Brandt let Rebecca drag him down into the seat next to her. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said curling her fingers around his.
But how could it not have been? He had condemned his corporal based on what? A little opportunity and a glint of wire under his watch. He had felt so sure, at least up to the moment Svengurd took a bullet to the throat. The corporal had trusted him, but Brandt had sacrificed him.
His stomach churned knowing that Svengurd had taken a bullet meant for him. If the corporal hadn’t surged forward in that final second, the wound would have been Brandt’s. It would be Rebecca clinging to his lifeless body rather than the sea caressing Svengurd’s.
“I’m heading into the Aegean, but I’m going to need a little more direction after that,” Lopez said, not sounding like his usual cocky self.
Who would after witnessing something like that? They had, in effect, abandoned a comrade. They would never shake the stench.
“We’ve got to get to an airport,” Rebecca announced.
Davidson spread Lopez’s torn tourist map in front of Brandt, but the sergeant couldn’t really focus on the page. “Greece looks like the best bet.”
“No way, no how,” Lopez said. “Why do you think I stole this baby? Planes have not been our friends. We’re boating there.”
“Boat there?” the sergeant found himself asking.
“Yeah,” Davidson agreed. “It’s gotta be over a thousand miles.”
Lopez patted the dashboard. “And this baby can do over two hundred miles per hour, which means we’d be there by sunrise.”
He was about to interrupt yet another of the two men’s completely un-Special Forces-like argument when Brandt felt Rebecca squeeze his hand.
“Let them go at it,” she whispered. “It’s their way of dealing.”
The sergeant looked at Davidson and Lopez who were, in quite an animated fashion, disagreeing over everything from the engine’s stroke volume to Greek airport security. It didn’t take a double doctorate to see that Rebecca was right. They were just shouting to shout.
How then did he handle it? Brandt had lost men in combat before but never did he want to change places with the dead man.
“Where exactly in Rome are we heading?” Davidson asked, startling the sergeant out of his reverie.
Rebecca frowned as she asked, “Is there any way to get more ammo?”
The sergeant’s lips turned downward, too. “Why?”
“Well, you see the silver coins are the most unifying artifacts of the finds. In addition, they were minted circa AD 42 under the auspices of the Senate, which strangely changed after Constantine making one wonder—”
The sergeant put a hand on her knee. He knew this was how she dealt with things, getting all scientific on him, but he just wasn’t in any shape for a history lesson right now. “Where?”
She bit her lip before answering. “Well, um…” Then her voice strengthened. “Beneath the pope’s private quarters.”
“Of course it is!” Davidson said as he threw his hands up into the air.
Brandt rubbed his temple. Her words had brought a pounding to his skull. Despite the Vatican’s open courtyard and spacious museums, it was one of the most tightly guarded complexes in the world. In this day and age of religious extremism and after several attempts on the pope’s life, the Swiss Guard had been transformed from a primarily ceremonial attachment to one hundred and forty-seven of the best-trained soldiers on the planet. They were experts in hand-to-hand combat, marksmanship, and even automatic weaponry. At first glance, it seemed to be impossible to get inside the pope’s quarters.
“Sorry, Rebecca, but I’m going to need a little more convincing.”
* * *
Relieved to hear Brandt ask for more information, Rebecca took in a deep breath. History was like a balm to any wound. Through habit, Rebecca went to open her laptop, but of course, she hadn’t had that for ages now. She was going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.
“All right, but don’t complain because I have to go back to the beginning.”
There was a communal groan, but no one voiced an objection.
“The few bones that were recovered of Magdalene’s only provided passages regarding her personal life, nothing to do with her association with the Knot.”
“Oh, crap!” Brandt said which seemed odd, but then again this was a very odd day. She went to continue when he unzipped his vest. “No, wait. Walker gave me this.”
The sergeant pulled out a fairly large chunk of a pelvic bone. Magdalene’s pelvis to be exact.
Carefully she took the fragment and began searching its surface for clues, but the inscriptions detailed events she already knew. Magdalene and Christ’s chaste bond. The Twelve’s disdain for her. The failed first attempt at Jesus’ ministry, which brought her into his life. Even Judas’ renowned leg injury, but nothing of what followed.
Eyes aching from focusing in such dim light, Rebecca was about to give up when she caught the word, “Quaestor,” the Roman equivalent of the secretary of the treasury—the person who supervised the mint.
Backtracking, she read the entire passage. “For he who sacrificed all, it was decided would be borne to the city without name to a place without name. The man without contempt who left and was late to return said unto us these thirty coins will seal our bond and the man of their making, the Quaestor, would hold close the sacred bed.”
Looking up, Rebecca found all three men watching her in anticipation. Even Lopez, who was driving the boat at over two hundred miles per hour.
“The scripture confirms my suspicion.”
“If we’re talking about assaulting the Vatican, would you mind elaborating?”
Rebecca’s mind was trying to catch up with her mouth. “As you know, each of the bones has clues, usually vague, sometimes more specific, to the location of the next set of remains.” After unanimous nods, she continued. “But beyond that there were the thirty coins. Each one designating a member of the conspiracy. It is the only other unifying factor beyond their allegiance to Christ.”
“Since the only body left is Jesus, you’re thinking the coins are a clue all by themselves,” Davidson added, showing his quick mind once again. He wasn’t Lochum, but he would do.
“Exactly. Once I mentioned that I thought the source of the coins was a factor, Tok brought out a passage from the Virgin’s bones with vague allusions that Jesus was hidden in Rome.”
The private’s tone was excited. “The last place any proto-Christian would look.”
“But why would anybody even be looking for him?” Lopez asked.
It was Brandt who answered, reminding Rebecca how well versed he was in biblical history, “At that time there was a huge power struggle amongst the high priests, the rabbis, and the commoners. There were probably a few dozen splinter groups wanting to claim Jesus as either their savior or the false prophet. The Twelve were trying to unify the religion, but everybody else, mainly other Jews, because nobody was a Christian yet, were trying to splinter the faith. To find his corporeal body would have undermined the belief that Jesus had risen from the grave and ascended.”
“Right again,” Rebecca said as she felt the weight of the pelvis bone in her hand, a tangible piece of history to solidify Brandt’s words. “You guys broke in before we discussed it any further, so the Knot knows the bones are in Rome, but not their exact location.”
“And you think the remains are under the pope’s residence because…?”
Everyone was jarred as the boat drifted off course, taking a wave at an awkward angle, nearly capsizing them. At this speed, they needed to pierce the wake head-on or suffer the consequences.
* * *
Lopez struggled to get the boat back on course, but everyone was wet for the effort. You would think after everything else that had happened, a little water wouldn’t bug the shit out of you, but it did. Brandt’s socks were soaked through and his pant legs were sticking to his calves. Just one more thing to make this the w
orst day of his life.
He had almost forgotten the topic when Rebecca finished wringing out her jacket and continued. “Vatican Hill has a history long before it became associated with the Catholic faith. In the mists of ancient times when Romulus and Remus came upon the marshy knoll, it was considered sacred by the locals and only those worthy were buried there. It was only much later, during the height of the Roman Empire, when the bureaucracy expanded so greatly and so quickly that the emperors finally got over their superstition and erected administrative buildings on and around Vatican Hill, the mint being just one of many.”
“So the popes built the Holy See on top of old Roman offices?” Lopez asked, this time keeping his eyes peeled forward.
Brandt hadn’t known of the old mint located on the hill, but he knew the rest of the story. However, the sergeant let Rebecca explain it. Her voice gained a strength that replaced barely contained tears.
“As I mentioned, the buildings were hastily constructed, and just like in our time, the land, being that close to the hub of Rome, became more valuable than the buildings themselves so Constantine relocated the mint to make room for his palace, which was renovated and restored over the centuries until Pope Sixtus the Fifth built the Apostolic Palace there.”
Davidson leaned forward, lapping up Rebecca’s words as if they were raindrops, and he was parched.
“But why on Vatican Hill?” the private asked. “I mean, the first Christian emperor was Constantinople, and he moved the capital to Turkey. Why not set up the Catholic headquarters there?”
Rebecca looked at Brandt as though testing to see if he knew the answer.
Which he did. “St. Peter, the rock on which the Catholic Church was built, is buried under his Basilica.”
Nodding, the doctor continued. “But even that brings up several questions. Like Catholics are all about saintly relics. They have thousands upon thousands of them, yet they have refused to allow any excavation under the City.”
Brandt felt that steel rod of defensiveness straighten his spine. He tried to keep any anger out of his voice, but the words came out harsher than he intended. “Are you implying the Church is involved with the Knot?”
“No, of course not. But just like at the Blue Mosque and the Jewish Ghetto, I think someone, at some time, had an inkling that there was something of vast importance underfoot, so they didn’t look too closely.”
“Kind of like hear no evil, see no evil kind of thing,” Davidson added.
Only partially soothed, Brandt nodded for Rebecca to go on. None of this sat well with him, but what had?
“So you can see there is a clear historical through-line. Magdalene’s bones state Rome. Mary’s bones implied the same thing. The coins were all minted from the same batch in Rome.” Her look was apologetic as she finished. “I’m sorry, but the most logical starting point is the site of the original mint which is smack-dab under the pope’s private quarters.”
* * *
Rebecca could tell that Brandt wasn’t happy. Well, more unhappy than usual with her suggestion. Not only was she asking him to come up with a plan to break into possibly the most secure location in the world, but also to launch a hostile breach of his faith’s most holy inner sanctum.
But as always, the sergeant was stoic. “All right, let’s get a plan.”
“Well, our cover is obvious,” Davidson said offhandedly. “We go in as visiting priests and a nun.”
“Along with a rabbi into a bar or what?” Lopez joked. Neither of the men must have seen the stricken look on Brandt’s face as they laughed.
The sergeant’s tone wasn’t amused. “I was thinking more workmen or a repair service.”
Both men looked askance. “You’re kidding, right?” Davidson asked. “I mean, it’s the Vatican. It’s its own country. I’m sure they’ve had contracts for all that stuff with the same local companies for decades.”
Rebecca felt awful for the sergeant. He was grasping at straws to avoid putting on a priest’s clothes, but she had to agree with Davidson. “The Holy See greets hundreds of visiting clergy every week. We’d blend right in and our accents wouldn’t even be an issue.”
She knew she was telling him anything didn’t he already know, but still Brandt’s face fell. Perhaps she could soften the blow a little. “The beauty of visiting officials is that they come in all shapes and sizes. You wouldn’t have to wear the full robes. Just a collar would be enough.”
But that seemed to be the sticking point for Brandt. The sergeant couldn’t seem to wrap his head around impersonating a priest. His Catholic upbringing seemed to be coming to the forefront. He might be able to hunt down the world’s scum with impunity, but certain things the sergeant obviously still held sacred.
Lopez appeared to catch onto the fact that Brandt’s issue was moral rather than tactical. “But hey, somebody’s got to keep the car running. I’m ready for a change-up.”
Wow, Rebecca thought. The corporal must really love his sergeant if he was willing to give up his driving responsibilities, or Lopez knew full well that Brandt would never hear of it.
The sergeant’s face was a mask again as he waved off Lopez’s offer. “Priests it is. Now we just need an access point.”
Watching Davidson and Brandt huddle as they tried to make a map of the Vatican, Rebecca missed her laptop for the thousandth time. That and Lochum. He would know the Vatican inside and out. Each entryway. Each exit and everything in between. But he was gone. Along with Svengurd. And the people on the London plane. Plus the Ecuadorian tribe and anyone else who got in the Knot’s way.
She didn’t even realize tears had sprung to her eyes until Brandt rose. “You are going to get some sleep.”
“But—”
He pointed her toward the hatch that led down to the bunks. “If I’m wearing a Roman collar, you’re going to bed.”
How could she argue? Exhausted past the point of numb, Rebecca let her feet carry her down the steps, ready to shut out the world.
* * *
“Sarge, seriously, go below deck before you fall down there.”
Brandt tried not to act startled, but knew it was a lame attempt. He had obviously been jarred awake by Lopez. Somehow in his fifth attempt to sketch the Vatican’s lower level, he’d dozed off. Once you got used to the boat slamming into wave after wave, it became rhythmic, almost soothing.
Davidson was already in the hold, and knowing the private, already sound asleep. Rebecca long ago went to bed.
“You should get some rest,” Brandt said, rising to take the helm.
“Yeah, right. Remember the last time I tried to turn over the wheel? I say we don’t tempt fate.”
The sergeant wasn’t in the mood to debate. “You’ve been up for more than seventy—”
But Lopez shook his head. “And you’ve been not only electrocuted, but gassed as well. You’re up two to zip on the fucked-up barometer.”
With his leg throbbing, his spine bending over of its own will, and his eyelids trying to shut even as he was arguing with his corporal, Brandt just gave up. “Wake me in four hours.”
“You got it,” Lopez agreed, already turning back to the sea and cutting into the water like a just-sharpened knife.
Almost relieved he’d lost that round to the corporal, Brandt climbed down the four short steps to the hold. It was cramped quarters.
Davidson must have just fallen into bed. He was fully dressed and sprawled across the narrow berth, half his body dangling off the edge. His face smashed against the edge of the mattress.
To his left were two beds. But the hold’s ceiling was so low that Brandt doubted if he could even sit up properly on either of them. This boat was built for long races, not for comfort.
On the upper mattress, a lone figure was turned toward the hull, under a pile of blankets. He found his hand reaching out to her, but the sergeant stopped himself. Let her sleep. Whatever would be said, or needed to be said, could be said later. After a few hours of shut-eye.
; Still soaking, Brandt peeled off his jacket and shirt. When his dog tags clinked together, echoing off the plastic hull, he paused to make sure he hadn’t awakened either of them. Certain they were still asleep, he pulled off his pants as well. Under normal circumstances he would have stripped down to the buff, but with Rebecca just a bunk away, he refrained. Another reason not to have chicks on missions.
Half bending, half collapsing, over, Brandt rolled onto the mattress. Or more accurately, the thin pad. He could feel every square inch of the unyielding plastic berth beneath the material, but a bed had never been more appreciated. Once his body was lateral, every ache and pain complained and complained loudly. Trying to block out the symphony of complaints, Brandt closed his eyes and was nearly asleep when someone sat down next to him.
“What the hell?” Jerking upright, he hit his head on the upper bunk. “Like I didn’t have enough injuries!”
“I’m so sorry!” a feminine voice apologized, her hand gingerly searching his head for the newest lump. “I didn’t see you there.”
He looked up to find Rebecca sitting just inches from him. Her hair dripping wet, moistening her white T-shirt in all the right places.
She must have noticed his gaze, but misinterpreted it. “Of course, it was my change of clothes that were lost with the Aquada,” Rebecca explained. “So I borrowed one of your shirts. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, it’s fine,” Brandt said, trying to keep the huskiness from his voice, but she was so close. Her breasts were within inches of his bare chest as she leaned over to check his head wound. Ignoring the visual input, he measured his words. “I thought you were in the upper bunk.”
“No, there’s a duffel bag up there.” She pulled back so they were nose to nose. “Well, I don’t think the bump’s fatal. It’s not even bleeding.”
How much Brandt wished the wound was gushing so that she might stay close, but his scalp wasn’t cooperating. Water dripped in slow motion from her blonde curls. She must have washed her hair in the lavatory. Even with the purplish scrapes and reddened, haunted eyes, Rebecca had never looked so beautiful.
30 Pieces of Silver: An Extremely Controversial Historical Thriller Page 35
