The Illumination (24 page)

Darkness swallowed him, black and thick as tar. From below, he heard an intake of breath, and the footfalls ceased.

Suffocating on the pungent, acidic smells of centuries-old mold and decay, he flailed his fingers against slime and cobwebs and cold marble in search of the latch. He couldn't even see his hand as he groped desperately, blindly.

Where the hell is it?

 

 

 

Natalie fumbled with the zipper on her shoulder bag, one hand still clinging to the ladder, the darkness smothering her like an Egyptian burial cloak. Her nostrils stung from the stench of dead air—an odor she knew well from countless digs. Breathing shallowly, she groped through her bag for her penlight.

“Hold on, I've got a light in here somewhere,” she called softly upward.

A moment later her hand closed on the miniflashlight, and she yanked it out. A slender beam of light pierced the blackness.

“Let there be light,” Rabbi Calo's voice chirped out, several feet above her.

She swung the beam toward her feet and saw she was nearly at the bottom. The ladder ran perpendicular to a shallow ghostly staircase carved from the subterranean stone but its steps were crumbling and impassable now.

“Not much farther,” she called up. “How are you managing, Rabbi?”

“Don't worry about me.” His words floated down to her. “It's only a tooth. A tooth can be replaced.”

D'Amato's voice came from somewhere above the rabbi's. It was as grim and solid as the walls. “Where does this passageway end up? In the catacombs?”

“No, not at all. Contrary to what many believe, the early Christians never did hide in the catacombs.” Father Caserta's voice wheezed as it echoed off the dank walls. “They wouldn't have built an escape tunnel straight to where the Romans knew they buried their dead.”

“And they couldn't have lived long in the catacombs even if they'd tried to hide there,” Natalie added, keeping her tone low, although she estimated she'd descended at least twenty feet and could no longer be heard by anyone still in the church. “The air was too toxic from the decaying bodies.”

Suddenly her foot touched solid ground, and she called up, “I've hit bottom.” Stepping clear of the ladder, she shone her penlight in an arc.

She found herself at the entrance to a small passageway, no more than three feet wide, its roof no higher than eight feet. Just ahead, the tunnel branched off in two directions. Uncertain, she waited for Father Caserta to lead the way.

She swiveled the light back up to shed pale illumination on the rusted ladder. Rabbi Calo had just reached the bottom rung; Father Caserta was only a dozen steps above him. Their movements were slow and cautious, their faces drawn.

She shivered in the damp of the tunnel and groped in her bag for the pendant, trying to accept the enormity of what she'd learned just before the attack.

The legends of the
tzohar,
the light of creation. She knew she was carrying an ancient pendant, but it was too big a leap to conclude that this was the legendary biblical gem.
A tiny treasure from the Middle East,
which had crossed the ocean to come into her possession.

What I think doesn't matter,
she thought.
If others are convinced this pendant is truly the
tzohar,
it's no wonder they're willing to kill me to get it.

D'Amato was the last to jump free of the ladder. He glanced around, dusting his palms off on his pants.

“So where exactly did the early Christians hide?” he asked, scanning the dank, claustrophobic space.

“They hid here. And in other similar subterranean chambers,” Caserta explained. “It wasn't until
A.D
. 380 that Christianity
became the state religion. Before then, if the followers of Jesus wanted to avoid being thrown to the lions as a sporting event in the Coliseum, they often had to escape underground.”

“And our way back to daylight is . . . ?” D'Amato queried.

“May I?” Father Caserta held out his hand for Natalie's penlight and headed for the passageway on the left. “The one on the right is blocked off about a hundred meters ahead. This one will take us out into the ruins of an eleventh-century abbey.”

“How far?” Natalie asked, trailing close behind him in the narrow corridor.

“A little more than three kilometers,” the priest told her over his shoulder.

“About two miles,” D'Amato translated.

“Those men back there—you've met them before?” Rabbi Calo asked her. He was trudging slowly, his injury taking its toll. One hand cradled his damaged jaw.

“They were involved in my sister's murder. And they came after us in New York.”

“You'll remain in grave danger as long as you're carrying the
tzohar,
” Calo cautioned. “What do you plan to do with it?”

“I think the best way to find out what this pendant really holds is to take it to Israel. If you're right, Rabbi, that's where it was stolen from in the first place. And if you're not . . .” She exhaled. “The Israel Antiquities Authority in Jerusalem is among the best in the world at studying ancient Middle Eastern artifacts.”

Calo nodded approvingly. “Yes, take it to Israel. That's where some say it shone long before the world existed,” he said. “For another of our legends recounts that the
tzohar
shone from the place that would become Jerusalem even
before
God spoke the world into existence.”

“So the legends are contradictory,” D'Amato said from the rear. “How do you know what to believe?”

“As with everything else in this life, that is something each person must decide for him- or herself,” the rabbi said in the darkness, his voice labored. “But I believe your decision is the right one, Ms. Landau. The
tzohar
must return to its home. Jerusalem. The Israel Antiquities Authority will know best how to study and safeguard it.”

On that, she agreed with him completely. The IAA had been established in the early nineties to collect, study, and preserve Israel's cultural and archaeological treasures. Its headquarters was in the Rockefeller Museum just outside the Old City.

Now all she had to do was get it there.

A short distance later the tunnel narrowed, its roofline slanting to less than six feet, forcing D'Amato, like Caserta in the lead, to duck his head as he walked. He tried his cell phone. There was no signal underground, not that he'd really expected one.

“When we get to the abbey, Father, take the rabbi to the hospital.”

“And you and Ms. Landau? How will you get away?” the priest murmured in the darkness.

“We're working on it.”

More like we're making it up as we go along,
Natalie thought.

“I have an idea,” Rabbi Calo offered. “You can use my car.” His hand was already in his pants pocket, withdrawing a set of keys. “It's a red Fiat with a dent in the passenger door—it's parked in the lane behind the
gelateria
two blocks north of the synagogue. Drive to Florence. I have a cousin there who'll bring it back to me.”

“Best plan I've heard all day.” D'Amato pocketed the keys. “The trick is going to be getting back to your car without an entourage of bullets.”

 

 

 

There had been only one cab in the vicinity when the four of them emerged at last from the tunnel and stumbled through the crumbling abbey and out into the sun. Both Calo and Caserta had insisted D'Amato and Natalie take it. Neither spoke as the cabbie circled back toward the Great Synagogue of Rome.

“Drop me off here,” D'Amato ordered suddenly, wrenching Natalie from her thoughts. They weren't anywhere close to the
gelateria
yet. As she turned to him in surprise, he leaned over and spoke tightly in her ear.

“We just passed two NSU agents—I recognized one of them. He's former CIA. We worked together briefly in Jerusalem.” D'Amato scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I don't know the agent with him, but they always work in pairs, and they have to be looking for us. They're only two blocks away from the synagogue—that's no coincidence. They must have tracked us there.”

“NSU?” she whispered back.

“National Security Unit. It's a top-secret terror-fighting agency—Homeland Security's version of the CIA.”

“They're after us, too?” Her heart sank.

“Not if I can help it. I'm going to draw them off.” He thrust the keys into her palm. “You get the car, pick me up on the Via del Corso near the Spanish Steps. Know where they are?”

She nodded, bracing herself.

“There's a Benetton on the corner. Keep circling until I find you. Can you drive a stick?”

“It's what I learned on. D'Amato . . .” Her voice trailed off as the cab slid into the curb and he shoved his door open. He glanced back at her, waiting.

“Be careful.”

His eyes were unreadable.

She sucked in her breath as he sprang from the car and loped off, back in the direction they'd just come from.

“It's up a few more blocks,” she told the driver, her fingers clamped around the car keys. “The
gelateria
.” She suddenly felt like she'd never see D'Amato again.

As the cab stopped to let her out, she scanned the clusters of people sitting outside the ice cream shop. They all looked like natives or casual tourists. Laughing. Dipping spoons into brightly colored
gelato,
enjoying the welcome sun and the spring day. Her own stomach rumbled with hunger as she pushed some bills at the driver and bolted from the cab, sprinting toward the rear of the building, car keys at the ready.

But even as she zeroed in on the rabbi's Fiat ahead, a man moved quickly into her peripheral view.

Her head snapped to the side to look at him. Then her breath caught.

She'd seen him before. The last time he'd been wearing a baggy gray sweatsuit. Today his tall, muscular body was encased in jeans and a hoodie. But there was no mistaking the powerful physique. The way he moved. It was Ski Mask.

The thug from the museum.

He spotted her at the same instant. A smile broke across his wide face, and he started forward.

She ran for the car, darting down the middle of the street, pressing the remote key frantically. He was ten paces away—she could still make it. But as she flung the door wide and threw herself onto the warm leather, he came on with a burst of speed that propelled him over the hood of the car in a split second.

She couldn't close the door in time, let alone lock it. He
reached in, seized her arm, and yanked her out, shoulder bag and all. She was pinned between him and the car, staring up into those amber-flecked brown eyes.

“Give it over, and I won't have to hurt you.”

His voice was hushed, almost fervent. In it she heard the same soft trace of a drawl she'd heard in the museum.

How did he find me?

“Is it in your bag?” he demanded. “Or your pocket? Give me the Light now. I don't want any accidents, like I had with your sister's buddy, Sutherland.”

“Rusty!” Natalie choked out.
He must have followed Rusty to the Devereaux . . . waited for him to come out.
. . . Horror swallowed her.
He came back to the museum looking for the pendant when he didn't find it on Rusty.

“No one's here to help you this time. So do us both a favor—just give me the Light.”

“What do you want with it?” She braced her feet against the ground, trying to clear the fear from her head. “Who are you?”

“That's not important. The Light is the only thing that matters. That's why it's resurfaced now—it's nearly time.”

“Nearly time for what?”
Keep him talking,
Natalie thought.
And get ready. He's just a kid. A big, strong kid.

But a big, strong,
dangerous
kid. His irises grew unexpectedly dark. He was studying her with a flicker of contempt. “You wouldn't understand. You're not a believer.”

“I believe lots of things. I believe stealing is wrong. And that murder is evil.”

That was a mistake. She realized it as soon as she said it. His face darkened, and he moved so quickly she never even had time to duck. He backhanded her, his knuckles cracking against her cheek, sending blinding pain through her ears. The sunlight dimmed.

His breath was hot on her face. “I'm a servant of the Lord. I do what is necessary to serve Him, and one cannot sin in the service of the Lord.”

For a moment she couldn't see her surroundings, and she fought to keep her feet. Dizzily, she shifted the car keys in her hand, careful not to let them jingle. Through the haze of nausea
and pain she worked them until they protruded between her fingers.

“The Sentinel has given me my mission. The Light must shine from the Third Temple. Its radiance will usher in the Rapture.”

The Sentinel? The Rapture?

He's delusional. A loose cannon.

But someone powerful's giving him his orders. A loose cannon wouldn't have the resources to have tracked Rusty—or to find me in Rome.

Natalie struggled to speak through the pain eddying through her head. “Just let go of me and—”

He thumped her head against the car.

“I can wait,” he said softly. “It won't take long. In the end I'll simply take the Light away from you.”

 

D'Amato dodged through the warren of narrow streets, bearing north, working his way toward the Piazzi di Spagna—and the Spanish Steps.

He'd lost the NSU guys in the Piazza della Rotonda after ducking into the Palazzo Doria Pamphilj. He knew the vast stone museum well. With its four picture galleries off the courtyard, its Mirror Gallery, private apartment, chapel, and the Via della Gatta wing, they'd waste a good couple of hours hunting for him before they caught on. He pictured them dashing up and down all those stairways, through the numerous salons. Maybe they'd soak up a little culture while they were chasing his shadow. He'd be on the Via del Corso looking for Natalie before they realized he'd given them the slip—as slyly as the cat the Via della Gatta was named for.