The Sacred Bones (29 page)

The Grand Master looked deep into the eyes of his three friends and saw a common resolve beneath a thin veil of fear. The brotherhood would endure until the very end.

Clearing his throat DeMolay stared back at the cardinal. "It is only right that when my life is to be taken by those I have so loyally served, that I should make known the deceptions here presented and that I tell the only truth from my own lips. Before God and all who witness this injustice"-- his eyes panned over the crowd-- "I admit I am guilty of a gross iniquity. But not one fabricated by my accusers." He swung his gaze back at the cardinal. "I am guilty only of the shame and dishonor I have endured through torture and threat of death to induce these disgusting charges laid against the Templar Order. I declare before you now that the noble men who have served this Church to protect Christianity have been unjustly demonized. Therefore, I disdain to disgrace my brothers by grafting yet another lie."

Astounded at the prisoner's brazen rebuttal, the cardinal stood mute for a long moment before declaring, "By denouncing this sworn confession, you leave me no choice but to invoke the decree of King Philip that you shall perish by fire."

DeMolay smiled thinly. Finally, the end would come.

Then the cardinal addressed the remaining three Templars, sentencing all to life imprisonment. DeMolay was shocked when Hugues DePairaud and Geoffroy DeGonneville confessed to the charges.

Then the cardinal asked the same of Geoffroy DeCharnay.

Suddenly possessed, DeCharnay bared his teeth and yelled: "I too renounce all charges brought against me! For God as my witness, these lies serve only a contemptuous pope and an equally villainous king. The only just man who stands here today is Jacques DeMolay. I have followed him into battle and I will follow him to God."

The cardinal was fuming. "You shall have your wish!"

Jacques DeMolay and Geoffroy DeCharnay were then taken to a boat for the short journey to the neighboring Ile des Javiaux, the site where dozens of Templars had already been burned alive.

The sun melted into the distance and darkness crept over Paris.

As the two prisoners were escorted to the two stakes, both already blackened by charred flesh, DeMolay turned to his Templar brother. The years of torture and imprisonment had rendered DeCharnay to a shadow of the robust warrior he had known in the Holy Land, but the man's expression was surprisingly resolute. "Remember what we leave behind in Jerusalem," DeMolay told him. "Your service and sacrifice will be justly rewarded by Him. And His day of justice is soon to come, Geoffroy. You have done the most noble deed a man can do. You have served God. Leave this broken body behind and don't look back. Tonight, your soul will be free."

"Bless you, Jacques." DeCharnay said. "It has been my honor to serve with you."

As the French soldiers forced DeMolay against the post, he turned to them. "I am no threat to you now," he insisted. "Unbind my hands so that I may pray in my final moments."

Reluctantly, the guards cut the ropes from the old man's wrists, but used heavy chains to bind his body to the stake. The wood heaped around DeMolay was still green. By express order of King Philip, his death was to be prolonged by slow fire.

Looking over his shoulder, DeMolay gave his last thanks to DeCharnay, shackled to the post behind him. As the pyre was ignited, Notre Dame's bells began to toll.

The heat crawled up the old man's feet and legs. Then the tongues of flame began to slowly broil his lower body. When the fire intensified, his flesh roasted into red blisters, blackening his feet. As the inferno grew, DeMolay screamed out in agony, the flames licking their way higher up his legs. He could barely register DeCharnay's screams. Weaving his hands together, he threw them to heaven and yelled: "May evil find those who have wrongly condemned us! May God avenge us and cast these men into Hell!"

As his body was consumed Jacques DeMolay felt his spirit lifting.

The Templar Grand Master was swallowed by the inferno, his mortal remains a brilliant torch against the night sky.

R
OME

Opening the front door of his quaint townhouse overlooking Villa Borghese's manicured park, a robed and barefoot Giovanni Bersei retrieved the morning's delivery of
Il Messaggero
from the front step. The sun was barely glowing a deep blue over the neighboring rooftops, and the light posts lining the empty street were still casting a warm glow. This was his favorite time of the day.

Turning to go back inside, he paused to glance over at the iron railing that still hung loosely from its mount on his home's stucco facade. Carmela had been after him for three weeks to fix it. Today would be the day the job would get done, he vowed. Closing the door, he went directly to the kitchen.

The coffee pot, dutifully set on a timer, was already full. He poured himself a cup and sat for a long moment to enjoy the silence. Cupping the heavy porcelain mug in his hands, he sipped the black coffee slowly, savoring the deep, rich flavor. What was it about a great cup of coffee? He swore there was no better elixir.

Last night, he hadn't slept well at all, his mind endlessly churning over the ossuary, the skeleton, and the shocking symbol that accompanied the relics. The mere possibility that he had touched the physical remains of Jesus Christ had left him feeling ashamed and vulnerable, searching for an explanation. Bersei was a practicing Catholic-- a believer in the most powerful story ever told. He went to church each Sunday and prayed often. And later this morning, he was going to be asked by the Vatican to explain his findings. How could anyone explain what he had witnessed over the past days?

Scratching the gray stubble on his chin, he put on his reading glasses and began scanning the newspaper's front page. A headline on the bottom of the front page read:
MUSLIMS AND JEWS ENRAGED OVER RUMORED THEFT AT TEMPLE MOUNT
. He ignored it, flipping directly to the funnies. Then, almost as an afterthought, he turned back to the front page.

Though articles sensationalizing the tenuous political problems in the Holy Land were regular media fodder, these past few days he noticed that it had dominated the headlines even more than usual. Perhaps all the lab-talk concerning ancient Judea, Pontius Pilate, and crucifixion made him consider this one more closely. The piece's accompanying photo showed Israeli soldiers and police trying to hold back violent protestors just outside the famous Wailing Wall-- the Temple Mount's western wall.

He read the report.

"That's not good," he muttered.

"Religious artifacts?"

"What, love?" Carmela emerged from the doorway, donning a powder blue robe over her silk pajamas. She bent to kiss him on the head before making her way to the cupboard for a mug, her fuzzy pink slippers scuffing along the tile floor.

"Probably nothing. Just reading about all this turmoil in Israel."

"They'll never get along," she said, pouring coffee into her favorite mug, shaped like an animated elephant head with a curved snout as its handle. "They all just want to kill one another."

"Seems so," he agreed. Seeing her without makeup and her hair tousled, he smiled to himself. So many years together.

He directed his attention back to the newspaper. The article went on to say that efforts toward a more formal and lasting peace accord between Israelis and Palestinians had once again been tabled.

"Will you be home early tonight?"

"Should be," he said, preoccupied.

Carmela pushed down on the newspaper to get his attention. "I was hoping maybe you could take me out to that new bistro Claudio and Anna-Maria were talking about the other night."

"Of course, sweetheart. That would be wonderful. Would you make a reservation for eight o'clock?"

"Maybe you can find some time to fix that railing before we leave."

Grinning, Bersei said, "I'll see what I can do."

"I'm going up to take a shower." Sipping her coffee, she shuffled away.

Bersei turned to where the article continued. Immediately, he felt like he had been punched in the gut. Staring up at him was a photofit rendition of a man that looked all too familiar.

Reading the caption beneath, he mouthed the words aloud: "'The suspect is said to be a Caucasian male, approximately 180 centimeters tall and 88 kilos. Authorities state he is traveling under the assumed identity of Daniel Marrone, and are looking for any information concerning his whereabouts.'"

Suddenly, everything was moving in slow motion. He collapsed back into his chair.

The only possible explanation could be that the Vatican was somehow involved in what was happening in Israel. But that was
impossible
. Or was it?

Bersei tried to reconcile the timing of the events over the past few days. According to the news report, this theft in Jerusalem had occurred last Friday. A week ago. Both he and Charlotte had arrived in Vatican City shortly afterward. She'd flown into Rome on Sunday afternoon. He arrived on Monday morning, shortly before Father Donovan and Salvatore Conte returned with the mysterious crate.

Of course.
Recalling the woven impressions left on the ossuary's patina, he no longer suspected a careless extraction. He suspected a
rushed
extraction. A theft?

He remembered Father Donovan's expression when he opened the crate-- anxiety...and something else playing in his eyes. The crate's Eurostar shipping label was still imprinted into his brain. Bari, the final resting place of Saint Nicholas. The vibrant tourist spot on Italy's east coast faced the Adriatic with direct sea routes to the Mediterranean...and Israel. Bari was 500 kilometers from Rome-- probably less than five hours by rail, he guessed. But it had to be at least 2000 kilometers from Israel.

You'd need an awfully fast boat for that, he thought. But cruising at twenty knots-- just over thirty-seven kilometers an hour-- it was manageable in perhaps two days. Conservatively allowing for two and a half days at sea and another half day traversing Italy, the shipment fitted comfortably into the time frame.

He went back to the news article. Thirteen Israeli soldiers killed. The thieves had been sophisticated and no meaningful clues had been found.

Was the Vatican
really
capable of pulling off an operation like that? But an Israeli helicopter employed in the theft? It didn't make sense. Certainly Father Donovan--
a cleric for Christ's sake!--
wasn't capable of such a thing.

But Salvatore Conte...He eyed the photofit again and felt nothing but fear.

Bersei considered a second theory. Maybe the Vatican had bought the ossuary from whoever stole it and had been unwittingly caught up in the incident? Even so, that could prove very problematic for the Vatican. They could be drawn into this mess as an accomplice. One thing was certain: somehow the relics sitting in the Vatican basement had a very questionable procurement.

He wrestled with how to deal with all this. Should he consult with Charlotte? Or should he go to the authorities.

You can't make wild claims without adequate proof,
he told himself.

Setting the paper down, Giovanni went over to the phone and asked the operator to connect him to the local substation for the
Carabiniere
-- Italy's military police force that walked the streets of Rome with submachine guns as if the city was under a constant state of martial law. A young male voice picked up the call and Giovanni requested to speak with the resident detective. After a few brief questions, the young man informed Giovanni that he'd need to speak with Detective Armando Perardi who wasn't expected in the office until nine-thirty.

"Can I have his voice mail, please?" Giovanni requested in Italian.

The line clicked and went silent for a few seconds before Detective Perardi's glum greeting came on. Giovanni waited for the tone, then left a brief message, requesting a meeting later in the morning to discuss a possible Roman link to the theft in Jerusalem. He left his mobile phone number. For now, he didn't make any reference to the Vatican. That would only confuse the issue since the Vatican was its own country. Ending the call, Bersei hurried upstairs to put on his clothes. He would need to act quickly.

Parking his Vespa in the personnel parking lot outside the Vatican Museum, Giovanni quickly made his way through the Pio Christian gallery's rear service entrance.

As the elevator doors opened into the basement corridor, he experienced a wave of panic, hoping that no one else had decided to come in early this morning. He checked his watch-- 7:32.

What he needed to do had to be done alone. Charlotte Hennesey couldn't be dragged into this. After all, what if he was wrong?

As he moved out of the elevator, the corridor seemed to come alive, as if he were Jonah being swallowed by the whale. He lightly treaded his way to the lab and used his keycard to unlock the door. Looking over his shoulder to see that the corridor was still clear, he ducked inside and went directly to the workstation.

The spikes and coins sat on the tray. Beside them lay the last of the ossuary's mysteries-- the scroll cylinder. There was something about it that stirred him. If his foreboding about all of this were correct, there'd be no future opportunity to read it. And something prompted him that it contained critical clues about the relic's provenance.