Sign of the Cross

‘Go back!’ he demanded. ‘Hurry!’

Payne did as he was told, hoping there wasn’t going to be opera when he returned to the previous station. Much to his surprise, there was no music at all but rather an Italian newscaster rambling in rapid Italian. It could’ve been the weather or a traffic report. Payne wasn’t sure, because the only Italian he knew he learned from The Sopranos. Whatever it was, though, he knew that Jones liked it because he had a grin on his face the size of a small dog. This went on for over two minutes before Jones turned off the stereo, saving Payne from the tortuous sound of Pavarotti or whatever fat guy was about to start singing.

‘You aren’t going to believe this,’ Jones said. ‘But Boyd was just spotted in Milan.’

Payne rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, I wish.’

‘I swear to God, Jon. He was just spotted in Milan. The cops tried to grab him, but he got away. Again.’

‘Wait a second, you’re serious? How did he get away?’

‘He vanished from the roof of a library. And get this: he’s running with a woman.’

‘Boyd took a hostage?’

Jones shook his head. ‘No, he took a partner. Apparently the two of them are in this together.’

34

The crucifixion in Denmark barely made a blip in the United States, and he couldn’t understand why. The murder had everything that Americans usually looked for in a story — a brutal execution, a famous setting, and a Vatican priest as a victim — yet the only attention it received was a small story in the Associated Press. Nothing in USA Today, nothing in the New York Times, and nothing in the National Enquirer.

God, what was wrong with these people? Were they really that numb from all their horror movies and video games that they didn’t care about a crucified priest? Who did he have to kill to get their undivided attention? The fucking president?

Obviously, he realized, that would be going too far. He wanted to attract as much attention as he possibly could without starting a worldwide manhunt. That was the only way that he and his partners could get this to work.

They needed attention, not intervention. A spotlight without the heat.

In his mind, the second murder was a step in the right direction. CNN sent a camera crew to Tripoli and Nepal, hoping to get a reaction from the royal family. Their footage popped up on newscasts across the U.S., which led to stories in 90 percent of the newspapers in North America, including most major cities. Not front-page coverage like they’d hoped for, but enough to make the Vatican take notice, which was the ultimate goal of the murders.

The clock was ticking, and the stakes were high. It was time to tighten the vise.

Nicknamed the Holy Hitter because of his surname, Orlando Pope was one of the best players in baseball. He hit for power, ran with speed, and did all the little things that made his team win. Simply put, he was the type of guy that every club coveted.

During the off-season, two teams — the Boston Red Sox and the New York Yankees — did everything to sign him. Not only to get Pope, which would be a coup on its own, but also to keep him off the other’s roster, which was even more important in their way of thinking. Why? Because no teams in baseball hated each other more than the Red Sox and Yankees. The players hated each other. The fans hated each other. Even the cities hated each other.

This was Sparta versus Athens, only with bats instead of spears.

The bidding between the teams went back and forth for nearly a month. Ten million. Twenty million. Fifty million. One hundred million. And more. In the end, Pope signed with the Yankees. It also made Pope public enemy number one in Beantown.

Due to a scheduling quirk, the teams wouldn’t play in Boston until the upcoming weekend. They’d split an early-season series in New York and would play a dozen more times later in the year, but this was the match-up that every sports fan in New England was waiting for.

The Pope was coming to Boston, and they were going to let him have it.

Orlando Pope hated the limelight and all the attention that he got as the highest paid player in sports. He loved it on the baseball field where he had the confidence and the talent to thrive, yet hated it in his personal life. He grew up in a biracial family from Brazil — black father, white mother — which led to self-image problems. Was he black? Was he white? Was he both? In the end, he didn’t feel comfortable with any group, so he spent most of his time alone, reading books and watching movies in his luxury high-rise, instead of enjoying his hero status in the Big Apple.

In his mind people led to problems, so he stayed away from everyone whenever he could.

The pizza he ordered from Andrew’s was forty minutes late, and he was angry. He’d bought a brand-new DVD, The Lesson, and didn’t want to start it until his food was there. Nothing pissed him off like interruptions when he was trying to watch a flick.

He was tempted to call and complain when he heard a knock on his door. With wallet in hand, Pope undid the lock and opened the chain without looking through the peephole.

It was the biggest mistake of his life.

Four men stood in the hall. Different men than Denmark or Libya. But a foursome with the same objective. Grab their target, take him to a predetermined location, and nail him to a cross.

The leader of the group held an M series Taser and shot Pope in his chest before he could react. The weapon sent a burst of electricity to Pope’s central nervous system, causing an uncontrollable contraction of his skeletal muscles. A moment later, one of the best athletes in the world was lying on his floor in the fetal position, unable to protect himself in any way.

From there it would be easy. Carry Pope to the van, take him to a predetermined location, and then wait for the news to hit. And oh how it would hit!

This would be a home run, the biggest one yet.

Every murder was a clue. Every clue led to a secret. The secret would change the world.

In the end the Vatican would be helpless. Completely helpless.

Finally forced to honor his ancestor two thousand years after the fact.

35

Thursday, July 13

Milan, Italy

Payne and Jones’s journey to northern Italy covered several hundred miles. Thanks to the liberal speed limits on the autostrada and the F1 power of the Ferrari, they got to Milan just after midnight. It was too late to get Barnes’s film developed but was early enough to get some detective work done. With that in mind, they wasted no time and headed directly to the Catholic University campus.

Jones said, ‘The first thing we need to do is find out if Boyd’s been caught. Why don’t I snoop around, maybe talk to a couple of reporters, while you walk around the perimeter and look for weaknesses? If all else fails, we might need to sneak inside.’

‘Yeah,’ Payne joked, ‘and we better do it quick. If the current trend continues, Boyd’s liable to blow up the library to conceal evidence.’

Laughing to himself, Payne walked past the right-hand alley and noticed several cops staring at a garbage chute and a Dumpster. He didn’t want to deal with them, so he headed past the main entrance, hoping there’d be less cops on the other side of the building. That’s when he noticed a security guard at the front door, deciding who got in and who didn’t, like a bouncer at a local discotheque. In a heartbeat his plan of attack changed. Instead of sneaking in, he decided to be invited in, compliments of the rent-a-meathead.

Payne didn’t have a badge or anything official-looking, so he knew he’d have to lay the bullshit on pretty thick. He also knew there was a damn good chance that the guard couldn’t speak English any better than Payne spoke Italian, so he decided to use that to his advantage. He figured he might be able to make the guard feel so uncomfortable that he’d let Payne go inside just so he’d leave him alone. With that in mind, Payne went right up to him and started babbling in a fake accent, claiming that he was with the British embassy and was there to protect