“They’re both inside the museum,” Perini replied. “They arrived about three-quarters of an hour ago. Bronson was carrying a black leather case.”
The four men crossed the road and entered the museum together.
“So what you and Angela are saying is that we found the last resting place of St.
Peter, and that one of the skeletons—the one that had been crucified—was his. Is that correct?”
Puente shook his head helplessly at Bronson’s question. “I’m a Catholic,” he said,
“and I’ve always accepted the teachings of the Church. I know there’s been confusion about the bones they found in Rome, but I’ve always assumed that the apostle’s remains—if they still exist—would be found
“So is that the secret—the lie?” Bronson asked. “Is that what the Italian meant? That St. Peter’s bones were
“No,” Puente said decisively. “Neither the existence nor the location of the bones would make any real difference to the Church. He must have been talking about something else.”
“What about the second body?” Bronson demanded. “You’re not going to tell me that was St. Paul?”
“It’s at least possible. Again, it’s not known exactly when he died, but it’s almost certain he was executed on Nero’s orders in A.D. sixty-four or sixty-seven.”
“Paul was a Roman citizen,” Angela added, “and so he couldn’t have been crucified.
Beheading would be the obvious method of choice, and that does seem to fit with the bodies we found.”
“But why would Nero have been paying these two men money? And why would he then have had them both killed?”
“That,” Puente said, “is the nub of the matter. Perhaps the second diptych or the scroll will provide some answers.”
Tenderly, he closed the first diptych and placed it, together with the fragments of
“Now this,” he said, when the relic was open on the table in front of him, “is different. This appears to be a confidential order, issued by Nero himself, giving specific instructions to Saul of Tarsus—he was also sometimes known as ‘the Jew from Cilicia.’ It’s signed ‘SQVET,’ so presumably Paul accepted the assignment.”
Puente sat back in his chair and rubbed his face with his hands. “This is unbelievable,” he muttered.
“Take a look at the scroll, Josep,” Angela suggested quietly. “That’s what frightened me.”
Puente moved the diptych to one side, picked up the small scroll and carefully unraveled it. He moved the magnifier over the text to begin translating the characters.
When he finished, he looked up at Angela, his face as pale as hers. “What do you think this means?” he asked.
“I only read the first few lines, but it referred to the ‘Tomb of Christianity,’ which held the bones of ‘the convert’ and ‘the fisherman.’ ”
Puente nodded. “This scroll,” he said, “was apparently written by a Roman named Marcus Asinius Marcellus.”
“We worked out that he was acting as Nero’s agent in some secret operation,”
Bronson said.
“Exactly,” Puente replied. “From what I’ve read here, it looks to me as if he was pressured into acting by the Emperor—”
“That makes sense,” Bronson interrupted. “We think Nero saved him from execution when he was involved in a plot to forge a will.”
“Well, according to the scroll,” Puente said, in a voice that was far from steady, “the author states explicitly that Christianity was a sham, nothing more than a cult started by Nero to serve his own purposes, and based on a handful of lies, and that these two men—the men we now know as St. Peter and St. Paul—were in the pay of the Romans.”
II
“Check the whole building,” Mandino instructed Rogan. “Start with the roof terrace and work your way down. I’ll stay on the ground floor in case they’re somewhere here. When you see Bronson and Lewis, leave Perini and Verrochio to cover them, and come and fetch me.”
“Understood.”
Rogan led the way up to the deserted roof terrace and worked his way back down, checking each level carefully.
“No sign of them,
“Not through the front entrance,” Perini answered. “We were both watching it carefully. They definitely didn’t come out again.”
“There’s a basement with a private library,” Mandino told them, checking a museum information leaflet. “They must be down there. Let’s go.”
It was almost closing time as Mandino led the way toward the basement entrance.
As they approached, a guard came over to them, raising his hand to stop them.
“Take him, Perini,” Mandino murmured, as the man walked toward them, “but do it quietly, then lock the doors. We don’t want any interruptions.”
Perini drew his pistol and jammed it into the man’s stomach.
“Verrochio,” Mandino said, turning away, “take the receptionist. Rogan, secure the shop.”
Under the silent pressure of Perini’s Glock, the guard walked over to the main doors, which he closed and locked. Verrochio escorted the receptionist over to the museum shop, the sight of his pistol ensuring her silent cooperation. Two late visitors and the shop assistant stood quaking at the far end of the shop, their arms in the air, while Rogan covered the three of them. Perini produced a handful of plastic cable ties and handed them to Verrochio, who expertly tied up all five people, making them sit on the floor and lashing their hands behind their backs and tying their ankles together.
“There’s hardly any money in the till,” the assistant said, her voice quavering.
“We’re not interested in the takings,” Perini told her. “Keep quiet—that means no shouting for help—and you won’t be harmed. If any of you yell out, I’ll shoot. And I don’t care who gets hurt. Do you understand?”
All five nodded vigorously.
Josep Puente had always taken pride in his faith. He was a Roman Catholic, born and raised. He attended mass every Sunday. But what he’d read that afternoon in the two diptychs and the scroll had turned his world upside down. And he really didn’t know what he should do about it. He did know that the three objects—whether elaborate and convincing forgeries or genuine relics—were probably the most important ancient documents that he, or anyone else, would ever see.
When they heard the sound of approaching footsteps, none of them paid much attention. Then a man stepped through the doorway, flanked by three others, each holding a pistol.
“So, Lewis, we meet again,” Mandino said, his voice cutting through the silence.
“And where’s Bronson?”
For several seconds nobody said a word. Angela and Puente were sitting on opposite sides of the library table, the scroll and the diptychs in front of them.
Bronson was out of sight, walking between the library shelves. The moment he heard Mandino speak, he drew the Browning pistol and crept back toward the center of the room.
He risked a quick glance around a freestanding bookcase to check exactly where the intruders were, then took four rapid strides across the room. Two of the gunmen saw him, but before they could react he’d cocked the Browning—the metallic sound unnaturally loud in the tomb-like silence—seized the back of Mandino’s collar with his left hand and placed the barrel of the pistol firmly against his head. Bronson pulled the man backward, away from his armed companions, the pistol never wavering.
“It’s time,” Bronson said, “to find out what the hell’s going on, starting with why you’re here, Mandino.”
He felt the man give a start of surprise.
“Yes, I know exactly who you are,” Bronson said. “Tell your men to lower their weapons, otherwise the Rome
