Sign Of The Cross (44 page)

‘Holy shit,’ he muttered, knowing who had died before he even turned the page.

Orlando Pope was one of the most recognizable names in sports, right up there with Tiger Woods and Shaquille O’Neal. If he was dead, his story was going to dwarf every other headline in the world, making Dr Boyd a sudden afterthought. Payne flipped to the sports section but found nothing more than a brief paragraph stating that Pope had been found crucified at Fenway Park and nothing else could be confirmed because of the late hour. No pictures, quotes, or reaction from the team. The biggest sports story of the decade, and he knew nothing about it.

Frustrated, Payne grabbed the newspaper and went to tell Jones the news. Before he could, though, Jones and Maria started talking to Boyd, who had been skimming through a modern text that detailed the history of the Hofburg and the royalty who shaped it. Boyd hoped to learn which ruler built the portion of the building where the laughing man resided.

‘Find anything?’ Maria asked.

Boyd kept reading for several seconds before he turned their way. ‘Hmm? What was that?’

She smiled. Same old Dr Boyd. ‘Did you find anything?’

‘Bits and pieces, my dear. Bits and pieces. If only I had a morsel to guide me, I am
certain
I could locate the smoking gun.’ He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, indicating the rest of the library. ‘I am confident the answer is in here somewhere.’

‘I agree,’ she said, smiling. ‘D.J. has a theory that I wanted you to hear.’

Boyd glanced at Maria, then back at Jones, trying to decide if they were serious. The look on their faces told him they were. ‘Go on. I’m listening.’

Payne was listening, too. But before Jones could spit out a single word, Payne’s attention was diverted to the commotion he heard on the far side of the library. First the opening of a door, then the muffled sound of footsteps. Multiple footsteps. Many people entering the facility at the exact same time. Maybe it was a cleaning crew or a team of armed guards, Payne couldn’t tell from there. Either way, he knew they were in trouble.

‘Hide them,’ Payne told Jones. And just like that, he knew what to do. They had been together long enough to know each other’s tactics.

Payne pulled the Luger from his belt and dashed quietly across the second floor, slipping between pillars and statues. Thousands of books lined the shelves behind him, protecting him from a rear attack, while a thick wooden railing encircled the balcony to his front. His position was elevated, at least fifteen feet above the first floor. He curled up underneath a rail-side table and glanced between the carved balusters where he was able to see most of the Great Hall.

Two men in dress clothes stood in the shadows of the main entrance while their partner fiddled with something behind a tapestry on the right wall. Payne doubted the library had a safe in a public space, leaving only two choices in his mind: a security system or an electrical panel. He got his answer a couple of clicks later when the roof exploded with light.

Payne kept his focus on the men as they converged near the middle of the floor. They were over a hundred feet away, which prevented Payne from seeing or hearing much. There was a mumble every once in a while, followed by a quick reply, but nothing he could comprehend. Partially because of the distance, partially because of a language barrier. Whatever the case, he had no idea who these men were or why they were here.

His gut told him they weren’t looking for his crew. If they were, they wouldn’t be standing in the middle of the library making so much noise. They’d be scurrying along the walls, pointing weapons in every corner and crevice until they figured out where they were hiding. Payne didn’t see any of that, though, which led him to believe that they were fine, that they had no idea that they were there and they’d be safe as long as they stayed quiet.

Payne’s theory changed an instant later when one of them yelled, ‘Boyd, there’s no sense in hiding. I know you’re in here. Come out and face me like a man.’

Payne had seen a lot of messed-up things in his years of combat, but this was the first time that anyone ever dared one of his troops to show his face. Come-out-come-out-wherever-you-are doesn’t factor into many military situations. Amazingly, the strangeness increased when Dr Boyd emerged from the stacks. With a look of defiance on his face, a look that said he was about to do something stupid like challenging this guy to a duel, Boyd shouted across the Great Hall. ‘Come and get me, you big wanker!’

Well, Payne almost crapped himself right there. Of all the screwed-up, dim-witted things he’d ever seen in his life, why in the world would a CIA-trained operative, someone who was supposed to be a genius, be willing to give up his position and risk everything that they were trying to accomplish? The idiot! What the hell was he thinking?

Boyd was standing twenty feet away, completely unaware that Payne was under one of the tables. For an instant Payne was tempted to shut him up and protect the rest of them. A couple of slugs in his knee and he would’ve flipped over the railing like Damien’s mom when he hit her with his tricycle in
The Omen
. That thought left his mind, though, when he saw Maria creep up behind Boyd. Just like that, Payne’s whole world flipped upside down. Something was going on, but he didn’t know what. Were there more guards than he could see? Were Boyd and Maria giving up? Or were he and Jones being double-crossed?

Payne received his answer the moment he saw who was down below. It was the grinning face of Petr Ulster, his red cheeks glowing in the lights of the Great Hall. He looked up at Payne and said, ‘Jonathon, my boy! There you are. I hope you don’t mind, but I thought we could use some reinforcements.’

Everyone met downstairs, where formal introductions were made, and Boyd was reunited with an old colleague. Dr Hermann Wanke was wearing a shirt and tie yet had slippers on his feet. He claimed it was to make less noise as he strolled through the Hofburg, but Payne could tell from the twinkle in his eye that he did it for his own amusement. Most people considered Wanke the world’s top expert on Austrian history, so he figured it was his God-given right to be eccentric. Personally, Payne didn’t care what he wore as long he could help their mission. He asked Wanke how he knew Dr Boyd, and he launched into a five-minute soliloquy about their days at Oxford where, according to Wanke, they got along brilliantly despite their diverse backgrounds.

The other man they met was Max Hochwälder, Wanke’s soft-spoken assistant. He was closer to Boyd’s age than Payne’s, although it was tough to gauge since he was reluctant to speak, and his short blond hair concealed any traces of gray. He shook Payne’s hand with a timid grip, then faded back into oblivion, virtually disappearing in the roomful of strong personalities.

Anyhow, after a few minutes of small talk, Payne knew it was time to get back to business. He started with the most obvious question. Why was Wanke at the Hofburg?

‘Research,
Herr
Payne, research.’ His English was perfect, with little or no accent, although he dropped in a German term every once in a while for his own pleasure. ‘I was arranging to view one of the royal collections when I saw my old pals, Petr and Franz. I could tell they were up to no good and decided to have some fun with them.’ He showed them what he meant by shouting a number of Austrian terms that sounded like they belonged in a
stalag
, not in a library. ‘When they tossed their hands in the air, I knew they were doing something scandalous. Something that
I
should be involved in.’

Ulster rubbed his face in embarrassment, a reaction that told Payne his recruitment of Wanke was not so much planned as stumbled onto.

‘From there it was easy,’ Wanke said. ‘I sent Franz outside to occupy the guard while Petr filled me in on the basics. The moment I heard Charles’s name, I knew I had to help. Whether he wanted me to or not.’

‘I hope that’s all right,’ Ulster apologized. ‘I know I should’ve fibbed and kept Hermann out of this, but considering his background, I figured he might be useful. At least I hope so. I’d hate to think I messed this up.’

Boyd gave Payne a
what-are-you-going-to-do?
shrug that summed up his feelings perfectly. They weren’t about to yell at Ulster or kick him out of the library. He simply invited one of Boyd’s oldest friends, a man who knew more about Austrian history than everyone else combined, to help them with their research. If he had to blab to someone, this wasn’t a bad choice. Thankfully, Ulster hadn’t spilled as many secrets as they had feared – just some basics about the laughing man and nothing about the Catacombs. So Boyd filled Wanke in on some of the facts, and Wanke quickly transformed from a goofy eccentric into a world-class historian.

‘Where to start, where to start?’ he mumbled under his breath. Then, without saying another word, he headed into the bowels of the library, followed by Boyd, Ulster, Maria, and his mimelike assistant. Payne grabbed Jones before he could join them, telling him that he needed a word.

‘What’s up?’ Jones asked.

‘Lately I’ve gotten the feeling that we’re spending so much time worried about Boyd that we’ve lost track of the big picture. Like something bigger than the Catacombs.’

‘Bigger than the Catacombs? You realize we’re on the verge of proving that Christ
wasn’t
crucified. That seems kind of important to me.’

‘Yeah, I know but… I just get the feeling that something else is going on.’

Jones studied Payne’s face. ‘Ah, man! Don’t tell me your gut is acting up again.’

‘Actually, it moved beyond a gut feeling when I read this.’ Payne handed him the newspaper that he’d been reading. ‘This seems like too much of a coincidence not to be connected.’

‘What does?’

‘The fact that we’re researching the crucifixion, and people are turning up crucified. First it was some priest from the Vatican. Then it was a prince from Nepal. And last night it was someone bigger. They got Orlando Pope.’

‘The Holy Hitter?’

He nodded. ‘They found him at Fenway.’

‘No shit?’ Jones paused in thought. ‘And you think this has something to do with us?’

‘Guess when the crucifixions started. On Monday. The same day Boyd found the Catacombs. The same day the bus exploded. The same day
we
were brought into play… Call me paranoid, but that
can’t
be a coincidence.’

‘It could be,’ Jones insisted. ‘Hell, this could be nothing more than -‘

‘What? A fluke? When was the last time you read a news story about a crucifixion? A long time, right? And when was the last time a Vatican priest was murdered? Can you think of a single example in the last twenty years?’

Payne waited for an answer that he knew wasn’t coming.

‘I’m telling you, D.J., this stuff has to be related. I don’t know how or why, but we’re caught up in something that’s bigger than Dr Boyd. And my gut tells me if we don’t figure it out soon, things are going to get a lot worse for everyone.’

Tank Harper and his crew reached the Daxing airfield before the body hit the ground. The pilot circled low and wide, meaning radar wouldn’t be a problem. Not with the Chinese. By the time they got their search planes in the air, the entire landing strip would be covered with livestock, and Harper’s plane would be buried in vegetation.

But that’s why Manzak handpicked him for the job. He knew Harper wouldn’t get caught.

What Manzak didn’t know, though, was that Harper had seen through his bullshit from the very beginning. In his line of work, Harper realized the toughest part of a job wasn’t the mission itself but rather collecting compensation. That was the task that had the most danger and the most fun – especially when he was working for a new employer. Someone he didn’t have a track record with. Someone he couldn’t trust. Someone like Richard Manzak.

Manzak had called Harper earlier in the week and told him the money would be divided on Saturday at a villa in Rome. All Harper had to do was get there in time for the payoff. Harper smiled when he heard this, then asked a point-blank question: ‘Will you be there to meet us?’ Manzak assured him he would, giving him his word as a gentleman.

Of course Harper knew that Manzak’s word didn’t mean shit. Not only had he lied about his name – Manzak’s
real
name was Roberto Pelati – but for some reason his alias was the name of a missing
CIA
operative. Why would someone do that? Why select a name that had a history?

Harper couldn’t figure that out for the life of him. Still, Pelati’s deception told him all he needed to know: he had no intention of paying him. And to make matters worse, since Pelati wanted to meet Harper and his crew the moment they got to Italy, Harper knew something big was going to happen at the villa. Something bloody. Something violent.

And the truth was, he didn’t have a problem with that.

Harper had been hoping for a million dollars, but he would settle for someone’s scalp.

Harper’s cross landed in the main courtyard of the Forbidden City, where it was swallowed by a masked team of armed soldiers. Representatives of the local
NCB
office were standing nearby, thanks to the phone call from Dial, who told them to protect the evidence as much as humanly possible, though that term had a different definition in China than it did in America.

Chinese
HAZMAT
personnel scanned the cross for threats, then radioed their reports to headquarters. Several minutes passed before a decision was made to allow army medics to examine the victim. Doctors determined that Paul Adams had a decent chance to live, but only if they rushed him to the hospital for surgery. The on-site commander thanked them for their efforts and told them he would try to get permission. Nodding, the doctors went back to work on Adams without voicing a single complaint. They knew this was the way it was done in their country, and an argument would only get them and their families into trouble.

An hour later word filtered down from the top: medical evac had been denied.

Adams was forbidden to leave the Forbidden City for any reason. Even if it meant his death.