Without the diagram, this zigzag of tunnels would have been impossible to navigate. So many of the passages—most of which terminated in dead ends—looked the same, and being underground he had little sense of direction. By no means claustrophobic, Bersei had been in many subterranean lairs more daunting than this. But he had never been alone...in a gigantic tomb.
Judging from the map’s scale he figured he’d walked just under half a kilometer from the entrance. His destination was very close now.
Ahead, the left wall gave way to a sweeping archway—an entrance to a chamber called a cubiculum. In the opening, Bersei paused and referenced the map again to confirm that he had found the right cell. Pocketing the map, he let out a long breath and moved into the space beyond.
Running the light over the walls, he scanned the spacious square chamber, hewn out of the porous tufa. There were no loculi here, just workspaces where bodies would once have been laid out to be prepared for interment. Sitting in a corner were a couple of ancient amphoras, which had probably once contained scented oils and spices.
The floor was ornately tiled, the walls plastered and covered in more Judaic design, primarily menorahs and even strong depictions of the Second Temple and the Ark of the Covenant.
In the center of the floor, Bersei craned back his head and aimed the flashlight upwards. If he remembered correctly, what he’d most wanted to see would be here. The moment his eyes adjusted to the amazing fresco that covered the lofty vault, he felt the breath pulled out of his chest.
His flashlight momentarily switched off, Salvatore Conte listened intently for the distant sounds echoing through the stone maze. Strangely comfortable in darkness, the fact that for the second time in a week he found himself in a tomb had no effect on his resolve.
Totally unaware of his pursuer, the anthropologist was making no effort to conceal the scraping sounds of his footsteps against the rough tunnel floor. And stopping occasionally to view a map only compounded his predicament.
Conte was close now. Very close.
He poked his head around the corner of the wall. About forty meters down the narrow passage, a faint glow spilled out from an arched opening.
Reaching behind his back, he tucked the Glock into his belt. Keeping the light off, he quietly removed his coat and shoes, placing them beside the wall with the flashlight. The Minotaur was moving again. ***
Giovanni Bersei’s gaze was transfixed on the images floating above him.
In the center was a menorah contained within concentric circles like a sunburst, centered upon a large cross—a cruciform—wrapped by grapevine tendrils.
On the ends of the cross were circular forms containing other symbols—a shofar, the ceremonial horn used to usher in the Jewish New Year; etrogs, the lemon-shaped fruit used by Jews during sukkot, the feast of the sacred Tabernacle—all imagery that paid homage to the lost temple.
Between the equal arms of the cross were four half circles that he swore had been purposely arranged to match the points of a compass. Each contained the symbol carved onto the ossuary’s side—a dolphin wrapped around a trident. The early Christian symbol for Jesus Christ, the Savior— the dolphin who shuttled spirits to the afterlife superimposed over the physical incarnation of the Trinity.
Trembling, Bersei tucked the flashlight in his armpit and reached into his breast pocket for the photocopy of the scroll.
“My God,” Bersei muttered. The same exact image—a virtual reproduction of the ceiling fresco—was drawn beneath the Greek text written almost two millennia earlier by Joseph of Arimathea. It was this image that had drawn him here. As far as Bersei had been aware, this fresco was one-of-a-kind.
Impossible .
This commingling of Jewish and Christian motifs was overwhelming enough, but the fact that Joseph was somehow linked to this place was mind-boggling. Bersei lowered the light along the wall to a fresco of the Ark of the Covenant. Surely all these images were related. There was a clear message Joseph had left here. But what did he and Jesus have in common with the Tabernacle and the Ark of the Covenant? The possibilities were tantalizing.
Turning his attention to an opening in the cubiculum’s rear wall, he made his way into another chamber. If the place followed standard crypt design, this funerary preparation room would adjoin a burial room, or cella. Therefore, it was reasonable to assume that the corpses of the family who owned the cubiculum would have also occupied the cella.
He could barely control his excitement. Had he found the crypt of Joseph of Arimathea?
He moved forward into the rear chamber. As anticipated, the walls of this space were cleanly carved into loculi.
Amazing.
The beam of light shifted as Bersei counted the niches. Ten.
Nine of the shelves were fairly plain, spare some ornamental stone moldings. But on the rear wall, one loculus stood out. Most anthropologists would have quickly surmised this to be the burial spot of the family patriarch. But having seen the Jesus ossuary up close, Bersei immediately noticed the intricate rosettes and hatch patterns that framed this particular niche. Undoubtedly, it was the handiwork of the same stone craftsman who had decorated the ossuary.
Awestruck, Bersei paced forward, mouth agape. His imagination running wild, he pointed the light into the carved grotto, just large enough to store a prostrate body. Empty, of course. Now the light caught a symbol carved into the top edge of the frame. A dolphin wrapped around a trident.
Extraordinary.
Could Joseph of Arimathea have really transported Christ’s body back to Rome after the crucifixion? And if so, why? Bersei tried to wrap his head around the gigantic idea. Protection perhaps? But wasn’t there an empty tomb near Golgotha in Jerusalem? Maybe this could explain why the gospels said it had been found empty.
It actually seemed to make some sense. If Joseph’s family lived in Rome’s Jewish ghetto, it would have certainly been much safer to secret Christ’s body here, far away from the watchful eye of the Jewish Council and Pontius Pilate. Especially if customary burial rituals were to take place: rituals that involved shelving the corpse for up to a year.
“Dr. Bersei,” a sharp voice abruptly invaded the dead silence.
Startled, Bersei jumped and pivoted, swinging the light behind him. Half-expecting to see a ghastly apparition looking to punish him for his invasion of the tomb, he was even more terrified when the cylinder of light played on Salvatore Conte’s hard features. Having appeared without the slightest sound and dressed completely in black, it was if Conte had materialized from the wall of the crypt.
“Do you mind?” Squinting, Conte motioned at the flashlight.
Heart thundering hard against his ribs, Bersei lowered the beam to the floor. He noticed Conte wasn’t wearing shoes. At first glance, it also appeared that he wasn’t armed. “How did you get down here?” He feared he already knew the answer.
Conte ignored the question. “What are you looking for, doctor?”
Bersei didn’t answer.
Conte strode up to the anthropologist and snatched the photocopy from his hand.
“It’s merely research. Nothing more.” Cursing the fact that he was a horrible liar, Bersei retreated a step, his back pressing against the crypt wall.
“You must think I’m an idiot. I know you’ve taken files from the lab. Do you intend to give them to Detective Perardi too?”
Bersei went mute. How could Conte have known about Perardi? That call was made from his home. A sinking feeling came over him. Could the Vatican have been so ruthless as to tap his telephone?
“Stealing’s one thing. Stealing from the Vatican...Now that’s just unChristian. You surprise me, Dr. Bersei. But you are a smart man...I’ll give you that.” Conte turned and stepped away to the center of the chamber purposely displaying the Glock stuffed in his belt for dramatic effect. “Come here and give me some light.” He moved out into the center of the cubiculum.
Reluctantly, Giovanni Bersei shuffled into the antechamber and shone the l
ight high up into its vault. The beam oscillated in his shaking hand.
Conte absorbed the fresco’s complex imagery for a few seconds, then compared it to the image on the paper. “So this is what you’ve found,” he said, impressed. “Good work. Who would have thought that box had origins here? I guess Joseph of Arimathea was pretty worldly after all.”
Bersei frowned.
“I take it you think he brought Jesus’s body here first,” Conte continued, “before boxing the bones and shipping them back to that sandbox in the Holy Land. I don’t even think the librarian or the pope’s cronies could have thought this far ahead.”
Bersei was stupefied by Conte’s candor, and his casual disregard for what this all really meant. More so, he was horrified that Conte had just confirmed his suspicions of the Vatican’s knowledge of the theft. Now he was certain they were directly involved and somehow, Salvatore Conte had made it all possible. The master thief. The silent stalker. The Israeli death count scrolled through his mind’s eye. Thirteen dead. What was one more life for a man like this? Especially after what amounted to an admission of foul play. Immediately, his thoughts jumped to his wife, and three daughters. His mouth went dry.
Calmly, Conte folded the paper and slipped it into his pants pocket. Then he was coolly reaching behind his back for the Glock.
Correctly anticipating what was coming, Bersei reacted on survival impulse, slamming the flashlight against the stone wall behind him. There was a harsh clatter of metal and breaking glass as the element shattered, plunging the cubiculum into utter darkness.
An instant later, Conte squeezed off a shot, the muzzle flash strobing the darkness, just long enough to see that the scientist had already scrambled away on his knees. Conte paused briefly to gauge the sounds of his movement before firing again—another flash, followed by a perilously close ricochet that almost clipped Conte’s ear. Though his intention was merely to scare the scientist, not actually shoot him, he’d have to take better care aiming.
“Fuck,” Conte screamed out loud. “I hate this fucking game.” The game, of course, was the futile attempt of any quarry to survive the likes of a seasoned hunter like Salvatore Conte. He listened again, hoping Bersei would double back to the catacomb entrance. But to his surprise, a sloppy fall and fast-moving steps confirmed that the anthropologist had gone the opposite way—deeper into the maze.
Before Conte began his pursuit, he felt his way back a few meters to retrieve his flashlight and shoes. Slipping them on, he flicked on the flashlight and sprinted along the narrow tunnel, the amber glow of his light swinging with each pump of his arms.
Giovanni Bersei had a good head start, but the uncertainty of the catacomb’s layout, filled with long tunnels that ran hundreds of meters to dead ends, had him panic-stricken. He needed to keep his wits about him, above all to remember the map...or else. He shook the thought away.
Running through the uneven stone corridors, each footfall echoed loudly behind him, an aural trail for Conte.
There was something otherworldly about moving so quickly through pure black; disorienting. With nothing for his eyes to focus on, Bersei held one arm out like he was running a touchdown in an American football game, all the while praying he wouldn’t crash face-first into a wall. To make matters worse, as he progressed deeper, the air was harder to take in, putrid with the acrid smells of wet earth and chemicals he couldn’t quite identify—most likely the noxious gases that were the catacomb’s greatest natural hazard.
His right shoulder bounced off the wall and he spun slightly, almost tripping over himself. Slowing momentarily to regain his balance, he began to move again, only to careen into a wall face-first. Panting wildly, he thrust his arms to the right, groping, searching for an opening, praying that this wasn’t a dead end. Nothing except the hollow niches of loculi. For a split second, he considered hiding in one, but knew his uncontrolled breathing would give him away. He spun a one-eighty and paced over to the other wall. More stone.
Jesus, don’t do this to me.
Feeling his way along the wall and moving right, his hands found a void. The passageway hadn’t terminated; it simply angled hard to the left.
Just as Bersei rounded the corner, he swore he glimpsed a distant light that looked like a star in the night sky. He heard the steady drum of Conte running, louder by the second.
Bersei sprinted through the darkness, running purely on faith that he wouldn’t crash again. Seconds later, his feet tangled on something low to the floor. His legs buckled and he slammed hard onto the stone paving. He’d landed on what felt like paint cans, his head colliding loudly against some kind of metal case.
A blinding light shot into his eyes as intense pain racked his skull. He swore furiously, thinking the flash was a by-product of the head blow. But opening his eyes, he stared directly into an illuminated work light. Blinking, he saw that he had run directly into a section of the tunnel where restoration was still underway. Tools, brushes, and cans were strewn throughout the passage. A thick cord had lassoed his ankles and downed the pole light onto its switch. He yanked the mess away, snapping back to his feet, barely glimpsing the magnificent frescos that were in the process of repair.
The footsteps behind him were faster now, closing in.
The toolbox that he’d collided with lay open, a ball-peen hammer sitting in its top tray. He grabbed it and ran.
Conte rounded the corner where a mysterious light spilled out into the tunnel. He was beginning to feel a bit light-headed, not from the run, but from the acrid air now filling his lungs. Slowing to navigate the mess of tools blocking the passage, he planted a firm kick on the work light and it fizzled out.
Up ahead, the passage forked in three different directions. Racing to the intersection, he paused, striving to control his breathing, and listened.
Conte leveled the flashlight straight ahead. It appeared to be a dead end. Then he spun right and shone the light down the passageway, which curved gently out of sight. The left tunnel was also curved.
He listened again. Nothing. Finally he had to make a choice.
52
******
Jerusalem
Inside Station Zion’s cramped detaining cell, Graham Barton stared hopelessly at the solid metal door. Somehow he’d been framed as the mastermind behind the Temple Mount theft. Deep down he knew that the powers were aligned against him for a reason—perhaps an expedient political one.
Early that morning, Israeli police had finally permitted him to call his wife. Given the seven-hour time difference she’d been agitated when woken from a deep sleep. But after he explained his predicament, she quickly softened.
In Jenny’s voice, Barton sensed something that he thought was long dead—concern. She readily believed him when he insisted that he was innocent. “Come on Graham, I know you’d never do something like this.” Reassuring him that she would immediately formulate a plan of action, she’d ended the call by saying, “I love you, darling. I’m here for you.” The words had almost brought tears to his eyes, and in a moment when everything seemed dark and uncertain, he had regained something more precious than his freedom.
The door opened and he looked up at a familiar figure.
Razak.
Clearly upset, the Muslim crossed to the remaining chair as the door
closed behind him and was locked from the outside.
“Quite a predicament you’re in, Graham,” his tone was disappointed.
Razak had always been a good judge of character. Yet the police had presented such strong evidence against the archaeologist that he couldn’t help
but feel he’d been played for a fool.
“It’s a setup,” Barton insisted. “I had nothing to do with this crime. You
of all people should know that.”
“I like you. You seem to be a good man, but really, I don’t know what
to think. They said that solid evidence was discovered in your apartment.
Things only the thieves could ha
ve possessed.”
“Someone planted that drill,” Barton protested. “And you know as well
as me that the scroll was in that ossuary.” He saw the incredulous look on
the Muslim’s face. “For goodness sake, Razak. You have to tell them that
the scroll was in that ossuary.”
Razak spread his hands. “I had my back turned,” he reminded him. He
couldn’t discount the possibility that Barton may have purposely gone
through the charade of opening the remaining ossuaries to legitimize the
scroll in his possession. But why? For notoriety? To discredit the Muslim
claim to Temple Mount by sidetracking the investigation with a territorial
dispute? Maybe to divert the blame to a fanatical Christian? “Right. I see.” Disappointment clouded the archaeologist’s face. “You’re
Sacred Bones : A Novel Page 27
