The Sacred Bones (13 page)

Charlotte inclined her head. "That explains why the Vatican's gone to so much trouble to bring us here."

"Absolutely. Makes perfect sense. A find like this is monumental."

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

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

V
ATICAN
M
USEUM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Appalled, the cardinal had yelled, "Who the hell are you?"

"Your local security consultant," Conte quickly replied in kind, standing and rounding the desk to offer a personalized business card with his alias and an encrypted mobile telephone number. "I was in the area and wanted to introduce myself personally to go over some obvious deficiencies in your country's security systems."

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

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

"And what makes you think I won't have you arrested right now?" Santelli had threatened.

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

The cardinal's eyes had gone wide. "You're bluffing."

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

"All right, Mr. Conte. You've made your point."

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

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

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

Smiling, Conte was wide-eyed as he read the account balance:
6,500,000.00. After deducting overhead expenses and the cut owed to his six remaining team members, he was left with a cool net of four million euros. Not bad for a few days' work.

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

C
HINON
, F
RANCE

M
ARCH
3, 1314

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"To make a deal."

Clement laughed. "You are in no position to bargain."

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

"Come now, Jacques, you cannot be serious."

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