James Acton 03 - Broken Dove (11 page)

Acton pulled his Blackberry off his belt. “I’ve got a signal but there’s no new messages.”

“So they’re still missing.”

Acton nodded. “Appears that way.”

Laura lowered her voice and leaned in. “They’re both Triarii. Do you think that might have something to do with it?”

“The thought had crossed my mind. But then why was the Father murdered?”

“He might have been Triarii too for all we know.”

Acton pursed his lips. “Hadn’t thought of that.” He leaned back. “So, someone knows who and what they are, decides they don’t like them hanging around, running their church, so kills them?”

Laura’s hand darted to her mouth. “Oh God, I hope not.”

“Well, if they were murdered, then I would think we’d know by now. After all, they had no problem having the Father’s body discovered, so why not Chaney and the Pope?” He shook his head. “I hope Hugh can tell us more when we get there.”

They both leaned into their chairs as the plane touched down. Minutes later they had taxied to the charter terminal, and were descending the steps, a limousine with Vatican flags waiting at the bottom. The driver tipped her hat and opened the door. “Mr. Acton, Miss Palmer. I trust you had a good flight?”

“Yes, thank you,” replied Laura as she climbed into the limo, Acton following. The door closed behind them and interior accent lighting kicked in, revealing they weren’t alone. Across from them, facing the rear, sat a woman Acton didn’t recognize. Laura gasped. She was holding a gun, pointed at both of them.

“Welcome to Rome, professors.”

Ciampino Airport

Rome, Italy

Acton instinctively slid closer to Laura, putting his shoulder over hers, partially blocking her body from the woman. “Who the hell are you?”

“Tsk tsk. Such language. Do you not realize where you are? Why you are here?”

“Don’t act so pious with me. You’re the one with the gun.”

She flicked the weapon, as if dismissing it. “Purely to illustrate a point.”

“And that point is?”

She leaned forward. “That
I
am in control. Not you.”

The driver’s door opened then slammed shut. The car started to move and Acton looked at Laura. “Where are you taking us?” she asked.

“To the Vatican of course.”

What the hell is going on here?

“Then why the gun?”

“Because I am not
with
the Vatican.”

Acton felt Laura’s hand on his arm squeeze tighter. “Then who are you
with
?”

“The Order of the Blessed Virgin.”

Acton exchanged a quick glance with Laura, who shook her head slightly.

“What the he—” He stopped himself, and sneered slightly. “What
is
that?”

“We worship the Blessed Mary.”

Acton’s eyes narrowed. “Then what do you want with us?”

“We want you to retrieve something that was stolen from us long ago.”

“What?”

“The Gospel of Mary.”

“There is no Gospel of Mary.”

The smile grew. “So you’ve been told.”

“What does that mean?” asked Laura. “There are four Gospels. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.”

“No, there are several more, however they didn’t fit in with the likings of the Nicaea council.”

Acton knew what she was talking about. The First Council of Nicaea, convened in Bithynia in 325AD by the Roman Emperor Constantine. The month long meeting defined the nature of Jesus, leading to the Nicene Creed, and ultimately the bible as it is known today, with many texts describing the life and teachings of Jesus abandoned for various reasons, mostly due to them conflicting with the newly agreed upon truth. After the bible had been defined, and disseminated, all other texts were destroyed as blasphemous. Over the coming thousand years, the Church slowly tightened its iron grip over Europe and none questioned the contents of the Holy Book, most not capable of reading it, and none outside of the Church allowed to possess a copy, aside from royalty.

Until Luther and others translated it, and printed it.

Once the masses were able to understand the words, the Church’s grip started to loosen. When people realized they had been lied to, that the words had been distorted, and the Catholic Church had become nothing but a business designed to fleece the population of their money in exchange for passage into Heaven for them or their loved ones, the separation of Church and State had begun. It took hundreds of years, but it was done. And both the State, and the Church, were better for it.

Now we need a separation of State and Business.

“So you’re saying the Gospel of Mary, Mary the mother of Jesus, exists.”

“It does.”

“Where?”

“In the very place you will be going tonight.”

“I don’t understand.”

“After Nicaea, all copies of the Gospel of Mary were destroyed but one. The founders of our order had the original, written some say by the hand of Mary herself, the only Gospel to be written while Jesus was alive, and by someone who knew him perhaps better than anyone could.”

“So—”

“So it is the only honest Gospel. The only true Gospel.”

“How do you know? Have you read it?”

Her chin dropped into her chest. “No. None have.” She raised her head. “Our order was almost wiped out in a clash with the Church’s troops. The few copies we had managed to transcribe were lost in that battle, but the original saved. But only two weeks later we were betrayed, by a farmer who had taken our leader in. All in exchange for a goat.”

“A goat?” exclaimed Laura. Acton looked at her, and had the distinct impression she had forgotten their situation.

Their captor shook her head, as if still in disbelief over an event almost two thousand years ago. “Yes. A goat.” She sighed. “Roman soldiers from the local garrison were in pursuit of the few remaining members of our order, when they came upon this humble man’s farm, and threatened his goat. He pleaded with them, it being his only goat, then betrayed our Sister Berenice who he had agreed to hide. They killed her, and the goat, and took the original text to Rome, where it has never been seen since.”

“Have you asked?”

“Of course. With the opening of the Secret Archives, we immediately petitioned, but the Church repeatedly denied its existence.”

“So you don’t even know if it really exists.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed as she glared at Acton. “It exists. Of that have no doubt.”

Acton shrugged. “I guess we’ll take your word for it.” He pointed at the gun. “Now what does that have to do with us?”

“Everything if you want to see your friends again.”

Acton leaned forward. “You have them?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” asked Laura. “Is this because they’re Triarii?”

“Tree what?”

Acton and Laura exchanged quick glances. “If it’s not because they’re Triarii, then what did they ever do to deserve kidnapping?” asked Acton slowly.

“As the head of the Church, His Holiness is participating in and perpetuating the fraud that is the Roman Catholic Church.”

“And Chaney?”

“A pawn, caught in the middle. Of no value to us, but of value to his friends, who will be motivated to do our bidding, to save his life.”

Acton scowled. “And what do you want from us?”

“To retrieve the book of course.”

“And just how are we supposed to do that?”

“Well, you’re being brought in, aren’t you? Two archaeologists? Did you think you were being brought in because of your legendary police skills?” The woman laughed, flicking the weapon. “The arrogance of you Americans—”

“She’s British.”

“Even worse!” She leaned forward. “Your country rules the world, so you think you all as individuals are so superior to the rest of us. But in reality, you are all pawns in the grandest corporate takeover in history.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“America is owned.”

“Are you one of those Occupy nutters?” asked Laura.

The woman chuckled. “No, but the original protestors were right, which is why they were quickly taken over by the unions and others, so their message could be distorted.”

Acton sighed. “Okay, I’ll bite. How were the original protestors right?”

“America. Is. Owned.” With each word, her eyes narrowed more. She leaned back. “Think about it. The average American doesn’t donate to a political party or candidate. They can’t afford to. Those that do, contribute a little bit, maybe a few hundred, even a few thousand dollars. That can’t run a campaign. It costs a billion dollars to run for president today. That doesn’t count all the Senate and House seats. Or governors, state senators, judges, sheriffs, district attorneys, etcetera, etcetera. Every few years, your entire country is bought, over and over, by big business. Only they can afford to donate the millions, even tens of millions, needed to win. And now with your Super PACs.” She tossed her head back and laughed. “Even your own Supreme Court is owned! What kind of moron can seriously think that a corporation has the same rights as a human being? Until Texas puts a corporation to death, I think we can safely say they aren’t human.”

“So there’s a huge amount of money involved. It’s always been that way. It’s that way in every country.”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong. Many countries limit people’s donations, and in many cases no companies or unions can contribute, only citizens.” She scratched her head with the barrel of her gun. “Think about this. If you donate a thousand dollars to your Senator’s campaign, and she”—she pointed at Laura—“a part of the uber-rich elite, donates ten million, who’s phone call do you think he’s going to take? I think we all know the answer to that.” She jabbed the air with her gun, emphasizing each point. “And, when she says she wants him to vote a certain way on an upcoming bill, she merely threatens to not donate to his campaign at reelection time. And since your election cycles are so short, your politicians are in constant campaign mode. They can’t risk losing the big donors, so they do their bidding.” She sat back and threw her hands in the air. “So, your government is owned. From the top elected official, right down to the bottom. And it’s only getting worse.”

Acton had to admit the woman had some good points. But he wasn’t here to listen to conspiracy theories or debate campaign finance reform. Of course big money should be taken out of it. Any sane person understood that. But just try getting that kind of reform through Congress. It would never happen.
Because they’re owned.
He shook his head. He had to focus on the problem at hand.

“Thanks for the civics lesson. Now, once again I ask, how are we supposed to get the book?”

“As I said, you are archaeologists, not police detectives. There is only one reason you are being brought in, and that is to examine something of archaeological interest. You must use this opportunity to find the gospel, and return it to us.”

“And what will you do with it then?”

“Release it for the world to see. To see what has been hidden from them for thousands of years.” She leaned forward, scratching her ankle with the barrel of the gun. “And destroy the foundation of the Roman Catholic Church.”

“How could a fifth gospel, regardless of who wrote it, destroy the Church?” asked Laura.

The woman smiled. “You don’t know what’s in it.”

Acton grunted. “Neither do you, apparently.”

A nod. “True, we don’t know the exact words, but we know the general content, the spirit. Immediately after the gospel was seized, our dying leader wrote down everything she could remember, to preserve some of what had been lost.”

There was a knock on the window separating them from the driver.

“We’re almost there.” She fished a cellphone from her pocket and handed it to Acton. “Speed Dial One when you’ve found it. And keep that with you at all times in case we need to reach you.” She leaned forward, the gun dancing in hand, bouncing between pointing at Acton then Laura. “If you want to see your friend and His Holiness again, do as you’re told, find the book, and return it. It’s as simple as that. If not, they die.”

The car came to a stop and the driver’s door opened. A moment later their door opened, streetlights mixed with police cherries flashed inside. They climbed out and the driver had the gall to tip her hat at them smartly, as if nothing were wrong.

“We will be in touch, Professors,” said the woman who remained hidden from sight inside. The driver closed the door, returned to her post, and their captors slowly drove away.

The car out of sight, Laura threw her arms around Acton and squeezed tight. “Thank God that’s over.”

“Let’s get inside,” said Acton, eyeing all the police and camera crews who were now turning their attention to the two strangers who had just arrived in a limousine displaying Vatican markings.

“Professor Acton, can we have a word with you?” A young female reporter raced toward them, arm outstretched, microphone in hand, her camera crew struggling to keep up. Acton grabbed Laura by the arm, steering them away, but it was too late. Just the mention of his name sent the gathered press into a frenzy, his name, and Laura’s, perhaps pushed out of the press since the events in London, still apparently recognizable to the media. In seconds they were surrounded, dozens of mikes within inches of their mouths, bright lights in their faces, harsh camera flashes blinding them. They both raised their arms, trying to shield themselves, and in the jostling and confusion, Acton lost his bearings.

He picked a direction.

With one arm around Laura, the other stretched in front of him, elbow locked, he used it as a human battering ram and pushed into the crowd. With their ordeal less than two years ago, he had learned to despise the paparazzi. And that’s what most of these people were. Even the serious press were paparazzi. The news was no longer the news. The news was opinion. He blamed CNN for that. When they launched the first 24 hour news station, they quickly realized they couldn’t fill it with 24 hours of interesting news, there just wasn’t enough happening in the world. So they filled the gaps with opinion. Then they disguised the opinion as news, and now, thirty years later, you had a completely politicized news organization, pretending to be neutral. Then along came Fox. At least they didn’t hide the bias. And again, opinion was disguised as news. To compete, all news organizations have forgotten their purpose. “Just the facts” was a phrase of the past. Who, what, when, where, why and how were still practices, but the latter two were changed into opinion. As an archaeologist and historian he had read enough old newspapers to know what real news was. Read an old paper, and it was dry. It reported the facts. They had editorials, clearly labeled as such, but they occupied a small part of the paper. Now, even in fact based articles, the reporter’s personal opinions, personal beliefs, were interjected at every opportunity, speculation was allowed in the articles, rather than the editorials, and with it, the notion of a free press was lost.