The First Apostle

“Nearly there,” Bronson said, as he turned the Toyota down the side street, following the signs for the supermarket. Seconds later he swung the jeep into the parking lot, found a vacant parking bay, stopped the vehicle and climbed out.

“Don’t forget the relics,” he said, as Angela followed him.

She tucked the towel and its precious contents carefully into a carrier bag. “Got the camera?” she asked.

“Yes. Come on.” Bronson led the way to the main entrance of the supermarket, where several shoppers were staring up at the helicopter, now in a hover about a hundred yards away.

“Land as close as you can,” Mandino told the pilot.

“I can’t put it down in the parking lot—there’s not enough open space—but there’s a patch of wasteland over there.”

“Be as quick as you can. Once we’re out, get back into the air. Rogan, stay in the aircraft and keep your mobile close.”

The pilot swung the helicopter around to the right and descended toward the area of grass that adjoined the supermarket parking lot.

“The Nissan’s right there, isn’t it?” Angela said.

“Yes, but we can’t just climb in it and drive away. That would be a dead giveaway.

We’ll wait here.”

Bronson pulled Angela to the left-hand side of the entrance hall and carefully watched the helicopter.

“They’ll have to land to let someone out to follow us on foot,” he said, “and they can’t put the chopper down out there in the parking lot—it’s too crowded. Right, there he goes.” He watched the helicopter move away and start to descend.

“We walk, not run,” he said, squeezing Angela’s hand. Without even a glance at the aircraft, they crossed to where Bronson had parked the Nissan. He unlocked it, climbed in and started the engine, then reversed out of the parking bay and drove the old sedan car unhurriedly away from the building.

Thirty seconds later Mandino and his two men ran into the parking lot, heading toward the Toyota, the helicopter hovering above them.

But Bronson was already driving away, heading for Via Prenestina and Rome.

An hour later, after a careful search of the parking lot and the supermarket, Gregori Mandino was forced to face the unpalatable truth: Bronson and the Lewis woman had obviously escaped. The Toyota had been abandoned in the parking lot, and was already attracting attention because of the very obvious bullet holes in its windshield and bodywork. They’d peered in the back window and seen the tools and equipment that were still there. One of the men had stuck his knife blade into both front tires to ensure that their quarry definitely wouldn’t be able to drive it away.

The three men had checked everywhere inside the supermarket, then extended their search to the surrounding streets and shops—and even the few cafe’s, restaurants and hotels—but without result.

“They could have had an accomplice waiting here for them,” one of the men suggested. “So what do we do now?”

“It’s not over yet,” Mandino growled. “They’re still somewhere here in Italy, in my territory. I’m going to find them and kill them both, if it’s the last thing I do.”

25

I

“We have to get an expert to look at these,” Angela said.

They’d driven back to the Italian west coast and booked a twin room in a tiny hotel near Livorno. After a couple of drinks in the bar, and a very late dinner, they’d gone back up to their room. Bronson had plugged in his laptop and transferred the photographs to it from the data card in his camera.

He burned copies of the pictures he’d taken in the tomb onto four CDs. He gave one to Angela, put two of the others into envelopes to post back to his and Angela’s addresses in Britain the next day, and kept one himself.

Only then did they unwrap the three relics Bronson had pulled out of the tomb.

Angela spread towels on the small table in their bedroom, pulled on a pair of thin latex gloves and carefully transferred the three objects to the table.

“What are they, exactly?” Bronson asked.

“These two are diptychs. That’s a kind of rudimentary notepad. Their inner surfaces are covered in wax, so somebody could jot down notes, and then simply erase what had been written by scraping something across the surface of the wax.

“But these are very special,” she went on. “You see this?” she asked, pointing at a small lump of wax clinging to a thread looped through a series of holes pierced in the edges of the wooden tablets. The thread had broken in several places on both relics, but Angela hadn’t attempted to remove it or open either of the diptychs.

Bronson nodded.

“The thread is called a linum and the holes are known as foramina. To prevent the tablets being opened, the thread would be secured with a seal, as this has been. That was usually done with legal documents as a precaution against forgers.”

“So we’ve recovered a couple of first-century legal documents.”

“Oh, these are more than that, much more. This seal is, I’m almost certain, the imperial crest of the Emperor Nero. Have you any idea how rare it is to find an unknown text from that period of history in this kind of condition? That wax seal around the stone in the cave seems to have preserved these almost perfectly. This is like the tomb of Tutankhamun—it’s that unusual.”

“Tutankhamun without the gold and jewels, though,” Bronson said, looking more closely at the diptychs. “They both look a little tatty to me.”

“That’s just the paint or varnish on the outside. The wood itself seems to be in almost perfect condition. This is a really important find.”

“Aren’t you going to look inside them?” Bronson asked.

Angela shook her head. “I’ve told you before—this isn’t my field. These should be handed to an expert, and every stage of the opening recorded.”

“What about the scroll? You could have a look at that. You can read enough Latin to do that, can’t you?”

“Yes,” Angela said doubtfully. “I can try translating some of it, I suppose.”

With hands that weren’t quite steady, she took the scroll and slowly, with infinite care, unrolled the first three or four inches. She stared at the Latin text, the ink seemingly as black as the day it had been written, and read the words to herself, her lips moving silently as she did so.

“Well?” Bronson demanded.

Angela shook her head. “I can’t be sure,” she said, distractedly. “It can’t be right—it just can’t.”

“What can’t? What is it?”

“No. My translation must be wrong. Look, we have to find someone who can handle the relics professionally and translate them properly. And I know just the person.”

II

“It’s all been a bit of a shambles, Mandino, hasn’t it?” Vertutti asked, his voice dripping scorn. The two men were meeting again—at the same cafe as previously—but this time the balance of power had changed.

“If I understand you correctly,” Vertutti continued, “you actually had the relics within your grasp, and the Englishman at your mercy, but you somehow managed to let him escape with them. This debacle hardly inspires much confidence in your ability to bring the matter to a satisfactory conclusion.”

“You need not worry, Eminence,” Mandino said, with a confidence that was only slightly forced. “We have several possible leads to follow, and you shouldn’t underestimate the difficulties this man Bronson faces. I know from my sources inside law enforcement that he has no valid passport, so he can’t leave Italy by air or sea. Details of the vehicle he’s driving have been circulated to all European police forces, and staff at the border crossing points told to look out for it. The net is closing in on him, and there’s nothing he can do about it.”

“Suppose he decides not to leave Italy?”

“Then tracing him will be even easier. We have eyes everywhere.”

“I hope you’re right,” Vertutti said. “You must make sure he doesn’t escape.” He got up to leave, but Mandino motioned him back to his seat.