Sacred Bones : A Novel

by Michael Byrnes

The Mercedes’s lights blinked as Razak remotely disengaged the door locks.

  Barton scrambled to open the car door. Diving inside the Mercedes and pulling the door shut, he glanced over to see the young Palestinian boy holding the driver’s door open as if he were a valet. A split second later, Razak weaved deftly through the traffic and spilled into the car. He thrust the key into the ignition as the boy closed the door behind him. Razak waved the clueless kid away just as the sniper managed a clean shot through the boy’s temple, toppling him onto the sidewalk.

  Now the pedestrians had figured out what was happening and pandemonium broke out—people running off in all directions.

  Throwing the gearshift into drive, Razak slammed his foot on the accelerator.

  No more shots came.

  Breathless and pumped full of adrenaline, both men exchanged glances.

  “What just happened?” Barton said, hands trembling.

  Glancing over at him, Razak didn’t have an answer. For the next few minutes, he focused on angling his way through the narrow streets, backtracking through the city toward the main highway.

  Without warning, the Mercedes’s rear lurched to the right amidst the deafening crunch of metal and glass as Razak and Barton were jerked sideways, almost out of their seats.

  Somehow, Razak managed to regain control of the Mercedes, only after running up onto a curb and steering back onto the roadway. His head swiveled to glimpse the late model Fiat sedan with a mangled front end that had spun out in the intersection and was in the process of maneuvering to continue its pursuit. Razak could see the driver and a second man riding in the passenger seat. Both were wearing hooded masks. When he saw that the passenger leaned out the window, aiming at them with an AK47, he yelled over at Barton, “Get down!”

  The archaeologist sank below the seat and huddled below the dashboard just as a string of bullets took out the car’s rear window and windshield, glass fragments showering down on him. Two of the bullets burrowed deep into the stereo console, spewing out a shower of electric sparks.

  Moving his head lower, Razak sped through two more intersections before swinging a wide turn onto the highway, heading north. More shots loudly strafed the driver’s side of the car in rapid succession and Razak felt one dig into the side of his seat, almost clipping him beneath the armpit.

  The road opened up with no traffic. Adrenaline buzzing through him, Razak pressed the gas pedal all the way to the floor. The Mercedes’s engine revved hard and pulled him back in his seat. Miraculously, the car’s rear end had endured the collision, though the steering wheel was pulling hard to the left and was vibrating fiercely. He quickly glanced down at Barton who, understandably, looked completely shaken up. “You okay?”

  “Are they still behind us?”

  Razak eyed the rearview mirror. “Yes. But I don’t think they’ll be able to keep up.”

  More shots pinged off the rear of the car.

  Racing past the cement barricades of abandoned checkpoints, Razak kept an eye on the pursuers. As he anticipated, the Fiat—now spewing gray smoke out from its twisted grill—was quickly losing ground.

  Sighing in relief, Razak tried to settle his breathing. His thoughts drifted momentarily to Farouq who would clearly not be pleased with the condition of his cherished Mercedes.

  A half-kilometer from the border crossing, Razak watched the rearview mirror as the pursuers came to an abrupt stop. Up ahead, there was no long queue of cars waiting to cross over to Israel—probably what the gunmen were hoping for, Razak thought—one last opportunity to have a clean shot. “You can come up now,” he told Barton.

  “I can understand why you haven’t come back here until now,” Barton said, settling back into his seat and carefully shaking glass fragments out of his hair.

  Decelerating, Razak wound the car through the barricades below the watchtower. Stopping in front of the guard shelter, he waited until the soldiers signaled for him to pull forward. Alarmed by the condition of the Mercedes, they cautiously surrounded the car, rifles drawn, commanding the occupants to remain still.

  Then the same young guard that had allowed them entry into Gaza stepped forward. Grimacing, he slung his rifle over his shoulder and put his hands on his hips, raking the Mercedes’s marred exterior with his eyes. He crouched down beside Razak’s blown-out window and smugly said, “That was fast. Hope you enjoyed your stay.”

  36

  ******

  Just after five o’clock, Father Donovan entered the lab.

  “Working late again, I see,” he said, flashing a friendly smile. “We want to make sure that the Vatican gets the best value for its

  money,” Bersei replied.

  “Is there anything that the two of you need? Anything I can help with?” The scientists exchanged glances. “No,” Charlotte replied. “The lab’s

  very well equipped.”

  “Excellent.” Donovan’s curious eyes wandered over to the skeleton and

  the opened ossuary.

  Bersei spread his hands. “Would you like a quick overview of what

  we’ve found so far?”

  The priest visibly perked up. “Yes, indeed.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, the scientists gave Donovan a basic

  summary of the forensic study and carbon dating results, and showed

  him the additional relics hidden in the ossuary’s secret compartment.

  Bersei maintained a clinical, objective demeanor and Charlotte followed

  his lead.

  Judging from the priest’s reaction to the preliminary findings—ranging

  from genuine surprise and intrigue, to tempered concern over the nature

  of the skeleton’s telling signs of crucifixion—Charlotte sensed that maybe

  he had no advance knowledge of the ossuary’s contents. She noted that the

  bronze cylinder seemed to capture his attention more than anything else, a

  lingering concern bleeding into his puzzled gaze. Trying to gauge Bersei’s

  take on the matter, she felt that he too was catching the same vibe from

  Donovan.

  “I’ll tell you, Father Donovan,” Bersei added, “this is one of the most

  remarkable archaeological discoveries I’ve ever laid eyes upon. I’m not sure

  what sum the Vatican has paid to acquire all this, but I’d say you have a

  priceless relic here.”

  Watching the priest closely, Charlotte saw that Donovan’s expression

  showed that he was pleased, but even more so, relieved.

  “I’m sure my superiors will be delighted to hear that,” the priest said,

  his eyes wandering once more over to the skeleton. “I don’t want to rush

  things, but do you think you might be able to formally present your findings on Friday?”

  Bersei looked over to Charlotte to see if she concurred with the idea.

  She nodded agreeably. Turning his attention back to Donovan, he said, “It

  will take some preparation, but we can do it.”

  “Very good,” Donovan said.

  “If there’s nothing else, Father,” Bersei said, “I’ll have to be on my way.

  Don’t want to keep my wife waiting.”

  “Please, don’t let me keep you,” the priest said. “I very much appreciate

  both of you taking the time to update me.”

  Bersei disappeared into the break room to hang his lab coat. “He’s quite the family man,” Charlotte whispered to Donovan. “His

  wife is very lucky.”

  “Oh yes,” Donovan agreed. “Dr. Bersei is very kind ...a gentle soul.

  He’s been quite helpful to us over the years.” The priest paused for a moment and added, “Tell me, Dr. Hennesey, have you ever visited Rome

  before?”

  “No. And honestly, I haven’t really had time to venture across the

  river yet.”

  “Can I suggest a tour for you?”

&n
bsp; “I’d love that.” She genuinely appreciated the priest’s hospitality. Living

  the cloistered life of a cleric, he was quick to offer activities that were

  geared to a lone traveler.

  “If you don’t have plans this evening, I’d highly recommend the Night

  Walking Tour,” he energetically offered. “It begins at Piazza Navona, just

  across the Ponte Sant’ Angelo Bridge, at six-thirty. Takes about three hours.

  The tour guides are fantastic and you’ll get a great overview of all the major sites in the old city.” He peered down at his watch. “If you leave directly

  from here, you can make it on time.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “Normally you have to book these tours two days in advance,” he explained, “especially this time of year. But if you’re interested, let me make

  a call to reserve you a ticket.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” she replied.

  Bersei was just emerging from the break room. “Dr. Hennesey, Father

  Donovan, I wish you both a good evening,” he said eyeing them in turn

  and bowing slightly. Then he turned to Charlotte and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, same time. Make sure not to stay out too late.”

  37

  ******

  Rome

  Crossing the Ponte Sant’ Angelo Bridge, Charlotte strolled down Via Zanardelli to its terminus and made a couple quick turns before entering the expansive Piazza Navona, laid out like an elongated oval racetrack. Striding toward the immense Italian baroque fountain that was its centerpiece— Fontanna dei Quattro Fiumi—she spotted the six-thirty tour group already assembling around a lanky Italian man with a laminated badge, presumably the tour guide. Reaching them, Charlotte waited patiently on the fringe, admiring the fountain’s huge obelisk and four Bernini marble sculptures representing the great rivers—the Ganges, the Danube, the Nile, and the Rio de la Plata—as muscular male giants.

  Moments later, the tall guide came over to her, looking down at a list of confirmed attendees. Glancing up, he smiled brightly, doing a double take when he saw Charlotte’s amazing eyes. “You must be Dr. Charlotte Hennesey,” he said cheerily in near-perfect English, placing a check next to a handwritten note at the bottom of his roster.

  “That’s right,” she replied. With a perfect smile and soft eyes, his face was young and pleasant, topped with a thick quaff of long, yet wellgroomed black hair.

  “My name is Marco,” he told her. “Father Donovan called ahead for you. It’s a pleasure to have you join us this evening.”

  “Thank you for taking me on such short notice.”

  A strong voice, with a heavy trace of Italian, suddenly came at Marco

  from over her left shoulder.

  “Perhaps you have room for one more?”

  Both Charlotte and the tour guide turned at the same time. Her

  smile disintegrated when she saw Salvatore Conte standing behind her, grinning.

  Marco looked insulted by the interruption. “Your name?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Conte retorted. “How much for the ticket?”

  Sizing him up, the guide pointed to his list and said abruptly, “Sorry. We’re already booked. If you’d like to leave me your name, I can see if we can get you onto Saturday’s tour.”

  Agitated, Conte spread his hands and dramatically peered around the piazza, then back at the guide’s name badge. “Come on . . . Marco, it’s not exactly like you can’t accommodate one more body. Plenty of room here, right Charlotte?” Raising an eyebrow, he stared at her expectantly.

  Amazed at his crassness, Charlotte looked away and said nothing.

  Conte made a move for his wallet. “How much?”

  Shaking his head, Marco crossed his hands behind his back, still holding the clipboard. He could see that the man was making the Vatican guest uncomfortable. She wouldn’t even make eye contact with the guy. “I don’t make the rules, Signore,” he calmly told Conte in Italian. “Please be kind enough to contact our main office to voice your concerns. This is not the place.”

  Pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek and making a smug face, Conte jabbed a finger at the guide’s chest and said in Italian, “You should have a bit more respect for your fellow countrymen, tour guide. It’s no wonder you make a living walking the streets and telling stories to tourists. Well, I’ve got a story for you.” He pressed his face close. “Watch out, because at night, the streets in Rome can sometimes be dangerous. You never know who you might encounter in a dark alley.” He savored the man’s discomfort. “It’s a ticket, not a fucking bar of gold.”

  Charlotte didn’t understand what Conte was saying, but the guide’s face revealed a growing concern.

  Conte’s eyes drifted over to her. “Just thought you’d like some company,” he said, playing the martyr. “Have a good night, Dr. Hennesey.”

  With that, the mercenary paced back two steps, spun and strode across the piazza.

  “Sorry about that,” she said to the guide.

  It took Marco a few nervous swallows to regain his voice. “Friend of yours?”

  “Far from it,” she replied quickly. “And thanks for not giving in. That would’ve ruined my night.”

  “Well then,” Marco finger-combed his mane of hair as he composed himself, “I guess we’ll be on our way.”

  As Marco formally introduced himself to the group and briefly ran down the tour’s itinerary, Charlotte scanned the piazza for Conte, sighing in relief when she didn’t spot him. Who exactly was this character? How could such a creepy guy be connected with the Vatican?

  It took almost an hour for Charlotte to forget about the crazy encounter at Piazza Navona. But slowly, she had lost herself in Rome’s extraordinary history, retold effortlessly by Marco. He had led the group on an amazing journey through the city’s famous circular temple, the Pantheon, completed in 125 AD by Emperor Hadrian. There, Charlotte had marveled at its expansive inner dome that seemed to defy the rules of physics, as the sun melted through the wide oculus that hovered at its center.

  Then it was off to the junction of three roads—tre vie—to admire Nicola Salvi’s enormous baroque Trevi Fountain with its seahorse-riding tritons guiding Neptune’s shell chariot. Nearby, they passed the Piazza di Spagna just below 138 steps that climbed up the steep slope to the twin bell towers that flanked the Trinità dei Monti church.

  A few blocks further came the white Brescian marble Il Viattoriano, an eye-catching (most Romans wouldn’t be as polite) monument that most compared to a colossal wedding cake plunked down in the center of Old Rome, inaugurated in 1925 to honor Victor Emmanuel II—the first king of a unified Italy.

  By the time the tour had made its way up Capitoline Hill—the only prominent remainder of ancient Rome’s famed Seven Hills—and through the crumbled arches and columns of the Imperial Forums, the sun was starting to fade over the horizon and a new moon became visible in the clear night sky. Charlotte Hennesey had finally completely lost herself in the shadows of an ancient Empire.

  By the time the tour group had traversed Old Rome to the Colosseum, the entire city had taken on a new persona, basking in glowing lights. Walking the outside of the forty-eight meter high, circular amphitheater with its three tiers of travertine porticos, Charlotte swore she could hear the clash of gladiators and roar of lions.

  Then, imagination turned instantly to cold reality when she caught a fleeting glimpse of a modern-day gladiator disappearing into the shadows. Though she wanted to believe her eyes were tricking her, there was no doubt. Salvatore Conte.

  38

  THURSDAY

  ******

  Temple Mount

  Just after nine a.m., Barton negotiated his way past Akbar, and through the blast hole. Razak was already in the crypt standing with arms folded, wearing neatly pressed chinos and a white collared shirt. If Barton didn’t know any better, he could have sworn that the Muslim was trying to ma
ke some kind of peace with this place. “It’s getting bad out there.”

  “Yes.”

  Barton dusted off his trousers. “Tell me, how did Farouq react when he saw his car?”

  Razak cringed. “Not well.” That was an understatement. Last night, Farouq had berated him when he saw that his prized Mercedes was beyond repair. “I shouldn’t have let you go! Completely irresponsible! You should have known better, Razak. And for what? What did you gain by going there?” It was like being a mischievous teenager again. “Luckily, he has insurance, which, believe me, isn’t so easy to get if you’re a Palestinian.”