Intervention sam-9

by Robin Cook

  Emerging into the open, back into the wind-whipped rain, they ran across the cobblestoned piazza abutting the south side of Saint Peter’s basilica. Now they were fighting not only the rain but also the torrents of water issuing forth from the church’s gargoyles as well as splashes of water from fast-moving traffic heading out of Vatican City.

  Gesturing with his head, Shawn said, “Can you see that flat black stone with a white border set into the ground we are passing?”

  “Yes,” Sana said without much enthusiasm. She was intent on getting out of the weather.

  “Remind me to tell you about it when we get indoors.” Luckily, they didn’t have far to go, and a few moments later they ducked in under a portico. They whisked the water off themselves as best they could and stomped their feet.

  “That black stone out there in the piazza is supposed to mark the center of Nero’s circus, where many early Christians, including Saint Peter, were martyred. For many years the Egyptian obelisk that’s now in the center of Piazza San Pietro stood there.”

  “Let’s get inside,” Sana said. She wasn’t interested in touristic details. She was wet and chilled, and night had fallen.

  A few steps away, they entered the office of the Necropoli Vaticana. Despite it looking ramshackle to Sana to the point of resembling an inner-city principal’s office, she was glad to be out of the weather. A large old-fashioned steam radiator hissed and thumped in the corner. Facing them was a counter fronting a battered government-issue desk. A man’s head bobbed up. His expression suggested he was not happy about being disturbed.

  “The Scavi is closed for the day,” he said with a heavy accent. “The last tour left half an hour ago.”

  Without speaking, Shawn handed over his Vatican ID and the access permit. The man examined the permit closely. When he read Shawn’s name his eyes lit up. He raised his head and smiled. “Professor Daughtry! Buona sera. ” As it turned out, the man recognized Shawn’s name from his work at the site five years previously. He introduced himself as Luigi Romani.

  Shawn vaguely recognized the name.

  “Are you going down into the Scavi?” Luigi asked.

  “Yes, just for a short visit. We just came into Rome this afternoon, and we’re leaving tomorrow. I wanted to show my wife some of the more interesting details. We won’t be long.”

  “Will you be exiting back this way or through the basilica? I’ll be leaving shortly.”

  “In that case, we’ll leave through the basilica with the tour group that’s down there.”

  “Do you need me to let you in?”

  “No, I have my keys, unless the locks have been changed.”

  “Changed?” Luigi laughed. “Things like that never change.” Leaving the Scavi office, Shawn led the way down a gently sloping, completely deserted marble corridor. “We’re actually about ten feet or so below the floor level of the basilica above us.”

  “The fact that Mr. Romani recognized you—does that matter?”

  “I can’t imagine,” Shawn replied in a hushed voice. “Since no one but us knows about the ossuary, if we find it and take it, no one’s going to be the wiser.” They reached a flight of marble steps that descended more than a full story. Shawn started down.

  Sana hesitated, pointing ahead. “Where does this corridor lead?” “It winds up in the newer crypt beneath Saint Peter’s.”

  At the base of the stairs was a narrow stone passageway blocked by a locked metal grate. “Here’s the test!” Shawn said, pulling out one of the sets of keys. He remembered the correct key, and it slid into the lock with ease. “So far so good,” he said. After a moment’s hesitation to bolster his courage, he tried to twist the key, and to his joy it did so with ease.

  After passing through a humidity-control door and descending more stairs, they reached what had been ground level in ancient Roman times.

  “It is quite humid,” Sana commented. She wasn’t pleased.

  “Does that bother you?”

  “Only if the seal on the ossuary is broken.”

  “Right!” Shawn said, realizing that Sana’s interest was primarily to find ancient DNA.

  “Why don’t they have more light down here?” Sana complained. “It feels claustrophobic.” The illumination was very dim, mostly from recessed lighting at floor level. The ceiling was completely lost in shadow.

  “For atmosphere, I suppose. To tell the truth, I don’t really know. It gets even more claustrophobic around Peter’s tomb. Are you going to be able to handle it?”

  “I think so. Where are we now?”

  “We’re in the middle of the Roman necropolis that Constantine had completely filled in the fourth century to form the foundation for his basilica. What’s been excavated is this single east-west path between two rows of tombs. Most were first- through fourth-century pagan mausoleums, although a few Christian mosaic images and inscriptions have been found.”

  “This place gives me the creeps. Where’s Peter’s tomb, so we can check it out and get on our way?”

  Shawn gestured to his left, up the ancient Vaticanus hill. After they’d walked for fifty feet he pointed to a Roman sarcophagus in a dark corner. “If we have to store any debris, I thought we’d hide it in there. Okay?”

  “Sure,” Sana said, curious why he was even asking her.

  “Are you interested in getting a closer look at any of these ancient Roman tombs?” Shawn asked. “Some of them have interesting decorations.”

  “I want to see Peter’s grave and where we will be working,” Sana replied. Her pant legs felt sodden, and her whole body was cold.

  “This is the ‘red wall,’ ” Shawn explained as they rounded the crumbling end of a brick wall. “We’re getting close. The wall is part of what’s considered Peter’s tomb complex.” To Sana, it didn’t look particularly special. Ahead they now could hear a tour guide lecturing.

  “Stop a minute,” Shawn said, where there was a breach in the red wall. “Take a look in this hole. Can you see a white marble column?”

  Sana did as she was told. She could easily see the column Shawn referred to beyond the red wall, as it was illuminated. It appeared to be about six inches in diameter.

  “That’s part of the Tropaion of Peter that was built over Saint Peter’s tomb. So, where we are standing now is the floor level of Constantine’s basilica.”

  “So Peter’s tomb is below us.”

  “That’s right. Below us and to our left.”

  “Where will we be looking for the ossuary?”

  “We’re now on the south side of the structure. We have to go around to the north side.”

  “Let’s do it,” Sana said.

  As they skirted the complex and arrived at the north side, they ran into the tour group, which included about a dozen adults of widely varying ages. The only unifying aspect was that everyone spoke English. Some were listening to the guide, others were staring off into space, while still others rudely carried on their own hushed conversations. It was hardly the kind of group Sana expected.

  Shawn waited for a break in the guide’s description before urging Sana forward to follow the tour group. After ten feet, on their right they came to what the guide had been describing. It was a bluish-white plaster wall with a profusion of incised epigraphs one on top of the other, such that it was difficult to discern any one epigraph in particular.

  “It’s called the graffiti wall,” Shawn explained in a hushed voice. “As I told you, during the last excavation, in order to get into Peter’s tomb without disturbing anything, in particular this graffiti wall, one had to tunnel under the wall, and then under the wall that supports the original vault over Saint Peter’s tomb. The ossuary is going to be between the two walls, back close to the red wall, which cuts across both at right angles.”

  “My goodness,” Sana exclaimed. She shook her head in exasperation. It was too confusing.

  “I know,” Shawn said sympathetically. “It’s extremely complex. The site has been added to and altered continuo
usly over almost two thousand years. I might not be explaining it well, but I know what I’m talking about. My only concern is that when the red wall was in the process of being built by the Romans around the turn of the first century, they might have inadvertently stumbled across the ossuary and either moved it or destroyed it. There’s no doubt in my mind that its original location had to have been close to the red wall, which is just behind us.”

  “Where does the tunnel start?” Sana questioned as she gazed around the chamber they were in.

  “The tunnel is directly below where we are currently standing. At the moment, we are at the level of the floor of Constantine’s basilica. We have to descend to the level of the floor of Peter’s tomb. To get there we have to go into the next chamber. Are you ready to move on?”

  “More than ready,” Sana said. Thanks to her discomfort, she wanted to see where they would be working later that night, then leave. Under the circumstances, the three-dimensional details of what Shawn was patiently describing were not registering.

  Shawn led the way down a number of metal steps into a relatively large room, where the tour group had reassembled. The guide was explaining that the Plexiglas boxes seen through a small wall opening into Peter’s tomb contained the bones of the saint.

  “Is that true?” Sana whispered to Shawn.

  “Pope Pius the Twelfth said they were,” Shawn answered softly. “They were found scattered in the tomb within a V-shaped niche in the red wall. I think what swayed the pope was the lack of a skull. Saint Peter’s head historically was supposed to have been in the basilica of San Giovanni in Laterano.”

  “Okay, so where is the tunnel?” Sana asked impatiently. She’d had enough history for the moment.

  “Follow me!” Shawn said. They passed behind the tour group and approached a large decklike structure reached by several descending steps. It had a gridlike metal frame and handrails. The surface was comprised of large squares of clear three-quarter-inch glass.

  Standing on the deck, one could look down to the lowest point of the excavation about five feet below.

  “That’s the level of the floor of Peter’s tomb,” Shawn explained. “To get to the tunnel, we have to go down there and then back under where we are standing in front of the graffiti wall.”

  “How are we going to get down there?” Sana questioned, as her eyes ran around the transparent deck. There didn’t seem to be any opening.

  “The glass panel in the far corner lifts up. It’s heavy as hell, but we’ll be able to do it together. What do you think? Will you be able to manage all this?” The thought of crawling through a tunnel pricked at Sana’s mild claustrophobia.

  Knowing she was already some forty to fifty feet underground didn’t help.

  “Having second thoughts?” Shawn asked when Sana didn’t answer.

  “Are these lights going to be on?” Sana asked in a scratchy whisper. She ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth to try to drum up a bit of saliva. Her throat had suddenly gone dry.

  “We can’t have the lights on,” Shawn said. “They are on an automatic timer, and if someone were to open either of the doors to the necropolis and see the lights, they’d know something was wrong. Besides, we need the lights off to act as a warning system.

  If anyone goes through the basilica while we are using the chisels, they might hear it, despite it being forty or fifty feet away. Remember, marble is a great sound transmitter.

  If they come to investigate, they’ll turn on the lights, which will warn us someone is coming. Does that make sense?”

  Sana reluctantly nodded. It made a lot of sense, but she didn’t like it.

  “Talk to me,” Shawn said. “Are you going to be able to handle this?” Sana nodded again.

  “Tell me!” Shawn demanded, raising his voice and giving it an edge. “I have to know for sure!”

  “Okay! Okay!” Sana said. “I’m with you all the way.” She glanced around self-consciously at the nearest members of the tour group, several of whom were eyeing them curiously. Sana looked back at Shawn. “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry!” she assured him in a whisper, but had she known what was to transpire several hours hence, she might not have been quite so confident.

  11

  11:34 A.M., TUESDAY, DECEMBER 2, 2008

  NEW YORK CITY

  (5:34 P.M., ROME)

  How was lunch yesterday?” Jack asked. He’d stuck his head into Chet’s office, where his colleague was at his microscope studying a set of slides. Chet looked up and then pushed back from his desk.

  “It wasn’t quite what I expected,” he confessed.

  “How so?”

  “I don’t know what I was thinking Saturday night,” he said with a shake of his head. “I must have been bombed outta my freaking mind. That woman was the size of a horse.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Jack said. “So, I guess she’s not going to be ‘the one’ after all.” Chet made a gesture as if waving away a noisome insect while chuckling derisively.

  “Mock me!” he challenged. “I deserve it.”

  “I want to ask you about that VAD case of yours you mentioned yesterday,” Jack said, trying to rein in his enthusiasm for his crusade concerning what he thought was the irrational popularity of alternative medicine. He was now even more convinced it was generally ineffective beyond the placebo effect as well as being expensive: a bad combination. And as if that wasn’t enough, he now knew it was, at times, dangerous. In fact, he felt personally embarrassed that forensic pathology had not taken a more responsible stand on the issue.

  Jack’s opinion had hardened after the site visit he’d made to Ronald Newhouse’s office the previous afternoon, even though, in retrospect, he admitted it had been a mistake, as he had allowed his fragile emotions to get the better of him. Later in the day he’d done an Internet search and had found an enormous amount of information, which would have precluded the need to confront Newhouse. He’d been unaware of the thousands of

  “studies” that had been done to prove or disprove the efficacy of alternative or complementary medicine. His search also highlighted what he saw as the Internet’s biggest drawback: too much information, with no real way to evaluate the bias of the sources.

  By chance he’d come across a number of references to the book, Trick or Treatment, he’d earlier put on hold at Barnes & Noble. A check of the authors’ credentials left him unquestionably impressed. One was an author of a book that he had enjoyed several years earlier, called Big Bang. The man’s grasp of science, particularly physics, was awe-inspiring, and Jack was duly encouraged he’d trust the man’s opinions concerning alternative medicine. The second author, educated as a conventional medical doctor, had taken the time and effort to train in some types of alternative medicine, and had had the experience of practicing both. Such a background could not have been better to evaluate and compare without prejudice the two approaches. Duly encouraged, Jack had decided to give up on the Internet and had left work early to pick up the book.

  When Jack had arrived home the previous evening, he’d been disappointed to find both Laurie and JJ fast asleep and a note on the console table by the front door: “Bad day, lots of tears, no sleep but asleep now. I have to get mine when I can. Soup on the stove.

  Love, L.”

  The note had made Jack feel guilty and lonely. He’d not called all day for fear he’d wake them, which had happened in the past. Although he always encouraged Laurie to call him when she could, she never did. He hoped the reason wasn’t out of resentment that he got to go to work while she remained at home, but even if it was, he knew she wouldn’t have it any other way.

  But his guilt wasn’t just about not calling—it was because he actually didn’t want to know what was going on at home. Sometimes, he didn’t even want to go home. Being in the apartment made the tragedy of his son’s illness and Jack’s inability to affect it unavoidable. Although he’d never admitted it to Laurie, just holding the suffering infant was a strain on his emotions, an
d he hated himself for it. At the same time he understood what was behind his feelings: He was vainly trying not to get too attached to the child.

  The unspeakable reality lurking in the recesses of his mind was that JJ was not going to survive.

  Jack took advantage of the house’s peacefulness by diving into Trick or Treatment.

  When Laurie awoke four hours later, she found him so completely absorbed that he’d forgotten to eat.

  Jack listened while Laurie recounted her day. Just like every other day, the more he heard, the more he felt she was a saint and he the opposite, but he let her get it all out.

  When she’d finished, they’d gone into the kitchen, where she insisted on heating up some soup for the two of them.

  “It’s ironic that you brought up trying alternative medicine this morning,” he’d said as they’d eaten. “I can tell you one thing, we might be desperate, but we are never going to use alternative medicine.” He told her about Keara Abelard and his decision to look seriously into the alternative-medicine issue. As physically and mentally exhausted as she was, she listened to his impassioned lecture with only half an ear until he got to the fatal case of the three-month-old dying from chiropractic cervical manipulation. From that point on, Jack had had her full attention. He described how Trick or Treatment was opening his eyes to all the mainstream alternative-medicine fields, including homeopathy, acupuncture, and herbal medicine, in addition to chiropractic.

  When Jack had finished his mini-lecture, Laurie’s response was to congratulate him on finding a worthy subject to occupy his mind while the family was treading water regarding JJ’s treatment. She even confessed to some jealousy, but that was as far as it went. When Jack again brought up the subject of getting her back to work with the aid of round-the-clock nurses, she’d again refused, saying she was doing what she needed to do. She then went on to mention three cases of alternative-medicine fatalities that she’d had herself. One was a case of an acupuncture victim who’d died when the acupuncturist inadvertently impaled the victim’s heart with an acupuncture needle right in the area of the sinoventricular node. Two others died from heavy-metal poisoning from contaminated Chinese herbs.