Sign of the Cross paj-2 Read online

  ‘Not winter and summer,’ he corrected. ‘Tiberius mentioned snow and sun. He said, “the management of snow and sun… will further divide the lives of our people.” Meaning once they conquered the Britains, the Empire would be too large for its own good. Rome would stretch from the land of snow, Britain, to the land of sun, Egypt. And in Tiberius’s opinion, that was too much for their economy to handle.’

  ‘But if Tiberius knew Britain was going to hurt the Empire in the long run, why go after it?’

  ‘He claims it was for Mercury, the Roman God of Commerce. Tiberius said that Mercury thirsted for more. I guess that’s his way of saying he didn’t have a choice in the matter. He felt the gods would grow unhappy if Rome became content with what they had.’

  ‘Even if acquiring more was a bad thing?’

  Boyd nodded. ‘But the greed doesn’t stop there. You haven’t heard anything yet.’

  To avoid the impending poverty of our citizens, I have concluded that drastic measures must be taken, the scarcity of public wealth must be avoided at all cost, as a failure to maintain the excellence of the Empire would be attributed to a delinquency of leadership, a claim that would insult the accomplishments of Augustus before.

  Word has arrived from the east that the latest Messiah has surfaced, a man, unlike the dozens that have come before him, he who reeks of piety and selflessness, a charmer blessed with throngs of disciples, power of persuasion, the gift of miracles. Tales of healing and resurrection emerge from the desert with the regularity of scorpions, but twice as deadly, for insects are easily squashed. Herod Antipas, ruler of Galilee, speaks of pride swelling among the slaves, rebellions against Roman authority, gathering of masses near Capernaum. Some feel that this threat should be extinguished, eliminated through force of will and power of sword, disposed of in its infancy like the sons of Bethlehem. But I am not one to concur, why kill a cow that has been presented by the gods? Milk it, and its sweet nectar can nourish for a lifetime.

  Boyd paused, allowing Maria to absorb the message of the scroll’s middle section.

  She said, ‘There’s no doubt that this is about Jesus. The reference to healings and resurrections, the gathering of masses in Capernaum. That’s where his ministry was located, right next to the Sea of Galilee.’

  He nodded. ‘The Old Testament referred to it as the Sea of Chinnereth, but you are right. Jesus used Capernaum as a gathering place for his flock.’

  ‘I can’t believe this. We’re holding a document that refers to Christ in the present tense. This is so wrong! I mean, it compares him to a cow that should be milked!’

  ‘But to Tiberius, Jesus wasn’t God. He was a dangerous con man. Like he mentioned, dozens of men had already come forth and claimed to be the Messiah, and most of them had throngs of followers as well. So to Tiberius, Jesus was just another in a long list of frauds.’

  ‘I guess so, but… I don’t know. I don’t know how to feel about this.’

  ‘Don’t feel, my dear. That’s not your job. Your duty is to examine. Try to distance yourself from the message, especially from the part I’m about to read. If you don’t, you’ll be completely consumed by its message, because it’s worse than you can possibly imagine.’

  If the hungry are promised bread, they’ll fight until their bellies are full; this much is assured by history, written by the action of men and the nature of their spirit, but a question plagues my slumber: does it matter where the feast comes from? Would a starving man turn down a meal if it is offered by his enemy? Perhaps, for fear of poison, but what if the food is presented in a manner that he’d welcome? Would the bread not be accepted with outstretched hands? I proclaim it would. Yea, the people of Judea are famished, clinging to hope and the promise of salvation, completely ignorant of Roman gods and the rightful way to live, they look for the promised one to emerge from their flock, the one who is truly their Messiah. This cannot be prevented; no war, no punishment shall remove the coming of the one from their scripture; they search for him, they pray for him, they wait for him and shall anticipate him until his arrival has been trumpeted by the masses. Why not give him to them? Let us feed their hunger with our choice of food, allowing them to feast on the coming of their savior, they can drink in their Christ and revel in his teachings, words that shall threaten us not, for we know he is merely a pawn that we have lifted to the level of Jupiter.

  For such a ruse to succeed, there must be no doubt among the Jews; they must witness an act of God with their own eyes, a feat so magical, so mystifying, that future generations will sing of its splendor for eternity, ending their search for the coming Messiah once and for all, for they will think he has already come. Belief in his presence must be widespread, not birthed on the fringes of their sun-drenched land, passed from traveler to traveler in rumor alone, it shall begin in their greatest populace, spread from the heart of Jerusalem like an unstoppable plague, devouring everyone in Judea like a hungry beast. Once this occurs, once no doubt of the Christ remains, Rome shall be in a position to profit, using the Jews’ unyielding faith against them and their riches to our advantage. We will mock their beliefs in public while collecting their donations in private; we will order them to worship Roman gods, knowing they will cling to their Messiah like children to a teat, but this is what we want, for the more they worship a fake God, the weaker they shall become, and from this weakness, we shall profit, yea, we shall control their bodies and their spirits as well. For the good of all things Roman, we shall begin at once, using the Nazarene as our tool, the one I have chosen as the Jewish Messiah.

  Farewell, 29th August

  Boyd pushed his notebook aside after reading the passage, and braced for her response. In truth, he half expected a dozen questions about the text or a volatile shouting match where she challenged everything that he had said. But what he got was the exact opposite. Maria remained quiet, distant, the color in her cheeks completely vacant, her bloodshot eyes filled with moisture.

  There was no need to clarify anything. Maria grasped the scroll’s significance on her own.

  Amazingly, if the message on the scroll was accurate, then the miracle of Jesus Christ and the foundation of Christianity were based on the biggest scam of all time.

  26

  The office was bare except for some furniture and a few filing cabinets. No personal touches of any kind. It was the type of room that would make Nick Dial quit his job if he had to call it his own. Yet it was exactly what he expected in a Tripoli police station.

  Omar Tamher walked in with photos of the autopsy and spread them across the desk. Sheepishly, Dial took out his bifocals and hooked them over his ears, somehow embarrassed that he couldn’t see well enough on his own.

  ‘Nick, what do you think? Any similarities to Denmark?’

  Dial nodded, even though this was his first time with the pictures. ‘Jansen had the same body type as Narayan. Roughly the same height and age. Both men were in good physical condition, which tells me they weren’t chosen at random. They were picked for a reason.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘If you were looking for an easy target, would you choose these guys? No, you’d go after someone who was older or injured. Someone you could overpower. Maybe even a female. But a young guy in good shape? Not likely. Too many things could go wrong.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘These wounds are consistent with Jansen’s. Spikes were driven through the wrists and feet while he was unconscious. Too much screaming otherwise.’ He pointed to one of the autopsy photos, a close-up of Narayan’s left wrist. ‘See how the wound spreads away from the spike? The same thing happened in Denmark. The body weight is too heavy for the rods to handle. Something had to give, and it wasn’t going to be the spikes. In time the surrounding tissue starts to tear, same with the veins, tendons, etc. A very messy way to die.’

  Tamher nodded. ‘The coroner said the chest wound was the fatal blow.’

  Dial sorted through the pile until he found a close-up
of Narayan’s rib cage. ‘Looks identical to Jansen’s. Probably done with a spear. At least that’s what the Bible tells us.’

  ‘And the vandalism? Any theories?’

  He shrugged. ‘They didn’t paint anything in Denmark, even though there were plenty of walls nearby. That suggests that the arch was an impulse act, not a premeditated one.’

  Tamher frowned. ‘They used a brush, Nick. That seems planned to me.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. The brush could’ve been in the back of their van or in the toolbox where they kept their spikes. I mean, you didn’t find any ladder marks, did you? That means they weren’t completely prepared for the painting.’

  ‘True, but…’

  ‘Listen, I’m not ruling out the possibility. It might be an important clue or nothing more than a killer marking his territory. I can’t tell you how many bodies I’ve found that were soaked in somebody else’s piss.’

  ‘Really?’

  Dial was surprised that Tamher had never seen that in Libya. Then again, maybe it was a European thing. ‘We’ll know more once we find the next vic. Patterns will start to emerge.’

  ‘The next one?’

  ‘You don’t think they’re done, do you? Not with the Holy Ghost waiting in the wings.’

  ‘The Holy Ghost?’

  ‘You know, the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost? There’s bound to be a victim for him. And after that, who knows? They might start on the Hail Mary.’

  Tamher frowned as he took a seat behind the desk. Dial could tell that something was bothering him so he put the crime photos down, waiting for Tamher to fill the silence. It was a tactic that worked on cops and criminals alike.

  ‘Why did they come here? We’re a Muslim nation not a Christian one. Where do we fit?’

  ‘Beats me,’ Dial admitted. ‘Then again, maybe the killers were looking for some R amp; R after they dumped the body. I’ve traveled all over the world to every continent on the globe, but I’ve never seen a country like this. Libya is simply gorgeous.’

  Tamher beamed with pride, which was what Dial was hoping for. He knew how crucial it was to stay on Tamher’s good side. Without him, his access to the crime scene would disappear.

  ‘Unfortunately, it’s way too early to label these as Christian murders. I wish that wasn’t the case, but what choice do we have? The fact is that Narayan wasn’t a Christian — he was a Hindu — so this might not be about religion.’

  ‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’

  ‘Not really. Then again I don’t know what to believe.’

  In Dial’s mind the only common thread between the murders was the way that they killed. These men were kidnapped, shipped to a specific location, and then crucified like Jesus Christ. But why? What were the killers trying to say? What did these guys have in common?

  Not much, according to Interpol.

  Jansen was a devout Catholic who grew up in Finland as the middle child in a middle-class family. He lived a clean life — no drugs, no sexcapades, no legal problems — and knew at a very early age that he wanted to join the priesthood. Dial was still waiting for additional information from Cardinal Rose, but according to preliminary reports, everyone thought very highly of him.

  The same could not be said about Narayan, who spent half his time in bars and the other half in bed. He was one of several princes in Nepal, a country that had seen its share of royal tragedies in recent years, the most famous occurring in July 2001, when Crown Prince Dipendra pulled out an M16 and an Uzi at a family party and killed the king, queen, and princess.

  Dial shook his head as he pondered the two victims. What did these guys have in common? Different religions. Different homelands. Different lifestyles. Their only connection was their gender and the way they died. Tortured, then nailed to a cross.

  Crucified like Jesus Christ.

  27

  By claiming to be friends of the victim, Payne and Jones were granted immediate access to Il Pozzo di San Patrizio. To guarantee their cooperation a young deputy was assigned to lead them down the 248 steps to the bottom of Saint Patrick’s Well, a sixteenth-century landmark named for its supposed similarities to the Irish cave where Saint Patrick used to pray.

  As they began their descent, Payne lagged behind, trying to figure out how they had built it. Two diametrically opposed doors led to separate staircases, each superimposed over the other, which prevented descenders from colliding with ascenders. The original concept was conceived by Leonardo da Vinci, who devised the stairs for an Italian brothel so its patrons could sneak in and out of the whorehouse with their anonymity intact. The customers were so pleased that word spread about the stairs, and the design was implemented in a number of new structures, including the pope’s well. Another stroke of genius was the way the architect took advantage of natural light. The stairs were illuminated by a spiraling series of seventy hand-carved windows that allowed sunlight to flow through the gaps in the roof and filter to the outer circumference of the well, providing travelers with more than enough light to fetch water.

  ‘Jon?’ Jones called from below. ‘Are you coming?’

  Payne picked up his pace until he encountered Jones around the next turn in the stairs.

  ‘Our escort was worried about you. Barnes died in here an hour ago, and the cops don’t want a repeat performance.’

  ‘I don’t blame them. This place would be a bitch to clean.’

  ‘Plus it’s a historic landmark. The cop told me while Pope Clement VII was hiding in Orvieto, he was afraid his enemies would cut off his water supply. To prevent that from happening, he ordered this well to be dug. All told, it’s 43 feet wide and 203 feet deep.’

  ‘Damn! The pope must’ve been thirsty.’

  ‘It wasn’t just for him. See how wide the steps are? That’s so pack animals could make it down the slope without falling. They were actually allowed to drink right from the source.’

  Payne winced. ‘That’s pretty disgusting. No wonder Barnes had the runs.’

  ‘Thankfully, the town doesn’t rely on the well anymore. Otherwise I’m sure their water would taste funny for the next few weeks.’

  ‘Oh yeah, why’s that?’

  Instead of speaking, Jones pointed to the violent image that gleamed in the natural spotlight. Donald Barnes lay facedown in the center of the well, his ample body bisecting the wooden bridge that connected the two staircases. Members of the local police poked and prodded him for clues as blood oozed from his ruptured gut, dripping into the water and turning it dark crimson.

  The cop in charge of the investigation saw their approach and tried to prevent them from seeing Barnes sprawled in a puddle of his own blood. Unfortunately, he wasn’t quick enough. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said in clear English. ‘I know this must be difficult for you.’

  Payne and Jones nodded, not knowing what to say.

  The detective pulled out a notebook and pen. ‘We heard his name was Donald.’

  ‘Yes,’ Payne said, ‘Donald Barnes. He was an American.’

  ‘As are you,’ the cop said, never lifting his eyes from his pad. He took their names and addresses, then asked, ‘Were you friends with the deceased for long?’

  ‘Not really. We just met him today at the funeral.’ Payne studied the cop, waiting for some kind of reaction. ‘He willingly gave us assistance when we needed it. Directions, a list of sites to see, and so on. He also described the helicopter crash that killed your colleague on Monday.’

  The cop nodded, still not reacting. ‘Any idea where he was from, or where he was staying?’

  Payne shrugged. ‘Midwestern U.S., maybe Nebraska. At least that’s what his T-shirt says. And as far as his hotel goes, we’re not sure. We didn’t know him long enough to find out.’

  As Payne finished speaking, the young officer who’d led them down the steps approached the detective. He whispered a number of Italian phrases, then held up a single key adorned with the monogram GHR. The detective smiled at the discovery. ‘Gentlemen, are we
through here?’

  Jones shook his head, then lied. ‘Actually, there’s one more thing. We took a few pictures with Donald in front of the cathedral. Could we possibly have the film as a remembrance?’

  The detective glanced at the body and frowned. ‘Camera? We didn’t find any camera. No wallet, film, or anything of value… In my opinion this was just a robbery that went bad.’

  Payne and Jones knew that was bullshit. But the last people they were going to tell were the cops. If they did that, all the cops were going to do was get in their way.

  Regrettably, that ended up happening anyway.

  As they emerged from the well, Jones growled, ‘This wasn’t a robbery. It was an assassination.’

  Payne pushed through the crowd of onlookers. ‘An assassination? How do you figure?’

  ‘Because it’s too coincidental to be anything else. This town hasn’t seen violence in years, now there are three deaths in two days. Plus the latest victim just happens to be someone with proof of the crash site. C’mon! What else could it be?’

  ‘So let me get this straight. We started with one case, and now we’re up to three: Dr Boyd, the stolen crash site, and Donald Barnes.’

  ‘Yep, that about sums it up.’

  ‘Damn! We aren’t very good at this.’

  Jones laughed. ‘Any ideas on where to start?’

  Payne nodded. ‘Let’s stick to Boyd, since that’s the reason we’re here. Let’s assume it was his truck at the bottom of the cliff. I mean, no one’s come forward to claim it. Plus there was a police chopper hovering above it and rumors of a grave robber in the area. That means either he died in the explosion, he’s still in Orvieto, or he left town some other way.’

  ‘Makes sense to me.’

  ‘And unless he had an accomplice, he either stole a car or bummed a ride.’

  ‘Or used public transportation.’

  ‘And since there aren’t any airports in town, the odds are pretty good that he used a bus.’