Then she broke into a sprint, eyes focused on the gate.
Conte reacted instantly, shooting out onto the roadway, just missing a delivery van that was heading into the city. A horn blared, but he ignored it—sights set on his quarry.
She managed another ten meters before Conte drew perilously close. There was no way she’d get around him.
***
Conte lunged in front of Charlotte, stopping her dead in her tracks. “You’re not going anywhere with that,” he growled, eyeing the laptop bag. For some reason, the geneticist didn’t look scared. He noticed that she kept glancing at the huge purple lump on his temple, then over his shoulder toward the gate.
Then she did something he hadn’t expected. She screamed.
For a moment, Conte was paralyzed.
“Help!” Charlotte screamed again, louder this time.
The guards at the gate heard her. Two of them, dressed in blue coveralls and black berets, were running toward her, drawing their holstered Berettas and pushing through the crowd of startled tourists.
Conte considered grabbing the bag. But where would he go? He punished himself for not having a weapon. “Remember your confidentiality agreement, Dr. Hennesey,” he stated calmly. “Or I’ll have to come and find you.”
When she saw his attention momentarily shift to the approaching guards, she took the opportunity to do something she’d been thinking about since the moment she met this creep. Bending slightly at the knees, she swept a powerful left foot at his crotch, landing a perfect shot.
Conte buckled. Wretching, he had to put his hands to the ground to not fall flat on his face. “You fucking cunt!” The veins in his red face bulged as he stared malevolently at the American.
The two guards arrived and planted themselves on opposite sides, guns leveled at his head. “Stay still!” one of them commanded, first in English, then Italian.
Gasping, Conte immediately recognized him as the cacasenno, or smart-ass, who manned the gate the day he arrived at Vatican City with Donovan. The guard had made the connection too and flashed a satisfied grin.
“What’s going on here?” the second one asked Charlotte in English.
“This man was threatening me, trying to take my bag.” Her voice was urgent.
The first guard was asking Conte for identification.
“I’m not . . .”—he spit out more vomit and bile—“carrying it on me.” He was sure Santelli wouldn’t approve of name-dropping in this situation. Later, he would insist on a phone call to the secretary. He also decided against telling the guards that the laptop contained critical information since that would only lead to bigger problems if they insisted on details. For now, he’d have to play the game.
The second guard had also asked Charlotte for identification, which she readily provided. The ornate papal crest on her guest badge showed she was a guest of the secretariat. “You’re free to go, Dr. Hennesey.”
He turned to Conte. “And you’ll need to come with us, signore.”
Conte had no option but to comply.
The guards helped him to his feet and remained at his side, Berettas drawn.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Charlotte made her way to the gate. Once safely outside Vatican City, she angled her way to Via Della Conciliazione, waved down a taxi, and told the driver to take her directly to Fiumicino Airport. Rapidamente! The car lurched forward as the driver stepped hard on the accelerator, but this was one time she wasn’t going to complain about Rome’s insane drivers. She couldn’t get out of this place fast enough.
Only now did she realize that her entire body was trembling.
Peering out the rear window, she watched the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica as it shrank away, fingers still clamped around the laptop bag.
The taxi driver hit the Autostrada and Charlotte watched the needle on the speedometer climb to 160 kilometers per hour. She sank back and put on her seat belt. With Rome safely behind her, Charlotte pulled out her cell phone and called Evan Aldrich. So what if it was still the middle of the night in Phoenix? He picked up almost instantly.
“Evan?”
“Hey, Charlie. I was just thinking about you.”
Hearing his voice instantly soothed her. “Hi.” Her voice wavered.
“Everything okay?”
“No. Not at all.” Lowering her voice and turning away from the driver, she gave him a brief rundown of what had transpired. “I’m heading to the airport now.”
“I was going to surprise you, but ...I was actually on my way there to see you. In fact, my flight just arrived at Fiumicino a few minutes ago.”
“What? You’re kidding!” Her shoulders relaxed.
“I’m at the baggage carousel right now. I’ll tell you where to meet me.”
60
******
Abruzzo, Italy
An hour northeast of Rome, Salvatore Conte’s rented black Alfa Romeo sedan climbed the SS5 autostrada along the Apennine mountain range into Monte Scuncole. The afternoon sky was a dull gray that choked the sun to a fizzled shade of white. A light drizzle sprayed the windshield.
Trying to settle his thoughts, Patrick Donovan stared out the misty passenger window at the patchwork of vineyards in the valley below.
Following Charlotte Hennesey’s unanticipated and hasty departure earlier that morning, and Conte’s embarrassing bailout from the Swiss Guard detention center, a profoundly anxious Cardinal Santelli had given him specific instructions about what was to happen next: “You’ll need to see to it that this chapter of the Church’s history disappears without a trace—by whatever means necessary, Patrick. I’ll have Conte assist you in destroying the ossuary and everything it contains...the manuscript too. Without the physical evidence, the only thing that should remain is a legend. Understood?”
The relics and book could easily have been destroyed in the Vatican laboratory, so he intuited that this drive was about far more than a simple disposal of the ossuary. Glancing at the mercenary, he knew that Dr. Bersei’s mysterious disappearance coincided all too well with Conte’s unexplained head wound.
Conte slowed the sedan and turned right down a narrow unpaved road. Thick grass and low bushes scraped the car’s undercarriage. They drove on in silence until the trail broadened by a small grove of beech trees. Conte braked, and killed the engine, leaving the keys in the ignition. He pushed the trunk release button.
Emerging from the car, both men circled to the back. Shovels and picks had been stowed diagonally behind the ossuary. Conte grabbed them and pushed a spade into Donovan’s hands. “We’ll need to dig deep.”
“Now that this thing’s over”—Conte wiped away sweat from his forehead with the back of his muddy hand—“I’ve got a couple of questions for you.” He thrust his shovel into the soil and leaned on it. The smell of fresh earth filled the damp air. The light rain had resumed.
Donovan peered up at him through foggy glasses. “Haven’t you seen enough to answer your questions?”
The mercenary shook his head. “Whose bones do you really believe are in that ossuary?” Salvatore Conte wasn’t questioning his own faith. That was something he’d abandoned long ago. But the theft of the ossuary and its scientific analysis, along with Bersei’s discoveries at the Torlonia catacombs had really piqued his curiosity.
“You’ve seen the same evidence as me.” Donovan stretched his arms. “What do you think?”
Conte smiled. “It’s not my job to think.”
“Honestly, I don’t know.”
“So why go to all this trouble?”
Donovan considered this. “The evidence is substantial. For all we know, these are the bones of Jesus Christ. Our duty is to protect the Church. Surely you can see that action had to be taken.”
“Well, if that’s Jesus in there”—the mercenary pointed to the car’s trunk—“I’d say you’re protecting an enormous lie.”
Donovan hadn’t expected a man like Salvatore Conte to understand the broader implications of all this. Two mi
llennia of human history would be fundamentally affected by the ossuary and its contents. Humankind needed truths to bring people together, not controversies. He’d learned that firsthand on the streets of Belfast. Patrick Donovan was supremely well versed in Catholic history, but what he was defending had little to do with old books. There was a moral imperative that needed to be preserved so that what spiritual belief remained in this chaotic, materialistic world could remain strong. “I’m surprised. You don’t strike me as someone who’d really give a shit about that.”
Surprised by the priest’s language, Conte shot him a look. Suddenly the task before him seemed easier. “I don’t actually. Besides, if there was a God,” he said sarcastically, “men like you and me wouldn’t exist.” He continued digging.
Donovan was disgusted by the idea that he and Conte shared any commonalities, but knew that perhaps the mercenary was right. I am part of this. After all, Conte wasn’t operating autonomously—he was merely a foot soldier. And it wasn’t Conte who’d beseeched Santelli to take action to retrieve the ossuary—he had done that. Granted, he had never anticipated the extreme measures Santelli would employ, but he hadn’t intervened to stop him.
“What really happened to Dr. Bersei?” Donovan’s tone was forceful. Somehow he knew his own fate was linked to Conte’s answer.
“Don’t worry yourself about him.” Conte’s hard face was twisted. “He got what he deserved and I spared you the dirty work. That’s all you need to know.”
“Why was he in the catacombs?” Donovan felt a swell of anger.
Conte considered dodging the question, but knew that at this juncture, Donovan was no threat. “The scroll he found in the ossuary had a picture on it—and he figured out that it matched a fresco in the Torlonia catacombs. Apparently this Joseph of Arimathea character had a crypt in Rome. Seems Bersei thought that’s where Jesus was originally dried out. Who’d have thought?”
Donovan’s eyes went wide. Could it be? Had he found the actual tomb?
“Let me give you a piece of advice,” Conte added. “Don’t get too attached to the girl, either.” He liked it that each revelation weakened the priest’s resolve. “She’s only on temporary reprieve.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Santelli told me all that nonsense you fed her about the manuscript. Nice story. But you’re failing to grasp that you’ve already given her too much information. Did the cardinal tell you she skipped off with her laptop...loaded up with all the data?”
“No, he didn’t.” No wonder Santelli was a bundle of nerves about all this—the whole thing was on the verge of unraveling. Conte had been sloppy—the reports coming out of Jerusalem now included a computerized photofit image that bore an uncanny resemblance to him. Giovanni Bersei was dead. Now Hennesey had managed to leave with all the proof she needed to implicate the Vatican.
“It’s not good. I’ve got to fix that too and her blood will be on your hands.”
Hatred showed in the priest’s eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that, Donovan. You’re the one who insisted on bringing in outsiders.”
“We had no choice.”
“Exactly.”
“What are you going to do to her?”
Grinning deviously, Conte waited before responding. “Wouldn’t you just love to know. You sound like an infatuated lover, for Christ’s sake. Santelli feels that two deaths linked so closely to the Vatican would arouse too much suspicion. But if a freak accident should happen to befall the lovely geneticist back home in the States, the authorities would be none the wiser. Of course, I’ll be sure to show her a good time before she goes.” Then we’ll see who gets the last laugh, he thought. Conte sighed, as if bored. “Keep digging.”
Donovan’s jaw tensed as he thrust his shovel into the dirt, the latent anger pushed deep down in his soul fighting its way to the surface.
It took them almost three hours to carve out the five-foot-deep rectangular pit.
This pit could easily accommodate the ossuary and a body, Donovan thought.
At last Conte threw his shovel to the ground. “Looks good.” Both men were lathered in dirt and sweat. “Let’s get the ossuary.”
They walked back to the sedan.
Donovan turned to him. “Why are we burying this? Can’t we just destroy it on the ground?”
Without responding, Conte leaned into the trunk and lifted the ossuary’s lid. Resting on top of the bones was the Ephemeris Conlusio and two thick gray blocks that resembled molded clay.
Donovan pointed to the C-4. “Is that—”
“Oh, I think a man with your background should know. Or didn’t the IR A use this stuff to blow up Protestant storefronts in Belfast? Boom!” Conte opened his eyes in mock astonishment and splayed his fingers.
How on earth could he have known that? That had been years ago— another lifetime.
“So best to blow it apart underground, wouldn’t you agree?”
Donovan wondered if Conte would hit him on the head with a shovel, then push him into the hole and detonate the explosives. Or was he concealing a gun? Perhaps the mercenary would elect to kill him with his bare hands.
Conte stood to face him. “You take that end.” He moved to one side, wrapping his hands round the ossuary’s base, while Donovan stepped forward to grasp the other end.
They heaved the ossuary out of the trunk, lugging it over to the edge of the pit.
“Drop on three.” Conte counted down.
Father Donovan felt a sudden dread as he watched the ossuary hit the earth with a dull thud. The lid slammed back onto the base, producing a crack along its etchings. He thought about Santelli sitting in his office, working diligently to preserve the huge institution created by the man these innocent bones might have belonged to. He thought about his meeting with Santelli weeks earlier when the initial battle plan had been mapped out. Once again, the Vatican seemed to have emerged victorious.
Conte turned around for his spade. Wrapping his hands around its handle he studied the sharp edges. One solid blow to Donovan’s skull should do it. He’d toss the body in with the box. Covered with dirt, the C-4 would do the rest. From the corner of his eye, he noticed that the priest was crouching down as if to tie his shoe.
Rising to his feet, a very different man now faced him. The priest was aiming a silver handgun directly at his chest. Eyeing him disdainfully, as if the gun-wielding curator was almost comical, Conte scrutinized the weapon—a standard issue Beretta, most likely lifted from the Swiss Guard barracks. The safety was off.
Donovan was determined to survive, not just for himself, but more so to preserve the innocent life of Charlotte Hennesey and anyone else he’d unwittingly involved in this fiasco. “Drop the shovel,” he demanded.
Shaking his head chastisingly, Conte squatted to rest the shovel on the spongy grass, then quickly went for the Glock strapped round his right ankle, beneath his pant leg.
The first shot was unexpectedly loud, striking Conte in the right hand with appalling force. The slug ripped cleanly through flesh and bone, grazing the mercenary’s ankle as it exited. Conte flinched, but didn’t scream. Blood bubbled out from the hole and his damaged hand curled into a tight claw. He peered up at Donovan. “Motherfucker. You’re going to pay for that.”
“Stand up,” Donovan demanded, daring to move a bit closer, leveling the gun at Conte’s head. Killing the son of a bitch wasn’t going to be nearly as hard as he had thought. Give me strength, Lord. Help me make this right.
At first, it looked as if the mercenary would comply. But what happened next was far too fast for him. Conte sprang forward, burying a shoulder in Donovan’s chest, forcing him back and then down.
Remarkably, the priest managed to maintain his grip on the Beretta. Conte reached for it with his left hand, but miscalculated, cupping the muzzle. A second shot cracked through the air and Conte screamed out in frustration. Now his good hand had been mangled too.
Badly wounded, Conte still mana
ged to force Donovan’s gun-hand down to the ground. Cocking his elbow back, he landed a shot just below the priest’s wrist, forcing the Beretta away. Next he brought the elbow down hard on Donovan’s face, crunching bone and cartilage. The priest’s nose instantly spewed blood and he cried out in agony.
Thrashing viciously, Donovan tried to escape from under the assassin, but to no avail. Conte let go of the priest’s arm to prepare another elbow-shot. That’s when Donovan had a fraction of a second to strike the only vulnerable thing he could see through his blood-splattered bifocals. He jabbed hard with his fist at the purple lump on the side of Conte’s head.
It worked. Momentarily dazed, Conte teetered off to one side, allowing Donovan to stagger to his feet. Seeing there was no chance of getting the Beretta, he ran away.
After a few seconds, the blaring pain subsided, but Conte was still seeing stars through a haze of red covering his right eye. Blood poured down his face where Donovan’s ring had opened the hammer wound. Shaking his head, he spotted the priest retreating along the trail toward the Autostrada.
Sacred Bones : A Novel Page 31
