Sacred Bones : A Novel

“Razak.” Farouq shook his head in disappointment. “You haven’t grasped the seriousness of our situation here. We’ve achieved solidarity and unity. Our people rely on us to protect both them and their faith. And a faith like ours must remain strong throughout. Here in Jerusalem what we protect isn’t just a patch of land or a sacred shrine. Islam is everything. To undermine its teachings is to take away a Muslim’s soul. Don’t you understand?”

“But this isn’t a war.”

“It’s been a war since the very beginning. Ever since the Christians and Jews decided to reclaim this forgotten land made sacred by the great prophet Muhammad, Allah grant him peace. Need I remind you that I’ve shed my own blood to protect our people and this place? A great number of people have given their lives so that men like you”—he jabbed a finger—“can still have homes here.”

Razak elected to remain silent. Undeniably a real debt was owed to men like Farouq, men who had vehemently opposed Israeli occupation. But he was tired of the rhetoric, tired of the perpetual hatred that plagued this place. He wanted answers. And Razak knew for certain that those answers would begin with knowing exactly how a book delivered to Rome had divulged the precise location of an ancient crypt concealed beneath Temple Mount for centuries.

“What was it that I delivered to Rome for you?”

Farouq contemplated the question. “If I tell you, will you feel at peace with what has happened?”

“Perhaps.”

Farouq turned toward the door. “Come with me.”

64

******

Inside Farouq’s office, Razak sat anxiously awaiting the Keeper’s explanation for enabling Christians to violate the Temple Mount—a deed so vile and deceitful that no motive seemed good enough.

The old man held out his hand. “My keys, please.”

Razak pulled the key ring from his pocket and dropped it in the old man’s palm.

Reaching beneath his desk, Farouq withdrew the small, rectangular casket and cradled it on his lap.

“When we began excavating the Marwani Mosque in 1996,” he began, “tons of rubble were transferred to dumps in the Kidron Valley, every piece thoroughly sifted through and examined. The last thing we needed was some relic misconstrued as belonging to the Jewish temple.”

“You mean Solomon’s Temple?”

He nodded. “Concise archaeological evidence substantiating that claim has yet to surface and, as such, strengthens our position here.” Farouq’s gruff voice rose slightly. “But as you are aware, the Jews managed to persuade the Israeli government and some Muslim archaeologists to study the whole platform’s structural integrity, citing a bulge in the outer wall that appeared during our work—a sign that the foundations could be shifting.” Farouq moved in his seat. “Myself and several other council members tried to stop them. But the Israeli Antiquities Authority convinced many people—including some of our own—that this work was essential. Their studies were to have begun just days from now.”

It had been hard to avoid the heavily publicized controversy. Razak knew where this was going. “So you knew that the hidden crypt would be discovered?”

Farouq nodded.

“But how did you know it even existed?”

He patted the casket. “This extraordinary find was unearthed a few years ago. And very early on in the excavations.”

Razak’s eyes combed its stamped bronze exterior. The decor appeared Islamic, but on closer examination the symbols—mainly ornate cruciforms—were undoubtedly Christian. A unique image adorned the cover and he knew immediately from its blasphemous depiction of living creatures that it too wasn’t Islamic. “What does that seal mean?”

“Two medieval knights in full armor, bearing shields, sharing a single lance and one galloping horse symbolizes those who swore to rid this land of Muslim influence. The Christian knights of Solomon’s Temple. The Knights Templar.”

Razak looked up sharply. “So Graham Barton was right?”

“Yes. This was the Templar seal when those infidels first occupied Temple Mount in 1099. You can imagine my surprise when I found it. I was even more surprised when I learned its origins.”

“Where exactly did you find it?”

“Buried beneath the floor of the Marwani Mosque. An earth-moving machine broke a stone slab. A freak discovery.”

“And what was inside?”

Farouq tapped the lid. “Among other things it contained an ancient manuscript called the Ephemeris Conlusio. But you delivered that to Rome three weeks ago.”

Razak recalled that the bald priest he’d met at Café Greco had with him a leather portfolio that bore the symbol of two crossed keys and a papal mitre—the royal crest of the Catholic Church. Vatican City. Fanatical Christians.

“We needed the Catholics’ help.”

Razak folded his arms. “I’m assuming that this book indicated the vault’s precise location?”

“Among other things, there was a drawing accompanied by precise measurements.”

“And the rest of the manuscript?”

Farouq described Joseph of Arimathea’s account. The eyewitness telling of Jesus’s capture, crucifixion, and subsequent burial. The revelation of the ossuary and its relics substantiating Jesus’s crucifixion and mortal death. Farouq gave Razak time to let it all sink in.

Razak reflected on just how intuitive Barton had been. “If this was true, it would violate the Qur’an’s teachings.”

“Absolutely. You know our position when it comes to Jesus. Allah raised him up to Heaven before his enemies could do him any harm—no arrest, no trial, no crucifixion ...and certainly no burial. Now do you understand the necessity of eliminating this threat?”

Razak grasped that it wasn’t just the Temple Mount that Farouq had been protecting. The implications ran far deeper. “Couldn’t you have gone into the crypt to destroy these things without involving the Catholics? Without killing innocent men?”

“The risks would have been much too high,” he said dismissively. “We both know the IAA employs many of our own people. People—I might add—who regularly attend prayer service in the Marwani Mosque. All devious tactics on their part, I’m sure. We are not allowed to excavate without explicit Israeli authorization. Had we done so, the death toll from protests would have been far higher than what we’ve already seen.”

“So you let the Catholics do your dirty work. And it gave you total deniability.” Each new revelation chipped away at Razak’s spirit, everything he’d known to be true turned upside down. Once again, religion and politics had become inseparable.

“It was the only way to achieve our objectives,” Farouq continued smoothly. “And since the threat was even more damaging to them, I knew the Catholics would act quickly to extract this relic. It enabled them to preserve their institution. In return we’d strengthen our own position here by eliminating a threat that contradicts the Prophet’s teachings.”

“There must have been a better way...” Razak’s voice trailed off.

“You’re thinking of that archaeologist, aren’t you?” Farouq sounded disappointed. “Razak, we all know that in Israel, regardless of religious affinity, there are only two sides. And Barton is not on ours. Just remember which side you are on,” Farouq warned. Brushing his palms together, he continued: “And before you pass judgment, let me show you one more thing.” He opened his desk drawer and produced a ream of paper. Peeling off the top page, he laid it out for Razak. “Take a good look at this.”

Razak studied the crude sketch of rectangles that was accompanied by some text that appeared to be Greek. He shook his head, failing to grasp what it all meant. “What’s this?”

“Joseph’s map of Temple Mount—the same map the thieves had used to determine the ossuary’s exact location. Notice that structure on top?”

Nodding, Razak felt choked.

Farouq’s voice was suddenly frail. “That’s the Jewish temple Joseph so vividly describes in these pages.” He patted the pile of paper.

“Then it did exist after all.” Razak felt the breath sucked out of him.

Farouq smiled. “Perhaps. One could even argue, just as the Jews have, that the rubble in Kidron Valley contains its building blocks. Maybe now you’ll understand my desire to avoid further digging. Following the theft, all discussions of excavations beneath the Temple Mount have been indefinitely suspended.”

“And all archaeological evidence removed.”

“Once we’ve permanently disposed of the remaining nine ossuaries, nothing will remain.”

Razak was at a loss. If it was true that the Western Wall had definitely once supported a temple, it legitimized Jewish claims to the platform. The Jews’ endless mourning hadn’t been in vain. But now they’d never know. And unwittingly, he had helped make it all possible.

Farouq reached down again and produced a thick document. “I had the entire text of the Ephemeris Conlusio secretly translated. Read this in your own time,” he set it before Razak, “then let me know what you’d have done. Make absolutely sure that you burn these pages when you’ve finished.”

Razak wasn’t sure if he could take any more of this.

“There is something you didn’t deliver to Rome. Something you need to know.” Farouq unhinged the casket’s lid. “I found one other document in this Templar box. Another journal, though not one written by Joseph of Arimathea.”

It was beginning to dawn on Razak that the old man’s motives were complex, not driven purely by hatred. It only confirmed that circumstances had a cruel way of playing with a man’s fate.

“Then whose journal is it?”

From the box, the Keeper pulled out a frail-looking scroll. “The Templar Knight who discovered the ossuaries in the first place.”

65

******

Rome

In their suite at the Fiumicino Hilton, Evan and Charlotte sipped coffee as they relaxed in armchairs facing the sun-filled window, overlooking the airport’s busy runways. Not exactly classical Italian romance for a surprise rendevous, but Charlotte had insisted that she wouldn’t feel safe going back into Rome.

She pulled her bathrobe snug and eyed Evan affectionately, a light breeze ruffling her hair. Finally, she had achieved a good night’s sleep. All it had taken were a couple of glasses of wine and a sleeping pill. The unexpected and utterly gratifying bout of lovemaking hadn’t hurt, either. Having told Evan all about the incredible events that had taken place over the past few days, she’d shown him the astounding presentation stored on her laptop. He convinced her that everything would be okay—regardless of any confidentiality agreement she’d signed. Nonetheless, he had booked the room under his own name, just to be safe.

Given BMS’s involvement in the analysis, they’d have to be very careful, Evan reminded her. He suggested waiting to see what would come of Dr. Bersei’s claims against the Vatican, feeling that it was much too early to assume anything fatal had happened to him.

Adoringly, she gazed over at him. “I really missed you, Evan. And I’m sorry about how I’ve been acting lately.”

“It’s not exactly like I’ve been on my best behavior either.” He smiled. “Hey, I know yesterday wasn’t the best time for this, but I’ve been dying to show you something, Charlie. You have no idea.”

He looked awfully excited, she thought.

Getting up, he slalomed around the room service cart and went directly to his bag. Unzipping its side pouch, she watched him take out a small box, a key ring, and what looked like a vial. He retrieved her laptop from the nightstand and sat back beside her, placing the items on the round table that sat in front of the window.

She shot him a look. “What’s going on?”

“I was going to call you,” he said. “But I knew that we’d need to talk about this face to face. First off, this is for you. Honestly, it’s the real reason Icamehere.”Smiling,heheld outthe smallbox in thepalmofhis hand.

Seeing it, her heart skipped a beat. It looked like a jewelry box—the perfect size for . . . Had he come here to propose? She took it from him and straightened in her chair.

“Go ahead. Open it.”

She glanced at him. Not exactly the most romantic approach.

“It’s that bone sample you sent me.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling simultaneously relieved and disappointed. Pulling the lid away, she stared down the aged metatarsal that could’ve easily been confused with a fossil. Sitting on a piece of white gauze, there was a perfect hole drilled into its center where Evan had extracted its DNA. She gently touched it with her index finger.

“You remember that anomaly we discussed?”

“Of course.” She wondered what he could have found that would bring him halfway around the world. “What about it?”

“First off, did anyone else perform an analysis on these bones?”

She shook her head. “Just carbon dating at the AMS outfit in Rome, and that sample’s been incinerated.”

“How about the rest of the skeleton?”

She pictured the ancient bones reassembled on top of the black rubber matting. Yesterday morning they had disappeared, along with the ossuary and its relics. “The Vatican still has it.” Or did they?

“Good.” He was clearly relieved. “Cause when you see what I have to show you...” Aldrich uncapped the tiny flash drive that dangled off his key ring and inserted it into the laptop’s data port. Flipping up the screen, he brought up a media player window and activated a file. A video clip began loading for playback. “I thought the scanner was malfunctioning when I saw this,” he explained. “Almost gave me a heart attack. Turns out the scanner’s working just fine. It’s the sample that can’t be right.” The clip finished loading.

She leaned closer.

“Here we go. The first thing you’ll see is the karyotype. I’ll pause it when it comes up.” As playback began Aldrich froze the image.

Charlotte’s eyes trained on the wormlike chromosomes, arranged side by side in order of length. Fluorescent dyes assigned different colors to each pairing, labeled 1 to 23, X and Y.

“Even here the mutation is evident.”

“Which pair is the anomaly?”

“Look closer,” Aldrich instructed. “You tell me.”

She scrutinized the image. As soon as her eyes alighted on the twenty-third chromosome set, she spotted something odd. Under a microscope one expected each chromosome to exhibit visible bands along its length. Pair twenty-three didn’t have any banding. “What’s with twenty-three?”

“Exactly. Let’s keep moving and hopefully it’ll start to make some sense.”

Aldrich brought up another screen showing a super-magnified cell nucleus, as it would appear in microscopic view. The chromosomes and nucleotide material were present in their natural, unordered state. The cell’s nuclear wall was barely visible along the screen’s periphery.

“I marked the twenty-third chromosome pair.” Aldrich pointed it out. “See?”

Bright yellow circles were drawn around the two anomalous chromosomes.

“Got it.”

“Watch closely, Charlie. Here comes the extraction.”

“What?”

“I’ll explain in a sec.” She noticed that Aldrich’s left leg was bouncing up and down.

On the screen a hollow glass needle penetrated the nuclear membrane, its sharp angles in stark contrast to the natural cellular construct. Next some chromosome pairs—though not the twenty-third pair—were extracted.

“I was removing the chromosomes for the karyotype.” On top of the media window, the extracted chromosomes appeared along a black bar, in size order and he pointed to them. “Here are the extracted pairs. So far, so good?”

“Yeah.”

On the screen, the needle retracted from the nucleus and the membrane shrank back over the puncture.

“Now watch this.”

That’s when she saw something remarkable unfold. The unbanded twin chromosomes—still inside the cell’s nucleus—instantly began to divide, churning out new chromosome pairs to replace the extracted material. The spontaneous regeneration stopped once the nucleus had reached its odd equilibrium—forty-eight chromosomes.

“What did I just see?” She tore her eyes from the screen. “Evan?”

He looked up at her intently. “A huge biological discovery. That’s what you just saw. I’ll play it again.”

Playback was reset to the point where the needle was extracted. The black bar with the missing chromosomes was on top of the screen again. And then there it was, just as Evan had said—the most remarkable biological process she had ever witnessed—spontaneous genetic regeneration.

Charlotte covered her mouth. “But that’s completely impossible.”

“I know.”

Nothing on earth could explain what she’d just witnessed. “It’s absolutely scientifically impossible for any human chromosome to replicate exact copies of other sets. There’s DNA from the mother, the father...a complex genetic code.”

“Violates everything we know as scientists,” he stated flatly. “I had a very difficult time coming to terms with this myself.”

Silence.

“Want to hear more?” He flitted his eyebrows and was beaming again.

“You mean this gets better?”

“Much.” Aldrich collected himself. “I performed a thorough analysis using the new gene scanner and mapped out the DNA’s coding, comparing it with published genome maps. You know what I’d be looking for?”

“Anomalies in the three billion base pairs,” she replied.

The typical genome molecular diagram resembled a spiral ladder or double helix with horizontal “rungs” formed from pairs of adenine and thymine or guanine and cytosine—otherwise known as the building blocks of life. Three billion of these rungs were spread out over the tightly wound chromosome strands, forming “genes”—unique DNA segments specific to bodily organs and functions. With the laser scanner, gene sequences could be analyzed to detect corrupted coding resulting in mutation.

Aldrich leaped up and paced around. “Well, I found that the sample you’d sent me registered less than ten percent of the total expected genetic material found in the standard human genome.”

Charlotte eased back into her armchair, shaking her head in disbelief. “I don’t understand.”

“Me either,” Aldrich replied. “So I did a lot more testing. Using our new system to compare the genome to all known anomalies, I came up with ...ready for this? No matches. Nothing! Not a single one!”

For a moment her rational mind shut down. No explanation came. “What does that mean?”

“This sample has no junk DNA!” Aldrich was shouting.

Before the Human Genome Project’s completion in 2003, scientists believed human superiority over other organisms—especially in intelligence— would translate to a substantially larger, more complex genetic code. But the human genome had fallen far short of expectation, having only onetwelfth of the genetic content of an ordinary onion. Geneticists attributed the differential to junk DNA—garbage heaps of defunct genes along the DNA strands rendered obsolete by evolution.

It sounded like a scientific fairy tale. But recalling the flawless 3-D physical profile the DNA sample suggested—the absence of a known ethnicity, the androgyny, the unique coloring and features—it made sense. “Evan, are you seriously telling me that this sample has DNA with a perfect genetic structure?”

He nodded. “I know it seems too good to be true.”

A flawless genome implied the absence of an evolutionary process. An organism in its purest, most unadulterated form.

Perfection, she thought. But how could a human possibly exhibit that kind of profile? It certainly didn’t jibe with what Darwin or modern science presented as the explanation for human development from primates.

Evan Aldrich waved a shaking hand at the screen. “This DNA could potentially be used as a template to spot anomalies in comparative samples. And it could be replicated using bacterial plasma.”

Charlotte stared at him. “Aren’t you getting a bit ahead of yourself?”

“It would take stem cell research to an entirely new level. I mean, this is perfect DNA in a viral form! Unimaginable.” He spoke slowly. “A miracle, in fact. It got me thinking about the real consequences of making this public, how the world would respond. At first I thought how many lives could be saved, the effect on disease. Then I envisioned biotech companies scrambling to customize cures for the rich. And designer babies. And rationed healthcare. Biological elitism. It will only benefit the rich—the poor won’t get a piece of this. And even if they did—using such a broad brush to wipe out disease would be devastating. Widespread longevity would lead to unprecedented population growth that would place enormous strain on all the world’s resources.”

She felt overwhelmed. “I see what you mean, but—”

“Let me finish,” he urged. “There’s a point to all this.” He reached over with his right hand and pinched the vial between his fingers, holding it up in front of her. “This.”

66

******

Vatican City

Cardinal Antonio Carlo Santelli stared dejectedly out of his office window at the expanse of Piazza San Pietro and the giant obelisk at its center that glowed pure white in the morning sunlight. He panned over to the basilica and the statues of saints lining the rooftop. If Catholics knew his noble intentions—to protect the faithful as a true servant of God—would his image too be immortalized and adored there one day? Would he become a modern-day martyr? A saint?

It hadn’t been just the high drama of the past few weeks. As far back as the Banco Ambrosiano scandal, the revelations he had witnessed during his tenure in the Vatican had gradually made him question his devotion to the Church. He wondered if his life had truly been in the service of a greater good, or whether he was fast becoming everything he’d once loathed as a young and idealistic priest.

Late yesterday morning, after personally seeing to Conte’s release from the Swiss Guard detention cell, he’d given the reckless mercenary the goahead to eliminate the last potential complications that could implicate the Vatican in the Jerusalem debacle: the ossuary and its contents, of course; Father Patrick Donovan, next; then Dr. Charlotte Hennesey; and finally, her American lover, Evan Aldrich.

Yet more blood on his hands.

Last night, he had expected an update from Conte to confirm that both the relics had been eliminated. No call had come. Now he was starting to worry that the mercenary had double-crossed him, convinced that the next call from him would involve more money—blackmail.

Worse, only minutes ago, he’d heard a news report concerning the death of a docent at the Torlonia catacombs—not exactly the type of thing that made headlines. But the seemingly mundane incident had prompted a routine police inquiry from the only name listed on a visitors’ sign-in sheet found in the docent’s office. That had led investigators to the visitor’s distraught wife who had just contacted the police to report that her husband hadn’t come home last night. A search of the catacombs ensued. It hadn’t taken the authorities long to find Giovanni Bersei’s broken body at the base of a shaft. Perhaps under better circumstances the incident could have been classified as an accident—a strange intersection of misfortune for two men who happened to be in the same place. However, police had spoken to a witness—a young woman jogger—who had reported seeing a stranger exiting the site and loading the anthropologist’s scooter onto a van. The photofit she had provided happened to bear an uncanny resemblance to another sketch coming out of Jerusalem.

The media was eating it up.

Any minute now, Santelli expected a call from the investigators.

Another scandal.

In each hand, Santelli held the two halves of the scroll the scientists had found in Christ’s ossuary. In his left hand was the sketched ceiling fresco in Joseph’s crypt deep within the Torlonia catacombs. In his right hand was the ancient Greek text that preceded the drawing, which he had asked Conte to separate from the picture, fearing the text might contain some overt message. Prior to sending Father Donovan to accompany Conte on his fatal journey, he had asked the priest to translate the Greek message— the last remnant of Christianity’s centuries-old threat.

The transcription was penned onto a crisp sheet of Vatican letterhead. Leaning over his desk, Santelli pieced together the scroll’s halves beside it.

He had considered destroying the scroll, burning it. But now he prayed that something in it might settle him. Drawing a deep breath, he studied the original vellum one more time, then shifted his gaze over to read Father Donovan’s transcription:

May faith guide us in our solemn vow to protect the sanctity of God. Here lay his son, awaiting his final resurrection so that God’s testimony may be restored and the souls of all men may be judged. Let these bones not dissuade the faithful, for stories are but words written by misguided men. The spirit is the eternal truth.

May God have mercy on us all.

His loyal servant,

Joseph of Arimathea

The intercom came to life, pulling the cardinal from his thoughts. “Eminence, I’m sorry to bother you, but . . .”

“What is it Father Martin?” The young priest sounded flustered. “Father Donovan is here to see you. I told him you weren’t available,

but he’s refusing to leave.”

Alarmed, the cardinal collapsed into his chair, hands gripping the armrests. Donovan? Impossible. Santelli opened the top drawer of his desk, confirming that the Beretta was still there. “Send him in.”

Seconds later, the office door opened.

As Patrick Donovan made his way into the room, Santelli saw that he had deep bruises under each eye. The priest’s nose was crooked and swollen, looking like it had just been pieced back together. He was wearing what appeared to be an old pair of glasses with thick plastic frames rather than his usual wire-rimmed bifocals. Santelli eyed the bulky leather bag that the priest gripped in his left hand.

Donovan sat in the leather chair opposite the cardinal and placed the bag on his lap.

Santelli offered neither ring nor handshake.

Donovan wasted no time. “I came to show you something.” He patted the bag.

Had Santelli not been sitting in one of the most secure rooms in Vatican City, protected by metal and explosives detectors, he might have thought that inside the bag was some kind of weapon or bomb. But nothing like that could have made it this far. He’d personally seen to that after Conte’s unexpected and shocking introduction all those years ago.

“But first, I must ask you why you tried to have me killed?”

“That’s a very serious accusation, Patrick.” Santelli eyed the top desk drawer.

“It certainly is.”

“Are you wearing a wire? A recording device? Is that what this is about?”

Donovan shook his head. “You know that it would have been detected before I made it through the door.”

The priest was right. This inner sanctum was designed to be foolproof. Conversations behind these doors were far too important to risk indiscretions. “Do you seek retribution? Is that why you came here? Have you come here to kill me, Father Donovan?”

“Let’s leave that job to God, shall we?” Donovan was stonefaced.

An uncomfortable moment passed before Santelli motioned to the satchel that looked like it was meant to hold an oversized bowling ball. He half expected it to contain Salvatore Conte’s head. But he knew Donovan was incapable of violence. Though it did make him wonder why the assassin hadn’t completed his assigned task and why the priest looked like he’d just sparred ten rounds. Was he in on Conte’s plot? Had Conte sent him here to extort the money? “So what have you brought me?”

“Something you must see with your own eyes.” Donovan stood and placed the satchel on Santelli’s impossibly neat desk. As the bag settled, something inside it clattered, sounding like wooden dowels. He noticed that the plasma monitor now displayed a new screensaver. The words “Your faith is what you believe, not what you know... Mark Twain” scrolled across. Donovan remained standing, glaring at Santelli.

There was a brief standoff as both men locked stares.

Finally, Santelli levered himself out of his chair, huffing. “Fine, Patrick. If looking in your bag will make you go away...so be it.” Irritated, the cardinal bent over the satchel, hesitated, then slowly opened its zipper. There was more clattering as he pulled the sides apart to view the contents.

The cardinal’s face went a ghastly white as he stared at the human skull and bones, the ultimate relic. When he looked up again, his eyes had lost their fiery glow. “You sanctimonious bastard. You’ll certainly go to Hell for this.”

“I wanted you to make your peace with him before I perform a proper burial,” said Donovan. He’d felt terrible carrying the sacred bones around in what amounted to little more than a duffel bag. But yesterday afternoon, he had stopped at DHL to arrange for the ossuary to be airfreighted immediately to Jerusalem. The manuscript had been sent separately to Razak, the Muslim courier he’d met in Rome. The spikes and coins were stowed in the rental car’s glove compartment alongside the Beretta.

“You son of a bitch,” Santelli’s voice was strangely calm.

What happened next was a blur.

Yanking his hands out from his pockets, Donovan clasped the old man’s wrist with his right hand, simultaneously revealing the small plastic syringe with his left. Thrusting it deep into the cardinal’s upper arm, he pressed down on the plunger.

With a look of utter disbelief, the cardinal tore away, collapsed into his chair, and grabbed the site of the injection. Before he could yell for Father Martin, the Tubarine had clamped down on his heart, bringing it to a grinding halt. Buckling over in agony, Santelli’s hands clawed for the pain, trying to tear it from his chest.

Patrick Donovan watched the body give a last convulsive shake. “God’s will,” he said quietly. He wasn’t sure what the syringe had contained, but was fairly certain it had been Conte’s method for killing the docent found at the Torlonia catacomb’s front desk. Within these walls, there weren’t many options for a lethal weapon. So Donovan had taken a lucky chance on the needle.

Murder violated everything he held sacred, breaking his vow to God that he had cast aside his horrible past. But unless Santelli was taken down, Charlotte Hennessy would surely die, and he too. The Israelis would never know the truth and an innocent archaeologist would shoulder the blame for a crime he hadn’t committed.

Carefully gathering up the duffel bag, Donovan exited into the antechamber, advising Father Martin that the cardinal wished not to be disturbed and to hold all calls.

Father Martin nodded and eyed Donovan curiously as he hurriedly made his way past the Swiss Guards and out into the main corridor. Once Donovan was out of sight, he quickly made his way into Santelli’s office. There he saw the purple skullcap poking above the chair facing the window. Calling out the cardinal’s name twice, he slowly rounded the desk.

67

******

Jerusalem

Razak waited for Farouq to put on his reading glasses, all the while staring at the ancient scroll intently.

Clearing his throat, the Keeper began to read out loud.

12 December Anno Dominae 1133

It was Saint Helena who first discovered the true origins of Jesus Christ. She came to the Holy Land in search of historical evidence proving Christ was not a figment of legend or lore. During her pilgrimage, she found what she believed was Christ’s empty tomb, and discovered the wooden cross upon which Jesus suffered and died, buried deep beneath the Holy Sepulchre. Today, we carry the true cross in battle to defend our faith and God. Many similar relics have we been rumored to possess. But what I have discovered on this day is the most wondrous yet.

But first I must explain how this came to be.

In Jerusalem, there has existed for centuries Christians who follow not the words of our Holy Bible. They are a peaceful group who have survived many centuries in isolation, calling themselves the “Order of Qumran.” I have met them and learned much about their faith. At first, their beliefs shocked me, for their ancient scrolls say many things to contradict God’s word. The Order believed that Christ died a mortal death and that only his spirit rose from the tomb to appear to his disciples. They even claimed Christ’s body still lay in a hidden place awaiting resurrection to usher in the Day of Judgment and that his bones would once again be reclaimed by God’s spirit.

I questioned the origins of their writings. They insisted the teachings and scripture existed long before the “The book of the Romans.”

Hearing these words, I was inclined to lash out. But, intrigued, I was compelled to learn more. Over time, these people, kind and generous, had become our friends. Through careful study, I began to understand that their beliefs, though untraditional, were rooted in true faith and reverence. Their God was our God. Their Christ was our Christ. Interpretation was all that seemed to divide us.

On the 11th day of October, 1133, Jerusalem was attacked by a band of Muslim warriors. Though we were able to drive them back, it wasn’t before our Christian brothers of Qumran had fallen, for they tried to defend their holy city. Their leader, an old man named Zachariah, was wounded severely, and dying when I found him. In his possession was an old book. Knowing that none of his brothers had survived the attack, he gave it to me. He whispered that the book contained many things, including an ancient secret long protected by his people— the location of the chamber where Christ’s body had been interred. Then God claimed the old man’s spirit.

I employed trusted local scribes to translate the book’s writings, most of which were in Greek. It was then that I discovered that the text was a journal written by a scholarly man named Joseph of Arimathea. In the book, I also found a map drawn by Joseph, marking the location of Christ’s body. It was then that I realized the tomb was buried beneath our very feet, under the site of Solomon’s Temple.

I ordered my men to find Joseph’s tomb. After weeks of digging and breaching three ancient walls, we reached solid earth. Here my hopes would have easily been lost, for nothing would imply man had touched this spot. But Joseph of Arimathea’s precise measurements suggested further digging was required. Continuing, we first cleared soft debris, realizing what we had thought to be the face of the mountain was actually a massive circular stone. It took four men to roll it back. Behind it was a hidden chamber, precisely where Joseph had indicated.

Inside I found nine stone boxes inscribed with the names of Joseph and his family. To my amazement, a tenth box bore the sacred symbol of Jesus Christ, and in it were human bones and relics that could only have come from the cross.

To uphold my sworn oath to protect God and his son Jesus Christ, I have secured these wondrous relics beneath Solomon’s Temple. For if the old man taught truth, these bones may one day be brought back to life so that the souls of all men might be saved.

I have named Joseph of Arimathea’s book Ephemeris Conlusio. In it are the secrets to our salvation.

May God forgive me for my deeds.

His faithful servant,

Hugues de Payen

Farouq carefully rolled up the yellowed parchment and returned it to the casket. He removed his glasses and sat back, waiting for Razak’s response.

Finally Razak spoke up. “Tell me if I’ve got this right. In the twelfth century, the Knights Templar befriended a group of radical Jews—or perhaps Christians—who gave them the Ephemeris Conlusio, which led them to Jesus’s body, buried in a secret room beneath this very platform. Almost nine hundred years ago the Templars secured the crypt and secreted that casket together with the Ephemeris Conlusio beneath the floor. You yourself found the casket during excavations here in 1997.”

“That is all correct.”

Razak tried to absorb it. He was tempted to ask Farouq why the Templars would have hidden such extraordinary relics. But he knew the Keeper would only be able to speculate. It was obvious that the Knights Templar had been protecting an ancient secret. Knowing something of the tenuous relationship between the pope and the mercenaries during that time, it was quite possible that this knowledge had been retained as insurance— perhaps even blackmail—against the Church. It certainly helped explain the Templars’ rapid rise to power. But the piety in Hugues de Payen’s letter had suggested something else. Perhaps the Templars had retained noble intentions? After all, they too had once been protectors of this place. “How were you able to convince the Vatican to take action?”

“Easily. I spoke to Father Patrick Donovan, the Vatican Library’s head curator. He is the one man I knew of who would have been absolutely aware of the Ephemeris Conlusio’s existence and, much more importantly, its implications. I mentioned it by name and he recognized it immediately. A few days later you delivered it to him in Rome. I correctly assumed that he would escalate things fast.”

“What if he hadn’t recognized its name?”

Farouq scoffed. “That wouldn’t have really mattered. I would still have persuaded him. The message couldn’t have been ignored.”

“You took a very big risk doing all of this.”

Based on that reaction, Farouq thought it best not to inform Razak that he’d further aided the thieves by smuggling explosives into Jerusalem— supplied by his Hezbollah contacts in Lebanon equally eager to topple the state of Israel. A second procurement had also been made at the thieves’ behest—a heavy-duty coring drill that Farouq had been told to purchase abroad in cash. Hezbollah had helped with that too.

“Probability, Razak, my friend. It’s all about odds on a favorable outcome. In this case the numbers were in our favor, and I acted as I saw fit. I’ve said before that averting discovery of Jesus’s body preserves the teachings of both Islam and Christianity. Very regrettably lives have been sacrificed in the process...although they were only Jews. But if we’d done nothing, there would have been a much higher death toll—both physical and spiritual—of both Muslims and Christians. Only the Jews would have gained at our expense. I think you’ll agree that this outcome’s the best we could have expected.”

Razak had to concede that there was undeniable, yet twisted, logic to Farouq’s thinking. It had been extremely devious damage control. “And how do you feel having learned of these contradictions to our teachings?”

Farouq stared at the ceiling. “None of this should mean that we question our faith, Razak. It may mean we need to dig deeper for meaning. Even if those stolen bones truly were Jesus’s remains, I will not waver in my faith. Not over some old bones.”

Razak recalled Barton saying something about pre-biblical texts viewing resurrection as a spiritual transformation—not a physical one. Though the word “resurrection” had survived for centuries, perhaps its meaning had somehow evolved into a more literal definition.

“And Solomon’s Temple?”

The Keeper pursed his lips. “Ancient history. Just like the city of Jebus that King David conquered and renamed Jerusalem one thousand years before Jesus’s time. The Jews shed a lot of innocent blood to lay claim to this so-called ‘Promised Land.’ Yet when the tables were turned, they felt violated. No one truly owns this place except Allah. For now, the Jews have regained control of Israel. But our very presence here, on this site, reminds them that the tide will once again reverse. Ultimately, it is up to Allah to decide who will be victorious.” Farouq circled round the desk and placed a hand on Razak’s shoulder. “Let us go to the mosque and pray.”

68

******

Rome

Aldrich moved closer to Charlotte. “Charlie, what if I told you we could wipe away any disease with one injection—a serum so powerful that it can recode damaged DNA?”

Her mouth opened, but no words came. She stared from the vial, to Evan, and back again. Could it be?

“When I was at your house last week, I saw the medication in your refrigerator—the Melphalan...with your name on it.”

A lump settled into her chest and her eyes welled up with tears. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, but—”

She collapsed in his arms.

“It’s okay,” he said softly.

Her tears came stronger now. Then she sat bolt upright. “My pills! I left my pills back at the Vatican. I’m supposed to take them every day!”

“Don’t worry about that,” he assured her. “You don’t need them. Not anymore.”

She was momentarily puzzled.

“Myeloma is one tough cancer,” he explained. “I know this must be tearing you up. And I know it’s probably why you’ve been distant lately. I pushed too hard last week. You’ve got so many other things on your mind right now. It was selfish of me.”

Sobbing, she nodded. “I...I haven’t told anyone.”

“I think that from now on, we need to make sure that you start opening up a little more before you emotionally implode,” he said with a smile. “I can take the tough stuff, Charlie. You need to be able to trust me.”

Nodding, she reached over for the tissue box on the nightstand. “I’ve got to tell my dad, too.” She dabbed the tears away. “But I’m just afraid. He’s already had to deal with losing mom . . .”

“You’re not going to have to tell him.”

Evan’s comments were starting to bother her. “What are you talking about?”

He cradled the precious vial. “If I’m right about this, there will be nothing to talk about. There’ll be no reason to keep popping Melphalan. I’d like you to be the first in my clinical trial.”

She wiped her eyes. “Come on Evan, it can’t be that easy.”

“That’s what I thought, too. But I think you’ll agree that when it comes to genetics, I know what I’m talking about. I’m absolutely certain about this.”

She studied the vial again, this time more seriously. “But why me? There are so many other people more deserving...more sick.”

“I’m sure there are. And if we’re right, maybe we can think about how to help them. But in order to do that, I need to make sure you’ll be around to help make that happen.”

“So...if I agree to this, you mean I just shoot this stuff into my body?”

“Yes.”

“That DNA was from a male. Will it turn me into a man?”

They both laughed and it lifted some of the heaviness from the room.

“I’ve already stripped out the gender-specific stuff,” he assured her. “What you have here is a customized serum that will primarily target your bones, blood cells, and so on. With a perfect genome, we can mix this stuff all sorts of ways.”

“It’s incredible,” she muttered.

He looked at the vial, then back at her.

Time seemed suspended as she contemplated the dismal alternative of staying the course with chemotherapy. No doubt, even if she were to control this incurable thing raging in her bones, those treatments would eliminate any hope of having children. Best-case scenario, she might live another ten or fifteen years. She’d never even make it to fifty. “Well?”

She smiled, knowing that she could trust him. She recalled the angel of death in St. Peter’s, flipping the hourglass. “Okay.”

“Great.” He was grinning ear to ear. “But just answer me one question. Who on earth was this guy?”

Father Donovan had fed her the story that the skeleton was a hoax concocted by Joseph of Arimathea, intended to debunk Jesus as the promised Messiah. Now that theory seemed utterly ridiculous. Only a divine being could exhibit such a remarkable genetic profile.

She walked over to the window and silently looked out over the lights of the airport. Then she turned to Aldrich, her eyes sad, and she smiled.

69

******

Vatican City

St. Peter’s Basilica had closed promptly at seven p.m. and the vast, dimmed interior was empty, except for one figure toting a black bag, striding hastily along the northern transept.

Father Donovan moved to the front of the towering Baldacchino where a marble balustrade circled around a sunken grotto directly below the papal altar. Pausing to bless himself, he checked to make sure no one was watching, then opened the side gate and slipped through. He pulled the gate closed and crept down a semicircular staircase.

One level beneath the basilica’s main floor, an elaborate inlaid marble shrine glowed in the warm light of ninety-nine ornate oil lamps, burning perpetually in tribute to the most holy ground in all of Vatican City—the Sepulcrum Sancti Petri Apostoli.

St. Peter’s tomb.

Peter was the man who, according to Joseph of Arimathea, he had designated to handle two critical, final tasks to serve the Messiah: transferring the ten ossuaries from Rome to a new crypt beneath Temple Mount in Jerusalem, and delivering his precious manuscript—the foundation for the Christian gospels—to the Jewish zealots who had helped execute Jesus’s ambitious plan to restore the temple.

Donovan recalled Joseph’s final passage in the Ephemeris Conlusio:

On this night, the emperor Nero has made a banquet in his palace. I am to be his guest, and so too, my wife and children have been asked to sit with him. With much sadness, I have agreed, though I know his intent, for his heart is filled with evil. Those who celebrate the teachings of Jesus have refused to pay tribute to him. For this, many he has burned alive.

For my loyal service to Rome, Nero has made known to me that my death and the deaths of my beloved family will be humane. The food we eat tonight will be poisoned.

Rome is vast and there is no place he will not find us. The only protection we have comes from God. Our fate is his will.

It has been agreed that our bodies will be given to my brother, Simon Peter, to be buried in my crypt beside Jesus. Once all have been freed from flesh, Peter will journey back to Jerusalem. Beneath the great temple will Jesus be interred, for this I promised to him before his execution. There too will we share in his glory on the Day of Atonement. Then will the temple be cleansed. Then shall God return to its holy Tabernacle.

These writings I have asked Peter to deliver to our brothers, the Essenes. They will protect this testament to God and his son. They will tell all men that the Day of Judgment will soon be at hand.

Once Peter had fulfilled his duties to the brotherhood, he had returned to Rome to continue preaching Jesus’s teachings. Shortly thereafter, he was imprisoned by Nero and sentenced to death by being crucified upside down.

Keep moving , Donovan silently urged himself.

Directly beneath the Baldacchino’s base, between red marble columns, was a small glass-enclosed niche containing a golden mosaic depicting a haloed Christ. In front of the mosaic was a tiny golden casket—an ossuary.

Inside this ossuary were the bones of St. Peter himself, extracted from a tomb deeper beneath the Baldacchino that was accidentally discovered during excavations in 1950. The skeleton had been found in a communal grave, but caught the eye of archaeologists overseeing the digs because it belonged to an older man whose feet were missing—as would be expected of someone who had been cut down from an inverted crucifix. Carbon dating had been subsequently performed. The male specimen had lived during the first century.

From his pocket, Donovan produced the gold key he had removed from a safe in the Vatican’s Secret Archive. He set down the bag, then smoothly inserted the key into a lock on the niche’s frame. The hinges let out a low moan as he eased the door open.

He stared down at the ossuary that had been fashioned from pure gold, resembling a miniature Ark of the Covenant—no doubt, a purposeful design. Directly above him, the four spiral columns of the Baldacchino had also been purposely fashioned to reflect the designs of Solomon’s Temple.

Knowing that he had little time, Donovan reached out with both hands and firmly grabbed the box’s cover. Drawing a deep breath, he jostled it, pulling it up and away.

As expected, St. Peter’s ossuary was empty.

Following the studies performed on the saint’s bones, the skeleton had been returned to the humble Constantine-era crypt where it was originally found. Few knew that this box was only meant to commemorate the first pope.

“God have mercy on me,” he reverently whispered, eyeing the mosaic of Christ.

Reciting the Lord’s Prayer, he began transferring the bones from the leather bag into the ossuary, finishing with the perfect skull and jawbone. Then he replaced the lid.

As he closed the glass door and turned the lock, he heard noises emanating from above, within the basilica. A door opening. Urgent footsteps. Excited voices.

Just above the niche was a heavy metal grating that served as a vent for the hollow area beneath the altar. Instinctively, Donovan passed the key through the grate and released it down into the void. He heard the small ting of metal striking rock. Then he remembered the empty syringe in his pocket and got rid of that too.

Grabbing the bag, he ascended the ramp, staying low as he emerged.

“Padre Donovan,” a deep voice called out in Italian. “Are you in here?”

Peering through the balustrade, he could see three figures—two in blue coveralls and black berets, a third in vestments. Swiss Guards and a priest.

Trapped !

For a moment, he considered retreating down the ramp, back into the extensive subterranean papal burial crypt adjoining St. Peter’s shrine. Maybe he could hide there for a while among the hundreds of sarcophagi, wait it out, then try to escape Vatican City.

He wondered how they had found him so quickly. Then he remembered he’d used his keycard to enter the basilica. Each key-swipe logged his location into the Swiss Guard’s security system—a safety precaution that apparently served a second, more sinister purpose. The grim reality of the situation flooded over him: he couldn’t hide because they already knew he was here.

Trying his best to remain calm, he climbed the rest of the way up the steps and opened the gate. “Yes, I’m over here,” he called out.

The two guards quickly made their way over to him, with the cleric trailing cautiously behind.

“Just finishing my prayers,” Donovan offered, confidently. They seemed to buy it.

“Father Donovan,” the shorter guard’s voice was curt. “We need you to come with us.”

The curator eyed the guard’s gleaming Beretta with newfound admiration and thought about yesterday, when he and Santelli had dropped by the barracks to retrieve Conte. The Swiss Guard’s gunsmith had half a dozen weapons set out for maintenance. Amidst all the excitement, no one had even noticed Donovan slip the gun and a few clips of ammunition into his pocket.

Managing a smile, Donovan said, “Is there a problem?”

“Yes,” the cleric responded, stepping into view.

Putting on his glasses, Donovan saw it was Father Martin. Had Santelli’s assistant found the body? Was he bringing the guards to arrest him?

“There’s a major problem,” Martin stated severely. “Shortly after you left Cardinal Santelli’s office this evening, His Eminence was found dead.”

Donovan gasped, trying his best to look surprised. His pulse was drumming hard and his palms were moist. “That’s awful.” He prepared himself for what was sure to come next—the cleric’s accusation.

“It seems that he suffered a heart attack,” Father Martin explained.

Studying Martin’s face, Donovan swore he detected a lie. He let out a long breath, perceived as shock, but actually of relief.

“Very unfortunate,” Father Martin said in a quiet tone, casting his eyes to the floor for a moment, as if in vigil. Earlier that evening, he had listened in on Donovan’s discussion with Santelli, using the cardinal’s phone as an intercom. And what he heard had been deeply shocking. He was almost certain that Father Patrick Donovan had exacted revenge on the scheming old man, though he could only wonder how. Didn’t the metal detectors register all weapons? But no matter, he thought. Had he been in Donovan’s position, he would have done the same. Regardless, that bastard Santelli was dead. Not only is the Church better off without him, Father Martin thought, but so am I. “We will need your help in collecting his legal papers from the Archive.” He sighed. “The cardinal’s family will also need to be notified immediately.”

Donovan raised his head, eyes gleaming. “Certainly....We can go there now if you’d like.”

Martin offered a reassuring smile. “Bless you, Father.”

70

SUNDAY

******

Jerusalem

Graham Barton had never been so glad to see the dusty streets of Jerusalem. He drew a deep, invigorating breath, savoring the familiar smell of cypress and eucalyptus. It was a lovely morning. He grinned when he saw Razak standing at the bottom of the steps of the police station and his smile grew even wider when he saw that Jenny was standing beside him.

She ran up and threw her arms around him. He could feel her tears as she kissed him.

“I’ve been so worried about you.”

“All I’ve been doing is thinking about you. Thank you for coming.”

She smiled. “I’ll always be there for you, you know that.”

“I’ve heard that in Jerusalem, being framed happens often.” Razak embraced Barton. “But justice has a way of finding the guilty.”

“It certainly does. Speaking of which,” Barton said, confused, “how did you manage this? What convinced the Israelis it wasn’t me?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Razak replied. “I brought a gift for you.” He held out a thick envelope that looked like it contained a large book.

“What’s this?”

“A copy of one of the exhibits presented as evidence in your defense,” Razak answered cryptically.

Barton accepted the package.

“There’s a lot of history inside that envelope,” Razak promised. “You should read it. It says many interesting things.”

71

******

Farouq sat on his veranda, overlooking the red-tiled roofs and weathered facades of the Old City’s Muslim Quarter. It was an unusually mild day, with a flawless sky and a gentle breeze fragrant with the scent of palm.

He felt good. Better than he had felt in a long time, in fact. Israel was once again teetering on the verge of violent confrontation, the struggle for Palestinian liberation was alive and well, and the faith of all—the vital fire required to keep the conflict burning—was strong. Smiling, he sipped his mint tea. In the distance, he could hear the crowds near Temple Mount, though today, the tone seemed to carry a different air, sounding almost... celebratory?

Inside the apartment, the phone chimed.

Farouq levered himself out of his chair and went inside to get it.

“ As-salaam.”

“Sir,” Akbar’s voice was shaky. “Have you heard the news?” “No, I have not. What are you so worried about?”

“Please. Turn on your television . . . CNN. Then call me to let me

know what to do.”

There was a click and the line went dead.

Alarmed, Farouq grabbed the remote and turned to CNN. Two commentators were on split-screen—an anchorman sitting behind a news desk, and an attractive blond woman standing against the backdrop of the Temple Mount. On the bottom of the screen, a text box read: “Live from Jerusalem.”

Crossing his arms, Farouq remained standing as he listened in. Farouq’s face sagged. Relics? Informant? The anchorman turned to the camera.

“I’m sure this is causing quite a stir in Jerusalem,” the male reporter stated in a serious tone. “Taylor, how are local officials reacting to this news?”

There was a slight delay as the satellite feed bounced the question from New York to Jerusalem.

“Well, Ed, as it stands,” the female reporter replied mechanically, “we’re still awaiting a formal statement from the Israeli government. So far, we’ve only been hearing reports through local news stations.”

“And has this anonymous informant been identified?”

A longer delay.

“As of now, no,” she replied, cupping her earpiece. “And that seems to be causing just as much excitement as the relics themselves.”

“If you’re just tuning in, we’re live with a breaking story coming out of Jerusalem, where late this morning, Israeli officials recovered a key item linked to last Friday’s violent exchange that took place at the Temple Mount, leaving thirteen Israeli soldiers dead ...and until now, many unanswered questions. Taylor, this book that’s been given anonymously to the Israeli police...is it certain it’s authentic?”

It can’t be, Farouq tried to convince himself. Knees suddenly weak, he slumped into an armchair.

“We’ve been told that the archaeologists working with the IAA—the Israeli Antiquities Authority—have analyzed this ancient manuscript and that based on carbon dating studies, yes, they are convinced the document is real. They have invited outside scientists to see the evidence, leading many to believe that the claim is valid.”

“Have you been told what the book says?”

The transmission sputtered for a split second.

“We haven’t been told yet,” she replied, shaking her head, “But the

IAA will be holding a press conference tomorrow afternoon to release complete details. Sources close to the investigation suggest that the book contains compelling historical accounts of the Jewish temple that was situated on the Temple Mount in the first century. Equally astounding, the book is said to contain shocking facts about the life and death of Jesus Christ.”

“Shocking indeed.” The reporter’s face intensified and his shoulders became even more rigid.

“As you can imagine”—her brow creased tightly—“this is all nothing short of astounding. Jews here are celebrating in the streets... Muslims are not at all pleased. And certainly, the Christians we’ve spoken to are anxious to learn more. The Temple Mount has long been the center of an ongoing religious rivalry between the three faiths...”

Feeling as if the world were crashing down around him, Farouq alJamir stared at the screen. He tried to postulate how the original manuscript could have found its way back to Jerusalem...and so suddenly. Certainly, the Vatican wouldn’t have offered it up, knowing full well the nasty consequences. Surely, Razak had given the Vatican envoy the original text in Rome, not a copy. Or had he? Could there possibly have been a second book? The odds seemed highly unlikely.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

No visitors were expected that morning. Scowling, the old man made his way back inside just as the bell rang again. “I’m coming!” he yelled impatiently.

Opening the front door, he was surprised to find a yellow DHL delivery van parked out front, the Palestinian driver standing on the stoop in uniform, the white cords of an iPod dangling from his ears. He was holding a chunky rectangular device. Farouq frowned when he saw that the young man was wearing shorts.

“You should dress in proper clothing,” Farouq grumbled. “Do you have no shame?”

The deliveryman shrugged. “You have a package.”

The Keeper’s face showed his puzzlement. He wasn’t expecting anything. “And what might it be?”

“How would I know?” the young man replied. “If you’ll just sign here, I’ll unload it.” He held out the electronic package-tracking module, pointed to an illuminated touch screen signature box, and handed him a plastic stylus. Farouq signed.

“It’s large. Heavy, too. Where would you like me to put it?”

Feeling more anxious, Farouq began stroking his beard—an old habit from his days as a soldier. “In the garage.” He pointed to it. “I’ll open the door.”

Inside, Farouq pushed the garage door button, and groaned as he squeezed past his wrecked Mercedes. The only nearby body shop that was any good was owned by a Jew who, given the current state of affairs, had refused the job. Now the mess would have to sit here until Farouq could find someone who could do the work. Standing with his arms crossed, he pouted as the door slowly rolled back on creaking hardware.

The driver was waiting on the other side with the delivery.

The moment his eyes landed on the crate, the creases in his wooden face smoothed out. He stepped outside and looked both ways down the narrow street.

The driver lowered the crate onto the cement floor of the garage, rolled the handtruck back to the van, stowed it, and drove away.

Farouq eyed the shipping label. The package had come from Rome and the return address was a P.O. Box. The sender’s name was a Daniel Marrone.

The Keeper suddenly felt light-headed.

It took Farouq ten minutes to gather the courage to open the crate. And once he started, it hadn’t been easy. With the cover off, the box had been filled with bubble wrap. Stripping it all away, his fingers detected the cold touch of stone. A sinking feeling came over him—a profound sense of loss and failure. First the book. Now this? Pulling away the last layer of bubble wrap, he stared vacantly at the beautiful etchings on the ossuary’s fractured lid. He immediately recognized the design since he’d seen it in the Ephemeris Conlusio.

Without warning, figures suddenly materialized in the garage opening.

“Stay right there,” a voice commanded in Arabic.

Farouq stood bolt upright to see four men, each with a gun targeting his chest. They wore plain clothes and bulletproof vests, but he immediately knew who had sent them. Shin Bet agents. Ghosts from his past. “What is this?” he demanded.

Ari Teleksen appeared round the corner, his saggy jowls raised on both sides by a sardonic smile. A cigarette dangled between his stern lips. He exhaled a plume of smoke, knowing it would offend the Muslim. “Farouq alJamir,” Teleksen’s haunting baritone filled the garage. “Thought I’d bring you the owner’s manual for your delivery. You seem to have left it in your office.” Gripped between the three fingers of his disfigured hand, he held up a plastic-covered ream. “If you’d like to see the original, maybe I can talk to my friends at the Israeli Antiquities Authority.”

Farouq immediately recognized the photocopy of the Ephemeris Conlusio.

“Just like old times, eh?” Teleksen was grinning now. “Ready to go for a ride?”

For the first time in a long while, Farouq felt afraid. Very afraid.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

With deep gratitude, I’d like to thank those who inspired me and provided me with a bottomless well of emotional support and technical expertise:

To my beautiful wife Caroline for her patience and encouragement, and to my loving daughters, Vivian and Camille, for their daily reminders that family is the most precious gift of all.

To all my friends and family—you know who you are!—who have endured my incessant ramblings and provided the stimulating debates that balanced my thoughts and kept my feet on the ground.

To my literary agents and friends across the pond, Charlie Viney and Ivan Mulcahy, who believed in me and helped me realize my full potential—Jonathan Conway too!

To the progressive Judith Regan—thanks for taking a chance with me! To an amazing editor named Doug Grad whose incredible grasp on his craft is only surpassed by his wit ...and Alison Stoltzfus who adds even more talent to a winning team.

Finally, to the remarkable body of research that sits on bookshelves, plays in VCRs and DVDs, and floats around cyberspace for all to experience. Explore!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MICHAEL BYRNES attended Montclair State University in Montclair, New Jersey, and earned his graduate degree in business administration at Rutgers. The Sacred Bones—his first novel—is a labor of love born from his fascination with theology, science, and the human condition. Byrnes lives in New Jersey with his wife, Caroline, and daughters, Vivian and Camille.

www.thesacredbones.com

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Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

THE SACRED BONES . Copyright © 2007 by Michael Byrnes.