‘They’re cleaning this part of the building. It’s closed to all outsiders until Sunday.’
Ulster said, ‘We don’t want to get you into trouble. Would you like us to come back?’
‘No, Mr Ulster, that won’t be necessary. We’re always willing to make an exception for you.’ Karl watched as Franz opened the hatch. ‘Are you picking up or dropping off today?’
Smiling, Ulster answered, ‘Dropping off. Definitely dropping off.’
Common sense told Payne that breaking into a facility with some of the world’s greatest treasures wouldn’t be as easy as Franz claimed it would. But he knew what he was talking about because Karl unloaded one of the crates without inspecting the rest of the cargo hold. So they simply waited there until Karl went inside, then slipped out the back of the truck.
The four of them entered the ground floor of the Hofburg’s eighteenth-century wing, near the entrance to the Austrian National Library, home of one of the most impressive book and scroll collections in the world. The mammoth center section of the library was named the Great Hall and ran the entire length of the Josefsplatz. Measuring 250 feet long, 46 feet wide, and 65 feet high, the long gallery was lined with carved wooden bookshelves, colorful frescoes, Corinthian columns, and several marble statues. The library was closed to the public today, so it was lit only by the sunlight that streamed through the circular windows in the domed ceiling.
Payne was the first to enter the library, strolling across the patterned stone floor without a hint of sound. Head held high, eyes wide open, he traveled more than fifty feet, scanning the balconies that rose above him like an ornate opera house. The only thing that looked out of place was the large wooden crate that sat in the middle of the floor, compliments of Ulster and Franz. They said it was common procedure to place the item in its ultimate destination, where it would be opened by a scholar or facility manager. But in this case, they planned on opening it themselves. As Payne headed back to the group, he whispered, ‘Where should we start?’
Boyd turned in a tight circle, gaping at the rows of shelves that stretched beyond the limits of his eyesight. More than 2.5 million books filled the library, plus 240,000 sheet maps, 280,000 geographical views, 43,000 sixth-century manuscripts, and over 24,000 autographs. ‘We should search for a list of the Hofburg’s sculptures or a log of Austrian artists from the time of Christ. Sadly, there’s a bloody good chance that such documents won’t be in English.’
‘That rules me out,’ Payne admitted. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’
‘Actually,’ Boyd said, ‘you have a keen eye for detail. Perhaps you can look for pictures of our laughing friend. Who knows? He’s liable to be lurking in here.’
Payne nodded, glad he could do something that didn’t involve breaking and entering or shooting bad guys. ‘Where will you be?’
‘Most of the older volumes are kept on the second and third floors. With any luck Maria and I shall find documents that date back to the time of Christ.’
‘I’ll go with ’em,’ Jones added. ‘Just in case the upper floors aren’t clear.’
Payne watched them struggle with the crate of books but didn’t offer a hand. He knew he had more important things to worry about than heavy lifting, like searching the ground floor for guards. He’d keep an eye out for the laughing man, too, but until he knew they were alone, his main concern was making sure the library was free of danger.
Safety first, success second. It’s a good creed to live by.
Gun in hand, Payne crept toward the rear of the Great Hall, passing through a fresco-covered arch, supported by a series of treelike columns. Beyond it was the most spectacular feature of the National Library. Over ninety feet in height, the cupola — a dome-shaped roof that allowed natural light to flow inside — rose above him like a crowded theater gallery, yet none of the people that filled the balustrades were real. Instead they had all been painted on the oblique oval space by Daniel Gran in 1730. Payne walked to the center of the Dome Room, his eyes glued above, when he felt his cell phone buzzing on his hip. ‘Hello?’ he whispered.
‘Signor Payne?’ Frankie said. ‘Is that you? I no sure if you gonna answer phone. I be calling every hour since yesterday. Why you no answer phone?’
Payne didn’t have time to explain — they needed to wrap up their conversation in less than a minute or he risked being tracked — so he said, ‘I turned it off to conserve its battery.’
‘Ah! Good thinking. Use only in emergency. That be smart!’
Memories of yesterday’s conversation came rushing back. Not only because Payne hung up on Frankie before he could tell him about the dead soldiers in Orvieto but because they were attacked in Küsendorf less than an hour later. Maybe his cell phone wasn’t safe after all?
So Payne said, ‘Write everything that you want to tell me, and I mean everything. I’ll call you later with a fax number where you can send the report. But don’t send it from your personal fax. Send it from a public one that can’t be traced. Got it?’
‘Yes, but — ’
‘And stop calling this phone. It’s not safe.’ Payne hung up before Frankie could say another word, proud that their conversation lasted only twenty-three seconds.
Alas, it didn’t make any difference. Payne and his crew were discovered shortly thereafter.
Nick Dial didn’t have the time or the paperwork to fly to China. But he called the NCB office in Beijing the moment he figured out the riddle of the pushpins.
At first the cops were skeptical, at least until members of the media were notified of an upcoming demonstration that hinted at violence. That was all the proof the Chinese needed. Within minutes they were reassigning ground troops to protect all the major tourist sites in their city, doing everything in their power to look efficient in the eyes of the press.
Catrina Collins was part of the press corps. She stood there, transfixed, her deep-blue eyes following the giant cross as it floated across the sky. Shutters clicked and journalists scrambled, trying to figure out where the parachute would land. Soldiers with M14s aimed their weapons at the sky, waiting for orders, while their commanding officers figured out the threat level.
Was it a bomb? A terrorist? Or the fourth victim of the crucifix killer?
The news director at CNN shouted into Collins’s earpiece. They were going live in less than a minute. Shawn Farley, her cameraman, was told to follow the action as long as possible while Collins described the scene she saw on a small monitor.
‘Shit, shit, shit!’ she cursed to herself. Her makeup needed to be touched up, and she had no idea what she was going to say. ‘I’m not happy. Not happy at all.’
The director ignored her comments. ‘You’re on in three… two… one.’
The image of the falling cross popped onto television sets around the world. ‘I’m standing outside the Forbidden City in Beijing, where a moment ago a parachute was spotted high above the city… As you can see, it appears that we are looking at the fourth victim in a bizarre string of crucifixions that has captured the world’s eye.’
Graphics detailing the other cases scrolled across the bottom of the CNN broadcast.
‘The victim appears to be a white male in his thirties. He’s been attached to the cross with a series of spikes, similar to the crucifixion of Jesus Christ.’
The director shouted into her earpiece. ‘Goddammit! Don’t make this religious!’
Collins gathered her thoughts. ‘Blood can be seen pouring from the victim’s hands and feet, dripping down the wood like a grisly horror movie.’ Farley zoomed in closer, trying to get the best shot possible. ‘I can see blood pouring out of his side, gushing from his wound in little bursts like… Oh God! Look at his face! He just opened his eyes! Jesus! He isn’t dead!’