ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chris Kuzneski attended the University of Pittsburgh, where he played football, wrote for three newspapers, and passed most of his classes. He earned a master’s degree in teaching, then taught English for five years before pursuing a career in writing. His first novel, The Plantation, introduced the characters of Payne and Jones, and received rave reviews. To learn more, please visit his website www.chriskuzneski.com

PENGUIN BOOKS

Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, Block D, Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue, Parktown North, Gauteng 2193, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

www.penguin.com

First published in the United States of America by The Berkley Publishing Group 2006
First published in Great Britain in Penguin Books 2007

Copyright © Chris Kuzneski, 2006

The moral right of the author has been asserted

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

All rights reserved

ISBN: 978-0-141-90377-4

THE BEGINNING

Let the conversation begin…

Follow the Penguin Twitter.com@penguinukbooks

Keep up-to-date with all our stories YouTube.com/penguinbooks

Pin ‘Penguin Books’ to your Pinterest

Like ‘Penguin Books’ on Facebook.com/penguinbooks

Find out more about the author and
discover more stories like this at Penguin.co.uk

Chris Kuzneski

SIGN OF THE CROSS

PENGUIN BOOKS

Sign of the Cross

‘One of those rare finds: a chilling tale told by a true craftsman. Whether for the superb writing or the non-stop, what-was-that-noise-in-the-other-room suspense, this one will keep you up at night. Daring in both plot and style, Sign of the Cross is a winner!’ Robert Liparulo, author of Comes a Horseman

‘Chris Kuzneski is a remarkable new writer, who completely understands what makes for a good story: action, sex, suspense, humor and great characters. I can’t wait for the next Jonathon Payne novel!’ Nelson DeMille, #1 New York Times Bestselling author

‘Harrowing, but always suspenseful, Sign of the Cross makes you wish it would never end. Chris Kuzneski writes as forcefully as his tough characters act’ Clive Cussler, #1 New York Times Bestselling author

‘Chris Kuzneski writes with an energy that is contagious! Action, suspense, mystery, and a biting thread of humor … what more can you ask of a novel?’ James Rollins, USA Today Bestselling author

‘One of those perfect bookstore finds. I was hooked at the first sentence – literally – and from then on, it was one continuous wild ride. Chris Kuzneski flawlessly and seamlessly combines truth and fiction to create a wonderfully entertaining story. He’s the real deal’ John Gilstrap, author of At All Costs and Six Minutes to Freedom

‘An immensely inventive and rewarding thriller packed with enough fascinating information and international intrigue to keep the reader’s brain cells spinning long after the last page is read’ Lewis Perdue, author of Daughter of God

‘Sign of the Cross starts with a bang and twists masterfully through a maze of truth, lies, betrayal, and hope. An intriguing blend of fact, fiction and theory propel this unique story to a tense and exciting conclusion’ Allison Brennan, author of The Kill

Knowledge is the enemy of faith.

—translated from a stone marker
discovered in Orvieto, Italy
(circa 37 AD)

1

Monday, July 10

Helsingør, Denmark

(thirty miles north of Copenhagen)

Erik Jansen was about to die. He just didn’t know how. Or why.

After saying a short prayer, he lifted his head and tried to regain his bearings but couldn’t see a thing. Salt water burned his eyes and blurred his vision. He tried to wipe his face, but his hands were bound behind him, wrapped in thick layers of rope and attached to the frame of the boat. His legs were secured as well, tied even tighter than his arms, which meant there was no hope for escape. He was at their mercy. Whoever they were.

They had grabbed him as he left his apartment and forced him into the back of a van. Very quiet, very professional. No time for him to make a scene. Within seconds they had knocked him out with a narcotic. He awakened hours later, no longer in the bustling city but on the open sea. Day was now night. His freedom was now gone. His life was nearly over.

Jansen was tempted to scream but knew that would only make things worse. These weren’t the type of men who made mistakes. He could tell. If help was nearby, they would’ve gagged him. Or cut out his tongue. Or both. No way they would’ve risked getting caught. He had known them for less than a day but knew that much. These men were professionals, hired to kill him for some ungodly reason. Now it was just a matter of time.

When their boat reached the shore, Jansen felt the rocks as they scraped against the bottom of the hull. The sound filled the air like a primeval wail, yet none of them seemed to care. It was the middle of the night, and the coast was deserted. No one would come running. No one would come to save him. It was in God’s hands now, as it always was.

Suddenly, one of the men leapt over the side and splashed into the icy water. He grabbed the boat with both hands and eased it onto the narrow beach, just below a footpath. The other three followed his lead, and soon the boat was hidden in the trees that lined this section of the island.

They had traveled over a thousand miles but were just getting started.

Without saying a word, they loosened the ropes and lifted Jansen from the boat, placing him on their broad shoulders for the journey inland. Jansen sensed this might be his last chance to escape, so he flailed back and forth like an angry fish trying to break free of their grasp, yet all he did was upset them. In response they slammed his face into the jagged rocks, breaking his nose, shattering his teeth, and knocking him unconscious. Then they picked him up and carried him to the place where he would die.

One of the men cut off Jansen’s clothes while the others built the cross. It was seven feet wide and ten feet high and made out of African oak. The wood was precut so the planks slid into place with little effort. When they were finished, it looked like a giant T spread across the freshly cut grass. They knew most people would be confused by the shape but not the experts. They would know it was authentic. Just like it was supposed to be. Just like it had been.

In silence they dragged Jansen to the cross and positioned his arms on the patibulum – the horizontal beam – and put his legs on the stipes. Once they were satisfied, the largest of the men took a mallet and drove a wrought-iron spike through Jansen’s right wrist. Blood squirted like a cherry geyser, spraying the worker’s face, but he refused to stop until the nail hit the ground. He repeated the process on Jansen’s left wrist, then moved to his legs.

Since Jansen was unconscious, they were able to place his feet in the proper position: left foot on top of the right, toes pointed downward, which would please their bosses no end. One spike through the arch in both feet, straight through the metatarsals.

Perfect. Simply perfect. Just like it needed to be.

Once Jansen was in place, out came the spear. A long wooden spear. Topped with an iron tip that had been forged to specifications. The largest of the men grabbed it and without blinking an eye rammed it into Jansen’s side. No empathy. No regret. He actually laughed as he cracked Jansen’s ribs and punctured his lung. The other men followed his lead, laughing at the dying man as blood gushed from his side. Laughing like the Romans had so many years before.

The leader checked his watch and smiled. They were still on schedule. Within minutes, they would be back on the boat. Within hours, they would be in a different country.

All that remained was the sign. A hand-painted sign. It would be nailed to the top of the cross, high above the victim’s head. It was their way of claiming responsibility, their way of announcing their intent. It said one thing, one simple phrase. Six words that were known throughout the world. Six words that would doom Christianity and rewrite the word of God.

IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER.

2

El Presidio de Pamplona

(Pamplona Penitentiary)

Pamplona, Spain

The frigid water slammed the prisoner against the stone wall and held him there like it was made of Velcro. That is until the prison guard turned off the fire hose and watched him fall to the floor.

‘¡Hola, Señor Payne! ¡Buenos días!’

‘Buenos días, my ass.’ He had been locked in a cell since Friday, and this was the third morning in a row that they’d used the hose to wake him up.

‘What is wrong?’ the guard asked with a thick accent. ‘Not happy to see me, eh?’

Jonathon Payne climbed off the floor and stretched his six foot four frame. He was in good shape for his mid-thirties, yet all the training in the world couldn’t stop the years from adding up. Throw in some old gunshot wounds and a few football injuries, and getting out of bed was his least favorite part of the day. ‘Oh, it’s not you. I love seeing your two teeth every morning. The thing I can do without is your wake-up call. I go to sleep in Spain and wake up in Niagara Falls.’

The guard shook his head. He was slight of build and ten inches shorter than Payne, but the thick iron bars gave the guard courage. ‘Just like a spoiled American. I go out of my way to shower you in bed and you do nothing but complain. Tomorrow I might skip the hose and wake you with my bullwhip.’

‘Damn, Ricardo. You’re one kinky cop.’

‘What you mean kinky?’

Payne ignored the question and walked to the front of the cell. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but your boss promised me a phone call today. That means the embassy will be here long before you show me your bullwhip and matching leather thong.’

‘Yes, I sure they will drop everything to save you and your friend.’ The guard laughed as he walked down the corridor. Pointing to another inmate, he said, ‘Hey, hombre! You an americano, no?’

‘Me?’ the prisoner asked with a twang. ‘Yes, sirree. I’m from Bullcock, Texas.’

‘And why are you in jail?’

The man blushed slightly. ‘I was caught whizzin’ on one of your streets.’

‘That is right! The Pisser of Pamplona! How I forget about you?’ Laughing harder, the guard pointed toward the man’s crotch. ‘And how long have you and your little señor been in here?’

‘About two weeks.’

‘For pissing in public?’ Payne growled. ‘And the embassy hasn’t helped you yet?’

‘I’m still waiting for ’em to show. They’re down in Madrid, and we’re way up here in Pamplona. I reckon they don’t come this way too often.’

‘Son of a bitch,’ Payne mumbled. He had assumed that he and his best friend, David Jones, would be given their release once the weekend was over. Or, at the very least, someone would explain why they’d been arrested. But his confidence was slowly waning. If the Texan was correct, Payne realized he might have to do something drastic to get out, because there was no way in hell he’d rot in a cell for much longer. Especially since he didn’t do anything wrong.

Three days in jail and still no charges. Three goddamned days.

It had started last week. They were in Pamplona for the Fiesta de San Fermin, better known as the Running of the Bulls. They’d been in town for a couple of days, drinking and sightseeing, when they were ambushed at their hotel. Completely overwhelmed by a surprise attack.

Payne was getting cleaned up for dinner when someone kicked in his door. The local cops. A lot of them. They were there en masse to arrest his ass. They kept mumbling in broken English about something he’d done long ago. Way before his recent trip. None of it made any sense until he glanced down the hall and saw Jones in handcuffs, too. That’s when he realized this must have something to do with their former careers. Their military careers. And if that was the case, then they were screwed. This would become an international incident.

The duo used to run the MANIACs, an elite counterinsurgency team comprised of the best soldiers that the Marines, Army, Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard could find. Whether it was personnel recovery, unconventional warfare, counterguerilla sabotage, or foreign defense, they’d seen more shit than a proctologist. And caused their share of it, too. Clandestine operations all over the globe. Missions that no one else could handle. Or be entrusted with. When they got an assignment, it came straight from the top brass. Right from the Pentagon. And the reason was simple: the less people who knew about the MANIACs, the better. They were the government’s secret weapon. The boogeymen the U.S. wouldn’t admit to. Couldn’t admit to.

And that’s what had Payne worried. If he’d been arrested for something he’d done with the MANIACs, would the Pentagon come to his aid? Could they afford the negative publicity?

So far it had been three days and still no word.

Three days and counting …

3

Orvieto, Italy

(sixty-two miles northwest of Rome)

Dr Charles Boyd dropped his hammer and searched for his canteen. He was in decent shape for a fifty-eight-year-old, but the heat from the floodlights was brutal. Sweat poured off his scalp like rain.

‘Good heavens!’ he complained.

Maria Pelati smiled but kept working. She was half her professor’s age and possessed twice the energy. And while he suffered in the traditional garb of an archaeologist – khaki pants, cotton shirt, hiking shoes – she wore a T-shirt and shorts.

They’d spent the past few days together burrowing into the 900-foot plateau that lifted Orvieto high above the vineyards of the Paglia Valley, a location so impenetrable that it was used as a safe haven by the popes of the Middle Ages. Papal documents prove that the Italian popes transformed Orvieto into the vacation Vatican, their home away from home during the most tumultuous era in the history of the Roman Catholic Church. Sadly, papal scribes were banned from describing any specifics for fear that their descriptions could be used by their enemies to plan an attack. Still, that didn’t stop rumors from spreading.

According to legend there was supposed to be a city built underneath the city – the Catacombs of Orvieto – which was used to store the Church’s most important documents and protect its most precious artifacts. Most experts dismissed the Catacombs as a fairy tale, the creation of a drunk monk from the fourteenth century. But not Dr Boyd. Not only did he believe in their existence, he used all of his free time to search for them.

‘Professore? When I was little, my father used to speak of the Catacombs, though he never talked about them in real terms. He always considered them to be like Atlantis.’ Pelati took a deep breath and brushed the hair out of her eyes, something she did when she was nervous. ‘Well, sir, I was wondering, why are you sure that the Catacombs exist?’

He held her gaze for several seconds, then eased the tension with a half smile. ‘Trust me, my dear, you aren’t the first person to question me. I mean, who in their right mind would waste their time searching for the Catacombs? I might as well be fishing for the Loch Ness Monster.’

She laughed. ‘Just so you know, it’s probably cooler near Loch Ness.’

‘And just so you know, I’m not the least bit crazy.’

‘I never said that you were.’

‘But you’ve considered it. You’d be crazy if you didn’t.’

She brushed the hair out of her eyes again. ‘There’s a very fine line between genius and insanity, and I’ve never seen you cross that line … Of course, you are rather elusive. You still haven’t told me about the Catacombs yet.’

‘Ah, yes, the Catacombs. Tell me, my dear, what do you know about the Roman Empire?’

‘The Roman Empire?’ she asked, puzzled. ‘I know quite a bit, I guess.’

Without saying another word, he handed her a series of documents from his fanny pack, then took a seat in the shadows of the rear wall, waiting for the reaction that he knew would come. ‘Santa Maria!’ she shrieked. ‘This is Roman!’

‘Hence my question about the Empire. I thought I made that rather clear?’

Pelati shook her head, then returned her attention to the documents. At first glance they seemed to illustrate an elaborate system of tunnels that were hidden underneath the streets of Orvieto, yet it wasn’t the maps or the illustrations that perplexed her but rather the language itself. The document was handwritten in a form of Latin that she was unable to translate.

‘Is this authentic?’ she demanded.

‘That depends on your perspective. You’re holding a photocopy of a scroll that I found in England. The photocopy is obviously fake. The original is quite real.’

‘In England? You found the scroll in England?’

‘Why is that so surprising? Julius Caesar spent some time there. So did Emperor Claudius.’

‘But what does that have to do with the Catacombs? I mean, the popes came to Orvieto a thousand years after the fall of Rome. How could this be related?’

Pelati knew that Pope Gregory XI died of natural causes in 1378, leaving a vacancy that was filled by Pope Urban VI. Many cardinals claimed that he was improperly selected, and they demanded a second election. When the next outcome differed, the Catholic Church severed, splitting into two factions, with each supporting a different pope. Italy, Germany, and most of northern Europe recognized Urban VI, while France and Spain supported Clement VII.

This rivalry, known as the Great Schism of the West, divided Catholicism for almost forty years and in the process put the papal courts in danger – not only from outsiders but from each other. For that reason, the Italian popes spent much of their time in Orvieto, which was virtually impervious to attack because of its location on the plateau. And it was there, in the depths of the tufa stone, that the legendary Catacombs were supposedly built.

Boyd smiled at the confused look on his pupil’s face. Refusing to make it easy on her, he said, ‘Tell me, my dear, have you ever been to the Roman ruins in Bath?’

She growled in frustration. ‘No, sir. Why do you ask?’

‘Ah,’ he sighed, remembering the quaint town on the River Avon. ‘There you are in the middle of the English countryside, yet you’re surrounded by relics from ancient Rome. It seems so surreal. Do you know what the most amazing thing is? The baths still work. The warm springs still bubble up from the ground, and the architecture still stands proud. Ancient pillars rising to the heavens from the magical waters below. It is somewhat amazing, if you think about it.’

Confused by his tale, Pelati grimaced. ‘Not to be rude, but what are you implying?’

‘Think about it, my dear. The popes of the 1300s used the Catacombs for protection. However, that doesn’t mean that they built them. The ancient Romans were well ahead of their time. Correct? I figure if they were able to build bathhouses that still work two thousand years later, then they certainly could’ve built some tunnels that were still standing seven hundred years ago.’

‘Wait! So that’s why there were no records of their construction. They were already in place when the pope came to town?’

He nodded, pointing to the documents in her hand. ‘When I found the original scroll, I assumed it was a hoax. I mean, how could it possibly be real? Then I had it tested, and the results were conclusive. The scroll predated the Schism by more than a thousand years, proving once and for all that the Catacombs actually existed. Furthermore, they weren’t built for the popes of the Middle Ages. They were built by the ancient Romans.’

‘A date,’ she demanded. ‘Do you have an exact date for the scroll?’

‘As you know, carbon dating isn’t that specific. The best I could come up with was an era.’ Boyd took a sip of water, trying to prolong the suspense. ‘According to my tests, the Catacombs of Orvieto were built during the life of Christ.’

4

Nearly 300,000 tourists flock to Kronborg Castle every year, but none of them had ever seen this before. And those that saw it wished they hadn’t.

By the time Erik Jansen was discovered, his torso was grayish white, and his legs were light purple, caused by postmortem lividity. Birds dined on his flesh like a country buffet.

A group of students spotted Jansen across the courtyard and assumed that he was a historical exhibit. So they walked closer, marveling at all the wonderful little details that made him seem lifelike: the color of his flesh, the horror on his face, the texture of his sandy-brown hair as it blew in the wind.

They crowded around him, begging to have their picture taken with the display. That is until one of them felt a drop. A single drop. That was all it took. One drop of blood and chaos erupted. Kids were wailing. Parents were screaming. Teachers scurried for help.

The local police were called to the scene but were in over their heads. They were used to car accidents and petty crimes, not murders. Certainly nothing of this magnitude. Yet that was to be expected in a quiet place like Helsingør. It sat on the northwestern coast of Sjaelland Island across the øresund from Hälsingborg, Sweden, away from the city life of Copenhagen. The last time anyone was brutally killed here was back in 1944, and that had been done by the Nazis.

Still, they shouldn’t have made the mistakes that they made. Some of them were inexcusable.

The first squad arrived by boat, landing on the same shore as the killers. Since the castle’s beach was private, the cops should’ve cordoned off the area, protecting all the information that was scattered in front of them. Clues about the murder. The number of assailants. Their approximate sizes. Their time of departure. All of it was there in the sand, just waiting to be found. But not for very long, because the commanding officer failed to think ahead, opting to sprint across the beach like a soldier at Normandy, soon followed by the rest of his men.

In a flash, the evidence was buried.

Of course, their next error was far worse. The type of screwup that occurs when people are crying, sirens are blaring, and there’s no time to think. When the cops reached the body, they heard the story about the dripping blood and assumed that Jansen was still alive. His temperature should’ve told them otherwise. Same with the color of his skin. But as it was, they ripped the cross out of the ground, hoping to bring him back to life with CPR, yet all they managed to do was destroy evidence. Crucial evidence. The kind of evidence that could’ve stopped the killers before they could strike again.

Ironically, their effort to save a life guaranteed that others would be killed.

Nick Dial was an American, and that made him very unpopular in certain parts of the globe. So did his career. He ran the newly formed Homicide Division at Interpol (International Criminal Police Organization), the largest international crime-fighting organization in the world, which meant he dealt with death all over the globe.

Simply put, he coordinated the flow of information between police departments anytime a murder investigation crossed national boundaries. All told he was in charge of 179 different countries – filled with billions of people and dozens of languages – yet had a budget that was dwarfed by an American school district.

One of the biggest misconceptions about Interpol is their role in stopping crime. They rarely send agents to investigate a case. Instead they have local offices called National Central Bureaus in all the member countries, and the NCBs monitor their territory and report pertinent information to Interpol’s headquarters in Lyon, France. From there the facts are entered into a central database that can be accessed via the Interpol’s computer network. Fingerprints, DNA, terrorist updates, the works. All of it available twenty-four hours a day.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t always enough. Sometimes the head of a division (Drugs, Counterfeiting, Terrorism, etc.) was forced to hop on a plane and take control of a case. Possibly to cut through red tape. Or to handle a border dispute. Or to deal with the media. All the things that Nick Dial hated to do. He figured in his line of work the only thing that really mattered was justice. Correcting a wrong in the fairest way possible. That was his motto, the creed that he lived by. He figured if he did that, then all the other bullshit would take care of itself.

Dial arrived in Helsingør in the late afternoon. He didn’t know much about the case – other than someone had been crucified and the president of Interpol wanted him there – but that was the way he preferred it. He liked forming conclusions based on personal observations, instead of relying on secondhand information.

Most investigators would’ve rushed to examine the body, but that wasn’t the way Dial worked. He preferred to understand his surroundings before he dealt with the crime, especially when he was in an unfamiliar country. If the murder had been committed in France, he would’ve gone right to the corpse because he had lived there for the past ten years and knew how French people thought.

But here, he was a little unsure of the landscape. He needed to understand Denmark – and Danes in general – before he could understand the crime. So instead of studying the victim, Dial headed down a long corridor and searched for someone to talk to. Not to interrogate, but someone to chat with. Someone to give him the lay of the land. It took three attempts until he found someone who spoke English.

‘Excuse me,’ he said as he flashed his Interpol badge. ‘May I ask you a few questions?’

The man nodded, half intimidated by Dial’s credentials and half by his stare. Dial was in his early forties and had a face that looked like it was chiseled out of granite. Clean lines, thick cheekbones, green eyes. Short black hair with just a hint of gray. Not overly handsome, yet manly as hell. Black stubble covered his features even though it wasn’t enough to conceal his chin. His massive, movie-star chin. It sat at the bottom of his face like a tribute to Kirk Douglas.

‘So, what’s a guy have to do to get a cup of coffee around here?’

The man smiled and led Dial into a tiny office. Work schedules and pictures of Kronborg decorated the walls. A metal desk sat in the corner. Dial took a seat just inside the door and was handed a mug of coffee. ‘So, I take it you work here?’

‘For over forty years. I’m the senior tour guide.’

Dial grinned. He had hit the jackpot. ‘You know, I’ve traveled all over the world to every continent on the globe, but I’ve never seen a country like this. Denmark is simply gorgeous.’

The man beamed with pride. ‘It’s the best-kept secret in Europe.’

‘Well, if I promise to keep my mouth shut, will you tell me about it?’

Their conversation went on for ten minutes, filled with the facts and figures about the area. Dial spoke every once in a while, gently steering the conversation in the direction he wanted, but for the most part kept quiet. ‘Out of curiosity,’ he asked, ‘what type of tourists do you get?’

‘Mostly people between the ages of forty and sixty, equal mix of men and women. Though we tend to get a lot of students during the school year.’

‘What about nationalities? Are most of your tourists from Denmark?’

He shook his head. ‘Just the opposite. Most of them are from the surrounding countries. Sweden, Germany, Austria, Norway. We get a lot of Brits because of Shakespeare.’

‘Shakespeare? What does he have to do with anything?’

‘You mean you don’t know?’

Dial shook his head, even though he was very aware of the Shakespearean connection. Of course he wasn’t about to tell the tour guide that. Better to play dumb and get the story from him.

‘Shakespeare’s Hamlet takes place in the castle at Elsinore.’

‘Elsinore? Is that somewhere around here?’

‘You’re in Elsinore! Elsinore is Helsingør. Hamlet took place here! Sometimes we even give performances in the courtyard. You should stop by and see one.’

Dial grimaced. ‘Nah. I’m not much of a theater fan. More of a sports guy myself … But for the sake of my investigation, let me ask you something. Does anyone die in Hamlet?’

‘Good heavens, yes! The whole play is about murder and revenge.’

‘That’s kind of interesting, considering recent events. I wonder if there’s a connection?’

The man looked around, paranoid, then lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Of course there’s a connection. There has to be. Why would someone dump a body here if there wasn’t?’

Dial stood from his chair, finally ready to examine the crime scene. ‘That’s what I need to figure out.’

5

Maria figured it was an illusion caused by poor lighting. All of that changed when she put her hand on the stone. Its texture was too perfect to be natural. ‘Professore? Do you have a minute?’

Boyd crossed the grotto, stepping over the tangle of power cords and dusty tools that were scattered about the floor. Maria was staring at the wall, so he turned in that direction. In an instant he knew what it was, and the realization made his knees buckle.

Over a span of three feet, the cave went from rough to smooth to rough again, like someone had taken a giant piece of sandpaper and rubbed it against the wall. He reached out, half afraid, worried that the floodlights were playing tricks on his weary eyes. The sleek surface proved that they weren’t. ‘Quick! Hand me my gun.’

The gun was Boyd’s nickname for his handheld blower, a small archaeological device that he used during excavations. Approximately the size of a cell phone, the gun contained a small cartridge of oxygen that blew dirt out of the tiny crevices and did less damage than a sharp tool. Boyd cleaned the surface of the wall using a paintbrush in one hand and his gun in the other. Rubble fell to his feet like heavy rain, causing tiny wisps of dust to float into the air. A few minutes later the outline of a three-foot square began to take shape in the middle of the cave.

‘Yes, I do believe you have found something.’

Maria squealed with delight. ‘I knew it! I knew that rock looked different!’

After clearing three sides of the seam – upper, left, and right – Boyd was able to measure the stone slab: thirty-seven and a half inches square by five and a half inches deep. Maria dragged one of the lights closer and tried to peer through the corners, but the cave wall had a back lip that prevented it.

‘Professore, what do you think it is? It’s too small to be a door, isn’t it?’

Boyd finished writing in his binder. ‘Drainage, perhaps? Maybe an aqueduct? Once we see what’s on the other side, I’m sure we’ll have a better idea.’

Boyd handed her a crowbar. ‘And since you found the stone, I think you should have the privilege of removing it.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered as she slipped the bar in the seam. ‘This means a lot to me, sir. I actually feel like we’re a team.’

‘Now don’t be surprised if you need my help. Stones like this can be rather stubborn. I recall one time in Scotland when –’

A loud thud echoed through the chamber as the massive rock crashed to the floor. The two archaeologists glanced at each other in disbelief, then lowered their gaze to the giant slab that sat at their feet. ‘Good Lord!’ Boyd said. ‘Have you been taking steroids?’

Confused, he dropped to his knees and examined the stone that had practically jumped from the wall. He tried to push the block on its side but was unable to budge it. ‘Then how in God’s good name did you manage that? This thing weighs a ton. And that’s not a hyperbole, my dear. This thing literally weighs a ton!’

‘I don’t know. I barely put any pressure on it. I just put the crowbar in and … pop!’

Boyd realized engineers in ancient Rome were advanced for their time. However, he couldn’t figure out why they would build a wall where one of the stones could be knocked out of place with such minimal effort. Perhaps, he thought, it was an escape tunnel.

‘Excuse me, Professore?’

He blinked, then turned his attention to his assistant. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I was lost in thought. Did you need something?’

Maria nodded. ‘I wanted to know if we could go inside now.’

Boyd’s face turned a bright shade of red. ‘Good Lord! How silly of me. Here I am, pondering the significance of this bloody stone when we’re on the verge of …’ He took a deep breath. ‘Yes, by all means, let’s venture inside.’

The passageway was narrow, giving them just enough room to enter. Boyd went first, then waited for Maria to pass him his equipment. When her arm finally appeared, he snatched the flashlight and struggled to find the power button. The powerful beam overwhelmed the blackness, shattering the sanctity of the holy grounds for the first time in years, exposing the high-arched ceiling and the colorful murals that adorned the smooth walls.

‘My Lord,’ he gasped in amazement. ‘My sweet Lord!’

Seconds later, Maria squeezed through the hole while carrying a video camera. She had no idea what Boyd was gaping at but was determined to capture it on tape. At least that was the plan. But, the moment she stepped inside the chamber she was so overwhelmed by the artwork that she dropped the camera to her side. ‘Santa Maria!’

Stunned, she spun in a small circle, trying to soak in everything at once. The vaulted roof was typical of the ancient Roman era, allowing the majority of the ceiling’s weight to be supported by the chamber’s four walls. Despite this classical approach, the chamber still utilized a series of four Tuscan columns, one placed in each corner for architectural decoration.

In between each pillar, starting just below the arched ceiling, was a series of four religious frescoes, each depicting a different scene from the Bible. The showcased piece of the group appeared to be the life of an unknown saint, for it was twice as large as the others and was centered on the right wall directly behind a stone altar.

‘What is this place?’ she whispered.

Boyd continued to gaze around the room, amazed that he’d found the mythical vaults. ‘The basic design looks similar to many buildings built during the peak of the Roman Empire, but the paintings on the walls are much more recent – perhaps fifteenth or sixteenth century.’

He paused, staring at the frescoes. ‘Maria, do they look familiar to you?’

She strolled forward, studying the colorful scenes as she moved about the chamber. She had no idea what he was referring to, but that didn’t stop her. She carefully eyed the paintings, trying to find the common thread that would unite them. ‘Oh my Lord! I have seen these before! These murals are in the Sistine Chapel.’

‘Exactly!’ Boyd applauded. ‘Adam and Eve, the flood, Noah’s ark. The three main subjects of Michelangelo’s ceiling. In fact, these frescoes look remarkably similar to his.’

Maria glanced from picture to picture. ‘They do possess his flair, don’t they?’

‘I almost hate to say this without any tangible proof, yet … I wonder if Michelangelo actually did these himself.’

Her eyes doubled in size. ‘You’re joking, right? You actually think he painted these?’

Boyd nodded. ‘Think about it, Maria. This place served as a second Vatican for decades. When the Great Schism occurred, the Italian popes came to Orvieto for protection. At the time the Church was in such disarray the papal council actually considered moving the Vatican here permanently. They felt this was the only place that could offer them adequate protection.’

Maria grinned. ‘And if the Vatican was going to be moved, the popes would want the right decorations for the new home of the Catholic Church.’

‘Exactly! And if the pope wanted Michelangelo to do the decorating, then Michelangelo did the decorating.’ Boyd chuckled as he remembered a story about the famous artist. ‘Did you know that Michelangelo didn’t want anything to do with the Sistine Chapel? Rumor has it that Julius II, the pope at the time, bullied him into doing the project. Once beating him with a cane, and once threatening to kill Michelangelo by tossing him off the scaffolding … Not exactly the type of behavior you’d expect from a pope, is it?’

She shook her head. ‘Do you think he forced Michelangelo to do these, too?’

Boyd considered her question. ‘If my memory is correct, the last pope to stay here was Pope Clement VII during Spain’s attack on Rome in 1527. I believe Michelangelo did the Sistine Chapel about twenty years before then, meaning he would’ve had plenty of time to duplicate his scenes on these walls before his death.’

‘Or,’ Maria deadpanned, ‘someone could have done these first, and Michelangelo might have copied them back at the Vatican.’

A flash of excitement crossed Boyd’s face. ‘My dear, you have a bloody good point there! If these were done before the others, then the Sistine Chapel would be nothing more than an imitation. Goodness me! Can you imagine the flak we’d get if we proved that Michelangelo was a forger? We’d never hear the end of it!’

Maria laughed, knowing her dad would have a stroke if she were involved in something like that. ‘That does have controversy written all over it. Doesn’t it?’

Although the concept was controversial, it paled in comparison to things that they were about to discover deeper inside the Catacombs.

While Maria filmed the artwork, Dr Boyd crept down the three stone steps on the left side of the chamber. At the bottom he turned to his right and peered into darkness.

Amazingly, he saw a series of open tombs so great in number that they faded into the depths of the corridor beyond the reach of his light. The ceiling soared above him to a height of over fifty feet and was lined on both sides by an intricate system of niches, built to hold the skeletal remains of the dead. These loculi were cut into the tufaceous walls in straight rows, each rectangle measuring six feet across – just big enough for a body.

‘This is stunning,’ he gasped. ‘Simply stunning!’

Maria hustled after him and focused the camera on one of the unmarked graves. She hoped to get a better view of the long passageway, but it was far too narrow for her to slip past Boyd – no more than three feet from wall to wall.

‘Tell me, Maria, what do you see?’

She smiled. ‘I see dead people.’

But Boyd missed her reference to The Sixth Sense. ‘So do I. Don’t you think that’s strange?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why can we see the bodies? Per custom, most loculi were sealed with tiles and mortar after the dead were placed inside. Others were covered with a marble slab. But I’ve never seen this before. Why would they leave the bodies exposed?’

She frowned, thinking of the Catacombs of Saint Callixtus in Rome. They were built by Christians in the middle of the second century and encompassed an area of ninety acres, with four levels and more than twelve miles of galleries.

When she was ten, she toured the ruins on a school trip, an experience that she loved so much that she rushed home and told her parents that she wanted to be an archaeologist. Her mom smiled and told her she could be whatever she wanted as long as she worked hard. But it was an answer that didn’t set well with dad. When he finished laughing, he stared Maria in the eyes and told her, in all seriousness, to give up her dreams and concentrate on finding a husband.

It was a moment that she’d never forget. Or forgive.

‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ she said, ‘but aren’t the Christian tombs at Saint Callixtus open-air as well? I remember seeing a lot of holes in the walls.’

‘You saw holes, but no bodies. It was the custom of early Christians to wrap their dead in a shroud before they sealed it inside the loculi. The holes that you’re referring to were cracked open by looters and scholars. But that’s not the case down here. If you look –’

Boyd stopped in midsentence, his attention suddenly focused on the passageway ahead. Something was wrong. The corridor stretched into the darkness, snaking through the stone like a black viper. He tried to see the end of the hall but couldn’t. Shadows danced around him, cast by human hands that dangled from their graves like they were reaching for his light. As though his presence had somehow stirred them from their centuries of slumber. In a moment of panic, he stepped backward into one of their outstretched hands and felt icy-cold fingers against the back of his leg. Terror sprang from his lips, soon followed by a shriek from Maria.

‘What happened!’ she demanded. ‘What’s wrong? Did you see something?’

Boyd took a deep breath and laughed, completely embarrassed. ‘I am so sorry … I just scared myself silly.’ His face turned a shade of red. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. Truly I didn’t. I’m just jumpy. That’s all … I just bumped into a hand, and it startled me.’

‘A hand? You bumped into a hand? Good lord, professore! You almost gave me a stroke.’

‘Trust me, I know the feeling. I almost had one myself.’

Maria put her hand on her chest and closed her eyes. Her heart felt like a jackhammer pounding against her rib cage. She took a deep breath, trying to cope with the rush of adrenaline. ‘You’re sure you’re all right?’

He nodded sheepishly. ‘Yes, my dear, I swear.’

‘Then let’s get moving. I need to burn off all this energy.’

They traveled together for several seconds, passing grave after unmarked grave, never stopping to examine the bodies. They were still too jumpy to do that. Thirty yards later, the corridor split in two. The path on the left led to a stairwell that slowly curled into the darkness below. The hallway on the right continued forward past hundreds of more bodies.

Boyd turned to Maria. ‘Lady’s choice.’

‘Let’s go downstairs. I hear there’s a wonderful gift shop in the basement.’

He nodded, then started down the steps. They were no more than six inches deep – perfect for the feet of yesteryear but small for the modern-day traveler – which forced Boyd to lower himself sideways. To steady his descent, he used the jutting stones in the walls as a handrail.

At the halfway point, he stopped and turned toward the camera. ‘I believe we’re under the upper hallway now, more than twenty feet down. What an incredible achievement, carving this much rock yet keeping it hidden from the outside world. Simply remarkable!’

She asked, ‘Do you think the Empire built these stairs, or was it done in the Middle Ages?’

He paused, soaking in everything – the vaulted ceilings, the high arches, the colors, the smells, the sounds – before he answered. ‘My guess would be the Empire. The shallowness of the steps is the first clue, followed by the basic design. It’s very typical of the ancients.’

Smiling, Boyd continued forward at a methodical pace. Normally he would’ve zipped down the stairs at top speed, but the heat of the outer chamber had sapped his strength. Combine that with a lack of food and sleep, and he was lucky to be standing.

‘Professore? What do you think is down here?’

He was about to answer when the hallway came into view, stretching out before him like an arroyo. No crypts, no graves, no doors. Just an empty corridor for as far as his eye could see.

‘Strange,’ he mumbled. ‘I feel like we’re in a different world down here.’

Maria nodded. ‘It looks like it was decorated by the Amish.’

Boyd ignored her comment and crept down the hall searching for clues. Fifty feet later, he spotted a stone plaque on the left-hand wall. Its color was the same shade of brown as the rest of the passageway, yet its surface was remarkably different. Without saying a word, Boyd ran to it, immediately placing his hands on its cold surface. Then, like a blind man reading, he slid his fingers across it, probing the shallow grooves with slow, tender strokes.

Maria stood back, confused by his strange behavior. She wanted to ask him what the hell was going on, why he was acting more bizarre than he normally did, but all it took was a single glance and she knew the answer. One look at his face and everything made sense.

Her mentor, the one man she actually trusted and believed in, was hiding something.

6

Walking to the shore near the rear of the castle grounds, Nick Dial realized the Danish police would never solve the case. Unless, of course, there was a witness that he didn’t know about or a security camera that had inadvertently taped the crime. Otherwise the cops’ methods were too sloppy to nail anyone. No pun intended. Not only had they moved the body, but they had done very little to protect the integrity of the crime scene.

In a perfect world, they would’ve sealed off the entire area, building temporary barriers that would’ve kept people out and cut down on the gusts of wind that blew in from the sound. Instead, officers strolled across the beach like they were on vacation, kicking up sand and blatantly ignoring the rules of evidence.

‘Excuse me, are you Mr Dial?’

Dial turned to his right and stared at a well-dressed woman who was heading his way. She pulled out her badge and held it up for him to scrutinize.

‘Yeah, I’m Dial,’ he finally said.

‘I’m Annette Nielson from the NCB in Copenhagen. I was the agent who phoned in the initial report this morning.’

Dial shook her hand and smiled, half surprised that the local field office had sent a woman to handle such a high-profile case. Not that he had anything against female investigators, because he didn’t, but he knew most executives at Interpol were far less open-minded than he. ‘Nice to meet you, Annette. Please call me Nick.’

She nodded and pulled out her notepad. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been trying to get the local chief to talk to me. He keeps making excuses, though.’

Typical, Dial thought to himself. ‘What can you tell me about the victim?’

‘Caucasian male, mid-thirties, no tattoos or piercings. Death occurred sometime this morning, probably around dawn. Puncture wounds in his hands, feet, and rib cage. Severe damage to his face and mouth. Leads us to believe that he was beaten into submission.’

‘Do we have a name?’

She shrugged. ‘The locals took his prints, but I don’t know if they have the results yet.’

‘Point of access?’

‘Best guess is the beach. The front of the castle is well-lit and guarded. So is the interior. Unfortunately, by the time I got here, the locals had covered any footprints with their own.’

‘Number of assailants?’

‘Multiple. The cross is too heavy for just one.’

‘Anything else?’

‘They left a note.’

‘They left a what? Show it to me.’