Sign of the Cross paj-2 Read online

  ‘No, go ahead,’ Payne said, half stunned. They had just been busted in someone else’s office, yet he was being asked permission to make a call. God, the English were polite.

  ‘By the way,’ the guy reasoned, ‘I’m assuming you’re the chaps who rang me last night for an appointment. If I knew what you were after, perhaps I could expedite things?’

  Payne glanced at Jones and noticed his grin. The detective gods were looking out for them.

  ‘Actually,’ Payne said, ‘we have some urgent business to discuss with Dr Boyd, and time is of the essence. Any idea where we might find him?’

  ‘Well, I can assure you he’s not in that chest.’ Payne waited for the kid to smile, but somehow he managed to keep a straight face. ‘For the last few weeks he’s been in the Umbria region of Italy, specifically the town of Orvieto. I was planning on spending my summer there until Charles told me that I’d be more helpful at home. Not exactly a vote of confidence, would you say?’ The bitter tone in the kid’s voice told them everything they needed to know. He was pissed at Dr Boyd, so he decided to get revenge by using Boyd’s phone and helping them out.

  ‘Do you know where he’s staying?’ Jones wondered.

  He shook his head. ‘Orvieto is pretty small. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding him.’ He retrieved a book written by Boyd from the closest shelf. ‘Do you know what he looks like?’

  Payne nodded. ‘We have one picture from when Winston Churchill was still alive.’

  ‘Most likely his annual from Oxford. It amazes me that he was willing to sit still for it. He’s something of a recluse when it comes to cameras.’

  The kid flipped over the book and showed them the back photo. It must’ve been taken during one of Boyd’s lectures, for he was standing in front of a chalkboard with a pointer in his hand. His face and physique looked pretty much the same, albeit thirty years older. The only thing that had changed was his comb-over hairstyle. He had finally opted to go bald instead.

  Jones asked, ‘Do you mind if I keep this? I’d like to read his stuff.’

  ‘Not at all. Feel free to take whatever you’d like.’ The kid wrote his number on a scrap of paper and gave it to Jones. ‘Should you have any further questions, please don’t hesitate to call.’

  Payne said, ‘We won’t.’

  ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to trouble you mates for a favor.’ The kid finally cracked a smile. A devious little grin. ‘When you surprise Charles in Orvieto and do whatever you’re going to do to him, please tell him that I, Rupert Pencester the Fourth, said hello.’

  18

  Nick Dial knew that Cardinal Rose would honor his promise to get back in touch but doubted he’d get anything of substance within twenty-four hours. Thankfully, Cardinal Rose was full of surprises.

  ‘Here’s what I can tell you,’ Rose said when he called. ‘Father Erik Jansen came to the Vatican eight years ago from a tiny parish in Finland. Upon his arrival he filled a number of duties, everything from clerical to spiritual, yet nothing that stands out until a year ago.’

  Dial leaned forward. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘He was reassigned to a new post with the Pontifical Biblical Commission.’

  ‘To do what?’

  Rose sighed. ‘I’m not quite sure. Perhaps if I had some more time.’

  ‘I’ve heard of the PBC, but I’m clueless about them. What can you tell me?’

  ‘Where to start? Well, they’ve been around since the turn of the century. Make that last century. Somewhere around 1901 or 1902. It was founded by Pope Leo XIII and used to make crucial interpretations about the Bible.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘A few years ago they released a study that examined the correlation between the Hebrew Scriptures and the Christian Bible in hopes of bringing the two groups closer together.’

  Dial stroked his chin. ‘Sounds controversial to me.’

  ‘You’re right about that. Then again, anytime the Vatican changes their interpretation of the Bible, it’s bound to cause a stir.’

  ‘So the PBC is like the American Supreme Court. They have the final say on things.’

  Rose smiled at the comparison. ‘In a rudimentary way, I guess you’re right — only the PBC is much slower. Take the Hebrew study. It took them ten years to draft their position statement.’

  ‘Ten years? That’s a long time to wait for some answers.’

  ‘When you’re dealing with the Word of God, you don’t want to make mistakes.’

  Dial shook his head as he wrote a few notes. ‘Any idea what they’re working on now?’

  ‘Sorry. That’s a closely guarded secret that only a select few would know.’

  ‘Would Jansen be one of those people?’

  ‘Most appointees are senior members of the Vatican, men who are even older than I am. I doubt they’d include such a young member of our community.’

  ‘Yet he still worked for them.’ Dial stared at his bulletin board and focused on a crime scene photo of Father Jansen. Even with a broken face, he appeared way too young to have a position on such a powerful committee. ‘Could he have been an intern or somebody’s assistant? I mean, you mentioned that he had experience with that type of stuff.’

  Rose nodded. ‘That’d make more sense than a spiritual role.’

  ‘Could his nationality be a factor? Is anyone from Finland on the Commission?’

  ‘I can check.’

  ‘While you’re at it, see if there are any Danes. We still don’t know why Jansen was brought to Denmark. Maybe it was some kind of message to the PBC.’

  ‘You think that’s possible?’ Rose wondered.

  ‘The fact is Jansen worked for one of the most powerful committees at the Vatican. That’s reason enough to suspect his death was job-related. Throw in the fact that he was crucified and the killer left a note that quoted the Bible, and, well, you see where I’m going.’

  ‘Just a second! What do you mean the killer quoted the Bible?’

  Dial smiled. Rose had taken the bait. The truth was he was trying to shield the Bible angle from all outsiders, fearing if the media reported it that every religious fanatic in the world would be asking him questions about the Bible that he didn’t know how to answer. But Dial also knew if he was going to get any top secret dirt from Rose, he was going to have to reveal some of his own. Nothing major, just enough to make it seem like give-and-take instead of take, take, take.

  So he said, ‘Joe, I could get in big trouble for telling you this. However, if you promise to keep this quiet…’

  ‘You have my word, Nick. This is between us. I promise.’

  Dial nodded, satisfied. ‘The killer left a note that said, “IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER.” Nailed it on the cross above the victim, just like the sign above Christ.’

  ‘But why?’ he gasped. ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘We’re not sure, Joe, we’re really not. But that’s why I need to know everything about Father Jansen. His duties, his enemies, his secrets. It’s the only way to stop the killers from doing this again. It’s the only way to save lives.’

  ‘My Lord! You think they’re going to kill again!’

  ‘Yes, and I wouldn’t be shocked if they followed the same pattern.’

  ‘You mean more priests?’

  ‘No, Joe, I mean more crucifixions.’

  19

  Ratchadapisek Road,

  Bangkok, Thailand

  Raj Narayan had been spoiled his entire life. His father was a powerful man in Nepal, a fact that Narayan pointed out to anyone who got in his way.

  Of course there were some drawbacks to his life — the major one being his inability to do anything without it becoming national news. So when Narayan felt the urge to be bad, he was forced to leave Nepal for the anonymity of a foreign country. And this was one of those times.

  Ratchadapisek Road is lined with nightclubs and fancy hotels and some of the finest restaurants in all of Asia, yet none of that mattered to Narayan. He m
ade the two-hour flight to Bangkok every month and did it for one reason only: the world-famous massage parlors. Within a span of five blocks, there were over twenty spas. Each of them catered to the needs of foreigners, men who were willing to spend more cash in a single night than the average Thai worker made in an entire year.

  Narayan was a good-looking man in his early thirties. Jet-black hair, dark eyes, and more self-confidence than Muhammad Ali. He had visited Bangkok on several occasions and spent so much cash at Kate’s Club, a quiet club off the main drag, that the manager was willing to empty the lounge whenever Narayan was in town.

  He sipped on a Bombay martini as the girls, wearing high heels and short negligees, took their seats in the fishbowl, a gallery that was tucked beyond a thick wall of glass. Most of the women were Oriental, an even mixture of Thai, Koreans, Chinese, and Japanese. Yet the most revered women in Bangkok were the Asian girls with porcelain skin, for it gave them an appearance of purity, even though that couldn’t be further from the truth.

  But in this world, appearance was all that mattered.

  Women were broken down into four categories: normal, super, sideline, and model — guidelines that determined how much they were paid for their services.

  Normal girls were the cheapest of the four and included ladies who were dark-skinned, over the age of twenty-five, or a few pounds overweight. But they were not ugly. Sometimes they possessed a flaw as small as a tiny scar that lowered their value and status.

  Super girls, on the other hand, didn’t have to be super models as long as they were trained in the art of the ‘super massage,’ a full-body soap technique done on large rubber mats that was considered an art form in Thailand, one that was taught in special classes by Thai women who were too old to work in a club. To many foreign men, the act was so erotic that they would fly to Bangkok just to be bathed.

  The sideline girls were the wild cards of the group. They came and went as they pleased, sometimes working in several clubs per night. They usually sat at the bar, hoping to catch the eye of a stranger while trying to convince him to buy her a drink that would ultimately lead to more.

  But never with Narayan. The truth was he wasn’t interested in normal, super, or sideline girls. In his mind they were undeserving of his attention or his family seed. To him the models were the only group that mattered. They were the cream of the crop. The best of the best. So stunning that many of them had been featured in American magazines like Penthouse or Cheri.

  When it came to these women, Narayan couldn’t help himself. They were far too beautiful to ignore. The way they pranced and preened under the spotlight. The way they smiled at him through the glass and looked at him like he was the only man in the world. The way they caressed their skin with gentle touches, rubbing the contours and crevices of their bodies in a naughty fashion, silk nighties hanging off their shoulders like dew on a lotus blossom. There was something about the way they moved that affected him, something deep inside.

  He took a deep drag on his cigarette, then blew the smoke through his nose like a hungry dragon. He had already ordered ‘the pigs’ out of the fishbowl and was concentrating on the twenty women who stood in front of him, trying to figure out who would satisfy him the best. Each of the females had a number pinned to her dress like she was being judged in a beauty pageant. But in this case, the winner wasn’t given a tiara or a fancy title like Miss Thailand. She was given a stack of money and a male companion for the next few hours.

  Several minutes passed before Narayan was sure. He studied each of the girls, trying to picture what they would do to him and what he would do in return. No need to rush such a critical decision. When he was ready, he nodded toward the manager who ran to his table like an overeager butler. The sudden flash of movement unnerved Narayan’s guards, who had positioned themselves near the two main exits and were ready for anything. One of them unholstered his gun and aimed it at the manager, an act that embarrassed Narayan so badly that he ordered his guards out of the club and threatened to have them killed if they came back before he was done.

  The manager, familiar with Narayan’s temper, took his outburst in stride. In fact, it was the main reason that he waited on Narayan himself. He knew what to expect from his best customer.

  ‘As always, your favorite suite is waiting for you. Have you decided on a companion?’

  Narayan rubbed out his cigarette on the tabletop. ‘I want them all. For the entire night.’

  A round bed sat in the middle of the suite, not far from a hot tub. Steam covered the mirrors that lined the walls and ceiling, a fact that disappointed Narayan. He liked looking at himself when he lay among the models, their oiled-up bodies slithering over him like a pit of horny snakes, taking turns stroking him and kissing him in all the right places. It made him feel like a king.

  Narayan smiled with anticipation as he took off his shirt and threw it on the couch, soon followed by his pants and shorts. It was one of the few times that he allowed himself to be vulnerable, which only made things more exciting. No bodyguards, no weapons, no clothes. Nothing to protect him but a condom.

  He put on a CD, then adjusted the lights on a nearby panel, turning them down a notch until the room felt like dusk. He heard a soft knock on the door and told them to come in as he strolled toward the bathroom. Since he was a regular, the girls knew exactly what to do. They’d enter, get undressed, and lie on the bed like icing on a cake. At least as many of them as could fit. The others would stand nearby, waiting to take their turn whenever he beckoned.

  Narayan heard footsteps in the suite, and his heart started to race. He put his hands in the sink and splashed cold water on his face, trying to contain his excitement. He’d been waiting for this moment since his last trip to Bangkok. It always made him feel like the most powerful man in the world. ‘Are you ready?’ he called in Thai. ‘Because here I come!’

  The woman standing in the doorway was breathtaking — and completely naked. So was the one after that, and the one after that. Narayan pawed at all the ladies as they strode past, sometimes grabbing breasts, sometimes grabbing ass, but always doing something, just to let them know that he was their boss for the rest of the night and he could do anything he wanted.

  He began by throwing five of them on the bed and spraying them with jasmine-scented body oil, just enough to lubricate every nook and cranny that he might want to explore as the night developed. Once he was positive that each of his beauties was glistening like a lotus blossom, he took a running start and dove on top of them like a little kid. The girls squealed with delight — much of it faked — as they slithered up and down his body, coating him with oil and bringing him to full arousal. From there they took turns pleasing him in a multitude of ways.

  An hour later, when he tired of the first five women, he ordered them to clean themselves off and change the sheets while he climbed into the hot tub with four different models who had been sitting off to the side, watching. Narayan told one of the girls to sit on his lap and wash his hair while another rubbed his neck from behind. The other two took turns rubbing his feet and legs, all the while telling him how handsome he was and how horny he made them feel.

  But their horniness disappeared when four hooded men burst through the door and charged with military proficiency toward the hot tub. One of the men pointed a gun at Narayan’s head, ordering him to stay still, while the others corralled the naked models and forced them into the bathroom. The task was harder than it seemed because most of the women were either coated with oil or bathwater, a mix that made the tiled floor as slick as a frozen pond. The models were screaming and crying and carrying on, all the while slipping and sliding in every direction. Eventually they got to the bathroom by crawling, a conga line of naked asses creeping toward the back of the room.

  The scene would’ve been comic if not for the coldhearted stares of the four men and the gun pointed at Narayan. The men didn’t laugh or smile or even stare at the procession of naked women that eased past them. Instead,
they held their positions like they were trained to do.

  The scourging wouldn’t happen there. It was far too public, and Narayan’s bodyguards were way too close. Instead the men took him to a remote bungalow outside the tourist traffic of Ratchadapisek Road yet close enough to get the job done quickly.

  They started by binding Narayan face-first to the bed frame, his mouth sealed shut and his arms and legs spread wide, completely at their mercy.

  The man with the gun tucked it into his belt and pulled out a flagellum, a short whip consisting of three leather thongs with balls of lead affixed to the ends of each. This was the type of weapon that had been used on Christ for his scourging, the one that ripped through his back like a chain saw, the one that sapped him of his strength long before he was attached to the beams of the cross. It would do the same thing to Narayan.

  The first blow hit flesh with a sickening crack, followed by the horror of Narayan’s muted screams, yet no one would come running. The duct tape muffled most of the sound, and the bungalow was far too isolated to be threatened by interlopers.

  For the next several minutes, the man flogged Narayan repeatedly, bruising his legs, shoulders, and back until his skin could take no more and ripped apart like wrapping paper. Blood oozed from the veins and capillaries in his epidermis, then spurted when the subsequent blows sliced through the arteries in his underlying muscle.

  Just like two thousand years ago. Just like the death of Christ.

  In time, Narayan passed out from the pain but not before the skin hung from his back like the remnants of a tattered flag, each strand soaked in crimson dye.

  Yet this was only the beginning. Things would get worse. Much worse.

  And it wouldn’t stop until their message was revealed to the world.

  20

  Wednesday, July 12