Carver swore. It was just as he had feared. The speed of Zhu’s work, even more than his innovations, was what had made him famous in the first place. And yet it was still astonishing. A world-class paleo-DNA lab had been created for a project that had lasted less than two weeks. And that was assuming that it was equipped with a staff that had set to work immediately after the ossuary had been stolen.
“I’ll check the lab,” Seven said.
“What are you waiting for?” Lang said, gesturing toward one of his men. “Go with her.”
Wolf watched them go. “They will find nothing,” he said. “But the empty feeling you have inside will no doubt pass, Heinz. Soon Mr. Zhu’s role in the great story of our time will be evident for all people to see. And if you are still alive, then you too will join him in worshipping the return of our savior.”
Lang held the cross he wore around his neck up to his lips and kissed it, as if protecting himself against Wolf’s blasphemy. “If a prophet or a dreamer of dreams arises among you, and if he says, ‘Let us go after other gods,’ which you have not known, ‘and let us serve them,’ you shall not listen to the words of that prophet or that dreamer of dreams.”
Wolf grinned. “Oh, I do love Deuteronomy. I really do. But I am not a false prophet, Heinz. And these bones before you are not those of a false idol. They are nothing less than evidence that Christ walked on this earth, and through the miracle of the knowledge God has endowed upon us, he shall walk again.”
“May I kill him now?” one of Lang’s soldiers called out. He appeared to be every bit as subservient to his master as Magi, the Alsatian, was to Wolf. “Please let me kill him.”
Wolf spoke over the man’s pleas. “This ossuary was, I am told, quite unusual from an anthropological perspective. In a typical Jewish or Greek ossuary, the bones would reside alone. In this case it appears that the disciples added personal effects to the box before it was brought to Rome. We found a stone vessel containing a lock of hair. In another vessel, a piece of sponge that could have been used by Joseph of Arimethea to wash the body. And there was a rusted nail, Heinz. From the true cross, no doubt.”
“A clever rouse intended to deceive Pontius Pilate,” Lang said.
Seven rejoined the group. “The lab is empty.”
Lang’s goon came up behind her now. He was breathing heavily, as if he were a child having a tantrum. “Can I rope him?” he pleaded.
“No,” Lang said. He kissed his cross again. “We will not punish him. That will be left to God. But scripture does tell us that he must die. That prophet or that dreamer of dreams shall be put to death, because he has taught rebellion against the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt and redeemed you out of the house of slavery, to make you leave the way in which the Lord your God commanded you to walk. So you shall purge the evil from your midst.”
Wolf rose from his throne, appearing to gaze over them. His face was content, as if he had finally arrived at his destination after a long journey. He held his arms out slightly to his sides. It was an invitation. He was ready to be martyred.
Lang reached under his cloak and produced the dagger. He ran his fingers down the shining blade. “I took this from you when you had your episode in Venice.”
“Episode? That strikes me as quite clinical. Is that what you’ve called it all these years?”
“You don’t actually believe you were blessed with the stigmata?” Lang said. “The gunshot you sustained in Paris had gradually become infected. You were ill with fever. Your visions were nothing more than a hallucination.”
He drew closer to Wolf, offering him the dagger. Magi whined, alternating nervously between his master and Lang.
“I will save you the indignity of the rope,” Lang said, drawing closer to the throne. “Take your own life now so that you can meet your maker and learn the error of your ways.”
Wolf shook his head. “I left Catholicism long ago. But I must admit, I am still superstitious about suicide.”
“Please. I will even hear your confession as you bleed to death. Perhaps then God would have mercy on your soul.”
“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,” Wolf spat, his face suddenly full of hatred. “Now make me the martyr that I am destined to become!”
Lang lunged forward with the dagger. His aim was true, lodging the tip of the blade within Wolf’s side. Magi jumped, clamping his jaws around the old Jesuit’s wrist, shaking his head back and forth to tear the flesh.
One of the soldiers squeezed off three rounds, neutralizing the animal. The smell of gunpowder awakened Carver’s senses. As Lang squirmed under the dead canine, and Wolf collapsed across the ancient throne, he knew the time to bring Preston’s killers to justice was now. There would not be a better opportunity.
The four able-bodied survivors of the villa assault stood in a quadrangle of death, with the ossuary at the center. Both of Lang’s henchmen stood on the other side of the marble platform. As Carver swung his rifle toward them, both soldiers were already in motion. Seven, too, had been at the ready, preparing to fire from the hip.
It was impossible to tell who fired next. The fusillade of automatic gunfire seemed to come all at once. The throne room was suddenly alive with chalk dust and smoke and blood spray.
Carver found himself lying in the dirt, winded. He had been hit. A coating of white chalk fell over him like snow. He felt his chest, where the pain was the worst. It was dry. The vest had held.
Somewhere to his right, he heard the unmistakable sound of a fresh magazine shoved into a weapon. He saw the silhouette of an armed man in the dissipating haze, moving toward him.
Carver rolled right and emptied the rest of his clip into the haze. He immediately rolled left in case there was return fire, but none came. All was quiet. All was still. He waited until the air cleared enough so that he could make out a boot, then a leg, and then another set of boots. Preston’s killers were, at last, dead.
He got to his feet. Seven was slumped along the western wall of the throne room. The fabric of her hoodie was shredded in front, and the nanofibers of her protection vest were splayed, but not broken. Unconscious, but breathing. At best, she was going to have a few broken ribs. At worst, she could be bleeding internally. He had to get her to a doctor.
He stepped over her and pulled the dead dog off Lang. The Vatican Intelligence chief coughed and groaned. Still alive, but rapidly losing blood from deep bites in his wrist and throat. Carver tore a piece of fabric from his vestments and tied it around the man’s wrist as a tourniquet. Before he could even tend to the man’s throat, he saw the old man’s chest grow still. There was no use trying to resuscitate him. Chest compressions would only expedite the flow of blood from his body. Heinz Lang’s long journey was finally over.
He got to his feet and regarded the throne. Wolf was sprawled backwards across the imperfect stone furnishing, his arms splayed out to his sides. The tip of the dagger was still lodged within the ribs on his left torso. He had also been shot in the neck and chest. His white hair was tainted with crimson blood spatter and his eyes looked heavenward.
Carver gazed into the dead man’s eyes, longing for the secrets they still held.
Safehouse
McLean, Virginia
Speers let himself into the unremarkable three-bedroom brick home near ODNI headquarters. The place smelled like bacon and eggs and coffee. The smell turned Speers’ stomach. He had stayed at the office all night with Chad Fordham and Arunus Roth, monitoring the situation in Rome. To stay awake, the two of them had eaten an entire bag of leftover Halloween candy.