The Last Gospel

by David Gibbins

  There was just enough room to maneouvre, and he struggled on to his back, kicking off his boots and stripping off his clothes. He crawled back to the edge of the pool, his headlamp still on, and slipped into the water. It was icy cold, but felt instantly cleansing. For a moment he floated motionless on the surface, face down, eyes shut. Then he looked. Without a mask the image was blurry, and his eyes smarted with the cold. But the water was crystal clear, and he could see the beam from his headlamp dancing off rock, revealing walls and corners. He was floating above a deep cutting, at least four metres deep, rectilinear. He twisted sideways for more air, then put his face under again. As the beam swept down he saw a wide opening in the side of the chamber, cut into the rock in the direction of the quarry face. The opening was arched above and flat below, forming a shelf, wide enough for two to lie side by side. He ducked his head down and stared into the cutting, but was blinded by a dazzling sheen of light that reflected off the polished surface of the shelf. He remained there, staring into the speckly radiance, registering nothing, his mind frozen.

  This was no water cistern.

  He came up for air, then quickly looked down again. Out of nowhere he had an image of Elizabeth, then of Helena, and for a split second he thought he saw something, a trick of the light perhaps, a reflection of his own form floating over the edge of the shelf. He jerked his head upwards, gasping for air, and his headlamp slipped off, spiralling down out of reach through the water. He blinked hard, then looked down again. The shelf was lost in darkness, and all he could see was the bottom of the pool where the light had fallen, a blurry image of shadows and light. He took another breath, then arched his back and dived, pulling himself down with strong strokes, relishing the freedom of being underwater again, where he belonged.

  Then he saw it.

  A stone cylinder resting on the bottom, white, just like ones he had seen before, in an ancient library under a volcano, a library once owned by a Roman emperor who had come here to the Holy Land to seek salvation in the words of one who had dwelt beside the Sea of Galilee.

  Then he realized.

  Everett had found the tomb.

  He reached down.

  24

  Jack crawled back to the entrance of the tunnel where he and Costas had removed the stone block, pushing his bag ahead of him. He dropped it on the floor of the chapel, then stretched his hands down and used them to walk himself out. He had still been dripping wet when he put his clothes back on, but he hardly noticed the cold and damp. All he could think about now was getting out and to safety. He looked around. The candles in the chapel were still lit, but there was nobody to be seen. ‘Costas?’ he said, his voice echoing back down the tunnel. ‘Helena?’ There was no reply. He squatted down, putting the strap of his bag over his neck. He shook his hair and wiped his face. Maybe they had gone back to the first chamber, to the Chapel of St Helena. He checked his watch. Twenty minutes to go. He prayed that Morgan had made it. He clutched his bag. Whatever happened now, the world would know.

  He got up and walked cautiously towards the chapel entrance, then out into the passageway. He wiped his face again with the back of his hand, and saw how grimy he was. Ahead of him was the grated door into the Chapel of St Helena, wide open. He could see the candlelight flickering over the central columns of the chapel, and in the gloom at the back the steps that led up to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. He took a few steps forward, then stopped. Something was wrong. Then he heard a sound, out of place, metallic. The sound of a gun cocking. So this was it. He braced himself, his heart pounding. He had no choice now. There was only one way out. He walked slowly into the chapel.

  ‘Dr Howard. We meet again.’

  The voice was instantly familiar, with the hint of an east European accent. It was the voice of a man from another underground place two days before, a man Jack had only seen in shadow. He suddenly felt a cold grip in the pit of his stomach. Helena had been right. Jack said nothing, but made his way cautiously over the irregular stone floor, keeping his eyes averted from the candles to accustom them to the gloom. The figure stood in front of him, in the shadows again, beside the chapel altar and a statue of a woman holding a cross: St Helena. Jack stood still, his feet apart, glancing from side to side, trying to discern others in the darkness.

  ‘Show them to me,’ he snarled.

  There was a pause, then a sound of fingers clicking, and someone in a dishevelled monk’s robe was pushed forward, tripping and falling heavily on one elbow. It was Yereva, her face bruised and swollen. ‘I didn’t say anything, Helena,’ she blurted out, peering into the darkness behind her. ‘They followed me.’ Then Jack saw the silencer of a pistol rammed into her neck, and she was yanked back into the shadows.

  ‘You see, we knew where you were all along,’ the man said to Jack, his face obscured. ‘We have eyes and ears everywhere. Many willing brethren.’ Jack saw him click his fingers again. Another figure was pushed out from the shadows, a bearded man wearing an episcopal robe, a bishop, clutching an ornate Armenian cross to his chest. Jack saw the silencer thrust out of the darkness towards the man, who looked imploringly at Jack, twisting sideways. Jack looked back towards the man in the shadows, and snorted. ‘One of your willing brethren?’ he said.

  The bishop spoke rapidly in his own language, beseechingly. The man in the shadows turned on him, his voice low, vicious. He said something in Latin. The bishop stopped talking, stood rooted to the spot, then started shaking, weeping.

  ‘You see?’ the man said, turning to Jack. ‘Everyone is willing, who serves our cause.’

  ‘Show me them,’ Jack snarled again.

  The man spoke into the darkness to one side, in Italian. ‘Pronto,’ he said. The fingers snapped again. There was a tussle, and a grunted exclamation. Costas was suddenly pushed into the candlelight, tripping and then standing upright, a strip of duct tape over his mouth and his hands tied behind his back. He was breathing stentoriously, sucking in the air through his blocked sinuses, his chest heaving. Jack could see a silencer behind his neck, and the dark outline of a figure behind. A man with his arm in a cast. Jack’s mind was working overtime. Their assailant in Rome. Costas caught sight of Jack, his eyes wide, desperate.

  ‘Take off the tape,’ Jack snarled. ‘He can’t breathe.’

  ‘He has nothing further to say,’ the figure by the altar said. ‘And nor do you.’

  Jack suddenly knew, with cold certainty. This was no longer a sanctuary. It was an execution chamber. He glanced at his watch. Only ten minutes to go. He needed to string it out. ‘I take it that little affray out in the streets was no coincidence,’ he said. ‘The knifings by the Wailing Wall, the curfew, the power cut.’

  ‘It served our purpose,’ the man said. ‘And it has always been easy to infiltrate extremist groups, on both sides.’

  ‘When we met before, you said you wanted an end to it.’

  ‘I needed to convince you.’

  ‘You told us the truth about the concilium, about Claudius and the last gospel.’

  ‘I needed to convince you. Enough for you to carry on your quest, to bring us to this place. You have served our purpose well. From Narcissus we knew that Pliny had taken what Claudius gave him to Rome, and that Claudius had visited the tomb in London. The rest was your work. The Getty Villa, the nunnery at Santa Paula, here. It was not difficult to follow. Your young American colleague trusts his friends too much. Not that it need concern him now.’

  ‘Jeremy.’ Jack felt another cold jab in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘He is alive. For the time being. As are your colleagues in Naples. Safe in the folds of our extended family.’ The man nodded towards the shadowy figure behind Costas. ‘When the time comes, it will be quick. A bullet in the head, another soul sent to hell. That has always been their way.’

  ‘How did you know I wouldn’t tell others? About the concilium?’

  ‘Because you needed to keep it secret until you had found what we seek. I told you that others were search
ing for it, that you were in grave danger. And I was telling the truth. I saw through you, Dr Howard, when you were sitting in front of me in Rome, beside the tomb of St Paul. I took you into my confidence, and you thought you saw something sympathetic, something kindred. But you cannot escape the concilium. We will always prevail.’

  ‘You mean you can’t escape it,’ Jack said, playing for time. ‘You’re wrong. I saw through you. You weren’t just telling us the truth about the concilium, you were telling us what you really felt. You needed to confess, even though you were living a lie. You wanted to break free, but you didn’t have the strength.’

  ‘Blasphemy,’ the man spat out, his voice quavering. ‘I could never break my covenant. That is my strength.’

  ‘Do you really think St Paul would have wanted all this?’ Jack said.

  ‘St Paul was our founder,’ the man replied.

  ‘Really?’ Jack said. ‘I thought it was Constantine the Great. You told us yourself. The concilium was re-created as his secret council of war.’

  ‘He foresaw the battles we have had to fight, the sacrifices we have had to make. In nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti. Our war is the war of all humanity. The devil is omnipresent.’

  ‘Only in your mind,’ Jack said. ‘The concilium sought out dissent, and created fire. Self-fulfilling, and self-consuming. ’

  ‘I think not, Dr Howard,’ the man said icily.

  ‘You won’t get far with these thugs as henchmen.’

  ‘There are plenty more where he came from.’ The man gestured into the shadows behind him. ‘Our extended family, as I said.’

  ‘Family? And how does your family treat their relatives? Elizabeth d’ Agostino was a friend of mine.’

  ‘Ah, Elizabeth. She was my pupil, I drew her in, but when the time came she lacked the strength to pledge the covenant. It is always honour that has ruled in her family, and we have always found that most convenient. Their honour was to serve us, and she betrayed them. We know she tried to warn you, when you were in Herculaneum. Even then she knew her fate.’

  ‘What have you done to her?’

  ‘The path will be cleansed. We will prevail.’

  Jack felt anger well up inside him, but knew he had to keep his cool. ‘If I were you, I’d be careful who I trust,’ he said, his voice level. ‘They’re drug-runners now, not servants of the Lord. One day they’ll come for you.’

  ‘Blasphemy,’ the man hissed again. ‘They have been our faithful servants always. Nothing has changed, and nothing will change.’

  ‘Wrong again,’ Jack said. ‘Others will seek you out, for what you have done. Once the world knows, the weight of your own history will destroy you.’

  ‘Nobody will know. We never leave a trail.’ The man gestured into the darkness beside him. ‘There are eleven water cisterns dug deep into the rock below this place. You are already inside your own tomb.’ He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and held it up. ‘When we are finished here, I will go outside and call Naples. By the end of today, your colleagues will all be gone. None of this will ever have happened.’

  Jack glanced at his watch. Two minutes. ‘The smell of death,’ he said. ‘You can’t hide the smell of death.’ He looked at Costas, who was suddenly staring at him, and seemed to have stopped breathing.

  ‘Everything here smells of death,’ the man sneered. ‘Have you ever been to the Mount of Olives? That sickly-sweet smell is everywhere. And you won’t be the first. From Pelagius onwards, others have brought their delusions here, and gone no further. We will not let blasphemy visit the tomb of Christ, our Lord.’

  ‘You believe that? That he was buried here?’ Jack said.

  ‘This was the place of the resurrection. We know little of Jesus the man.’

  ‘That’s your trouble.’

  ‘Enough of this,’ the man said, his voice suddenly shrill. ‘You will give us what you have found. It makes no difference whether your companions die now or over your dead body.’ He clicked his fingers into the shadows, and Costas and Helena suddenly lurched out, the man with the silenced pistol behind them. ‘Give it to me now, and the end will be quick.’

  Jack took a deep breath, reached into his bag and felt around, deliberately smearing what he was searching for with the wet grime that was still on his hands from the tunnel. He pulled the object out, walked forward and placed it on the altar, beside the statue of the woman with the cross. He stepped back. Costas and Helena both stared at it, transfixed, but said nothing. It was the bronze cylinder from the tomb in London, the cylinder Claudius had put there. Jack had carried it with him to California and then to Jerusalem, convinced that somewhere along the line it still had a role to play. The man had stepped back into the shadows as Jack approached, but now reached over and snatched the cylinder, holding it at arm’s length behind his shoulder, shielding himself from it. ‘It is as it should be,’ he whispered. ‘The will of the concilium is done.’

  Jack glanced at his watch. Zero hour. He pointed at the cylinder. ‘You might want to check inside,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I will not gaze upon blasphemy,’ the man said, his voice contorted. ‘It is a falsehood, created by that fool Claudius. A falsehood that has deluded all who have sought it. I will burn it and crush it and throw it into your tomb. You can cherish your treasure in oblivion.’ He clicked his fingers, and Costas was pushed towards a dark hole in the floor beside him, the barrel of the pistol in the nape of his neck.

  Jack threw himself forward and held his hands up. ‘Wait!’ he exclaimed. ‘There’s something else you should see.’ He reached towards the flap of his bag. The pistol swung abruptly towards his head. He stopped his hand in mid-air. ‘It’s just a computer.’ Nobody moved, and there was silence. Jack cautiously withdrew a palm-sized laptop from his bag. The gun was still trained on him. He walked slowly back and set the laptop on the altar in front of the statue, flipping the lid open. He had already switched it on when he was fumbling in his bag. The screen showed the IMU logo, with a headline and three paragraphs of text beneath. ‘I set up this page an hour ago, when we were on the roof of the Holy Sepulchre. We used Helena’s wireless connection to e-mail it to our press agency contact here. Morgan has taken a disc with the full text in person to the agency. I wrote it during our flight from Los Angeles.’ He tapped a key to enlarge the text. The banner headline was now splashed across the top of the screen:

  THE LAST GOSPEL? LOST TOMB REVEALED

  Jack turned to the man in the shadows. ‘You see?’ he said coldly, his temper barely in control. ‘I too have friends. Willing brethren, as you would say. As we speak, this story is being syndicated around the world. I arranged for the press release at nineteen hundred hours, three minutes ago. The whole story. My name, your name. This place. Two thousand years of terrorism and murder. Everything you so helpfully told us about the concilium.’

  The man said nothing, and then there was a sneering laugh. ‘You don’t even know my name.’

  ‘Wrong again,’ Jack replied. ‘That’s one thing Elizabeth did manage to say to me, Cardinal Ritter.’

  The man twisted in rage and tripped backwards, scrabbling for the wall. At that moment there was a clatter and a blinding light from the stairway at the entrance to the chapel. Everything suddenly happened at once. Costas ducked forward, then swung his left shoulder back at the figure behind him, catching him in the stomach and sending him sprawling. There were shouts in Hebrew, and two uniformed figures advanced out of the light with M4 carbines trained ahead. One of them pulled the gag out of Costas’ mouth and slashed his wrist tie. Costas sneezed violently, then lurched over to Jack, breathing hard. ‘That came in handy,’ he panted, nodding at the bronze cylinder. Helena stumbled over to help Costas.

  Jack looked back to the light, and could see Ben standing guard at the entrance to the room, an Israeli police inspector and Morgan alongside. He reached out and held Costas by the shoulders. ‘Thank Christ for that,’ he said, suddenly exhausted. He gave Costas a tired smile
, then gestured at the bronze cylinder. ‘And now you know. I haven’t become a treasure-hunter after all. I only loot artefacts if there’s something bigger at stake.’

  ‘Don’t try to tell me you planned this back then,’ Costas panted.

  ‘Just a contingency. But sending Morgan to orchestrate the press release and find Ben was a big gamble.’

  ‘A serious bit of time management.’

  Jack jerked his head towards the dark opening of the cistern in the floor. ‘I just thought something like this might happen.’

  ‘So Elizabeth really told you his name?’

  Jack shook his head, and paused. ‘We only spoke for a few moments outside the villa in Herculaneum. Maybe she was about to tell me, or thought she’d be able to tell me later. Anyway, Jeremy and I worked through all the possibilities. Our man’s mention of the Viking félag was the giveway, when he gave us his spiel under St Peter’s. We’ve been head to head with this guy before. That narrowed it down.’

  ‘I’m really sorry about Elizabeth, Jack.’

  ‘We don’t know anything yet for sure. I’m going to get Ben and the police to give this guy a going-over before we leave this place, though I doubt whether he’ll spill anything.’

  ‘His henchman might.’

  Jack looked at the unconscious figure sprawled on the floor beside them, a policeman standing above him. ‘God knows, he was probably related to her.’

  Helena stood up, and put her arms around Jack. He could feel her shaking, but she was putting on a brave face. ‘That was nicely choreographed. Not the Jack Howard I remember. Planning ahead was never your strong point. You always followed your nose.’