moan as he eased the door open.
He stared down at the ossuary that had been fashioned from pure gold, resembling a miniature Ark of the Covenant—no doubt, a purposeful design. Directly above him, the four spiral columns of the Baldacchino had also been purposely fashioned to reflect the designs of Solomon’s Temple.
Knowing that he had little time, Donovan reached out with both hands and firmly grabbed the box’s cover. Drawing a deep breath, he jostled it, pulling it up and away.
As expected, St. Peter’s ossuary was empty.
Following the studies performed on the saint’s bones, the skeleton had been returned to the humble Constantine-era crypt where it was originally found. Few knew that this box was only meant to commemorate the first pope.
“God have mercy on me,” he reverently whispered, eyeing the mosaic of Christ.
Reciting the Lord’s Prayer, he began transferring the bones from the leather bag into the ossuary, finishing with the perfect skull and jawbone. Then he replaced the lid.
As he closed the glass door and turned the lock, he heard noises emanating from above, within the basilica. A door opening. Urgent footsteps. Excited voices.
Just above the niche was a heavy metal grating that served as a vent for the hollow area beneath the altar. Instinctively, Donovan passed the key through the grate and released it down into the void. He heard the small ting of metal striking rock. Then he remembered the empty syringe in his pocket and got rid of that too.
Grabbing the bag, he ascended the ramp, staying low as he emerged.
“Padre Donovan,” a deep voice called out in Italian. “Are you in here?”
Peering through the balustrade, he could see three figures—two in blue coveralls and black berets, a third in vestments. Swiss Guards and a priest.
Trapped !
For a moment, he considered retreating down the ramp, back into the extensive subterranean papal burial crypt adjoining St. Peter’s shrine. Maybe he could hide there for a while among the hundreds of sarcophagi, wait it out, then try to escape Vatican City.
He wondered how they had found him so quickly. Then he remembered he’d used his keycard to enter the basilica. Each key-swipe logged his location into the Swiss Guard’s security system—a safety precaution that apparently served a second, more sinister purpose. The grim reality of the situation flooded over him: he couldn’t hide because they already knew he was here.
Trying his best to remain calm, he climbed the rest of the way up the steps and opened the gate. “Yes, I’m over here,” he called out.
The two guards quickly made their way over to him, with the cleric trailing cautiously behind.
“Just finishing my prayers,” Donovan offered, confidently. They seemed to buy it.
“Father Donovan,” the shorter guard’s voice was curt. “We need you to come with us.”
The curator eyed the guard’s gleaming Beretta with newfound admiration and thought about yesterday, when he and Santelli had dropped by the barracks to retrieve Conte. The Swiss Guard’s gunsmith had half a dozen weapons set out for maintenance. Amidst all the excitement, no one had even noticed Donovan slip the gun and a few clips of ammunition into his pocket.
Managing a smile, Donovan said, “Is there a problem?”
“Yes,” the cleric responded, stepping into view.
Putting on his glasses, Donovan saw it was Father Martin. Had Santelli’s assistant found the body? Was he bringing the guards to arrest him?
“There’s a major problem,” Martin stated severely. “Shortly after you left Cardinal Santelli’s office this evening, His Eminence was found dead.”
Donovan gasped, trying his best to look surprised. His pulse was drumming hard and his palms were moist. “That’s awful.” He prepared himself for what was sure to come next—the cleric’s accusation.
“It seems that he suffered a heart attack,” Father Martin explained.
Studying Martin’s face, Donovan swore he detected a lie. He let out a long breath, perceived as shock, but actually of relief.
“Very unfortunate,” Father Martin said in a quiet tone, casting his eyes to the floor for a moment, as if in vigil. Earlier that evening, he had listened in on Donovan’s discussion with Santelli, using the cardinal’s phone as an intercom. And what he heard had been deeply shocking. He was almost certain that Father Patrick Donovan had exacted revenge on the scheming old man, though he could only wonder how. Didn’t the metal detectors register all weapons? But no matter, he thought. Had he been in Donovan’s position, he would have done the same. Regardless, that bastard Santelli was dead. Not only is the Church better off without him, Father Martin thought, but so am I. “We will need your help in collecting his legal papers from the Archive.” He sighed. “The cardinal’s family will also need to be notified immediately.”
Donovan raised his head, eyes gleaming. “Certainly....We can go there now if you’d like.”
Martin offered a reassuring smile. “Bless you, Father.”
70
SUNDAY
******
Jerusalem
Graham Barton had never been so glad to see the dusty streets of Jerusalem. He drew a deep, invigorating breath, savoring the familiar smell of cypress and eucalyptus. It was a lovely morning. He grinned when he saw Razak standing at the bottom of the steps of the police station and his smile grew even wider when he saw that
