The Sacred Blood

the project we’d arranged for Dr. Hennesey and Giovanni Bersei?”

“Certainly.” Then he looked to Charlotte and said, “Let me express my deepest condolences for Dr. Bersei’s passing.”

At a loss for words, Charlotte nodded.

“Though I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of that project . . . ,” Donovan continued.

“I understand.”

Tentative, Donovan went on. “It seems that someone outside the Vatican has information on the work that took place here—the analysis performed on certain relics acquired for the museum. Relics of extreme significance . . . and value.” Donovan paused to drain his whiskey—a superb pot-stilled Jameson—down to the halfway mark. Keep it simple, he reminded himself. “Both Charlotte and I were separately approached by two men looking for these relics. There were threats. They had guns—”

Martin gasped. “That’s unbelievable.” His wide eyes rolled to Charlotte, and his mouth was agape. Recalling how the two men had thrown him into the back of the van made his response seem sincere.

“Bottom line is . . . I feel we’re in serious danger. And I’ve come here to seek help—and protection.”

“There’s no safer place for you to be than inside these walls,” Martin said with forced conviction. “And you are officially a citizen of Vatican City.”

These words gave Donovan great comfort, because only roughly seven hundred clergy and one hundred Swiss Guards were granted official Vatican citizenship. The other three thousand lay workers, including Father Martin himself, lived outside the city—most in Rome. In accordance with Italy’s Lateran Treaty, Vatican citizenship was granted iure officii, meaning that once employment was terminated, the cleric’s citizenship would revert back to his original country of origin. Martin had assisted in arranging documentation with the secretariat’s office to make Donovan a dual citizen—a privilege granted to only two hundred and fifty others. Therefore, his “leave of absence” to attend to “family matters” was still considered temporary.

“You are still provided full legal representation,” Martin confirmed, “as well as complete access to the secretariat’s resources, which, as you know, are quite extensive. If you are both in some kind of . . .” He paused. But he could tell they had already filled in the blank. “Let’s just say that there’s no better place to be.”

“That’s what I was hoping,” Donovan said, visibly relieved. “Thank you.” Being a fellow Irishman, Donovan felt his bond with Martin went deeper than the cloth. And once again, Father Martin had come to his rescue. He emptied the glass, rattling the ice. “And Dr. Hennesey?”

“I’ll see to it that she’s given the same protections.”

“Thank you very much, Father,” Charlotte said. She noticed his mood was confident and his complexion was looking much better this evening. Perhaps it was the ambient lighting. But she also registered a lingering suspicion about the man. After all, he’d reported directly to Cardinal Santelli—the lunatic who, according to Donovan, had ordered Conte to murder her.

“I know this may be uncomfortable for you,” Martin urged, “but perhaps you could tell me more about these relics. Then maybe I can better determine how to direct my inquiries.”

The nun silently approached with a tray holding a fresh tumbler of whiskey. Donovan invited the interruption, because he wasn’t sure how to respond to Martin. Slowly, he swapped glasses, then took a deep breath.

“You can trust me, Patrick,” Martin stated. “You know that.”

If it hadn’t been for Martin, Cardinal Santelli’s untimely demise might have been scrutinized far more closely —particularly since Donovan had left the cardinal’s office just before Martin had found him dead. If an autopsy had been permitted, the poison Donovan had emptied through a syringe into the cardinal’s shoulder could have been traced. But trust wasn’t the issue. There was so much more at stake. Then again, it was the Vatican that had gotten Charlotte and him into this mess. And as it stood now, the Vatican provided the only hope of resolving matters.

Donovan looked over his shoulder and waited for the nun to disappear from the room. Then he looked to Charlotte for any sign of disagreement. She nodded for him to continue. “Earlier this year, I was given a book,” he explained. “A very, very old book . . .”

33

******

Egypt

Next to a keypad on the door frame, Rabbi Aaron Cohen pressed his thumb on a small glass pane. Within seconds, the biometric “key” was accepted and the keypad illuminated. Next he punched in the twelve-digit password, each keystroke emitting a tiny digital chirp. The panel flashed three times, then a series of mechanized bolts slid out from around the door frame. The massive door disengaged, automatically opening inward on smooth hydraulic pistons. A motion sensor turned on the crisp LED lights in the space beyond.

On the right side of the door, Cohen placed his fingers over a slim golden mezuzah case angled toward the open door and inscribed with the Hebrew letter shin (w), representing one of God’s Old Testament names, Shaddai.

Stepping across the threshold, the rabbi paused at the beginning of what resembled a mine tunnel. He vividly recalled the claustrophobia he’d felt when he was first introduced to this place by the Levite priests.

The year was 1974—a time of both great tragedy and personal transformation . . .

Aaron had just celebrated his twentieth birthday and had been in the second term of his junior year at New York’s Yeshiva University. It was a snowy afternoon in late January when he received the portentous call from his oldest sister, Ilana. “Father is dead” were the first words she’d said, in an eerily clinical fashion (at the time, she’d been an RN at Beth Israel). As shock had chilled over him, she’d gone on to explain in certain terms that earlier that fateful morning, the B41 bus slid on ice through a Flatbush Avenue intersection and plowed over three pedestrians caught in the crosswalk, injuring one critically, two mortally—including Mordecai Cohen.

“A father should never outlive his son,” Grandfather had said, weeping for the first time Aaron could recall. Not until his son had been put into the ground had the old man stopped rending his garments and chanting, “Baruch dayan ha-emet”—“Blessed is the Judge of truth.”

Following the prompt burial and compulsory seven-day shiva, Grandfather had summoned Aaron to his office and, without a word, handed him a first-class ticket to Cairo. When Aaron had asked him what it was for, Grandfather cryptically replied, “It is up to you now, my honorable grandson. Your future awaits. The fate of Zion rests with you.” Instructions had been provided, along with what would prove to be Grandfather’s last pearls of wisdom. Aaron would later learn that Grandfather had died in his sleep as his plane departed for Egypt.

When his flight arrived at Cairo International’s terminal, young Cohen was greeted outside customs by a white-robed Egyptian with crooked teeth and a horribly pockmarked complexion partially camouflaged by a patchy