The Sacred Blood

Bone box? The van made another turn and rocked Martin sideways as it sharply accelerated, then settled into a cruising speed. Where were they taking him? Confused and frustrated, Martin shook his head and said, “What does this have to do with me?”

“Patience, Father. Dr. Bersei was murdered in that catacomb. And multiple eyewitnesses saw a suspicious man leaving Villa Torlonia shortly thereafter.”

“So why don’t you find him?”

The deliveryman leaned forward and brandished a massive fist that made Martin flinch. Orlando held up a hand for the man to stand down. The muscles in the deliveryman’s jaws clenched as he slunk back to a sitting position.

“We did find him, Father Martin—in the Italian countryside with a bullet in his head.”

Martin cringed.

He dipped into his breast pocket, pulled out a photo, and handed it to Martin. “Recognize him?”

The face in the color photo—set against the stainless steel of a gurney—was ghost white, the eyes murky with death. Above the right ear, the skull was blown apart—a ragged mess of purple flesh and bone. Yet the features were unmistakable. Martin’s reaction signaled he’d indeed met the deceased. When he looked up, he could tell that the gunman was pleased by this.

The gunman snatched the picture back and gave it a glance. “Israeli authorities also believe this man was involved in a heist that took place at Jerusalem’s Temple Mount in June.”

Martin couldn’t recall hearing this in any news report.

He slipped the photo back into his pocket. “Many innocent people died because of this man. Soldiers. Police. Now, please. I want you to think very hard and tell me his name, please.”

Unlike that of the imposter waving a gun in his face, the mercenary’s first impression had been lasting. And Martin wasn’t about to cover for him. After all, the man’s only link to the Vatican was the late Cardinal Santelli. “Salvatore Conte.”

The deliveryman pulled a notepad and pen from his pocket, verified the spelling, and jotted down the name.

Salvatore Conte. Orlando regarded the picture once more to match the name with the face. “Now let me connect the dots for you, Father. Salvatore Conte stole that ossuary from the Temple Mount and brought it to Rome. He was involved in the death of Giovanni Bersei, who, at that time, was commissioned for a project inside Vatican City. The study of a yet undetermined artifact, as coincidence would have it. A project of which the Vatican denies all knowledge.”

Martin stared at the floor. How could Orlando know these things? Following Santelli’s death, the secretariat’s office had collected the cardinal’s computer, files, and personal effects. He could only guess that any sensitive information had been destroyed or locked away in the Secret Archive. As far as the Italian authorities were concerned, the Vatican had never seen or heard of Salvatore Conte, and Dr. Bersei had merely consulted on restoration work taking place inside the Vatican Museums’ Pio Christian Museum.

“Look at me, Father,” Orlando insisted.

The priest complied.

“Bersei was found broken to pieces at the bottom of a pit, Salvatore Conte assassinated in the Italian wine country. All within days of Conte’s theft in Jerusalem. Leads one to think that the Vatican is the common thread. Like many times in the past, the Vatican, with its—how would you say?—infallible influences, has persuaded the carabinieri to disregard these matters. We, however, cannot be bought.”

“Who are you?” Martin asked again.

The gunman merely gave a smug smile before resuming the interrogation. “Much of these formalities are of no concern to us. There is one matter, however, that is of grave concern. So I have only one simple request to make of you, Father.”

He swallowed hard. “What is it?”

Orlando leaned close, saying in a low voice, “The ossuary was returned empty. I need you to tell me what happened to its contents.”

“Contents?”

He shook his head, cocked the Glock’s trigger, and pressed the barrel against Martin’s forehead.

The priest’s eyes snapped closed as his face reflexively turned sideways. The cold steel bit his skin. “I don’t . . . don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“The bones, Father Martin. That ossuary contained a skeleton. Where are the bones?” He pressed the gun barrel harder against the priest’s temple.

At first, Martin was dumbfounded. Bones? The idea that these men had abducted him for such a thing seemed preposterous. The gun rocked his head back against the van’s wall, sending crushing pain through his skull.

“Father Martin!” the man spat. “I don’t think you’re listening to me! Dr. Bersei was a forensic anthropologist. Forensic anthropologists don’t study paintings or sculptures. They study bones.”

“I don’t know! I swear!”

Holding the gun in place, the man reached into his pocket again to produce a second photo. “I want you to look at this very closely,” he said, holding it out for the priest.

As he trembled, Martin’s eyes went wide when he saw the family in the portrait—a handsome couple, early forties, a young boy and his slightly older sister.

“The most efficient path to truth comes from the blood of loved ones. Your sister is very beautiful. Her daughter looks very much like her, though the boy is his father’s son.”