James Acton 04 - The Templar's Relic (17 page)

His companion squeezed Kirby’s shoulder.

“See, we have already won a victory. The police are on our side.”

Kirby wasn’t so sure of that, it looked to him more like the police were just trying to keep the situation from getting further out of hand. Horns honked across the street and Kirby looked as three white vans screeched to a halt. His companion hailed them as the doors were thrown open and what looked like several dozen young men jumped out, all with shaved heads, carrying what looked like a variety of weapons, including crowbars and cricket bats. They merged in with the crowd, their own fists pumping the air as they joined the chant.

Kirby felt a twinge of fear. This wasn’t what he had had in mind. Or was it? It might have been, but it wasn’t any more. He had wanted to express his outrage. He had wanted to send a message. But this was turning into something bigger.

He looked down the road toward the mosque, now only minutes away. Two more police cars had arrived, and they were hastily blocking the road, redirecting traffic. But would enough arrive before things got out of hand? Kirby doubted it. He heard more honking as several cars pulled up, their passengers, more skinheads, jumped out, running over to join the crowd.

They were at the mosque now; the crowd stopped, filling the street to capacity on both sides, the chant continuing. A bottle was thrown. One of the windows of the mosque shattered, then another. Then to Kirby’s horror, he watched as one of the new arrivals lit the wick to a Molotov Cocktail, then threw it through the now broken window.

It erupted inside.

More bottles flew, their volatile contents adding to the inferno, and within minutes of arriving, flames roared, people screamed, and Kirby pulled away, desperate to have no part in what he had started.

But the man continued to grip his shoulders.

“Stay and watch. Isn’t this what you wanted?” said the man, leaning over, placing his mouth at Kirby’s ear. “Isn’t this the message you wanted to send?”

Kirby shook his head, vehemently. “No, I-I never wanted this.”

The man squeezed Kirby tighter. “Search your soul. I think this is exactly what you wanted.”

And Kirby gasped a small cry. A cry of shame. A cry of horror.

For this was exactly what he had wanted.

But it was a want that was never supposed to have come true.

He bent over and vomited a night’s worth of courage onto the road.

Emergency Response Command Center, Rome, Italy

“Let me guess, you received an urgent phone call too, ordering you to Rome?”

INTERPOL Agent Hugh Reading smiled at his old partner, Detective Inspector Martin Chaney of Scotland Yard. Chaney grinned, extending his hand.

“I had a feeling I’d be seeing you here.”

Reading lowered his voice. “Are you here on
other
business?”

Chaney nodded, whispering, “Proconsul himself called me.”

Reading chuckled. “You’re turning into the go-to man for them.” His ex-partner was a member of the Triarii, an ultra-secret organization that had been protecting the crystal skulls for almost two thousand years, and had managed to spread itself across the world, injecting its influence into almost every government on the planet.

Including England’s.

Including the Vatican’s.

Hence their current orders.

A man walked into the large tent that had been set up several hundred meters from the front gates to Saint Peter’s Square, manned by dozens of officers with laptops and other equipment coordinating riot control and the cordoning off of the city. A round of cheers went up and many of those working took the time to come over and shake his hand.

“Wonder what that’s about,” said Chaney, leaning in so Reading could hear over the congratulations.

Overheard, a nearby officer stepped up. “It’s because Sovrintendente Marcelo Primo”—he pointed at the man—“organized and successfully executed the rescue of over five hundred refugees, and his two hundred officers, despite being attacked by protesters throwing firebombs and rocks.” He extended his hand and Reading took it, happy there was no kissing. “Deputy Commissioner Ezio Vitale, Scene Commander. And you are?”

Reading took out his badge, showing the man his INTERPOL identification. “Agent Hugh Reading, INTERPOL.”

Chaney pulled out his warrant card. “Detective Inspector Martin Chaney, Scotland Yard, here on special assignment.”

“Ahhh, yes, the two specifically requested by His Holiness,” said the man, tapping his chin as he looked back and forth between the new arrivals. “When I heard you were coming, I of course pulled your files.”

“Of course,” said Reading.

“Very interesting reading. Very incomplete reading, but very interesting, nonetheless.”

Reading smiled. “Police reports involving diplomatic incidents often are.”

DC Vitale nodded. “Agreed.” He slapped his hands together. “But, now that you’re here, what can I do for you?”

“Can we get a sit rep?”

The man nodded, directing them to a large whiteboard with a breakdown by the numbers, but in Italian, so Reading had no clue what he was looking at.

DC Vitale explained. “Based upon our current understanding of the regular population of the Vatican”—he pointed at the top number—“and who was visiting that day”—another number—“and who was away”—yet another—“we believe there were almost twelve hundred people inside when Saint Peter’s Square was stormed.”

Reading whistled as he looked at the chart. “I hope those next numbers are people who got out.”

DC Vitale nodded. “Yes, we managed to evacuate a large number through other exits, and by helicopter, including his Holiness”—he paused to make the sign of the cross—“and most of the senior staff.”

“What about Giasson?”

Vitale shook his head. “No, he’s still inside. He heroically remained to make sure the southern gates closed during the mass evacuation, once the train cleared.”

“Train?” Chaney’s eyebrows shot up as he exchanged a quick glance with Reading.

“Yes, M. Giasson had the idea of evacuating through the south gates, which most people don’t think of, since they are for the Vatican’s rail line. We successfully evacuated over five hundred, hence”—he pointed at Primo—“the celebration.”

“How many are left?”

“According to our latest report, there are almost one hundred-fifty in the Governatorate Palace where M. Giasson is now. As well, there are another hundred unaccounted for, possibly spread across the city, hiding, or, hopefully, not in the city, perhaps having been gone for lunch, or some other activity. We have put the call out for all Vatican personnel to check in and are slowly reducing the list.”

“Bottom line?”

“Bottom line is we need to take back the city. They are destroying it”—he gestured toward a television set—“and things are starting to spread across the world.” He paused. “Did you hear about London?”

Both men shook their heads.

“I’m not surprised, the reports are just coming in now. Apparently a mob firebombed the East London Mosque. At least one Imam is dead, now the Muslims are marching. In Paris a truck driver plowed through a crowd of peaceful protesters, killing dozens before they managed to pull him from the truck.” Vitale’s voice cracked. “They tore him limb from limb, on live television.” He shook his head. “Most disturbing thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

Reading was thankful he hadn’t.

Vitale regained his composure. “But, this might be of interest to you. There are reports that two evacuees, a man and a woman, reentered the compound, armed, and saved Giasson, allowing the southern gates to be closed.”

Reading’s head fell back as he already knew what he was about to hear.

“Tell me their names.”

“Professors James Acton and Laura Palmer.”

Chaney laughed.

As did Reading.

He couldn’t help it.
Of course they’re here!
He looked at Chaney. “How the bloody hell do they keep getting mixed up in these things?”

Chaney shrugged his shoulders. “Characters in a book?”

Reading shook his head. “Nobody’d believe it.” He turned back to Vitale. “Please tell me they’re okay”

“The lady was shot”—he raised a hand as Reading’s jaw dropped—“but it was just a graze, she’s perfectly okay. Professor Acton was unharmed.”

“Thank God.” Reading had become close to the two after the events in London a couple of years ago, despite him initially trying to arrest both of them. He considered them his friends, his good friends, despite not being able to see them often. But even his friends that lived in London he didn’t see much of, he more of a loner since his divorce many years ago. He motioned around him. “So, what’s next?”

“We’ve sealed off the city as best we can, except for the front gates where there are still too many protesters. We’ve blocked all the roads leading to the Vatican so no new protesters can reach the city, and are immediately breaking up any groups that try to form. We have a contingent massing now to clear the front gates, that will hopefully be ready within the next two hours, and we will push these protesters away from the gates, and down the surrounding streets, where we can continue to funnel them away, and pull out the agitators, and hopefully eventually calm the crowd and break it up. The goal for now is to secure the entire city, preventing anyone else from getting in.”

“Then?”

“That’s not up to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Vatican is a country. We have no jurisdiction to enter there. The Pope must grant us permission, and as of fifteen minutes ago, no direction has been received.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s at his summer residence, Castel Gandolfo, about half an hour from here.”

“Can you have us taken there?”

“He isn’t taking visitors. He wouldn’t even see me.”

“He’ll see
us
,” said Chaney.

Corpo della Gendarmeria Office

Palazzo del Governatorato, Vatican City

“You know something.”

It was Giasson.

Acton looked at the screen, then at Laura. “What do you think?”

She nodded. “I can’t see there being any other reason to dig there.”

Acton agreed. He too could see no other reason.

“You’re sure they’re digging?”

Boileau nodded. “There was a massive explosion in there earlier, then about twenty minutes later they started forming those lines you’re looking at now, clearing the rubble.”

Acton shook his head. “Could that be what this is all about?”

“What?” asked Giasson, sweat beaded on his shaved scalp, clearly still weak. “Would someone tell me what the hell is going on?”

The room stopped, even Acton, who barely knew the man, knew him well enough to know he didn’t swear. What the average American might not even notice anymore in casual conversation, stood out like a beacon in this man’s speech.

And he stopped, the anger wiped off his face, a look of shame replacing it. He raised his hand. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have used such language. I am tired, frustrated, and weak, but still, that is no excuse. It won’t happen again.” He paused, as if gathering his strength. “
Now,
will someone please tell me what’s going on.” He looked squarely at Acton.

Acton decided not to waste any more time.

“They’re trying to get into the Necropolis.”

The entire room came to a halt, several gasps preceding the silence that now consumed them all, for they all knew the ramifications. No one knew when the Necropolis, or Scavi, had been originally built. But it had been there before the founding of the church, and in 324 AD, Emperor Constantine I had ordered the construction of the first Saint Peter’s Church, in honor of the martyred apostle, on the very spot where he was believed to be buried—the Necropolis. He ordered most of it leveled, and filled in with dirt, except for the portion believed to contain the remains of the first pope, and over the next thousand years, it was forgotten that the Necropolis even existed.

It wasn’t until 1940 when Pope Pius XII ordered excavations under the current Saint Peter’s Basilica, in an attempt to find the saint’s grave, that the ancient structure was found. For nine years much of the site was excavated, revealing a honeycomb of chambers underneath, including one originally believed to be the final resting place of Saint Peter.

But there were no remains.

It wasn’t until an archaeologist examined the opposite wall, sometimes referred to as the Graffiti Wall due to prayers, mostly etched in Latin, carved into the stone over generations by worshippers almost two thousand years ago. On the wall he found a burial niche, dating to the fourth century, and coinciding with when Constantine was supposed to have reburied Saint Peter. The loculus, the only one found in the entire structure, had been carved into the wall, and lined with marble, then remained sealed, unbroken until 1941. Inside they discovered bones wrapped in a purple cloth, highlighted with gold thread, the same colors adorning the monument to Saint Peter. They were set aside, in the Vatican Grottoes, until 1953, when the discovery was made.

Upon realizing what they may have found, the bones were examined, revealing that they belonged to a single man, matched Saint Peter’s presumed physical appearance at his martyrdom, with the age at death determined to be between sixty and seventy. In addition, they found dirt on the bones indicating they had originally been in an earth-grave, which was how Saint Peter was originally buried, and the dirt was of the same type as where he was believed to be initially buried, much of the other dirt in the area of a different type.

The conclusion was that the bones had been moved and placed in this special place of honor, and forgotten for almost two thousand years, until by chance, they were rediscovered.

And if these terrorists got hold of them, there was no telling what Catholics around the world might do.

Giasson broke the silence.

“They must be stopped.”