by John Sneeden
“If he never named the item he was working on, technically, you can’t say it’s the one that was stolen tonight,” Zane pointed out.
“That’s correct. But I find it interesting Luca told me the story two weeks ago, then we discover a relic from the same section has been stolen.”
“How did the Vatican obtain the relic?” Zane asked.
Father Fiori slipped on his glasses and turned his attention back to the screen. Almost immediately, his mouth turned down in a frown. “That’s odd. There is no source listed. That information is always recorded. Always.”
Zane looked at Stegmann. “Your network may have been compromised. This group—whoever they are—must have removed some of the information.”
“I’m guessing that’s because the seller might have been able to identify them.”
“Assuming the seller is still alive,” Zane added.
Stegmann turned to Father Fiori. “Can you think of anything else that might be helpful? Perhaps someone on the staff that Father Cortesi might have consulted with?”
“I don’t know of anyone here, but I do of someone he consults with outside of the Vatican.” His eyes widened. “In fact, Luca would often contact him regarding some of our more bizarre pieces.”
Zane’s interest was piqued. “An archaeologist?”
“He’s a collector, but don’t let the title fool you. While some might not care for him, he’s one of the most respected authorities on Near East artifacts. In fact, he probably knows more than most of the archaeologists out there.” He looked at Zane. “I’d be shocked if Luca hadn’t mentioned this relic to him.”
Stegmann took out a small notepad and pen. “And what is his name?”
“Lawson… Roger Lawson. He’s an Australian living in Israel.”
Roger Lawson. Zane had never heard the name before.
“He’s an extremely rich man who inherited all of his wealth,” the father continued. “He’d always had a love for antiquities, and the inheritance allowed him to indulge in his favorite hobby. Luca once told me Lawson can purchase objects some museums can’t afford.
“I said earlier he’s a brilliant man. And he is. But you should also know he has his detractors. Some believe he deals in fakes and frauds. In my opinion, most of that is jealousy.”
“You said he lives in Israel,” Stegmann said. “Where exactly?”
“Just outside Jerusalem.”
“And how can we get in touch with him?”
“He typically doesn’t take calls unless he knows you.”
“Will he take yours?”
Father Fiori thought for a moment. “Probably.”
“Call him,” Stegmann ordered.
“Now? It’s late, and I doubt—”
“Several people have died tonight, Father. He may have more information on the relic. Who knows? He may even know who might want it. So yes, call him.”
Father Fiori nodded then reached into his cassock and withdrew his phone. After placing the call, he pressed the phone to his ear. “It says his number is no longer in service.” He ended the call.
Stegmann frowned. “That’s strange.”
“Roger Lawson has a lot of enemies. Some have even threatened to kill him over deals gone bad. I’m guessing his number changes on a regular basis.”
“Well, if we can’t call him, there is only one thing left to do,” Zane said.
Stegmann gave him a questioning look.
“We’ll have to pay him a visit.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Somewhere Over the Mediterranean Sea
ZANE OPENED HIS eyes to the dimly lit interior of a Gulfstream G550. Sitting up straight, he looked to his right. The seats around him were empty. The others must have retired to the rear of the plane. He opened the window shade a crack. The Mediterranean Sea spread out below, its placid waters broken only by a few whitecaps snaking across its surface.
He checked his watch. He’d been asleep longer than he’d expected. They were due to arrive at Ben Gurion within the hour. Even so, he didn’t regret his siesta. His body needed the rest after staying awake for most of the night. After meeting with Stegmann and Father Fiori, he’d called Carmen to brief her on all that had taken place then spent the next several hours searching the Internet for information on the elusive Roger Lawson. Not surprisingly, the Australian had done a good job of keeping a light online footprint. His name occasionally surfaced on archaeological news sites—mostly whispers about some strange artifact being found—but there was precious little information on the man himself, save for his charitable work with several global hunger organizations.
Shortly after four a.m., Zane had finally retired to the guest room in a small building near the Swiss Guard barracks, a place typically reserved for visiting dignitaries and politicians. Zane had planned on checking into a local hotel, but the Swiss commander wouldn’t hear of it. They had already made arrangements for him to stay at the Vatican and made it clear they weren’t going to take no for an answer. It was the commander’s way of expressing gratitude for the warning, even though it had come too late.
In the meantime, the Oracle had arranged for the team to take a CIA-owned plane to Tel Aviv. The craft was dispatched from Ankara, Turkey, so they weren’t able to board until after lunch.
Zane heard soft conversation behind him. He stood and walked to the open area at the rear of the plane. The plush-but-simple furnishings consisted of a table and brown leather sectional on either side. Sitting around the table on the left were Keiko and Delphi field operative, Connor Reid, who was cleaning a .40 caliber Smith & Wesson. Reid was a short, well-built former US Navy SEAL with close-cropped blond hair. Often underestimated due to his size, he was one of the most pugnacious men Zane had ever worked with.
Carmen, Amanda, and Emily sat around the table on the right. Carmen sipped a cappuccino as she studied something on her tablet, while Amanda and Emily spoke in low tones. Emily still looked groggy, although she always seemed to perk up whenever Zane was around. This time was no exception.
Carmen looked up from her tablet. “Well, if it isn’t Rip Van Watson.”
“Yeah well, some of us actually worked last night.”
Before she could respond, Miranda, the craft’s sole flight attendant, came from the rear of the plane. She and the two pilots comprised the three-person crew. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Coffee,” Zane replied. “Cream and no sugar, please.”
“Certainly.” Miranda walked away.
Zane looked around. Someone was missing. “Were is Bull?”
As if on cue, there was a loud snap, and a small lavatory door popped open behind the tables. A tall, well-muscled man with shaggy brown hair slid out of the cramped space. “Right here,” he said in his Southern twang, “so don’t get your panties all in a wad.”
James “Bull” Pratt, a Georgia-born former US Army Ranger, was the latest addition to the Delphi team. Although he was large in stature—six foot four and two hundred twenty-five pounds—his nickname came from his penchant for charging fearlessly into dangerous situations. His aggression was often helpful, but there were also times when it had to be reined in.
“Just wanted to make sure you weren’t up front trying to fly the plane,” Zane said. “I know how you get after too much caffeine.”
“You mean it gets worse?” Carmen winked at Pratt.
“Just be thankful he’s only had three cups this morning,” Reid warned. “You don’t want to see him when he hits double digits.”
“Keep talking… Keep talking.” Pratt sank into a seat across from Reid. “We’ll see how alert all you peeps are gonna be later tonight. If any of you softies need bailing out, don’t come calling me!”
Reid nodded at the pistol parts spread out in front of him. “The only two people I’m going to call are Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson.”
Emily caught Zane’s attention and patted the cushion next to her. “Come sit down.”
After he to
ok a seat, Miranda appeared and set a cup of coffee in front of him. After making sure everyone else was good, she disappeared into the back.
Carmen wore a serious expression. “Any progress on identifying the thief? I’m guessing the Vatican has security cameras every ten feet.”
Zane took a sip of coffee. “Nothing yet. They did get a few good shots of his face but haven’t been able to match it up with any of their facial recognition software.”
“Something tells me their database is pretty sparse. Have they disseminated the image?”
“I’m not so sure you’re right about their database,” Zane replied. “The threats to the Holy See are global now, so I’m guessing their database is as good as any. Anyway, in answer to your question, Commander Stegmann told me he was going to run it through Interpol. I also encouraged him to send a copy to Brett so we could start searching as well.”
“What about the boat?” Amanda asked.
“Stegmann gave me an update this morning. The authorities found it abandoned at a dock adjacent to an industrial park southwest of Rome.”
“They’re long gone,” Emily said.
“Which brings us to Roger Lawson.” Zane looked at Amanda. “Didn’t you say you were familiar with him?”
Amanda nodded. “I’ve never met him, but I do know a little about him.”
“What can you tell us?”
“Unfortunately, not much beyond what you already know.” She crossed one leg over the other. “To be honest, he’s not well thought of in our profession.”
Zane frowned. “The assistant curator told me Lawson was brilliant, despite what others thought of him.”
“Not only that, he’s also very altruistic.” She paused for a moment of reflection. “It’s his collection some scoff at. He trades in a lot of questionable objects.”
“Such as?” Zane asked.
“Have you heard of the ossuary of Pontius Pilate?”
“I remember my father talking about that,” Emily said. “Didn’t they find it on Cyprus?”
Amanda nodded. “Those conducting the dig knew it was important because of its location, but they didn’t realize how important until someone translated the name engraved on one end.”
“Pilate?” Zane asked.
“I believe it read, Pontius Pilate of Samnium,” Amanda said. “Some believe he was born in the Samnium region of Italy.”
“Was he supposed to have died on Cyprus?” Zane asked.
“It depends on who you ask,” Amanda said. “There is no hard evidence to indicate where Pilate spent his last years. Most believe he was executed by Caligula. But other legends arose, including several suggesting Caligula may have sent the dishonored prefect into exile. One of those legends named Cyprus as the place of his death, which is why some believed the ossuary was real.”
Carmen’s brow furrowed. “Didn’t the Romans practice cremation?”
“They did practice cremation, and that was one huge red flag that was ignored. While no bones were found, they did find two large nails inside. It’s not hard to guess what some began to claim about those nails.”
“The crucifixion,” Pratt said with wide eyes.
“So it was all a fraud?” Zane asked.
“The whole thing.”
Zane sat back. “An interesting story, but what does it have to do with Roger Lawson?”
“Roger Lawson purchased it from the dig sponsors then was very outspoken in promoting it as Pilate’s ossuary.”
“It’s hard to criticize him if he didn’t know it was a fraud,” Carmen said.
“It’s true he bought it in good faith,” Amanda said. “I think most believe he should’ve noticed all the red flags.”
“So how did they find out it was a fraud?” Zane asked.
“The ossuary became very controversial, with many in the archaeological community expressing doubt about its authenticity. Eventually, it reached a boiling point. To his credit, Lawson brought in a number of world-renowned epigraphers to examine the engraved name. After completing their analysis, they concluded it was a forgery. A well-crafted forgery, but a forgery nonetheless.”
“So you’re saying we should take anything he tells us with a grain of salt?” Zane asked.
“I think we’re doing the right thing to talk to him, particularly since he’s familiar with most of the bizarre artifacts out there. I just think we need to verify any information he passes along. As I said before, he’s not a bad man. After all, he was willing to bring in the very best to examine the Pilate ossuary.”
The voice of the pilot crackled through the overhead speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to begin our descent into Ben Gurion Airport. Please take your seats, and fasten your seat belts. I hope you enjoyed the ride.”
Zane drained the last of his coffee then set the cup on the table. “Time to get some answers.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Beit Zayit, Jerusalem
“I THINK THAT’S it.” Carmen pointed through the windshield.
Darkness had fallen, but Zane saw the turn just ahead. They had almost reached their destination.
“Let’s check in one last time before going up.” Zane slowed the Kia and pulled off the road. Coming to a stop, he cut off his headlights and glanced in the rearview mirror. A white cargo van containing Reid, Pratt, Keiko, and Emily pulled up behind him.
Zane glanced at the time on the console. They were due at Lawson’s residence in ten minutes. The meeting had come about more quickly than expected. Father Fiori had managed to find a good number for the Australian collector, and Zane contacted him upon arriving in Tel Aviv. During the call, Zane told him they were a private investigative team looking into the disappearance of Dr. Richard Pauling. He also said they were attempting to obtain information on an ancient document Pauling had been working on. While he didn’t go into much detail, he did say the trail of clues had taken them to the Vatican. He also said the Vatican had suggested the meeting.
Lawson had agreed, although it came on the condition the meeting take place at his residence in Beit Zayit, a mountaintop community west of Jerusalem. Zane accepted immediately. He would’ve preferred to meet at a neutral location, but he also realized they were the ones asking for help. He got the impression Lawson was not someone who cared for public appearances.
Zane spoke into the mic on his cuff. “All set?”
“Yes, sir,” Pratt responded from the van.
“We’ll proceed up the mountain from here. Give us about two minutes then come in behind us.”
“Copy that. Do you have any idea how long the meeting will last?”
“Negative. It depends on how much information he has to offer. We’ll stay as long as we need to. We’ll let you know if anything comes up.”
“Copy that.”
Zane pulled back up the road then turned left up the mountain. After passing through a grove of trees and a columned gate, they entered Beit Zayit. The homes were all high-end. In fact, it seemed the higher the elevation, the more upscale the homes. The better the view, the higher the price.
Their plan was simple. Zane, Carmen, and Amanda would travel to Lawson’s home, while those in the van continued up to the community swimming pool, which Carmen had located on a satellite map. While Zane didn’t anticipate any problems, it made sense to have the rest of the team close by.
“I think that’s his gate on the right,” Carmen said.
Zane pulled up to the metal post. Immediately, a voice came through the speaker. “How may I help you?” someone asked in accented English.
“We’re here to see Mr. Lawson. I believe he’s expecting us.”
There was no answer, but the gate swung inward. Zane drove around the circular drive and stopped at the front entrance.
“Pretty snazzy,” Amanda said from the back seat.
The white stucco ranch with a red-tile roof looked like something from Santorini or Mykonos, a place befitting a man of Lawson’s wealth. Zane imagined the view was stu
nning.
A man in khakis and a white button-down shirt waited for them as they stepped out. “Welcome. My name is Eitan.”
Zane extended his hand. “I’m Michel Bergeron, and these are my associates, Mariella Bigatton and Madison Stewart.” All the names were aliases regularly used by the operatives.
“The pleasure is mine.” Eitan motioned toward the door. “Please come in.”
After entering the home, he led them across the foyer and through a doorway on the other side. Lighted alcoves filled with large statues and expensive-looking vases lined the wide corridor beyond.
As they passed a hall, Zane caught movement in his peripheral vision and glanced to his left. A woman exited one of the rooms and turned toward them. She was young—probably late twenties—with shoulder-length curly red hair. She wore a white T-shirt and black leggings that revealed a physically fit figure. Her slightly damp hair suggested she’d just hopped out of the shower. She held Zane’s gaze for a moment then crossed the hall and entered another room. Who was she? Lawson was married, but Zane had no information on his wife’s appearance.
A minute later, Eitan led them through a set of French doors at the rear of the home. A massive tiled patio opened outside. Without stopping, Eitan crossed and led them down a series of wide steps. At the bottom was a Roman-style concrete pool, its shimmering waters glistening in the light of several torches arranged around the perimeter.
Eitan gestured toward a table and cushioned chairs. “Please, make yourselves at home. May I get you something to drink? Water? For those who are interested, we also have something stronger.” He smiled.
“Water would be good,” Zane said. Carmen and Amanda asked for the same.
As they settled into the chairs, Reid’s voice came through Zane’s earpiece. “We’re in place.”
“We’re at the pool in the back,” Zane whispered.
“I hate you,” Pratt said.
“I have my job, and you have yours,” Zane said. “You’ll be pleased to know we’re not in the water.”