removed to those very secret archives available to few besides the Pope himself. Another look at the columns gave him a possible answer: Until the excavation was done here, no one could have gotten to the amphora even had its existence been known. By the time the dig was under way, it would have been difficult to tell what was actual support and what was simply a part of the original supplanted St. Peter's Basilica.
The Church, had it known of Julian's prank, his secret, would have thought it safe from discovery. Had the Vatican known of the inscription at Montsegur?
No way to know.
The medieval Church, the Inquisition, would have suppressed any trace of Julian's secret along with any who even mentioned it. But today? Would they kill to quell knowledge of it? The Church had, after all, survived Galileo, Luther, and Darwin.
Even Dan Brown.
The parchment could well explain why Pius had remained silent, apparently indifferent to Nazi atrocities, maybe even explain why so many Nazis escaped to South America on papal passports issued for fear of revelation of Julian's secret. But today? Things were very different than in the thirties and forties. Advocates of abortion, stem-cell research, gay rights, and other causes opposed by the Church weren't assassinated.
And there were probably those socially conscious souls who would even see Christ the revolutionary more appealing than Christ the submissive. The Church might even gain converts, or at least attract a larger audience.
It had, after all, been playing the same feature for two thousand years.
But if not the Church…?
What had Franz Blucher called the organization that had helped escaping Nazis? Die Spinne, the spider. But old Nazis would hardly be interested in shattering Church dogma; they would want to protect their kind.
Like Skorzeny.
But Skorzeny was dead, wasn't he?
Lang stared for a moment into the darkness. Julian, Skorzeny and
…
It was. like a mental meteor shower, brain neurons firing synapses at each other, the Gunfight at the Cerebral Corral. Phrases, faces, places blurring into a realization Lang knew he had unconsciously possessed long before now. He had been an idiot to concentrate so hard on discovering new facts that he had paid little attention to the ones he had.
Ah'm damned sorry to hear someone survived duty in Berlin back then only to get shot.
No one had told Reavers Don Huff had been shot. In fact, the close, all-but-prohibitive regulation of firearms in most European countries made murder by gunshot unlikely. Unless administered by the police or some form of government agency.
Any government.
An attack in a jail shared by federal prisoners. And by a prisoner of whom there was no record.
A trainload of treasure that had largely disappeared.
Operation Paper Clip.
A politician's face on television, familiar but unremembered. Because there was no scar. A politician who had reentered the United States on a regular basis from Madrid.
Or somewhere in Spain.
A politician whose plan to strengthen American politics presumably included strengthening the intel community.
Assassins who appeared, knowing he would be on a bridge.
A sniper at Herculaeneum.
How could he have overlooked so much?
Again reaching into his cassock, he took out the communication device Reavers had given him, checking to make sure it was switched off. In fact, he couldn't remember ever turning it on.
He hadn't needed to.
He slammed the contraption against a stone pillar. He was gratified to see it shatter, not surprised a small red eye winked, an LED, light-emitting device, indicating it was operative no matter off or on.
The nature of all cellular phones operating from satellites made them traceable by GPS, but only when in use.
Reavers's gadget had GPS, all right, but not only when actually communicating with satellites. Not only had the identity Reavers furnished him with given advance notice of his travel plans, every move he had made had been tracked to within fifty feet or less.
Lang stood shakily, trembling with rage. Not only had he been deceived, his stupidity in pursuing secrets of early Christianity had cost Gurt her life. He couldn't bring her back, but he could sure get even for her. He could…
The top of the slope was suddenly flooded with light, as if the sun had risen on the Vatican hill for the first time in nearly two thousand years. Shielding his eyes, Lang turned slowly.
'Take it easy, pard'nuh,' a familiar drawl ordered. 'No need gettin' shot this late in th' game.'
Lang let his arms drop, denl0nstrating he had no weapon. Thirty feet away and at the edge of the glare Reavers stood. From the snakeskin boots to the belt buckle the size of a hubcap to the ten-gallon hat, he looked the part of the cowboy. But no Colt Peacemaker. 44.
Instead, a Sig Sauer P 229 9mm in his right hand.
That was contemporary Agency.
Just like the one sitting uselessly in Lang's bedside table back in Atlanta.
Lang thought there were at least two more men, each carrying something heavier than a side arm. He could not be certain, because the light was too bright, intentionally so.
'So you were tracking me all along,' he said lamely. 'No doubt Gurt, too.'
'No doubt.'
Play for time, that had been drilled into him from his earliest training. When faced with capture or worse, talk, keep your enemy occupied. Sing 'Dixie' and tap-dance if necessary. Of course, Reavers had the same training. Lang was betting the man's ego would make him ignore it while he savored his victory.
Lang slowly lowered his hands and tried not to be obvious as he cut his eyes right and left looking for a possible weapon.
There was a long silence before Lang spoke. 'What is it you want, Reavers?'
The chief of station shifted his weight as though leaning on something Lang couldn't see. 'I think you know, pard'nuh.'
Lang's foot touched something hard. A quick glance down showed him the short crowbar at his feet. 'Maybe you want what's in this amphora. It could cause the modern Church a lot of grief if someone made its content public.'
Reavers frowned, shaking his head. 'Don' bullshit me, Lang. You know damn well what I want.'
'My silence.'
The man leaned even farther toward the invisible prop, grinning, his tone as calm as though he were discussing a roundup just finished. 'That's about it, pard'nuh. Sorry.'
Lang's foot crept toward the crowbar. 'At least let me see if I understand. Tell me if I'm right or wrong. You can do that much.'
Reavers nodded amiably. 'Shore can. Jus' one caveat: You try somethin' funny, my friends here'll shoot. Even if you got heat from somewhere, you can't get 'em all. So fire away.'
He laughed at the double entendre.
'Skorzeny,' Lang began, feeling the iron beneath his foot. 'He was involved in that train from Budapest in 1945, the one with all the treasure on it, right?'
Again the grin. 'One o' th' things always impressed me 'bout you, Lang: You could draw a line from A to Z without botherin' about the rest o' them letters.'
Lang's foot began a slow movement back, no more than the nervous shifting of weight a man about to be executed might exhibit. 'And he, Skorzeny, helped himself to part of the treasure, a treasure he had known about since he deposed the independent government of Hungary virtually by himself.'
