Sacred Bones : A Novel

“What did you just say?”

“I think you heard me. I have the Ephemeris Conlusio.”

“That book is a legend,” Donovan’s voice cracked. “Pure myth.” How could anyone outside the walls of the Archive or Jacques DeMolay’s prison cell in Chateaux Chinon have discovered its existence? He began pacing nervously as he awaited a response.

“Your legend is now being held in my hand.”

Donovan fought a wave of panic. It was only two years ago that a similar caller had offered up the Judas Papers—ancient Coptic writings that recast the infamous disciple as secretly acting on Jesus’s behest to faciliate his crucifixion. But the Vatican had considered the document’s provenance to be highly suspect, forgoing the opportunity—a grave miscalculation since shortly thereafter, the writings were published worldwide by National Geographic. Donovan was sure the Vatican wouldn’t want to repeat that mistake. “If you really do possess the Ephemeris Conlusio, tell me in what language is it written?”

“Greek, of course. Care to be more specific?”

He detected a rhythmic tapping at the other end. “Who is the author?”

The caller told him and Donovan was amazed.

“Catholicism’s prime enemy, am I not correct?” The caller paused. “Surely you can be more sophisticated than this?”

Outside the window, the sky darkened and the rain intensified.

On the spot, Donovan decided that only if the caller could reveal the book’s most profound contents would he consider the claim credible. “Legend has it the Ephemeris Conlusio contains a map. Do you know what it’s meant to locate?” His heart was racing.

“Please don’t patronize me.”

Donovan’s lower lip quivered as the caller elaborated, providing a precise description of the legendary relics.

“Do you want to sell the book?” Donovan’s mouth was dry. “Is that the purpose of your call?”

“It’s not that simple.”

Now Donovan feared the worst, painfully aware that this stranger could potentially wound the Church very deeply, perhaps even fatally. Before proceeding, it was essential to determine the caller’s motive. “Are you trying to blackmail the Vatican?”

The man cackled. “It’s not about money,” he hissed. “Consider the possibility that I might be looking to help you and your employers.”

“Neither your attitude nor your motive seems philanthropic. What is it you are after?”

The man had answered cryptically. “Once you’ve seen what I have to offer, you will know what I’m after. And what you have to do...and will want to do. That will be my payment.”

“The Vatican would need to determine the book’s authenticity before any terms could be discussed.”

“Then I shall arrange for delivery,” the caller had replied.

“I’d need to see a sample before that could happen. A page from the book.”

The line was silent.

“Fax me a page now,” Donovan insisted.

“Give me your number.” The caller was hesitant. “I will stay on this line.”

Donovan twice repeated his office’s private fax number.

A long minute passed before the fax machine rang, picking up on the second ring and feeding paper from its tray. The printed message was spit out seconds later. Donovan held it close to the light. When he had finished silently reading the remarkably authentic Greek text, the words left him momentarily breathless. Shaking, he returned the phone to his ear. “Where did you find this?”

“That is not important.”

“Why have you come to me in particular?”

“You are probably the only man at the Vatican who can understand the profound implications of this book. You know that history has tried to deny its existence. I have chosen you to be my voice to the Holy See.” There was another long pause.

“Do you want the book or not?”

There was a pause.

“Of course,” he finally said.

Donovan had made arrangements to meet the anonymous caller’s messenger two days later in the Caffè Greco on Via Condotti, near the Spanish Steps. Two armed plainclothes Swiss Guards sat at a nearby table. The messenger appeared at the agreed time and introduced himself by first name only, presenting a business card for any later questions. Donovan had sat with the man only briefly. No indication was given as to the identity of who had dispatched him.

A leather satchel had been discreetly passed over to him.

Though no explanations were provided, Donovan intuited that the man knew nothing of the satchel’s contents. There had been no drama requiring the guards’ intervention—just a quick, impersonal transaction, and both men had left on their separate ways.

Opening the satchel in the sanctuary of his office, Donovan had found a handwritten note on plain paper and a newspaper clipping. The note had read: “Use the map to find the relics. Act quickly to find them before the Jews do. Should you require assistance, call me.” A phone number was listed below the message. Salvatore Conte had later told him that it had been a one-time use cell phone and that each of his subsequent communications with the insider was routed to a new phone number or anonymous one-time use website—all untraceable. Apparently, using these secure channels, the insider had coordinated with Conte to procure explosives and certain tools needed to extract the ossuary.

The Jews? Confused, the priest read the clipping from the Jerusalem Post and realized exactly what had prompted this meeting. Digging deeper inside the satchel, his hands had come upon the smooth leather covers of the Ephemeris Conlusio.

22

******

Jerusalem

Outside Temple Mount’s northern gate, Barton avoided the chaos of the Western Wall Prayer Plaza, angling along the narrow cobblestone streets that webbed gently down Mount Moriah.

He had actually managed to persuade Razak to let him take the scroll back to his office to see if he could translate its text. Apparently, the Muslim was anxious to find some answers.

Passing through the busy Muslim and Christian Quarters, he entered the Jewish Quarter along Tiferet Yisrael and banked left into the open expanse of Hurva Square, the harsh noonday glare sharper in the absence of any breeze. He glanced over at the sweeping Hurva Arch—the Square’s focal point and sole remnant of the grand synagogue that had once stood here.

Hurva —literally meaning “destruction”—was well named, Barton thought. Much like Jerusalem itself, the synagogue had been destroyed and rebuilt many times, the result of endless disputes between Muslims and Jews. On the eve of Israel’s birth in 1948, the synagogue had been occupied by Jordanian Arabs and dynamited—its final death blow.

Almost six decades later, the same violent struggle for control continued far beyond its confines—a bitter turf war between Israelis and Palestinians. And somehow he now found himself caught directly in the middle of it all.

Though the main offices of the Israeli Antiquities Authority were located in Tel Aviv, a temporary satellite facility had been set up just three weeks earlier, here, inside the Wohl Archaeological Museum—very near the apartment rented by the Temple Mount suspects.

Parked in front of the building stood a gold BMW sedan with police markings. Barton inwardly groaned as he hurried to the front door to be met by his intern assistant, Rachel Leibowitz—an attractive twentysomething with flowing black hair, olive skin, and hypnotic blue eyes.

“Graham,” she was urgent. “Two uniformed men are waiting for you downstairs. I told them to stay outside, but they insisted—”

“It’s all right, Rachel.” Barton held up a hand. “They were expected.” He caught himself staring at her lips. If the IAA was trying to do him a favor by assigning him such an attractive assistant, they weren’t helping matters. At fifty-four, Graham Barton wasn’t exactly the dashing young man

he had once been. But in his small circle, he was a legend and that seemed

to make good for an aging facade. And eager students like Rachel would do

anything to get closer to him. “Please don’t put through any calls for the

time being.” Smiling, he moved past her, trying to avoid the intoxicating

smell of her perfume.

There had been no formal invitation for anyone to visit that day, but

Barton knew his inspection of the crime scene would have the police and

IDF breathing down his neck. Of course, they’d want to know every iota

of his findings.

Descending into the Wohl’s subterranean gallery, he moved past the restored mosaics and ritual baths of a lavish, excavated Herodian-era villa. The IAA had recently launched a huge digitizing campaign to catalogue

its enormous collection—from vellums to pottery, pagan statuary to

ossuaries—creating a database with every relic’s historical profile and 3-D

images. Internet-based tools needed to be developed to allow the field archaeologists to decrypt ancient inscriptions. Having pioneered similar programs in the UK, Barton had been the ideal candidate to head up the

initiative. It was here where he had begun piloting the digitizing program

to establish a good workflow before continuing through the Israeli museum network, ending with its most famous Israel Museum. Heading to the rear of the gallery, he made his way into a featureless

square room painted in a dull white satin, his temporary office. Waiting

for him there were the two men who had visited him only yesterday to

ask for his help in the investigation—the Jerusalem District police commissioner Major General Jakob Topol and the IDF’s head of domestic

intelligence, Major General Ari Teleksen. Each had claimed a metal folding chair on the guest-side of his makeshift desk.

“Gentlemen.” Barton put down his briefcase and sat opposite them. Teleksen was in his late fifties, thickset, with the face of a pitbull—

heavy jowls and puffy eyelids. He sat with his arms folded, making no effort to conceal the two missing fingers of his left hand. As Israel’s most

celebrated veteran counterterrorism agent, he retained a coldness befitting

someone who’d seen far too much. Olive fatigues and a black beret displayed the IDF’s insignia—a golden Star of David bisected by an intertwined sword and olive branch, the epaulets on each shoulder marking out

his rank. “We’d like to hear the results of your preliminary analysis.” His

voice echoed off the bare walls.

Barton stroked his chin as he gathered his thoughts. “The explosion breached the rear wall of the Marwani Mosque. The blast hole was very precise, very clean. Definitely professional.”

“We know that,” Teleksen impatiently replied, spinning his bad hand. “But for what purpose?”

“To access a hidden burial crypt.”

“Crypt?” Topol was staring at him. Clearly the junior of the two, his uniform more befitted a commercial jet pilot—a powder-blue collared shirt with rank-marking epaulets on each shoulder, and navy blue pants. Centered on his policeman’s cap lay the Israeli police insignia—two olive leaves wrapped around a Star of David. Middle-aged with a thick frame, his face was angular with deep-set eyes.

“A crypt,” Barton repeated, as he pulled out one of the rubbings he’d taken. “See here. There was a tablet on the wall that listed all of their names.”

The eyes of both lawmen leapt to the rubbing.

“What was stolen?” Topol’s voice was gruff.

“I’m speculating, but it seems to have been a burial box. An ossuary.”

Teleksen threw up his disfigured left hand. “Burial box?”

“A small stone vessel about this big.” Barton outlined the ossuary’s dimensions in the air. “It probably contained a disassembled human skeleton.”

“I know what a burial box looks like,” Teleksen replied. “What I’m interested in here is motives. You mean to tell me that we’ve lost thirteen IDF men for a box of bones?”

Barton nodded.

Teleksen made a dismissive motion. “Feh.”

Topol coolly looked back at the image, pointing at the Hebrew names. “So which one did they take?”

Knowingly, Barton pointed to the defaced image on bottom. “This one. But as you can see, it’s now illegible.”

“I see,” Topol said, clearly trying to mask his puzzlement. The night of the theft, when he had personally first visited the scene with his detectives, he specifically recalled the strange image that had been there—a carved relief depicting a dolphin entwined over a trident. Such an odd symbol wasn’t easily forgotten. Yet on Barton’s rubbing, the symbol was gone. If the thieves hadn’t done this, then who had? “What do you think the motive could have been?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Barton drew breath. “The theft seems to have been coordinated by someone who knew exactly what the box contained.”

“Motive, shmotive. What good would a box of bones be to anyone?” Teleksen interjected, making no effort to temper his scorn. He dipped into his jacket’s breast pocket and pulled out a pack of Time Lites. Tapping out a cigarette, he skipped the formality of asking Barton if smoking here was okay and lit it up with a silver Zippo.

“Difficult to say,” Barton replied. “We’d have to speculate on what could have been inside.”

There was a very long silence. The two lawmen exchanged looks.

“Any theories?” Teleksen enunciated each word slowly. Holding the cigarette in his bad hand, he took a deep drag and exhaled, the smoke curling in tendrils from his nostrils.

“Not yet.”

Topol was more levelheaded. “Is it at all possible that this wasn’t a burial box? Was there anything else that could’ve been in the crypt?”

“No,” Barton was emphatic. “It wasn’t customary to leave valuables in crypts. This isn’t ancient Egypt, Major General.”

“Did you find any evidence that could lead us to the perpetrators? Anything that might suggest Palestinian involvement?” Teleksen persuaded.

It seemed they would never understand that—unlike many native Israelis—Barton wasn’t motivated by either religious or political allegiance. “As of yet, nothing obvious.”

“Isn’t there any way of tracking down this ossuary?” Teleksen was losing patience.

“Perhaps.” Barton regarded both men levelly, though Teleksen’s sour demeanor and cigarette smoke were eroding his patience. “I’ll be monitoring the antiquities markets closely. That’s the most likely place it’ll turn up.” He reached into his briefcase for another sheet of paper and pushed it toward Topol. “Here’s a basic drawing of what the ossuary probably looks like, along with the dimensions and approximate weight. I suggest you circulate this among your men, particularly at checkpoints. And here are pictures of the other ossuaries found in the crypt.”

Topol stowed them away.

“I think you might be missing a very important part of all this,” Barton added quietly.

Both commanders raised their eyes.

“A crypt beneath Temple Mount would reinforce the Zionist notion that a Jewish temple once stood above it. Perhaps you should share that information with the prime minister.” Barton was playing off the idea that every Israeli Jew—orthodox and secular alike—clung to the hope that one day solid archaeological evidence supporting Jewish exclusivity to Temple Mount would be discovered.

Teleksen shifted uneasily, the metal legs of his chair scraping against the floor.

“So don’t be too surprised if this investigation leads to a much larger discovery,” Barton added.

“Anything else?” Topol queried.

For a split second, he thought about divulging his discovery of the scroll now back inside its cylinder, safely secured in his pants pocket. “Not at this point.”

“I hardly need to remind you what’s at stake here,” Teleksen said firmly. “We’re teetering on the verge of a very unpleasant confrontation with Hamas and the Palestinian Authority. Plenty of people on their side are ready to use any excuse to accuse us of a terrorist act against Islam.”

Barton looked at them. “I’ll do all I can to find the ossuary.”

Teleksen took a final drag that burned the cigarette down to its filter. “If you find this box, notify us both immediately. You’ll have complete access to any necessary resources.” He tossed the butt onto the floor and stubbed it out with his right foot. “But please keep in mind that next time we meet, we’ll require more than just a lesson in archaeology.”

Both men stood and made their way out into the gallery.

Once he buzzed Rachel upstairs to confirm that they had left the building, Barton quickly closed the door and excitedly pulled out the cylinder. Uncapping it, he tapped the scroll out onto a clear area of his desk. From boxes on a nearby shelf, he retrieved a pair of latex gloves and a plastic Ziploc bag. Sitting at the desk, he swung the retractable arm of a desk lamp closer, then slipped on the gloves.

After delicately opening the vellum, he slid it face-up into the plastic bag, then gently ironed it flat with his hand. Neatly handwritten in a large font, Barton didn’t require a magnifying lens to make out the text. However, he confirmed that he was certainly going to need a translator, because Greek was not his strong point.

And as far as he was concerned, there was only one man in Jerusalem whom he considered an expert.

23

******

Vatican City

Charlotte Hennesey was still grappling with the notion that the ossuary’s skeletal remains suggested that the thirty-something male subject— otherwise in pristine health—exhibited multiple signs of trauma resulting from crucifixion.

She and Bersei were now preparing to establish further evidence reinforcing the subject’s identity, estimating date of death. Carbon dating would need to be performed on the bone, and the ossuary itself would need to be examined closely for any telling clues.

Standing in front of the ossuary, they examined its limestone shell. “I found some information about an ossuary similar to this discovered in Israel in 2002,” Bersei said. “On the basis of its inscriptions it was initially thought to have once contained James, the brother of Jesus. Though the ossuary itself was judged authentic, the inscriptions were determined a forgery. Reviewing the forensic analysis on that relic, I’ve got a pretty good understanding of what to look for here.”

“How did they know it was a forgery? What’s the difference between genuine carvings and fakes?”

“Occasionally it’s a leap of faith,” Bersei responded. “But it’s mainly the integrity of the patina that legitimizes inscriptions.”

“This stuff?” She pointed to a thin layer of muted gray-green sediment that evenly covered the stone.

“Yes—kind of like the greenish oxidation that occurs on copper. In the case of stone, moisture, sedimentary drip and airborne material builds up naturally over time to form a residue.”

“And the patina’s organic composition would indicate the type of environment where the ossuary would have been found?”

“Precisely.” He put on his reading glasses, peered down at a notepad and read from a list of notations. “Last night, I did some research about ossuaries and it seems that the practice of using them occurred mainly in Jerusalem during the first century BC, and didn’t last very long—only a century or two.” He glanced up at her. “Therefore, I’d expect that this limestone, like the James ossuary, was quarried during that period somewhere in Israel.” “Right, the patina’s mineral content should then be consistent with geological elements in that region,” she said. “But wait a second, Giovanni. Assuming this ossuary falls into that category, that would mean this is about two thousand years old.”

“Correct. And seeing as crucifixion was commonly practiced during that period, it appears that we’re on track.”

Hennesey peered closely at the patina. “So if the stone was tampered with, wouldn’t the patina be disrupted?”

“Correct again,” Bersei smiled.

“Is there any way to date the stone?”

He considered this for a second. “It’s possible,” he admitted, “but not very useful.”

“Why not?”

“We’re not really concerned with when the limestone was formed. The stone itself will be millions of years old. We’d be much more interested in when it was quarried. The patina and inscriptions are probably our best gauges determining its age.”

“Aha.” Charlotte pointed to the fused symbol of the dolphin and trident. “Think we’ll be able to determine what that means?”

“I’m fairly certain it’s a pagan symbol,” Bersei continued. “It’s funny, I know I’ve seen this somewhere before. First, let’s figure out if this patina’s legitimate.”

“While you finish analyzing the ossuary, I’ll work on preparing a bone sample for carbon dating.” She motioned across the room to the skeleton.

“Sounds good. By the way,” Bersei reached for his notepad and jotted something down. “Here’s the name and number of my contact at an AMS lab here in Rome.” He tore off a sheet. “Tell him I referred you. Say we’re doing work for the Vatican and need immediate results. That should get his attention. And request that he call back with the results straight away. The dating certificate can be sent later.”

Hennesey read it. “Antonio Ciardini?”

“Pronounced Char-dini. Old friend of mine, plus he owes me a favor.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t worry, his English is pretty fluent.” Bersei glanced at his watch: a quarter after one. “Before you do that, how about taking a lunch break?”

“I’d love to. I’m starving.”

“The tuna sandwich didn’t appeal to you?”

“Not my idea of Italian cuisine.”

24

******

Jerusalem

Graham Barton turned off Souk El-Dabbagha in the Christian Quarter and stopped briefly to admire the magnificent facade built by twelfthcentury Crusaders that masked the original crumbling edifice of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

Christian pilgrims flocked to Jerusalem to retrace Christ’s footsteps along the fourteen “stations” from flagellation to crucifixion—the “Way of Sorrows,” better known as the “Stations of the Cross.” The journey would begin at a Franciscan Monastery on the Via Dolorosa, just beneath Temple Mount’s northern wall—the site where many Christians maintained that Christ had taken up the cross after being scourged and crowned with thorns. Stations ten through fourteen—where Christ was stripped, nailed to the cross, died, and was taken from the cross—were commemorated in this church.

After all that had happened in Jerusalem over the past few days, Barton wasn’t surprised that there weren’t many tourists here today. He made his way into the main entrance.

Beneath the church’s massive rotunda high above two tiers of circular Roman colonnades, Barton walked a circle around a small mausoleum embellished with elaborate gold ornamentation. Inside this small structure was the most sacred site in the church—a marble slab that covered the rock where Christ had been laid out for burial.

“Graham?” a warm voice called out. “Is that you?”

Barton turned to face a corpulent old priest with a long white beard, dressed in the ceremonial garb of the Greek Orthodox Church: a flowing black soutane and a substantial black pipe hat.

“Father Demetrios.” The archaeologist smiled.

The priest clasped Barton with both his pudgy hands, fingers like sausages, and pulled him slightly closer. “You look good, my friend. So what brings you back to Jerusalem?” He spoke with a heavy Greek accent.

It had been almost a year and a half since Barton first met the priest to arrange for an exhibit of some of the Sepulchre’s Crusader-era crucifixes and relics in the Museum of London. Father Demetrios had graciously loaned the items to the museum for a three-month period, in exchange for a generous donation.

“Actually, I was hoping you’d be able to help me translate an old document.”

“Of course,” the priest cheerily replied. “Anything for you. Come, walk with me.”

Strolling beside Father Demetrios, he eyed the numerous clerics milling about the space. The Greek clergy was compelled by a long-standing Ottoman decree to share this space with the church’s other resident sects— Roman Catholics, Ethiopians, Syrians, Armenians, and Copts—and throughout the Sepulchre, each had erected their own elaborate chapels. It was a haphazard arrangement both physically and spiritually, Barton thought. From somewhere in the church, he heard a requiem being chanted.

“Rumor has it that the Israelis have called you in to assist in the investigation over at Temple Mount,” the priest whispered. “Is there any truth to that?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“I don’t blame you. But if it is true, please tread lightly, Graham.”

The priest led him into the Greek Orthodox chapel known as “the Center of the World,” named for a stone basin in its center that marked the spot ancient mapmakers had designated as the divide between east and west. From his last visit, Barton knew that Father Demetrios felt most comfortable here, on his own turf.

On the side wall stood a Byzantine shrine, covered with gold ornamentation and dominated by a massive gold crucifix boasting a life-sized, solarhaloed Christ, flanked by two Marys looking up in mourning. At the altar’s base was a glass enclosure encasing a rocky outcropping where Christ had supposedly been crucified. Golgotha.

The twelfth station of the cross.

In front of the altar, the priest made the sign of the cross, then turned to Barton. “Show me what you have, Graham.” He reached beneath his vestment and produced a pair of reading glasses.

Barton pulled the plastic-sealed vellum from his breast pocket and handed it over.

The priest fingered the Ziploc bag. “Good to see you’ve employed the latest technology. Now let’s see what you have here.” Putting on his glasses, he held the document higher against the ambient glow of an ornate hanging candelabrum and studied the text intently. Seconds later a blanched expression came over him and his lower lip sagged. “Oh my.”

“What is it?”

The priest looked concerned. Scared.

He peered at Barton over his glasses. “Where did you find this?” he

asked quietly.

Barton considered telling him. “I can’t say. I’m sorry.”

“I see.”

By the look in his eye, it was obvious that the priest already knew the

answer. “Can you tell me what it says?”

Father Demetrios scanned the chapel. Three rival priests, dressed in

Franciscan cassocks, were loitering close by. “Let us go downstairs.” He

motioned for Barton to follow.

Father Demetrios led him down a wide staircase that wound beneath

the nave.

Barton was pondering how the ancient words could have so spooked

the old priest. Deeper they went, until stone brick walls gave way to cool,

hewn earth.

Standing in what looked like a cave, the priest finally stopped. “You

know this place?”

“Of course,” Barton said, scanning the low-hanging rocky ceiling that

bore telltale marks of mining activity. “The old quarry.” His eyes wandered briefly to the wall behind the priest where hundreds of Knights

Templar equilateral crosses had been carved into the rock—twelfthcentury graffiti.

“The tomb,” the priest corrected him, pointing to the long burial

niches carved into the far wall. “Though I know your reservations in wanting to accept this idea.”

Where Helena was also lucky enough to unearth Christ’s cross, too,he

wanted to say, but curbed his response. The fact that Constantine’s elderly

mother had personally selected this site—formerly a Roman temple where

pagans once worshipped Venus—left little doubt that its authenticity was

questionable. Though he was no stranger to the divergent views of the historical versus the religious, he wasn’t about to offend him with blasphemy. “There’s another very sacred tomb just above us,” Father Demetrios reminded him with a serious face.

“And why have you brought me down here? Is it something about this

scroll?”

“Everything about it.” His voice was solemn. “I don’t know where you found this, Graham. But if it wasn’t from here—and I know it’s not—I caution you. Be very, very careful. You know better than most how words can be misconstrued. If you promise me you’ll remember what I’ve said, I will write down your translation.”

“You have my word.”

“Good.” The priest shook his head and let out a deep breath. “Let me have your pen and paper.”

25

******

Vatican City

Each time Father Patrick Donovan walked down the Apostolic Palace’s grand corridor he felt intimidated. This was the gateway to the Vatican’s royalty—the physical apex of Christendom’s hierarchy. Adjoining the far end of the Vatican Museum, it housed the offices of the pope and the secretary of state, while an upper floor contained the pope’s lavish Borgia apartment. The entire complex, as big as an airport concourse, felt like an extension of the museum itself with its floor-to-ceiling frescos, marble floors, and baroque embellishments.

Here the Vatican City’s military was most evident, expressionless Swiss Guards posted at even intervals and seeing them only added to his nerves.

Tall porticos ran along one side of the corridor, overlooking the Piazza San Pietro—Bernini’s massive, elliptical courtyard, which had been completed in 1667. Four sweeping arcs of colonnades embraced the space, pinpointing at its center Caligula’s obelisk that had been plundered from the Nile Delta in 38 CE. The relic sharply reminded Donovan of the pillaging done in Jerusalem only four days ago.

Large rectangular windows on the hall’s opposite side were sheathed in iron grating, serving notice that this building had been initially designed as a fortress.

The looming double door at the corridor’s terminus was flanked by two Swiss Guards in full costume—billowing gold and Medici blue-striped tunics and pantaloons, red berets, and white gloves. Conte’s buffoons. Each carried an eight-foot long pole called a “halberd”—a sixteenth-century weapon that combined speared tip, axe blade, and grappling hook. Donovan noticed that both soldiers also carried holstered Berettas.

He stopped two meters in front of the doorway.

“Buona sera, Padre. Si chiama?” The tall guard to his right demanded his name.

“Father Patrick Donovan,” he responded in Italian. “I have been summoned by His Eminence, Cardinal Santelli.”

The guard disappeared into the room beyond. A few uncomfortable moments passed while Donovan stared vacantly at the floor, the remaining Swiss Guard stood at attention in perfect silence. The first guard reemerged. “He is ready to see you.”

The librarian was ushered into an expansive antechamber furnished in marble and wood where Santelli’s personal assistant, the young Father James Martin, manned a lone desk, his face blank and withdrawn. Donovan smiled warmly and exchanged pleasantries with him, trying to imagine just how mentally taxing it must be for him to be at the beck and call of a man like Santelli.

“You may go right in,” Father Martin said, motioning to a huge oak door.

Opening the door, Donovan moved into the lavish space beyond. Across the sumptuous room, he saw a purple skullcap and the familiar mound of thick silver hair poking over the back of a tall leather chair.

The Vatican secretary of state was facing a window that neatly framed St. Peter’s Basilica, a phone held to his right ear, frail hands gesticulating. Swiveling round, Donovan was met by the bloodshot eyes, bushy eyebrows, and heavy jowls of Cardinal Antonio Carlo Santelli. The cardinal motioned him toward an armchair in front of the substantial mahogany desk.

Donovan plunked himself down, the upholstery groaning as he shifted in the seat.

As the Vatican’s highest-ranking cardinal, Santelli was charged with overseeing the political and diplomatic issues of the Holy See, effectively acting as prime minister of the Roman Curia, accountable only to the pope himself. Though even the pope occasionally acquiesced to Santelli’s demands.

The man’s political skills were legendary. As a newly appointed cardinal in the early 1980s, he’d steered the Vatican through the murky recesses of the Banco Ambrosiano scandal and the murder of Roberto Calvi, the socalled “God’s Banker,” who had been found hung by the neck under Blackfriars Bridge in London.

While the cardinal wrapped up his conversation, Donovan took in this inner sanctum of the pontifical machine. Santelli’s immense desk was bare, save for a short stack of crisp reports arranged at a perfect perpendicular, and an oversized plasma monitor mounted on an arm. The screensaver was on—a golf-green, its flag fluttering against a virtual breeze reading: “All We Need Is Faith.” A great enthusiast for IT, Santelli had been the main advocate for the installation of the Vatican’s sophisticated fiberoptic network.

In the corner, a marble-topped credenza supported a replica of Michelangelo’s Pietà. Dominating the space to his right was a large tapestry depicting Constantine’s battle at Milvian Bridge. To Donovan’s left three Raphaels hung—almost casually—against the winecolored wall.

His gaze circled back to Santelli.

“Advise him the final decision will be made by the Holy Father,” the cardinal was saying in thick Italian. Santelli was always direct. “Call me when it’s done.” He replaced the phone. “Prompt as always, Patrick.”

Donovan smiled.

“After the appalling mess left behind in Jerusalem, I trust you’re bringing me good news. Tell me all our efforts have been worthy of such sacrifice.”

Donovan forced himself to look Santelli in the eye. “There’s enough evidence to lead me to believe the ossuary’s genuine.”

The cardinal grimaced. “But you’re not certain?”

“More work needs to be done. More tests.” Donovan knew his voice was wavering. “But so far, the evidence is compelling.”

There was a small silence.

The cardinal cut to the chase. “But is there a body?”

Donovan nodded. “Just as the manuscript suggested.”

“Splendid.”

“Will the Holy Father be told?”

“I’ll handle that when the time’s right.” Elbows on the chair’s armrests, Santelli had woven his fingers together, as if in prayer. “When will these scientists be ready to make a formal presentation?”

“I requested that they prepare something for Friday.”

“Good.” The cardinal saw that Donovan was preoccupied. “Cheer up Father Donovan,” he said, spreading his hands. “You’ve just helped give this great institution new life.”

26

******

Returning from lunch, both scientists felt refreshed. The afternoon had turned out to be mild and the sunshine rejuvenating. Bersei had taken Charlotte to the San Luigi café on Via Mocenigo, only a short walk from the Vatican Museum entrance. The soft music and inviting nineteenthcentury decor complemented the lobster ravioli Bersei recommended—a quantum leap over last night’s tuna sandwich.

With Charlotte phoning the AMS lab he recommended, Bersei was once again suited up as he began his analysis of the ossuary. Dimming the lights above the workstation, he swept each surface of the ossuary with an ultraviolet light wand. Looking through the Orascoptic’s crisp lenses, key areas—particularly the etched grooves forming the intricate designs—were tightly magnified.

The first thing he noticed was that the patina had been scuffed in many areas, particularly along the sides. Glowing under the black light, the abrasive marks were long and wide, in some areas leaving an impression of woven fiber. Straps, he guessed, though no trace fibers had been left behind. Probably new nylon webbing. Confirming that there was zero sedimentary buildup on top of the impressions, he concluded that the marks were fresh.

It wasn’t that shocking. He’d often seen relics that had been handled improperly during excavation and shipment, but this type of disregard for the past always offended him. He had read that the James ossuary had been cracked during shipment. By comparison, the damage here was forgivable and probably wouldn’t devalue the ossuary either.

After mounting the digital camera on a tabletop tripod, powering it up and deactivating its flash, he snapped some shots. Then he turned off the black light and set the workstation lighting higher.

Next, painstakingly inspecting every edge and surface, Bersei hunted for any evidence that the patina had been manually transplanted with tools. Had the box been inscribed after it was found, the geological residue would exhibit obvious inconsistencies. It took considerable time, but lengthy examination showed no suspicious scrapes or gouges. The patina was bonded tightly and evenly across the ossuary’s limestone surfaces, including the relief carved onto the box’s side.

As he stood to straighten his cramped shoulders, he flipped up the Orascoptic lenses, taking a moment to once again admire the ossuary’s decorative patterns. His twenty-fifth wedding anniversary was quickly approaching and that intricate rosette design might look nice on a piece of jewelry. After so many years together with Carmela it was becoming increasingly difficult to find an original gift.

Leaning over the ossuary again, he used a small blade to scrape samples from selected areas, placing the material on glass slides and clearly marking each one. After collecting fifteen samples, he organized the slides neatly on a tray, moved to another workstation equipped with an electron microscope and loaded the first specimen.

Super-magnified and projected onto an adjacent computer monitor, the dried minerals and deposits that formed the patina looked like grayishbeige cauliflower. He saved a detailed profile of the sample in a database, removed the first slide and continued along the tray. When the last sample image had been captured, the entire group was displayed side by side on the monitor.

He entered a command to cross-check for inconsistencies. After a few seconds of calculations that compared biological content, the program detected no significant differences between the samples. If any part of the patina had been artificially “manufactured”—the most common method, using chalk or silica diluted in hot water—the program would have spotted inconsistent isotopic ratios or possibly even foreign traces of microscopic marine fossils that could appear in household chalk.

As anticipated, all the samples were high in calcium carbonate, with nominal levels of strontium, iron, and magnesium. According to Bersei’s online research, these results were consistent with the patinas on similar relics removed from subterranean Israel.

Bersei pulled the last slide from the microscope.

As far as he could tell, these results substantiated that the ossuary’s etchings predated the formation of the patina. It was more than reasonable to conclude that the mysterious pagan symbol on the ossuary’s side did indeed date from the same time as the bones. There was a chance that if he could figure out what exactly it meant, it might help identify the crucified man.

27

******

Watching Giovanni Bersei at work on the other side of the lab, Charlotte picked up the cordless phone, dialed the number he had given her. The ring tone—so uniquely European—chimed endlessly. Just when she thought she needed to redial there was a response.

“Salve.”

For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. She’d expected a switchboard or assistant—perhaps even voice mail—and wondered if she’d accidentally dialed someone’s residence.

“Salve?” The voice was more insistent.

She eyed the note again where she’d jotted the phonetic spelling. “Signore Antonio Ciardini?”

“Si.”

“This is Dr. Charlotte Hennesey speaking. Giovanni Bersei suggested I contact you. I’m sorry—I didn’t know I’d be calling your home.”

“You’ve dialed my mobile. Quite all right.” There was a small pause. “You are American?”

His English was impressive. “I am.”

“What can I do for my good friend Giovanni?”

Everyone seemed to like Dr. Bersei. “He and I are working on a unique project here in Rome. In the Vatican, actually—”

“Vatican City?” Ciardini cut in.

“Yes. We’ve been asked to examine an ancient bone sample. And to be thorough in our analysis, we’d like to date the specimen.”

His voice went up a notch. “Bone specimens in the Vatican? That’s an odd pairing. Though there are those tombs beneath St. Peter’s Basilica where they bury the popes,” he tried thinking it through.

“Yes, well...” She couldn’t elaborate. “I hate to trouble you, but Dr. Bersei was wondering if you might be able to speed up the results.”

“For Giovanni, sure. The bone—is it in good condition? Clean?”

“It’s extremely well preserved.”

“Good. Then I suggest you send a sample of at least a gram.”

“Got that. And ...would this be all right?...there’s a wood splinter that we’d like to date as well.”

“Preferably ten milligrams for wood, though we can go as low as one milligram.”

“Ten is no problem. Is there some kind of form you’ll need me to fill out?”

“Just address the package directly to me with your name—that’s all. I’ll handle the paperwork. Indicate where you’d like the dating certificate sent.”

“That’s very kind. I know I’ve asked too much of you already, but Dr. Bersei was wondering if you could call us as soon as the results are available?”

“So that’s why he had you call, Dr. Hennesey.” Ciardini let loose with a big belly laugh. “I’ll process the samples as soon as they arrive. Normally it takes weeks to get results. But I’ll do my best to get them done within a couple of hours. I’ll give you the address.”

Ciardini repeated the street address slowly while Hennesey jotted it down.

“Thank you. I’ll send the Vatican courier. The samples will be with you in a couple of hours. Ciao.”

Returning the receiver to its wall-mounted cradle, she went back to the workstation.

Studying the skeleton, she finally settled on a splintered fragment from the left foot’s fractured metatarsal. With a pair of tweezers, Charlotte carefully broke away a small piece and sealed it in a plastic vial.

To determine its age, and thus the age of the skeleton, this sample would need to be incinerated. Then, the carbon gases could be collected, scrubbed, and compressed, in order to quantify any remaining carbon 14— the radioactive isotope in all organisms that, upon death, begins halving in quantity exactly every 5,730 years. Though the process seemed simple to her, she had learned that the complex array of equipment required for this test—known as an Accelerator Mass Spectrometer—demanded substantial investment and maintenance. Most museums and archaeological groups opted to outsource to independent specialist AMS labs like Ciardini’s.

From the drawer, she retrieved the wood splinter she had taken during the initial pathological analysis.

Placing the two specimens in a padded envelope, she prepared a second envelope with a Vatican City shipping label. Seeing the label’s embossed papal crest, she smiled inwardly feeling like an extra—or maybe a player— in a detective story. It all seemed a million miles from her daily routine back home. When she was analyzing samples at BMS, at the very least she knew their age and where they came from.

To thoroughly re-create the skeleton’s physical profile, Charlotte would also need to sample the skeleton’s deoxyribonucleic acid, or DNA. Contained within the core of all human cells, the ribbon-like nucleotide acids held the coding that determined every human physical attribute. She’d read studies suggesting that in the absence of harsh conditions and contamination, DNA could remain viable in ancient organisms. Scientists had studied it in Egyptian mummies almost 5,000 years old. Judging from the skeleton’s remarkable condition, she was confident that its DNA would not have degraded beyond the point of being able to study it.

Like carbon studies, genetic examinations required sophisticated equipment. And without doubt, Charlotte knew the fastest and most reliable facility for such testing was at BioMapping Solutions, under Evan Aldrich’s watchful eye. BMS had patented new systems and software to efficiently analyze the human genome using improved laser scanning techniques, and she’d been an integral contributor to the system’s technological development.

Glancing at her watch, she picked up the phone and dialed Phoenix. A quarter to five. Even with the eight-hour difference, she knew Evan was an inveterate early bird.

After three rings the phone was wrestled from its cradle. “Aldrich.”

That was the way he always answered: to the point. Another thing she loved about him. “Hey there. It’s the Rome field office calling in.”

Hearing her voice, he immediately sounded cheerful. “How are operations at Christianity Central?”

“Good. How are things back home?” She touched one of her earrings, remembering he had given them to her for her last birthday—emerald, her birthstone. He had told her they matched her eyes.

“Same old. So what’s shaking at the Vatican? Figuring out how to make the pope live forever?”

“It’s amazing. I’ve been analyzing ancient skeletal remains. Standard forensic stuff so far, but fascinating. I wish you could see this.”

“Back in the trenches then. Hope it’s worth our time.”

“Too early to tell. But it is extraordinary work. Anyway how often do you get a call from the Vatican?”

“True.” He paused. “I’m assuming you didn’t call just to chat.”

After her abrupt—make that icy—departure last Sunday, she knew he was referring to relationship issues. Evan had slept at her house the previous evening. A night of passion that led to an early morning discussion about “taking things to the next level.” Still not having told him about her cancer, she’d been quick to dodge the issue, much to his frustration. The limo had arrived in the thick of it all and she hadn’t left on the best of terms. Fixing things between them was important, but now was not the time. Luckily, Evan was still pretty good at separating work and pleasure.

“The specimen’s bones are in incredibly good shape and I was hoping to impress the locals with some DNA-mapping magic,” she explained. “I want to reconstruct the physical profile. Think BMS might be interested?” There was a brief pause that she knew was most likely disappointment.

After a long moment, he said, “Sounds like it would be good PR.”

“Is the new gene scanner ready?”

“We’re already in the beta testing stage. That’s why I’m in so early— I’ve been poring over the data.”

“And?”

“It’s very promising. Get me your sample and I’ll run it through. It’ll be a good test.”

“I’ve got a whole skeleton here. What piece would you like?”

“Play it safe—something small like a tarsal. When can I expect it?”

“I’ll see if they’ll let me send it for overnight delivery. Hopefully I can get it to you by tomorrow.”

“It will be processed immediately. In fact, I’ll handle it personally.”

“Thanks, Evan.”

“Say hi to the pope for me. And Charlotte...”

Here it comes, she thought. “Yeah?”

“Just want to let you know it isn’t just my best scientist I miss around here.”

She smiled. “I miss you, too. Bye.”

Charlotte returned to the workstation, trying like hell to fight off a sudden surge of regret welling up inside her. She should have told him why she couldn’t be with him in that way—the way he wanted. Drawing a calming breath, she resigned herself to the fact that when she returned to Phoenix, she would tell him everything. Then they would need to figure out how to move forward. Lord knows she didn’t want to scare him away.

Back to work.

Bagging the metatarsal, she stuffed the sample into a DHL box. As she wrote BMS’s address on the shipping label, she tried to suppress a sudden bout of homesickness, realizing how far apart she was from Evan.

As she completed the form, Dr. Bersei joined her. He put his hands on his hips. “Far as I can tell, the patina wasn’t tampered with. It’s the real thing. You?”

“I had a nice conversation with Signore Ciardini,” she said, managing a smile. “Very charming man. He’ll have the results for us tomorrow.”

“What’s that package you’re working on?”

“Another sample I hope will provide a genetic profile for our man.” She held it up. “I’m sending it to Phoenix for analysis.”

“DNA?”

“Mm.”

Bersei glanced at his watch—just past five. “We got a lot done today. I’ve got to get home for dinner. My oldest daughter is stopping by tonight.”

“What’s Carmela making?”

“Chicken saltimbocca.” He raised his eyes and began stripping off his mask and gloves, then lab coat.

She laughed out loud and it felt good. “Good luck with that.”

“Watch out or I’ll bring you the leftovers,” he threatened. “Anyway, tomorrow maybe we can take a look inside the box, and I’ll see if I can’t decipher that symbol. I’ll also show you an instrument that will be a nice complement to your DNA analysis. See you in the morning—just hope my daughter doesn’t tempt me into a second bottle of wine.”

“You have a good evening, Giovanni. Thanks again for lunch.”

“You’re welcome. And try and get some sleep tonight, eh? I don’t want you getting sick on me.”

Too late for that, she thought. She smiled and waved.

“Ciao.”

As the door closed behind him, just for a moment, Charlotte Hennesey envied him.

When she finished preparing the packages, she buzzed the intercom for Father Donovan. He responded almost immediately, as if he knew she was still in the lab.

“Good evening, Dr. Hennesey. What can I do for you?”

She told him about the packages and he assured her that if she left them in the lab, he would have the courier handle both. She also confirmed with him that sending the overnight DHL package was okay, despite the hefty cost for overseas delivery.

Once the business issues were resolved, he asked her, “Are you going into Rome tonight?”

“It is a beautiful evening. I thought I’d take a walk and get dinner somewhere.”

“If you don’t mind splurging a bit, I could give you a recommendation for a superb restaurant.”

“Sure. That would be great. You know what they say—when in Rome...”

28

******

As Charlotte exited the Vatican Museum through the upstairs service door, the early evening sun was still warm. She’d decided that her khakis and blouse were good enough not to have to trail all the way back to her room to change. Besides, she had to adhere to the Vatican’s strict dress code or she wouldn’t be allowed back in. That didn’t leave many other wardrobe options.

She ambled along the walkway between the towering northern city wall and the Vatican Museum’s severe edifice and headed down to the Sant’ Anna Gate and was cleared by the Swiss Guards to leave the premises.

Father Donovan had indicated that the restaurant didn’t open until seventhirty. Unlike the States, Italians preferred to eat dinner late, he reminded her. With an hour to kill, Charlotte stayed close by, but enjoyed walking the side streets, venturing over to the Tiber River, taking in the richness that was Rome.

Awhile later, following Donovan’s directions, Charlotte zigzagged back to the imposing six-story facade of the Hotel Atlante Star. She saw the sign indicating the hotel’s Les Étoiles restaurant. Already she felt underdressed. Entering the foyer, she rode an elevator to the top floor.

As soon as the doors opened, she was greeted by the maître d’. He was a young man and elegantly dressed—perhaps in his mid-thirties she guessed—with dark features and thick black hair.

“ Signora Hennesey...Buona sera! Come sta?” He switched to English. “Father Donovan called ahead. I was expecting you.”

“Buona sera,” she said, peering into the restaurant.

“My name is Alfonso,” he bowed slightly. “Please follow me, Signora. You have a reserved table on the rooftop.”

She was guided through the dining room and up a staircase that led onto a terrace adorned with a sea of colorful flowers. Alfonso stopped in front of a small table by the railing.

Rome’s skyline left her momentarily breathless. The huge dome of St. Peter’s Basilica sat only a short distance away behind the eastern walls of the Vatican Museum. On the opposite side she spotted the curved edifice of Castel Sant’ Angelo. Across the Tiber lay the old city marked by the domed Pantheon.

Charlotte was helped into her chair. A white linen napkin was plucked from her plate and draped across her lap.

“If there is anything you need, Signora Hennesey, please don’t hesitate.”

“Grazie.”

A sommelier silently appeared and presented her with an intimidating leather-bound wine list.

Through all the activity, discovery, and suspense of the day, Charlotte realized that she’d barely had a moment to take stock. Suddenly she felt almost lonely. Or did she? Wasn’t everything perfect? She stared out across the river—she couldn’t have asked for a more idyllic setting.

But she knew everything wasn’t perfect.

The wine waiter was back at her side and she ordered a half bottle of Brunello di Montalcino. Alcohol wasn’t advised, but this evening she wasn’t going to deny herself.

The sound of scooters echoed up from the street below.

When the sommelier returned, he went about his wine presentation, showing the label, then opening the bottle and having Charlotte give it the sniff test. Finally, he poured some into a glass and asked her to taste it. She sloshed it around the glass, more for show, knowing that the medication she’d been taking would give the wine a slight metallic aftertaste no matter how refined its vintage.

When he left, her thoughts settled into their own direction, leading her back to Evan Aldrich. She reminded herself that making any long-term emotional commitment to him would be irresponsible. Yet, the doctors had told her that research was advancing all the time. Answers would soon be found. But how soon was soon?

And what about kids? At thirty-two she was already feeling the pressure that she might never have any of her own. Having researched later, more aggressive treatments that might include bortezomib injections—known to cause birth defects in unborn children—her anxiety had only deepened, knowing that might well be an unattainable dream.

She cast her eyes idly over the neighboring tables. Happy-looking couples, a laughing family to her right. Maybe they weren’t happy at all. Appearances rarely told the whole truth—she knew that better than anyone. Oddly, it made her think about Salvatore Conte and Father Patrick Donovan. What was their story? How had a box of bones brought such a mismatched pair together?

She thought about the bone sample sent to Ciardini—how it would be incinerated during the carbon dating test to determine its age.

Bone being destroyed.

“Has Signora decided?” It was Alfonso.

“I’m glad you’re here. I need your help.”

Despite the fact that the restaurant had a name Charlotte swore was French, its menu featured Italian cuisine. After a few quick questions about her likes and dislikes, Alfonso steered her to a Sorrento scialatielli— “sumptuous homemade pasta with creamy Alfredo seafood sauce full of lobster and crab. Absolutely delightful.”

From the first bite of her pasta, she knew he was right on target. Addicted to the Food Network channel, Charlotte was a huge fan of Rachel Ray’s 30 Minute Meals. She wished the peppy half-Italian host could be here now to enjoy this with her—it was simply delicious. She’d finally found something that had awakened her pill-muted taste buds.

Eating pasta, drinking wine, surrounded by sweet-smelling flowers, and looking out over the city that had practically molded Western culture succeeded in bringing Charlotte’s mind to another place. After she had finished eating, she just sat and took it all in for another hour. Content. Happy.

When the hefty bill came, she was sure to pay with her corporate American Express card—restitution for last night’s tuna sandwich.

Outside the hotel, she ambled back along Via Vitelleschi toward the rugged edifice of Castel Sant’ Angelo. Continuing around the castle’s perimeter, she saw the Tiber come into view. Crossing busy Lungo Castello, she strode onto the Ponte Sant’ Angelo, which spanned the river in five elegant arches.

Rome could boast so much history and culture, she thought. Even this bridge was a sublime work of art, and in its own way the Vatican had helped make it all possible. Admiring Bernini’s marble angels posted along the bridge, her gaze was immediately drawn to one that was cradling a huge crucifix. A day ago, she wouldn’t have thought twice about it. Now she would never be able to look at a cross in the same way ever again. Such an utterly normal object, almost prosaic—but now it seemed gruesome. And the fact that they happened to be everywhere if you looked hard enough was not helping matters.

The one thing she failed to notice was that a comfortable distance behind her, Salvatore Conte was watching her from the shadows of the castle wall.

29

WEDNESDAY

******

Jerusalem

Sipping qahwa, Razak sat on the veranda of his apartment in the Muslim Quarter overlooking the Temple Mount and its Western Wall Plaza. Throngs of protestors had been gathered since sunrise and now he could see news crews from around the world queuing to get past the police cordons.

Tuned to Al-Jazeera, the volume on Razak’s TV was set low, providing a quiet buzz in the background. The mood in Jerusalem was tense, and even worse in Gaza’s Palestinian settlements where mobs of young men were already engaging in low-level intifadas, challenging police with stones. Armored vehicles were now posted at all Israeli checkpoints, as well as the main gates to Old Jerusalem. The IDF had doubled its border patrols.

People were demanding answers, needing someone to blame. Israel was gearing up its defense, ready for yet another confrontation. Hamas was issuing statements, smearing the Israeli authorities.

Razak tried to focus on formulating a plan for diffusing the tension, at least temporarily. Damage control. Sometimes the problems of this place seemed intractable and the sensitive history surrounding the heart of Jerusalem’s thirty-five-acre shrine embodied them.

The mobile phone interrupted his thoughts.

“Sorry to bother you. It’s Graham Barton.”

It took him a moment to recall he’d voluntarily given the archaeologist

his business card. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve got the transcription back on that scroll we found.”

“What does it say?”

“Something astounding,” Barton promised. “But not something we

should discuss over the telephone. Can you meet me to go over this?”

“Of course.” It was hard for Razak to deny the upbeat archaeologist’s infectious enthusiasm. “When?”

“How about noon at Abu Shukri on El-Wad Road? Do you know where that is?”

Razak glanced at his watch. “Yes, I’ve been there many times. I will see you at noon.” Maybe, thought Razak, this is the break I’ve been waiting for.

30

******

Vatican City

Charlotte Hennesey turned to see her alarm clock’s digital readout blinking 7:00 in thick lines of annoying red light. The sun was glaring through the thin drapes that covered the windows and she dropped her head back onto the pillow. Though the small bed was quite comfortable, she imagined that its previous occupant had probably been a cardinal.

Hanging on the wall directly above her head was a crucifix. Her eyes locked onto it. Against her will, images of hammers pounding huge nails through skin and muscle again crept into her thoughts. Get used to it, she told herself.

Dragging herself out of bed, she stumbled to her travel bag and wrestled the cap off a bottle of Motrin. The wine had really done a number on her. From the small refrigerator, she grabbed the bottle of Melphalan, popped its lid, took out one of the tiny white pills and swilled it down with some water. Next came a fistful of vitamins and supplements to counteract the havoc it would wreak on her immune system.

After brushing her teeth, she showered and dressed. She strapped her money belt containing her cash and passport beneath her blouse (her travel guide had strongly suggested it since Rome was notorious for pickpockets). Pocketing her cell phone, she made her way out the door.

Entering the lab Charlotte saw Giovanni already well into his work, hunched over a metal cabinet and fiddling with some computer cables.

He looked up and smiled. “Ah. I see you’re looking rested today.” “Still catching up, but doing better.” She eyed the device. “What’s that?”

He waved her over. “You’re going to like this. It’s a laser scanner used for 3-D imaging.”

The rectangular unit was compact, standing about three feet high, with an empty inner chamber and glass door. The controls were mounted on the side.

Charlotte eyed it critically. “Looks like a mini bar,” she said.

He gave it a cursory glance and laughed. “Never thought of that. No bags of peanuts inside, though. Why don’t you get settled and have some coffee? Then I’ll show you how to work this,” he said, connecting a USB cable from the back of the unit into his laptop’s data port.

Less than five minutes later, Charlotte had returned suited up and ready to go.

“With this we scan every bone one at a time and reassemble the skeleton in the computer’s imaging software,” Bersei explained. “Then the CAD program analyzes them and the associated ligament attachment points, calculates the associated muscle mass each bone supported, and attempts to re-create the image of what our mystery man looked like when he was flesh and blood. I’ll do the first one; you can do the rest.”

Bersei reached out for the skull, cradling its toothy mandible with one hand, globular mass in the other, and mounted it in the scanning chamber. “Just put this in the minibar...”

Charlotte laughed out loud.

Smiling, Bersei shifted to his laptop. “Then click the ‘COMINCIARE SCANSIONE ’ button . . .”

“Is the whole program in Italian?”

Bersei looked up and was amused when he saw her mildly distressed expression. “Oops. Forgot about that. I’ll switch it over to English.” Working the mouse, it took him a few seconds to adjust the program settings. “Sorry. As I was saying, click on the ‘START SCAN’ button—like so...”

The scanner hummed as lasers inside the chamber formed a matrix around the skull, detailing its every feature. Less than a minute later, a perfect digitized replica of the skull popped up on the laptop screen, shaded in white and gray.

“There you go. A 3-D copy. Now the image can be manipulated however we want.” He ran his finger over the laptop’s touchpad so the onscreen skull rotated and flipped on command. “Save the image and the program will ask you to label the bone using this drop-down menu.” Bersei opened the list of labels and scrolled down until he found CR ANIUM—WITH MANDIBLE and clicked on it. “Then you click ‘NEXT SCAN.’ Why don’t you try one?” He opened the scanner door and removed the skull. “Put on gloves and a mask and take a bone.”

Charlotte tossed her coffee cup into the garbage can and pulled on a pair of latex gloves and a paper mask.

She picked up a segment of spine from the skeleton, and closed it in the scanner. Clicking the SCAN button, she watched the luminescent lasers as they played over the bones. She had quick, uninvited thoughts of CT scans and radiation therapy, but forced them away. “Tell me. How did Carmela do with the chicken saltimobocca?”

“Actually, it wasn’t that bad,” he said, surprised. “But my daughter did manage to talk me into that second bottle of wine. Oh, mama mia,” he said, holding his head.

After a minute, the imaging was complete. As Bersei watched over her shoulder, Charlotte used the touchpad to play with the image. She saved it, labeling the scan VERTEBR AE—LUMBAR. She clicked NEXT SCAN.

“Perfetto. Let me know when you’re finished. Then I’ll show you how to piece it all together.”

Bersei made his way across the lab and disappeared into the break room.

She worked on scanning another spinal segment. A minute later Bersei had returned, holding two espressos.

“More Italian jet fuel.”

“You’re a lifesaver.”

“Let me know if you have any problems,” he said, going over to the ossuary.

Placing himself at the workstation, he peeked into the ossuary to examine the thick coat of dust about half an inch deep that coated the base of its interior. He would need to empty the material out and analyze its composition using a microscope, then pass it all through the lab’s spectrometer to identify element-specific light signatures. Using a laboratory scoop, he began emptying it over a screen-covered rectangular glass dish to sift out the small bone fragments that had fallen to the bottom of the box. He assumed that he would find some desiccated flesh and loose stone dust— perhaps trace amounts of organic material, such as the flowers and spices traditionally used in ancient Jewish burial rituals.

What he didn’t expect to find was the small, circular object that was mixed into his next scoop. Removing it with gloved fingers, and lightly dusting its surface with a delicate brush, Bersei saw that the textures on its two oxidized surfaces were deliberate. Stamped metal.

A coin.

Taking a stiffer brush from the tool tray, he beckoned Charlotte over.

“What is it?”

“Take a look.” Centered on the palm of his hand, Bersei held the coin out for her.

Her green eyes narrowed as she peered down at it. “A coin? Good stuff, Giovanni.”

“Yes. It’ll make our job far easier. Obviously coins can be extremely useful for dating accompanying relics.”

He passed her the coin and swiveled back to the computer terminal, keying in the search criteria: “Roman coins LIZ.”

Charlotte studied it intently. It wasn’t much bigger than a dime. On its face was a symbol that looked like a backwards question mark, circled by a ring of text. The flip-side revealed three capital letters—LIZ—centered inside a crude floral image resembling a curved, leafy branch.

“Here we go,” Bersei murmured. The first hits had come back instantly. Coming from a generation when thesis papers were still tapped-out on a typewriter, the efficiency of technology and the Internet, particularly for research, simply amazed him. He clicked the most relevant link, which brought up an online coin seller named “Forum Ancient Coins.”

“What did you find?”

Scrolling down a long list of posted ancient coins for sale, he found an exact image of the coin Charlotte had pinched between her fingers. “Though ours is certainly in better shape, I’d say that’s a match.” He enlarged the picture and indicated the front and back snapshots that were almost perfect replicas of their coin. “Interesting. Says here it was issued by Pontius Pilate,” Bersei pointed out.

Charlotte was taken aback as she bent over to get a better look. “The Pontius Pilate...as in the guy in the Bible?”

“That’s right,” Bersei confirmed. “You know, he was a real historical figure.” Bersei silently read some on-screen text that accompanied the image. “Says Pilate issued three coins during his decade-long tenure, which began in 26 AD,” he summarized. “All were bronze prutah minted in Caesarea in the years 29, 30, and 31 AD.”

“So these Roman numerals L-I-Z tell us the specific date?” She thought she remembered L being fifty and I being one. But Z was drawing a blank.

“Technically, those are Greek numerals. Back then, Hellenic culture was still very influential on daily life in Judea. And yes, they do indicate the actual date of issue,” Bersei explained. “However, this coin was made hundreds of years before our modern Gregorian calendar existed. In the first century, Romans calculated years according to the reign of emperors. You see those ancient Greek words encircling the coin?”

She read them—TIBEPIOY KAICAPOC.

“Mm-hmm.”

“That says, ‘of Tiberius Emperor.’ ”

She noted that he hadn’t read that off the screen. “How do you know that?”

“I happen to read ancient Greek fluently. It was a common language in the early Roman Empire.”

“Impressive.”

He grinned. “Anyway, Tiberius’s reign began in the year 14 AD. Now the L is just an abbreviation for the word ‘year.’ The I is equal to ten, the Z is seven—add them together and you get seventeen. Therefore, this coin was minted during the seventeenth year of Tiberius’s reign.”

Looking a bit confused, Charlotte ticked off the years on her fingers. “So it’s from 31 CE?”

“Actually, the Greeks left out the zero. The year 14 CE is actually ‘one.’ I’ll save you the recount—the correct date is 30 CE.”

“And what about this other symbol—this reverse question-mark thing?”

“Yes. It says here the lituus symbolizes a staff that was held by an augur as a symbol of authority.”

“An augur?”

“A kind of priest. Likened to an oracle and commissioned by Rome. The augur raised the lituus staff to invoke the gods as he was making predictions about war or political action.”

When it came to predictions, nowadays Charlotte was more inclined to envision uptight doctors in white coats trying to interpret lab results. She inspected the coin again. “Aside from the Bible, what do you know about Pontius Pilate?”

Bersei looked up and grinned. “A lot actually. He was quite a bad guy.”

“How so?”

He related what he knew. Tiberius Caesar opposed the idea of a Jewish king ruling coastal Judea since Roman troops needed to be fluidly moved down toward Egypt without hindrance. Plus, Judea was a major trade route. Tiberius ousted one of King Herod’s sons and replaced him with Pilate, outraging the Jews. Pilate routinely massacred rebellious Jews. According to one well-documented account, when unarmed crowds gathered outside his Jerusalem residence protesting at his theft of temple money to fund an aqueduct, he sent soldiers dressed in plain clothes amongst them. On Pilate’s command they drew concealed weapons and butchered hundreds of Jews.

“And that’s only one incident,” Bersei continued.

“Nasty.”

“Pilate mostly lived in a lavish palace in the northern town of Caesarea, overlooking the Mediterranean—what you would call in America his beach house. I’ve been there... beautiful place actually. It’s where these coins were minted, under his watch.”

Looking back to the monitor, Charlotte noticed the remarkably low bid price for Pilate’s relic. “Twenty-two dollars? How could a coin almost two thousand years old be worth only that much?”

“Supply and demand, I guess,” Bersei explained. “There are quite a lot of these things floating around out there. Back in the day, this would have been the equivalent of your American penny.”

Her brow furrowed. A penny? “Why do you think this was in the ossuary?”

“Easy. Placing coins on the eyes of the dead was part of Jewish burial practice. Kept the eyelids closed to protect the soul until the flesh decayed. After the tissue was gone, they would have fallen into the skull.”

“Hmm.”

Reaching into the ossuary, he fished around for a few seconds then plucked something from the dust and held it up. A second coin. “Two eyes. Two coins.” Bersei examined both sides. “A perfect match.”

She considered the new information for a moment. “So the bones must have been buried in the same year, right?”

“Not necessarily. But most likely, yes.”

Deep in thought, she gazed back at the skeleton then down at the coin. “Pontius Pilate and a crucified body. You don’t think...”

Immediately, Bersei held a hand up, knowing what she was about to suggest. “Let’s not go there,” he urged. “Like I said, the Romans executed thousands by crucifixion. And, I’m a good Catholic boy,” he added with a smile.

Sensing no reservation in his strong eyes, she could tell that Bersei wanted to remain objective.

“Have you finished scanning the skeleton?”

“All done.”

“Great.” Standing, he snatched a printout of the Web page from the printer. “Let me show you how to put it all together.” He gestured to the skeleton laid out on the workstation. “Then we can see what that guy really looked like.”

31

******

Temple Mount

At precisely twelve o’clock, Razak strolled over to the square wooden table where Graham Barton was seated in front of the tiny open-air café, drinking black coffee and reading the Jerusalem Post. Seeing Razak, Barton folded the paper and stood to greet him.

Razak proferred a humble smile. “Good morning, Graham.”

Barton offered a hand and Razak accepted. “ Assalaamu ‘alaykum,” Barton said in respectable Arabic.

Razak was impressed. “Wa ‘alaykum assalaam. We’ll need to work on that, but not bad for an infidel,” he said, smiling.

“Thank you. I appreciate that. Please sit.” The archaeologist motioned to the chair on the table’s opposite side.

“This was a fine choice.”

“I thought you’d like it.” Barton had purposely selected this popular, small café in the Muslim Quarter since, as of late, he’d been hearing rumblings that Jewish shopkeepers weren’t taking kindly to Muslim guests— more fallout from the theft’s aftermath.

Pulling in his chair, Razak was immediately approached by a young male Palestinian waiter, painfully thin, just sprouting a sparse beard.

“Will you eat, Graham?”

“Yes, if you have time.”

“Any preferences?”

“Whatever you recommend.”

Razak turned to the waiter and rattled off a few dishes—the restaurant’s famous hummus with black beans and roasted pine nuts, pita bread “hot please,” he specified, falafel, two shwarma kabobs—and asked for a pot of shai mint tea “with two cups,” purposely in English so as not to make Barton uncomfortable.

Once the waiter had jotted everything on his pad and read it back, he retreated to the rear kitchen.

“Tell me, what have you found out?”

Barton’s face lit up. “Something quite extraordinary.” He reached into his shirt pocket and anxiously pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “See here,” he opened the paper and laid it out for Razak. “On top is a photocopy of the original text, below it, the English cipher. Why don’t you take a moment to read it for yourself?”

Briefly, Razak admired the beautiful handwriting of the ancient script. Then his eyes skipped down the page to the translation.

Having fulfilled God’s will, I, Joseph of Arimathea and my beloved family wait here for the glorious day when our fallen Messiah shall return to reclaim God’s testimony from beneath Abraham’s altar, to restore the holy Tabernacle.

Razak’s expression showed his confusion. “Who is this Joseph?”

The waiter returned with a steaming pot of tea and Razak covered the document with his hand while the young man poured out two cups.

Barton waited for him to leave. “Joseph is the man whose skeleton is in the ninth ossuary. You see, the Hebrew name ‘Yosef’ translates in English to ‘Joseph.’ ” He gave Razak a moment to let that sink in and continued, “Have you ever heard of Joseph of Arimathea?”

Razak shook his head.

“I’m not surprised. He’s an obscure first-century biblical figure who appears only briefly in the New Testament.”

Sipping his tea, Razak suddenly looked uneasy. “And what does the book say about him?”

The Englishman spread his hands on the table. “Let me first say that most of what we hear about Joseph of Arimathea is purely legend. That’s what’s most interesting about this find.” Barton was speaking quickly, but in a hushed tone to avoid being overheard. “Many say he was a wealthy tradesman who supplied metals to both the Jewish aristocracy and Rome’s bureaucrats, both of whom needed steady supplies of bronze, tin, and copper to produce weaponry and mint coins.”

“An important man.”

“Yes.” Tentative, Barton continued by saying, “In fact, the Gospels of Mark and Luke state that Joseph was a prominent member of the Sanhedrin—the council of seventy-one Jewish sages who acted as the supreme court of ancient Judea. The Gospels also suggest that Joseph was a close confidant of a very famous, charismatic Jew named Joshua.”

The name didn’t register with Razak, but Barton was looking at him like it should. “Am I supposed to know this Joshua?”

“Oh you know him,” Barton confidently replied. “Some Hebrew translations also refer to him as ‘Yeshua.’ The original Greek gospels referred to him as ‘Iesous.’ ” He could tell Razak was growing impatient with the name game. “But surely you know his Arabic name,...‘Isa.’”

Razak’s eyes went wide. “Jesus?”

“And though Joshua—or Jesus—was the second most popular name here back in the first century, I don’t think the Jesus I’m referring to needs any explanation.”

Razak shifted in his chair.

“Following Jesus’s death, Joseph was said to have gone to Gaul— modern-day France. Accompanied by the disciples, Lazarus, Mary Magdalene, Philip, he preached Jesus’s teachings. Supposedly around 63 CE, he even spent time in Glastonbury, England, where he acquired land and built England’s first monastery.”

Sipping more tea, Razak raised his eyebrows. “Go on.”

“Fast-forward to the Middle Ages and Joseph becomes a cult hero with monarchs fabricating lineal ties to share his fame. And during this time another story surfaces, claiming that Joseph possessed Jesus’s crown of thorns and the chalice he drank from at the Last Supper.” Barton paused to let Razak absorb all the details. “Some believed that Joseph collected the blood of Jesus’s crucified body in that cup.” He noticed Razak’s lips purse at the words “crucified body.” “Better known as ‘the Holy Grail,’ the cup was believed to possess healing powers and granted its owner immortality.”

“Those certainly are fantastic stories,” Razak stated. “Surely you’re not suggesting that the thieves thought the missing ossuary contained the Holy Grail?”

Pursing his lips, Barton made a dismissive motion with his hand. “There are some fanatics out there,” he admitted, “but no. I’d certainly not push that idea.” He continued tentatively. “I decided to do a bit more research on Joseph of Arimathea using the most convenient and relevant handbook available.” He held up a book.

Razak’s eyes bored into the copy of the New Testament he held. “More legend,” he said cynically.

Knowing that the New Testament would be a touchy matter, Barton expected this reaction. Any discussion of Jesus had to recognize that Muslims revered him as one in a long series of human prophets that included Abraham, Moses, and Allah’s final servant, Muhammad. Under no circumstances would Islam accept any man or prophet as an equal to God himself. It was this pillar of Islamic faith that to Muslims rendered the Christian concept of the Trinity absolute blasphemy, creating the most significant rift between the two faiths. And this book was considered by Muslims as a gross misinterpretation of Jesus’s life.

Ignoring the jab, Barton forged on, “Of the twenty-seven books in the New Testament, four give detailed historical accounts of the prophet Jesus: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Each specifically mentions Joseph of Arimathea.” Barton flipped open the Bible to a section marked by a Post-It note, trying his best to steady his now trembling fingers. What he was about to propose was amazing. He leaned closer across the table. “All four accounts essentially say the same thing, so I’ll just read this first excerpt from Matthew twenty-seven, verse fifty-seven.” Then he slowly read the passage:

As evening approached, there came a rich man from Arimathea, named Joseph, who had himself become a disciple of Jesus. Going to Pilate, he asked for Jesus’s body, and Pilate ordered that it be given to him. Joseph took the body, wrapped it in a clean linen cloth, and placed it in his own new tomb that he had cut out of the rock. He rolled a big stone in front of the entrance to the tomb and went away.

Barton raised his eyes from the pages. “I’ll read that one sentence again. ‘Joseph took the body, wrapped it in a clean linen cloth, and placed it in his own new tomb that he had cut out of the rock.’ ”

Razak’s mouth gaped open. “Surely you don’t think—”

The waiter suddenly appeared and Razak stopped mid-sentence, waiting for the young man to set down the plates and leave before continuing.

Razak took a deep breath. “I see where you’re going with this, Graham. It is a very dangerous theory indeed.” He took some bread and scooped hummus onto his plate. It smelled spectacular.

“Please hear me out,” Barton continued softly. “We have to at least entertain the idea that the thieves may have truly believed that the missing ossuary contained the remains of Jesus. And this scroll we found in the ninth ossuary clearly references the messiah. It’s far too precise to ignore.”

As he explained this to Razak, Barton was beginning to feel the full weight of Father Demetrios’s subtle warning. The words on this scroll could potentially undermine traditional commemoration of Christ’s mysterious benefactor, because the loculi deep beneath the Church of the Holy Sepulchre were believed to have belonged to Joseph.

Razak stared at the archaeologist. “You should eat your bread while it’s hot.”

“Look. I’m not saying I believe all this.” Barton tore off some bread and spooned some hummus onto his plate. “I’m simply suggesting a motive. If we’re dealing with a fanatic who believed all this to be true, it would make that missing ossuary the ultimate relic.”

Razak finished chewing, swallowed, and said, “I’m sure you’ll understand that I can’t possibly accept the idea that this missing ossuary contained Jesus’s body. Remember Mr. Barton, unlike the misguided men who wrote that book,” he pointed at the Bible, “the Qur’an speaks the literal words of Allah using the great prophet Muhammad—peace be upon him—as his messenger. As Muslims we’ve been told the truth. Jesus was spared the cross. Allah protected him from those who sought to bring him harm. He didn’t die a mortal death but was reclaimed by Allah and ascended to Heaven.” He raised his eyes skyward. “And remember, the men to whom I am accountable will react much worse than me. They won’t hear of such ideas.” He dipped his bread in hummus and popped it into his mouth. “Besides, don’t the Christians claim Jesus rose from the dead and ascended into heaven? Isn’t that what the Easter holiday is all about?”

“Absolutely,” Barton said.

Chewing, Razak looked at him quizzically.

Barton grinned. “The Bible says a lot of things,” he admitted. “But the gospels were drafted decades after Jesus’s ministry, following a long period of oral tradition. I don’t need to tell you how that can affect the integrity of what we read today. Since Jesus’s disciples were themselves Jews, they incorporated a midrashic storytelling style, which, quite frankly, focuses more on meaning and understanding—often at the expense of historical accuracy. I might also point out that ancient interpretations of resurrection had much more to do with a spiritual transformation than a physical one.”

Razak shook his head. “I don’t understand how anyone could believe those stories.”

“Well,” Barton carefully countered, “you need to keep in mind that the target audience for the gospels were pagan converts. Those people believed in divine gods who died tragically and resurrected gloriously. Life, death, then rebirth was a theme common to many pagan gods including Osiris, Adonis, and Mithras. Early Christian leaders, particularly Paul of Tarsus— a Hellenistic, philosophical Jew—knew Jesus needed to fit these criteria. He was selling this new religion in a very competitive environment. We can’t discount the idea that he embellished the story. And of twenty-seven books in the New Testament, he alone is thought to have written fourteen of them. Quite influential, I think you’d agree. It’s prudent, therefore, for us to put these accounts into their proper historical and human context.”

Razak eyed him approvingly. “You’re a very complex man Graham. Your wife must enjoy you very much,” he said, half sarcastic. He pointed to the gold wedding band on the archaeologist’s right hand.

“If you think I’ve got a lot to say, you should hear her. Jenny is a barrister.”

“A lawyer?” Razak’s eyebrows raised up. “A professional debater. I’d hate to see the two of you fight.”

“Luckily that’s an infrequent occurrence.” The truth was, outside the courtroom she was anything but a contender. Lately, they’d been drifting apart across an ever-widening sea of silence.

“Do you have any children?”

“A son, John, twenty-one. Good-looking lad, with more brains than both his parents put together. Attends university at my alma mater in Cambridge. We also have a lovely daughter, Josephine, twenty-five years old. She lives in the States, in Boston. She’s a lawyer, like her mum. And you? Wife and children?”

Razak smiled shyly and shook his head. “Unfortunately Allah has not granted me a suitable wife as of yet.”

Barton thought he detected something in the Muslim’s eyes. Pain? “Maybe it’s not Allah’s will, but because you’re stubborn,” Barton said.

Razak pretended to be offended, then burst out laughing. “Ah yes, perhaps you are right,” he said.

Once they had finished eating, Razak turned his attention back to the transcription. “And what about the rest of this... what does it all mean?” He read the second part of the transcription: “ ‘To reclaim God’s testimony from beneath Abraham’s altar, to restore the holy Tabernacle.’ ”

Barton was hoping to avoid this part of the discussion. “Ah.” He paused. “Abraham’s altar is most likely referring to Mount Moriah.”

“Where the prophet Ibraham was told to sacrifice Ismaeel, son of Hagar,” the Muslim stated flatly.

“Okay.” Barton let the interpretation slide. Though the Torah clearly stated that Abraham was to sacrifice Issaac, the son of his wife Sarah, Muslims traced their lineage back to Ismaeel—the son born to Sarah’s hand servant, Hagar. It was yet another example of the two religions trying desperately to claim as its own the Old Testament’s most revered patriarch—the man credited with monotheistic faith and complete submission to the one true God. After all, that’s what Islam literally meant, Barton thought: submission to the will of Allah.

“And this reference to ‘God’s testimony,’ ” Razak added. “Sounds as if it is a physical thing that is ‘beneath Abraham’s altar.’ I don’t understand.”

A shiver ran down Barton’s arm. “I’m still trying to determine what that means,” he lied. “I’ll need to do a bit more research.”

Looking skeptical, Razak nodded. “I trust you’ll let me know what you discover.”

“Of course.”

“So where do we go from here?”

Barton thought about it. Oddly, his thoughts kept drifting to Father Demetrios—the visit to the Sepulchre’s lower crypt that had supposedly belonged to Joseph of Arimathea. It got him thinking again about the chamber beneath Temple Mount, how it lacked some of the features typical in first-century crypts. “Actually, I think we’ll need to go back to the crypt. There’s something I may have overlooked. When do you think we can get back in there?”

“Let’s hold off on that until tomorrow morning,” he suggested. “I received a very interesting call late this morning from a good friend in Gaza who heard I was involved in this investigation. He says he has some information that might help us out.”

“What kind of information?”

“I’m not sure, actually,” Razak said. “He wouldn’t say over the phone.”

“Which means it’s probably good stuff.”

“That’s what I’m hoping. Anyway, I was going to take a drive...to go and see him this afternoon. If you’re not too busy, maybe you should come along.”

“I’d like that. What time?”

“I just have something to attend to first. Won’t take me long.” Razak looked down at his watch. “Can you meet me in the parking lot outside the Jaffa Gate around two?”

“I’ll be there.”

Razak reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his wallet.

“Please, Razak,” Barton insisted, motioning it away. “Let me get this. You run ahead and I’ll see you at two.”

“Thank you, Graham. That’s very generous.”

Opposite the café on El Wad, a forgettable young man was seated on a bench reading a newspaper and sipping coffee, enjoying the mild afternoon. Occasionally he inconspicuously glanced over to the archaeologist and Muslim delegate. The small headphones plugged into his ears, seemingly connected to an iPod, were transmitting the amazing conversation that was taking place to the IDF’s Jerusalem outpost.

32

******

Vatican City

Bringing up the skeletal scans in full-screen view, Giovanni Bersei scrolled down the grid of miniature images, pausing occasionally to enlarge and analyze a bone in more detail. “That’s great, Charlotte. Looks like you got the ribs right too. Not easy. All we have to do now is ask the computer to assemble the skeleton,” he clicked the menu options.

Charlotte Hennesey stood behind him as a small window popped up:

PLEASE WAIT WHILE YOUR SAMPLE IS PROCESSED.

25% complete...

43% complete...

71% complete...

He turned to her. “No errors so far. Not bad for a first try.”

98% complete...

100% complete.

Twenty seconds later, the screen flashed back a three-dimensional image of the skeleton. The program had scrutinized each bone’s smallest detail to re-create the condition of joints and cartilage attachments, providing an accurate picture of the fully reassembled skeletal frame. It had even maintained the minute, awful detail resulting from crucifixion—the gouges on the ribs and damage to the wrists, feet, and knees.

“Extraordinary.” Bersei eyed the on-screen image—an assembled version of what lay on the workstation behind them. For a moment, he was again awestruck by the amazing capabilities of computer technology. “That’s probably just the way our man looked prior to interment into the ossuary.”

“What about the flesh?”

He held his hands out as if trying to slow a speeding car. “One step at a time.”

“Sorry. Too much coffee.”

“We like to take things a bit slower over here,” he joked. “Helps longevity.”

Charlotte cringed.

Bersei worked the mouse again. “Next we’ll ask the computer to assign muscle mass to the skeletal frame. The software will measure every bone to estimate its density and re-create its ligament attachment points.”

She knew the basic concept. “Larger muscles place more stress on the bones they’re attached to, requiring stronger ligaments and connecting points?”

“Quite so. Call it reverse engineering. Granted, the program can’t account for every soft tissue abnormality. But it can detect a skeleton’s structural anomalies. If that happens, the program will attempt to re-create it, or we’ll get an error message. That said, let’s get some muscle on this frame.” He refocused on the screen.

The progress window reappeared:

PLEASE WAIT WHILE YOUR SAMPLE IS PROCESSED.

77% complete...

100% complete.

The screen refreshed.

This time the program had clothed a fibrous weave of lean musculature over the skeletal form. The image was gruesome but anatomically correct—a de-skinned human, the muscles various shades of red, the ligaments a disturbing bluish-white. The man had been extremely well formed and perfectly proportioned.

Charlotte leaned in closer. “Looks very fit,” she said matter-of-factly. “No McDonald’s back then,” he said as he manipulated the mouse. “Or osso bucco for that matter.”

They both laughed.

Settling down, Giovanni looked back at the screen. “Okay, let’s add

some skin here.” He clicked a command.

Almost instantly the screen refreshed again, the 3-D image looking like a Bernini marble sculpture with its smooth “flesh.” The enhanced image omitted all hair, including eyebrows. The eyes were smooth, colorless orbs.

Charlotte was transfixed. Now the study had entered a new realm where an otherwise unnamed, faceless specimen seemed to take on an eerie, lifelike quality. They were bringing these ancient bones back from the dead.

“This is where your DNA analysis will help fill in the blanks,” Bersei continued. “The program accepts genetic information—it re-creates everything from eye and skin color to hair density, hairline, fingernails, body hair, and so on. We can also approximate body fat content within an accurate range. Thus far, I think his most impressive feature is this.” He pointed to the lower right corner of the screen where basic statistics were reported, including one line reading:

HEIGHT (in./cm.): 73.850 / 187.579.

“Extremely tall for his day,” Bersei observed. “Odd. If this man died in the beginning of the first century, he would have really stood out.”

“People were shorter back then, right?”

“It’s a commonly held belief that their nutrition wasn’t adequate. But I wouldn’t give that much credit. Many would argue it was actually better. But even by modern standards this man would turn heads. Your genetic data may help shed light on this.”

“Go in on the face.”

He held the mouse button to drag a white-lined frame around the image and clicked to zoom.

A ghostly form filled the screen, its features well defined, yet soft, with a long sloping nose, full lips, and a strong chin. There was a pronounced jaw line with a firm brow and wide eyes.

Bersei seemed satisfied. “For now this is the program’s best re-creation. He was a handsome devil.”

Charlotte was mesmerized by the haunting features. “I wonder how accurate this is.”

“I’ve used this same program to reconstruct identities on similar skeletons for homicide investigations,” Bersei said in a confident tone, “and it’s always proved very accurate when eventually matched with a victim’s known profile.”

The intercom suddenly came to life. Father Donovan apologized for the interruption, but was patching through a call from a Signore Ciardini.

“Probably our carbon dating results,” Bersei said. “Why don’t you take that call and I’ll continue my work on the ossuary.”

“Sounds good,” she said as she made her way over to the phone.

Bersei returned to his workstation.

Once he had finished removing the powdery dust layer from the bottom of the ossuary, something there caught his eye.

A thin outline.

Grabbing a small brush, he bent closer, dusting the grooves until a rectangular form gradually emerged.

Trading the brush for a small blade, he inserted it along the rectangle’s edge, carefully jimmying under what looked like a metal plate. With the plate removed, a hollowed-out compartment was revealed. Inside were the shadowy forms of three long, tapered objects.

He thought his eyes were playing tricks, and adjusted the overhead lighting. Reaching into the ossuary, he worked his fingers along the compartment. Giovanni sensed metal through the latex as he withdrew one of the objects. It was surprisingly heavy, easily eighteen centimeters long and black as coal with a knobby, blunted end that tapered into a shaft of wrought edges.

A nail.

Placing it on a tray, he stared at it, disbelief flooding back.

He pulled two remaining nails from the bottom of the ossuary, and aligned all three on the tray. Three more items that would substantiate the skeleton’s identity. There had been many moments in Bersei’s career that served as reminders of his passion for discovery. But these revelations transcended all rationality. “Oh my,” he gasped, sinking back into his chair. Across the lab Charlotte had just hung up the phone.

“You’ve got to see what I’ve just found,” he called over to her. His eyes were locked on the tray.

Charlotte approached the workstation. By Bersei’s blanched look she knew that the ossuary had offered up yet another of its secrets.

He pointed mutely to the tray.

She saw three metal objects lying on the tray’s shiny steel surface. “Railroad spikes?” Staring down at the jagged points of the nails made the whole ghastly process of crucifixion even more real.

Bersei broke the silence. “I think it’s safe to say that these would have been the nails used to crucify this man... whoever he was.”

“Where did you find them?”

“Take a look.” He pointed with his chin.

She positioned herself above the ossuary, scanning its exposed cavity— a hollowed-out limestone shell.

“The dust was concealing it.”

That’s when her eyes caught the faint outline of something else hidden deep inside the ossuary. It looked like a second recess carved even deeper into the compartment. “Wait,” she called sharply, swinging the retractable lighting arm over the ossuary, light flooding its interior. “Looks like you missed something. There. It looks like...” Under the harsh glare she could discern it better. “...a cylinder?”

33

******

Jerusalem

Razak found Farouq in the small upstairs room in the Grammar College building the Waqf had converted into its temporary office. He’d just finished a phone call.

Before he could open his mouth, the Keeper cut across: “Topol says no recorded shipments over the past couple of days come close to matching the ossuary.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “This isn’t going well.”

Razak took a seat. Farouq looked as if he hadn’t slept in days as he turned to face him at an angle that perfectly superimposed the Keeper over the window-framed backdrop of the Dome of the Rock Mosque.

“Hamas and the Palestinian Authority,” Farouq continued, “both confirmed that the helicopter used to transport the thieves from the Haram esh-Sharif was definitely Israeli. When I confronted Teleksen about it, he claimed it had been hijacked from the Sde Dov air base near Tel Aviv. A Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk.”

If Razak’s memory served him correctly, Israel had purchased several of the assault helicopters from the Americans in the late 1990s.

“Seems that the Israeli Air Force shares the Sde Dov airfield with commercial carriers,” Farouq added.

“No wonder it was so easy for someone to sneak onto the base.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions.” His tone was razor sharp. “There’s always the possibility that the helicopter wasn’t actually stolen.”

Not liking the fact that Farouq’s objectivity seemed to be waning, Razak shifted gears. “At least they’ve finally admitted to it. Quite an embarrassment for them.”

“Assuming it was an accident, of course.”

“Did you ask Teleksen why we weren’t informed sooner?”

“Of course I did.”

“And what was his response?”

Farouq folded his arms. “He was concerned the information would be leaked to the media.”

Razak had to admit that if the tables had been turned, the Palestinians would also have done their best to conceal any information that could initiate hostile retaliation. It all just seemed like a never-ending game. “You don’t actually think the Israelis arranged for the theft, do you?”

“It’s too soon to tell. But obviously I’m suspicious.”

“But what about all those Israeli soldiers murdered?” He shook his head. It just didn’t gel with what Barton was presenting. Why would the Jews be interested in the supposed relics of a false messiah or some ridiculous legend about the Holy Grail? “What could their motive possibly be?”

“What has the Israeli motive ever been? These people are always looking to destroy peace.”

The same response Razak would expect from Hamas. “So how will you proceed?”

“I’m not sure. For now, we’ll await more information.” Farouq laced his fingers together and pressed them against his lips. “Tell me, what is going on with the English archaeologist...this Barton character?”

Surely this was not the time to fuel the old man’s growing frustrations with the other side. As it stood, the archaeologist’s wild theories remained just that—untamed. “He’s asked to see the chamber again. He feels he may have missed something.”

Trying to hide his concern, the Keeper seemed unfazed. “Like what?”

“I’ll tell you as soon as I find out.” Razak stood to leave. “By the way, I’ll need to borrow your car. I’m meeting someone who may be able to give us some good information.”

“Fine.” Farouq opened his desk drawer and gave Razak a key to the Mercedes S500. “I just had it cleaned. Where will you be going?”

“Gaza City,” Razak coolly replied.

“I see.” Farouq’s face went limp as he considered asking for the key back. “You know how things are over there right now.”

“I’ll be careful,” Razak assured him. “I’m taking Barton with me. It will be fine.”

Clearly unconvinced, Farouq nodded. “Just remember that we’re trying to solve a crime here, Razak. An act of terrorism. We’re not making a documentary. Make sure Barton stays on track.”

“Yes, yes.”

After Razak left, Farouq sat in silence for some time, staring emptily out the window at the gold-leafed cupola of the Dome of the Rock— the structure that single-handedly defined Islam’s claim to Palestine.

Even the name of the site was one neither side could agree on. To Jews, it was the Temple Mount. To Muslims—the Haram esh-Sharif.

Everything in Jerusalem had at least two names, even the city itself— Al Quds.

How could such a small country have redefined the Middle East and sparked the counter crusade—jihad ? Centuries of conflict. So many disputes. To Farouq, religion was no longer the cause he championed. It was far more than that now.

He thought back to his days on the front line. He’d been a soldier during the Six Days’ War in 1967, when the Arab nations—Egypt, Syria, and Jordan—had formed a united front to cast the Israelis into the sea, once and for all. But Israel’s lethal air force—purchased from the United States—had been underestimated, preemptively striking the Egyptian airfields before the offensive even began. The conflict had ended with terrible consequences for the Palestinians. Israel had managed to wrest control over the Golan Heights, the West Bank, and the Sinai Peninsula. But even after that disastrous conflict, the Temple Mount had remained under Islamic control. Even the heavily armed Israelis knew that an attack against this site would escalate conflict to entirely new levels.

In 1973 Farouq had once again fought for his people when Egypt and Syria joined forces to reclaim the occupied territories, launching a sneak attack in Sinai and the Golan Heights during the holiest of the Jewish holidays—Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. For two weeks the Arab forces pushed deeper and deeper into the region, almost breaking the Israelis. But the tide soon turned, with the United Nations enforcing a ceasefire.

Farouq’s hand migrated to his chest and massaged the scar beneath his tunic where an Israeli infantryman’s bullet had almost taken his life.

Though a major conflict hadn’t occurred in over three decades, Palestinian intifadas had been prolonged and frequent. Israel had strengthened its hold over the land, monopolizing the weaponry. It was a poorly kept secret that Israel had nuclear weapons, while Palestinians protesting on the streets had resorted to throwing stones.

But the emergence of extremist militant groups—like Hamas and Islamic Jihad—had transformed the conflict to a psychological offensive designed to starve the Israelis of peace and security. Highly visible suicide bombings had become the new voice of Palestinian freedom. Whether one called them terrorists or martyrs, the message was clear—the Israelis were only visitors in this place.

There would never be peace in Israel and wise men like Farouq who had fought on the front line for independence knew why. To give up Palestine was to surrender to Western ideology. Just as Saladin had pushed the Crusaders out of the Holy Land in the twelfth century, the Palestinians would soon rise again to reclaim the region.

And no controversy resulted in more bloodshed than those resulting from Israeli meddling with the Temple Mount. The archaeological digs initiated by Israelis and Palestinians in 1996 had resulted in scores of deaths. In 2000 Ariel Sharon had tried to reassert Israeli control over the site by marching into the esplanade with hundreds of IDF soldiers. Once again the Palestinians interpreted these actions as a religious attack, and much bloodshed had ensued.

Though he no longer wielded a rifle, Farouq remained a soldier on this new battlefront. The Temple Mount—the region’s most valuable asset— was an archaeological treasure, a time capsule of world faith and politics. And no matter how sophisticated Israeli weaponry became, they would never reclaim the site while he lived and breathed. With all Farouq had fought for in the past, he would rather die before that day passed.

Picking up the phone, he placed a call to the news department at Gaza City’s Palestinian TV. Owned and operated by the Palestinian Authority, Palestinian TV underscored the extreme discontent at Israeli occupation. Its message had struck such a chord in right-wing Israeli circles that its director had been killed, shot at close range in the chest and head. The Mossad was suspected.

His call was routed to his inside contact—a young, ambitious Muslim named Alfar. Farouq provided detailed information about the helicopter— ammunition for what would prove to be the network’s most contentious media bombshell ever.

Farouq hung up.

Emanating from the network of loudspeakers across the Haram eshSharif esplanade, he heard the call of the muezzin. It was time for midday prayer.

The Keeper eased himself onto his knees, faced south toward Mecca and began his recitation.

34

******

Vatican City

Standing to get a better look at what Charlotte had found, Bersei could see that nestled in a carved niche at the very bottom of the ossuary was something that resembled a metal test tube.

Above the white fabric of their masks, the two scientists exchanged looks.

“I’ve just about had all I can take right now,” Giovanni motioned to the cylinder. “You do the honors.”

Charlotte reached down as if into a black hole. Her fingers closed around smooth metal. Slowly, and with infinite care, she withdrew it from the ossuary.

Turning her hand over, she rolled the tarnished tubular casing along her latex covered palm—a stark contrast of old and new. Both ends were sealed by round metal caps. There were no distinguishing marks or inscriptions.

“A container of some kind?” She inspected each end in turn. Her eyes were on him, searching for an explanation, but Bersei could not speak. “Giovanni, I think you should open this.”

He waved her away.

Charlotte rotated it. The metal looked similar to the coins. Was it bronze? “Okay. Here goes.” She held the cylinder over an empty section of the tray. Clenching her teeth, she took hold of the cap sealing one end, applied equal pressure in the opposite direction and twisted. At first it didn’t budge. But an instant later, a muffled cracking sound indicated the wax seal had broken.

The cap came free.

Fellow conspirators, the two scientists gazed at one another. Tilting the cylinder closer to the light, she glimpsed something rolled up inside.

“What do you see?” Bersei’s voice was hoarse with tension.

“It looks like a scroll.”

He balled his hand into a fist, pressing it against his chin. “Handle that extremely carefully.” His voice was loud. “It’s probably very brittle.” First the coins, now this, he thought. It was getting to be overwhelming.

Gently tapping the unopened end of the cylinder, Charlotte coaxed the scroll from the tube. Sticking at first, it slid out suddenly, landing on the tray with a small thump. They both froze. “Shit! I didn’t think that would happen so easily.”

Bersei reached out and gingerly rolled it back and forth with his index finger, assessing the damage. “No harm done.” He exhaled heavily. “Looks like it’s in excellent condition.”

“Is that parchment?”

Bersei studied it. “Most likely calfskin.”

“Have you ever handled ancient documents?”

“Personally, no,” he admitted.

“We can’t just unfurl it, can we?”

“We’d have to research that. It looks remarkably well preserved, but of course it will be frail. There will be strict procedures. We can’t risk any damage.” He was trying to imagine what it might reveal. “Don’t you think there’s just too much evidence here?” His expression hardened.

“Perhaps. But I’ve got some really interesting news for you.” Charlotte had his complete attention.

“The radiocarbon dating results?”

She nodded. “That bone sample I submitted to Ciardini.” He studied her face intently. “What did he find?”

“Ready for this? The sample was so good that it’s 98.7% certain the bones date from between 5 and 71 AD.”

Uncertainty was growing in Bersei’s eyes again. That narrow time range was almost incredible. With his left hand, he massaged a cramp that was setting into the base of his neck. Stress. “This is compelling news.”

“And the wood splinter—which, by the way, is from a type of walnut tree indigenous to a region in Israel. There’s an 89.6% degree of certainty it dates from between 18 and 34 AD.”

Bersei’s eyes jumped over to the skeleton as if it had suddenly come to life. “When do you think you’ll have the results of the genetic analysis?”

“We might have it tomorrow.”

He stared down at the rolled calfskin. “Good. Let’s go ahead and document all this,” he suggested.

Charlotte got the digital camera, turned it on and started snapping shots of the ossuary’s interior.

Locked in thought, Bersei knew that something about all this felt very wrong. No wonder Father Donovan had wanted to call in leading scientific expertise. The priest had to know more than he was letting on. After Charlotte captured an image of the rolled scroll, Bersei carefully returned it to its metal housing, and sealed the cap.

35

******

Erez Crossing, Israel

An hour southwest of Jerusalem, the lush farmlands of Israel’s transformed desert began to fade back into arid landscape as Razak drove down Highway 4 toward the Gaza border.

“Have you ever been on that side of the fence?” Barton motioned with his eyes through the distant tall posts and steel wiring of the separation fence that ran along the Gaza Strip’s fifty-one kilometer border, cutting away the tiny sliver of land from Israel’s southern coast.

“Only once,” Razak replied in a dreary tone. He did not elaborate.

A sour taste came into the back of Barton’s throat. Seeing as he’d be only one of a handful of Europeans in the tiny place inhabited by almost 1.3 million Palestinians, he would have preferred a more reassuring response from Razak—especially since Westerners were prime targets for abduction by Islamic militants, like the El-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade.

Up ahead, the roadway was snarled for almost three kilometers with idling vehicles—taxis, cars, and vans awaiting clearance through the Erez Crossing. Pulled off to the side of the road, many had already overheated. With no cover in sight, the scorching sun beat down unforgivingly on the stranded motorists.

Even with the windows up, the sounds of crying children and the choking stench of exhaust fumes permeated the Mercedes’s airconditioned interior.

“Who exactly is this contact we’re meeting?” Barton asked. “An old school friend of mine. A man who shares many of my concerns for the future of the Middle East,” Razak explained. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to request that you let me do all the talking.”

“Agreed.”

It took almost two hours until they reached the expansive metal canopy resembling a doorless hangar that shielded the IDF border patrol guards from the sun. Cement barricades and barbed wire lined the road. Tanks and armored vehicles were positioned on both sides of the gate.

Razak turned to Barton. “Do you still have that letter the Israeli police gave you?”

“Certainly.”

“Good. I have a feeling we may need it.” Razak tried his best to disregard an Arab taxi driver who was being interrogated by a gang of IDF soldiers on the exiting side of the roadway. A pair of German shepherds sniffed the car for explosives. He remembered hearing that the Israelis were particularly suspicious of lone drivers coming out of the Gaza Strip, many of whom had been suicide bombers.

Finally the IDF soldiers, wearing full combat gear, waved Razak forward, making no effort to point their rifle muzzles down. Surveillance cameras were mounted high up on the steel beams that supported the shelter, glaring down. A scrawny young Israeli soldier stepped forward. “Open your rear compartment and let me see your papers,” he stated in rough Arabic, taking a moment to admire the Mercedes’s smooth lines.

Razak pushed the trunk release button and handed over their passports to the guard.

Two soldiers paced along either side of the car, running mirrors under the chassis, eyed the interior, and made their way to the rear to inspect the trunk.

The guard crouched slightly to get a look at Barton. He shook his head. “Not from here, I see.” Grimacing, he shifted his gaze back to Razak and said, “You must be crazy going in there, especially now. This car. Him.” He made a smug face as he eyed Barton. “What’s your business?”

The trunk slammed shut, making the Englishman jump.

Presenting Barton’s letter, Razak explained that the Israeli police had commissioned them to aid in the Temple Mount investigation. The guard seemed satisfied.

“Go, but be careful in there,” he warned. “Past this gate, you’re on your own.”

Razak nodded seriously, then pulled ahead. Letting out a prolonged sigh of relief, he maneuvered the Mercedes through more cement barricades positioned below a concrete guard tower.

Fifteen minutes later, heading south down the region’s main highway, Gaza City’s unimpressive skyline came into view. The concentration of buildings tightened as Razak drove mindfully through the crowded downtown streets where the bombed-out facades of some structures still lay in ruin. Lasting reminders of Israel’s frequent rocket attacks.

For a long while, both men remained quiet, each taking in the bleakness of it all.

“This is awful,” Barton finally said.

“Over a million people packed into a tiny parcel of land.” Razak’s tone was grim. “Horrible sanitary conditions, political instability, a devastated economy...”

“The perfect recipe for discontent.”

Parking along the curb, Razak paid a Palestinian boy with a round face forty Israeli shekels to watch the car. The streets were mobbed. The hot, lifeless air smelled of sewage.

Getting out of the car, Barton tried to avoid eye contact with the curious Palestinians who passed by.

“We’ll be meeting him over there,” Razak said, motioning subtly with his eyes to a tiny outdoor café situated on the busy street corner in the shadow of a formidable mosque whose minaret stabbed defiantly into the blue sky. “Let’s go.”

The contact—a Palestinian with a sturdy frame and a bearded, smooth face—was already seated at a table, sipping mint tea from a clear glass. He called over to Razak.

Smiling, Razak greeted the man with a blessing and a handshake, then introduced the man to Barton by his first name—Taheem.

Barton smiled and extended a hand in greeting. He couldn’t help but notice that the forty-something contact was well dressed in a neatly pressed linen suit—a sharp contrast to the majority of Palestinians here who donned traditional Islamic dress. Many of the women even wore the burka that covered them from head to toe.

Taheem’s grin noticeably faded as he looked around before reciprocating the gesture. “Please, sit.”

“Will it be all right if we speak in English?” Razak asked.

Bouncing his stern gaze off Barton once again, Taheem hesitated. “Of course.”

“So tell me, my friend. How are things here?”

Shaking his head, Taheem rolled his eyes. “You’d think the Israeli pullout would have helped matters. Far from it. The parliament is overrun by fundamentalists looking to formally wage war on Israel. Funding from the UN and the West has dried up. And now, with this incident in Jerusalem...” His eyes shifted somewhere off in the distance.

“I know it must be difficult.”

“I’m just happy that I have no family here,” Taheem added. “And you? How are things? As good as that fancy car you drive?” He motioned with his head down the street about thirty meters away where the young boy was urging some pedestrians away from the Mercedes.

Razak grinned. “Everything’s fine.”

“Glad to hear that.” He called for the waiter to bring two more teas.

“As you might imagine,” Razak said in a hushed tone, “I’m anxious to know what you’ve heard about the theft.”

Taheem eyed Barton once again.

“It’s okay,” Razak reassured him. “Graham is not an Israeli. He’s looking to help us.”

Taheem paused while the waiter set down the two glasses for Razak and Barton, waiting until he was out of sight to continue. “You know about the helicopter, I presume?”

“Yes,” Razak said. “The Israelis are still trying to find it.”

He looked surprised. “Then you don’t know.”

Confused, Razak’s face scrunched up.

“They’ve already found it,” Taheem added.

“What?”

Sipping his tea, Barton listened in silent astonishment, trying to ignore a series of bullet holes that ran a neat line across the café’s cinderblock façade.

“I heard that a Palestinian fisherman caught some things in his nets three days ago, a few kilometers off the coast. Pieces from a helicopter— seat cushions, flotation vests...and the head of a dead pilot wearing an Israeli flight helmet.”

Shocked, Razak was speechless. “How can it be that no one knows this?” At a minimum, he was sure that Al-Jazeera would have taken a shot at the story—facts or no facts.

Taheem scanned the area before answering. “Rumor has it that the Shin Bet killed the fisherman before he spoke to the media. But not before he had told his brother—a dear friend of mine who will remain nameless, for obvious reasons.”

“But why was the helicopter in pieces?”

“The night of the theft, many heard it flying low over the rooftops and watched it go out over the sea. Minutes later, some even had a chance to see what looked like an explosion out over the horizon.”

Suddenly feeling helpless, Razak knew that Taheem’s story confirmed his lingering fear that both the ossuary and the helicopter were long gone. He exchanged an uneasy glance with Barton.

“There’s more,” Taheem said. “As you know, when the Israelis pulled out of Gaza, they had given the Palestinian Authority control over the southern border crossing into Egypt. Since then, many weapons and explosives have flooded into Gaza. Many have found their way over the fence.”

Razak was confused. “I thought the fences were equipped with sensors and electrical charges that could detonate explosives?” Effective deterrents that had largely thwarted most suicide bombers from getting into Israel, he remembered.

“Let me explain.”

Barton could see that Taheem was beginning to sweat more. “Not long before the theft in Jerusalem took place, a helicopter was flying along the border fence.” Pointing west, the Palestinian subtly traced the air with his finger, out over the city. “A routine occurrence,” Taheem admitted. “However, some say that it hovered for a few minutes, just over the fence...into Gaza. A bold move for an Israeli helicopter, one might think, since such an easy target might attract a rocket-propelled grenade.” His voice cracked and he took a sip of tea. Clearing his throat, he continued. “Anyway, I was told that some cargo was hoisted up from the ground and loaded onto the helicopter.”

A look of alarm widened Razak’s eyes. Of course! The only way to circumvent the checkpoints was to avoid them all together.

Taheem leaned in closer. “I was also told that someone inside Jerusalem coordinated the whole thing.”

“But—”

Before the words escaped Razak’s mouth, Taheem’s face suddenly exploded outward, spewing blood and fleshy chunks onto the wall, instantly followed by something ricocheting off the wall. Instinctively, Razak catapulted out of his chair and onto the ground, pulling Barton out of the chair and down beside him as Taheem’s lifeless torso teetered forward and landed hard on the tabletop.

A few nearby pedestrians screamed and scurried away.

“Jesus!” Barton yelled, shaking in fear. “What on earth was that!”

The silent shot had been so precise, Razak knew instantly. “Sniper.”

A second round hammered into the thick wooden tabletop, barely piercing through just above Razak’s head. Both he and Barton flinched. A third snapped off the pavement in front of them, almost grazing Barton’s arm.

“We’ve got to get out of here right now.” Razak’s head spun down the street toward the car. “We’re going to have to make a run for it.”

Barton’s breathing was heavy, sweat dripping from his chin. He nodded. “Okay.”

Scrambling to remove the car key from his pocket, Razak said, “We’ll split up and meet at the car. Run fast and low through the crowd.” He pointed along the sidewalk where most of the pedestrians had yet to figure out that shots had been fired. “I’m heading for the opposite side. It’s our only chance. Go!”

Both men sprung out from beneath the table, racing off in opposite directions. Razak barely missed being run down by a dilapidated Ford hatchback as he darted across the street.

Barton did his best to avoid running into the pedestrians, feeling remorseful as he strategically kept them in the sniper’s line of fire. Fully anticipating being taken down by the gunman, he was surprised when he came nearer to the Mercedes without registering another shot. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Razak cutting swiftly through the throngs across the street.

The Mercedes’s lights blinked as Razak remotely disengaged the door locks.

Barton scrambled to open the car door. Diving inside the Mercedes and pulling the door shut, he glanced over to see the young Palestinian boy holding the driver’s door open as if he were a valet. A split second later, Razak weaved deftly through the traffic and spilled into the car. He thrust the key into the ignition as the boy closed the door behind him. Razak waved the clueless kid away just as the sniper managed a clean shot through the boy’s temple, toppling him onto the sidewalk.

Now the pedestrians had figured out what was happening and pandemonium broke out—people running off in all directions.

Throwing the gearshift into drive, Razak slammed his foot on the accelerator.

No more shots came.

Breathless and pumped full of adrenaline, both men exchanged glances.

“What just happened?” Barton said, hands trembling.

Glancing over at him, Razak didn’t have an answer. For the next few minutes, he focused on angling his way through the narrow streets, backtracking through the city toward the main highway.

Without warning, the Mercedes’s rear lurched to the right amidst the deafening crunch of metal and glass as Razak and Barton were jerked sideways, almost out of their seats.

Somehow, Razak managed to regain control of the Mercedes, only after running up onto a curb and steering back onto the roadway. His head swiveled to glimpse the late model Fiat sedan with a mangled front end that had spun out in the intersection and was in the process of maneuvering to continue its pursuit. Razak could see the driver and a second man riding in the passenger seat. Both were wearing hooded masks. When he saw that the passenger leaned out the window, aiming at them with an AK47, he yelled over at Barton, “Get down!”

The archaeologist sank below the seat and huddled below the dashboard just as a string of bullets took out the car’s rear window and windshield, glass fragments showering down on him. Two of the bullets burrowed deep into the stereo console, spewing out a shower of electric sparks.

Moving his head lower, Razak sped through two more intersections before swinging a wide turn onto the highway, heading north. More shots loudly strafed the driver’s side of the car in rapid succession and Razak felt one dig into the side of his seat, almost clipping him beneath the armpit.

The road opened up with no traffic. Adrenaline buzzing through him, Razak pressed the gas pedal all the way to the floor. The Mercedes’s engine revved hard and pulled him back in his seat. Miraculously, the car’s rear end had endured the collision, though the steering wheel was pulling hard to the left and was vibrating fiercely. He quickly glanced down at Barton who, understandably, looked completely shaken up. “You okay?”

“Are they still behind us?”

Razak eyed the rearview mirror. “Yes. But I don’t think they’ll be able to keep up.”

More shots pinged off the rear of the car.

Racing past the cement barricades of abandoned checkpoints, Razak kept an eye on the pursuers. As he anticipated, the Fiat—now spewing gray smoke out from its twisted grill—was quickly losing ground.

Sighing in relief, Razak tried to settle his breathing. His thoughts drifted momentarily to Farouq who would clearly not be pleased with the condition of his cherished Mercedes.

A half-kilometer from the border crossing, Razak watched the rearview mirror as the pursuers came to an abrupt stop. Up ahead, there was no long queue of cars waiting to cross over to Israel—probably what the gunmen were hoping for, Razak thought—one last opportunity to have a clean shot. “You can come up now,” he told Barton.

“I can understand why you haven’t come back here until now,” Barton said, settling back into his seat and carefully shaking glass fragments out of his hair.

Decelerating, Razak wound the car through the barricades below the watchtower. Stopping in front of the guard shelter, he waited until the soldiers signaled for him to pull forward. Alarmed by the condition of the Mercedes, they cautiously surrounded the car, rifles drawn, commanding the occupants to remain still.

Then the same young guard that had allowed them entry into Gaza stepped forward. Grimacing, he slung his rifle over his shoulder and put his hands on his hips, raking the Mercedes’s marred exterior with his eyes. He crouched down beside Razak’s blown-out window and smugly said, “That was fast. Hope you enjoyed your stay.”

36

******

Just after five o’clock, Father Donovan entered the lab.

“Working late again, I see,” he said, flashing a friendly smile. “We want to make sure that the Vatican gets the best value for its

money,” Bersei replied.

“Is there anything that the two of you need? Anything I can help with?” The scientists exchanged glances. “No,” Charlotte replied. “The lab’s

very well equipped.”

“Excellent.” Donovan’s curious eyes wandered over to the skeleton and

the opened ossuary.

Bersei spread his hands. “Would you like a quick overview of what

we’ve found so far?”

The priest visibly perked up. “Yes, indeed.”

For the next fifteen minutes, the scientists gave Donovan a basic

summary of the forensic study and carbon dating results, and showed

him the additional relics hidden in the ossuary’s secret compartment.

Bersei maintained a clinical, objective demeanor and Charlotte followed

his lead.

Judging from the priest’s reaction to the preliminary findings—ranging

from genuine surprise and intrigue, to tempered concern over the nature

of the skeleton’s telling signs of crucifixion—Charlotte sensed that maybe

he had no advance knowledge of the ossuary’s contents. She noted that the

bronze cylinder seemed to capture his attention more than anything else, a

lingering concern bleeding into his puzzled gaze. Trying to gauge Bersei’s

take on the matter, she felt that he too was catching the same vibe from

Donovan.

“I’ll tell you, Father Donovan,” Bersei added, “this is one of the most

remarkable archaeological discoveries I’ve ever laid eyes upon. I’m not sure

what sum the Vatican has paid to acquire all this, but I’d say you have a

priceless relic here.”

Watching the priest closely, Charlotte saw that Donovan’s expression

showed that he was pleased, but even more so, relieved.

“I’m sure my superiors will be delighted to hear that,” the priest said,

his eyes wandering once more over to the skeleton. “I don’t want to rush

things, but do you think you might be able to formally present your findings on Friday?”

Bersei looked over to Charlotte to see if she concurred with the idea.

She nodded agreeably. Turning his attention back to Donovan, he said, “It

will take some preparation, but we can do it.”

“Very good,” Donovan said.

“If there’s nothing else, Father,” Bersei said, “I’ll have to be on my way.

Don’t want to keep my wife waiting.”

“Please, don’t let me keep you,” the priest said. “I very much appreciate

both of you taking the time to update me.”

Bersei disappeared into the break room to hang his lab coat. “He’s quite the family man,” Charlotte whispered to Donovan. “His

wife is very lucky.”

“Oh yes,” Donovan agreed. “Dr. Bersei is very kind ...a gentle soul.

He’s been quite helpful to us over the years.” The priest paused for a moment and added, “Tell me, Dr. Hennesey, have you ever visited Rome

before?”

“No. And honestly, I haven’t really had time to venture across the

river yet.”

“Can I suggest a tour for you?”

“I’d love that.” She genuinely appreciated the priest’s hospitality. Living

the cloistered life of a cleric, he was quick to offer activities that were

geared to a lone traveler.

“If you don’t have plans this evening, I’d highly recommend the Night

Walking Tour,” he energetically offered. “It begins at Piazza Navona, just

across the Ponte Sant’ Angelo Bridge, at six-thirty. Takes about three hours.

The tour guides are fantastic and you’ll get a great overview of all the major sites in the old city.” He peered down at his watch. “If you leave directly

from here, you can make it on time.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Normally you have to book these tours two days in advance,” he explained, “especially this time of year. But if you’re interested, let me make

a call to reserve you a ticket.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she replied.

Bersei was just emerging from the break room. “Dr. Hennesey, Father

Donovan, I wish you both a good evening,” he said eyeing them in turn

and bowing slightly. Then he turned to Charlotte and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, same time. Make sure not to stay out too late.”

37

******

Rome

Crossing the Ponte Sant’ Angelo Bridge, Charlotte strolled down Via Zanardelli to its terminus and made a couple quick turns before entering the expansive Piazza Navona, laid out like an elongated oval racetrack. Striding toward the immense Italian baroque fountain that was its centerpiece— Fontanna dei Quattro Fiumi—she spotted the six-thirty tour group already assembling around a lanky Italian man with a laminated badge, presumably the tour guide. Reaching them, Charlotte waited patiently on the fringe, admiring the fountain’s huge obelisk and four Bernini marble sculptures representing the great rivers—the Ganges, the Danube, the Nile, and the Rio de la Plata—as muscular male giants.

Moments later, the tall guide came over to her, looking down at a list of confirmed attendees. Glancing up, he smiled brightly, doing a double take when he saw Charlotte’s amazing eyes. “You must be Dr. Charlotte Hennesey,” he said cheerily in near-perfect English, placing a check next to a handwritten note at the bottom of his roster.

“That’s right,” she replied. With a perfect smile and soft eyes, his face was young and pleasant, topped with a thick quaff of long, yet wellgroomed black hair.

“My name is Marco,” he told her. “Father Donovan called ahead for you. It’s a pleasure to have you join us this evening.”

“Thank you for taking me on such short notice.”

A strong voice, with a heavy trace of Italian, suddenly came at Marco

from over her left shoulder.

“Perhaps you have room for one more?”

Both Charlotte and the tour guide turned at the same time. Her

smile disintegrated when she saw Salvatore Conte standing behind her, grinning.

Marco looked insulted by the interruption. “Your name?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Conte retorted. “How much for the ticket?”

Sizing him up, the guide pointed to his list and said abruptly, “Sorry. We’re already booked. If you’d like to leave me your name, I can see if we can get you onto Saturday’s tour.”

Agitated, Conte spread his hands and dramatically peered around the piazza, then back at the guide’s name badge. “Come on . . . Marco, it’s not exactly like you can’t accommodate one more body. Plenty of room here, right Charlotte?” Raising an eyebrow, he stared at her expectantly.

Amazed at his crassness, Charlotte looked away and said nothing.

Conte made a move for his wallet. “How much?”

Shaking his head, Marco crossed his hands behind his back, still holding the clipboard. He could see that the man was making the Vatican guest uncomfortable. She wouldn’t even make eye contact with the guy. “I don’t make the rules, Signore,” he calmly told Conte in Italian. “Please be kind enough to contact our main office to voice your concerns. This is not the place.”

Pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek and making a smug face, Conte jabbed a finger at the guide’s chest and said in Italian, “You should have a bit more respect for your fellow countrymen, tour guide. It’s no wonder you make a living walking the streets and telling stories to tourists. Well, I’ve got a story for you.” He pressed his face close. “Watch out, because at night, the streets in Rome can sometimes be dangerous. You never know who you might encounter in a dark alley.” He savored the man’s discomfort. “It’s a ticket, not a fucking bar of gold.”

Charlotte didn’t understand what Conte was saying, but the guide’s face revealed a growing concern.

Conte’s eyes drifted over to her. “Just thought you’d like some company,” he said, playing the martyr. “Have a good night, Dr. Hennesey.”

With that, the mercenary paced back two steps, spun and strode across the piazza.

“Sorry about that,” she said to the guide.

It took Marco a few nervous swallows to regain his voice. “Friend of yours?”

“Far from it,” she replied quickly. “And thanks for not giving in. That would’ve ruined my night.”

“Well then,” Marco finger-combed his mane of hair as he composed himself, “I guess we’ll be on our way.”

As Marco formally introduced himself to the group and briefly ran down the tour’s itinerary, Charlotte scanned the piazza for Conte, sighing in relief when she didn’t spot him. Who exactly was this character? How could such a creepy guy be connected with the Vatican?

It took almost an hour for Charlotte to forget about the crazy encounter at Piazza Navona. But slowly, she had lost herself in Rome’s extraordinary history, retold effortlessly by Marco. He had led the group on an amazing journey through the city’s famous circular temple, the Pantheon, completed in 125 AD by Emperor Hadrian. There, Charlotte had marveled at its expansive inner dome that seemed to defy the rules of physics, as the sun melted through the wide oculus that hovered at its center.

Then it was off to the junction of three roads—tre vie—to admire Nicola Salvi’s enormous baroque Trevi Fountain with its seahorse-riding tritons guiding Neptune’s shell chariot. Nearby, they passed the Piazza di Spagna just below 138 steps that climbed up the steep slope to the twin bell towers that flanked the Trinità dei Monti church.

A few blocks further came the white Brescian marble Il Viattoriano, an eye-catching (most Romans wouldn’t be as polite) monument that most compared to a colossal wedding cake plunked down in the center of Old Rome, inaugurated in 1925 to honor Victor Emmanuel II—the first king of a unified Italy.

By the time the tour had made its way up Capitoline Hill—the only prominent remainder of ancient Rome’s famed Seven Hills—and through the crumbled arches and columns of the Imperial Forums, the sun was starting to fade over the horizon and a new moon became visible in the clear night sky. Charlotte Hennesey had finally completely lost herself in the shadows of an ancient Empire.

By the time the tour group had traversed Old Rome to the Colosseum, the entire city had taken on a new persona, basking in glowing lights. Walking the outside of the forty-eight meter high, circular amphitheater with its three tiers of travertine porticos, Charlotte swore she could hear the clash of gladiators and roar of lions.

Then, imagination turned instantly to cold reality when she caught a fleeting glimpse of a modern-day gladiator disappearing into the shadows. Though she wanted to believe her eyes were tricking her, there was no doubt. Salvatore Conte.

38

THURSDAY

******

Temple Mount

Just after nine a.m., Barton negotiated his way past Akbar, and through the blast hole. Razak was already in the crypt standing with arms folded, wearing neatly pressed chinos and a white collared shirt. If Barton didn’t know any better, he could have sworn that the Muslim was trying to make some kind of peace with this place. “It’s getting bad out there.”

“Yes.”

Barton dusted off his trousers. “Tell me, how did Farouq react when he saw his car?”

Razak cringed. “Not well.” That was an understatement. Last night, Farouq had berated him when he saw that his prized Mercedes was beyond repair. “I shouldn’t have let you go! Completely irresponsible! You should have known better, Razak. And for what? What did you gain by going there?” It was like being a mischievous teenager again. “Luckily, he has insurance, which, believe me, isn’t so easy to get if you’re a Palestinian.”

“Did you tell him what we discovered?”

Razak shook his head and held a finger to his lips, pointing toward Akbar. He drew Barton by the arm toward the rear of the chamber. “I don’t think he’s ready for that just yet,” he whispered. Last night, Razak had barely slept, trying to figure out who’d sent the sniper. He could only guess that the Shin Bet was looking to tie up some loose ends. Now, there was a good chance that he and Barton might share Taheem’s fate if they didn’t move quickly to find answers. “Remember what we discussed—you mustn’t tell anyone what we heard or what happened yesterday. We don’t know what the consequences could be.”

Barton nodded.

Razak let go of his arm. “So what brings us back here?”

The archaeologist collected his thoughts. “As I mentioned yesterday, I’ve given the concept of a crypt considerable thought. There are certain facts that simply don’t add up.” Barton moved to the center of the room, his eyes roving the walls. “I have been thinking about Joseph of Arimathea— his status, power, and money. I’m troubled that this crypt lacks many of the features I’d have expected to see in the tomb of a wealthy family.”

“Such as?”

“Refinement, for one. There’s nothing here to suggest position or wealth. It’s just an ordinary stone chamber—no ornate carvings, no pilasters, frescos, or mosaics. Nothing.”

Razak inclined his head, trying to remain patient. To a Muslim it wasn’t striking. “Perhaps this Joseph was a man of humility?”

“Maybe. But remember how I explained to you that the body was allowed to decompose for twelve months before being placed in the ossuary?”

Razak nodded. “Hard to forget. But I hope there’s a point to all this.”

“Believe me. In ancient Jewish crypts, you’d expect to see at least one small niche called a loculus—a small tunnel about two meters deep.” He envisioned the tomb Father Demetrios had indicated in the bedrock beneath the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. “Where the body would have been laid out.”

Razak eyed the walls. “I don’t see one.”

“Precisely,” Barton agreed, striking a finger into the air. “Which made me wonder about this crypt’s design. With ten ossuaries, many trips in and out of here would have been required. At the very least there would have been one visit to place the body here after each family member’s death, another to practice the sacred rituals of the tahara, and then a final trip to transfer the expiated bones to the ossuary. That’s a minimum of three visits per body.”

“Okay.”

“And when I studied these remains the other day,” Barton motioned to the ossuaries, “I had a feeling that this family all died at once.”

Razak’s brow furrowed. “How could you tell?”

“Granted, I’m not an expert when it comes to forensic anthropology. But these remaining skeletons seem like they came out of a family photo.” He eyed the nine ossuaries. “The age gaps show a very normal progression with no apparent overlap—an old father, a slightly younger mother, and none of the children making it past their late twenties. One would expect a large family to decease in a more random pattern where at least some of the children reach their later years.”

“That is odd.”

“Furthermore,” Barton’s eyes canvassed the space, “do you see any sign of an entrance?”

Razak scanned the solid earth surrounding him on all but one side. “Looks like the only way in and out was that opening covered by the brick wall.” He pointed to the blast hole.

Barton nodded. “Exactly. And look at this.” Moving toward the blast hole, he motioned for Razak to follow. “See?” Barton spread his hands, indicating the depth of the wall. “This wall’s about half a meter thick. But look here. See how these bricks”—he tapped the side facing them—“are the same style as those bricks?” He tapped the other side of the wall facing into the mosque. Then he pointed out into the cavernous, arched room and Razak’s eyes followed. “And it’s the same brick that was used to construct this entire room. Coincidence? Perhaps not.”

Razak was getting it. “Wait a second.” He moved in closer, bending at the waist. His head circled all the way around the inner circumference of the blast hole. Sure enough, the walls had a purposeful design to them. “You’re saying both sides of the wall were erected at the same time?”

“Absolutely. Sealed away from that room,” he said, pointing out into the Marwani Mosque again, “during its initial construction. Look at the opening that led into this chamber before the wall was erected.” Barton paced back and spread his hands to emphasize the width where carved bedrock transformed to brick.

Razak moved back to see what the Englishman was implying. Turning toward the blast hole again, he studied the space that the brick wall had filled. Certainly it was wide, but no larger than twice the width of an average doorway. “What do you think this means?”

“It strongly suggests that our thieves weren’t the first intruders here. It seems clear to me that this room wasn’t designed to be a crypt.”

The Muslim stared at him blankly.

“This room is a vault specifically built for concealment and security,” Barton explained. “Somehow it was built in conjunction with Solomon’s Stables. And I think I know who was responsible.” In his mind’s eye, he saw the graffiti that hovered in the bedrock over Father Demetrios’s stout form—the image that helped him postulate this new theory.

Razak thought it through, mulling over the history that he knew about this place. One thing that clearly stuck out in his thoughts was the notion that the area now converted into the Marwani Mosque was supposedly used as a horse stable centuries earlier. And supposedly, it was built by... Suddenly his face slackened. “The Knights Templar?”

Barton smiled and shook his head knowingly. “Correct! It’s a long shot, but most archaeologists credit them with constructing Solomon’s Stables. How familiar are you with Templar history?”

Clearly not thrilled that the archaeologist was venturing into history again, Razak told him what he knew from his surprisingly extensive reading around the subject. After all, he thought, to understand the modern struggle between East and West, one must open a history book.

The Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon had been founded in 1118 CE, after the first Christian crusade. The Knights Templar were an order of militant, monastic mercenaries commissioned by the papacy to protect the reclaimed kingdom of Jerusalem from neighboring Muslim tribes, ensuring safe passage for European pilgrims. They were notorious, feared for their lethal tactics and their fanatical oath to never retreat from the battlefield and fight to the death in the name of Jesus Christ. The Templars had remained in control of the Temple Mount until slaughtered by a Muslim force led by Saladin at the Battle of Hattin in the twelfth century. They’d even used the Dome of the Rock Mosque as their headquarters, giving it the Latin name Templum Domini, or “Temple of the Lord.”

Barton was impressed by Razak’s knowledge and said so. Not many Jews, or even Christians for that matter, could readily display such command of the finer points of history. “These ossuaries were transferred here from another site where the proper rituals would have initially taken place. If we go with the theory that this is a vault,” Barton continued, “it would suggest the Templar Knights might have constructed it to protect the ossuaries.”

“Or treasure.” Razak responded swiftly, spreading his hands. “Let’s not forget that possibility.” He wasn’t thrilled about the archaeologist’s determination to link the theft to a revered prophet’s remains. “After all, weren’t they very rich? Looting Muslim mosques and homes, bribing public officials...”

“True, the Templars amassed a fortune, mostly plundered from conquered enemies. The papacy even allowed them to levy taxes and collect tithes. Eventually, they became bankers. The Templars were the medieval equivalent of...say...American Express. You see, prior to embarking on their journey to the Holy Land, European pilgrims would deposit money with a local Templar lodge where they’d be given an encrypted depository note. Upon their arrival here in Jerusalem, they’d exchange the note for local currency.”

“Then how can you be so sure this vault didn’t contain their loot?”

“We’ll never know for sure,” Barton admitted. “But it seems highly unlikely they’d seal away assets so permanently knowing they’d need it for such frequent transactions.”

“Not good for liquidity,” Razak agreed, “But it would ensure safety for assets not needed in the short term.”

“Touché,” Barton admitted. “However, those etchings on the rear wall don’t make reference to anything else. Just the names of those whose remains are in these boxes.” He ambled over to the ossuaries again, scrutinizing them, searching for an explanation. “If these were transferred here to be locked away, then where were they originally found?” he muttered quietly, thinking aloud.

“I’m still confused.” Razak spread his hands. “How could a secret vault have been excavated beneath such a public place?”

“I’ve given that a lot of thought and this is where it all gets interesting.” Barton looked at him closely. “In the first century, the House of the Sanhedrin—where the Jewish authorities congregated and held trials—was located directly above Solomon’s Stables. And back then the platform beneath it was rumored to be honeycombed with secret passageways.” Many leading to the temple’s inner sanctum, he thought. “As a member of the Council, Joseph would have had access to those areas and stairs leading directly to the vaulted chambers beneath the platform, allowing him to construct the vault in complete secrecy.”

“This Joseph of Arimathea. I’m assuming he was from somewhere called Arimathea—correct?”

Barton nodded. “That’s what the scriptures imply.”

“Then perhaps the original crypt was in Joseph’s own land, where his family lived?”

“Perhaps,” Barton replied unenthusiastically. But it made him think: could the real tomb really have been beneath the Church of the Holy Sepulchre? It didn’t seem possible since the basilica had been there long before the Crusaders arrived. “The problem is that no one knows what place Arimathea really referred to. Some think it was a Judean hill town. But that’s all conjecture.”

“Assuming you’re on the right track, how do you suppose the thieves found this place?” Visualizing Taheem’s horrid, blown-out face, Razak felt an urgent sense of linking this to something the authorities would find useful—something that could help to bring closure to their investigation.

Barton let out a long breath and ran his fingers through his hair. There was so much to consider. “The only thing I can think of is that the thief got hold of a document of some kind. This burial spot must have been accurately described in an ancient text. The entry was far too precise—it had to have been measured.”

“But who could possess something like that?”

“I’m not sure. Sometimes these ancient scrolls or books have been lying around in plain sight, untranslated, in museum rooms—for decades. Maybe some fanatical Christian museum employee,” he said halfheartedly. But then he wondered if it wasn’t that far-fetched after all.

Razak looked skeptical.

“And you’ve seen nothing in the antiquities markets yet for the ossuary?”

Barton shook his head. “I checked again this morning for any new items. Nothing.”

Without warning, the floor of the chamber shook beneath their feet, instantly followed by a distant, reverberating drone. Alarmed, both Barton and Razak instinctively reached out for something to steady themselves.

Then as quick as it came, it had disappeared. Though it might easily have been confused with a low-level earthquake, both men immediately grasped that it was something else all together.

39

******

Vatican City

Shortly after nine a.m., Father Donovan buzzed the lab intercom, announcing a call for Charlotte from the United States.

“Well, go get it,” Bersei urged.

She made her way to the phone, sliding the mask off her face. She pressed the speakerphone button. “Charlotte Hennesey speaking.”

“It’s me, Evan.”

Hearing his voice come through the small speaker, her stomach fluttered. “Hi Evan. What time is it there?”

“Very early, or very late, depending on how you want to look at it. Anyway, I just finished running a scan on your sample.”

Something in his voice didn’t sound right. Hennesey heard Aldrich rustling some papers.

“Wait,” she said. “I’m on speakerphone. Let me pick up.” She snapped off her lab gloves and grabbed the receiver. “Okay,” she said.

Aldrich jumped right in. “I began with a simple spectral karyotype to get a preliminary idea of the DNA’s quality. You know what we’d be looking for . . . basic plot of chromosome pairs. That’s when I noticed something very odd.”

“What is it? Is something wrong?”

“Yes, Charlotte. The result was forty-eight XY.”

In a spectral karyotype, dense DNA strands called chromosomes are marked with fluorescent die and color-sorted into pairs to detect genetic aberrations. Since every human inherits twenty-two chromosomes from each parent, an X sex chromosome from the mother, and an additional sex chromosome from the father, a typical result would be forty-six XX for females and forty-six XY for males.

Fortyeight X-Y? Hennesey twisted an earring between thumb and forefinger, trying to let that one sink in. The good news was that the gender was definitely male. That agreed with all the forensic evidence. But Aldrich was suggesting that an extra pair of non-sex chromosomes, or “autosomes,” had appeared in the molecular structure of the sample. Such aberrations were typically linked to serious diseases like Down’s syndrome where an extra chromosome twenty-one was present. “So it’s aneuploidy?” Charlotte whispered.

“Right. We have a mutation here.”

“What kind?” She kept her voice low so as not to draw Bersei’s attention. Glancing over at him, she could see that he was paying her no mind, analyzing the skeletal scans.

“Not sure yet. Got to adjust the gene scanner to handle the additional strands. I wasn’t expecting something like this the first go-round, but it shouldn’t take me much longer. I was able to pull basic coding for the genetic profile. I’ve posted it to your e-mail account.”

“Great. That’ll give me a good head start.”

“How much longer do you think you’ll be in Rome?”

“I don’t know. I think most of the major work is done. I’ll have to make a presentation, of course. Maybe a few more days. I might want to take a couple more just to explore Rome. It’s wonderful here.” “Has the Vatican briefed you fully about the work?”

“Yes, but we’re being told everything here is in strictest confidence. I had to sign a letter of confidentiality. So I can’t really say anything about it.”

“That’s okay Charlie—I don’t need to know. I figure if there’s anyone we can trust it’s the Vatican. I just don’t want BMS involved in anything shady.”

What had he discovered that made him so nervous? she wondered. “One more thing. Did you happen to run the genetic profile against our database to determine ethnicity?”

There was a brief silence. “Actually, I did.”

“Oh.” She was surprised he didn’t mention that. “And what did you find?”

“That’s the other weird thing about all this. I found nothing.”

“What are you talking about?” What he was saying sounded almost ridiculous. Though ninety-five percent of all humans shared the same genetic coding, less than five percent of the genome accounted for differences relating to gender and ethnicity. It wasn’t difficult to spot the variations.

“No matches.”

“But that’s impossible. Did you include Middle Eastern profiles?”

“Yeah.”

The ossuary was part of Jewish burial customs. Perhaps she needed to be more specific. “How about Jewish profiles?”

“Already checked it. Nothing there.”

How could that be? It wasn’t at all consistent with their other findings. “Could it have something to do with the anomaly you found?”

“I’d say so. I’ll let you know what I find. Anything else?”

She hesitated, huddling closer to the wall. “I miss you,” she finally whispered. “And I’m really sorry that I didn’t leave on a better note. I just...I’d like to talk to you when I get back. There’s some stuff you really need to know.”

At first, he didn’t respond. “I’d like that.”

“I’ll see you soon. Don’t forget me.”

“Impossible,” he said.

“Bye.”

Bersei appeared beside her as she returned the phone to the cradle. “Everything all right?”

“Seems so,” she said, flashing a smile. “I got the DNA profile from the lab.”

“And?”

“We have the missing information we need.”

Bersei watched over her shoulder as Charlotte brought up the web browser and accessed her e-mail account. Within seconds, she’d retrieved Aldrich’s data file, and opened it for Bersei to inspect—a dense spreadsheet of data. “Okay. Here it is.” She switched places with him.

He scrolled through the data. Three columns identified a universal code for each gene sequence, a layperson’s interpretation of the coding, such as “hair color,” and a numeric value specifying those attributes. In the case of hair color, a numeric value in the third column corresponded with a specific hue on a universal color chart.

“How does it look?”

“Incredibly specific. Looks like I can plug the data right into the program.”

She smiled to herself. Thank you, Evan.

Bersei opened the imaging software and located the file containing the skeletal scans and tissue reconstruction—the ghostly marble statue awaiting its final touches: the genetic “paint.” “For now, I’m going to go with the basics. The computer will fill in hair color, but not hair style, of course,” he explained as he formatted the data file for import.

Aldrich’s discovery of a mutation had prompted Charlotte to start thinking through a long list of possible diseases. Since most attacked the body’s soft tissues and didn’t affect the bones themselves—unlike the one raging inside her own bones that was determined to leave its mark—she couldn’t even begin to imagine what he could have detected. Her extraordinary desire to see the completed picture was now replaced by a sudden foreboding.

Bersei imported the genetic data and clicked to update the profile.

For a few agonizing seconds, it seemed like nothing was happening.

Then the enhanced reconstruction flashed back onto the monitor.

It wasn’t what either scientist expected.

40

******

Jerusalem

When Ari Teleksen’s cell phone rang, he already knew the purpose of the call. In the IDF’s downtown Jerusalem headquarters, he stood at the wide plate-glass window of his eighth-floor office with its panoramic view of the city. Just a few blocks away, his gray eyes were glued to the sickening plume of thick, black smoke that billowed up from street level like the devil’s breath. “I’ll be there in five minutes,” he said grimly.

Just last night, he had heard the first wave of news stories reporting

that the Temple Mount thieves had stolen an Israeli helicopter. With a growing sense of foreboding, Teleksen knew that the Palestinian response had just begun.

Without setting foot in the area, he retained an uncanny ability to foresee the aftermath of a bombing and the reverberations he had felt rattle his chest only minutes ago told him that there would be many casualties.

He hastily made his way down to the parking garage and jumped into the driver’s seat of his gold BMW. After turning on the ignition, he grabbed the magnetic blue police light from the floor and stuck it on the car’s roof. Peeling out of the parking garage, he jammed his foot down on the accelerator and rocketed down Hillel Street.

As his BMW approached the Great Synagogue, the chaotic scenes on King George Street looked all too familiar—the panicking crowds being held back by IDF soldiers and police, the site’s perimeter already cordoned off by wooden barricades. A fleet of ambulances had arrived, with emergency crews racing to tend to survivors.

Teleksen threaded the BMW through the mob, a young IDF soldier waving him forward, and parked a comfortable distance away. When he opened the car door, the air smelled of burned flesh.

Even at fifty meters he could see tattered chunks of bloody tissue and bone stuck to the walls of buildings adjacent to the scene, looking like wet confetti. The blast had stripped tree limbs and cast shrapnel, pockmarking the vicinity. Almost every window had been shattered.

At first glance structural damage seemed minimal. Compared with many other scenes he’d witnessed, this one was fairly low-level. But deep down, he knew many more would follow if the rising discontent stemming from the Temple Mount theft was not soon remedied.

One of the investigators recognized him and introduced himself. The man was in his fifties, with a mop of silver hair.

“Detective Aaron Schomberg.” He couldn’t help looking at Teleksen’s three-fingered left hand.

“What have you found out detective?” Teleksen lit up a Time Lite.

“Witnesses say a young Arab woman, dressed in plain clothes, ran into a crowd as they were leaving the synagogue and blew herself up.”

With Schomberg at his side, Teleksen walked toward the epicenter. He eyed the medical workers bagging human limbs and remnants too small for stretchers—the bomber’s ripped-apart remains, most likely.

“How many dead?” Cigarette smoke spun out of nostrils. “So far eleven with another fifty or so injured.”

He took another heavy drag. “No one saw her coming?”

“The bombs were strapped beneath her clothes. It happened too quickly.”

Ruing the time when terrorists had been easier to detect, Teleksen turned to Schomberg. “What did she say?”

The detective was confused. “Commander?”

“Sacrificial death is never without preamble.” Pinching the cigarette between the remaining fingers of his left hand, he pointed the lit end at the detective to emphasize the point. “Martyrs don’t give their lives in silence. Did anyone hear what she said before she detonated herself?”

Schomberg flipped through his notepad. “Something along the lines of ‘Allah will punish all those who threaten him.’ ”

“In Arabic or English?”

“English.”

They had reached the spot where witnesses told Schomberg the suicide bomber had positioned herself only a few meters from the synagogue’s entrance. At first, it seemed like an odd place for the bomber to detonate since the explosives were typically designed to be most effective in closed spaces, like buses or cafés. Studying the close proximity to the building’s ravaged cement façade that looked more like a bank than a place of worship, Teleksen quickly realized that it actually wasn’t a bad choice. He could see that the victims strewn across the steps had been corralled in, and the looming cement wall behind them had actually amplified the blast wave. So if the bullet-like shrapnel hadn’t killed them, the blast’s crushing shock wave would have done the job by pulverizing their internal organs and bones.

Teleksen’s cell phone rang, and he saw from the display it was Topol. He flicked the cigarette butt onto the sidewalk. “Yes?”

“How bad?” The policeman’s voice was urgent.

“I’ve seen worse. But all the more reason why we need to resolve this issue quickly. When can you get here?”

“I’m only a few blocks away.”

“Be quick.” Hanging up, Teleksen wondered how much more of this would happen before they came up with real answers for Friday’s theft.

The clutch of media vans momentarily distracted him. The Palestinian TV channel was particularly troublesome. Hatred and discontent required little stimulation. The pressure was really on.

Thirteen Israeli soldiers and two helicopter pilots killed. Now innocent Jewish civilians had died.

And for what? he wondered. The English archaeologist, supposedly the best in his field, insisted it was a relic. Teleksen knew ancient relics fetched huge prices—particularly those from the Holy Land. There was no telling what some people would do to realize them. But hijack helicopters? Kill soldiers? How could an ossuary possibly be worth that much? He had seen dozens of them in Israel’s museum galleries and they weren’t nearly as well hidden or protected. What could make this one so special? It made no sense.

His best intelligence people kept insisting that only an insider could’ve been capable of such an elaborate heist. Teleksen knew what they meant. To secrete weapons into Jerusalem was like walking on water. One would need to be able to circumvent checkpoints, metal detectors, and myriad other logistical hurdles. Few could accomplish that.

Of course, the helicopter had proven to be a tremendous tactical weapon. Was its theft intended to mock Israel’s security system? Luckily, his agents had managed to prevent the Palestinians and the media from discovering the true fate of the Black Hawk. But knowing that beyond these borders many were unwilling to cooperate with Israeli intelligence, Teleksen was deeply troubled by the fact that the thieves had so quickly reached international waters. Because if the relic had been taken out to sea...

Something rubbery beneath his left foot interrupted his thoughts and he looked down. Lifting his shoe, he realized he had been standing on a human ear. Scowling, he stepped sideways.

Was there any way out of this? Barton was supposed to be coming up with answers, but only seemed interested in peddling wacky theories about ancient history. The archaeologist was proving to be a real problem.

Then an idea suddenly came to Teleksen, and he was sure Topol would approve of it. Far from being a liability, Barton might actually be the solution.

41

******

Vatican City

Both scientists stared in amazement at the screen.

The scanned skeletal frame had been calibrated to reconstruct muscle mass with a layer of colorless skin applied. Now this new data had transformed the statue-like image into a complete 3-D human apparition.

Astonished at the final result, Bersei’s hand was covering his mouth. “What would you say is his ethnic origin?”

Charlotte shrugged. It looked like maybe Aldrich had been correct after all. “I’m not sure he has one.” Her words sounded totally implausible.

Blending dark and light, the assigned skin pigmentation added an eerily lifelike quality, defining muscles and highlighting features.

Giovanni zoomed in on the face.

Though unmistakably masculine, the image exuded a subtle androgyny. With their hypnotic aquamarine irises, the eyes were wide, tapering slightly upwards in the corners beneath slender eyebrows. The long nose broadened slightly above full, mocha-colored lips. Blackish-brown wisps formed a thick hairline that pinched in hard corners at the temples. The facial hair was similarly colored and thick, mostly evident along the angular jaw line.

“Quite a handsome specimen,” Bersei said in a very clinical tone.

“I’d say he’s perfect,” Charlotte replied. “I don’t mean in a male model or movie star sort of way...but he’s unlike anyone I’ve ever seen.” Looking for anything anomalous, nothing about the image suggested a genetic defect, unless perfection was considered a flaw. Now she wondered what Aldrich’s analysis had actually detected. Could the prototype scanner have malfunctioned? Had the imaging software misinterpreted the data?

Tilting his head sideways, Bersei said, “If you took all the typical ethnic characteristics of humanity and put them in a blender, this would probably be the end result.” Face tight, he held his hand out at the computer, still overwhelmed by what he was seeing. “It’s absolutely fascinating that any one human being could display such complexity.”

“Now what?”

Bersei looked haunted, as if the image was almost torturing him. “I’m really not sure.” Tearing his eyes from the monitor, he glanced up at her with tired eyes. “We’ve performed a full forensic examination”—he began counting off with his fingers—“carbon dating, a complete genetic profile. The only major item left is the symbol on the ossuary.”

“Well, if you want to look into that,” Charlotte suggested, “I can begin preparing our preliminary presentation for Father Donovan. I’ll compile all the data, the photos, and start writing a report. Then maybe tomorrow we can tell him what we’ve found so far. See what he recommends.”

“That sounds like a plan. Who knows, maybe that symbol has something to tell us about this guy.”

Bersei returned to his workstation and turned on the digital camera. Humming softly to himself, he proceeded to snap several close-ups of the ossuary’s single relief, uploading the images onto the computer terminal.

Marveling at the quality of the engraver’s work, he ran his finger over the raised symbol carved onto the ossuary’s side:

From the onset, this image had perplexed him. The ossuary was clearly used almost exclusively by Jews in ancient Judea. Yet he remembered both the dolphin and the trident as being primarily pagan symbols, adopted by many early Roman cults. It was clearly in contradiction to the relic’s supposed origin.

Back at the computer, he brought up the web browser. He began with simple search criteria: trident. Almost instantly, a flood of hits came back at him. He began clicking through the most relevant ones.

The trident itself had many meanings. Hindus called it the trishul, or “the sacred three,” symbolizing creation, preservation, and destruction. In the Middle East, it was associated with lightning. Its alter ego, the pitchfork, later found its way into Christian art to symbolize the devil—an early attempt at discrediting pagan imagery.

Singularly, the dolphin was equally mysterious. In ancient times, the intelligent mammals were revered for their devotion to saving the lives of shipwrecked sailors. Romans also used dolphins to signify the journey souls would take far to the ends of the sea to their final resting place on the Blessed Isles. The dolphin was also strongly associated with the gods Eros, Aphrodite, and Apollo.

But certainly, the symbol engraved into the ossuary fused the two for a more purposeful meaning. But what could it be?

Bersei tried to find more references that could explain the dolphin twined around the trident.

The dolphin and trident seemed to first appear together in Greek mythology, both symbolizing the power of Neptune, the sea god. His trident was a gift from the one-eyed titans, the Cyclops. When the god was angered, he’d pound the ocean floor with it to stir the oceans, causing storms. Able to morph into other creatures, Neptune frequently chose to appear to humans in the form of a dolphin. The Romans later renamed the Greek sea god Poseidon.

Bersei was certain there had to be more that he was missing.

Another hit came back, linking to ancient coins minted by Pompey, a Roman general in the mid-first century BC. On the front of the silver coin was an effigy of the general’s laurelled head flanked on both sides by a dolphin and a trident—not blended together, but certainly depicted side by side. And Bersei recalled that early in Pompey’s career, he had invaded Jerusalem.

He leaned forward.

Following his siege of Jerusalem in 64 BC, he had ordered the crucifixion of thousands of Jewish zealots—all in a single day. It was said that so many crucifixes were needed, that the general had stripped away every tree from the city’s surrounding mountains.

Crucifixion. Jerusalem.

Could this be the connection? Could the ossuary be linked to the notorious Roman general?

Considering this for a long moment, Bersei still wasn’t satisfied. He still vaguely recalled seeing this exact depiction somewhere else. And somehow, he strongly believed it was linked to Rome.

The hunt continued.

Using various search phrases, like “dolphin around trident,” he finally found a clear hit. Clicking the link, he was astounded when the exact image on the ossuary filled the screen.

A smile broke across the anthropologist’s face. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he muttered.

Scrolling down, he read the text that accompanied the image.

The words hit him like a stone. He read it again, dumbfounded, his entire world caught in the screen’s contours. “Charlotte,” he called out. “You have to see this.” He slumped back into his chair, covering his mouth with his hand in disbelief.

Two seconds later, she was at his side. His face drained, the Italian pointed at the computer screen.

“What is it?”

“The meaning behind the relief on the ossuary.” Bersei’s voice was quiet as he pointed again to the monitor.

Seeing his bewildered expression, she scrunched her face and said, “Looks like it did have something to say after all.”

“I’d say so,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.

Leaning closer, Charlotte read the text aloud: “Adopted by early Christians, the dolphin intertwined around the trident is a portrayal of...” she paused.

The low drone of the ventilation system became suddenly pronounced.

“. . . Christ’s crucifixion.” Her voice trembled as she uttered the words, which seemed to hang in the air like vapor.

It took Charlotte a moment until the full impact hit her. “Oh my God.” A vice tightened in her stomach and she had to look away.

“I should have known.” Bersei’s strained voice sounded tormented, weak. “The dolphin shuttles spirits to the afterlife. The trident, the sacred three, representing the Trinity.”

“No way. This isn’t right.” She looked down at him.

“I know the ossuary’s patina is genuine,” Bersei protested. “Every single part. Consistent throughout, including the residue covering this relief. Plus I’ve established that the mineral content could only have come from one place—Israel. And the evidence we saw on the bones reinforces that message. Scourging. Crucifixion. We even have the nails and bits of wood,” he

emphasized, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Just how much more obvious could all this be?”

Her mind went momentarily blank, as if a cord powering her rational

thought had been unplugged. “If this is really the body of...Jesus

Christ”—it almost hurt for her to say it—“think about it—how profound

this is.” Charlotte saw the crucifix hanging over her bed. “But it can’t be.

Everyone knows the crucifixion story. The Bible describes it in minute detail and it doesn’t agree with this. There are too many inconsistencies.” She

strode briskly to the workstation.

“What are you doing?” Bersei was out of his chair.

“Here. See for yourself.” She jabbed a shaking finger at the brow of the

skeleton’s skull. “Do you see any evidence of thorns?”

He looked up at her then straight back at the skull. Giovanni knew

what she was implying. Scrutinizing it intently, he failed to detect even

minute scratches. “But surely it’s hardly likely that thorns would inflict

damage on the bone itself?”

Moving around the side of the workstation, Charlotte was now down

by the legs. “What about this? Broken knees?” She pointed at them. “I

don’t remember these being mentioned in the Bible. Wasn’t it a spear in

Jesus’s side that finished him off?” Here she was trying to renew her lost

faith at a time when she most needed to believe in something bigger than

herself, and Bersei—of all people—was tearing it down again. Worst of

all, he was using science to do it.

The anthropologist spread his hands. “Look, I understand where you’re

going with this. I’m just as confused as you are.”

She studied him intently. “Giovanni, you don’t really think these are

the remains of Jesus Christ, do you?”

He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “There’s always the possibility that this symbol was only meant to honor Christ,” he offered. “This

man,” he pointed to the skeleton, “could merely have been some early

Christian, a martyr perhaps. This could all be a tribute to Christ.” He

shrugged. “It’s not exactly a name on that box. But you saw the genetic

profile. It’s not like any man we’ve ever seen. I’d have to say that I’m pretty

certain about this one.”

“But it’s only a symbol,” she protested. “How can you be sure?” Bersei was taken aback by the American’s passionate denial. He wished

he could feel as strongly. “Come with we.” He motioned for her to follow.

“Where are we going?” she called after him, pacing behind him into the corridor.

Without stopping, he turned back to her. “I’ll explain in a minute. You’ll see.”

42

******

Phoenix

Evan Aldrich threaded his way past the workstations heaped with scientific gadgetry, making for the glass-paneled enclosure to the rear of BMS’s main laboratory.

Once inside, he closed the door, reached into his lab coat and removed a sealed glass vial, which he set down next to a high-powered microscope. The prototype scanner sat on an adjacent desk, looking like a streamlined photocopier. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

There was a brief knock and the door opened.

“Morning, Evan. What’s happening?”

Glancing over, he found Lydia Campbell, his managing technician for

genetic research, poking her head around the door frame. Aldrich’s hand reflexively moved to cover the vial. “Got some samples I need to look at.”

“The ones you were working on yesterday?” She looked down at the vial beneath his hand. “Thought you’d finished with them.”

“Yeah, I’m just having another look at something.”

“Well, you know where I am if you need anything. Coffee?”

He shook his head with a smile and the door closed behind her.

An hour later, he slipped the vial—now filled with a clear serum—back into his pocket. Feeling an overwhelming urgency to tell Charlotte what he’d found, he reached for the phone...but pulled back. This was something that needed to be done in person. What he needed to tell her was far too sensitive—far too astounding—for an open phone line or an unencrypted e-mail. He remembered her saying that she might extend her stay a few extra days. But this couldn’t wait until then.

Leaving the lab, Aldrich headed directly for his office and plunked himself down in front of his computer. Bringing up the web browser, he logged onto his Continental Airlines frequent-flier account page and booked a first-class ticket on the next flight to Rome.

43

******

Jerusalem

Farouq had just hung up his phone, in utter disbelief, his hands shaking. It was no coincidence that the call came mere hours after the early morning bombing at the Great Synagogue.

The caller had been a voice from the distant past—a dark past that still haunted him on many sleepless nights. The last time he’d heard that unmistakable baritone was just past six p.m. on November 11, 1995. That was the day the Shin Bet—Israel’s most secret and lethal intelligence branch—abducted him on a side street in Gaza, pulling him into the back of a van. They had bound his limbs and slipped a black hood over his head.

As the van sped off, the interrogation began, carried out by the man who now held the second highest position in the IDF power structure. Back then the ambitious Israeli had been assigned the impossible task of hunting down the Engineer—a Palestinian rebel named Yahya Ayyash who, assisted by militant groups, recruited suicide bombers to launch numerous attacks on Israeli civilians in the mid-nineties. The Israelis were closing in, thanks to information forcefully extracted from key informants. One of their prime suspects was Farouq, who had alleged ties to the Engineer’s primary supporter—Hamas.