Wilcox stretched out his hand towards these showpieces, his eyes never leaving the increasingly puzzled-looking faces of his audience. ‘These caskets contain three items pertaining to our lord which were thought to be lost two millennia ago. One is the wooden sign fixed to the cross that Jesus Christ was crucified on. The second is the loincloth our saviour wore on the day of his execution.’
The sounds of shock and intrigue from those assembled now turned into a low rumble as many of them leant forward in their seats, attempting to get a better glimpse of the display contents as the Pope continued with his astonishing story.
‘And the third is perhaps the most coveted relic of all: the crown of thorns Christ was forced to wear on that same terrible day.’
As the murmurs from the crowd began to rise to a crescendo, the pontiff raised both his arms in an effort to calm them. ‘Please, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to finish.’
As the ripple of excitement abated, he went on, ‘On each of these holy relics were found bloodstains, and under analysis, although degraded, we were able to extract a complete strand of DNA from all three. I can reveal to you now that they are an exact …’
Wilcox’s voice tailed off as he caught sight of a familiar-looking figure making his way down the Cathedral nave towards the main doors. Clutching his shoulder for support was a young woman enveloped in the familiar red-and-black robe of a cardinal. The man glanced back for a split second, and, in that moment, John Wilcox locked eyes with Alex Harker who, with a wink, continued towards the main entrance.
A nervous unsettling sensation ran through John Wilcox’s body, and he spun around to see an equally concerned-looking Cardinal Rocca already making his way towards one of the side doors at the rear of the basilica.
Standing in the nave, Detective Barbosa nudged Perone in the ribs as the superintendent stared disbelievingly at the Pope, straining to take in what this announcement actually meant.
‘Boss, Rocca’s on the move.’
It took another moment for the superintendent to snap out of it and a few more to wonder why his second-in-command was not as shocked as he was by the Pope’s revelation until he recalled that the young officer didn’t speak a word of English. ‘OK, you stay here whilst I go and check on what Rocca is up to.’
Perone made his way quietly past the seated rows of politicians and interpreters and over to the door Cardinal Rocca had just disappeared through. His mind was buzzing with what he had just heard, and he felt light-headed, almost euphoric. Could it be true? The second coming?
Reaching the door, he made his way inside only to come face-to-face with Cardinal Vincenzo, hog-tied and laid out on one of the stone benches. Beyond him, Rocca was busily tapping at the numbers on his mobile phone, and Perone instinctively reached for his holster before remembering that it was empty. Even before he could withdraw his hand from underneath his jacket, Rocca had hurled himself with fists outstretched, sending both men to the ornately tiled floor with a thud.
The heels of Perone’s leather brogue skidded vainly, attempting to maintain a grip on the polished surface as the cardinal clasped both hands firmly around the detective’s throat and began squeezing with all his strength. If he intended to subdue the superintendent quickly, he failed totally, for Perone immediately thrust his knee violently into the cardinal’s groin. Rocca released his grip and, with a yelp, retreated towards the opposite wall, cupping his crotch, but Perone was not about to allow him an inch. Still panting for breath, he was immediately on his feet and pressing his advantage. With both hands planted firmly around the clergyman’s collar, he lifted him up and slammed him up against the door, which crashed open, sending the two men sprawling across the Cathedral floor before the eyes of the entire assembly. The two men stood up quickly and faced each other, but only Perone seemed aware of their shocked audience. A furious glare transformed Cardinal Rocca’s face as he confronted the superintendent, seemingly oblivious to whatever else was going on around them. In this moment of utter insanity, he pulled a silver dagger from beneath his robe and lunged at Perone with a blood curdling cry. So lost was he in this moment of pure psychosis that he never even noticed that the two secret service agents protecting the French president were raising their 9 mm Glocks towards him. Cardinal Rocca made it only a few feet before he was struck by a fusillade of bullets, all in the chest and well grouped. The impact sent him flying backwards on to the floor with a crack to his skull, the glinting blade dropping from his hand and sliding into the office he had just hurtled out of.
No sooner had his body come to rest than chaos erupted, and dignitaries were being jostled out of their seats by suited agents and hustled efficiently down the long nave of the basilica towards the main entrance. Back at the altar, Perone was still frozen, his hands raised upwards in surrender as they had been since the first gun had been fired, but a high-pitched scream from behind made him spin around to see Pope Adrian VII raising his hands to his face, his mouth agast with an excruciating look of despair.
The Pope sank to his knees, his gaze fixed on the motionless body of his brother. There were many things that could have been running through John Wilcox’s mind during such a moment – damage control or the whereabouts of the young mother pregnant with the Christ child – but as he stared into those dull eyes of the lifeless corpse no more than a few metres away, only two thoughts occupied his tormented mind.
How much he would miss his younger brother, and how the Templars and their lap dog, Alex Harker, would pay.
Chapter 50
Harker heard the muffled sound of two gunshots ring out from somewhere inside the cathedral within seconds after exiting through its towering doors, but he was not about to go back and investigate. He had to keep moving, and, thankfully, the priest on watch at the basilica’s entrance had hardly batted an eyelid at the odd couple. He was no doubt far too preoccupied with the Pope’s earth-shattering disclosure to notice the man wearing a red party shirt and the young woman next to him swaddled in a cardinal’s robe.
Up ahead, the majestic circular piazza was buzzing with activity; because of tonight’s event the area had been cordoned off, allowing access to media crews only. Scores of reporters, trailed by cameramen, were hovering only fifty metres away whilst further out were gathered crowds of ordinary well-wishers eager to witness the event first-hand. Apparently, no one had heard the two gunshots coming from inside the cathedral, of which Harker counted his blessings because the last thing he needed was a media frenzy. That would no doubt come later. His first instinct was to head for the journalists since there was no way even Genges would try to kill him on international television, but Harker’s sense of logic now kicked in. Appearing in front of the world’s press with a semi-conscious, half-naked pregnant woman would not look good, and, considering he was probably still wanted in connection with five murders, he would undoubtedly be taken into police custody immediately. With him out of the way, it would only be a matter of time before the Magi had Ms Genova picked up, and that was not an option. No, he had to find a hospital and get her into the care of a doctor. From there, he could make some calls and figure out what to do next, but, first, it was all about the girl and the unborn child inside her.
The Italian girl was at least standing upright, but, without a reducer drug to reverse the effects of her anaesthetic, there was no telling how long it would take until she snapped out of it completely. He kept his arm firmly wrapped around her waist and began making his way down the open-air corridor towards the Arco delle Campane, keeping hidden from public gaze as best he could. In decades gone by, the arch had housed two large bells used to announce mass, but they had been taken down years earlier, and the entrance was now used by the cardinals and priests as an easy access to the basilica without having to plough through the general crowds before and after prayers. On the other side of the wall, there was a car park and public payphone he could use to call a taxi – or at least there used to be.
It was a chance he would have to take. They
were already through the arch, down the stairs, and heading towards the car park when he heard the clang of the basilica’s heavy doors being flung wide open and the chaotic sound of security people running around the open space behind him. In the car park, he could hear several vehicles revving into action and he finally caught sight of the payphone up ahead. On reaching it, Harker started furiously rummaging around in his pocket for some change, propping Maria Genova on his knee, her head bobbing up and down as if she was a life-size ventriloquist’s dummy. He finally located the one coin he had been looking for, trapped in the lining of his trouser pocket, and was just about to insert it when he felt something hard poke into the base of his spine.
‘I don’t think so, Professor.’
Genges stood directly behind him, tight-lipped and looking severely pissed off. ‘You’ve caused us more than your fair share of trouble tonight, and that ends now.’
Nearby, more politicians were hurriedly being bundled into their respective limousines, completely oblivious to Harker’s predicament.
‘OK, slowly and calmly, or I shoot you right where you stand.’ The Magi prince dug the gun barrel in deeper.
Harker felt an urge to resist, but the look in the assassin’s eye convinced him otherwise.
‘Over there, now,’ Genges ordered, gesturing them towards an open gateway, and suddenly, they were in the serene surroundings of what looked like a mini-forest, a perfectly maintained courtyard filled with an assortment of trees, flowers, and tombstones. The smell of damp earth was strong as was the sap from the palm trees towering above them. They were greeted by two marble statues: a cardinal complete with a shepherd’s crook on one side and the Emperor Charlemagne on the other. A sign over the gateway announced what Harker already knew – THE TEUTONIC CEMETERY.
It was on this very site that the Emperor Nero’s circus had been built to give the people of Rome the excitement of fights to the death for their entertainment, and more famously where St Peter had been crucified upside down – as was his last wish so as not to emulate his mentor Jesus Christ. Millennia later, the site had been turned into a cemetery here in the centre of the Vatican, honouring the many Christians that had died there.
‘An appropriate place for you to meet your end,’ Genges spat, still trying to control his rage. ‘And fully deserved considering the amount of trouble you’ve caused us.’
Maria Genova clung to his arm as Harker turned to face the Magi assassin. ‘You’re nothing but a cheap hood, a career criminal Genges. You and your brothers deserve everything you get.’
The man’s expression of anger was gradually replaced with an expression of confidence. ‘What we are doing is for the benefit of over one-and-a-half billion people through the restoration of their faith. There are times, as your girlfriend Claire Dwyer already stated Professor Harker, when the ends do justify the means.’
Harker recoiled instinctively. ‘And that includes killing Father Reed in cold blood. He was a good man, a true man of God, and yet you seemed to enjoy it.’
Genges shook his head slowly. ‘Your precious Father Reed belongs to the old world and would have as much relevance in the new Church as you yourself do.’ The same psychopathic grin Genges had displayed down in the necropolis was now back with a vengeance. ‘It’s not my fault if I enjoy my work, and, with that in mind, it’s time to say adieu, Professor Harker.’
In one swift motion, he unsheathed his arm-sword and swept the steel blade across Harker’s chest, cutting deep into the sinew of his ribs and sending him back on to the grass verge. At the same, and with no one to support her, Maria Genova dropped on to the hard gravel path like a rock. Tears began to well in her eyes as she instinctively rolled on to her back, clutching at her stomach, the pain finally dispelling the last vestiges of anaesthetic in her system. Harker tried to call out to her, but the shock of seeing a diagonal red line oozing across his chest made him choke.
‘You see, Professor, all your meddling will not have changed anything,’ Genges snarled as he stood over the fragile Italian woman and gestured with his sword at the red bloodstain pooling between her legs. ‘Except for the timing. We Magi have waited over a thousand years for an opportunity like this. We can wait a little longer.’
He pressed the tip of the blade against the girl’s face who immediately pushed it away. Her eyes were now fully open, but she let out a whimper as if not sure whether she was awake or asleep. ‘As for this creature, she is no longer of any use to us, though she could have been the next holy mother.’ He let out a deep sigh. ‘Now the honour will have to go to another. Goodbye, my lady.’
Genges had raised his arm-sword above his head, ready to plunge it into the girl in front of him, when a familiar husky voice called out from behind.
‘Just like the Magi to cut down a helpless woman.’
Harker turned his head towards the dark silhouette standing in the cemetery entrance, trying to catch a glimpse of the man’s face. But he already knew who it was because the voice was unmistakable.
Sebastian Brulet strode out of the shadows to face his sworn enemy. He was dressed in a long black overcoat with the now familiar black Kevlar combat armour underneath. A thin brimmed trilby covered his silver hair, and his steely gaze was fixed on the quivering sword still raised above Genges’s head.
‘When will you people learn that murder is not the only solution?’
Struggling to accept the person standing in front of him, it took a few seconds for Genges to respond, ‘Brulet? No, that’s impossible! I saw you die.’
The Grand Master of the Templars shook his head gracefully. ‘No, Genges, you saw the room you believed me to be in blown-up, and there’s a difference. Luckily, I have had escape routes built into every room of every Templar safe house for just such an occasion.’
The Magi captain’s jaw muscles tightened as he realised the novice’s mistake he himself had made.
‘Always check your kill and always dispose of it,’ Brulet added. ‘Without your help, however, I wouldn’t be standing here. If you had just slung in that grenade before mouthing off a lot of useless rhetoric, the blast probably would have caught me.’ The Master Templar gave a snort. ‘Thank the Lord, your mouth is bigger than your brain.’
Genges lowered the sword and took a step forward. ‘Maybe it’s just as well you aren’t dead. It means I get to dispatch of my father’s murderer in the ways of the old code.’ He raised the blade upwards as Brulet now released his own arm-sword into place with a sharp click. ‘And I’m going to enjoy it too.’
Both men stood facing the other with no more than a few metres between them and each displaying a mutual scowl of contempt.
‘Be warned, Brulet, there is no better swordsman than me. In the art of steel, I have no equal,’ Genges boasted confidently. ‘We both live by the sword, Templar filth, but today, only you will die by it.’
A thin smile crossed Brulet’s lips, and suddenly his sword retracted upwards into his sleeve. Then, in the blink of an eye, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a black silenced pistol, and aimed it directly at the dark prince’s forehead. ‘You’re absolutely right.’
A single shot from its barrel splattered the back of his skull against the trunk of a palm tree directly behind him, and the Magi’s body went limp before dropping to the ground with a heavy thud, dark blood seeping out on to the grass underneath.
Within seconds, two other men appeared at the entrance and carefully lifted up Maria Genova, wrapping a warm blanket around her as Brulet made his way swiftly to Harker’s side. Without a word, he ripped open the Party Cruise T-shirt, now saturated with blood, and began to examine the deep cut.
‘Don’t worry, Professor, it’s just a flesh wound,’ Brulet announced assuredly.
‘It doesn’t feel like it,’ grumbled Harker, exhaling frothy bubbles that dribbled down his chest. In fact, the sword had punctured his lung, and a severe pain descended on his abdomen as it tried to re-inflate with every breath he attempted. Oh God, is this it? he wond
ered, instantly trying to dismiss the odious thought. No, surely it couldn’t be. He wasn’t ready to go yet, and there was so much still to see in the world.
Harker clutched at his wounded chest as the pain continued to intensify. By now, his eyesight was beginning to dull, and, as his vision descended into blackness, he felt a strong arm around his waist pulling him upwards. As his senses finally began to desert him, he was still aware of Brulet’s voice, nearby.
‘Now, now, Professor, you’re not getting away that easily. We’ve got far too much to discuss.’
Chapter 51
The plump nurse once again rapped a knuckle against his hospital room door whilst balancing a plastic dinner tray on her other palm. Behind her, a long white corridor extended a hundred metres back to the cafeteria she had just fetched it from. It was her fifth such delivery of the morning, and her knees were already aching at the thought of a tough day ahead.
Rapping harder this time, she pushed her way through the door to find her patient sitting up in bed, wearing earphones, as he watched a television fixed to the opposite wall. Letting the door slam shut behind her, she placed the plastic tray on the raised table in front of him. ‘You spend far too much time watching television, Professor. It’s not good for you. Now come on, eat up.’
Harker sighed grudgingly, slipped off the headphones, and stared down at the metal plate cover. ‘Let me guess, its rubber steak again?’ He forced a smile; he had been in this hospital for over a month, and, four times a week, it was the same thing.
‘You better make it quick because you’ve got a visitor on the way. He should be arriving in a few minutes.’
Harker gave up a groan. ‘Dean Lercher strikes again.’
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