Sign of the Cross

by Chris Kuzneski

  ‘Do you promise? Because several people have –’

  ‘Yes, Nick, I promise. I will get to the bottom of this. You have my word as a Texan.’

  And to Dial, that meant more than Rose’s word as a church official.

  15

  Jones was obsessed with mysteries, which was the reason he wanted to become a detective. Some people see the glass as half-empty, while others see it as half-full. But Jones stares at it and tries to figure out who drank the damn water.

  Anyway, Payne wasn’t surprised when Jones snatched the CIA folder before he had a chance to grab it. Jones said, ‘Dr Charles Boyd majored in archaeology and linguistics at Oxford and was eventually given a teaching position at Dover University in 1968. According to this, they even made him head of his department in 1991… Wow! How shocking!’

  Manzak wasn’t amused. ‘Keep reading, Mr Jones. I assure you it gets worse.’

  ‘Damn, Jon! He wasn’t kidding. Take a look at this.’

  Payne fought the urge to smile when Jones handed him a head shot of Dr Boyd that was taken during the Nixon administration. The type of photo that gets attached to someone’s personnel file and stays there no matter what anyone does to get rid of it. Boyd wore a tweed jacket and a silk bow tie, plus the worst comb-over hairstyle Payne had ever seen. It looked like one of the before photos in that infomercial for spray-on hair.

  ‘Let me guess,’ Jones cracked. ‘He’s wanted by the fashion police.’

  ‘No,’ Manzak said in a harsh tone. ‘He’s the key suspect in an Interpol investigation that’s been going on for two decades. Everything from forgeries to smuggling to the theft of antiquities. This guy does it all and does it at a very high level. Right now he’s wanted in several countries, most notably France, Italy, Germany, Austria, and Spain.’

  ‘Then why don’t they pick him up?’ Payne wondered.

  ‘Because Boyd’s a genius. Every time they get close to him, he finds a way to cover his tracks. Every single time. I’m telling you, it’s like the guy has ESP.’

  ‘Or inside information,’ Jones suggested.

  Payne was thinking the same thing. ‘OK, let’s pretend everything you’ve told us about Boyd is accurate. What does this have to do with the CIA?’

  Manzak pointed to the file. ‘Let me start with Spain. Dr Boyd stole a number of heirlooms from the Spanish government, one-of-a-kind items that have no price tag. Needless to say, they’re willing to do anything within reason to have them returned. Unfortunately, the only way to retrieve their items is to find Dr Boyd and get him to talk. Sounds easy, right? Well, up until now he’s managed to hide hundreds of objects under Interpol’s nose, and no one has any idea where. Spain is worried if Boyd gets killed in a manhunt, then their artifacts will never resurface. And the same can be said for the rest of Europe. Everyone is panicked about this. Everyone. And panic is a wonderful thing, especially if you’re able to take advantage of it.’

  ‘See, that’s where you’re losing me. How can the CIA benefit from this?’

  Manzak leaned forward and smiled, the type of smile that was usually seen next to a bubbling cauldron. ‘Tell me, Mr Payne, what do you know about the CIA?’

  ‘I know how to spell it. Other than that, I’m clueless.’ Payne pointed toward Jones. ‘There’s the guy you want to talk to. He was tempted to join your organization at one point in time.’

  Manzak looked surprised. ‘Is that so?’

  Jones nodded. ‘Simply put, you guys collect foreign intelligence, evaluate it, then send your theories to D.C. in one of these snazzy manila folders.’

  Manzak ignored the last part. ‘Of course, it’s not as easy as it sounds. Sometimes it takes years to get a task done. For instance, we might smuggle an agent into a country, let him become a part of the system, then go back to him much later to find out what he’s learned. Sometimes months, sometimes years. That’s why in certain situations we’re forced to use more efficient techniques, ones with a quicker rate of return.’

  Jones grinned. ‘Torture?’

  ‘You’ve heard the saying, If I scratch your back, you scratch mine. Well, that’s how we get some of our best intel. We provide a favor – weapons, cash, whatever – and get data in return.’

  Payne groaned in understanding. ‘And let me guess, D.J. and I are the favor.’

  ‘Not just a favor, a big favor. If you catch Boyd, you’re helping more than just Spain. You’re helping us as well because we’ll hold Boyd over Europe like mistletoe, then see which country kisses our ass first. And the best part is we don’t have to risk any operatives to complete this mission. You gentlemen can do all the dirty work for us.’

  ‘That is, if we agree to do this. You see, there’s still one thing that bothers me. I take it there’s no way the Spanish government is willing to put our agreement on paper.’

  ‘That’s correct, Mr Payne. No paperwork on this one. It’s safer that way.’

  ‘Safer for whom? What’s to stop them from arresting us again the moment we find Boyd?’

  Manzak shrugged. ‘And what’s to prevent you from going home the moment you leave this facility? The answer is nothing. But I’ll tell you this: I think Spain is showing a lot more faith in you than you are in them. With your military backgrounds, you guys could disappear if you wanted to, and there’s no way they could come to the U.S. to get you back. So what have you got to lose? If you take their deal, they’ll let you walk… And if you don’t, they’ll let you rot.’

  16

  The police in Orvieto could not be trusted. The city crest on the side of the helicopter was proof of that. But how far did the conspiracy run? Could Boyd and Maria trust the cops in the next town? There was no way of knowing, so they decided to take a two-hour bus ride to Perugia, a city of over 150,000 people, and seek the protection of a much larger police force.

  After settling into the backseat, the duo glanced out the window and searched for flashing lights, men with guns, or anything that seemed suspicious. Yet nothing disrupted the quiet serenity of Orvieto except the loud exhaust of the bus.

  Once they cleared the confines of Orvieto and headed toward the Italian countryside, Boyd was finally able to relax. His breathing returned to normal. The color reemerged in his cheeks. The knot in his stomach began to loosen, and his racing heart slowly slid from his throat.

  Suddenly reenergized, Boyd removed the cylinder that he’d rescued from the Catacombs and stared at it. To him, the unearthing of the Catacombs was an event that would rock the archaeological community for decades to come. But the discovery of Orvieto paled in comparison to the item in his hand. If the Roman cylinder actually contained what he thought it did, the entire world would sit up and notice, not just a bunch of professors from the world of academia.

  Front-page news all over the globe. Boyd’s picture on every magazine cover.

  Before he got too excited, he realized he had to make sure that the promised treasure was actually inside. While Maria took a nap next to him, he held the cylinder next to the window to see if he’d missed anything in the gloom of the Catacombs. With the exception of the engraver’s inscription, the object was completely smooth, containing no ridges or flaws of any kind. Both ends appeared solid, as if the metal had no seams. But Boyd knew that wasn’t the case.

  The artifact from Bath had looked solid as well, yet after running it through a series of tests, he discovered that one of the ends was covered with enough metal to keep air and moisture out but not enough to make it impenetrable. All he needed was a screwdriver, and he’d be able to pierce the metal top, then peel the surface back like the top of a can of nuts.

  Desperate, Boyd glanced under his seat, searching for something to break the seal. Next, he checked the video camera bag, but all of the fasteners were made of plastic, which was way too flimsy to penetrate the top.

  Bloody hell, he thought to himself. This cylinder is the key to everything. There has to be –

  And then it dawned on him. He had just muttered the
answer to his problem.

  Boyd removed the key to his rent-a-truck and pushed its tip against the edge of the bronze cylinder. The container hissed as the seal was broken, allowing air that had been sealed for two thousand years to escape from the tube. With trembling hands, he pushed the key in harder, then peeled the thin layer of metal toward the edge. Not the entire way, though. He had no intentions of removing the document on the bus. All he wanted to do was to see if the scroll was inside.

  To get a good look, Boyd raised the cylinder skyward, hoping to use the sun as a spotlight. But as he brought the opening to his eye, his concentration was broken. The scenery that had been rushing past at a steady pace had slowed to a crawl. The roar of the bus engine, the sound of the surging wind, and the chatter of his fellow passengers had disappeared as well.

  ‘Maria!’ Boyd shook her fiercely. ‘Wake up! We’re stopping.’

  Her eyes popped wide open. ‘What do you mean we’re stopping? Where are we?’

  ‘In the middle of nowhere.’

  She blinked a few times, then glanced out the side window, trying to place the terrain. Unfortunately, the sunflower fields and lush patches of green grass were commonplace for the area. There was no way she could tell anything from farmland.

  Moving into the center aisle, she walked toward the driver, hoping to see a road sign or a mileage marker that would pinpoint their exact location. Regrettably, the only thing she saw was the bright hue of flashing lights. She rushed back to Boyd. ‘There’s a roadblock ahead!’

  The color disappeared from his face. ‘They’re looking for us! I knew it!’

  Maria realized the odds were pretty good that Boyd was right. ‘The way I see it, we’ve got two choices. We can try to talk our way out of this, or…’ She put her hand on the emergency door and opened it. ‘Or we can get the hell out of here.’

  Not waiting for his response, Maria grabbed the video camera and slid out the back of the bus. Boyd followed her lead and climbed out as well.

  ‘Now what?’ he demanded. ‘Where to now?’

  Maria crept to the back corner of the bus and looked around. ‘Damn! Where’s the rest of the traffic? There should be other cars!’ She glanced back at Boyd. ‘Did we go through a detour while I was sleeping? We aren’t on the highway anymore.’

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention. I was studying the cylinder.’

  She growled softly. ‘Damn! We’ll have to run for it. That’s our only alternative.’ She eyed the terrain on both sides of the road and realized the field of sunflowers would be perfect. ‘If we can get into the flowers, we should be able to hide until they search the bus and leave.’

  Boyd nodded, then wrapped his hand around the cylinder like a sprinter in a relay race. ‘All right, my dear. You lead. I’ll follow.’

  After taking a deep breath, Maria burst from their hiding place and leapt into the belly of the golden field where flowers sprouted to seven feet tall. Boyd followed her through the labyrinth of stalks, catching faint glimpses of her as she scurried through the sun-colored field.

  The bus driver knew something was wrong the instant he heard the call. In his twenty-plus years with the company, this was the first time that the police had ever radioed him with a new set of directions. At first he figured there was an accident up ahead or maybe a traffic jam, but when he saw the flashing lights on the rural road, he knew it was something worse.

  They were looking for one of his passengers.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced in Italian, ‘please don’t be alarmed. This is just a routine stop by the local authorities. I’m sure we’ll be under way shortly.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ someone shouted. ‘Because two people just jumped out the back.’

  ‘Jumped out?’ he demanded. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Before the passenger could answer, one of the cops at the roadblock hoisted an M72 Light Antitank Weapon onto his shoulder and fired. The rocket launched with a mighty whoosh, propelled by gases that burned at over 1400°F, and slammed into the metallic grill of the bus.

  Fire roared down the center aisle like a flood, burning everything in its wake: the seats, the luggage, and the people, literally melting the skin off their bodies in a horrific ball of flames. The unlucky few who survived the impact of the rocket scrambled blindly in the black smoke, searching for a way out. They flailed wildly at the broken windows, trying to squeeze through the holes that lined the frame even though the razorlike shards punctured their faces and torsos.

  Finally, one of the men came to his senses and opened the emergency exit in the back.

  ‘If you can hear me,’ he screamed into the smoke, ‘come this way!’

  Seconds later, he saw a petite woman fighting her way through the inferno, dragging a badly burnt man whose face looked like it had been removed with a blowtorch. The first man didn’t know where she’d found the strength, yet she’d somehow managed to drag him to the rear exit.

  ‘You’re almost out,’ he assured her as he helped them to the ground. ‘We’re almost free.’

  She tried to thank him but could only manage a hacking cough. At least she was still breathing, he thought. At least she had made it through the flames and had managed to save one of the passengers in the process. Somehow, miraculously, they had survived this tragedy.

  At least for the moment.

  While staggering from the bus, he spotted the policemen in the distance and screamed to them for aid, not realizing that they had started the fire to begin with. The smallest of the cops rushed forward like he was going to help, like he was going to put out the fire with the long nozzle that he held in his hands. But instead of giving them assistance, he did just the opposite.

  Stopping fifteen feet in front of them, the cop lowered the visor on his flame-retardant helmet and hit the switch on his flamethrower, sending a deadly stream of jellied fuel into the air. The chemicals ignited in a wicked flash, covering the victims like napalm and scorching them like marshmallows that had fallen into a campfire, their white skin bubbling and turning black as they slowly became a part of the burnt asphalt.

  Smiling, the cop spoke into his headset. ‘The leak has been sealed.’

  17

  Tuesday, July 11

  Dover, England

  (eighty miles southeast of London)

  Payne and Jones weren’t born yesterday. They had been involved in too many missions to ignore the obvious: there was something fishy about Manzak’s offer.

  The CIA was a global organization, one that had agents and hidden connections all over the world. If they legitimately wanted to find Dr Charles Boyd, there was no way they would’ve turned to two outsiders for help. Yet for some reason Manzak came to Pamplona anyway. For some reason he wanted to go out of house (i.e., use non-CIA personnel) to track down Boyd and ultimately settled on two former MANIACs to do the job. Payne wasn’t sure why that was, but he had some theories. Perhaps Manzak was bucking for a promotion and felt the best way to get one was by catching a wanted man on his own? Or maybe Boyd had done something to Manzak long ago, and this was Manzak’s way of getting some personal revenge? Or maybe, just maybe, it was something more obvious. Maybe Manzak wanted to get his hands on Boyd so he could sell his stolen treasures and pocket the money for himself?

  In the end Payne and Jones weren’t sure what Manzak’s motivation was. All they knew was he had the power to get them out of jail ASAP, and that’s all they wanted. Besides, they figured once they got back into circulation they’d have plenty of time to investigate Manzak, Boyd, and everything else that seemed shady to them. Which was just about everything.

  After accepting Manzak’s offer, Payne and Jones collected their things before being herded into a helicopter and whisked away. During their flight Manzak briefed them on the mission and how to contact him once they had located Boyd. Instead of using a phone, they were to activate a high-tech beacon that looked similar to a garage door opener. Then they were to sit patiently and wait for t
he cavalry to arrive. Well, not the real cavalry. Their mission was supposed to be top secret, so the last thing they needed was for a bunch of horses to come galloping into town, shitting all over the place, while being led by a bugle-playing cowboy. Something like that might work during a gay pride parade but not on a CIA operation.

  Anyway, their chopper touched down late Monday night in Bordeaux, France, where they were told to spend the night. Manzak gave them their travel itineraries for an early morning flight, then left with Buckner to save the world or something. Once alone, Payne and Jones started working the phones – first calling the Pentagon to check on Manzak and Buckner’s credentials, then calling Dover University to set up an appointment with Dr Boyd’s assistant.

  England is smaller than the state of Alabama yet has three of the finest universities in Europe: Oxford, Cambridge, and Dover. The first two are the most well-known and for good reason. Oxford is the oldest English-speaking university in the world and boasts a roster of alumni that includes John Donne, William Penn, J. R. R. Tolkien, and Bill Clinton. Cambridge came into existence more than one hundred years later and was the school of choice for John Milton, Prince Albert, Isaac Newton, John Harvard, and Charles Darwin.

  Yet in recent years many of the top students have shied away from the big two, partially because their admission policies seem to place more emphasis on a candidate’s lineage than his academic achievements. That, however, is not the case at Dover. Founded in 1569 by Elizabeth I, it had the guts to reject one of her ancestors because he failed to meet their scholastic standards. That episode, more than anything else, catapulted Dover’s status to the top of the academic heap, making it the school of choice among the elite families in Great Britain.