The First Apostle (38 page)

Bronson thought of Jackie, lying dead on the stone-flagged hall. Of Mark murdered in his apartment. And of Jeremy Goldman dying of terrible injuries in some London street. They had all died to preserve these relics. “We should keep them,” he said, “obviously.”

Puente looked down at Mandino. “We already know your views,” he said, and turned toward Rogan. “What do you think?”

“We destroy them,” Rogan said. “Verrochio?”

The man standing beside him nodded. “Burn them.”

“That’s three to two who’ve voted to destroy them,” Puente said. “You, sir.” He turned to Perini, who was still using Angela as a human shield. “What’s your decision?”

“Destroy them.”

“I’m very much afraid,” Puente said, “that I agree with the majority. We must think of the greatest good of the greatest number.” He looked around the room. “It grieves me even to contemplate destroying objects so ancient, and so important, but in these unique circumstances I can genuinely see no other option. Mr. Mandino, if these three relics cease to exist, will that mark the end of your interest in this matter?”

“Yes. My instructions are to ensure they’re destroyed.”

“And if that is done, what will happen to those of us who’ve seen the relics, and who know what they contain?”

“Nothing, I give you my word. Without the objects, there’s no proof of their contents,” Mandino said.

Puente nodded. He seemed, Bronson noted, to have comprehensively taken control of the situation.

Puente stepped behind his desk and removed the data card from the camera he’d used. “All the pictures on this card are of these objects,” he said. Taking a large pair of scissors, he cut it into four pieces. “Now I’ll destroy the relics themselves. I’ll do it right now, with all of you as witnesses, willing or not.”

Puente pointed across the library at the side wall near the entrance door, and every eye followed his gesture. “That red box controls the smoke detectors and the fire alarm,” he said. “Before I can burn these, somebody has to switch off the system, otherwise the sprinklers will cut in.”

“I’ll do it,” Rogan said. He walked across to the box and flicked a couple of switches.

“Papyrus burns very well,” Puente said, sorrow evident in his voice, “so this won’t take long.”

He placed a square steel plate on his desk, then picked up the scroll. He produced a cigarette lighter and held the flame to one end of it. Within a matter of seconds the tinder-dry papyrus was being consumed, and soon there was nothing left but a pile of ash. Puente opened the first of the diptychs and held the flame of the lighter against the inscribed wax until it dripped and melted onto the steel. The wood failed to catch, so he took a small hammer and with a few blows reduced it to dust and splinters. Then he repeated the process with the second diptych.

“That’s it,” he said, with a halfhearted attempt at a smile. “The world of organized religion is safe for all eternity.”

For a moment or two nobody moved, as if the enormity of Puente’s actions had turned them all to stone. Then suddenly Perini pushed Angela to one side, lifted his pistol and shot Rogan through the heart. Then he swung the weapon around and fired a second bullet straight into Mandino’s chest.

“No!” Angela screamed, as Bronson instinctively dived to one side.

Mandino staggered backward and fell to the ground in a lifeless heap. When Bronson looked up, both Perini and Verrochio were aiming their pistols straight at him. He had no option but to drop the Browning.

Perini stepped forward and picked up the weapon, then he and Verrochio holstered their Glocks.

“What the hell’s going on?” Bronson demanded.

“We were told to carry out a cleanup operation,” Perini said. “Just in case you didn’t know, Rogan”—he pointed at the body on the floor—“was responsible for killing your friends, and the
capo
”—he gestured at the other corpse—“gave the orders.”

“But the scroll and the diptychs have been destroyed. Why did you have to kill them?” Angela asked.

“We had orders from Rome to tie up
all
the loose ends. Be grateful that you’re still alive. Despite what he told you, Mandino intended to kill all three of you, and probably the handful of people in the shop as well.”

“What are you going to do with us?” Angela asked. “We’ve read what was written on the scroll and in the diptychs.”

“It doesn’t matter what you read or what you know,” Perini said dismissively. “Without the relics, nobody will believe you, and the only evidence left is that.” He pointed at the desk and the sad pile of wood splinters and ash that was all that remained of the scroll and diptychs. “You won’t see us again,” he said, then he and Verrochio turned and walked away.

For several seconds nobody spoke, then Josep Puente stepped forward and put his arms around Angela.

“It’s probably for the best,” he said. “I’m so sorry, but if I hadn’t destroyed the relics, we might all be dead by now. Come on, let’s go upstairs so I can call the
Guardia Civil
.”

While Puente used the telephone at the reception desk, Bronson went into the museum shop and released the staff and the two visitors, explaining that they’d have to wait in the building until the
Guardia Civil
had questioned them.

Four hours later, and well past midnight, Angela and Bronson were free to go. Puente’s testimony and that of the other museum staff had cleared them of any involvement in the killings except as witnesses. Bronson would still have to satisfy the British police about the death of Mark Hampton, but the senior
Guardia Civil
officer had been able to confirm that he was now only wanted for questioning by the Metropolitan Police, and was no longer considered a suspect.

“Will they catch those two men, do you think?” Angela asked, as they headed toward the parking lot.

“Not a chance,” Bronson said. “They would have had an escape route planned in advance, because those two killings were obviously premeditated.”

“Those men were all in the Mafia, so we’re lucky to be alive. You heard what Mandino and that assassin said.”

“Not necessarily. One of the few good things about the Mafia is that the organization has certain standards, and they don’t normally kill innocent bystanders. If you’re in their way, it’s a different matter. I think those two men had very specific orders to ensure that the relics were found and destroyed, and that Mandino and, presumably, his number two were to die. In fact, I think what we witnessed tonight was a
coup d’e’tat
in the Rome
Cosa Nostra.
If Mandino was the
capo,
there’s been a power shift, and another
Mafioso
has now taken over as the head.”

“Do you believe what that man said about Mark and Jackie? About who killed them?”

“I’ve no reason to doubt it,” Bronson replied, “and I’d have been quite happy to pull the trigger on Rogan and Mandino myself. We’ve had a hell of a time these last few days,” he added, his voice now low and bitter, “and all for nothing. Three people we knew are dead, and the relics we managed to recover have been destroyed, the secret they held now lost for all time. And the Catholic Church will just continue to preach its lies from pulpits around the world every Sunday as if they were literally the gospel truth.”

“I wouldn’t argue with any of that. But the important thing is that we’re still alive. I don’t see how we’d have got out of that basement if Josep hadn’t done what he did.”

“I know,” Bronson said, “but it still rankles with me.”

He fell silent, then somewhat hesitantly took her hand as they walked down the street. “I still can’t quite believe Mark and Jackie have gone.” His voice had softened as he thought again about his friends.

“Yes,” Angela replied. “And Jeremy Goldman too—I really enjoyed working with him. Their lives are over, and I suppose you could say that a chapter of our lives has ended at the same time.”

In the Museu Egipti, Puente was tidying the basement library. The bloodstains on the floor would need industrial cleaning equipment and, probably, special solvents, but they weren’t his concern. He was only interested in the relics sitting on his desk.

One by one, he carefully replaced the scrolls he’d removed from the special safe. The last one wouldn’t fit properly in the recess in the box, just as he had expected: it was a little too big. He would have to get a special container made for it as soon as possible. For the moment, he hunted around until he found a small cardboard box, filled it with cotton wool and carefully placed the scroll inside. Then he took a felt-tip pen and wrote “LEWIS” on the end of the box.

As he closed the safe he marveled again that none of the people in the room had thought to confirm that the scroll and diptychs he’d destroyed were the same ones that Angela had given him. Everyone had been focused on the guns, and on his deliberate piece of misdirection with the sprinkler system controls, and nobody had been really watching his hands.

It was a shame that he’d had to burn one of the museum’s prized possessions, but the early-second-century text was utterly insignificant compared to what he was now thinking of as the Lewis Scroll. He was disappointed that he’d had to destroy two of the museum’s few diptychs as well, but, in truth, they had been quite unremarkable, the writing on their wax surfaces almost completely illegible.

Not bad for an old man, Puente thought, chuckling to himself.

Bronson and Angela were heading out of Barcelona in the Nissan when Angela’s cell phone emitted a faint double-beep, indicating that a text message had been received. She fished around in her handbag, pulled out the phone and looked at the screen.

“Who on earth’s texting you at this time of night?” Bronson asked.

“I don’t recognize the number—oh, it’s Josep. He’s probably just wishing us a safe journey.” She opened the message and stared at the screen. The text was short, and initially meant nothing at all to her.

“What does it say?”

“There are just two words. In Latin.
‘Rei habeo.’
”

“Which means?” Bronson prompted.

“The rough translation would be ‘I have them,’ I suppose. What can he mean by that?”

Then the penny dropped, and Angela smiled to herself. Then she laughed out loud. “I don’t know how he did it,” she said, “but Josep must have switched the relics we found for a scroll and a couple of diptychs from the museum’s collection.”

“You mean he destroyed three different relics?”

“Exactly.”

“Brilliant,” Bronson said. “Just sheer brilliance. I think that the pope and the Vatican—the whole of the Christian world, in fact—are going to go into massive shock when the professor publishes his research.”

Angela laughed again. “So we did manage it after all. We decoded the clues and found the relics, and those bastards working for the Vatican didn’t destroy them.”

“Yes, that’s a real result.” Bronson glanced appraisingly at Angela’s profile, shadowy in the darkness of the car. “Would you do it again?” he asked.

She turned and looked directly at him. “I don’t see relic-hunting as a viable career, somehow. Was that what you meant?”

“Not exactly. I was thinking more about us spending a bit of time together. We didn’t get on too badly, did we?”

Angela was silent for a few moments. “No promises, no commitment. Let’s see how things work out.”

They were both smiling as Bronson turned onto the
autovia
and headed north toward the snowcapped Pyrenees, the jagged peaks coldly illuminated by the full moon overhead.

This book is, of course, a novel and to the best of my knowledge no documents resembling either the Vitalian Codex or the
Exomologesis
exist, or have ever existed, though without doubt there are numerous dark secrets lurking within the Vatican Library’s 75,000 manuscripts and the estimated 150,000 items now held in the Secret Archives.

However, the central idea of this book is founded on fact because, despite my fiction, there is some historical evidence that St. Paul
was
an agent of Rome, employed by the Emperor Nero in precisely the manner I’ve suggested in this book. For more information about this, readers are directed to Joseph Atwill’s book,
Caesar’s Messiah.

The hypothesis is that Paul and Titus Flavius Josephus—a first-century Jewish historian—were employed by Rome to foster a peaceful messianic religion in Judea in an attempt to reduce the rebelliousness of the Jews and their opposition to Roman rule. If true, this suggests an interesting piece of lateral thinking on the part of the Roman emperors.

Unlike St. Peter, we are at least certain that the man who became known as St. Paul actually existed. Quite a lot is known about him, and some of his writings survive to this day.

His birth name was Saul and he was born in about A.D. 9 to a wealthy Jewish merchant in Tarsus in Cilicia. He was a member of the tribe of Benjamin, and was an Aramaic- and Greek-speaking Pharisee, one of the most ancient of the Jewish sects. As a young man he was a violent opponent of Christ and was active in identifying those he saw as heretic Jews and delivering them for punishment.

Tradition holds that he was on his way to Damascus to continue his persecution of Jews when he was blinded by a light from heaven and underwent his celebrated conversion, after which he remained blind for some time. Once his sight was restored he became an ardent Christian. This apocryphal incident may have been inspired by ophthalmia neonatorum, a painful weakness of the eyes that left him almost blind in later life.

Whatever the reality of his “conversion” or motive in switching from persecutor of Christians to dedicated supporter of Jesus Christ, there are mixed views about his contribution to the Christian religion. One body of thought suggests that his views were so different from those of Jesus that his teachings are sometimes referred to as “Pauline Christianity.”