He remembered that the priest who’d first brought him down here had performed the same counting ritual, which he’d always assumed was a tribute to either the twelve tribes or the twelve whom Jesus had recruited.
The final footfall connected with a spongy clay floor. Groping at the cool air just in front of his face, he found the pull-cord for the overhead light. A single bare bulb crackled to life just above Cohen’s zayen.
The square basement was modest in size, just large enough to accommodate twelve shelving units along its mud brick walls, neatly stocked with chemical containers, tools, and welding supplies. Moving to the storage unit on the rear wall, he snaked his hand between some boxes until he felt a cold metal handle. He hooked it with his fingers and tugged. The shelving and the faux-brick laminate behind it noiselessly swung out on concealed hinges.
The solid metal door that lay behind it looked like the entry to a bank vault.
30
******
Jerusalem
In full stride, Jules was in the lead, Amit close at her heels. They’d doubled back through the South Gallery, slaloming through the dallying Americans. This had caused great alarm among the docents and tourists, but no one was moving to stop them.
Through the South Room they angled a hard right into a coin gallery. “Go through that door!” Amit said.
Up ahead, Jules saw exactly the one he meant. It was a fire exit. She
threw herself at the door and activated the shrill alarm. The door flew open hard enough to knock over an employee who’d been out back smoking. Facedown on the pavement, the poor man shouted his protest, but she wasn’t stopping to make any apologies.
Now they were along the rear drive reserved for employees and deliveries. The Land Rover sat only twenty meters away. With key chain in hand, Amit had remotely opened it the moment he was outside.
Jules was already in the passenger seat and pulling her door closed as Amit was fumbling with the driver’s-side door latch.
“Come on! Hurry!” he heard her yelling on the other side of the glass.
Yanking the door back, Amit hopped in.
Back at the exit door, the befuddled smoker was back on his feet, assessing the ragged tear in his pants, just over the right knee. Amit couldn’t hear the swearing, but the guy looked awfully pissed off and was throwing his hands into the air. It would only be another second before his mood would surely worsen, Amit thought, jamming the key into the ignition.
By the time Amit looked back up, the smoker had been knocked facedown onto the ground again, his left leg blocking the door that was once more being forced open from the inside. There was a split second where Amit considered reaching for the pistol stashed in the center console. He’d left a round chambered, safety off. But as he made to get it, Jules screamed.
“Go! ”
Cranking hard on the gearshift, Amit stepped down on the accelerator just as the arm-casted assassin muscled his way around the door and used the smoker’s back like a doormat. In his good hand, he was clutching a replacement for the Jericho pistol taken from him last night. And now he was positioning himself for a clean shot.
Should’ve killed him when I had the chance, Amit thought again. “Down, Jules!” He reached over and pushed her head below the dashboard.
The Land Rover’s tires screeched as he ducked and pulled the wheel hard to the left. The gunshot was loud, the report of breaking glass just as harsh. The would-be assassin’s left-handed aim wasn’t so great. He’d only managed to take out the driver’s-side rear passenger window. Amit peeked up over the dash just in time to cut a hard right that avoided a thick gatepost at the lot’s exit. A successful maneuver, yet the Rover’s rear tire caught the curb that stuck out beneath it, bouncing the truck into the air. Amit and Jules catapulted up from their seats, both smacking their heads on the roof.
But it was a fortunate thing, because the second shot that had cracked an instant earlier on a direct line for Amit’s skull instead blew out the spare tire bolted to the truck’s lift gate.
“Holy shit!” Jules yelled, cradling her pounding head in her hands.
Amit sped around the building. Then he confused Jules by bringing the truck to a sudden halt. He hit the switch that rolled down his window, then flipped open the console and pulled out the pistol.
“What the ’ell are you doing?” The French accent was really thick now. “Trust me.” He gave it about ten seconds. “Get down and stay down.” “Amit, I don’t think—”
“Do it!”
She did.
Then he eased down on the accelerator again and cornered stealthily onto the front circular drive.
His timing was good. The gunman was already outside working his car remote like a lobster with the two mobile fingers of his cast hand. Before the guy could figure out what was happening, Amit stomped on the accelerator and steered straight for him. Clutching the Jericho, Amit stuck his arm out the window, aimed, and squeezed off a shot that spat through the silencer. Unlike the assassin, Amit was a seasoned lefty.
The shot was close but missed. It did, however, force the guy to duck for cover behind his Fiat coupe.
That gave Amit just enough time to slow the Land Rover and maneuver for another shot. But this time, it wasn’t the assassin he was going for. It was the front tire of the Fiat. He took aim and held the trigger down, forcing the pistol into semiautomatic mode. A slight circular sweep emptied three successive rounds into the Fiat’s front wheel well and tire rim. A fourth tore apart the tire with a loud pop.
The assassin tried to come up over the hood for a shot, but Amit fired again to force him back down.
Satisfied, Amit ducked low and gunned the engine. One more shot came, but it merely shattered the driver’s side mirror. Amit made a wild right onto Sultan Suleiman Street, which ran parallel to the Old City’s northern wall. Not wanting to attract attention from the IDF guards stationed outside the Damascus Gate up ahead, he immediately slowed.
“You are one crazy bastard,” she said.
“Best defense is a good offense,” he reminded her.
31
******
Vat ic a n Ci t y
It was nearing one o’clock when Charlotte heard a knock at the door. “Just a sec,” she called out from the bathroom.
She checked her mascara and lipstick in the mirror one last time, hoping
she hadn’t overdone it. “Sexed up” was not the look she was going for with a pair of priests. Just a little something to put some color back in her cheeks and jazz up her swollen eyes. With the amount of crying she’d done up until now, she might as well have poured acid over her eyelids.
But she had to remind herself that the last time she’d stared into a mirror inside a guest room at the Vatican’s Domus Sanctae Marthae, her eyes showed a different kind of pain that no makeup could conceal. And she’d relied on chemo pills to suppress it, not Revlon.
Charlotte was glad she’d accepted Father Martin’s offer to have her pantsuit dry-cleaned by housekeeping. As promised, it had been freshly pressed and discreetly hung on her door in a plastic garment bag by noon.
She snapped her black clutch shut, then decided there wasn’t much need for it. After all, her passport was with the Swiss Guard, and everything else—money, keys, credit cards—was all left behind in Phoenix. And Donovan had said that Father Martin was hosting them inside the city.
“Keep it together,” she told herself. That’s what her father would surely tell her in a situation like this. Being alone, even for this short time, hadn’t settled her one bit. She just kept seeing Evan with a bullet in his head, over and over again. The thought of having company comforted her, got her mind moving in a different direction.
She went and opened the door. Déjà vu came over her when she laid eyes upon Donovan standing in the hall wearing a black suit and priest collar. It seemed he was feeling it too.
“Bringing back some memories?” he said with a smile, breaking the ice.
“You
could say that.” She pocketed her key card and pulled the door shut. In the unflattering fluorescent-lit hall, Donovan looked especially fatigued. No doubt his harrowing experience in Belfast and the marathon transatlantic flights had taken a lot out of him. Yet still the man managed to keep smiling. And she could tell that it was more for her benefit than his.
“So let’s see what the Vatican is serving up, shall we?” he said.
32
******
Since the Holy Father was still enjoying a five-day retreat at Castel Gandolfo, Father Martin had managed to reserve the sumptuous dining room that typically hosted international dignitaries and diplomats. Being the personal assistant of the secretary of state did, after all, come with many privileges.
“ Salve! Welcome,” Father Martin warmly greeted them at the wide entryway. He gave Donovan and Charlotte a double-clasped handshake.
“This is quite impressive, James,” Donovan said. He’d never actually been inside this room. The man was full of surprises.
Charlotte thought “impressive” was an understatement. The Apostolic Palace’s main entryway was over twenty-four feet high, flanked by Bernini’s mammoth doors sheathed in bronze, which had been taken from ancient Roman temples. The Clementine Hall—the main reception foyer—was cavernous, covered in marble and trimmed with friezes. Three frescoes paid tribute to St. Clement’s baptism, martyrdom, and apotheosis; a fourth honored the arts and sciences. Swiss Guards in full regalia were posted throughout.
“When I informed His Eminence that the legendary Father Patrick Donovan was making a return with a world-renowned guest . . .” He spread his hands. “How could he refuse?”
“I’m not exactly the prodigal son,” Donovan reminded him in a whisper. He was trying to keep things lighthearted, but he couldn’t help but look back at the two armed Swiss Guards standing at attention beside the door. “So the honor is all yours, Charlotte,” he said to his companion.
“If you put it that way ...I’m flattered,” she said.
“Come, let us sit,” Martin said, his right hand sweeping an arc to the far end of the room, where a cozy cluster of chairs faced the tall windows overlooking Piazza San Pietro and St. Peter’s Basilica.
The dining hall pulled Charlotte’s eyes in all different directions as she walked the ornate parquet floors around the grand Louis XIV dining table set beneath a magnificent chandelier.
There were more frescoes painted by the hands of masters—Cherubino Alberti and Baldassare Croce among them, Martin subtly boasted. Furthermore, he was quick to point out that the magnificent tapestry dominating the north wall was an original Raphael that had been among those used to cover the walls of the Sistine Chapel during the 2005 conclave.
Martin smiled when Charlotte picked a wingback chair, making her think she’d violated etiquette. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, no,” Martin said, holding up a hand. “It’s just that your country’s president sat in that same chair during his visit with us last month.”
Charlotte instinctively raised her arms off the elegant fabric as if it were on fire. “Seriously?”
“Oh yes. But if you don’t mind me saying so, it suits you much better.”
She laughed genuinely, knowing that his preference referred to something other than appearances.
“I was thinking we could have a drink before we eat,” Martin said.
“Sounds great,” Charlotte replied.
Two glasses of Italian red wine and an Irish whiskey on the rocks were delivered by a nun wearing a white habit that covered all but her face and hands. Martin gave a toast, then settled into his chair. “It’s good to have you back, Patrick,” he said. “You’ve been missed.”
“I’m sure the archives have functioned just fine without me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. As luck would have it, the prefect’s position is still vacant.” He gave Donovan a look of anticipation.
Donovan’s noncommittal smile hinted that nothing was beyond the realm of possibility.
For the next fifteen minutes, they spoke of happenings inside the Vatican, both pleasant and distressing. Martin was good at pulling Charlotte into the conversation, but every so often, she was content to sip her Chianti and gaze out at Bernini’s colonnades and Michelangelo’s dome.
Soon thereafter, Martin sensed that Donovan was ready to segue into an explanation for his surprise return. So he allowed a gap of silence to encourage him.
Not knowing quite how to begin, Donovan explained, “Lest I state the obvious . . . our visit doesn’t concern my return to Vatican City.”
“I had a feeling that was the case,” Martin replied.
“And I’m sure you’re wondering why Dr. Hennesey has accompanied me here.”
The priest’s lips puckered. “I would be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about that too,” he confessed, watching Donovan’s expression turn conflicted, contemplative. “Tell me. What’s troubling you?”
Some clarification of the events preceding his July departure was required. “I’m sure you recall the secrecy of the project we’d arranged for Dr. Hennesey and Giovanni Bersei?”
“Certainly.” Then he looked to Charlotte and said, “Let me express my deepest condolences for Dr. Bersei’s passing.”
At a loss for words, Charlotte nodded.
“Though I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of that project . . . ,” Donovan continued.
“I understand.”
Tentative, Donovan went on. “It seems that someone outside the Vatican has information on the work that took place here—the analysis performed on certain relics acquired for the museum. Relics of extreme significance . . . and value.” Donovan paused to drain his whiskey—a superb pot-stilled Jameson—down to the halfway mark. Keep it simple, he reminded himself. “Both Charlotte and I were separately approached by two men looking for these relics. There were threats. They had guns—”
Martin gasped. “That’s unbelievable.” His wide eyes rolled to Charlotte, and his mouth was agape. Recalling how the two men had thrown him into the back of the van made his response seem sincere.
“Bottom line is . . . I feel we’re in serious danger. And I’ve come here to seek help—and protection.”
“There’s no safer place for you to be than inside these walls,” Martin said with forced conviction. “And you are officially a citizen of Vatican City.”
These words gave Donovan great comfort, because only roughly seven hundred clergy and one hundred Swiss Guards were granted official Vatican citizenship. The other three thousand lay workers, including Father Martin himself, lived outside the city—most in Rome. In accordance with Italy’s Lateran Treaty, Vatican citizenship was granted iure officii, meaning that once employment was terminated, the cleric’s citizenship would revert back to his original country of origin. Martin had assisted in arranging documentation with the secretariat’s office to make Donovan a dual citizen—a privilege granted to only two hundred and fifty others. Therefore, his “leave of absence” to attend to “family matters” was still considered temporary.
“You are still provided full legal representation,” Martin confirmed, “as well as complete access to the secretariat’s resources, which, as you know, are quite extensive. If you are both in some kind of . . .” He paused. But he could tell they had already filled in the blank. “Let’s just say that there’s no better place to be.”
“That’s what I was hoping,” Donovan said, visibly relieved. “Thank you.” Being a fellow Irishman, Donovan felt his bond with Martin went deeper than the cloth. And once again, Father Martin had come to his rescue. He emptied the glass, rattling the ice. “And Dr. Hennesey?”
“I’ll see to it that she’s given the same protections.”
“Thank you very much, Father,” Charlotte said. She noticed his mood was confident and his complexion was looking much better this evening. Perhaps it was the ambient lighting. But she also registered a lingering suspicion about the man. After all,
he’d reported directly to Cardinal Santelli—the lunatic who, according to Donovan, had ordered Conte to murder her.
“I know this may be uncomfortable for you,” Martin urged, “but perhaps you could tell me more about these relics. Then maybe I can better determine how to direct my inquiries.”
The nun silently approached with a tray holding a fresh tumbler of whiskey. Donovan invited the interruption, because he wasn’t sure how to respond to Martin. Slowly, he swapped glasses, then took a deep breath.
“You can trust me, Patrick,” Martin stated. “You know that.”
If it hadn’t been for Martin, Cardinal Santelli’s untimely demise might have been scrutinized far more closely—particularly since Donovan had left the cardinal’s office just before Martin had found him dead. If an autopsy had been permitted, the poison Donovan had emptied through a syringe into the cardinal’s shoulder could have been traced. But trust wasn’t the issue. There was so much more at stake. Then again, it was the Vatican that had gotten Charlotte and him into this mess. And as it stood now, the Vatican provided the only hope of resolving matters.
The Sacred Blood Page 15
