The Betrayed Series: Ultimate Omnibus Collection

by Carolyn McCray

  Despite their urgency, the sight silenced them all.

  Davidson was the first one to find his voice. “Um, is it just me or are there a bunch of ancient Romans walking around?”

  Damned if there wasn’t an entire legion of centurions marching past.

  Guess he hadn’t planned for this.

  * * *

  Rebecca followed Lochum down the hotel’s steps, two at a time. He was eager to get moving, not even letting her stop to eat the breakfast he had brought. The professor hadn’t even wanted to talk about the bone’s translation before leaving the room, but she had so many questions.

  Like she said, ancient Greek was a bitch, and her program could only take into account so many variables. The translation was still up for grabs, but Lochum’s grip seemed fueled by certainty, and she just didn’t have the energy to resist.

  So they hit the street at a brisk pace, but Rebecca pulled to a stop when she saw the crowd before her. “What the—?”

  Lochum coolly looked at the multitude of people wearing authentic Roman costumes. “Ah, do you not recognize the celebration?”

  She was too taken aback by the sheer number of people in the streets and their elaborate attire to respond to his poorly veiled criticism. A veritable parade flowed past the hotel. Burgundy-crested centurions marched with an assembly-sized group of Senators following close behind. It was as if they had stepped into distant ages.

  “I don’t—”

  The professor picked up her hand and headed down the street. He spoke as if describing the origin of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. “They celebrate the naming of Anquincum as the capital of Lower Pannonia.”

  “Of course,” she replied as her mind worked out the rest of the puzzle.

  Anquincum was the Roman name for Buda.

  Now the ancient Celts in the crowd with their faces painted in bright blue war paint and their almost dreadlocked hair streaked with thick red clay made sense. The legions’ conquering of these Celts had been the reason Anquincum was chosen as the region’s capital.

  She had little time to think as dozens of horse-drawn chariots groaned under the weight of full-sized statues from the Roman pantheon. Athena with her characteristic helm and owl rolled past.

  “First century AD?” she asked.

  “106 AD to be exact.”

  They turned the corner onto a decidedly less crowded street. Lochum tried to flag down a cab, but still had little luck. “I do wish you would invest more energy in detail, ‘Becca. We have no room for sophomoric generalizations.”

  As he moved them farther up the road, Rebecca found that not only were the parade participants costumed, but the vast bulk of the cheering crowd was similarly dressed. The entire city had transformed into the very past she and Lochum now sought.

  “I’ve heard of the festival, but I thought it was a Renaissance Fair wannabe. Not this…”

  A young Roman page ran past. Everything down to the hand-cut leather ties on his sandals appeared completely authentic. In addition to the costumes, the Hungarians with their dark hair and complexion bore a striking resemblance to the civilization they meant to honor.

  “I must admit I felt compelled to carbon-date a few of the uniforms,” Lochum stated as he tugged her toward a cab, but what the professor thought a car could do for them, Rebecca wasn’t certain. The streets were packed with revelers. Nobody was driving anywhere today.

  Once inside the cab, Lochum berated the driver in Hungarian as Rebecca pulled out her laptop. The air of antiquity heightened her already-piqued interest in the translation from John’s bone. She read it carefully.

  “For he who bore James sought the center of Pest. There he would find those who revered both Moses and Jesus. Those who knew Isaiah and John to be one and the same. The dualist would protect forever the most favored brother.”

  Lochum finally stopped haranguing the driver and looked at the screen. “Which proves my two linchpin theories. It is James we seek, and he lies in Pest.” His eyebrow arched. “Two for two. Not bad, eh?”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes. His arrogance was barely tolerable on a normal day, but vindicated? He was insufferable. And now they were out to prove him three for three.

  “Now if only this idiot could get us across the river to the Great Synagogue!” Lochum took this moment to smack the poor driver over the head with his newspaper.

  The massive Jewish Temple that the professor referred to seemed built to the passage’s specifications. Quickly, she surfed the Web and brought up a picture of the large temple. Only the Central Synagogue in New York rivaled its size. It was a behemoth of a sanctuary, yet it garnered very little press in Jewish literature, because for all its grandeur, it looked like no other synagogue in the world.

  With two huge spires rising on either side of the dome, it looked like someone had fused a temple and Catholic church together without much care as to how the Jews might have felt about it. This strange merging went so far as to even provide a huge seventeen-foot-tall pipe organ, just like one you might find in the finest cathedrals.

  Lochum and she had visited the synagogue several times, not so much as scientists but as tourists, to witness the strange dichotomy for themselves.

  But now?

  Now they had this incredible passage written into the very bones of John the Baptist stating that James’ resting place in Pest was defined by the very nature of this dualism. That was why neither Lochum nor she had to discuss their next stop. It had to be the Great Synagogue.

  And the best thing about the temple was that no one had ever looked there for James’ burial site. Since the information was hidden away in Paris, no one had thought to question the temple’s unusual style as anything more than the Jewish architect’s attempt to assimilate into a more and more Christian Hungary.

  “My, it is a sight for sore eyes,” Lochum said.

  Rebecca looked up to find that they had made enough headway for them to see Heroes’ Square. As the cab approached the monolithic tourist attraction, she was reminded of Hungary’s unique ability to blend the past with the present. The nearly thirty-six-meter pedestal supported an imposing statue of the archangel Gabriel. Encircling the base of the column were the Hungarians’ ancestors, the Magyar chieftains. Each was seated upon a snorting stallion. The sculptor’s skill made it appear that the ancient warriors barely had their charges in rein, as the horses warned off any foes from messing with Budapest.

  Behind the pedestal were two huge semicircular colonnades holding statues of the great rulers throughout Hungary’s lengthy history. Like no other nation, Hungary honored all those who had fallen to protect the country from invaders. They had a sense of fierce nationalism that seemed nearly manic to most foreigners.

  Just another of Hungary’s dichotomies. Like the extremely Christian influences apparent in all of the city’s monuments, regardless of the fact that Budapest had the largest Jewish population outside of New York.

  Which brought Rebecca to another of the city’s historical oddities.

  “What’s the current theory on why the Jews were banished from Pest?” She hated asking, but her computer was using too much processing power on the next translation to surf the Internet effectively.

  The professor turned from Heroes’ Square. “Really, Rebecca, I thought you more prepared when you went into the field.”

  Rebecca bit her tongue. She had come completely prepared. Prepared for the Ecuadorian jungle, not the wilds of Eastern Europe. Besides, she knew him well enough to recognize a feint when she heard one.

  “You don’t know, do you?”

  Lochum snorted. “No one does….” His voice faded as he spotted a pretty Grecian princess, then strengthened as the slim girl vanished into the crowd. “The Romans were capricious at best, and the governors downright hostile at times. They needed no sane reason.”

  For so long the archaeological community was convinced that Buda held James’ resting place that they never questioned the Pest exile. Why worry about Je
ws when there were so many early Christians to worry about?

  But now? The exile mystery took on a whole new dimension. Did the Roman Governor somehow know of James’ crypt? Was he secretly a Christian protecting the remains, or was he a polytheist punishing the Jews?

  “Didn’t you ever wonder why the Jews rushed back over the river to Pest when the exile was lifted? I mean, they were prospering in Buda. Right?”

  Lochum must have realized where her inquiries were going. “Are you suggesting that the leaders of the Jewish community knew of James?”

  She shrugged, not yet ready to voice her suspicions. “Think about it. If the knowledge survived, it does put the massive migration to Pest and the strange Jewish-Christian hybrid Synagogue into perspective.”

  “But… But a secret of this magnitude…”

  “I seriously doubt anybody knew the full truth, but doesn’t it seem reasonable that the Jewish leaders knew they had something precious to protect?”

  “The dualists had fulfilled their word,” Lochum said.

  Rebecca could feel the rush of discovery. Not so much for Lochum to prove that Jesus had survived the cross. No, she was excited for herself. Because Rebecca had never shared her true intent with the professor. It seemed enough that they both sought Christ. Only she knew her motivation.

  Her mind worked overtime, imagining a sample from Jesus’ bone proving the Messiah held the “smart” gene. After that day, no one could refute her “good” radiation theory. Everyone would have to accept the fact that it wasn’t the hand of God who created civilization, but science.

  And wasn’t that better? What if man no longer needed to pray to a fickle, unresponsive God, but instead could take a dose of beneficial radiation? And with an average of seventeen armed conflicts around the globe, genocide, civil war, or a combination thereof tore apart entire continents. What if the next generation of Congolese, Sudanese, Croatians, or Serbs acquired the gene that dialed down aggression and dialed up creativity?

  Nobody would be laughing at her then.

  Think of the world not turning to God for peace, but themselves.

  A ping from her computer broke her reverie. She had forgotten she was running the second passage from John’s bone.

  Rebecca rapidly scanned the text, assuming it would expound upon the first passage referring to the Synagogue, but after a single line, she stopped and read the entire text thoroughly.

  Once finished, Rebecca leaned back against the cab seat, pictures of a harmonious world fading with each new sentence.

  In paleoarchaeology, things seldom went the way you planned.

  CHAPTER 12

  ══════════════════

  Budapest, Hungary

  Brandt had to stop himself from reflexively making the sign of the cross as they waited. Lopez had somehow crammed the Beamer into a parking spot far too small, but they had a clear view of their target’s front door.

  St. Matthias was not an ordinary church. It was damned near a cathedral. The building took up an entire city block. At the nearest corner, an enormous bell tower climbed several stories into the sky. The bronze bells chimed ten o’clock, perfectly harmonized.

  The first floor was faced in brick, but the entire second story held the story of the Bible with its long row of stained glass scenes. The largest above the door detailed the crucifixion. If Brandt had not been certain this church was Rebecca’s destination before he saw the church, he was now.

  In addition, if you looked just a little closer, you could see that the church’s grandeur had not come in one fell swoop. Far down the street you could make out a small chapel that must have been the first place of worship. From this humble beginning the congregation had added on more chambers, and they had become larger and more elaborate, ending in the jutting bell tower.

  If you took a picture of the impressive structure and Photoshopped out the surrounding structures like the Fisherman’s Bastion, you might mistake the church as one of its European sisters, but St. Matthias’ roof told you of its Eastern influences. The tiles were bright, vibrant colors. Rich greens and blues lay over one another in triangular patterns. They reminded Brandt of the scales on that snake back in the Ecuadorian jungle. Even the crosses on the spires were made of the richly colored tiles. The watery colors were that of a mosque, yet the structure was classic Catholic.

  All of this would have been absolutely fascinating if his heart rate wasn’t two hundred. The streets were still crammed with Roman revelers, but no Davidson and Svengurd. The two had left on recon over fifteen minutes ago and still weren’t back yet. How long could it take to find a change of clothes? Brandt wanted to get a closer look at the church, but their travel-soiled business suits would stand out against the brightly costumed revelers. So until they had better camouflage, they had to sit tight.

  Brandt swung his binoculars back to the church. Two nuns and a novice, all in full habits, stood on the church’s steps but still within the vestibule. A moment ago a priest had joined them. With the joy and excitement of those who did not know a shit-storm was about to hit, they waved to the children in the parade and called out to passing parishioners. It would have been quaint if his stomach were not in knots.

  How had he let Monroe go off on her own?

  Brandt surveyed the ever-growing throng. It looked like the entire two-million-plus population of Budapest had turned out for this damn festival. He scanned for his men. Where the hell were they?

  “Oh, shit!” Lopez announced from the driver’s side.

  “What?” Brandt said, as he turned in the direction of the church.

  He didn’t need Lopez to answer him. The man who had evoked the corporal’s response was the bastard who had held him at gunpoint in the stairwell back in Paris. Quickly, Brandt scanned the rest of the street for Tok, the man in charge who had orchestrated the past twenty-four-hours-worth of destruction. But he came up empty.

  Brandt went back to studying the tall, craggy-faced man who strode toward the church. As Petir mounted the steps, all three women pulled deeper into the vestibule. The priest went to block his entry into the church, but the prick uttered several harsh words, and the clergyman stepped out of his way.

  Once the man was out of sight, the priest pulled the nuns off to the side, his eyes darting up and down the street. Within seconds, the black-clothed women hurried the novice inside. After another furtive glance outside, the priest entered the church, pulling the two huge oak doors shut.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Brandt didn’t know if he hated it more when he was wrong or when he was right. This was the place. Was Rebecca already inside? Maybe she was still en route to the church. He looked at his watch. The doctors had landed in Budapest at eleven p.m. Even if they stayed low overnight, they would have had enough time to get inside already.

  Fuck. He had to assume that Tok’s presence was not a coincidence. Indeed, the priest seemed on strained but familiar terms with his assistant. How Brandt wished he could contact the Den, but now more than ever he needed to maintain radio silence.

  Off to his left, he sensed motion more than saw it. Pulling his gun, he aimed at the intruder.

  “Hey! Sarge! Watch it!” Davidson screamed as he looked down the barrel of Brandt’s MK23 pistol, or as the guys affectionately called it, “Thor’s Hammer.”

  It took a second to register that the masked Roman actor was his most junior officer. The kid had done a damn good job of blending in.

  “We’ve got company,” Brandt said as he lowered the weapon.

  Davidson lifted his mask to show his cheeks painted with white makeup and dark circles around his eyes. “Crap. They must have taken off in a private plane before they blew up the airliner.”

  Brandt nodded. The only way to beat them here was to fly. No one, but no one, drove here faster than Lopez.

  “Can you get us in the front door?” he asked the private.

  Davidson shook his head. “I spotted at least six snipers’
dens. If I were them and I had all night to set up, I’d have rifles in each of them.”

  Svengurd joined the private. “That door is right in the cross fire.”

  The sergeant didn’t really need either person’s input. He already knew that they were screwed. Walking in the front door was no longer an option, if in fact it ever had been. Their infiltration of the crowd became even more important.

  “Any back doors?” he asked.

  “That door is the only way in or out.”

  Again, information he already knew. Would the bastard have exposed his position if there were a more low-profile entrance?

  “Windows? Roof access? Anything?”

  The private shrugged. “Those stained glass windows don’t look like they open. We could blow a hole in the roof, but with this crowd…”

  Brandt didn’t ask for clarification. There would be no explosives, at least not out in public. The sergeant exited the car with Lopez close behind.

  “Did you find us clothes?” Brandt noticed that Svengurd was dressed in dirty rags. “What are you supposed to be?”

  “A slave,” the tall man said with a shrug.

  Davidson gave Lopez a cavalry officer’s robe, but threw a tiny leather garment to Brandt.

  The sergeant turned it over. “A gladiator? I’m not amused, Davidson.”

  But the younger man was adamant. With your arm width? You are not fitting into anything else. Unless of course you’d like to be the slave?”

  Brandt wanted to argue, but they had already wasted too much time. Back to the crowd, they changed and redistributed their gear to Svengurd’s leather sack.

  But where to go?

  “All right, we’ll have to search the surrounding buildings and try to find a wall we can breach.”

  Lopez interjected, “Sarge, I was thinking maybe coming up from underground might be the best route.”

  “You mean through the sewers or water pipes?”

  The corporal shook his head. “No, there’s an underground structure beneath the older wing of the church.”

  “The chapel and crypt. I know, but how does that help?”