that had broken down his final wall of doubt.
All were damning facts, pointing to the Vatican. Bersei punished himself for not making the connection sooner. But it had all seemed too fantastic.
From the tray, he picked up the cylinder and removed the unsealed cap. Then he teased out the scroll. As he gently unfurled the calfskin his heart was pounding. Glancing quickly around the room, he swore he felt invisible eyes boring into him.
Lingering questions bothered him. How could such a profound discovery have remained secret for so long? If the bones were truly those of Jesus—or even one of his contemporaries—why hadn’t it ever been documented? And no matter who this man had been, how was it that the Vatican had discovered the secret only now, two thousand years later?
Back to the matter at hand.
Delicately smoothing out the calfskin scroll, Bersei experienced a flurry of conflicting emotions. He was convinced that this ancient document might provide a final clue—perhaps even confirm or deny the dead man’s true identity.
Just like the bones and other relics, Bersei could immediately see that the calfskin scroll had been magnificently preserved. There were countless possibilities of what this document might contain. The last will and testament of the deceased? A final prayer sealed away by those who buried the body? Perhaps even a decree explaining why this man had been crucified.
His fingers were shaking uncontrollably as he held it up.
Neat text was written out in some kind of ink. Studying it more intently, he saw that it was Koine Greek, the dialect sometimes referred to as “New Testament Greek” and the unofficial lingua franca of the Roman Empire up until the fourth century.
The first implication was that the author had been well educated—a Roman, perhaps.
Below the text was a very detailed drawing that looked remarkably familiar.
As he read the ancient message—clear and brief—his extreme tension began to subside and for a moment, he sat there in silence.
Refocusing his attention on the accompanying drawing, the anthropologist again felt as though he’d seen this imagery before. His brow tightened as he studied it intently. Think. Think.
That’s when it hit him. Bersei’s face blanched. Of course!
He had definitely seen this image before, and the place it was meant to depict was only a few kilometers away on the outskirts of Rome, deep beneath the city. Instantly he knew that he would need to go there as soon as his business here was complete.
Scrambling over to the photocopier that sat in the corner of the room, he flattened the scroll onto the glass, closed the lid and made a copy. Returning the scroll to the cylinder, he placed it beside the other relics. Then he folded the copy and stuck it in his pocket.
As he focused on gathering evidence to substantiate his claim against the Vatican, paranoia about his own safety quickly returned. But he needed information that could be used by the Carabiniere to investigate the case.
Nerves ablaze, Bersei linked his laptop to the main computer terminal and began copying files onto its hard drive—the skeleton’s complete profile, pictures of the ossuary and its accompanying relics, carbon dating
results—everything.
He eyed his watch again—7:46. Time was running out.
When the last file had finished copying, he folded the laptop and packed
it into its carrying bag. Removing anything else would seem overly suspicious. “Hey, Giovanni,” a familiar voice called over to him.
He spun around. Charlotte. He hadn’t even heard her come in. Walking past him, she noticed that he looked awful. “Everything okay?” He didn’t know what say. “You’re here early.”
“I didn’t sleep well. Are you going somewhere?” Looks awfully nervous,
she thought.
“I have an appointment I need to go to.”
“Oh.” She looked at her watch. “You’ll be back for the meeting, right?” He stood and slung the bag over his shoulder. “I’m not sure, actually.
Something important has come up.”
“More important than our presentation?”
He avoided her eyes.
“Something’s wrong, Giovanni. Tell me what it is.”
His eyes combed the walls, as if he were hearing voices. “Not here,” he
said. “Walk out with me and I’ll explain.”
Bersei opened the main door and poked his head out into the corridor.
Everything was clear. He motioned for her to follow.
Quietly, he slipped outside and Charlotte followed, easing the door
closed behind her.
In the makeshift surveillance room, Salvatore Conte sat perfectly still until the footsteps in the corridor had
