The Sacred Bones (30 page)

Careful study of the ossuary and its relics had left him in little doubt that the ossuary originated from Israel. The stone and patina were both specific to the region. He eyed the skeleton laid out on the workstation-- the bones, too, supported the relic's provenance. Crucifixions had been commonplace in Judea during the first century. And studying the ossuary one last time, he ran his fingers over the early Christian symbol for Christ-- the very thing that had broken down his final wall of doubt.

All were damning facts, pointing to the Vatican. Bersei punished himself for not making the connection sooner. But it had all seemed too fantastic.

From the tray, he picked up the cylinder and removed the unsealed cap. Then he teased out the scroll. As he gently unfurled the calfskin his heart was pounding. Glancing quickly around the room, he swore he felt invisible eyes boring into him.

Lingering questions bothered him. How could such a profound discovery have remained secret for so long? If the bones were truly those of Jesus-- or even one of his contemporaries-- why hadn't it ever been documented? And no matter who this man had been, how was it that the Vatican had discovered the secret only now, two thousand years later?

Back to the matter at hand.

Delicately smoothing out the calfskin scroll, Bersei experienced a flurry of conflicting emotions. He was convinced that this ancient document might provide a final clue-- perhaps even confirm or deny the dead man's true identity.

Just like the bones and other relics, Bersei could immediately see that the calfskin scroll had been magnificently preserved. There were countless possibilities of what this document might contain. The last will and testament of the deceased? A final prayer sealed away by those who buried the body? Perhaps even a decree explaining why this man had been crucified.

His fingers were shaking uncontrollably as he held it up.

Neat text was written out in some kind of ink. Studying it more intently, he saw that it was Koine Greek, the dialect sometimes referred to as "New Testament Greek" and the unofficial
lingua franca
of the Roman Empire up until the fourth century.

The first implication was that the author had been well educated-- a Roman, perhaps.

Below the text was a very detailed drawing that looked remarkably familiar.

As he read the ancient message-- clear and brief-- his extreme tension began to subside and for a moment, he sat there in silence.

Refocusing his attention on the accompanying drawing, the anthropologist again felt as though he'd seen this imagery before. His brow tightened as he studied it intently. Think.
Think
.

That's when it hit him. Bersei's face blanched.
Of course!

He had definitely seen this image before, and the place it was meant to depict was only a few kilometers away on the outskirts of Rome, deep beneath the city. Instantly he knew that he would need to go there as soon as his business here was complete.

Scrambling over to the photocopier that sat in the corner of the room, he flattened the scroll onto the glass, closed the lid and made a copy. Returning the scroll to the cylinder, he placed it beside the other relics. Then he folded the copy and stuck it in his pocket.

As he focused on gathering evidence to substantiate his claim against the Vatican, paranoia about his own safety quickly returned. But he needed information that could be used by the
Carabiniere
to investigate the case.

Nerves ablaze, Bersei linked his laptop to the main computer terminal and began copying files onto its hard drive-- the skeleton's complete profile, pictures of the ossuary and its accompanying relics, carbon dating results-- everything.

He eyed his watch again-- 7:46. Time was running out.

When the last file had finished copying, he folded the laptop and packed it into its carrying bag. Removing anything else would seem overly suspicious.

"Hey, Giovanni," a familiar voice called over to him.

He spun around. Charlotte. He hadn't even heard her come in.

Walking past him, she noticed that he looked awful. "Everything okay?"

He didn't know what say. "You're here early."

"I didn't sleep well. Are you going somewhere?" Looks awfully nervous, she thought.

"I have an appointment I need to go to."

"Oh." She looked at her watch. "You'll be back for the meeting, right?"

He stood and slung the bag over his shoulder. "I'm not sure, actually. Something important has come up."

"More important than our presentation?"

He avoided her eyes.

"Something's wrong, Giovanni. Tell me what it is."

His eyes combed the walls, as if he were hearing voices. "Not here," he said. "Walk out with me and I'll explain."

Bersei opened the main door and poked his head out into the corridor. Everything was clear. He motioned for her to follow.

Quietly, he slipped outside and Charlotte followed, easing the door closed behind her.

In the makeshift surveillance room, Salvatore Conte sat perfectly still until the footsteps in the corridor had faded away. Then he snatched the phone from its console.

Santelli answered on the second ring and Conte could tell by his groggy voice that he'd woken the old man.

"We have a real problem down here."

The cardinal knew what was coming. He cleared his throat. "Have they found out?"

"Just Bersei. And right now he's on his way out the door with copies of everything on his way to the
Carabiniere
."

"Very unfortunate." A slight pause and a sigh. "You know what you must do."

Bersei didn't say a word until they were safely outside the museum's confines. He headed straight for his parked Vespa as Charlotte paced quickly to keep up with him.

"I think the Vatican is involved in something bad," he said to her in a hushed tone. "Something to do with the ossuary."

"What are you talking about?"

"Too much to explain right now and I don't even know if I'm right about all this." Stowing the laptop bag in the scooter's rear compartment, he put on his helmet.

"Right about
what
?" He was starting to scare her.

"It's best that I not tell you. You need to trust me on this. You'll be safe here, don't worry."

"Giovanni, please."

Mounting the Vespa, he put a key in the ignition and turned the engine on.

She grabbed his arm tightly. "You're not going anywhere," she said over the noise of the puttering engine, "until you tell me what you're talking about."

Sighing heavily, Bersei looked at her, his gaze filled with concern. "I think that ossuary was stolen. It may be linked to a theft in Jerusalem that left many people dead. There's someone I need to speak with about what we've found."

For a moment, she said nothing. "Are you sure about this? That seems a bit extreme, don't you think?"

"No, I'm not sure. That's why I'm trying to leave you out of this. I know we've signed confidentiality agreements. If I'm wrong, this could turn out badly for me. I don't want you being dragged down too."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Bersei flinched when he thought he saw a face looking out from behind the shadowy glass of the museum door. "Just pretend we didn't have this conversation. Hopefully I'm wrong about everything." He looked down at her hand. "Please, let me go."

She loosened her grip. "Be careful."

"I will."

Charlotte watched as Bersei rode off around the corner of the building.

As the elevator doors slid apart, Charlotte hesitated before stepping out into the basement corridor. Folding her arms across her chest, she proceeded forward, fighting off a sudden chill.

Surely the Vatican couldn't be involved in a theft, she tried to convince herself. Then again, why would they consort with a goon like Salvatore Conte? It was quite evident that
he
was capable of violence and just about any other act of bad behavior. But what if Giovanni was right? Then what?

Halfway down the corridor, she noticed that one of the solid metal doors was slightly ajar. It hadn't been earlier-- she was sure of that. Until now, every door down here had been closed-- presumably locked. Was someone else down here with them?

Curious, she stepped up to the door and knocked. "Hello? Anyone in there?"

No answer.

She tried again. Nothing.

With her left hand, she reached out and pushed, swinging the door open smoothly on well-oiled hinges.

What she saw inside was puzzling.

Stepping into the tiny room lined with empty shelves, she stood in front of a very peculiar workstation-- a bank of monitors, a computer, a set of headphones. Her eyes followed a bundle of wires that led out from the computer, crept up the wall, and disappeared into a darkened opening in the ceiling where a panel had been removed.

The system was in sleep mode. The screensaver depicted a slide show of naked women in a variety of pornographic poses. Charming.

Sitting in a chair positioned in front of the equipment, she tried to imagine what purpose this all served. Obviously, it had all been done in haste, because this room looked like a closet-- not an office.

Finally, she couldn't help but reach down to press a key on the keyboard.

The monitors flickered and hummed as the screensaver disappeared and the computer woke up.

Seconds later, the software activated what appeared to be the last program that had been in use. It took Charlotte a moment to piece together the familiar collage of camera images that spread out before her. On one of the on-screen viewing panels, there was a chambermaid cleaning a small room. Charlotte's stomach sank when she saw her own luggage-- a red, rectangular carry-on and matching garment bag-- beside the bed. The maid moved into the bathroom, which projected real-time on a second panel. A familiar set of toiletries lined the vanity, complete with a hefty bottle of vitamins.

"Conte," she seethed horrified at what she was seeing. "That fucking pervert."

She studied a number of other hidden cameras transmitting from the lab and the break room-- live feeds, judging by the time and date counters on the bottom of each panel. He'd been watching and listening the whole time.

In that moment she knew that Giovanni had been right.

In the Secret Archive, Father Donovan placed the
Ephemeris Conlusio
codex next to the plastic-sealed document bearing reference number
Archivum Arcis, Arm. D 217
-- "The Chinon Parchment"-- and closed the door. There was a small hiss as a vacuum pump pulled all the air out from the compartment.

Secrets. Donovan was no stranger to them. Perhaps that was why he felt so connected to books and solitude. Maybe this archive somehow mirrored his soul, he thought.

Many who were drawn to the Catholic priesthood would attribute their decision to some kind of vocational calling-- a special closeness to God, possibly. Donovan had turned to the Church for a more sobering cause-- survival.

As a young boy, he'd grown up in Belfast during the tumultuous sixties and seventies when violence in Northern Ireland peaked between the Nationalist Catholics seeking independence from British rule, and Unionist Protestants who were loyal to the crown. In 1969 he watched his house, and dozens of others around it, burned to the ground by rioting loyalists. He could also vividly recall the IRA's retaliatory bombings, which were a regular occurrence-- 1,300 in 1972 alone-- and claimed hundreds of civilian lives.

At fifteen, he and his friends had been lured into a street gang that ran errands for the IRA and acted as the "eyes and ears" of the movement. On one memorable occasion, he'd been asked to drop a package outside a Protestant storefront. Unbeknownst to him at that time, the bag actually contained a bomb. Luckily, no one had been killed in the subsequent blast that leveled the building. Somehow, he'd even managed to avoid being arrested.

But it was a fateful evening on his seventeenth birthday when Donovan's life was changed forever. He was drinking at a local pub with his two best friends, Sean and Michael. They had gotten into a shouting match with a group of drunken Protestants. Donovan's crew left an hour later, but the Protestants-- five in all-- followed them outside and continued haranguing. It hadn't taken long for fists to start flying.

Though no stranger to street fighting, Donovan's wiry frame and swift hands had been no match for the two men that teamed up on him. While one of the Protestants had pinned him to the ground, the second landed body blows, seemingly intent on beating him to death.

It was hard to forget the suppressed rage that had flooded into him as he envisioned the glowing embers of his home. Donovan had reacted on instinct, fighting his way back onto his feet, flipping open a jackknife and plunging it deep into the stomach of the attacker who had held him down. The man had fallen to the pavement, horrified as he tried to hold back the gush of blood flooding out of his abdomen. Seeing the rage in Donovan's fiery eyes, the second man had backed away.

Dazed, Donovan turned to see Sean, blood-soaked and baring his teeth, had also taken a man down with his own knife. The remaining Protestants had stood frozen in disbelief as the Catholics fled.

He remembered the awful dread he had felt the next day when the newspapers and TV reported that a local Protestant man had been stabbed to death. Though there had been some doubt as to which of the two fallen Protestants suffered the fatal blow, Donovan quickly came to terms with the fact that he needed to leave Belfast behind before he became its next victim.

The seminary had given him a safe haven from the streets, providing hope of God's forgiveness for the horrible things he had done. Though not a day had gone by that he couldn't see the bloodstains on his hands.

Despite his past, he'd always been a good student and the solitude of priesthood had reignited his passion for reading. He found peace in history and scripture. Guidance. Seeing his remarkable dedication to learning, the Diocese of Dublin had sponsored his extensive university training. Perhaps, Donovan thought, it was his obsession with books that had helped to save him.