The Keeper's Cup: A Controversial Archaeological Thriller

by Ken Fry

  Behind him, he heard Kelvin giggle.

  The professor’s jibe went unheeded.

  “What is it that you look for? More writings, more relics, another box? Hey, Professor, where is the box and scroll?”

  “One thing at a time, Father. The box and scroll are still at the laboratory for research. These things take time. As for what are we doing here, we are searching for tunnels that may go back to the Celtic time we are researching. There we may find evidence, one way or the other, that could show how Christianity got here so early. You, I am thinking, need to pray that we won’t find any.” He smirked. “Now, take as many photographs as you wish, Father, and send them to the cardinal. Should we find anything, you will be the first to know.” He gave the priest a condescending smile and resumed what he was doing.

  Vincenzo wasted no time and took several pictures of the location and the equipment, and of everybody at the site. It didn’t take long, and when he had finished, he leant back casually on the pickup truck and lit up a cigarette. There wasn’t much else he could do until they began to dig… if they ever did.

  * * *

  Miriam began to help unload and assemble what was needed. But the events of the last forty-eight hours had caused a disorienting effect on her mood. She desperately wanted to talk about what had happened on the Tor to Kelvin, as she was uncertain that Fergy would be sympathetic or even be derisory. She searched for Kelvin, but he was engrossed in assembling the drone and its components. She would have to wait.

  The professor had done his homework and later that day, she had provided him with geological and geophysical information on the structure of the Tor. In her research, she was not surprised to discover that Glastonbury was rumoured to have several long-lost tunnels – exactly the type of evidence they were looking for. Most was said to be attached to the nearby Abbey. Legend stated that one ran from the Abbey to the ‘George and Dragon’ – the local pub! Francis Bligh Bond discovered another tunnel in 1918. It started from the south of a cellar in the town’s main street and led to the Abbey. A third story was of a large underground passage in a field south of Abbey, which has never been found. This was something worth looking at. The entire location was rife in rumours and legends of hidden tunnels and escape routes. If anything was to be found, it would be nothing short of a miracle.

  She discovered, eerily so, an earlier 9/11 event that had occurred around the Tor centuries before the New York tragedy. It gave her goose bumps.

  On Sept 11, 1275, an earthquake shook and brought down the wooden Church of St. Michael. Some of the people of the time said it was the fairies’ doing. The church was rebuilt again, but it didn’t last. All that’s left of it is the tower that was added in the 1360s. By whatever means, the Tor had successfully turned its church into the pagan symbol of an upstanding tower.

  The stones from the rubble of this church, originally said to be part of King Arthur’s fort, were then used to build the Abbey. With the dissolution of the monasteries in 1539, the Abbey was reduced to a stone quarry. People then used those stones for local building works.

  After Henry the VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries, there was a grim episode when Richard Whiting, the Abbey’s last abbot, was dragged up the Tor on hurdles, and hung, drawn and quartered there, before being beheaded. Treasures – gold and silver – were sent to swell Henry the VIII’s coffers in London. There was a good chance he didn’t get it all.

  There are stories about secret tunnels radiating in many directions from the Abbey, one of which links directly with the Tor. There remains local geological evidence of this. Some of the Abbey’s assets may have found their way into these tunnels, and legends say it could still be there. Legends maintained that when the secret treasure is found again, it would herald a new age of peace and happiness. This treasure may not be the old booty from the Abbey though.

  That drew her mind back to the verse on Kelvin’s tablet and that written on the scroll in the box. Could they be connected to the ancient tales and lore?

  There were stories about monks who found these tunnels who had returned ‘insane’ or ‘unable to speak.’ Maybe something in the experience unhinged their sheltered, monastic minds. Their accounts sounded so weird they were dismissed as crazy.

  Another theory surmised that destroying the monks’ credibility could have been a wily ploy to keep certain things quiet. She didn’t doubt the possibility of other tunnels under the Abbey and the Tor. Secrets were always intriguing, and she knew Fergy would enjoy her thoughts on the whole thing.

  28

  Rome

  Italy

  Inspector Rizzo, in his small apartment on the Via del Boccacio in the Centro Storico district of Rome, lay in bed. The sun, already warm and inviting, was telling him it was time to get up. That was the last thing he wanted to do. He had spent half the early hours analysing the Bishop Vincent Fisher case. He had thought of his conversations with Pope Adrian and the strange presence of partial DNA samples from Cardinal Nicholas found on the remains of the dead bishop. He was missing something, and he didn’t know what.

  A sudden burst of pain reminded him that he was not a well man. It always manifested when he was lying down and about to get out of bed. A year back, he had been diagnosed with a form of cancer. It had been treated successfully, but the end result was infrequent but recurring bouts of painful cystic fibrosis. There was no time to lose… lying in bed was not good. He jumped out and with an urgent, heated rush, made a dash to the toilet.

  Slow, but burning relief.

  It was annoying. He never knew when it would appear. Thirty minutes later, his bodily function back to normal, he was showered and dressed. Clutching his case file, he made his way for his usual coffee at the Antico Caffè Greco. It was a place favoured by writers. It had become his second office and there was always a table reserved for him at his favourite place by the window.

  Stepping outside, the sun blasted down, and the noise of Rome’s traffic filled his ears. He set out on the ten-minute stroll. The streets were awash with tourists with their cameras and guidebooks. Mixing with them were the inevitable pigeons and the odd, armed policeman. Since the terrorist attacks of the 1980s and early 2000s throughout Italy, the police no longer took chances now and were frequently armed and ready. Rizzo fully approved.

  His policeman’s instincts were never far away. He became aware of a vague sensation that he was being followed. Casually, he turned his head, as if to look across the road, but there was no one to be seen. He was alone.

  He walked into the coffee bar, and Giovanni, his barista and old-time friend, greeted him and ushered him to his favourite seat. Unlike most customers who drank their coffee standing, Rizzo preferred to sit and pay the extra cost. Besides, he needed to do some work.

  Once he had ordered, he set about reading his reports and notes. It wasn’t long before the I’m being watched sensation crept back into his mind. He looked up, but there was nothing unusual to be seen. I’ve been in this job too long, he thought. Not long after he had settled into his notes, he noticed somebody he had not seen in the cafe before, sitting not far away. He found himself analysing the man. Again, his old police training never gave up. He began to mentally examine the man, taking note of important details.

  The man certainly didn’t look Italian. A lightweight, casual, khaki-style bomber jacket hung beside him on his chair. He had a shaven head and there were tattoos down both his forearms. He had to be English. The English newspaper he was reading dismissed any doubts. He looked pugnacious, jowly, like an angry bulldog trying to spit out a mouthful of wasp. Long, plump legs, wearing faded denims and large, heavy, brown boots were spread wide beneath his table. A cold beer straight from the bottle was being gulped down his thick throat.

  That man looks dangerous – could be ex-military. Another thought crossed his mind. O forse un ex prigioniero criminal! The thought of the man possibly being an ex-convict had all the hallmarks of truth about it. Everything about him ticked all the boxes.
One of the things Rizzo knew for sure was that criminals the world over often have similarities in manner, body language and attitude. His prospect displayed them all.

  For a brief moment, the man put down his newspaper and looked across to where Rizzo sat. Rizzo caught his eye and they stared at each other. Rizzo felt mutual tension between them, and watched as the man turned his gaze away, clenched his fist, and began to crack his finger knuckles.

  Rizzo recognised a subliminal message when it appeared. He recognized danger. Is that man after me in some way… or am I becoming paranoid? He decided the atmosphere had become heavy. It was time to leave. He paid at the cassa and began his walk to his nearby office. Every so often, he stopped to look in a shop window. The man was a short distance away from him, also looking in a shop window.

  Rizzo was now fully alert.

  * * *

  Thirty-six hours earlier, a diminutive young priest, Father Angelo Xavier, stood in the Sala Arrivi – the Arrivals Hall of the Leonardo da Vinci airport, thirty kilometres from Rome. In his hands, he held up a bright, yellow and black cardboard sign. On it was simply written the name, Mr. Cracker.

  He didn’t have long to wait. A burly, thickset, shaven-headed man carrying a large holdall bag soon confronted him. Father Xavier spoke good English. He had an idea that the man in front of him would be limited in his choice of languages. He was correct in that assumption. Mr. Cracker had always had trouble in sounding his th and frequently they would sound like an f. Speaking another language was as an anathema to him. All too poofy and gay had always been his opinion of other languages.

  Once the introductions had been made and identities confirmed, the young priest led him to the parking area.

  “Where are you taking me?” Cracker growled as they clambered into the cardinal’s aging black Lancia Ypsilon car.

  “We are going close to the Vatican where Cardinal Nicholas will be expecting you. But first, I will drop you at your hotel and I will wait for you to check in before driving you over there.”

  Cracker grunted.

  Father Xavier couldn’t help but wonder what on earth the cardinal was doing entertaining this brutish looking man.

  The traffic jammed journey continued in silence. It would take them over an hour to get to the hotel. Cracker took little interest in the culture and vivacity of the ancient city they were diving through. Thoughts and memories of his life, as they frequently did, opened up his memory banks. He never thought about much else.

  Childhood had been a tough experience. His father, who wasn’t around much, was an alcoholic. When he did show up, his mother, a co-dependent drinker, would endure regular beatings as he, even as a small boy, did. At school, he had been the local tough guy. In imitation of his father, he would set about other boys as his father set about him. He never took any notice of school lessons and spent most his time dodging school and spending days in amusement arcades. He soon learnt to steal and that offered him things the other idiots at school would find hard to get. Crime seemed a good way of life. One that fitted in well with his ambitions of running a large gang of crooks.

  It didn’t work out that way. The hated authorities and police always managed to catch up with him. He spent much time in young offenders’ institutes before graduating to adult prisons. He was forever in and out of them. He recalled many of his skirmishes and fights using any weapon that came to hand. It hadn’t been long before he discovered firearms. He fell in love with them. They had become an essential part of his persona. One bonus he got from all this was that amongst the criminal fraternity, he was respected and regarded as a person not to interfere with or cross in any way. He rarely refused an assignment. One firm rule he had, though – he would have nothing to do with drugs.

  Father Xavier’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Signore Cracker, we are at your hotel.”

  The Vatican Style Hotel was by Rome’s standards, an inexpensive three-star hotel which offered views of St. Peter’s Basilica from some rooms.

  “Please check in, Signore, and I shall wait for you here. Please, not to be long for police and parking not good here.”

  Cracker nodded. “I won’t be long, squire.” This was his first foreign mission and it didn’t excite him in the slightest. Father Vincenzo, back in the UK, had seemed put out that the cardinal had asked only for him. The job must be important. The thought made him feel good.

  29

  He inhaled deeply before watching the blue grey smoke plume from his nostril. The gradual swirls began to vanish like forgiven sins at a confessional. The cardinal was in an affable mood. He had received good reports from both Vincenzo and the professor. Everything was going to plan and dovetailed neatly into what the deceased bishop would have planned. They were looking for tunnels, and that was excellent, nothing like secret tunnels and hidden clues to engender positive interest from all concerned.

  So far so good.

  In his secret heart, he hoped the excavations attempting to prove the legend that Christ and his so-called family ever existed in Britain, failed. This secret venture was so typical of Pope Adrian, who had little regard for the scriptures and tenets of the Catholic Church. It seemed to him that the pope lived in a naive world of wishful thinking. It was too fanciful for belief and could only be built on a fragile pyramid of evidence – only too easy to invalidate.

  The cup, if discovered, empty or not, would be a different matter. Exercised properly, the artifact could be used to turn the whole story about its healing powers as true – and he knew just how to exploit it. The pope would have no part in it. With that artefact in his hands, Pope Adrian and his liberal visions of where the church should be heading would be annihilated overnight. The old ways would return in all their glory.

  God be praised. He took a quick glance at his antique, Gothic-style, Italian long case clock standing in the corner. Father Xavier was running late.

  But he didn’t have long to wait. There was a sharp rap on his apartment door.

  From behind the door, Father Xavier heard the cardinal’s tobacco enriched voice call out.

  “Entare.”

  He did. Pushing open the door he walked in, followed by the bullish figure of Cracker.

  “Ah.” Nicholas stood and moved over to them both. “Thank you, Father. I’ll call you later to take Mr. Cracker back to his hotel.” He took note that Xavier could be ideal material for his clandestine order.

  The young priest gave a perfunctory nod at both men and left the room.

  “How nice to see you again, Mr. Cracker. Please take a seat. I trust you had a good journey and the hotel is to your liking?” He gave a condescending smile.

  Cracker’s response was terse. He dispensed with courteous etiquette. “The trip was fine but the hotel’s dingy. How long am I there?”

  “That will be up to you, as you will soon see, Mr. Cracker. Dingy it may be, but far more preferable to a prison cell… don’t you think?”

  Cracker didn’t miss the veiled threat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Before answering, the Cardinal took a hefty sip of his Napoleon Brandy. He made no offer to share any. He licked his lips. “It means that I did more checks on you to make certain you were the man we need for the mission we have in mind. With your record, I’m certain you fit the bill wonderfully. Let me see now… you have served prison sentences for grievous bodily harm, manslaughter, actual bodily harm, robbery and the list goes on.” Nicholas allowed himself a smile.

  “So you know more things about me now, than you did before. You didn’t drag me all the way here just to tell me that, did you? Stop pissing about and tell me what you want from me?”

  The cardinal took a deep breath. He’s as smooth talking as ever. He fumbled for another cigarette. “Cigarette, Mr. Cracker?” His raspy voice sounded more croaky than usual as he offered the packet.

  Cracker shook his head. “Gave that up years ago.”

  Probably the one sensible thing he’s done in his life. The cardinal took a deep
lungful of smoke. He needed it. “I have here a file of information about a certain individual.” He pushed it over to him. “In it you will find several photographs of this person. You will find addresses – where he lives and works, his hobbies, his habits, where he eats and drinks, etcetera.”

  Cracker started to open the file.

  The cardinal looked alarmed. “Not in here, please, but when you get back to your hotel. Nobody is to know of this file except you and I.”

  “A big secret then, is it? What do you want doing then?”

  “May God forgive me, but it is for his glory that this has to be done.”

  “Cut the crap will you and just tell me?” Anger was never far away from Cracker.

  Nicholas spoke evenly and without a tremor. “We would like to see an accident happen.”

  Cracker’s eyes hardened. “Of the fatal persuasion, I assume.”

  “Yes. Your assumption is correct. You have as long as you wish.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “All your expenses will be paid, along with anything else you have in mind. Your hotel is taken care of and you need not be concerned about a thing. Once your mission is accomplished, you will be rewarded with twenty thousand pounds – five thousand of which is in that file folder.”

  The faintest trace of a smile could be seen on Cracker’s fleshy face.

  “You will be left alone to accomplish your task. You do not need to report to us… we do not want to know any grizzly details. You have never met your driver or me. In a nutshell, we have no knowledge of each other, and should there be a mishap, any attempt to say we have met or spoken will be vigorously denied. Am I clear, Mr. Cracker? Do you accept this mission?” The cardinal liked the word ‘mission.’ It had a religious sanctity about it.