This would be Leon Smith’s first and last time in the lights, the glitz, and the money of Las Vegas; a town so dedicated to self-aggrandizement, it was hard to believe people could not see it for the evil it truly was. More than ever, he craved the moment when he could carry out his holy mission. Now, all he could do was to wait for Esposito’s signal, which would come at any moment.
One thing was certain: once the Sudarium was confirmed missing, this pyramid—Luxor Hotel— would not make it four thousand years like that one in Egypt.
CHAPTER 62
September 14. Thursday – 9:00 a.m. Oviedo, Spain
Start of the Feast of the Cross
The Prophet sat in the first pew, not far from the pulpit. He occasionally turned to scan the congregation behind him, monitoring for any extraordinary activity which might signify the American CIA’s presence. One hint they were here, and he would have his admission of guilt. The text message to Esposito to proceed with the strike was already typed into his phone. All he needed was to witness the Sudarium’s absence from the church, and he would hit the send button.
He looked at his watch and smiled. It was time for the archbishop to display the sacred cloth.
The archbishop slowly ambled to the altar. A weighty hush fell over the crowd. The Prophet found the sadness in the man’s eyes to be very revealing.
He is about to break the disappointing news of the Sudarium’s theft.
Archbishop Gustavo spoke with a firm voice in his native language. “Before we begin the Feast of the Cross and remove the Sudarium from the Arca Santa, I’ve been asked to perform a baptism on a very ill child. The child is not expected to live until his first birthday. I have consented to do this as requested by his mother, Maria Rodriguez.”
The Prophet looked about suspiciously. This was most unusual and went against the normal liturgy.
“Will Maria Rodriguez please bring the child to the altar?”
Members of the congregation began to turn and look around the large cathedral, as no one seemed to be coming forward. Several long seconds passed, and he caught the increasing murmur of people seated in the pews behind. The Prophet turned to see a small blonde-haired woman slowly walking down the nave from the narthex. She had the child wrapped in a white blanket of some sort, and kept it pinned tightly to her chest. There was a lethargic expression on the young mother’s face.
Something about this seemed wrong. The Church was probably stalling with this baptism. They were only delaying the inevitable.
The Prophet watched the woman closely as she passed, but was unable to see the baby which remained strangely silent, wound in a cocoon of material. Something was surely amiss. He placed his hand in his coat pocket and pulled his phone out discreetly, holding it by his side in the pew, ready to send the message.
Señora Rodriguez reached the altar and handed the child to the archbishop. He cradled the bundled baby in his arms and turned away from the congregation. The other priest walked up to the altar and addressed the congregation. “This will be a short baptism due to the child’s extreme medical condition. Archbishop Gustavo will perform the baptism of the child at the chalice near the ambulatory. It will be a private ceremony between the Archbishop, Maria Rodriguez, and Baby Carlos. Please bear with us. The Feast of the Cross will start momentarily.”
The priest escorted Maria Rodriguez around the altar, where she joined the Archbishop and the baby. They were partly obscured from view behind the altar and pulpit. The Prophet watched as the Archbishop drew back the blanket and touched the water to the baby’s head, which was below his line of sight. Even though his microphone had been turned off, The Prophet could hear the Archbishop speak the Latin words of the ceremony. When he had finished, he crossed himself and blessed the baby and the mother. Señora Rodriguez said a few words, thanking him with a somber nod.
While the mother’s emotional reactions seemed natural given the baby’s terminal condition, The Prophet was growing ever skeptical of these proceedings. Nothing was following protocol. Not only had the infant remained quiet during the entire baptism, he had not been exposed once to the congregation.
The ceremony ended with the second priest leading Señora Rodriguez and Baby Carlos back around the pulpit. The small, teary-eyed woman walked up the nave, slowly passing by The Prophet. He craned his head as she went by, and for the first time he clearly saw the ashen facial features of the baby, who appeared to be sound asleep. Then the mother clutched the baby to her chest and began sobbing as she slumped, struggling to walk. One of the female parishioners rose from her seat and gave the grief-stricken woman a hand, leading her back to the narthex. The congregation remained silent, momentarily lost in the young woman’s sorrow.
Suddenly, The Prophet’s attention was drawn back to the Archbishop who stood behind the altar, turned to the Arca Santa and then back to the altar as if mired in a loop of indecision. He looked down sheepishly, and turned on his microphone. He seemed tired. “It is customary to begin the Feast of the Cross with the display of the venerable Sudarium, the cloth that covered our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, after His execution on the cross, where He died for our sins.” His words were melancholy.
The Prophet regripped the cell phone, looking down to ensure he had his finger poised above the send button. Here it comes, he thought. No more delays.
The Archbishop moved before the open reliquary chest. He spun to face the congregation with a slow, deliberate turn. He offered a reluctant gaze.
Get on with it. Admit that it’s gone!
“There are some who believe it to be a false relic. There are some who would bring harm to innocent people if it was ever taken from this holy sanctuary, but that is not Jesus’ message. He taught unconditional love. He taught forgiveness. Through His tears and His blood, we can be absolved of our sins.” The archbishop lifted the silver-coated box from the Arca Santa. There was a satisfying gasp from the congregation. He turned, brought the silver box to the altar, and placed it down with care.
It can’t be…The Prophet thought. It must be empty. He’s still stalling.
The Archbishop opened the box. With his elderly eyes firmly affixed inside the box, he reached in and withdrew an aged cloth, with its bloodstains and lymph. He carefully unfolded it and held it up for all to see.
There was a joint adulation from the audience which grew into rousing applause as people stood, crossing themselves in the presence of the hallowed relic that had once touched the dying face of Jesus Christ.
The Prophet inhaled deeply and looked around at the mass of people chattering and staring in awe at the Sudarium of Oviedo. He exhaled. There was a mystical aura about the cloth that The Prophet could not deny, and he found himself satisfied to see it was exactly where it should be.
He leaned down in the pew while the others continued to stand in praise. He quickly typed a new text message and hit send:
The Sudarium is safe. For now, abort the attacks.
We will fight against godless tyranny another day.
So Sayeth The Prophet.
****
Outside, Tiffany Bar reached her rental car. She quickly climbed in and laid the Baby Jesus from the diorama, still wrapped in her shawl, in the passenger seat. Archbishop Gustavo had been brilliant. He had obviously seen her standing in the narthex and guessed she had recovered the Sudarium by the way she clutched the shawl to her chest. He had then gotten the idea to call for a baptism as a means to get her to the altar. It had taken Bar a moment to realize she was “Maria Rodriguez” after she saw the Archbishop’s penetrating stare in her direction. From there, it was a matter of simple deception. Once Bar had gone behind the altar, as the other priest briefly addressed the congregation, the archbishop switched the silver box with the diorama Baby Jesus from the thatched cradle. As Bar returned back up the aisle, she feigned grief of her pretend chi
ld’s impending demise and even allowed the congregation to get a view of the baby’s face, since she knew the terrorist or terrorists in the crowd might be suspicious. Lucky, it seemed no one had noticed the face was that of a doll. In the meantime, with the congregation’s attention diverted to her, Archbishop Gustavo had time to move the boxed Sudarium from the cradle into the Arca Santa, keeping his back to the crowd and the box in front of him so as not to be seen by anyone. She stayed inside the atrium just long enough to witness the display of the Sudarium and hear the crowd’s jubilant reaction.
Bar started the car and headed for the airport. She called Director Vakind to advise him the Sudarium had been safely returned. He, in turn, confirmed no attacks had transpired.
She breathed a huge sigh of relief and satisfaction, while at the same time wondering what had become of Samuel Tolen.
CHAPTER 63
September 14. Thursday – 10:00 a.m. Egypt
“The lid will be moved aside,” Diaz said, “but you will not look inside it, Señor Tolen.”
Jade watched Tolen’s reaction. “What do you mean?” The CIA operative seemed indignant.
Diaz swept his hand to the side, motioning Tolen to move away from the coffin. When Tolen remained stationary, Diaz lifted the pistol and fired a round into the air. The gunshot echoed harshly in the chamber. Jade winced, and Diaz pushed her to the side against the wall. She nearly lost her grip on the second lantern.
“Move!” Diaz shouted at Tolen, aiming the gun at him. “I am getting tired of this, and I will not say it again!”
Begrudgingly, Tolen pulled away from the coffin and joined Jade across the way at the wall. Jade could see the disillusionment in Tolen’s eyes.
Diaz smiled when he saw how it pained Samuel Tolen. “Only I will know the truth,” Diaz declared, placing the lantern on the stone floor. “Now, do not move from the wall.” The Spanish inspector circled to the side of the coffin to ensure the other two remained in his peripheral vision. For a moment, he stood looking stoically at the unmarked stone lid. Then, he placed both hands on the lid near the front, not far from where the cross rose up from the floor. In one hand, he held the gun awkwardly as he prepared to push. Diaz looked up at the cross. The hallowed fixture rose high into the air above him, and he seemed to regard it for a few seconds.
“Put the lantern on the shelf,” Tolen whispered to Jade.
She gave him a furtive glance, but she did as she was asked and lifted it to the ledge.
“Be ready to grab onto the ledge,” he whispered.
The statement confused her, but she did not want to risk drawing Diaz’s attention, so she remained quiet.
Diaz was suddenly staring Jade in the eyes. At first, she thought he had overheard Tolen, but the look was not accusatory. Instead, there was deep confusion in his eyes. Jade realized he was unsure what he was doing. Diaz was a man whose faith was on a precipice.
Jade only returned a cold, petulant stare. If he was seeking a kindred spirit who would convince him that belief needs no proof, he was out of luck.
Diaz dropped his eyes. Without further delay, he dipped his knees and backed up a foot for leverage. Then, with a forceful heave, he slid the front end of the stone lid halfway across the coffin at an angle. Eagerly, he turned, grabbed the lantern from the floor, and raised it next to the coffin.
His expression was unreadable, as blank as any expression Jade had ever witnessed.
The floor began to quiver, and quickly escalated to a violent shake. Diaz looked around in panic and confusion.
“Jade, the ledge!” Tolen shouted.
She and Tolen turned at the same moment, just as Jade felt the floor give way beneath her feet. She grasped for the ledge, catching it with both hands, knocking a pair of sandals off the shelf. They grazed her head and then were gone. Her body stretched out, feet dangling in the air. She saw Tolen hanging onto the ledge beside her. Jade looked down and was mortified to see nothing but vast darkness. A wave of nausea shot through her. If not for Tolen’s instruction to place the lantern on the ledge, they would have been consumed in the blackness.
There were a series of agonizing cries. She turned her body with great difficulty. The entire floor of the chamber had collapsed, falling to some unknown depth. The coffin was gone, but the cross was standing tall, embedded in the last remaining cube of stone floor. On it, Pascal Diaz clung near the base, bear hugging the thick shaft of tree, screaming deliriously. He was slowly scaling the cross, trying to get high enough to reach the ledge several feet away. His clothes were tattered. His hands, face, and chest were bloodied, torn apart by vicious splinters of wood as he gripped each new hold, dragging himself up an inch at a time.
“Get on the ledge, Jade,” Tolen said in a strained voice, suspended beside her.
Her arm muscles ached almost beyond human endurance, and she used every bit of strength she had left to lift her svelte body to the thin ledge, knocking clothes and other items off to make room for her feet. She could barely keep her balance. Jade tried to reach down and give Tolen a hand, but in doing so, she nearly lost her balance.
“No,” Tolen said. He swallowed hard, sweat pouring off his face. “There’s not enough room for me there. Look for the Christian Fish on the wall. Hurry.”
“AHHHH! God have mercy!”
The scream by Pascal Diaz was inhuman. Jade saw that the man had almost reached the level of the shelf and was stretching a bloodied hand toward it. Even when he found a grasp, he seemed slow to pull himself up and toward it. Then, in horror, Jade realized the man had literally impaled himself as he had shimmied up the rough wood. Massive wooden splinters jutted into his face, through his neck, and into his body at almost every angle. One arm was so riddled with sharp, wooden spikes, it was as if it was nailed in place.
Jade looked back down at Tolen, clutching his arm, trying to stop him from falling as he fought to hang on.
“God, NO!” Diaz’s feral yell echoed down the seemingly infinite, deep shaft below them. There was a torturous groan of stone, followed by a voluminous crack of wood. A second, louder crack caused Jade to look up. The massive cross began to lean, as the top fell in slow motion. Diaz frantically tried to tear his body free from the trunk of wood, stripping off more ragged clothes in the process. His skin was now more blood than flesh, and he wiggled like electricity was flowing through his body. Saliva and bile launched from his mouth. He turned his head toward Jade and Tolen even as the cross continued to tumble over. His splinter-covered face caused Jade to grimace. At that moment, the cross toppled over completely, the tip driving downward. The end, where Pascal Diaz’s body was affixed, disappeared last as he gave one final howl of excruciating pain before disappearing in the darkness. His shrieks of anguish faded into nothingness, and the abyss swallowed up Inspector Pascal Diaz without remorse.
Jade turned back to Tolen. He grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to hold on.
“Jade,” he whispered hoarsely as if expelling the last of his energy. “Ixthus…”
“The Fish?” She looked to the wall. It was right in front of her: the same image from the Costa Rican sphere in Boston. “What do I do?” she turned to Tolen desperately. “Tell me what to do?”
Tolen couldn’t speak. His fingers had turned pale from the strain of his weight. He was starting to slip.
Jade looked around. Ixthus…The Christian Fish….she thought desperately. Wait…it started our journey. Does it also end it?
Jade looked on the wall around the image. There appeared to be no cutout where a door might retract. She began clearing off more of the cloth material, clothing, and sandals on the ledge. Suddenly, her hand found a solid object underneath a roll of material. She quickly shoved aside the items and saw a stone handle in the crux of the shelf and wall.
Please God, she prayed. Jade gave the handle a swift yank
, nearly losing her balance on the narrow ledge.
To her side, a limestone block swiveled outward at one edge. A broad beam of sunlight shot into the chamber. She felt her spirits leap. “Hold on, Samuel,” she urged him. Jade quickly scooted her body out through the opening, feet first, with her torso still on the ledge, aimed face down. She grabbed a hold of Tolen’s arms. “You’ve got to help me pull you up,” she said breathlessly. “I’m not strong enough to lift you.”
Samuel Tolen was unresponsive. Exhaustion had set in. He was holding on by sheer will alone.
“Samuel!” she screamed. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t leave me.”
Samuel Tolen raised his head and tried to hoist himself up, but faltered, nearly letting go as he fell back, arms extended with less of a grip on the stone ledge now.
“You can do this,” she urged, fighting back the tears, struggling to keep a grasp on his arms. She bit her lip so hard, it began to bleed.
Again he looked up at her, sweat streaming down the sides of his cheeks.
She gazed into his deep blue eyes and saw they were clouded with his fatigue. He was on the verge of giving up.
“You can’t quit! I need you!” she pleaded, tears welling in her eyes, a single drop rolling down her face.
For a moment, he remained motionless, and she feared he had lost the will to live. Then, as if moving in slow motion, he lifted a weary hand and grabbed onto Jade’s shoulder. The ache of his grip was intense, but Jade refused to show any pain. He placed his other hand on her other shoulder. As if drawing on the last store of his waning reserves, he raised himself up, sliding his body up hers, inch by inch, grunting. With Herculean effort, he was able to get his chest onto the ledge, where he rested, nearly hyperventilating. Then, using his feet, he found a purchase on the ledge and lifted with a grimace, his arm muscles tied in thick, tortured knots, until he spilled next to Jade and collapsed.
Indisputable Proof Page 37
