Sign of the Cross

PENGUIN BOOKS

Sign of the Cross

‘One of those rare finds: a chilling tale told by a true craftsman. Whether for the superb writing or the non-stop, what-was-that-noise-in-the-other-room suspense, this one will keep you up at night. Daring in both plot and style, Sign of the Cross is a winner!’ Robert Liparulo, author of Comes a Horseman

‘Chris Kuzneski is a remarkable new writer, who completely understands what makes for a good story: action, sex, suspense, humor and great characters. I can’t wait for the next Jonathon Payne novel!’ Nelson DeMille, #1 New York Times Bestselling author

‘Harrowing, but always suspenseful, Sign of the Cross makes you wish it would never end. Chris Kuzneski writes as forcefully as his tough characters act’ Clive Cussler, #1 New York Times Bestselling author

‘Chris Kuzneski writes with an energy that is contagious! Action, suspense, mystery, and a biting thread of humor… what more can you ask of a novel?’ James Rollins, USA Today Bestselling author

‘One of those perfect bookstore finds. I was hooked at the first sentence — literally — and from then on, it was one continuous wild ride. Chris Kuzneski flawlessly and seamlessly combines truth and fiction to create a wonderfully entertaining story. He’s the real deal’ John Gilstrap, author of At All Costs and Six Minutes to Freedom

‘An immensely inventive and rewarding thriller packed with enough fascinating information and international intrigue to keep the reader’s brain cells spinning long after the last page is read’ Lewis Perdue, author of Daughter of God

‘Sign of the Cross starts with a bang and twists masterfully through a maze of truth, lies, betrayal, and hope. An intriguing blend of fact, fiction and theory propel this unique story to a tense and exciting conclusion’ Allison Brennan, author of The Kill

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chris Kuzneski attended the University of Pittsburgh, where he played football, wrote for three newspapers, and passed most of his classes. He earned a master’s degree in teaching, then taught English for five years before pursuing a career in writing. His first novel, The Plantation, introduced the characters of Payne and Jones, and received rave reviews. To learn more, please visit his website www.chriskuzneski.com

Sign of the Cross

CHRIS KUZNESKI

1

Acknowledgments

Writing a novel is a difficult task but not nearly as tough as raising a son who wants to be an author. Therefore, I’d like to start off by thanking my mom and dad. There’s no way I would have a writing career if it weren’t for them. They’ve been the key to everything. Somehow they always figured out what I needed (love, support, free food, etc.) and provided it for me. Seriously, I can’t imagine having two better parents.

Professionally, I’d like to thank Scott Miller, my agent at Trident Media. How we teamed up is a remarkable story. He bought a self-published copy of The Plantation (my first Payne amp; Jones novel) in a Philadelphia bookstore and liked it enough to e-mail me. At the time, I had a folder with over one hundred rejection letters from literary agents, yet the best young agent in the business bought my book (at full price) and contacted me. Not only did I get a royalty from his book sale, but I also got the perfect agent. Amazing!

Of course, Scott doesn’t work alone. I’d also like to thank Claire Roberts, who handles all my foreign sales, and the entire staff at Trident Media. You’ve done a remarkable job!

Speaking of jobs, I’d like to thank Berkley for paying me to do something I love. No, not watching football in my boxers. I’m talking about writing books. A huge thanks to Natalee Rosenstein for taking a chance on me. I’m so fortunate to work with an editor who is looking beyond my current project. Instead, she’s hoping to build my career.

On a day-to-day basis, Michelle Vega is the person who I deal with most often at Berkley, and she’s a superstar. In my opinion, she’d make a great game show host because she has the answers to all my questions. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone I’ve ever dealt with at Berkley has been wonderful.

Next, I’d like to thank Pat LoBrutto, Joyce Kuzneski, and Joe Golden for their editing expertise. They helped shorten my 711-page first draft into something readable. Oh, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Ian Harper for answering all my late-night research questions, and Randy Raskin for his computer expertise. You guys are great friends.

Finally, I’d like to thank the dozen or so fans I already have. The first version of The Plantation came out a long time ago, and since then I’ve heard from many of you — mostly to tell me to get off my lazy ass and write another book before Payne amp; Jones die of old age. Man, I wish it was that easy. Unfortunately, the publishing world is a hard one to break into. Over the years, I’ve learned a few lessons (inside joke) and taught a few, too. In the end, I’m hoping Sign of the Cross was worth the wait…

Knowledge is the enemy of faith.

— translated from a stone marker

discovered in Orvieto, Italy

(circa 37 AD)

1

Monday, July 10

Helsingør, Denmark

(thirty miles north of Copenhagen)

Erik Jansen was about to die. He just didn’t know how. Or why.

After saying a short prayer, he lifted his head and tried to regain his bearings but couldn’t see a thing. Salt water burned his eyes and blurred his vision. He tried to wipe his face, but his hands were bound behind him, wrapped in thick layers of rope and attached to the frame of the boat. His legs were secured as well, tied even tighter than his arms, which meant there was no hope for escape. He was at their mercy. Whoever they were.

They had grabbed him as he left his apartment and forced him into the back of a van. Very quiet, very professional. No time for him to make a scene. Within seconds they had knocked him out with a narcotic. He awakened hours later, no longer in the bustling city but on the open sea. Day was now night. His freedom was now gone. His life was nearly over.

Jansen was tempted to scream but knew that would only make things worse. These weren’t the type of men who made mistakes. He could tell. If help was nearby, they would’ve gagged him. Or cut out his tongue. Or both. No way they would’ve risked getting caught. He had known them for less than a day but knew that much. These men were professionals, hired to kill him for some ungodly reason. Now it was just a matter of time.

When their boat reached the shore, Jansen felt the rocks as they scraped against the bottom of the hull. The sound filled the air like a primeval wail, yet none of them seemed to care. It was the middle of the night, and the coast was deserted. No one would come running. No one would come to save him. It was in God’s hands now, as it always was.

Suddenly, one of the men leapt over the side and splashed into the icy water. He grabbed the boat with both hands and eased it onto the narrow beach, just below a footpath. The other three followed his lead, and soon the boat was hidden in the trees that lined this section of the island.

They had traveled over a thousand miles but were just getting started.

Without saying a word, they loosened the ropes and lifted Jansen from the boat, placing him on their broad shoulders for the journey inland. Jansen sensed this might be his last chance to escape, so he flailed back and forth like an angry fish trying to break free of their grasp, yet all he did was upset them. In response they slammed his face into the jagged rocks, breaking his nose, shattering his teeth, and knocking him unconscious. Then they picked him up and carried him to the place where he would die.

One of the men cut off Jansen’s clothes while the others built the cross. It was seven feet wide and ten feet high and made out of African oak. The wood was precut so the planks slid into place with little effort. When they were finished, it looked like a giant T spread across the freshly cut grass. They knew most people would be confused by the shape but not the experts. They would know it was authentic. Just like it was supposed to be. Just like it had been.

In silence they dragged Jansen to the cross and positioned his arms on the patibulum — the horizontal beam — and put his legs on the stipes. Once they were satisfied, the largest of the men took a mallet and drove a wrought-iron spike through Jansen’s right wrist. Blood squirted like a cherry geyser, spraying the worker’s face, but he refused to stop until the nail hit the ground. He repeated the process on Jansen’s left wrist, then moved to his legs.

Since Jansen was unconscious, they were able to place his feet in the proper position: left foot on top of the right, toes pointed downward, which would please their bosses no end. One spike through the arch in both feet, straight through the metatarsals.

Perfect. Simply perfect. Just like it needed to be.

Once Jansen was in place, out came the spear. A long wooden spear. Topped with an iron tip that had been forged to specifications. The largest of the men grabbed it and without blinking an eye rammed it into Jansen’s side. No empathy. No regret. He actually laughed as he cracked Jansen’s ribs and punctured his lung. The other men followed his lead, laughing at the dying man as blood gushed from his side. Laughing like the Romans had so many years before.

The leader checked his watch and smiled. They were still on schedule. Within minutes, they would be back on the boat. Within hours, they would be in a different country.

All that remained was the sign. A hand-painted sign. It would be nailed to the top of the cross, high above the victim’s head. It was their way of claiming responsibility, their way of announcing their intent. It said one thing, one simple phrase. Six words that were known throughout the world. Six words that would doom Christianity and rewrite the word of God.

IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER.

2

El Presidio de Pamplona

(Pamplona Penitentiary)

Pamplona, Spain

The frigid water slammed the prisoner against the stone wall and held him there like it was made of Velcro. That is until the prison guard turned off the fire hose and watched him fall to the floor.

‘¡Hola, Señor Payne! ¡Buenos días!’

‘Buenos días, my ass.’ He had been locked in a cell since Friday, and this was the third morning in a row that they’d used the hose to wake him up.

‘What is wrong?’ the guard asked with a thick accent. ‘Not happy to see me, eh?’

Jonathon Payne climbed off the floor and stretched his six foot four frame. He was in good shape for his mid-thirties, yet all the training in the world couldn’t stop the years from adding up. Throw in some old gunshot wounds and a few football injuries, and getting out of bed was his least favorite part of the day. ‘Oh, it’s not you. I love seeing your two teeth every morning. The thing I can do without is your wake-up call. I go to sleep in Spain and wake up in Niagara Falls.’

The guard shook his head. He was slight of build and ten inches shorter than Payne, but the thick iron bars gave the guard courage. ‘Just like a spoiled American. I go out of my way to shower you in bed and you do nothing but complain. Tomorrow I might skip the hose and wake you with my bullwhip.’

‘Damn, Ricardo. You’re one kinky cop.’

‘What you mean kinky?’

Payne ignored the question and walked to the front of the cell. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but your boss promised me a phone call today. That means the embassy will be here long before you show me your bullwhip and matching leather thong.’

‘Yes, I sure they will drop everything to save you and your friend.’ The guard laughed as he walked down the corridor. Pointing to another inmate, he said, ‘Hey, hombre! You an americano, no?’

‘Me?’ the prisoner asked with a twang. ‘Yes, sirree. I’m from Bullcock, Texas.’

‘And why are you in jail?’

The man blushed slightly. ‘I was caught whizzin’ on one of your streets.’

‘That is right! The Pisser of Pamplona! How I forget about you?’ Laughing harder, the guard pointed toward the man’s crotch. ‘And how long have you and your little señor been in here?’

‘About two weeks.’

‘For pissing in public?’ Payne growled. ‘And the embassy hasn’t helped you yet?’

‘I’m still waiting for ’em to show. They’re down in Madrid, and we’re way up here in Pamplona. I reckon they don’t come this way too often.’

‘Son of a bitch,’ Payne mumbled. He had assumed that he and his best friend, David Jones, would be given their release once the weekend was over. Or, at the very least, someone would explain why they’d been arrested. But his confidence was slowly waning. If the Texan was correct, Payne realized he might have to do something drastic to get out, because there was no way in hell he’d rot in a cell for much longer. Especially since he didn’t do anything wrong.

Three days in jail and still no charges. Three goddamned days.

It had started last week. They were in Pamplona for the Fiesta de San Fermin, better known as the Running of the Bulls. They’d been in town for a couple of days, drinking and sightseeing, when they were ambushed at their hotel. Completely overwhelmed by a surprise attack.

Payne was getting cleaned up for dinner when someone kicked in his door. The local cops. A lot of them. They were there en masse to arrest his ass. They kept mumbling in broken English about something he’d done long ago. Way before his recent trip. None of it made any sense until he glanced down the hall and saw Jones in handcuffs, too. That’s when he realized this must have something to do with their former careers. Their military careers. And if that was the case, then they were screwed. This would become an international incident.

The duo used to run the MANIACs, an elite counterinsurgency team comprised of the best soldiers that the Marines, Army, Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard could find. Whether it was personnel recovery, unconventional warfare, counterguerilla sabotage, or foreign defense, they’d seen more shit than a proctologist. And caused their share of it, too. Clandestine operations all over the globe. Missions that no one else could handle. Or be entrusted with. When they got an assignment, it came straight from the top brass. Right from the Pentagon. And the reason was simple: the less people who knew about the MANIACs, the better. They were the government’s secret weapon. The boogeymen the U.S. wouldn’t admit to. Couldn’t admit to.

And that’s what had Payne worried. If he’d been arrested for something he’d done with the MANIACs, would the Pentagon come to his aid? Could they afford the negative publicity?

So far it had been three days and still no word.

Three days and counting…

3

Orvieto, Italy

(sixty-two miles northwest of Rome)

Dr Charles Boyd dropped his hammer and searched for his canteen. He was in decent shape for a fifty-eight-year-old, but the heat from the floodlights was brutal. Sweat poured off his scalp like rain.

‘Good heavens!’ he complained.

Maria Pelati smiled but kept working. She was half her professor’s age and possessed twice the energy. And while he suffered in the traditional garb of an archaeologist — khaki pants, cotton shirt, hiking shoes — she wore a T-shirt and shorts.

They’d spent the past few days together burrowing into the 900-foot plateau that lifted Orvieto high above the vineyards of the Paglia Valley, a location so impenetrable that it was used as a safe haven by the popes of the Middle Ages. Papal documents prove that the Italian popes transformed Orvieto into the vacation Vatican, their home away from home during the most tumultuous era in the history of the Roman Catholic Church. Sadly, papal scribes were banned from describing any specifics for fear that their descriptions could be used by their enemies to plan an attack. Still, that didn’t stop rumors from spreading.

According to legend there was supposed to be a city built underneath the city — the Catacombs of Orvieto — which was used to store the Church’s most important documents and protect its most precious artifacts. Most experts dismissed the Catacombs as a fairy tale, the creation of a drunk monk from the fourteenth century. But not Dr Boyd. Not only did he believe in their existence, he used all of his free time to search for them.

‘Professore? When I was little, my father used to speak of the Catacombs, though he never talked about them in real terms. He always considered them to be like Atlantis.’ Pelati took a deep breath and brushed the hair out of her eyes, something she did when she was nervous. ‘Well, sir, I was wondering, why are you sure that the Catacombs exist?’

He held her gaze for several seconds, then eased the tension with a half smile. ‘Trust me, my dear, you aren’t the first person to question me. I mean, who in their right mind would waste their time searching for the Catacombs? I might as well be fishing for the Loch Ness Monster.’

She laughed. ‘Just so you know, it’s probably cooler near Loch Ness.’

‘And just so you know, I’m not the least bit crazy.’

‘I never said that you were.’

‘But you’ve considered it. You’d be crazy if you didn’t.’

She brushed the hair out of her eyes again. ‘There’s a very fine line between genius and insanity, and I’ve never seen you cross that line… Of course, you are rather elusive. You still haven’t told me about the Catacombs yet.’

‘Ah, yes, the Catacombs. Tell me, my dear, what do you know about the Roman Empire?’

‘The Roman Empire?’ she asked, puzzled. ‘I know quite a bit, I guess.’

Without saying another word, he handed her a series of documents from his fanny pack, then took a seat in the shadows of the rear wall, waiting for the reaction that he knew would come. ‘Santa Maria!’ she shrieked. ‘This is Roman!’

‘Hence my question about the Empire. I thought I made that rather clear?’

Pelati shook her head, then returned her attention to the documents. At first glance they seemed to illustrate an elaborate system of tunnels that were hidden underneath the streets of Orvieto, yet it wasn’t the maps or the illustrations that perplexed her but rather the language itself. The document was handwritten in a form of Latin that she was unable to translate.

‘Is this authentic?’ she demanded.

‘That depends on your perspective. You’re holding a photocopy of a scroll that I found in England. The photocopy is obviously fake. The original is quite real.’

‘In England? You found the scroll in England?’

‘Why is that so surprising? Julius Caesar spent some time there. So did Emperor Claudius.’

‘But what does that have to do with the Catacombs? I mean, the popes came to Orvieto a thousand years after the fall of Rome. How could this be related?’

Pelati knew that Pope Gregory XI died of natural causes in 1378, leaving a vacancy that was filled by Pope Urban VI. Many cardinals claimed that he was improperly selected, and they demanded a second election. When the next outcome differed, the Catholic Church severed, splitting into two factions, with each supporting a different pope. Italy, Germany, and most of northern Europe recognized Urban VI, while France and Spain supported Clement VII.

This rivalry, known as the Great Schism of the West, divided Catholicism for almost forty years and in the process put the papal courts in danger — not only from outsiders but from each other. For that reason, the Italian popes spent much of their time in Orvieto, which was virtually impervious to attack because of its location on the plateau. And it was there, in the depths of the tufa stone, that the legendary Catacombs were supposedly built.

Boyd smiled at the confused look on his pupil’s face. Refusing to make it easy on her, he said, ‘Tell me, my dear, have you ever been to the Roman ruins in Bath?’

She growled in frustration. ‘No, sir. Why do you ask?’

‘Ah,’ he sighed, remembering the quaint town on the River Avon. ‘There you are in the middle of the English countryside, yet you’re surrounded by relics from ancient Rome. It seems so surreal. Do you know what the most amazing thing is? The baths still work. The warm springs still bubble up from the ground, and the architecture still stands proud. Ancient pillars rising to the heavens from the magical waters below. It is somewhat amazing, if you think about it.’

Confused by his tale, Pelati grimaced. ‘Not to be rude, but what are you implying?’

‘Think about it, my dear. The popes of the 1300s used the Catacombs for protection. However, that doesn’t mean that they built them. The ancient Romans were well ahead of their time. Correct? I figure if they were able to build bathhouses that still work two thousand years later, then they certainly could’ve built some tunnels that were still standing seven hundred years ago.’

‘Wait! So that’s why there were no records of their construction. They were already in place when the pope came to town?’

He nodded, pointing to the documents in her hand. ‘When I found the original scroll, I assumed it was a hoax. I mean, how could it possibly be real? Then I had it tested, and the results were conclusive. The scroll predated the Schism by more than a thousand years, proving once and for all that the Catacombs actually existed. Furthermore, they weren’t built for the popes of the Middle Ages. They were built by the ancient Romans.’

‘A date,’ she demanded. ‘Do you have an exact date for the scroll?’

‘As you know, carbon dating isn’t that specific. The best I could come up with was an era.’ Boyd took a sip of water, trying to prolong the suspense. ‘According to my tests, the Catacombs of Orvieto were built during the life of Christ.’

4

Nearly 300,000 tourists flock to Kronborg Castle every year, but none of them had ever seen this before. And those that saw it wished they hadn’t.

By the time Erik Jansen was discovered, his torso was grayish white, and his legs were light purple, caused by postmortem lividity. Birds dined on his flesh like a country buffet.

A group of students spotted Jansen across the courtyard and assumed that he was a historical exhibit. So they walked closer, marveling at all the wonderful little details that made him seem lifelike: the color of his flesh, the horror on his face, the texture of his sandy-brown hair as it blew in the wind.

They crowded around him, begging to have their picture taken with the display. That is until one of them felt a drop. A single drop. That was all it took. One drop of blood and chaos erupted. Kids were wailing. Parents were screaming. Teachers scurried for help.

The local police were called to the scene but were in over their heads. They were used to car accidents and petty crimes, not murders. Certainly nothing of this magnitude. Yet that was to be expected in a quiet place like Helsingør. It sat on the northwestern coast of Sjaelland Island across the øresund from Hälsingborg, Sweden, away from the city life of Copenhagen. The last time anyone was brutally killed here was back in 1944, and that had been done by the Nazis.

Still, they shouldn’t have made the mistakes that they made. Some of them were inexcusable.

The first squad arrived by boat, landing on the same shore as the killers. Since the castle’s beach was private, the cops should’ve cordoned off the area, protecting all the information that was scattered in front of them. Clues about the murder. The number of assailants. Their approximate sizes. Their time of departure. All of it was there in the sand, just waiting to be found. But not for very long, because the commanding officer failed to think ahead, opting to sprint across the beach like a soldier at Normandy, soon followed by the rest of his men.

In a flash, the evidence was buried.

Of course, their next error was far worse. The type of screwup that occurs when people are crying, sirens are blaring, and there’s no time to think. When the cops reached the body, they heard the story about the dripping blood and assumed that Jansen was still alive. His temperature should’ve told them otherwise. Same with the color of his skin. But as it was, they ripped the cross out of the ground, hoping to bring him back to life with CPR, yet all they managed to do was destroy evidence. Crucial evidence. The kind of evidence that could’ve stopped the killers before they could strike again.

Ironically, their effort to save a life guaranteed that others would be killed.

Nick Dial was an American, and that made him very unpopular in certain parts of the globe. So did his career. He ran the newly formed Homicide Division at Interpol (International Criminal Police Organization), the largest international crime-fighting organization in the world, which meant he dealt with death all over the globe.

Simply put, he coordinated the flow of information between police departments anytime a murder investigation crossed national boundaries. All told he was in charge of 179 different countries — filled with billions of people and dozens of languages — yet had a budget that was dwarfed by an American school district.

One of the biggest misconceptions about Interpol is their role in stopping crime. They rarely send agents to investigate a case. Instead they have local offices called National Central Bureaus in all the member countries, and the NCBs monitor their territory and report pertinent information to Interpol’s headquarters in Lyon, France. From there the facts are entered into a central database that can be accessed via the Interpol’s computer network. Fingerprints, DNA, terrorist updates, the works. All of it available twenty-four hours a day.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t always enough. Sometimes the head of a division (Drugs, Counterfeiting, Terrorism, etc.) was forced to hop on a plane and take control of a case. Possibly to cut through red tape. Or to handle a border dispute. Or to deal with the media. All the things that Nick Dial hated to do. He figured in his line of work the only thing that really mattered was justice. Correcting a wrong in the fairest way possible. That was his motto, the creed that he lived by. He figured if he did that, then all the other bullshit would take care of itself.

Dial arrived in Helsingør in the late afternoon. He didn’t know much about the case — other than someone had been crucified and the president of Interpol wanted him there — but that was the way he preferred it. He liked forming conclusions based on personal observations, instead of relying on secondhand information.

Most investigators would’ve rushed to examine the body, but that wasn’t the way Dial worked. He preferred to understand his surroundings before he dealt with the crime, especially when he was in an unfamiliar country. If the murder had been committed in France, he would’ve gone right to the corpse because he had lived there for the past ten years and knew how French people thought.

But here, he was a little unsure of the landscape. He needed to understand Denmark — and Danes in general — before he could understand the crime. So instead of studying the victim, Dial headed down a long corridor and searched for someone to talk to. Not to interrogate, but someone to chat with. Someone to give him the lay of the land. It took three attempts until he found someone who spoke English.

‘Excuse me,’ he said as he flashed his Interpol badge. ‘May I ask you a few questions?’

The man nodded, half intimidated by Dial’s credentials and half by his stare. Dial was in his early forties and had a face that looked like it was chiseled out of granite. Clean lines, thick cheekbones, green eyes. Short black hair with just a hint of gray. Not overly handsome, yet manly as hell. Black stubble covered his features even though it wasn’t enough to conceal his chin. His massive, movie-star chin. It sat at the bottom of his face like a tribute to Kirk Douglas.

‘So, what’s a guy have to do to get a cup of coffee around here?’

The man smiled and led Dial into a tiny office. Work schedules and pictures of Kronborg decorated the walls. A metal desk sat in the corner. Dial took a seat just inside the door and was handed a mug of coffee. ‘So, I take it you work here?’

‘For over forty years. I’m the senior tour guide.’

Dial grinned. He had hit the jackpot. ‘You know, I’ve traveled all over the world to every continent on the globe, but I’ve never seen a country like this. Denmark is simply gorgeous.’

The man beamed with pride. ‘It’s the best-kept secret in Europe.’

‘Well, if I promise to keep my mouth shut, will you tell me about it?’

Their conversation went on for ten minutes, filled with the facts and figures about the area. Dial spoke every once in a while, gently steering the conversation in the direction he wanted, but for the most part kept quiet. ‘Out of curiosity,’ he asked, ‘what type of tourists do you get?’

‘Mostly people between the ages of forty and sixty, equal mix of men and women. Though we tend to get a lot of students during the school year.’

‘What about nationalities? Are most of your tourists from Denmark?’

He shook his head. ‘Just the opposite. Most of them are from the surrounding countries. Sweden, Germany, Austria, Norway. We get a lot of Brits because of Shakespeare.’

‘Shakespeare? What does he have to do with anything?’

‘You mean you don’t know?’

Dial shook his head, even though he was very aware of the Shakespearean connection. Of course he wasn’t about to tell the tour guide that. Better to play dumb and get the story from him.

‘Shakespeare’s Hamlet takes place in the castle at Elsinore.’

‘Elsinore? Is that somewhere around here?’

‘You’re in Elsinore! Elsinore is Helsingør. Hamlet took place here! Sometimes we even give performances in the courtyard. You should stop by and see one.’

Dial grimaced. ‘Nah. I’m not much of a theater fan. More of a sports guy myself… But for the sake of my investigation, let me ask you something. Does anyone die in Hamlet?’

‘Good heavens, yes! The whole play is about murder and revenge.’

‘That’s kind of interesting, considering recent events. I wonder if there’s a connection?’

The man looked around, paranoid, then lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Of course there’s a connection. There has to be. Why would someone dump a body here if there wasn’t?’

Dial stood from his chair, finally ready to examine the crime scene. ‘That’s what I need to figure out.’

5

Maria figured it was an illusion caused by poor lighting. All of that changed when she put her hand on the stone. Its texture was too perfect to be natural. ‘Professore? Do you have a minute?’

Boyd crossed the grotto, stepping over the tangle of power cords and dusty tools that were scattered about the floor. Maria was staring at the wall, so he turned in that direction. In an instant he knew what it was, and the realization made his knees buckle.

Over a span of three feet, the cave went from rough to smooth to rough again, like someone had taken a giant piece of sandpaper and rubbed it against the wall. He reached out, half afraid, worried that the floodlights were playing tricks on his weary eyes. The sleek surface proved that they weren’t. ‘Quick! Hand me my gun.’

The gun was Boyd’s nickname for his handheld blower, a small archaeological device that he used during excavations. Approximately the size of a cell phone, the gun contained a small cartridge of oxygen that blew dirt out of the tiny crevices and did less damage than a sharp tool. Boyd cleaned the surface of the wall using a paintbrush in one hand and his gun in the other. Rubble fell to his feet like heavy rain, causing tiny wisps of dust to float into the air. A few minutes later the outline of a three-foot square began to take shape in the middle of the cave.

‘Yes, I do believe you have found something.’

Maria squealed with delight. ‘I knew it! I knew that rock looked different!’

After clearing three sides of the seam — upper, left, and right — Boyd was able to measure the stone slab: thirty-seven and a half inches square by five and a half inches deep. Maria dragged one of the lights closer and tried to peer through the corners, but the cave wall had a back lip that prevented it.

‘Professore, what do you think it is? It’s too small to be a door, isn’t it?’

Boyd finished writing in his binder. ‘Drainage, perhaps? Maybe an aqueduct? Once we see what’s on the other side, I’m sure we’ll have a better idea.’

Boyd handed her a crowbar. ‘And since you found the stone, I think you should have the privilege of removing it.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered as she slipped the bar in the seam. ‘This means a lot to me, sir. I actually feel like we’re a team.’

‘Now don’t be surprised if you need my help. Stones like this can be rather stubborn. I recall one time in Scotland when — ’

A loud thud echoed through the chamber as the massive rock crashed to the floor. The two archaeologists glanced at each other in disbelief, then lowered their gaze to the giant slab that sat at their feet. ‘Good Lord!’ Boyd said. ‘Have you been taking steroids?’

Confused, he dropped to his knees and examined the stone that had practically jumped from the wall. He tried to push the block on its side but was unable to budge it. ‘Then how in God’s good name did you manage that? This thing weighs a ton. And that’s not a hyperbole, my dear. This thing literally weighs a ton!’

‘I don’t know. I barely put any pressure on it. I just put the crowbar in and… pop!’

Boyd realized engineers in ancient Rome were advanced for their time. However, he couldn’t figure out why they would build a wall where one of the stones could be knocked out of place with such minimal effort. Perhaps, he thought, it was an escape tunnel.

‘Excuse me, Professore?’

He blinked, then turned his attention to his assistant. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I was lost in thought. Did you need something?’

Maria nodded. ‘I wanted to know if we could go inside now.’

Boyd’s face turned a bright shade of red. ‘Good Lord! How silly of me. Here I am, pondering the significance of this bloody stone when we’re on the verge of…’ He took a deep breath. ‘Yes, by all means, let’s venture inside.’

The passageway was narrow, giving them just enough room to enter. Boyd went first, then waited for Maria to pass him his equipment. When her arm finally appeared, he snatched the flashlight and struggled to find the power button. The powerful beam overwhelmed the blackness, shattering the sanctity of the holy grounds for the first time in years, exposing the high-arched ceiling and the colorful murals that adorned the smooth walls.

‘My Lord,’ he gasped in amazement. ‘My sweet Lord!’

Seconds later, Maria squeezed through the hole while carrying a video camera. She had no idea what Boyd was gaping at but was determined to capture it on tape. At least that was the plan. But, the moment she stepped inside the chamber she was so overwhelmed by the artwork that she dropped the camera to her side. ‘Santa Maria!’

Stunned, she spun in a small circle, trying to soak in everything at once. The vaulted roof was typical of the ancient Roman era, allowing the majority of the ceiling’s weight to be supported by the chamber’s four walls. Despite this classical approach, the chamber still utilized a series of four Tuscan columns, one placed in each corner for architectural decoration.

In between each pillar, starting just below the arched ceiling, was a series of four religious frescoes, each depicting a different scene from the Bible. The showcased piece of the group appeared to be the life of an unknown saint, for it was twice as large as the others and was centered on the right wall directly behind a stone altar.

‘What is this place?’ she whispered.

Boyd continued to gaze around the room, amazed that he’d found the mythical vaults. ‘The basic design looks similar to many buildings built during the peak of the Roman Empire, but the paintings on the walls are much more recent — perhaps fifteenth or sixteenth century.’

He paused, staring at the frescoes. ‘Maria, do they look familiar to you?’

She strolled forward, studying the colorful scenes as she moved about the chamber. She had no idea what he was referring to, but that didn’t stop her. She carefully eyed the paintings, trying to find the common thread that would unite them. ‘Oh my Lord! I have seen these before! These murals are in the Sistine Chapel.’

‘Exactly!’ Boyd applauded. ‘Adam and Eve, the flood, Noah’s ark. The three main subjects of Michelangelo’s ceiling. In fact, these frescoes look remarkably similar to his.’

Maria glanced from picture to picture. ‘They do possess his flair, don’t they?’

‘I almost hate to say this without any tangible proof, yet… I wonder if Michelangelo actually did these himself.’

Her eyes doubled in size. ‘You’re joking, right? You actually think he painted these?’

Boyd nodded. ‘Think about it, Maria. This place served as a second Vatican for decades. When the Great Schism occurred, the Italian popes came to Orvieto for protection. At the time the Church was in such disarray the papal council actually considered moving the Vatican here permanently. They felt this was the only place that could offer them adequate protection.’

Maria grinned. ‘And if the Vatican was going to be moved, the popes would want the right decorations for the new home of the Catholic Church.’

‘Exactly! And if the pope wanted Michelangelo to do the decorating, then Michelangelo did the decorating.’ Boyd chuckled as he remembered a story about the famous artist. ‘Did you know that Michelangelo didn’t want anything to do with the Sistine Chapel? Rumor has it that Julius II, the pope at the time, bullied him into doing the project. Once beating him with a cane, and once threatening to kill Michelangelo by tossing him off the scaffolding… Not exactly the type of behavior you’d expect from a pope, is it?’

She shook her head. ‘Do you think he forced Michelangelo to do these, too?’

Boyd considered her question. ‘If my memory is correct, the last pope to stay here was Pope Clement VII during Spain’s attack on Rome in 1527. I believe Michelangelo did the Sistine Chapel about twenty years before then, meaning he would’ve had plenty of time to duplicate his scenes on these walls before his death.’

‘Or,’ Maria deadpanned, ‘someone could have done these first, and Michelangelo might have copied them back at the Vatican.’

A flash of excitement crossed Boyd’s face. ‘My dear, you have a bloody good point there! If these were done before the others, then the Sistine Chapel would be nothing more than an imitation. Goodness me! Can you imagine the flak we’d get if we proved that Michelangelo was a forger? We’d never hear the end of it!’

Maria laughed, knowing her dad would have a stroke if she were involved in something like that. ‘That does have controversy written all over it. Doesn’t it?’

Although the concept was controversial, it paled in comparison to things that they were about to discover deeper inside the Catacombs.

While Maria filmed the artwork, Dr Boyd crept down the three stone steps on the left side of the chamber. At the bottom he turned to his right and peered into darkness.

Amazingly, he saw a series of open tombs so great in number that they faded into the depths of the corridor beyond the reach of his light. The ceiling soared above him to a height of over fifty feet and was lined on both sides by an intricate system of niches, built to hold the skeletal remains of the dead. These loculi were cut into the tufaceous walls in straight rows, each rectangle measuring six feet across — just big enough for a body.

‘This is stunning,’ he gasped. ‘Simply stunning!’

Maria hustled after him and focused the camera on one of the unmarked graves. She hoped to get a better view of the long passageway, but it was far too narrow for her to slip past Boyd — no more than three feet from wall to wall.

‘Tell me, Maria, what do you see?’

She smiled. ‘I see dead people.’

But Boyd missed her reference to The Sixth Sense. ‘So do I. Don’t you think that’s strange?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why can we see the bodies? Per custom, most loculi were sealed with tiles and mortar after the dead were placed inside. Others were covered with a marble slab. But I’ve never seen this before. Why would they leave the bodies exposed?’

She frowned, thinking of the Catacombs of Saint Callixtus in Rome. They were built by Christians in the middle of the second century and encompassed an area of ninety acres, with four levels and more than twelve miles of galleries.

When she was ten, she toured the ruins on a school trip, an experience that she loved so much that she rushed home and told her parents that she wanted to be an archaeologist. Her mom smiled and told her she could be whatever she wanted as long as she worked hard. But it was an answer that didn’t set well with dad. When he finished laughing, he stared Maria in the eyes and told her, in all seriousness, to give up her dreams and concentrate on finding a husband.

It was a moment that she’d never forget. Or forgive.

‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ she said, ‘but aren’t the Christian tombs at Saint Callixtus open-air as well? I remember seeing a lot of holes in the walls.’

‘You saw holes, but no bodies. It was the custom of early Christians to wrap their dead in a shroud before they sealed it inside the loculi. The holes that you’re referring to were cracked open by looters and scholars. But that’s not the case down here. If you look — ’

Boyd stopped in midsentence, his attention suddenly focused on the passageway ahead. Something was wrong. The corridor stretched into the darkness, snaking through the stone like a black viper. He tried to see the end of the hall but couldn’t. Shadows danced around him, cast by human hands that dangled from their graves like they were reaching for his light. As though his presence had somehow stirred them from their centuries of slumber. In a moment of panic, he stepped backward into one of their outstretched hands and felt icy-cold fingers against the back of his leg. Terror sprang from his lips, soon followed by a shriek from Maria.

‘What happened!’ she demanded. ‘What’s wrong? Did you see something?’

Boyd took a deep breath and laughed, completely embarrassed. ‘I am so sorry… I just scared myself silly.’ His face turned a shade of red. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. Truly I didn’t. I’m just jumpy. That’s all… I just bumped into a hand, and it startled me.’

‘A hand? You bumped into a hand? Good lord, professore! You almost gave me a stroke.’

‘Trust me, I know the feeling. I almost had one myself.’

Maria put her hand on her chest and closed her eyes. Her heart felt like a jackhammer pounding against her rib cage. She took a deep breath, trying to cope with the rush of adrenaline. ‘You’re sure you’re all right?’

He nodded sheepishly. ‘Yes, my dear, I swear.’

‘Then let’s get moving. I need to burn off all this energy.’

They traveled together for several seconds, passing grave after unmarked grave, never stopping to examine the bodies. They were still too jumpy to do that. Thirty yards later, the corridor split in two. The path on the left led to a stairwell that slowly curled into the darkness below. The hallway on the right continued forward past hundreds of more bodies.

Boyd turned to Maria. ‘Lady’s choice.’

‘Let’s go downstairs. I hear there’s a wonderful gift shop in the basement.’

He nodded, then started down the steps. They were no more than six inches deep — perfect for the feet of yesteryear but small for the modern-day traveler — which forced Boyd to lower himself sideways. To steady his descent, he used the jutting stones in the walls as a handrail.

At the halfway point, he stopped and turned toward the camera. ‘I believe we’re under the upper hallway now, more than twenty feet down. What an incredible achievement, carving this much rock yet keeping it hidden from the outside world. Simply remarkable!’

She asked, ‘Do you think the Empire built these stairs, or was it done in the Middle Ages?’

He paused, soaking in everything — the vaulted ceilings, the high arches, the colors, the smells, the sounds — before he answered. ‘My guess would be the Empire. The shallowness of the steps is the first clue, followed by the basic design. It’s very typical of the ancients.’

Smiling, Boyd continued forward at a methodical pace. Normally he would’ve zipped down the stairs at top speed, but the heat of the outer chamber had sapped his strength. Combine that with a lack of food and sleep, and he was lucky to be standing.

‘Professore? What do you think is down here?’

He was about to answer when the hallway came into view, stretching out before him like an arroyo. No crypts, no graves, no doors. Just an empty corridor for as far as his eye could see.

‘Strange,’ he mumbled. ‘I feel like we’re in a different world down here.’

Maria nodded. ‘It looks like it was decorated by the Amish.’

Boyd ignored her comment and crept down the hall searching for clues. Fifty feet later, he spotted a stone plaque on the left-hand wall. Its color was the same shade of brown as the rest of the passageway, yet its surface was remarkably different. Without saying a word, Boyd ran to it, immediately placing his hands on its cold surface. Then, like a blind man reading, he slid his fingers across it, probing the shallow grooves with slow, tender strokes.

Maria stood back, confused by his strange behavior. She wanted to ask him what the hell was going on, why he was acting more bizarre than he normally did, but all it took was a single glance and she knew the answer. One look at his face and everything made sense.

Her mentor, the one man she actually trusted and believed in, was hiding something.

6

Walking to the shore near the rear of the castle grounds, Nick Dial realized the Danish police would never solve the case. Unless, of course, there was a witness that he didn’t know about or a security camera that had inadvertently taped the crime. Otherwise the cops’ methods were too sloppy to nail anyone. No pun intended. Not only had they moved the body, but they had done very little to protect the integrity of the crime scene.

In a perfect world, they would’ve sealed off the entire area, building temporary barriers that would’ve kept people out and cut down on the gusts of wind that blew in from the sound. Instead, officers strolled across the beach like they were on vacation, kicking up sand and blatantly ignoring the rules of evidence.

‘Excuse me, are you Mr Dial?’

Dial turned to his right and stared at a well-dressed woman who was heading his way. She pulled out her badge and held it up for him to scrutinize.

‘Yeah, I’m Dial,’ he finally said.

‘I’m Annette Nielson from the NCB in Copenhagen. I was the agent who phoned in the initial report this morning.’

Dial shook her hand and smiled, half surprised that the local field office had sent a woman to handle such a high-profile case. Not that he had anything against female investigators, because he didn’t, but he knew most executives at Interpol were far less open-minded than he. ‘Nice to meet you, Annette. Please call me Nick.’

She nodded and pulled out her notepad. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been trying to get the local chief to talk to me. He keeps making excuses, though.’

Typical, Dial thought to himself. ‘What can you tell me about the victim?’

‘Caucasian male, mid-thirties, no tattoos or piercings. Death occurred sometime this morning, probably around dawn. Puncture wounds in his hands, feet, and rib cage. Severe damage to his face and mouth. Leads us to believe that he was beaten into submission.’

‘Do we have a name?’

She shrugged. ‘The locals took his prints, but I don’t know if they have the results yet.’

‘Point of access?’

‘Best guess is the beach. The front of the castle is well-lit and guarded. So is the interior. Unfortunately, by the time I got here, the locals had covered any footprints with their own.’

‘Number of assailants?’

‘Multiple. The cross is too heavy for just one.’

‘Anything else?’

‘They left a note.’

‘They left a what? Show it to me.’

She led him to the cross, which sat in the lawn near the edge of the sand. The body was nowhere to be found. ‘The note was painted on a walnut sign and affixed to the top of the cross with a long spike driven vertically.’

Dial read the message aloud. ‘IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER.’

He kneeled next to the sign for a closer look. The letters were five inches high and hand-painted in red. Very neatly done. Like the killer had taken calligraphy lessons in his spare time. Right before his advanced course in woodworking. ‘I’m assuming this isn’t blood.’

‘Red paint,’ she concurred. ‘We’re tracking down the shade and the manufacturer. Who knows? We might find a bucket of it in a nearby Dumpster.’

‘I doubt it. This sign wasn’t made around here. The killers brought it with them.’

‘Why do you say that?’

Dial put his nose next to the board and took a whiff. ‘Three reasons. One, the sign is dry, which wouldn’t be the case if they’d painted it this morning. There’s too much moisture along the shore for anything to dry quickly. Two, if they’d painted it around here, they would’ve made a mess. The wind would’ve been whipping across the beach causing sand to stick to the paint like a magnet. No way they did it out here. It’s too neat.’

‘And three?’

He stood from his crouch and grimaced, knowing that this was the first of several victims yet to come. ‘The sign was just the icing. The killer’s way of taunting us. His real work of art was the victim, the way he killed the guy. That’s the thing we need to focus on.’

The sound of clapping emerged from behind, followed by a mock ‘Bravo!’

Dial took a deep breath and turned. There was no doubt in his mind that it was the local chief of police because he had dealt with this type of idiot many times before, and it was always the same. They taunted Dial because he was an Interpol big shot who was infringing on their so-called turf. Then, once they got it out of their system, he made a phone call to their immediate supervisor, and they were forced to kiss Dial’s ass — usually in a very public ceremony — and cater to his every whim for the rest of the week.

But Dial just wasn’t in the mood today. Not for some dipshit who didn’t know how to run a crime scene. So instead of letting the guy speak, Dial whirled around as quick as he could and charged toward him like an angry rhinoceros. ‘Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been looking for you for the last half hour, but you’ve been too scared to show yourself.’

‘Excuse me?’

Dial whipped out his badge and shoved it in the guy’s round, bloated face. ‘If you’re the man in charge, then you’re the guy who’s been avoiding me.’

‘No one told me — ’

‘What? That Interpol was involved in this case? I find that hard to believe since Agent Nielson has been here all morning. According to her, your staff has been anything but helpful.’

The chief looked at Nielson, then back at Dial, trying to think of something clever to say. But Dial refused to give him a chance. He had heard all of the excuses before and wasn’t about to listen to them again. Time was too precious in a case like this.

‘And don’t even start with your jurisdiction bullshit. The victim was brought in through the sound, and half of that water belongs to Sweden, meaning this is an international case. International means Interpol, and Interpol means me. You got that? Me! That means you need to get off your ass and tell me everything I need to know, or I swear to God I’ll call every reporter in Europe and tell them that you’re the reason that this case hasn’t been solved yet.’

The man blinked a few times, stunned. Like he had never been on this end of an ass-chewing.

‘Oh yeah,’ Dial added, ‘one more thing. Once I hop on my plane and get out of this godforsaken country, I expect you and your staff to treat Agent Nielson with the utmost respect. She works for Interpol, which means she’s an extension of me. Got it?’

The chief nodded at Nielson, then returned his gaze to Dial.

‘So, what have you got for me, Slim? You’ve wasted enough of my time already.’

The chief hemmed and hawed for a few seconds, searching for something to say. ‘We got word on the victim. His name was Erik Jansen, a thirty-two-year-old from Finland.’

‘Finland? That’s a thousand miles away. Why in the world was he in Denmark?’

The chief shrugged. ‘Our customs office has no record of him being here. Not ever.’

‘Annette,’ Dial said, ‘call headquarters and find out where he’s been during the last year.’

She nodded and hit the button on her speed dial.

‘Chief, while she’s on the phone, let me ask you a question. Where’s the body?’

‘We moved it to the morgue.’

‘Before or after you photographed the scene?’

‘Well,’ he muttered, ‘my men tried to revive the victim. And the quickest way to do that was to pull the cross out of the ground.’

Dial grimaced. ‘Please tell me you took some pictures before you pried him off the beams?’

The chief nodded and ran off to get the photos; at least that’s what he said he was doing. The truth was, he was looking for an excuse to get away from Dial and had no plans of coming back until he regained his composure. But that was fine with Dial because it left him in charge of the entire scene and prevented the chief from hearing a key piece of information that Agent Nielson had just acquired from Interpol.

‘Rome,’ she said. ‘Jansen has been living in Rome for the past eight years, not Finland.’

‘Rome? What in the world was he doing there?’

‘Our victim was a priest who worked at the Vatican.’

7

The last time Payne had seen Jones was when they were being arrested. From there both of them were taken to the penitentiary in separate squad cars, stripped of their clothes and possessions, and locked in cells on opposite sides of the building. Mostly for the protection of the staff.

That was Friday, nearly seventy-two hours before.

Payne was on his cot, pondering his next move, when a team of guards interrupted him. They burst into his cell and chained his hands and legs together with a device that looked like it was from Cool Hand Luke. The men were of average size and training. That meant Payne could’ve gotten free if necessary. But he let things slide, allowing them to drag him to an isolation room where he assumed he was going to be interrogated. Or tortured. Or both.

In the center of the room was a metal table bolted to the floor. A large iron loop was fused to each side, used to restrict the movement of the prisoner. The guards locked Payne in place, taking extra precautions, making sure he was secure. They had to be careful with a prisoner like Payne. He was that dangerous. Once they were satisfied, they left the room without speaking. No words. No instructions. Nothing. The only sound Payne could hear was the rattle of his chains and his own shallow breathing. The distinct smell of old vomit hovered in the air.

They left him like that for several hours, allowing him to sweat. Allowing him to think of all the horrible things they could do to him. Hoping it would make him break. Little did they know they were wasting their time. They could do whatever they wanted to Payne, and he wouldn’t feel it. He was trained not to feel it. To join the MANIACs, soldiers were required to pass a rigorous torture test that had two basic parts: getting torture and giving torture. Payne excelled at both.

So instead of dwelling on what might happen, Payne focused on other things. Mostly events of the past few years. All the things that had led him to his current predicament.

Sadly, family duties had forced him to leave the military long before he was ready. His grandfather, the man who had raised him, passed away and left him the family business. A multimillion-dollar corporation named Payne Industries. In truth Payne wanted no part of that world. It was one of the reasons he had gone into the military, to avoid such obligations. He wanted to forge his own identity and make a name on his own. He wanted to be his own man. But all that changed when his grandfather died. Suddenly he felt obligated to come home and take charge. Like it was his destiny. His burden.

Payne Industries was an American success story. It was his duty to protect the legacy.

When Payne’s grandfather was young, he scraped together his life savings and started a small manufacturing company near the Ohio River. The steel industry was booming back then, and Pittsburgh was its capital. The air was black and the rivers were brown, but he got tons of business. One minute he was a mill Hunky from Beaver County, the next he was a tycoon. The most successful Polish American in the history of the U.S.

Now everything — the company, the land, the wealth — belonged to the grandson.

Someone without experience.

Payne knew he was out of his element. So he passed his duties to his board of directors and focused all of his time and energy on charity work. His first charity? It wasn’t actually a charity. It was more of an investment. He gave David Jones, who had retired from the military at the same time, enough start-up capital to open his own business. It had always been Jones’s dream to run a detective agency, and Payne had the means to help. So he figured, why not? After his grandfather died, Payne knew the only family he had left was Jones.

Of course, since Payne was white and Jones was black, they looked nothing alike.

Anyway, the first year Payne was happy. He raised money for the Mario Lemieux Cancer Fund and other Pittsburgh charities while Jones scoured the city for clients. Occasionally Payne gave Jones a hand on the juicy cases, but for the most part they did their own thing.

By year two, Payne started getting antsy. He loved helping good causes, but he needed more out of life than hosting golf tournaments and mingling at black-tie affairs. He missed the excitement of the MANIACs. The adrenaline rush he got when he risked his life. The thrill of getting his hands dirty. He couldn’t get those things in the business world, not when the worst injury he could receive was a paper cut. So Payne compensated by helping Jones all the time. The two of them partnered again. Making a difference in the world. Albeit on a much smaller scale than before. They used to rescue hostages. They used to overthrow governments. Now they were tracking cheating husbands and looking for lost pets. It was a huge letdown for both men.

So they did what they could in their spare time, searching for artificial excitement wherever they could find it. Anything to get the buzz they used to feel. To help them keep their edge. To help them feel alive. Swimming with the sharks in Australia. Race car driving in Brazil. Skydiving in South Africa. Deep-sea explorations in Florida.

And lastly, running with the bulls in Spain. That’s what had brought them to Pamplona.

Unfortunately, it’s the event that led to their current predicament. Abandoned in jail. Alone.

They had come to Spain for adrenaline. They had found incarceration instead.

8

Maria had no proof, but she knew that Boyd was keeping something from her. Typical man, she thought. They never trusted women with the important stuff.

‘Come on,’ she begged, ‘what does the sign say?’

Boyd laughed as he walked away from the stone plaque. ‘You mean you don’t know? Tsk, tsk, tsk. I could’ve sworn that Latin was one of your academic requirements.’

‘Yeah, but that didn’t look like regular Latin to me.’

‘Perhaps because it wasn’t. That sign was written in one of the earlier forms of the language, one that hasn’t been used as a primary language in nearly two millennia.’

‘See! That’s why I… Wait! Does that mean that this floor was built by ancient Rome?’

Boyd nodded. ‘It appears that way. I doubt they would have used antiquated language on one of their markers, not in a tomb of this magnitude.’ He pointed to a large archway that loomed down the narrow corridor. ‘We’ll know for sure in a moment.’

Made out of off-white masonry, the main components of the arch were exquisitely carved, each illustrating a different moment of Jesus Christ’s crucifixion. The two lowest blocks, the springers, showed Jesus being nailed to the cross and being lifted above the ground by a team of Roman soldiers. The next series of stones, the voussoirs, depicted Christ as he hung from the cross, his life and stamina slowly slipping away. The crowns, the two stones that sat off-center from the top of the arch, revealed the events right before Jesus’s death. First, when he was given a sip of wine vinegar from the end of a hyssop stalk — while flowers bloomed underneath him, possibly as a sign of rebirth — and the instant his head drooped to his chest in death.

Strangely, the keystone, the most important block of the archway, differed from the others. Instead of depicting Christ’s resurrection or his ascension to the right hand of God, the middle stone of the arch was sculpted into the lifelike bust of a man. A laughing man. The intricate details of his face revealed his amusement in a number of obvious ways: the sweeping curve of his lips, the lighthearted twinkle in his eyes, and the arrogant protrusion of his jaw. For some reason, he was laughing at a most inappropriate time.

Maria raised the camera and filmed the arch. ‘What is this place?’

‘The plaque said it was a document vault. But after seeing this artwork, there’s a good chance that its purpose has changed over the years, perhaps to something more religious.’ Boyd placed his hands on the archway and traced the contours of the lower stones. Finally, he said, ‘Tell me, my dear, who killed Jesus Christ?’

The question was so unexpected it took her a moment to answer. ‘The Romans in 33 AD.’

‘And why was he killed?’

Maria rolled her eyes behind Boyd’s back. Why did he have to make a lecture out of everything? ‘Treason,’ she replied. ‘Many priests viewed him as going against the Roman way of life. They figured it was easier to kill Christ than put up with his flock of fanatics.’

‘Did they know he was the Son of God at the time of his death?’

‘Of course not. If they did, they wouldn’t have crucified him.’

Boyd nodded, content with her answers. ‘Then why are these carvings here? Why would the ancient Romans make a big deal about such a small event in their history? If they believed that Christ was a fake Messiah — just like dozens of con men who pretended to be the Son of God before him — why would they devote so much space to him in such a phenomenal work of art?’

Intrigued, Maria studied the images and decided that Boyd was onto something. ‘Maybe this artwork was added after the Romans converted to Christianity? They could have commemorated Jesus’s crucifixion in the mid-300s, still a thousand years before the Great Schism occurred.’

Boyd stared at the center carving, amazed at its vividness. It was so damn lifelike he could practically hear its laughter. ‘If that be the case, why is the figure on the keystone laughing? Hmmm? The Romans killed the Son of God but eventually realized their mistake. Then, in a moment of atonement, they converted to the Nazarene’s religion and commemorated his death by ridiculing it with a laughing statue… Somehow I don’t think that would be appropriate.’

‘Probably not,’ she admitted.

Determined, Maria focused her eyes on the archway and tried to uncover the connection between the bust and the images of Christ that surrounded it. To complicate things further, the longer she looked at the laughing man’s face, the more certain she was that she had seen it before. ‘Professore, is it just me, or do you recognize his face?’

‘I was going to ask you the same thing. He does look bloody familiar, doesn’t he?’

Maria racked her brain, going over hundreds of historical figures in her mind. ‘Could he be famous like Octavian or Trajan? Maybe even Constantine I, the first Christian emperor?’

‘I’d need a guide book to know for sure. This could be anyone.’

She grimaced, realizing that Boyd was right. ‘Oh well, it’ll come to me. I might not be great with ancient Latin, but I never forget a face.’

‘If you figure it out, be sure to let me know. I’d love to understand the juxtaposition between the sculpture and the carvings. The subtext of the two truly baffles me. What in the world was this artist trying to say about Christ?’

As they moved forward, Boyd’s light trickled into the colossal chamber, revealing an expanse that was nearly three times as large as the room they’d entered upstairs. Measuring over sixty feet by thirty feet, the massive space was filled with dozens of hand-carved stone chests of varying shapes and sizes, each one possessing a historical Roman scene. And the artwork didn’t end there. The walls of the chamber were adorned with a series of first-century frescoes, each remarkably similar in theme and color to the paintings that they’d seen in the original room.

‘My God!’ Boyd gasped. ‘Will you look at this place? The engineers of ancient Rome were truly ahead of their time. As I mentioned earlier, a large number of their structures remain standing today. Still, we’re quite lucky this place was never disturbed by drilling, soil erosion, or even the shifting of tectonic plates. One small earthquake would’ve covered this site forever.’

Maria frowned at the possibility. ‘What do you say I do some more filming before something like that happens?’

‘That sounds great, my dear. That’ll give me a chance to examine these chests.’

With the touch of a button, she began her work, documenting the chamber from left to right while slowly moving toward the back corner. She started with the frescoes, concentrating on one colorful image after another before shifting her focus toward the vaulted ceiling and the dozens of chests that filled the room.

Little did she know that one of them contained the most important discovery of all time.

A secret that would change her life — and the history of the world — forever.

9

Father Erik Jansen. From the Vatican. Crucified. At Hamlet’s castle.

Nick Dial knew the media was going to have a field day with this story unless he was able to eliminate the Shakespeare angle right away. There was nothing he could do with the religious aspect — a priest being crucified was hard to explain — but eliminating Hamlet was a possibility.

Unfortunately, Dial didn’t know much about literature, so he decided to call Henri Toulon, the assistant director of the Homicide Division. Toulon was a wine-loving Frenchman who had the ability to speak at length on every subject under the sun. Whether it was quantum physics, soccer statistics, or a recipe for fondue, Toulon was the man with the answers.

Dial said, ‘Hey, Henri, it’s Nick. Do you have a minute?’

Toulon answered with a hoarse, ‘But of course.’

‘Man, are you feeling all right? You sound a bit under the weather.’

‘Oui, I’m fine. It was a late night. Again.’

Dial smiled, not the least bit surprised that Toulon was hungover. His late-night carousing was one of the main reasons that Dial had been promoted ahead of him. That plus Interpol’s desire to have an American as the head of a division, a rarity in the European-dominated organization. ‘Out of curiosity, how much do you know about Shakespeare?’

‘More than his own mother.’

‘And what about the Bible?’

‘More than Dan Brown. Why do you ask?’

Dial filled him in on the case and told him what he was looking for. Why was Jansen kidnapped in Rome but killed in Denmark?

Toulon answered, ‘Religion played an important role in Shakespeare’s world, yet I can’t think of a single character who was crucified. That would have been heresy back then.’

‘Then ignore the crucifixion and focus on the murder. Besides the location, can you think of any connections to Hamlet?’

‘The thing that grabs my attention is the sign above the cross. Whoever painted that was brilliant. Is “FATHER” referring to God, a character in Shakespeare’s play, or the killer’s actual father? At first glance, I’d assume it’s referring to Hamlet. The plot follows Prince Hamlet as he avenges the death of the king — a son getting revenge for his father. Sounds perfect to me. Until you examine the method of execution. In my mind, crucifixion screams of Christ, not Shakespeare. If the killer cared about Hamlet, he would have chosen the sword.’

‘So this is about religion?’

‘Not necessarily. It could be about the killer’s father or the victim’s father. But that’s why the sign is so brilliant. You’ll have to track down all these possibilities, whether you like it or not. For all we know, the killer is simply messing with you.’

‘Maybe. Or it could be about something else, something you missed.’

‘Such as?’

Dial smiled, glad that Toulon didn’t know everything. ‘The victim was a priest. For all we know the sign could be about him. Father Erik Jansen.’

‘Which only adds to the brilliance of the sign. It’s memorable yet ambiguous. The perfect way to attract attention without giving anything away.’

‘That’s why I decided to call you. I figured I’d fight brilliance with brilliance.’

Toulon grinned. ‘I’ll tell you what, give me a day or two, and I’ll see what I can find. Who knows? Maybe I missed something else.’

‘Thanks, Henri, I’d appreciate that. Before you go, though, I have one more question, this one about religion. Do you have any idea what Jesus’s cross looked like?’

Toulon took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his gray hair, which was pulled back in his trademark ponytail. He desperately wanted a cigarette but wasn’t allowed to smoke inside Interpol, even though sometimes he did just because he was French and fuck them if they didn’t like it. ‘You’ll be happy to know you’re not alone. Most people are confused about his cross. Tell me, what kind of cross did they use in Denmark?’

‘Wooden, made out of some kind of oak.’

‘That’s not what I meant. Was it Latin? Tau? Greek? Russian?’

‘Honestly, I have no idea. They’re all Greek to me.’

Toulon rolled his eyes. Why did Americans have to make a joke out of everything? ‘A Greek cross is easy to spot. It looks like a plus sign. All four of its arms are the exact same length.’

‘Not Jansen’s. His looked like a capital T. The horizontal beam was way at the top.’

Toulon whistled softly. ‘Then they got it right.’

‘They got it right? What do you mean by that?’

‘Most people think that Jesus was crucified on a Latin cross — one where the crossarm sits a third of the way down the vertical beam — but that’s wrong. The Romans used tau crosses for crucifixions, not Latin ones.’

‘Really? Then why do churches use the Latin cross?’

‘Because Christian leaders adopted it as their symbol during the ninth century, a decision that sparked controversy, since it was originally a pagan emblem representing the four winds: north, south, east, and west. Yet Christians preferred that to the history of the tau cross, a symbol that meant death by execution to the ancient world. The death of criminals.’

Dial stroked his massive chin, wondering if Erik Jansen was a criminal. Or had dealt with one in the confessional. ‘Speaking of crosses, what can you tell me about the crucifixion? I mean, I’m familiar with the biblical version, but do we know what really happened?’

‘I guess that depends on your perspective. If you’re Christian, the biblical version is the way it really happened, right down to the last detail. I mean, the Bible is the word of God.’

‘And if you’re not a Christian?’

Toulon realized the subject was a powder keg. Groaning, he put an unlit cigarette in his mouth, just so he had something to suck on. ‘The truth is we don’t know what happened. Christian historians say one thing while Roman historians say another. Then there are the Jews and the Buddhists and the atheists. Everyone has a different opinion on what happened, and no one knows for sure because it happened two thousand years ago. We can’t check the videotape and come up with something definitive. All we can do is sort through the evidence, read what our ancestors wrote, and try to reach our own conclusions, which are invariably tainted by our upbringing.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Simply put, if your parents taught you to believe in Christ, you’re probably going to keep believing in Christ. I mean, that’s what faith is all about, isn’t it?’

‘And if you’re a nonbeliever?’

‘Well, I guess that depends on the person. Some people keep their doubts to themselves in order to fit into this Christian world of ours. Others join the local synagogue or temple or shrine and start practicing non-Christian faiths. Then, of course, you have the third group. The wild cards. They’re the ones who don’t care what society thinks about them, the type of people who enjoy rocking the boat. And if I were a betting man, guess which category I’d put the killer in?’

Dial smiled, wishing that all of his questions were that easy. ‘Thanks, Henri, I appreciate your candor. Let me know if you come up with anything else.’

‘You got it, Nick.’

Dial hung up his cell phone and turned his attention to Agent Nielson, who was standing off to the side, smiling. ‘You look happy,’ he said. ‘Good news?’

‘I just got off the phone with Rome. Father Jansen had a small apartment near the Vatican. When he didn’t show up for a meeting at nine p.m., they tried to call him but couldn’t get through. In their mind it wasn’t a big deal until he failed to show up for work this morning. That’s when they decided to call the police.’

‘And what about the Vatican? Do we know what Jansen did for them?’

‘I’m still working on that. I’m expecting a call from his supervisor any minute. Hopefully, he can shed some light on it.’

‘I wouldn’t count on it. I’ve dealt with the Vatican before, and they tend to be very tight-lipped about their business. Of course, who could blame them? I’d be secretive, too, if I had a billion-dollar art collection locked in my basement… What are the locals doing in Rome?’

‘A forensics team is searching his apartment. They said they’ll give me a call if they find anything of value. Otherwise, we’ll get their report tomorrow.’

‘Nice work, Annette. I’m impressed. Do me a favor, though, and stay on top of the Vatican. Just because they promised you a report doesn’t mean you’ll get one.’

In fact, Dial laughed to himself, it would probably take a miracle.

10

Maria strolled around the chamber, carefully filming the dozens of stone chests that filled the room. The gray containers, sitting in a series of straight rows, varied in size and shape — some had the dimensions of a VCR while others approached the mass of a coffin — but each of them had one thing in common: artistic brilliance.

Pictures of colossal battle scenes, marking the significant Roman victories of the early Empire, had been chiseled into the hard rock of several chests. Proud generals, standing in their horse-drawn chariots as legionnaires fought valiantly in the distant battlefield. Weary warriors, their faces streaked with blood from their fallen victims, continued to march forward, extending the boundaries of their homeland while bludgeoning anything that got in their way. And Roman heroes, their profiles etched into stone with such precision that -

‘Oh my God,’ Maria muttered. She quickly hit the pause button on her video camera. ‘Remember the face on the archway that appeared to be laughing at Christ’s death?’

He walked toward her. ‘Of course, I do. That blasphemous image is burned into my mind.’

Maria pointed to the two-foot-high stone cube that sat at her feet. ‘He’s back.’

Boyd glanced at the box and realized that she was correct. It was him, all right, and his devilish grin was featured in great detail. ‘I’ll be flummoxed. What’s he doing here?’

She ran her gloved finger over the carved face. ‘I don’t know. But he seems awfully happy.’

‘Maria, while you were filming the artwork, did you see this man on anything else?’

She shook her head. ‘I would’ve told you if I did.’

‘What about his face? Do you remember where you’ve seen his face?’

Maria stared at the image. ‘No, but I have to admit that it’s been driving me crazy. I know I’ve seen him before. I just know it!’

Boyd stood and quickly inspected the other chests in the room. Even though they varied in size, he realized that every box carried a similar theme: They were adorned with pictures of war. All of them, that is, except one — the one with the laughing man.

‘This man had to be an emperor. Or at the very least, a man of great power and wealth. He is the only person who is featured on his own cube.’

‘Plus he was on the arch. They obviously held him in high esteem.’

‘But why?’ Boyd pondered the question as he wrapped his fingers around the box. After a brief pause, he carefully slid his hands over the edge of the crate’s lid, making sure that it was sturdy enough to be moved without damage. ‘I know this goes against many of the things that I told you earlier, but — ’

Maria nodded in understanding. ‘You want to see what’s inside.’

‘I have to. I can’t help it. It’s the young whipper-snapper in me.’

‘That’s all right. If you didn’t remove the lid, I was going to get a crowbar and do it myself.’

It took nearly five minutes to ease the stone cover from its tight-fitting seam, but once they did, they were able to lift it with little difficulty. It was much lighter than they had expected.

‘Careful!’ Boyd begged. ‘This stone could provide us with important clues about the identity of this man. I’d hate for anything to happen to it.’

The duo lowered the chiseled lid onto the floor, making sure they didn’t scratch it. Then, once they were satisfied with its positioning, they rushed to the box to see what they had found.

‘Bring the light closer. Quickly!’

Maria grabbed the flashlight and pointed it into the box. The bright stream of light overwhelmed the darkness, revealing the sole object inside: a slender bronze cylinder.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

Boyd smiled while removing the eight-inch bronze cylinder with his gloved hand. ‘It’s a twin, my dear. An identical twin.’

‘A twin?’

‘The documents that I found in England — the documents that led us to the Catacombs — were stored in an identical bronze cylinder… Do you know what that means?’

‘No! What?’

Boyd laughed. ‘I have no idea, but I bet it’s bloody important!’

Maria smiled, but in her heart she knew something was going on that Boyd wasn’t talking about. She could sense it from the way he cradled the cylinder, treating it with a parental tenderness that was usually reserved for newborns. ‘Professore? May I look at it?’

He grimaced, reluctant to part with the artifact. ‘Be very careful, my dear. Until we open it, there’s no telling what may be inside. The contents could be quite delicate.’

She nodded, although she sensed that Boyd was being melodramatic. Nevertheless, she obeyed his wishes and treated the discovery with the utmost respect. ‘Wow! It seems so incredibly light. Are you sure this is the same type of cylinder that you found in Bath?’

‘Positive!’ Boyd brought his flashlight closer to the object and pointed out a series of small engravings that could barely be seen. ‘I’m not sure if this symbol can be translated, but I found an identical marking on the other one as well.’

Maria ran her finger over the triangular carvings, trying to probe the subtle indentations in the metal. The engraving on the cylinder was so shallow she could barely feel anything. ‘Why is this so faint? I can barely see it.’

‘I don’t know,’ Boyd admitted. ‘It could’ve been worn down over time, or perhaps it was the style of the particular engraver. I’m hoping the contents of the canister will give us a clue.’

‘That’s if there’s something inside.’

The look on Boyd’s face proved that he wasn’t amused. In response, he snatched the artifact from Maria’s grasp. ‘We don’t have the correct tools to open this. I need to go upstairs to get them.’ She winced, not realizing what had caused his sudden mood swing. ‘While I’m gone, make yourself useful and finish filming this room.’

‘Of course. Whatever you want, sir.’

‘Well, that’s what I want.’ Boyd took two steps through the archway, then stopped abruptly. ‘And don’t touch anything while I’m gone. Just film!’

Maria watched as her mentor stomped down the stone corridor, the radiance of his flashlight getting dimmer and dimmer with every step that he took. Then, when he reached the far end of the hallway, Boyd turned up the narrow stairs and disappeared from sight, leaving her alone in the massive vault.

As Boyd made his way upstairs, he slowed his pace near the crypts, careful not to brush against any of the hands that reached into the corridor. His light danced along the walls as he walked, giving the corpses the illusion of movement. For a split second he could’ve sworn that one of the fingers twitched, like the skeletal remains were coming to life. He paused ever so slightly to examine it before stepping into the first chamber.

The bronze cylinder needed to be protected, he knew that, so he tucked it into his deepest pocket before he climbed through the hole in the wall. He opened his toolbox in a huff, tossing aside screwdrivers and wrenches, hammers and nails, even a small set of rock picks until it dawned on him that he had no idea what he was looking for.

He stood there pondering the question when he realized that the walls of the cave seemed to be shaking, actually vibrating with pulsating bursts of energy.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

He could feel the rocks trembling beneath his feet.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

Putting his hand on the wall, Boyd tried to determine the source of the tremors, but the entire rock face was vibrating at an even rate. Next, he placed his ear to the cool surface of the wall, hoping to establish the origin of the bass-filled pitch. Strangely, the strength of the sound actually seemed to diminish as he moved closer to the sides of the cave.

He quickly went through a series of calculations, attempting to figure out what could cause such a phenomenon. The resonance, the undulation, the energy. After a moment, it dawned on him that it was probably due to an external force. But what?

As he moved toward the site entrance, he noticed the drastic change in temperature. His body, which had grown accustomed to the underground climate, was now forced to deal with the hot Italian sun. Large beads of sweat surfaced on Boyd’s brow, droplets that turned to mud as they streamed down his dirt-caked face and tumbled to the ground below.

His eyes, which were used to the dim light of the tunnels, suddenly burned in the afternoon sun. Its radiance was so intense that he found himself shading his face like a moviegoer leaving a matinee. And to make matters worse, the sound grew in intensity, forcing him to plug his ears while shielding his eyes at the same time.

‘What is that hullabaloo?’ he screamed over the noise. ‘What in the world can that be?’

Oblivious to the commotion above her, Maria danced around the vast chamber, carefully filming the Roman chests. Even though it was a simple task, she knew her work would eventually be viewed by the world’s leading archaeologists and scholars, a thought that made her ecstatic. Of course, that feeling would pale in comparison to the joy she’d feel when she told her father about her recent success. That would be the highlight of her life, for it would be the first time in memory that he’d have to admit that he was proud of her. The first goddamned time.

And it would actually involve something that she’d worked for, and trained for, and dreamed about for as long as she could remember. The first accomplishment in a career that her dad had discouraged from day one. A moment when her father, the great Benito Pelati, would have to admit that a woman was actually capable of making a mark in the world of archaeology.

A smile surfaced on Maria’s face as she made her way to the back corner of the room. She gracefully sidestepped the largest crate while zooming in on an elaborate battlefield scene. Several seconds later she noticed a red light blinking on the back of her camera. The battery on the digital unit was about to run out.

‘Damn! I don’t believe this!’ Maria glanced around the room, realizing there was no way she could finish her work with so little power. She’d have to go to the upper chamber to get her backup battery before she could finish the task.

The black helicopter hovered near the plateau, swaying in the strong wind. The pilot fought the air currents the best he could but realized he was in danger of losing control. ‘Let me set her down, sir. The wind is swirling off the rock face. I don’t know how much longer I can hold it.’

The lone passenger in the copter lowered the binoculars from his cold, black eyes. ‘You’ll hold it until I tell you otherwise. I have two men on that rock face, and my job is to cover them from an airborne position.’

The pilot argued, ‘Well, I have a job, too. And it’s impossible to do it in these conditions. I’m setting her down now!’

‘If you do, I swear to God I’ll have your ass.’ The intensity of his glare proved that he was serious. He was willing to do anything to complete his mission. Anything. There was simply too much at stake. ‘Give me five more minutes, and this will all be over.’

11

Piazza Risorgimento,

Rome, Italy

(fifty meters from Vatican City)

Buses filled with foreigners rumbled past him on their way to the main gate of the Holy City. People with cameras and unruly children strolled by his bench completely ignorant of who he was or why he was there. Their sole focus was on Saint Peter’s Square and the Sistine Chapel and all the glorious artifacts in the Vatican museum, not the old man in the expensive suit or the two bodyguards who stood behind him.

Of course that was the reason that he liked to come here, the perverse amusement he got from watching so many people shell out their hard-earned cash for guidebooks and private tours. Meanwhile he sat on his bench knowing the vast majority of the Vatican’s treasure lay hidden underneath the streets that they were walking on, everything protected in hermetic vaults that made Fort Knox look like a piggy bank. He smiled, realizing that none of them, no matter who they were or how much money they had, would ever see the treasures that he saw every day.

The contents of Archivio Segreto Vaticano. The Vatican Secret Archives.

Benito Pelati’s official title was the minister of antiquities, a job he’d held for over three decades. Unofficially he was known throughout Italy as the godfather of archaeology, for he vowed to protect every relic found on Italian soil, even if that meant breaking a few laws in the process. Some critics looked down on him for his questionable methods, especially in the early years when he just started building his violent reputation. But the Vatican never did. They knew a man with his talents would be invaluable. Not only his academic knowledge but his willingness to do whatever he needed to get results.

Every organization, even one as sanctimonious as the Church, can use men like that.

Still, in the beginning it was Benito’s expertise in the world of art, not his brutality, that got him noticed. Cardinal Pietro Bandolfo, the former chair of the Vatican’s Supreme Council, was a childhood friend of Benito’s and his biggest ally. Bandolfo understood politics better than his fellow cardinals and assured the Vatican the only way to protect its place in the modern world was to join hands with Benito, someone trained outside of the Church. Someone who could update their antiquated system. Someone who wasn’t encumbered by papal law. Eventually, the Vatican agreed, and Benito was hired to update their way of doing things.

And his first project was organizing their most valuable asset: the Secret Archives.

Benito ran his fingers through his slicked-back gray hair and remembered the first day he was taken through the vaults. What an honor it was. Less than thirty men were privy to the contents of the Vatican’s collections: the facility’s curators, senior members of the Sacred Congregation of Cardinals, and the Curia. All of them devout Catholics who had dedicated their lives to God and were an established part of the Church. But not Benito. He was the first outsider to be given unlimited access to the vaults. Ever. And the experience made him tremble. Never before had he seen so many beautiful things in one place. Paintings, statues, and treasures filled room after room. Plus more than forty miles of shelves that held nothing but written documents: scrolls, parchments, and stone tablets for as far as the eye could see.

Unfortunately, once he got past all the beauty and started thinking about his job, he realized the Archives’ filing system was a mess. Computers were still on the distant horizon, so everything in the vaults had been logged into card catalogs similar to those in a public library. Cards that could be moved, lost, or stolen. Adding to Benito’s confusion were the curators themselves. Over the centuries the men in charge of the Archives had different preferences for recording their data. Some logged artifacts by year, others by country, others by theme. And one curator used a system Benito couldn’t even interpret. To him it was amazing. He was staring at the most valuable collection in the world, yet one that was in complete disarray.

However, he was thrilled by the chaos. Not only because he had the honor of placing everything where he thought it belonged, but because he realized if the curators themselves didn’t know what they had in the vaults, then neither did the Vatican. And if that was the case, there was no telling what he might find as he dug deeper into the bowels of the Church.

One day on the job, and he’d been given a ticket to the greatest treasure hunt of all time.

It was an opportunity that changed his life forever.

Dante was one of Benito Pelati’s top assistants, a no-nonsense disciple who went out of his way to please the old man. He arrived on time and greeted Benito with a kiss on both cheeks. No words were said, no pleasantries exchanged. This was a business meeting, not a social call. They would save the chitchat for another day. If ever.

Dante was much larger than Benito and half his age. Yet their features were similar, especially the way their noses sloped away from their sunken eyes. Romans referred to it as the look of the emperor, though Dante didn’t care about his face or his clothes or the make of his car. He didn’t give a damn about those things because the only thing that mattered to him was his work. It was an addiction that ruled his life.

Minutes passed as Dante sat there, quiet, patiently waiting for Benito to speak because that was the way it was done in the Old Country. The old man had called the meeting, so he controlled the agenda, just like every time the two of them got together. Someday Benito would die, and Dante would move up in the organization. But until then Dante would sit there like a loyal dog, studying the people who poured past them on the busy street. Waiting to be briefed.

Eventually, the old man said, ‘It’s been a bad day for the Church.’

Dante remained silent, realizing details would come in short bursts, every statement measured before it left the old man’s lips. As if Benito didn’t know how to talk to him.

‘A priest was found crucified… A warning was issued… The Council needs our help.’

In the power structure of the Vatican, the Supreme Council was second in command to the holy father. At least on paper. In reality, the seven cardinals who made up the Council — led by Cardinal Vercelli, the man who replaced Cardinal Bandolfo when he died less than a year before — were the most powerful men in the Catholic Church. They decided what the pope knew and what he didn’t, protecting the papal throne from the bureaucratic issues of the day. To put it simply, their job was to keep the pope squeaky clean while they made the tough choices behind closed doors. The type of decisions that could soil the papacy and the Church.

And when these issues came up, Benito Pelati was usually part of the solution.

Finally, after several more seconds of silence, Benito turned toward Dante. ‘I need you to go to Vienna… There’s an excavation I need you to oversee… Something quite important.’

‘In Austria?’ Dante asked. ‘Do we have permission to dig there?’

Benito stared at him until Dante lowered his head in shame. He should’ve known better than to question Benito’s orders. ‘Everything is ready… All you’ll do is supervise… Once you’re done, bring what you find back to me.’

12

Curiosity had a way of consuming Dr Boyd. Although he should’ve been focused on the bronze cylinder, he was more interested in the sound. The deafening roar of the outside world was too intriguing for him to ignore. ‘Hello!’ he called in his English accent. ‘Is anybody out there?’

The rotor blades of the helicopter continued to reverberate like thunder just outside the entrance to the Catacombs.

‘Goodness gracious! What is causing that tumult?’ Boyd continued to ponder the question as he made his way to the mouth of the cave. ‘People should have more consideration when — ’

The sight of the massive machine, coupled with the overpowering roar of the turbines and the hurricane-like wind that enveloped him, was enough to take Boyd’s breath away. He’d assumed the noise was probably a piece of equipment working on the plateau above but never expected to see a helicopter staring him in the face from more than 700 feet in the air.

The man in the passenger seat grinned, then ordered the pilot to rotate to the left. A split second later, the man’s M501 sniper rifle was out the side window, and Boyd was in its crosshairs.

‘Gentlemen,’ he whispered into his headset, ‘the Lord works in mysterious ways.’

The two soldiers stopped their ascent up the plateau and looked skyward, though their angle prevented them from seeing anything of value. ‘What’s going on, sir? Is everything all right?’

The man squinted as he adjusted his scope. ‘It will be in a moment. One shot, and our biggest problem is history.’

They nodded in understanding. ‘What should we do?’

He shoved the rifle’s recoil pad against his shoulder and tried to compensate for the chopper’s sway. ‘Keep on climbing. I’ll need you to deal with the girl and seal the site.’

Boyd shielded his eyes the best he could, but the mixture of dust and sunlight prevented him from seeing much. ‘Hello!’ he screamed. ‘Can I help you with something?’

When he heard nothing, he figured he needed to alter his approach. So instead of shouting, he simply waved at the helicopter, hoping its passengers would wave back, then move on.

‘Hold steady,’ the sniper ordered. ‘Steady!’

But it was an impossible task. The wind was surging off the top of the ridge like a waterfall, then swirling on its descent to the rocky terrain below. The result was an aeronautical nightmare, a pocket of turbulence that literally chewed at the lift the helicopter was trying to produce. The pilot did his best to compensate, increasing and decreasing the pitch of the main rotor. But it made little difference. Choppers weren’t meant to fly in these conditions.

‘I’m losing it,’ warned the pilot. ‘I swear to you I’m losing it!’

With camera in hand, Maria strolled into the colorful first chamber, making her way directly to the Catacombs’ exit. As she crawled through the narrow opening, she suddenly became aware of the noise and vibrations that had intrigued Boyd. ‘Professore?’

She continued up the slope of the rocky trail, trying to shield her eyes from the intense glare. With the exception of her hand, the only thing protecting her from total blindness was the figure that stood in the cave’s entrance. And from his slender frame, she knew it was Boyd.

‘Professore? What’s making that noise?’

Before he could respond, she heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire, then watched in horror as Boyd turned from his perch and scrambled down the path. Without hesitation he buried his shoulder into her gut and tackled her to the floor, protecting her from the blitzkrieg. Skidding to a painful stop, he grabbed her hand and dragged her to the nearby corner, making sure they were out of the gunman’s range. ‘Are you all right?’ he demanded. ‘Are you hurt?’

Stunned, she took a moment to probe her body. ‘No, I’m fine.’

Boyd climbed to his feet and peeked around the nearest outcropping. The roar of the chopper still thundered outside. ‘I think we’re in trouble. There’s a helicopter out there.’

‘A helicopter?’

‘Yes! And it’s got a nasty little passenger. All I did was wave, and he started shooting at me!’ He peered around the rock, still unable to see. ‘But that’s not the worst thing. I saw a sign on the chopper that said Polizia.’

‘What? Are you serious?’

‘Of course I’m serious.’ He grabbed her hand. ‘Listen to me, we’re in grave danger. But if you follow my lead, we’ll survive.’

‘We can beat an armed helicopter?’

‘Yes! But we have to act quickly. If they land and come inside, we’re going to be killed.’

‘Wait! You want to fight a helicopter? With what?’

Boyd rushed to the corner and rummaged through their tools. ‘Did we bring any rope?’

‘Rope? Not with us. We left that in the truck.’

Quickly, Boyd turned the toolbox upside down and dumped its contents with a loud clatter. ‘I guess this will have to do instead.’

She stared at him, confused. ‘You asked for a rope but settled for a toolbox? Do you mind telling me what you’re going to do?’

‘Watch and learn, my dear. Watch and learn.’

Boyd carried the box toward the entrance of the cave and studied the machine that threatened their lives. It hovered less than fifty feet in front of the opening, its occupants glaring out the front window of the craft. ‘Maria, come here. Grab the camera and anything you want to take with us. Whether this works or not, I think it’s best if we leave this place as soon as possible.’

‘We’re leaving?’

‘Go!’ he ordered. ‘And be quick about it!’

She scampered to the rear while Boyd moved forward, boldly walking into the line of fire. He wasn’t sure if his idea was going to work, but he figured it was better than being trapped inside the Catacombs without any weapons. ‘Hello! Come and get me!’

He quickly repeated the phrase in Italian, just to make sure they understood his command. The chopper instantly moved closer, trying to reduce the angle between the sniper and target, hoping to avoid another misfire. But the maneuver was a tactical mistake. As the craft inched forward, Boyd extended the toolbox behind him, then tossed it underhanded as far as he could. The container sailed through the air until it floated into the path of the main rotor blades.

As the box closed in, the pilot suddenly realized what was about to happen. He’d been so concerned about the gusting wind and the dangerous rock face that he never paid attention to Boyd or his toolbox. It was an oversight that would cost him his life.

Clank!

Metal struck metal in a sickening scream, shattering two of the four rotor blades on contact and sending shrapnel in every direction. With the sudden loss of lift, the chopper lurched forward, missing the rock face by inches before the pilot managed to pull the craft back. The sudden change in pitch couldn’t be handled by the rear rotor, causing the vehicle to spin like a broken Tilt-A-Whirl as it tumbled toward Boyd’s truck 700 feet below. Seconds later, the crunch of metal was masked by the powerful explosion that engulfed the side of the rock face, literally shaking the ground underneath Boyd’s feet.

‘Brilliant!’ he cheered. ‘Bloody brilliant!’

As the roar continued, Maria burst from the interior of the cave to see what had happened. ‘Professore, are you…’ Before she could finish her question, she noticed the bright ball of fire. Orange and red flames shot high into the air as thick clouds of black smoke surged from the smoldering wreckage. ‘Santa Maria! You broke their helicopter. And our truck!’

He nodded, happy with his handiwork. ‘Thank goodness we paid the renter’s insurance.’

Normally she would’ve howled at his comment, but Boyd didn’t give her the chance. He grabbed her arm and pulled her back inside, where he started gathering his equipment. Unfortunately, he was forced to stop when he heard a distant rumbling.

‘Maria? What is that? Is that another chopper?’

She grimaced, then took a few steps toward the mouth of the cave. Leaning back, she glanced at the cliffs above her. A slow trickle of rocks and debris were heading down the steep slope. ‘Oh my God!’

In a flash Boyd knew what was happening. The impact of the explosion had forced the ground around them to shake, producing the last thing that he wanted. ‘Avalanche!’

The duo burst from the tunnel entrance, running as fast as they could. Although it was a risky choice, they knew they’d rather face an onslaught of falling rocks than the sudden impact of a cave-in. Debris they could dodge. Collapsing tunnels they couldn’t.

Grabbing Maria by the hand, he led the way along the narrow rock face, making sure they stayed together as they hugged the wall of the cliff. They scurried on the precipice for several seconds when they realized they couldn’t outrun the falling debris. The footing was too unstable, and the stones were too constant for escape. They needed to find cover and hope for the best.

They scrambled under the first ridge they found, hoping the large outcropping would shield them from the debris. Unfortunately, as they stood underneath the slab, they realized that the ledge had several cracks near its base, flaws that might collapse when put under sudden duress.

‘Please hold!’ Maria begged. ‘Oh God, please hold!’

The two soldiers stared in disbelief as the helicopter plummeted past them. Flames shot skyward like a geyser from hell, forcing the men to cower against the rock face for protection. But it wasn’t the heat that they needed to worry about.

The landslide started with a trickle. First a pebble, then a stone, and finally a massive boulder. Before long, half the damn ridge was heading toward them, and they realized it was just a matter of time before they’d be joining their commander in the afterworld. The younger of the two men was the lucky one, for he died without suffering. A sharp piece of rock hit him squarely on the head, shattering his skull and rupturing his frontal lobe like a blow from a battle-ax. One minute he was by his partner’s side, the next he was splattered on his face.

Soon his lifeless body was swept down the cliff face in a torrent of dust and stones.

The older man tried to ignore the gruesome scene, though it was impossible. Chunks of brain stuck to his face like scraps of sushi, while blood seeped into the corner of his eyes, stealing his ability to see. Despite this hindrance, he somehow managed to hang on, shaking off the falling stones that tore at his flesh, praying he could somehow survive this horror and scramble back to his squad in one piece. But it was not to be.

The rock that sealed his fate struck him squarely on the right shoulder, ripping his arm from its socket with a nauseating pop and shattering his clavicle like it was made of glass. He teetered on the edge for several seconds — just enough time to express his agony with a scream that rose above the roar of the fire below — before crashing to the earth.

One toolbox. Four dead.

The outcropping shook and trembled throughout the landslide. Maria watched nervously as stones plunged past her, but nothing, not even the tiniest of pebbles, managed to find them in their protective haven.

After the rocks and debris subsided, Maria said a short prayer of thanks, then turned to check on Boyd. His face was more pale than usual, but a smirk was etched on his lips. ‘Are you OK?’

He took a deep breath. ‘Brilliant. And you?’

‘I’m fine.’ Maria showed him the camera that she clasped in her hand. ‘So is the video.’

‘Oh, dear Lord! The cylinder!’ Boyd frantically moved his fanny pack, hoping that the artifact had stayed in the pocket of his shorts during all the chaos. When he felt metal, he smiled, knowing they had lucked out. ‘Well, my dear, it appears that things aren’t a total loss.’

‘No, but pretty close.’ Maria pointed toward the Catacombs. Their entrance was now covered in debris. ‘I don’t think anyone will be using that door in the near future.’

Boyd grinned as he inspected the rubble. ‘Good! In the meantime we can take our video to the authorities and use it as proof of our discovery. Then we can come back with proper protection and stake our official claim to this site!’

‘Yeah,’ she sighed, ‘if there’s anything left to claim.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m sure we won’t leave Italy empty-handed.’

And Boyd knew that was true, for even if the Catacombs had been completely destroyed, he realized that he already possessed the object that he had come to Orvieto for.

The bronze cylinder.

13

Several hours passed before they came back for Payne. By then his legs were dead asleep, two lifeless limbs barely able to move. Still in handcuffs, he was dragged upstairs and shoved into a metal conference room where Jones, handcuffed as well, was sitting at the end of a long table. A large stranger in a dark suit sat on Jones’s left. A second man, speaking on a cell phone, stood in the far corner of the room, watching everything with steely resolve.

Jones smiled when he saw Payne. It was the first time they had seen each other since they had been arrested. ‘Hey Jon, you’re looking well. How ya been sleeping?’

‘Like a baby. Every morning I wake up wet.’

He nodded knowingly. ‘Fuckin’ hose.’

Payne took the seat across from Jones and studied the man to his side. He was roughly the same height as Payne but outweighed him by a hundred pounds. Muscle, not flab. Payne stared at him for five seconds, sizing him up, and in all that time he couldn’t find his neck. Finally, to break the silence, Payne introduced himself. ‘I’m Jonathon Payne. And you are?’

The yeti stared back at Payne but didn’t say a word. He just let out a soft growl.

Jones, who was black and had the physique of a defensive back, laughed. ‘Thank God he hates you, too. When he didn’t talk to me, I thought he was a racist… Maybe he’s just deaf.’

‘Any idea what this is about?’

‘Nope. And you?’

Payne shook his head. ‘I was promised a phone call for today but never got to make it. Maybe these guys are from the embassy.’

‘No,’ blurted the man on the cell phone. ‘We aren’t from the embassy.’

‘Oooooh!’ Jones teased. ‘They can talk!’

‘Yes, Mr Jones, we can talk. But I promise this will be a short conversation if you continue to make comments at our expense. I will not tolerate lip from a prisoner.’

The guy was six foot one, in his mid-forties, and a total prick. They could tell that immediately. There was something about his demeanor that said, If you fuck with me, I’ll shit in your corn flakes. Maybe it was his hair, which was high and tight, or his eyes, which were cold and reptilian. Whatever it was, he made it work because there was no doubt he was running things. ‘So, should I leave right now, or will you shut up long enough to listen?’

Payne hadn’t followed orders since he was in the military but got the sense that they had no choice. Either they listened to this guy, or they went back to their cells for a very long time. ‘Sure, silence can be arranged. But only if you give us the courtesy of your name and rank. I feel that’s the least we deserve.’

‘No, Mr Payne, you don’t deserve a thing. Not with the charges you’re facing.’

The man took a seat at the far end of the table and removed a folder from his leather briefcase. Then he sat there for a minute, studying its contents. Refusing to say a word. The only sound in the room was the occasional rustle of paperwork. When he spoke again, the harshness in his voice was softer than before. Like he had reconsidered how to handle things. ‘However, due to the circumstances of my proposal, I think it would be best if I remained civil.’

‘Your proposal?’ Payne asked.

‘Before I get to that, let me honor your request. My name is Richard Manzak, and I’m with the Central Intelligence Agency.’ He whipped out his identification and handed it to Payne. Manzak’s partner followed his lead. ‘This here is Sam Buckner. He’s been teamed with me for this particular, um, situation.’

Payne studied both IDs, then passed them over to Jones. ‘I don’t understand. What do we have to do with the CIA? Shouldn’t this be an embassy matter?’

Manzak grabbed his badge, then ordered Buckner to stand guard across the room. Payne found that kind of strange, since they were in the middle of a secure facility. Nevertheless, the big guy lumbered over there and leaned his ass against the door like a tired moose.

‘This is well past an embassy matter,’ Manzak assured him. ‘The embassy tends to avoid crimes of this nature.’

‘Crimes? What are you talking about? We didn’t do anything. We came here as tourists.’

‘Come now, Mr Payne. Both of us know the type of missions you used to run. I’m sure if you thought about it you could come up with a long list of activities that the Spanish government might disapprove of.’ Manzak leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘For now I think it would be best if we refrain from any specifics. You never know who might be listening.’

Payne thought back to his time with the MANIACs and realized they had passed through Spain on hundreds of occasions. Moron Air Base, located near Seville, was midway between the U.S. and southwest Asia, making it a prime spot to gather supplies and jump-start missions. Same with Naval Station (NAVSTA) Rota, positioned on the Atlantic coast near the Strait of Gibraltar. It gave them access to the Mediterranean Sea and assistance on amphibious assaults. Throw in Torrejon Air Base and all the other U.S. facilities scattered around Spain, and Payne shuddered at everything they might have on him and Jones.

Hell, every time they carried weapons off the base was a breach of regulations. So was crossing the border with nonmilitary personnel. Or flying through restricted airspace. In fact, just about everything the MANIACs did in Spain — even though it was always in the line of duty — bordered on a punishable offense. Not the type of violation that was ever pursued or prosecuted. The symbiotic relationship between the U.S. and Spain would not survive if the Spanish government started cracking down on active personnel in sanctioned U.S. missions. Still, the thing that worried Payne was the classified nature of his operations. How could he defend himself if he wasn’t allowed to talk about anything he did?

Payne said, ‘You know, you’re right. This isn’t an embassy matter. It’s way beyond their scope. This is something the Pentagon will have to handle themselves.’

Manzak shook his head. ‘Sorry, gentlemen, it’s not going to happen. The Pentagon was notified by the Spanish government as soon as you were arrested. Sadly, in their eyes they have nothing to gain by getting involved. Can you imagine the public relations nightmare they’d face if they admitted to the missions you were involved in? Things might be different if you were still on active duty. Unfortunately, their desire to help is usually related to your current usefulness. And since you’re currently retired, they view your usefulness as next to nothing.’

Manzak smiled crookedly. ‘It’s a cruel world. Isn’t it, Mr Payne?’

Payne wanted to jump across the table and show Manzak how cruel the world could be. Just to shut him up. But he knew he couldn’t do that. Not until he found out why he was there, why the CIA was interested in his situation. For all he knew, Manzak could be his only ally. ‘And what about you? Does your organization view us as useful?’

Manzak’s smile widened. ‘I wasn’t so sure until I read about your trip to Cuba. Very impressive. In my mind, anyone who could do that is useful… That mission still boggles my imagination.’

Payne and Jones looked at each other, confused. No one except the top brass at the Pentagon was supposed to know about Cuba. Not the CIA, the FBI, or even the president. As it stood, the Cubans didn’t even know about Cuba, because the moment they found out, they were going to be pissed. Anyhow, the fact that Manzak knew about their trip told them a lot. It meant he was a heavy hitter with some serious connections. Someone who could cut a deal.

‘Great,’ Payne said. ‘You’ve done your homework. Unfortunately, there’s still one question you haven’t answered. Why are you here?’

Manzak leaned back in his chair, quiet. Watching them squirm. Most people would’ve answered right away, but not this guy. He was cooler than that. Much cooler. The definition of self-control. Finally, when he sensed that they were about to lose their patience, he gave them an answer. ‘I’m here to buy your freedom.’

Freedom. Neither Payne nor Jones knew how that was possible, but that didn’t stop Manzak from sitting there, stoic, enjoying the power he had over them like an evil puppet master. He didn’t smile, frown, or even blink. After several seconds of silence, he pulled out another folder, this one several inches thick and wrapped in a rubber band.

A single name appeared on the cover: Dr Charles Boyd.

‘Gentlemen, I’ve been authorized by the Spanish government to make a once-in-a-lifetime offer. If you’re willing to accept my terms, they won’t keep you in jail for your lifetime.’

Jones grimaced at the pun. ‘Great. Who do they want us to kill?’

Manzak glared at him. ‘I’m not sure what you were used to doing for the MANIACs, but I can assure you that the CIA would never broker an assassination.’

Jones rolled his eyes. ‘Please! I can name at least twenty cases where the CIA was involved in the death of a key political figure — and that’s not even counting the Kennedys.’

‘Whether you believe me or not is irrelevant. What is important is this: My proposal doesn’t involve murder or illegal activities of any kind.’

Payne remained skeptical. ‘Then what does it involve?’

‘A missing person.’

‘Excuse me? They want us to find a missing person? And if we agree, they’ll what? Let us walk?’ Payne read the name on the manila folder. ‘Let me guess, Dr Charles Boyd?’

Manzak nodded. ‘That’s affirmative. We’d like you to find Dr Boyd.’

Payne sat there, waiting for more information. When it didn’t come, he said, ‘And out of curiosity, who the hell is Dr Boyd?’

His question was intended for Manzak. But Jones stunned everyone by supplying the answer. ‘If I’m not mistaken, he’s an archaeologist from England.’

Manzak glanced at Jones. ‘How did you know that?’

‘How? Because I’m smart. What, a black man can’t be intelligent?’

Payne rolled his eyes at the mock outrage. ‘Just answer him.’

‘Fine,’ he sneered. ‘I saw Boyd on the History Channel. Seems to me he’s a professor at Oxford or one of those fancy-pants English schools. It might’ve been Hogwarts for all I know. Anyway, he was talking about the Roman Empire and how it influenced modern society.’

Manzak wrote a note to himself. ‘What else did you learn?’

‘I never knew the Romans had indoor plumbing. I always thought — ’

He cut him off. ‘I meant about Boyd.’

‘Not much. They used his voice but he rarely appeared on-screen. He was just the narrator.’

Payne rubbed his eyes, trying to play catch-up. ‘Let me get this straight. Dr Boyd is an English archaeologist, someone with enough credibility to teach at a world-famous university and narrate a special on the History Channel?’

Manzak nodded, refusing to give additional information.

‘OK, here’s what I don’t understand. What’s the big emergency here? I mean, why does the Spanish government want this guy so badly that they’re willing to cut a deal with two prisoners? Furthermore, where does the CIA fit into this? Something just doesn’t add up here.’

Manzak gave him a cold, hard stare, one that suggested he wasn’t ready to lay his cards on the table. Nevertheless, Payne stared back, unwilling to back down. He’d been locked up for seventy-two hours and was sick of being jerked around. His aggressiveness paid off moments later when Manzak leaned back in his chair and sighed. A long, drawn-out sigh. A sound that told Payne he had backed his prey into a corner, and he was about to surrender.

Manzak stayed like that for a moment, like he was still trying to decide if it was the right thing to do. Finally, with reluctance on his face, he pushed the folder forward.

‘Dr Charles Boyd is the most wanted criminal in Europe.’

14

Every crime has a command center. Whether it’s a major case or not, there has to be a place for the investigating officers to go to write their reports. Sometimes it’s just a tiny cubicle at headquarters, but there’s always a spot that becomes the heart of an investigation.

But rarely was it this luxurious.

Kronborg’s superintendent wanted to keep Nick Dial happy, so he put him in the Royal Chambers, a series of rooms that served as the royal residence for nearly a hundred years. The suite was built for Frederick II in the 1570s and was filled with the original furnishings. A gold chandelier hung from the ceiling, dangling over the banquet table that served as his desk.

Dial rarely had any privacy when he worked a case so he viewed this as the ultimate luxury, a chance to be alone with his thoughts, if only until someone came looking for one of the files he ‘borrowed’ from the Danish police when they weren’t looking.

Every investigator had a different technique for sorting through evidence, his or her personal way to get a grip on things. Some talked into a tape recorder. Others typed the info into their computer. But neither of those techniques worked for Dial. He was old-school when it came to evidence, eschewing the lure of technology for the simplicity of a bulletin board. To him there was no better way to organize a case. He could move things whenever he wanted until everything fit into place — like a giant jigsaw puzzle that revealed the secret identity of the killer.

The first thing he put on the Kronborg board were photographs of the crime scene. They were taken at a variety of angles and revealed all the little horrors that he would like to forget. The way two of the victim’s ribs had been forced through his skin like broken chopsticks that had been plunged into a pound of raw meat. The way his jaw hung at an impossible angle. The way blood looks when it mixes with urine and feces. That’s the reality of the average homicide, the type of stuff that Dial had to wade through to find the answers he was looking for.

Like finding more information about Erik Jansen. That would be the best way to determine why he was chosen to die. Learn about the victim to learn about the killer. That meant starting with the people who knew Jansen best: his friends, family, and coworkers. Of course, that was more difficult than it sounded since they were scattered all over Europe. Throw in the language barrier and the secrecy of the Vatican, and the degree of difficulty went through the roof.

It would take a team of professionals to get the information he needed.

The first person he phoned was his secretary at Interpol. She was in charge of calling the National Central Bureaus in Oslo and Rome and telling them what Dial needed, then they would contact the local police departments and get the information for him.

Unfortunately, Vatican City wasn’t one of Interpol’s member countries. That meant there wasn’t an NCB office at the pope’s palace. No local contacts meant no insiders. And no insiders meant no information. Agent Nielson had tried to circumvent the problem by calling the Vatican directly, but as Dial had anticipated, no one returned her message.

So Dial decided to call the Vatican himself, hoping his fancy title would get someone on the line. He’d received a long list of phone numbers from Nielson and asked her to break things down according to nationality, figuring Danes and Norwegians would be most willing to help because of their connection to the crime.

After giving it some thought, though, he decided to scrap that idea and go in the opposite direction. Instead of looking at it from the victim’s point of view, he decided to look at it from his own. Who’d be willing to help him? He needed to find someone he could talk to, someone he could bond with. That was the angle he needed to play, the way to get his foot in the door.

It was far too late to help Erik Jansen. But it wasn’t too late to help Nick Dial.

*

Cardinal Joseph Rose grew up in Texas. He loved guns, red meat, and ice-cold beer. But more than anything else, he loved God, and that was the reason he was willing to move halfway around the world to work for the Vatican. This was his calling, and he was very content.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t homesick.

When the call came to his office, his assistant told him that Nick Dial was on the phone. The name didn’t ring a bell, so Cardinal Rose asked his assistant what it was about. His assistant shrugged and said Dial wouldn’t tell him. Then he added that Dial had an American accent. Two seconds later, Rose was on the phone. ‘How can I help you, Mr Dial?’

Dial smiled at the Texas twang in the cardinal’s voice. It was music to his ears. ‘Thanks for taking my call, Your Eminence. Please call me Nick.’

‘Thanks, Nick. But only if you call me Joe.’

‘You got it.’

‘So, what part of America are you from?’

‘All over, really. My dad coached college football, so I grew up on campuses from Oregon to Pennsylvania to Florida. Plus I spent a whole lot of time in Texas.’

They spent the next few minutes talking about the Lone Star State before Rose asked, ‘So, what can I do for you? I have to admit I’m curious, since you wouldn’t tell my assistant.’

‘Sorry about that. I thought it would be best if I told you myself.’

‘Told me yourself? That doesn’t sound good.’

‘I’m afraid it’s not. I run the Homicide Division at Interpol, and last night one of your priests was found murdered.’

Rose tried to remain calm. ‘One of my priests? You mean one of my assistants?’

‘Maybe,’ Dial admitted. ‘That’s the reason for my call. We know the victim’s name and that he worked for the Vatican, but I’m having trouble finding out additional — ’

‘His name?’ Rose demanded. ‘Please tell me his name.’

‘Jansen. Father Erik Jansen.’

The sound of relief escaped Rose’s lips, a whisper that told Dial that the Cardinal didn’t know the victim. ‘How did it happen?’

‘He was crucified.’

‘Dear God!’ Rose made the sign of the cross. ‘Did you say crucified?’

‘Yes, sir. Someone kidnapped him, knocked him out, then nailed him to a cross.’

‘When? Where? Why didn’t I hear about this?’

Dial grimaced, not sure what to answer first. ‘As far as we can tell, he was kidnapped in Rome last night. From there he was taken to Denmark, where he was killed.’

‘Denmark? Why Denmark?’

‘We don’t know, sir. That’s what I was hoping to find out. You see, I’m in charge of gathering as much evidence as possible, but I’ve run into some resistance. I’ve tried calling several people at the Vatican, but — ’

‘Say no more.’ Rose paused, trying to think of the best way to explain things. ‘I know how we can be about information. That’s probably why I haven’t heard anything about this tragedy. People are reluctant to open up in our community.’

‘Which is understandable, but — ’

‘Not acceptable. I couldn’t agree with you more.’ Rose shook his head, half embarrassed by the situation. ‘Nick, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to look into things myself, even if it means ruffling a few feathers. And the moment I have anything, and I do mean anything, I will give you a call, day or night.’

‘Do you promise? Because several people have — ’

‘Yes, Nick, I promise. I will get to the bottom of this. You have my word as a Texan.’

And to Dial, that meant more than Rose’s word as a church official.

15

Jones was obsessed with mysteries, which was the reason he wanted to become a detective. Some people see the glass as half-empty, while others see it as half-full. But Jones stares at it and tries to figure out who drank the damn water.

Anyway, Payne wasn’t surprised when Jones snatched the CIA folder before he had a chance to grab it. Jones said, ‘Dr Charles Boyd majored in archaeology and linguistics at Oxford and was eventually given a teaching position at Dover University in 1968. According to this, they even made him head of his department in 1991… Wow! How shocking!’

Manzak wasn’t amused. ‘Keep reading, Mr Jones. I assure you it gets worse.’

‘Damn, Jon! He wasn’t kidding. Take a look at this.’

Payne fought the urge to smile when Jones handed him a head shot of Dr Boyd that was taken during the Nixon administration. The type of photo that gets attached to someone’s personnel file and stays there no matter what anyone does to get rid of it. Boyd wore a tweed jacket and a silk bow tie, plus the worst comb-over hairstyle Payne had ever seen. It looked like one of the before photos in that infomercial for spray-on hair.

‘Let me guess,’ Jones cracked. ‘He’s wanted by the fashion police.’

‘No,’ Manzak said in a harsh tone. ‘He’s the key suspect in an Interpol investigation that’s been going on for two decades. Everything from forgeries to smuggling to the theft of antiquities. This guy does it all and does it at a very high level. Right now he’s wanted in several countries, most notably France, Italy, Germany, Austria, and Spain.’

‘Then why don’t they pick him up?’ Payne wondered.

‘Because Boyd’s a genius. Every time they get close to him, he finds a way to cover his tracks. Every single time. I’m telling you, it’s like the guy has ESP.’

‘Or inside information,’ Jones suggested.

Payne was thinking the same thing. ‘OK, let’s pretend everything you’ve told us about Boyd is accurate. What does this have to do with the CIA?’

Manzak pointed to the file. ‘Let me start with Spain. Dr Boyd stole a number of heirlooms from the Spanish government, one-of-a-kind items that have no price tag. Needless to say, they’re willing to do anything within reason to have them returned. Unfortunately, the only way to retrieve their items is to find Dr Boyd and get him to talk. Sounds easy, right? Well, up until now he’s managed to hide hundreds of objects under Interpol’s nose, and no one has any idea where. Spain is worried if Boyd gets killed in a manhunt, then their artifacts will never resurface. And the same can be said for the rest of Europe. Everyone is panicked about this. Everyone. And panic is a wonderful thing, especially if you’re able to take advantage of it.’

‘See, that’s where you’re losing me. How can the CIA benefit from this?’

Manzak leaned forward and smiled, the type of smile that was usually seen next to a bubbling cauldron. ‘Tell me, Mr Payne, what do you know about the CIA?’

‘I know how to spell it. Other than that, I’m clueless.’ Payne pointed toward Jones. ‘There’s the guy you want to talk to. He was tempted to join your organization at one point in time.’

Manzak looked surprised. ‘Is that so?’

Jones nodded. ‘Simply put, you guys collect foreign intelligence, evaluate it, then send your theories to D.C. in one of these snazzy manila folders.’

Manzak ignored the last part. ‘Of course, it’s not as easy as it sounds. Sometimes it takes years to get a task done. For instance, we might smuggle an agent into a country, let him become a part of the system, then go back to him much later to find out what he’s learned. Sometimes months, sometimes years. That’s why in certain situations we’re forced to use more efficient techniques, ones with a quicker rate of return.’

Jones grinned. ‘Torture?’

‘You’ve heard the saying, If I scratch your back, you scratch mine. Well, that’s how we get some of our best intel. We provide a favor — weapons, cash, whatever — and get data in return.’

Payne groaned in understanding. ‘And let me guess, D.J. and I are the favor.’

‘Not just a favor, a big favor. If you catch Boyd, you’re helping more than just Spain. You’re helping us as well because we’ll hold Boyd over Europe like mistletoe, then see which country kisses our ass first. And the best part is we don’t have to risk any operatives to complete this mission. You gentlemen can do all the dirty work for us.’

‘That is, if we agree to do this. You see, there’s still one thing that bothers me. I take it there’s no way the Spanish government is willing to put our agreement on paper.’

‘That’s correct, Mr Payne. No paperwork on this one. It’s safer that way.’

‘Safer for whom? What’s to stop them from arresting us again the moment we find Boyd?’

Manzak shrugged. ‘And what’s to prevent you from going home the moment you leave this facility? The answer is nothing. But I’ll tell you this: I think Spain is showing a lot more faith in you than you are in them. With your military backgrounds, you guys could disappear if you wanted to, and there’s no way they could come to the U.S. to get you back. So what have you got to lose? If you take their deal, they’ll let you walk… And if you don’t, they’ll let you rot.’

16

The police in Orvieto could not be trusted. The city crest on the side of the helicopter was proof of that. But how far did the conspiracy run? Could Boyd and Maria trust the cops in the next town? There was no way of knowing, so they decided to take a two-hour bus ride to Perugia, a city of over 150,000 people, and seek the protection of a much larger police force.

After settling into the backseat, the duo glanced out the window and searched for flashing lights, men with guns, or anything that seemed suspicious. Yet nothing disrupted the quiet serenity of Orvieto except the loud exhaust of the bus.

Once they cleared the confines of Orvieto and headed toward the Italian countryside, Boyd was finally able to relax. His breathing returned to normal. The color reemerged in his cheeks. The knot in his stomach began to loosen, and his racing heart slowly slid from his throat.

Suddenly reenergized, Boyd removed the cylinder that he’d rescued from the Catacombs and stared at it. To him, the unearthing of the Catacombs was an event that would rock the archaeological community for decades to come. But the discovery of Orvieto paled in comparison to the item in his hand. If the Roman cylinder actually contained what he thought it did, the entire world would sit up and notice, not just a bunch of professors from the world of academia.

Front-page news all over the globe. Boyd’s picture on every magazine cover.

Before he got too excited, he realized he had to make sure that the promised treasure was actually inside. While Maria took a nap next to him, he held the cylinder next to the window to see if he’d missed anything in the gloom of the Catacombs. With the exception of the engraver’s inscription, the object was completely smooth, containing no ridges or flaws of any kind. Both ends appeared solid, as if the metal had no seams. But Boyd knew that wasn’t the case.

The artifact from Bath had looked solid as well, yet after running it through a series of tests, he discovered that one of the ends was covered with enough metal to keep air and moisture out but not enough to make it impenetrable. All he needed was a screwdriver, and he’d be able to pierce the metal top, then peel the surface back like the top of a can of nuts.

Desperate, Boyd glanced under his seat, searching for something to break the seal. Next, he checked the video camera bag, but all of the fasteners were made of plastic, which was way too flimsy to penetrate the top.

Bloody hell, he thought to himself. This cylinder is the key to everything. There has to be -

And then it dawned on him. He had just muttered the answer to his problem.

Boyd removed the key to his rent-a-truck and pushed its tip against the edge of the bronze cylinder. The container hissed as the seal was broken, allowing air that had been sealed for two thousand years to escape from the tube. With trembling hands, he pushed the key in harder, then peeled the thin layer of metal toward the edge. Not the entire way, though. He had no intentions of removing the document on the bus. All he wanted to do was to see if the scroll was inside.

To get a good look, Boyd raised the cylinder skyward, hoping to use the sun as a spotlight. But as he brought the opening to his eye, his concentration was broken. The scenery that had been rushing past at a steady pace had slowed to a crawl. The roar of the bus engine, the sound of the surging wind, and the chatter of his fellow passengers had disappeared as well.

‘Maria!’ Boyd shook her fiercely. ‘Wake up! We’re stopping.’

Her eyes popped wide open. ‘What do you mean we’re stopping? Where are we?’

‘In the middle of nowhere.’

She blinked a few times, then glanced out the side window, trying to place the terrain. Unfortunately, the sunflower fields and lush patches of green grass were commonplace for the area. There was no way she could tell anything from farmland.

Moving into the center aisle, she walked toward the driver, hoping to see a road sign or a mileage marker that would pinpoint their exact location. Regrettably, the only thing she saw was the bright hue of flashing lights. She rushed back to Boyd. ‘There’s a roadblock ahead!’

The color disappeared from his face. ‘They’re looking for us! I knew it!’

Maria realized the odds were pretty good that Boyd was right. ‘The way I see it, we’ve got two choices. We can try to talk our way out of this, or…’ She put her hand on the emergency door and opened it. ‘Or we can get the hell out of here.’

Not waiting for his response, Maria grabbed the video camera and slid out the back of the bus. Boyd followed her lead and climbed out as well.

‘Now what?’ he demanded. ‘Where to now?’

Maria crept to the back corner of the bus and looked around. ‘Damn! Where’s the rest of the traffic? There should be other cars!’ She glanced back at Boyd. ‘Did we go through a detour while I was sleeping? We aren’t on the highway anymore.’

‘I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention. I was studying the cylinder.’

She growled softly. ‘Damn! We’ll have to run for it. That’s our only alternative.’ She eyed the terrain on both sides of the road and realized the field of sunflowers would be perfect. ‘If we can get into the flowers, we should be able to hide until they search the bus and leave.’

Boyd nodded, then wrapped his hand around the cylinder like a sprinter in a relay race. ‘All right, my dear. You lead. I’ll follow.’

After taking a deep breath, Maria burst from their hiding place and leapt into the belly of the golden field where flowers sprouted to seven feet tall. Boyd followed her through the labyrinth of stalks, catching faint glimpses of her as she scurried through the sun-colored field.

The bus driver knew something was wrong the instant he heard the call. In his twenty-plus years with the company, this was the first time that the police had ever radioed him with a new set of directions. At first he figured there was an accident up ahead or maybe a traffic jam, but when he saw the flashing lights on the rural road, he knew it was something worse.

They were looking for one of his passengers.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced in Italian, ‘please don’t be alarmed. This is just a routine stop by the local authorities. I’m sure we’ll be under way shortly.’

‘Are you sure?’ someone shouted. ‘Because two people just jumped out the back.’

‘Jumped out?’ he demanded. ‘What are you talking about?’

Before the passenger could answer, one of the cops at the roadblock hoisted an M72 Light Antitank Weapon onto his shoulder and fired. The rocket launched with a mighty whoosh, propelled by gases that burned at over 1400°F, and slammed into the metallic grill of the bus.

Fire roared down the center aisle like a flood, burning everything in its wake: the seats, the luggage, and the people, literally melting the skin off their bodies in a horrific ball of flames. The unlucky few who survived the impact of the rocket scrambled blindly in the black smoke, searching for a way out. They flailed wildly at the broken windows, trying to squeeze through the holes that lined the frame even though the razorlike shards punctured their faces and torsos.

Finally, one of the men came to his senses and opened the emergency exit in the back.

‘If you can hear me,’ he screamed into the smoke, ‘come this way!’

Seconds later, he saw a petite woman fighting her way through the inferno, dragging a badly burnt man whose face looked like it had been removed with a blowtorch. The first man didn’t know where she’d found the strength, yet she’d somehow managed to drag him to the rear exit.

‘You’re almost out,’ he assured her as he helped them to the ground. ‘We’re almost free.’

She tried to thank him but could only manage a hacking cough. At least she was still breathing, he thought. At least she had made it through the flames and had managed to save one of the passengers in the process. Somehow, miraculously, they had survived this tragedy.

At least for the moment.

While staggering from the bus, he spotted the policemen in the distance and screamed to them for aid, not realizing that they had started the fire to begin with. The smallest of the cops rushed forward like he was going to help, like he was going to put out the fire with the long nozzle that he held in his hands. But instead of giving them assistance, he did just the opposite.

Stopping fifteen feet in front of them, the cop lowered the visor on his flame-retardant helmet and hit the switch on his flamethrower, sending a deadly stream of jellied fuel into the air. The chemicals ignited in a wicked flash, covering the victims like napalm and scorching them like marshmallows that had fallen into a campfire, their white skin bubbling and turning black as they slowly became a part of the burnt asphalt.

Smiling, the cop spoke into his headset. ‘The leak has been sealed.’

17

Tuesday, July 11

Dover, England

(eighty miles southeast of London)

Payne and Jones weren’t born yesterday. They had been involved in too many missions to ignore the obvious: there was something fishy about Manzak’s offer.

The CIA was a global organization, one that had agents and hidden connections all over the world. If they legitimately wanted to find Dr Charles Boyd, there was no way they would’ve turned to two outsiders for help. Yet for some reason Manzak came to Pamplona anyway. For some reason he wanted to go out of house (i.e., use non-CIA personnel) to track down Boyd and ultimately settled on two former MANIACs to do the job. Payne wasn’t sure why that was, but he had some theories. Perhaps Manzak was bucking for a promotion and felt the best way to get one was by catching a wanted man on his own? Or maybe Boyd had done something to Manzak long ago, and this was Manzak’s way of getting some personal revenge? Or maybe, just maybe, it was something more obvious. Maybe Manzak wanted to get his hands on Boyd so he could sell his stolen treasures and pocket the money for himself?

In the end Payne and Jones weren’t sure what Manzak’s motivation was. All they knew was he had the power to get them out of jail ASAP, and that’s all they wanted. Besides, they figured once they got back into circulation they’d have plenty of time to investigate Manzak, Boyd, and everything else that seemed shady to them. Which was just about everything.

After accepting Manzak’s offer, Payne and Jones collected their things before being herded into a helicopter and whisked away. During their flight Manzak briefed them on the mission and how to contact him once they had located Boyd. Instead of using a phone, they were to activate a high-tech beacon that looked similar to a garage door opener. Then they were to sit patiently and wait for the cavalry to arrive. Well, not the real cavalry. Their mission was supposed to be top secret, so the last thing they needed was for a bunch of horses to come galloping into town, shitting all over the place, while being led by a bugle-playing cowboy. Something like that might work during a gay pride parade but not on a CIA operation.

Anyway, their chopper touched down late Monday night in Bordeaux, France, where they were told to spend the night. Manzak gave them their travel itineraries for an early morning flight, then left with Buckner to save the world or something. Once alone, Payne and Jones started working the phones — first calling the Pentagon to check on Manzak and Buckner’s credentials, then calling Dover University to set up an appointment with Dr Boyd’s assistant.

England is smaller than the state of Alabama yet has three of the finest universities in Europe: Oxford, Cambridge, and Dover. The first two are the most well-known and for good reason. Oxford is the oldest English-speaking university in the world and boasts a roster of alumni that includes John Donne, William Penn, J. R. R. Tolkien, and Bill Clinton. Cambridge came into existence more than one hundred years later and was the school of choice for John Milton, Prince Albert, Isaac Newton, John Harvard, and Charles Darwin.

Yet in recent years many of the top students have shied away from the big two, partially because their admission policies seem to place more emphasis on a candidate’s lineage than his academic achievements. That, however, is not the case at Dover. Founded in 1569 by Elizabeth I, it had the guts to reject one of her ancestors because he failed to meet their scholastic standards. That episode, more than anything else, catapulted Dover’s status to the top of the academic heap, making it the school of choice among the elite families in Great Britain.

At least that’s what Jones read on the Internet while collecting intel for their trip.

The next morning they flew to London, took the express train to Victoria Station, then picked up a local line into Dover. From there it was a short walk to campus, where they had a late afternoon meeting with Dr Boyd’s assistant, Rupert Pencester, a chipper young bloke who was bound to offer them a cup of tea even though it was seventy-five degrees and sunny. To prepare for their meeting, Payne and Jones decided to show up early and conduct some research on their own.

The archaeology department was part of Kinsey College, one of thirty-three colleges that made up Dover University. It sat in the northwest corner of campus, fairly isolated from the sprawling lawn that connected all the schools. Boyd’s office was on the second floor of a building that was designed by England’s greatest architect, Sir Christopher Wren, one filled with arches, flying buttresses, and the biggest doors Payne had ever seen. Thankfully, the massive slabs of oak were outfitted with modern locks that Jones could crack in thirty seconds.

Pushing the door open, he said, ‘After you.’

There was no need to turn on any lights, since sunlight streamed through a series of recessed windows that ran the length of the wall. Boyd’s desk sat on the opposite side, next to three filing cabinets and a series of bookshelves. Payne hoped to find a computer filled with Boyd’s records and schedules, yet Boyd seemed to be a product of a different generation, for nothing in the room was modern. Even the clock looked like it was built by Galileo.

The filing cabinets were locked, so Payne let Jones work his magic while he dug through Boyd’s desk. Payne found the usual assortment of office supplies and knickknacks but nothing that helped their search. Next he turned his attention to the bookshelves. They were filled with books on the Roman Empire, archaeological digs in Italy, and early Latin.

‘The first one’s done,’ Jones bragged. ‘Feel free to take a look when you get a chance.’

‘That would be now. There’s nothing over here but books on Italy. Let’s see: we got Rome, Venice, Naples, and Milan.’

Jones focused his attention on the second lock. ‘Not exactly a shocker. I mean, his interview on the History Channel was on the Roman Empire. I’m guessing that was his specialty.’

‘It was,’ said a voice from the doorway. ‘That and privacy, which is the reason his chests are locked. Or should I say were locked.’

Payne looked at Jones, and he looked back, the color draining from both their faces. Suddenly they felt like Winona Ryder getting busted for shoplifting.

‘Listen,’ Payne said, ‘we weren’t — ’

‘No need,’ said the gentleman in an aristocratic accent. He was in his early twenties and wearing a red soccer outfit complete with shin guards and grass stains. A Dover emblem covered his left breast. ‘It’s none of my business, really. I just came to ring some of my chums. Do you mind?’

‘No, go ahead,’ Payne said, half stunned. They had just been busted in someone else’s office, yet he was being asked permission to make a call. God, the English were polite.

‘By the way,’ the guy reasoned, ‘I’m assuming you’re the chaps who rang me last night for an appointment. If I knew what you were after, perhaps I could expedite things?’

Payne glanced at Jones and noticed his grin. The detective gods were looking out for them.

‘Actually,’ Payne said, ‘we have some urgent business to discuss with Dr Boyd, and time is of the essence. Any idea where we might find him?’

‘Well, I can assure you he’s not in that chest.’ Payne waited for the kid to smile, but somehow he managed to keep a straight face. ‘For the last few weeks he’s been in the Umbria region of Italy, specifically the town of Orvieto. I was planning on spending my summer there until Charles told me that I’d be more helpful at home. Not exactly a vote of confidence, would you say?’ The bitter tone in the kid’s voice told them everything they needed to know. He was pissed at Dr Boyd, so he decided to get revenge by using Boyd’s phone and helping them out.

‘Do you know where he’s staying?’ Jones wondered.

He shook his head. ‘Orvieto is pretty small. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding him.’ He retrieved a book written by Boyd from the closest shelf. ‘Do you know what he looks like?’

Payne nodded. ‘We have one picture from when Winston Churchill was still alive.’

‘Most likely his annual from Oxford. It amazes me that he was willing to sit still for it. He’s something of a recluse when it comes to cameras.’

The kid flipped over the book and showed them the back photo. It must’ve been taken during one of Boyd’s lectures, for he was standing in front of a chalkboard with a pointer in his hand. His face and physique looked pretty much the same, albeit thirty years older. The only thing that had changed was his comb-over hairstyle. He had finally opted to go bald instead.

Jones asked, ‘Do you mind if I keep this? I’d like to read his stuff.’

‘Not at all. Feel free to take whatever you’d like.’ The kid wrote his number on a scrap of paper and gave it to Jones. ‘Should you have any further questions, please don’t hesitate to call.’

Payne said, ‘We won’t.’

‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to trouble you mates for a favor.’ The kid finally cracked a smile. A devious little grin. ‘When you surprise Charles in Orvieto and do whatever you’re going to do to him, please tell him that I, Rupert Pencester the Fourth, said hello.’

18

Nick Dial knew that Cardinal Rose would honor his promise to get back in touch but doubted he’d get anything of substance within twenty-four hours. Thankfully, Cardinal Rose was full of surprises.

‘Here’s what I can tell you,’ Rose said when he called. ‘Father Erik Jansen came to the Vatican eight years ago from a tiny parish in Finland. Upon his arrival he filled a number of duties, everything from clerical to spiritual, yet nothing that stands out until a year ago.’

Dial leaned forward. ‘What happened then?’

‘He was reassigned to a new post with the Pontifical Biblical Commission.’

‘To do what?’

Rose sighed. ‘I’m not quite sure. Perhaps if I had some more time.’

‘I’ve heard of the PBC, but I’m clueless about them. What can you tell me?’

‘Where to start? Well, they’ve been around since the turn of the century. Make that last century. Somewhere around 1901 or 1902. It was founded by Pope Leo XIII and used to make crucial interpretations about the Bible.’

‘Such as?’

‘A few years ago they released a study that examined the correlation between the Hebrew Scriptures and the Christian Bible in hopes of bringing the two groups closer together.’

Dial stroked his chin. ‘Sounds controversial to me.’

‘You’re right about that. Then again, anytime the Vatican changes their interpretation of the Bible, it’s bound to cause a stir.’

‘So the PBC is like the American Supreme Court. They have the final say on things.’

Rose smiled at the comparison. ‘In a rudimentary way, I guess you’re right — only the PBC is much slower. Take the Hebrew study. It took them ten years to draft their position statement.’

‘Ten years? That’s a long time to wait for some answers.’

‘When you’re dealing with the Word of God, you don’t want to make mistakes.’

Dial shook his head as he wrote a few notes. ‘Any idea what they’re working on now?’

‘Sorry. That’s a closely guarded secret that only a select few would know.’

‘Would Jansen be one of those people?’

‘Most appointees are senior members of the Vatican, men who are even older than I am. I doubt they’d include such a young member of our community.’

‘Yet he still worked for them.’ Dial stared at his bulletin board and focused on a crime scene photo of Father Jansen. Even with a broken face, he appeared way too young to have a position on such a powerful committee. ‘Could he have been an intern or somebody’s assistant? I mean, you mentioned that he had experience with that type of stuff.’

Rose nodded. ‘That’d make more sense than a spiritual role.’

‘Could his nationality be a factor? Is anyone from Finland on the Commission?’

‘I can check.’

‘While you’re at it, see if there are any Danes. We still don’t know why Jansen was brought to Denmark. Maybe it was some kind of message to the PBC.’

‘You think that’s possible?’ Rose wondered.

‘The fact is Jansen worked for one of the most powerful committees at the Vatican. That’s reason enough to suspect his death was job-related. Throw in the fact that he was crucified and the killer left a note that quoted the Bible, and, well, you see where I’m going.’

‘Just a second! What do you mean the killer quoted the Bible?’

Dial smiled. Rose had taken the bait. The truth was he was trying to shield the Bible angle from all outsiders, fearing if the media reported it that every religious fanatic in the world would be asking him questions about the Bible that he didn’t know how to answer. But Dial also knew if he was going to get any top secret dirt from Rose, he was going to have to reveal some of his own. Nothing major, just enough to make it seem like give-and-take instead of take, take, take.

So he said, ‘Joe, I could get in big trouble for telling you this. However, if you promise to keep this quiet…’

‘You have my word, Nick. This is between us. I promise.’

Dial nodded, satisfied. ‘The killer left a note that said, “IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER.” Nailed it on the cross above the victim, just like the sign above Christ.’

‘But why?’ he gasped. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘We’re not sure, Joe, we’re really not. But that’s why I need to know everything about Father Jansen. His duties, his enemies, his secrets. It’s the only way to stop the killers from doing this again. It’s the only way to save lives.’

‘My Lord! You think they’re going to kill again!’

‘Yes, and I wouldn’t be shocked if they followed the same pattern.’

‘You mean more priests?’

‘No, Joe, I mean more crucifixions.’

19

Ratchadapisek Road,

Bangkok, Thailand

Raj Narayan had been spoiled his entire life. His father was a powerful man in Nepal, a fact that Narayan pointed out to anyone who got in his way.

Of course there were some drawbacks to his life — the major one being his inability to do anything without it becoming national news. So when Narayan felt the urge to be bad, he was forced to leave Nepal for the anonymity of a foreign country. And this was one of those times.

Ratchadapisek Road is lined with nightclubs and fancy hotels and some of the finest restaurants in all of Asia, yet none of that mattered to Narayan. He made the two-hour flight to Bangkok every month and did it for one reason only: the world-famous massage parlors. Within a span of five blocks, there were over twenty spas. Each of them catered to the needs of foreigners, men who were willing to spend more cash in a single night than the average Thai worker made in an entire year.

Narayan was a good-looking man in his early thirties. Jet-black hair, dark eyes, and more self-confidence than Muhammad Ali. He had visited Bangkok on several occasions and spent so much cash at Kate’s Club, a quiet club off the main drag, that the manager was willing to empty the lounge whenever Narayan was in town.

He sipped on a Bombay martini as the girls, wearing high heels and short negligees, took their seats in the fishbowl, a gallery that was tucked beyond a thick wall of glass. Most of the women were Oriental, an even mixture of Thai, Koreans, Chinese, and Japanese. Yet the most revered women in Bangkok were the Asian girls with porcelain skin, for it gave them an appearance of purity, even though that couldn’t be further from the truth.

But in this world, appearance was all that mattered.

Women were broken down into four categories: normal, super, sideline, and model — guidelines that determined how much they were paid for their services.

Normal girls were the cheapest of the four and included ladies who were dark-skinned, over the age of twenty-five, or a few pounds overweight. But they were not ugly. Sometimes they possessed a flaw as small as a tiny scar that lowered their value and status.

Super girls, on the other hand, didn’t have to be super models as long as they were trained in the art of the ‘super massage,’ a full-body soap technique done on large rubber mats that was considered an art form in Thailand, one that was taught in special classes by Thai women who were too old to work in a club. To many foreign men, the act was so erotic that they would fly to Bangkok just to be bathed.

The sideline girls were the wild cards of the group. They came and went as they pleased, sometimes working in several clubs per night. They usually sat at the bar, hoping to catch the eye of a stranger while trying to convince him to buy her a drink that would ultimately lead to more.

But never with Narayan. The truth was he wasn’t interested in normal, super, or sideline girls. In his mind they were undeserving of his attention or his family seed. To him the models were the only group that mattered. They were the cream of the crop. The best of the best. So stunning that many of them had been featured in American magazines like Penthouse or Cheri.

When it came to these women, Narayan couldn’t help himself. They were far too beautiful to ignore. The way they pranced and preened under the spotlight. The way they smiled at him through the glass and looked at him like he was the only man in the world. The way they caressed their skin with gentle touches, rubbing the contours and crevices of their bodies in a naughty fashion, silk nighties hanging off their shoulders like dew on a lotus blossom. There was something about the way they moved that affected him, something deep inside.

He took a deep drag on his cigarette, then blew the smoke through his nose like a hungry dragon. He had already ordered ‘the pigs’ out of the fishbowl and was concentrating on the twenty women who stood in front of him, trying to figure out who would satisfy him the best. Each of the females had a number pinned to her dress like she was being judged in a beauty pageant. But in this case, the winner wasn’t given a tiara or a fancy title like Miss Thailand. She was given a stack of money and a male companion for the next few hours.

Several minutes passed before Narayan was sure. He studied each of the girls, trying to picture what they would do to him and what he would do in return. No need to rush such a critical decision. When he was ready, he nodded toward the manager who ran to his table like an overeager butler. The sudden flash of movement unnerved Narayan’s guards, who had positioned themselves near the two main exits and were ready for anything. One of them unholstered his gun and aimed it at the manager, an act that embarrassed Narayan so badly that he ordered his guards out of the club and threatened to have them killed if they came back before he was done.

The manager, familiar with Narayan’s temper, took his outburst in stride. In fact, it was the main reason that he waited on Narayan himself. He knew what to expect from his best customer.

‘As always, your favorite suite is waiting for you. Have you decided on a companion?’

Narayan rubbed out his cigarette on the tabletop. ‘I want them all. For the entire night.’

A round bed sat in the middle of the suite, not far from a hot tub. Steam covered the mirrors that lined the walls and ceiling, a fact that disappointed Narayan. He liked looking at himself when he lay among the models, their oiled-up bodies slithering over him like a pit of horny snakes, taking turns stroking him and kissing him in all the right places. It made him feel like a king.

Narayan smiled with anticipation as he took off his shirt and threw it on the couch, soon followed by his pants and shorts. It was one of the few times that he allowed himself to be vulnerable, which only made things more exciting. No bodyguards, no weapons, no clothes. Nothing to protect him but a condom.

He put on a CD, then adjusted the lights on a nearby panel, turning them down a notch until the room felt like dusk. He heard a soft knock on the door and told them to come in as he strolled toward the bathroom. Since he was a regular, the girls knew exactly what to do. They’d enter, get undressed, and lie on the bed like icing on a cake. At least as many of them as could fit. The others would stand nearby, waiting to take their turn whenever he beckoned.

Narayan heard footsteps in the suite, and his heart started to race. He put his hands in the sink and splashed cold water on his face, trying to contain his excitement. He’d been waiting for this moment since his last trip to Bangkok. It always made him feel like the most powerful man in the world. ‘Are you ready?’ he called in Thai. ‘Because here I come!’

The woman standing in the doorway was breathtaking — and completely naked. So was the one after that, and the one after that. Narayan pawed at all the ladies as they strode past, sometimes grabbing breasts, sometimes grabbing ass, but always doing something, just to let them know that he was their boss for the rest of the night and he could do anything he wanted.

He began by throwing five of them on the bed and spraying them with jasmine-scented body oil, just enough to lubricate every nook and cranny that he might want to explore as the night developed. Once he was positive that each of his beauties was glistening like a lotus blossom, he took a running start and dove on top of them like a little kid. The girls squealed with delight — much of it faked — as they slithered up and down his body, coating him with oil and bringing him to full arousal. From there they took turns pleasing him in a multitude of ways.

An hour later, when he tired of the first five women, he ordered them to clean themselves off and change the sheets while he climbed into the hot tub with four different models who had been sitting off to the side, watching. Narayan told one of the girls to sit on his lap and wash his hair while another rubbed his neck from behind. The other two took turns rubbing his feet and legs, all the while telling him how handsome he was and how horny he made them feel.

But their horniness disappeared when four hooded men burst through the door and charged with military proficiency toward the hot tub. One of the men pointed a gun at Narayan’s head, ordering him to stay still, while the others corralled the naked models and forced them into the bathroom. The task was harder than it seemed because most of the women were either coated with oil or bathwater, a mix that made the tiled floor as slick as a frozen pond. The models were screaming and crying and carrying on, all the while slipping and sliding in every direction. Eventually they got to the bathroom by crawling, a conga line of naked asses creeping toward the back of the room.

The scene would’ve been comic if not for the coldhearted stares of the four men and the gun pointed at Narayan. The men didn’t laugh or smile or even stare at the procession of naked women that eased past them. Instead, they held their positions like they were trained to do.

The scourging wouldn’t happen there. It was far too public, and Narayan’s bodyguards were way too close. Instead the men took him to a remote bungalow outside the tourist traffic of Ratchadapisek Road yet close enough to get the job done quickly.

They started by binding Narayan face-first to the bed frame, his mouth sealed shut and his arms and legs spread wide, completely at their mercy.

The man with the gun tucked it into his belt and pulled out a flagellum, a short whip consisting of three leather thongs with balls of lead affixed to the ends of each. This was the type of weapon that had been used on Christ for his scourging, the one that ripped through his back like a chain saw, the one that sapped him of his strength long before he was attached to the beams of the cross. It would do the same thing to Narayan.

The first blow hit flesh with a sickening crack, followed by the horror of Narayan’s muted screams, yet no one would come running. The duct tape muffled most of the sound, and the bungalow was far too isolated to be threatened by interlopers.

For the next several minutes, the man flogged Narayan repeatedly, bruising his legs, shoulders, and back until his skin could take no more and ripped apart like wrapping paper. Blood oozed from the veins and capillaries in his epidermis, then spurted when the subsequent blows sliced through the arteries in his underlying muscle.

Just like two thousand years ago. Just like the death of Christ.

In time, Narayan passed out from the pain but not before the skin hung from his back like the remnants of a tattered flag, each strand soaked in crimson dye.

Yet this was only the beginning. Things would get worse. Much worse.

And it wouldn’t stop until their message was revealed to the world.

20

Wednesday, July 12

Orvieto, Italy

Payne and Jones caught an early flight out of London and landed in Rome a few hours later. While they were in the air, Payne called an executive at Ferrari headquarters who was always trying to convince him to buy one of their newest cars and asked him for a loaner. Payne figured, when in Rome… well, you know the rest.

Anyway, after getting their luggage, they saw a slick-looking pisan in an even slicker suit holding a sign with Payne’s name on it. The guy hugged them like they were kin, grabbed their bags, and then bolted down the corridor. Two minutes later he unlocked a side door and led them to a VIP parking lot filled with limos and luxury automobiles. When Payne had talked to this guy’s boss on the phone, he told him that he wanted something fast but nothing too conspicuous. Maybe an older model with some miles on it. Needless to say, something got lost in the translation, because Mario pulled up in the sleekest car that Payne had ever seen in his life. A brand-new, bright red, limited-edition Enzo Ferrari, right off the showroom floor. Jones let out a gasp, which might’ve been followed by seminal fluid, but Payne didn’t have the desire to look.

‘Jon,’ he managed to say, ‘I know what I want for Christmas.’

Mario popped open the winglike door and held out the keys. ‘Who wanna drive?’

Payne glanced at the Enzo and fantasized about its V-12, 650-horsepower engine. But he realized there was no way he was going to fit his six four frame behind the steering wheel. So he turned to Jones and said, ‘Merry Christmas.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Don’t get too excited. I didn’t buy it for you. I’m just letting you drive.’

Jones rushed forward to admire the interior while Mario handed Payne the paperwork for the fastest rent-a-car in history.

Payne had been to every continent in the world including an ass-freezing excursion to Antarctica, the result of him losing a bet to a three-star general on the Army/Navy football game. That being said, he couldn’t remember ever visiting a place like the Italian countryside. The pastoral beauty of the rolling hills coupled with the ancient architecture took his breath away. Orvieto is sixty-two miles northwest of Rome, meaning they could’ve made the trip in about ten minutes if Jones had floored it. But they were enjoying the drive so much that they stretched it out over an hour.

In the distance the light gray rock of a 900-foot plateau rose out of the ground like a massive stage, framing Orvieto against the periwinkle sky and suspending it above the olive trees below. Jones noted its strong defensive position on top of the plateau and the single hue that dominated the entire town. ‘I bet this place used to be a citadel. See how the buildings blend in with the rock face? They’re made from the same stone as the tufa, meaning the city would’ve been camouflaged from a distance. Just like the Greek city of Mycenae.’

They parked the Ferrari on the west edge of Orvieto, figuring their car was bound to draw attention. After that they didn’t have a plan of attack, so they strolled down the first road they saw, soaking in the architecture as they passed through a series of archways. Though slightly weathered, the structures still held their form after centuries of use, contributing to the town’s allure and giving a glimpse of a different era. The only splashes of color came from the window boxes outside every window — boxes filled with pink, purple, red, and yellow flowers — and the thick patches of ivy that clung to the side of several buildings.

‘Where is everybody?’ Jones asked. ‘I haven’t seen anyone since we started walking.’

No cars, no merchants, no children playing in the afternoon sun. Their stride was the only sound they could hear. ‘Do Europeans take siestas?’

‘Some Italians might, but not an entire town. Something must be going on.’

Five minutes later they found out what it was.

After walking through a long, curved arch, they spotted hundreds of people jamming the piazza in front of them. Everyone was standing with their heads bowed while facing a massive cathedral that seemed completely out of place in the monotone town. Instead of blending in with the light-gray theme of Orvieto, the Gothic church opted for the exact opposite: its triple-gabled facade was filled with a rainbow of multicolored frescoes that depicted scenes from the New Testament. They were surrounded by a series of hand-carved bas-reliefs and four fluted columns.

Moving into the crowd, Payne had a hard time deciding what to examine first: the church or the people. He had never seen a building with a more striking exterior, yet he realized they were there for Dr Boyd and should be scanning the crowd to find him. Their search went on for several seconds until the sound of a handheld bell on the church’s steps ended the ceremony. Strangely, with little fanfare, the citizens of Orvieto went back to their daily lives.

‘What the hell was that? Everyone looks like zombies.’

‘Not everyone.’ Jones pointed toward an obese man who stood twenty feet away, taking pictures. ‘That guy looks like a tourist. Maybe he can tell us what we missed.’

They approached him cautiously, hoping to determine his country of origin before they attempted a conversation. His body odor screamed European, but his University of Nebraska T-shirt, tattered John Deere hat, and cargo shorts said he was American. So did his stomach, which hung over his belt like a giant beanbag chair.

Jones said, ‘Excuse me. Do you speak English?’

The man’s face lit up. ‘Hell yeah! My name’s Donald Barnes.’ He possessed the flat tone of a Midwesterner and the handshake of a blacksmith, something he developed by squeezing ketchup on everything he ate. ‘I’m glad someone else does, too. I’ve been yearning for some normal conversation.’

Payne joked, ‘That’s the problem with foreign countries. Everyone speaks a foreign language.’

‘That’s just one of the problems. I’ve had the shits since I arrived.’

Talk about too much info. ‘So, what did we miss? It looks like the whole town was here.’

Barnes nodded. ‘They were honoring the local cop who died in Monday’s accident.’

Jones asked, ‘What accident? We just got into town.’

‘Then you missed all the fireworks. I’m telling you, it was the damnedest thing. This big ol’ helicopter crashed into a parked truck near the base of the cliff.’

Payne whistled softly. ‘No shit? Did you see it?’

‘Nah, but I felt the sucker. The explosion was big enough to shake the whole damn town. I thought Mount Vesuvius was eruptin’ or somethin’.’

Jones considered the information. ‘I know that this is going to sound weird, but who did the truck belong to? I mean, did someone claim it?’

Barnes looked at Payne, then back at Jones. ‘How did you know about the missing driver? The cops have been looking for him, asking everyone in town if we seen him.’

‘And have you?’ Jones wondered.

He shrugged, causing rolls of fat to gather at his neck. ‘They don’t know what he looks like and neither do I, so how the hell am I supposed to know if I seen him?’

Barnes had a valid point, even though his grammar — and his diet — could use some work.

Then he lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Some people think the truck belonged to a grave robber, someone who didn’t want to be seen. How cool is that?’

‘Pretty cool,’ Jones whispered, egging him on.

‘You know, I was photographing the whole scene until the cops showed up and made me put my camera away. I was gonna complain and all, but we ain’t in America, and I figured they might have different rules over here. But I’m telling you, it was the damnedest thing.’

And pretty suspicious, Payne thought. What were the odds that a helicopter blew up in the same small town that Dr Boyd was visiting, a town with rumors about a grave robber? He had to be talking about Boyd. So he asked, ‘Are the cops still controlling the site?’

Barnes shrugged. ‘I ain’t been back since. I’ve been too busy with artwork and shit.’

Jones nodded. ‘We’ll be hitting the artwork and shit, too. But, man, we’d love to see the crash site. Can you tell us where it is?’

He pointed to the southeast, describing a few landmarks they’d pass on the way. ‘If you don’t find it, you can track me down on the east side of town. I hear there’s a two-hundred-foot well over there that shouldn’t be missed.’

Payne and Jones thanked Barnes for his information, then followed his directions to the crash site, unaware that he’d be murdered less than an hour later.

21

Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II,

Milan, Italy

Boyd sat in a café near the center of the Galleria, a glass-domed shopping mall that housed four neo-Renaissance streets. Tourists strolled past, taking pictures of the zodiac signs that were illustrated on the tiled floor of the atrium. The symbol that got the most attention was Taurus, for local legend said it was good luck to stand on the bull’s testicles. Just not for the bull.

‘Professore?’ called a voice from behind.

Boyd froze in terror. His heart pounded in his throat until he saw it was Maria. She had gone inside the café to use the bathroom and had somehow vanished from his mind.

‘Professore, are you all right? You look pale.’

‘I’m fine.’ He looked around the small café to make sure no one was listening. ‘I’ve been giving the violence a lot of thought, yet I’ve gotten nowhere. I simply don’t understand it.’

‘Me, either,’ she admitted.

Boyd paused, taking a bite of his apricot bis-cotti. His stomach growled in appreciation. ‘What about your father? Would he be willing to help?’

‘Probably. But he’d hold it against me for the rest of my life.’ She took a deep breath, trying to control her emotions. ‘You see, he’s always viewed women as the weaker sex. So I was a big disappointment from the very beginning. He already had two sons from his previous marriage, yet I guess he wanted another. That’s one of the reasons that I moved away from Italy. To prove that I could survive on my own.’

‘Which means we won’t be calling him for help.’

She nodded. ‘Not if I have a say in the matter.’

Boyd sensed that Maria wasn’t telling him everything about her father. After all, this was a life-and-death matter, not a simple favor. But Boyd had some secrets of his own, so he wasn’t about to push her on the matter. At least not yet.

‘And you do,’ he assured her. ‘Although there aren’t many other alternatives. At least none that I can think of without any sleep.’

‘Tell me about it. The last time I was this tired I’d spent the entire night in the library.’

Maria yawned, thinking back to her days as an undergraduate when she used to pull all-nighters twice a week. She’d fill a thermos with coffee, gather all the books she needed, then dive into her research until the sun came up.

Research. The word echoed through her mind.

Research. That’s what they should be doing. Not sitting on their butts, yawning and bitching. They should be in a library, doing what they were trained to do.

‘Professore,’ she said, excited. ‘Let’s figure out what the scroll says.’

‘Shhh!’ Boyd glanced around the café, praying no one heard her. ‘Keep your voice down.’

‘Sorry,’ she whispered. ‘But we have nothing better to do. Why not decipher the scroll?’

‘But how? This isn’t the type of thing I could translate from memory.’

She slid her chair closer. ‘What would you need?’

‘Privacy, for one. We’d need to find a room where I could work for several hours in peace. Second, I’d need a translation guide. A number of books have been written on early Latin. I’d need one to help me through the obscure passages.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, the three Ps. Pencils, paper, and patience. No translation is possible without them.’

Maria smiled as she reached for the check. ‘If that’s all you need, then we’re in luck. There are two schools nearby with world-class libraries.’

They caught a bus to the Università Cattolica, hoping that it had everything Boyd needed.

Even though they lacked a college ID, Maria turned on her charms and sweet-talked the male security guard into letting them inside. Her charisma was so effective she even convinced him to unlock a private study room so they could conduct their translation in private.

Once they got settled, the two headed in different directions, searching for materials. Boyd grabbed a map and looked for the location of the library’s Latin collection while Maria sat at a computer terminal and entered EARLY LATIN. Within seconds she was staring at the name of the best books in the building. Unfortunately, when she got to the section, he was already emerging from the stacks with several books in his hands.

‘Computers,’ he laughed, ‘are a waste of time and money!’

They returned to the study room, where Boyd unveiled the bronze cylinder. He’d peeked at the scroll during their journey to Milan and realized that it was written in the same language as its brother, the language of the Roman Empire. Now he just needed time to translate it.

‘What can I do to help?’ she asked.

‘Why don’t you use your fancy-pants computer skills and research the artwork of ancient Rome? Try to locate the laughing man from Orvieto. He has to be mentioned somewhere.’

Maria went to the same terminal as before and typed ANCIENT ROMAN ART. The computer scanned the library’s resources and spat out a long list. Photographs, sketches, maps, and descriptions were available by the hundreds, all of them detailing the colorful history of the Roman Empire. Maria grabbed the first five books she found, then settled into a nearby booth.

As she opened the first book, she realized that she didn’t have a plan of attack. Sure, she could flip through page after page, hoping to stumble across a picture of the laughing man, but she knew there had to be a more efficient way to conduct her research.

Giving it some thought, she decided to look in the table of contents, hoping that her theory from the Catacombs — that the laughing man was actually a Roman leader — was accurate. To her surprise, the book classified its artwork by emperor, meaning she could flip through the book’s pictures until she reached the last leader of the Empire.

Starting with Augustus, she studied statue after statue and carving after carving, but none of them shared any similarities to the face of the laughing man.

After Augustus was Tiberius, a man who ruled the Empire from 14 to 37 ad, a period that covered the adult life of Jesus Christ. In her mind she felt that Rome’s second emperor could be the man she was looking for. Since the laughing man was prominently displayed on the crucifixion archway and Tiberius was the leader of Rome at that time, she thought they might be one in the same. That made sense, didn’t it? But as soon as she saw Tiberius’s face in a series of statues, she knew it wasn’t him. The two men looked nothing alike.

‘Damn!’ she cursed. ‘Who the hell are you?’

Maria searched for the laughing man for two more hours before she finally took a break. Her lack of sleep coupled with her lack of success proved to be a powerful narcotic. So she stumbled down two flights of stairs to the basement lounge and bought the largest espresso they sold. While waiting for her order, she collapsed into a nearby booth and rested her head on the table. Unfortunately, the sound of footsteps cut her nap short.

‘La Repubblica?’ offered the server who brought Maria’s order.

She didn’t have the energy to read the local paper but accepted it with a nod. The instant he walked away, she brought the steaming cup to her mouth, savoring the rich aroma with several deep breaths before finally taking a sip. ‘Aaaaah,’ she moaned. ‘Much better than sex.’

Within seconds Maria felt rejuvenated, so much so that she started to skim the headlines. She had no intention of reading any articles — she wasn’t that refreshed — but hoped to catch up on the major news: An Earthquake in India… A Murder in Denmark… Violence near Orvieto -

‘What?’ she gasped.

She skipped back to the story and forced her eyes to read the headline, hoping it was a hallucination. Shockingly, the paper claimed that there’d been a terrorist attack near Orvieto.

Maria put her espresso aside and started to read, devouring the words of the article. The paper claimed that Dr Charles Boyd blew up a bus, killing nearly forty people in the process. It stated his whereabouts were unknown but warned he should be considered armed and dangerous.

With a mixture of emotions, she gathered her things and rushed upstairs to tell Boyd the news. She burst into the conference room, expecting to find him working, his slight frame hovering over the outstretched scroll. But he wasn’t there. The ancient document sat in the middle of the table next to a translation of the text, yet his chair sat vacant. It was a sight that made no sense to her. Why did he leave the document unguarded? No way he’d abandon it for a bathroom break or a trip to the card catalog. It was far too important to leave unprotected.

God, she thought, I hope nothing happened to him.

She walked forward, desperate for a sign that he was OK, a scrap of paper that said I’ll be back soon or an envelope with her name on it. Instead, she saw something she wasn’t expecting, a scene that confused her even more. Dr Boyd was sitting on the floor in the corner of the room. His knees were pulled to his chest and his eyes were glazed, fixated on the far wall.

‘Dr Boyd? Are you all right?’

A blink. A wince. Then a shudder. His entire body trembled as he tried to answer, as if the words he was searching for required every ounce of strength that he could produce. Finally, he managed to whisper three words, ‘Christ is dead.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked, confused.

‘Our discovery will kill Christ. It will murder the Church.’

‘What are you talking about? How does one murder the Church? The Church can’t be murdered. It’s an institution, not a person. Tell me what’s wrong. What’s going on?’

‘Trust me, you don’t want to know what I’ve learned.’

‘Of course I do. I risked my life for that scroll. In fact I’m still risking my life for that scroll.’ She held up the local newspaper and showed it to him. ‘We’re wanted for murder. You and me. The authorities are blaming us for the deaths of three dozen people.’ Actually, Maria’s name wasn’t mentioned, but she figured a little white lie might work to her advantage. ‘Now, unless I’m mistaken, an accusation like that means I’m entitled to full disclosure.’

With trembling hands, Boyd grabbed the paper and read the headline. ‘Oh my God. This can’t be! They control the police. They control the media. They’re not going to stop!’

‘What are you talking about? Who isn’t going to stop?’

‘Them! They must’ve known about the scroll! That’s the only thing that makes sense! They knew it was in there! They knew it all along.’

‘Who knew? What are you talking about?’

‘Don’t you see? They weren’t trying to take the scroll. They were trying to protect it. That’s the only thing that makes sense. They must’ve known it was in there!’

‘Professore, you aren’t making any sense. We found the Catacombs. If someone had known about it, they would’ve taken credit for it long ago.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong! This isn’t the type of discovery that anyone wants to make.’

‘What are you talking about? The discovery of the Catacombs is a major find!’

‘You’re not listening to me. I’m not talking about the Catacombs. I’m talking about the scroll. The scroll is what’s important now. The scroll is the key to everything.’

‘It’s more important than the Catacombs? How is that possible?’

Boyd blinked a few times, trying to come up with an analogy that she would understand. ‘The Catacombs were but a chest. The scroll was the treasure within.’

‘The scroll is the treasure?’

‘Yes. It was the key to the entire site.’

‘The frescoes, the graves, the stone chests? They aren’t important?’

Boyd shook his head. ‘Not compared to the scroll.’

Confused, Maria tried to absorb what she’d been told. Unfortunately, her lack of sleep made the information impossible to comprehend.

We killed Christ. We killed the Church. The Catacombs aren’t important. The scroll is the real treasure. What did any of that mean?

When she’d left Boyd a few hours before, he claimed he’d be able to translate the document without any difficulty. Now he was like this. What could’ve turned him from a cocky professional to a whimpering zombie in such a short amount of time? Oh dear, she worried, maybe Boyd was having a mental breakdown. Maybe the helicopter, the avalanche, and the bus had finally gotten to him. Maybe he finally realized that their lives were in danger, unless…

It dawned on her that she didn’t know what the scroll said. She’d left Boyd with the scroll, and when she returned he was wailing about its importance, claiming it was the key to everything. Everything. Could it be the key to his outburst as well? Was that possible?

‘What did it say?’ she demanded. ‘If it’s that important, I have to know what it says.’

Boyd lowered his eyes. ‘I can’t tell you, my dear. I just can’t. It wouldn’t be right.’

‘What? After all we’ve been through, you owe me that and more.’

‘Don’t put me in this position,’ he pleaded. ‘I’m not trying to be the bad guy. I’m trying to save you. I really am. I’m trying to distance you from further danger — ’

‘Something more dangerous than snipers and exploding buses? If you haven’t noticed, people are trying to kill us, and I have a strange feeling that they’re not going to stop until we do something about it. So stop stalling and let me know what we’re up against.’

Boyd paused, unsure of what to do. He’d spent his entire career trying to establish historical truths, yet he’d never had the chance to prove anything important until now. But this would be different. This discovery had the potential to shatter an entire belief system, to change the world. It was the type of artifact that archaeologists dream of. One that had modern significance.