The Sacred Blood

“No, thank you, Patrick.”

The taller priest simply shook his head.

“Slainte,” Donovan said with a friendly nod and another glance at the man’s priest collar. “Forgive me, but”—he backed up a few steps to return the pot to the burner—“have we met?”

“No,” the smaller one said. He sipped the coffee, steam wafting over his dark eyes. “But we come on behalf of the Holy See.” Orlando made his introductions, referring to his colleague as “Father Piotr Kwiatkowski.”

“I see,” Donovan said.

“It wasn’t easy finding you,” he said, embellishing the truth. Passport tracking had indicated Donovan’s entry into Northern Ireland on July seventh. And though he hadn’t used credit cards, a recent obituary for his father, as well as the deceased’s estate transference records—including a deed for a family home in Ardoyne and ownership of this establishment— had been easily found in their search of public records.

Donovan gave him a stiff stare.

“Seems you left in quite a hurry after Cardinal Santelli’s, shall we say, sudden demise.”

“The reasons for my departure are no one’s business,” Donovan dourly replied, snatching up a rag and buffing the counter. “Best for you to state your business, Father.”

“We’ll waste no time then.” Clawing his mug with sinewy fingers, the man slurped another mouthful of coffee before going on. “We’ve been informed about your involvement with Dr. Giovanni Bersei . . . and the ossuary he’d been studying in the Vatican Museums.” He paused to gauge the Irishman’s reaction. But the man didn’t react or even look over. “I’m sure you take great comfort in knowing that the carabinieri have closed their investigation into Dr. Bersei’s accidental death.” Father Martin certainly had.

Uneasy, Donovan glanced over as the man reached into his pocket and produced a photo.

“I’m certain you will recognize this man, though he’s a bit pale in this photograph,” he said, flattening Salvatore Conte’s morgue shot onto the counter. As Donovan cautiously stepped closer and looked down at it, Orlando could see a reaction—a subtle twist in the jaw, apprehension pulling at the eyelids. Orlando unabashedly laid out the connections for Donovan—the ossuary, Bersei’s death in the catacombs, Santelli’s timely passing, Conte’s murder. “All of this within days of a theft that took place in Jerusalem.”

“I’m afraid the only man who has the answers you are looking for,” Donovan replied, “is Cardinal Santelli. And as you’ve stated, he’s taken those answers to his grave.” Moving back to the coffeemaker, he moved the rag fast along the stainless steel, polishing it to a soft glow.

“His Eminence appreciates your dedication, Patrick. Our intention is not to levy accusations.”

“Then what might your intention be?” Donovan said with a note of challenge.

Orlando’s face tightened. “First, we need to determine why the ossuary had been brought inside Vatican City. There’s also a matter of locating relics that supposedly had been contained inside the box.”

“And Cardinal Lungero requests this information?”

Without diverting his firm gaze, Orlando faltered for a split second. “That’s correct.”

Donovan calmly set down the rag. Lungero was the name of someone in Vatican City, but certainly no cardinal. If these men weren’t envoys from the Vatican, then who could have sent them? Perhaps they’d aided Conte in Jerusalem and failed to receive their cut prior to his demise? “What relics might he be questioning?” his asked, his brogue thickening.

“You know better than most that an ossuary is a bone box. As such, it stands to reason that there had been bones inside it. Other relics too.”

Would mercenaries be at all interested in the bones? Donovan wondered. “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to assist you. But there is something . . .”

“Yes?”

He shook his head dismissively. “I was asked to sign confidentiality agreements prior to my leaving the Vatican. I’m not supposed to—”

“Those agreements are meant for those outside the Holy See.”

Strike two. Donovan had signed no such agreements prior to his departure. The fact remained that the Holy See still wasn’t aware of what had truly transpired and thought it best not to pursue such inquiries. There wouldn’t be a strike three.

At that moment, the front door opened and a man wearing mud-stained yellow coveralls came strolling in. “Patrick-me-boy!” he said cheerily.

Donovan straightened and conjured a smile. “Conas ta tu, Kevin?”

“Eh,” the man responded with a tired shrug. He eyed the priests as he lumbered past. “Mornin’, fathers.” His grin revealed a mouthful of tobacco-stained, crooked teeth.

“Good morning,” the short one tersely replied. He watched as the man trudged to the farthest stool at the end of the counter.

“A moment, please,” Donovan said apologetically, then went to tend to the patron.

Orlando monitored the ensuing exchange. The man in coveralls was animatedly talking with his hands, most likely about his mundane morning digging a trench somewhere. Then he finally placed an order with Donovan. All somewhat garbled, but spoken very loudly. The conversation, however, was happening in Gaelic.

“What’s he saying?” Kwiatkowski asked inconspicuously.

“No idea.” He cursed under his breath. Had Donovan sought refuge in any other country in the EU or anywhere in the Middle East, he could have easily deciphered the local dialect, even read their lips if the volume was insufficient.