30 Pieces of Silver: An Extremely Controversial Historical Thriller

by McCray, Carolyn

“Si!” the reed-thin clerk said. “Maria! Prep contabilizzazione!”

  As the man hurried out of the office to go fetch Maria from accounting, Rebecca looked at Brandt with new appreciation. Maybe having to rely on non-lethal means was showing a softer side of the sergeant.

  “Any idea how we are going to get through that wall before Alberto comes back?” the sergeant asked.

  “Nope,” Rebecca said, then remembered Budapest and the easily swung gate and water closet. “Check the edges, especially the bottom.”

  But as they felt for any signs of a latch, it became clear the mural was painted on a wall that was firmly attached to the room’s structure. The hidden room was looking more and more like Istanbul with no easy access.

  “We can always come back with some C-4,” Brandt suggested, but Rebecca shook her head sharply. Explosives were such an inelegant solution to the problem, and one that nearly ended in fatal results the last time they had relied upon them.

  If this wall truly led to Christ’s remains she seriously doubted that the artist meant for it to be torn to shreds. The mural had to have some clue. But the more she looked, the more Rebecca found only a beautiful rendition of the nativity. Tucked away in the left corner was the silhouette of the wise men cresting a hill upon their camels. To the right were the shepherds with their herd, but no sign of how to find the man grown from the babe.

  Brandt backed away, sizing up the wall. “I’m telling you a thin cord of C-4 with focal points, here and here.”

  She ignored him as she searched the other walls. So far, the direct path to the goal was certainly not a straight line. But the other walls were covered with bookshelves and filing cabinets. No help there.

  The only adornment to the room was a single silver cross. She didn’t pay it much heed until she realized that it had a delicate figure of Christ but no writing. Perhaps a clue was detailed on the back.

  Laughter carried down the hallway. The clerk had found Maria.

  Brandt hurried, knocking on the wall, trying to find the support beams. “I say we knock out two of these here and smear the paste to create a cavity in the drywall.”

  As voices approached, Rebecca stood on the tips of her toes and tried to lift the cross from its hook, but it seemed attached to the wall. Strange. Even stranger, the body of Christ appeared loose. Maybe the clue was under him. Carefully she pulled his feet from the cross. A sound rumbled underneath, then the floor dropped out from under Brandt. Eyes dilated and arms flailing, he fell through the trapdoor.

  Sometimes it felt better to be right than others.

  * * *

  With Rebecca safely tucked deeper down the pitch-black tunnel, Brandt carefully re-latched the trapdoor as footsteps sounded above them. The clerk and his accountant friend.

  The muffled voices wondered where the stray priest and nun had gone. Cautiously, the sergeant backed down the staircase. It would have been nice to know about it before he tumbled down the hard steps with uncommonly sharp edges. Add another fifteen bruises to his collection.

  “Let’s find out where this goes,” he whispered to Rebecca as he turned on his tiny keychain light. A xenon, impact-resistant flashlight might have been as difficult to explain at the main gate as a gun.

  But with little effort they made their way by feel. A downward slope carried them deeper under the Vatican.

  A strangled cry came from ahead. He was guessing it didn’t come from a lost Japanese tourist.

  “How the fuck did they get ahead of us?” he growled.

  Rebecca bit her lip.

  “What?”

  She wouldn’t look him in the eye. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think… I had the coin in my hand. They must have—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said abruptly. Second-guessing their decision wasn’t going to get Rebecca out of the hot seat. “Ready?”

  Rebecca bit her lip again, but nodded. Brandt advanced them, nice and slow as a small room came into view, flashlights illuminating the interior. By the shadows there were two, maybe three people in there.

  It was Tok. Petir. The Knot.

  Now these bastards he could shoot.

  “How did you sneak that in?” Rebecca asked as Brandt pulled a gun from his belt.

  “It’s made from a plastic composite.” Its accuracy was for crap, and it only held twelve bullets, but it was better than nothing. “You ready?”

  “No,” she said, chuckling nervously. “Are you?”

  Brandt grinned, but there was no turning back. How he missed Svengurd right about now. He considered himself flush in the courage department, but leaping into an unknown situation with a puny plastic gun was definitely not his idea of fun.

  “I’m going in on the count of three. If it goes badly…”

  “Head back to the staircase and scream like hell,” Rebecca said. “Yeah, I’ve got that part down.” Then she brought her lips to his.

  It was a warm and unhurried kiss.

  “Was that for luck?” he whispered when their lips parted.

  “Um, no,” she answered, seeming a little embarrassed. “It was in case things did go badly.”

  Brandt had to give it to her. She was a quick study.

  * * *

  Rebecca watched as the sergeant rushed into the room. Gunfire rang out, ricochets sparked, and a stifled cry echoed, but still she stayed back. As long as the bullets were flying, she was okay with the hallway.

  Then Brandt yelled, “Lochum, you fucking bastard!”

  Her feet carried her into the room before her brain had a chance to stop her. There he was. Archibald, her professor, only now a burn covered his forehead and his shirt was torn open, white hair peeking out as he held a fresh bullet wound through his calf.

  “Might I remind you, it was you who shot me!” the professor shouted.

  “On your knees!” Brandt demanded, still aiming at Lochum.

  But the professor spotted her.

  “Rebecca!” he cried as he tried to hobble to her, but a hand came from the darkened back hall and in a single cruel stroke, sliced Lochum’s neck.

  Brandt fired, but the figure melted into the blackness. The professor fell face first, clutching his neck as blood gushed between his fingers.

  “Archibald!” Heedless of the danger, Rebecca raced across the room, skidding to her knees, as Lochum slumped to the floor.

  Bright red blood pulsed from the gash. His own heartbeat fueled the blood loss. Pressing her hands upon the wound, she tried to staunch the flow, but it was too much. Lochum attempted to speak, but the effort only resulted in a bubbly gurgle.

  “Brandt!” Rebecca wasn’t sure what the sergeant could do, but she couldn’t watch Lochum die by herself.

  “He’s not…” The professor croaked out the words, pained and moist, pointing to the pedestal.

  It wasn’t until then that she realized the chamber was empty.

  No skeleton.

  “They…”

  Rebecca shushed him as she used her veil to cover the gash. “I know, Archibald. We’ll find him. You and me.”

  The old man tried to shake his head, but it caused him to swallow his own blood. Choking and sputtering, Lochum looked near death.

  “Turn him on his side!” Brandt yelled from the tunnel. He still fired into the darkness.

  She did as instructed, and the professor finally coughed up a pool of clotted blood. Nearly retching herself, Rebecca realized her veil was already soaked through. Ripping the yoke from her collar, she used the thicker cloth to stanch the wound.

  “He was—” Another jagged cough rattled his thin frame. She hadn’t realized how frail he had become until now. “We’re not looking—”

  This time Rebecca feared he wouldn’t stop choking, then Brandt was suddenly at her side, clapping the professor hard on the back until Lochum gagged, then fell quiet.

  “I was just trying to immobilize him, Rebecca…” The sergeant looked as distraught as she felt. “To keep him away from the Knot. I never thought they would…
”

  Rebecca couldn’t take time to comfort Brandt. Lochum was fading.

  “It’s okay, Archibald. Just rest. Lopez will patch you right up.”

  She smoothed his normally wild white hair back, but by now it was matted with sweat and blood. He would be devastated if he knew how he looked. Old and crumpled.

  As Lochum’s breaths came in shorter and shorter gasps, she looked over at Brandt, but he shook his head. There was nothing else they could do.

  Tears overflowing, Rebecca indicated toward the tunnel opening. “You better check the hallway.”

  The sergeant was about to argue, but then nodded curtly, giving her the time with Lochum that she needed.

  Ever so carefully, Rebecca rested her mentor’s head in her lap, cleaning the blood from his lips. The wound wasn’t gushing the way it used to, but she knew that wasn’t a good sign. Lochum simply didn’t have any more blood to pump.

  “You were…” She almost couldn’t get the words out. To go from thinking she had a hand in killing him only to have him brought back to her, then snatched away, ravaged her heart. Rebecca honestly didn’t know how much more of this she could take.

  “Archibald, you were my first…” She had planned to tell him how much he had meant to her academic career. To her understanding of proto-Christianity. But instead these words came out. “You were my first great love, Lochum. I owe you more than you could ever know.”

  The struggle went out of his face. He was too weak to respond. He couldn’t even smile at her, but she could see the impact of her words in his eyes. It had been decades since he had looked at her like that.

  His breath became just a rattle. Maybe he would go peacefully, Rebecca hoped, then his eyes flew open as he struggled to take in oxygen. The wound was barely oozing. Knowing she couldn’t do anything more, Rebecca just held him close as he took in his last breath then, with a hiss, air flowed out of his chest of its own accord.

  Lochum was dead.

  And she couldn’t stop crying.

  * * *

  Brandt could hear Rebecca sobbing, but didn’t know what he could do. The enemy had fled, but for how long? She had her grief, but he had equally weighty matters.

  Like how the hell were they going to get out of here? Do they go back the way they had come and wait until nightfall to exit into the census office? Then what? Find a change of clothes, hide out all night inside the Palace, then slip out with the morning crowds? That was too much hiding for Brandt’s taste.

  Or do they follow the tunnel that Petir and Tok had vanished down? The shorter man seemed injured, but Brandt didn’t think he had even hit him. Plus. they flushed way too easily. Was it a trap? Would they get halfway down the black hallway, only to have it collapse on them? Neither option sounded very palatable.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Rebecca was still huddled over Lochum’s body, covered in the older man’s blood. Behind her, the marble slab was empty.

  Empty.

  An image flashed of Svengurd facedown in the water. For what?

  Anger swelled and got him moving. The corporal’s death wasn’t going to be for nothing. Not if he and Rebecca were still breathing.

  “Get up,” he ordered, but she just continued sobbing. “Damn it, Rebecca. Look at me.”

  His voice must have penetrated her shroud of tears. She had to blink twice before he felt she could really see him.

  “Figure it out,” Brandt said.

  “Figure out what?” she asked. Her throat was thick with grief.

  Brandt looked toward the empty table. “Where he went.”

  “He’s not here. What else does it matter?”

  Brandt knelt next to her. “You promised him, Rebecca.”

  “Oh, don’t even,” she hissed. “His quest died with him.”

  “It might have, but you’ve still got the Knot hanging over your head.”

  “Whatever,” Rebecca spit out, but he knew her too well already.

  “Bullshit, you said it yourself. We find Christ, or you’re dead. Now get up.” Tugging Rebecca to her feet, Brandt noted that the doctor didn’t exactly rise on her own, but neither did she resist his help. “What the hell happened here? Did the Knot take the body, or was it removed long ago?”

  Rebecca wiped her eyes with the back of her hand since her palms were soaked in blood. Before answering him, she circled the marble table, bending over so that her face was level with the slab. She blew, and dust lifted from the surface, then drifted back down in the wan light given off by an abandoned flashlight.

  “No, the Knot didn’t take him,” she finally concluded.

  “When was he removed?” Brandt demanded.

  When she looked up, her hand was on her hip. With the same set to her lips as she had in Ecuador. “You know what? Why don’t you worry about how you are going to get out of here and leave the archaeology to me?”

  With a tight grin, Brandt turned toward the tunnel, satisfied they were in good hands.

  The bitch was back.

  * * *

  Rebecca studied the slab, anger burning through her veins. She knew that had been Brandt’s intent, to turn her grief into tangible energy, but she wasn’t mad at him.

  She was mad at Lochum. After extracting her from Ecuador, the bastard had co-opted her own quest for his own. He had entangled her in a messy, bloody battle that she wanted no part of, and now with him gone, her life hung in the balance. Even though Lochum hadn’t slit his own neck, the professor had set the knife to his throat by helping the Knot.

  The old fool. They didn’t respect him. They had used him.

  Clearly he had made the same connection between the silver coins and the Roman mint as she had. Then not only had Lochum divined another path to the crypt, which didn’t surprise her given his in-depth knowledge of ancient Rome, but shared it with Tok. Her old professor had done the Knot’s heavy lifting for them.

  But with his body only a few feet away and not yet cold, Rebecca felt a tinge of guilt. Lochum was Lochum. There had not been one like him, and there never would be again.

  Sighing, realizing there was nothing of value to the pedestal, Rebecca turned to the walls. Before, when there was gunfire flashing and blood spraying, she hadn’t noticed the raw quality to the artwork. The murals were in the style of the era when Jerusalem had fallen to Rome, yet the strokes were not as refined. Almost as if there was a rage behind them.

  The abstract-style brushstroke would not flourish for a millennium, yet many of these images were incomplete. But at the same time, the unfinished nature seemed to be the painter’s purpose.

  Rebecca squinted at one panel, which represented the return of Jesus from his trials in the desert. At first, she thought the man standing beside Christ was his brother James, but then realized her mistake when she read the scrawled Latin. The man so close to Jesus was Judas.

  Her mistake was not without precedence. There were numerous contemporary accounts, mostly in the Gnostic Gospels, that the savior and his betrayer were as close as brothers and even looked the part.

  Many scholars used Jesus’ and James’ dissimilar features to strengthen their belief that Mary was a perpetual virgin. That she and Joseph never had sex and never gave birth to other children. These detractors asserted that anytime the Bible stated that Jesus had brothers and sisters, they were in fact just cousins.

  Lochum had scoffed at such theories. The Bible was pretty clear. Jesus had siblings. Blood siblings. And this painting supported that notion as James stood nearby and was described clearly to be the brother of Christ with no disclaimers. Another figure, a little boy, was identified as Ameil. Now she had a face to put with the name on the Knot’s roll call, but still didn’t know who the child was, or his significance.

  At the bottom of the picture, like an artist’s signature, was the symbol of the Knot. The image so similar to the Buddhist Love Knot that it had condemned Svengurd.

  But she couldn’t think like that. Instead, beneath the symbol was the name James. Not
surprising. She glanced around the room to find another twenty-nine Knot symbols with the name of one of the conspirators under it. She pulled the list she had transcribed from Magdalene’s bones and found it confirmed here. All members of the Knot.

  But the intriguing fact was that under the primary member’s name was a list of another dozen or so people. Rebecca was reminded of Tok’s cryptic statement. “The Knot is but a tangling of threads, not without their frayed ends.”

  Before it had been an interesting theoretical concept, but now seeing the names scrawled on the walls with their sect’s followers, it became tangible. Names were listed such as Perl the Menter, Simon of Butin, and many, many more.

  Much as John the Baptist and Jesus had their own congregation, these thirty had a personal cult that traveled down through the centuries—acting independently of the Knot. It had been John’s sect that had bombed Paris. Might she be dealing with a similar situation?

  Which brought her to “the man without contempt,” the man who stole Christ from the Virgin, the man who carried Jesus to his final resting place. Perhaps he was listed here. Maybe she could divine if he moved the body and why. But when she searched the wall she found the moniker, “the man with contempt.”

  With contempt? Was it a misspelling? The penmanship might be frantic, but it was bold and precise. When had the man found contempt? What had happened?

  That’s when it hit her. Jesus’ body not been moved in antiquity, or stolen, or destroyed.

  Christ had never been here at all.

  * * *

  Out of the corner of his eye, Brandt saw Rebecca stumble backward into the marble slab, clutching it to stay upright. Fearful an occult injury was rising to the surface as her adrenaline waned, the sergeant rushed over.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She pushed his worried hands away. “He was never here.”

  “Who?”

  “Jesus.” Rebecca looked into his eyes. “The man who hid him lied.”