‘Where to start, where to start?’ he mumbled under his breath. Then, without saying another word, he headed into the bowels of the library, followed by Boyd, Ulster, Maria, and his mimelike assistant. Payne grabbed Jones before he could join them, telling him that he needed a word.
‘What’s up?’ Jones asked.
‘Lately I’ve gotten the feeling that we’re spending so much time worried about Boyd that we’ve lost track of the big picture. Like something bigger than the Catacombs.’
‘Bigger than the Catacombs? You realize we’re on the verge of proving that Christ wasn’t crucified. That seems kind of important to me.’
‘Yeah, I know but… I just get the feeling that something else is going on.’
Jones studied Payne’s face. ‘Ah, man! Don’t tell me your gut is acting up again.’
‘Actually, it moved beyond a gut feeling when I read this.’ Payne handed him the newspaper that he’d been reading. ‘This seems like too much of a coincidence not to be connected.’
‘What does?’
‘The fact that we’re researching the crucifixion, and people are turning up crucified. First it was some priest from the Vatican. Then it was a prince from Nepal. And last night it was someone bigger. They got Orlando Pope.’
‘The Holy Hitter?’
He nodded. ‘They found him at Fenway.’
‘No shit?’ Jones paused in thought. ‘And you think this has something to do with us?’
‘Guess when the crucifixions started. On Monday. The same day Boyd found the Catacombs. The same day the bus exploded. The same day we were brought into play… Call me paranoid, but that can’t be a coincidence.’
‘It could be,’ Jones insisted. ‘Hell, this could be nothing more than — ’
‘What? A fluke? When was the last time you read a news story about a crucifixion? A long time, right? And when was the last time a Vatican priest was murdered? Can you think of a single example in the last twenty years?’
Payne waited for an answer that he knew wasn’t coming.
‘I’m telling you, D.J., this stuff has to be related. I don’t know how or why, but we’re caught up in something that’s bigger than Dr Boyd. And my gut tells me if we don’t figure it out soon, things are going to get a lot worse for everyone.’
66
Tank Harper and his crew reached the Daxing airfield before the body hit the ground. The pilot circled low and wide, meaning radar wouldn’t be a problem. Not with the Chinese. By the time they got their search planes in the air, the entire landing strip would be covered with livestock, and Harper’s plane would be buried in vegetation.
But that’s why Manzak handpicked him for the job. He knew Harper wouldn’t get caught.
What Manzak didn’t know, though, was that Harper had seen through his bullshit from the very beginning. In his line of work, Harper realized the toughest part of a job wasn’t the mission itself but rather collecting compensation. That was the task that had the most danger and the most fun — especially when he was working for a new employer. Someone he didn’t have a track record with. Someone he couldn’t trust. Someone like Richard Manzak.
Manzak had called Harper earlier in the week and told him the money would be divided on Saturday at a villa in Rome. All Harper had to do was get there in time for the payoff. Harper smiled when he heard this, then asked a point-blank question: ‘Will you be there to meet us?’ Manzak assured him he would, giving him his word as a gentleman.
Of course Harper knew that Manzak’s word didn’t mean shit. Not only had he lied about his name — Manzak’s real name was Roberto Pelati — but for some reason his alias was the name of a missing CIA operative. Why would someone do that? Why select a name that had a history?
Harper couldn’t figure that out for the life of him. Still, Pelati’s deception told him all he needed to know: he had no intention of paying him. And to make matters worse, since Pelati wanted to meet Harper and his crew the moment they got to Italy, Harper knew something big was going to happen at the villa. Something bloody. Something violent.
And the truth was, he didn’t have a problem with that.
Harper had been hoping for a million dollars, but he would settle for someone’s scalp.
Harper’s cross landed in the main courtyard of the Forbidden City, where it was swallowed by a masked team of armed soldiers. Representatives of the local NCB office were standing nearby, thanks to the phone call from Dial, who told them to protect the evidence as much as humanly possible, though that term had a different definition in China than it did in America.
Chinese HAZMAT personnel scanned the cross for threats, then radioed their reports to headquarters. Several minutes passed before a decision was made to allow army medics to examine the victim. Doctors determined that Paul Adams had a decent chance to live, but only if they rushed him to the hospital for surgery. The on-site commander thanked them for their efforts and told them he would try to get permission. Nodding, the doctors went back to work on Adams without voicing a single complaint. They knew this was the way it was done in their country, and an argument would only get them and their families into trouble.
An hour later word filtered down from the top: medical evac had been denied.
Adams was forbidden to leave the Forbidden City for any reason. Even if it meant his death.
Payne and Jones caught up with the others in a section of the library that was filled with thousands of copies of the same book. At least that’s how it looked to Payne. Every copy was bound in red, blue, and gold Moroccan leather and embossed with a coat of arms that belonged to Prince Eugene, a member of one of the elite families in Europe during the Middle Ages.
Even though he was born in Paris, Eugene was revered in Austria, where he made his name fighting the Turks for the Holy Roman Empire. In later years he added to his reputation by donating his private library — tens of thousands of books, including some of the rarest manuscripts that Italy and France had to offer — to the Hofburg, where they could be enjoyed by the people of Vienna. Centuries later they were still being used.
Anyhow, Dr Boyd was sitting next to Dr Wanke as he flipped through several books. As soon as he spotted Jones, Boyd called him over to the table.
Boyd said, ‘Maria told me about your theory on Longinus, and I applaud your effort. The group that had the most access to Christ during his ordeal would’ve been the centurions, thereby making one of them a legitimate candidate as a coconspirator… Regrettably, as I am sure you’re aware, many scholars believe that Longinus never existed, that he was simply the figment of a writer’s overactive imagination.’
‘Maybe not for long,’ Wanke claimed. ‘I think I found something.’
Boyd turned. ‘What do you mean by something?’
‘You want information on the statue, right? Well, I found him.’
Wanke held up one of Prince Eugene’s books, revealing a black-and-white sketch of the laughing man that had been drawn by a local artist in 1732. Next to it was a detailed account of the statue, written in Italian and German by a member of Eugene’s staff. Information that covered nearly 2,000 years.
‘According to this text, a man of great importance came to Vindobona in the early years, a man with no name who was guarded by several centurions as if he were royalty. Peacefully, he was given a spot of land on the outskirts of town near a marble quarry. He paid the townsfolk to build him a home, one that was protected by massive walls and the blades of his guards. He took residence there for the next three decades until he succumbed to disease.’