James Acton 04 - The Templar's Relic (8 page)

“Who?”

A small explosion shook the room and flames licked the side of the building, black smoke and soot staining the window they had just been in front of.

“What was that?”

Giasson flipped open his phone and hit the speed dial. “Report.”

“They’ve started throwing Molotov Cocktails, sir.”

“Clear them out.”

“How? We don’t have the personnel for that kind of operation.”

“Contact Roma Polizia, request assistance. Close the gates, lock down the city. Once the riot police arrive, let them in and they’ll deal with them. Have fire and ambulance service standing by.”

He flipped the phone closed and it immediately rang. He answered.

“Giasson.”

“Mario, it’s me, Jim.”

“Professor, what’s your situation?”

“Not good. We’ve got hundreds at least rioting outside the university. Police have just arrived and are starting to push back. I just saw on the TV that they’ve begun rioting inside Saint Peter’s Square. Are you and His Holiness okay?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I’m with him now.”

The Pontiff raised his eyebrows.

“Professor Acton,” said Giasson, covering the phone.

The old man frowned. “Are he and Professor Palmer okay?”

“For the moment, but the university is surrounded by protesters.”

“I think it best if they and the scroll return here.”

Giasson looked out the window. “It doesn’t look much better here, but I think you’re right.” He uncovered the phone. “Professor, I am sending a helicopter for you. It should be there in fifteen minutes. Try to get to a clear area where it can land.”

“Okay, will do. Thanks, Mario.”

Giasson flipped the phone shut then turned to Father Morris. “Please arrange a helicopter to pick up the professors.” Morris nodded and stepped from the office. Giasson returned to the window, scanning the crowd. “There’s tens of thousands out there. I think we’re going to need to prepare for the worst.”

“What do you mean?”

“A crowd that size can easily overwhelm us, unless we’re willing to use deadly force.”

“Out of the question.”

“For the moment, I agree, but if it is a choice between preserving this church, this institution and all its treasures, we may have no choice. We’ve seen what Muslims have done in the past. Look what the Taliban did to the statues of Buddha that had stood for fourteen hundred years. The West stood by and did nothing, and now an irreplaceable piece of history is gone. And just recently in Timbuktu.” Giasson leaned on the Pontiff’s desk. “Your Holiness, if they get in here, they will destroy millennia of art, the frescoes of Michelangelo, the works of the most famous artists the world has ever known. They don’t care. Not only are they a mob, hell-bent on destruction, they are Muslims, who believe most of what we stand for is blasphemous.”

“I have to believe that there is some sanity in that crowd. Someone who is not here in a frenzy of bloodlust.”

“There very well could be. And that’s who I fear the most.”

And with 1.6 million Muslims in Italy alone, he knew the chances were too good that his fears could come true.

Jaffri Residence

Borough of Tor Bella Monaca, Rome, Italy

“How can we turn this situation to our advantage?”

Hassan Jaffri looked at the five others gathered in his basement apartment, a hole in a low class neighborhood. A perfect hiding place. No one wanted to know you, you didn’t want to know anyone else. People minded their own business, and, as with most low income areas of Europe, there was nothing strange about devout Muslims living there, going about their business.

And he was devout.

Born in Afghanistan, his parents had fled the Russians and wound up in Italy. But he had returned, as soon as he could, and had spent the past three years training in Pakistan in weapons, bombs, tactics. He was ready to fight the infidel, and was just waiting to be activated. He and the men in this humble room were what the West, the infidels, liked to call a “sleeper cell”.

But today, played out across one of the few infidel comforts he permitted himself, a television, was an opportunity that would wake this scorpion amongst their midst.

It was time to take action themselves, rather than wait for their masters hiding in Pakistan.

Rahim Ali leaned forward. He was the youngest, and most eager of the group, and also the most impulsive. Hassan constantly had to keep him on a tight leash, his mouth far too often flapping in public. “We have weapons, explosives. Why not just go in, kill every infidel in sight, and blow up the basilica?”

Hassan nodded. “Yes, we could do that, and I think we should do something similar. Ridding the world of that blasphemous example of idolatry would certainly please Allah, but I’m thinking bigger.”

“What is it, Hassan?”

Hassan smiled at Mahmoud Ziti, his trusted second. At least thirty years older, Ziti was well respected, but had refused the mantle of command, leaving it to someone young enough to fulfill Allah’s will. Instead, he was the bomb maker, with several missing digits to prove it.

“They have something of ours. In fact, we know they have many things that belong to us.”

“You mean relics?”

Hassan jumped to his feet. “Exactly! They have looted our mosques, looted the homes of our leaders, and kept these priceless treasures within the walls of their city, within their blasphemous ‘Secret Archives’.” His fist pounded an old wardrobe that had seen much better days. This elicited a pounding from upstairs, the old lady who was his landlord never pleased when she could hear a peep from her tenants. He lowered his voice, looking back at the group. “It is time we took something of theirs.”

There were nods from the group. Rahim spoke first. “Just what did you have in mind?”

Hassan smiled, returning to his seat, lowering his voice even further. “Something they would never expect, and something that would cause them to hand over everything we ask for, without hesitation.”

They’d hand over the Pope himself if we asked it.

Sapienza University, Rome, Italy

Acton gripped the hermetically sealed case containing the parchment in his hand, the other holding Laura’s. They stood in a doorway, shielded from view from the hordes on the streets, who for the moment seemed much more peaceful than those at the Vatican. They both had watched in horror on television as the crowd surged through the gates, and feared the worst.

But fortunately the crowd had stopped, and the news channels were attributing it to one man, an Imam, who had brought a megaphone, and had beseeched the crowd to calm itself, then had begun the chant now echoing from the crowd here as well.

“Give us what is ours.”

The chorus of hundreds from the street sent chills racing down Acton’s spine, as he recalled his recent experience in Saudi Arabia.

“We have to get out of here, now.”

Laura pointed over a nearby rooftop. “Look!”

Acton followed where she was pointing and felt the tightness in his chest ease slightly.

A helicopter.

Usually they sent his heart racing, but in this case, it was slightly calming. As the chopper approached, the Vatican markings became visible, and he took Laura by the hand, stepping out onto the lawn. As its intentions became clear, the few students who were still venturing outside scattered, leaving the lawn empty save Acton and Laura, who sprinted for the chopper as it landed.

Two Swiss Guards, dressed in their blue regular duty uniforms to probably draw less attention, jumped out, urging the professors forward. A scream rang out to Acton’s left. He looked over his shoulder and saw the front gate collapse, the crowd rushing over it, two police officers trapped underneath the wrought iron.

It was hopeless. The few dozen officers present tried to stop the crowd, finally giving up, instead focusing on trying to lift the gate, despite the hundreds clamoring over it.

Someone tugged at his arm, and he looked. It was Laura, fear in her eyes. He resumed his sprint to the chopper, and pushed Laura to safety, then climbed in himself as the two guards jumped back inside.

“Go! Go! Go!” one yelled as the crowd raced toward them. Acton could hear the engines power up, and then the skids slowly lift off the ground.

The entire craft shook.

The pilot cursed, banking to the left slightly. “Someone’s hanging on the skid!”

The craft shook again. “Another one!” he yelled, looking out the opposite side.

“Just get us some altitude!” yelled one of the guards.

“What about those people?”

“They’ll kill us if we don’t get out of here!”

More power was applied, and again the chopper shook, but it began to rise, and soon was too high for anyone else to climb on.

“We can’t keep going, not with those people!” cried Laura. “They’ll die if they fall!”

One of the guards, who Acton now recognized as Gerard Boileau, one of Giasson’s most trusted men, slid open the door. Wind howled through the cabin. “Get us over the crowd, twenty feet!”

The pilot nodded, banking back toward the crowd, lowering the craft. Boileau pulled his baton. “Jump, or I’ll make you jump!” he yelled as Acton positioned himself at the door to see what was happening.

The man shook his head, and was about to yell something when Boileau’s boot stomped on the man’s hands. He yelped and dropped to the ground below, the crowd catching him, or more accurately, acting as human padding. Boileau slammed the door shut, momentarily quieting the cabin, then moved to the other side. He opened the door.

And was grabbed by someone on the skid, and pulled out of the chopper. Acton leapt forward, grabbing for Boileau. His hands ran down Boileau’s legs, then finally managed to grip the man’s boot. Acton felt himself slipping toward the door as the weight of Boileau pulled him out.

Laura screamed.

He felt hands grab his belt, and his forward momentum jerked to a halt. Someone hit him in the back, and his shoulder blade cried in agony. Gripping Boileau by one boot, he swung his free elbow back, blindly, and felt it connect with something that gave. He repeated his motion, and was rewarded with the sound of someone crying out in pain, then the view of them falling to the ground.

“Pull!” he yelled.

He felt his belt tighten against his waist as who he assumed was the other guard yanked him back inside. With his free arm, he reached down and grabbed Boileau’s belt, never letting go the death grip he had on the man’s boot, tucked under his armpit. He saw another pair of hands reach out and grab Boileau by the belt as well, a pair of hands he knew well, and together he and Laura pulled Boileau as the guard hauled Acton the final few feet.

As Boileau’s waist cleared the lip of the cabin, Acton saw him reach back and pull his baton from a loop on his belt, then swing hard at an unseen target. The target cried out, a rapidly quieting scream indicating he had dropped to the crowd below.

With one final tug, they were all safely inside, and Laura slammed the door shut.

“Let’s get the hell out of here!” she yelled.

Acton rolled onto his back, catching his breath, as Boileau did the same.

Boileau slapped him on the chest. “Thanks.”

Acton didn’t bother gasping a, ‘You’re welcome.’ He was pretty sure it would just come out as a grunt, but he gave the other guard a smack on the leg and a nod.

They rode in silence the rest of the way, Acton wondering what chaos awaited them at their destination.

Saint Peter’s Basilica, Vatican City

“Faster! Faster!” Giasson heard the elderly priest yell, as Saint Peter’s Basilica was stripped of its treasures. All around him the most precious of objects that could be moved were carried or hauled away, deeper into the complex, and ultimately toward the Secret Archives, that vast storage area that preserved history not only from the elements, but from those that would destroy or steal it. It was secure. Any treasures that made it inside, would be saved.

But that was the problem.

Most of the basilica’s treasures couldn’t be moved. The building itself was a treasure. The frescos, the altars, the architecture. Even the doors held significance.

And underneath were the tombs, in the grottoes, and under that, the necropolis, where even the bones of Saint Peter himself rested. The outer entrance to the grottoes and necropolis had been sealed off by a massive metal security door, that only an incredible blast could open, and the inner entrances were sealed now as well with metal security doors built into the floors a decade ago at his predecessor’s insistence. He had feared Islamic reprisals after the response to 9/11, and his fears now appeared prescient.

The tombs were secure.

Giasson allowed himself a moment to gaze at the ceiling of the dome topping the largest church in Christendom. It was breathtaking, the architecture and the artwork by masters like Michelangelo and Bernini, the statues of the saints by sculptors as reverent as Marchionni and Duquesnoy. Statues too heavy to move in time. He felt a lump in his throat, a tightness in his chest.
Could we few in this room, now, be the last to see these treasures intact?

Things could be repaired, but they were never the same. Even if you couldn’t see the difference, you knew they weren’t as the sculptor had delivered them. They weren’t the original brushstrokes of the painter. They weren’t the original carvings of the mason. It was a restoration, but worse.

His phone vibrated.

Flipping it open, he sighed. “Giasson.”

“Sir, the helicopter with Professors Acton and Palmer is inbound. ETA two minutes.”

“Okay, have them met at the heliport, and brought to my office immediately.”

“Yes, sir!”

Giasson flipped the phone shut and took one final look around.

If they get in, they’ll destroy this place. Out of ignorance, and hate.