Sign of the Cross

by Chris Kuzneski

  They stayed at the Hofburg for a few more hours, until paranoia crept in and thoughts of armed guards bursting into the library fueled their desire to leave.

  Besides, at that point most of them needed to use a phone. Petr Ulster needed to call Küsendorf to check on fire damage. Jones wanted to call the Pentagon to get an update on Orlando Pope’s crucifixion and anything else he could track down. And Payne promised to call Frankie with a fax number so he could send his information. The only call-free people were Boyd and Maria, who were so intrigued by the journal that they’d borrowed from Prince Eugene’s collection that they were content sitting in the back of Ulster’s truck discussing it.

  The group settled on an Internet café in the middle of Vienna, smack-dab in the center of the Ringstrasse, a two-and-a-half-mile boulevard lined with monuments, parks, schools, and the world-famous State Opera. To the northeast they could see the top of Saint Stephen’s Cathedral, its 450-foot tower thrusting out of the building like a Gothic stalagmite. The café itself was large and bustling, filled with tourists who were getting food and caffeine while checking their e-mail.

  Payne got in touch with Frankie at his office and told him to send the fax with all the information that he had discovered. Payne wasn’t willing to tell him the café’s fax number, just in case Frankie’s phone was tapped, but they figured a way around that. The only problem was, Payne had to wait until Frankie drove down the street and accessed a clean line.

  Meanwhile, Jones reached Raskin at the Pentagon and learned that a fourth crucifixion had just occurred in Beijing, a case receiving serious airtime around the world. He told Payne to find a TV that was broadcasting CNN while Jones got background info on the other three murders. The television coverage was stunning. A man nailed to a crucifix was floating through the air while blood oozed, in slow motion, from wounds in his hands, feet, and side. An announcer droned on about the recent rash of tragedies, followed by an interview with an ‘expert’ who claimed he had no idea why any of these murders had taken place.

  Payne watched for several minutes until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Not a threatening hand, just a tap. He turned and saw Ulster, his skin pale and his cheeks streaked with tears. He had just gotten off the phone with Küsendorf and was obviously shaken by the news. Payne helped him to one of the chairs and sat next to him, not pressing him for details until he was ready to talk. He had comforted enough grieving soldiers to know that was the best approach.

  A few minutes passed before Ulster talked about the damage to the Archives. They were more severe than he had anticipated. All the vaults had held, protecting his most valuable collections from fire and water damage. Still, many of the building’s outer walls had been destroyed, making the Archives structurally unsafe. That meant even though his artifacts were fine for the moment, they would be destroyed if the building collapsed.

  ‘I’ve got to go back,’ he told Payne. ‘I don’t care if I’m risking my life; I have to go.’

  Payne agreed with him, even though he knew that Ulster was walking into a death sentence. Soldiers were bound to be waiting there, men who were salivating at the thought of grabbing him and torturing him for information about Boyd, the Catacombs, and everything else. Normally, Payne would’ve offered to go back with him as his personal guard, but not today. Not with all that was going on. Payne’s services were needed in Vienna or wherever they were headed next.

  But that didn’t mean he was going to abandon him.

  ‘Can you wait twelve hours?’ Payne asked.

  Ulster blinked a few times then looked at him, confused. ‘Why?’

  ‘Twelve hours. Can you wait that long before going back?’

  ‘Jonathon,’ he said, ‘both of us know you can’t accompany –’

  ‘You’re right, I can’t go with you. But that doesn’t mean I can’t help. You give me twelve hours, and I promise I can have team of armed guards waiting to protect you. Furthermore, I’ll get you the best engineers that money can buy to save your property. Trust me, they’ll do a better job than any of the local salvage companies.’

  Ulster was about to turn Payne down; he could see it in his eyes. He was about to thank Payne for his offer, then politely decline because of the cost, his pride, or a hundred other reasons that he could’ve chosen. Payne knew all this because he would’ve done the exact same thing. That’s why Payne decided to beat him to the punch, reminding him of their earlier agreement.

  Payne said, ‘When we met I promised if you gave me full access to the Archives and the use of your services that I would make it worth your time. Well, it’s time for me to pay up.’ He told Ulster to look at his watch. ‘Tell Franz to drive slowly on the way home, because twelve hours from now I’ll have men waiting for you at the Swiss border. You’ll know they’re with me because they’ll know our special password.’

  ‘Password?’ Ulster asked with tears in his eyes. ‘What password?’

  Payne grabbed his hand and shook it. ‘The password is friend.’

  Payne made a few calls to his colleagues back home, and they assured him that they knew what to do. From that moment on he knew Petr Ulster and his Archives would both survive.

  The vibration on Payne’s cell phone forced his focus back to Vienna. Frankie was calling for the café’s fax number, so Payne answered by saying, ‘Did anyone follow you?’

  ‘No,’ he assured Payne. ‘I be very careful.’

  ‘Write this down.’ He gave him the number, then told him to burn it and the confirmation sheet when he was done. He also told him to delete the fax’s memory. ‘Where can I reach you?’

  ‘My office. I be at my office.’

  Payne groaned. That’s the last place he wanted him to be. Why did Frankie think he had him using a public line? ‘Go somewhere else but not your house. That’s too easy to trace.’

  ‘I can get hotel.’

  ‘Perfect,’ Payne told him. ‘Pay in cash and use a fake name, something you won’t forget, like… James Bond.’

  ‘Si!’ he shrieked. Obviously he liked the choice.

  Frankie named the closest hotel he could think of, and Payne memorized its name. ‘Go there when you’re done. Your room and room service are on me, OK?’

  ‘Si,’ he repeated.

  ‘And don’t use your credit card for anything.’

  ‘No card. I promise.’

  ‘Thanks, Frankie. I’ll talk to you soon.’

  Thirty-four seconds. Not too bad. Especially if his fax helped Payne figure something out. But he had his doubts. What in the world could Frankie know that Payne didn’t?

  A few minutes later he got his answer. That little bastard was a lifesaver.

  Boyd and Maria brought Prince Eugene’s journal into the café and took a seat in front of one of the computers. Maria manned the keyboard while Boyd, still wearing that ridiculous suntan lotion on his nose, told her what to type. Curious, Payne wanted to know what they were searching for but couldn’t leave the machines until Frankie’s fax arrived.

  Jones joined Payne a moment later, right after finishing a twenty-minute call to Randy Raskin. He said, ‘Man, I love calling the Pentagon collect. Paid for by our tax dollars.’

  ‘A collect call from Austria? That’s like a thousand bucks.’

  ‘But worth it.’ He flipped through his notes. ‘So far there’s been four crucifixions, one each in Denmark, Libya, America, and China. All the killings were too similar to be copycat crimes.’

  ‘In other words, one crew.’

  He shook his head. ‘Four different crews.’

  ‘Four? The murders were on separate days, right?’

  ‘True, but the abductions overlapped. Throw in the travel and the time zones and everything else, and the cops think there were multiple crews. If not four, at least two.’

  Payne considered this for a moment, trying to figure out what anyone could gain by crucifying random people. ‘Any connections between the victims?’

  ‘Nothing obvious. Different homelan
ds, different occupations, different everything – except for the fact that they were males in their early thirties. Just like Christ when he died.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Payne gasped.

  ‘Yep, that’s the guy. Anyway, I told Randy that the crucifixions might have something to do with our case, so I had him check all the phone records for Agent Manzak, i.e., Roberto Pelati. Remarkably, he made calls to Denmark, China, Thailand, America, and Nepal within the last six weeks. Either he’s planning one big-ass vacation, or he’s our man.’

  ‘Our man for what?’

  Jones shrugged. ‘That seems to be the million dollar question.’

  A million dollar question. What a joke. That term no longer had the same significance as it used to. Nowadays it seemed everybody had a million dollars. Game show contestants, dot-com geeks, reality show winners, third-string linebackers. Payne really doubted if Roberto Pelati would’ve gone through any of this for a mere million dollars. A billion, maybe. But certainly not a million. That was play money to the modern-day criminal.

  Then again, who in the world had a billion dollars to spare? Bill Gates, Ted Turner, and the rest of the Forbes list. Probably a sheik or two. Maybe some royalty. Other than that, it would take a large country to toss around that much coin without having it missed by their citizens.

  Unless… wait a second… unless…

  Holy shit! Unless it was a country without citizens.

  A country that had billions of dollars hidden away that no one knew about.

  A country that stood to lose everything if this scandal was ever made public.

  Good lord, that was it. This was about money. The Vatican’s money.

  Everything that was happening – the Catacombs, the crucifixions, the search for Dr Boyd – was about cash. Pelati’s group wanted it and would do anything to get it.

  That had to be it. It had to be.

  The beeping of the fax ripped Payne from his thoughts. He had no idea what Frankie was sending, but he prayed it backed his revelation. Otherwise he’d find himself confused again before he even had a chance to tell anyone his theory. Anyway, he grabbed the first page and skimmed it for information. Somehow Frankie had figured out who had died during the chopper crash from Donald Barnes’s photographs, where each soldier had been positioned, and had tracked down their personal histories. Everything in his report was typed except for a handwritten note at the bottom of the page that said pictures and graphs were still to come.

  Payne had to laugh at that one. He was kidding, right?

  Nope, Frankie wasn’t joking. He included head-shots (pre- and postmortem) of all four victims, then used a line graph to illustrate where the three soldiers had received their training and how many months they had been stationed together before their fatal mission. In a side note, he mentioned that the pilot was an Orvieto cop who didn’t seem to fit with the rest of the crew because he wasn’t a member of the Swiss Guard like the others had been.

  The Swiss Guard. That was the smoking gun, the one piece of evidence that couldn’t be denied. If the Guard were involved, then the Vatican had to be, since the Guard’s only job was to protect the pope. Unless, of course, Benito was behind the attack. Maybe he hired ex-members of the Guard to do all of his dirty work?

  Payne said to Jones, ‘You know that missing piece of the puzzle? I think we just found it.’

  He filled him in on everything: the money, the murders, and his theory on Benito. He knew most of it was conjecture, but that was the beauty of their role in this: They didn’t give a damn about the law. They weren’t cops, nor were they looking for a conviction. They were simply trying to get to the truth, no matter what it was.

  Praying that they got the chance to punish the people who brought them into this.

  Miraculously, their prayers would be answered less than an hour later.

  68

  Chang heard the phone and checked his caller ID. He muted the TV coverage of Beijing, then answered. From somewhere over the Atlantic, Nick Dial said, ‘Tell me about the fax.’

  Chang flipped open his notes. ‘I went to the station where the fax came from and talked to their station chief. And, um, I think we were given some bad information.’

  Dial leaned his forehead against the plane’s wall. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The fax couldn’t have originated from that number because that particular machine can’t make outgoing calls. It’s wired so it can only receive faxes, not send them. Something about too many cops sending personal faxes.’

  Dial smirked, impressed. He realized technology was good enough nowadays for someone to alter the number on a caller ID. Maybe this was another red herring to throw off his search while the killer planned something else. ‘Tell me about China.’

  Chang filled him in on the latest, including an unconfirmed report that the victim was Paul Adams, a man known around the world as Saint Sydney, due to his missionary work.

  ‘I’ll be damned,’ Dial mumbled. ‘They got the Spirit.’

  In his mind this was the news he was hoping for. It proved his theory about the sign of the cross was accurate. Plus it also meant if the killers continued with their current pattern, they were going to be arriving in Italy about the same time he did.

  Ulster and Franz were on their way back to Küsendorf, leaving Payne’s crew with two options: catch a cab or steal a car. They eventually settled on number two, hoping to avoid Jamie Foxx’s situation in the movie Collateral, where a taxi driver got mixed up in a very bad scene.

  They roamed the streets until they came across a vehicle that met their needs. It was a double-parked Mercedes G500, an SUV that looked like the offspring of a sedan and a Hummer. The keys were in it, so they didn’t even have to hotwire the ignition to steal it. Nevertheless, Jones fiddled with the electrical system to prevent their vehicle from being tracked by the European equivalent of OnStar. Once inside, they drove down the alley past Vermählungsbrunnen, a giant fountain depicting the union of Mary and Joseph. The irony of its image made everyone slightly uncomfortable. Here they were trying to dispel the myth of the crucifixion and were forced to do so under the gaze of Christ’s earthly parents.

  Across from the fountain was Hoher Markt, home of a public gallows until archaeologists realized they were built on top of the original Roman settlement of Vindobona, including the barracks where Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius might’ve died in 180 ad. Apparently there’s a longstanding rift between historians on whether or not he had actually visited. Some claim he came to this area to expand the northeastern boundary of Rome’s territory, while others say he died in Sirmium, found in modern-day Serbia, over 500 miles away. Needless to say, this discrepancy fueled a lot of speculation. And controversy. Boyd theorized the difference between these stories could’ve been due to the mission he was on at the time of his death. What if Aurelius, who had a reputation for persecuting Christians more than any other emperor, was in Vindobona to find out the truth about the laughing man? It would explain why two different accounts were entered into the Roman history books. The real one and the cover story about expanding the Empire.

  But the thing Payne didn’t understand was why Marcus Aurelius didn’t know about the laughing man to begin with. If the Empire was going to benefit from Tiberius’s scheme, wouldn’t his secret have to be passed down from emperor to emperor? That was the only way Rome could’ve profited from Christianity, since Tiberius died within five years of Christ’s death.

  Boyd corrected Payne’s assumption, noting that Tiberius went mad during the last few years of his reign. His successor, Caligula, destroyed most of Tiberius’s records, knowing full well if they got into the wrong hands that they would bring shame to Rome. Therefore, in Boyd’s mind, there was a very good chance that no emperor after Tiberius would’ve known about his plot or if Christ’s crucifixion had actually been faked.

  As they left Vienna on a major highway, their focus shifted to a map of the surrounding area. Boyd said, ‘According to Eugene’s journal, the Sain
t of Vindobona lived north of the city near a marble quarry of some repute, a mine that gave birth to the laughing man statues and much of the raw material for the early Roman settlement.’

  Boyd handed Payne the book. Inside was an artist’s rendering of what this area might have looked like in the first century. But it wasn’t much help now. ‘So how do we find it?’

  ‘Hermann told us to drive north until we see a white mountain near the edge of the highway. It’s a private stretch of land that has been owned by the same family for generations. According to legend, it used to be a functioning mine until they had a massive cave-in several centuries ago. To this day the whole mountain is fenced off for safety reasons.’

  Great, Payne thought to himself. People were trying to kill them and they were about to play Indiana Jones on an unstable mountain. ‘What’s our plan when we get there?’

  Smiling, Boyd patted Payne and Jones on the shoulder. ‘I was hoping the two of you could come up with something to get us inside. You know, something illegal.’

  The sky was bruised, streaks of black and purple cutting across a sea of gray warning them that a major storm was on the way. Payne stuck his hand out the window and felt the humidity, gauging how long they had before the heavens opened. Maybe thirty minutes, if they were lucky.

  Their search for the white mountain had been easier than expected. They had driven less than three miles north when they saw its peak thrusting out of the terrain like an iceberg in the middle of a green forest. Jones found a service road off the main highway that led them to the front gate. The property itself was protected by a fifteen-foot-high steel fence capped with barbed wire and a series of signs that read, Danger: Falling Rocks, in multiple languages.

  Jones worked on the front lock while Payne strolled along the perimeter, hoping to find a flaw, just in case they needed to make a quick getaway. Unfortunately, the place was solid. For a property that was supposedly abandoned, someone had put a lot of money into keeping people out. Even the lock was tricky, taking Jones double the time that he would normally need.