“I’ll take it from here,” Conte huffed, urging the handler to the side with the wave of a hand. The mercenary stepped behind the hand truck and raised the load, his thick, corded arm muscles flexing.
Conte was still irritable from the return trip. If getting the secret cargo out of Jerusalem had been a harrowing experience, the two-day crossing of the Mediterranean in rough seas hadn’t been much better. Seasickness and a confrontation with team member Doug Wilkinson—those were the high points. After some heavy drinking, the young twat had dragged Conte out to the aft deck for a “friendly” discussion regarding the bullet he took to his right arm. “It’s my good arm for Christ’s sake,” Wilkinson protested. “Now I’m going to have a fucking infection. You should be paying me triple for this. It’s only right,” he’d insisted in a slurred growl. That was right before Conte coldcocked him and pushed him over the deck rail into the Adriatic. Shark bait.
Yes, after all that nonsense, Conte wasn’t about to risk having some pimply faced station porter dropping the damn cargo now.
Wheeling the crate off the curb and to the rear of the Fiat, Conte motioned for Donovan to help him lift it into the van. Stowed securely inside, Conte slammed the doors and returned the hand truck to the porter. No tip.
In the meantime, Donovan had made his way into the driver’s seat and started the engine, but Conte was having none of it. Sighing, he paced over to the driver’s side window and motioned Donovan out of the van.
Confused, the cleric hopped out onto the roadway.
“When I’m here, you’re over there,” the Italian said gruffly, pointing to the passenger seat. “Get moving.”
Weaving through Rome and heading south on Lungot Marzio, the van hugged along the riverbank of the sparkling Tiber. Donovan gazed out the window trying to calm himself, his thoughts tortured by the box in the rear compartment, hoping, praying that its contents were indeed genuine. Only the scientists whose services he had convinced the Holy See to commission could inevitably make that determination.
For the past three days, the priest had been closely monitoring news reports flooding out from Jerusalem. Every time he heard the death toll, a wave of nausea swept over him and he prayed to God for forgiveness in allowing such a thing to happen. But having lobbied for a more diplomatic way to extract the relic, he was once again swept aside. The political maneuvering he had witnessed in his twelve-year tenure at Vatican City would have made even Machiavelli gasp.
Fifteen minutes from Termini and Conte had yet to make small talk. Certainly not a man concerned about first impressions, Donovan thought, glancing over at the brooding mercenary. He directed his attention back outside.
Rising like a mountain on the Tiber’s western bank, Donovan’s eyes reached out to the brilliant white cupola of St. Peter’s Basilica—the heart of Vatican City—a beacon that could be seen from all over Rome. In 1929, the Vatican’s governing body, The Holy See, had been granted full property rights and exclusive sovereignty by Italy’s fascist dictator Benito Mussolini, thus making this place the world’s smallest independent nation—a country within a country. Amazing, Donovan thought. Here the supreme Catholic monarch, the Pope, and his trusted advisors, the College of Cardinals, managed worldwide operations for over one billion Catholics and diplomatic relations with almost two hundred countries around the globe.
Crossing Ponte Umberto I, Conte angled his way around the massive ramparts of the Castel Sant’ Angelo riverfront citadel.
Heading down Borgo Pio, the Fiat approached the Sant’ Anna Gate— one of only two secure vehicle entrances through the continuous fifteenmeter high wall that formed a tight three-kilometer perimeter around the Vatican City’s 109-acre complex. The van stopped behind a short queue of cars awaiting clearance from the Swiss Guards.
“Look at those guys,” Conte scoffed. “They’re dressed like clowns for fucks sake.”
Though the routine garb of the Vatican City’s 100-man Swiss Guard battalion was blue coveralls and black berets, it was their official uniform that had earned them the status of “the world’s most colorful army”—a sixteenth-century purple-and-yellow-striped tunic and matching pantaloons with red arm cuffs and white gloves, all topped off with a red felt beret.
Explaining to Conte that the tradition meant something would be fruitless so Donovan remained silent. Up ahead, he watched the guards shuffle in and out of their barracks just inside the gate. There was nothing to fear, but as the van was waved to the gate his heartbeat quickened irrationally.
Conte gently accelerated to cross the threshold into Vatican City. A guard motioned for him to stop, checked the license plates, then paced around to Conte’s open window. “Your business here?” he rigidly inquired in Italian.
Conte smirked. “You don’t really want to know that,” he answered coyly. “Why don’t you ask him?” He leaned back and pointed over at the priest.
The guard immediately noticed Father Donovan.
“It’s okay, he’s with me.” Donovan nodded.
“Of course, Father,” the young guard replied, suspiciously eyeing Conte again. “Have a good day.” Stepping back from the van, he waved them along.
Conte sighed. “What a bunch of buffoons. That kid’s not even shaving yet. Even more pathetic than the Israelis.”
Donovan cringed at the man’s callousness, deeply regretting that Cardinal Antonio Carlo Santelli—the Segretaria di Stato, or Vatican secretary of state—had commissioned the ruthless mercenary for such a momentous task. It was whispered that Cardinal Santelli was the reckoning force behind numerous Vatican scandals. But no one in the Curia, including Santelli, seemed to know much about Salvatore Conte, even if that was his real name. Some speculated that he was a retired Italian Secret Service operative.
According to Santelli, the only sure things about Salvatore Conte were his reliability and his mission-specific twenty-four-digit Cayman Islands bank account number. Lord only knew how many of those accounts a man like Conte had, Donovan wondered. Having seen the generous financial enticements that secured the scientist’s services, it was obvious that Santelli had spared no expense—in money or lives—to ensure this project’s success.
The Fiat lurched forward down the paved roadway that ran behind the Apostolic Palace and through a village of low buildings that included a post office, emissary, and television broadcast studio. Following Donovan’s directions, Conte continued through a short tunnel that led out onto a narrow driveway that snaked around the towering edifice of the Vatican Museum complex.
Near the service entrance, Conte parked the van, then unloaded the secret cargo onto a compact dolly. The priest escorted him inside to the elevator and down one flight.
Entering the lab, Conte parked the dolly to one side. Father Donovan trailed in as the two scientists made their way over.
“Thanks so much for waiting,” Father Donovan said in English. “Dr. Giovanni Bersei, Dr. Charlotte Hennesey”—he motioned to them, then over to the mercenary—“this is Salvatore Conte.” Anything beyond a name for this killer would be too much, so the priest chose not to elaborate.
Keeping his distance, Conte straightened, hands on hips. His eyes immediately glued to Charlotte, roving up and down her body, trying to assess what lay beneath her draping lab coat. He grinned. “If my doctor looked like you, I’d be sick every week.”
Charlotte smiled tightly and diverted her attention to the bulky wooden crate. “So this is it?” she asked Donovan.
Clearly embarrassed by Conte’s crassness, the priest said, “Yes. I think it would be best to open the crate now.” He turned to Conte expectantly.
“You’re a man of God, not a cripple,” Conte grumbled. “So give me a hand.” He leaned over and grabbed a crowbar off the dolly.
11
******
The wooden shipping crate was a sturdy, four-foot cube with a Eurostar Italia logo plastered on its lid. Conte worked one side of the lid, jerking the pry bar up and down, while Donovan steadied it to pre
vent it from flying off and damaging the new lab equipment.
Charlotte noticed that Father Donovan’s hands were shaking. If she hadn’t known any better, she’d have sworn that he suspected the container might be empty. Then again, maybe this character, Conte, had unnerved him.
Less than thirty seconds later Conte stripped the lid away. Father Donovan gently placed it on the floor.
Glancing briefly at the shipping label, Giovanni Bersei couldn’t help but notice the port of origin printed in large bold print: STAZIONE BARI. Bari was an eastern coastal city whose lure to tourists was twofold: its claim to owning the bones of Saint Nicholas and its spectacular seaport where wealthy Italians docked their oversized yachts.
The crate’s interior was covered by thick layers of bubble wrap. “We need to get these two side panels off,” Conte said, claiming one and pointing to the side closer to Bersei.
Bersei stepped forward and lifted the panel easily up and out along grooved tracks, exposing more of what lay inside.
Charlotte moved in closer.
“Don’t be shy, just tear it away,” Conte instructed both scientists, pointing at the thick layers of bubble wrap.
As her hands peeled back the last layer of wrapping, Charlotte’s fingers ran over a hard flat surface, cold and slick. She glimpsed blue-tinted plastic.
Seconds later a rectangular surface shrouded in the blue material was revealed.
Rubbing his hands together, Donovan looked up at them. “We’ll get it over to the workstation,” he said to Bersei. “Dr. Hennesey, could you please set that rubber matting on top of the table?” He pointed to a thick rubber sheet sitting on a nearby counter.
“Sure.” She noticed that Donovan seemed visibly relieved. She laid the sheet out on the nearest workstation while Conte wheeled the dolly closer.
Following Conte’s cue, Bersei crouched down, cupping his hands round the corners. It felt very solid. “How heavy is this?”
Conte’s hard eyes met his. “Thirty-three kilos. Lift on three.” The mercenary counted down and they manhandled it up.
Halfway into the lift, Bersei’s fingers suddenly slipped along the plastic cover, and the load jerked sharply to one side. Charlotte lurched forward to help, but Conte was able to thrust his arm out just in time to stabilize it.
Conte glared at Bersei. “Not good, Doc,” he chastised in Italian. “Let’s keep it together.” He nodded to the scientist to continue, and they shifted it over onto the matting.
“If there’s nothing else you need,” Conte grumbled, “I need a drink.”
“That’ll be all, Mr. Conte,” Donovan replied, trying his best to be cordial. “Thank you.”
Before leaving, Conte turned to face the priest with his back to the scientists. He pointed to his left eye, then at Father Donovan. The message was clear. Remember, I’ll be watching you. Then he was gone.
Turning back to the scientists, small beads of perspiration had welled up on Donovan’s forehead. “That was the hard part. Now let’s get this plastic off.”
“Just a moment,” Bersei said. “I think we should clean this up before we unwrap that.” He pointed to the empty crate sitting on the dolly and the splintered mess surrounding it.
“Of course,” Donovan hesitantly agreed. He’d waited this long...
Ten minutes later, the lab was once again tidy, the dolly and neatly packed debris rolled out into the corridor; the floor swept, vacuumed, and wiped with a damp mop.
Bersei disappeared into the rear room. Within seconds, he reemerged holding a newly pressed lab coat. He handed it to Donovan. “You should wear this.”
Putting it on, the coat hung awkwardly on Donovan’s frame.
“And these,” Charlotte passed over a box of latex gloves. “I hate them too, but we don’t want to contaminate the specimen.”
Each scientist took a pair, pulled them over their hands and donned sterile masks and caps.
Charlotte passed Donovan an X-Acto knife from the workstation’s tool drawer. “Would you like to do the honors?”
Drawing a deep breath, the Vatican librarian nodded, took the knife, and began slicing through the plastic shroud. When he finally drew the wrap apart, what he saw made his eyes light up in wonderment.
12
******
Father Patrick Donovan devoured what lay before him. Only weeks ago, he’d acquired an astounding manuscript whose ancient parchment pages chronicled the origin of this magnificent relic, complete with detailed sketches and maps to locate its secret resting place. He had tried to imagine what the box would look like in person, but nothing could have prepared him for this. Astonishing.
Giovanni Bersei was circling round the box, squinting. “This is a burial casket—an ossuary.” His voice was muffled by his mask.
Goosebumps ran up Charlotte’s arms.
“I hope Santa Claus isn’t inside,” Bersei said in a barely audible mumble.
“What?” Charlotte looked at him, puzzled.
“Nothing,” he said.
Bathed in bright halogen light, the ossuary’s ornate features seemed to come to life. On the front and rear faces, rosettes and hatch patterns had been painstakingly etched, not by cutting into the surface, but through chipping the soft stone into relief. The lid was arched and beveled along its edges. The short sides were flat, one blank, the other bearing a simple relief of a dolphin wrapped around a trident.
Hennesey was momentarily transfixed by the image. “Father Donovan—what does this symbol mean?”
Still trying to calm himself, Donovan studied it briefly then shook his head. “Not sure.” It wasn’t a complete lie. But—vitally—the symbol identically matched the manuscript’s meticulous description of the box.
Dr. Bersei’s head was pressed close. “It’s beautiful.”
“Certainly is,” Donovan agreed. The ossuary’s craftsmanship was impressive, far surpassing any other relic he’d examined from the Holy Land. Using the stylus to shape the soft limestone, the carver’s technique had been masterly. There were no cracks or imperfections. The decorative work easily rivaled that of master Roman sculptors—a feature that alone made the relic extraordinary.
Bersei ran a gloved finger over the thin gap along the lid’s edge. “There’s a seal here.” He pressed it cautiously. “Most likely wax.”
“Yes. I see that,” Donovan confirmed.
“It’s a good indication that what’s inside has been well preserved,” Bersei added.
“I’d like to open this now,” Donovan said. “Then we’ll discuss details of the analysis you will perform.”
Hennesey and Bersei looked at each other, knowing that their seemingly diverse disciplines had indeed found common ground. Opening a sealed burial box implied one thing.
A corpse.
Each peering through Orascoptic Telescopes—protective goggles equipped with flip-down miniature telescopes—Charlotte and Bersei worked the lid’s edges with their X-Acto knives, loosening the tight seal of wax that, despite its age, maintained a tight bond with the ossuary.
“Can’t you just melt the wax?” Donovan inquired.
Bersei shook his head. “You can’t apply heat to the stone. It could crack or discolor. Plus the wax would drip, making a mess inside.”
Minutes passed and the only sound other than the hum of the ventilation system was of the two blades carefully scratching against the ossuary’s seal.
The priest watched the scientists from a discrete distance. His thoughts swung violently between the astounding secrets that the manuscript promised were contained within this ossuary and the firefight in Jerusalem that had claimed so many lives. Not until he could verify the contents with his own eyes would he feel any relief.
Bersei took a deep breath as he made the final cuts. “Almost there.” The Italian was practically lying across the table finishing off the rear seam.
Charlotte completed the front side and removed her goggles. Seconds later, Giovanni Bersei set down his knife and did the sa
me.
“Ready?” Bersei asked both of them.
Donovan nodded and moved to the head of the table.
The two scientists took position on either side of the box. With fingers hooked underneath the edge of the lid, they squeezed and applied steady upward pressure, gently moving it from side to side to loosen the remaining wax. There was a small pop as the ancient seal gave way, followed by a hiss of escaping gas. Even through their masks they all detected an acrid smell.
“Probably effluvium,” Bersei observed. “By-product of decaying bone.”
The three exchanged glances.
Sacred Bones : A Novel Page 6
