The Sacred Bones
Page 1
* * *
The Sacred Bones
A Novel
Michael Byrnes
* * *
FOR CAROLINE, VIVIAN, AND CAMILLE
Contens
Prologue
Looking out from the eastern parapet of Kolossi Citadel's square...
1
Salvatore Conte never questioned his clients' motives. His many missions...
2
Salvatore Conte rapped a gloved hand on the wall's limestone...
MONDAY
THREE DAYS LATER
3
As the El Al captain announced the flight's final descent...
4
Charlotte Hennesey was battling the unforgiving eight-hour time difference, and...
5
Deep beneath Temple Mount, Razak and Farouq stood amidst the...
6
At the end of the dimly lit corridor Charlotte Hennesey...
7
Razak led the Englishman over to the blast hole, motioning...
8
Father Donovan and Charlotte rode a noisy freight elevator down...
9
Returning from his meeting with the archaeologist, Razak found Farouq...
10
On the wide cement walkway along Stazione Termini's loading zone...
11
The wooden shipping crate was a sturdy, four-foot cube with...
12
Father Patrick Donovan devoured what lay before him. Only weeks...
13
Attached to a rail on the side of the workstation...
14
Outside the Vatican Museum, the sun was low over western...
TUESDAY
15
The rising sun cast a faint glow of deep blue...
16
The two scientists convened in the lab at eight a.m.,...
17
"Surely you don't expect me to desecrate the remains of...
18
Having spent the past two hours completing a comprehensive journal...
19
Down the corridor from the lab, in a cramped space...
20
In a dim, cramped cell beneath the Fort du Coudray...
21
In the Apostolic Palace, Father Patrick Donovan sat at a...
22
Outside Temple Mount's northern gate, Barton avoided the chaos of...
23
Charlotte Hennesey was still grappling with the notion that the...
24
Graham Barton turned off Souk El-Dabbagha in the Christian Quarter...
25
Each time Father Patrick Donovan walked down the Apostolic Palace's...
26
Returning from lunch, both scientists felt refreshed. The afternoon had...
27
Watching Giovanni Bersei at work on the other side of...
28
As Charlotte exited the Vatican Museum through the upstairs service...
WEDNESDAY
29
Sipping qahwa, Razak sat on the veranda of his apartment...
30
Charlotte Hennesey turned to see her alarm clock's digital readout...
31
At precisely twelve o'clock, Razak strolled over to the square...
32
Bringing up the skeletal scans in full-screen view, Giovanni Bersei...
33
Razak found Farouq in the small upstairs room in the...
34
Standing to get a better look at what Charlotte had...
35
An hour southwest of Jerusalem, the lush farmlands of Israel's...
36
Just after five o'clock, Father Donovan entered the lab.
37
Crossing the Ponte Sant' Angelo Bridge, Charlotte strolled down Via...
THURSDAY
38
Just after nine a.m., Barton negotiated his way past Akbar...
39
Shortly after nine a.m., Father Donovan buzzed the lab intercom,...
40
When Ari Teleksen's cell phone rang, he already knew the...
41
Both scientists stared in amazement at the screen.
42
Evan Aldrich threaded his way past the workstations heaped with...
43
Farouq had just hung up his phone, in utter disbelief,...
44
The two scientists rode the elevator up one level and...
45
By the time Graham Barton returned to his second-floor rental...
46
Hands bound behind his back, Jacques DeMolay was escorted by...
FRIDAY
47
Opening the front door of his quaint townhouse overlooking Villa...
48
Bersei didn't say a word until they were safely outside...
49
In the Secret Archive, Father Donovan placed the Ephemeris Conlusio...
50
Veering off congested Via Nomentana through the Villa Torlonia park...
51
For fifteen minutes, Giovanni Bersei worked his way deeper into...
52
Inside Station Zion's cramped detaining cell, Graham Barton stared hopelessly...
53
Huddled inside a loculus high on the passage wall, Giovanni...
54
At ten to ten, Father Patrick Donovan entered the lab...
55
Traversing the Apostolic Palace's grand corridor, Donovan stole a glimpse...
56
Cardinal Santelli was the first to break the atmosphere. "Are...
57
Carefully resting the ancient, weathered manuscript on the glossy mahogany...
58
Leaving the Apostolic Palace, Charlotte headed directly to the lab...
59
Charlotte sprinted down the corridor, the rubber soles the lab...
60
An hour northeast of Rome, Salvatore Conte's rented black Alfa...
61
Donovan dragged Conte's broken body into a thicket of bushes...
62
Seated at his kitchen table, sipping a late afternoon tea,...
SATURDAY
63
After dawn prayer, Razak headed straight for the El-Aqsa Mosque....
64
Inside Farouq's office, Razak sat anxiously awaiting the Keeper's explanation...
65
In their suite at the Fiumicino Hilton, Evan and Charlotte...
66
Cardinal Antonio Carlo Santelli stared dejectedly out of his office...
67
Razak waited for Farouq to put on his reading glasses...
68
Aldrich moved closer to Charlotte. "Charlie, what if I told...
69
St. Peter's Basilica had closed promptly at seven p.m. and the...
SUNDAY
70
Graham Barton had never been so glad to see the...
71
Farouq sat on his veranda, overlooking the red-tiled roofs and...
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Credits
Cover
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
LIMASSOL, CYPRUS
APRIL 1292
Looking out from the eastern parapet of Kolossi Citadel's square tower, Jacques DeMolay gazed across the open expanse of the Mediterranean, his white mantle and thick auburn beard fluttering against a warm breeze. For a knight nearing fifty, his regal features-- long nose, penetrating gray eyes, firm brow, and sculpted cheekbones-- were surprisingly youth
ful. His cropped hair was thick and peppered with gray.
Though he couldn't actually see the shores of the Holy Land, he swore he could smell the perfume of its sweet eucalyptus trees.
It had been almost a year since Acre, the last major Crusader stronghold in the eastern Kingdom of Jerusalem, had fallen to the Egyptian Mamluk's. The siege lasted six bloody weeks, until the then Grand Master, Guillaume DeBeaujeu, had thrown down his sword and retreated from the citadel wall to the rebukes of his men. DeBeaujeu had responded: "Je ne m'enfuit pas...Je suis mort."-- "I'm not running away. I am dead." Raising up his bloody arm, he had shown them the arrow plunged deep into his side. Then he had fallen, never to rise again.
Now, DeMolay wondered if DeBeaujeu's death had foretold the fate of the very Order itself.
"Monsieur," a French voice called over to him.
He turned toward the young scribe standing by the steps. "Oui?"
"He is ready to speak with you," he announced.
DeMolay nodded and followed the boy down into the belly of the castle, the chainmail body armor worn beneath his mantle jingling as he descended the stone steps. He was led into a vaulted stone chamber where the new Grand Master, a haggard Tibald DeGaudin, lay in a bed positioned at its center. The fetid air reeked of physical neglect.
DeMolay tried to not focus on DeGaudin's bony hands, covered with open sores. His face was equally appalling-- ghastly white with yellow eyes bulging from sunken sockets. "How are you feeling?" The attempt at being cordial sounded forced.
"As well as I look." He contemplated the bloodred pattee cross that decorated DeMolay's mantle, just above his heart.
"Why am I here?" Regardless of the Grand Master's unfortunate condition, he was first and foremost DeMolay's rival.
"To discuss what will happen when I am gone." DeGaudin's voice was scratchy. "There are things you need to know."
"I know only that you refuse to gather a new army to take back what we have lost," replied DeMolay defiantly.
"Come now, Jacques. This again? The pope is dead and with him, any hope of another crusade. Even you can admit that without the support of Rome, we have no chance of survival."
"I will not accept that."
Pope Nicholas IV, Catholicism's first Franciscan pope and an advocate of the Knights Templar, had tried in vain to garner support for another crusade. He had held synods attempting to unite the Templars with the Knights of St. John. He had raised funding to equip twenty ships, even sending emissaries as far as China to foster military alliances. Only days earlier, the sixty-four-year-old pope had died abruptly from natural causes in Rome.
"Many in Rome claim that Nicholas's death was no accident." DeGaudin's tone was conspiratorial.
DeMolay's face tightened. "What?"
"The pope's devotion to the Church was undeniable," he continued. "But he made many enemies, particularly in France." The Grand Master raised a faltering hand. "As you know, King Philip has been taking drastic measures to fund his military campaigns. Arresting Jews in order to seize their assets. He's levied a tax of fifty percent on French clergy. Pope Nicholas protested these things."
"Surely you are not saying that Philip had him killed?"
The Grand Master shielded a cough with his sleeve. When he pulled it away, spots of blood dotted the fabric. "Just know that Philip's ambition is to control Rome. The Church has a much bigger problem to contend with. Jerusalem will have to wait."
For a long moment, DeMolay was silent. His gaze shifted back to DeGaudin. "You know what lies beneath Solomon's Temple. How can you ignore such things?"
"We are only men, Jacques. What lies there, only God himself protects. You would be a fool to think that we have done anything to change that."
"What makes you so certain?"
DeGaudin managed a thin smile. "Need I remind you that for centuries before we arrived in Jerusalem, many others had also fought to protect those secrets? We have only played a small role in this legacy, but I am certain that we are not to be the last." He paused. "I know your intentions. Your will is strong. The men listen to you. And when I am gone, you will no doubt try to have your way."
"Is that not our duty? Is that not why we swore an oath to God?"
"Perhaps. But maybe what we have hidden all these years needs to be revealed."
DeMolay drew close to the Grand Master's haggard face. "Such revelations would destroy everything we know!"
"And in its place, something better may emerge." DeGaudin's voice dropped to a whisper. "Have faith, my friend. Put down your sword."
"Never."
1.
JERUSALEM
PRESENT DAY
Salvatore Conte never questioned his clients' motives. His many missions had taught him how to remain calm and keep focused. But tonight was different. Tonight he felt uneasy.
The eight men moved through the ancient streets. Entirely clothed in black, each was armed with lightweight Heckler & Koch XM8 carbines equipped with 100-round magazines and grenade launchers. Padding along the cobblestone in soft boots, every man scanned his surroundings with infrared night-vision goggles. History loomed all around them.
With an abrupt hand signal to hold position, Conte paced ahead.
He knew that his team was just as apprehensive. Though Jerusalem's name meant "City of Peace," this place defined turmoil. Each silent road was bringing them closer to its divided heart.
The men had traveled separately from a handful of European countries, convening two days earlier at an apartment leased in a quiet part of the Jewish Quarter overlooking Battei Makhase Square, their accommodation booked under one of Conte's numerous aliases, "Daniel Marrone."
On arrival Conte had played tourist to familiarize himself with the web of alleyways and winding streets surrounding the thirty-five-acre rectangular monument in the center of the fortified Old City-- a massive complex of bulwarks and retaining walls standing thirty-two meters high that resembled a colossal monolith laid flat upon Mount Moriah's steep ridge. Easily the world's most contested parcel of real estate, the Islamic Haram esh-Sharif, or "Noble Sanctuary," was more familiar by another name-- Temple Mount.
As the cover of buildings gave way to the towering western wall, he motioned two men forward. The wall-mounted floodlights cast long shadows. Conte's men would blend easily into the dark pockets, but then so could the Israeli Defense Force soldiers.
The endless dispute between Jews and Palestinians had made this the most heavily guarded city in the world. However, Conte knew that the IDF was rife with conscripts-- teenage boys whose sole purpose was to fulfill three-year service requirements and no match for his hardened team.
He peered ahead, his night-vision goggles transforming the shadows to eerie green. The area was clear except for two soldiers loitering fifty meters away. They were armed with M-16s, donning standard-issue olive green fatigues, bulletproof vests, and black berets. Both men were smoking Time Lite cigarettes, Israel's most popular-- and, to Conte, most offensive-- brand.
Glancing over to their intended entry point at Moors' Gate, an elevated gateway on the platform's western wall, Conte quickly surmised there was no way to gain access to the Temple Mount without being detected.
Shifting his fingers along the barrel, he flicked the XM8 to single-shot mode and mounted the rifle on his left shoulder. He targeted the first green ghost with the red laser, aiming for the head, using the glowing butt of the dangling cigarette as a guide. Though the XM8's titanium rounds were capable of piercing the soldier's Kevlar vest, Conte found no sport-- let alone certainty-- in body shots.
One shot. One kill.
His index finger gently squeezed.
There was a muffled retort, slight recoil, and he saw the target buckle at the knees.
The scope shifted to the remaining man.
Before the second IDF soldier had begun to comprehend what was happening, Conte had fired again, the round penetrating the man's face and cartwheeling through the brain.
He watched hi
m collapse and paused. Silence.
It never ceased to amaze him just how token the expression "defense" really was-- offering little more than a word to make people feel secure. And though his native country had a laughable military competence, in his own way, he felt he had become its equalizer.