“May God rest his soul,” Orlando said loudly as a whining Vespa sped past.
At the busy intersection, they remained silent to negotiate the crosswalk.
Martin resumed the conversation as he led the way down the cobbled walkway in front of Castel Sant’Angelo’s outer rampart. “So how can I assist you, Father?”
The priest’s chin tipped up. “Yes, about business then.” A momentary stare down at the roiling Tiber helped him collect his thoughts. “The secretariat has retained my services to assist in ongoing inquiries concerning the death of Dr. Giovanni Bersei.”
Martin stiffened. “I see.”
They angled onto Ponte Sant’Angelo.
The man went on to convey what his fact-finding mission had yielded thus far. Back in June, Italian anthropologist Giovanni Bersei had been commissioned by Cardinal Santelli to assist in a highly secretive project inside the Vatican. Only days later, Bersei had been found dead in the catacombs beneath Villa Torlonia. An elderly docent was also found dead on the premises and a routine autopsy showed he had been injected with heart-arresting toxins. Roman authorities had investigated the foul play. Santelli, too, Orlando conspiratorially reminded him, had succumbed to heart failure only a day later, though the Holy See had refused an autopsy.
By the time the Italian had finished, he’d trailed Martin to within a block of his apartment building.
There was no doubt Orlando was well informed. But Martin wasn’t looking to rehash the exhaustive questioning he’d endured in the weeks that followed the cardinal’s death. “I trust you have been informed that the carabinieri have completed their investigations?”
The man’s lips pulled tight. “Mine is an internal investigation,” he repeated.
Approaching the narrow alley that was the shortcut to his apartment building, Martin stopped. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I think it would be best for us to speak about this during business hours. After I’ve obtained permission from the secretariat’s office.”
Orlando forced a placated smile. “I understand.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Father Orlando.” Martin nodded.
“Likewise.”
Martin stuffed his hands into his pockets and turned down the alley. As he was about to pass a stocky deliveryman unloading produce boxes from an idling van, he heard the priest calling after him again, quick footsteps tapping along the ancient cobblestones.
“Father.”
Stopping in his tracks, Martin’s shoulders slumped. Before he could turn to address Orlando, the anxious priest had circled in front of him.
“If I could just have another moment.”
“What is it?”
Later, Martin would recall no answer. Just the priest’s eyes turning cold, slipping back to the sidewalk, then up to the windows overlooking the alleyway, and finally over Martin’s shoulder to the deliveryman.
Without warning, two strong hands grabbed at Martin’s coat, yanking hard, forcing his body into an uncontrolled spin, directly toward the van’s open cargo hold.
What in God’s name?!
A sharp blow to the knees forced him down onto the cold metal floor. “Aiut o ! ” he screamed out to anyone who might hear. “Aiu —”
2
******
The deliveryman responded instantly, crowding into the van and clamping his enormous hand over Martin’s mouth and nose. Orlando jumped in right behind him and slid shut the side door. Martin barely glimpsed the bald scalp and jagged profile of a third accomplice slumped low in the driver’s seat.
The transmission ground into gear. The van lurched forward, thumping its way over the cobblestones.
Martin’s terrified eyes met the deliveryman’s disturbingly calm gaze. As he struggled for breath, the smell of leeks and basil invaded his nostrils. The deliveryman straddled him and grabbed him in a powerful hold that demanded complete submission.
“I let go, we talk. You fight or scream, he shoots you.” His free hand pointed toward the man crouched near the windowless rear doors gripping a black handgun trained on Martin’s head.
Desperation flooded Martin’s gaze as he moved his head up and down. The deliveryman eased off and sat across from him with his thick arms crossed over a propped-up knee.
Martin almost retched as he gasped for air.
“Sit up, Father,” Orlando instructed him, motioning with the gun.
After a few steady breaths, Martin eased himself up against the metal sidewall and threw down his hands as the van slowed abruptly and made a right turn. The thumping cobblestones gave way to smooth pavement. “What do you want?”
“We have questions for you. Details concerning Bersei’s death.”
“I told you ...I’ve answered all the carabinieri’s questions. I—” “Only hours before he went into the catacomb,” the Italian said, overriding him, “Bersei had contacted the carabinieri . . .”
The imposter’s accent had changed to something completely different, suggesting he wasn’t from Italy. And the detached manner in which the man referred to the Italian authorities suggested to Martin that he wasn’t one of them either.
“He left a message for a Detective Perardi, stating that he had information concerning a Roman link to an artifact stolen from Jerusalem. And only days later, that artifact was miraculously returned to Israel in a shipping crate originating out of Rome.”
“The . . .” Martin’s brow crinkled. “The stone box? Is that what you’re referring to?” He remembered seeing the news reports on CNN International.
“The ossuary,” the imposter corrected. “The bone box.”
Bone box? The van made another turn and rocked Martin sideways as it sharply accelerated, then settled into a cruising speed. Where were they taking him? Confused and frustrated, Martin shook his head and said, “What does this have to do with me?”
“Patience, Father. Dr. Bersei was murdered in that catacomb. And multiple eyewitnesses saw a suspicious man leaving Villa Torlonia shortly thereafter.”
“So why don’t you find him?”
The deliveryman leaned forward and brandished a massive fist that made Martin flinch. Orlando held up a hand for the man to stand down. The muscles in the deliveryman’s jaws clenched as he slunk back to a sitting position.
“We did find him, Father Martin—in the Italian countryside with a bullet in his head.”
Martin cringed.
He dipped into his breast pocket, pulled out a photo, and handed it to Martin. “Recognize him?”
The face in the color photo—set against the stainless steel of a gurney—was ghost white, the eyes murky with death. Above the right ear, the skull was blown apart—a ragged mess of purple flesh and bone. Yet the features were unmistakable. Martin’s reaction signaled he’d indeed met the deceased. When he looked up, he could tell that the gunman was pleased by this.
The gunman snatched the picture back and gave it a glance. “Israeli authorities also believe this man was involved in a heist that took place at Jerusalem’s Temple Mount in June.”
Martin couldn’t recall hearing this in any news report.
He slipped the photo back into his pocket. “Many innocent people died because of this man. Soldiers. Police. Now, please. I want you to think very hard and tell me his name, please.”
Unlike that of the imposter waving a gun in his face, the mercenary’s first impression had been lasting. And Martin wasn’t about to cover for him. After all, the man’s only link to the Vatican was the late Cardinal Santelli. “Salvatore Conte.”
The deliveryman pulled a notepad and pen from his pocket, verified the spelling, and jotted down the name.
Salvatore Conte. Orlando regarded the picture once more to match the name with the face. “Now let me connect the dots for you, Father. Salvatore Conte stole that ossuary from the Temple Mount and brought it to Rome. He was involved in the death of Giovanni Bersei, who, at that time, was commissioned for a project inside Vatican City. The study of a yet undetermined artifact, as coinc
idence would have it. A project of which the Vatican denies all knowledge.”
Martin stared at the floor. How could Orlando know these things? Following Santelli’s death, the secretariat’s office had collected the cardinal’s computer, files, and personal effects. He could only guess that any sensitive information had been destroyed or locked away in the Secret Archive. As far as the Italian authorities were concerned, the Vatican had never seen or heard of Salvatore Conte, and Dr. Bersei had merely consulted on restoration work taking place inside the Vatican Museums’ Pio Christian Museum.
“Look at me, Father,” Orlando insisted.
The priest complied.
“Bersei was found broken to pieces at the bottom of a pit, Salvatore Conte assassinated in the Italian wine country. All within days of Conte’s theft in Jerusalem. Leads one to think that the Vatican is the common thread. Like many times in the past, the Vatican, with its—how would you say?—infallible influences, has persuaded the carabinieri to disregard these matters. We, however, cannot be bought.”
“Who are you?” Martin asked again.
The gunman merely gave a smug smile before resuming the interrogation. “Much of these formalities are of no concern to us. There is one matter, however, that is of grave concern. So I have only one simple request to make of you, Father.”
He swallowed hard. “What is it?”
Orlando leaned close, saying in a low voice, “The ossuary was returned empty. I need you to tell me what happened to its contents.”
“Contents?”
He shook his head, cocked the Glock’s trigger, and pressed the barrel against Martin’s forehead.
The priest’s eyes snapped closed as his face reflexively turned sideways. The cold steel bit his skin. “I don’t . . . don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“The bones, Father Martin. That ossuary contained a skeleton. Where are the bones?” He pressed the gun barrel harder against the priest’s temple.
At first, Martin was dumbfounded. Bones? The idea that these men had abducted him for such a thing seemed preposterous. The gun rocked his head back against the van’s wall, sending crushing pain through his skull.
“Father Martin!” the man spat. “I don’t think you’re listening to me! Dr. Bersei was a forensic anthropologist. Forensic anthropologists don’t study paintings or sculptures. They study bones.”
“I don’t know! I swear!”
Holding the gun in place, the man reached into his pocket again to produce a second photo. “I want you to look at this very closely,” he said, holding it out for the priest.
As he trembled, Martin’s eyes went wide when he saw the family in the portrait—a handsome couple, early forties, a young boy and his slightly older sister.
“The most efficient path to truth comes from the blood of loved ones. Your sister is very beautiful. Her daughter looks very much like her, though the boy is his father’s son.”
“God save you,” Martin contemptuously replied.
“Insurance, Father,” he said. “Help us and I assure you that their lives will be spared. Now, once again . . . Where are the bones?”
A sour taste came into the priest’s mouth, and his limbs quaked uncontrollably. “I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know!”
A pause as the gunman studied the priest’s eyes and body language.
“Then tell me who does.”
Martin’s brain went into hyperdrive as he recalled the events. At Cardinal Santelli’s behest, he’d indeed arranged Dr. Bersei’s June visit to the Vatican Museums to examine and authenticate an “important acquisition.” Confidentiality agreements had been signed too. But Santelli had never disclosed to Martin what the artifact was. This ossuary, perhaps? Bones? Another scientist had been summoned as well. An American geneticist— though her name now escaped him.
Nonetheless, there was one man who he was certain had the answers these men were seeking. And with frightened eyes glued to the picture, Martin gave them his name.
3
******
Qumran, Israel
Stepping out from beneath the blue origami canopy that sheltered the team’s provisions, Amit Mizrachi’s glum gaze shot halfway up the sheer sandstone cliff to a lanky twenty-year-old Israeli harnessed to a rappelling line. Dangling directly beside the student was a boxlike device on wheels that resembled a high-tech lawn mower.
“Anything?” Amit yelled, his deep baritone echoing along the chasm. The student planted his feet on a craggy outcropping and pushed himself closer to the ground-penetrating radar unit. Pressing his face close to its LCD, he paused for a three-count to inspect the radargram. Zero undulation in the line pattern. “Nothing yet.”
Amit had grown somewhat accustomed to this response, yet he couldn’t
help but curse under his breath. He made a futile attempt at swatting away the tiny desert flies swarming about his face.
“Keep going to the bottom?” the student called down.
Going to the bottom. Just like Amit’s career if something meaningful wasn’t soon found. With excavations at Qumran approaching the two-year mark, the team’s findings thus far were unremarkable: broken clay shards from Hasmonean oil lamps and amphorae, clichéd Roman and Herodian coins, a first-century grave site with male skeletal remains that replicated earlier discoveries found nearby.
“Go to the bottom,” he instructed. “Then take a break before you move to the next column. And stay hydrated. You won’t be much good to me if you get heatstroke.”
The kid snatched the water bottle from his utility belt and held it up in a mock toast.
“Mazel tov,” he grumbled. “Now get moving.”
The burly, goateed Israeli pulled off his aviator sunglasses and used a handkerchief to blot the sweat from his brow. Even in September, the Judean Desert’s dry heat was unrelenting and could easily drive a man mad. But Amit wasn’t going to let Qumran beat him. After all, patience and resolve were paramount for any archaeologist worth his chisel and brush.
The project’s benefactors, on the other hand, followed a much different clock. Their purse strings were drawing tighter by the month.
As he watched the student holster the water bottle, then lower the GPR unit two meters for the next scan, he felt a sudden compulsion to swap places with him. Maybe the rookie was missing something, misinterpreting the radargrams. But Amit’s forty-two-year-old oversize frame didn’t take well to rock climbing—particularly the harness, which crushed his manhood in unspeakable ways. No doubt those of slight stature were best suited to archaeology. So Amit approached things the pragmatic way: delegate, delegate, delegate.
Glaring at the cliff—the wily seductress who’d stolen away his want or need for anything else—he grumbled, “Come on. Give it up. Something.” This project had single-handedly accounted for his most recent marital casualty—Amit’s second wife, Sarah. At least this time there weren’t kids being played like pawns.
A second later, he heard someone screaming from a distance. “Professor! Professor!”
He turned around and spotted a lithe form moving through the gulch with athletic agility—the most recent addition to his team, Ariel. When she reached him, she planted herself close.
“Everything all right?”
Ariel used an index finger to push back her glasses, which had slid down her sweaty nose, and reported between heaving breaths, “In the tunnel . . . we . . . the radar is picking up something . . . behind a wall . . .”
“Okay, let’s slow it down,” he said soothingly. New interns were prone to overreacting at the slightest blip on the radar, and no one was greener than nineteen-year-old Ariel. “What exactly did you see?” He fought to keep his frustrated tone on an even keel.
“The hyperbolic deflections . . . they were deep.”
Reading a radargram was more art than science. One had to be careful with interpretation. “How deep?”
“Deep.”
Amit squared his shoulders and his barrel chest puffed out
against his drenched T-shirt. The creases on his overly tanned cheeks deepened as he considered this. Don’t get too excited, he told himself. It’s probably nothing. Though radar was quite effective in penetrating dry sandstone, subterranean scans were temperamental due to excessive moisture that choked the UHF/UVF radio waves. A deep deflection suggested a considerable hollow in the earth.
She sucked in more air and went on. “And this wall—it’s not stone . . . well, not exactly. We began to clear away the clay—”
The Sacred Blood Page 2