was immortalized in white marble, kneeling in prayer. Beneath him were various statues depicting Truth, Justice, Charity, and Prudence as human figures.

But Charlotte’s horrified gaze had instantly blocked those images out and had sharpened on the shrine’s central figure—an oversized winged human skeleton forged from bronze, holding out an hourglass in its right hand. A flowing veil of red marble shadowed its ghoulish face that was directed up at the pope, taunting him with his imminent demise.

The Angel of Death.

The basilica seemed to fall into complete silence, the image coming to life like a demonic countenance, swooping out to dump more of its wretched cancer into her body. She swore she could see the sand in the hourglass counting down. For a moment, she didn’t breathe and she could feel tears welling up in her eyes. How could this evil depiction be here? She almost felt violated, as if it was purposely meant for her.

“Creepy, isn’t it,” a voice cut into her thoughts.

Surprised, she gasped. Turning, she saw a figure that seemed equally ominous. Where the hell had he come from?

“Bernini was eighty when he designed that one,” Salvatore Conte said, full of himself. “Guess he was feeling bitter about his golden years.”

Charlotte tried to give him an obligatory smile, but it didn’t happen.

“Did you know this place was built by selling indulgences?” Conte glared up at the central dome, disapprovingly. “Back in the fifteen hundreds, Pope Leo X ran out of money to finish the project, so he basically raised funds by selling Catholics ‘get-out-of-Hell-free’ cards. Rich people got to prepay for God’s forgiveness. They even had a saying for it: ‘as soon as the coin in the coffer rings, the soul from Purgatory springs.’ ”

She felt like saying: How many indulgences would you need to buy to free your soul? Conte certainly looked like the type who needed a lot of forgiving. It made her wonder why he was even in Vatican City and what at all he had to do with the ossuary. Earlier, Father Donovan had looked more like a hostage in his presence, not a coworker. “I take it you don’t go to Church every Sunday,” she sardonically replied.

Leaning closer, he dropped his voice an octave and said, “After all that I’ve seen, particularly inside these walls,” he said, “I’m willing to take my chances.”

She tried to understand what he really meant, but there was nothing in his eyes and she certainly wasn’t about to ask him to expound. “Are you visiting or just stalking?”

The remark took him off guard. “Just seeing the sights,” he replied, looking away.

“Well, I’ve got to get going. Nice seeing you,” she lied. Turning to go, Charlotte felt his hand touch her shoulder. She went rigid and turned back to him with icy eyes.

Realizing his miscalculation, Conte threw his hands up. “Sorry. I know American women are sensitive about their personal space.”

“What do you want?” She pronounced each word clearly.

“I was going to see if you wanted company for dinner tonight. I figured, you’re here alone....I don’t see a wedding ring,” he added, eyeing her hands. “Maybe you’d like some conversation. That’s all.”

For a long moment, she just stared at him, unable to process the idea that he was actually hitting on her in St. Peter’s Basilica. Suddenly she felt bad for any woman that had been charmed by this character. Handsome— yes—but everything else was severely lacking. “I’ve got a boyfriend and I’ve already made plans, but thank you.” Uncertain as to how much she would need to interact with Conte during the coming days, she tried her best to be polite.

“Some other time, then,” he confidently replied.

“Good night.” She turned and made her way for the exit.

“Enjoy your evening, Dr. Hennesey. Buonasera.”

15

TUESDAY

******

Temple Mount

The rising sun cast a faint glow of deep blue and purple over the Mount of Olives as Razak made his way across the Temple Mount esplanade toward the Dome of the Rock Mosque’s golden cupola, its crescent-shaped finial delicately pointing toward Mecca.

No matter how many times he visited this place, it always affected him deeply. Here, history and emotion seemed to drip like dew.

In the seventh century, Temple Mount had virtually been forgotten and its bare esplanade was devoid of any great monument. All of its previous architecture had been destroyed many times over. But in 687 AD—only a few decades after a Muslim army led by Caliph Omar had conquered Jerusalem in 638—the ninth Caliph, Abd al-Malik, began construction of the Dome of the Rock Mosque as a testament to the site’s rebirth—and Islam’s physical claim over the Holy Land.

Throughout the centuries that followed, Islam had periodically lost its hold over the Temple Mount, most notably to Christian Crusaders whose occupation spanned the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. But it was once again under Islamic control and the Waqf had been entrusted to enforce and legitimize that role. It wasn’t easy, especially in the wake of mounting political instability that threatened Islamic exclusivity to the place—a privilege that had almost been lost after the Six Day War in 1967.

Razak tried to imagine how it would feel if the political situation had been reversed: Muslims reduced to worshipping a retaining wall with the Jews possessing a shrine on its holiest spot; Jews in occupied territories and the Palestinians in full control.

He scaled a flight of steps to the mosque’s raised platform. Outside the entrance, he removed his Sutor Mantellassi loafers, then made his way into the shrine. Hands crossed behind his back, he worked his way around the bloodred carpet of the octagonal ambulatory glancing up at the elaborate inner dome that sat high atop glassy marble columns. Directly beneath the cupola, cordoned by railings, lay a bare stone expanse of Mount Moriah’s summit known as “the Rock.”

The Rock marked the sacred site where in Biblical times Abraham made to sacrifice his son to God, and where Jacob had dreamed of a ladder to heaven. The Jews proclaimed that a grand Jewish temple built by King Solomon and improved by King Herod once stood here. And the Christians claimed Jesus had visited that same temple many times to preach.

But the site was most significant to Razak and his people for another reason.

In 621, the angel Gabriel had appeared to the great prophet Muhammad in Mecca, presenting him with a winged horse bearing a human face, named Buraq. Embarking on his Isra, or “Night Journey,” Muhammad was carried by Buraq to the Temple Mount where he was ascended through the heavens in a glorious light to behold Allah and consult with Moses and the great prophets. There, Muhammad was also given the five daily prayers by Allah—a core event in his ministry known as the Miraj.

The Miraj rendered the Dome of the Rock the third most important religious site in Islam, preceded only by Mecca—Muhammad’s birthplace—and Medina where, through great struggle and personal sacrifice, he established the Islamic movement.

Razak gazed up at the cupola’s exquisite tile work, taking in the Arabic inscriptions flowing round its base.

Outside, the muezzin’s call echoed from loudspeakers, summoning Muslims to prayer. In front of the mosque’s mihrab—the small, arched golden alcove that indicated the direction of Mecca—Razak eased onto his knees, hands splayed over his thighs and bowed in prayer.

After a few minutes, he stood and circled back round the Rock’s enclosure, stopping in front of a stairway entrance to a chamber called the “Well of Souls,” where it was said the spirits of the dead convened in prayer. There he envisioned his mother and father shining in the divine light of Allah, awaiting the final Day of Judgment so as to be delivered to Jannah— Allah’s eternal garden paradise.

On September 23, 1996, Razak’s parents had been killed by two masked gunmen while vacationing on the Jordanian side of the Sea of Galilee. Many had suspected that Israeli intelligence agents—the Shin Bet—had wrongly targeted his father for purported ties to militant Palestinian groups, but those rumors were later disproven. Although that turned

out not to be the case, the killers were never found. Their tragic deaths

were a profound loss that had driven—and still drove—Razak deeper into

his faith for answers. Fortunately, his education at home and abroad had

helped him to avoid political and religious fanaticism—an easy trapping

for someone so intimately affected by Israel’s lethal politics.

Turning away, his thoughts shifted to the crypt hidden deep beneath

his feet, and the mysterious theft that had once again brought bloodshed to

this place. When he’d arrived here yesterday afternoon, he had never anticipated that a situation of such gravity would have allied him with a man

like Graham Barton.

At the mosque entrance Razak put on his shoes and made his way

outside.

He still had a couple more hours until his meeting with Barton. So he

strolled down into the Muslim Quarter and had coffee and breakfast at a

small café on Via Dolorosa. There, he met some old acquaintances and

caught up on all that had happened since his last visit. Naturally, the conversation gravitated to the theft, but Razak was quick to point out that he

couldn’t comment on the investigation.

By nine a.m., there wasn’t the slightest breeze as he crossed the Temple

Mount esplanade beneath a scorching sun and descended into the Marwani Mosque. Climbing through the blast hole into the crypt, Akbar—the

oversized Muslim guard instructed to watch over Barton—signaled that

everything was fine. Razak nodded and waved him out into the mosque. Graham Barton was crouched in a corner transcribing an inscription on

one of the ossuaries.

“Good morning, Mr. Barton,” Razak said in English.

The archaeologist sprung to his feet.

“Looks like you’ve been busy.” Razak eyed the small stacks of rubbings

Barton had laid out at intervals along the floor.

“Very much so,” Barton replied cheerily. “I got here early and Akbar

was kind enough to let me get a head start.”

“What have you found out so far?”

“It’s an extraordinary discovery. This crypt belonged to a Jewish man

named Yosef.” Barton pointed to a box on one end, just as plain as the others. “You’ll notice that each of these ossuaries is inscribed in Hebrew with

the names of his family members.”

Unimpressed, Razak sought meaningful information. “Yosef who?”

Barton shrugged. “That’s the problem with ancient Jews. They weren’t terribly specific when it came to names. They rarely used family names, at least for burial purposes. And the Hebrew name ‘Yosef’ was quite common back then. Anyway, you see that each ossuary is plainly marked.”

Razak eyed the inscriptions carved into the sides of the nine boxes.

“Each one says pretty much the same thing: whose remains are contained inside each ossuary. Those are his four daughters,” he indicated the cluster sitting at the beginning of the lineup. “Three sons,” his motioned to the next three, then to the one beside Yosef’s, “plus his loving wife, Sarah.” Barton drew a deep breath. “But there’s an etching on the back wall of the crypt that provides more detail.” Grabbing a flashlight, he motioned for Razak to follow and advanced into the shadowy recess, stopping by the rear wall. The cylinder of light played along the stone. “See that.” Barton illuminated a wall-mounted tablet framed with ornate stone trim. “It lists the inventory of ossuaries contained in this chamber.”

The Muslim stepped closer. “So the missing ossuary should be listed here.” Counting nine lines of text, Razak’s eyes were drawn to a deep gouge scarring the polished rock beneath the last line. Confused, he stared at it for a long moment. “I’m only seeing nine entries.”

“Correct. And those nine are the names that match the remaining ossuaries. But this entry here,” Barton trained the light on the disfigured rock, “probably identified the tenth ossuary.” He tapped it with his finger.

Razak studied it critically once more. “Won’t do us much good now.”

“Agreed. Another dead end.”

Razak strolled around the chamber holding out his hands. “Why here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Of all places, why would the crypt be located here?”

He had a good point, Barton thought. “Normally we’d expect crypts to be outside the city walls. But it’s certainly possible this site was chosen for security reasons. In fact”—he paused to formulate the idea—“in the first century, Antonia Fortress, the Roman garrison, was situated adjacent to the northern wall of Temple Mount. The esplanade above us”—he pointed up—“would have been a very public area—all sorts of activities going on. Raised portico walkways ran all along the perimeter of the platform and looped around to the garrison. The Roman centurions would pace up and down to police the crowds, ready to quell any disturbances.”

Barton refrained from explaining that, in the first century, the primary reason for the Temple Mount’s popularity was the grand Jewish temple that once stood in place of the Dome of the Rock Mosque—a claim that the Waqf had systematically denied for centuries in order to secure its hold over the site. Since no archaeological evidence supported the scriptural reference to the temple, their position had remained strong.

“And what do Roman centurions have to do with this crypt?”

“Everything. Remember, in ancient times there were no safes or lockboxes. That’s why plundering was the easiest way to get rich. Assets were vulnerable.”

Razak was eyeing Barton intently. “The only way to protect treasures or valuables was with an army?”

“Correct.”

“Then perhaps the tenth ossuary didn’t contain human remains. Could it have protected some kind of treasure?”

“It’s plausible.”

“Certainly more believable than human remains,” Razak continued. “I’m not seeing why anyone would go through such great trouble to steal bones.”

Barton could sense that Razak was pleased with his own reasoning and in the absence of further evidence, he wasn’t about to challenge the idea. “As far as I can see,” he added, “it’s impossible to draw conclusions as to what the stolen ossuary may actually have contained. But inside these remaining nine boxes,” he gestured toward the ossuaries, “we may find some more clues.” He handed Razak a pair of rubber gloves. “Which is why you’ll need these.”

A horrified look came over the Muslim.

16

******

Vatican City

The two scientists convened in the lab at eight a.m., both heading directly to the rear break room where Giovanni Bersei was instructing Charlotte Hennesey on how to use what he considered to be the lab’s most vital piece of equipment—the Gaggia automatic coffee machine, which pumped out customized brew at the touch of a button.

“Tell me. How was your visit to the basilica last night?”

Rolling her eyes, she gave him a quick summary that ended with her

retelling of an unpleasant encounter with Salvatore Conte. She told him that it had disturbed her so much she’d decided to skip going out all together. Having settled for a tuna sandwich from the Domus’s cafeteria, she’d turned in early. Not the most exciting night, she admitted, though she was happy to have caught up on her sleep. “And how did your wife’s osso bucco turn out?”

He made a sour face. “Not so good. Carmela is many things, but a good cook is not one of them. In fact, she may be the worst cook in all Italy.”

She hit him lightly on the shoulder. “You’re terrible, Giovanni. I hope you didn’t tell her that.”

“Are you crazy? I value my life.”

They both laughed.

Bersei checked his watch. “Ready to begin?”

“Let’s do it.”

Refilling their cups, they moved back into the main room and stood at the workstation, both donning lab coats. The ossuary, with its mysterious skeleton, was just as they had left it yesterday.

Bersei handed Charlotte a new mask and latex gloves and she put them on. He did the same.

Staring at the bones, Charlotte half expected a hand to pop out holding an hourglass.

After putting on his own mask and gloves, Bersei retrieved a Canon EOS digital camera, turned it on, snapped some pictures, then set it down.

Positioned on opposing sides of the workstation, the scientists began removing the bones one piece at a time, carefully placing them onto the rubber matting. Slowly the reassembled skeletal frame came together: the longer bones of the legs and arms, the pelvis and loose bundles of ribs, the segments of spinal vertebrae, and finally the delicate, complex bones of the hands and feet.

With infinite care, Charlotte lifted the skull from the ossuary. Supporting the mandible with one hand and the orb of cranium with the other, she placed it at the end of the completed skeleton.

Bersei performed a quick visual inspection. “Looks like all two hundred and six bones are here.” He grabbed the Canon and snapped a few more shots of the completed skeleton.

Charlotte peered down. “Okay. Let’s figure out how this man died.”

“Strictly speaking, we don’t know we’re dealing with a male yet, Dr. Hennesey,” he politely challenged. “Could be female.”

Charlotte tilted her head. “Sure. But I doubt a woman would’ve been given such a fancy box.”

Raising his eyebrows, he couldn’t tell if she was joking.

“Don’t panic. I’m not about to get feminist on you,” she said. “I’m saving that for later.”

“Just be gentle.”

Both scientists agreed that their initial analysis would be a forensic pathology study determining the cause of death if possible, followed by a reconstruction of the skeleton’s physical profile. Charlotte activated the workstation’s recording system to document the analysis. Later, their oral notes would be transcribed. From the workstation drawer, she pulled out two pairs of Orascoptic goggles. Giving one to Bersei and putting the other on, she flipped the telescoping lenses over her eyes.

They began with the skull, both bending closer to study it in minute detail.

“Looks perfect,” Bersei said peering through his goggles.

Charlotte sized up the dimensions and contours. “Square chin, pronounced supraorbital ridges and muscle attachment points. It does look like we’re dealing with a male.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Bersei admitted. He tilted the skull back and rotated it, examining the inner cavity. “The sutures are still visible, but have all fused. See here,” he pointed to the seam where the contoured bone plates met along the skull, looking like a jagged zipper that had been smoothed over.

Verifying his observation, Charlie knew the concept. The younger the specimen, the more pronounced the joining lines would appear, looking like the tight joining of two saw blades. The older the specimen, the fusion would advance to the point where the lines would become indiscernible. “That means we’re looking at age twenty to thirty, minimum?”

“I’d agree with that.” Bersei turned the skull over a few times, scanning its surfaces. “I’m not seeing any indications of head trauma, are you?”

“None.”

Both scientists turned their attention to the mandible.

“These teeth are in magnificent shape,” Charlotte said. “Hope mine hold up this well. This guy still had a full set. Don’t even see an indication of periodontal disease.” For a second, she fussed with a rotating dial on the goggles to increase the magnification of the lenses. “The enamel’s intact. No cavities or uneven wearing.”

“Strange.”

“Maybe he didn’t like sweets.”

They moved to the cervical region, analyzing intently, searching for abnormalities in the neck.

“I’m not seeing any spurs,” Charlotte remarked. “No ridging or ossification here.”

“And no fusion either,” Bersei added. “Actually, the discs don’t appear to have degenerated at all.” He delicately rotated the last small section of cervical vertebrae. “Nothing shocking.” He motioned toward the skeleton’s rib cage. “Let’s keep moving.”

Almost immediately Charlotte’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait. That’s interesting.”

Following her finger to the center of the chest area, Bersei focused on the flat bones of the sternum and spotted it immediately. “That’s a huge tear.”

“Sure is.” She studied the separations in the dried cartilage attaching the ribs to the chest plate. “Do you think that might have happened when the rib cage was detached to fit into the ossuary?”

“Perhaps.” His tone was cautious. Bersei shifted his focus to the adjacent shoulder. “Look here.”

She followed his lead. “You’ve got a good eye. The humerus and clavicle were separated from the scapula?”

“Agreed. But it doesn’t look like it happened postmortem. The tears are fibrous. Where the tissue separated suggests the breakage happened before the tissue dried.” He shifted back to the sternum. “See here. Looks like the same story. Can you detect where the cartilage stretched, pulled widthwise and tore? When the bones were prepared for burial, some kind of blade was used to cut the tissue.”

Hennesey saw it too. A clean cut bisected the lateral stress tears of torn cartilage. “Ouch, that looks painful. What do you think...a dislocation?”

“A very violent dislocation.” Bersei’s tone was troubled.

“That had to really hurt.”

“I’m sure it did. But it certainly didn’t kill him. You take those ribs.” He indicated the ones closest to her. “And I’ll take these.”

Time seemed suspended as they worked on the ribs, meticulously analyzing each surface.

Charlotte was just starting to ease into the idea of working on bones, focusing on the task at hand rather than unpleasant images of the genetic chaos inside her own body at that very moment. “You seeing what I’m seeing?”

“The deep grooves?” Bersei’s head was down. “Absolutely.”

Some of the ribs were unscathed, but most looked like they’d been raked with thick nails to produce long, scalloped gouges. The ratty fissures appeared in random groupings.

“What could’ve done this?” Her voice had sunk to a whisper.

“I think I may know. Do you see traces of metal deposit?”

“Yes. Is this something that happened postmortem? It almost looks like some kind of animal was chewing on them.”

“I’d have to say no,” Bersei told her. “You’ll notice those marks only appear on the anterior fascia. Teeth would’ve left marks on both sides, not to mention that most scavengers would have run off with the bone before gnawing on it and wouldn’t have left us a complete skeleton.”

“So what do you think did this?” Charlotte straightened.

“Let me put it this way.” He peered over the flip-down telescoping lenses. “If the bones look this bad, the muscle and skin that covered them must have looked far worse.... Probably shredded.” Holding her gaze, he drew a breath then said, “Looks to me like this man was flayed.”

“You mean whipped?”

He nodded slowly. “That’s right. Those markings are from a barbed whip.”

“Poor guy.” The thought of such violence hit her in the gut.

“Let’s keep going.” Bersei bent down and began working on the upper segments of lumbar vertebrae.

Charlotte leaned over and started rotating the lower vertebrae of the spine while scrutinizing every bone and cushion of disc material. “Everything looks good here.”

“Agreed.” Bersei glanced at the compact structure of the pelvic bones that provided definitive clues relating to gender. “And you were right about the gender. Definitely male.” He ran his fingers along the contours of bone where the genitalia would be. “The sciatic notch is narrow, the preauricular area’s got no indentations and flattens.”

“No babies coming out through there. No infants left motherless, at least.”

So far Giovanni Bersei was pleased. Determining gender from skeletal remains was never easy as the most obvious gender-specific traits occurred in the soft tissues, not the bones. Depending on a variety of factors, from diet and lifestyle, to the physical stress of the subject’s occupation, the female human skeleton could easily morph its soft tissue in ways that conditioned the skeletal frame to appear almost identical to its male counterpart. Increased muscle mass would be an obvious equalizer, demanding thicker bones to support them, especially in areas where ligaments would attach. But the pelvis’s birthing canal was fairly discernable in most female skeletons.

“So—arms or legs?” he inquired.

“Arms first.”

They shifted along the skeleton, resuming a minute analysis of the long bones, starting with the humerus and working down to the paired set of each arm’s lower half—the ulna and radius.

Something caught her eye and she moved even closer to sharpen the lenses’ resolution. There was significant damage to the inner surfaces of the bones joining above the wrist. “What’s this? Looks like they went through a grinder.”

“It’s on this side too. The damage is contained to just above the wrist,” Bersei confirmed. “Do you see oxidation, like long streaks?”

“Yeah, could be metallic residue. Maybe hematite.” She saw something else. “Hang on.” She repositioned the lens. “Fibers have been lodged in the bone. Your side?”

“Yes. Get a sample of that. Looks like wood.”

Charlotte went into the tool drawer, removed a pair of tweezers and a small plastic vial, and proceeded to pluck away the fibers from the bone.

Meanwhile, Bersei was already moving down near the skeleton’s feet. He bent over to get a better look at something there.

“What do you see?” she asked, standing and setting down the vial and tweezers.

He waved her closer. “Come take a look.”

Training her lenses on the area just below the shin, the paired set of fibula and tibia looked healthy. But nestled in the upper notches of each foot were deep, gritty patches scooped into the bones. Two bones in the left foot had been fractured.

“Look at the damage between the second and third metatarsals,” Bersei noted. “It’s similar to the arms.”

“Same rust-colored streaking,” Hennesey added. “Definitely came from some kind of impaled metal.”

“Judging from the fractures in the second metatarsal on the left foot, it was a nail. Do you see where the point hit the bone and split it?”

Hennesey saw a diamond-shaped indentation stamped in the fissure’s midpoint and detected more wood splinters. “Unbelievable. Looks like the nail missed the first time.” Thinking that one human could inflict this kind of damage on another nauseated her. What kind of animal could be capable of such cruelty?

“Most likely because the feet were nailed on top of one another,” Dr. Bersei stated flatly. He noticed another oddity in the area of the knees and positioned himself for a better view.

“What do you see?”

“Look at this.”

When Charlotte focused on the knee joint, the damage was immediately apparent. Just when she thought it couldn’t get worse. “Oh, God.”

“Completely blown out,” Bersei gasped. “Look at those tears in the cartilage and the hairline fractures below the knee.”

“His knees were broken?”

“Yes, of course.”

“What do you mean?”

Bersei straightened and flipped his lenses up. His complexion was ashen. “It’s quite clear what happened here. This man was crucified.”

17

******

Temple Mount

“Surely you don’t expect me to desecrate the remains of the dead.” Utterly insulted, Razak folded his arms across his chest and frowned at Barton. “Have you no conscience?”

“It’s important, Razak.” He held out the gloves again.

Razak pushed the gloves away. “I will not permit this!” His voice reverberated loudly off the chamber’s walls. “You’ll have to get authorization from the Waqf.”

Akbar peered through the blast hole, looking alarmed.

Avoiding the guard’s glare, Barton spoke quietly. “You and I both know

that will yield no results. In the interest of time, we’ll need to take some initiative to find answers. That’s why we’re here.”

Still fuming, Razak turned to Akbar. “Everything’s fine.” He motioned for the guard to go away. He rubbed his temples, then turned back to the archaeologist. “What good can come of this? They are only bones in those boxes.”

“That’s not certain.”

Razak spread his hands. “If that isn’t the case, then why didn’t the thieves take these boxes too?” He motioned toward the ossuaries.

“We need to be sure,” Barton remained steadfast. “Every possibility must be explored. As it stands, the only clues we have are in this room. It would be a major oversight to forgo studying these ossuaries.”

For a few seconds, the crypt was deathly silent.

“All right,” Razak finally yielded. “One box at a time. But this you will do alone.”

“Understood.”

“Allah save us,” Razak muttered. “Go on, then. Do what you must.” He turned to face away from the scene.

Relieved, Barton knelt in front of the first ossuary, inscribed with the Hebrew characters that translated to “Rebecca.” “This may take awhile,” he called out.

“I will wait.”

Reaching out with both hands, Barton firmly clasped the sides of the flat stone lid. He glanced over at Razak. The Muslim still had his back to him. Drawing a deep breath, Barton jostled it loose, pulling it away.

Two hours after he opened the first ossuary, Graham Barton was just replacing the skeletal remains that he had taken out of the seventh ossuary. Much like the specimens he had found in the preceding six burial boxes, this one was remarkably well preserved.

Though forensic anthropology wasn’t his specialty, he had studied enough bones in his time to understand the fundamentals. Certainly, the names on each ossuary eliminated much of the speculation concerning gender, but clues present on the skull sutures, joints, and pelvic bones led him to certain conclusions regarding the age of these skeletons. The four younger females—the daughters, he guessed—deceased very young, ranging in age between late teens and early twenties. The three younger males—by the same logic, the sons—also seemed to fall into the same range. Typical of families during the first century, the children were numerous and born in rapid succession to ensure family survival.

Yet as far as Barton could tell, their remains showed no outright anomalies. No telling signs of trauma.

Assuming these siblings were all born of the father and mother interred in ossuaries eight and nine, it seemed uncanny that all could have died so young. Even in the first century, where normal life expectancy of those surviving their grueling early years might have been as low as thirty-five, this seemed statistically improbable. In fact, it appeared as if they’d all died at the same time.

Strange.

Barton stood to stretch for moment. “Still doing okay over there?” He glanced across the chamber where the Muslim was seated in a meditative position, facing the wall. At one point, he had heard him chanting prayers.

“Yes. How much longer will you need?”

“Just two more to go. Say half an hour?”

The Muslim nodded.

The archaeologist rolled his neck then squatted down in front of the eighth ossuary containing Yosef’s spouse, Sarah. Having established a good system by now, he deftly pulled away the lid, flipped it, and rested it on the stone floor so it could be used as a pallet for the extracted bones.

The hollow eye sockets of a glossy smooth skull stared back at him from inside the box, looking like a ghoulish plaster mold painted in beige shellac.

Unsure of what he was even looking for, Barton was starting to lose any hope that anything extraordinary was contained in these remaining boxes. Could the thieves really have known this and purposely left these behind like Razak had suggested? Certainly the contents within the tenth ossuary couldn’t have been as pedestrian as these. It had him perplexed as to what the thieves knew about the missing relic and how they could’ve obtained such specific detail in advance.

Palming the skull, Barton rotated it, then shined the flashlight inside, so that it illuminated like a macabre jack o’lantern. The fusion along the sutures suggested that Sarah had probably been in her late thirties. He set it down on the lid. Then one by one, he plucked the larger bones out and stacked them neatly beside the skull. The small bones that had fallen to the bottom of the box came out in fistfuls. All accounted for and all normal. Aiming the flashlight into the empty ossuary, he carefully examined each surface for engravings, making sure that nothing on the bottom evaded him.

Reverently returning Sarah’s bones to her ossuary and replacing the lid, Barton squatted in front of the ninth ossuary with little enthusiasm. “Come on Yosef, talk to me.” Reaching out, he rubbed his fingertips together for good luck and gripped the lid. This time, he was surprised when the top didn’t budge. He tried again. Nothing.

“Hmm. That’s odd.”

“What is it?” Razak called out.

“This last ossuary’s been sealed with something.” Barton ran the flashlight over its seam. There was definitely something there and it looked like gray caulk.

“Then perhaps you should let it be.”

Is this fellow mad? He hadn’t come this far to stop now. Ignoring him, Barton removed a Swiss Army knife from his pocket, flipped out a mediumsized blade and scraped some of the gooey stuff away onto his gloved palm. Looking at the shavings under the light, he determined it to be some kind of fatty wax. It took him under five minutes to loosen the seal enough to free the lid. He folded the blade and slipped it back into his pocket.

“Right then,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. Clasping the lid lengthwise, he coaxed it away, flipped it, and set it on the floor. An unpleasant odor rose up from the box’s exposed cavity, making him gasp.

Grabbing the flashlight, he shone it downward. The longest bones were up top and he began unpacking them.

When he came to the skull, he flipped it around and lit it up. Judging from the advanced fusion on the skull’s sutures and the substantial wear on the remaining teeth along the jaw line, Yosef had been in his late sixties or early seventies at the time of death. When the last of the bones were taken out from the ossuary, Barton drew breath and poked his head into the box, shining the flashlight inside. On the bottom, he was surprised to see a small rectangular metal plate. Retrieving the Swiss Army blade again, he worked it under the plate, prying it away, uncovering a small niche that had been carved into the ossuary’s base. And in it was a metal cylinder no longer than fifteen centimeters. Barton smiled. “That’s my boy.” He grabbed it with his fingers and held it up.

“Did you find something?” Razak’s voice echoed across the crypt. “Oh yes. Take a look.”

Without thinking, Razak turned and barely glimpsed the cylinder when his eyes wandered down to the pile of bones. He snapped his head back toward the wall. “Unfortunate soul. May peace be upon him,” Razak responded.

“Sorry. Should’ve warned you about that,” Barton said.

Throwing up a hand and shaking his head, Razak said, “It’s all right. What is that you have in your hand?”

“A clue.” Barton bounced to his feet and walked over to the pole light. “Come and have a look.”

Springing to his feet, Razak went and stood beside Barton.

Eyeing it closely, Razak noticed that the cylinder—most likely bronze—had small caps on both ends. “Are you going to open it?”

“Of course.” Without hesitation, he pulled one cap free and tipped the open end to the light, looking inside. He spotted something rolled up. “Aha. I think we have a scroll.”

Razak was nervously stroking his chin, wondering whether there was a better way to go about all this, but resigned himself to the fact that Barton was the expert.

Tipping it over his palm, Barton tapped the cylinder a few times until the scroll fell out. Verifying that there was nothing else inside the metal tube, he placed it in his shirt pocket. “Vellum. And excellently preserved.” Very gingerly, he unfurled it. It was filled with ancient text, Greek if he wasn’t mistaken. The archaeologist glanced up at Razak.

“Bingo.”

18

******

Vatican City

Having spent the past two hours completing a comprehensive journal chronicling the forensic examination—digital photos, written descriptions, case notes—the two scientists sipped their espressos by the coffee machine in the lab’s cramped, white-walled break room. Both were steeped in thought.

Bersei scrunched up his face. “I’ve seen human remains of every shape and kind, some mummified, others just bones. Some even melted.” He paused. “But that was an absolute first. Although it’s not surprising.”

“Why’s that?”

“While it’s believed that crucifixion was introduced by the Greeks, in fact it was predominantly practiced by the Romans—their typical method of criminal execution until the emperor Constantine banned it in the fourth century.”

“You’re certain that what we’re seeing here is the result of crucifixion, not some other form of torture?”

“Certain. And I’ll tell you why.” Bersei drained his coffee. “Let’s start with the basics. First off, you have to understand why the Romans crucified criminals. Obviously it was an extreme method of punishment, but it was also intended to send a message to all citizens that Rome was in control. It was a very public death where victims would be stripped naked and hung along major roadways and prime locations. It was considered a dishonorable way to die...utterly humiliating. As such, it was typically reserved for criminals of low social status and enemies of the state. It was the Romans’ key method of ruling by fear.”

Charlotte’s green eyes flashed. “So we could be dealing with a criminal here?”

“Perhaps.” He shrugged.

She looked at him curiously. “How do you know all this?”

“I realize it seems odd, but a few years ago I actually published a formal study on crucifixion, funded by the Pontifical Commission. I tested established theories regarding how it kills the victim.”

Charlotte wasn’t sure how to respond. “I’ve got to ask...why?”

“Look, I know it sounds morbid. But crucifixion was practiced for centuries and it’s hugely relevant to understanding the early Roman government. I prefer to think of it as a niche,” he smiled. “It was a popular paper.”

“I’m sure it was. A regular barrel of laughs.”

“Would you like me to continue?”

“Please do.”

“Before they were crucified, criminals were scourged, usually with a cane or whip, making them more compliant for delivery to the execution site. In the case of our man, it seems the scourging was performed with a flagrum—a vicious, multi-thong whip with metal barbs.”

“That explains why the ribs were so badly scarred.”

“Si. And judging from the depth of the fissures, his flesh must have been severely flayed. This man would have been in tremendous pain and bleeding terribly.”

“That’s so cruel.” She fought off the urge to visualize the razor-tipped whip streaming through the air and raking across flesh.

“That was just the beginning I’m afraid. Crucifixion itself was far, far worse. There were a number of variations on this type of execution, basically all for the same lethal effect. The criminal was impaled on a cruciform by long spikes driven through the wrists and feet. A rope was bound around the arms to provide additional support when the body was hung upright. The cruciform could take many forms: a simple tree or post, two beams crossed like an X, or a solid structure built like a capital T. I’d guess that in the case of our victim, the cross was a crux composita, consisting of an upright post, or stipe, and a crossbar called a patibulum. We know that the familiar images of crucifixion depict victims being nailed to the cross through the hands....”

Charlotte knew where this was going. “But the small bones and weak flesh in the hands couldn’t support the weight of a body, right? Nailed through the hands, the body would slip off the cross.” She clenched her hands round the cup.

“Exactly. So to support the weight, the iron spikes—huge things measuring eighteen centimeters or so—would be driven into the wrist, just above the ulna and radius along with a large wooden washer to prevent slippage. Right here.” Bersei pointed to a spot just above the crease of his wrist. “It would’ve crushed or severed the median nerve, sending shock waves of excruciating pain up the arm. The hands would have been instantly paralyzed. Once both wrists were nailed, the patibulum, bearing the full weight of the body, would be violently hoisted onto the stipe. One can’t imagine how that must have felt. Unbelievable.”

Hideous images of nails pounding into flesh came into her mind’s eye. “That explains the shoulder dislocation.”

“It also explains the gouge patterns and trace residues of hematite we see in the wrists—evidence of extreme pressure against the bones. Grinding. Like the weight of the body was suspended on nails.”

Hennesey dropped her cup into the sink. “I can’t drink any more.”

Bersei put his hand on her arm. “Are you okay?”

She rubbed her eyes. Maybe bone cancer wasn’t so bad after all. “Keep going. I’m fine.”

“Once the body was pulled upright,” the Italian continued, “the feet would have been laid over one another, then nailed into the post. It wouldn’t have been easy as the victim would have been flailing about.”

“Probably explains the fracture we saw on the foot. There was a struggle.”

“Yes.” Bersei’s voice dropped. “Sometimes, to avoid that struggle, a supporting peg called a sedile was inserted between the legs. A nail was pounded through...”—he paused to reconsider this part, but felt the need to be thorough in his explanation—“the penis and into the sedile to secure victims to the cross.”

For a moment Charlotte felt light-headed, as if she was going to faint. Every time Dr. Bersei added another layer of detail, she felt herself sinking lower, as if her bones were being picked out from inside her one by one. “That’s unbelievably brutal,” she said in a small whisper. This terrifying knowledge appeared totally at odds with Giovanni’s otherwise gentle disposition. She took a deep breath.

Folding his hands, Bersei paused to marshal his thoughts. “The fact is, in crucifixion no one thing kills the victim. Overall trauma eventually does that. Scourging, impalement, exposure to the elements...they all contribute. Depending on the victim’s health before execution, death could take days.”

It was impossible for Charlotte to imagine humans being subjected to such extreme punishment. Equally puzzling to her was Bersei’s intensity regarding the subject. She couldn’t help but think that men had an innate curiosity for this sort of thing. “And we already know that this man was extremely healthy.”

Bersei nodded. “The damage we saw to the ribs suggests that the intensity of the scourging alone should have killed him. The skin and muscle structure would have been left in tatters, possibly exposing the internal organs. It’s incredible that this person could have persevered—he must have suffered horribly. Which brings me to my last point.”

Charlotte’s stomach contracted. She knew he was about to lay it on her even thicker.

“If the criminal wasn’t moving through the process quickly enough,” Bersei continued, “death would be speeded up—they’d break the knees with a large metal club.”

That visual came quick and she felt her own knees wobble. “Just like we’re seeing here,” she replied. Fighting to remain objective, Charlotte pondered the consequences of the punishment’s final stage. “Without the support of the legs, the full weight of the body would pull across the rib cage. Is that why the cartilage in the chest was torn?”

“Quite so. With the lungs constricted, the victim would struggle desperately to breathe. Meanwhile what little blood remained would begin to settle lower into the legs and torso.”

“Then basically the criminal would have expired from asphyxiation and heart failure, right?”

“Right. Dehydration and trauma could also speed up the process.” He paused and pursed his lips. “The victim would be kept on the cross for days, until death came. It would have been unspeakably painful.”

“Then what?”

Lips pulled tight, Bersei offered his explanation. “The corpses would be tossed to the ground, then vultures, dogs, and other beasts would take turns feeding on them. Any remnants were burned. The Romans were very systematic about all of this. It reinforced the last stage of the punishment— refusing a criminal proper burial—a huge blow to just about all religions of that period. By burning the bodies, the Romans were actually denying victims any possibility of eventual afterlife, reincarnation, or resurrection.”

“The ultimate punishment.” She cast her eyes to the floor.

“Indeed. The body was completely annihilated.”

“Must’ve scared the crap out of people to see all this. What a sight that must’ve been—walking along a roadway and seeing all those bodies impaled on posts. Talk about suggestive advertising.”

“Rome’s forte. It certainly left an impression . . . kept the subjugated taxpayers orderly.”

A moment of silence fell over the break room.

“Who do you think this guy was?” she finally asked.

Bersei shrugged and shook his head. “It’s far too early to tell. Could be any one of thousands crucified by the Romans. Prior to this, the only crucified remains ever found was a heel bone with a nail driven through its side. The fact that what we’re looking at represents the first intact crucified body recovered makes it an extraordinarily valuable relic.”

Charlotte inclined her head. “That explains why the Vatican’s gone to so much trouble to bring us here.”

“Absolutely. Makes perfect sense. A find like this is monumental.”

“But we only opened the ossuary today and if it was sealed, how on earth could they have known the man inside had been crucified? How did they know they’d need your expertise?”

Bersei considered this. “It’s no surprise they called me here. Having worked in the catacombs for years, I’ve come across many skeletons, many relics associated with burial. As for you...well, I don’t need to tell you that using DNA to examine human remains is a tremendous tool. But let’s hold off on the theories until we study the ossuary further. After all, the physical remains tell only part of the story.”

19

******

Vatican Museum

Down the corridor from the lab, in a cramped space normally used as a storage closet, a network of cables cascaded down to the computer hard drive, feeding live video and audio transmissions from the laboratory and its adjoining break room. Wearing headphones wired to the bank of surveillance equipment, Salvatore Conte was diligently recording all of the scientists’ activity, as directed by the Vatican Secretary of State, Cardinal Santelli.

Two separate wireless links also monitored all phone calls in and out of Charlotte Hennesey’s dorm room (thanks to a simple patch into the Vatican’s main phone server) and Giovanni Bersei’s personal residence. He had paid a special visit to Bersei’s house last night. While the anthropologist was busy eating his wife’s overcooked veal shanks, Conte was outside splicing a transmitter into the phone line junction box on the side of his house— electrical engineering skills, compliments of his previous employers.

Though he found all the science-talk only mildly interesting, most of his attention was focused on the attractive American geneticist. She was hot. Normally, guys like him didn’t get girls like her. But it never hurt to try. And no one tried harder than Salvatore Conte. Perseverance was everything.

Studying Hennesey again—face, lips, hair, body—he had decided that one way or another, he would have a taste of her. He would just need to wait a little longer, until the job here was complete.

On a separate computer monitor, he brought up the computer’s Web browser and linked to the home page for the Cayman Islands bank where he had opened a new account under one of his pseudonyms. Entering his user name and password to access his account summary screen, he paused to make sure that Santelli had made good on his end of the bargain.

Earlier that morning, he’d had a very candid discussion with the cardinal concerning a bonus payment for expedited delivery of the relics as well as additional hazard pay for himself and his colleagues (Doug Wilkinson excluded). He made it clear that he would be “uncomfortable” leaving Vatican City without seeing that the payment had been made. Surprisingly, the cardinal hadn’t protested, readily agreeing that such an efficient operation was well worth the additional expense.

The money was wire transferred through one of the Vatican’s outside banking affiliates, bearing no audit trail back within these walls, Conte was sure. The bank hadn’t even contacted him regarding the sum and the funds had cleared immediately.

As a teen, Salvatore Conte had been a high achiever at Nunziatella Military School in Naples and, upon graduation, went off to fulfill the State’s mandatory eight-month military conscription. It wasn’t long before his unique abilities—both physical and intellectual—caught the attention of his commanding officers whose high commendations earned him a position in the Servizio per le Informazioni e la Sicurezza Democratica, the Italian Secret Service. There, he had learned the core skills that helped him to become a free agent. Assassinations, hostage situations, infiltrating terrorist cells—Conte took any job thrown at him and he excelled at all of them. He’d been loaned out to assist on collaborative operations throughout Europe and in the United States.

His decision to leave the SISDE almost five years ago had been a good one. Having already established plenty of contacts during his years with them, there was never a shortage of clients seeking vengeance against a foe or scheming to “procure” new assets. They always paid in cash, and they always paid on time.

However, he had targeted a small group of clients whom he considered the most lucrative prospects. Among them was the Vatican—a tiny country that considered itself virtually impregnable with its high walls, its nifty security system, and its mercenary army. Conte had taken the liberty in paying a visit to its top guy to remind him that no system was impenetrable. Not the pope, of course—that wouldn’t have been wise. No, Conte had chosen Cardinal Santelli—the man who he knew had truly been the brains of the operation.

He could still recall the look on the old bastard’s face when Santelli came strolling into his office that morning, whistling, only to see Conte sitting at his impeccably organized desk playing solitaire on his computer, which he had hacked into with a portable password unscrambler. He was dressed completely in black—standard attire for a nighttime incursion.

Appalled, the cardinal had yelled, “Who the hell are you?” “Your local security consultant,” Conte quickly replied in kind, standing and rounding the desk to offer a personalized business card with his alias and an encrypted mobile telephone number. “I was in the area and wanted to introduce myself personally to go over some obvious deficiencies in your country’s security systems.”

The truth was, getting into Vatican City hadn’t been easy at all. Stuffed into a backpack beside Santelli’s desk was a bevy of gear: grappling cables, rappelling harnesses, glasscutters, night-vision goggles, the works. He’d had to scale the city’s northern rampart, shoot a grappling line over to the Vatican Museum rooftop, pull himself across the gap, traverse the top of the building to the Apostolic Palace, scramble the security system (using an electromagnetic pulsing device he had lifted from SISDE), rappel down to Santelli’s office window, cut the glass, and unlock the latch. Once inside, he’d eaten a mortadella, prosciutto, and mozzarella panini and drank a Pellegrino Chinotto and waited for sunrise.

It had taken a minute or two for Santelli to calm down, to try and rationalize how anyone could have circumvented the Vatican’s tight security layers. All the while, he had been contemplating the intercom on his desk. Then, after explaining the myriad services he could provide to a “powerful man such as yourself,” Conte verbally ran through a laundry list of available services that the cardinal pretended to be offended at. But Conte knew better. Having seen the file on this guy when he was working at SISDE— particularly the one related to the infamous Banco Ambrosiano scandal—he knew the cardinal was no stranger to nefarious deeds.

“And what makes you think I won’t have you arrested right now?” Santelli had threatened.

“Because I’ll detonate the C-4 that’s hidden in this building before your guards even get through that door.”

The cardinal’s eyes had gone wide. “You’re bluffing.”

Conte held out a small remote transmitter. “The pope is upstairs right now, isn’t he? Do you really want to take that chance?”

“All right, Mr. Conte. You’ve made your point.”

“Keep my card. Trust me...someday you’ll be needing my help.” He went over and snatched up his bulky backpack. “I’d appreciate it if you could escort me out. Lots of stuff in here that might set off your metal detectors,” he said, patting the bag. “Once I’m safely outside, I’ll tell you where to find the C-4. Deal?”

As far as Conte’s parents were concerned, they were convinced that real estate investing was the secret to his success, but Maria, his thirty-five-yearold sister wasn’t as easily fooled and it always made for an interesting dynamic at family gatherings.

His work didn’t allow for permanent relationships. Not that Salvatore Conte was capable of such a thing. For the next few years, there would be no steady girlfriends...forget about a wife or kids. That kind of reckless behavior destroyed the very notion of anonymity and created too many potential complications. For now, there were plenty of other women who were willing to satisfy Conte’s more immediate desires. All it took was money. And seeing the payoff from this latest job, there would be plenty of women in the near future. Entrepreneurship had treated him well.

Smiling, Conte was wide-eyed as he read the account balance: a6,500,000.00. After deducting overhead expenses and the cut owed to his six remaining team members, he was left with a cool net of four million euros. Not bad for a few days’ work.

And he didn’t even get shot. Another bonus.

20

******

Chinon, France March 3, 1314

In a dim, cramped cell beneath the Fort du Coudray, Jacques DeMolay sat limply against the dungeon’s cold stone wall watching three enormous rats fight over the scrap of bread he had thrown to them.

There was a damp chill in his bones that he couldn’t lose. The smell of excrement hung heavy in the air. This place was more than a prison. It was Hell.

Now seventy years old, DeMolay’s heavily scarred body—once robust— had turned haggard. His flowing beard, shocked to pure ivory, grew out from sunken cheeks, matted and greasy, crawling with lice.

For two decades, he had held the preeminent post within the Order— Grand Master. Now humiliation was his reward. For six years he’d been festering in this godforsaken pit, having fallen victim to the scandalous political ploys of France’s young, ambitious King Philip IV and his colluding cohort, the Holy Roman Pope, Clement V.

Not a day had gone by that he didn’t think back to his conversation with Tibald DeGaudin at Kolossi Citadel. Perhaps he should have heeded the coward’s advice.

Outside the iron bars he heard sounds emanating from down the passage, a heavy door groaning open on its hinges, metal keys jingling, approaching footsteps. Seconds later, a cloaked figure materialized outside the cell bars. Without looking up, DeMolay had already identified the visitor. The heavy smell of cologne left no doubt that Pope Clement V had finally made an appearance, flanked by two burly prison guards.

A nasal, French voice cut the air. “You look like hell, Jacques. Even worse than usual.”

DeMolay glared up at the corpulent pontiff who shielded his hooked nose with an embroidered handkerchief. Gold jewel-encrusted rings, including the papal fisherman’s ring, covered his soft, manicured fingers. He wore flowing vestments beneath a heavy black hooded cape and his dangling gold pectoral cross winked in the light of a nearby torch. DeMolay spoke, painfully forcing his cracked lips to move. “You look . . . pretty.”

“Now, now, Grand Master. Let us not make this personal.”

“Too late for that. It has never been anything but personal,” DeMolay reminded him.

Clement lowered the handkerchief and smiled. “What did you want to talk to me about? Are you finally ready to confess?”

DeMolay’s icy gaze drilled into the Pope—a man two decades his junior. “You know I will not disavow my brothers and my own honor by submitting to your scheme.”

Four years earlier, DeMolay had been presented with no less than one hundred twenty-seven accusations against the Order, outlandish charges that included devil worship, sexual perversion, and myriad blasphemies against Christ and Christianity. And just two years ago, on the 22nd of March, 1312, Clement himself had issued a papal bull entitled “Vox in excelso,” which formally disbanded the Order.

“You have already taken our money and our land.” DeMolay’s tone showed his disgust for this man. “You’ve tortured hundreds of my men to extract false confessions, burned alive another fifty-four—all honorable men who dedicated their lives to preserve the Church’s Holy throne.”

Clement was impervious to his barbs. “You know that if you do not end this stubbornness, you will be killed by the Inquisitors...and it will not be pleasant. Keep in mind, Jacques, that you and your men are as archaic as what you stand for, honor or no honor. I believe it has been more than twenty years since your legions lost control over the Holy Land and destroyed over two centuries of progress.”

Progress? For an instant, DeMolay considered lunging toward the cage, thrusting his hands through the bars and around the pontiff’s neck. But the two guards stood to either side of him, watching vigil over this secret meeting. “We both know that Rome was unwilling to support our efforts. We needed more men and they weren’t sent. We were outnumbered ten to one. It was money then and it’s money now.”

The pope waved his hand dismissively. “Ancient history. I would hate to think I have traveled this far merely to dredge up old misgivings. Why am I here?”

“To make a deal.”

Clement laughed. “You are in no position to bargain.”

“I want you to reinstate the Order. Not for my sake, but for your own.”

“Come now, Jacques, you cannot be serious.”

DeMolay forged on, determination flickering in his gaze. “After Acre had fallen, there was no time for us to return to Jerusalem. We had left many treasures behind. Valuable treasures that could easily fall into Muslim hands.” These days, if there was one thing that Clement responded to, it was anything that could help the Papal States’ impending economic collapse.

“Which relics might you be referring to?” The pope pressed his face close to the bars mockingly. “The head of John the Baptist? Christ’s cross? Or perhaps the Ark of the Covenant?”

DeMolay gritted his teeth. The extreme secrecy of the Order had many speculating as to how they had acquired their tremendous wealth and was the reason why it had been so easy for the pope and the king to demonize them and fabricate their vicious falsities. But hearing some of them coming out of Clement’s womanly mouth was torturous. “I want you to listen to me very closely. Because the entire future of your great Church could be in jeopardy.”

The pope looked at him quizzically, moving back slightly from the cage. He sized up the prisoner—a man who, despite recent tribulations, he had never considered a liar. “I am listening.”

With a knot tightening in his stomach, DeMolay couldn’t believe what he was about to do. But having waited for six long years, he had come to the dismal conclusion that the surviving Templars would not endure another year if something drastic did not happen. With remorse, he had resigned himself to divulging the Order’s most coveted secret—the very thing the monastic brotherhood had sworn a secret oath to protect. “There is an ancient book that has remained under the protection of the Order for over two centuries. It is called the Ephemeris Conlusio.”

“The Journal of Secrets?” The pope’s tone was impatient. “What secrets?”

For the next fifteen minutes, the Templar Grand Master recounted a remarkable story of a discovery so profound that if it were true, history itself hung in the balance. And the details were far too precise to be anything but real. The pope listened intently because for centuries, the Catholic hierarchy had circulated rumors of just such a threat.

When the Grand Master had finished, he sat perfectly still, waiting for the pontiff to respond.

After almost a minute of brooding, Clement finally spoke, his tone less confident now, almost afraid. “And you left this book in Jerusalem?”

“We had no choice. The city had already been seized.” The truth was, they had never intended to remove the relics. The Templars had merely secured them. That was God’s will.

“That is quite a story,” Clement admitted. “Why now do you tell it to me?”

“So you can reverse the injustice that has befallen the Order. We need to raise a new army to reclaim what has been lost. If not, I think you realize the consequences.” DeMolay could see by Clement’s expression that he did.

“Even if I were to exonerate the Templars,” he thought out loud, “I would have to convince Philip to do the same.” Doubtful, he shook his head. “After all that has happened, I do not think that he will concede.”

“You must try,” DeMolay urged. He knew that he had succeeded in finding Clement’s one vulnerability. The pope was seriously considering his recommendation. “Give me your word that you will try.”

Clement had expected today to be the day when he would finally break DeMolay and thus put an end to this whole charade. Suddenly, he realized he needed the old man more than ever. “As you wish,” he surrendered. “You have my word.”

“Before you leave here, I want it in writing. I need reassurance.” “I cannot do such a thing.”

“Without my support, you will never recover the book ...and what it is meant to find,” DeMolay insisted. “I am your only hope.”

The pontiff considered the idea for a long moment. “So be it.” He instructed one of the guards to fetch his scribe. “And if Philip does not agree to this?”

“Then it is of no matter what fate holds for me or my men...for you, King Philip, and all of Christendom will be doomed.”

21

******

Vatican City

In the Apostolic Palace, Father Patrick Donovan sat at a heavy oak desk in an expansive library that could only be entered by passing through a biometric retinal scanner, a complex series of key-encrypted entryways and a contingent of Swiss Guards.

The Archivum Secretum Apostolicum Vaticanum—the Vatican Secret Archive.

Over the years the Vatican had enhanced the security system here, recognizing that there were no treasures in Vatican City more valuable than its secrets.

Newly installed hulking fireproof metal cabinets lined the walls, reaching toward the main room’s lofty frescoed ceiling, housing over 35,000 vellums and manuscripts within airtight glass compartments. From rejected scriptural works blending philosophy, pagan mythology, and the Christ story, to Renaissance heretics like Galileo, the Vatican Archive was a depository for centuries of heretical works banned by past pontiffs, as well as Vatican City’s land deeds, depository certificates, and legal documents.

Contrary to popular belief, the Vatican still actively sought new additions to its vast holdings. Heresy was considered very much alive and well in the twenty-first century; the attacks against Christendom ever more sophisticated—the secular chasm growing ever wider. And the fact remained that many pre-biblical scriptures, rife with controversial writings that undermined the integrity of the gospels, still managed to evade the Vatican’s grasp.

Throughout Catholic history, a select few have been entrusted with maintaining this daunting archive. Donovan still marveled at how he had become its most trusted custodian.

It was a long road that had brought him from Belfast to Rome.

Straight out of the seminary, Donovan had joined Dublin’s Christchurch Cathedral as a resident priest. But his passion for history and books had soon earned him recognition as a biblical historian. Two years later, he had begun a highly successful Biblical History program at University College, Dublin. His legendary lectures and papers on early Christian scriptures had eventually caught the attention of Ireland’s preeminent Cardinal Daniel Michael Shaunessey. Shaunessey was quick to have Donovan accompany him on a visit to Vatican City where he introduced him to the cardinal who oversaw the Vatican Library. Collaborative projects followed, and less than four months later, a compelling offer was extended to Donovan for a position inside Vatican City, managing its archives. Though it was difficult leaving his aging parents in Ireland—his only remaining family—he had graciously accepted.

That was twelve years ago. And never did he expect that one day he would be intimately involved in the single largest scandal in Church history—and all because of a book.

Poring over the yellowed, parchment pages of the Archive’s latest acquisition, Donovan was scanning the leather-bound ancient codex entitled the Ephemeris Conlusio—the Journal of Secrets. In recognition of the blood spilled acquiring the relic now being studied in the Vatican Museum, he needed reassurance that the ossuary had met all the criteria described in the text. Pausing to study a meticulous drawing of the ossuary, Donovan exhaled with relief when his eyes came across a precise match of the unique symbol that had been carved onto the box’s side.

It was almost impossible for the librarian to imagine how he had come to this juncture—a shocking series of events that had been set into motion by a single phone call he received one rainy afternoon just two weeks earlier...

Oblivious to the unseasonable rain drumming against his office window, Donovan was deeply absorbed in an eighteenth-century study on the nature of heresy when the phone rang. Levering himself out of the chair, he had answered on the fourth ring.

“Is this Father Patrick Donovan, the curator of the Vatican’s Secret Archive?”

The voice was laced with an accent Donovan couldn’t quite place. “Who is this?”

“Who I am is of no concern to you.”

“Really.” It wasn’t the first time a reporter or frustrated academic had called under the guise of a potential seller to access some of the earth’s most coveted books.

“I possess something that you want.”

“I don’t have time for opaqueness,” Donovan responded. “Be specific.” He was about to dismiss the caller as a crank, when three words escaped from the receiver: ‘The Ephemeris Conlusio.’