Sign of the Cross

by Chris Kuzneski

  ‘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 have 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.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Simply put, if your parents taught you to believe in Christ, you’re probably going to keep believing in Christ. I mean, that’s what faith is all about, isn’t it?’

  ‘And if you’re a nonbeliever?’

  ‘Well, I guess that depends on the person. Some people keep their doubts to themselves in order to fit into this Christian world of ours. Others join the local synagogue or temple or shrine and start practicing non-Christian faiths. Then, of course, you have the third group. The wild cards. They’re the ones who don’t care what society thinks about them, the type of people who enjoy rocking the boat. And if I were a betting man, guess which category I’d put the killer in?’

  Dial smiled, wishing that all of his questions were that easy. ‘Thanks, Henri, I appreciate your candor. Let me know if you come up with anything else.’

  ‘You got it, Nick.’

  Dial hung up his cell phone and turned his attention to Agent Nielson, who was standing off to the side, smiling. ‘You look happy,’ he said. ‘Good news?’

  ‘I just got off the phone with Rome. Father Jansen had a small apartment near the Vatican. When he didn’t show up for a meeting at nine p.m., they tried to call him but couldn’t get through. In their mind it wasn’t a big deal until he failed to show up for work this morning. That’s when they decided to call the police.’

  ‘And what about the Vatican? Do we know what Jansen did for them?’

  ‘I’m still working on that. I’m expecting a call from his supervisor any minute. Hopefully, he can shed some light on it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it. I’ve dealt with the Vatican before, and they tend to be very tight-lipped about their business. Of course, who could blame them? I’d be secretive, too, if I had a billion-dollar art collection locked in my basement… What are the locals doing in Rome?’

  ‘A forensics team is searching his apartment. They said they’ll give me a call if they find anything of value. Otherwise, we’ll get their report tomorrow.’

  ‘Nice work, Annette. I’m impressed. Do me a favor, though, and stay on top of the Vatican. Just because they promised you a report doesn’t mean you’ll get one.’

  In fact, Dial laughed to himself, it would probably take a miracle.

  10

  Maria strolled around the chamber, carefully filming the dozens of stone chests that filled the room. The gray containers, sitting in a series of straight rows, varied in size and shape – some had the dimensions of a VCR while others approached the mass of a coffin – but each of them had one thing in common: artistic brilliance.

  Pictures of colossal battle scenes, marking the significant Roman victories of the early Empire, had been chiseled into the hard rock of several chests. Proud generals, standing in their horse-drawn chariots as legionnaires fought valiantly in the distant battlefield. Weary warriors, their faces streaked with blood from their fallen victims, continued to march forward, extending the boundaries of their homeland while bludgeoning anything that got in their way. And Roman heroes, their profiles etched into stone with such precision that –

  ‘Oh my God,’ Maria muttered. She quickly hit the pause button on her video camera. ‘Remember the face on the archway that appeared to be laughing at Christ’s death?’

  He walked toward her. ‘Of course, I do. That blasphemous image is burned into my mind.’

  Maria pointed to the two-foot-high stone cube that sat at her feet. ‘He’s back.’

  Boyd glanced at the box and realized that she was correct. It was him, all right, and his devilish grin was featured in great detail. ‘I’ll be flummoxed. What’s he doing here?’

  She ran her gloved finger over the carved face. ‘I don’t know. But he seems awfully happy.’

  ‘Maria, while you were filming the artwork, did you see this man on anything else?’

  She shook her head. ‘I would’ve told you if I did.’

  ‘What about his face? Do you remember where you’ve seen his face?’

  Maria stared at the image. ‘No, but I have to admit that it’s been driving me crazy. I know I’ve seen him before. I just know it!’

  Boyd stood and quickly inspected the other chests in the room. Even though they varied in size, he realized that every box carried a similar theme: They were adorned with pictures of war. All of them, that is, except one – the one with the laughing man.

  ‘This man had to be an emperor. Or at the very least, a man of great power and wealth. He is the only person who is featured on his own cube.’

  ‘Plus he was on the arch. They obviously held him in high esteem.’

  ‘But why?’ Boyd pondered the question as he wrapped his fingers around the box. After a brief pause, he carefully slid his hands over the edge of the crate’s lid, making sure that it was sturdy enough to be moved without damage. ‘I know this goes against many of the things that I told you earlier, but –’

  Maria nodded in understanding. ‘You want to see what’s inside.’

  ‘I have to. I can’t help it. It’s the young whipper-snapper in me.’

  ‘That’s all right. If you didn’t remove the lid, I was going to get a crowbar and do it myself.’

  It took nearly five minutes to ease the stone cover from its tight-fitting seam, but once they did, they were able to lift it with little difficulty. It was much lighter than they had expected.

  ‘Careful!’ Boyd begged. ‘This stone could provide us with important clues about the identity of this man. I’d hate for anything to happen to it.’

  The duo lowered the chiseled lid onto the floor, making sure they didn’t scratch it. Then, once they were
satisfied with its positioning, they rushed to the box to see what they had found.

  ‘Bring the light closer. Quickly!’

  Maria grabbed the flashlight and pointed it into the box. The bright stream of light overwhelmed the darkness, revealing the sole object inside: a slender bronze cylinder.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  Boyd smiled while removing the eight-inch bronze cylinder with his gloved hand. ‘It’s a twin, my dear. An identical twin.’

  ‘A twin?’

  ‘The documents that I found in England – the documents that led us to the Catacombs – were stored in an identical bronze cylinder… Do you know what that means?’

  ‘No! What?’

  Boyd laughed. ‘I have no idea, but I bet it’s bloody important!’

  Maria smiled, but in her heart she knew something was going on that Boyd wasn’t talking about. She could sense it from the way he cradled the cylinder, treating it with a parental tenderness that was usually reserved for newborns. ‘Professore? May I look at it?’

  He grimaced, reluctant to part with the artifact. ‘Be very careful, my dear. Until we open it, there’s no telling what may be inside. The contents could be quite delicate.’

  She nodded, although she sensed that Boyd was being melodramatic. Nevertheless, she obeyed his wishes and treated the discovery with the utmost respect. ‘Wow! It seems so incredibly light. Are you sure this is the same type of cylinder that you found in Bath?’

  ‘Positive!’ Boyd brought his flashlight closer to the object and pointed out a series of small engravings that could barely be seen. ‘I’m not sure if this symbol can be translated, but I found an identical marking on the other one as well.’

  Maria ran her finger over the triangular carvings, trying to probe the subtle indentations in the metal. The engraving on the cylinder was so shallow she could barely feel anything. ‘Why is this so faint? I can barely see it.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Boyd admitted. ‘It could’ve been worn down over time, or perhaps it was the style of the particular engraver. I’m hoping the contents of the canister will give us a clue.’

  ‘That’s if there’s something inside.’

  The look on Boyd’s face proved that he wasn’t amused. In response, he snatched the artifact from Maria’s grasp. ‘We don’t have the correct tools to open this. I need to go upstairs to get them.’ She winced, not realizing what had caused his sudden mood swing. ‘While I’m gone, make yourself useful and finish filming this room.’

  ‘Of course. Whatever you want, sir.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I want.’ Boyd took two steps through the archway, then stopped abruptly. ‘And don’t touch anything while I’m gone. Just film!’

  Maria watched as her mentor stomped down the stone corridor, the radiance of his flashlight getting dimmer and dimmer with every step that he took. Then, when he reached the far end of the hallway, Boyd turned up the narrow stairs and disappeared from sight, leaving her alone in the massive vault.

  As Boyd made his way upstairs, he slowed his pace near the crypts, careful not to brush against any of the hands that reached into the corridor. His light danced along the walls as he walked, giving the corpses the illusion of movement. For a split second he could’ve sworn that one of the fingers twitched, like the skeletal remains were coming to life. He paused ever so slightly to examine it before stepping into the first chamber.

  The bronze cylinder needed to be protected, he knew that, so he tucked it into his deepest pocket before he climbed through the hole in the wall. He opened his toolbox in a huff, tossing aside screwdrivers and wrenches, hammers and nails, even a small set of rock picks until it dawned on him that he had no idea what he was looking for.

  He stood there pondering the question when he realized that the walls of the cave seemed to be shaking, actually vibrating with pulsating bursts of energy.

  Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

  He could feel the rocks trembling beneath his feet.

  Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

  Putting his hand on the wall, Boyd tried to determine the source of the tremors, but the entire rock face was vibrating at an even rate. Next, he placed his ear to the cool surface of the wall, hoping to establish the origin of the bass-filled pitch. Strangely, the strength of the sound actually seemed to diminish as he moved closer to the sides of the cave.

  He quickly went through a series of calculations, attempting to figure out what could cause such a phenomenon. The resonance, the undulation, the energy. After a moment, it dawned on him that it was probably due to an external force. But what?

  As he moved toward the site entrance, he noticed the drastic change in temperature. His body, which had grown accustomed to the underground climate, was now forced to deal with the hot Italian sun. Large beads of sweat surfaced on Boyd’s brow, droplets that turned to mud as they streamed down his dirt-caked face and tumbled to the ground below.

  His eyes, which were used to the dim light of the tunnels, suddenly burned in the afternoon sun. Its radiance was so intense that he found himself shading his face like a moviegoer leaving a matinee. And to make matters worse, the sound grew in intensity, forcing him to plug his ears while shielding his eyes at the same time.

  ‘What is that hullabaloo?’ he screamed over the noise. ‘What in the world can that be?’

  Oblivious to the commotion above her, Maria danced around the vast chamber, carefully filming the Roman chests. Even though it was a simple task, she knew her work would eventually be viewed by the world’s leading archaeologists and scholars, a thought that made her ecstatic. Of course, that feeling would pale in comparison to the joy she’d feel when she told her father about her recent success. That would be the highlight of her life, for it would be the first time in memory that he’d have to admit that he was proud of her. The first goddamned time.

  And it would actually involve something that she’d worked for, and trained for, and dreamed about for as long as she could remember. The first accomplishment in a career that her dad had discouraged from day one. A moment when her father, the great Benito Pelati, would have to admit that a woman was actually capable of making a mark in the world of archaeology.

  A smile surfaced on Maria’s face as she made her way to the back corner of the room. She gracefully sidestepped the largest crate while zooming in on an elaborate battlefield scene. Several seconds later she noticed a red light blinking on the back of her camera. The battery on the digital unit was about to run out.

  ‘Damn! I don’t believe this!’ Maria glanced around the room, realizing there was no way she could finish her work with so little power. She’d have to go to the upper chamber to get her backup battery before she could finish the task.

  The black helicopter hovered near the plateau, swaying in the strong wind. The pilot fought the air currents the best he could but realized he was in danger of losing control. ‘Let me set her down, sir. The wind is swirling off the rock face. I don’t know how much longer I can hold it.’

  The lone passenger in the copter lowered the binoculars from his cold, black eyes. ‘You’ll hold it until I tell you otherwise. I have two men on that rock face, and my job is to cover them from an airborne position.’

  The pilot argued, ‘Well, I have a job, too. And it’s impossible to do it in these conditions. I’m setting her down now!’

  ‘If you do, I swear to God I’ll have your ass.’ The intensity of his glare proved that he was serious. He was willing to do anything to complete his mission. Anything. There was simply too much at stake. ‘Give me five more minutes, and this will all be over.’

  11

  Piazza Risorgimento,

  Rome, Italy

  (fifty meters from Vatican City)

  Buses filled with foreigners rumbled past him on their way to the main gate of the Holy City. People with cameras and unruly children strolled by his bench completely ignorant of who he was or why he was there. Their sole focus was on Saint Peter’s Square and the Sistine Chapel an
d all the glorious artifacts in the Vatican museum, not the old man in the expensive suit or the two bodyguards who stood behind him.

  Of course that was the reason that he liked to come here, the perverse amusement he got from watching so many people shell out their hard-earned cash for guidebooks and private tours. Meanwhile he sat on his bench knowing the vast majority of the Vatican’s treasure lay hidden underneath the streets that they were walking on, everything protected in hermetic vaults that made Fort Knox look like a piggy bank. He smiled, realizing that none of them, no matter who they were or how much money they had, would ever see the treasures that he saw every day.

  The contents of Archivio Segreto Vaticano. The Vatican Secret Archives.

  Benito Pelati’s official title was the minister of antiquities, a job he’d held for over three decades. Unofficially he was known throughout Italy as the godfather of archaeology, for he vowed to protect every relic found on Italian soil, even if that meant breaking a few laws in the process. Some critics looked down on him for his questionable methods, especially in the early years when he just started building his violent reputation. But the Vatican never did. They knew a man with his talents would be invaluable. Not only his academic knowledge but his willingness to do whatever he needed to get results.

  Every organization, even one as sanctimonious as the Church, can use men like that.

  Still, in the beginning it was Benito’s expertise in the world of art, not his brutality, that got him noticed. Cardinal Pietro Bandolfo, the former chair of the Vatican’s Supreme Council, was a childhood friend of Benito’s and his biggest ally. Bandolfo understood politics better than his fellow cardinals and assured the Vatican the only way to protect its place in the modern world was to join hands with Benito, someone trained outside of the Church. Someone who could update their antiquated system. Someone who wasn’t encumbered by papal law. Eventually, the Vatican agreed, and Benito was hired to update their way of doing things.