The Sacred Blood

“You will be greatly rewarded when the final day comes, Ali,” Ghalib said in praise of him. “In the meantime, there is something very important I would like for you to do.”

“Anything you ask.”

Reaching under the table, Ghalib brought out a neatly folded blue jumpsuit and set it in front of Ali. The embroidered white insignia on the front pocket—depicting a menorah inside a circle—brought much confusion to Ali’s fair-skinned face, as did the identification badge and security access card Ghalib placed atop it.

40

******

Vat ic a n Ci t y

The figure appeared much sooner than anticipated—a dark shadow descending from above, sweeping down the gentle curve of the staircase, faint footsteps echoing off the marble-clad grotto. From the shadows deep within the necropolis, Donovan leaned out from behind the tomb in wait.

The face was difficult to make out beneath the dim glow from the oil lamps circling St. Peter’s shrine. But Donovan had little doubt about the intruder’s identity. And he was relieved to see that the traitor had come alone. There was a sizable bag in the figure’s left hand—far too big for what he’d come to steal.

***

Father Martin knelt before the arched niche where the golden casket shimmered behind a glass door. He glanced up into the eyes of Christ’s mosaic set behind it and crossed himself.

With a trembling hand, he raised a key to the door frame and turned the lock. Slowly he pulled open the glass door.

“And what ever happened to the bones that you found in the ossuary?” he’d asked Donovan over lunch. Though at first Donovan had been reluctant to respond, he’d come back with “Just after I left Santelli’s office, I put them in a very safe place.”

That was when Martin recalled the night of Santelli’s death, when he’d found Donovan here in the basilica, after hours, creeping up from this very shrine. Donovan said he’d been praying. But Martin remembered that he’d been carrying an empty satchel. There would have been no way for him to have hidden the bones in one of the papal sarcophagi or tombs, since all were permanently sealed. He’d have needed tools, and no doubt someone to help him. But that night, there’d been neither.

That left only one possibility.

With gleaming eyes, Martin studied the golden ossuary.

The photograph of his sister’s family came into his mind’s eye, along with the haunting words: “The most efficient path to truth comes from the blood of loved ones.” Now, by the grace of God, he could spare them by giving Orlando what he wanted. He hadn’t asked to be dragged into this mess. This wasn’t his war. Donovan and the American geneticist would take responsibility for what had happened.

“You get the bones and have them ready for us,” Orlando had told him on the phone earlier that afternoon. “You’ll also need to find a way to get us into the city.”

There came a moment of doubt when Martin considered the size of the box. Could such a small vessel hold an entire human skeleton? Reaching out with both hands, Martin wrapped his fingers around the relic’s ornate lid, his movement more urgent now. He pulled the lid away and set it down on the marble tiles at his knees. The shadows made it difficult to see inside the box and he scrambled for the bag to retrieve the flashlight he’d brought along.

He leaned over the box and shined the light down into it. Reflections shone crisply off some glass vessels stored inside. Cruets filled with ceremonial oils?

“What?” Despair immediately gripped him, knocking the wind out of his chest.

“The bones aren’t there, lad,” a voice suddenly called out in a heavy brogue.

Taken aback, Martin spun wildly. In the process, he slipped on the relic’s lid and it scraped along the tile, making him fall backward against the wall and hit his head. The flashlight fell out of his hand, hit the tile, and rolled away until it partially spotlighted Donovan—his face visible but blended into the darkness. The glow from the overhead lamps silhouetted his hairless skull.

“Where are the bones?” Martin demanded, scrambling to his feet.

Donovan’s muscles tightened. Martin stopped at arm’s length, the light shining up under his chin making his wild eyes more pronounced—demonic looking. “Not here; not in Vatican City,” Donovan bitterly replied. “You will never know. I promise you that.” When he’d left Vatican City, the bones had left with him. And now they were in a much safer place.

“I must, Patrick! I must know!” he ranted, stepping closer to Donovan, limbs quaking. “You don’t understand!”

“Get hold of yourself,” he replied in disgust. “There’s plenty I understand. Especially deceit. I’ve seen too much of it inside these walls. But I never expected it from you.”

Then Martin broke down. “They’ve threatened to kill my sister . . . the children. If I don’t give them what they want . . .” He dropped to his knees, sobbing.

“You have no idea what you’ve done. People have already died because of what you’ve said.”

Martin buried his face in his hands, shaking his head in denial, not wanting to hear the words.

“Tell me who they are. I’ll help you. We’ll find a way to protect your sister and her family. We can bring them here until we find these men.”

“Just give them the bones,” he weakly pleaded.

“I can’t. I won’t.” It took everything in his being not to lash out at him. Donovan dropped to one knee and yanked Martin’s face up into the light. “Who are they?” he growled in frustration.

Martin shook his head, his lips quivering. “Do you think I know?” he sobbed. “Do you think they actually told me? I have no idea who they are!” He pulled away and dropped to the floor like a wounded animal. “It doesn’t matter now anyway,” Martin murmured.