Authors: Michael Byrnes
“I’m on it,” she called back.
Once the interns funneled in with the gear, Amit had them set up battery-operated pole lights around the chamber’s center. He momentarily mused on their lit faces, their untamed excitement. It brought back pleasant memories of his first student excavation at Masada.
Working a pry bar into the seam, Amit instructed Eli to mirror the action on the slab’s opposite side. He could see that the gangly kid was a bundle of nerves. “On three,” he said. Eli nodded. “One . . . two . . .”
The first attempt was sloppy but managed to unseat the slab. The second pinched Amit’s fingers when he prematurely slipped them beneath the stone—hard enough to take some skin and elicit what he considered a rather girlish yelp. A third tandem try levered the stone up enough for Ariel to wedge a pry bar into the opening, enabling Amit to fully grip the thing and drag it off to the side.
Catching his breath, Amit knelt along the edge, where carved steps dropped down into the hollow they’d uncovered. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Ariel immediately handed over his flashlight. Then the video camera was back in her hand and she started humming the theme to the Indiana Jones movies. “Da da da-dah, da da dah . . .”
The other students laughed, and Amit allowed himself a chuckle too as he clicked on the light and aimed it down the steps. He counted twelve treads cascading to a stone floor. “All right. Let me get a look down there, see what we’ve got.” These were the moments that defined the quest, he thought. He stood, dropped his left foot onto the first carved tread, and began his steady descent.
It was another tight fit for the Israeli as he folded and tucked himself against the hewn walls, the light playing shadow dances along the chisel-scarred rock.
When Roman legions had swarmed over Qumran, they’d torched the village and slaughtered its inhabitants. Though there’d been little warning, the Essenes had managed to stash their most vital scrolls in these desert hills—a time capsule to preserve their heritage. But none of Qumran’s caves contained excavated rooms like this one. And why so purposely sealed away?
What could the Essenes have been doing here?
he wondered.
Adrenaline pumped through him as he negotiated the last three steps and touched down onto the floor. He deliberately closed his eyes for a three-count as he brought the light to waist level. Then he opened them.
What he saw made him gasp.
Belfast, Ireland
It had been nearly three months since Father Patrick Donovan had taken a sabbatical from the Vatican and returned to his childhood neighborhood in Belfast. Yet not a day passed that he didn’t think about the events leading up to his hasty departure.
And it was no wonder why.
Back in June he’d presented to the Vatican secretary of state, Cardinal Antonio Santelli, an authentic first-century codex containing eyewitness testament to Christ’s ministry, crucifixion, and secret burial beneath Jerusalem’s Temple Mount. To preempt the discovery of Christ’s mortal remains by Israeli engineers who were set to study the Mount’s structural integrity, the cardinal had employed a master thief named Salvatore Conte to forcefully extract the relic. Conte and his mercenary team had succeeded, but only after engaging in a sloppy firefight that left thirteen Israeli soldiers and police dead.
Conte had safely brought the procurement to Vatican City, where Donovan had arranged for its confidential authentication by two prominent scientists: Italian forensic anthropologist Dr. Giovanni Bersei and American geneticist Dr. Charlotte Hennesey.
The scientists’ findings had been astounding.
Upon the project’s completion, Cardinal Santelli ordered Conte to eliminate any trace of the relics,
and
those who’d studied it. Conte cleverly murdered Dr. Bersei in a Roman catacomb, but Dr. Hennesey managed to flee Vatican City before he could get to her. When Donovan had accompanied the killer to the Italian countryside on a mission to destroy the ossuary, the bones, and relics, Conte had made it known that Charlotte was to be marked for death in the United States. After a nasty struggle with fists and guns, however, Donovan had managed to put an end to Conte first.
Yes, with all that had happened, he was glad to be home.
There was a certain comfort here: a familiar damp chill to the air, the quilted gray clouds that washed away the lush peaks of Cavehill, the steely swells of the river Lagan.
But his homecoming had been bittersweet.
Following the Irish Republican Army’s voluntary disarmament in 2005, Donovan had been told, the last of his old schoolmates had uprooted their families to seek better opportunities in cities like Dublin, London, and New York. He’d also learned that in 2001, his best friend, Sean, had been imprisoned in Lisburn’s HMP Maghaberry for stabbing to death a prominent Protestant businessman during the Troubles—a fate Donovan himself had barely escaped when he was just a young man.
Donovan had moved in with his ailing eighty-one-year-old father, James, in the rebuilt two-bedroom redbrick row house off Crumlin Road standing on the footprint of his childhood home, which had been burned to the ground by rioting Unionists in 1969.
Most days were spent watching over the old man’s quaint luncheonette on Donegall Street, aptly named Donovan’s. As a young boy, Donovan had spent many hours in the store making change at the register, refreshing coffee, buttering rolls, sorting the newspapers, and restocking the refrigerated cases. So the routine brought a sense of comfort and familiarity.
However, it’d also been here where a smooth-talking patron named Michael had exploited fifteen-year-old Patrick Donovan’s naïveté and recruited him as an errand boy for the IR A. Prior to Donovan’s entering the seminary at eighteen, Da had considered renaming the establishment Donovan and Son. But like Abraham himself, Da couldn’t have been more pleased to lose his son to serve the Lord, especially after learning how Michael had so dangerously manipulated his only child.
It had taken a solid month for Donovan to get back up to speed: to learn how to run credit cards through the machine, work the new coffeemakers, and deal with the latest generation of vendors. The first two weeks, Da sat behind the counter coaching him, wearing a continuous smile beneath the rubber tubes running down from his nostrils to a portable oxygen tank. Then Da’s condition abruptly worsened to the point that he was home-bound. So Donovan would tend the store during the day and spend quiet nights sipping whiskey and playing cards with him, making some small talk about politics and the day’s happenings at the store.
Never had the events that transpired in Vatican City been discussed. Donovan simply explained that he needed some time to sort things out.
In mid-August, the old man lost his decade-long battle with emphysema. The service at Holy Cross Church had drawn a few neighbors, some old acquaintances, and dozens of store patrons. On that day, Donovan buried his father at Milltown Cemetery in a reserved plot alongside his loving wife, Claire, who had passed on ten years earlier.
So it seemed that here Donovan’s recent past had been buried as well.
Until today.
The store was empty when the two men arrived just before noon, each claiming a stool at the end of the counter, close to the door.
Donovan folded the
Eire Post
and made his way over to greet them. He could tell immediately they weren’t locals. Tourists, most likely. One was of medium height and build, the second tall and broad.
“Dia duit,”
he said in Gaelic, followed up quickly with, “Top o’ the morn’.” Though twelve years with the Vatican had suppressed his brogue, Belfast had slackened his tongue. “Coffee, lads?”
“That would be wonderful,” the smaller one said.
“Coming right up.” Donovan grabbed two mugs and set them on the counter. As he retrieved the coffeepot from the burner, the pair removed their rain-dampened overcoats in tandem. Turning back to them, he immediately noticed that each wore a black shirt with a white square covering the collar button. Priests.
As he filled the mugs, Donovan tried to place the smaller man’s plain face, but conjured no recollection. The accent, too, certainly wasn’t local.
“Cream, sugar?”
“No, thank you, Patrick.”
The taller priest simply shook his head.
“Sláinte,”
Donovan said with a friendly nod and another glance at the man’s priest collar. “Forgive me, but”—he backed up a few steps to return the pot to the burner—“have we met?”
“No,” the smaller one said. He sipped the coffee, steam wafting over his dark eyes. “But we come on behalf of the Holy See.” Orlando made his introductions, referring to his colleague as “Father Piotr Kwiatkowski.”
“I see,” Donovan said.
“It wasn’t easy finding you,” he said, embellishing the truth. Passport tracking had indicated Donovan’s entry into Northern Ireland on July seventh. And though he hadn’t used credit cards, a recent obituary for his father, as well as the deceased’s estate transference records—including a deed for a family home in Ardoyne and ownership of this establishment— had been easily found in their search of public records.
Donovan gave him a stiff stare.
“Seems you left in quite a hurry after Cardinal Santelli’s, shall we say, sudden demise.”
“The reasons for my departure are no one’s business,” Donovan dourly replied, snatching up a rag and buffing the counter. “Best for you to state
your
business, Father.”
“We’ll waste no time then.” Clawing his mug with sinewy fingers, the man slurped another mouthful of coffee before going on. “We’ve been informed about your involvement with Dr. Giovanni Bersei . . . and the ossuary he’d been studying in the Vatican Museums.” He paused to gauge the Irishman’s reaction. But the man didn’t react or even look over. “I’m sure you take great comfort in knowing that the carabinieri have closed their investigation into Dr. Bersei’s
accidental
death.” Father Martin certainly had.
Uneasy, Donovan glanced over as the man reached into his pocket and produced a photo.
“I’m certain you will recognize this man, though he’s a bit pale in this photograph,” he said, flattening Salvatore Conte’s morgue shot onto the counter. As Donovan cautiously stepped closer and looked down at it, Orlando could see a reaction—a subtle twist in the jaw, apprehension pulling at the eyelids. Orlando unabashedly laid out the connections for Donovan—the ossuary, Bersei’s death in the catacombs, Santelli’s timely passing, Conte’s murder. “All of this within days of a theft that took place in Jerusalem.”
“I’m afraid the only man who has the answers you are looking for,” Donovan replied, “is Cardinal Santelli. And as you’ve stated, he’s taken those answers to his grave.” Moving back to the coffeemaker, he moved the rag fast along the stainless steel, polishing it to a soft glow.
“His Eminence appreciates your dedication, Patrick. Our intention is not to levy accusations.”
“Then what might your intention be?” Donovan said with a note of challenge.
Orlando’s face tightened. “First, we need to determine why the ossuary had been brought inside Vatican City. There’s also a matter of locating relics that supposedly had been contained inside the box.”
“And Cardinal Lungero requests this information?”
Without diverting his firm gaze, Orlando faltered for a split second. “That’s correct.”
Donovan calmly set down the rag. Lungero was the name of someone in Vatican City, but certainly no cardinal. If these men weren’t envoys from the Vatican, then who could have sent them? Perhaps they’d aided Conte in Jerusalem and failed to receive their cut prior to his demise? “What relics might he be questioning?” his asked, his brogue thickening.
“You know better than most that an ossuary is a bone box. As such, it stands to reason that there had been bones inside it. Other relics too.”
Would mercenaries be at all interested in the bones?
Donovan wondered. “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to assist you. But there is something . . .”
“Yes?”
He shook his head dismissively. “I was asked to sign confidentiality agreements prior to my leaving the Vatican. I’m not supposed to—”
“Those agreements are meant for those outside the Holy See.”
Strike two.
Donovan had signed no such agreements prior to his departure. The fact remained that the Holy See still wasn’t aware of what had truly transpired and thought it best not to pursue such inquiries. There wouldn’t be a strike three.
At that moment, the front door opened and a man wearing mud-stained yellow coveralls came strolling in. “Patrick-me-boy!” he said cheerily.
Donovan straightened and conjured a smile. “
Conas tá tú,
Kevin?”
“Eh,” the man responded with a tired shrug. He eyed the priests as he lumbered past. “Mornin’, fathers.” His grin revealed a mouthful of tobacco-stained, crooked teeth.
“Good morning,” the short one tersely replied. He watched as the man trudged to the farthest stool at the end of the counter.
“A moment, please,” Donovan said apologetically, then went to tend to the patron.
Orlando monitored the ensuing exchange. The man in coveralls was animatedly talking with his hands, most likely about his mundane morning digging a trench somewhere. Then he finally placed an order with Donovan. All somewhat garbled, but spoken very loudly. The conversation, however, was happening in Gaelic.
“What’s he saying?” Kwiatkowski asked inconspicuously.
“No idea.” He cursed under his breath. Had Donovan sought refuge in any other country in the EU or anywhere in the Middle East, he could have easily deciphered the local dialect, even read their lips if the volume was insufficient.
Then Donovan slipped through a doorway, as if to get something for the patron.
Kwiatkowski immediately reacted, making to get up from his stool.
Orlando grabbed his arm. “Give it a moment.”
Moments went by. No Donovan.
“My heavens! What did you order, my son?” Orlando called with playful sarcasm to the laborer.
“Coffee, just like you, Father.” The scraggly man gave another toothy grin. “If it’s good for your soul, it can only help the fire in
me.
”