Another scandal.
In each hand, Santelli held the two halves of the scroll the scientists had found in Christ’s ossuary. In his left hand was the sketched ceiling fresco in Joseph’s crypt deep within the Torlonia catacombs. In his right hand was the ancient Greek text that preceded the drawing, which he had asked Conte to separate from the picture, fearing the text might contain some overt message. Prior to sending Father Donovan to accompany Conte on his fatal journey, he had asked the priest to translate the Greek message— the last remnant of Christianity’s centuries-old threat.
The transcription was penned onto a crisp sheet of Vatican letterhead. Leaning over his desk, Santelli pieced together the scroll’s halves beside it.
He had considered destroying the scroll, burning it. But now he prayed that something in it might settle him. Drawing a deep breath, he studied the original vellum one more time, then shifted his gaze over to read Father Donovan’s transcription:
May faith guide us in our solemn vow to protect the sanctity of God. Here lay his son, awaiting his final resurrection so that God’s testimony may be restored and the souls of all men may be judged. Let these bones not dissuade the faithful, for stories are but words written by misguided men. The spirit is the eternal truth.
May God have mercy on us all.
His loyal servant,
Joseph of Arimathea
The intercom came to life, pulling the cardinal from his thoughts. “Eminence, I’m sorry to bother you, but . . .”
“What is it Father Martin?” The young priest sounded flustered. “Father Donovan is here to see you. I told him you weren’t available,
but he’s refusing to leave.”
Alarmed, the cardinal collapsed into his chair, hands gripping the armrests. Donovan? Impossible. Santelli opened the top drawer of his desk, confirming that the Beretta was still there. “Send him in.”
Seconds later, the office door opened.
As Patrick Donovan made his way into the room, Santelli saw that he had deep bruises under each eye. The priest’s nose was crooked and swollen, looking like it had just been pieced back together. He was wearing what appeared to be an old pair of glasses with thick plastic frames rather than his usual wire-rimmed bifocals. Santelli eyed the bulky leather bag that the priest gripped in his left hand.
Donovan sat in the leather chair opposite the cardinal and placed the bag on his lap.
Santelli offered neither ring nor handshake.
Donovan wasted no time. “I came to show you something.” He patted the bag.
Had Santelli not been sitting in one of the most secure rooms in Vatican City, protected by metal and explosives detectors, he might have thought that inside the bag was some kind of weapon or bomb. But nothing like that could have made it this far. He’d personally seen to that after Conte’s unexpected and shocking introduction all those years ago.
“But first, I must ask you why you tried to have me killed?”
“That’s a very serious accusation, Patrick.” Santelli eyed the top desk drawer.
“It certainly is.”
“Are you wearing a wire? A recording device? Is that what this is about?”
Donovan shook his head. “You know that it would have been detected before I made it through the door.”
The priest was right. This inner sanctum was designed to be foolproof. Conversations behind these doors were far too important to risk indiscretions. “Do you seek retribution? Is that why you came here? Have you come here to kill me, Father Donovan?”
“Let’s leave that job to God, shall we?” Donovan was stonefaced.
An uncomfortable moment passed before Santelli motioned to the satchel that looked like it was meant to hold an oversized bowling ball. He half expected it to contain Salvatore Conte’s head. But he knew Donovan was incapable of violence. Though it did make him wonder why the assassin hadn’t completed his assigned task and why the priest looked like he’d just sparred ten rounds. Was he in on Conte’s plot? Had Conte sent him here to extort the money? “So what have you brought me?”
“Something you must see with your own eyes.” Donovan stood and placed the satchel on Santelli’s impossibly neat desk. As the bag settled, something inside it clattered, sounding like wooden dowels. He noticed that the plasma monitor now displayed a new screensaver. The words “Your faith is what you believe, not what you know... Mark Twain” scrolled across. Donovan remained standing, glaring at Santelli.
There was a brief standoff as both men locked stares.
Finally, Santelli levered himself out of his chair, huffing. “Fine, Patrick. If looking in your bag will make you go away...so be it.” Irritated, the cardinal bent over the satchel, hesitated, then slowly opened its zipper. There was more clattering as he pulled the sides apart to view the contents.
The cardinal’s face went a ghastly white as he stared at the human skull and bones, the ultimate relic. When he looked up again, his eyes had lost their fiery glow. “You sanctimonious bastard. You’ll certainly go to Hell for this.”
“I wanted you to make your peace with him before I perform a proper burial,” said Donovan. He’d felt terrible carrying the sacred bones around in what amounted to little more than a duffel bag. But yesterday afternoon, he had stopped at DHL to arrange for the ossuary to be airfreighted immediately to Jerusalem. The manuscript had been sent separately to Razak, the Muslim courier he’d met in Rome. The spikes and coins were stowed in the rental car’s glove compartment alongside the Beretta.
“You son of a bitch,” Santelli’s voice was strangely calm.
What happened next was a blur.
Yanking his hands out from his pockets, Donovan clasped the old man’s wrist with his right hand, simultaneously revealing the small plastic syringe with his left. Thrusting it deep into the cardinal’s upper arm, he
