CHAPTER 1
August 30. Thursday – 6:33 a.m. Oviedo, Spain
Father Juan Carletta gazed upward as he approached the Cathedral of San Salvador, admiring the white stone bell tower silhouetted against the Spanish sky. Daylight broke on the far side, gilding the top of the edifice and sending orange-yellow light streaming through the slitted openings. The elder priest moved with urgency today. The security guard, Javier, had failed to check in at 6 a.m., and he was anxious to know why.
He hurried through the plaza toward the large square abutting the western end of the church. The dew on the grass dampened the bottom edge of his cassock as he went. He reached the central door and pushed it open. As usual, Javier had unlocked the cathedral before the priest’s arrival, and the guard’s adherence to routine brought a small measure of solace.
Father Carletta entered the cathedral and glanced ahead at the cavernous space. The lofty eight-sided dome stretched high overhead. Unlike the bright brick exterior, the lack of natural light here cast a forlorn gloom over the interior.
“Javier?” Father Carletta called out into the shadows.
He received no response.
“Javier, where are you?” he continued more loudly. His words echoed softly.
The smell of cinnamon from the candles stacked at the ambulatory hung heavily in the air. He moved up the center aisle toward the main altar where the image of the Divine Savior spread across a four-column baldacchino. He carefully surveyed the pews as he went, looking for any sign of Javier.
At the transept, he turned left, moving down the north aisle, straining to see in the dim light. An uncomfortable and unexpected aura filled the cathedral this morning.
“Javier, are you here?” Father Carletta’s voice tightened.
He reached the opening off the north transept leading to the Capilla de Nuestra Señora del Rey Casto. Ornate buttresses and regal columns remained cloaked within the shadows. The longer his calls for Javier went unanswered, the more concerned he became. He turned and retraced his steps.
The priest hurried past the apse at the altar and aimed toward the south transept connecting to a spectacular cloister filled with monuments and pilgrims’ gravestones. Father Carletta’s footfalls on the hard surface sounded close and distant at the same time, causing him to look back over his shoulder more than once as an uneasy feeling continued to well up inside him.
He paused, listening intently for any sound. The prevailing silence sent a cold shiver down his spine. He took a deep breath and shook the feeling away, chiding himself for being foolish.
He moved to an adjoining cloister where an elaborate, full-scale diorama depicted Roman guards leading Jesus away from the Garden of Gethsemane. Father Carletta had viewed this diorama many times, yet today, something seemed odd about it. Nevertheless, he continued on.
One more place to check, he thought, although it was a long shot. After that, protocol required him to notify the archbishop.
Father Carletta exhaled a troubled breath. He liked Javier. The thought of the guard losing his job was disconcerting.
The priest returned to the apse. Here the south transept opened on a stairwell with steps leading upward. He took them quickly and turned left, stepping into a rectangular ante-chapel known as a cella. Although fitted with sconce lights on either side, he unexpectedly found himself in a pitch-black room.
Father Carletta paused. A prickle at the top of his head caused him to shiver again. The light bulbs were changed monthly. It would be nearly impossible for both to have burned out at the same time. Then he forced an inward smile. Surely it was just a coincidence.
He retreated from the darkness and returned to the main cathedral to retrieve one of the many votive candles that lined the ambulatory. He found a book of matches inside the pulpit, lit the squat red candle, and returned to the cella, carrying it by its glass holder.
Once inside the long room, the meager candlelight proved ineffective in reaching either the side rubble-masonry walls or the barrel-vaulted ceiling which soared twenty feet at the crown. Ahead, somewhere in the darkness, the two aisles overlapped into a slightly elevated chamber. There, a barrel-vaulted entryway secured by iron bars and an iron, prison-style door shielded the upper sanctuary.
Father Carletta moved slowly. Warmer air blended with a strange odor, masking the normal, musty smell of aged stone. The fact that he could not account for the peculiar stench was troublesome. He swung the candle from side to side, eyes wide and nerves on edge. The smell grew stronger as he proceeded. His footsteps sounded unusually loud, and he became wary of the noise he made. No matter how hard Father Carletta tried, he could not fend off the overpowering sense of foreboding.
“Javier, are you in here?” he called once more tentatively. A bead of perspiration ran down his cheek. The annoying smell turned rancid. His pulse quickened.
It suddenly occurred to him what had been wrong with the life-size diorama back in the cloister. One of the Roman guards was missing his weapon: an antique halberd on loan from an Italian museum. He tried to remember if it had been there the day before, but he could not be sure. The archbishop had a tendency to rearrange the dioramas often. Still, the thought was unsettling.
He continued to pitch the candle back and forth as he went, as much out of fear for what might be waiting in the darkness as to search for Javier. The candle flame flickered and receded, casting ghostly shadows along the walls. Father Carletta swallowed a dry lump.
Suddenly, two pale men leapt out of the darkness. Terrified, Father Carletta clutched his chest. He could not breathe, could not think. Several long seconds passed before he finally registered the statues of the two Apostles. The stark figures carved on a pilaster had been brought to life by the darting candlelight. With a flood of relief, he exhaled slowly. He crossed himself before continuing.
His heart was now beating in his ears. He raised a section of his cassock to cover his nose. It did little to mask the vile odor. When the iron cell door finally materialized in the dim candlelight, Father Carletta stopped with a sharp gasp.
Please let it be another trick of the light!
He eased closer and realized his worst fear: the door stood slightly ajar. He looked through the iron bars and saw the array of religious reliquary items on display. A jolt of nausea struck him. The centerpiece of the room, the Arca Santa—a large, black oak chest—stood open.
Nearly breathless, Father Carletta rushed forward and yanked open the cell door, almost dropping the votive candle in the process. The flame flickered light into the chamber. His overwhelming concern was for the contents of the Arca Santa. He hurried over to it, ignoring the repulsive stench. The items were kept in strict placement surrounding the central relic. Father Carletta conducted a frantic mental inventory of the contents. To his horror, the Sudarium—the very cloth that covered the face of Jesus Christ immediately following his death on the cross—was gone!
“Ay Dios mio! Oh dear God!” he gasped. He staggered, lightheaded. Father Carletta regained his balance just before he crashed into the glass case to the side. The jostled candle flame sent light dancing madly across the Arca Santa. His vision blurred, and he struggled to catch his breath.
Moments later as his world slowly came back into focus, he spotted a dark mass on the floor nestled between the back of the Arca Santa and the rear wall: an amorphous form, partly shielded by the chest. His mind could not comprehend what he saw. All he could make out were two long, dark horizontal shapes on the floor. A third, thin linear shape floated parallel six inches above them. The sight was further convoluted by the unstable candlelight casting the unknown objects in shadow on the near wall. His thoughts ran incongruently, spinning with the tragic repercussions of the missing Sudarium from the Arca Santa and now grappling to make sense of the scene before him. Only when he moved to the rear of the chest and held the candle lower did the entire ghastly image solidify.
Through his horrified confusion, Father Carletta recognized Javier. Terror infected his mind as he felt his body go weightless, then all went dark.
CHAPTER 2
September 10. Monday – 5:28 a.m. Jacksonville, Florida
Maria Varchin sat patiently at the nurses’ station on the 4th floor of Memorial Hospital. To her side, Susie Hampton looked down at the desk. The halls were quiet at this hour. Both nurses pretended to busy themselves with paperwork.
Susie glanced up at the clock on the wall. “T-minus two minutes and counting,” she recited aloud with a ghost of a smile.
Dr. Tanika Sager happened to be passing by and overheard her. “Shift ending?”
“Better than that,” Maria remarked.
Dr. Sager glanced down at her watch. “Oh, it’s that time,” she said with a wide grin. “You know, normally I’d consider this type of behavior unprofessional, but I have to admit . . .” she shook her head as if censoring herself. “Do either of you realize how rare it is for an African American man to have blue eyes?”
“Those eyes could melt Antarctica, Doctor,” Maria said.
For almost a week, Samuel Tolen had arrived on the 4th floor at precisely 5:30 a.m. At first, Maria had assumed the man was either a prominent doctor or someone high up in the hospital administration. He had an undeniably warm nature with virile good looks and a commanding presence. She had since learned he was some sort of federal agent and that his father was a patient on the floor. The circumstances of his visits were disheartening. On the flip side, his daily appearance brought an injection of life to the women working the floor. To Maria, Samuel Tolen was like a strong cup of coffee that jumpstarted her morning.
“You know,” Maria said, turning to Susie, “He’s probably old enough to be your father.”
“My kind of daddy,” Susie responded, buffing out her long, blond ponytail.
“T-minus one minute,” Maria said, impatiently eying the clock.
Even Dr. Sager seemed anxious to get another glimpse of the man. She hung around the desk for no particular reason, shuffling and stacking some pages in an open folder on the counter.
At precisely 5:30, the elevator swished opened. Samuel Tolen emerged, dressed impeccably in a white, long-sleeve dress shirt covered by a fitted jacket, dark slacks, and black polished shoes. He casually ran a hand over his close-cropped hair as he strolled up the hallway. He looked to the nurses’ station and smiled, gazing at all three women with those wondrous blue eyes.
“NASA, we have no problem,” Maria said in a song-like whisper as he passed by.
“Liftoff,” Susie giggled.
Seconds later, the man disappeared inside Room 438 at the far end of the hallway.
* * * *
Samuel Tolen sat beside the bed reading the various instruments which emitted a chorus of clicks, hums, and beeps in the otherwise quiet hospital room. The ventilator huffed and hissed its rhythmic cadence. The usual confluence of smells filled the air: disinfectant, rubbing alcohol, fresh sheets.
His 73-year-old father lay motionless in the bed. The sheet was pulled up to his neck and then folded neatly down. His gaunt features were a drastic departure from the robust man Tolen had known to be so vibrant and full of life. As always, the sight of the feeble man who had been so prominent in Samuel Tolen’s life stirred deep sadness.
When the opportunity had arisen several weeks ago for a leave of absence, Tolen had seized it. For the last six days, he had stayed at his father’s house on the St. Johns River in Green Cove Springs on the outskirts of Jacksonville. While there, he had busied himself with minor home repairs and dock maintenance to keep his mind off his father’s condition. Each morning, he drove to Memorial Hospital in Jacksonville to visit his father. Every day, he battled with the decision. All the while, Jaspar Tolen lay in the same position, eyes closed, with no hope of ever reviving.
Tolen looked down at the paperwork in his hand. There could be no disputing the document’s authenticity or intent. His father had ensured it was written in such precise detail that there was no danger of ambiguity or misinterpretation of his instructions. Legally, it was solid as a rock.
He looked back at his father, the man who had single-handedly raised him after his mother died when he was ten. The man had been his role model, dispensing inspirational quotes at every opportunity and, throughout his lifetime, Tolen had soaked them up like a sponge. Now, there would be no more intellectual sharing, no more comforting words. Now, his father’s dark skin was flaccid, his cheeks hollow. His once-solid muscles showed initial signs of atrophy.
Tolen looked again at the paperwork in his hand. Then he pushed up his sleeve and stared for a minute at the long scar on his right forearm. With an exhale, he dropped his sleeve, folded the document and tucked it inside his coat pocket.
He rose silently, bent down, and kissed his father on the forehead. Just as he reached the door, his cell phone went off. He closed the door behind him and answered in the hallway.
“Vakind,” Tolen said, recognizing the number, “can I call you back in a few minutes? I’m at the hospital.”
“You’re booked on the next flight to DC. Do you have a bag in your car?”
Tolen thought for a moment before responding. “Enough to make do.”
“My apology for cutting your leave short, but this is an urgent matter. I’ll brief you when you arrive at the office. To clarify, I mean the office at your new assignment. Oh, and by the way, I’m now the acting Director of Operations.” There was a click, then silence.
Tolen returned the cell phone, and at the same time pushed the paperwork further inside his inner pocket. Acting Director of Operations? What happened to Carlton Tannacay?
CHAPTER 3
September 10. Monday – 1:56 p.m. Washington, DC
The elevator doors opened to the third underground level at the Smithsonian Institution. Samuel Tolen followed a banal hallway past a warren of offices, most with their doors closed. He emerged into a tiled foyer where a no-nonsense, fifty-something administrative technician with a bored expression stood filing manila folders in a cabinet. He asked for directions to conference room L311 and, with a drastic change in body language, she offered a remarkably friendly smile. “You must be Dr. Tolen,” she said with an informed nod. “This way, please.” She gestured for him to follow her down a side hallway, leading him toward the far end.
Upon reaching the conference room door, the woman knocked, opened it, cordially motioned Tolen inside, and closed the door behind him. He was greeted by four pairs of eyes belonging to two men and two women, all dressed professionally. Seated at the far end of a long, polished mahogany table was acting Director of Operations, Morris Vakind, with his signature strong chin, dirty-blonde hair (longer than would have been expected of a CIA director), and a deep skin tone which rivaled any California surfer’s tan. He was dressed in a charcoal gray suit and sported a blue tie; his hands firmly folded before him. To Vakind’s right, Tolen recognized Dr. Sheila Shaw, the prim and proper, yet very personable, director of the Smithsonian Institution, whom Tolen had met prior to starting his leave. To her right sat CIA Analyst Tiffany Bar. She was as much an enigma to Tolen as any woman would ever be. Brilliant, witty, short, with her own unique style, she was in her fourth year with the agency, although she had yet to reach the age of 24. On Vakind’s left was a man Tolen did not recognize. He had stubby black hair and looked to
be in his early forties with classic European features. He wore a white shirt, dress slacks, and a sports jacket. Tolen noticed the slight swell of a pistol secured in a holster underneath his left arm. The man was obviously law enforcement.
Vakind silently motioned for Tolen to take a chair next to the unknown man. As he approached, the diminutive Tiffany Bar gave Tolen one of her trademark smiles as she brushed her long blond bangs back over her ears. He returned a nod and then looked to the unknown man, extending his hand.
Vakind began the introduction, “Agent Tolen, this is Spanish Inspector Pascal Diaz with the Cuerpo Nacional de Policia, the National Police Corps of Spain. He reports directly to Spain’s Ministry of the Interior.”
Diaz took Tolen’s proffered hand, gave it a curt shake, and wheeled back toward Vakind. The Spanish inspector’s posture was rigid. Whatever business was to be discussed, Diaz was anxious to get under way and did not wish to waste time exchanging pleasantries.
“Tolen, I know your work as a liaison with the Smithsonian was to commence upon your return from leave, but a situation has arisen. As such, since you technically now report to this Institution, I’ve invited Sheila to sit in on this briefing so she’ll be aware of your activities,” Vakind paused, appraising those present in the room with a sweeping glance. “This discussion is to be kept in the strictest confidence.”
Vakind turned to Tolen. The acting director’s expression had been noncommittal up to this point, but now his face hardened. Tolen noticed a folder on the table before Vakind. “Have you ever heard of the Cámara Santa in Oviedo, Spain?”
Tolen’s curiosity waxed as he quickly searched his memory, nodding. “It’s a small building attached to the Cathedral of San Salvador, a Gothic church built in the Middle Ages. It houses numerous reliquary items of religious significance.”
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