The process itself was rather straightforward. Press the specimen in ink, then roll it on paper. Just like finger painting in kindergarten. Only this time, Payne used someone else’s fingers.
When Payne was done, he put them in a brown paper bag that said DON’T EAT ME and returned them to Ulster’s freezer. Then he faxed the prints to Randy Raskin, figuring if anyone could determine who Manzak and Buckner were, it would be him. Payne included a short note that told him to send the results to Jones’s computer as soon as possible.
After that, Payne had time to kill, so he decided to explore the Archives. He walked up and down the halls looking at everything: the paintings, the statues, and all the display cases. The thing he liked the most was a series of black-and-white photos that Ulster’s grandfather had shot in Vienna in the 1930s. Most of them featured landmarks Payne didn’t recognize, but the final one, a photograph of the Lipizzaner stallions, instantly warmed his heart.
When he was a boy, his parents tricked him into watching a TV performance of the majestic white horses by telling him that they were unicorns that had lost their horns. Payne believed them, too, because he had never witnessed a more magical display of showmanship in his entire life. The horses entered the Imperial Riding Hall of the Hofburg to the violins of Bizet’s ‘Arlésienne Suite,’ then proceeded to glide through a gravity-defying series of pirouettes, courbettes, and caprioles. Payne never knew animals could dance or spin until that moment.
He took the picture off the wall and ran his fingers over the faded image. All the horses in the photo had died decades before Payne was born, but because of their careful breeding – each Lipizzaner was branded with specific marks to signify their historic bloodlines – they looked eerily similar to the ones he’d seen as a boy. The same high necks and powerful limbs, muscular backs and well-formed joints, thick manes and remarkably limpid eyes.
‘Didja know you saved their lives?’ someone growled down the hall. ‘Ja, ja, it’s true!’
Bemused, Payne glanced at the old man trudging his way. His name was Franz, and he was Ulster’s most trusted employee. ‘What was that?’ Payne asked.
‘You American, no? Ja, you rescued those horses.’
‘I did? How the hell did I do that?’
A smile exploded on Franz’s wrinkled face. ‘Not you! But men from your country. Ja, ja! They risked their lives to save them.’
Payne had no idea what he was talking about, so he asked him to explain.
‘Back in 1945, Vienna was under heavy attack by Allied bombers. Colonel Podhajsky, the leader of the riding school, was afraid for his horses – not only from bombs, but from hungry refugees who were scouring the city for meat.’
‘Did you say meat?’
‘Ja,’ he answered, the smile no longer on his face. ‘With Vienna unsafe, the colonel smuggled the horses many miles north to Saint Martin’s. Now, as fate would dictate, he came across an old friend who could help protect the horses. Do you know who he was?’
Payne had never heard of Podhajsky, so he was clueless. ‘I give up. Who?’
‘American General George S. Patton.’
‘Really? How’d he know Patton?’
Franz chuckled with delight. ‘Would you believe they met at the 1912 Olympics? Ja, ja, it’s true! Both men competed in pentathlon in the Stockholm Games.’
‘Patton was an Olympian? I never knew that.’
‘That is nothing. Wait till I tell you what happened next. To convince Patton that the horses were worth saving, the colonel staged a Lipizzaner performance right there on the battlefield. Can you imagine the spectacle? Horses dancing in the middle of a war!’ Franz laughed so loud it hurt Payne’s ears. ‘The general was so impressed that he made the horses official wards of the U.S. Army until Vienna was safe enough for their return.’
Payne smiled at the photograph. ‘I guess my parents were right. They are magical.’
‘Hmm? What was that?’
‘Nothing,’ he fibbed, half embarrassed. ‘Out of curiosity, could I borrow this picture for a few minutes? I have a buddy upstairs who always tries to impress me with facts about everything, and I doubt he knows that story. Would it bother Petr if I carried this upstairs?’
‘Petr!’ Franz groaned. ‘I’m glad you said his name, because I almost forget to tell you. Petr sent me to find you. He wants you to go upstairs at once. Your friends would like to talk to you.’
Excited by the possibilities, Payne thanked Franz for the news, then hustled upstairs with the photo. But when he entered the room he quickly realized he’d have to save his story for later, because the look on everyone’s face told Payne something bad had happened.
Dr Boyd’s complexion was paler than usual, which made the bags under his eyes stand out like layers of football eye black. Maria sat to his left, her face buried on the table under her tightly clenched arms. And Ulster, whose lips had been frozen in a perpetual grin since Payne had met him, seemed to be frowning, even though it was tough to tell through the thicket that he called a beard. Jones was the last person Payne noticed, since he was sitting in the far corner of the room, but it was the look on his face that told Payne everything he needed to know.
Somehow, some way, their mission had suffered a major setback. He just didn’t know how.
Since Ulster had sent for Payne, he decided to start with him. ‘Franz said you wanted to see me. Is everything all right?’
‘Metaphorically speaking, I’d say we hit an iceberg.’ He pointed to a scroll that sat on the table before him. ‘This was one of the documents in my grandfather’s collection. It was sent to Tiberius by an injured centurion right after a war in the Britains. If you look closely, you can see where the soldier gripped it, for his blood stained the papyrus as he wrote his message.’
Payne saw the stain yet had little interest in two-thousand-year-old plasma. ‘What did it say?’
‘He apologized for writing, which was an unspeakable breach of protocol for a centurion, then informed Tiberius that a hostile Silurian tribe had attacked his unit while they slept, slaughtering hundreds of Romans in the dead of night.’
‘And that’s important?’
‘Not by itself, but the next part is. You see, the soldier mentioned that General Paccius was one of the earliest victims of the raid, stabbed in his heart as he slept.’
‘And that’s bad, right?’
‘Bad?’ Boyd growled from across the room. ‘It’s bloody horrible! Since Paccius was slain, he obviously didn’t pilot the conspiracy against Christ, now did he?’
‘I guess not, although I don’t understand why that’s so horrible. Didn’t you just clear the name of Christ? As a Christian, I figured you’d be happy about that. You, too, Maria.’
She flinched at the mention of her name, surprised that a man was actually asking for her opinion. ‘I wish that were the case. The only thing we cleared up was Paccius’s disappearance. After all of these years, we finally know why he was never glorified in Roman history books. He died without dignity, slain while sleeping on the battlefield.’
‘But isn’t that good for you? I mean, shouldn’t that end your speculation about Jesus?’
Maria shook her head. ‘Now that Paccius is no longer a suspect, we have no idea who Tiberius would’ve turned to next.’
‘But that’s kind of what I’m getting at. How do you know he turned to anyone? Why are you positive he went through with his plan against Christ?’
She said, ‘Because the artwork in the Catacombs tells us as much. Remember the carvings that illustrated the crucifixion of Christ? The keystone figure is laughing at Christ, actually mocking his death. Why would it be there – in a vault that Tiberius built – if the plot hadn’t succeeded? The carvings were historically accurate, so they were obviously created after Christ’s crucifixion. That’s the only way they could’ve gotten the details right.’
The light finally clicked in Payne’s head. ‘Oh, I get it. See, I interpreted the artwork differently than you. You�
�re saying Tiberius was so thrilled with the outcome he decided to honor his accomplice in stone, chiseling his face up there as appreciation for a job well done.’
‘Exactly. Only we don’t know who helped Tiberius or what he did to convince everybody that Jesus was the Messiah. According to the scroll, Tiberius wanted to stage something so amazing that people would talk about it for years. But we don’t know what that was.’
‘You don’t?’
‘No,’ she assured Payne. ‘If we did, we’d have something to pursue. But as it stands now, we don’t know where to look next. Paccius’s death has knocked the wind from our sails.’
Payne leaned back, astonished. How could four of the smartest people he’d ever met be so blind to the obvious? ‘I don’t want to step on any toes, but I think I might be able to help.’
‘Oh?’ she said in a less-than-confident tone. ‘How is that?’
‘By telling you how the Romans amazed Jerusalem.’
‘Jon,’ Jones whispered, ‘this isn’t the time to be joking around.’
‘Who’s joking? The truth is, I have a theory about Tiberius. In fact, I’m surprised you guys haven’t figured it out by now. It’s actually kind of obvious.’
‘Obvious?’ Boyd snarled. ‘We’ve been thinking about this for two days now, researching day and night, trying to grasp this bloody thing, and you mock us by calling it obvious?’
‘Just a second. I wasn’t trying to insult you. The truth is, sometimes a person can become so immersed in things that he loses sight of the obvious. And I think that’s what’s happening here, because I’m pretty sure I know what the Romans did to fool the masses. Remember when I said I’d interpreted the archway differently than you? Well, if you don’t mind, I’d like to fill you in on my theory. I think it could be the key to everything.’
‘Your theory is the key?’ Boyd laughed. ‘Oh, this ought to be rich.’
‘Professore! You’re being rude! If it wasn’t for Jonathon, we’d probably be dead right now.’
Payne looked at Maria and thanked her, glad to see at least one person was taking him seriously. ‘Now, I admit I don’t know a whole lot about first-century Jerusalem, but if I remember correctly, you’re searching for an event in Christ’s life that would’ve amazed everyone.’
‘Let me cut you off right there,’ Boyd snapped. ‘We examined each of Christ’s miracles – turning water into wine at Cana, feeding the hungry of Bethsaida, and so on – but didn’t feel any of them were miraculous enough to influence the masses. Furthermore, Tiberius claimed that his event needed to be staged in Jerusalem, and Christ’s miracles were performed elsewhere.’
‘Doc, if I’m not mistaken, Tiberius talked about staging a single event, an act so magical that people couldn’t possibly ignore it, no matter how hard they tried?’
‘Or words to that effect, yes.’
‘But only one event, not two or three?’
Boyd nodded. ‘That’s correct. The scroll refers to a single act that future generations would sing about for eternity. Something magical and mystifying in the heart of Jerusalem.’
Suddenly, Payne was more confident than ever. ‘If that’s the case, then there’s only one event in Jesus’s life that can fit your criteria… And trust me, people are still talking about it.’
50
Henri Toulon had a history of showing up late and going home early. So Nick Dial was far from surprised when he called Interpol and Toulon was nowhere to be found. It wouldn’t be the first time that they butted heads – partially because Dial got the position that Toulon had coveted and partially because Toulon was an agitator who loved picking fights with everyone. Yet Dial put up with all the bullshit because Toulon did his job better than anyone he’d ever worked with.
After leaving a message, Dial focused on the bulletin board in his Boston hotel room. He looked at the crime photos from all three cases and tried to figure out a connection. A priest from Finland who was kidnapped in Italy yet was killed in Denmark. A prince from Nepal who was kidnapped in Thailand but murdered in Libya. A ballplayer from Brazil who was kidnapped in New York, then crucified in Boston. What was the thread?
Jansen, Narayan, and Pope were healthy men under the age of forty. None of them were married, had children, or had significant others of any kind. In fact, all of them went out of their way to avoid relationships. Jansen had taken a vow of celibacy, Narayan preferred prostitutes, and Pope was a borderline recluse. On the other hand, their list of differences was twice as long. They practiced different religions, had different ethnic backgrounds, and came from opposite ends of the globe. They spoke different languages, had different jobs, and had no connections other than the way they died.
To Dial it was clear this case wasn’t about the victims. It was about the message.
While sipping coffee, he shifted his focus to the crime scenes themselves. Normally he would’ve worked with a single map because his cases were usually contained in a limited area. In this case, though, he had to look at the entire world because his victims and their locations were so scattered.
To keep track of things, he used a series of pushpins, each color representing something different. He marked the hometowns of all three men with white pins, placing one in Lokka, Finland, one in Katmandu, Nepal, and one in São Paulo, Brazil. Next he located their abduction points with blue pins: Rome, Bangkok, and New York. Finally he tracked the murder sites with red ones, a fitting color, considering how much blood was found at each scene.
Nine pins in total, scattered all around the map. Three in Europe, two in Asia, two in North America, one in South America, and one in Africa. The only continents not covered were Australia and Antarctica, which was fine with Dial. He didn’t feel like fighting dingoes in the Outback or frostbite at the South Pole.
A ringing phone snapped him back to reality. He hustled over to his desk. ‘This is Dial.’
‘This is not,’ teased Henri Toulon.
Dial wasn’t in the mood for games, so he got right to the point. ‘Last night when I arrived in Boston, I found an interesting fact about the latest victim… He wasn’t dead yet.’
‘What? You mean he’s still alive? I heard on the –’
‘No, Henri, he’s dead now, although that wasn’t the case when I was landing at Logan. In fact, according to 911 logs, the cops didn’t know about it until I was in America.’
Toulon paused for a moment, letting the information sink in. ‘But how can that be? We were faxed about the murder last night.’
‘That’s my point. We knew about the case before there was a case. Looks like we’ve got another taunter.’
Toulon mumbled a bunch of curse words in French, then shouted to one of his assistants in German, which illustrated why Toulon was so valuable to the department. He could speak a dozen languages, which enabled him to talk to nearly every employee at Interpol, witnesses from multiple nations, plus NCB officers from around the world.
‘Sorry about that,’ he apologized. ‘I had the fax right here on my desk, but some asshole on the late shift messed with my things again. I’m telling you, Nick, if you want me to be efficient, I need an office of my own.’
‘I’m not in the mood, Henri. Just tell me about the fax.’
‘It came from a police station in Boston, maybe ten minutes before I called your cell phone. It said another victim had been found at the baseball stadium in Boston, and they needed someone from our office to verify its link to our other cases.’
‘Do you have a name or a number or a station location?’
‘I had all of that, Nick, right on the fax. It came in on stationery.’
Dial growled softly. This was the best lead they had, and someone at his office had lost it.
‘Nick?’ Toulon said. ‘Hans is checking the fax machine right now. It stores the last fifty documents in its memory, so there’s a chance we’ll be able to print another copy. I’ll also check our phone records to find out where the fax came from. That way, you can investig
ate the suspicious fax machine before you leave Boston.’
Dial took a deep breath. Maybe this wouldn’t be a total disaster after all. ‘Get me that info as soon as possible. This could be the break we’ve been waiting for.’
Frankie Cione loved hanging out with Payne and Jones. He didn’t know if it was their coolness under pressure, their good-natured teasing, or the fact that they were tall. Whatever it was, Frankie knew that they were special. Not only did they go out of their way to make him feel important – something his friends and colleagues rarely did – but he got the sense that they actually liked him for who he was, not what he could do for them.
After Payne and Jones left Milan, Frankie pondered ways he could continue to help them. It took him all day to figure it out, but he realized that they had left several scraps of evidence in his possession, including photographs of the helicopter crash site and data from the car rental office. Of course Frankie had no idea where any of it was going to lead, yet the thought of helping them in any capacity was enough to give him chills.
Francesco Cione, Italian private eye. No case is too big, although I’m quite small.
Laughing to himself, Frankie realized the pictures of Orvieto were the best place to start, since Payne and Jones had left his office before they had a chance to enlarge them all.
The initial picture he examined was one that Jones had scanned into the computer. Frankie took his time searching every centimeter of the film, blowing up the image to eight times its normal size and viewing it from four different angles, before he decided it was time to move on. After clearing the file from his screen, he thumbed through the rest of the photographs and settled on the last two pictures in the roll.
At first glance there was no visible reason for his selection, though Frankie figured if Donald Barnes was as obese as Payne and Jones had claimed, then something had to motivate him to walk halfway across the plateau and take additional photographs of the wreck. And since that something didn’t jump out at him, he hoped he might find it under magnification.
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