Seven ran her fingers through her closely cropped hair. “You described the legend as a rambling diary. How could that possibly stand up to scripture?”
“You have to understand the context of written history in the time of Constantine. There were very few written documents at that time. The oral tradition was strong, and belief in the core teachings of Christ was what mattered then, since there were thousands of variants between the Greek, Latin, Coptic and other versions of the Bible. Most, but not all of them, told of Christ’s physical resurrection. And what was scripture but a series of stories handed down by eyewitnesses and apostles? It wasn’t until approximately 50 years after Constantine’s death that St. Jerome translated the old Latin into the authoritative Bible that we know today.”
“Did Constantine believe the ossuary was legitimate?”
“Not especially,” Lang said. “He was a firm believer in physical resurrection. But he was willing to consider the possibility that he would be proven wrong some day.”
“So he decided to keep the ossuary safe, but secret.”
Lang nodded. “He therefore mandated that the story of the mysterious ossuary be documented and passed on to each succeeding pope by the dead or dying pope’s camerlengo. Eventually, the tradition was expanded to be shared with each new head of Vatican Intelligence, so that the secret could be protected in the event of foreign conquest. It also served to insulate the pope against any violence undertaken to protect it.”
“And now?” Seven said.
“It goes without saying that the pontiff is innocent,” Callahan cut in. “His Holiness would never agree to these atrocities in the name of God.”
Lang crossed himself. “What we do, we do to serve God. It is my sincere hope that His Holiness remains naive of the war we are waging to protect him.”
“I’m not easily offended,” Carver growled. “But I don’t want to hear another word justifying these murders in the name of God.”
Lang leaned back in his chair. “That’s fine, Agent Carver, because I’m tired of talking. I’ve told you more than I should have in hopes that we might better understand each other. I suggest you get on with whatever business you have planned.”
Now thoroughly satisfied that Lang was the leader they had been looking for, Carver sat in the chair opposite the desk and looked the old man in the eyes. “What if I could lead you to the ossuary, and allow you to return it to the Vatican?”
Lang folded his hands before him. “Then the secret would be restored. All hostilities would cease immediately.”
Carver turned, suppressing a smile. He had Lang right where he wanted him. “I would need something else in return.”
“Naturally. And what might that be?”
“The names and locations of the men who killed Rand Preston.”
Subterranean Rome
It was Lars who first discovered that something was wrong. Just an unsettling feeling, quickly followed by butterflies in his stomach. Seconds later, the lights in the enormous home flickered, and then went out completely. The jumbo-size lift that operated 24 hours a day behind him — that which connected the palazzo to the subterranean chamber beneath Rome — ground to a halt. The darkness itself felt alive, like a dangerous organism that threatened to swallow him whole.
Magi’s distant bark echoed up and down the elevator shaft. A husky growl that was unlike any sound the animal had made in the past.
Where the hell were the emergency lights? As soon as the thought had come to him, the battery-powered lights came to life. The peach-colored illumination felt strangely relaxing, as if he were in some upscale restaurant.
Then came the screeching. It took a moment before he recognized the terrible sound of the nightingale floors. It sounded more like bats than birds. Someone was running at full speed down the corridor. He forced himself to breathe as he crouched behind one of the climate-control appliances. He steadied the weapon before him, switched it off safety, and rested his index finger on the trigger.
It was just Mathieu. He raced toward Lars, his eyes impossibly huge. “They’re here!” he yelled.
“Who’s here?” a voice behind him shouted. Lars turned. It was Nicolas. He had just come from one of the interior chambers.
“Black Order!” Mathieu said, exasperated. “I don’t know how many. I saw three, maybe four before the cameras went out.”
Lars was furious. “Why didn’t you call?”
“I tried! Communications are out!”
That figured. After having spent tens of millions acquiring and installing the lab into this ancient place, the communications equipment was comparably archaic. With wireless communications next to impossible from level to level, they had purchased a 1980s-era intercom system that had been salvaged from an abandoned Soviet missile bunker. As with everything down here, they had been too afraid of cave-ins to embed the wiring into the walls. It had worked great, but, as Lars had warned from the beginning, all it would take to cut off multi-floor communication was a pair of wire cutters.
Now he had no way to warn anyone else. “Let’s go,” he urged. Even if they made their stand there, the others could escort the Shepherd out the emergency hatch. It was time to release the bots.
Suddenly the nightingale floors were screaming one long, inharmonious note. God help us, Lars thought. The passageway was full of Black Order operatives.
*
Lang’s international force of holy warriors advanced through the subterranean maze of catacombs, long-buried cobblestone streets and escape routes carved though the ages by the Roman Empire, various resistance movements and later, the Vatican itself. As they had agreed, Carver, Seven, Father Callahan and Heinz Lang trekked behind them.
To forge the unlikely alliance, Carver had provided Lang with the location of the ossuary. Per their agreement, Lang would be permitted to retrieve the ossuary and return it to the Vatican. In turn, Lang had agreed to reveal the identities of Senator Preston’s killers. As a gesture of good faith, Lang had offered to hand them over before the assault even started. Carver, however, preferred to wait. He expected heavy security at the Roman villa where Sebastian Wolf was completing his life’s work. They would need every gun they had.
The tunnels twisted this way and that. The porous walls seemed to have tear ducts, weeping water that was at times pure and at other times putrid. With only their headlamps for illumination, they trekked through passageways lined with the bones of long-dead Romans.
Time and again he flashed to the kill zone beneath Washington D.C. where he had lost Megan O’Keefe. The sight and sound of her stiff, waterlogged corpse had haunted his sleep endlessly. And now he relived the nightmare as they waded through three feet of water and the rats — hundreds of them — scurried up the walls around them. On his insistence, Seven walked behind him. As he turned to check on her, his heart skipped as he projected the face of his dead partner on hers.
Seven’s voice broke through the quiet. “How far down are we?”
“About 60 meters and counting,” Callahan replied. He had used the tunnels many times over the years. Dressed in olive green cargo pants, a black turtleneck and felt-bottom boots that would not slip on the wet earth below Rome, Father Callahan’s preparation was admirable. Callahan carried a pack containing spare ammunition, guns, night vision goggles and other items that they had handpicked from the trunk of his car.
As he had told Blake, he was here not as an operative, but as a Christian. Callahan had been just a boy when his uncle had been killed in a torrid stretch of Protestant on Catholic violence in Belfast. The trouble over the ossuary would only bring more blood to the streets around the world. They had a chance to stop it tonight, once and for all.
“If we find Sebastian Wolf,” the priest asked, “What exactly are we going to do with him?”
“That’s for Lang to decide,” Carver said. “We aren’t allowed to touch him.”
“And Adrian Zhu?”
“We have reasonable cause to apprehend him. That
goes double for Mary Borst.”
Finally they breached the immense reception room of the grandiose residence near Piazza del Popolo. It was to this stately address that Symplexicon Labs had shipped enough laboratory equipment to clone a herd of woolly mammoths. Lang’s force quickly dispatched two armed guards in the Renaissance-era foyer, the blood spatter scarcely noticeable against the crimson-colored walls. Overhead, an enormous white glass chandelier swung back and forth. Portraits of long-dead Vatican royalty seemed to stare at them from all sides.
The high ceilings and ornate molding told of a structure that had been breathtaking before it had been prepared for siege. Looking up the mahogany staircase, Carver saw that the entrances to the second and third floors had been sealed off with razor wire, and the dining room was piled high with floorboards, dirt, nails and other debris that pointed to a sizable construction project that extended both above and below ground. The fact that the debris had been piled here, inside the palatial residence, only added further confirmation they had come to the right place. Someone had gone to great pains to hide the project from outsiders.
The ratatatat of automatic 9mm gunfire broke out from the fourth floor. Carver grabbed Seven and Lang and scurried to the far side of the cavernous room. Lang’s fighters held nothing back as they returned fire.
Within seconds, they were already down a gun. A young, bearded Slovak had taken a round in the middle of his face, obliterating his nose and collapsing his airway. He fell sideways, narrowly missing Carver’s lap. As he pushed the body away, Carver saw into the man’s open pack. He had been carrying a double-braided polyester rope, eight-inch eyebolts and a heavy-duty portable hand wench.
They don’t just want to eliminate Wolf, Carver thought. They want to punish him. Just like the others.
The Villa
Carver and Seven carried Heckler amp; Koch G36 assault rifles that they had taken from Callahan’s stash of trunk treasure. Seven had used one while training with the Special Air Service, and spoke highly of the weapon’s reflex sight, which used adjustable battery-powered illumination in low-level light situations. But for now, Lang’s men would do the fighting. If all went according to plan, Carver wouldn’t need to fire a shot until it was time to collect on his end of the deal with Lang.
Father Callahan carried all the explosives in his pack. He whistled at one of the Black Order mercenaries and tossed him a standard grenade. The priest pointed a finger up at the fourth floor.
The mercenary smiled, gave Callahan thumbs up, and hurled it to the top of the stairs with the expert accuracy of a center fielder.
“You idiot!” Callahan screamed. “You have to pull the pin first!”
The priest’s words were gravely prophetic. Within seconds, the grenade flew back over the fourth floor balcony toward Callahan and the 10 surviving warriors.
Carver grabbed Seven and Lang and pushed them into an open coat closet. “Everyone down!”
The frag grenade exploded five feet above the surface of the chestnut marble floor. A burst of shrapnel hit the solid wood door protecting Carver, Seven and Lang. All was quiet for several seconds, during which Carver wondered whether they were the only remaining survivors.
Then two guns started up again, and he could tell by proximity — and by the sound of their weapons — that they were Black Order. The relief he felt at knowing there were survivors was an odd and unnerving sensation. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, he thought. No, that was bullshit. He and Lang were not friends. They were merely using each other.
He opened the closet and spotted Callahan unfurling himself from a cramped shelter position underneath a magnificently carved wooden chaise. All gunfire stopped, followed by a sickening thud. A body had fallen from the fourth floor landing, having been picked off by one of Lang’s men.
Lang staggered out of the closet and surveyed the bodies of the 10 who had fallen in the span of just a few minutes.
“Well?” Carver asked.
Lang looked up, knowing exactly what Carver was asking. He shook his head. Senator Preston’s killers were not among the dead. He nodded toward two survivors.
Carver regarded the two monsters that had travelled to Washington D.C. to kill the senator. Both were reloading. The elder of the two was in his mid-40s and had a crescent-shaped birthmark covering his left cheek. The other was in his 20s, with loose skin around his earlobes that Carver guessed were the effects of wearing gauge plug earrings.
Apprehending these thugs would solve nothing, for no trial was possible. Any criminal proceeding in the U.S. would expose the story the administration had released about Preston’s death, and possibly, the shadow war over the ossuary.
He wished he could eliminate both of these scumbags right now. But that would solve little except avenging a single death. We would have to exercise patience. For the next hour, they were in this fight together.
*
Sebastian Wolf sat cross-legged on the mattress, willing himself out of the meditative trance he had dwelled in for the past three days. He was unable to tell whether the explosions were coming from inside or outside, from above or below. The expansive maze of rooms and tunnels swallowed sound. The excavations down underneath the villa, into the lost catacombs and temples of Rome, had been ongoing for years preceding his arrival. So many entrances and exits. He had needed a chaperone to keep from getting lost.
A boom came from outside. From the hallway. He was sure of it. The sound of the nightingale floors was drowned out by Magi’s incessant barking.
They were under attack now. And yet Wolf was calm. There was no reason to be anxious. It had been foretold.
The destiny of the Great Mission now rested with Adrian Zhu and the girl. They had just been here. Or had it been days since he had seen them? He did not know. He had lost track of time and space.
By his own insistence, he and Magi had remained undisturbed for some time. Such was his destiny. To be a pure conduit of light for the reincarnation of their savior.
But the time for prayer was over now. The nightingale floors sang like a flock of a hundred birds all at once. Intruders were in the house. He tried to raise Lars, but all communications were down. Where were the guards?
He struggled to get to his feet, pulling at the black monogrammed pajamas as they slipped down his lean buttocks. As Lars had taught him during the drills, he went to his desk and punched a star pattern on the touchscreen monitor on his desk. The bookcase behind him hinged open, revealing a staircase.
He called for Magi. The dog was highly agitated, foaming at the mouth as the heavy bedroom doors bumped and flexed. The enemy was at the gates.
Wolf gripped the dog’s lead and pulled him through the hidden doorway. Motion-triggered lanterns illuminated a coiling spiral staircase. Built within a hidden shaft in the villa’s rear, it descended the home’s four floors and continued underground to the laboratory.
He paused as he descended the first few steps. Had there been some way for him to seal the passageway? Surely there was, but he could not remember. Maybe he had never even known.
But now he recalled where the guards had gone. They were with Adrian Zhu and the girl. He had ordered it, despite Lars’ protests. So be it, he had told Lars. We come into this world alone, and we leave it alone, he thought. And then we will finally feel the unconditional love of God.
But it would not happen yet. No. He wanted to be in the presence of the ossuary one last time. The lifegiver of the second coming.
And finally, on the first landing, he saw the two large black buttons that Lars had shown him. They were recessed in a steel casing and protected by a transparent cover so they could not be pushed accidentally. Yes, he remembered now. He was supposed to press them in sequential order, left to right. The first one would seal the stairway behind him. The second would release the swarm.
*
Lang’s men blew open the doors to the home’s master suite, releasing a wave of stale, putrid air. They held their weapons with one hand, using
the other to cover their faces. The walls of the enormous room were adorned with crosses of every shape and size imaginable. Enormous books were strewn about the floor, many of them open and with pages ripped out, as if they too had been under attack.
“Nobody here,” someone said.
The Vatican Intelligence chief slumped into an empty chair. Despite his rigorous regimen of long daily walks, the tunnels and four flights of stairs had taken their toll. He was running on pure adrenalin now.
“What died?” Callahan shouted as he entered the room.
Carver spotted the source of the rancid stench. It was not, as the priest suggested, rotting flesh. It was animal waste, evident by several heaping dog piles placed about the room and the yellow-stained baseboards.
The walls were painted with scripture. He also recognized several passages from Drucker’s manuscript.
And when he has gathered all that is necessary to know to bring all that is dark into the light, the One from the East will use her to make me anew, just as I have made you anew.
And in turn, you will return my heart from stone to flesh, so that all men may share in the wisdom of the LORD.
And when I am raised, the knowledge hoarders shall be exposed as bearers of false idols.
“Over here,” Father Callahan shouted. He pointed to an opening in the bookshelf. A secret passageway. He went out the door, and then popped back in.
“It leads to a coiling staircase. Emergency escape route, I’d guess.”
“Or the entrance to the lab,” Carver said hopefully.
A high-frequency hum entered Carver’s consciousness. Like insect wings, but modulating evenly. He turned, scanning the dog piles for flies. He saw none.
He looked at Seven, who was keeping an eye on Lang. “You hear that?”
She nodded. “What is it?”
It was getting louder, and was soon joined by the sound of grinding gears. A thick steel door rolled down over the doorway they had come in through. Another slab of steel threatened to seal the secret passageway leading to the staircase.
The Fellowship bc-2 Page 41
