Sam cocked his eyebrow. “Hear what?”
The officer made a dramatic sigh, as though Sam was wasting his time with trivial news. “Phoenix Flight 318 just landed at Marco Polo International.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Andrew Goddard didn’t wait at the carousel to retrieve his luggage.
Instead, he stepped out of the airport and immediately grabbed a water taxi. He’d been trying to reach Lorenzo Du Luca ever since the plane got on the ground. Without an answer, he could only assume the worst — his eternity mask had been compromised.
Worried that someone was following him from the airport, he got the taxi to drop him off at Saint Marks Square, where there were more tourists than there was space. He breathed easier as he slipped into the dense crowd.
From there he headed north, navigating the maze of narrow streets and bridges that crossed the ubiquitous canals.
He moved with a determined stride, easily sliding through the hordes of tourists and local Italian workers intending to fleece them. After the events of the last three months there was no way of telling for certain if it was still safe. His gaunt face seemed somehow more withered, as the skin hugged his protracted jaw with defiance. The thought of what would happen if his mask had been taken, sent his heart pounding in his chest.
His cobalt blue eyes searched his surroundings for signs of the upcoming plague. People looked happy, or no more discontent than was normal in modern day life. He exhaled a deep breath of air, oriented himself, and kept moving.
No, he would know by now if THEY had got to his mask.
The whole world would know about it if the Phoenix Plague was released.
The name brought him back to that fateful flight. He knew that boarding an aircraft named after the wretched Phoenix in order to secure the Homo floresiensis mask that had been placed on auction was a bad omen.
It didn’t matter.
THEY hadn’t been able to break him on that damned island. No matter what they tried, he had held out, refusing to reveal the location of his mask.
He crossed the Rio de San Giovanni Laterano and stopped.
Behind him, he was certain someone had been following. The person was tall with a solid build, and the determined stride of a professional soldier.
He moved quickly.
Knocking over a small cart on the bridge filled with tacky souvenirs, Goddard started to run. Behind him, the big guy commenced his pursuit.
Goddard was tall and despite his lanky build, he had surprising strength in his legs. He would have made a good sprinter in his youth. He kept running, refusing to look back behind his shoulder, in fear that he might get caught.
He entered the Basilica Dei Santi Giovanni e Paolo through the Bartolomeo Bon great west doorway. The enormous brick edifice, designed in the Italian Gothic style, and completed in the 1430s, was the principal Dominican church of Venice, and as such was built to hold large congregations. It is dedicated to John and Paul, not the Biblical Apostles of the same names, but two obscure martyrs of the Early Christian church in Rome, whose names were recorded in the 4th century but whose legend is of a later date.
Goddard made a quick sign of the cross and made his way toward the east end. The vast interior contained an array of funerary monuments and paintings. On the southern aisle, a number of tourists flocked around the Madonna della Pace, a miraculous Byzantine statue situated in its own chapel in the south aisle, and a foot of Saint Catherine of Siena, the church's chief relic.
There he walked past a man who was examining the ancient religious relic. The man looked inconspicuous, with a pair of cargo pants and a white shirt. Their eyes locked for a moment and Goddard thought he might have seen some sort of recognition in the man’s eyes, which were dark blue like the deepest parts of the ocean.
He broke eye contact and kept walking until he reached a priest at the transept.
The priest was startled by the sight, his eyes widened and his right hand clasped at his crucifix. “Andrew Goddard!”
Goddard dipped his head, his eyes looking at the floor. “I’m sorry father, but it’s time.”
“I’m about to give mass, can’t it wait?’
“No. There are people searching for me even now. I have to take it away from here. You know what’s at stake.”
“Yes, of course, my son.”
The priest led him in toward the end of the sanctuary.
Concealed by the walls of the sanctuary, the priest opened a hatch, revealing a secret set of stairs down into the crypt.
Andrew Goddard took the priest’s hand, holding his gaze. “Thank you, father.”
“No, thank you, Goddard. God speed.”
Andrew quickly climbed down the steep set of spiral stairs. Beneath the church, he moved quickly, passing the rows of deceased doges who once proffered their wealth on the basilica. At the very end of the crypt, an unnamed vault appeared dull by comparison to that of the wealthy doges.
He carefully wiped back some of the dust that had shrouded the ancient tomb, revealing a small slot, in which to insert a key.
Andrew fumbled with a single brass key attached to a lanyard and held around his neck, removing it to insert in the keyhole.
Once there, he turned it.
The key tensioned, but gave way to the pressure. The internal latches unlocked. He pushed on the side of the vault and was rewarded, when, a moment later, the heavy vault slid open.
He expelled a referent breath of air.
Resting inside was an ancient mask made out of Alexandrite depicting, with the precision of a detailed craftsman, the shape of a Homo neanderthalensis.
Goddard didn’t stare in awe for very long. He’d never seen the mask in person, but had studied its images for so long that he felt as though he knew the mask intimately.
He picked up the small mask, placed it in his leather bag, and returned to the sanctuary above. Goddard opened the door to step out into the main cathedral and stopped — because there, in front of him was the big guy who’d been following him and the man with the piercing blue eyes.
The shorter of the two men said, “Andrew Goddard?”
Andrew’s eyes furtively darted from one man to the other. Both looked dangerous. But the bigger of the two looked positively lethal.
Goddard asked, “What do you want?”
“I think you’d better come with us.”
“I’m not going with anyone. This is a house of God, and I expect you to treat it as such, and not spill blood within these walls!”
The shorter of the two men made an incredulous grin. “We’re not here to hurt you, Mr. Goddard. We’re here to save your life.”
Goddard’s eyes narrowed. “From what?”
“That I don’t know.” The shorter man spread his hands. “To be honest, I was hoping you could tell us…”
Andrew felt his heart pounding in the back of his ears.
He had to do something.
But what?
As adrenaline surged in his veins, he pushed through the smaller of the two men, with a level of vehemence that shocked him.
The bigger man reacted fast, trying to grip him by his shoulders, but Goddard twisted and slipped passed him with the speed and efficiency that would make a quarterback smile.
He bolted through the great western door out into Calle Torelli and stopped, because he saw a ghost.
Mr. Sneakers — the man from Phoenix Flight 318 — pointed a small handgun at him. “I suggest you come with me, Mr. Goddard.”
Andrew followed the man around to the northern side of the basilica. He searched for police, or any passing tourists who might give the madman pause before doing anything irrevocably stupid. But despite being in one of Europe’s busiest tourist cities, he found himself surprisingly alone.