The relics and book could easily have been destroyed in the Vatican laboratory, so he intuited that this drive was about far more than a simple disposal of the ossuary. Glancing at the mercenary, he knew that Dr. Bersei's mysterious disappearance coincided all too well with Conte's unexplained head wound.
Conte slowed the sedan and turned right down a narrow unpaved road. Thick grass and low bushes scraped the car's undercarriage. They drove on in silence until the trail broadened by a small grove of beech trees. Conte braked, and killed the engine, leaving the keys in the ignition. He pushed the trunk release button.
Emerging from the car, both men circled to the back. Shovels and picks had been stowed diagonally behind the ossuary. Conte grabbed them and pushed a spade into Donovan's hands. "We'll need to dig deep."
* * *
"Now that this thing's over"-- Conte wiped away sweat from his forehead with the back of his muddy hand-- "I've got a couple of questions for you." He thrust his shovel into the soil and leaned on it. The smell of fresh earth filled the damp air. The light rain had resumed.
Donovan peered up at him through foggy glasses. "Haven't you seen enough to answer your questions?"
The mercenary shook his head. "Whose bones do you really believe are in that ossuary?" Salvatore Conte wasn't questioning his own faith. That was something he'd abandoned long ago. But the theft of the ossuary and its scientific analysis, along with Bersei's discoveries at the Torlonia catacombs had really piqued his curiosity.
"You've seen the same evidence as me." Donovan stretched his arms. "What do you think?"
Conte smiled. "It's not my job to think."
"Honestly, I don't know."
"So why go to all this trouble?"
Donovan considered this. "The evidence is substantial. For all we know, these are the bones of Jesus Christ. Our duty is to protect the Church. Surely you can see that action had to be taken."
"Well, if that's Jesus in there"-- the mercenary pointed to the car's trunk-- "I'd say you're protecting an enormous lie."
Donovan hadn't expected a man like Salvatore Conte to understand the broader implications of all this. Two millennia of human history would be fundamentally affected by the ossuary and its contents. Humankind needed truths to bring people together, not controversies. He'd learned that firsthand on the streets of Belfast. Patrick Donovan was supremely well versed in Catholic history, but what he was defending had little to do with old books. There was a moral imperative that needed to be preserved so that what spiritual belief remained in this chaotic, materialistic world could remain strong. "I'm surprised. You don't strike me as someone who'd really give a shit about that."
Surprised by the priest's language, Conte shot him a look. Suddenly the task before him seemed easier. "I don't actually. Besides, if there was a God," he said sarcastically, "men like you and me wouldn't exist." He continued digging.
Donovan was disgusted by the idea that he and Conte shared any commonalities, but knew that perhaps the mercenary was right. I am part of this. After all, Conte wasn't operating autonomously-- he was merely a foot soldier. And it wasn't Conte who'd beseeched Santelli to take action to retrieve the ossuary-- he had done that. Granted, he had never anticipated the extreme measures Santelli would employ, but he hadn't intervened to stop him.
"What really happened to Dr. Bersei?" Donovan's tone was forceful. Somehow he knew his own fate was linked to Conte's answer.
"Don't worry yourself about him." Conte's hard face was twisted. "He got what he deserved and I spared you the dirty work. That's all you need to know."
"Why was he in the catacombs?" Donovan felt a swell of anger.
Conte considered dodging the question, but knew that at this juncture, Donovan was no threat. "The scroll he found in the ossuary had a picture on it-- and he figured out that it matched a fresco in the Torlonia catacombs. Apparently this Joseph of Arimathea character had a crypt in Rome. Seems Bersei thought that's where Jesus was originally dried out. Who'd have thought?"
Donovan's eyes went wide. Could it be? Had he found the actual tomb?
"Let me give you a piece of advice," Conte added. "Don't get too attached to the girl, either." He liked it that each revelation weakened the priest's resolve. "She's only on temporary reprieve."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Santelli told me all that nonsense you fed her about the manuscript. Nice story. But you're failing to grasp that you've already given her too much information. Did the cardinal tell you she skipped off with her laptop...loaded up with all the data?"
"No, he didn't." No wonder Santelli was a bundle of nerves about all this-- the whole thing was on the verge of unraveling. Conte had been sloppy-- the reports coming out of Jerusalem now included a computerized photofit image that bore an uncanny resemblance to him. Giovanni Bersei was dead. Now Hennesey had managed to leave with all the proof she needed to implicate the Vatican.
"It's not good. I've got to fix that too and her blood will be on your hands."
Hatred showed in the priest's eyes.
"Don't look at me like that, Donovan. You're the one who insisted on bringing in outsiders."
"We had no choice."
"Exactly."
"What are you going to do to her?"
Grinning deviously, Conte waited before responding. "Wouldn't you just love to know. You sound like an infatuated lover, for Christ's sake. Santelli feels that two deaths linked so closely to the Vatican would arouse too much suspicion. But if a freak accident should happen to befall the lovely geneticist back home in the States, the authorities would be none the wiser. Of course, I'll be sure to show her a good time before she goes." Then we'll see who gets the last laugh, he thought. Conte sighed, as if bored. "Keep digging."
Donovan's jaw tensed as he thrust his shovel into the dirt, the latent anger pushed deep down in his soul fighting its way to the surface.
It took them almost three hours to carve out the five-foot-deep rectangular pit.
This pit could easily accommodate the ossuary and a body, Donovan thought.
At last Conte threw his shovel to the ground. "Looks good." Both men were lathered in dirt and sweat. "Let's get the ossuary."
They walked back to the sedan.
Donovan turned to him. "Why are we burying this? Can't we just destroy it on the ground?"
Without responding, Conte leaned into the trunk and lifted the ossuary's lid. Resting on top of the bones was the Ephemeris Conlusio and two thick gray blocks that resembled molded clay.
Donovan pointed to the C-4. "Is that-- "
"Oh, I think a man with your background should know. Or didn't the IRA use this stuff to blow up Protestant storefronts in Belfast? Boom!" Conte opened his eyes in mock astonishment and splayed his fingers.
How on earth could he have known that? That had been years ago-- another lifetime.
"So best to blow it apart underground, wouldn't you agree?"
Donovan wondered if Conte would hit him on the head with a shovel, then push him into the hole and detonate the explosives. Or was he concealing a gun? Perhaps the mercenary would elect to kill him with his bare hands.
Conte stood to face him. "You take that end." He moved to one side, wrapping his hands round the ossuary's base, while Donovan stepped forward to grasp the other end.
They heaved the ossuary out of the trunk, lugging it over to the edge of the pit.
"Drop on three." Conte counted down.
Father Donovan felt a sudden dread as he watched the ossuary hit the earth with a dull thud. The lid slammed back onto the base, producing a crack along its etchings. He thought about Santelli sitting in his office, working diligently to preserve the huge institution created by the man these innocent bones might have belonged to. He thought about his meeting with Santelli weeks earlier when the initial battle plan had been mapped out. Once again, the Vatican seemed to have emerged victorious.
Conte turned around for his spade. Wrapping his hands around its handle he st
udied the sharp edges. One solid blow to Donovan's skull should do it. He'd toss the body in with the box. Covered with dirt, the C-4 would do the rest. From the corner of his eye, he noticed that the priest was crouching down as if to tie his shoe.
Rising to his feet, a very different man now faced him. The priest was aiming a silver handgun directly at his chest. Eyeing him disdainfully, as if the gun-wielding curator was almost comical, Conte scrutinized the weapon-- a standard issue Beretta, most likely lifted from the Swiss Guard barracks. The safety was off.
Donovan was determined to survive, not just for himself, but more so to preserve the innocent life of Charlotte Hennesey and anyone else he'd unwittingly involved in this fiasco. "Drop the shovel," he demanded.
Shaking his head chastisingly, Conte squatted to rest the shovel on the spongy grass, then quickly went for the Glock strapped round his right ankle, beneath his pant leg.
The first shot was unexpectedly loud, striking Conte in the right hand with appalling force. The slug ripped cleanly through flesh and bone, grazing the mercenary's ankle as it exited. Conte flinched, but didn't scream. Blood bubbled out from the hole and his damaged hand curled into a tight claw. He peered up at Donovan. "Motherfucker. You're going to pay for that."
"Stand up," Donovan demanded, daring to move a bit closer, leveling the gun at Conte's head. Killing the son of a bitch wasn't going to be nearly as hard as he had thought. Give me strength, Lord. Help me make this right.
At first, it looked as if the mercenary would comply. But what happened next was far too fast for him. Conte sprang forward, burying a shoulder in Donovan's chest, forcing him back and then down.
Remarkably, the priest managed to maintain his grip on the Beretta. Conte reached for it with his left hand, but miscalculated, cupping the muzzle. A second shot cracked through the air and Conte screamed out in frustration. Now his good hand had been mangled too.
Badly wounded, Conte still managed to force Donovan's gun-hand down to the ground. Cocking his elbow back, he landed a shot just below the priest's wrist, forcing the Beretta away. Next he brought the elbow down hard on Donovan's face, crunching bone and cartilage. The priest's nose instantly spewed blood and he cried out in agony.
Thrashing viciously, Donovan tried to escape from under the assassin, but to no avail. Conte let go of the priest's arm to prepare another elbow-shot. That's when Donovan had a fraction of a second to strike the only vulnerable thing he could see through his blood-splattered bifocals. He jabbed hard with his fist at the purple lump on the side of Conte's head.
It worked. Momentarily dazed, Conte teetered off to one side, allowing Donovan to stagger to his feet. Seeing there was no chance of getting the Beretta, he ran away.
After a few seconds, the blaring pain subsided, but Conte was still seeing stars through a haze of red covering his right eye. Blood poured down his face where Donovan's ring had opened the hammer wound. Shaking his head, he spotted the priest retreating along the trail toward the Autostrada.
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 Cafe 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 Sacred Bones Page 29