“Yes. An ossuary.”
“A burial box? Why so much trouble for such a thing?”
“Still unclear.” Razak shook his head. “Barton needs time to determine exactly what was in the ossuary. He’ll be conducting a study of the crypt tomorrow morning to understand more.”
“I see.”
“Heard anything else about the helicopter?”
Farouq shook his head.
“Until it’s determined what happened,” Razak said, “we should request copies of all outgoing shipping manifests at the ports for the past three days, starting with Tel Aviv. Also check the airports. According to Barton the consignment would weigh about thirty-five kilos. Most likely the crate would be about a meter in length, about two-thirds of a meter in height and width. That should narrow things down.”
“I’ll request copies of shipping records for air, rail, and water transport,” he said unenthusiastically. Putting on a pair of glasses, Farouq jotted some notes on a pad.
“Is it safe to assume all the roadway checkpoints have been secured?”
Farouq grimaced. “Come now, Razak. When has that ever been a safe assumption? Nonetheless, all vehicles are being thoroughly inspected. But I highly doubt they’d risk driving this thing out of Israel.”
“Do you think the helicopter may have flown it out of the country?” The fact that Barton had himself mentioned the idea really had Razak thinking it through more seriously now.
“It hasn’t turned up in Israel yet, so the odds are it’s already gone. By the way,” Farouq continued without pause, “the police are looking into a call from a landlady in the Jewish Quarter. Told them a stranger had rented a room from her. He shared it with several men she thought were part of a tour group. They all disappeared late on Friday evening some time before dawn. The chambermaid’s agreed to meet with a police photofit expert first thing tomorrow.”
“Think it’s anything?”
“Perhaps. But it’s taken this woman three days to come forward. Seems odd.” Farouq eyed his notepad. “The name on the room was Daniel Marrone—the same one used to lease a rental van found abandoned on Haofel Road. No surprise that it appears to be an alias. The Israelis also ran ballistics tests on the munitions,” he continued. “The thieves were armed with XM8 assault rifles, apparently very sophisticated weapons, manufactured by Heckler & Koch for the United States military.”
“Interesting.” The Israeli forensic crime labs never ceased to impress Razak. As a matter of ongoing national security, they’d invested heavily in counterterrorism technology that included a highly sophisticated database with profiles of every known manufactured weapon. “But that doesn’t seem to make sense.” Razak was frowning.
“What do you mean?”
“Barton says the ossuary is probably only worth a few thousand dollars.”
“Hmm.” Farouq considered it. “Let’s wait and see what the archaeologist comes up with.” Farouq looked at his watch. “Before this relic is completely out of reach.”
10
******
Rome
On the wide cement walkway along Stazione Termini’s loading zone, a young baggage clerk was working a bulky wooden crate onto a hand truck. “Tananai,” a sharp Italian voice cut the air, “make sure you handle that with care.”
Squinting into the bright summer sunlight, the clerk looked up to see who had just called him a dickhead. Standing stiffly against the backdrop of the terminal’s modern glass and steel structure was a tall, thickset man dressed in chinos and a white shirt. The brawny stranger didn’t look like the type who would respond well to a smart reply. “Si, signore.”
Turning slightly off Via Giovanni Giolitti’s busy thoroughfare, a white Fiat van pulled up and parked along the curb. Father Patrick Donovan jumped out and excitedly went over to meet Conte. “Everything all right?”
“Would be if baggage handlers gave a damn about doing their job right.”
The young clerk rolled his eyes, careful to not let the impatient Italian see him.
Conte eyed the priest disapprovingly. “Did you have to wear that getup? Do you really need to be so damn obvious?” He eyed the van’s tags. They weren’t Vatican City plates. At least Donovan had got that part right.
Father Donovan shrugged and let out a long breath.
Conte stared for a moment at the priest’s bald scalp, glistening in the sun. “You should put some lotion on that thing before you burn my eyes out.”
The clerk laughed.
The priest was not amused.
“Make yourself useful and open the doors,” Conte instructed Donovan.
Silent, Donovan made his way to the van’s rear. Such a brash man, he thought. Though he wouldn’t expect anything less from the Vatican’s notorious hired gun. He hated the idea of working with Conte—a thief, a killer. It all made him feel unclean. But he reminded himself how critical it was to make this work. So much was at stake. And if having to contend with the Contes of the world was part of it, then so be it.
“I’ll take it from here,” Conte huffed, urging the handler to the side with the wave of a hand. The mercenary stepped behind the hand truck and raised the load, his thick, corded arm muscles flexing.
Conte was still irritable from the return trip. If getting the secret cargo out of Jerusalem had been a harrowing experience, the two-day crossing of the Mediterranean in rough seas hadn’t been much better. Seasickness and a confrontation with team member Doug Wilkinson—those were the high points. After some heavy drinking, the young twat had dragged Conte out to the aft deck for a “friendly” discussion regarding the bullet he took to his right arm. “It’s my good arm for Christ’s sake,” Wilkinson protested. “Now I’m going to have a fucking
