The Sacred Bones (43 page)

"It's incredible," she muttered.

He looked at the vial, then back at her.

Time seemed suspended as she contemplated the dismal alternative of staying the course with chemotherapy. No doubt, even if she were to control this incurable thing raging in her bones, those treatments would eliminate any hope of having children. Best-case scenario, she might live another ten or fifteen years. She'd never even make it to fifty.

"Well?"

She smiled, knowing that she could trust him. She recalled the angel of death in St. Peter's, flipping the hourglass. "Okay."

"Great." He was grinning ear to ear. "But just answer me one question. Who on earth
was
this guy?"

Father Donovan had fed her the story that the skeleton was a hoax concocted by Joseph of Arimathea, intended to debunk Jesus as the promised Messiah. Now that theory seemed utterly ridiculous. Only a divine being could exhibit such a remarkable genetic profile.

She walked over to the window and silently looked out over the lights of the airport. Then she turned to Aldrich, her eyes sad, and she smiled.

V
ATICAN
C
ITY

St. Peter's Basilica had closed promptly at seven p.m. and the vast, dimmed interior was empty, except for one figure toting a black bag, striding hastily along the northern transept.

Father Donovan moved to the front of the towering Baldacchino where a marble balustrade circled around a sunken grotto directly below the papal altar. Pausing to bless himself, he checked to make sure no one was watching, then opened the side gate and slipped through. He pulled the gate closed and crept down a semicircular staircase.

One level beneath the basilica's main floor, an elaborate inlaid marble shrine glowed in the warm light of ninety-nine ornate oil lamps, burning perpetually in tribute to the most holy ground in all of Vatican City-- the
Sepulcrum Sancti Petri Apostoli
.

St. Peter's tomb.

Peter was the man who, according to Joseph of Arimathea, he had designated to handle two critical, final tasks to serve the Messiah: transferring the ten ossuaries from Rome to a new crypt beneath Temple Mount in Jerusalem, and delivering his precious manuscript-- the foundation for the Christian gospels-- to the Jewish zealots who had helped execute Jesus's ambitious plan to restore the temple.

Donovan recalled Joseph's final passage in the
Ephemeris Conlusio
:

Once Peter had fulfilled his duties to the brotherhood, he had returned to Rome to continue preaching Jesus's teachings. Shortly thereafter, he was imprisoned by Nero and sentenced to death by being crucified upside down.

Keep moving
, Donovan silently urged himself.

Directly beneath the Baldacchino's base, between red marble columns, was a small glass-enclosed niche containing a golden mosaic depicting a haloed Christ. In front of the mosaic was a tiny golden casket-- an ossuary.

Inside this ossuary were the bones of St. Peter himself, extracted from a tomb deeper beneath the Baldacchino that was accidentally discovered during excavations in 1950. The skeleton had been found in a communal grave, but caught the eye of archaeologists overseeing the digs because it belonged to an older man whose feet were missing-- as would be expected of someone who had been cut down from an inverted crucifix. Carbon dating had been subsequently performed. The male specimen had lived during the first century.

From his pocket, Donovan produced the gold key he had removed from a safe in the Vatican's Secret Archive. He set down the bag, then smoothly inserted the key into a lock on the niche's frame. The hinges let out a low moan as he eased the door open.

He stared down at the ossuary that had been fashioned from pure gold, resembling a miniature Ark of the Covenant-- no doubt, a purposeful design. Directly above him, the four spiral columns of the Baldacchino had also been purposely fashioned to reflect the designs of Solomon's Temple.

Knowing that he had little time, Donovan reached out with both hands and firmly grabbed the box's cover. Drawing a deep breath, he jostled it, pulling it up and away.

As expected, St. Peter's ossuary was empty.

Following the studies performed on the saint's bones, the skeleton had been returned to the humble Constantine-era crypt where it was originally found. Few knew that this box was only meant to commemorate the first pope.

"God have mercy on me," he reverently whispered, eyeing the mosaic of Christ.

Reciting the Lord's Prayer, he began transferring the bones from the leather bag into the ossuary, finishing with the perfect skull and jawbone. Then he replaced the lid.

As he closed the glass door and turned the lock, he heard noises emanating from above, within the basilica. A door opening. Urgent footsteps. Excited voices.

Just above the niche was a heavy metal grating that served as a vent for the hollow area beneath the altar. Instinctively, Donovan passed the key through the grate and released it down into the void. He heard the small ting of metal striking rock. Then he remembered the empty syringe in his pocket and got rid of that too.

Grabbing the bag, he ascended the ramp, staying low as he emerged.

"
Padre Donovan
," a deep voice called out in Italian. "Are you in here?"

Peering through the balustrade, he could see three figures-- two in blue coveralls and black berets, a third in vestments. Swiss Guards and a priest.

Trapped!

For a moment, he considered retreating down the ramp, back into the extensive subterranean papal burial crypt adjoining St. Peter's shrine. Maybe he could hide there for a while among the hundreds of sarcophagi, wait it out, then try to escape Vatican City.

He wondered how they had found him so quickly. Then he remembered he'd used his keycard to enter the basilica. Each key-swipe logged his location into the Swiss Guard's security system-- a safety precaution that apparently served a second, more sinister purpose. The grim reality of the situation flooded over him: he couldn't hide because they already knew he was here.

Trying his best to remain calm, he climbed the rest of the way up the steps and opened the gate. "Yes, I'm over here," he called out.

The two guards quickly made their way over to him, with the cleric trailing cautiously behind.

"Just finishing my prayers," Donovan offered, confidently. They seemed to buy it.

"Father Donovan," the shorter guard's voice was curt. "We need you to come with us."

The curator eyed the guard's gleaming Beretta with newfound admiration and thought about yesterday, when he and Santelli had dropped by the barracks to retrieve Conte. The Swiss Guard's gunsmith had half a dozen weapons set out for maintenance. Amidst all the excitement, no one had even noticed Donovan slip the gun and a few clips of ammunition into his pocket.

Managing a smile, Donovan said, "Is there a problem?"

"Yes," the cleric responded, stepping into view.

Putting on his glasses, Donovan saw it was Father Martin. Had Santelli's assistant found the body? Was he bringing the guards to arrest him?

"There's a major problem," Martin stated severely. "Shortly after you left Cardinal Santelli's office this evening, His Eminence was found dead."

Donovan gasped, trying his best to look surprised. His pulse was drumming hard and his palms were moist. "That's awful." He prepared himself for what was sure to come next-- the cleric's accusation.

"It seems that he suffered a heart attack," Father Martin explained.

Studying Martin's face, Donovan swore he detected a lie. He let out a long breath, perceived as shock, but actually of relief.

"Very unfortunate," Father Martin said in a quiet tone, casting his eyes to the floor for a moment, as if in vigil. Earlier that evening, he had listened in on Donovan's discussion with Santelli, using the cardinal's phone as an intercom. And what he heard had been deeply shocking. He was almost certain that Father Patrick Donovan had exacted revenge on the scheming old man, though he could only wonder how. Didn't the metal detectors register all weapons? But no matter, he thought. Had he been in Donovan's position, he would have done the same. Regardless, that bastard Santelli was dead.
Not only is the Church better off without him
, Father Martin thought,
but so am I
. "We will need your help in collecting his legal papers from the Archive." He sighed. "The cardinal's family will also need to be notified immediately."

Donovan raised his head, eyes gleaming. "Certainly.... We can go there now if you'd like."

Martin offered a reassuring smile. "Bless you, Father."

J
ERUSALEM

Graham Barton had never been so glad to see the dusty streets of Jerusalem. He drew a deep, invigorating breath, savoring the familiar smell of cypress and eucalyptus. It was a lovely morning. He grinned when he saw Razak standing at the bottom of the steps of the police station and his smile grew even wider when he saw that Jenny was standing beside him.

She ran up and threw her arms around him. He could feel her tears as she kissed him.

"I've been so worried about you."

"All I've been doing is thinking about you. Thank you for coming."

She smiled. "I'll always be there for you, you know that."

"I've heard that in Jerusalem, being framed happens often." Razak embraced Barton. "But justice has a way of finding the guilty."

"It certainly does. Speaking of which," Barton said, confused, "how did you manage this? What convinced the Israelis it wasn't me?"

"You'll find out soon enough," Razak replied. "I brought a gift for you." He held out a thick envelope that looked like it contained a large book.

"What's this?"

"A copy of one of the exhibits presented as evidence in your defense," Razak answered cryptically.

Barton accepted the package.

"There's a lot of history inside that envelope," Razak promised. "You should read it. It says many interesting things."

Farouq sat on his veranda, overlooking the red-tiled roofs and weathered facades of the Old City's Muslim Quarter. It was an unusually mild day, with a flawless sky and a gentle breeze fragrant with the scent of palm.

He felt good. Better than he had felt in a long time, in fact. Israel was once again teetering on the verge of violent confrontation, the struggle for Palestinian liberation was alive and well, and the faith of all-- the vital fire required to keep the conflict burning-- was strong. Smiling, he sipped his mint tea. In the distance, he could hear the crowds near Temple Mount, though today, the tone seemed to carry a different air, sounding almost...celebratory?

Inside the apartment, the phone chimed.

Farouq levered himself out of his chair and went inside to get it. "
As-salaam.
"

"Sir," Akbar's voice was shaky. "Have you heard the news?"

"No, I have not. What are you so worried about?"

"Please. Turn on your television...CNN. Then call me to let me know what to do."

There was a click and the line went dead.

Alarmed, Farouq grabbed the remote and turned to CNN. Two commentators were on split-screen-- an anchorman sitting behind a news desk, and an attractive blond woman standing against the backdrop of the Temple Mount. On the bottom of the screen, a text box read: "Live from Jerusalem."

Crossing his arms, Farouq remained standing as he listened in.