Sign of the Cross paj-2

by Chris Kuzneski

  That was Friday, nearly seventy-two hours before.

  Payne was on his cot, pondering his next move, when a team of guards interrupted him. They burst into his cell and chained his hands and legs together with a device that looked like it was from Cool Hand Luke. The men were of average size and training. That meant Payne could’ve gotten free if necessary. But he let things slide, allowing them to drag him to an isolation room where he assumed he was going to be interrogated. Or tortured. Or both.

  In the center of the room was a metal table bolted to the floor. A large iron loop was fused to each side, used to restrict the movement of the prisoner. The guards locked Payne in place, taking extra precautions, making sure he was secure. They had to be careful with a prisoner like Payne. He was that dangerous. Once they were satisfied, they left the room without speaking. No words. No instructions. Nothing. The only sound Payne could hear was the rattle of his chains and his own shallow breathing. The distinct smell of old vomit hovered in the air.

  They left him like that for several hours, allowing him to sweat. Allowing him to think of all the horrible things they could do to him. Hoping it would make him break. Little did they know they were wasting their time. They could do whatever they wanted to Payne, and he wouldn’t feel it. He was trained not to feel it. To join the MANIACs, soldiers were required to pass a rigorous torture test that had two basic parts: getting torture and giving torture. Payne excelled at both.

  So instead of dwelling on what might happen, Payne focused on other things. Mostly events of the past few years. All the things that had led him to his current predicament.

  Sadly, family duties had forced him to leave the military long before he was ready. His grandfather, the man who had raised him, passed away and left him the family business. A multimillion-dollar corporation named Payne Industries. In truth Payne wanted no part of that world. It was one of the reasons he had gone into the military, to avoid such obligations. He wanted to forge his own identity and make a name on his own. He wanted to be his own man. But all that changed when his grandfather died. Suddenly he felt obligated to come home and take charge. Like it was his destiny. His burden.

  Payne Industries was an American success story. It was his duty to protect the legacy.

  When Payne’s grandfather was young, he scraped together his life savings and started a small manufacturing company near the Ohio River. The steel industry was booming back then, and Pittsburgh was its capital. The air was black and the rivers were brown, but he got tons of business. One minute he was a mill Hunky from Beaver County, the next he was a tycoon. The most successful Polish American in the history of the U.S.

  Now everything — the company, the land, the wealth — belonged to the grandson.

  Someone without experience.

  Payne knew he was out of his element. So he passed his duties to his board of directors and focused all of his time and energy on charity work. His first charity? It wasn’t actually a charity. It was more of an investment. He gave David Jones, who had retired from the military at the same time, enough start-up capital to open his own business. It had always been Jones’s dream to run a detective agency, and Payne had the means to help. So he figured, why not? After his grandfather died, Payne knew the only family he had left was Jones.

  Of course, since Payne was white and Jones was black, they looked nothing alike.

  Anyway, the first year Payne was happy. He raised money for the Mario Lemieux Cancer Fund and other Pittsburgh charities while Jones scoured the city for clients. Occasionally Payne gave Jones a hand on the juicy cases, but for the most part they did their own thing.

  By year two, Payne started getting antsy. He loved helping good causes, but he needed more out of life than hosting golf tournaments and mingling at black-tie affairs. He missed the excitement of the MANIACs. The adrenaline rush he got when he risked his life. The thrill of getting his hands dirty. He couldn’t get those things in the business world, not when the worst injury he could receive was a paper cut. So Payne compensated by helping Jones all the time. The two of them partnered again. Making a difference in the world. Albeit on a much smaller scale than before. They used to rescue hostages. They used to overthrow governments. Now they were tracking cheating husbands and looking for lost pets. It was a huge letdown for both men.

  So they did what they could in their spare time, searching for artificial excitement wherever they could find it. Anything to get the buzz they used to feel. To help them keep their edge. To help them feel alive. Swimming with the sharks in Australia. Race car driving in Brazil. Skydiving in South Africa. Deep-sea explorations in Florida.

  And lastly, running with the bulls in Spain. That’s what had brought them to Pamplona.

  Unfortunately, it’s the event that led to their current predicament. Abandoned in jail. Alone.

  They had come to Spain for adrenaline. They had found incarceration instead.

  8

  Maria had no proof, but she knew that Boyd was keeping something from her. Typical man, she thought. They never trusted women with the important stuff.

  ‘Come on,’ she begged, ‘what does the sign say?’

  Boyd laughed as he walked away from the stone plaque. ‘You mean you don’t know? Tsk, tsk, tsk. I could’ve sworn that Latin was one of your academic requirements.’

  ‘Yeah, but that didn’t look like regular Latin to me.’

  ‘Perhaps because it wasn’t. That sign was written in one of the earlier forms of the language, one that hasn’t been used as a primary language in nearly two millennia.’

  ‘See! That’s why I… Wait! Does that mean that this floor was built by ancient Rome?’

  Boyd nodded. ‘It appears that way. I doubt they would have used antiquated language on one of their markers, not in a tomb of this magnitude.’ He pointed to a large archway that loomed down the narrow corridor. ‘We’ll know for sure in a moment.’

  Made out of off-white masonry, the main components of the arch were exquisitely carved, each illustrating a different moment of Jesus Christ’s crucifixion. The two lowest blocks, the springers, showed Jesus being nailed to the cross and being lifted above the ground by a team of Roman soldiers. The next series of stones, the voussoirs, depicted Christ as he hung from the cross, his life and stamina slowly slipping away. The crowns, the two stones that sat off-center from the top of the arch, revealed the events right before Jesus’s death. First, when he was given a sip of wine vinegar from the end of a hyssop stalk — while flowers bloomed underneath him, possibly as a sign of rebirth — and the instant his head drooped to his chest in death.

  Strangely, the keystone, the most important block of the archway, differed from the others. Instead of depicting Christ’s resurrection or his ascension to the right hand of God, the middle stone of the arch was sculpted into the lifelike bust of a man. A laughing man. The intricate details of his face revealed his amusement in a number of obvious ways: the sweeping curve of his lips, the lighthearted twinkle in his eyes, and the arrogant protrusion of his jaw. For some reason, he was laughing at a most inappropriate time.

  Maria raised the camera and filmed the arch. ‘What is this place?’

  ‘The plaque said it was a document vault. But after seeing this artwork, there’s a good chance that its purpose has changed over the years, perhaps to something more religious.’ Boyd placed his hands on the archway and traced the contours of the lower stones. Finally, he said, ‘Tell me, my dear, who killed Jesus Christ?’

  The question was so unexpected it took her a moment to answer. ‘The Romans in 33 AD.’

  ‘And why was he killed?’

  Maria rolled her eyes behind Boyd’s back. Why did he have to make a lecture out of everything? ‘Treason,’ she replied. ‘Many priests viewed him as going against the Roman way of life. They figured it was easier to kill Christ than put up with his flock of fanatics.’

  ‘Did they know he was the Son of God at the time of his death?’

  ‘Of course not. If they
did, they wouldn’t have crucified him.’

  Boyd nodded, content with her answers. ‘Then why are these carvings here? Why would the ancient Romans make a big deal about such a small event in their history? If they believed that Christ was a fake Messiah — just like dozens of con men who pretended to be the Son of God before him — why would they devote so much space to him in such a phenomenal work of art?’

  Intrigued, Maria studied the images and decided that Boyd was onto something. ‘Maybe this artwork was added after the Romans converted to Christianity? They could have commemorated Jesus’s crucifixion in the mid-300s, still a thousand years before the Great Schism occurred.’

  Boyd stared at the center carving, amazed at its vividness. It was so damn lifelike he could practically hear its laughter. ‘If that be the case, why is the figure on the keystone laughing? Hmmm? The Romans killed the Son of God but eventually realized their mistake. Then, in a moment of atonement, they converted to the Nazarene’s religion and commemorated his death by ridiculing it with a laughing statue… Somehow I don’t think that would be appropriate.’

  ‘Probably not,’ she admitted.

  Determined, Maria focused her eyes on the archway and tried to uncover the connection between the bust and the images of Christ that surrounded it. To complicate things further, the longer she looked at the laughing man’s face, the more certain she was that she had seen it before. ‘Professore, is it just me, or do you recognize his face?’

  ‘I was going to ask you the same thing. He does look bloody familiar, doesn’t he?’

  Maria racked her brain, going over hundreds of historical figures in her mind. ‘Could he be famous like Octavian or Trajan? Maybe even Constantine I, the first Christian emperor?’

  ‘I’d need a guide book to know for sure. This could be anyone.’

  She grimaced, realizing that Boyd was right. ‘Oh well, it’ll come to me. I might not be great with ancient Latin, but I never forget a face.’

  ‘If you figure it out, be sure to let me know. I’d love to understand the juxtaposition between the sculpture and the carvings. The subtext of the two truly baffles me. What in the world was this artist trying to say about Christ?’

  As they moved forward, Boyd’s light trickled into the colossal chamber, revealing an expanse that was nearly three times as large as the room they’d entered upstairs. Measuring over sixty feet by thirty feet, the massive space was filled with dozens of hand-carved stone chests of varying shapes and sizes, each one possessing a historical Roman scene. And the artwork didn’t end there. The walls of the chamber were adorned with a series of first-century frescoes, each remarkably similar in theme and color to the paintings that they’d seen in the original room.

  ‘My God!’ Boyd gasped. ‘Will you look at this place? The engineers of ancient Rome were truly ahead of their time. As I mentioned earlier, a large number of their structures remain standing today. Still, we’re quite lucky this place was never disturbed by drilling, soil erosion, or even the shifting of tectonic plates. One small earthquake would’ve covered this site forever.’

  Maria frowned at the possibility. ‘What do you say I do some more filming before something like that happens?’

  ‘That sounds great, my dear. That’ll give me a chance to examine these chests.’

  With the touch of a button, she began her work, documenting the chamber from left to right while slowly moving toward the back corner. She started with the frescoes, concentrating on one colorful image after another before shifting her focus toward the vaulted ceiling and the dozens of chests that filled the room.

  Little did she know that one of them contained the most important discovery of all time.

  A secret that would change her life — and the history of the world — forever.

  9

  Father Erik Jansen. From the Vatican. Crucified. At Hamlet’s castle.

  Nick Dial knew the media was going to have a field day with this story unless he was able to eliminate the Shakespeare angle right away. There was nothing he could do with the religious aspect — a priest being crucified was hard to explain — but eliminating Hamlet was a possibility.

  Unfortunately, Dial didn’t know much about literature, so he decided to call Henri Toulon, the assistant director of the Homicide Division. Toulon was a wine-loving Frenchman who had the ability to speak at length on every subject under the sun. Whether it was quantum physics, soccer statistics, or a recipe for fondue, Toulon was the man with the answers.

  Dial said, ‘Hey, Henri, it’s Nick. Do you have a minute?’

  Toulon answered with a hoarse, ‘But of course.’

  ‘Man, are you feeling all right? You sound a bit under the weather.’

  ‘Oui, I’m fine. It was a late night. Again.’

  Dial smiled, not the least bit surprised that Toulon was hungover. His late-night carousing was one of the main reasons that Dial had been promoted ahead of him. That plus Interpol’s desire to have an American as the head of a division, a rarity in the European-dominated organization. ‘Out of curiosity, how much do you know about Shakespeare?’

  ‘More than his own mother.’

  ‘And what about the Bible?’

  ‘More than Dan Brown. Why do you ask?’

  Dial filled him in on the case and told him what he was looking for. Why was Jansen kidnapped in Rome but killed in Denmark?

  Toulon answered, ‘Religion played an important role in Shakespeare’s world, yet I can’t think of a single character who was crucified. That would have been heresy back then.’

  ‘Then ignore the crucifixion and focus on the murder. Besides the location, can you think of any connections to Hamlet?’

  ‘The thing that grabs my attention is the sign above the cross. Whoever painted that was brilliant. Is “FATHER” referring to God, a character in Shakespeare’s play, or the killer’s actual father? At first glance, I’d assume it’s referring to Hamlet. The plot follows Prince Hamlet as he avenges the death of the king — a son getting revenge for his father. Sounds perfect to me. Until you examine the method of execution. In my mind, crucifixion screams of Christ, not Shakespeare. If the killer cared about Hamlet, he would have chosen the sword.’

  ‘So this is about religion?’

  ‘Not necessarily. It could be about the killer’s father or the victim’s father. But that’s why the sign is so brilliant. You’ll have to track down all these possibilities, whether you like it or not. For all we know, the killer is simply messing with you.’

  ‘Maybe. Or it could be about something else, something you missed.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Dial smiled, glad that Toulon didn’t know everything. ‘The victim was a priest. For all we know the sign could be about him. Father Erik Jansen.’

  ‘Which only adds to the brilliance of the sign. It’s memorable yet ambiguous. The perfect way to attract attention without giving anything away.’

  ‘That’s why I decided to call you. I figured I’d fight brilliance with brilliance.’

  Toulon grinned. ‘I’ll tell you what, give me a day or two, and I’ll see what I can find. Who knows? Maybe I missed something else.’

  ‘Thanks, Henri, I’d appreciate that. Before you go, though, I have one more question, this one about religion. Do you have any idea what Jesus’s cross looked like?’

  Toulon took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his gray hair, which was pulled back in his trademark ponytail. He desperately wanted a cigarette but wasn’t allowed to smoke inside Interpol, even though sometimes he did just because he was French and fuck them if they didn’t like it. ‘You’ll be happy to know you’re not alone. Most people are confused about his cross. Tell me, what kind of cross did they use in Denmark?’

  ‘Wooden, made out of some kind of oak.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. Was it Latin? Tau? Greek? Russian?’

  ‘Honestly, I have no idea. They’re all Greek to me.’

  Toulon rolled his eyes. Why did Americans h
ave to make a joke out of everything? ‘A Greek cross is easy to spot. It looks like a plus sign. All four of its arms are the exact same length.’

  ‘Not Jansen’s. His looked like a capital T. The horizontal beam was way at the top.’

  Toulon whistled softly. ‘Then they got it right.’

  ‘They got it right? What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Most people think that Jesus was crucified on a Latin cross — one where the crossarm sits a third of the way down the vertical beam — but that’s wrong. The Romans used tau crosses for crucifixions, not Latin ones.’

  ‘Really? Then why do churches use the Latin cross?’

  ‘Because Christian leaders adopted it as their symbol during the ninth century, a decision that sparked controversy, since it was originally a pagan emblem representing the four winds: north, south, east, and west. Yet Christians preferred that to the history of the tau cross, a symbol that meant death by execution to the ancient world. The death of criminals.’

  Dial stroked his massive chin, wondering if Erik Jansen was a criminal. Or had dealt with one in the confessional. ‘Speaking of crosses, what can you tell me about the crucifixion? I mean, I’m familiar with the biblical version, but do we know what really happened?’

  ‘I guess that depends on your perspective. If you’re Christian, the biblical version is the way it really happened, right down to the last detail. I mean, the Bible is the word of God.’

  ‘And if you’re not a Christian?’

  Toulon realized the subject was a powder keg. Groaning, he put an unlit cigarette in his mouth, just so he had something to suck on. ‘The truth is we don’t know what happened. Christian historians say one thing while Roman historians say another. Then there are the Jews and the Buddhists and the atheists. Everyone has a different opinion on what happened, and no one knows for sure because it happened two thousand years ago. We can’t check the videotape and come up with something definitive. All we can do is sort through the evidence, read what our ancestors wrote, and try to reach our own conclusions, which are invariably tainted by our upbringing.’