Sign of the Cross

methods, especially in the early years when he just started building his violent reputation. But the Vatican never did. They knew a man with his talents would be invaluable. Not only his academic knowledge but his willingness to do whatever he needed to get results.

Every organization, even one as sanctimonious as the Church, can use men like that.

Still, in the beginning it was Benito’s expertise in the world of art, not his brutality, that got him noticed. Cardinal Pietro Bandolfo, the former chair of the Vatican’s Supreme Council, was a childhood friend of Benito’s and his biggest ally. Bandolfo understood politics better than his fellow cardinals and assured the Vatican the only way to protect its place in the modern world was to join hands with Benito, someone trained outside of the Church. Someone who could update their antiquated system. Someone who wasn’t encumbered by papal law. Eventually, the Vatican agreed, and Benito was hired to update their way of doing things.

And his first project was organizing their most valuable asset: the Secret Archives.

Benito ran his fingers through his slicked-back gray hair and remembered the first day he was taken through the vaults. What an honor it was. Less than thirty men were privy to the contents of the Vatican’s collections: the facility’s curators, senior members of the Sacred Congregation of Cardinals, and the Curia. All of them devout Catholics who had dedicated their lives to God and were an established part of the Church. But not Benito. He was the first outsider to be given unlimited access to the vaults. Ever. And the experience made him tremble. Never before had he seen so many beautiful things in one place. Paintings, statues, and treasures filled room after room. Plus more than forty miles of shelves that held nothing but written documents: scrolls, parchments, and stone tablets for as far as the eye could see.

Unfortunately, once he got past all the beauty and started thinking about his job, he realized the Archives’ filing system was a mess. Computers were still on the distant horizon, so everything in the vaults had been logged into card catalogs similar to those in a public library. Cards that could be moved, lost, or stolen. Adding to Benito’s confusion were the curators themselves. Over the centuries the men in charge of the Archives had different preferences for recording their data. Some logged artifacts by year, others by country, others by theme. And one curator used a system Benito couldn’t even interpret. To him it was amazing. He was staring at the most valuable collection in the world, yet one that was in complete disarray.

However, he was thrilled by the chaos. Not only because he had the honor of placing everything where he thought it belonged, but because he realized if the curators themselves didn’t know what they had in the vaults, then neither did the Vatican. And if that was the case, there was no telling what he might find as he dug deeper into the bowels of the Church.

One day on the job, and he’d been given a ticket to the greatest treasure hunt of all time.

It was an opportunity that changed his life forever.

Dante was one of Benito Pelati’s top assistants, a no-nonsense disciple who went out of his way to please the old man. He arrived on time and greeted Benito with a kiss on both cheeks. No words were said, no pleasantries exchanged. This was a business meeting, not a social call. They would save the chitchat for another day. If ever.

Dante was much larger than Benito and half his age. Yet their features were similar, especially the way their noses sloped away from their sunken eyes. Romans referred to it as the look of the emperor, though Dante didn’t care about his face or his clothes or the make of his car. He didn’t give a damn about those things because the only thing that mattered to him was his work. It was an addiction that ruled his life.

Minutes passed as Dante sat there, quiet, patiently waiting for Benito to speak because that was the way it was done in the Old Country. The old man had called the meeting, so he controlled the agenda, just like every time the two of them got together. Someday Benito would die, and Dante would move up in the organization. But until then Dante would sit there like a loyal dog, studying the people who poured past them on the busy street. Waiting to be briefed.

Eventually, the old man said, ‘It’s been a bad day for the Church.’

Dante remained silent, realizing details would come in short bursts, every statement measured before it left the old man’s lips. As if Benito didn’t know how to talk to him.

‘A priest was found crucified… A warning was issued… The Council needs our help.’

In the power structure of the Vatican, the Supreme Council was second in command to the holy father. At least on paper. In reality, the seven cardinals who made up the Council — led by Cardinal Vercelli, the man who replaced Cardinal Bandolfo when he died less than a year before — were the most powerful men in the Catholic Church. They decided what the pope knew and what he didn’t, protecting the papal throne from the bureaucratic issues of the day. To put it simply, their job was to keep the pope squeaky clean while they made the tough choices behind closed doors. The type of decisions that could soil the papacy and the Church.

And when these issues came up, Benito Pelati was usually part of the solution.

Finally, after several more seconds of silence, Benito turned toward Dante. ‘I need you to go to Vienna… There’s an excavation I need you to oversee… Something quite important.’

‘In Austria?’ Dante asked. ‘Do we have permission to dig there?’

Benito stared at him until Dante lowered his head in shame. He should’ve known better than to question Benito’s orders. ‘Everything is ready… All you’ll do is supervise… Once you’re done, bring what you find back to me.’

12

Curiosity had a way of consuming Dr Boyd. Although he should’ve been focused on the bronze cylinder, he was more interested in the sound. The deafening roar of the outside world was too intriguing for him to ignore. ‘Hello!’ he called in his English accent. ‘Is anybody out there?’

The rotor blades of the helicopter continued to reverberate like thunder just outside the entrance to the Catacombs.

‘Goodness gracious! What is causing that tumult?’ Boyd continued to ponder the question as he made his way to the mouth of the cave. ‘People should have more consideration when — ’

The sight of the massive machine, coupled with the overpowering roar of the turbines and the hurricane-like wind that enveloped him, was enough to take Boyd’s breath away. He’d assumed the noise was probably a piece of equipment working on the plateau above but never expected to see a helicopter staring him in the face from more than 700 feet in the air.

The man in the passenger seat grinned, then ordered the pilot to rotate to the left. A split second later, the man’s M501 sniper rifle was out the side window, and Boyd was in its crosshairs.

‘Gentlemen,’ he whispered into his headset, ‘the Lord works in mysterious ways.’

The two soldiers stopped their ascent up the plateau and looked skyward, though their angle prevented them from seeing anything of value. ‘What’s going on, sir? Is everything all right?’

The man squinted as he adjusted his scope. ‘It will be in a moment. One shot, and our biggest problem is history.’

They nodded in understanding. ‘What should we do?’

He shoved the rifle’s recoil pad against his shoulder and tried to compensate for the chopper’s sway. ‘Keep on climbing. I’ll need you to deal with the girl and seal the site.’

Boyd shielded his eyes the best he could, but the mixture of dust and sunlight prevented him from seeing much. ‘Hello!’ he screamed. ‘Can I help you with something?’

When he heard nothing, he figured he needed to alter his approach. So instead of shouting, he simply waved at the helicopter, hoping its passengers would wave back, then move on.

‘Hold steady,’ the sniper ordered. ‘Steady!’

But it was an impossible task. The wind was surging off the top of the ridge like a waterfall, then swirling on its descent to the rocky terrain below. The result was an aeronautical nightmare, a pocket of turbulence that literally chewed at the lift the helicopter was trying to produce. The pilot did his best to compensate, increasing and decreasing the pitch of the main rotor. But it made little difference. Choppers weren’t meant to fly in these conditions.

‘I’m losing it,’ warned the pilot. ‘I swear to you I’m losing it!’

With camera in hand, Maria strolled into the colorful first chamber, making her way directly to the Catacombs’ exit. As she crawled through the narrow opening, she suddenly became aware of the noise and vibrations that had