by Gregg Loomis
Mistaking his hesitancy for fatigue, the following priest came up behind him. "We're almost at the top." Unnoticed, the ceiling had become visible and was getting lower with each step.
"That's the floor of the Vatican?" Lang asked.
"Almost directly under the main altar, yes."
They trudged upward in silence until the street came to an end a few feet short of the union of ground and roof. Overhead, a pane of glass or some other transparent material admitted a thin light.
Their guide pointed. "We are under the-main altar."
Lang had never suffered from claustrophobia, but the thought of being confined under the millions of tons of basilica directly above his head gave him pause. He hoped whoever had excavated this necropolis had known what the hell they were doing.
This time the guide pointed to a confined area shaped like a box directly under the light filtering down. "There!"
Lang and the other visitors looked closer. The poor light flickered and danced on a shiny surface. Finally, he made out a transparent container of some sort, not much larger than a cigar box. The glass or plastic sat in a silver holder.
"The bones of St. Peter," the guide whispered in awe. "They were discovered in the forties when Pius XII allowed excavation of the necropolis you've just seen."
"How do we know the bones are Peter's?"
Lang couldn't see the source of the question, but he was not the only one surprised by it. This was, after all, a group dedicated to faith, not historical skepticism.
The lead priest was unfazed, fielding the question as smoothly as a shortstop would a ground ball. Perhaps he had heard the same query from audiences of a more secular nature. "At first, the church had only the legend to go by, that is, that Constantine built his church on Peter's gravesite. We know from old drawings the first basilica had the Trophy of Gaius, a two-story chapel with a trapdoor into the tombs below. One of the walls of that chapel, the graffiti wall, is still there, covered with Latin names, prayers, and the like, carved into the plaster along with the phrase 'Peter is here.' A Roman named Gaius wrote of Pope Zephirinus in the third-century, who boasted of 'the trophies of the Apostle' being entombed here.
"When Julius II was removing what amounted to the ruins of Constantine's basilica to build the new one, bones were found under the main altar, wrapped in tatters of purple cloth, a sign of royalty. Those very bones are the ones you see. In 1968, Pope Paul VI had them placed in transparent reliquaries, one of which you see here."
"And the others?"
"Underneath."
The same doubter spoke again, perhaps emboldened by the darkness. "All you've got is bone fragments, some rags, somebody's carving on a wall, and a legend."
"Not quite. When the bones were encased as you see them, a team of forensic archaeologists examined them. There were no foot bones."
"So?"
"The feet of a crucifixion victim were nailed to the cross. Once he was dead, the body was left to rot unless there was some reason to take the body down, like freeing up space at the Circus of Nero. Removing the nail to take the body down was too much trouble. The Romans simply cut the feet off. The bones were from someone who, most likely, had been crucified."
The thought of a number of Renaissance paintings depicting Christ's ascension came to Lang's mind. None of them showed Him footless.
The tour guide shone a pencil beam of light onto an inscription. "The Church's official position is in the Latin inscription on the silver. It means 'From the bones that, discovered under the Vatican arch-basilica, are believed to be those of the blessed Apostle Peter.'
"
Sounded like equivocation to Lang. He understood covering your bets.
"We'll leave by way of the Vatican grotto," the lead priest announced.
A final door wheezed open and they stood in a large, low-ceilinged room. Squares were formed by groups of sarcophagi, each with the effigy of the former Pope it contained. Minutes later, the group emerged into sunlight. From where he stood, Lang could see the entrance to the necropolis.
He made a mental list of what he was going to need.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Nimes, France
L'Hopital de Nimes
At the same time
The doctor in white came into her room, a big smile on his face. Instead of helping her out of bed for her usual afternoon stroll around the ward, he turned on the television secured to the wall opposite her bed by a bracket. Curiously, she watched a man appear, his lips moving silently as a crawler slid across the bottom of the screen. She recognized the format as a news program, even though she had no idea when she had ever watched such a broadcast.
It went on a full minute before she realized the sound she heard was no longer that in her head but the voice from the man on the television. Her hearing had returned as suddenly as it had gone.
She squinted at the screen. For some reason, she knew two things: The man was asking anyone who could identify her to call the Nimes prefecture of police, but he was asking it in a language that was not hers. What her own tongue might be, she still did not know.
Suddenly, her own face was staring back at her with a confused and perplexed look. She had no memory of the picture being made but accepted as fact that many things may have taken place during the periods she could not force her memory to divulge. From the same source as the often-unrelated snippets of fact she knew, she realized her likeness was being shown in hopes someone might recognize her.
The thought frightened her. For reasons lost in the black void of her recollection, identification equaled danger. She had no idea why this was true, only that it was. As the doctor watched her image on the screen, her eyes roamed for a weapon, coming to rest on the curtain that separated her bed from the other in the room. Folded back against the wall, it hung from a rail attached to the ceiling so it could be pulled to afford either patient privacy had she a roommate.
As soon as her face faded from the screen, the doctor stretched up to turn the set off and helped her out of bed for her afternoon walk. She submitted meekly, still thinking about the rail.
It was only then she thought to say in the same language as the TV broadcast, "I can hear again."
The doctor's glee was genuine, even though he was as puzzled at the sudden return of the auditory sense as was she. He insisted that both he and the chief resident, a young man with wispy blond hair, examine her ears.
He used his cell phone to order a number of tests for the next day.
With a low bow that, in his long white coat, reminded her of a goose ducking its head, the resident said, "Madame, though I don't know who you are, I do know you are well enough to join us in the physicians' dining hall instead of having your supper brought to you."
Holding the split in her hospital gown closed with one hand, she gave the best rendition of a curtsy she could. "If you can find me a robe, I would be delighted."
And she would be. Delighted for company at a time she felt she was in danger, although she didn't understand exactly from whom or why. She was also delighted for a respite from the sorry fare that appeared on her tray at every meal, food tasteless and colorless, if nourishing.
National borders were no protection against hospital food.
The physicians' dining hall had more title than substance. A battered table with six chairs filled a small interior room. From the smells and the clatter of pots and pans, she guessed it adjoined the kitchen. Dr. Philipe-the name of the doctor with white hair, she had just learned-the resident, and two others sat before paper place mats and tin utensils. One of the men was giving a dissertation on the woes of the liver of a certain Mdme. Madesclair, a lengthy and not exactly appetizing discussion that she listened to simply because hearing was like a new experience.
"… It is, of course, problematic if the nodes are malign, since
…"
An orderly entered from the direction of the kitchen carrying a tray on which was a carafe of red wine and a number of glasses. T
he room went silent as he set it down and departed. Dr. Philipe, as senior doctor present, poured a small sample into a glass, twirled it, sniffed, and finally tasted it.
Mdme. Madesclair and her liver were temporarily forgotten.
"A second growth, once again," the doctor announced.
There were general groans.
"We can afford better ourselves," the resident stated.
"Who, then, will share his private collection for the good of the group?" asked one of the doctors she did not know. Silence greeted the suggestion before the conversation returned to Mdme. Marlesclair's problems.
"Is surgery an option?" the youngest asked.
This time, she tuned the conversation out until she became suddenly aware one of the physicians was speaking to her. "Can you give us the earliest memory you have?"
Dr. Philipe said, "This is Dr. Roge, our psychiatrist. He asked that you join us in an informal setting as soon as your hearing returned." He gazed around the table with a smile. "There are few more informal settings than this one."
Everyone chuckled.
And do not concern yourself that he stares at you. He does that to all pretty girls, patients or not."
More merriment.
"The earliest," she repeated, pushing against the blank wall that was her memory. "Perhaps the hillside where I was found."
"You speak with a slight accent. Are you aware of…"
The same man from the kitchen entered again, this time with a savory roast on a platter.
"Lamb," observed the resident.
"With rosemary" added the other young doctor.
"Let us hope it is rare," wished Dr. Philipe.
The state of her memory was as forgotten as Mdme. Madesclair's liver. The conversation turned to lamb.
Was it better roasted on an open spit? How did it compare to that done in a certain brasserie in Paris?
Once again, her mind ceased to register the words.
Instead, it conjured up a vision of Napoleon sitting at a table in front of his tent at Waterloo. He was watching a column of dust that could mean the Prussians would arrive in time to join Wellington. But he was discussing the relative merits of whole-versus skimmed-milk brie.
She smiled. That person, that special person always had a joke about the French. If she could only remember… An hour later, a nurse saw her safely returned to her room.
She looked around. She was certain the closet door had been closed. Perhaps housekeeping had been looking for something?
She didn't think so.
Again, the sense of undefined danger.
She allowed the nurse to help her up and into the bed and pretended to sleep until she heard the squeak of the other woman's rubber soles on the tile fade out into the hall. Throwing the sheets aside, she got out of her own and climbed into the other bed, standing uncertainly on protesting springs. It took only a moment or two to unscrew the rail-actually, a section of round pipe over which hangers were fitted.
Unlike most of her actions, she understood the urgency of what she was doing. That was why she had only fiddled with her wineglass at dinner instead of drinking from it. She did not want to have to fight against her own urge to sleep plus the effect of the alcohol.
Besides, it was only a second growth.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Rome
Ponte San Angelo
A few minutes later
As Lang started over the sluggish green Tiber, the Vatican was on his right, its dome a dark silhouette against a fiery setting sun. Closed to vehicular traffic, the bridge was a prime location for African street vendors of everything from knockoff designer purses to primitive carvings with enormous breasts or penises. Behind him, the massive Castel Sant' Angelo contemplated centuries past in which its circular wall had enclosed the mausoleum of the Emperor Hadrian, papal refuge, fortress, palace, and prison. The center of the bridge was an ideal place for tourists to have their pictures made with a choice of impressive backgrounds.
A group of Japanese were taking turns immortalizing themselves on film in front of monuments to a history as foreign to them as No or Kabuki theater was to westerners. It was when they parted like a human Red Sea to let Lang pass that he saw the man.
On one level, Lang had been examining and discarding methods of getting into the necropolis unobserved. On another, years of training made him alert to his surroundings, so much so that his jaw was beginning to ache from the smiles he had felt compelled to return from Italians obligated to at least nod to a priest. When the Japanese tourists had stood aside, he became suddenly aware of two things: Approaching directly in his path was a young man with studs in his lips, eyebrows, nostrils, and ears, more apertures than your average clarinet. He not only wore a denim jacket, superfluous in the warmth of the day, but both hands were in the pockets instead of swinging freely as a normal stroller would do.
Second, the afternoon sun cast shadows from the right rear, and one of them was closing quickly.
Lang recognized the maneuver: Two or more operatives approach the subject from opposite directions in a confined space where lateral movement is impractical or impossible. If adept enough at his trade, either or both would swipe a deadly blade almost quicker than the casual observer would notice. There would be no attention getting shots. If done properly, the victim would be dead or mortally wounded before he could cry out. Nothing would seem out of the ordinary until the prey collapsed in a pool of his own blood.
Real danger or only perception?
Lang didn't have a lot of time to decide.
Stud Face was less than two steps away, his hands sliding out of his pockets. Lang caught the briefest reflection of light on metal. He would have to be handled before his confederate behind Lang could help.
The knife, metal, whatever it was, was in the youth's right hand. Lang feinted to the potential attacker's left. If the guy meant Lang harm, he would have to commit himself by moving to block his intended quarry.
He would also be off balance for a right-handed attack. The assassin countered Lang's move, a stiletto not entirely concealed by his hand.
Lang dodged back to his own left, at the same time taking a step forward. Stud Face followed, the blade coming up for a mortal slice.
Lang took another step, this one toward his assailant and slamming a foot on the other man's most distant shoe, firmly anchoring him to the spot. At the same time, Lang fastened both his hands on the other's right wrist, pulling down hard and accelerating the move the knife-wielding attacker had initiated. Inertia brought the free foot against Lang's leg, causing the man to stumble forward as Lang snatched down hard on the wrist.
Lang was the beneficiary of unforeseen circumstance. He had planned on the man smashing into the low wall that lined each side of the bridge. Instead, his momentum threw him into the wall waist high. His body jackknifed and flipped over.
There was a scream and a loud splash.
The herd of Japanese, cameras momentarily forgotten, rushed to the edge to look down. Lang turned, but the man behind was indistinguishable from anyone else on the bridge, all now surging to look down into the Tiber.
No one seemed to have noticed that the man thrashing in the water had been thrown there by a priest.
Before they did, Lang departed as hastily as possible without drawing attention. Many Japanese were taking pictures of the man thrashing in the water below.
It was dark by the time he crossed the Piazza Navona, Spotlights shone through the fountains with wavering light that made Bernini's sculptures seem to move. The oval was full of the laughter of those dining at tables outside dozens of trattoria. He toyed with the idea of stopping for dinner. A couple of the establishments had been recommended by Food and Wine magazine. He decided against it. There was still at least one person out there he had not dealt with, a person who, presumably, wanted to stick a knife into him as much as Stud Face had. Better to dine at his hotel. The food wasn't the greatest, but he wasn't going to get stabbed between the ant
ipasto and the platte primo, either.
The editors of Food and Wine magazine probably never had to make that sort of choice.
He walked north on the Via Guistiniani, still making a mental to-do list when a cat arched its back in a doorway. Rome has at least as many felines as people. The animals are all sleek and fat because neighborhoods feed them without regard to ownership, if indeed anyone truly owns a cat. Dogs are welcome in tavernare, trattoria, and cafe alike, but if the city had an animal as its true symbol, it would be a cat.
Lang stopped to watch it, a tabby that must have weighed twenty pounds, lazily stretch before setting out on a night's prowl.
Then it registered in Lang's mind, something missing. Sound. Something he had heard a moment ago was absent. Footsteps. There had been the sound of footsteps on the pavement behind him. Hardly sinister on a warm Roman evening.
But the footsteps had stopped just as he had.
Paranoia, a survival tool for anyone in Lang's former line of work, took over. After all, has anyone ever been killed by caution?
He walked purposefully, stopping suddenly in the middle of the block while he pretended to examine a doorway. One, two steps from behind. Then no sound.. He was being stalked. The back of his neck tingled, as it did every time he anticipated action..
When he had the time to anticipate.
He turned, more a man getting different lighting on the doorway's carvings than an alerted target looking behind. He swallowed hard when he saw no one, his first impression confirmed. A person out for a late-evening stroll would hardly hide in the nest of shadows that darkened windows spawned between blocks. Neither would someone who had any idea how to follow someone. Ducking out of sight would be more likely to alert a subject than being seen, something a professional wouldn't do.
The clumsiness of the effort suggested an amateur, a mugger. What were the chances of an attempted robbery less than an hour after an attempted murder?
