James Acton 03 - Broken Dove (6 page)

“My son, I have merely read the inventory, and am terrified of what I saw.”

“But what—?”

The Pontiff raised his hand, cutting him off. “There are some things man is not meant to see. Some things man is not meant to know.” He dropped his hand, sighing. “At least until man is ready. But when that will be…” His voice trailed off.

“Well, we do know one thing that’s in there?”

The Pontiff raised his drooping head. “Yes?”

“Something worth killing for.”

The old man nodded, then took a piece of paper from a nearby folder.  “This is a copy of the map handed down to each of us, showing how to get to the Vault.”

Chaney looked at what was clearly a scan of a very old document, the fresh new paper begging to be held gently, the color printout leaving a distinctly genuine impression. “Where are we on this?” The old man pointed with a shaky finger. Chaney nodded. “And the Vault?”

“You must follow this path.” He traced a route from the chambers that took him down several hallways, and to a seeming dead end. The Pontiff tapped a room to the left with his finger. “In this room, you will find a large wardrobe. Open it, step inside, then close the doors. Inside there are a series of clothes hooks. Push the second from the left up, and a secret door will open. This will lead you into the Vault.”

“Seems simple enough.”

“Yes, but keep this in mind. There is no electricity. You will need to bring your own light. And, beyond that door, there is no further way I can help you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have never been there. I have no idea what you should expect on the other side of that door.”

“You’ve never been there? Aren’t you curious?”

“Of course I’m curious, but it’s forbidden. If an artifact is found that should be hidden away, only then can you enter. I have not yet had occasion to do so.” He paused and looked at Chaney. “And I hope never to have to.”

Chaney retraced the route with his finger. “Are there any cameras around here? Me disappearing into a room for some time is bound to raise questions.”

The Pontiff shook his head. “No, this area has no cameras for this very purpose. These are all the private chambers of myself, my staff and some guest rooms. Our privacy has been given as the reason for no cameras, however the true reason is the Vault.”

Chaney pushed the map across the table. “You keep this. I know where to go and I don’t want to be found with it on me.”

“Very well. What will you do now?”

Chaney leaned back. “Well, I’ll need a base of operations. Just a room that I can use as an excuse to not be seen. You mentioned guest rooms?”

The Pontiff smiled. “I’ve already arranged a room for you, only twenty meters from the Vault. I’ve had some supplies you may need placed there.”

“Perfect. I suggest someone show me to my room, then I’ll go exploring.”

The Pontiff rose, as did Chaney. “I will have Father Morris show you.” He took Chaney by the arm. “And be careful, my son. One is already dead. And that is one too many.”

Guest Chambers

Apostolic Palace, The Vatican

Chaney listened, and hearing nothing, slowly turned the knob and pulled the antique door open, the apparently well maintained hinges silently doing their job. He poked his head out, and seeing no one, stepped into the hallway, closed the door and strode with purpose to the end of the hall. A quick glance to the right confirmed the coast still clear and a sharp turn to the left had him swallowing his heart.

“Lost?”

Chaney shook his head at the priest standing in front of him. “Ah, no Father, simply playing tourist.”

The young man smiled. “You must be easily entertained if the residential wing holds any fascination.” He stepped around Chaney and continued on his way, bible clasped in his hands. He nodded down another corridor. “That way will lead you to far more interesting things.”

“Thank you, I’ll go there next.”

“As you wish.” The man turned a corner, out of sight.

Chaney stood in place, calming his thumping heart.
Keep it together!
He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, then turned, walking briskly to the end of the hall, then with a look to confirm all was clear, he opened the door in front of him and entered. Closing the door, he made a swift survey of the room, and, relieved but not surprised to find himself alone, he stepped toward the wardrobe, the large wood structure filling nearly half the wall of the small chamber. He ran his hand along the simple, functional design. The craftsmanship was evident, the wood lovingly measured, cut, and fitted, but the design was utilitarian. As if not to attract attention.
Probably so no one would get the idea of wanting it in
their
room.

He pulled on the handle and the heavy door swung silently open. It was empty inside save for a few metal hangers pushed to one side of the rail. The hooks the Pontiff had spoken of were empty, six of them spread across the back from one side to the other. From his pocket he pulled a flashlight he had found in his room. Turning it on, he stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him. The wardrobe may have been large, but it was still a piece of furniture, and he found himself quickly feeling claustrophobic. He reached and pushed the hook, second from the left, up. It took some effort, and for a moment he wondered if he had remembered correctly, but with a little more muscle, the hook moved, and he heard a clicking sound echo through his small way station.

With the hook pushed all the way up now, he waited, but nothing else followed.
Did I do something wrong?
He let go of the hook, but it remained in place.
Should I pull it back down?
He thought about it, but figured that would merely lock whatever mechanism he had just heard. He pushed on the rear panel. It swung open, away from him, and he stumbled forward a step. He played his flashlight into the newly discovered opening, and sucked in his breath. Stone walls, clearly ancient, revealed themselves to the beam of his flashlight. A quick look at the floor had him step down slightly into the corridor now before him. He stepped forward, the click of his shoes echoing off the walls that stretched out ahead.

With more confidence, he strode forward, no more than twenty feet, when he found a pulley system of clearly ancient design, the chains dull with age, the wood still sound but covered in dust and cobwebs. He looked over the edge where a platform, attached to the pulley, was free to descend. He shone his flashlight but could see nothing below. He looked at the platform, and whistled.
You could move a car on that.
He looked down the hallway he had just travelled.
But how the hell would you get it here?
He shone his flashlight to the other side of the platform, and found a wide corridor stretching farther than the beam could reach.
There must be another entrance.
He listened, making sure he was still alone. He heard nothing.
I wonder if he knows there’s more than one way in here.
He made a mental note to ask, then shone his flashlight ahead. A few more feet of walking and he was met with a set of stone stairs, spiraling down toward what he assumed would be the Vault below.

Beginning his descent, he found his heart beating faster with each step, the sound of his footfalls echoing off the walls, giving him the distinct impression he was being followed. He stopped. The clicks of shoes continued for a few moments, then stopped. He took a few more steps, the echoing once again resuming. And stopped. Again the delay.
You’re going barmy! It’s just your mind playing tricks on you!
He continued his descent, this time quicker, trying to block the sound of the footsteps echoing through the confined space. After descending perhaps several hundred steps—he had lost count in his momentary panic—he came about the final turn, and into a large, gaping space.

And froze.

He wasn’t prepared for how massive the Vault would be. He shone his flashlight about him, arm stretched as far as it could to gain those extra inches, and still he could see no end in sight. At this level, there were shelves, tables, and other items simply sitting on the floor, but he could see no ceiling, and no walls other than the one behind him, where the exit to the stairs he had just descended stood, along with the other end of the pulley system he had observed earlier.

He looked at the floor and gasped. Kneeling down, he ran his fingers over the stone, still rough from centuries of feet never there to polish its surface through repeated abuse. He rubbed the dust between his fingers, the thick layer of centuries of neglect surprisingly dry to the touch. In fact, he found the entire place to be fairly dry. Not too dry, but not damp as he had expected.
Humidity controlled?
It would make sense, but how? He shook his head.
Not your concern.
He shone his flashlight about the floor and smiled.
This might be easier than I thought.

There were clear footprints in the dust, leading into the darkness. It looked as if there had been several trips made, the impressions appearing to be the same size. The Pontiff had mentioned that the Father had been searching, so repeated trips made sense. And the fact that there was no evidence of other footprints, suggested no one else had descended the stairs, or platform, behind him.

So where did they come from?

He felt an unease sweep through him, goose bumps raising the hair on his arms. A quick spin, the beam of light cutting through his surroundings, his eyes squinted in anticipation of seeing something, only set his heart racing more than it already was. He stopped.
No, your best bet is to use your ears, not your eyes.
He took a deep, slow breath, closing his eyes and reaching out with his ears for any hint of company. And found none. Satisfied for the moment, he followed the footprints around a shelf, and found it to be the first of many stretching into the distance. A single set of footprints led down each shelf, and back up the adjacent. Confident this was merely the Father searching, he continued forward, along the path in the dust for several shelves and stopped.

Hello!

A new set of prints, the feet distinctly larger than the Father’s, with a tread pattern indicating a boot of some type, rather than a dress shoe as the Father had been wearing, met the last of the Father’s steps. He knelt down, shining his flashlight over the floor, looking for any clue as to what happened, though he was pretty sure he already knew.

Blood!

There was no mistaking it. Several small pools of blood, and splatters stretching for at least a ten foot radius. This was where the Father had been beaten to death. And it appeared to be a vicious beating. Chaney found himself making the sign of the cross, something he never recalled doing in his entire life. But it seemed appropriate. He stood and surveyed the area.

What’s this!

Leading away from the jumble of feet where the assault had taken place were two long, solid lines, stretching between the shelves. He followed them to the end of the line of shelves, then back toward where he had come from, only on the other end. They led directly to the pulley system he had found earlier.
They used this to get his body back to his room.
Retracing his original path, he began to move up and down the shelves, looking for anything out of the ordinary. The beam of his flashlight revealed secrets that scared even the Church, but they were meaningless to him. Nothing more than scrolls, books, talismans, crystal balls, and other items that appeared to be benign, and untouched, for centuries if not longer.

Bloody hell!

He froze, his flashlight aimed at a large jar, several feet high, sitting on the bottom shelf.
What the blazes is that?
He leaned forward and shuddered, the light revealing a small body inside the jar. And a face that was definitely not human looking.
This looks like it should be in Area 51.
He stepped back, taking one final look, then moved on.
Must be some sort of mutation.
He satisfied himself with that explanation and continued until he reached the scene of the crime. Nothing had been touched as far as he could tell, the thick layer of dust preserved in every case.

So why was he killed
here
?

It didn’t appear to be something he had discovered. The shelves were undisturbed, and he was clearly walking to the next set of shelves.
Something he was about to discover?
This sent a rush of excitement through Chaney.
The Thirteenth Skull! Could it be here?
He stepped clear of the bloody scene and rounded the unsearched shelf, the beam of his flashlight cutting through the dark, revealing more of the same assorted artifacts from the other shelves.

A shoe scraped the stone floor behind him. He spun, his flashlight cutting an arc through the darkness revealing an arm swinging down at him, something gripped in its hand glinted. He began to block the blow, but it was too late. He felt something jab his shoulder, the sharp pain replaced with a warm, tingling sensation as whatever he had been jabbed with began its work. He immediately felt weak, and he fell to his knees, eyes drooping. He shone the flashlight up at the figure now leaning over him, lowering him to the floor, but saw nothing but black robes, and a hooded face. With the last of his strength, he reached up to pull the mask off and reveal his attacker, but he fell short, instead yanking at the robe, and for a moment, the light flitted across his attacker’s chest, revealing something white underneath, and part of a symbol he recognized from somewhere, an upside down cross with two keys.

His hand let go and the flashlight rolled from his grasp as he finally succumbed into blackness.

INTERPOL United Kingdom Liaison Office

New Scotland Yard, London, England

Reading slammed his phone down for the umpteenth time. He hadn’t been able to reach Chaney all day, and now he was officially worried. Chaney had never failed to return a phone call promptly, even when on an investigation. An hour or two was fine, but eight hours wasn’t. Reading didn’t know exactly why Chaney was at the Vatican, but he was certain it was Triarii business, what with his former partner and the new Pope both from that ancient organization.