Sign of the Cross

by Chris Kuzneski

  Boyd answered, ‘I was waiting at the warehouse.’

  ‘Maria, did you call anyone at the airport?’

  She seemed startled by the question. ‘Who would I call? It was the middle of the night, and I was trying to sneak out of town. Why would I use the phone?’

  Jones nodded, still hoping she was innocent. ‘Did either of you recognize the men from the choppers?’

  Boyd shook his head. ‘Not I.’

  ‘And Maria? What about you?’

  She looked at Jones, confused. ‘You were with me the entire time. You know damn well that we couldn’t see anyone. It was too dark, and we were too far away.’

  ‘True,’ he admitted. ‘Very true.’ He paused for a moment, letting them soak in the tension. It was more than enough to frazzle Boyd.

  ‘That does it. We demand to know what’s going on and demand to know now. We’re on your side, for heaven’s sake. Not theirs.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Payne asked, entering the conversation. ‘We’d like to believe you, but this information causes us to have doubts. Especially since we know the enemy is Maria’s brother.’

  Both Maria and Boyd went pale. Slowly, they looked at each other, searching each other’s eyes for the slightest hint of guilt. Then they turned toward Payne and Jones, speechless.

  Jones asked. ‘What’s the deal?’

  ‘There is no deal. I don’t even know which brother you’re talking about.’

  ‘Roberto,’ Payne said. ‘We’re talking about Roberto. He was the guy who came to Pamplona and claimed to be Richard Manzak. The same one who showed up in Milan and pulled a gun on us.’

  ‘The one you killed?’ she gasped.

  ‘And tortured. And maimed.’ Payne was trying to get her to lose her cool, so he poured it on thick. ‘Did I tell you what I did to him while you were on the chopper? I needed to get his name, but he wouldn’t tell me, so I was forced to improvise.’

  Without warning Payne leapt to his feet and grabbed her hand, slamming it down with such force that she gasped in terror. Then he spread her fingers on the dirty floor and used the barrel of his Luger to tap the main knuckle of her index finger. Tapping it over and over, again and again, letting her feel the cold metal, letting her imagine what her brother went through in Milan. And he did this in hopes of getting her to talk. He hated to be so rough with her – especially since she could be on his side – but he was doing it for the safety of others.

  He had to know where her allegiance was. It was imperative.

  ‘The blade went in here. Right through his skin and veins and bone. I sawed his finger in two, then put its tip in my pocket so I could fingerprint it. That’s right, while we were in the chopper, I was carrying your brother’s finger, dripping with your family’s blood.’

  Maria’s olive skin turned pale, which Payne assumed was because of his monologue. But when he pushed her further, she pointed out something that they had overlooked, a simple fact that told Payne and Jones a lot about her family and whose side she was fighting for.

  ‘You’re forgetting something,’ she said. ‘That night in Milan, when you made contact with Roberto, you told him that I was in the Ferrari, right? Hiding with D.J.?’

  Payne nodded. That’s what had happened.

  ‘And how did he respond?’

  Oh, shit! Payne thought to himself. How could he have been so dumb? How could he have overlooked that? Roberto had pushed the button on his detonator like he was stepping on an ant. No guilt. No remorse. No indecision. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it. For some reason the thought of killing his baby sister had brought him immense pleasure.

  Suddenly Payne had all the proof he needed. Maria and Roberto were not on the same side.

  60

  Benito Pelati didn’t shout. Or scream. Or lose his cool. He simply leaned back in his chair and smiled. It was a reaction that Cardinal Vercelli and the rest of the Council hadn’t expected.

  ‘Am I missing something?’ Vercelli asked. ‘Your reputation will be ruined if we allow the blackmailers to tell the world about the Catacombs. You understand that, don’t you?’

  For years he had kept the secret of the Catacombs to himself. Partially out of respect for his best friend, Cardinal Bandolfo, who would’ve been devastated by the betrayal; partially because he was waiting to uncover the first-person account of the crucifixion from the tomb in Vienna. But now that Bandolfo was gone, the Viennese vault was being unearthed, and his son Roberto had been killed, Benito realized it was time to act.

  ‘Why are you smiling?’ Vercelli demanded. ‘You have no reason to be smiling.’

  ‘Actually, it’s you who has no reason to be smiling.’

  Vercelli remained quiet. There was something about Benito’s tone that was disconcerting. It was cold and assured. Like an assassin who was ready to strike. And everyone in the room sensed it. All eyes followed Benito as he stood from his chair and moved toward Vercelli.

  ‘The Council asked me to find the person responsible for Father Jansen’s death and for the blackmail scheme, and I have done so. Why shouldn’t I be happy?’

  ‘You know who’s responsible?’ asked the Brazilian. ‘Then tell us. Who?’

  Benito stared him in the eyes. ‘It was me.’

  ‘You?’ shouted Vercelli. ‘What do you mean, you?’

  ‘Just as I stated, I’m the man behind his death. In fact, I’m behind all the crucifixions.’

  It took a moment for his words to penetrate the fog that clouded the Council’s thoughts. Once it happened, though, outrage filled the room. Unadulterated venom. And Benito reveled in it. He soaked it up like applause, enjoying every last insult that was fired in his direction. Somehow it made him feel better about what he was about to do. Then, when he reached the end of the table, the seat reserved for the Council leader, he leaned toward Vercelli’s ear and whispered softly, ‘You’re sitting in my chair.’

  To punctuate his point, Benito put his hand on the cardinal’s head and slammed his face into the hard table. Blood gushed from Vercelli’s nose and mouth, dousing the bright red of his clerical robe with even more red – a color meant to signify that he was willing to die for his faith, if necessary. Yet Benito didn’t get that vibe from Vercelli. His point was proven when Vercelli abandoned the chair without further provocation. Meanwhile, none of the other cardinals dared to move, secretly wondering if Benito was armed and planning to kill them.

  But that wasn’t the case at all. He simply planned on killing their religion.

  He’d been recruited by the Council to catch a criminal, yet Benito was the mastermind behind everything. His men were killing innocents on the world’s stage to draw global attention. People from every continent. People of different religions. Letting the media debate the crucifixions in order to put more pressure on the Council. Benito needed them to know that he was ruthless and would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.

  But that would come later. For now all he longed to see was the expression on Vercelli’s face when he explained the true meaning of the Catacombs. When he told him that underneath the Church’s burial plots there was a hidden chamber, accessed by a staircase that the Vatican never knew existed. And in that room, there was a deadly secret. One that would kill the Church.

  Finally, after all these years, Benito and his family would get everything that they deserved.

  61

  Friday, July 14

  Daxing, China

  (twenty miles south of Beijing)

  The cargo plane took off from a small airfield that few people knew about. Grass covered the only runway, which was more like a field than anything else. The only air traffic controller was the farmer who moved his livestock whenever he heard the rumble of a distant engine.

  The plan came to Tank Harper while he was figuring how to hoist their massive cross over the walls of the Forbidden City. After giving it some thought, he decided it would be much easier to drop the cross from above instead of lifting it from below. Not only would it increa
se the ease of their escape, but the scene would generate the media attention that they were looking for.

  Except Harper knew he’d have to break a number of Manzak’s rules in order to make it work and didn’t want to risk his share of the money. So he called him early in the week, looking for clearance. Manzak was so thrilled with the idea that he told Harper if his crew could pull it off that they would be awarded a bonus of $100,000 on top of their normal share. From that moment on, there was no turning back. They would use the air.

  Or as Harper referred to it: Operation Jesus Drop.

  Before they took off, Harper and his men were forced to do the same things that the other crews had done to their victims. Scourging him with a leather whip until the skin hung off his back. Nailing him to the cross one spike at a time. Hanging a sign above him. Then, on top of everything else, they made sure the modified cross – a reinforced base, steel hooks on top, etc. – was going to hold. Otherwise, things would get messy when it hit the ground.

  ‘Two minutes,’ said the pilot as he scanned the horizon. ‘We can go lower if you want.’

  ‘Just stick to the plan,’ Harper growled. In his mind this wasn’t the time to improvise. He’d made all the necessary calculations earlier in the week, double-checked his figures after some test runs, and scouted the interior of the Forbidden City for the best place to aim. All they had to do was follow his numbers, and everything would be fine. ‘Move into position.’

  The other two crewmen jumped to their feet and slid Adams and the cross to the special hatch that allowed large crates to be dropped behind enemy lines. Above the door was a series of clasps that connected to the cross’s parachute, guaranteeing that the forty-foot canopy would open the moment it hit the air.

  ‘Thirty seconds,’ the pilot shouted.

  Harper looked at his watch. They were right on schedule. All that was left was to administer the final blow before he pushed Adams from the plane. ‘Any final words?’

  Adams tried to speak but wasn’t able to because of the gag in his mouth. The entire crew laughed as Harper put his hand behind his ear and leaned forward, pretending to listen.

  ‘Twenty seconds,’ the pilot warned.

  Harper smiled as he positioned the iron-tipped spear. He’d been waiting for this moment all week. ‘Since you have nothing to say, I guess you’re ready to die.’

  ‘Fifteen seconds.’

  The cargo door fell open as Harper rammed the spear into Adams’s side. The roar of the outside wind covered the snapping sound of Adams’s ribs and the wet sucking of his punctured lung. Blood poured from the wound like a cracked bottle of Chianti, its contents gushing down the victim’s skin. Harper wouldn’t risk being identified, so he pushed the spear in deeper until the metal tip actually burst through the other side. Only then was he willing to pull the spear out.

  ‘Five seconds.’

  Harper cut the gag off Adams’s mouth while his crewmen cut the safety cords near the base of the wood. Suddenly the giant canopy sprang to life, pulling the cross from the plane with a mighty whoosh and sending Adams toward the grounds of the Forbidden City.

  Catrina Collins had honed her skills at the Washington Post and the New York Times before taking a job at CNN. She was used to living out of her suitcase, flying wherever the news took her. In the past it had always been a week here or there, never three months in one place. Yet that’s what she had to look forward to: a summer in Beijing.

  A summer of unbelievable boredom.

  Her assignment was to monitor a series of economic summits that were scheduled in the Far East. Ambassadors from all over the world were in China to discuss capitalism and its long-term benefits for Asia. Not exactly earth-shattering news but important enough to cover.

  Collins woke up early Friday, dreading the thought of going to work. If she had to listen to one more lecture on free trade, she was going to vomit. Thankfully, a phone call from CNN headquarters gave her a reprieve. Someone had called in an anonymous tip about a demonstration near the Forbidden City. The caller didn’t give many specifics, only that it was going to be violent. And violent was a magic word in the world of television.

  Collins was disheartened when she realized several networks had beaten her to the scene. ABC, CBS, NBC, and Fox were already there; so were dozens of reporters from around the world. Yet no one really knew why, only that they had received the same tip as CNN.

  ‘Cat,’ called Holly Adamson, a reporter for the Chicago Sun-Times who used to cover the same beat as Collins. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Collins smiled as she gave Adamson a hug. ‘Economic summit. What about you?’

  ‘Human interest stuff.’ In the world of journalism, that was a polite way to say, I’m not allowed to tell you. ‘What have you heard about this?’

  She shrugged. ‘Not much. What about you?’

  ‘Even less.’

  Collins laughed. ‘You know how most tips turn out. It’s probably just BS.’

  ‘If this falls through, we should grab a beer or something. It is Friday, after all.’

  ‘You know what? That doesn’t sound like a bad idea –’

  The sudden clicking of cameras caught the women’s attention. Both of them turned toward the photographers and noticed them pointing their lenses toward the sky. Collins shielded her eyes and tilted her head back, trying to figure out what was falling from the clouds.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ Adamson asked.

  Collins shrugged and turned toward her camera crew. ‘Shawn, you getting this?’

  Shawn Farley adjusted his focus. ‘Not sure what it is, but I’m getting it.’

  Collins dug through their gear and found a pair of binoculars. The sound of clicking continued up and down press row. ‘What is that? Is that a parachute?’

  ‘Definitely a parachute. A red one. Not sure what it’s attached to.’

  ‘I hope it’s not a bomb. That would ruin my day.’

  ‘Cat,’ he said, serious. ‘I might be seeing things, but I think that’s a guy up there.’

  ‘Wow. A Chinese skydiver. Stop the press.’

  ‘And it looks like he’s attached to, um…’ Farley zoomed in closer. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. ‘A cross… I think he’s attached to a cross.’

  Collins had followed the crucifixion cases while killing time in her committee meetings, often scouring the Internet for the latest developments. She had gotten her start with the D.C. crime beat, so she was a sucker for a good serial killer. Without delay she called her boss.

  ‘You aren’t going to believe what I’m looking at.’

  ‘Let me guess. A naked poster of Yao Ming.’

  She ignored the wisecrack. ‘The fourth crucifixion.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘And you won’t believe where the victim came from. I swear to God you won’t.’

  ‘Where?’ he demanded.

  She watched the parachute drop slowly from the sky. ‘Heaven.’

  62

  Austrian Expressway,

  Swiss/Austrian Border

  Border crossings could be tricky, especially if the guards had your photo and were promised a large bonus if they spotted your ass. Therefore, Payne felt it would be best if Ulster and Franz dropped everyone off about a mile from the border, allowing them to hike into Austria on their own. Payne figured the sky was dark, the trees were thick, and he and Jones had the survival skills to help Maria and Boyd avoid detection. But Ulster laughed at the suggestion. He promised he knew everyone at the border and said they wouldn’t search his truck due to a prior agreement.

  And Ulster was right. Ten minutes later they were on the open road to the capital city of the Republik Österreich. Vienna (or Wien) is located in the northeastern corner of Austria and has over two million citizens. Known for its contribution to classical music (Mozart, Beethoven, and Brahms) and psychotherapy (Sigmund Freud), the city’s most amazing spectacle is the Hofburg, a sprawling hodgepodge of a palace that covers 2.7 million
square feet and holds over a million pieces of art. The Hofburg became the official royal residence in 1533 when Ferdinand I of the Hapsburg dynasty moved into the imperial apartments. Since then, the Hofburg has housed five centuries of dignitaries including the rulers of the Holy Roman Empire (1533–1806), the Emperors of Austria (1806–1918), and the current Austrian federal president.

  The most interesting aspect of the building wasn’t a list of its former residents but rather what they did to the place while they were there. From 1278 until 1913, every monarch contributed his own addition in the prevailing taste of the day. The resulting mix was a time capsule of interior design, spread throughout eighteen wings and nineteen courtyards in a wild assortment of styles that included Baroque, French and Italian Renaissance, Gothic, and nineteenth-century German.

  Yet the only decoration that mattered to them was the laughing man statue that Payne spotted in Ulster’s picture. A statue that was inside the front gates of the Austrian White House. Somehow they needed to find a way to examine the piece without being shot or arrested.

  While running scenarios in his head, Payne gazed across the cargo hold and listened to Boyd and Maria discussing the significance of the statue. The rumble of the truck’s engine drowned out half their words, but their passion for the topic made up for the missing syllables. Boyd argued that the laughing man’s presence in Vienna was proof that the Romans succeeded in their plot to fake the crucifixion. Why else would he be honored in such an important building?

  But Maria wasn’t as confident. She reminded Boyd that she saw the laughing man on the roof of Il Duomo in Milan, even though no one knew who he was or why he was there. Furthermore, since that statue was made out of Viennese marble, she argued it was probably the work of a local artisan. That meant the Hofburg piece might be nothing more than a replica of the Milanese design. Or vice versa.

  Jones was sitting next to Payne, researching the Hofburg in a travel guide that he found in a box. He said, ‘Ever hear of the Vienna Boys’ Choir? They sing Mass at the Hofburg every Sunday. If we wait until then, we could sneak in with the rest of the churchgoers.’