She studied a number of other hidden cameras transmitting from the lab and the break room—live feeds, judging by the time and date counters on the bottom of each panel. He’d been watching and listening the whole time.
In that moment she knew that Giovanni had been right.
49
******
In the Secret Archive, Father Donovan placed the Ephemeris Conlusio codex next to the plastic-sealed document bearing reference number Archivum Arcis, Arm. D 217—“The Chinon Parchment”—and closed the door. There was a small hiss as a vacuum pump pulled all the air out from the compartment.
Secrets. Donovan was no stranger to them. Perhaps that was why he felt so connected to books and solitude. Maybe this archive somehow mirrored his soul, he thought.
Many who were drawn to the Catholic priesthood would attribute their decision to some kind of vocational calling—a special closeness to God, possibly. Donovan had turned to the Church for a more sobering cause— survival.
As a young boy, he’d grown up in Belfast during the tumultuous sixties and seventies when violence in Northern Ireland peaked between the Nationalist Catholics seeking independence from British rule, and Unionist Protestants who were loyal to the crown. In 1969 he watched his house, and dozens of others around it, burned to the ground by rioting loyalists. He could also vividly recall the IR A’s retaliatory bombings, which were a regular occurrence—1,300 in 1972 alone—and claimed hundreds of civilian lives.
At fifteen, he and his friends had been lured into a street gang that ran errands for the IR A and acted as the “eyes and ears” of the movement. On one memorable occasion, he’d been asked to drop a package outside a Protestant storefront. Unbeknownst to him at that time, the bag actually contained a bomb. Luckily, no one had been killed in the subsequent blast that leveled the building. Somehow, he’d even managed to avoid being arrested.
But it was a fateful evening on his seventeenth birthday when Donovan’s life was changed forever. He was drinking at a local pub with his two best friends, Sean and Michael. They had gotten into a shouting match with a group of drunken Protestants. Donovan’s crew left an hour later, but the Protestants—five in all—followed them outside and continued haranguing. It hadn’t taken long for fists to start flying.
Though no stranger to street fighting, Donovan’s wiry frame and swift hands had been no match for the two men that teamed up on him. While one of the Protestants had pinned him to the ground, the second landed body blows, seemingly intent on beating him to death.
It was hard to forget the suppressed rage that had flooded into him as he envisioned the glowing embers of his home. Donovan had reacted on instinct, fighting his way back onto his feet, flipping open a jackknife and plunging it deep into the stomach of the attacker who had held him down. The man had fallen to the pavement, horrified as he tried to hold back the gush of blood flooding out of his abdomen. Seeing the rage in Donovan’s fiery eyes, the second man had backed away.
Dazed, Donovan turned to see Sean, blood-soaked and baring his teeth, had also taken a man down with his own knife. The remaining Protestants had stood frozen in disbelief as the Catholics fled.
He remembered the awful dread he had felt the next day when the newspapers and TV reported that a local Protestant man had been stabbed to death. Though there had been some doubt as to which of the two fallen Protestants suffered the fatal blow, Donovan quickly came to terms with the fact that he needed to leave Belfast behind before he became its next victim.
The seminary had given him a safe haven from the streets, providing hope of God’s forgiveness for the horrible things he had done. Though not a day had gone by that he couldn’t see the bloodstains on his hands.
Despite his past, he’d always been a good student and the solitude of priesthood had reignited his passion for reading. He found peace in history and scripture. Guidance. Seeing his remarkable dedication to learning, the Diocese of Dublin had sponsored his extensive university training. Perhaps, Donovan thought, it was his obsession with books that had helped to save him.
Now, it was a book that seemed to threaten everything he held sacred. The very institution that had protected him was under attack.
For a long moment he stared behind the glass panel at the Ephemeris Conlusio—the lost scripture that had set in motion the momentous events leading to the theft in Jerusalem. It was hard to grasp that it was only two weeks earlier that he had presented this incredible discovery to the Vatican secretary of state. He saw the meeting with Santelli as clear as day, as if a movie played in his memory.
“It’s not often I receive such urgent requests for an appointment from the Vatican Library.” Cardinal Santelli’s hands lay folded on his desk.
Seated opposite, Father Donovan clutched his leather satchel. “Apologies for the short notice, Eminence. But I hope you’ll agree that the reason I’ve come here warrants your immediate attention ...and will justify why I have chosen not to involve Cardinal Giancome.”
Vincenzo Giancome, the Cardinale Archivista e Bibliotecario, was Donovan’s superior and acted as the supreme overseer of the Vatican Secret Archive. He was also the man who’d tabled Donovan’s fervent request to acquire the Judas Papers. So after much deliberation, Donovan had made the unorthodox decision of not including Giancome in on this matter—a bold move that could potentially backfire and cost him his career. But he was certain that what he was about to divulge would directly involve matters of national security—not reserve documents. Furthermore, the mystery caller had specifically chosen Donovan for this task and there was no time for delays or bureaucratic infighting.
“What is it?” Santelli looked bored.
Donovan was unsure exactly where to begin. “You recall a few years back when the Chinon Parchment was discovered in the Secret Archive?”
“Clement’s secret dismissal of charges brought against the Knights Templar?”
“Correct. I came to you with further documents detailing the clandestine meeting between Clement V and Jacques DeMolay, the Templar Grand Master.” Donovan swallowed hard. “The pope’s account specifically mentioned a manuscript called the Ephemeris Conlusio, supposedly containing information about the Templars’ hidden relics.”
“An attempt to restore the Templar Order,” Santelli interjected. “And a rather crude attempt at that.”
“But I think you’ll agree that DeMolay’s negotiations had to be quite compelling for Clement to have exonerated the Templars after ordering their disbandment.”
“A fabrication. No book was ever produced by Jacques DeMolay.”
“Agreed.” Donovan dug into his satchel and retrieved the book. “Because it wasn’t in his possession.”
Santelli shifted his chair. “What is that you have there?”
“This is the Ephemeris Conlusio.”
Santelli was bewildered. This was one legend he had always hoped to be pure fantasy. None of the Vatican’s darkest secrets began to compare. He clung to the hope that the librarian was wrong, but Donovan’s confident gaze confirmed his worst fears. “You’re not suggesting...”
