the car, neck broken, blood everywhere. The sound of the Mercedes’s rear tire spinning and the hiss of a broken radiator played along to the car’s radio, still loudly throwing off a techno dance number.
There was nothing Donovan could do for her.
Conte was down, but remarkably, still moving.
Donovan staggered over to the mangled assassin, convinced that a threat still existed. There was no way he was going to gamble that Salvatore Conte was going to have even the slightest chance of making it out of here alive. Looking both ways down the quiet roadway, Donovan clawed for the handgun strapped to Conte’s right ankle, tearing it free. The chamber was loaded, safety off. As he jabbed it against Conte’s lumpy right temple, he swore he could hear the church bells chiming over Belfast. “God forgive me.”
Father Patrick Donovan squeezed the trigger.
61
******
Donovan dragged Conte’s broken body into a thicket of bushes by the side of the road and concealed it beneath a shallow covering of leaves and branches. Stripping the mercenary of his wallet, he came across a syringe and a vial of clear liquid, and pocketed them too.
Next, he ran back along the trail to the pit, easing himself down into it. Donovan manhandled the two broken halves of the lid out onto the ground, then carefully pulled the two bricks of C-4 from the ossuary, leaving them in the hole.
Planting both feet firmly beside the ossuary, he crouched low and grabbed beneath it, lengthwise. With little room to maneuver, it took him a while to steadily ease it up along the dirt wall, its weight not so much a problem as its awkward dimensions. He managed to coax it up and out, until it rested on the rim of the pit. Sweating profusely and struggling to catch his breath, he climbed out.
Moving the Alfa closer, Donovan made a final effort to hoist the ossuary into the trunk and stowed the shovels behind the box. Slamming the lid, he ducked into the driver’s seat, a dirty, bloody mess. Fatigue swept over him. His muscles were aching and his smashed nose throbbed painfully. But, all things considered, he felt pretty good, the waning adrenaline still giving him an almost euphoric high. Overall, he was pleased with his performance. It had been a long time since he’d handled a weapon or fought in self-defense. But as his father used to say, “The Irish forgive their great men only when they are safely buried.”
God had protected him...and he knew why. This injustice needed to be undone.
He wiped the blood and prints from the Beretta and Conte’s Glock, both still smelling of burnt gunpowder, and stashed them inside the glove compartment. He’d toss the Glock in the first river he came across, but for now, he’d hold onto the Beretta. Switching on the ignition, he circled the sedan back along the trail.
When he reached the Autostrada, Donovan paused, surprised that anyone had yet to arrive on the scene. There hadn’t even been another car.
Eyeing the brush-covered corpse on the side of the roadway, Donovan knew that once discovered, it would be difficult, if not impossible to identify the mangled mercenary. Fingerprints, dental records, or any other forensic identification technique, no matter how sophisticated, would no doubt come up blank. Equally certain was the fact that Conte couldn’t be tied in any way to the Vatican. He was a drifter, plain and simple—a man from obscurity, returning to obscurity.
He wondered which way to go.
With little deliberation, Patrick Donovan turned right, heading southwest. As the scene in his rearview mirror disappeared, he prayed silently for the soul of the woman driver.
62
******
Jerusalem
Seated at his kitchen table, sipping a late afternoon tea, Razak was interrupted by his cell phone. Checking the screen, the caller I.D. flashed “UNAVAILABLE.” Confused, he picked it up. “As-Salaam?”
“I saw you on television.”
The man spoke in English and his voice was vaguely familiar. “Who is this?”
“A friend.”
Razak set down his glass. Maybe a reporter, he thought. Or perhaps even someone with information. But he swore he’d heard the lilting accent somewhere before.
“I know who stole the ossuary,” the voice stated flatly.
Razak straightened in his chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The caller would need to be more specific before he would confirm what had been taken.
“Yes you do. I met with you only a few weeks ago in Rome. You delivered a package to me at Cafe Greco. You gave me your card and said to call you if there were any problems.”
In his mind’s eye, Razak recalled the bald man with glasses, sitting at the table with wiry fingers wrapped tightly around a pint of lager. He had been wearing black with a white collar—a Christian cleric. Razak remembered that the leather satchel he had given the priest contained a confidential dossier, but he was trying to understand how it had anything to do with the ossuary. “I do,” he replied tentatively. “I’m listening.”
“The book contained very detailed information about an ossuary buried deep beneath Temple Mount in a hidden chamber.”
“What book?”
“There were nine other ossuaries there, too. Am I not correct?”
“Okay.” Razak’s voice was encouraging. Not quite an admission.
“And I have the tenth ossuary.”
Wishing he could record this conversation, Razak paused, stupefied. “You killed thirteen men. You desecrated a very holy site.” He stood from the table and began pacing the apartment.
“No,” the caller cut in, insistent. “Not me.”
