Charlotte knew body language. Though Donovan was telling his story confidently, his eyes were shifting. She recalled Giovanni remarking that removing a criminal from a cross would have been unprecedented. No crucified body had ever been recovered. But given the threat Jesus posed to the Jewish aristocracy—who seemingly had everything to lose should the system be challenged—Donovan’s explanation seemed plausible. “But why would Jesus’s followers even want to steal his body?”
“In order to declare a resurrection and portray Jesus as divine.”
“So Joseph of Arimathea procured the body to protect it?”
“That’s right.” Donovan forced himself to look at her.
Now she was put in a divisive position. There was an obvious question that needed to be presented at this juncture. Her eyes shifted to the laptop screen where the reconstructed image of the crucified man seemed to be watching vigil over the proceedings. “And the resurrection?” She swallowed hard. “Did it really happen?”
Donovan grinned. “Of course,” he replied. “The body was secretly placed in Joseph’s tomb—a location unbeknownst to Jesus’s followers. But three days later it had disappeared.”
“Was it stolen?”
Donovan felt Santelli’s judicious gaze digging into him. “That’s where the Bible is correct, Dr. Hennesey. Four separate New Testament accounts tell us that three days later Jesus rose up from the tomb. Then he reappeared to his followers and ascended to heaven.”
Charlotte didn’t know what to think. She certainly wasn’t one to believe everything in the Bible, and her early-morning brush-up reading had reminded her why. One passage in particular that described Jesus’s physical death on the cross had driven that point home. It began with Matthew 27:50:
Jesus shouted again with a loud voice and gave up His spirit. Suddenly, the curtain of the sanctuary was split in two from top to bottom; the earth quaked and the rocks were split. The tombs also were opened and many bodies of the saints who had gone to their rest were raised. And they came out of the tombs after His resurrection, entered the holy city, and appeared to many.
Reflecting on it, she saw something disturbingly contradictory to the Easter story. It was this passage that first mentioned “His resurrection”— with no three-day gap or burial having taken place. It made her wonder: if it was Jesus’s spirit that had already risen during the moment of death on the cross, then what part of him could possibly have emerged from the tomb three days later? A lifeless, spiritless shell? If bones were actually left behind, should that have surprised anyone? And what about all those other reanimated saintly corpses? Why had no other historical account made reference to so many resurrected bodies? She thought she knew the answer. Because it wasn’t a physical resurrection. The words laid out in the gospels were being misconstrued. Looking over at the Vatican’s second-incommand, she saw a seasoned bureaucrat who would hear nothing of interpretation. Though she needed to continue cautiously, she still had to address the obvious: “But what about this ossuary, the crucified corpse... and this symbol of Christ? Does this book say what it all really means?”
Composed now, Donovan leafed through the Ephemeris Conlusio almost to the end, carefully setting it back in front of her.
Studying the pages, Charlotte took in detailed drawings of the ossuary and its contents.
“After Joseph’s secret deal with Pilate,” Donovan explained levelly, “the disciples caused quite a stir in Jerusalem when they discovered that Jesus’s body had gone. The body’s disappearance allowed them to claim a resurrection had occurred. Naturally, Pilate came down hard on Joseph of Arimathea, insisting that he fix the problem.” Donovan pointed to the ossuary. “And that’s when Joseph concocted this idea.”
Charlotte tried to compute what it actually meant. “If these bones aren’t Jesus’s...”
Smiling, Donovan spun his hands, encouraging her to think it through. “. . . That means Joseph of Arimathea must have replaced the body?” “Absolutely.”
She thought she heard Santelli sigh in relief.
“According to Joseph’s account, he acquired another crucified corpse— one of two bodies that still remained on a cross atop Golgotha,...a criminal who had been killed the same day as Jesus. The body was subjected to standard Jewish burial rituals and allowed to decay for a year.”
“Thus wiping out the second man’s identity.” If Donovan was making this all up, he was doing a hell of a good job.
“Yes. A brilliant fabrication intended to prove Christ never left the tomb. A desperate attempt to discredit early Christianity in order to preserve the Jewish aristocracy.”
She let that sink in. Father Donovan’s argument was pretty good, plus he possessed what he stated to be a real document to back up his story. And it did agree with the inconsistencies she’d cited earlier, particularly the odd genetic profile and the clubbed knees. The skeleton could have belonged to some convicted criminal from a backwater Roman province. But the fact still remained that the writings in this ancient book were, quite literally, all Greek to her. The priest’s interpretation was all that she had to go by. Maybe that was how he had planned it. But why? She looked at him sharply. “It’s obvious Joseph’s plan failed. So why is it that no one previously discovered all this?” As soon as she’d asked the question, she felt herself tighten up. Was she pushing too hard?
Donovan shrugged. “I believe Joseph of Arimathea died or was killed during those first twelve months, before the body was finally prepared. Perhaps the Sanhedrin or the Romans murdered him. We’ll never really know. Let’s just be thankful that his scheme was never carried out. Because unlike today, where skilled scientists like yourself can detect foul play, in ancient times, a physical body could have been extremely problematic.”
“And the ossuary was found only recently?” She braced herself for the answer.
“The Ephemeris Conlusio was obtained by the Vatican in the early fourteenth century. But it wasn’t taken seriously until a lone archaeologist unearthed a tomb just north of Jerusalem a few weeks ago. Luckily he was smart enough to know that if he approached us discreetly we’d pay him very handsomely for it.”
Momentarily perplexed, Charlotte let the explanation roll over in her mind a couple times. If Donovan was telling the truth, that would mean that this anonymous archaeologist might have killed people to get the ossuary and the Vatican may have been none-the-wiser about its procurement. Possibly Bersei had jumped to the wrong conclusion. But he was a smart man—a very smart man. She’d personally witnessed that he wasn’t the type who’d make hasty assumptions about anything. What had he discovered that made him so sure of his claims? “A first-century relic of a crucified man bearing the symbol of Christ,” she murmured. “A priceless artifact...for all the wrong reasons.”
“Exactly. This was a seemingly authentic discovery that, without proper explanation, may have caused needless hardship for the Christian faith. We needed to be sure it all matched the accounts in Joseph’s journal before finalizing any transaction. And thanks to your hard work, I’m certain we’ve closed this case.”
Charlotte’s eyes wandered back to the opened manuscript where Joseph’s drawings inventoried the ossuary and all its contents. Then she noticed something. The scroll cylinder wasn’t included there. Her brow furrowed.
“Is something wrong?” Donovan asked.
Taking the plastic-sheathed cylinder in her hand, she said, “Why isn’t this shown there?” She motioned to the drawings.
Donovan suddenly looked nervous. “Not sure,” he said, shaking his head. He tentatively glanced over at Santelli. He had tried to avoid this, not knowing what the scroll inside might actually say.
“Why don’t you open it?” Santelli boldly suggested.
Taken aback, Charlotte said, “I’ve never really handled ancient documents before. We were waiting to...”
“Nothing to worry about, Dr. Hennesey,” Santelli cut in. “Father Donovan is an expert in handling ancient documents. Besides, I doubt
we’ll be wanting to put any of this on display in the Vatican Museum.”
“Okay.” She handed the bagged cylinder to the white-faced librarian.
“Go ahead, Patrick,” Santelli urged. “Open it.”
Amazed that the cardinal could be so brazen, Donovan proceeded to open the bag. Withdrawing the cylinder, he removed the loose end cap and tipped the scroll out onto the table. He exchanged eager glances with Santelli and Hennesey. “Here we go.” With the utmost care, he unfurled the scroll on top of the plastic and held it flat with both hands. Seeing what was there, he felt instantly relieved and pushed it further along the table so the others could see it too.
All eyes took in what had been inked onto the ancient vellum. It was an unusual drawing that blended all sorts of images. The focal point was a Jewish menorah superimposed over a cross entwined with leafy tendrils. The symbol that was on the ossuary’s side was repeated here four times, at the end of each arm of the cross.
“What does this all mean?” Santelli asked Donovan.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. He tried to conceal the fact that he noticed the edge of the scroll that faced toward him looked freshly scored. Had someone purposely cut away part of the scroll? He rested his thumbs flat over the edge to conceal the marks.
“Whatever it means, it’s beautiful,” Charlotte interjected.
“Yes it is,” Donovan agreed, smiling.
“Well then, Dr. Hennesey,” Santelli spoke up. “You’ve done a brilliant job. We cannot thank you enough and the Holy Father extends his thanks as well. Just please be diligent in adhering to our request to not discuss this with anyone—including members of your own family as well as the press.”
“You have my word,” she promised.
“Excellent. If you don’t mind, I’ll have Father Martin escort you out. I just have a few items to discuss with Father Donovan. And though your work here is finished, please do feel free to stay with us as long as you’d like.”
58
******
Leaving the Apostolic Palace, Charlotte headed directly to the lab to see if Bersei had returned.
Walking along the basement corridor, her eyes were drawn to the door of the surveillance room. It was still ajar. Against her better judgment, she wrapped her knuckles on it.
“Mr. Conte. Can I have a word with you, please?”
No answer.
She pushed it open and poked her head inside. It was empty—nothing
but bare shelving lining the walls. Even the ceiling panel had been moved back in place. “What the...”
Pulling the door closed, Charlotte proceeded cautiously down the eerily quiet hall. She slid her keycard through the reader next to the lab door, fully expecting that it would not work. But the lock disengaged with an electromechanical tumble and she made her way inside.
For the first time since she’d been here, the lights and air-conditioning in the lab had been turned off. Groping along the wall for the control panel, she flicked a few switches up.
When the lights came on, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The entire lab was empty—the ossuary, the bones, the relics...all gone. Even the computer CPUs were missing from their bays.
Fearing the worst, she didn’t move into the room—just turned the lights off again and doubled back to the door. That’s when she heard footsteps out in the corridor, growing louder as they approached.
Now what? There was no window on the door, so she couldn’t see who was coming. Father Donovan? Bersei? She listened closer. She’d strode up and down the corridor with both of them, but couldn’t recall this rhythm—this smooth stepping she now heard.
What if it was Conte?
Now that she’d seen the empty closet and lab, the laptop she was carrying—the only remaining proof of the Vatican’s secret project—felt like raw meat in the lion’s den. Her whole body stiffened, praying that she’d hear a different door open, or that the steps would retreat back down the corridor.
The footsteps stopped and she could see a shadow moving into the light penetrating in from beneath the door.
Lunging back into the darkened lab, she silently felt her way along the first workstation and crouched low to the floor just as the door lock turned.
The hair on the back of her neck prickled as the door creaked open, light from the corridor spilling into the room. She was certain that whoever it was couldn’t see her below the table. The intruder paused. Listening?
Charlotte held her breath and steadied the laptop bag with both hands, remaining perfectly still. A very long moment went by. Then there was the flicking sound of switches and the overhead lighting instantly stripped away the darkness.
No movement.
Her legs were starting to cramp up.
Pulling the door closed, the intruder moved slowly into the room, snaked between the workstations and back toward the break room.
Though she couldn’t see what was happening, the second she sensed that the intruder had gone into the break room, she sprang up and lunged for the door. Just as her hand turned the handle, she glimpsed Conte as he returned into the lab...and his face twisted into a snarl.
59
******
Charlotte sprinted down the corridor, the rubber soles of her shoes squeaking urgently as they pushed off the polished vinyl tiles. Without looking back, she could hear Conte in pursuit.
Up ahead, the elevator was closed. Knowing she couldn’t risk any delay, she headed directly for the fire exit, shoving the door back hard on its hinges. She practically flew up the stairwell, taking the steps three at a time, clutching the laptop tightly to her side. Halfway up the second flight of stairs, the sound of Conte slamming against the basement door blasted up at her. Climbing higher, she glimpsed his silhouette spiraling upward.
At the top of the landing, Charlotte knew she’d have two choices: the service door leading outside, or the staff entrance accessing the museum gallery. Once she got there, she immediately pushed open the service door so that it swung wide. But instead of going outside, she wheeled toward the staff entrance door and entered the museum as quietly as possible, easing the door closed behind her.
Rounding the last set of switchback steps, Conte heard the lock on the service door snap into place as it closed. Charging up the last few treads, he flung the door open and ran outside.
The geneticist was nowhere in sight—not running down the garden walkways, not scampering around the corner of the building. And there was no worthy hiding place anywhere close by. He spun round, making his way back into the building.
Moving quickly through the Pio Christian gallery, Charlotte was determined to get out of Vatican City. That meant heading straight for the Sant’ Anna Gate. With her money belt containing her cash, credit cards, and passport secured tightly around her waist, everything in her dorm room could be sacrificed.
Feeling light-headed—not from the run, but from the Melphalan swirling through her system—she took a few deep breaths to get her head together. A quick pang of nausea came and went.
Knowing Conte would only be temporarily thrown off, she struggled with how to proceed. Should she lose herself in the museum’s massive galleries? There was plenty of floor space here, no doubt. But with surveillance cameras mounted all throughout the exhibits, she didn’t want to chance him calling museum security. Plus in the long hallways that ran the length of the building’s mammoth footprint, she’d be easy to spot—the curly chestnut-haired lone tourist with a bright pink blouse and computer bag who wasn’t stopping for exhibits.
Luckily, the Pio Christian gallery was in close proximity to the building’s main entrance. After scanning the area beyond the glass doors, she slipped outside.
Threading through the crowds loitering in the courtyard, she rounded the corner of the building, hurrying along the walkway that ran along the museum’s eastern wall. Conte was still nowhere in sight. But that didn’t ease her concern, because she knew firsthand that he wasn’t the type to give up.
Turning onto Borgo Pio, her eyes reached for the open gate and the Swiss Guards who diligently manned it. She wondered if Conte had called ahead to alert them. Would they try to detain her? She pushed forward, knowing she had to take that chance.
Then, only twenty meters from the gate, she saw him. Though she hadn’t noticed it before, she could swear that there was some kind of wound on the side of his head.
Hands on his hips and breathing heavily, Conte had positioned himself between her and the gate, daring her to take another step.
But she did just that. Determined that there was no going back, her only hope was to stay the course and push forward. This was a public place. The guards were close. Surely they wouldn’t tolerate an altercation here, even if they were on his side.
Sacred Bones : A Novel Page 30