Sign of the Cross paj-2

by Chris Kuzneski

  After dusting herself off, she glanced toward the roof and gave Boyd a big thumbs-up. Reluctantly, he nodded his head, took one last gasp of air, and followed her lead, plunging into the escape tunnel.

  In truth, their adventure was just starting. And most of the craziness was yet to come.

  33

  Jones could speak some Italian, so he was able to translate the article on the bus crash. Which, it turns out, wasn’t a crash after all. According to the newspaper, Dr Boyd was more than just a professor/forger/thief. He was also an escape artist/munitions expert, capable of blowing up a bus in front of half the cops in Italy without getting injured or caught. Pretty good trick, huh?

  The story claimed that Boyd shot down a helicopter, hijacked the first bus leaving town, and then fled down a country road that the cops were able to block. After a brief standoff, Boyd detonated a device that killed everyone except himself and managed to escape capture while the heroic police force risked their lives trying to pull injured passengers from the raging inferno.

  Payne laughed when he heard that, because he knew it was total bullshit. He knew the worst thing a criminal could do was kill a cop, because it guaranteed a motivated police force, a group looking for retribution even if it meant breaking some laws along the way. Why? Because the police knew if they didn’t strike quick, then every punk with a gun would think they could kill a cop and get away with it. And the next victim could be the cop’s partner. Or even himself.

  Therefore Payne knew there was a major problem with the story. There was no way an entire police force was going to surround a bus that had been hijacked by a cop-killer and let him get away. Not a chance. So how did Boyd survive? Furthermore, what type of explosive did he use that could blow up the bus but let him walk away? None that Payne knew, and he knew them all.

  Anyway, those were just a few of the things running through Payne’s mind when he listened to the details of the story. They were running through Jones’s mind, too, because he insisted that they drive to the crime scene before it was too dark to see.

  To get to the site, which was less than ten miles from the gas station where Payne had cleaned himself up, they pulled off the main highway and went down a country lane that wasn’t built for buses, let alone a Ferrari. A wooden barricade blocked their path a few miles from the site. Plants, flowers, and a few dozen pictures surrounded the barrier, items left behind by the victims’ families in a makeshift shrine. Some people were able to shrug off scenes like that without a second thought, often driving past them like they were street signs or mailboxes. But Payne wasn’t one of those people. His parents were killed by a drunk driver when he was a teenager, so he got reflective every time he saw a bundle of flowers near the road. Of course, Jones knew this about Payne so he got out of the car and moved the barricade by himself.

  For as long as he could remember, whenever Payne started thinking about his parents, he found that music helped ease the pain. He knew they still had a few minutes to drive to the bus site, so he decided to test the audio system in the car. Sadly, the only stations Payne could find in the middle of the Apennine Mountains were filled with the depressing sounds of Andrea Bocelli and Marcella Bella. Not exactly what he had in mind. Flipping from station to station, he hoped to find something more upbeat when Jones started yelling at him from near the barricade

  ‘Go back!’ he demanded. ‘Hurry!’

  Payne did as he was told, hoping there wasn’t going to be opera when he returned to the previous station. Much to his surprise, there was no music at all but rather an Italian newscaster rambling in rapid Italian. It could’ve been the weather or a traffic report. Payne wasn’t sure, because the only Italian he knew he learned from The Sopranos. Whatever it was, though, he knew that Jones liked it because he had a grin on his face the size of a small dog. This went on for over two minutes before Jones turned off the stereo, saving Payne from the tortuous sound of Pavarotti or whatever fat guy was about to start singing.

  ‘You aren’t going to believe this,’ Jones said. ‘But Boyd was just spotted in Milan.’

  Payne rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, I wish.’

  ‘I swear to God, Jon. He was just spotted in Milan. The cops tried to grab him, but he got away. Again.’

  ‘Wait a second, you’re serious? How did he get away?’

  ‘He vanished from the roof of a library. And get this: he’s running with a woman.’

  ‘Boyd took a hostage?’

  Jones shook his head. ‘No, he took a partner. Apparently the two of them are in this together.’

  34

  The crucifixion in Denmark barely made a blip in the United States, and he couldn’t understand why. The murder had everything that Americans usually looked for in a story — a brutal execution, a famous setting, and a Vatican priest as a victim — yet the only attention it received was a small story in the Associated Press. Nothing in USA Today, nothing in the New York Times, and nothing in the National Enquirer.

  God, what was wrong with these people? Were they really that numb from all their horror movies and video games that they didn’t care about a crucified priest? Who did he have to kill to get their undivided attention? The fucking president?

  Obviously, he realized, that would be going too far. He wanted to attract as much attention as he possibly could without starting a worldwide manhunt. That was the only way that he and his partners could get this to work.

  They needed attention, not intervention. A spotlight without the heat.

  In his mind, the second murder was a step in the right direction. CNN sent a camera crew to Tripoli and Nepal, hoping to get a reaction from the royal family. Their footage popped up on newscasts across the U.S., which led to stories in 90 percent of the newspapers in North America, including most major cities. Not front-page coverage like they’d hoped for, but enough to make the Vatican take notice, which was the ultimate goal of the murders.

  The clock was ticking, and the stakes were high. It was time to tighten the vise.

  Nicknamed the Holy Hitter because of his surname, Orlando Pope was one of the best players in baseball. He hit for power, ran with speed, and did all the little things that made his team win. Simply put, he was the type of guy that every club coveted.

  During the off-season, two teams — the Boston Red Sox and the New York Yankees — did everything to sign him. Not only to get Pope, which would be a coup on its own, but also to keep him off the other’s roster, which was even more important in their way of thinking. Why? Because no teams in baseball hated each other more than the Red Sox and Yankees. The players hated each other. The fans hated each other. Even the cities hated each other.

  This was Sparta versus Athens, only with bats instead of spears.

  The bidding between the teams went back and forth for nearly a month. Ten million. Twenty million. Fifty million. One hundred million. And more. In the end, Pope signed with the Yankees. It also made Pope public enemy number one in Beantown.

  Due to a scheduling quirk, the teams wouldn’t play in Boston until the upcoming weekend. They’d split an early-season series in New York and would play a dozen more times later in the year, but this was the match-up that every sports fan in New England was waiting for.

  The Pope was coming to Boston, and they were going to let him have it.

  Orlando Pope hated the limelight and all the attention that he got as the highest paid player in sports. He loved it on the baseball field where he had the confidence and the talent to thrive, yet hated it in his personal life. He grew up in a biracial family from Brazil — black father, white mother — which led to self-image problems. Was he black? Was he white? Was he both? In the end, he didn’t feel comfortable with any group, so he spent most of his time alone, reading books and watching movies in his luxury high-rise, instead of enjoying his hero status in the Big Apple.

  In his mind people led to problems, so he stayed away from everyone whenever he could.

  The pizza he ordered from Andrew’s was forty mi
nutes late, and he was angry. He’d bought a brand-new DVD, The Lesson, and didn’t want to start it until his food was there. Nothing pissed him off like interruptions when he was trying to watch a flick.

  He was tempted to call and complain when he heard a knock on his door. With wallet in hand, Pope undid the lock and opened the chain without looking through the peephole.

  It was the biggest mistake of his life.

  Four men stood in the hall. Different men than Denmark or Libya. But a foursome with the same objective. Grab their target, take him to a predetermined location, and nail him to a cross.

  The leader of the group held an M series Taser and shot Pope in his chest before he could react. The weapon sent a burst of electricity to Pope’s central nervous system, causing an uncontrollable contraction of his skeletal muscles. A moment later, one of the best athletes in the world was lying on his floor in the fetal position, unable to protect himself in any way.

  From there it would be easy. Carry Pope to the van, take him to a predetermined location, and then wait for the news to hit. And oh how it would hit!

  This would be a home run, the biggest one yet.

  Every murder was a clue. Every clue led to a secret. The secret would change the world.

  In the end the Vatican would be helpless. Completely helpless.

  Finally forced to honor his ancestor two thousand years after the fact.

  35

  Thursday, July 13

  Milan, Italy

  Payne and Jones’s journey to northern Italy covered several hundred miles. Thanks to the liberal speed limits on the autostrada and the F1 power of the Ferrari, they got to Milan just after midnight. It was too late to get Barnes’s film developed but was early enough to get some detective work done. With that in mind, they wasted no time and headed directly to the Catholic University campus.

  Jones said, ‘The first thing we need to do is find out if Boyd’s been caught. Why don’t I snoop around, maybe talk to a couple of reporters, while you walk around the perimeter and look for weaknesses? If all else fails, we might need to sneak inside.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Payne joked, ‘and we better do it quick. If the current trend continues, Boyd’s liable to blow up the library to conceal evidence.’

  Laughing to himself, Payne walked past the right-hand alley and noticed several cops staring at a garbage chute and a Dumpster. He didn’t want to deal with them, so he headed past the main entrance, hoping there’d be less cops on the other side of the building. That’s when he noticed a security guard at the front door, deciding who got in and who didn’t, like a bouncer at a local discotheque. In a heartbeat his plan of attack changed. Instead of sneaking in, he decided to be invited in, compliments of the rent-a-meathead.

  Payne didn’t have a badge or anything official-looking, so he knew he’d have to lay the bullshit on pretty thick. He also knew there was a damn good chance that the guard couldn’t speak English any better than Payne spoke Italian, so he decided to use that to his advantage. He figured he might be able to make the guard feel so uncomfortable that he’d let Payne go inside just so he’d leave him alone. With that in mind, Payne went right up to him and started babbling in a fake accent, claiming that he was with the British embassy and was there to protect the legal rights of Dr Boyd. The fact that he sounded like Ringo Starr, had bandages all over, and carried a stolen handgun in his shorts made no difference to the guard. He looked at Payne, shrugged, and let him inside. No questions asked.

  Snooping around the first floor, Payne looked for anything that might explain why Boyd was at the library. He figured it might’ve been something perverted, since the women’s room was sealed off with yellow tape that said Polizia. Then again, that didn’t make much sense, since Boyd was too smart to do anything that would draw attention to himself, like peeping into the ladies’ room. Unless this had something to do with the mysterious female who was mentioned on the radio. Maybe she was the one who did something in the restroom? Maybe she was the reason he was running for his life after all these years toying with Interpol?

  Whatever the case, Payne needed to find out what had happened in that bathroom.

  Paranoid, he crept over to the door, not sure what to expect. A corpse? Some bloodstains? A battered female? At the very least he was hoping to overhear some juicy facts about Boyd and his partner, yet the only thing he saw was a technician dusting for prints. Disappointed, he turned from the door and started walking when he felt someone latch on to his arm.

  ‘Where is you going?’ demanded a man in a thick Italian accent.

  Son of a bitch, Payne thought to himself. The security guard at the front door must’ve told some of the cops about him, and they were getting ready to haul his ass out. Payne turned around, half expecting to see a gun pointed at his chest. Instead, he found a tiny man with a smiling face and a head filled with the curliest black hair he’d ever seen in a nonpubic region.

  Payne was so stunned he started babbling. ‘I was, just, ah, I was — ’

  ‘Just what? Running off and no introducing yourself?’

  Confused, Payne stood there trying to size up this guy who was at least a foot shorter than he was. He wore a light-gray suit and a starched white shirt. A picture ID hung from his coat pocket, but the writing was microscopic and in Italian, so he had no idea what it said.

  ‘Well,’ he laughed, ‘if you no gonna speak, I do the talking. My name is Francesco Cione. My English-speaking friends call me Frankie. I am university’s media man, which, as my feet tells you, makes me busiest man in all of Milan — at least on this night no?’

  And just like that, Payne knew Frankie would be a wonderful ally.

  Thinking quickly, he whispered, ‘Are you really the media liaison for the Boyd case?’

  Intrigued by the hushed tone, Frankie looked around for eavesdroppers. ‘Yes, I am media man for this school. Why do you ask?’

  Payne put a finger to his lips. ‘Shhhhh! Not here. Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  ‘In private?’ he asked softly. ‘Yes, I can do that. I can do anything. Follow me.’

  In all honesty, Payne didn’t have anything to speak to him about — at least not at that moment. But he figured he couldn’t risk standing in the hallway with a dozen cops liable to spot him. Plus, he realized he had to give Frankie some kind of explanation and figured a long walk to a secluded part of the library would give him enough time to develop a believable cover story.

  Frankie led Payne to a private reading room filled from floor to ceiling with stacks of leather-bound books. Then he asked, ‘What is this? Some secret, no?’

  Payne countered the question with one of his own. ‘Do you have any idea who I am?’

  He shook his head. ‘One of guards tells me you are from British embassy, but after listening to you voice, I knows that he is wrong. You an American, no?’

  ‘Very good.’ Payne applauded. ‘That means you’re smarter than your guards.’

  Smiling at the half compliment, Frankie said, ‘So, tell me, who you are?’

  ‘Not yet. We’ll get to that in a second. But first I have another question for you. Do you like what you do for a living? I mean, I get the sense that you’re capable of doing so much more. I picture you as someone who should be making news instead of helping others report it. And do you know what? I’m the type of guy who can make that happen. If that would appeal to you.’

  Intrigued, Frankie invited Payne to sit down. ‘What, are you some kind of magic wizard? You can go poof and fix my life?’

  ‘How would you like to help me and my team capture Dr Boyd? Not a behind-the-scenes job, but one in which you actively participate in his capture. Would that interest you?’

  Drool practically leaked from his mouth. ‘Would that interest me? Mamma mia! I have been trying to help the polizia all night, but they no have been receptive. What do you need?’

  ‘I’ll get to that in a moment. But first, I need your help with something trivial.’

  ‘You ne
ed my help before you need my help. This is very confusing, no? What is you need?’

  ‘Actually, I just need help getting my partner inside.’

  ‘Is that it? I can do that with my eyes tied behind my back.’

  That sounded painful, but Payne didn’t have the heart to correct him. Instead, he gave him all the information he needed and told him where he could find Jones. ‘Before you go, though, let me officially introduce myself. My name is Jonathon Payne, and I’m working for the CIA.’

  ‘The CIA?’ he gasped. ‘I heard of that in cinema, no? It is an honor to meet you Signor Payne. Yes, a big honor… So, is there anything you need besides your friend?’

  ‘Yeah, Frankie, now that you mention it, there is…’

  Dante marched into the library like he owned the place, around the crowd of onlookers, past the worthless security guard, and through a dozen cops in the lobby. He never slowed to make small talk, never gave anyone a chance to ask him what he was doing or where he was going until he reached the police tape outside the women’s bathroom.

  ‘What happened?’ he growled at the lead detective.

  The officer recognized him immediately and knew his connection to Benito Pelati. ‘Multiple assaults followed by a well-planned escape. They eluded a SWAT team like they were statues.’

  ‘Who was assaulted?’

  ‘An off-duty library guard was attacked more than once. The girl hit him first. Boyd got him next, then the girl got him again. She must’ve been coked up or something, because he said she had the strength of ten men.’

  Dante grimaced, surprised at the detective’s gullibility. Didn’t he know that every guy who had his ass kicked by a female was going to have an excuse? ‘How’d they get off the roof?’

  ‘A scrap tube. They slid to the alley.’

  ‘Do we have pictures of anything?’

  ‘Maybe. We’re looking through security tapes as we speak.’

  Dante frowned. The last thing he needed was for a batch of photographs to be leaked to the press. In his mind that would be more difficult to contain than the bus explosion had been. ‘What about fingerprints? Are we even sure it was Boyd?’