CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy (22 page)

IT WAS MIDNIGHT AS the black limousine sped west along Interstate
10 away from New Orleans International, its interior shielded from
view by dark tinted windows. Charles Sinclair sank into the plush
leather, relieved to be home from Rome. He felt exhilarated, having
done his job convincingly.

"You look content, Charles," the old man said. "I take it things
went well"

Sinclair had slipped into the limo so quickly he hadn't noticed the
old man sitting in the darkness opposite him. His eyes slowly
adjusted.

"Things went very well," Sinclair said. "The cardinal's intense faith
made him the ideal choice. That along with his ego."

He and the old man had not spoken since the christening in St.
Louis Cathedral. Sinclair was still amazed at how, without hesitation,
he had placed his entire future in the old man's hands.

It had started when Sinclair was struggling to find elusive answers
to persistent roadblocks in his research. The old man came to him
and presented solutions that quickly proved correct, ultimately lead ing to international recognition and notoriety. Funding, grants, and
lavish fees for lecture tours made Sinclair one of the wealthiest scientists in the world. Universities fought to have his name associated
with their institutions. Corporations pressed him to join their boards,
openly admitting that they sought the prestige of his fame. He
quickly took on the mantel of celebrity-his counsel sought from
every corner of the globe.

"Have you shared your progress with your fellow Guardians?" the
old man asked.

"They are pleased. We're close to reaching our goals-nothing
stands in our way."

"Except the woman."

"You mean the reporter? But I assumed once the Cup passed out
of her possession, she was no longer a threat."

"Do you think it a coincidence that Archer gave her the relic and
now she stirs the winds around Wingate?"

Heat surged through Sinclair's body-the old man's words cut
like a stiletto.

"She was chosen. Everything is by design, Charles."

"What are you talking about? She's just a news reporter-a rookie
at that. She stumbled across a story, reported it, gained some notoriety, and moved on. Besides, every reporter is nosing around Wingate."
Sinclair's palms turned clammy-his underarms dampened. "What
do you mean by she was chosen?"

"How can I say this so you will understand? It is a complicated
matter, on a magnitude that is difficult for you to comprehend." He
was quiet a few moments, looking out at the passing city as if searching for the right words. "Some years ago, a former associate betrayed
me-contracted with my adversary. He was weak, unable to cope with
... life. So pathetic, he died by his own hand. As part of that contract
he proffered his seed, his daughter. She is the reporter."

Sinclair's gut twisted. Adversary? Contract? Proffered his seed? The
air turned to syrup making him work at breathing. They'd never discussed who the old man was-intentional on Sinclair's part. If he
didn't ask, he wouldn't have to know. And if he didn't know, he could
sleep at night. But with these latest revelations, there would be no
more claiming ignorance-no more pretending the old man was just
a brilliant consultant. Sinclair was about to cross a line. He had tasted
the rewards that the old man delivered-the fame, wealth, powerknowing they couldn't compare to what was coming in the New
World he was helping create. Now he must make a choice. He remembered the question the Time science correspondent had asked-do
you always win?

There could be no turning back.

"Then Stone is guided by the hand of God?" Sinclair asked.

"Yes," the old man said. "Our only advantage is that she has not
yet discovered her true nature. The last time we spoke, I offered to
have an old friend help with this matter. I have been in touch with
him several times since then. He said he contacted you, but you
declined his offer to assist."

"I told him we did not need his help at the moment."

"But you do, Charles. And he is the one who can give it to you. He
can get you information vital to keeping this matter from getting out
of control."

Sinclair needed straightforward information, not more of the old
man's riddles. "But Stone seems so weak, confused. Vulnerable."

"Do not underestimate her. Those things which you might see as
weaknesses in her are strengths. You must distract her, slow her down
until the project is complete."

Until a few moments ago, Cotten Stone was a non-issue-nothing more to worry about. Now Sinclair faced a whole new set of challenges. But before he could address them, he had to ask a question that had constantly eaten at him from the beginning-the question
of the Cup itself.

"There is still no scientific confirmation that the relic is genuine
or that the residue inside is actually blood;" Sinclair said. "The Vatican
refused to test it. So far, it's just conjecture on your part."

"You still have reservations? Such little faith. Have I ever misled
you? Told you anything that proved untrue?"

"But we are basing everything on your word alone. Are you positive that the relic is authentic?"

"Charles, I know it is hard for you to grasp the scope of what you
are dealing with. Trust me, the Cup is authentic, and what is inside is
the blood of Jesus Christ."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I was there when they nailed Him to the cross." The old
man smiled at Sinclair. "I am the one who sealed the Cup."

THE CARDINAL'S FOOTSTEPS BARELY made a sound along the dark
corridor below the Tower of the Winds. On each side, hidden in
shadow, were bookshelves that if set end-to-end would reach over
seven miles. Like a twilight apparition, the red-cloaked figure gripping the handle of a silver travel case entered the Hall of the Parchments. Around him were gathered thousands of historic documents
that he knew, sadly, were turning purple from a violet-colored fungus
that conservators had been unable to control.

At 2:00 AM, the passageways through the Secret Archives were
deserted-to save energy, a minimum of lamps barely lit the way.
From one small island of light to another, he felt the illusion of being
in an underground world.

The cardinal passed the shelves that housed the transcripts of the
conclaves for papal elections dating from the fifteenth century. Anticipation quivered in his stomach. Would his name be among them
someday?

He'd been caught off guard by both Sinclair's visit and by the
pope's death. For days he had had difficulty sleeping, and he lacked an appetite-much unlike him. He'd prayed for guidance. At last, in a
dream, he believed God had come to him, shown him a vision of
himself standing on the papal balcony wearing the triple tiara of the
papacy, holding the hand of a small boy, and the people below falling
on their knees in praise. Tonight he took the first steps on the Lord's
chosen path. Tears streamed down his cheeks, overwhelmed that God
had chosen him above all others.

Near the end of the corridor, a large carved walnut door stood
closed. As Vatican Curator, Cardinal Ianucci was the only person
other than the prefect to possess its key. He inserted it into the lock.
With a faint click, the bolt gave way, and the door opened.

Ianucci entered the oldest part of the Secret Archives where the
most ancient and precious items were kept. Huge cabinets bearing
the coat of arms of Paul V, the Borghese pope who set up the Archives
in the seventeenth century, lined the vault. Priceless collections of
handwritten letters and documents dating back to the eleven hundreds were stored there, including letters of the Kahn of Mongolia;
notes to the pope from Michelangelo; Henry VIII's petition seeking
the annulment of his marriage to Catherine of Aragon; the last letter
of Mary Stuart written a few days before she fell under the axe of
Elizabeth; a letter from a Ming empress written in 1655 on silk asking
that more Jesuit missionaries be sent to China; and the original
dogma of the Immaculate Conception bound in pale blue velvet, its
ink over time turning a warm yellow so that it appeared written in
gold.

Digitizing them seemed so clinical and sterile to Ianucci. Gooseflesh broke out on his arms. He treasured these beautifully marredwith-age documents, their musty parchment smell being a perfume to
his senses. But he understood the need for technology. The iron in
Michelangelo's ink had turned corrosive and ate away at the great
master's letters, leaving them full of minute slashes. The purple fungus that seemed to have slipped into every nook almost overnight proved
unstoppable. Decomposition of these great works was defeating the
conservators, forcing the Church to embrace technology. The
Church, which so often wallowed in the past, raised its muddied head
and slowly moved into the new world. The wolf and the lamb ...

Sinclair was right, the cardinal thought. This was a different world
-one of miraculous technology. Of course God had provided the
knowledge-so, of course, He meant it to be used.

Passing through the vault, Ianucci descended a wide spiral stairway to a sublevel. At the bottom, a second vault door stood closed.
Beside it was an electronic alarm keypad. Pressing in his code, the
cardinal waited until the large internal bolts shifted open, and the
heavy door swung forward.

He entered a chamber about the size of a high school gymnasium.
Narrow aisles formed a labyrinth between the network of high
shelves and cabinets. Passing by some of the most precious relics of
the Church, including pieces of the True Cross and tiny bone fragments of the apostles, he stopped at a large black safe, its front bearing the symbol, IHS. Below the monogram was a combination wheel
lock. He placed the travel case on the floor, then turned the wheel
lock first clockwise, then counterclockwise, then again clockwise until
he heard a soft click. Ianucci opened the door, touched a sensor, and
the inside of the safe illuminated. A variety of boxes, envelopes, and
other containers filled two of three shelves. On the top self sat the
medieval puzzle cube.

The cardinal's hands trembled as he slipped on a pair of cotton
gloves before reaching for the cube. Setting it on top of the safe, he
repeated the motions John Tyler had shown him to open the box and
carefully removed the cloth-wrapped chalice. His ears filled with the
sound of his coursing blood-his chest pounding with every thump. Cardinal lanucci crossed himself, asking God to make him worthy to
touch the Cup of Christ.

He opened the titanium travel case and removed the replica of the
Grail, carefully jacketing it in the Templar cloth before putting it in
the cube. Then he placed the Cup in the foam cutout insulation
inside the travel case, closed the lid, and sat it on the floor just outside
the door of the safe. After returning the cube to its resting place, the
cardinal checked over the interior of the safe while removing his
gloves, stuffing them in his pocket. Everything was in place. With his
sleeved elbow he touched the sensor, and the vault was instantly in
darkness. Slowly, he shut the safe door and spun the combination
lock.

lanucci dabbed the dribble of perspiration at his hairline with the
back of his hand, then bent to pick up the case.

"Eminence?"

The voice came from behind him. He stiffened. "Yes," he said,
without turning around.

"What are you doing?"

COTTEN STRETCHED ACROSS THE unmade bed, folding one arm
behind her head, her other hand holding the phone receiver to her
ear.

"Are you going to have to go to Rome?" she asked John.

"No. I don't think so, since I just got back. And there really isn't
anything for me to do."

"When will they elect the new pope?"

"The conclave has to begin no less than fifteen days after the
pope's death. That gives all the cardinals who are eligible to vote time
to travel to Rome. It also gives them time to get organized, both for
logistics and politics, and of course to have the funeral. My guess is
about a week."