The First Apostle

“There’s still the matter of the bodies,” he said. “You know their identities, obviously, so what do you want us to do about them?”

“The bodies, Mandino? What bodies? Ask any Catholic where those two men are buried and he’ll tell you that the tomb of one man is right here in Rome and the bones of the other were sent to Britain in the seventh century.”

“Sent by Pope Vitalian, Cardinal, the author of the Codex. He knew those bones weren’t what he said they were. Vitalian would never have given away genuine relics.”

“That’s pure conjecture.”

“Maybe, but we both know that the tomb in Rome doesn’t hold the body the Vatican claims. What we’ve already found proves that, and now you know it’s not true.”

“It’s true as far as the Vatican is concerned, and that’s all that matters. Our position is that the bodies you found are exactly what the inscription above the tomb stated—they’re the bones of liars—and of no interest to the Mother Church. And now the documents have been taken out of the cave, there’s no proof whatsoever of what you’re suggesting. Take some men up to the plateau and destroy the bones completely.”

III

“So now we’ve got to drive all the way to Barcelona?” Bronson asked. “You can at least tell me why.”

They were in the Nissan sedan, heading out of Livorno toward the French border. It was going to be a long drive, mostly because Bronson was determined to stick to the minor roads wherever he could, to avoid any possible roadblocks. There were more than twenty roads crossing the French-Italian border and Bronson knew the Italian police couldn’t possibly mount a presence on every one, and would probably have to concentrate on the autostradas and main roads.

In truth, he wasn’t too concerned about being stopped, because nobody knew that he was driving a Nissan. The police would be looking for him in a Renault Espace, and that car was tucked away in a corner of a parking lot in San Cesareo.

“About ten years ago,” Angela replied, “just after I’d started work at the British Museum, I did a twelve- month stint in Barcelona at the Museu Egipti, working with a man named Josep Puente. He was the resident papyrologist.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Papyrology is a generic term for the study of ancient texts written on a whole range of substances including parchment vellum—that’s the skin of sheep and goats—leather, linen, slivers of wood, wax tablets and potsherds, known as ostraca. I suppose the discipline became known as papyrology simply because the most common writing material that’s survived is papyrus. Josep Puente is a renowned expert on ancient texts.”

“And I presume he can read Latin?”

Angela nodded. “Just like poor Jeremy Goldman, if you specialize in this field, you end up with a working knowledge of most of the ancient languages. Josep can read Latin, Greek, Aramaic and Hebrew.”

Angela fell silent, and Bronson glanced across at her. “What is it?” he asked.

“There’s another reason I want to go there,” she said.

“Yes?”

“I didn’t tell you what I read in the scroll, because I simply can’t believe it. But if Josep Puente comes up with the same translation as I did, the museum would be the ideal place to announce the find to the world. He has the credibility and experience to be believed, and that’s going to be important, because you have no idea what kind of opposition we’ll face if we go public. Men with machine guns would be the least of our worries.”

Bronson glanced at her again. “Tell me what you think you translated,” he asked.

But Angela shook her head. “I can’t. I might be wrong. In fact, I really hope I am.

You’ll have to wait until we get to Barcelona.”

IV

Antonio Carlotti was not in the best of tempers. His boss, Gregori Mandino, was consumed by this ridiculous quest to track down the English couple and the relics they’d managed to find up in the hills near Piglio, but the bulk of the work involved seemed to have fallen on Carlotti’s shoulders.

He was the man who’d had to supervise the Internet monitoring and related searches. He was the person whom Mandino had told to run down all the biographical details of Christopher Bronson and Angela Lewis, and who’d had to deduce where they were likely to go next. Mandino just demanded results and then made his own plans accordingly, usually with Rogan in tow.

To call Mandino’s pursuit “single-minded” was to understate the case. He seemed to be letting all his other responsibilities slide and, as the Rome family capo, he had plenty of other things he should be doing. The quest appeared to be almost personal to him, and the one thing Carlotti had learned since he’d become a member of the Cosa Nostra was that you never let things get personal.

The bodyguard who’d been wounded at the property near Ponticelli was a good example. The Englishman, Bronson, had called an ambulance and then driven away from the house, and the man had been taken to a surgical hospital in Rome. But for Carlotti, a bodyguard who got himself shot was no use. He knew the man. He even liked him, but he’d failed in his duty, and that was enough. The two men Carlotti had sent to the hospital had distracted the police guard and then killed the wounded man, messily but quickly, before he could be properly interviewed by the Carabinieri.

That was what Carlotti meant by not getting personal.

He was wondering what, if anything, he should say to Mandino next time they met when his cell phone rang.

“Carlotti.”

“You don’t know me,” the voice said, “but we have a mutual acquaintance.”

“Yes.” The Italian was somewhat cautious.

“This concerns the Codex.”

“Yes?” Carlotti said again, now on surer ground. “How can I help? My colleague has already left for Barcelona.”

“I know. He gave me your number before he went. We need to meet. It’s very important—for both of us.”

“Very well. Where and when?”

“The cafe’ in the Piazza Cavour, in thirty minutes?”

“I’ll be there,” Carlotti said, and ended the call.

“So, how can I help you, Eminence?” Antonio Carlotti asked, as Vertutti sat down heavily in the seat opposite him.

“I think it’s more how I can help you,” Vertutti said. He leaned forward and clasped his hands under his chin. “Do you believe in God, Carlotti?”

Whatever Carlotti had expected, this wasn’t it. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

Vertutti continued, ignoring the question. “And do you believe that the Holy Father is God’s chosen representative on earth? And that Jesus Christ died for our sins?”

“Actually, that’s three questions, Cardinal. But the answer’s the same to all of them—yes, I do.”

“Good,” Vertutti said, “because that’s the crux of the problem I face. Gregori Mandino would have answered ‘no.’ He’s not simply godless: he’s a committed atheist and a rabid opponent of the Vatican, the Catholic Church and everything they stand for.”

Carlotti shook his head. “I’ve known Gregori for many years, Eminence. His personal beliefs will not prevent him from completing this task.”

“I wish I shared your confidence. How much do you know about the quest he’s undertaken?”

“In detail, very little,” Carlotti replied, cautiously. “I’ve mainly been involved in providing technical support.”

“But you are his second-in-command?”

“Yes. That’s why you have my number.”

Vertutti nodded. “Let me explain exactly what we have become involved in. This is a quest,” he began, “that commenced in the seventh century under Pope Vitalian. A quest that could affect the very future of the Mother