Sign of the Cross

by Chris Kuzneski

  His gut told him they weren’t looking for his crew. If they were, they wouldn’t be standing in the middle of the library making so much noise. They’d be scurrying along the walls, pointing weapons in every corner and crevice until they figured out where they were hiding. Payne didn’t see any of that, though, which led him to believe that they were fine, that they had no idea that they were there and they’d be safe as long as they stayed quiet.

  Payne’s theory changed an instant later when one of them yelled, ‘Boyd, there’s no sense in hiding. I know you’re in here. Come out and face me like a man.’

  Payne had seen a lot of messed-up things in his years of combat, but this was the first time that anyone ever dared one of his troops to show his face. Come-out-come-out-wherever-you-are doesn’t factor into many military situations. Amazingly, the strangeness increased when Dr Boyd emerged from the stacks. With a look of defiance on his face, a look that said he was about to do something stupid like challenging this guy to a duel, Boyd shouted across the Great Hall. ‘Come and get me, you big wanker!’

  Well, Payne almost crapped himself right there. Of all the screwed-up, dim-witted things he’d ever seen in his life, why in the world would a CIA-trained operative, someone who was supposed to be a genius, be willing to give up his position and risk everything that they were trying to accomplish? The idiot! What the hell was he thinking?

  Boyd was standing twenty feet away, completely unaware that Payne was under one of the tables. For an instant Payne was tempted to shut him up and protect the rest of them. A couple of slugs in his knee and he would’ve flipped over the railing like Damien’s mom when he hit her with his tricycle in The Omen. That thought left his mind, though, when he saw Maria creep up behind Boyd. Just like that, Payne’s whole world flipped upside down. Something was going on, but he didn’t know what. Were there more guards than he could see? Were Boyd and Maria giving up? Or were he and Jones being double-crossed?

  Payne received his answer the moment he saw who was down below. It was the grinning face of Petr Ulster, his red cheeks glowing in the lights of the Great Hall. He looked up at Payne and said, ‘Jonathon, my boy! There you are. I hope you don’t mind, but I thought we could use some reinforcements.’

  Everyone met downstairs, where formal introductions were made, and Boyd was reunited with an old colleague. Dr Hermann Wanke was wearing a shirt and tie yet had slippers on his feet. He claimed it was to make less noise as he strolled through the Hofburg, but Payne could tell from the twinkle in his eye that he did it for his own amusement. Most people considered Wanke the world’s top expert on Austrian history, so he figured it was his God-given right to be eccentric. Personally, Payne didn’t care what he wore as long he could help their mission. He asked Wanke how he knew Dr Boyd, and he launched into a five-minute soliloquy about their days at Oxford where, according to Wanke, they got along brilliantly despite their diverse backgrounds.

  The other man they met was Max Hochwälder, Wanke’s soft-spoken assistant. He was closer to Boyd’s age than Payne’s, although it was tough to gauge since he was reluctant to speak, and his short blond hair concealed any traces of gray. He shook Payne’s hand with a timid grip, then faded back into oblivion, virtually disappearing in the roomful of strong personalities.

  Anyhow, after a few minutes of small talk, Payne knew it was time to get back to business. He started with the most obvious question. Why was Wanke at the Hofburg?

  ‘Research, Herr Payne, research.’ His English was perfect, with little or no accent, although he dropped in a German term every once in a while for his own pleasure. ‘I was arranging to view one of the royal collections when I saw my old pals, Petr and Franz. I could tell they were up to no good and decided to have some fun with them.’ He showed them what he meant by shouting a number of Austrian terms that sounded like they belonged in a stalag, not in a library. ‘When they tossed their hands in the air, I knew they were doing something scandalous. Something that I should be involved in.’

  Ulster rubbed his face in embarrassment, a reaction that told Payne his recruitment of Wanke was not so much planned as stumbled onto.

  ‘From there it was easy,’ Wanke said. ‘I sent Franz outside to occupy the guard while Petr filled me in on the basics. The moment I heard Charles’s name, I knew I had to help. Whether he wanted me to or not.’

  ‘I hope that’s all right,’ Ulster apologized. ‘I know I should’ve fibbed and kept Hermann out of this, but considering his background, I figured he might be useful. At least I hope so. I’d hate to think I messed this up.’

  Boyd gave Payne a what-are-you-going-to-do? shrug that summed up his feelings perfectly. They weren’t about to yell at Ulster or kick him out of the library. He simply invited one of Boyd’s oldest friends, a man who knew more about Austrian history than everyone else combined, to help them with their research. If he had to blab to someone, this wasn’t a bad choice. Thankfully, Ulster hadn’t spilled as many secrets as they had feared – just some basics about the laughing man and nothing about the Catacombs. So Boyd filled Wanke in on some of the facts, and Wanke quickly transformed from a goofy eccentric into a world-class historian.

  ‘Where to start, where to start?’ he mumbled under his breath. Then, without saying another word, he headed into the bowels of the library, followed by Boyd, Ulster, Maria, and his mimelike assistant. Payne grabbed Jones before he could join them, telling him that he needed a word.

  ‘What’s up?’ Jones asked.

  ‘Lately I’ve gotten the feeling that we’re spending so much time worried about Boyd that we’ve lost track of the big picture. Like something bigger than the Catacombs.’

  ‘Bigger than the Catacombs? You realize we’re on the verge of proving that Christ wasn’t crucified. That seems kind of important to me.’

  ‘Yeah, I know but… I just get the feeling that something else is going on.’

  Jones studied Payne’s face. ‘Ah, man! Don’t tell me your gut is acting up again.’

  ‘Actually, it moved beyond a gut feeling when I read this.’ Payne handed him the newspaper that he’d been reading. ‘This seems like too much of a coincidence not to be connected.’

  ‘What does?’

  ‘The fact that we’re researching the crucifixion, and people are turning up crucified. First it was some priest from the Vatican. Then it was a prince from Nepal. And last night it was someone bigger. They got Orlando Pope.’

  ‘The Holy Hitter?’

  He nodded. ‘They found him at Fenway.’

  ‘No shit?’ Jones paused in thought. ‘And you think this has something to do with us?’

  ‘Guess when the crucifixions started. On Monday. The same day Boyd found the Catacombs. The same day the bus exploded. The same day we were brought into play… Call me paranoid, but that can’t be a coincidence.’

  ‘It could be,’ Jones insisted. ‘Hell, this could be nothing more than –’

  ‘What? A fluke? When was the last time you read a news story about a crucifixion? A long time, right? And when was the last time a Vatican priest was murdered? Can you think of a single example in the last twenty years?’

  Payne waited for an answer that he knew wasn’t coming.

  ‘I’m telling you, D.J., this stuff has to be related. I don’t know how or why, but we’re caught up in something that’s bigger than Dr Boyd. And my gut tells me if we don’t figure it out soon, things are going to get a lot worse for everyone.’

  66

  Tank Harper and his crew reached the Daxing airfield before the body hit the ground. The pilot circled low and wide, meaning radar wouldn’t be a problem. Not with the Chinese. By the time they got their search planes in the air, the entire landing strip would be covered with livestock, and Harper’s plane would be buried in vegetation.

  But that’s why Manzak handpicked him for the job. He knew Harper wouldn’t get caught.

  What Manzak didn’t know, though, was that Harper had seen through his bullshit from the very begi
nning. In his line of work, Harper realized the toughest part of a job wasn’t the mission itself but rather collecting compensation. That was the task that had the most danger and the most fun – especially when he was working for a new employer. Someone he didn’t have a track record with. Someone he couldn’t trust. Someone like Richard Manzak.

  Manzak had called Harper earlier in the week and told him the money would be divided on Saturday at a villa in Rome. All Harper had to do was get there in time for the payoff. Harper smiled when he heard this, then asked a point-blank question: ‘Will you be there to meet us?’ Manzak assured him he would, giving him his word as a gentleman.

  Of course Harper knew that Manzak’s word didn’t mean shit. Not only had he lied about his name – Manzak’s real name was Roberto Pelati – but for some reason his alias was the name of a missing CIA operative. Why would someone do that? Why select a name that had a history?

  Harper couldn’t figure that out for the life of him. Still, Pelati’s deception told him all he needed to know: he had no intention of paying him. And to make matters worse, since Pelati wanted to meet Harper and his crew the moment they got to Italy, Harper knew something big was going to happen at the villa. Something bloody. Something violent.

  And the truth was, he didn’t have a problem with that.

  Harper had been hoping for a million dollars, but he would settle for someone’s scalp.

  Harper’s cross landed in the main courtyard of the Forbidden City, where it was swallowed by a masked team of armed soldiers. Representatives of the local NCB office were standing nearby, thanks to the phone call from Dial, who told them to protect the evidence as much as humanly possible, though that term had a different definition in China than it did in America.

  Chinese HAZMAT personnel scanned the cross for threats, then radioed their reports to headquarters. Several minutes passed before a decision was made to allow army medics to examine the victim. Doctors determined that Paul Adams had a decent chance to live, but only if they rushed him to the hospital for surgery. The on-site commander thanked them for their efforts and told them he would try to get permission. Nodding, the doctors went back to work on Adams without voicing a single complaint. They knew this was the way it was done in their country, and an argument would only get them and their families into trouble.

  An hour later word filtered down from the top: medical evac had been denied.

  Adams was forbidden to leave the Forbidden City for any reason. Even if it meant his death.

  Payne and Jones caught up with the others in a section of the library that was filled with thousands of copies of the same book. At least that’s how it looked to Payne. Every copy was bound in red, blue, and gold Moroccan leather and embossed with a coat of arms that belonged to Prince Eugene, a member of one of the elite families in Europe during the Middle Ages.

  Even though he was born in Paris, Eugene was revered in Austria, where he made his name fighting the Turks for the Holy Roman Empire. In later years he added to his reputation by donating his private library – tens of thousands of books, including some of the rarest manuscripts that Italy and France had to offer – to the Hofburg, where they could be enjoyed by the people of Vienna. Centuries later they were still being used.

  Anyhow, Dr Boyd was sitting next to Dr Wanke as he flipped through several books. As soon as he spotted Jones, Boyd called him over to the table.

  Boyd said, ‘Maria told me about your theory on Longinus, and I applaud your effort. The group that had the most access to Christ during his ordeal would’ve been the centurions, thereby making one of them a legitimate candidate as a coconspirator… Regrettably, as I am sure you’re aware, many scholars believe that Longinus never existed, that he was simply the figment of a writer’s overactive imagination.’

  ‘Maybe not for long,’ Wanke claimed. ‘I think I found something.’

  Boyd turned. ‘What do you mean by something?’

  ‘You want information on the statue, right? Well, I found him.’

  Wanke held up one of Prince Eugene’s books, revealing a black-and-white sketch of the laughing man that had been drawn by a local artist in 1732. Next to it was a detailed account of the statue, written in Italian and German by a member of Eugene’s staff. Information that covered nearly 2,000 years.

  ‘According to this text, a man of great importance came to Vindobona in the early years, a man with no name who was guarded by several centurions as if he were royalty. Peacefully, he was given a spot of land on the outskirts of town near a marble quarry. He paid the townsfolk to build him a home, one that was protected by massive walls and the blades of his guards. He took residence there for the next three decades until he succumbed to disease.’

  Wanke continued, ‘The nameless man did everything he could to be accepted in the community – giving jobs to the peasants, teaching religion to the children, donating his time and treasures to anyone he deemed worthy. In fact, he was so loved and cherished by the locals that they dubbed him the Saint of Vindobona.’

  Boyd asked, ‘Are you familiar with him?’

  Wanke nodded, putting the book aside. ‘I am, although the myths I have heard might not match the facts that you are looking for. According to history, the Saint of Vindobona was one of the first believers of Christ. He was an ardent preacher of Christianity.’

  ‘Christianity?’ everyone said in unison.

  Wanke smiled. ‘I warned you it might not fit.’

  Stunned, everyone debated this development until Boyd brought their attention back to Wanke. He said, ‘Tell us about the statue. Who built the statue?’

  ‘Good question, Charles. One that I was just getting to.’ Wanke flipped ahead in Eugene’s book. ‘A few years after the saint’s arrival, Vindobona was visited by a team of Roman artisans sent by Emperor Caligula to honor this man in a series of marble sculptures.’

  ‘Did you say Caligula? How bloody brilliant! That means we have a date! The sculptors arrived here within four years of Tiberius’s death, some time between 37 and 41 AD.’

  Gaius Caesar, better known as Caligula, had a four-year reign that started after the death of his great-uncle, Tiberius, in 37 ad. One of Caligula’s first acts as emperor was to publicly honor Tiberius’s bequests – including the commissioning of several works of art – in order to win favor of the Roman citizenry. However, he did all this while nullifying Tiberius’s will and destroying most of his personal papers to protect the reputation of his family. He was forced to do so because Tiberius spent the last few years of his life acting like a madman.

  Ironically, it was Caligula who did more damage to the family name than Tiberius. Caligula’s four years as emperor were stained by tales of insanity and sexual depravity that are still shocking to this day. They included flaunting the incestuous relationship he had with his sisters, torturing and killing prisoners as dinnertime entertainment, delivering political speeches while dressed in drag, seducing the wives of officers and politicians in front of their dismayed spouses, and honoring his favorite horse by making it a Roman senator.

  Wanke continued his summary. ‘Following Tiberius’s final wishes, Emperor Caligula ordered several statues to be constructed from local marble. The face on each was to reflect joyful triumph, as if mocking the world with knowledge of an extraordinary secret. Then, upon completion, one was to adorn the saint’s home high atop the white hills of Vindobona. The others would be spread evenly across the lands of snow and sun.’

  Maria gasped at the word choice. ‘Snow and sun’ had appeared in the Orvieto scroll as well.

  ‘In time the saint grew weary of looking at his own face. Citing humility, he had the statue removed and ordered it to be destroyed. But his centurions didn’t have the heart to demolish something so exquisite. Instead they placed the statue on the far edge of town, where it became a shrine for the townspeople, a place to honor the saint’s kindness and charity. And it stayed there for several centuries, until construction of the Hofburg began, at which time it w
as moved across town and placed in a position of honor on the outer shell.’

  Silence filled the library. Time to ponder what they had just learned.

  Eventually, Boyd spoke. ‘Is there anything else? Anything about the man’s name or deeds?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. Later there was mention of the centurions burying the saint’s secrets in the ground of the white hills, but that’s probably just a reference to his gravesite.’

  ‘Yes, probably.’

  Wanke stared at Boyd for several seconds before he spoke again. ‘Charles, forgive me for being so bold, but what exactly are you looking for? It must be something extraordinarily important, or you wouldn’t be showing your face in public.’

  Boyd stared right back, refusing to acknowledge anything. Partially to protect Wanke, partially because of greed. To Boyd, this was his discovery and the thought of anyone stealing his glory, especially this late in the chase, made him nauseous. ‘Hermann, do you trust me?’

  ‘Believe it or not, I don’t make it a habit to assist fugitives.’

  ‘Then believe me when I tell you this: You don’t want to know what we’re looking for. Dozens of people have died during the past week, innocent people, and all because of this secret.’ Boyd thought about all the victims on the bus and how they screamed in agony. He didn’t want that to happen to one of his friends. ‘Hermann, do yourself a favor and forget you even saw me today. Once this quiets down, I promise I’ll get in touch and explain everything. But until then please keep our meeting to yourself. Your personal welfare depends on it.’

  67