Sacred Bones : A Novel

by Michael Byrnes

  Something important has come up.”

  “More important than our presentation?”

  He avoided her eyes.

  “Something’s wrong, Giovanni. Tell me what it is.”

  His eyes combed the walls, as if he were hearing voices. “Not here,” he

  said. “Walk out with me and I’ll explain.”

  Bersei opened the main door and poked his head out into the corridor.

  Everything was clear. He motioned for her to follow.

  Quietly, he slipped outside and Charlotte followed, easing the door

  closed behind her.

  In the makeshift surveillance room, Salvatore Conte sat perfectly still until the footsteps in the corridor had faded away. Then he snatched the phone from its console.

  Santelli answered on the second ring and Conte could tell by his groggy voice that he’d woken the old man.

  “We have a real problem down here.”

  The cardinal knew what was coming. He cleared his throat. “Have they found out?”

  “Just Bersei. And right now he’s on his way out the door with copies of everything on his way to the Carabiniere.”

  “Very unfortunate.” A slight pause and a sigh. “You know what you must do.”

  48

  ******

  Bersei didn’t say a word until they were safely outside the museum’s confines. He headed straight for his parked Vespa as Charlotte paced quickly to keep up with him.

  “I think the Vatican is involved in something bad,” he said to her in a hushed tone. “Something to do with the ossuary.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Too much to explain right now and I don’t even know if I’m right about all this.” Stowing the laptop bag in the scooter’s rear compartment, he put on his helmet.

  “Right about what?” He was starting to scare her.

  “It’s best that I not tell you. You need to trust me on this. You’ll be safe here, don’t worry.”

  “Giovanni, please.”

  Mounting the Vespa, he put a key in the ignition and turned the engine on.

  She grabbed his arm tightly. “You’re not going anywhere,” she said over the noise of the puttering engine, “until you tell me what you’re talking about.”

  Sighing heavily, Bersei looked at her, his gaze filled with concern. “I think that ossuary was stolen. It may be linked to a theft in Jerusalem that left many people dead. There’s someone I need to speak with about what we’ve found.”

  For a moment, she said nothing. “Are you sure about this? That seems a bit extreme, don’t you think?”

  “No, I’m not sure. That’s why I’m trying to leave you out of this. I know we’ve signed confidentiality agreements. If I’m wrong, this could turn out badly for me. I don’t want you being dragged down too.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Bersei flinched when he thought he saw a face looking out from behind the shadowy glass of the museum door. “Just pretend we didn’t have this conversation. Hopefully I’m wrong about everything.” He looked down at her hand. “Please, let me go.”

  She loosened her grip. “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  Charlotte watched as Bersei rode off around the corner of the building. ***

  As the elevator doors slid apart, Charlotte hesitated before stepping out into the basement corridor. Folding her arms across her chest, she proceeded forward, fighting off a sudden chill.

  Surely the Vatican couldn’t be involved in a theft, she tried to convince herself. Then again, why would they consort with a goon like Salvatore Conte? It was quite evident that he was capable of violence and just about any other act of bad behavior. But what if Giovanni was right? Then what?

  Halfway down the corridor, she noticed that one of the solid metal doors was slightly ajar. It hadn’t been earlier—she was sure of that. Until now, every door down here had been closed—presumably locked. Was someone else down here with them?

  Curious, she stepped up to the door and knocked. “Hello? Anyone in there?”

  No answer.

  She tried again. Nothing.

  With her left hand, she reached out and pushed, swinging the door open smoothly on well-oiled hinges.

  What she saw inside was puzzling.

  Stepping into the tiny room lined with empty shelves, she stood in front of a very peculiar workstation—a bank of monitors, a computer, a set of headphones. Her eyes followed a bundle of wires that led out from the computer, crept up the wall, and disappeared into a darkened opening in the ceiling where a panel had been removed.

  The system was in sleep mode. The screensaver depicted a slide show of naked women in a variety of pornographic poses. Charming.

  Sitting in a chair positioned in front of the equipment, she tried to imagine what purpose this all served. Obviously, it had all been done in haste, because this room looked like a closet—not an office.

  Finally, she couldn’t help but reach down to press a key on the keyboard.

  The monitors flickered and hummed as the screensaver disappeared and the computer woke up.

  Seconds later, the software activated what appeared to be the last program that had been in use. It took Charlotte a moment to piece together the familiar collage of camera images that spread out before her. On one of the on-screen viewing panels, there was a chambermaid cleaning a small room. Charlotte’s stomach sank when she saw her own luggage—a red, rectangular carry-on and matching garment bag—beside the bed. The maid moved into the bathroom, which projected real-time on a second panel. A familiar set of toiletries lined the vanity, complete with a hefty bottle of vitamins.

  “Conte,” she seethed horrified at what she was seeing. “That fucking pervert.”

  She studied a number of other hidden cameras transmitting from the lab and the break room—live feeds, judging by the time and date counters on the bottom of each panel. He’d been watching and listening the whole time.

  In that moment she knew that Giovanni had been right.

  49

  ******

  In the Secret Archive, Father Donovan placed the Ephemeris Conlusio codex next to the plastic-sealed document bearing reference number Archivum Arcis, Arm. D 217—“The Chinon Parchment”—and closed the door. There was a small hiss as a vacuum pump pulled all the air out from the compartment.

  Secrets. Donovan was no stranger to them. Perhaps that was why he felt so connected to books and solitude. Maybe this archive somehow mirrored his soul, he thought.

  Many who were drawn to the Catholic priesthood would attribute their decision to some kind of vocational calling—a special closeness to God, possibly. Donovan had turned to the Church for a more sobering cause—survival.

  As a young boy, he’d grown up in Belfast during the tumultuous sixties and seventies when violence in Northern Ireland peaked between the Nationalist Catholics seeking independence from British rule, and Unionist Protestants who were loyal to the crown. In 1969 he watched his house, and dozens of others around it, burned to the ground by rioting loyalists. He could also vividly recall the IR A’s retaliatory bombings, which were a regular occurrence—1,300 in 1972 alone—and claimed hundreds of civilian lives.

  At fifteen, he and his friends had been lured into a street gang that ran errands for the IR A and acted as the “eyes and ears” of the movement. On one memorable occasion, he’d been asked to drop a package outside a Protestant storefront. Unbeknownst to him at that time, the bag actually contained a bomb. Luckily, no one had been killed in the subsequent blast that leveled the building. Somehow, he’d even managed to avoid being arrested.

  But it was a fateful evening on his seventeenth birthday when Donovan’s life was changed forever. He was drinking at a local pub with his two best friends, Sean and Michael. They had gotten into a shouting match with a group of drunken Protestants. Donovan’s crew left an hour later, but the Protestants—five in all—followed them outside and continued haranguing.
It hadn’t taken long for fists to start flying.

  Though no stranger to street fighting, Donovan’s wiry frame and swift hands had been no match for the two men that teamed up on him. While one of the Protestants had pinned him to the ground, the second landed body blows, seemingly intent on beating him to death.

  It was hard to forget the suppressed rage that had flooded into him as he envisioned the glowing embers of his home. Donovan had reacted on instinct, fighting his way back onto his feet, flipping open a jackknife and plunging it deep into the stomach of the attacker who had held him down. The man had fallen to the pavement, horrified as he tried to hold back the gush of blood flooding out of his abdomen. Seeing the rage in Donovan’s fiery eyes, the second man had backed away.

  Dazed, Donovan turned to see Sean, blood-soaked and baring his teeth, had also taken a man down with his own knife. The remaining Protestants had stood frozen in disbelief as the Catholics fled.

  He remembered the awful dread he had felt the next day when the newspapers and TV reported that a local Protestant man had been stabbed to death. Though there had been some doubt as to which of the two fallen Protestants suffered the fatal blow, Donovan quickly came to terms with the fact that he needed to leave Belfast behind before he became its next victim.

  The seminary had given him a safe haven from the streets, providing hope of God’s forgiveness for the horrible things he had done. Though not a day had gone by that he couldn’t see the bloodstains on his hands.

  Despite his past, he’d always been a good student and the solitude of priesthood had reignited his passion for reading. He found peace in history and scripture. Guidance. Seeing his remarkable dedication to learning, the Diocese of Dublin had sponsored his extensive university training. Perhaps, Donovan thought, it was his obsession with books that had helped to save him.

  Now, it was a book that seemed to threaten everything he held sacred. The very institution that had protected him was under attack.

  For a long moment he stared behind the glass panel at the Ephemeris Conlusio—the lost scripture that had set in motion the momentous events leading to the theft in Jerusalem. It was hard to grasp that it was only two weeks earlier that he had presented this incredible discovery to the Vatican secretary of state. He saw the meeting with Santelli as clear as day, as if a movie played in his memory.

  “It’s not often I receive such urgent requests for an appointment from the Vatican Library.” Cardinal Santelli’s hands lay folded on his desk.

  Seated opposite, Father Donovan clutched his leather satchel. “Apologies for the short notice, Eminence. But I hope you’ll agree that the reason I’ve come here warrants your immediate attention ...and will justify why I have chosen not to involve Cardinal Giancome.”

  Vincenzo Giancome, the Cardinale Archivista e Bibliotecario, was Donovan’s superior and acted as the supreme overseer of the Vatican Secret Archive. He was also the man who’d tabled Donovan’s fervent request to acquire the Judas Papers. So after much deliberation, Donovan had made the unorthodox decision of not including Giancome in on this matter—a bold move that could potentially backfire and cost him his career. But he was certain that what he was about to divulge would directly involve matters of national security—not reserve documents. Furthermore, the mystery caller had specifically chosen Donovan for this task and there was no time for delays or bureaucratic infighting.

  “What is it?” Santelli looked bored.

  Donovan was unsure exactly where to begin. “You recall a few years back when the Chinon Parchment was discovered in the Secret Archive?”

  “Clement’s secret dismissal of charges brought against the Knights Templar?”

  “Correct. I came to you with further documents detailing the clandestine meeting between Clement V and Jacques DeMolay, the Templar Grand Master.” Donovan swallowed hard. “The pope’s account specifically mentioned a manuscript called the Ephemeris Conlusio, supposedly containing information about the Templars’ hidden relics.”

  “An attempt to restore the Templar Order,” Santelli interjected. “And a rather crude attempt at that.”

  “But I think you’ll agree that DeMolay’s negotiations had to be quite compelling for Clement to have exonerated the Templars after ordering their disbandment.”

  “A fabrication. No book was ever produced by Jacques DeMolay.”

  “Agreed.” Donovan dug into his satchel and retrieved the book. “Because it wasn’t in his possession.”

  Santelli shifted his chair. “What is that you have there?”

  “This is the Ephemeris Conlusio.”

  Santelli was bewildered. This was one legend he had always hoped to be pure fantasy. None of the Vatican’s darkest secrets began to compare. He clung to the hope that the librarian was wrong, but Donovan’s confident gaze confirmed his worst fears. “You’re not suggesting...”

  “Yes,” he confidently replied. “Let me explain.”

  Donovan recounted the history of Jacques DeMolay’s imprisonment, his secret discussion with Clement, his trial in Paris in front of Notre Dame cathedral and final execution on the Ile des Javiaux. “Apparently his dying curse worked,” Donovan explained. “Pope Clement V died one month later from what many accounts say was severe dysentery—a hideous death. Seven months later, King Philip IV died mysteriously during a hunt. Witnesses attributed the accident to a lingering disease that caused him to bleed rapidly to death. Many speculated that the Knights Templar had exacted their revenge.”

  Santelli looked spooked. “Poisoned?”

  “Perhaps.” Donovan shrugged. “Meanwhile the Holy Land had been fully reclaimed by the Muslims. The European countries and the Church lacked proper funding to stage further crusades to retake it. Pope Clement’s documents and the Chinon Parchment gathered dust in the Secret Archive as the papal conclave focused on its two-year struggle to restore the insolvent papacy. The Ephemeris Conlusio—this book—faded into history,” Donovan explained. “Until I received a phone call this week.” Donovan summarized his phone conversation with the mystery caller, then went on to describe the transaction with the caller’s messenger in Caffè Greco. Santelli listened intently, hand covering his mouth. When Donovan finished, he waited for the cardinal’s response.

  “Have you read it?”

  Donovan nodded. As the Archive’s senior curator he was a polyglot— proficient in ancient Aramaic, and completely fluent in Greek and Latin.

  “What does it say?”

  “Many disturbing things. Apparently this book isn’t a Templar document per se. It’s a journal written by Joseph of Arimathea.”

  “I don’t understand, Patrick.”

  “The entries in these pages chronicle many events specific to Christ’s ministry. Eyewitness accounts of miracles, like his healing the lame and lepers. His teachings, his travels with the disciples—it’s all referenced here. In fact, after reviewing the language, I’m convinced this book is ‘Q.’ ”

  Biblical historians had long theorized that a common source influenced the synoptic—or “one eye”—Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke since all three spoke of the historical Jesus in a common sequence and writing style. The synoptic Gospels, believed to be written between 60 CE and 100 CE, each bore the name of an actual disciple who inspired the work, though all three authors were actually unknown.

  Santelli was temporarily encouraged by this, but acutely aware that Father Donovan remained troubled.

  “There’s much more here, however,” Donovan warned. “The book describes events leading to Jesus’s apprehension and crucifixion. Again, most of Joseph’s account is in agreement with the synoptic Gospels...with some minor discrepancies. According to Joseph of Arimathea, he himself secretly negotiated with Pontius Pilate to remove Christ from the cross, in exchange for a hefty sum.”

  “A bribe?”

  “Yes. Probably a supplement to Rome’s meager pension.” Donovan took a deep breath and gathered himself. “In the New Testament, Jesus’s body was supposedly
laid out for burial in Joseph’s family crypt.”

  “Before you continue, I must ask. This Templar relic ...the book. Is it authentic?”

  “I had the parchment, leather, and ink dated. The origin is unquestionably first century. But this book isn’t the relic Jacques DeMolay implied. It’s merely a means of finding the real treasure he alluded to.”

  Santelli stared at him.

  “Joseph of Arimathea describes Jesus’s burial rituals in vivid detail. How the body was cleaned, wrapped in spices and linen, and then bound. Coins were placed over the eyes.” Donovan’s voice sank an octave. “It claims that the body was laid out in Joseph’s tomb...for twelve months.”

  “A year?” Santelli was aghast. “Patrick, this isn’t yet more Gnostic scripture?” In the past Donovan had routinely briefed him on the many prebiblical writings that presented Jesus quite differently—an attempt by early leaders to entice pagans to adopt the Christian faith. Many of those stories were wildly exaggerated, rife with philosophical interpretations of Jesus’s teachings.