Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) (4 page)

How
could a single God have the time to deal with
all
of man’s problems?

But this
man here, this man who made the ridiculous claim he was the son of a god, was
clearly mad. To not only claim he was the son of a god, and therefore by
extension a god himself, was insane. But to do so
here
of all places, on
this day of all days had to be the very definition of lunacy. Today was
Passover, from his limited understanding of Judaism the biggest religious
holiday of the year. To come to Jerusalem during the Passover with apparently hundreds
if not thousands of followers was insane, especially allowing himself to be greeted
like a king upon arrival with people throwing their garments on the ground for
him to walk on.

It
was suicide!

And he
had arrived on a donkey.

The
very idea of a king riding a donkey!

He
chuckled as behind him he heard the guards arguing over the garments the
prisoners had worn, all divvied up in short order, the final item, the “king’s”
undergarment, drawing particular interest.

“Let’s
not tear it,” he heard one say.

“Let’s
decide by lot who will get it.” It was Albus who suggested this, the sounds of
the impartial method of decision making soon heard, Albus crying out with joy,
apparently the winner.

A shadow
approached and he held out his arm. It stopped, but what sounded like an
elderly man began yelling. “You who are going to destroy the temple and build
it in three days, save yourself! Come down from the cross, if you are the Son
of God!”

There
was laughter among the crowd, another joining in on the taunting. “He saved
others, but he can’t save himself! He’s the king of Israel! Let him come down
now from the cross, and we will believe in him.”

More
laughter.

“He
trusts in God. Let God rescue him now if he wants him, for he said, ‘I am the
Son of God.’”

The
taunts continued, the hatred in the voices unsettling. Longinus had heard
taunts before, usually from the victims, usually from a murder victim’s family,
taunting the condemned, taking pleasure in reminding them of the exquisite hell
that awaited them.

But this
man had harmed no one.

Though
according to what he had overheard, he might have caused great harm. Apparently
Prefect Pilate was prepared to shutdown Passover for fears of an uprising, a
Jewish rebellion. Hundreds if not thousands could have died had it been allowed
to happen. Pilate had told the Jewish leaders to handle it themselves.

Apparently
this was how they had chosen to do that.

Kill
a single man, an insane, blasphemous man, to save thousands of others.

He had
to admit it had a perverse logic to it.

“He
saved others; let him save himself if he is God’s Messiah, the Chosen One!”

He had
heard enough.

“Silence!”

A hush
descended upon the crowd, only to be replaced by his own fellow soldiers behind
him. “If you are the king of the Jews, save yourself.”

This
seemed to embolden one of the others crucified along with the so-called king.
“Aren’t you the Messiah? Save yourself and us!”

His
counterpart replied with equal vigor. “Don’t you fear God since you are under
the same sentence?”

Longinus
turned slightly, listening to the second prisoner with curiosity. It wouldn’t
be the first time that a criminal had begged forgiveness once facing imminent
death, but they rarely defended each other.

“We are
punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has
done nothing wrong.” There was a pause, the voice changing slightly as the man
seemed to turn his head. “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

The
raspy, weak voice replied, and Longinus’ felt a shiver travel his entire body.
“Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.”

The
surety with which the man said these words was inspiring, as if he actually
believed the madness he was preaching. Cries from several women in the crowd
was proof that many here believed his words too.

And he
could understand that.

In the few
hours he had been exposed to the man he hadn’t said a negative word, hadn’t
begged for his life, instead having begged for forgiveness for those who were
doing him ill, and delivering words of comfort to others.

He was
truly an inspiring man.

I can
see why people would follow him, despite his madness.

“I’m his
mother, may we pass?”

Longinus
nearly jumped, not having seen even the shadow of the woman who now stood
before him. The pain in her voice was clear, the anguish palpable, and he felt
his own chest tighten as he imagined how his mother would feel should it be he
nailed to a cross, waiting to die.

He
nodded.

Several
sets of footsteps trudged on the arid ground, those who passed whimpering or
sobbing, clearly believers in this man’s message. He looked up at the sky and
could spot the bright orb of the sun overhead, and judging by the growl in his
stomach, he suspected it was around noon.

He
won’t last much longer, not if he was beaten as badly as Albus said.

“Woman, here
is your son,” said the voice, weaker still. “Here is your mother.”

It was
times like these he wished he could see for he had no idea what the words
meant. Who was he talking to? Was it his mother? Was it his brother? It
couldn’t be, for surely a mother would know her own son.

This
man speaks in riddles!

He sighed.

Maybe
he’s going mad with the heat?

The sun
was beating down on them now, Golgatha outside the city on a hilltop, there no
chance of shade here, the stone and dried dirt they stood upon getting so hot
it almost baked the sandal clad feet of those who felt compelled to accompany
the condemned.

Which
meant the crowds had thinned even more, and he suspected by the time the end
arrived, it would be thinner still.

The
insults were few now, those whose hearts were filled with hatred seemingly not
willing to endure the heat in the name of their convictions.

Footsteps
approached from behind, a hand gently gripping his shoulder. “There’s no need
to stand guard anymore, come sit with us.” Longinus nodded, turning and walking
forward, his steps slow, deliberate, as he followed the shadow of Albus,
nervous he might trip on the uneven ground. The shadow stopped and Albus
grabbed his hand. “Let me help you, old man!” he said with a laugh, a good
cover as Longinus sat where he stood, Albus guiding him to the ground before
sitting beside him.

Something
was placed in his hand.

“Drink.”

Longinus
took a long drag of the harsh liquid, the wine having long turned to vinegar,
losing any of its pleasurable qualities once intended by the vintner.

A gust
of wind swept over them providing a welcome respite from the heat if but for a
moment.

“Look!”
cried someone to his left. A shadow crossed his path, a large shadow, and it
took him a moment to realize it wasn’t a shadow at all. He looked up and felt
his heart slam in his chest.

The sun
was gone.

Corpo della Gendarmeria Office
Palazzo del Governatorato, Vatican City
Present Day, Two days before the Paris assault

Vatican Inspector General Mario Giasson hung up the phone, shaking
his head. Someone had stolen a priceless Blood Relic in Spain, murdering a
priest in the process. He had always wanted more security put in place for
these relics, in fact, he had always been a proponent of bringing all these
relics, so important to Christian belief, behind the massive walls surrounding them.

But his
concerns had always been dismissed, and he understood the reasoning. These
relics were sometimes critical draws to the churches that held them, precious
to their parishioners, usually safely held for centuries. Over the decades
security measures had been put in place from locks, gates and protective cases,
sometimes even alarm systems, but rarely were guards present.

It was
simply too expensive.

We
rely too heavily on the goodness of man.

It was
an evil world, something that seemed reinforced with his daily reading of the
news, and this phone call had merely cemented his view a little more. An aged
priest, near retirement, killed protecting a relic he had no business
protecting, a relic only precious to those who believed, and should they truly be
believers, a relic they wouldn’t dream of stealing.

He knew
that thinking was naïve. All believers aren’t good people, of that there was no
doubt. The classic example were the deeply religious Mafioso that so populated
the country surrounding this tiny city state. How men could commit murder with
one hand and hold rosary beads with the other, was beyond him.

I
hope there’s a special corner of hell reserved for them.

An alarm
sounded and he jumped to his feet, rushing out into the security office, those
manning the computers and security monitors shouting out questions and answers,
the main feeds on the wall of monitors beginning to switch to the area in
question.

“Report!”

The
nightshift supervisor, Alfredo Ianuzzi, turned in his desk. “Silent alarm from Saint
Peter’s Basilica, Saint Longinus display, sir.”

“Saint
Longinus? What’s kept there?”

“There
they are!” shouted one of his men, Francesco Greco, pointing at the screen.
Giasson watched as three men, all in black, submachine guns in hand, raced
through the deserted nave of St. Peter’s Basilica, it having been closed for
the night hours ago.

“Notify
the Swiss Guard. I want this place locked down!”

More
alarms sounded, a coded alert sent out over the PA system. On the screens
guards raced toward the Basilica and St. Peter’s Square. Giasson grabbed a
radio from the charging station and rushed out the door. Sprinting toward the
square, he held the radio up to his mouth, pressing the Talk button. “Report!”

“They’ve
just cleared the Portico,” replied Ianuzzi. “Our guards are moving to
intercept.”

“Do we
know what they stole?”

“Not
yet.”

Giasson
burst through a set of doors, startling several priests deep in conversation.
He tried to remember what relics might be worth stealing in the Saint Longinus
display, but was drawing a blank.

Then a
thought hit him, almost bringing him to a halt.

He
forced himself forward, despite his lungs burning from his unusually long
sprint. He raised the radio again, gasping out his question. “Are there any Blood
Relics stored there?”

He surged
through the outer doors and into St. Peter’s Square, dozens of the Swiss Guard
racing toward the obelisk that towered over the center of the massive gathering
place.

“Sir,
the Holy Lance is kept there!”

My
God!

Two Blood
Relics stolen within hours of each other was too much of a coincidence. Which
meant these people were either the thieves and murderers from Spain, or were
connected with them somehow.

But they
wouldn’t be getting away today.

Gunfire
sprayed the ground in front of him and he skid to a halt, ducking.

“Look!”

He heard
someone shouting closer to the main gates, their voice carrying over the
cobblestone. Looking, he gasped. A set of intensely bright lights were rapidly
approaching the gates, a thumping sound getting louder and louder as what could
only be a helicopter raced toward the tiny nation, it surrounded on all sides
by a densely packed Rome.

The
helicopter cleared the gates with what looked like only feet to spare, the
guards all turning their attention to the new arrival as its nose pulled up,
killing its forward momentum. As it slowly turned the lights blinding him
changed direction and he was able to see the side doors were open, people
inside throwing down ropes.

“Stop
them!” he shouted as he resumed his charge. But it was too late. The three men
hooked onto the ropes and the chopper rose, banking back toward the main gates
as the thieves were pulled from the ground, slowly reeled in as his men were
left staring at the rapidly receding helicopter, unable to open fire lest their
bullets find innocent flesh on their descent.

Giasson
shook his head in awe as he watched the helicopter bank around the corner,
still barely above street height, the three men swinging wide, almost hitting
the buildings as they continued to be pulled inside.

He
raised his radio. “Get me the Roma Polizia.” He paused for a moment, then
nodded, a decision made.

“And put
in a call to Agent Hugh Reading of Interpol.”