King Solomon's Tomb

by Preston W Child

  "Yeah, I feel like I'm a different man too, a strange man with ludicrous thoughts." He dropped himself on the couch. "The absurdity of it all. I was at a bar the other day, but I ordered water instead. Why was I there then?"

  Olivia joined him.

  "Do you think it will go away this time?"

  "The things on the TV?"

  Olivia nodded. Andrew sighed.

  The jangling stopped, but the report continued for a few more beats. When it was completely gone, she felt it continue like a memory. The muezzin had long finished his invitation. Only the rabbi's musical voice droned on in the street.

  "What I feel is the end, the end of us." He glanced around the room, Reno slept on the other couch, covered to his chin with his jacket. Borodin and Anabia looked like rock-and-roll groupies left behind by their high school friends after high-balling.

  "This is going to change us all. You, me, the guys. Did you notice anything odd about Frank?"

  Olivia frowned a little. "What did you see?"

  "He looked tired. I know most of these guys would rather be somewhere else right now. But they're doing this for you."

  Andrew took a breath, and he looked away. He did that when he'd rather say no more. He was a man of many restraints and even fewer words. But Olivia felt the words unsaid.

  They were all substantially rich folks now. Olivia thought it was time to hang up their boots now. She could take a seat far back, move to some island, and freelance from there.

  —

  Now the men that constituted the infamous members of the Table arrived at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in five different transportations. Two of the cars were limousines—black, bearing Israeli plates.

  Andrew Gilmore was standing opposite the street when the cars came rolling in through the gate slowly. But of course, he was a rabbi, complete with a black hat and robe. Andrew's lean body slouched forward as he crossed the road. He walked past the two clergymen whispering with arriving guests and went straight out of sight.

  The rest of the Table arrived with less ostentation: three taxis, three men of average height. If Andrew had waited another minute, he would have recognized one of the men. And he would have been almost knocked out of his black socks.

  All the men had what looked like a cross around their necks, except one of them. However, he did not see it. He was tall, bald, and had gotten fatter since he was last seen by Andrew Gilmore. The man had his necklace with the cross in the pocket of his sizeable clerical robe. He was the only real cleric of the five men, and that wasn't even saying much.

  The Church of the Sepulcher had four entrances, a wide one, and a smaller one with an arch over it. The two doors were always open to the public. Andrew had gone through the doors.

  The clerics led the five men through the smaller door, down a flight of steps and out of sight.

  Andrew watched from a spot on the main church pews. He quickly got up and walked briskly, leaning forward, giving off the aura of piety as he went in the direction of the steps.

  "Rabbi?"

  Someone grabbed his hand. Andrew's heart did a small double take. He knew instantly who the man was who held his hand. The grip was so firm it would crush the arm of an infant.

  Andrew looked at the man. The Hacker in person. Talbot said if you met him, you died shortly after.

  "You can't go down that way, Rabbi," the man said in a faint voice.

  "But I need to," Andrew said with a tonal Kurdish accent. "The guests, they may need food, water, to clean their feet—"

  "There will be no such courtesies."

  It was an order. Although the man smiled, Andrew knew his life hung in the balance now. He bowed and withdrew from there. He glanced down that corridor as he was about to go out the door. The man was gone.

  —

  Andrew Gilmore was the first line of offense.

  He was sweating. He went around the church, up a step, and into a small room in the roof. From there, he could see most of the main church hall below. But since the church was one massive cluster of compartments, that wasn't saying much for the view either.

  He searched the room to make sure he was alone.

  "Guys, the Hacker is here."

  He received various degrees of responses in his ear. Someone groaned. He thought it was either Anabia or Liam. Likely Liam.

  "Stay put, stay out of sight," Miller said, assuming leadership.

  "I'm on the roof, but I can't see him. The Table men have arrived and are getting prepared for their meeting."

  "Did you tag someone?" Olivia asked.

  "No, I couldn't do it in the open, and now they are gone."

  Olivia said, "Be careful, Andrew."

  "I will."

  —

  Frank Miller was the second line of offense.

  He was not sweating, which was odd, perhaps because he hadn't met the Hacker. Or maybe because he was up in a window of a souvenir shop across the road from the church.

  He was hiding behind robes hung up for sale, with a Nikon PowerShot GI.

  When the men of the Table came out of the cars, he took a picture of all five men, from different angles. He took close shots of their clothing, shoes, and every little detail that the camera lens could get.

  He took photos of the cars, the plates, and the drivers’ faces. Then in the same breath, he pulled out a Recon Voice, a device that wasn't on eBay yet. Miller had bought it off a CIA chief in Naples on his way in from Europe.

  With this device, pointed in the direction of the church and the gate, he recorded all voices. Finally, he took a photo of the front of the church itself.

  When Andrew Gilmore failed to nail a tracking bug on at least one of those men, they switched to plan B.

  Miller finished his job just as Andrew went into the church.

  After listening to Andrew give his report, Miller announced, "Plan B is a go."

  —

  The man called Hacker never left the spot where he accosted Andrew. He had simply made Andrew think he disappeared. He had seen the rabbi go up the steps but thought nothing of it—at the time.

  He dismissed the rabbi as an overzealous underling in the church.

  He hated churches. Or any religious places for that matter. But he was an employee, required to do what he was told by his employer. And for the moment, he was in the employ of the Table. And then he was also in the employ of someone else who was tired of the monopoly of the asshole industrialists who faked around as pastors and bishops.

  Four bishops, one former cardinal. All fabulously rich.

  Every year they met at a church to talk business. Why a church? It beat him how a church could be some people's fetish.

  The Hacker wasn't allowed in the meeting chamber. This edition of their meeting was exceptional. They were going to share Solomon's wisdom.

  Solomon's wisdom. What an atypical way to describe something worldly.

  And what a faithful place to end a journey of godliness.

  He came out of the shadow of the corridor behind a pillar. He checked the chamber of his gun. He screwed a silencer on it.

  The clerics of the church would go first. But even before then, he needed to make sure the woman, Olivia Newton, and her people were around.

  He could smell them.

  —

  Andrew stilled his crying nerves by taking alternating breaths, short and long.

  Frank Miller had done his job; by now, he was halfway across the old city to develop the photos he took.

  Now, on to the second stage of the plan.

  He came down the steps, as quietly as he could. He listened by closing his eyes. Then he heard the light footsteps of someone coming his way. Andrew knew who it was. He went back up the steps.

  "Hello, Father."

  Andrew was in the middle of the room. He was on one knee, his head bowed, and his hands crossed on the raised thigh. His eyes were closed in benedictions.

  He continued to mumble for a moment more.

  When he op
ened his eyes, he turned to the man at the entrance of the room. He was tall, had dark eyes, beautiful hair, a low forehead, and a mouth perpetually in the art of derision.

  "I do my mid-morning prayers up here," said the rabbi.

  "I was wondering earlier what a rabbi was doing in a Christian Church?"

  The Hacker gave him a sideways glance, waiting for his reply. He shrugged when it didn't come on time.

  "The God of Israel is the father of Christ. So particularly, I have more of a right to be here than you do, sir."

  "Oh. Well said," the Hacker mumbled. “I have no use for these things."

  He spun on his heel and left.

  Andrew could not help thinking he had just escaped certain death because he was praying.

  —

  What he was about to do had been done only by a few people. And they were called magicians, but there was nothing magical about it. It was only an illusion.

  Andrew had told the team of this idea. It was the only way they could hope to buy time.

  So, he had come down the steps from that room where he had been praying. The Hacker was nowhere to be seen. He traipsed into the church. He heard the voices of those clerics he'd seen earlier. The clerics were seated in a room. Their voices carried in the hollow of the hallway. They were talking and laughing and generally having a good time.

  Crypts and twisting underground roadways were the domain of a priest trained in the heart of Rome. Andrew already knew how to navigate the church even though it was his first time. The church was mostly like any other that he was familiar with; the layout was the same gothic, dated architecture.

  He walked across the main church, waited behind a pillar to listen to the church's breathing. It was calm. The only interruption was the distant murmur of the clerics behind enjoying their little klatsch. Beyond the corridor where he met the Hacker, there were shadows. He turned around and went into the vestry to wait.

  If the Hacker was down that corridor still and had seen Andrew, he would likely come looking for him.

  The vestry was dark, but Andrew could make out the sacristy sitting on a desk, the vestments hanging on the walls, a pair of black long-toed shoes set in the corner near a door in the wall. The rough bricks of the wall were the same as the ones outside the church.

  Andrew went to the door and felt around it. He looked back the way he came and then imagined the door, relative to the rest of the church.

  "Good, even better…"

  There was a keyhole. He peeked through; low light illuminated the space there. Andrew went to work quickly on the lock with his tools. The door opened, he slipped through, and locked it back just as the man who had been hiding in the shadow outside the vestry stepped in.

  —

  The Hacker knew he was not alone. But he wasn't sure who was stalking the main church, the vestry area. He had gone back up the roof to see if that rabbi was still praying. The place was empty.

  He had stolen back down, almost soundlessly, to find that someone was in the church. But when he arrived there, he saw no one, but the vestry door was opened.

  He was ready to execute the first stage of his mission, but none of the clerics must see him. And if any saw, that soul would die. Even though he was irreligious, he was prepared to avoid spilling blood in the church.

  He turned to look at the huge cross on the wall over the altar. The image of Christ hung from it, life-sized, almost alive. The eyes seemed to follow his every step.

  Someone was in the vestry, maybe one of the clerics. He could hear them talking behind him.

  He was not going to take any chances, so he went in to see.

  But the person that went in there was either better than Houdini, or they were a ghost. He looked around, parted the vestments with the barrel of his silenced pistol, and rubbed the surface of the door there. He tried the knob. It held.

  He walked out.

  —

  In the Lazarists Monastery, Olivia and the others had finished putting on their disguises. Olivia was once again witnessing the power money wields.

  Miller had paid—donated, for want of a more appropriate word—to the monastery, a large sum of dollars in support of the monks. They, in turn, had given him a room for his use.

  The monks thought Miller and his friends were movie producers. They expected these benevolent producers to reawaken the public's interest in ecclesiastical vocations.

  There was a table in the room; on it was spread developed photos that Miller took earlier. It showed the faces of the five men in the Church of the Sepulcher nearby.

  And Tami Capaldi was the mistress of it all.

  A box was opened before. In it were brushes of varying sizes, a woman's makeup kit—a pile of fake hair and wigs, a wardrobe of clothes and shoes, and fillers. Blown pictures of the Men of the Table hung from strings that Miller had installed on the wall.

  Tami went to work on Victor Borodin, Liam Murphy, Reno, Miller, and Diggs.

  Ten minutes after, the five people stood before a mirror. Each of them looked like a fair double of the men in the hung photos.

  Next, two black limousines and three taxis arrived driven by hired drivers.

  Frank Miller, now resembling a known former cardinal, bulky with fillers, wearing an old man's glasses, spoke into his radio.

  "Andrew, we are ready."

  Andrew Gilmore took a moment to speak. When his voice came, it was with a strain.

  "I'm almost in position."

  "Good," replied Miller. "Phase two goes into play in two minutes."

  "Two minutes."

  —

  Accordingly, the Church of the Sepulcher was accepting no visitors that day. Andrew was alone in the hall. He was staring at the spot where they had seen King Solomon's tomb the previous day.

  In its place was gleaming marble reflecting the glare of sunlight coming in through the frescoes and the stained glass of the windows with all the drawings. It had even been more comfortable than Andrew had thought.

  And the illusion seemed perfect from every angle of the room, especially the angle that mattered.

  He spoke into his radio.

  "Phase two, ready."

  —

  Meanwhile, in a not-so-secret chamber, an adjoining one to the hall where Solomon's tomb rested, five men sat around a large table.

  If Andrew Gilmore had put his ear to the wall on the left side of the hall, if he didn't mind been tickled by the many ridges of art on that wall too, he'd have heard muffled words spoken urgently.

  The most outspoken of them was Bishop Thomas Henderson from Canterbury; he was a lean man with deep smile lines around his thin lips. He spoke with a slow enunciation.

  There had just been a vote. Solomon's tomb was to be moved. It was no longer safe in the church.

  Installing security guards was out of the place, said the rest of the Table. Henderson was dissenting.

  "This is a church, we can't just put the national guard here," he said in his clipping English. "It is counterproductive and attracts the same threat we are trying to avoid."

  Ranieri Mantone from Italy, a secret member of the mob in both his country and Russia, with ties to more prostitution businesses than any one of the other men, said, "We have real threats. We lost Rome when we lost the Holy Grail—"

  "We never had the Holy Grail," said Emilio Batolini, his hooded eyes on the Italian.

  The Italian stared back with equal poison. He had never trusted Emilio. He didn't trust anyone. Not even his slavish wife. "The world thought we had it. We have become weak. Weaker, when just a woman took Peru. And you, Emilio, failed the Table when you could not stop her."

  Emilio said, "Let us not make the mistake of making this whole mess about me. We lost because it was time to lose."

  Shocked eyes looked his way. Henderson's mouth worked. He looked like the former cardinal had just called for the death of the pope. He spread his hand out in a plea for reason.

  But Emilio went on.

  "Yes. Every
body knows you can't always stay on top. You switch positions, that's what you do. The game is changing. New players have joined. When new players join you, you switch because the rules are changing. This woman, Olivia Newton, is changing the game. This tomb is the last one in her conquest. And she will come."

  He looked around the room. The shock was jumping from one face to the other.

  "We have a chance to protect the tomb now. Except, of course, we take my suggestion to forfeit—"

  There was an uproar. Fists slammed on the Table.

  "You can't be suggesting that!" Henderson snapped. Emilio imagined him holding a whip. "We must not forfeit. It is irresponsible of you to suggest this. You speak of switching positions. Whose side are you on?"

  Emilio answered calmly, "I am on the side of peace and prosperity."

  Henderson slammed his palm on the Table. The men caught their breaths, men whose only weakness was spending money, rarely ever displaying anger—except Emilio Batolini. He didn't even flinch. His rheumy eyes rolled from one face to the other.

  "You are nothing but a betrayal! You can't betray this Table like you did your pope." He waved his fist. "And mind you, the table is not like your pope!"

  Emilio gestured for the men to sit. They slowly sat. Henderson didn't; he was trembling with fury. Emilio's last scandal in the Vatican was still fresh in some of these men's minds. Especially Henderson, who had pushed for Emilio's expulsion from the Table in the wake of the whole imbroglio.

  Henderson tried another line of defense. He glanced at the most reticent man around the Table, Niklas Yannick. He was a very quiet Austrian. Yannick sailed both on the wealth his father made from strings of night clubs, international drug rings, and arms sales. He was in the robe because there was no better façade than the one it offered. He kept mostly to himself and just went with the flow.

  He was still going with the flow even now.

  "Yannick?" Henderson called at the man.

  From the other side of the Table, Yannick shrugged and said, "What am I supposed to say?"

  "Could you for once say something to save yourself then?"

  Yannick's forehead furrowed. He was a slightly built man, handsome and almost blond.

  "I don't know, Thomas. I think I'll go with Emilio on this one."

  Henderson glared at the man.