what you have to do...and will want to do. That will be my payment.”
“The Vatican would need to determine the book’s authenticity before any terms could be discussed.”
“Then I shall arrange for delivery,” the caller had replied.
“I’d need to see a sample before that could happen. A page from the book.”
The line was silent.
“Fax me a page now,” Donovan insisted.
“Give me your number.” The caller was hesitant. “I will stay on this line.”
Donovan twice repeated his office’s private fax number.
A long minute passed before the fax machine rang, picking up on the second ring and feeding paper from its tray. The printed message was spit out seconds later. Donovan held it close to the light. When he had finished silently reading the remarkably authentic Greek text, the words left him momentarily breathless. Shaking, he returned the phone to his ear. “Where did you find this?”
“That is not important.”
“Why have you come to me in particular?”
“You are probably the only man at the Vatican who can understand the profound implications of this book. You know that history has tried to deny its existence. I have chosen you to be my voice to the Holy See.” There was another long pause.
“Do you want the book or not?”
There was a pause.
“Of course,” he finally said.
Donovan had made arrangements to meet the anonymous caller’s messenger two days later in the Caffe Greco on Via Condotti, near the Spanish Steps. Two armed plainclothes Swiss Guards sat at a nearby table. The messenger appeared at the agreed time and introduced himself by first name only, presenting a business card for any later questions. Donovan had sat with the man only briefly. No indication was given as to the identity of who had dispatched him.
A leather satchel had been discreetly passed over to him.
Though no explanations were provided, Donovan intuited that the man knew nothing of the satchel’s contents. There had been no drama requiring the guards’ intervention—just a quick, impersonal transaction, and both men had left on their separate ways.
Opening the satchel in the sanctuary of his office, Donovan had found a handwritten note on plain paper and a newspaper clipping. The note had read: “Use the map to find the relics. Act quickly to find them before the Jews do. Should you require assistance, call me.” A phone number was listed below the message. Salvatore Conte had later told him that it had been a one-time use cell phone and that each of his subsequent communications with the insider was routed to a new phone number or anonymous one-time use website—all untraceable. Apparently, using these secure channels, the insider had coordinated with Conte to procure explosives and certain tools needed to extract the ossuary.
The Jews? Confused, the priest read the clipping from the Jerusalem Post and realized exactly what had prompted this meeting. Digging deeper inside the satchel, his hands had come upon the smooth leather covers of the Ephemeris Conlusio.
22
******
Jerusalem
Outside Temple Mount’s northern gate, Barton avoided the chaos of the Western Wall Prayer Plaza, angling along the narrow cobblestone streets that webbed gently down Mount Moriah.
He had actually managed to persuade Razak to let him take the scroll back to his office to see if he could translate its text. Apparently, the Muslim was anxious to find some answers.
Passing through the busy Muslim and Christian Quarters, he entered the Jewish Quarter along Tiferet Yisrael and banked left into the open expanse of Hurva Square, the harsh noonday glare sharper in the absence of any breeze. He glanced over at the sweeping Hurva Arch—the Square’s focal point and sole remnant of the grand synagogue that had once stood here.
Hurva —literally meaning “destruction”—was well named, Barton thought. Much like Jerusalem itself, the synagogue had been destroyed and rebuilt many times, the result of endless disputes between Muslims and Jews. On the eve of Israel’s birth in 1948, the synagogue had been occupied by Jordanian Arabs and dynamited—its final death blow.
Almost six decades later, the same violent struggle for control continued far beyond its confines—a bitter turf war between Israelis and Palestinians. And somehow he now found himself caught directly in the middle of it all.
Though the main offices of the Israeli Antiquities Authority were located in Tel Aviv, a temporary satellite facility had been set up just three weeks earlier, here, inside the Wohl Archaeological Museum—very near the apartment rented by the Temple Mount suspects.
Parked in front of the building stood a gold BMW sedan with police markings. Barton inwardly groaned as he hurried to the front door to be met by his intern assistant, Rachel Leibowitz—an attractive twentysomething with flowing black hair, olive skin, and hypnotic blue eyes.
“Graham,” she was urgent. “Two uniformed men are waiting for you downstairs. I told them to stay outside, but they insisted—”
“It’s all right, Rachel.” Barton held up a hand. “They were expected.” He caught himself staring at her lips. If the IAA was trying to do him a favor by assigning him such an attractive assistant, they weren’t helping matters. At fifty-four, Graham Barton wasn’t exactly the dashing young man
he had once been. But in his small circle, he was a legend and that seemed
to make good for an aging facade. And eager students like Rachel would do
anything to get closer to him. “Please don’t put through any calls for the
time being.” Smiling, he moved past her, trying to avoid the intoxicating
