James Acton 04 - The Templar's Relic (25 page)

Acton smiled. “Very good, your Imam would be proud. You are exactly right. But as I’m sure you know, the Koran is thought to have actually been compiled
after
Mohammad’s death. Many things at the time were transmitted orally, so errors could happen, others could change them when they wrote them down. What this seems to imply, is that the writer of this verse was in the presence of Mohammad at the time he wrote this, suggesting it is the accurate version of the verse.”

“That’s going to piss off a lot of Islamists,” said Atlas.

“Why?” asked Niner.

“Because that verse has been used to justify Jihad against anybody who isn’t a Muslim,” explained Atlas.

“I don’t want to sound like an idiot, but what’s a polytheist?” asked Niner.

“Someone who believes in more than one God,” said Laura. “Like the ancient Greeks or Romans.”

Niner frowned. “I can just imagine what they think of me as a Buddhist.” He turned back to Atlas. “So, why then the hatred of Christians and Jews? They’re not polytheists.”

Acton opened his mouth to answer, but closed it, extending his hand to let the one Muslim in the room answer. “There are additional verses in that same surah that refer to Christians and Jews, therefore the entire surah has been twisted to broaden the meaning of polytheists, and using that particular verse”—he pointed at the case—“as justification for killing.” He rubbed his chin, then looked at Acton. “If this is indeed the original phrasing, then it changes the entire context of how that chapter has been interpreted, and would shut down a lot of the teachings that have come from it, that have been mostly violent.”

Acton nodded. “Agreed. But first things first. We need to get this out of here and into the hands of the Pope so he can pass it over to someone respected in Islam.”

“Why wasn’t that done in the first place?” asked Dawson.

“Nobody wanted to touch it once they heard what it was.”

A burst of air shot out from between Niner’s lips. “Why the hell not?”

Giasson raised his finger but Dawson beat him to it. “Mind where you are, Sergeant.”

Niner’s brown skin reddened as his jaw dropped. “Oh shit! Sorry, I didn’t mean any disrespect.” He stopped then his eyes opened wider. “Oh Christ, I just swore again”—more horror—“oh shit! I don’t know what I’m saying. Christ I can’t—” He was cut off by Atlas’ mammoth paw clamping over his mouth. A muffled, “thank you!” was heard, and the room turned back to the case.

“Nobody wanted to touch it probably from fear. Whoever has this will be a target. Look what happened with just word we had something that involved Mohammad.”

Dawson nodded. “Okay, we’ll get it out and into the proper hands. I assume you’re coming with it?”

“I want these four out with you,” said Giasson, sounding much better.

Dawson nodded. “Not a problem.”

“But I need something else from you.”

“What is it?”

Giasson suddenly trembled and paled. The medic checked him over, then looked at Niner, who pushed Atlas’ hand away and moved to Giasson’s side. After a quick check, he turned to Dawson. “This man needs a hospital, stat.”

Dawson frowned. “Okay, we’ll take him with us.” He looked at Acton. “What was he about to say?”

“We have another situation.”

“More important than this?” Dawson pointed at the case.

“Far more important.”

Outside the Southern Colonnade

Saint Peter’s Basilica, Rome, Italy

Marcello Primo was exhausted, but he knew there’d be no rest for him for hours. He had grabbed about thirty minutes shut-eye after the evacuation of the refugees, but now was back on duty, manning the southern colonnade. He could hear the loud speakers around the bend broadcasting their messages inviting those inside to surrender. Primo didn’t think anybody would; peer pressure would keep everyone inside.

But sometimes, you just needed to make everyone else around you think you wanted to stay, even when you didn’t. Primo looked at the opening in the gate, and saw just that in a set of eyes staring at him. The man was young, perhaps even a boy. His fist was pumping angrily in the air, but his eyes were desperate.

He wanted out.

He had managed to position himself at one of the two openings on the southern colonnade, but hadn’t given any other indication he wanted out. Primo walked toward the opening, and motioned for a group of officers to accompany him. He gathered them around.

“Snatch and grab time. Let’s pull as many out as we can, until they back away.”

The men nodded, and Primo conveyed the same information into the ear of the man manning the shield. The crowd was loud, angry, but tiring. Their voices were not nearly as loud as earlier in the evening, and those at the fence seemed to be simply hanging on to it, rather than trying to push it down.

Primo turned to the dozen officers standing nonchalantly nearby. He lifted three fingers, then two, then one, then he spun, slapping the back of the officer manning the opening as the others rushed forward. The officer with the shield stepped aside, as Primo hit the right side of the opening, reaching in and grabbing the young man who he had noticed earlier. He pulled him out by his shirt, shoving him down the line of officers, half a dozen per side, and reached in, gripping another shirt.

He pulled, and experienced little resistance.
Apparently he wants out too.
He repeated this half a dozen times before the crowd backed off.

“Anybody else want out?” yelled Primo.

Angry fists.

Primo motioned to the officer with the shield, who repositioned himself. Walking over to the other opening, he motioned to the group of officers manning this opening and they repeated the process, the crowd dense enough, and loud enough, that the element of surprise worked again, and another half dozen were pulled through before the crowd could pull back.

This will take forever if we only get half a dozen at a time.

He looked at the dozen that had been pulled so far, huddled together, under guard, then had an idea. He knew his orders, but he hadn’t been told exactly how to execute them, it was at his discretion. Extending his arm, he indicated that his officers form them into a line, then he motioned for the first one to step forward.

He didn’t.

An officer pulled him by the arm to stand in front of Primo, both of whom were standing so the crowd could see them from the side. Primo pointed to the officer holding the gunshot residue test kits, and he trotted over. After swabbing the man’s hands, a minute later they both watched to see if the liquid in the vial turned blue.

It didn’t.

Primo shook the man’s hand, pointed down the road exiting to the south where they had earlier pushed the rioters outside the square, and said, “You’re free to go.”

The man stared at him, a slight look of incredulity on his face.

Primo waited.
Does he not speak Italian?

The man smiled and slowly backed away, toward the road, then turned and ran.

Primo motioned the next man over.

The process was repeated, but this one left immediately—no hesitation.

By the time the dozen were processed, and released, the attitude of the crowd had changed. Arms were shoved through the fencing, some pleading to be let go, and Primo smiled to himself. He knew the public display would work.

He raised his radio as he motioned for his men to set up for another batch.

“This is Primo, they’re begging to come out from the Southern Colonnade after they saw the first batch we pulled out tested and let go, over.”

“No takers on the North yet,” said a voice he didn’t recognize. “We pulled a few but tested them out of sight. We’ll try your approach, over.”

“We did the same thing at the East gates, and it’s working. This is going to take a loooong time, over.”

Primo smiled. What it showed to him was that the will of the crowd had been broken, at least in some of them. That implied hope. That implied an end.

He stepped forward, and motioned for the first crew to begin the next extraction.

Half a dozen at a time. We need something faster.

Corpo della Gendarmeria Office

Palazzo del Governatorato, Vatican City

Spock’s eyebrow threatened to hide behind his hairline.

“Far more important?” repeated Dawson.

“Absolutely,” mumbled Giasson.

“What is this other”—Dawson paused—“situation?”

Acton closed the case, patting it. “This is important to the Muslims, because it is something from the time of Mohammad. It is important to us since it might allow more moderate Muslims to preach against the extremists. But bottom line, it is of little importance to non-Muslims except for the chaos the Church’s possession of it has caused.

“But what they’re after”—he pointed at the security monitors on the far wall of the main security office, causing all heads to turn—“is something extremely important to the Church, and to all Catholics.”

“Which is?”

“The bones of Saint Peter.”

It was Dawson’s turn to show a measured amount of surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Saint Peter was one of the disciples of Jesus, known as the Fisherman. He’s the one Jesus said of, ‘Upon this rock, I will build my church.’”

“I always wondered about that,” said Stucco. “I didn’t think Jesus ever made it to Rome, so if he never did, how did he indicate that this place”—he pointed at the floor, indicating the city itself—“should be where Peter was supposed to build the church?”

Acton smiled. “Excellent question, which I bet you most Catholics have no clue as to the answer. We think of him as Simon Peter. But back then, in ancient Aramaic, which would be what they spoke in Jesus’ time and geographical location, his name was actually Shimeon Kaypha, and in Aramaic, Kaypha means ‘Rock’. Jesus wasn’t referring to a physical rock, but to Peter himself, and something he had done or represented. What that
something
was, is up for debate, but the ‘rock’ is not a place, it is a person, or something that person represented. In Catholicism, it is Peter,
Saint
Peter, the man who founded the church that would lead to the city we stand in now.”

Dawson used his chin to motion at the monitors behind them. “And how is what they’re doing link to the bones of Saint Peter?”

“They’re digging through the church floor and into the Necropolis that lies underneath the basilica, where the bones, or what are believed to be the bones, are kept.”

“Believed?”

“They
are
,” said Giasson, with more energy than Acton had expected possible. But he said nothing else.

Acton continued. “There is some debate, but circumstantial evidence certainly suggests they are his bones.”

“And you”—Acton raised a finger—“I mean
he
, wants us to risk our lives to save what
might
be the bones of Saint Peter,” said Dawson.

“No, he wants you to prevent what is happening around the world tonight, from escalating. Can you imagine what would happen if Muslim extremists were to destroy or hold ransom the bones of one of the most revered men to over one billion Catholics?”

Dawson frowned, his head bobbing slowly.

“What we’re seeing now play out around the world would be the tip of the iceberg. The tit for tat violence could quickly escalate out of control.
But
”—Acton paused for effect—“if we get this”—he patted the case—“into
Islamic
hands, and prevent the bones from falling into
Islamists
hands, we have a chance of stopping this all today.”

Dawson took a deep breath, then sighed. “Okay, so I’ll take some of my men, and hold off ten thousand rioters in what I assume are cramped quarters.”

“That’s the spirit!” said Acton, grinning.

Dawson cracked half a smile, shaking his head.

“Care to join us?”

Acton’s head jerked back in surprise at the question. There was no question he would. He looked at the case, conflicted.

“Don’t worry, Professor, I was just kidding.” Dawson pointed at the case. “In my opinion,
that’s
more important.”

Acton nodded.

“I guess you’re right.”

Dawson stood up.

“Okay, let’s get this show on the road.”

Chapel of the Sacrament, Saint Peter’s Basilica, Vatican City

Pick axes, brought in earlier under the clothes of several of Hassan’s men, were in full swing. The debris had been cleared and moved into the main hall of the infidels’ church, and now “volunteers” took turns swinging at the hole in the ground. Unfortunately, they had no way to know how much further they had to go. It could be a foot. It could be ten feet.

If only they hadn’t sealed the side entrance.

If they hadn’t, Hassan would already have the bones, and would be broadcasting his demands to the world.

This thought caused Hassan to stop.

What are my demands?

He moved away from the crater, toward a far corner, his chin in his hand.

What are my demands?

He smiled.
Admission by the Catholic Church that Islam was the one true religion.
He chuckled.
That would never happen, and would be meaningless.
He rapped his forehead with his knuckles.
Think! You’ve nearly accomplished your goal, yet you have no clue what you want.

He frowned.
Think politically.

He pursed his lips.
Immediate withdrawal of all troops and financial support to Afghanistan and Iraq.

That was easy. Perhaps even doable. The troops were out of Iraq, the American public were already questioning why they were still giving money to a country with trillions in oil reserves. And in Afghanistan, troops were already on their way out, and Catholics in the West wouldn’t have a hard time making a pullout politically palatable since their lapdog, Hamid Karzai, had allowed the passage of a law that made it legal for men to rape their wives.