The Keeper's Cup: A Controversial Archaeological Thriller

by Ken Fry

  * * *

  The inspector took comfort in the fact that Florentino was never far away.

  It was a Saturday morning. Cracker, wearing a pair of Nike trainers and sporting a grey New York Yankees baseball cap, eased himself out of his hotel and into the humidity of Rome’s streets. Shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare, he wore a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses. There was another reason. He did not want to be recognised by Rizzo, who he was now attempting to locate. It was early and he guessed he would still be in his apartment.

  His routine was consistent. He would first go to the coffee bar opposite Rizzo’s place, and from there, keep watch. The interior looked empty. This time, he took a seat inside and ordered a large cappuccino. He felt confident in his disguise. Rolled up in his jacket pocket was another baseball cap, this one was white with a prominent red peak. It bore the name and label of the Boston Red Sox. Changing caps was a strategic move when stalking a target.

  He leaned back in his chair and watched the adjacent building. This Rizzo must think I’m stupid. He won’t recognise me with this kit on. Today could be his last. The comforting bulge of his shoulder holster added to his assurance. He kept his eyes fixed on the doorway, waiting for his prey to exit.

  * * *

  Angelo Florentino had been in constant contact with Rizzo. It was confirmed. Cracker’s disguise had not been adequate enough. His lumbering gait was difficult to conceal. He seemed to have forgotten that he was dealing with trained police officers.

  Using binoculars, Rizzo had little difficulty in recognising Cracker in the coffee parlour, even with his baseball cap and shades. He had devised an action plan. A case file needed to be built up on both Cracker and also the cardinal. Telephoto lenses, listening devices, audio recorders, bugged phones and tracers would have to be put into place. The cardinal was a prime target and his meetings and conversations with Cracker would need to be monitored.

  This morning would be a trial run.

  Rizzo took several photographs of Cracker in the coffee bar. He then went to the front entrance and made himself obvious, feeling safe in the knowledge that Florentino was close by.

  As I thought, he’s taking the bait.

  Cracker emerged within thirty seconds of Rizzo’s appearance.

  As arranged with Florentino, the plan was to lure Cracker to an agreed location, get more photographs of his activities, and gather as much evidence as they could. There was no doubt their quarry would follow the taxi Rizzo was about to call, but behind would be Florentino, following them.

  Later in the morning, Rizzo had an appointment with the pope, and he didn’t want Cracker knowing about it. To achieve this, he would have to give Cracker the slip. That would leave Florentino to continue his scrutiny.

  Five minute later, Rizzo was in a taxi and heading to their agreed destination – ‘The Pyramid of Gaius Cestius.’

  A glance behind him confirmed both Cracker and Florentino were not far behind. Perfect. Five minutes away from the pyramid, Rizzo left the taxi and gave the driver instructions to go to the far side of the pyramid and wait. He would be no longer than ten minutes. He began to stroll towards the structure, a short distance away from the Protestant Cemetery. Rizzo had always felt an enormous respect for the pyramid. Open only on a Saturday, it was a popular tourist attraction. The pyramid was built as a tomb about six to eighth century BC, for Caius Cestius, a magistrate. An apt place to lead Cracker to. Standing at thirty-seven metres in height, it was an impressive sight. It was built with a brick-faced concrete, which in turn was covered with slabs of white marble. In the Middle Ages, it was thought to be the tomb of Remus, and its complement the tomb of Romulus near the Vatican. Both men were hailed as the founders of ancient Rome. Later excavations proved it was not the burial place of Remus.

  Every so often, Rizzo stopped walking to take a photograph of the structure. A casual look around and the baseball cap was not far behind. Florentino was well placed. Things were going to plan.

  Approaching the entrance, Rizzo suddenly bent low. Taking advantage of the workman’s panelled fencing, he made an urgent dash around to the other side and out of his stalker’s sight. As he hoped, the taxi was waiting. He dived in, keeping his head below the windows. He then asked the startled driver to drive him to the Vatican. He was not going to miss his appointment with Pope Adrian.

  * * *

  The sudden disappearance of Rizzo confirmed his suspicions. Rizzo was on to him. Where did he go? He felt a growing confusion. Police tactics are the same the world over. I’m being set up as some sort of patsy.

  Anger flared.

  He knew another detective would be watching him. It was standard routine. Rizzo had vanished, but a second would be in close attendance. Who could it be? The front of the pyramid looked typical, with a small cluster of visitors and cameras pointing in every direction. He turned to look behind him and it was no different.

  It was at that moment he spotted a man with a camera hanging from his neck, but with an exceptionally large telephoto lens. He appeared to stop at the same time he turned around. Rizzo’s done some sort of switch. I’ll move forward and stop again and see what the camera guy does. Cracker began a cautious approach around the side of the pyramid and towards the rear. It was deserted. He moved to the far end and made a sudden turn around. Sure enough, the guy was there, and his camera was aimed at him.

  Seeing that he may have been spotted, Florentino stepped back, out of view.

  Cracker smiled. He checked his weapon, making sure the Omega suppressor was attached. He had no doubt the man was a cop.

  Time for some fun.

  He rounded the next corner and waited. The man swung into view and was on his own and definitely following him. Cracker lifted the pistol and fired a shot. The only sound was a soft thwot. The bullet cut through the woodwork close to Florentino’s head. Cracker barely missed, but this time he did.

  Florentino was taken by surprise, but not enough for him to reach for his Beretta. Nobody else around noticed what had happened. There had been no sound.

  Cracker raced to the entrance of the tomb. It was open and still empty. He slipped inside. He’d seen the Beretta and knew what that meant. He hoped his follower wasn’t calling for back up.

  The interior of the burial chamber was a simple barrel-vaulted rectangular cavity. Scant traces of frescoes could be seen around the walls. Cracker wasn’t on a cultural visit. Work had been going on for restoration, and in the corner, he saw a small table altar. That’ll do. He launched himself behind it. He had a first-class view of the entrance and he would clearly see anybody coming in.

  Outside, Florentino moved quickly but with care. He could not underestimate his target. The opening into the burial chamber looked dark and Cracker could be anywhere in there, ready to fire at him. He would have a clear line of fire in any direction. Florentino inched himself forward and hugged the wall to his right as close as he could. He stepped over a pile of scaffolding poles. He was now close to stepping inside and becoming a prime target. He mentally counted the number of strides needed to get inside and dive for cover. He reckoned about six. He practiced his move in his mind. His Beretta 93R could fire a volley of rounds in a sustained burst of fire. He had little reason to be afraid.

  One, two, three! Florentino took the six strides at speed and dived into the open entrance. He hit the floor flat out with extended arms, his Beretta poised to fire.

  Apart from his own breathing, the place was deathly quiet and there appeared to be nobody about. The tomb looked empty. His eyes adjusted to the gloom and then he glanced about and could make out the small table in the far corner. Is he behind that table? There’s nowhere else to hide in here. He must be there. He inched himself forward his nerve ends taut and on high alert.

  “I’m not there, matey. I’m right behind you.”

  Florentino heard the London accent and felt the gun barrel pressing into the back of his neck.

  “I was behind the entrance wall.” He snickered.
Cracker had learnt some Italian words, initially meant for Rizzo. This seemed like the perfect time to use it too. “Addio maiale della polizia!”

  It was the last voice Angelo Florentino would ever hear – saying goodbye to him and calling him a police pig. A round fired and a supressed thud blasted into the back of his head.

  36

  The white SPQR taxi, like a frightened rabbit, scuttled through the Saturday morning traffic. Rizzo had lived in the city long enough to know traffic density rarely improved. If anything, it had got worse over the years. He glanced at his watch. He would make it in time provided there would be no gridlocks in his path.

  As they drove at a slow pace, he thought of the pope’s quest to discover the truth of an ancient story, and the implications that would bring if found to be true. He was thankful he wouldn’t be the one who had to explain that to billions of Catholics and Christians around the world.

  Then, there was the Cardinal Nicholas problem.

  The man was up to his nostrils in excrement, and the devil, Leonardo Rizzo, riding in a wave-making speedboat was heading his way. I wonder how Florentino is making out with Cracker at the pyramid. It will be interesting to get his report.

  Heading directly to the Vatican, the taxi crossed the River Tiber on the Ponte Margherita and then onto Via Cola di Renzo, swerving hard to the right as it neared St Peter’s Square. As usual, it was bustling with visitors and tourists. The morning sun gave short shadows and hinted at another hot day.

  Rizzo called the taxi to a halt, got out, paid the driver, and headed briskly across the piazza for his appointment with Pope Adrian.

  * * *

  Pope Adrian was looking forward to his meeting with Inspector Rizzo. Uppermost in his mind was what was he should do with the cardinal. There was no definite proof that he was involved in the death of Bishop Vincent Fisher, although his DNA around the dead bishop was a cause for concern. Nor was there actual proof, as yet, that he was heading up a clandestine militant group. It was an issue he was planning to take up directly with the man. But first, he needed every bit of evidence before he could be confident enough to confront the cardinal with such an accusation.

  On his computer was an unopened message from the SOTA group in the UK. He would examine it later.

  There came a knock on the door and the Camerlengo announced the arrival of Ispettore Rizzo. He understood the meeting was of great importance and should remain private. He turned and instructed the guard to remain outside the door.

  “Entra, Ispettore.”

  Rizzo walked in briskly and the pope stood but did not offer his ring for the customary kiss. It was unnecessary.

  “I hope you have interesting news, Inspector.” The pope was eager to hear his report.

  “I have news, but not good, Holy Father.” Rizzo looked grim. He had in his hand the gilt-edged volume of Tennyson’s poems, where he had hidden the listening device as he eavesdropped on the Cardinal’s conversation with Cracker. He held it up for the pope to see.

  “Ah Tennyson, one of my favourite poets, Inspector.” The pope beamed.

  “I’m going to disappoint you, Holy Father. In here is not good poetry.” Rizzo opened it and revealed the recording and bugging equipment sitting neatly in the hollowed-out pages. “This a spying device. Recently, I had the opportunity to use it. I’m going to play the recording. Please brace yourself, Your Holiness. You may recognise one of the voices.” Rizzo lifted it out and switched it on to loudspeaker and then pressed PLAY. Sitting back, he watched for the pope’s reaction.

  It didn’t take long. The pope listened up to the end.

  “Santa madre di Dio!” Pope Adrian’s face had drained to the pallor of his white papal cassock. “It’s Cardinal Nicholas. I can scarce believe it. We are being threatened with death! What are we to do?”

  Rizzo stared hard at the pope. “Your Holiness, I suggest at this stage we do nothing.”

  The pope’s customary calmness had evaporated, and he began twisting his hands and fingers. “This cannot be possible! A man of God! Who is he talking to?”

  “I’m afraid it is possible, Your Holiness. I was there, disguised. The man he’s talking to is a Signore Cracker, a convicted British criminal. He has been following me for several days. As yet, there is not enough evidence to take him in for questioning, as no crime or an attempt has been committed yet. The English have a saying – ‘Give a man enough rope and he will hang himself.’ This, I am certain, will happen. Right now, I have another man watching the cardinal’s colleague, Cracker. Presumably, he’s waiting for an opportune moment to strike. As he’s Cardinal Nicholas’s accomplice, I believe he is also the man who has been watching your archaeologists in England. The cardinal wants me out of the way because of my investigation concerning the bishop’s death, which I now believe he was party to. I could detain him for further questioning, but I want him colto con le mani nel sacco – caught with his hands in the bag.”

  “We are in danger from this man, Inspector. How shall I deal with him?”

  “Carry on as usual, as if you know nothing. Keep a record of anything he says if you think it relevant. If he learns of the details of our discussion here, he will certainly abandon his immediate plans. What he’s doing is being done in the name of Christ and that makes him a very determined and dangerous man. If he’s truly heading up a militant group, I wonder what its purpose may be? Do you have an idea, Holy Father?”

  The pope sounded wary. “I can make a good guess. He wants to overthrow the Vatican and turn back the clock to the days of the Inquisition. Very well, Inspector, it will be business as usual. Feel free to call me any time and if necessary, I will contact you immediately. Do take care.”

  Rizzo stood, made a self-conscious bow, and left the room and a worried-looking pope.

  37

  South West England

  The team sat around a large table, which they had festooned with reams of paper, pens, books, and eBook readers. They were discussing their objective, its viability, and the relevance of the clues they had uncovered.

  Fergal looked around at them all and sensed a mood of expectancy. “What we’ve found around here is beginning to add strength to SOTA’s mission. The Aramaic is astonishing and it’s authentic. Of that, there can be no doubt. Kelvin, your plaque has been carbon dated and fits the two-thousand-year slot. I suspect we will have a similar result with the other two here. The lab will be using the latest electroanalytical C14 techniques. When the tests are completed, I might tell Vincenzo… but not before. I’m still thinking about it. We need an approximation on the age of the stones first. Then I will share the news with the pope.”

  * * *

  Miriam found herself increasingly wondering about the strange things that had been happening around her. She had an urge to abandon her scientific thinking and open her mind. Kelvin’s presence had altered her perception of events. It was too much of a coincidence. If the tablets were as old as suspected, then it validated the writings of Philip and Thomas. This was huge and could be shattering to billions of people.

  The tablets mentioned both Jah and Magda – the names the Celts gave them – but their true names were Yeshua and Magdalene, Mary. The tablets were signed by Judah and Sarah, their son and daughter. The implications gave her goose bumps. The evidence was building up, and it’s not a good one for the Church. The tests on the ink had not come in yet, but she was certain it was written in the Middle Ages, around the time of the Dissolution of the Monasteries Act.

  She turned to the professor. “I don’t think there can be much doubt, Fergal, that there’s an odd link here. The evidence is too powerful, and we must share this only with Pope Adrian. I don’t trust Father Vincenzo or the cardinal with these new developments. I remember too well how he rubbished Bishop Fisher who was barely cold in his grave.”

  “I sent the pope an email and told him to check the address he gave me. When he does, he will find all the information he needs.”

  “We might know more
if we went to this mysterious Chase, in Middlesex, as the verse describes.” Kelvin didn’t understand their hesitation. He knew they were being led there.

  “Why would a secret treasure go there from here?”

  “According to that book I mentioned, the Chase is located in Enfield. When Henry the VIII dissolved the monasteries in 1536, I guess who ever lived around here wanted the secret to remain so. To shift it to the other side of the country has a certain logic to it. I’ve made some preliminary notes and ideas. It includes relevant authors, locations, history, toponymy, early settlement, etymology, and anything else that might be connected. The author of the book suggests, Enfield Chase could be the true home of Arthurian legends – Camelot and all the other mysteries we grew up with… even the Holy Grail. Given what we have discovered, the author is not as off the wall as some have suggested. We need to examine the area before we make any other conclusions. I’ll go myself if you don’t mind. I have to see it for myself.”

  The professor seemed convinced. “Okay by me. What about you, Miriam?”

  “I wouldn’t mind going along. I translated the tablet after all.”

  “Fine, then. What’s the plan, Kelvin?” Fergal turned to the Druid.

  Kelvin smiled and addressed Miriam. “If we leave very early tomorrow morning, I can park in Hounslow off the M4 motorway and we can catch the underground, get on the Piccadilly line, and make our way to Cockfosters at the far end. The place we are looking for is Enfield Chase, home of the Camelot Moat. It’s a walk away from the station. By the way, early means I leave at four AM.” He gave Miriam a smug grin.

  She groaned. “OMG!”

  Fergal laughed out loud. “That’ll teach you!”

  38

  “He’s brown? What do you mean brown?” Cardinal Nicholas sounded agitated. Cracker was on the phone reporting the latest developments. The man was telling him the details of how he had been following Rizzo, and then lost him, and how he discovered that another policeman was tailing him.