“Remember your confidentiality agreement, Dr. Hennesey,” he stated calmly. “Or I’ll have to come and find you.”
When she saw his attention momentarily shift to the approaching guards, she took the opportunity to do something she’d been thinking about since the moment she met this creep. Bending slightly at the knees, she swept a powerful left foot at his crotch, landing a perfect shot.
Conte buckled. Wretching, he had to put his hands to the ground to not fall flat on his face. “You fucking cunt!” The veins in his red face bulged as he stared malevolently at the American.
The two guards arrived and planted themselves on opposite sides, guns leveled at his head. “Stay still!” one of them commanded, first in English, then Italian.
Gasping, Conte immediately recognized him as the cacasenno, or smart-ass, who manned the gate the day he arrived at Vatican City with Donovan. The guard had made the connection too and flashed a satisfied grin.
“What’s going on here?” the second one asked Charlotte in English.
“This man was threatening me, trying to take my bag.” Her voice was urgent.
The first guard was asking Conte for identification.
“I’m not . . .”—he spit out more vomit and bile—“carrying it on me.” He was sure Santelli wouldn’t approve of name-dropping in this situation. Later, he would insist on a phone call to the secretary. He also decided against telling the guards that the laptop contained critical information since that would only lead to bigger problems if they insisted on details. For now, he’d have to play the game.
The second guard had also asked Charlotte for identification, which she readily provided. The ornate papal crest on her guest badge showed she was a guest of the secretariat. “You’re free to go, Dr. Hennesey.”
He turned to Conte. “And you’ll need to come with us, signore.”
Conte had no option but to comply.
The guards helped him to his feet and remained at his side, Berettas drawn.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Charlotte made her way to the gate. Once safely outside Vatican City, she angled her way to Via Della Conciliazione, waved down a taxi, and told the driver to take her directly to Fiumicino Airport. Rapidamente! The car lurched forward as the driver stepped hard on the accelerator, but this was one time she wasn’t going to complain about Rome’s insane drivers. She couldn’t get out of this place fast enough.
Only now did she realize that her entire body was trembling.
Peering out the rear window, she watched the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica as it shrank away, fingers still clamped around the laptop bag.
The taxi driver hit the Autostrada and Charlotte watched the needle on the speedometer climb to 160 kilometers per hour. She sank back and put on her seat belt. With Rome safely behind her, Charlotte pulled out her cell phone and called Evan Aldrich. So what if it was still the middle of the night in Phoenix? He picked up almost instantly.
“Evan?”
“Hey, Charlie. I was just thinking about you.”
Hearing his voice instantly soothed her. “Hi.” Her voice wavered.
“Everything okay?”
“No. Not at all.” Lowering her voice and turning away from the driver, she gave him a brief rundown of what had transpired. “I’m heading to the airport now.”
“I was going to surprise you, but ...I was actually on my way there to see you. In fact, my flight just arrived at Fiumicino a few minutes ago.”
“What? You’re kidding!” Her shoulders relaxed.
“I’m at the baggage carousel right now. I’ll tell you where to meet me.”
60
******
Abruzzo, Italy
An hour northeast of Rome, Salvatore Conte’s rented black Alfa Romeo sedan climbed the SS5 autostrada along the Apennine mountain range into Monte Scuncole. The afternoon sky was a dull gray that choked the sun to a fizzled shade of white. A light drizzle sprayed the windshield.
Trying to settle his thoughts, Patrick Donovan stared out the misty passenger window at the patchwork of vineyards in the valley below.
Following Charlotte Hennesey’s unanticipated and hasty departure earlier that morning, and Conte’s embarrassing bailout from the Swiss Guard detention center, a profoundly anxious Cardinal Santelli had given him specific instructions about what was to happen next: “You’ll need to see to it that this chapter of the Church’s history disappears without a trace—by whatever means necessary, Patrick. I’ll have Conte assist you in destroying the ossuary and everything it contains...the manuscript too. Without the physical evidence, the only thing that should remain is a legend. Understood?”
The relics and book could easily have been destroyed in the Vatican laboratory, so he intuited that this drive was about far more than a simple disposal of the ossuary. Glancing at the mercenary, he knew that Dr. Bersei’s mysterious disappearance coincided all too well with Conte’s unexplained head wound.
Conte slowed the sedan and turned right down a narrow unpaved road. Thick grass and low bushes scraped the car’s undercarriage. They drove on in silence until the trail broadened by a small grove of beech trees. Conte braked, and killed the engine, leaving the keys in the ignition. He pushed the trunk release button.
Emerging from the car, both men circled to the back. Shovels and picks had been stowed diagonally behind the ossuary. Conte grabbed them and pushed a spade into Donovan’s hands. “We’ll need to dig deep.”
“Now that this thing’s over”—Conte wiped away sweat from his forehead with the back of his muddy hand —“I’ve got a couple of questions for you.” He thrust his shovel into the soil and leaned on it. The smell of fresh earth filled the damp air. The light rain had resumed.
Donovan peered up at him through foggy glasses. “Haven’t you seen enough to answer your questions?”
The mercenary shook his head. “Whose bones do you really believe are in that ossuary?” Salvatore Conte wasn’t questioning his own faith. That was something he’d abandoned long ago. But the theft of the ossuary and its scientific analysis, along with Bersei’s discoveries at the Torlonia catacombs had really piqued his curiosity.
