Sacred Bones : A Novel

by Michael Byrnes

  Aldrich leaped up and paced around. “Well, I found that the sample you’d sent me registered less than ten percent of the total expected genetic material found in the standard human genome.”

  Charlotte eased back into her armchair, shaking her head in disbelief. “I don’t understand.”

  “Me either,” Aldrich replied. “So I did a lot more testing. Using our new system to compare the genome to all known anomalies, I came up with ...ready for this? No matches. Nothing! Not a single one!”

  For a moment her rational mind shut down. No explanation came. “What does that mean?”

  “This sample has no junk DNA!” Aldrich was shouting.

  Before the Human Genome Project’s completion in 2003, scientists believed human superiority over other organisms—especially in intelligence— would translate to a substantially larger, more complex genetic code. But the human genome had fallen far short of expectation, having only onetwelfth of the genetic content of an ordinary onion. Geneticists attributed the differential to junk DNA—garbage heaps of defunct genes along the DNA strands rendered obsolete by evolution.

  It sounded like a scientific fairy tale. But recalling the flawless 3-D physical profile the DNA sample suggested—the absence of a known ethnicity, the androgyny, the unique coloring and features—it made sense. “Evan, are you seriously telling me that this sample has DNA with a perfect genetic structure?”

  He nodded. “I know it seems too good to be true.”

  A flawless genome implied the absence of an evolutionary process. An organism in its purest, most unadulterated form.

  Perfection, she thought. But how could a human possibly exhibit that kind of profile? It certainly didn’t jibe with what Darwin or modern science presented as the explanation for human development from primates.

  Evan Aldrich waved a shaking hand at the screen. “This DNA could potentially be used as a template to spot anomalies in comparative samples. And it could be replicated using bacterial plasma.”

  Charlotte stared at him. “Aren’t you getting a bit ahead of yourself?”

  “It would take stem cell research to an entirely new level. I mean, this is perfect DNA in a viral form! Unimaginable.” He spoke slowly. “A miracle, in fact. It got me thinking about the real consequences of making this public, how the world would respond. At first I thought how many lives could be saved, the effect on disease. Then I envisioned biotech companies scrambling to customize cures for the rich. And designer babies. And rationed healthcare. Biological elitism. It will only benefit the rich—the poor won’t get a piece of this. And even if they did—using such a broad brush to wipe out disease would be devastating. Widespread longevity would lead to unprecedented population growth that would place enormous strain on all the world’s resources.”

  She felt overwhelmed. “I see what you mean, but—”

  “Let me finish,” he urged. “There’s a point to all this.” He reached over with his right hand and pinched the vial between his fingers, holding it up in front of her. “This.”

  66

  ******

  Vatican City

  Cardinal Antonio Carlo Santelli stared dejectedly out of his office window at the expanse of Piazza San Pietro and the giant obelisk at its center that glowed pure white in the morning sunlight. He panned over to the basilica and the statues of saints lining the rooftop. If Catholics knew his noble intentions—to protect the faithful as a true servant of God—would his image too be immortalized and adored there one day? Would he become a modern-day martyr? A saint?

  It hadn’t been just the high drama of the past few weeks. As far back as the Banco Ambrosiano scandal, the revelations he had witnessed during his tenure in the Vatican had gradually made him question his devotion to the Church. He wondered if his life had truly been in the service of a greater good, or whether he was fast becoming everything he’d once loathed as a young and idealistic priest.

  Late yesterday morning, after personally seeing to Conte’s release from the Swiss Guard detention cell, he’d given the reckless mercenary the goahead to eliminate the last potential complications that could implicate the Vatican in the Jerusalem debacle: the ossuary and its contents, of course; Father Patrick Donovan, next; then Dr. Charlotte Hennesey; and finally, her American lover, Evan Aldrich.

  Yet more blood on his hands.

  Last night, he had expected an update from Conte to confirm that both the relics had been eliminated. No call had come. Now he was starting to worry that the mercenary had double-crossed him, convinced that the next call from him would involve more money—blackmail.

  Worse, only minutes ago, he’d heard a news report concerning the death of a docent at the Torlonia catacombs—not exactly the type of thing that made headlines. But the seemingly mundane incident had prompted a routine police inquiry from the only name listed on a visitors’ sign-in sheet found in the docent’s office. That had led investigators to the visitor’s distraught wife who had just contacted the police to report that her husband hadn’t come home last night. A search of the catacombs ensued. It hadn’t taken the authorities long to find Giovanni Bersei’s broken body at the base of a shaft. Perhaps under better circumstances the incident could have been classified as an accident—a strange intersection of misfortune for two men who happened to be in the same place. However, police had spoken to a witness—a young woman jogger—who had reported seeing a stranger exiting the site and loading the anthropologist’s scooter onto a van. The photofit she had provided happened to bear an uncanny resemblance to another sketch coming out of Jerusalem.

  The media was eating it up.

  Any minute now, Santelli expected a call from the investigators.

  Another scandal.

  In each hand, Santelli held the two halves of the scroll the scientists had found in Christ’s ossuary. In his left hand was the sketched ceiling fresco in Joseph’s crypt deep within the Torlonia catacombs. In his right hand was the ancient Greek text that preceded the drawing, which he had asked Conte to separate from the picture, fearing the text might contain some overt message. Prior to sending Father Donovan to accompany Conte on his fatal journey, he had asked the priest to translate the Greek message— the last remnant of Christianity’s centuries-old threat.

  The transcription was penned onto a crisp sheet of Vatican letterhead. Leaning over his desk, Santelli pieced together the scroll’s halves beside it.

  He had considered destroying the scroll, burning it. But now he prayed that something in it might settle him. Drawing a deep breath, he studied the original vellum one more time, then shifted his gaze over to read Father Donovan’s transcription:

  May faith guide us in our solemn vow to protect the sanctity of God. Here lay his son, awaiting his final resurrection so that God’s testimony may be restored and the souls of all men may be judged. Let these bones not dissuade the faithful, for stories are but words written by misguided men. The spirit is the eternal truth.

  May God have mercy on us all.

  His loyal servant,

  Joseph of Arimathea

  The intercom came to life, pulling the cardinal from his thoughts. “Eminence, I’m sorry to bother you, but . . .”

  “What is it Father Martin?” The young priest sounded flustered. “Father Donovan is here to see you. I told him you weren’t available,

  but he’s refusing to leave.”

  Alarmed, the cardinal collapsed into his chair, hands gripping the armrests. Donovan? Impossible. Santelli opened the top drawer of his desk, confirming that the Beretta was still there. “Send him in.”

  Seconds later, the office door opened.

  As Patrick Donovan made his way into the room, Santelli saw that he had deep bruises under each eye. The priest’s nose was crooked and swollen, looking like it had just been pieced back together. He was wearing what appeared to be an old pair of glasses with thick plastic frames rather than his usual wire-rimmed bifocals. Santelli eyed the bulky leather bag that the priest gripped in his left hand.


  Donovan sat in the leather chair opposite the cardinal and placed the bag on his lap.

  Santelli offered neither ring nor handshake.

  Donovan wasted no time. “I came to show you something.” He patted the bag.

  Had Santelli not been sitting in one of the most secure rooms in Vatican City, protected by metal and explosives detectors, he might have thought that inside the bag was some kind of weapon or bomb. But nothing like that could have made it this far. He’d personally seen to that after Conte’s unexpected and shocking introduction all those years ago.

  “But first, I must ask you why you tried to have me killed?”

  “That’s a very serious accusation, Patrick.” Santelli eyed the top desk drawer.

  “It certainly is.”

  “Are you wearing a wire? A recording device? Is that what this is about?”

  Donovan shook his head. “You know that it would have been detected before I made it through the door.”

  The priest was right. This inner sanctum was designed to be foolproof. Conversations behind these doors were far too important to risk indiscretions. “Do you seek retribution? Is that why you came here? Have you come here to kill me, Father Donovan?”

  “Let’s leave that job to God, shall we?” Donovan was stonefaced.

  An uncomfortable moment passed before Santelli motioned to the satchel that looked like it was meant to hold an oversized bowling ball. He half expected it to contain Salvatore Conte’s head. But he knew Donovan was incapable of violence. Though it did make him wonder why the assassin hadn’t completed his assigned task and why the priest looked like he’d just sparred ten rounds. Was he in on Conte’s plot? Had Conte sent him here to extort the money? “So what have you brought me?”

  “Something you must see with your own eyes.” Donovan stood and placed the satchel on Santelli’s impossibly neat desk. As the bag settled, something inside it clattered, sounding like wooden dowels. He noticed that the plasma monitor now displayed a new screensaver. The words “Your faith is what you believe, not what you know... Mark Twain” scrolled across. Donovan remained standing, glaring at Santelli.

  There was a brief standoff as both men locked stares.

  Finally, Santelli levered himself out of his chair, huffing. “Fine, Patrick. If looking in your bag will make you go away...so be it.” Irritated, the cardinal bent over the satchel, hesitated, then slowly opened its zipper. There was more clattering as he pulled the sides apart to view the contents.

  The cardinal’s face went a ghastly white as he stared at the human skull and bones, the ultimate relic. When he looked up again, his eyes had lost their fiery glow. “You sanctimonious bastard. You’ll certainly go to Hell for this.”

  “I wanted you to make your peace with him before I perform a proper burial,” said Donovan. He’d felt terrible carrying the sacred bones around in what amounted to little more than a duffel bag. But yesterday afternoon, he had stopped at DHL to arrange for the ossuary to be airfreighted immediately to Jerusalem. The manuscript had been sent separately to Razak, the Muslim courier he’d met in Rome. The spikes and coins were stowed in the rental car’s glove compartment alongside the Beretta.

  “You son of a bitch,” Santelli’s voice was strangely calm.

  What happened next was a blur.

  Yanking his hands out from his pockets, Donovan clasped the old man’s wrist with his right hand, simultaneously revealing the small plastic syringe with his left. Thrusting it deep into the cardinal’s upper arm, he pressed down on the plunger.

  With a look of utter disbelief, the cardinal tore away, collapsed into his chair, and grabbed the site of the injection. Before he could yell for Father Martin, the Tubarine had clamped down on his heart, bringing it to a grinding halt. Buckling over in agony, Santelli’s hands clawed for the pain, trying to tear it from his chest.

  Patrick Donovan watched the body give a last convulsive shake. “God’s will,” he said quietly. He wasn’t sure what the syringe had contained, but was fairly certain it had been Conte’s method for killing the docent found at the Torlonia catacomb’s front desk. Within these walls, there weren’t many options for a lethal weapon. So Donovan had taken a lucky chance on the needle.

  Murder violated everything he held sacred, breaking his vow to God that he had cast aside his horrible past. But unless Santelli was taken down, Charlotte Hennessy would surely die, and he too. The Israelis would never know the truth and an innocent archaeologist would shoulder the blame for a crime he hadn’t committed.

  Carefully gathering up the duffel bag, Donovan exited into the antechamber, advising Father Martin that the cardinal wished not to be disturbed and to hold all calls.

  Father Martin nodded and eyed Donovan curiously as he hurriedly made his way past the Swiss Guards and out into the main corridor. Once Donovan was out of sight, he quickly made his way into Santelli’s office. There he saw the purple skullcap poking above the chair facing the window. Calling out the cardinal’s name twice, he slowly rounded the desk.

  67

  ******

  Jerusalem

  Razak waited for Farouq to put on his reading glasses, all the while staring at the ancient scroll intently.

  Clearing his throat, the Keeper began to read out loud.

  12 December Anno Dominae 1133

  It was Saint Helena who first discovered the true origins of Jesus Christ. She came to the Holy Land in search of historical evidence proving Christ was not a figment of legend or lore. During her pilgrimage, she found what she believed was Christ’s empty tomb, and discovered the wooden cross upon which Jesus suffered and died, buried deep beneath the Holy Sepulchre. Today, we carry the true cross in battle to defend our faith and God. Many similar relics have we been rumored to possess. But what I have discovered on this day is the most wondrous yet.

  But first I must explain how this came to be.

  In Jerusalem, there has existed for centuries Christians who follow not the words of our Holy Bible. They are a peaceful group who have survived many centuries in isolation, calling themselves the “Order of Qumran.” I have met them and learned much about their faith. At first, their beliefs shocked me, for their ancient scrolls say many things to contradict God’s word. The Order believed that Christ died a mortal death and that only his spirit rose from the tomb to appear to his disciples. They even claimed Christ’s body still lay in a hidden place awaiting resurrection to usher in the Day of Judgment and that his bones would once again be reclaimed by God’s spirit.

  I questioned the origins of their writings. They insisted the teachings and scripture existed long before the “The book of the Romans.”

  Hearing these words, I was inclined to lash out. But, intrigued, I was compelled to learn more. Over time, these people, kind and generous, had become our friends. Through careful study, I began to understand that their beliefs, though untraditional, were rooted in true faith and reverence. Their God was our God. Their Christ was our Christ. Interpretation was all that seemed to divide us.

  On the 11th day of October, 1133, Jerusalem was attacked by a band of Muslim warriors. Though we were able to drive them back, it wasn’t before our Christian brothers of Qumran had fallen, for they tried to defend their holy city. Their leader, an old man named Zachariah, was wounded severely, and dying when I found him. In his possession was an old book. Knowing that none of his brothers had survived the attack, he gave it to me. He whispered that the book contained many things, including an ancient secret long protected by his people— the location of the chamber where Christ’s body had been interred. Then God claimed the old man’s spirit.

  I employed trusted local scribes to translate the book’s writings, most of which were in Greek. It was then that I discovered that the text was a journal written by a scholarly man named Joseph of Arimathea. In the book, I also found a map drawn by Joseph, marking the location of Christ’s body. It was then that I realized the tomb was buried beneath our very feet, under the site of Solomon�
��s Temple.

  I ordered my men to find Joseph’s tomb. After weeks of digging and breaching three ancient walls, we reached solid earth. Here my hopes would have easily been lost, for nothing would imply man had touched this spot. But Joseph of Arimathea’s precise measurements suggested further digging was required. Continuing, we first cleared soft debris, realizing what we had thought to be the face of the mountain was actually a massive circular stone. It took four men to roll it back. Behind it was a hidden chamber, precisely where Joseph had indicated.

  Inside I found nine stone boxes inscribed with the names of Joseph and his family. To my amazement, a tenth box bore the sacred symbol of Jesus Christ, and in it were human bones and relics that could only have come from the cross.

  To uphold my sworn oath to protect God and his son Jesus Christ, I have secured these wondrous relics beneath Solomon’s Temple. For if the old man taught truth, these bones may one day be brought back to life so that the souls of all men might be saved.