The Sacred Bones (34 page)

The door opened and he looked up at a familiar figure.

Razak.

Clearly upset, the Muslim crossed to the remaining chair as the door closed behind him and was locked from the outside.

"Quite a predicament you're in, Graham," his tone was disappointed. Razak had always been a good judge of character. Yet the police had presented such strong evidence against the archaeologist that he couldn't help but feel he'd been played for a fool.

"It's a setup," Barton insisted. "I had nothing to do with this crime. You of all people should know that."

"I like you. You seem to be a good man, but really, I don't know what to think. They said that solid evidence was discovered in your apartment. Things only the thieves could have possessed."

"Someone planted that drill," Barton protested. "And you know as well as me that the scroll was in that ossuary." He saw the incredulous look on the Muslim's face. "For goodness sake, Razak. You have to tell them that the scroll was in that ossuary."

Razak spread his hands. "I had my back turned," he reminded him. He couldn't discount the possibility that Barton may have purposely gone through the charade of opening the remaining ossuaries to legitimize the scroll in his possession. But why? For notoriety? To discredit the Muslim claim to Temple Mount by sidetracking the investigation with a territorial dispute? Maybe to divert the blame to a fanatical Christian?

"Right. I see." Disappointment clouded the archaeologist's face. "You're part of this, too."

"What about the other ossuaries?"

Barton was exasperated. "How could a man my size move nine ossuaries weighing thirty-five kilos each right from under the eyes of the Waqf and police? They're not the kind of things one can slip into one's pocket," he said sarcastically. "Haven't you seen this city the past few days? There's surveillance equipment everywhere. All they need to do is play back some video recordings and they'll see that I was never there without you present."

Razak was silent, eyes cast down.

"And even if I'd been able to take them, where would I have hidden them? In my flat? They've already searched there. Next you're going to assume that I defaced the tablet on the wall of the crypt because I saw it before you did."

The Muslim's eyes shot up. "What do you mean by that?"

"The tenth entry on the tablet. Remember it was scratched away?"

Now Razak knew what he was referring to. "Yes."

"Well tonight, Major Topol conveniently showed me a photograph taken
before
I was brought in. It showed the symbol that was originally there."

Razak didn't like that. "And what was it?"

Barton wasn't in the mood for another history dissertation. "A pagan symbol. A dolphin wrapped around a trident."

Razak tried to comprehend what this meant.

"An early Christian symbol for Jesus, representing crucifixion and resurrection."

Razak didn't know what to say. If this were true, it would certainly strengthen Barton's assertions about the crypt's owner and the perceived contents of the stolen ossuary. He shook his head. "I don't know what to believe."

"You must help me, Razak. You're the only one who knows the truth."

"Truth's a rare commodity in this part of the world." Razak glanced away. "Even if it existed, I don't know if I'd recognize it." He began to feel a keen responsibility for the Englishman. Barton's intuition about the theft had been virtually flawless and he'd perceived things no one else had grasped. Yet here he was awaiting charges. Razak had seen these tactics used many times in the past by the Israeli authorities. But was Barton really just a convenient patsy for the Israelis? This possibility presented an entirely different challenge.

"Is there any hope for me?"

Razak spread his hands. "There's always hope." But deep down he knew that there would be no easy way out of this.

"You're not going to pursue this investigation, are you?

"You have to understand our position." Razak was beginning to wonder if he understood it himself.

"What position exactly?"

"Peace. Stability. You know what happened yesterday," he said, referring to the bombing. "If something doesn't change, that will be just the beginning. Already news of your arrest has started to ease tensions. Discussions are resuming. People have someone to blame-- and a man who's not a Jew or a Muslim."

"Very convenient." The archaeologist knew nothing more could be done.

"The real problem we're facing is political." Razak leaned forward. "I know it's terrible. But if there's no blame, there'll be no solution. Blame a man and one man falls. Blame a country and the problem isn't singular."

"This is how you're going to let this end?"

"It will never end." Razak rose to his feet and knocked on the cell door. Before leaving, he paused and turned back to Barton. "I need to digest all this, Graham. I will do my best to help. But I cannot attest to things that I'm unsure of. I know you can respect that." With a sinking feeling, he made his way outside.

When Razak had entered Station Zion just minutes earlier, the sidewalks had been empty. But as he emerged out into the harsh sunlight, his eyes adjusted to a completely different scene.

Over a dozen news reporters had materialized. And judging from their frenzied reactions when they saw him, Razak knew
he
was the reason they were here. Shoulder-mounted cameras swung at him as the reporters came at him like a swarm, thrusting their microphones like epees.

"Mr. al-Tahini!" one reporter managed to break forward to grab his attention.

Razak froze, knowing that confrontation was inevitable and somehow, necessary. After all, he was the Waqf's designated spokesman.

"Yes."

"Is it true that the police have arrested the man responsible for the Temple Mount theft?"

As if by some unsigned accord, the entire assemblage of media personnel quieted down in unison, anxiously awaiting his reply.

Razak cleared his throat. "That is still unclear. As far as we know, the police are still sorting through the facts."

Another reporter yelled out, "But weren't you working with this man? The English archaeologist, Graham Barton?"

"It is true that I was assigned to the investigation, as was Mr. Barton whose impressive credentials were considered vital to our understanding of the thieves' motives."

The first reporter squared up again. "And how do you feel now that he's been singled out as the man behind all this?"

Careful
, Razak told himself.
Don't make things worse for Graham. And don't make things worse for your Muslim and Palestinian constituents either.
"Though I am anxious to come to a resolution, I feel that many more questions need to be answered before anyone should levy accusations against this man." He glared at the reporter. "Now if you'll excuse me," he said, pushing forward through the mob.

R
OME

Huddled inside a
loculus
high on the passage wall, Giovanni Bersei was sucking in shallow breaths, desperate to steady himself, hoping that Conte would choose the wrong tunnel and wander aimlessly into the catacomb. If he was really lucky, the assassin might succumb to the fumes and pass out. Bersei only hoped it didn't happen to himself first. He tightened his grip around the ball-peen hammer's handle.
As if this is any match for a gun.

Minutes passed. Silence returned.

A little more time and he would consider climbing back out into the tunnel. But the idea was short lived, because a faint glow of light suddenly played along the craggy wall opposite the niche. Conte was coming.

Having searched two tunnels unsuccessfully, Conte had backtracked to the area where Bersei had stumbled over the tools. Surely his quarry hadn't returned this way. Bersei couldn't have navigated the mess in the dark without causing a commotion.

Pacing down the third passage, Conte felt the slightest breeze. The air here was less putrid. Maybe there was a ventilation shaft nearby.

He was beginning to entertain the very remote possibility that Bersei might have outsmarted him. However, that could only be temporary since the only door out of this place was locked.

Moving slowly through the tunnel, he detected a dim light far ahead. Daylight?

Panic overcame him. Perhaps it was a ventilation shaft, but it certainly looked wide enough to provide an escape route. Conte broke into a sprint.

About ten meters ahead, a dark form suddenly arced out from high on the wall too fast for even the mercenary to react. It cracked him hard in the right temple and landed him flat on his back, his head slamming hard against the ground with a hollow thud.

The flashlight skittered across the tunnel floor. The Glock, however, remained fast in his grasp. For him, that was pure instinct.

Dazed, Conte barely discerned a figure crawling out from the wall like a reanimated corpse. Hitting the floor, Bersei scrambled for the light.

Suddenly, through blurry double vision, Conte saw something cartwheeling through the air. It struck him hard in the chest. A hammer? Raising the Glock, he blindly squeezed off a shot, just in case Bersei felt like attempting another blow.

The light disappeared down the passageway as Conte tried to pull himself together.

Running to the light source at the end of the passage, Bersei was grateful Conte's shots had missed him. Agonizing over the possibility that this might be a dead end, he focused on the luminous cone of sunlight at the tunnel's terminus that offered some hope of escape. The breeze was blowing stronger now. Maybe, just maybe, he'd get out of this appalling place alive.

But only a couple meters from the shaft, Bersei slid to a stop, just before the gaping opening in the floor where the sunlight flowed down a wide, ragged shaft. He stared down its throat, four, perhaps five stories to a rocky bottom.

The lower galleries
. Three more levels lay below, he reminded himself. The restorers must have opened the ventilation shaft to help release lingering subterranean gases.

Christ help me
.

His eyes drifted up to the light source. The shaft was too wide to climb. Worse, a heavy iron grate sealed the opening high above. Despair closed in on him like a vice.

Suddenly from behind, he heard a slight noise.

Bersei turned just in time to see Conte's body poised in horizontal form, launched in mid air like a projectile. The assassin's shoeless feet caught Bersei square in the chest, throwing him back violently across the mouth of the shaft, slamming his body against the wall beyond.

The flashlight tumbled downward end over end until it smashed onto the rocks far below.

For a split second, Bersei was suspended on the wall, his feet caught on the small ridge that formed a rim around the opening. But the force of the impact teetered him forward uncontrollably. He reflexively kicked out from the wall, hurling himself across to the other side of the aperture, adrenaline pumping hard. Fingers clawed earth and squeezed. But there was nothing to hold onto.

The jagged rocks pinwheeled around him as he plummeted down to collide head first into the
tufa
at the base of the shaft.

Conte stared down into the abyss. Spread across the shaft's rocky bottom, Giovanni Bersei was bent into an unnatural shape, blood oozing from his collapsed skull, broken bones protruding through skin.

The hunter smiled. A clean kill that would appear to be an unfortunate accident. It would probably be days, perhaps weeks, before the body was found. Even the awful smell of rotting flesh could be dismissed down here. After all, that's what this place was designed for.

Backtracking through the tunnels, Conte gathered his shoes, gun, and coat. He even managed to find the Glock's discharged bullets and casings. It was a rule to never leave behind solid ballistics evidence. That's why he'd used XM8s for the Jerusalem job. By now, those slugs would have the investigators spinning in circles, trying to figure out how a prototype weapon that should have been stockpiled somewhere in a United States military bunker had wound up in the possession of nameless mercenaries.

Unlocking the door, he made his way into the foyer. Returning the keys to the rigid docent, he grabbed the laptop bag, unbolted the entrance and went outside, closing the door behind him. Taking a moment to let his eyes adjust to the glaring sunlight, Conte proceeded to wheel Bersei's Vespa over to the white Fiat rental van. Opening its rear doors, he manhandled the cycle into the rear compartment, closed the doors, and jumped behind the wheel. For a moment, he eyed himself in the rearview mirror. A purple lump the size of a walnut had welled up on his right temple. Luckily, Bersei's swing hadn't been perfectly timed or he might have been knocked unconscious.

All things considered, it had been a good job.

V
ATICAN
C
ITY

At ten to ten, Father Patrick Donovan entered the lab looking like he hadn't slept in days. A leather satchel hung at his side. "Good morning, Dr. Hennesey."

Seated beside the ossuary, Charlotte forced her eyes up from the relic.

Donovan looked around the lab for the anthropologist. "Is Dr. Bersei here?"

"I was going to call you earlier," she said. "He hasn't come in yet." Bending the truth was not something she was good at. But now, for Giovanni's sake, she found herself trying harder than ever to be convincing.

"That's strange." Immediately, he suspected that Conte was up to no good, because as Donovan had just come down the corridor, he had noticed that the makeshift surveillance room was unlocked and vacant. Apparently, Conte had left in a hurry. "I hope everything is okay."

"I know what you mean. Doesn't seem like him to be late."

"Especially for something so important," Donovan added. "Well, I was really hoping he could be here for the presentation. Think you can handle this without him?"

"Sure," she replied, her insides roiling. How could she possibly go through with this alone? What if Bersei was right? And what if she
wasn't
safe in Vatican City? The only solace she had was her gut feeling that this priest would watch over her. Rarely was she wrong about someone's character.