Secrets of the Dead

‘Thanks for agreeing to see me.’

‘A pleasure. You are in Belgrade on business?’

‘Different business to last time. I’m back in my old job with the International Criminal Tribunal. We’re here for some meetings.’

‘On the side of the sheriff. Last time, I was not so sure.’

‘Neither was I.’ It was the first time she’d been back to Belgrade since she’d fled that day in Nikolic’s car. She’d been nervous about returning; she’d avoided the Kalemegdan Citadel. But the seasons had changed – she’d changed.

As unemotionally as she could, she told him what had happened: the message hidden in the poem, how they’d gone to Istanbul –

‘But in 326, Constantine intended he would be buried in Rome,’ Nikolic interrupted.

‘If you’d been with us, you could have saved us a trip. We worked it out in the end.’

She carried on: the catacomb, the staurograms, and the sarcophagus that had been walled up for centuries. Nikolic heard her out in silence, letting his coffee go cold.

When she’d finished, he sat for a long time in silence.

‘Every time I see you, your story is more remarkable.’

Her ice cream had melted into a pool at the bottom of the dish. She scooped it up with her spoon.

‘Everything except the ending. The coffin was empty – it was all for nothing.’

‘Dragovic died,’ he reminded her. ‘I saw it on television – his body pulled out of the ground. They had to show it here so we would believe he was dead.’ He thought a moment longer.

‘Of course, there is another possibility.’

‘What?’

‘There is another legend associated with Constantine. His mother Helena made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land just before she died. There, it is said, the Christians showed her the place where the True Cross had been kept secret since the Crucifixion of Christ. One report says that she proved it was the right one by bringing an old peasant woman back from the dead.’

Behind her, on the grass at Wimbledon, the Serbian player had won a set. People at the surrounding tables applauded and shouted encouragement.

‘You think –?’

‘Your poem – this word which is signum in Latin, tropaion in Greek. I said it has many meanings. It can be a battle standard or a military insignia – but it is also used by religious writers to refer to the Cross.’

‘The saving sign that lights the path ahead.’

‘And the symbol you found – the staurogram. I told you comes from the Greek word stavros, meaning “cross”. Many people think it is a variant of Constantine’s Christogram, but in fact it has a different origin. In very early manuscripts, scribes used it as an abbreviation, a shorthand symbol for writing “cross”.’

Abby considered it. ‘You’re saying we might have found the True Cross – the one Jesus was actually crucified on – and not even known it?’

Nikolic thought for a moment, then smiled in defeat. ‘Who knows? You said there was nothing in the coffin except dust. All history turns to dust eventually.’

He waved to the waiter for another coffee. ‘Maybe you can go down one time and have another look?’

She shivered at the thought. ‘It’s impossible. When Dragovic blew up the tomb, he didn’t just take out that bit of the catacomb. There was an apartment block sitting on top of it: the whole thing came down. The landlord poured about a million tons of concrete over it so he could rebuild quickly. It wasn’t Vatican land so there was nothing they could do.’

‘Maybe it is for the best.’ He laughed, though only to cover something more genuine. ‘The power to raise someone from the dead would be a terrible thing, much though we might wish it sometimes.’

Abby closed her eyes. The sun had moved, pushing back the shade of the umbrella so that her face was now fully exposed. The glare blinded her.

‘In the catacomb …’ She paused – this was something she hadn’t told anyone. But she found she wanted Nikolic to know. ‘At the end, when Dragovic got shot. There were carabinieri in the tunnels, but they hadn’t reached that part yet. And the bullet that killed him – they said they couldn’t match it to any of the guns they use. You don’t think …’

She slid her chair around, back into the shade, and shook her head decisively. ‘Of course not. No one comes back from the dead. Not really.’

‘Only in the Balkans.’ Nikolic unfolded his newspaper. On the front page, a hard-faced man with spiky white hair stared at the camera with a malevolence that hadn’t dimmed in the eighteen years since his exploits in Bosnia made him one of the world’s most notorious men.

‘Two years ago, this man’s family had a court declare him legally dead. Yesterday, police found him alive and well in a flat across the river in Zemun.’

Abby knew the ending to this one. ‘Tomorrow he’ll be on a plane to the Hague to stand trial for crimes against humanity. I’m on the same flight.’

Nikolic looked satisfied. ‘Was this something because of what happened to Dragovic?’