Graphics detailing the other cases scrolled across the bottom of the CNN broadcast.
‘The victim appears to be a white male in his thirties. He’s been attached to the cross with a series of spikes, similar to the crucifixion of Jesus Christ.’
The director shouted into her earpiece. ‘Goddammit! Don’t make this religious!’
Collins gathered her thoughts. ‘Blood can be seen pouring from the victim’s hands and feet, dripping down the wood like a grisly horror movie.’ Farley zoomed in closer, trying to get the best shot possible. ‘I can see blood pouring out of his side, gushing from his wound in little bursts like… Oh God! Look at his face! He just opened his eyes! Jesus! He isn’t dead!’
‘Fuck!’ shouted the director. ‘Don’t use Jesus in vain! You’ll piss off the Bible Belt.’
Collins tried to stay calm. ‘Soldiers are filling the streets around me, unsure of what to do. I don’t know if they realize the victim is alive, that there might be a chance to save him and find out information about the killer.’ She glanced at her monitor, searching for something to describe. ‘I’m scanning the sky for a plane, but I don’t see or hear one. That only adds to the mystery. Where did it come from? Why did the killer choose China? What is he trying to say?’
The cross continued to fall, drifting slowly toward the inner courtyard of the Forbidden City.
‘We’re about to lose contact with the parachute due to our vantage point. Right now he’s about five hundred feet above the great palace, a place where the media are not allowed to enter. We’ll stay with the victim as he continues to fall. Troops are rushing toward the closest gate, each of them carrying rifles just in case this is an attack… Right now I don’t see any medical personnel. I’m hoping they’re already inside the City’s massive walls, waiting for the parachute to land.’
Farley followed the chute until it fell out of view, then quickly panned back to a shot of Collins standing on the sidewalk. Her blue eyes were staring directly into the camera.
‘I’ve been in the news business for many years, but I’ve never seen anything as bizarre as this… And thanks to the magic of television, you got to see it, too.’
In his Boston hotel room, Nick Dial nodded at her comment. ‘Talk about reality TV.’
He turned down the volume and walked over to his bulletin board. Four red pushpins marked his crime scenes. Four different continents, four different victims. All of them connected on the world map by two straight lines. Lines that formed a giant cross. Lines that intersected in Italy.
But where in Italy? That was the question.
The geographical cross missed Rome and Vatican City by over fifty miles. That surprised Dial, since both places fit the criteria of the other cases. Famous cities and tons of tourists meant plenty of attention. Yet as far as Dial could tell, the center point of the cross was somewhere in the Umbria region, smackdab in the middle of nowhere.
Dial leaned in for a closer view but realized he needed a detailed map of Italy to find the precise town where the longitude and latitude lines met, because something was going to happen there. Something big. He didn’t know what, but he knew the location was the key to everything.
He knew that X marked the spot.
64
Boyd and Maria fanned out on the upper floors of the library, searching for information about the laughing man. This gave Jones the perfect opportunity to spend some alone time with Maria. He found her near the manuscript collection on the second floor. ‘What are you looking for?’
She whispered, ‘A needle in a haystack.’
Jones did a three sixty turn, soaking in all the books and artifacts that surrounded them. ‘Big haystack… What’s your needle look like? Maybe I can help.’
She shrugged. ‘I have no idea… Absolutely none.’
‘Great! That narrows it down for us.’
Maria moved toward him, gently rubbing her fingers over the spine of the books. ‘You have to admit there’s some irony to being here. I mean, of all the places in the world, we’re at the Hofburg looking for proof of Christ’s death. That seems so fitting because of the spear.’
‘Spear? What spear?’
‘The Spear of Destiny. The lance that pierced Christ’s side. It’s here at the Hofburg.’
‘Oh. That spear.’
She nodded. ‘Did you know the first thing Hitler did when he claimed Austria in 1938 was to come here and get the spear? Historians say it was the thing that motivated him to rule the world. He saw it as a young student and had a vision that the spear would make him invincible.’
But Hitler wasn’t the only one who believed in the weapon. According to legend, whoever possessed the lance was granted the power to conquer the world. But it was also said if the owner ever lost the spear, he would die a swift death – a fact that played out when Hitler took his own life a mere eighty minutes after American troops seized the bunker where he was safeguarding the relic. Some attribute this to coincidence while others ascribe it to fate.
The history of the Holy Lance (aka the Spear of Destiny) can be tracked through the centuries, even though no one knows for sure if it was actually used by Longinus, the Roman centurion who supposedly pierced the side of Christ. Some historians believe that the twenty-inch blade was forged several centuries after the death of Christ and is nothing more than a hoax.
Some biblical historians are willing to go one step further. Not only do they feel that the Lance is fictional, but they also claim that Longinus is fictional as well, since no records or texts mentioned his name until the Gospel of Nicodemus appeared in 715. Furthermore, since ‘Longinus’ is a Latinized version of longche, the Greek word for ‘spear,’ they feel the name was created by the Church to attach a name to an otherwise faceless man.
Maria said, ‘The Gospels say the spear proved that Christ had died. Now here we are, where that mythical spear is kept, and we’re looking for proof that Christ didn’t die on the cross. The irony is staggering.’
Jones paused, considering her statement. ‘What if it isn’t irony? What if there’s a reason that the lance and the laughing man are both here? What if Longinus was the laughing man?’
Maria laughed. ‘You’re joking, right?’
‘Not at all,’ he stressed. ‘Longinus was involved in the crucifixion, right? Yet no one can describe what he looked like, and he never appeared in the history books until after the fall of the Empire. That seems pretty strange, considering how anal the Romans were about record keeping. Well, maybe his identity was being protected by Tiberius. Maybe he had it removed from the history books.’
‘What about the P? The statue’s ring had a P on it. That has to stand for something.’
‘Maybe it does. What if Longinus’s name was fictionalized by the Church like some people claim? His real name could’ve been Peter or Paul or whatever. I mean, Longinus was standing right next to the cross during the crucifixion, so he could’ve slipped Christ the mandrake. Plus he told the crowd that Jesus had died, then proved it by stabbing him in the side.’
Maria stood there, silent, comparing Jones’s theory to the knowledge she possessed. Deep down inside she sensed something didn’t fit, that something was missing from the big picture.
She would learn what that was a few hours later.
Nick Dial flipped through his atlas until he came across a map of Italy. He carefully drew two lines across the colorful surface while constantly glancing at the red pushpins on his bulletin board. He knew if he was off as little as a quarter inch, he could miss his target by fifty miles.
As expected, the two lines met in Umbria, a fertile region that was better known for its farmland than its tourist attractions. Intrigued, Dial adjusted his bifocals and focused on the intersection point, searching for the exact spot where the four crosses pointed.
‘Orvieto,’ he whispered. Something about it sounded so familiar. Something recent.
Dial checked the e-mail on his laptop computer. Several messages mentioned the rec
ent bus explosion near Orvieto and the ongoing manhunt for Dr Charles Boyd.
Dial grabbed his cell phone, dialed the local NCB office, and was patched through to Henri Toulon’s desk. He answered on the third ring. ‘Nick, my friend, where are you today?’
‘Boston, but that’s about to change.’
‘Oh? Have you decided to quit your job and leave me in charge? That is awfully sweet of –’
‘Boyd,’ he interrupted. ‘Dr Charles Boyd. What can you tell me about him?’
‘He is a very popular man right now. All of Europe is looking for him. Why do you ask?’
‘I have a feeling he might be connected to my case. What can you send me?’
‘Whatever you want… But I’m confused. How can he –’
‘Just playing out a hunch. Can you send me that info ASAP? I need it before my flight.’
‘A flight? But you aren’t done in Boston. I got the info that you wanted on the fax.’
Shit, Dial thought. He had forgotten about the fax. The person who sent it to Interpol knew about Orlando Pope’s death before it even happened. If Dial found him in Boston, he might blow the case wide open. ‘OK, give it to me, quick. I still want to catch my plane.’
‘But Nick, don’t you think –’
‘Come on, Henri! Can’t you hear the sound of my voice? I’m not in the mood for your bullshit, not today. Just send me what I need. Not later, not after your next cigarette break, but now! Do you got me? Right fuckin’ now!’
Toulon grinned. He loved pissing off his boss, especially since Dial had been promoted ahead of him for the job. ‘Nick, relax! Check your in-box. The info should be waiting for you.’
*
Nick Dial knew the warning fax was important. He knew if he tracked down the sender that he’d be able to establish a direct link to the crime, possibly identifying the killer or one of his associates. Yet in this case he decided he had more important things to worry about, so he called Chang at the local NCB office and told him to look into it.
‘Don’t screw this up,’ Dial said as he hustled through Logan Airport. ‘And once you get the information, I want you to sit tight. Don’t pursue any other leads. Don’t tell anyone else. Just hold onto it. You got me? I’ll give you a call in a few hours from the plane.’
‘Not a problem. I’ll go home and wait for your call… Anything else, sir?’
‘Yeah. Find out as much about Beijing as possible. I’ll want an update when we talk.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Dial glanced at one of the departure monitors, trying to figure out where his gate was. ‘You ever been to China?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What about your parents? Where are they from?’
‘Noank.’
He grimaced. ‘Noank? Never heard of it. Is that close to Beijing?’
‘Not really, sir. It’s in Connecticut.’
Dial felt like an idiot, so he did his best to change the topic. ‘Get me that info, Chang. I’ll give you a call before I hit the ground.’
‘Sir? Out of curiosity, how long’s your flight to China?’
‘China? I’m not going to China. I’m going to Italy.’
‘Wait,’ Chang said, confused. ‘I thought you were investigating today’s murder?’
‘Not at all. I’m flying to Italy to stop the next one.’
Dante Pelati walked into his father’s office and saw him sitting behind his desk, cradling a family picture. His father was a private man, someone who preferred to keep most people at a distance. The biggest exception had been Dante’s older brother. Roberto was Benito’s firstborn son, which made him the crown prince in Benito’s world. The two of them shared a bond that Dante never could. At least not while Roberto was alive.
‘You got my message?’ Benito asked. His eyes were bloodshot, and his cheeks were stained with tears, a scene that Dante had never seen before. It was a sight he actually enjoyed.
‘I came at once,’ he whispered. ‘What can I do for you?’
Benito placed the picture on his desk and faced Dante. He realized he was the key to everything now, everything that the Pelati family had been hiding for centuries. And that forced Benito to do something that made him uncomfortable. He was about to have a personal conversation with his second son. ‘I know I haven’t always been there for you… like a father should have been… I realize that now, and… it is one of the biggest regrets of my life.’
Dante was stunned. He had waited a lifetime to hear those words, always wondering what would have to happen to hear those sentiments from his father’s lips. Now he knew.
‘I could sit here and make excuses… but that would be wrong… You deserve better than that… You deserve the truth.’
Benito sank into his chair, struggling to breathe. He had given this talk once before, a long time ago when Roberto had reached the right age. But this conversation would be different. No longer would Benito be talking about secrets hidden in Orvieto and what he hoped to do with them. Instead, he’d be outlining a plot that was already in motion. One that was near completion.
‘Father,’ Dante asked, ‘the truth about what?’
‘The truth about our family.’
65
A stack of newspapers wrapped in a bright yellow cord sat near the circulation desk. It had been a few days since Payne saw the news, and he wanted to read the latest on Orvieto. He flipped through the stack until he found one written in English. He took it upstairs and found a quiet spot where he could look out for guards and read about the most dangerous man in Europe.
Every story painted Dr Charles Boyd as a coldblooded killer, a man who’d do anything to get what he wanted, although the paper didn’t have any theories on what that might be. In their view he was a dangerous fugitive on the run, leaving a trail of blood and bodies wherever he went. No word about the Catacombs or the helicopter that apparently tried to kill him. Nothing about his thirty years of teaching or all the awards that he won at Dover. Why? Because that kind of stuff would cloud the picture and make him seem human. And as everybody knows, human doesn’t sell. Violence sells. That’s what people want to read. That was the thing that sold papers.
Proving Payne’s point was the article that ran next to Boyd’s. The headline blared ‘Crucifix Killer,’ right above a close-up of someone who had been murdered in Denmark. Normally Payne would’ve ignored the story, just to make a point. Just because the photo and the headline were so sensationalized it drew attention from all the other articles in the paper that were more important than the death of one man, no matter how brutal and violent his death was. Still, there was something about the word crucifix that grabbed Payne’s attention. He quickly skimmed the story, which explained everything that happened in Helsingør and all the events in Libya, too. The piece concluded with an editor’s note that referenced breaking news in the sports section, simply saying: ‘Pope is Third Victim.’
‘Holy shit,’ he muttered, knowing who had died before he even turned the page.
Orlando Pope was one of the most recognizable names in sports, right up there with Tiger Woods and Shaquille O’Neal. If he was dead, his story was going to dwarf every other headline in the world, making Dr Boyd a sudden afterthought. Payne flipped to the sports section but found nothing more than a brief paragraph stating that Pope had been found crucified at Fenway Park and nothing else could be confirmed because of the late hour. No pictures, quotes, or reaction from the team. The biggest sports story of the decade, and he knew nothing about it.
Frustrated, Payne grabbed the newspaper and went to tell Jones the news. Before he could, though, Jones and Maria started talking to Boyd, who had been skimming through a modern text that detailed the history of the Hofburg and the royalty who shaped it. Boyd hoped to learn which ruler built the portion of the building where the laughing man resided.
‘Find anything?’ Maria asked.
Boyd kept reading for several seconds before he turned their way. ‘Hmm? What was that?’
> She smiled. Same old Dr Boyd. ‘Did you find anything?’
‘Bits and pieces, my dear. Bits and pieces. If only I had a morsel to guide me, I am certain I could locate the smoking gun.’ He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, indicating the rest of the library. ‘I am confident the answer is in here somewhere.’
‘I agree,’ she said, smiling. ‘D.J. has a theory that I wanted you to hear.’
Boyd glanced at Maria, then back at Jones, trying to decide if they were serious. The look on their faces told him they were. ‘Go on. I’m listening.’
Payne was listening, too. But before Jones could spit out a single word, Payne’s attention was diverted to the commotion he heard on the far side of the library. First the opening of a door, then the muffled sound of footsteps. Multiple footsteps. Many people entering the facility at the exact same time. Maybe it was a cleaning crew or a team of armed guards, Payne couldn’t tell from there. Either way, he knew they were in trouble.
‘Hide them,’ Payne told Jones. And just like that, he knew what to do. They had been together long enough to know each other’s tactics.
Payne pulled the Luger from his belt and dashed quietly across the second floor, slipping between pillars and statues. Thousands of books lined the shelves behind him, protecting him from a rear attack, while a thick wooden railing encircled the balcony to his front. His position was elevated, at least fifteen feet above the first floor. He curled up underneath a rail-side table and glanced between the carved balusters where he was able to see most of the Great Hall.
Two men in dress clothes stood in the shadows of the main entrance while their partner fiddled with something behind a tapestry on the right wall. Payne doubted the library had a safe in a public space, leaving only two choices in his mind: a security system or an electrical panel. He got his answer a couple of clicks later when the roof exploded with light.
Payne kept his focus on the men as they converged near the middle of the floor. They were over a hundred feet away, which prevented Payne from seeing or hearing much. There was a mumble every once in a while, followed by a quick reply, but nothing he could comprehend. Partially because of the distance, partially because of a language barrier. Whatever the case, he had no idea who these men were or why they were here.
Sign of the Cross Page 34