Skeleton 03 - The Constantine Codex (38 page)

Jon hoisted his gear, walked up to the service door, and passed through it without challenge. At a very deliberate pace so that he would not attract attention and yet arrive at the crypt exactly at 11:59 a.m., Jon walked through the ranks of pilgrims in line to see the crypt and approached the railing surrounding it. It was 11:58—a minute too early—but no real problem. He slowly opened his toolbox and looked around for guards. Thank goodness noon was also the time for the changing of those guards.

A great boom seemed to explode inside the sanctuary. Although it was merely the Janiculum cannon doing its thing as it did at noon each day, the tourists were sufficiently startled for Jon to make his move. He hauled out his dark green tarpaulin and started spreading it over the glass ceiling of the crypt.
“Mi scuzi! Per favore, mi scuzi!”
Jon said in his best Italian accent, while nudging several pilgrims aside in the process. At the center of the tarp now covering the glass, he placed a large sign in both Italian and English:

CHIUSO PER QUINDICI MINUTI

CLOSED FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES

Then he went to the small doorway near the side of the high altar and tried the door. It refused to open. Was it locked? With prayer and a stronger tug, it opened at last. He crawled through and emerged inside the crypt. Quickly he opened his tool kit, hauled out the drill, and set it to work on his target, which was the most centrally located mortar-filled hole in the lid.

The drill purred away without making the quick progress Jon had counted on. He put more pressure on the drill. This reduced the rpm but the drill seemed to start making some penetration. Still, no breakthrough.
The mortar they used centuries ago was pretty good after all,
he mused. The drilling seemed to go on for endless minutes.

This was all taking too long, he realized. He pushed harder and harder, yet the material refused to yield. His concerns had become worry, and worry was now bordering on panic. He’d have to abandon his wild scheme, cut his losses, and head out ASAP. Yes, common sense dictated that he do just that. After one final push, it would be the end.

Suddenly the drill broke through. It would instantly have crashed into the lid of the sarcophagus had not Jon’s gloved left hand been waiting to cushion the blow. Trembling with joyful relief, Jon pulled the drill out and replaced it with his photo wand. It just fit into the orifice. He lowered it exactly one foot down, then turned on the strobes and started tripping the camera shutters. He twirled the wand forty-five degrees and did the same, then the next forty-five degrees, and so on until he had made a complete circle.

Next he lowered the wand nine inches further and repeated the process. He thought briefly of trying a third round but canceled the concept in the name of prudence. He quickly removed the photo wand and retrieved all his gear. As a final touch, he plugged the hole in the lid with color-matched hardening clay. Then he crawled back out of the crypt. He emerged through the door at the end of the passageway and could finally stand up again. Then his heart almost failed. One of the basilica guards was standing there, looking at him with a great frown.

“Buon giorno!”
Jon said amiably, retrieving his wits. He closed the little door, ignored the guard, and walked over to the railing around the crypt, where he removed the sign and the tarp. Then he strolled casually but methodically back to the service door, wondering whether the guard was following him. But he dared not look backward. That would have been too obvious a tip-off.

When he reached the service door, Jon was sure brawny hands were about to seize him by the very scruff of his neck. But no. Thank the good Lord, his bluff had been successful.

He climbed into Kevin’s Fiat and they drove off. Jon looked at his watch. Only nineteen minutes had elapsed since they’d arrived. To Jon it had seemed more like nineteen hours.

“Do you mean to say the guard just stood there,
looking
at you?” Kevin asked while driving through the Ostian Gate on their way back to the Janiculum. “I find that a little hard to believe.”

“I don’t blame you. I was lucky. But it’s all in appearances, Kev,
appearances
. To that guard, I was just one of the many handymen tending the place. He probably sees dozens like me every day.”

“But how did you ever have the . . . the guts to pull off something like this? When you put on those duds, you must have known something as serendipitous as this could happen.”

“I got the idea from something that happened years ago when I was a freshman at Harvard. One afternoon, some students—dressed like street construction workers—brought a huge air compressor onto the corner where Mass Avenue runs into Harvard Square. They fired up the compressor, and then—with three jackhammers roaring at the same time—they started blasting away at Massachusetts Avenue, tearing up the pavement and stacking huge pieces of asphalt onto the curb. The police quickly came, of course, but what did they do? They carefully directed traffic
around
the construction area so the ‘city workers’ could get their job done!”

Kevin was laughing so hard, he had to pull over to the curb. Finally he asked, “What did they ever do to those pranksters?”

“Not a darn thing. After a half hour of this, they simply left the scene—air compressor, jackhammers, and all, which they had ‘borrowed’ from a university construction site.”

“They never caught them?”

“Never.”

Kevin shook his head, incredulous.

“See,” Jon said, “like I said, it’s all in the appearances, Kev.”

“Maybe it was more like you were Daniel, and the Lord himself closed the mouths of the lions.”

“Yeah, maybe so.”

That evening, they prepared to upload Jon’s precious photographs. As he attached each camera to USB cables connected to his laptop, Jon was cautious—trying to keep his own hopes in check more than to convince his friend. “You realize, Kevin, that there are plenty of things that can go wrong here. For one, we could have technical failure with one or both cameras—not the strobes, since I saw the flashing—but if the remote shutter controls failed, we’d have nothing. That’s unlikely, but not impossible. Or the camera lenses might have missed their target because I angled them wrong—although I tried hard to get the geometry straight. Or even with all the technical stuff working perfectly, there might well be nothing inside, no target.”

Kevin shook his head. “Why so negative? I’m sure there must be something inside the tomb.”

“Well, I suppose there probably
are
bones inside, but they might not be St. Paul’s.”

“But how would you ever know that?”

“Simple. If the skull were attached to the neck bones, then it couldn’t be St. Paul because we know he was beheaded.”

“Oh . . . of course.” With an impish grin, Kevin asked, “Is that all?”

“Well, there is one more possibility,” Jon admitted. “There’s a remote chance that we have the photos of . . . the real McCoy. Sorry, that’s a dumb phrase for something as extraordinary and sacred as this, but you know what I mean.”

“Right.”

Jon’s hand was actually trembling as he turned on his laptop. Why did the booting up take so long? Finally his screen came alive with all its icons. He double-clicked on his favorite photo-imaging program, clicked the Import button for camera #1 at the one-foot level, and waited for the images to appear. They arrived, one by one, with excruciating slowness, yet all were—well, not blank, but showing only the gray marble interior of the sarcophagus. After the eight 45-degree-angle photographs had made a complete circuit, Jon slapped his hand on the table and muttered, “Nothing! Just the same drab interior walls of the tomb. Either there’s nothing inside or my lens angles were wrong.”

“Well, try camera two, for goodness’ sake!” Kevin advised.

“Camera two? Oh yes, of course.”

Jon shook off his disappointment and returned to his laptop. The uploads from the second camera started appearing on the screen, but with the same disappointing results: nothing but shots of the interior wall. Jon clapped both hands over his eyes in dejection.

“Jon,
look
!” Kevin yelled. Photo number four from the second camera was coming onto the screen. It showed the top of something that was difficult to make out, but it was most definitely
not
part of the walls.

“Yessss!” Jon exploded. “The hole was near the eastern edge of the sarcophagus, and I aimed the wand there first. Now we’re getting the views across to the other side. And just look at seven o’clock!”

“Wow!” Kevin enthused, looking over Jon’s shoulder. “Nine o’clock is even better!” Both angles showed bones at the base of each view.

Then there were indrawn breaths: Eleven o’clock showed the top half of a human skull.

Both were silent for some time, savoring the moment. Finally Jon said, “The next series, which was taken nine inches lower, should be even better.”

Indeed, this became the series that Jon knew could make history. Both cameras clearly showed the image of a skeletal figure, ranging in height—they estimated—between five-foot-five and five-foot-eight. A shock of what looked to be salt-and-pepper-shaded hair—much on the sides, little on top—was still attached to the skull. And unless this was wishful viewing, there
seemed
to be a break in the neck vertebrae five and six beneath the skull.

“What do you think, Jon? Do we have a gap there or not?”

“It’s tough to tell at this point. We’ve got to avoid letting any bias color our results. In any case, we won’t be able to determine that until we enlarge the photos. Then again, if the people who buried this person pushed the head back into position, we may never know, short of a real autopsy.”

Suddenly Kevin said, “No, Jon. You’re wrong. This . . . this
is
St. Paul.” He knelt down, crossed himself, and took several trembling breaths, clearly overcome.

“Easy, man. How can you be so sure?”

He wiped his eyes. “Look at those pieces of purple fabric still attached to one of the ribs!”

“What?”

“And remember how Second Acts closes? ‘On his breast we placed a small cross of wood, the emblem of what has become the center of everything he preached and taught.’” Kevin stood and pointed at the latest image on Jon’s laptop. “Look closely. Look at that rib cage . . .”

Jon squinted. There it lay, on the sternum: the image of an ancient cross made of darker material that contrasted with the gray of the ribs.

Jon slumped down on Kevin’s sofa, moving his head in a slow arc from side to side as the full ramifications ran together in his mind. Then he looked up. “Well, there’s our material evidence. And the evidence is actually a keystone, bracing up both sides of our mutual interests: Second Acts
and
the remains of St. Paul. How incredibly, wondrously, fabulous!
Both authentic
!
”

Kevin agreed—enthusiastically. “And of course, you can guess my next question.”

“I can. ‘When may I tell the Holy Father?’”

“You’ve got it.”

“Well, if you tell him now, he
might
not take too kindly to what we’ve—I’m sorry—what
I’ve
done.”

“I doubt that. He’ll be overjoyed that both Second Acts and St. Paul are authentic.”

“Maybe, but that cardinal with the five names will be furious.”

“True. Done without his sacred permission.”

“So why don’t we do this? Let’s have St. Paul’s remains ‘discovered’ several weeks after we announce the codex to the world. Benedict could persuade Cardinal Many Names to have archaeologists examine the interior of the sarcophagus. We know what they’ll find, and it will be a delightful corroboration to silence all the naysayers—”

“Of which there’ll be a whole chorus, I’m sure.” Sullivan nodded, then added, “Yeah, I think that would be the best way to handle it. And I trust you’ll keep me abreast of how the scholarship is moving on Mark and Second Acts.”