Sign of the Cross

by Chris Kuzneski

  Payne nodded, half surprised by his response. ‘Where were classes held during the war?’

  ‘Which war?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I imagine you’re referring to the Civil War, since that’s the only time sessions were held elsewhere. And the answer is Newport, Rhode Island – moved there for safety reasons.’

  ‘Not bad,’ Payne admitted. ‘But this last one is the clincher. Any red-blooded Academy man would know the answer to this in a heartbeat. Are you ready? Because this is going to determine if you live or die. Got it? When you were in school, what was the name of the women’s dorm?’

  Boyd smiled, quickly realizing it was a trick question. ‘Alas, there wasn’t one. Much to my disappointment, females weren’t admitted until after I’d departed. Around 1976, I believe.’

  Begrudgingly, Payne lowered his gun. He still wasn’t certain about Boyd, but his gut told him that he was telling the truth. ‘So, you went to the Academy?’

  Boyd nodded. ‘I take it you’re an Academy man, too?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Jonathon Payne, at your service.’

  ‘Well, Mr Payne, if you’re interested in survival, I recommend we get moving. Otherwise, we will be killed before we leave this alley.’

  42

  It happened years ago, right after finding the scrolls in the secret vaults. Documents that the Vatican didn’t even know it had. Following their intricate instructions, Benito Pelati journeyed to Orvieto and took pictures of the ground using geological prototypes that he had borrowed from Germany. High-tech stuff that no one else had access to. Equipment that allowed him to chart every inch of the town from the topsoil to more than a hundred feet below. Studies no one had conducted before and hadn’t been allowed to run since.

  Needless to say, there was a very good reason.

  More than fifty tunnels were detected near the surface, all of them starting in private property and branching through the tufa like a tangle of arteries. Most of them stopped abruptly – either because the locals hit a section of stone they couldn’t penetrate or they ran out of patience and quit looking – while others interconnected with their neighbors’ tunnels. The deepest anyone got was twenty-three feet underground. Impressive, considering their rudimentary digging techniques, yet not deep enough to reach what they were hoping to find: the Catacombs of Orvieto.

  Benito knew the Catacombs existed. Or had at one time. The scrolls he found were proof of that. So were all the other documents he’d read in the Secret Archives. But prior to his geological testing, he had no idea if the Catacombs would still be there. Or what condition they might be in. One record at the Vatican mentioned a massive cave-in shortly after the Great Schism. If so, it could have wiped out everything he was hoping to find. All the proof he needed.

  But thankfully, that wasn’t the case. One look at the geological report confirmed it. The Catacombs were still there and in great shape. Furthermore, they were more substantial than the Vatican had ever realized. Papal records from the time of the Schism indicated one floor of chambers and tunnels. Nothing else. But Pelati saw more than that on this report. He saw multiple levels. And stairs. And areas so far under the soil that he doubted the Vatican had ever reached them. He wouldn’t know for sure until he explored the tunnels himself, but from the look of their design, Pelati sensed the ancient Romans had built a lower tomb, then immediately sealed it off from the upper chambers. Why the Romans did this, he wasn’t sure. But if his family’s secret was to be believed, that was probably where he’d find the evidence he was looking for.

  Of course, he had other things to worry about before he could investigate.

  His first order of business was to stop all digging in Orvieto. Another cave-in was the last thing he wanted, so he went to the local police chief and told him that Orvieto was in danger of collapsing. To bolster his case, he showed the chief the seismic studies that he’d conducted – conveniently omitting the information about the Catacombs – then walked from house to house pointing out all the tunnels that had been constructed.

  Locals still refer to it as the Shovel Act of 1982, because digging became a criminal offense.

  Next Benito bought the land above the twenty-three-foot tunnel, claiming the government needed to stabilize the property, or Orvieto might implode. The owner was so embarrassed by his handiwork and mortified by what could’ve happened that he sold everything to Benito to ensure the safety of his hometown. Except Benito had no intention of filling the hole. Instead, he planned to lengthen it to the depth of thirty-six feet, for that was where the Catacombs began.

  All told the process took several weeks. Benito eschewed attention, so he used unobtrusive equipment and a skeleton crew made up of miners from eastern Europe who couldn’t speak or read Italian. He knew if he used local workers they’d be familiar with the legend of the Catacombs and would figure out what Benito was doing. But the foreigners were clueless. He could keep them quiet without doing any of the digging himself. That is until his miners reached a depth of thirty-five feet. One foot short of history. From there he couldn’t risk their further involvement. So he thanked them for their effort with a big celebration. He put a bullet in each of their brains, then buried them with their own shovels. Just like the great explorers of yesteryear. Men who cared more about fame and fortune than the hired hands who helped them achieve it.

  Ruthless. That’s what he slowly became when he found the scrolls at the Vatican. Until that point he was a passionate academician, nothing more, someone who wasn’t afraid to take chances and fight for what he believed in. But when he found the scrolls, his persona started to change. He slowly became wicked. Malicious. Immoral. All of it fueled by what the scrolls stood for: power and unimaginable wealth.

  From that point on, Benito didn’t care about his workers. Or the town of Orvieto. Or the sanctity of the Catholic Church. All he cared about was himself and his family’s secret.

  It had been dormant for several centuries. He planned to release it like a plague.

  Benito had set things in motion once before, a few years ago. He had determined the best way to use the Catacombs and had scheduled a meeting with the Vatican to discuss his discovery.

  But a potential windfall appeared. One that forced him to shift his timeline.

  A translator working for Benito found a reference in an ancient manuscript that described the home of a Roman hero who lived in the foothills of Vindobona, Illyria. Inside a tomb of marble, he had placed a relic and a first-person account of the crucifixion. It threatened to contain everything that the world and the Church should know about the events in Jerusalem.

  Details from before, during, and after the death of Christ.

  Benito’s oldest son, Roberto, felt they should meet with the Vatican as planned. He reasoned their organization was ready to strike, and it would hurt their cause if there was a delay. But Benito disagreed. He canceled their meeting, reassuring his son that this discovery would actually increase their bargaining power with the Catholics. Roberto eventually relented.

  From that point on, finding the Roman vault became the number-one priority in Benito’s life.

  Everything else would be put on hold until the tomb was discovered in the hills of Illyria.

  Recently, his goal had been accomplished.

  43

  Same agenda, different crew. That’s what Dial decided as he studied the haphazard way the blood had been splashed across the Green Monster, the way the message was scrawled as an afterthought instead of a fancy signature claiming responsibility. No way these were the same men who’d killed the priest in Denmark. The original sign had been painted with the skill and precision of a calligrapher, while the latest sign looked more like a kid’s finger painting. Like it was done by someone who didn’t understand what they were being asked to do but did it anyway. Someone who was going through the motions.

  Alas, that made the middle case an enigma. The sign in Libya was painted with painstaking precision, yet blood was spr
ead all over the Roman Arch in a spontaneous display of rage.

  Dial wondered, why be precise and sloppy at the same crime scene? Could it have been done by a third crew? Or a mixture of the other two? Furthermore, did it even matter? Maybe he should be concentrating more on the message instead of the killers themselves. It was an interesting notion that he wanted to pursue. That is until he was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. He turned and saw an Asian man standing behind him, just looking at him as though he wasn’t sure what to do next. Dial said, ‘Can I help you?’

  Mark Chang nodded and fumbled for his ID. He was a first-year agent at the NCB office in Boston, which meant he was Dial’s main contact while he was in town. The man in charge of the man in charge. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t meet you earlier. I would’ve, had I known.’

  Dial looked at the kid and figured he was no more than twenty-two. His hair was a mess, and so were his clothes. They looked like he had found them at the bottom of his hamper. ‘Known what?’

  ‘Known you were in town. No one told me, I swear. I rushed down here as soon as I heard.’

  And he looked like it, too. Like he jumped out of bed and caught the first bus he could find.

  ‘Don’t worry, Chang. I didn’t know I was coming until the last minute. I grabbed the last flight out of Paris and –’

  ‘Wait. Paris, France?’

  ‘Yeah. Big country on the other side of the Atlantic. It’s listed on most maps.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I know where it is. It’s just, um, how did you beat me here? I thought maybe you were in town already, but to beat me from France? I mean, they found Pope’s body less than two hours ago, which means your plane had to –’

  ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa! Slow down, son. Say that again.’

  Chang double-checked his notepad. ‘According to 911, the groundskeeper reported Pope’s murder just after ten. From there, Boston PD notified Interpol, who then notified me an hour ago.’ He checked his watch to be sure. ‘I don’t understand, sir. How’d you get here so fast?’

  But Dial ignored the question, turning his back on Chang to replay the past twenty-four hours. He’d started the day in Libya, where he caught a plane to France. That’s when Henri Toulon notified him that another victim had been found, this time in Boston. From there he hopped on another plane and flew to America.

  That meant he knew about the victim several hours before his body was actually found.

  ‘Holy shit! We’ve got ourselves a taunter.’ Dial grabbed Chang’s notepad to be sure of the timeline. ‘I knew about the murder before it happened. The bastards called us ten hours ago.’

  ‘They what? Why would they do that?’

  ‘To taunt us, Chang. To taunt us. Hence the name.’

  ‘Yeah, but –’

  ‘They’re letting us know that we can’t stop ’em, not even with a head start. They’re saying we can investigate them all we want, and it won’t make a damn bit of difference. They won’t stop until they’re ready to stop.’

  ‘And when will that be?’

  ‘Soon. They’re running out of words.’

  ‘Words?’

  ‘Yeah, Chang, words. You know, the things in a dictionary? I can’t believe you don’t know what words are. What, is English your second language?’

  ‘No, sir. I was born right here in –’

  Dial rolled his eyes. Rookies could be so dumb. ‘It was a joke, son. Just a joke.’

  ‘Oh, but –’

  ‘Listen, Chang, I like you, so let me give you a piece of advice that my captain once gave to me. Just shut the fuck up and listen, OK?’

  ‘OK, sir, I’m listening.’

  ‘No, Chang. That was the advice. Just shut the fuck up and listen. Understand? There’s no need to repeat everything I say, and there’s no need to question everything I do. Your main job as a rookie is to observe. Learn the basic techniques, do the simple tasks that I give to you, and remember everything I say. Don’t question what I say, just remember it, write it down if you have to. Got that? There’s a big difference between listening and speaking.’

  Chang nodded, not saying a word.

  ‘See? You’re learning already… Now, are you ready to go to work?’

  Chang nodded again, this time smiling.

  ‘Good. Then this is what we need to do.’

  44

  Payne and Jones knew little about the streets of Milan, so there was no way they could outmaneuver a helicopter. Especially in a Fiat. The truth was, they probably could have in the Ferrari, except it was too small for four people, and they didn’t want to split up. That left only two options: hide in the warehouse or turn themselves in.

  And guess what? All of them voted for number two.

  Of course, that’s misleading. The truth was, they weren’t actually going to surrender. Payne felt if he offered Boyd as a sacrificial lamb, then he could buy Jones enough time to pull off a miracle. At least Payne hoped he could. If not, he knew he’d regret the decision for the rest of his very short life.

  After finalizing their plans, Payne dragged Boyd into the middle of the darkened street where they stood, looking skyward, as two Bell helicopters settled in a neighboring lot. The insurgence of rotors kicked up enough wind and dust to rival a cyclone. But it didn’t stop Payne from seeing, thanks to his custom-fit sunglasses. Not only did they shield his eyes from the elements, but they concealed his true emotions, which would be even more important if his ruse was going to work.

  ‘It’s time to begin,’ Payne shouted over the tumult. ‘Don’t take this personally.’

  He put his hand on Boyd’s back and shoved him to the ground, knowing that they were being watched by Manzak and his friends. He continued his charade, dropping to one knee and double-checking the cord around Boyd’s wrists. Boyd played along by squirming and making girly noises that sounded like they belonged at a sorority pillow fight. Payne let him know he was overdoing it by slapping him in the back of the head. ‘Knock it off, Suzie, and start acting like a criminal.’

  The hatch on the front chopper swung open, and Manzak climbed out. Not smiling. Not waving. Not giving Payne a thumbs-up or any signs of approval. In other words, he was the same stoic bastard that had shown up in Pamplona. Part killer. Part robot. All asshole. Unfortunately, the biggest problem for Payne was he didn’t know if Manzak was going to honor their original deal. Sure, Payne knew he wasn’t the real Manzak, but the truth was, he still could’ve been with the CIA since he had enough clout to pull Payne out of prison. For all he knew, maybe Manzak was a name the CIA gave out to several undercover operatives just to confuse people.

  If that was the case, it was definitely working because Payne was confused. He didn’t know if Manzak was going to take Boyd back to CIA headquarters and milk him for information, or if he was going to shoot him in the back of the head the moment they left Payne’s side. The truth was, he didn’t know who or what to believe, and neither did Jones. They didn’t know if Boyd had done any of the things that they had been told – the forgeries, the smuggling, the exploding bus – or if he was the victim of an elaborate setup. Simply put, Payne and Jones didn’t know shit.

  Anyway, Manzak shouted, ‘Nice work, Payne! I’m impressed by your efficiency.’

  ‘And I’m impressed by your clairvoyance. How’d you know we had him?’

  ‘We have our ways. And they’re rarely wrong.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re on my side,’ Payne said without smiling. ‘So what’s the next step?’

  Manzak moved closer. ‘I need to debrief you before you’re officially done.’

  Payne wondered if he meant that literally. ‘Then what are we waiting for? Which one of those choppers is mine?’

  ‘You’ll be in the first one with me.’ He took another step forward. ‘But first I’ll need to check you for weapons.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Listen, Jon, I know how you must feel. But I can’t let a nonagent on board without searching him. It’s departmental policy.’

&
nbsp; Payne stared at Manzak for several seconds, tempted to make a nasty scene, even though he realized it would hurt his plan in the long run. So instead of doing anything foolish, he placed his hands on top of his head and reluctantly agreed to the search. ‘Try not to touch my ass, OK? I don’t want to make Buckner jealous… Speaking of which, where is the big lug? I miss our conversations. He’s quite the intellectual.’

  ‘He’s shutting down the chopper. He’ll be out to greet you shortly.’

  ‘Oh, I thought maybe he was at home, making you dinner.’

  Manzak forced a laugh. ‘You know, I find your humor ironic, especially since you’re the one with a boyfriend. Where is Jones, anyway? Getting his nails done?’

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned! You made a joke! Not a funny one, but still a joke. Wait until I tell D.J. He won’t believe me.’

  ‘You still haven’t answered my question. Where’s your partner?’

  ‘He’s around the corner in our Ferrari. One signal from me, and he’ll pull forward with the girl. That is, if you even know about her.’

  ‘Of course we know about Maria – and your Ferrari. Although for safety’s sake, it might be best if they stayed where they are.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Why’s that?’

  Instead of answering, Manzak pulled a Hantek detonator from his coat pocket and pushed the button. A second later, the Ferrari erupted in a massive explosion, one that shot flames and debris high above the warehouse roof, literally propelling the frame of the car more than twenty feet in the air. But that was just the beginning. The fallout pelted the surrounding terrain like meteors, igniting the adjacent buildings and shaking the ground beneath their feet like a California quake.

  Normally, Payne would’ve flinched. Or grabbed Boyd and made a mad dash for cover.

  But not tonight. Not when the flames in the sky paled next to the fire in his eyes.