Sign of the Cross paj-2 Page 11

  With trembling hands, Boyd grabbed the paper and read the headline. ‘Oh my God. This can’t be! They control the police. They control the media. They’re not going to stop!’

  ‘What are you talking about? Who isn’t going to stop?’

  ‘Them! They must’ve known about the scroll! That’s the only thing that makes sense! They knew it was in there! They knew it all along.’

  ‘Who knew? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Don’t you see? They weren’t trying to take the scroll. They were trying to protect it. That’s the only thing that makes sense. They must’ve known it was in there!’

  ‘Professore, you aren’t making any sense. We found the Catacombs. If someone had known about it, they would’ve taken credit for it long ago.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong! This isn’t the type of discovery that anyone wants to make.’

  ‘What are you talking about? The discovery of the Catacombs is a major find!’

  ‘You’re not listening to me. I’m not talking about the Catacombs. I’m talking about the scroll. The scroll is what’s important now. The scroll is the key to everything.’

  ‘It’s more important than the Catacombs? How is that possible?’

  Boyd blinked a few times, trying to come up with an analogy that she would understand. ‘The Catacombs were but a chest. The scroll was the treasure within.’

  ‘The scroll is the treasure?’

  ‘Yes. It was the key to the entire site.’

  ‘The frescoes, the graves, the stone chests? They aren’t important?’

  Boyd shook his head. ‘Not compared to the scroll.’

  Confused, Maria tried to absorb what she’d been told. Unfortunately, her lack of sleep made the information impossible to comprehend.

  We killed Christ. We killed the Church. The Catacombs aren’t important. The scroll is the real treasure. What did any of that mean?

  When she’d left Boyd a few hours before, he claimed he’d be able to translate the document without any difficulty. Now he was like this. What could’ve turned him from a cocky professional to a whimpering zombie in such a short amount of time? Oh dear, she worried, maybe Boyd was having a mental breakdown. Maybe the helicopter, the avalanche, and the bus had finally gotten to him. Maybe he finally realized that their lives were in danger, unless…

  It dawned on her that she didn’t know what the scroll said. She’d left Boyd with the scroll, and when she returned he was wailing about its importance, claiming it was the key to everything. Everything. Could it be the key to his outburst as well? Was that possible?

  ‘What did it say?’ she demanded. ‘If it’s that important, I have to know what it says.’

  Boyd lowered his eyes. ‘I can’t tell you, my dear. I just can’t. It wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘What? After all we’ve been through, you owe me that and more.’

  ‘Don’t put me in this position,’ he pleaded. ‘I’m not trying to be the bad guy. I’m trying to save you. I really am. I’m trying to distance you from further danger — ’

  ‘Something more dangerous than snipers and exploding buses? If you haven’t noticed, people are trying to kill us, and I have a strange feeling that they’re not going to stop until we do something about it. So stop stalling and let me know what we’re up against.’

  Boyd paused, unsure of what to do. He’d spent his entire career trying to establish historical truths, yet he’d never had the chance to prove anything important until now. But this would be different. This discovery had the potential to shatter an entire belief system, to change the world. It was the type of artifact that archaeologists dream of. One that had modern significance.

  ‘Maria, I know this will sound melodramatic, but what I’m about to tell you is so shocking, so cancerous, it has the potential to destroy Christianity.’

  ‘You’re right,’ she scoffed. ‘That sounds ridiculous. How in the world is that possible?’

  Boyd breathed deeply, trying to think of appropriate words of warning. ‘If knowledge is the enemy of faith, then the Orvieto scroll is poison.’

  22

  Arch of Marcus Aurelius,

  Tripoli, Libya

  Nick Dial knew there was going to be another crucifixion. His theory was confirmed with an early morning phone call. Another victim had been found. This time in Africa.

  When Dial arrived in Tripoli, he didn’t know what kind of reception he was going to get. Libya was a member country with an active NCB office, yet one thing kept gnawing at him. He was an American walking into Mu’ammar al-Qaddafi’s backyard. And he was unarmed.

  Not exactly a dream getaway.

  Of course, this wasn’t a vacation. It was a business trip. He was greeted at the airport by a polite NCB agent named Ahmad, who showed no anti-American bias.

  During their drive to the crime scene, Dial steered the conversation away from the case, choosing to talk about the city instead. The most interesting fact he learned was about the streets, which were laid out in a narrow, crisscross pattern and filled with dozens of blind alleyways that were built to confuse would-be attackers. A trick that was taught to them by the Romans.

  Most remnants of ancient Rome were destroyed long ago, but not the Arco di Marco Aurelio a Tripoli. Chiseled out of white marble in 163 ad, the four-way arch soared to fifteen feet in height and was surmounted by an octagonal dome used to conceal the arch’s crown. Time had eroded the outer stones, slowly chipping away at the corners, yet somehow the deterioration only added to its presence. So did the palm trees that surrounded it like centurions on guard duty. They made the monument seem like a mirage, rising out of the marketplace like an oasis. A bloody oasis.

  The victim was found just before dawn. An Asian male, early thirties. Very athletic. Very naked. He was strung beneath the monument like a sacrifice to the gods, stretched out on two wooden beams and held in place with three wrought-iron spikes. Two through his wrists and one through his feet. Blood had been smeared across the monument — which arched over his body like a red rainbow — and dripped onto the ground where it collected in puddles of crimson mud.

  Ahmad drove his car into the marketplace, honking in hopes of clearing the road ahead. But people continued to haggle for vegetables and handbags and fish, ignoring his horn blasts like he wasn’t there. Dial sat fascinated, soaking in the local color from the passenger seat, listening to the Arabic chatter as they bickered back and forth for a better price.

  ‘We will get not further,’ Ahmad declared, pointing straight ahead. ‘Crowd too many.’

  Dial nodded, slowly realizing that the people in front of them weren’t bartering for baked goods or a straw basket. They were there as spectators, hoping to see something at the far end of the plaza. Dial looked closer and noticed a slew of satellite trucks on the other side of the monument. Big trucks. The type that could beam TV broadcasts to the four corners of the world.

  Dial tried to open his car door but couldn’t, due to all the people that engulfed them. A moving, swaying wave that surrounded his car like the ocean surrounds a boat. Undeterred, he stood on his seat and thrust himself through the sunroof, squeezing his body through the opening. Ahmad followed, and before long the two of them were forcing their way through the crowd, literally throwing people out of the way so they could get to the monument. An arch that had been there for nearly two thousand years. An ancient relic that was now a crime scene.

  With a single glance, Dial could tell that the Libyan police were better prepared than their Danish counterparts. Armed soldiers carrying Russian assault rifles stood on the sandstone walls that separated the Roman plaza from the curious throng, each soldier ready to pull his trigger at the first sign of trouble. Ahmad got the attention of one of the guards, who let Dial climb over the four-foot barrier where his ID was scrutinized and he was patted down for weapons.

  Yet none of this surprised Dial. He was an American in a hostile land. An outsider with a badge. No reason for them to welcome him. He was
surprised, though, when he realized that Ahmad wasn’t allowed inside. That meant Dial would have to face the cops without a translator.

  ‘You will be good,’ Ahmad assured him.

  Dial nodded but didn’t say a thing, quickly turning his focus to the interior of the garden. It was thirty feet by seventy-five feet and filled with a variety of flowers that added color to an otherwise bleak landscape. But in Dial’s mind, that was the reason that the arch was so striking. Its pure white surface looked like it had come from another world. Like an iceberg sitting in the middle of hell.

  ‘Pardon me, Mr Dial?’

  Dial turned and saw an elderly man resting against one of the walls, just leaning there in the hot sun like a lizard on a rock. He wore an olive suit and vest, even though the temperature was in the mid-nineties. Oddly, he seemed to be recharging in the sunlight, for his eyes were closed, and his head was tilted back at a forty-five-degree angle. ‘I understand there was a similar scene in Denmark.’

  Intrigued, Dial took a few steps forward. ‘That’s correct. And you are?’

  ‘Pardon my manners.’ The man opened his eyes and shook Dial’s hand. ‘My name is Omar Tamher, and I am in charge of this investigation. Normally I would’ve been reluctant to contact Interpol for a single murder, but due to the circumstances I felt it would be wise for both of us.’

  ‘Thank you for thinking of me.’

  Tamher nodded, sizing up Dial before he revealed any details. Dial returned the favor by doing the same with Tamher. Both men were impressed by what they saw.

  ‘At five thirty this morning, a vendor noticed the stains and stopped for a closer look. He was expecting to find paint. He found blood instead.’ Tamher took out his pen and pointed to the bottom left-hand corner of the monument. ‘The killers started their painting here and finished over there. You can actually see the brush marks on the marble.’

  Dial leaned in for a closer look. ‘What kind of brush?’

  Tamher shrugged. ‘It had a wide tip. Wider than the one they used on the sign.’

  ‘Let’s talk about the sign later. If I get sidetracked, I tend to get confused.’

  Tamher smiled. ‘As you wish.’

  ‘Were the stains made with the victim’s blood? Or someone else’s?’

  ‘No, that’s his blood. He had a deep gash in his side, caused by the tip of a sword or a very thin spear. I could be wrong, but I think they used the wound as their paint source, dipping their brush inside his rib cage on more than one occasion.’

  Dial didn’t blink. ‘Why do you think that?’

  Tamher crouched, pointing at the dirt. ‘We found a thin trail of blood that started under the victim’s chest. The path fanned out in several different directions. I’m assuming they kept going back for more, dripping blood as they walked.’

  Dial nodded, pleased with Tamher’s conclusion. ‘Time of death?’

  ‘Approximately five a.m., give or take thirty minutes.’

  ‘Really? That’s kind of ballsy, don’t you think? Leaving someone to die right before sunrise. Why take a chance like that? Why not slit his throat?’

  ‘I have no idea. Then again, I am not a killer.’

  ‘And why paint the monument? How tall is it, anyway? Fourteen, fifteen feet? That means the killer climbed on someone’s shoulders to finish the job. Either that, or this guy’s a giant.’

  ‘No ladder marks or signs of giants.’

  ‘What about handprints? Maybe the killer leaned against the arch for balance.’

  ‘No such luck. The monument was clean. The cross was clean. Everything came back clean.’

  Dial nodded, expecting as much. The killers had been efficient in Denmark, too. ‘Where’s the cross now? I can’t help but notice that it’s missing.’

  ‘Very observant of you, Mr Dial. We wanted to protect it so we moved the entire cross, body and all, to the coroner’s office. Forensic specialists are examining it now.’

  ‘What about pictures? Please tell me you took pictures.’

  He nodded. ‘We documented the entire scene. If you’d like, we can go to my office and look at them. They should be developed by now.’

  ‘In a minute,’ Dial said. ‘First tell me about the sign.’

  Tamher smiled. ‘Are you certain you’re ready? I don’t want to confuse you.’

  Dial laughed, glad to see the old guy had a personality. ‘I’ll try to keep up.’

  ‘It was written in red paint in very neat Arabic script. Four simple words. Very distinct. If you’d like, I’d be happy to translate it for you.’

  Dial shook his head. ‘Let me take a wild guess. Did it say, AND OF THE SON?’

  Tamher nodded, half impressed. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Because I dealt with his father up in Denmark.’

  ‘His father?’

  ‘Never mind… So, what can you tell me about the victim? Do we have a name yet? I can run his prints through our database if you think it would help.’

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary. We’re all very aware of his identity.’

  ‘Good. That’ll save me some legwork.’

  Tamher paused, trying to decide if Dial was joking. He quickly decided that he wasn’t. ‘You have no idea who he was, do you? I can’t believe no one told you. I just assumed that — ’

  ‘Assumed what? What are you talking about? No one told me anything about the victim.’

  ‘Not even your assistant?’

  ‘You mean Ahmad? He wanted to discuss the case on the drive in, but I wouldn’t let him. I like forming my own opinions based on what I see, not what someone else has seen.’

  ‘And the crowd? What about the crowd?’ He made a wide sweeping motion, indicating the thousands of people that surrounded them. ‘You have no idea why they’re here?’

  Dial shrugged. ‘I just figured they were rubbernecking. Same with the media. I deal with crowds all the time. They aren’t always this large, but they’re crowds nonetheless.’

  ‘Rubbernecking? What is this rubbernecking?’

  ‘Sorry. It’s an American term. It means to stare at the scene of an accident.’

  ‘Interesting. We have a similar phenomenon in Libya. We call it khibbesh.’

  ‘Khibbesh? What in the world does that mean?’

  ‘Rubbernecking.’

  Dial smiled. He rarely came across a foreign cop that shared his sense of humor. ‘So, tell me, what’s the deal? I’m dying to know why everyone’s here. I mean, if they aren’t khibbeshing.’

  ‘Some people are, while others are paying their respects.’

  ‘Their respects? To who, the dead guy?’

  Tamher nodded but remained silent.

  ‘Come on! Why would they pay their respects? Who the hell died? The king of England?’

  He shook his head, suddenly serious. ‘Close. Raj Narayan was the prince of Nepal.’

  23

  Payne gazed over the edge of the 900-foot precipice, trying to find the site that Barnes had described. No helicopter, no truck, no physical evidence of any kind. Only the fertile farmland of the southern Orvieto valley. ‘Where’s the damage? There should be some serious damage down there. Scattered debris, scorched earth, loss of vegetation, the works.’

  They spotted a path about one hundred feet to the left, which took them to the valley floor in a steep, zigzagging pattern. At the bottom they noticed several sets of tire tracks in the grass that were too shallow to be spotted from the high cliffs above.

  Jones sank to his knees and studied the wheel prints, an art he’d learned in the military police. ‘I’d say there were three trucks heading east at a slow rate of speed, probably within the last twelve hours. Large, industrial trucks. Fully loaded. Possibly salvage equipment. Not your typical four by four pickup. The treads are too large.’

  ‘So we’re in the right area.’

  Jones nodded. ‘It would seem so, yeah.’

  They proceeded east, following the tracks like bloodhounds. They ran parallel to the p
lateau, bisecting the open space between the olive groves to the right and the rock face to the left and swerved for nothing. The trucks had plowed through a vegetable garden, a small wooden fence, and a patch of white oleander before stopping near a massive pile of rocks. Payne stared at them and realized the front edge of the stones surpassed knee level. There was no way a loaded truck could’ve cleared this obstacle without gutting its underbelly. There had to be a different solution, something they were overlooking. ‘Could these have been dump trucks?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘What if these trucks arrived with stones? Couldn’t they have dumped their payload right here? That would account for the abrupt end to the trail. The rocks would’ve covered it up.’

  Jones considered this as he walked several meters to the far side of the pile. ‘You might be right. There are dozens of tracks here, fanning out in a wide variety of angles. And unless I’m mistaken, the depth of the tread keeps changing. That means they lessened their weight significantly in a short period of time.’

  ‘So the trucks came speeding along in the middle of the night and dropped several tons of rocks right here in the middle of nowhere… Is that what we’re saying?’

  Jones shook his head. ‘This was more than just dumping rocks. This was about picking up, too. Not only did someone beat us to the crash site, they decided to take it with them.’

  Tourists were usually the only people to visit Il Pozzo di San Patrizio (aka Saint Patrick’s Well), the artesian well built in 1527. But due to a rumor that swept through Orvieto, locals were drawn to the beige brick building like freshmen to a keg party.

  Payne and Jones spotted them on the other side of the Piazza Cahen, a large square in the center of town, and assumed it was the line to see the well. They passed the bus station and approached the back of the throng. Hundreds of people, young and old, clogged the courtyard ahead of them, surrounding the circular building with a silent intensity quite similar to the tone of the earlier funeral. For a better view, Jones climbed on a nearby wall and searched for Donald Barnes. He wanted to see his photos of the Orvieto crash site, hoping they would reveal something important, possibly the reason that the wreckage was hauled out by trucks in the dead of night. ‘I don’t think they’re even letting people inside the well. The door looks barricaded.’