Razak looked up at him. “So putting the ossuary on display in a gallery would be a waste of time for them?”
Barton nodded.
The Israeli death toll just didn’t tally with the relic’s questionable market value. “Why would someone go to so much trouble—with such violence—to steal just one?” he countered. “Why not steal them all?”
“Good point,” Barton concurred. “That’s what you and I will need to determine. I’ll need to analyze the etchings on these. I will also need to study this crypt for clues as to whose family was buried here. My guess is the thieves knew precisely which ossuary they wanted and were unconcerned about establishing provenance. That rules out serious archaeologists, who are not known to blast holes through walls.”
Razak allowed himself a smile. “What does one of those things weigh?”
“Probably about twenty-two kilos, plus the bones...around thirtyfive in total.”
“And how would one go about shipping it?”
“A standard crate, I’d guess. You’d need to wrap it in a fair amount of packing material. If it left one of Israel’s ports, the contents would have to clear Customs. And I’ve been told that since Friday, all cargo awaiting shipment is being inspected piece by piece. It would never get through.”
“Most likely the IDF secured all roads immediately following the crime,” Razak added. “That would rule out the ossuary being driven from Israel.”
Quizzically, Barton eyed the Muslim. “Yes, but aren’t the police saying a helicopter was used during the theft?”
Razak nodded. “That’s what eyewitnesses have been saying.”
“I don’t mean to state the obvious, but don’t you think they probably flew it directly over the border somewhere?”
Razak’s expression was squeamish. He had thought the very same thing, but didn’t even want to consider that prospect. “Anything’s possible.” The idea that the relic might already be far from reach was daunting. This was way beyond his usual role and he silently cursed the Waqf for involving him in all this. “And apparently eyewitnesses reported a helicopter over Gaza shortly following the theft.”
“Oh dear, that’s not good,” Barton said.
“No, it’s not,” Razak somberly replied. “Not when the helicopter has yet to turn up.”
“There’s always a remote possibility that the ossuary is still in Israel,” Barton offered.
Standing, Razak brushed away dust from his pants. “I think that’s unlikely.”
Sensing that the Muslim delegate seemed overwhelmed, Barton thought it wise to shift gears. “I’m no expert on crime scenes,” Barton continued, “but I believe the ossuary contained more than bones. I would wager those thieves knew exactly what was in it.” He placed a hand nonthreateningly on Razak’s shoulder. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. I’ll do my best to see what these inscriptions say.” Seeing the Muslim’s discomfort with the gesture, he pulled his hand away.
“How much time will you need, Mr. Barton?”
“About an hour should do it.”
“Let’s reconvene in the morning,” Razak suggested. “I’ll have one of our men from the Waqf, Akbar, meet you at the top of the steps. He’ll escort you down so you can get started.”
“You mean watch me.”
Razak ignored him.
“Look, I don’t blame you.” Barton held out his hands, palms up. “I know this place is sacred. And I’m not a Muslim.”
Silence, not confrontation, Razak reminded himself. “Shall we say around nine o’clock?”
“Right.”
Razak passed him a business card. “In case you need to contact me.”
Barton glanced at it. Just the name and mobile phone number. “Thanks. And just for the record, Razak...I’m notinterested in politics. I’m an archaeologist. Please remember I’m here to help you. Thirteen men died on Friday and I’m confident that the clues here will help to determine why.”
Razak nodded affably and the two men made their way out of the crypt.
8
******
Vatican City
Father Donovan and Charlotte rode a noisy freight elevator down one level beneath the Vatican Museum.
When the doors opened, the cleric led her out into a wide, fluorescentlit corridor that she would have expected to see in a hospital. Their feet echoed off the vinyl tiles and blank white walls. The place was a gallery of doors. Most likely storage, she guessed.
“We’re just up ahead,” Father Donovan said, pointing to a wide metal door situated at the end of the hall.
The priest slid a key card through a reader mounted on the doorframe and a heavy lock disengaged. He opened the door and motioned her inside.
“You can keep this key.” The priest handed it to Charlotte. “It also opens the rear service door after hours. Please don’t lose it.”
She nodded, pocketing it.
Beyond the threshold was a spacious laboratory. The walls were lined with sleek, glass-paneled cabinetry that housed a broad range of chemical containers, bottles, and small boxes. The cupboards beneath boasted an armada of state-of-the-art scientific gadgetry. Crisp halogen lighting illuminated every surface and hulking stainless-steel workstations dotted the main floor like islands. An air-conditioning and purification system hummed quietly in the background, removing dust and microscopic contaminants, while regulating the laboratory’s humidity and temperature.
If the Vatican wasn’t interested in science, it sure didn’t show down here. This was one of the most impressive workspaces she had ever seen.
“It’s our newest addition to the museum,” Donovan explained. “Hasn’t even been opened to our residents yet.”
“Impressive.”
“Our art collection requires constant maintenance,” he went on, as if in justification. “Lots of marble sculptures, paintings, tapestries.” His hands were moving again as if delivering a sermon. “This is where our most precious treasures will be maintained so that the coming generations can enjoy them.”
A man emerged from a doorway to an adjacent room in the rear of the lab. Seeing him, the priest smiled.
“Ah, Giovanni, come sta?”
“Fantastico, padre. E lei?”
“Bene, gratzie.”
Hearing the Irish priest effortlessly switching languages impressed Charlotte. She watched the middle-aged man, dressed in a crisp white lab coat, as he approached to shake the priest’s hand. With hazel eyes and thick whisps of black and gray hair, he had a pleasant face that was wrinkled only in the areas where his continuous wide smile had left its marks.
“Dr. Giovanni Bersei, I’d like you to meet Dr. Charlotte Hennesey, a renowned geneticist from Phoenix, Arizona.” Donovan placed a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder.
“A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Hennesey,” Bersei kindly replied, in accented English. He offered a handshake. Like many others who had met Charlotte Hennesey for the first time, he too was captivated by her striking green eyes.
“Likewise.” She shook his smooth hand and offered a warm smile. Wishing she could say something nice in Italian, she realized how she, like most Americans she knew, was deficient when it came to linguistic skills, although in Phoenix, she had learned some basic-survival Spanish.
“Dr. Bersei has helped us many times in the past,” Father Donovan informed her. “He is an anthropologist whose specialty is ancient Roman culture.”
“Fascinating.” Immediately she wondered how their diverse disciplines could possibly complement one another. Now she was even more anxious to see this mysterious relic Donovan had alluded to earlier.
Donovan held out his hands, as if an invisible communion chalice had been set before him. “I actually have to leave for about an hour to go and pick up our delivery from Termini. I figured the two of you might get acquainted while I’m gone.”
“Great,” Charlotte said, eyeing Bersei who also seemed pleased with the recommendation.
Before making his way out the door, Father Dono
van added, “I’ll see you both shortly.”
The priest left.
Charlotte turned to Bersei wearing a puzzled look. “Any idea what this is all about?”
“No idea,” the anthropologist shrugged. “I have to admit, I’m a bit curious. I’ve done plenty of work for the Vatican in the past, but never had to sign confidentiality agreements. You too, I suppose?”
“Yes. I thought that seemed odd.” Three pages of legal disclaimer stamped with a raised papal seal and witnessed by a Vatican notary. Obviously, the project’s secrecy was more than just a tacit request. She was tempted to ask about the financial retainer, but felt it might be inappropriate. Aldrich didn’t say exactly how much money had been wired to BMS’s corporate account, but she guessed it was plenty.
“And I’ve certainly never been paired up with a geneticist,” he said, puzzled. “Not that I’m complaining, of course,” he quickly added.
“Do you live in Rome?”
“Two kilometers away. I ride my Vespa when I do work here.” He flitted his eyebrows.
Charlotte laughed. “I hope you’re careful. Everyone seems to drive pretty fast around here.”
“Craziest drivers in all Europe.”
“So tell me, what type of work have you done here in the past?”
“Oh, a few different projects,” he said. “I suppose my claim to fame is my papers on the ancient catacombs throughout Rome. A Vatican commission oversees the sites, so I interact with them quite often. But I’m rarely called inside the Vatican itself. It’s a bit intimidating, no?”
“Certainly is,” she agreed. “Lots of guards.”
“So you’re a geneticist? Sounds exciting. Very modern.”
“I mainly do human genome research, analyzing cell structure and DNA to spot genetic flaws that cause disease.”
Bersei stroked his chin. “Amazing. So remarkable, the human organism.”
“It’s always fascinated me, ever since I was a girl.”
“Well Dr. Hennesey, I’m not sure why fate has brought us together, but I certainly look forward to working with you.”
“Thanks. And please, call me Charlotte.”
“Come,” he turned and motioned for her to follow him to the rear room. “Let’s get you a lab coat. I’m sure Father Donovan will be anxious to start as soon as he returns.”
9
******
Jerusalem
Returning from his meeting with the archaeologist, Razak found Farouq in the same room the Waqf council had convened earlier that afternoon. The Keeper wound up his phone call and placed the receiver back in its cradle.
“So what did you think of Barton?” Farouq eased into his chair. “Seems to know what he’s talking about,” replied Razak.
“That was Topol.” Farouq nodded toward the phone. “Apologizing he
hadn’t contacted us earlier. Offered to pull Barton if we weren’t comfortable. I told him I’d speak to you.”
Razak knew Farouq was indirectly asking if he was willing to take responsibility for Barton’s actions. “I think we can trust him. He’s already given me valuable information.”
“Should I tell Topol we’ll cooperate?”
“It would show good faith,” Razak urged. “After all, this affects both sides. If we keep the Israelis involved, it will alleviate suspicion—delay any violent protest.” Sometimes politics, like inner peace, was largely about damage control.
“Just be sure to keep a close eye on him,” Farouq reiterated. “Does he know what was stolen?”
“Yes. An ossuary.”
“A burial box? Why so much trouble for such a thing?”
“Still unclear.” Razak shook his head. “Barton needs time to determine exactly what was in the ossuary. He’ll be conducting a study of the crypt tomorrow morning to understand more.”
“I see.”
“Heard anything else about the helicopter?”
Farouq shook his head.
“Until it’s determined what happened,” Razak said, “we should request copies of all outgoing shipping manifests at the ports for the past three days, starting with Tel Aviv. Also check the airports. According to Barton the consignment would weigh about thirty-five kilos. Most likely the crate would be about a meter in length, about two-thirds of a meter in height and width. That should narrow things down.”
“I’ll request copies of shipping records for air, rail, and water transport,” he said unenthusiastically. Putting on a pair of glasses, Farouq jotted some notes on a pad.
“Is it safe to assume all the roadway checkpoints have been secured?”
Farouq grimaced. “Come now, Razak. When has that ever been a safe assumption? Nonetheless, all vehicles are being thoroughly inspected. But I highly doubt they’d risk driving this thing out of Israel.”
“Do you think the helicopter may have flown it out of the country?” The fact that Barton had himself mentioned the idea really had Razak thinking it through more seriously now.
“It hasn’t turned up in Israel yet, so the odds are it’s already gone. By the way,” Farouq continued without pause, “the police are looking into a call from a landlady in the Jewish Quarter. Told them a stranger had rented a room from her. He shared it with several men she thought were part of a tour group. They all disappeared late on Friday evening some time before dawn. The chambermaid’s agreed to meet with a police photofit expert first thing tomorrow.”
“Think it’s anything?”
“Perhaps. But it’s taken this woman three days to come forward. Seems odd.” Farouq eyed his notepad. “The name on the room was Daniel Marrone—the same one used to lease a rental van found abandoned on Haofel Road. No surprise that it appears to be an alias. The Israelis also ran ballistics tests on the munitions,” he continued. “The thieves were armed with XM8 assault rifles, apparently very sophisticated weapons, manufactured by Heckler & Koch for the United States military.”
“Interesting.” The Israeli forensic crime labs never ceased to impress Razak. As a matter of ongoing national security, they’d invested heavily in counterterrorism technology that included a highly sophisticated database with profiles of every known manufactured weapon. “But that doesn’t seem to make sense.” Razak was frowning.
“What do you mean?”
“Barton says the ossuary is probably only worth a few thousand dollars.”
“Hmm.” Farouq considered it. “Let’s wait and see what the archaeologist comes up with.” Farouq looked at his watch. “Before this relic is completely out of reach.”
10
******
Rome
On the wide cement walkway along Stazione Termini’s loading zone, a young baggage clerk was working a bulky wooden crate onto a hand truck. “Tananài,” a sharp Italian voice cut the air, “make sure you handle that with care.”
Squinting into the bright summer sunlight, the clerk looked up to see who had just called him a dickhead. Standing stiffly against the backdrop of the terminal’s modern glass and steel structure was a tall, thickset man dressed in chinos and a white shirt. The brawny stranger didn’t look like the type who would respond well to a smart reply. “Si, signore.”
Turning slightly off Via Giovanni Giolitti’s busy thoroughfare, a white Fiat van pulled up and parked along the curb. Father Patrick Donovan jumped out and excitedly went over to meet Conte. “Everything all right?”
“Would be if baggage handlers gave a damn about doing their job right.”
The young clerk rolled his eyes, careful to not let the impatient Italian see him.
Conte eyed the priest disapprovingly. “Did you have to wear that getup? Do you really need to be so damn obvious?” He eyed the van’s tags. They weren’t Vatican City plates. At least Donovan had got that part right.
Father Donovan shrugged and let out a long breath.
Conte stared for a moment at the priest’s bald scalp, glistening in the sun. “You should put some lotion on that thing before you burn my eyes out.”
<
br /> The clerk laughed.
The priest was not amused.
“Make yourself useful and open the doors,” Conte instructed Donovan.
Silent, Donovan made his way to the van’s rear. Such a brash man, he thought. Though he wouldn’t expect anything less from the Vatican’s notorious hired gun. He hated the idea of working with Conte—a thief, a killer. It all made him feel unclean. But he reminded himself how critical it was to make this work. So much was at stake. And if having to contend with the Contes of the world was part of it, then so be it.
Sacred Bones : A Novel Page 5
