The First Apostle

“Let’s be clear about this,” Bronson said at last. “What we’re involved in here goes a long way beyond a mere matter of lost relics. Those three items on the table over there have the ability to topple the very foundations from under the Roman Catholic Church. If they’re genuine, Christians all around the world could wake up one morning to find that their faith has been callously betrayed by the Vatican for nearly fifteen hundred years. Even if it could be proved that they’re fakes, there would always be doubts and conspiracy theories about them, just like those surrounding the Turin Shroud. So the question is: what should we do with them?”

“My instructions are quite clear,” Mandino replied. “I’m an atheist, but even I can see the incalculable damage that would be done to the Catholic Church and every other Christian religion if knowledge of their contents leaked out. For the sake of countless millions of believers around the world, these relics are simply too dangerous to be allowed to survive. They must be destroyed.”

Bronson glanced around the room. Surprisingly, Puente nodded agreement, and even Angela looked undecided.

Suddenly Perini lunged across the room and grabbed Angela by the arm, spinning her around so that her body was between him and Bronson. In a fluid movement he drew his Glock and pressed it into the side of her neck, almost exactly mirroring Bronson’s position behind Mandino.

Puente stepped forward and raised his arms in a calming gesture.

“Please, everyone, please,” he said. “There’s no need for bloodshed. No scroll or diptych, no matter how old or what text it contains, is worth a single human life.”

He stepped back to the table, picked up the scroll and the diptychs and held them above his head.

“We all now know exactly what these documents purport to be, and the destructive power of the information they contain,” he continued. “I know the circumstances are far from normal, but can we please take a vote? What should we do with them?

Angela?”

Perini jabbed her sharply with the pistol, and she answered hesitantly. “We should preserve them. Whether they’re genuine documents or forgeries commissioned by Nero, they’re relics of immense importance.”

Puente nodded. “Chris?”

Bronson thought of Jackie, lying dead on the stone-flagged hall. Of Mark murdered in his apartment. And of Jeremy Goldman dying of terrible injuries in some London street. They had all died to preserve these relics. “We should keep them,” he said,

“obviously.”

Puente looked down at Mandino. “We already know your views,” he said, and turned toward Rogan. “What do you think?”

“We destroy them,” Rogan said. “Verrochio?”

The man standing beside him nodded. “Burn them.”

“That’s three to two who’ve voted to destroy them,” Puente said. “You, sir.” He turned to Perini, who was still using Angela as a human shield. “What’s your decision?”

“Destroy them.”

“I’m very much afraid,” Puente said, “that I agree with the majority. We must think of the greatest good of the greatest number.” He looked around the room. “It grieves me even to contemplate destroying objects so ancient, and so important, but in these unique circumstances I can genuinely see no other option. Mr. Mandino, if these three relics cease to exist, will that mark the end of your interest in this matter?”

“Yes. My instructions are to ensure they’re destroyed.”

“And if that is done, what will happen to those of us who’ve seen the relics, and who know what they contain?”

“Nothing, I give you my word. Without the objects, there’s no proof of their contents,” Mandino said.

Puente nodded. He seemed, Bronson noted, to have comprehensively taken control of the situation.

Puente stepped behind his desk and removed the data card from the camera he’d used. “All the pictures on this card are of these objects,” he said. Taking a large pair of scissors, he cut it into four pieces. “Now I’ll destroy the relics themselves. I’ll do it right now, with all of you as witnesses, willing or not.”

Puente pointed across the library at the side wall near the entrance door, and every eye followed his gesture. “That red box controls the smoke detectors and the fire alarm,” he said. “Before I can burn these, somebody has to switch off the system, otherwise the sprinklers will cut in.”

“I’ll do it,” Rogan said. He walked across to the box and flicked a couple of switches.

“Papyrus burns very well,” Puente said, sorrow evident in his voice, “so this won’t take long.”

He placed a square steel plate on his desk, then picked up the scroll. He produced a cigarette lighter and held the flame to one end of it. Within a matter of seconds the tinder-dry papyrus was being consumed, and soon there was nothing left but a pile of ash. Puente opened the first of the diptychs and held the flame of the lighter against the inscribed wax until it dripped and melted onto the steel. The wood failed to catch, so he took a small hammer and with a few blows reduced it to dust and splinters. Then he repeated the process with the second diptych.

“That’s it,” he said, with a halfhearted attempt at a smile. “The world of organized religion is safe for all eternity.”

For a moment or two nobody moved, as if the enormity of Puente’s actions had turned them all to stone. Then suddenly Perini pushed Angela to one side, lifted his pistol and shot Rogan through the heart. Then he swung the weapon around and fired a second bullet straight into Mandino’s chest.

28

I

“No!” Angela screamed, as Bronson instinctively dived to one side.

Mandino staggered backward and fell to the ground in a lifeless heap. When Bronson looked up, both Perini and Verrochio were aiming their pistols straight at him. He had no option but to drop the Browning.

Perini stepped forward and picked up the weapon, then he and Verrochio holstered their Glocks.

“What the hell’s going on?” Bronson demanded.

“We were told to carry out a cleanup operation,” Perini said. “Just in case you didn’t know, Rogan”—he pointed at the body on the floor—“was responsible for killing your friends, and the capo”—he gestured at the other corpse—“gave the orders.”

“But the scroll and the diptychs have been destroyed. Why did you have to kill them?” Angela asked.

“We had orders from Rome to tie up all the loose ends. Be grateful that you’re still alive. Despite what he told you, Mandino intended to kill all three of you, and probably the handful of people in the shop as well.”

“What are you going to do with us?” Angela asked. “We’ve read what was written on the scroll and in the diptychs.”

“It doesn’t matter what you read or what you know,” Perini said dismissively.

“Without the relics, nobody will believe you, and the only evidence left is that.” He pointed at the desk and the sad pile of wood splinters and ash that was all that remained of the scroll and diptychs. “You won’t see us again,” he said, then he and Verrochio turned and walked away.

For several seconds nobody spoke, then Josep Puente stepped forward and put his arms around Angela.

“It’s probably for the best,” he said. “I’m so sorry, but if I hadn’t destroyed the relics, we might all be dead by now. Come on, let’s go upstairs so I can call the Guardia Civil.”

While Puente used the telephone at the reception desk, Bronson went into the museum shop and released the staff and the two visitors, explaining that they’d have to wait in the building until the Guardia Civil had questioned them.

Four hours later, and well past midnight, Angela and Bronson were free to go.

Puente’s testimony and that of the other museum staff had cleared them of any involvement in the killings except as witnesses. Bronson would still have to satisfy the British police about the death of Mark Hampton, but the senior Guardia Civil officer had been able to confirm that he was now only wanted for questioning by the Metropolitan Police, and was no longer considered a suspect.

“Will they catch those two men, do you think?” Angela asked, as they headed toward the parking lot.

“Not a chance,” Bronson said. “They would have had an escape route planned in advance, because those two killings were obviously premeditated.”

“Those men were all in the Mafia, so we’re lucky to be alive. You heard what Mandino and that assassin