“Why don’t you involve the Holy Father in this project?” Kevin wondered. “You know how much he admires you, Jon, and just a word of approval from Benedict would end Cardinal Andrea’s indecision in the matter. Your plan would then be lawful-even blessed by the church-and anything you found inside Paul’s tomb would be regarded as valid and aboveboard. But you know well enough how ugly things could turn out if you do it your way.”
Jon said nothing for some moments. He sat there, staring at the thousand pinpoints of light below that were Rome. Then he nodded. “You’re quite right, Kevin. If I were going to an alternate plan, that one would be the best option-far and away the best option. So why don’t I go that route? Several reasons. Benedict could, of course, say no-we really have no assurance that he’d say yes. And then our project-sorry, my project-fails. I’d never go against the pope’s decision on this. And is it really fair to Benedict to ask him to make such a decision? I think not. Furthermore, I could well come up with no results whatever-meaning that St. Paul is not inside that sarcophagus- and that could be embarrassing to the Vatican and disillusioning to pilgrims. Do I have the right to take away the object of their spiritual quest?”
“Nicely thought out, Jon. But what if you do discover St. Paul inside that sarcophagus? The clandestine nature of your discovery would certainly reduce its credibility, don’t you think?”
“Yes, it certainly could. And that’s why I would never have done this. You and I would visit Benedict, privately inform him of the great news, and then Vatican archaeologists could continue their work and make ‘the discovery.’ And think how nicely that would support the close of Second Acts.”
“Fair enough. But what if you -not St. Paul-were discovered ‘in the act of tomb desecration,’ as the tabloids might banner it? Then what?”
“I don’t really have a good answer there, Kevin. Possibly I’d have something of a ruined career after that. Or possibly not-once my motive was explained, namely, my desperation to find some material link to the close of Second Acts since the codex had been stolen. Besides, there’ll be no desecration or damage to the tomb whatever.”
Neither said anything for some time. Finally Jon spoke. “If all else fails, maybe I can get Benedict XVI to write me a letter of recommendation so I can get a new job somewhere.”
On that inanity, they laughed and called it a day.
The next morning, Kevin drove Jon to a builder’s supply store in western Rome so that he could, inexplicably, purchase overalls and-even more inexplicably-a dark green plastic tarpaulin. Then they returned for another visit to St. Paul Outside the Walls, where Jon spent several hours watching the tourists between 11 a.m. and 3 p.m., noting when they were crowding into the basilica or leaving it comparatively empty. He also looked for any surveillance cameras inside the sanctuary and, in particular, where and when guards who patrolled the premises passed by the crypt on their appointed rounds.
At Kevin’s place that evening, Jon unpacked the special objects he had shipped inside his checked luggage on the flight to Rome. He had thought of taking the items as carry-ons, but their very exotic nature might have provoked too many questions at the security lines. Mercifully, his baggage had arrived with him, which seemed to be quite unusual lately on the world’s airlines.
First, he unpacked something that looked like a small, silvery pistol. “No, it’s not a firearm,” he said in answer to Kevin’s raised eyebrows. “It’s a Stryker high-speed surgical drill.” He pulled its trigger, and at 4,000 rpm, it emitted only a soft high-frequency sound similar to a muffled dentist’s drill. “Batteries are fully charged, and they can keep it going for at least a half hour. It even has a vacuum on it to suck up debris.”
Kevin said nothing. He simply shook his head in continuing dismay.
Next, Jon opened a small plastic case that held a drill bit with a diamond-edged cutting head less than an inch in diameter. “This one loves to eat mortar,” he said.
Finally he hauled out a thin metal wand to which were affixed two tiny strobe lights and two miniature digital cameras, with battery power supply inside the wand and all controls in the handle at its top. “Are you getting the picture, Kev?”
He cupped his chin in hand and nodded slowly.
“I got the idea from the Italian archaeologists who explore the Etruscan tombs in Tuscany. There are so many up there that they excavate only those with interesting contents. And how can they tell which those might be? They bore a hole at the top of their circular ceilings and take flash photos by lowering something like this inside. Only our model here is smaller and much more sophisticated. We might even be able to produce three- dimensional images by using the two cameras.”
“Not to burst your bubble, Jon, but I doubt that your gadget will penetrate solid marble very quickly, unless you want to spend an hour or two drilling away.”
“I won’t penetrate the marble. I plan to use one of the holes already made in the lid but mortared over. This drill should cut it almost like butter. I already promised you that I’d destroy nothing at all in the process. It’s going to be quick, painless surgery.”
“I only hope you’re right. In fact, I only pray that you’re right. And please-because of my special relationship with the Holy Father-I never helped you at all in this escapade, right? And if you’re caught, I don’t even know you.” Sullivan stopped and they both chuckled. Since Kevin had originally introduced his friend to the pope, both knew how ridiculous that proposal was. “Okay, then,” he went on, “if you are caught, get me on your cell phone. I’ll have been ‘in the neighborhood’ and will ‘rush over to help my friend’ and maybe try to get his tail out of jail if it comes to that.”
“Fair enough, Kevin. I couldn’t ask for more.”
Shortly before noon the next day, they were driving back to the basilica of St. Paul. “You look just great in that Italian repairman’s getup, Jon,” Sullivan said. “Didn’t I see you and Mario on Nintendo?”
Jon merely smiled, trying to steel himself for the peril ahead.
“But why in the world you would want to choose the busiest time of the day for your escapade is quite beyond me.”
“Noon isn’t the busiest-tourists will be leaving for restaurants-and I couldn’t bring it off if the place were nearly empty.”
“Why not? That’s when I would have done it.”
“Wrong. Same number of guards then, but fewer things to distract them… greater chance of detection. Tourists are my protection.”
At the basilica, Sullivan parked his Fiat near a service door in the rear and extended his hand to Jon. “God go with you, you crazy fool! I’ll be waiting out here, praying for a miracle but with my cell phone handy.”
“See you here in fifteen to twenty minutes, Kev.”
Jon hoisted his gear, walked up to the service door, and passed through it without challenge. At a very deliberate pace so that he would not attract attention and yet arrive at the crypt exactly at 11:59 a.m., Jon walked through the ranks of pilgrims in line to see the crypt and approached the railing surrounding it. It was 11:58-a minute too early-but no real problem. He slowly opened his toolbox and looked around for guards. Thank goodness noon was also the time for the changing of those guards.
A great boom seemed to explode inside the sanctuary. Although it was merely the Janiculum cannon doing its thing as it did at noon each day, the tourists were sufficiently startled for Jon to make his move. He hauled out his dark green tarpaulin and started spreading it over the glass ceiling of the crypt. “Mi scuzi! Per favore, mi scuzi!” Jon said in his best Italian accent, while nudging several pilgrims aside in the process. At the center of the tarp now covering the glass, he placed a large sign in both Italian and English: CHIUSO PER QUINDICI
MINUTI CLOSED FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES
Then he went to the small doorway near the side of the high altar and tried the door. It refused to open. Was it locked? With prayer and a stronger tug, it opened at last. He crawled through and emerged inside the crypt. Quickly he opened his tool kit, hauled out the drill, and set it to work on his target, which was the most centrally located mortar-filled hole in the lid.
The drill purred away without making the quick progress Jon had counted on. He put more pressure on the drill. This reduced the rpm but the drill seemed to start making some penetration. Still, no breakthrough. The
