“Well, if we can’t call him, there is only one thing left to do,” Zane said.
Stegmann gave him a questioning look.
“We’ll have to pay him a visit.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Zane opened his eyes to the dimly lit interior of a Gulfstream G550. Sitting up straight, he looked to his right. The seats around him were empty. The others must have retired to the rear of the plane. He opened the window shade a crack. The Mediterranean Sea spread out below, its placid waters broken only by a few whitecaps snaking across its surface.
He checked his watch. He’d been asleep longer than he’d expected. They were due to arrive at Ben Gurion within the hour. Even so, he didn’t regret his siesta. His body needed the rest after staying awake for most of the night. After meeting with Stegmann and Father Fiori, he’d called Carmen to brief her on all that had taken place then spent the next several hours searching the Internet for information on the elusive Roger Lawson. Not surprisingly, the Australian had done a good job of keeping a light online footprint. His name occasionally surfaced on archaeological news sites — mostly whispers about some strange artifact being found — but there was precious little information on the man himself, save for his charitable work with several global hunger organizations.
Shortly after four a.m., Zane had finally retired to the guest room in a small building near the Swiss Guard barracks, a place typically reserved for visiting dignitaries and politicians. Zane had planned on checking into a local hotel, but the Swiss commander wouldn’t hear of it. They had already made arrangements for him to stay at the Vatican and made it clear they weren’t going to take no for an answer. It was the commander’s way of expressing gratitude for the warning, even though it had come too late.
In the meantime, the Oracle had arranged for the team to take a CIA-owned plane to Tel Aviv. The craft was dispatched from Ankara, Turkey, so they weren’t able to board until after lunch.
Zane heard soft conversation behind him. He stood and walked to the open area at the rear of the plane. The plush-but-simple furnishings consisted of a table and brown leather sectional on either side. Sitting around the table on the left were Keiko and Delphi field operative, Connor Reid, who was cleaning a .40 caliber Smith & Wesson. Reid was a short, well-built former US Navy SEAL with close-cropped blond hair. Often underestimated due to his size, he was one of the most pugnacious men Zane had ever worked with.
Carmen, Amanda, and Emily sat around the table on the right. Carmen sipped a cappuccino as she studied something on her tablet, while Amanda and Emily spoke in low tones. Emily still looked groggy, although she always seemed to perk up whenever Zane was around. This time was no exception.
Carmen looked up from her tablet. “Well, if it isn’t Rip Van Watson.”
“Yeah well, some of us actually worked last night.”
Before she could respond, Miranda, the craft’s sole flight attendant, came from the rear of the plane. She and the two pilots comprised the three-person crew. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Coffee,” Zane replied. “Cream and no sugar, please.”
“Certainly.” Miranda walked away.
Zane looked around. Someone was missing. “Were is Bull?”
As if on cue, there was a loud snap, and a small lavatory door popped open behind the tables. A tall, well-muscled man with shaggy brown hair slid out of the cramped space. “Right here,” he said in his Southern twang, “so don’t get your panties all in a wad.”
James “Bull” Pratt, a Georgia-born former US Army Ranger, was the latest addition to the Delphi team. Although he was large in stature — six foot four and two hundred twenty-five pounds — his nickname came from his penchant for charging fearlessly into dangerous situations. His aggression was often helpful, but there were also times when it had to be reined in.
“Just wanted to make sure you weren’t up front trying to fly the plane,” Zane said. “I know how you get after too much caffeine.”
“You mean it gets worse?” Carmen winked at Pratt.
“Just be thankful he’s only had three cups this morning,” Reid warned. “You don’t want to see him when he hits double digits.”
“Keep talking… Keep talking.” Pratt sank into a seat across from Reid. “We’ll see how alert all you peeps are gonna be later tonight. If any of you softies need bailing out, don’t come calling me!”
Reid nodded at the pistol parts spread out in front of him. “The only two people I’m going to call are Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson.”
Emily caught Zane’s attention and patted the cushion next to her. “Come sit down.”
After he took a seat, Miranda appeared and set a cup of coffee in front of him. After making sure everyone else was good, she disappeared into the back.
Carmen wore a serious expression. “Any progress on identifying the thief? I’m guessing the Vatican has security cameras every ten feet.”
Zane took a sip of coffee. “Nothing yet. They did get a few good shots of his face but haven’t been able to match it up with any of their facial recognition software.”
“Something tells me their database is pretty sparse. Have they disseminated the image?”
“I’m not so sure you’re right about their database,” Zane replied. “The threats to the Holy See are global now, so I’m guessing their database is as good as any. Anyway, in answer to your question, Commander Stegmann told me he was going to run it through Interpol. I also encouraged him to send a copy to Brett so we could start searching as well.”
“What about the boat?” Amanda asked.
“Stegmann gave me an update this morning. The authorities found it abandoned at a dock adjacent to an industrial park southwest of Rome.”
“They’re long gone,” Emily said.
“Which brings us to Roger Lawson.” Zane looked at Amanda. “Didn’t you say you were familiar with him?”
Amanda nodded. “I’ve never met him, but I do know a little about him.”
“What can you tell us?”
“Unfortunately, not much beyond what you already know.” She crossed one leg over the other. “To be honest, he’s not well thought of in our profession.”
Zane frowned. “The assistant curator told me Lawson was brilliant, despite what others thought of him.”
“Not only that, he’s also very altruistic.” She paused for a moment of reflection. “It’s his collection some scoff at. He trades in a lot of questionable objects.”
“Such as?” Zane asked.
“Have you heard of the ossuary of Pontius Pilate?”
“I remember my father talking about that,” Emily said. “Didn’t they find it on Cyprus?”
Amanda nodded. “Those conducting the dig knew it was important because of its location, but they didn’t realize how important until someone translated the name engraved on one end.”
“Pilate?” Zane asked.
“I believe it read, Pontius Pilate of Samnium,” Amanda said. “Some believe he was born in the Samnium region of Italy.”
“Was he supposed to have died on Cyprus?” Zane asked.
“It depends on who you ask,” Amanda said. “There is no hard evidence to indicate where Pilate spent his last years. Most believe he was executed by Caligula. But other legends arose, including several suggesting Caligula may have sent the dishonored prefect into exile. One of those legends named Cyprus as the place of his death, which is why some believed the ossuary was real.”
Carmen’s brow furrowed. “Didn’t the Romans practice cremation?”
“They did practice cremation, and that was one huge red flag that was ignored. While no bones were found, they did find two large nails inside. It’s not hard to guess what some began to claim about those nails.”