Cam, again riding in the second row of seats, shook his head. “Dollar short, day late.”
The exterminator breathed what Cam interpreted as a sigh of relief. Had they stolen something from the bank, Abad would be an obvious suspect. But no harm, no foul. Actually, that was not entirely true. Cam felt for the clay tube. In this case, the harm had yet to be discovered.
“I’ll bring you back to the Grand Lodge,” he said, turning onto the highway ramp.
“Thanks.”
Cam was tempted to text Amanda, but they had agreed on communication silence just to be safe. No sense doing something stupid now, only minutes from completing his mission and—
An SUV stopped short in front of them, slamming its brakes. Abad did the same. Shit. Cam immediately sensed danger. From the left, a yellow Land Rover swerved closer, pinching Abad against the ramp’s Jersey barrier. And from behind, a tow truck rammed Abad’s bumper, the front seat air bags pinning Abad to his seat. Cam’s heart raced, his eyes searching for an escape route as he felt for the clay tube in his pocket. Cam reached for the door handle. But even before the van stopped shaking, three masked men carrying semi-automatic rifles had poured from the Land Rover and surrounded the vehicle.
Cam’s door flew open. A strong hand snatched the front of his coveralls and twisted, an assault weapon raised ominously in the other. “Come with us.” Bright blue eyes peered through the black ski mask. No raised voice, no anger. Just the German-accented voice of a man used to giving orders. And used to having those orders followed.
Cam’s captors didn’t even bother to tie him up. Instead they placed him in the middle seat of the second row of the Land Rover, sandwiched between two masked operatives carrying semi-automatic rifles. The men, when they spoke, conversed in German. Disciplined and efficient. Probably military. Only the driver seemed to be American, darting down snowy side streets in what turned out to be only a three-minute drive. A sign in front of a low brick building told Cam they had arrived at the Providence Diocese offices.
“Get out,” the leader said in accented English from the passenger seat. “And, Mr. Thorne, please, nothing stupid. You are not Tom Cruise. This is not the movies.” He held up his gun. “And we do not miss.”
Cam slid out the door. He thought about trying to somehow lose the clay tube, perhaps by tossing it down a sewer grate as they passed. But to what end? He was only of use to them because they believed he may be in possession of the scroll. Without it he had nothing. And did he really want to destroy an invaluable historic artifact?
They hustled Cam inside and down a staircase to a windowless storage room in the basement. The team leader removed his mask to reveal a handsome face and conservative haircut. Tall, solid build. Late thirties, probably. In most people’s eyes a businessman or banker. But here, in this setting, clearly in command. Cam sensed his skills went beyond just special ops; this was a man skilled at fixing problems of all kinds. As if reading Cam’s thoughts, he said, “My name is Pfyffer.” He smiled. “It is my real name, which I feel comfortable using because I am, well, beyond the reach of law enforcement. We have a mutual problem, you and I. There is unfinished business from your visit to the bank.”
Cam stared back. He was out of cards, out of moves. He began to reach into his coveralls. A hand flew out and snatched his wrist, twisting Cam’s arm behind his back. A spasm of pain shot up Cam’s shoulder. “Relax,” he reacted. “I’m just getting something from my pocket.”
Pfyffer nodded to his underling. “Slowly.”
Cam again reached into his coveralls, this time extracting the clay tube. “This was in the safe deposit box. I hid it in a heating vent and retrieved it this morning.”
“Yes. We know.” The operative reached for the canister before seemingly changing his mind and retracting his hand. “It is best if you hold onto it, Mr. Thorne.” To his underling, he said, “Please tell the bishop the artifact is ready for examination.” Turning back to Cam, Pfyffer said, “Out of respect for your efforts in retrieving the scroll, we would like you to be present when it is tested. You may be asked to testify, to attest that the artifact never left your sight between the time you retrieved it from the bank and it was examined.”
Cam blinked. That was smart of them, assuming they wanted to establish the authenticity of the scroll. Many people would be disinclined to trust a group of Vatican hardliners, no matter what the artifact and/or no matter what the test results. His testimony would be crucial to establish chain of custody and provenance. Which was probably why he was still alive. He caught himself—his assumption was flawed. Why would a group of Vatican hardliners want to authenticate the ketubah? The whole point of this, the reason the hardliners had mobilized, was to prevent the ketubah from seeing the light of day. There must be another angle to this, something Cam had not considered…
The arrival of a middle-aged woman with long black hair and a skunk-like white streak running down one side interrupted his musings. “This is Professor Cilesia,” Pfyffer announced, his weapon hidden from view. “From Brown University. She is here to examine the scroll.” Thin and tall, she wore black leggings, black boots and a heavy white cable-net sweater. Everything about her was black and white, including a black bag she wheeled behind her. Cam hoped her analysis would mirror her attire—the scroll was either authentic or not. He was tired of all the gray in his world.
She nodded at Cam as she opened her case. The operative sat near the door, his eyes on Cam. “This will be a preliminary examination, obviously,” she said. A conversational tone, apparently unaware that her host carried an assault weapon. Not warm, but professional. “But usually I can tell pretty quickly if something is ancient just by looking at the medium. Is it vellum or parchment—that is, animal skin? Or is it made from wood pulp, which we call paper? If so, is it something modern with a water mark? If it’s old, we can carbon-date it to determine how old. We can even do DNA testing if it’s vellum to determine what kind of animal skin it is.” She set her microscope on a work bench. “We can also test the ink if necessary. Certain chemicals were added to ink in modern times. Eventually we get a firm answer. The science doesn’t lie.”
The science doesn’t lie. Very black and white, befitting her appearance. How many times had Cam heard that in his legal career, only to learn that the science had, in fact, been flawed? But for now, he’d defer to her analysis. Not that he had any choice.
Working deliberately but carefully, she removed the scroll from the tube with gloved hands and unrolled it on a black cloth she had laid on the table. “Hmm.” Using a magnifying glass and moving methodically in a grid pattern, she slowly examined the document.
Cam’s impatience got the best of him. “Well?”
The professor ignored the query, continuing with her examination, seemingly oblivious to the historical ramifications of her conclusions. Cam considered the possibilities. Writing on paper wasn’t developed in Europe until the eleventh century, so if the scroll was made from paper it could not date to the time of Jesus. During Jesus’ time they would have used animal skin.
“Interesting,” she said, peering closer, apparently focusing on an area where the writing surface had yellowed.
“What?” Cam asked, without receiving a reply.
She removed a device from her bag that looked like an x-ray reader, plugged it in and held the document up to it. It showed that the writing surface was somewhat translucent, but Cam didn’t know what that meant. Next she attached a digital camera to a microscope and took a few dozen pictures of the document.
Finally, after working in silence for another ten minutes, she nodded to Cam. “The medium is paper. Wood pulp. I’m guessing after 1880, before which most papers were made with rags.”
Cam blinked. “So it’s modern?” How could that be? “But it’s so yellowed.”
“Counterintuitively, the older rag paper doesn’t discolor as much as the later wood paper due to acid in the wood pulp.”
Not that it mattered. Paper, no
matter what kind, did not exist in the 1st century. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure that it’s paper not parchment, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“So it’s not ancient.”
She shook her head. “No. Definitely not.”
Pfyffer stood, his head angled. Apparently he was as surprised as Cam was. “To be clear, the document is not ancient?”
She pushed back her hair. “No. Not ancient. I am certain.”
“Can you test the ink?” Cam asked as the team leader moved to the corner to make a call.
“No need. Paper is paper. You can see the weave lines.” She pointed them out to him under the magnifying glass. “And parchment is much smoother, like an old glove. Plus it has an animal smell.” She let him touch the rough surface of the paper and confirm the absence of any animal smell.
Grudgingly, he nodded. It seemed impossible to argue with her findings.
She rolled up the scroll, reinserted it in the tube, and looked over to Pfyffer. The operative nodded, and she began to pack up her equipment. Cam’s mind raced, searching for an explanation. He had been certain that the scroll was ancient. Otherwise what was all this about?
Cam tried not to sound whiny. “But it’s written in ancient script. Aramaic.”
She shrugged. “That may be. But the paper is post-Civil War. If I had to make an educated guess, I’d date it to around 1900. I’ll send over a written report in the next day or so with a firmer date.”
The team leader ended his call and thanked the professor as she exited the room. “You are free to go as well, Mr. Thorne. Apparently this has all been much ado about nothing. But we will keep the scroll.” He smiled. “It may be modern, but its content is nonetheless disturbing to my clients.”
“That’s it? I can really just go?”
The team leader stepped aside. “Yes. However,” he said with emphasis, raising an index finger, “we expect you to do the right thing. As I said, you may be asked to testify as to the chain of custody of the scroll, if word of its discovery somehow becomes public.” He smiled. “That is why I was careful to never let it out of your sight.”
Cam exhaled. So that was the angle he hadn’t seen. Allowing Cam to maintain control of the artifact the entire time removed any possibility the Vatican hardliners had switched the scroll and replaced it with a modern forgery. Cam knew the scroll examined by the professor was the same one he pulled from the heating vent. And he was certain nobody else besides Amanda and Astarte knew it had been hidden there, removing any possibility of an earlier switch. In other words, the lawyer in him had no choice but to conclude the ketubah was not ancient.
“So, as I said, you can attest to the scroll’s chain of custody, its provenance. Regarding its authenticity, Professor Cilesia is a leader in her field, beyond reproach. And her conclusions were clear: The scroll is not ancient, and therefore cannot be authentic.” His blue eyes held Cam’s. “Presumably you don’t dispute these findings?”
Cam had no reason to. He would need to confirm that the professor was not affiliated with the Vatican, but otherwise he had no reason to question her conclusions. He had been trained to analyze and weigh evidence, and in this case it was overwhelming. “No.”
“Good then. It is rare in my line of work where things end peacefully.” He reached into his pocket and tossed Amanda’s phone to him. “We no longer have any need to hack this.” Motioning to the door, he continued. “I strongly suggest you put this all behind you and enjoy New Year’s Eve with your family.” He touched the weapon holstered at his hip, his eyes turning cold. “And Mr. Thorne. Please don’t make me regret choosing the word ‘suggest’ over something less open to misinterpretation.”
Emanuela paced in front of an oversized window in the ornate lobby outside the Masonic Lodge room, watching traffic zoom by on the highway in the distance. They were a long way from the Irish countryside. Finally. But it had not been a successful journey.
Had her father sat in a similar location, here in Rhode Island, trying to find the ancient ketubah? She knew he had spent the latter years of his life, after leaving the Vatican, here in the States, chasing the mystery hinted at by the clues on the swagger sword. And then came the stroke, leaving both his powerful body and sharp mind enfeebled. In 2006, he had managed to drag himself to Ireland for one final visit; he had been a dutiful father, visiting yearly while stationed in Rome, sneaking in and out of the farm so as to not arouse suspicion. But this final journey had so weakened him that he had done little other than sleep and rant, a far cry from past visits when they spent their days golfing on the 6-hole course Roberto had shaved into the rolling farmland, the archbishop sharing stories of life in the Vatican and lamenting the backward, narrow-minded thinking of the Catholic clergy. The one thing he had passed on during this final visit was the clue which she in turn had passed on to Astarte: 2173ME.
“You must not forget this,” he had insisted, grabbing her hand. “Promise me.”
“I promise, father. 2173ME. But what does it mean?”
The archbishop had shaken his head, his eyes afire. He would die within the month. “I do not know. Only that it is key to finding the ancient marriage contract. Your legacy.”
Only when Marcotte arrived at the farm, a decade later, did the pieces begin to fit together. Apparently the swagger sword and the 2173 ME clue and the map Thorne somehow acquired were pieces to the same puzzle, a puzzle that could only be unraveled when all the pieces were assembled together. And even then, the puzzle could only be deciphered by someone with the requisite expertise in the Templars and medieval history. Her father had been close—he knew for certain the scroll existed, and he had collected many of the clues (in one case that she knew about, he literally beat the information from an elderly monk, breaking his ribs and fracturing his skull). But he had died never having found the elusive relic.
She cursed in Italian, under her breath. “Merda.” Now, here in Rhode Island, they had assembled all the pieces and correctly interpreted them, thanks to the knowledge of Thorne and his wife and even the girl, Astarte. But still the ancient scroll eluded Emanuela as it had her father.
“Do you believe him?” she asked Roberto, in Italian. Other than in bed, they rarely spoke their native language. But the lie that had become their life was over; by flying here, they had already blown their cover. Finally. They should have broken away years ago.
Seated in a high back chair in the corner, Roberto nodded. He had just received a text from Brian, telling them that the safe deposit box was empty. “No reason for him to lie about something that is so easy to verify.”
She sniffed. “This is Brian. He does not need a reason to lie. You do not think he took the scroll and ran?”
“If so, why bother sending us the text? And to what end? Marcotte has already offered him a fortune for it.”
Emanuela turned to pace in front of another window, this one looking out over the river. “Maybe someone offered him two fortunes.”
Roberto chewed his lip, the way he did when thinking. How many decades had Emanuela spent isolated in that farmhouse, watching Roberto chew his lip? And to what end? For the millionth time, she wished the teenage version of herself hadn’t fallen for his easy smile and twinkling dark eyes. Not that he was a bad guy, or even would have made a bad husband. And, despite it all, she still loved him. But no man was worth the sacrifices she had made. She had almost thrown up her hands and walked out a year ago, tired of waiting for a legacy from her dead father which seemed to grow more illusory with every passing year.
“I have had enough,” she had announced. “I want to leave. I must leave.”
Roberto’s sad eyes had widened and pooled. “You are leaving me?”
“I do not want to leave you, Roberto. I want to leave with you.”
He had spread his arms. “But this is our life.” Unlike her, he enjoyed the simple life they had at the farm. Of course, he did not have to pretend to be mentally disabled, did not suffer the sneers and
insults of the local women convinced that her mismatched eyes were the mark of the devil, did not have to look the other way when the sanctimonious Kaitlyn sniffed around their bedsheets. “God has a plan for us, to wait here until a path to the scroll is revealed. And it is what your father wanted. What he made us promise.”
“That’s horseshit, Roberto. It’s been decades. If God had a plan, it’s changed. And my father is long dead. I cannot live this life, this lie, any longer.”
Then the mysterious American priest had arrived at the farm, promising that the illusory legacy was, indeed, within reach. Perhaps God did have a plan. So she had stayed.
“Two fortunes?” Roberto answered, bringing her back to the present. “No, I think not. A man like Brian, he would not know how to fence a religious relic. It is not like you can just post it on eBay.”
“You say a man like Brian. He is nothing if not resourceful. Somehow he acquired my father’s swagger sword.”
Roberto shrugged. “Yes. A petty thief, like Brian, can be resourceful.” Not to mention lucky, as he was when the archbishop’s dimwitted maid sold Emanuela’s father’s belongings, her inheritance, at a yard sale after his death. “But fencing a religious relic requires connections that I think lie outside of Brian’s world.”
“Okay, let’s assume you are correct. Let’s assume the safe deposit box was empty. What next?” They had almost surely blown their cover by flying to America; Kaitlyn no doubt had run straight to the bishop in Dublin. There was no turning back now, no possibility of living in anonymity on the Irish farm. Which, in fact, was fine. But of the many possible paths going forward, which should they take?
“We are close, I can feel it,” he said. “And Marcotte agrees.”
“We were close,” she replied. “It looks to me like the black-booted tyrants from the Vatican beat us to that safe deposit box. Now we are not even in the game.”
Roberto stood and reached for her hand. “You ask, what next?” He gave her his best bedroom smile. “I will consider this question. But you know I do my best thinking when naked.”
The Swagger Sword Page 25
