The fumbled Beretta was under Conte’s shoulder. He tried grabbing it, but neither crippled hand would obey. If picking the damn thing up was going to be a problem, firing it would be impossible. “Affanculo! Sticchiu! ” Abandoning the weapon, Conte sprang to his feet in pursuit.
Halfway to the Autostrada, Donovan was running frantically, glancing back over his shoulder. Not only was Conte back on his feet, he was in full sprint, quickly closing the gap. It would only be a matter of time until he caught up. Unarmed, Donovan knew he was no match for the trained killer, wounded or not. Please, Lord, help me get through this. Donovan heard Conte’s hoarse panting. He was only a couple of paces behind him, ready to pounce. Calling on all his reserve energy, Donovan pushed his body to the limit.
Five meters.
Two meters.
As Donovan’s front foot hit the Autostrada’s macadam he barely registered a fast-approaching car just on the periphery of his field of vision. A blaring horn. Headlights perilously close. Squealing rubber. He barely saw the yellow-painted line that divided the roadway. By some miracle, the car veered behind him... just as Conte’s feet touched the roadway.
Collapsing onto the roadway, he watched Conte’s legs bend and snap in the wrong direction against the car’s front end, his body hurled up onto the hood, striking the windshield, tumbling over the roof and onto the roadway.
Trying to compensate for the sudden maneuver, the Mercedes’s antilock brakes and traction control system simultaneously went into action. But the sedan couldn’t defy the physical combination of excessive speed, a sudden turn, and rain-slicked pavement. It careened into a large fir tree, the bodywork crumpling around the trunk in a horrible cacophony of twisting metal and breaking glass. The driver—a young female with long blond hair who apparently hadn’t been wearing a seat belt—was ejected through the windshield and hung limp across the hood of the car, neck broken, blood everywhere. The sound of the Mercedes’s rear tire spinning and the hiss of a broken radiator played along to the car’s radio, still loudly throwing off a techno dance number.
There was nothing Donovan could do for her.
Conte was down, but remarkably, still moving.
Donovan staggered over to the mangled assassin, convinced that a threat still existed. There was no way he was going to gamble that Salvatore Conte was going to have even the slightest chance of making it out of here alive. Looking both ways down the quiet roadway, Donovan clawed for the handgun strapped to Conte’s right ankle, tearing it free. The chamber was loaded, safety off. As he jabbed it against Conte’s lumpy right temple, he swore he could hear the church bells chiming over Belfast. “God forgive me.”
Father Patrick Donovan squeezed the trigger.
61
******
Donovan dragged Conte’s broken body into a thicket of bushes by the side of the road and concealed it beneath a shallow covering of leaves and branches. Stripping the mercenary of his wallet, he came across a syringe and a vial of clear liquid, and pocketed them too.
Next, he ran back along the trail to the pit, easing himself down into it. Donovan manhandled the two broken halves of the lid out onto the ground, then carefully pulled the two bricks of C-4 from the ossuary, leaving them in the hole.
Planting both feet firmly beside the ossuary, he crouched low and grabbed beneath it, lengthwise. With little room to maneuver, it took him a while to steadily ease it up along the dirt wall, its weight not so much a problem as its awkward dimensions. He managed to coax it up and out, until it rested on the rim of the pit. Sweating profusely and struggling to catch his breath, he climbed out.
Moving the Alfa closer, Donovan made a final effort to hoist the ossuary into the trunk and stowed the shovels behind the box. Slamming the lid, he ducked into the driver’s seat, a dirty, bloody mess. Fatigue swept over him. His muscles were aching and his smashed nose throbbed painfully. But, all things considered, he felt pretty good, the waning adrenaline still giving him an almost euphoric high. Overall, he was pleased with his performance. It had been a long time since he’d handled a weapon or fought in self-defense. But as his father used to say, “The Irish forgive their great men only when they are safely buried.”
God had protected him...and he knew why. This injustice needed to be undone.
He wiped the blood and prints from the Beretta and Conte’s Glock, both still smelling of burnt gunpowder, and stashed them inside the glove compartment. He’d toss the Glock in the first river he came across, but for now, he’d hold onto the Beretta. Switching on the ignition, he circled the sedan back along the trail.
When he reached the Autostrada, Donovan paused, surprised that anyone had yet to arrive on the scene. There hadn’t even been another car.
Eyeing the brush-covered corpse on the side of the roadway, Donovan knew that once discovered, it would be difficult, if not impossible to identify the mangled mercenary. Fingerprints, dental records, or any other forensic identification technique, no matter how sophisticated, would no doubt come up blank. Equally certain was the fact that Conte couldn’t be tied in any way to the Vatican. He was a drifter, plain and simple—a man from obscurity, returning to obscurity.
He wondered which way to go.
With little deliberation, Patrick Donovan turned right, heading southwest. As the scene in his rearview mirror disappeared, he prayed silently for the soul of the woman driver.
62
******
Jerusalem
Seated at his kitchen table, sipping a late afternoon tea, Razak was interrupted by his cell phone. Checking the screen, the caller I.D. flashed “UNAVAILABLE.” Confused, he picked it up. “As-Salaam?”
“I saw you on television.”
The man spoke in English and his voice was vaguely familiar. “Who is this?”
“A friend.”
Razak set down his glass. Maybe a reporter, he thought. Or perhaps even someone with information. But he swore he’d heard the lilting accent somewhere before.
“I know who stole the ossuary,” the voice stated flatly.
Razak straightened in his chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The caller would need to be more specific before he would confirm what had been taken.
“Yes you do. I met with you only a few weeks ago in Rome. You delivered a package to me at Café Greco. You gave me your card and said to call you if there were any problems.”
In his mind’s eye, Razak recalled the bald man with glasses, sitting at the table with wiry fingers wrapped tightly around a pint of lager. He had been wearing black with a white collar—a Christian cleric. Razak remembered that the leather satchel he had given the priest contained a confidential dossier, but he was trying to understand how it had anything to do with the ossuary. “I do,” he replied tentatively. “I’m listening.”
“The book contained very detailed information about an ossuary buried deep beneath Temple Mount in a hidden chamber.”
“What book?”
“There were nine other ossuaries there, too. Am I not correct?”
“Okay.” Razak’s voice was encouraging. Not quite an admission.
“And I have the tenth ossuary.”
Wishing he could record this conversation, Razak paused, stupefied. “You killed thirteen men. You desecrated a very holy site.” He stood from the table and began pacing the apartment.
“No,” the caller cut in, insistent. “Not me.”
Razak sensed the man’s sincerity.
“...But I know who did,” the voice added.
“And how do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“Because I’m going to give the ossuary back to you....So you can put an end to this, as you see fit.”
At first, Razak didn’t know what to say. “And why would you do that?”
“I see what is happening there, in Jerusalem,” the man continued. “Too many innocent people suffering. I know you agree. You’re a just man. I could tell that the moment I met you.”
It was al
most too much for Razak to comprehend. “I don’t suppose you’ll be making the delivery yourself?”
“Unfortunately, there’s more work I’ll need to do. I’m sure you’ll understand that I cannot take that risk.”
“I see.”
A pause.
Razak couldn’t help but to ask: “What was inside the ossuary that made it so valuable?”
There was a long pause.
“Something very profound.”
Razak shuddered when he thought about Barton’s wild theory about fanatical Christians. Could the remains of Jesus really have been inside the missing ossuary? Did this mysterious book tell of the relic’s ancient origins?
“Will the contents be returned with the box?”
“Unfortunately, I cannot allow that.”
Razak dared another question. “Was it really his remains inside that box?” He tried to prepare himself for the response.
The caller hesitated, clearly knowing whom Razak was referring to. “There’s no way to know for sure. For your own safety, please don’t ask any more about this. Just let me know where you’d like it delivered.”
Razak thought about it. He pictured Barton sitting in an Israeli prison cell, awaiting trial. Then he considered how Farouq—the singular force behind the delivery of the book that had set everything in motion—had likely played him like a fool, jeopardizing both peace and lives. Razak decided to give the caller a name and a shipping address. “When should I expect it to arrive?”
“It will be sent out today, I assure you. I’ll spare no expense to have it to you as soon as possible.”
“And the book?” Razak inquired.
“I’ll be sure to include that as well.”
“Can you send that to a different address?”
“Absolutely.”
Razak gave him the second mailing address.
“And for the record,” the caller added, “that English archaeologist be- ing held by Israeli police had nothing to do with all this.”
“I suspected that,” Razak replied. “And the real thieves? What will happen to them?”
Another pause. “I think you’ll agree that justice has its own way of finding the guilty.”
The line went dead.
63
SATURDAY
******
Temple Mount
After dawn prayer, Razak headed straight for the El-Aqsa Mosque. He hadn’t slept at all last night, his mind mulling over the shocking phone call he’d received from the priest he had met in Rome three weeks ago. The Israeli police were right. Only an insider could have abetted the thieves. Now it was clear that Graham Barton wasn’t the insider.
In the rear of the building, he made his way down a service corridor ending at a newly installed metal fire door. Above it, a sign in Arabic read: “Open only in case of emergency.”
He reached down and turned the handle.
Beyond the door, a freshly painted spiral staircase wound down twelve meters, directly to the subterranean Marwani Mosque. A secret passageway? Could this be the modern equivalent of the one Joseph of Arimathea used two thousand years ago?
Turning his attention back to the corridor, he let the door swing shut.
Off each side of this hallway lay the mosque’s storage rooms.
His heartbeat quickened as he went over to the first door and opened it. Inside there were cardboard boxes stacked against one wall and a shelving unit containing cleaning supplies. Another shelf was stacked with fresh copies of the Qur’an, ready to provide spiritual enlightenment to new Muslim recruits. He shut the door and moved on to the next room.
Behind the second door were stacked chairs, a discarded desk, and spare oriental carpets rolled up in plastic, propped against a side wall. Against the rear wall lay the charred remnants of the mihrab that had been set ablaze by a young Australian Jew, Michael Rohan, on August 21, 1969. Razak remembered being told that the fanatic had informed Israeli authorities that his act had been inspired by God to expedite the coming of the Messiah and the rebuilding of the Third Jewish Temple.
Closing the door, Razak considered that maybe his theory was wrong. He wanted it to be wrong.
Next he continued down the hall to the door that marked the threshold to the last storage room. Trying the handle, he was surprised to find that it had been locked. He tried it again. Nothing.
Puzzled, he made his way back through the mosque’s spacious prayer hall, out into the bright morning sun, and across the esplanade toward the Qur’anic teaching school. If he were to find the Keeper there, he’d insist that the room be opened for inspection.
But upstairs, Farouq’s office was empty.
Razak stood motionless for a moment, struggling with what he should do. Then reluctantly, he circled behind the desk and searched its four drawers.
Inside, he discovered a strange array of items that included a compact handgun and a liter of Wild Turkey bourbon that, since the Qur’an strictly forbade drinking alcohol, Razak fervently hoped Farouq had confiscated from someone. There was an ornate bronze casket stashed in the left bottom drawer, but it was locked. Finally, he found what he was looking for: a key ring. Snatching it up, he made his way downstairs and out the building.
Traversing the esplanade, Razak was unaware of the Keeper trailing discreetly behind him.
Negotiating his way through the El-Aqsa’s prayer hall, Razak produced the key ring, stopping at the rear corridor’s locked door. One by one, he tried the keys. Coming across a small, tarnished skeleton key, he wondered if it opened the casket that he’d found in Farouq’s desk. He continued through the set. Finally, with only two keys left and a waning sense of hope, a silver key slid easily into the lock. Praying silently and holding his breath, Razak turned it.
Clicking, the lock gave way.
Razak depressed the door handle. Beyond the threshold, the windowless room was dark. Moving inside, Razak fumbled for the light switch, leaving the door open. The room appeared empty.
The overhead strip lights crackled and slowly came to life, strobing the room with quick flashes that played with his eyes.
Then the room was aglow.
Instantly, Razak’s face slackened in bewilderment.
Along the rear wall, the nine ossuaries, each etched in Hebrew text with the names of Joseph and his family members, had been neatly arranged on the vinyl-tiled floor.
“Allah save us,” Razak muttered in Arabic.
From the corner of his eye he detected a figure in the doorway and spun round.
Farouq.
“You’ve done well, Razak.” Farouq crossed his arms, stuffing his hands into the loose sleeves of his black tunic. “You mustn’t be troubled by this. They will shortly disappear.”
The Keeper’s talent for making things vanish was starting to sicken him. “What have you done?”
“A noble deed to help our people,” the Keeper stated flatly. “Don’t concern yourself with the small sacrifices that need to be made.”
“Small sacrifices?” Razak stared at the ossuaries. “You framed an innocent man.”
“Barton? Innocent? None of them are innocent, Razak. Not when their motive is to threaten Allah.”
“Did the other council members know about this?”
The Keeper made a dismissive motion. “Does that matter?”
“You sent me to Rome to deliver a package to the Vatican—a book that led them to perpetrate this unthinkable crime. I feel some explanation is warranted. Many men died for this and an innocent man is now being detained by the police. And what exactly have you achieved?”
“Razak.” Farouq shook his head in disappointment. “You haven’t grasped the seriousness of our situation here. We’ve achieved solidarity and unity. Our people rely on us to protect both them and their faith. And a faith like ours must remain strong throughout. Here in Jerusalem what we protect isn’t just a patch of land or a sacred shrine. Islam is everything. To undermine its teachings is to take away a Muslim’s soul. Don’t you unde
rstand?”
“But this isn’t a war.”
“It’s been a war since the very beginning. Ever since the Christians and Jews decided to reclaim this forgotten land made sacred by the great prophet Muhammad, Allah grant him peace. Need I remind you that I’ve shed my own blood to protect our people and this place? A great number of people have given their lives so that men like you”—he jabbed a finger—“can still have homes here.”
Razak elected to remain silent. Undeniably a real debt was owed to men like Farouq, men who had vehemently opposed Israeli occupation. But he was tired of the rhetoric, tired of the perpetual hatred that plagued this place. He wanted answers. And Razak knew for certain that those answers would begin with knowing exactly how a book delivered to Rome had divulged the precise location of an ancient crypt concealed beneath Temple Mount for centuries.
Sacred Bones : A Novel Page 32
