No matter who stood in their way.
As he cleared through security, his father’s words echoed in his mind.
We mustn’t become sinners in our quest for salvation.
Dietrich had never been much of a religious man though he did believe in God and an afterlife—he had to, living his entire life knowing he was going to die lonely and in pain. It gave him hope that the miserable existence he had during life was but a mere fraction of his overall existence, that there was some reward for all his suffering, his family’s suffering, when it was all finally over.
Another shooting pain caused him to gasp.
“Are you okay?”
He looked at the young ticket agent as he handed over his 11.50 in euros. “Fine, just an old football injury.”
She smiled, looking at his chiseled features then down at his left hand as he accepted the ticket. He swore he saw a note of disappointment at the sight of his wedding ring. He smiled at her then turned left, walking with purpose toward the reason he was here. Silently praying, he used his peripheral vision to take in the guards patrolling as unobtrusively as they could, most of the tourists probably paying them little mind, but to him, they were of primary concern.
He didn’t want a repeat of what happened in Spain.
His father had been outraged, and he himself devastated. He had never thought he’d kill someone, but the priest had charged at him and he had panicked. The Vatican operation had gone quite smoothly and according to plan, nobody killed, nobody even injured.
But you weren’t there.
Tonight he hoped would be uneventful. His father had given orders that if it looked like someone might get hurt, they should abort, but with his father’s rapid degeneration over the past twenty-four hours he had decided those orders might very well need to be ignored.
He wasn’t going to let his father die just to protect strangers who by the very nature of their work knew they might be hurt or killed in the line of duty.
Though he had no plans to go out of his way to kill them.
He spotted one of his men out of the corner of his eye, three of them already inside to assist in the mission, several outside to provide cover should things go awry. The man walked past, bumping into him.
“Excuse me,” the man muttered, continuing on, leaving behind the distinctly heavy weight of something in his pocket. He slipped his hand inside and felt the cool metal of a handgun, a handgun smuggled in a week ago by his men under the guise of a maintenance crew.
He suddenly felt much more confident.
He rounded the corner and entered a smaller room, hardwood floors contrasting with burgundy walls, half a dozen lit display cases ringing the room. Even the bejeweled crown to his left, priceless by any measure, couldn’t distract him, his eyes immediately drawn to the display case one of his men had surveilled a week ago in preparation for the mission.
His pulse quickened.
The center of the case contained a large gold and jewel encrusted cross, standing erect, to its right a smaller less ornate cross lying flat on red velvet. He ignored them. To the left was what he was after, the metal tip of a Roman spear, about a third of it wrapped in gold at the center by someone lost to history, the simple Roman soldier purported to have wielded it far too poor for such ornate trappings.
But this was the second such spear he had been tasked to retrieve. And it wouldn’t be the last. His mission was to retrieve anything that might have the blood of Christ on it, even if its pedigree was suspect.
They could take no chances.
“Excuse me, can you show me where the bathrooms are?”
He looked slightly to his right and saw one of his men talking to the only museum staff member in the room. The woman nodded, following him out the door, the room now empty, the tourists gone.
He pulled a diamond tipped glass cutter from his pocket, pushing the suction cup in place, quickly circling the arm containing the incredibly sharp tip several times, the glass quickly cut through.
He pulled the glass free then reached inside, picking up the artifact almost reverently.
An alarm sounded immediately as a pressure sensor was tripped, ending his momentary lapse. He yanked his hand and the relic free of the glass, walking swiftly toward the door, one of his men walking by just as he arrived. He dropped the spearhead inside a bag the man held open just as a security guard arrived.
Dietrich pointed in the opposite direction as his man quickly walked away. “I saw a man run that way,” he said, the guard and several new arrivals immediately rushing in the direction he had indicated. Heading for the entrance, he caught sight of his man approaching the doors just as they were sealed shut by security.
No matter.
He pulled the Beretta from an inside pocket, placing it against the head of a young female tourist. “Open the doors now or she dies!”
Screams erupted as the few remaining tourists bolted in every direction, security running toward the scene, those with guns drawing them.
He didn’t care.
Wrapping an arm around the woman and dragging her toward the doors, he repeated his demand.
No one complied.
He nodded toward one of his men who pulled a weapon, grabbing a female tour guide cowering in the corner.
“Nobody has to die here today! But if you don’t open the doors in thirty seconds, she dies!” He pressed the gun against his hostage’s temple harder. “If anyone gets any closer, she dies.” The guards inching forward froze, but the doors remained locked. He raised his gun and fired into the ceiling, plaster raining down on them, a fine mist of dust slowly wafting its way to the marble floor. “Now!”
“Open the doors!” shouted someone and he heard a buzzing sound behind them, the red lights over the doors turning green. One of his men pushed on the door and it opened. He slowly backed toward it, the gun back against the woman’s head. He cleared the doors as the guards slowly moved forward, their weapons still pointing at him. Firing two shots at the ground, he let go of the woman, rushing down the stairs and jumping into the waiting car with the others, the tires already squealing as the driver floored it, sending them careening toward the exit and the traffic maze that was Vienna.
Taking a sharp right they blasted past several police cars obviously responding to the emergency call at the museum. Dietrich turned in his seat and cursed as they locked up their brakes, pulling one-eighties as they began their pursuit. His driver took another hard right into an alley and came to a screeching halt, all of them jumping out as one of their outside men beckoned them, a manhole cover lifted from the street. Dietrich climbed into the hole, quickly sliding down the metal ladder as the others followed, the cover replaced overhead as he hit the bottom with a splash.
Sprinting forward, he rounded a bend in the storm drain and smiled.
Six dirt bikes were waiting as promised.
He jumped on the lead bike, kick starting the engine and activating the specially programmed GPS. He gunned the motor, the front tire lifting slightly as he sped away from the access point, the other engines roaring to life behind him.
As he climbed the curved walls while taking a bend to the left, he smiled knowing one more relic had been retrieved, and nobody had been hurt.
I’ll save you yet, father.
The Temple Mount, Jerusalem, Judea
April 10th, 30 AD
“His body was clearly stolen.”
Longinus looked at the rabbi, the man’s withering stare intimidating, one of the negatives of having his eyesight returned being the effect of such things—especially now accustomed to merely hearing someone’s displeasure rather than seeing it as well.
Sweat dripped down his back, his segmented armor hot as he, Albus, Severus and a young soldier named Tiberius, all guarding the tomb of Jesus earlier, stood at attention in front of their commander and several Jewish leaders.
“Surely you must realize that this insane notion being spread by his followers of resurrection is blasphemous
lunacy!”
Nobody said anything, lowly soldiers never speaking unless asked a direct question.
And this didn’t count.
“None of you have anything to say for yourselves? A tomb you are sent to guard is opened and the body stolen under your very noses?”
Again no one said anything, for they all knew the truth.
The earth had shaken once again and the stone had rolled away, a spirit of some sort appearing, proclaiming the resurrection. It had been terrifying, and even he had run away with the others in fear. One of them had reported the events and they had all been summoned, questioned for hours once the tomb had been confirmed empty.
The rabbi snapped his fingers and out of the shadows several men appeared carrying cloth covered trays, each containing what appeared to be generously filled purses. The rabbi picked up one of the purses, the tinkle of coins inside music to many a poor soldier’s ears. He stepped in front of young Tiberius, taking his hand and dropping the heavy sum in his palm, closing the man’s fingers over the cloth.
He took another purse, then another, moving down the line, all the while explaining the price of this reward. “You are to say, ‘His disciples came by night and stole him away while we were asleep.’ And if this should come to the governor’s ears, we will win him over and keep you out of trouble.”
The rabbi stepped in front of Longinus, turning to take the final purse from the final tray. He reached for his hand but Longinus, the spear he had pierced the body of Jesus with gripped tightly in one hand, clasped his free one behind his back, shaking his head.
“I will not lie.”
The rabbi’s eyebrows rose slightly, his friends shifting slightly, clearly uncomfortable.
“You want more?”
Longinus shook his head, firmly. “There isn’t enough silver or gold in the Empire to make me lie about the miracle I witnessed today. I was blind and now can see. That cannot be denied. You murdered the son of God, the messiah you have all been waiting for, and now you want to cover up your mistake.” Longinus squared his shoulders. “I will have no part in it.”
The rabbi returned the purse to the tray.
“Very well.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “But the truth often comes with a heavy price.”
Ciampino Airport, Rome, Italy
Present Day, One day before the Paris assault
Professor James Acton beamed a smile at his good friend Interpol Agent Hugh Reading as he descended the steps of the Gulf V private jet chartered by his wife. Reading was standing beside the Vatican Inspector General, Mario Giasson, a man he had come to know quite well when the Vatican had been overrun by Muslim protesters. He had little contact with the man outside of the Vatican events, though he knew he was a family man and reliable under fire.
Reading on the other hand he knew quite well.
They gave each other a thumping hug.
“How ya doin’?”
Reading exchanged a hug and cheek kisses with Laura as Acton shook Giasson’s hand.
“A little tired, but I’m out of the office so that’s always good.”
Acton knew his friend had mixed feelings about his new job. After the events that led to their meeting, he had become too public to stay at New Scotland Yard as a detective so he had taken a job at Interpol instead, giving up murder investigations for international police investigations.
Which involved too much “bloody” paperwork for his liking.
But thanks to a few incidents over the past several years, Reading had definitely seen his share of action. Acton and his wife seemed to have a knack for getting into trouble, and Reading too often found himself either along for the ride, or riding in to the rescue.
It was nice for a change to be coming to help him, though Acton had a nasty feeling gunfire was in his future.
Laura climbed into the limo first, the men following. “So what’s the latest?” asked Laura as they settled in.
Reading frowned. “They raided a museum in Vienna just a few minutes ago.”
“Let me guess, the Holy Lance kept in the Imperial Treasury?”
Giasson nodded. “We’ve put out a warning to all of the museums and churches that have Blood Relics, but unfortunately the focus is on terrorism right now and religious icons aren’t a high priority for the police, especially considering the circumstances.”
Laura leaned into Acton’s shoulder as they took a turn. “What do you mean?”
“Well, the theft at the Vatican involved four men on the ground and at least three in the helicopter.”
“Which means they’re well equipped with a lot of money behind them,” added Reading.
“And the theft in Austria apparently involved at least four inside plus a getaway car and dirt bikes placed ahead of time in the sewer system. They just found those before we left to pick you up.”
“So no sign of them.” Acton chewed his cheek. “Surely there’s security footage from Hapsburg?”
Reading nodded. “It’s being pulled now.”
Laura brought them back to the original question. “You were saying that the police weren’t being overly cooperative?”
“It’s not necessarily that they’re not being cooperative, it’s that they just can’t afford the resources. If we’re talking a team of half a dozen well-armed men, putting one or two officers at a church is almost useless. Reckless even. Really you need to station at least half a dozen at each of these locations, otherwise they’re little better than lookouts. Or targets.”
“So you don’t think it would deter them?”
Giasson shook his head. “We have over one hundred armed men at the Vatican and that didn’t deter them.”
Acton crossed his leg, Laura putting her hand on his knee. “So we don’t know who they are or what their motivation is.”
“I have a feeling your theory is right,” replied Reading.
“That someone is trying to get their hands on the blood of Christ for its healing properties?”
Reading nodded. “Basically we’ve got a religious nutter out there willing to kill because of a fairytale.”
Giasson cleared his throat. “That fairytale as you call it is believed by over two billion people.”
Reading blushed, Acton smiling as his friend went into backpedal mode. “I didn’t mean the whole Jesus thing, I just meant the blood curing the guy’s blindness. That’s not actually in the bible, is it?”
“No,” agreed Giasson. “In the Gospel According to John there is reference to a soldier piercing the side of Jesus, but there’s no mention of him by name, or of his sight being restored.”
Acton leaned forward. “But in later accounts, he is included. If you read the Biblical Apocrypha you’ll find mention of him by name, and in other texts that were rejected as not canon the miracle is referred to. The problem with that era is if a text contradicted the Gospels in any way, it was rejected, even if the other ninety percent agreed. This excluded many accounts of the events surrounding Jesus that might very well be true.”
“Assuming any of it’s true,” said Reading, immediately holding out his hand to stop Giasson. “I know, I know, billions believe. I’m not saying I don’t believe, but wouldn’t it be nice to have proof?”
“Proof of the miracle or even the resurrection is impossible,” replied Giasson. “Even if you had a dozen firsthand accounts, they’d all be dismissed as simply stories.”
“True,” agreed Acton. “I think however there is plenty of evidence to prove, or at least strongly support, His actual existence. You can ignore the Bible if you want, but it is actually considered an historical text, most of the New Testament written within a century of Jesus’ death. And there are dozens upon dozens of other texts that weren’t included in the New Testament like I mentioned. But if you want to dismiss it as a creative writing project, then simply read the Roman historians of the era. Everyone from Flavius Josephus to Pliny the Younger refer to Him and to His followers.”
“It all had to come from s
omewhere,” said Giasson. “Whether you believe He was the Son of God or not is a matter of faith. To deny His existence entirely I think is simply wishful thinking on the part of those who are so anti-religious they blame it for all that ails them and the world.”
Reading raised his hands in defeat. “I’m sorry, you’re right. I’ve never been much of a churchgoer or a believer. When you’ve been in war like I have, when you’ve seen what one man can do to another, you can be forgiven for wondering how any god could allow it to happen.”
“Perhaps the best thing any god could do would be to let men fail individually so that man can learn collectively from their mistakes.”
Acton squeezed his wife’s hand, her words as usual inspiring. “This entire discussion is irrelevant. We’ve got someone who obviously believes in the healing properties stealing these artifacts and killing if necessary—”
“Though I hardly see how killing an elderly priest was necessary,” interjected Laura.
“Agreed. Even if you identify who they might be from the security footage that doesn’t mean you’ll catch them. Not only do we need to stop them from steeling additional relics, we need to recover what was stolen.”
“I have a feeling the security footage won’t lead anywhere,” said Reading. “They didn’t seem to be too concerned about having their faces on camera.”
“Does that suggest anything to you?” asked Giasson.
“That either they’re so well known that it doesn’t matter—they haven’t been caught yet, so why would that change? Or they’re completely new and only intend to be active for a short period of time before disappearing underground.”
“Or, they’re so well protected, even if we caught them it wouldn’t matter.”
Reading grunted at Acton’s suggestion. “It wouldn’t be the first time. And if it weren’t for the murder, the entire thing could get swept under the rug if it were some billionaire’s son getting his kicks. But as it is…”
Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) Page 6
