mother had personally selected this site—formerly a Roman temple where
pagans once worshipped Venus—left little doubt that its authenticity was
questionable. Though he was no stranger to the divergent views of the historical versus the religious, he wasn’t about to offend him with blasphemy. “There’s another very sacred tomb just above us,” Father Demetrios reminded him with a serious face.
“And why have you brought me down here? Is it something about this
scroll?”
“Everything about it.” His voice was solemn. “I don’t know where you found this, Graham. But if it wasn’t from here—and I know it’s not—I caution you. Be very, very careful. You know better than most how words can be misconstrued. If you promise me you’ll remember what I’ve said, I will write down your translation.”
“You have my word.”
“Good.” The priest shook his head and let out a deep breath. “Let me have your pen and paper.”
25
******
Vatican City
Each time Father Patrick Donovan walked down the Apostolic Palace’s grand corridor he felt intimidated. This was the gateway to the Vatican’s royalty—the physical apex of Christendom’s hierarchy. Adjoining the far end of the Vatican Museum, it housed the offices of the pope and the secretary of state, while an upper floor contained the pope’s lavish Borgia apartment. The entire complex, as big as an airport concourse, felt like an extension of the museum itself with its floor-to-ceiling frescos, marble floors, and baroque embellishments.
Here the Vatican City’s military was most evident, expressionless Swiss Guards posted at even intervals and seeing them only added to his nerves.
Tall porticos ran along one side of the corridor, overlooking the Piazza San Pietro—Bernini’s massive, elliptical courtyard, which had been completed in 1667. Four sweeping arcs of colonnades embraced the space, pinpointing at its center Caligula’s obelisk that had been plundered from the Nile Delta in 38 CE. The relic sharply reminded Donovan of the pillaging done in Jerusalem only four days ago.
Large rectangular windows on the hall’s opposite side were sheathed in iron grating, serving notice that this building had been initially designed as a fortress.
The looming double door at the corridor’s terminus was flanked by two Swiss Guards in full costume—billowing gold and Medici blue-striped tunics and pantaloons, red berets, and white gloves. Conte’s buffoons. Each carried an eight-foot long pole called a “halberd”—a sixteenth-century weapon that combined speared tip, axe blade, and grappling hook. Donovan noticed that both soldiers also carried holstered Berettas.
He stopped two meters in front of the doorway.
“Buona sera, Padre. Si chiama?” The tall guard to his right demanded his name.
“Father Patrick Donovan,” he responded in Italian. “I have been summoned by His Eminence, Cardinal Santelli.”
The guard disappeared into the room beyond. A few uncomfortable moments passed while Donovan stared vacantly at the floor, the remaining Swiss Guard stood at attention in perfect silence. The first guard reemerged. “He is ready to see you.”
The librarian was ushered into an expansive antechamber furnished in marble and wood where Santelli’s personal assistant, the young Father James Martin, manned a lone desk, his face blank and withdrawn. Donovan smiled warmly and exchanged pleasantries with him, trying to imagine just how mentally taxing it must be for him to be at the beck and call of a man like Santelli.
“You may go right in,” Father Martin said, motioning to a huge oak door.
Opening the door, Donovan moved into the lavish space beyond. Across the sumptuous room, he saw a purple skullcap and the familiar mound of thick silver hair poking over the back of a tall leather chair.
The Vatican secretary of state was facing a window that neatly framed St. Peter’s Basilica, a phone held to his right ear, frail hands gesticulating. Swiveling round, Donovan was met by the bloodshot eyes, bushy eyebrows, and heavy jowls of Cardinal Antonio Carlo Santelli. The cardinal motioned him toward an armchair in front of the substantial mahogany desk.
Donovan plunked himself down, the upholstery groaning as he shifted in the seat.
As the Vatican’s highest-ranking cardinal, Santelli was charged with overseeing the political and diplomatic issues of the Holy See, effectively acting as prime minister of the Roman Curia, accountable only to the pope himself. Though even the pope occasionally acquiesced to Santelli’s demands.
The man’s political skills were legendary. As a newly appointed cardinal in the early 1980s, he’d steered the Vatican through the murky recesses of the Banco Ambrosiano scandal and the murder of Roberto Calvi, the socalled “God’s Banker,” who had been found hung by the neck under Blackfriars Bridge in London.
While the cardinal wrapped up his conversation, Donovan took in this inner sanctum of the pontifical machine. Santelli’s immense desk was bare, save for a short stack of crisp reports arranged at a perfect perpendicular, and an oversized plasma monitor mounted on an arm. The screensaver was on—a golf-green, its flag fluttering against a virtual breeze reading: “All We Need Is Faith.” A great enthusiast for IT, Santelli had been the main advocate for the installation of the Vatican’s sophisticated fiberoptic network.
In the corner, a marble-topped credenza supported a replica of Michelangelo’s Pietà. Dominating the space to his right was a large tapestry depicting Constantine’s battle at Milvian Bridge. To Donovan’s left three Raphaels hung—almost casually—against the winecolored wall.
His gaze circled back to Santelli.
“Advise him the final decision will be made by the Holy Father,” the cardinal was saying in thick Italian. Santelli was always direct. “Call me when it’s done.” He replaced the phone. “Prompt as always, Patrick.”
Donovan smiled.
“After the appalling mess left behind in Jerusalem, I trust you’re bringing me good news. Tell me all our efforts have been worthy of such sacrifice.”
Donovan forced himself to look Santelli in the eye. “There’s enough evidence to lead me to believe the ossuary’s genuine.”
The cardinal grimaced. “But you’re not certain?”
“More work needs to be done. More tests.” Donovan knew his voice was wavering. “But so far, the evidence is compelling.”
There was a small silence.
The cardinal cut to the chase. “But is there a body?”
Donovan nodded. “Just as the manuscript suggested.”
“Splendid.”
“Will the Holy Father be told?”
“I’ll handle that when the time’s right.” Elbows on the chair’s armrests, Santelli had woven his fingers together, as if in prayer. “When will these scientists be ready to make a formal presentation?”
“I requested that they prepare something for Friday.”
“Good.” The cardinal saw that Donovan was preoccupied. “Cheer up Father Donovan,” he said, spreading his hands. “You’ve just helped give this great institution new life.”