Payne wasn’t in the mood for games so he pushed the Beretta even deeper into his throat.
‘Fine,’ he grunted. ‘Seattle, Washington.’
‘Where’d you go to school?’
‘The U.S. Naval Academy. Then Oxford.’
Payne eased up slightly, just in case he was a fellow midshipman. ‘Bad answer, Doc. It just so happens I know a thing or two about the Academy.’
‘Great! Ask me anything! Just do it quick, or we’re going to die.’
Payne paused for a second, trying to think of a good one. ‘Name a road on the Academy grounds.’
‘What? There are quite a few -’
‘Name one, or I shoot.’
‘Fine, er, King George Street.’ Which, no matter how inappropriate it seemed, was actually the main road at the Academy. ‘I can continue if you’d like. Wood Street, Dock Street, Blake Road, Decatur Road, College Ave -’
Payne nodded, half surprised by his response. ‘Where were classes held during the war?’
‘Which war?’
‘You tell me.’
‘I imagine you’re referring to the Civil War, since that’s the only time sessions were held elsewhere. And the answer is Newport, Rhode Island – moved there for safety reasons.’
‘Not bad,’ Payne admitted. ‘But this last one is the clincher. Any red-blooded Academy man would know the answer to this in a heartbeat. Are you ready? Because this is going to determine if you live or die. Got it? When you were in school, what was the name of the women’s dorm?’
Boyd smiled, quickly realizing it was a trick question. ‘Alas, there wasn’t one. Much to my disappointment, females weren’t admitted until after I’d departed. Around 1976, I believe.’
Begrudgingly, Payne lowered his gun. He still wasn’t certain about Boyd, but his gut told him that he was telling the truth. ‘So, you went to the Academy?’
Boyd nodded. ‘I take it you’re an Academy man, too?’
‘Yes, sir. Jonathon Payne, at your service.’
‘Well, Mr Payne, if you’re interested in survival, I recommend we get moving. Otherwise, we will be killed before we leave this alley.’
42
It happened years ago, right after finding the scrolls in the secret vaults. Documents that the Vatican didn’t even know it had. Following their intricate instructions, Benito Pelati journeyed to Orvieto and took pictures of the ground using geological prototypes that he had borrowed from Germany. High-tech stuff that no one else had access to. Equipment that allowed him to chart every inch of the town from the topsoil to more than a hundred feet below. Studies no one had conducted before and hadn’t been allowed to run since.
Needless to say, there was a very good reason.
More than fifty tunnels were detected near the surface, all of them starting in private property and branching through the tufa like a tangle of arteries. Most of them stopped abruptly – either because the locals hit a section of stone they couldn’t penetrate or they ran out of patience and quit looking – while others interconnected with their neighbors’ tunnels. The deepest anyone got was twenty-three feet underground. Impressive, considering their rudimentary digging techniques, yet not deep enough to reach what they were hoping to find: the Catacombs of Orvieto.
Benito knew the Catacombs existed. Or had at one time. The scrolls he found were proof of that. So were all the other documents he’d read in the Secret Archives. But prior to his geological testing, he had no idea if the Catacombs would still be there. Or what condition they might be in. One record at the Vatican mentioned a massive cave-in shortly after the Great Schism. If so, it could have wiped out everything he was hoping to find. All the proof he needed.
But thankfully, that wasn’t the case. One look at the geological report confirmed it. The Catacombs were still there and in great shape. Furthermore, they were more substantial than the Vatican had ever realized. Papal records from the time of the Schism indicated one floor of chambers and tunnels. Nothing else. But Pelati saw more than that on this report. He saw multiple levels. And stairs. And areas so far under the soil that he doubted the Vatican had ever reached them. He wouldn’t know for sure until he explored the tunnels himself, but from the look of their design, Pelati sensed the ancient Romans had built a lower tomb, then immediately sealed it off from the upper chambers. Why the Romans did this, he wasn’t sure. But if his family’s secret was to be believed, that was probably where he’d find the evidence he was looking for.
Of course, he had other things to worry about before he could investigate.
His first order of business was to stop all digging in Orvieto. Another cave-in was the last thing he wanted, so he went to the local police chief and told him that Orvieto was in danger of collapsing. To bolster his case, he showed the chief the seismic studies that he’d conducted – conveniently omitting the information about the Catacombs – then walked from house to house pointing out all the tunnels that had been constructed.
Locals still refer to it as the Shovel Act of 1982, because digging became a criminal offense.
Next Benito bought the land above the twenty-three-foot tunnel, claiming the government needed to stabilize the property, or Orvieto might implode. The owner was so embarrassed by his handiwork and mortified by what could’ve happened that he sold everything to Benito to ensure the safety of his hometown. Except Benito had no intention of filling the hole. Instead, he planned to lengthen it to the depth of thirty-six feet, for that was where the Catacombs began.
All told the process took several weeks. Benito eschewed attention, so he used unobtrusive equipment and a skeleton crew made up of miners from eastern Europe who couldn’t speak or read Italian. He knew if he used local workers they’d be familiar with the legend of the Catacombs and would figure out what Benito was doing. But the foreigners were clueless. He could keep them quiet without doing any of the digging himself. That is until his miners reached a depth of thirty-five feet. One foot short of history. From there he couldn’t risk their further involvement. So he thanked them for their effort with a big celebration. He put a bullet in each of their brains, then buried them with their own shovels. Just like the great explorers of yesteryear. Men who cared more about fame and fortune than the hired hands who helped them achieve it.
Ruthless. That’s what he slowly became when he found the scrolls at the Vatican. Until that point he was a passionate academician, nothing more, someone who wasn’t afraid to take chances and fight for what he believed in. But when he found the scrolls, his persona started to change. He slowly became wicked. Malicious. Immoral. All of it fueled by what the scrolls stood for: power and unimaginable wealth.
From that point on, Benito didn’t care about his workers. Or the town of Orvieto. Or the sanctity of the Catholic Church. All he cared about was himself and his family’s secret.
It had been dormant for several centuries. He planned to release it like a plague.
Benito had set things in motion once before, a few years ago. He had determined the best way to use the Catacombs and had scheduled a meeting with the Vatican to discuss his discovery.
But a potential windfall appeared. One that forced him to shift his timeline.
A translator working for Benito found a reference in an ancient manuscript that described the home of a Roman hero who lived in the foothills of Vindobona, Illyria. Inside a tomb of marble, he had placed a relic and a first-person account of the crucifixion. It threatened to contain everything that the world and the Church should know about the events in Jerusalem.
Details from before, during, and after the death of Christ.
Benito’s oldest son, Roberto, felt they should meet with the Vatican as planned. He reasoned their organization was ready to strike, and it would hurt their cause if there was a delay. But Benito disagreed. He canceled their meeting, reassuring his son that this discovery would actually increase their bargaining power with the Catholics. Roberto eventually relented.
From that point on, finding the Roman vault became the number-one priority in Benito’s life.
Everything else would be put on hold until the tomb was discovered in the hills of Illyria.
Recently, his goal had been accomplished.
43
Same agenda, different crew. That’s what Dial decided as he studied the haphazard way the blood had been splashed across the Green Monster, the way the message was scrawled as an afterthought instead of a fancy signature claiming responsibility. No way these were the same men who’d killed the priest in Denmark. The original sign had been painted with the skill and precision of a calligrapher, while the latest sign looked more like a kid’s finger painting. Like it was done by someone who didn’t understand what they were being asked to do but did it anyway. Someone who was going through the motions.
Alas, that made the middle case an enigma. The sign in Libya was painted with painstaking precision, yet blood was spread all over the Roman Arch in a spontaneous display of rage.
Dial wondered, why be precise and sloppy at the same crime scene? Could it have been done by a third crew? Or a mixture of the other two? Furthermore, did it even matter? Maybe he should be concentrating more on the message instead of the killers themselves. It was an interesting notion that he wanted to pursue. That is until he was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. He turned and saw an Asian man standing behind him, just looking at him as though he wasn’t sure what to do next. Dial said, ‘Can I help you?’
Mark Chang nodded and fumbled for his ID. He was a first-year agent at the NCB office in Boston, which meant he was Dial’s main contact while he was in town. The man in charge of the man in charge. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t meet you earlier. I would’ve, had I known.’
Dial looked at the kid and figured he was no more than twenty-two. His hair was a mess, and so were his clothes. They looked like he had found them at the bottom of his hamper. ‘Known what?’
‘Known you were in town. No one told me, I swear. I rushed down here as soon as I heard.’