Sign Of The Cross (11 page)

Yet in recent years many of the top students have shied away from the big two, partially because their admission policies seem to place more emphasis on a candidate’s lineage than his academic achievements. That, however, is not the case at Dover. Founded in 1569 by Elizabeth I, it had the guts to reject one of her ancestors because he failed to meet their scholastic standards. That episode, more than anything else, catapulted Dover’s status to the top of the academic heap, making it the school of choice among the elite families in Great Britain.

At least that’s what Jones read on the Internet while collecting intel for their trip.

The next morning they flew to London, took the express train to Victoria Station, then picked up a local line into Dover. From there it was a short walk to campus, where they had a late afternoon meeting with Dr Boyd’s assistant, Rupert Pencester, a chipper young bloke who was bound to offer them a cup of tea even though it was seventy-five degrees and sunny. To prepare for their meeting, Payne and Jones decided to show up early and conduct some research on their own.

The archaeology department was part of Kinsey College, one of thirty-three colleges that made up Dover University. It sat in the northwest corner of campus, fairly isolated from the sprawling lawn that connected all the schools. Boyd’s office was on the second floor of a building that was designed by England’s greatest architect, Sir Christopher Wren, one filled with arches, flying buttresses, and the biggest doors Payne had ever seen. Thankfully, the massive slabs of oak were outfitted with modern locks that Jones could crack in thirty seconds.

Pushing the door open, he said, ‘After you.’

There was no need to turn on any lights, since sunlight streamed through a series of recessed windows that ran the length of the wall. Boyd’s desk sat on the opposite side, next to three filing cabinets and a series of bookshelves. Payne hoped to find a computer filled with Boyd’s records and schedules, yet Boyd seemed to be a product of a different generation, for nothing in the room was modern. Even the clock looked like it was built by Galileo.

The filing cabinets were locked, so Payne let Jones work his magic while he dug through Boyd’s desk. Payne found the usual assortment of office supplies and knickknacks but nothing that helped their search. Next he turned his attention to the bookshelves. They were filled with books on the Roman Empire, archaeological digs in Italy, and early Latin.

‘The first one’s done,’ Jones bragged. ‘Feel free to take a look when you get a chance.’

‘That would be now. There’s nothing over here but books on Italy. Let’s see: we got Rome, Venice, Naples, and Milan.’

Jones focused his attention on the second lock. ‘Not exactly a shocker. I mean, his interview on the History Channel was on the Roman Empire. I’m guessing that was his specialty.’

‘It was,’ said a voice from the doorway. ‘That and privacy, which is the reason his chests are locked. Or should I say
were
locked.’

Payne looked at Jones, and he looked back, the color draining from both their faces. Suddenly they felt like Winona Ryder getting busted for shoplifting.

‘Listen,’ Payne said, ‘we weren’t -‘

‘No need,’ said the gentleman in an aristocratic accent. He was in his early twenties and wearing a red soccer outfit complete with shin guards and grass stains. A Dover emblem covered his left breast. ‘It’s none of my business, really. I just came to ring some of my chums. Do you mind?’

‘No, go ahead,’ Payne said, half stunned. They had just been busted in someone else’s office, yet he was being asked permission to make a call. God, the English were polite.

‘By the way,’ the guy reasoned, ‘I’m assuming you’re the chaps who rang me last night for an appointment. If I knew what you were after, perhaps I could expedite things?’

Payne glanced at Jones and noticed his grin. The detective gods were looking out for them.

‘Actually,’ Payne said, ‘we have some urgent business to discuss with Dr Boyd, and time is of the essence. Any idea where we might find him?’

‘Well, I can assure you he’s not in that chest.’ Payne waited for the kid to smile, but somehow he managed to keep a straight face. ‘For the last few weeks he’s been in the Umbria region of Italy, specifically the town of Orvieto. I was planning on spending my summer there until Charles told me that I’d be more helpful at home. Not exactly a vote of confidence, would you say?’ The bitter tone in the kid’s voice told them everything they needed to know. He was pissed at Dr Boyd, so he decided to get revenge by using Boyd’s phone and helping them out.

‘Do you know where he’s staying?’ Jones wondered.

He shook his head. ‘Orvieto is pretty small. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding him.’ He retrieved a book written by Boyd from the closest shelf. ‘Do you know what he looks like?’

Payne nodded. ‘We have one picture from when Winston Churchill was still alive.’

‘Most likely his annual from Oxford. It amazes me that he was willing to sit still for it. He’s something of a recluse when it comes to cameras.’

The kid flipped over the book and showed them the back photo. It must’ve been taken during one of Boyd’s lectures, for he was standing in front of a chalkboard with a pointer in his hand. His face and physique looked pretty much the same, albeit thirty years older. The only thing that had changed was his comb-over hairstyle. He had finally opted to go bald instead.

Jones asked, ‘Do you mind if I keep this? I’d like to read his stuff.’

‘Not at all. Feel free to take whatever you’d like.’ The kid wrote his number on a scrap of paper and gave it to Jones. ‘Should you have any further questions, please don’t hesitate to call.’

Payne said, ‘We won’t.’

‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to trouble you mates for a favor.’ The kid finally cracked a smile. A devious little grin. ‘When you surprise Charles in Orvieto and do
whatever
you’re going to do to him, please tell him that I, Rupert Pencester the Fourth, said hello.’

Nick Dial knew that Cardinal Rose would honor his promise to get back in touch but doubted he’d get anything of substance within twenty-four hours. Thankfully, Cardinal Rose was full of surprises.

‘Here’s what I can tell you,’ Rose said when he called. ‘Father Erik Jansen came to the Vatican eight years ago from a tiny parish in Finland. Upon his arrival he filled a number of duties, everything from clerical to spiritual, yet nothing that stands out until a year ago.’

Dial leaned forward. ‘What happened then?’

‘He was reassigned to a new post with the Pontifical Biblical Commission.’

‘To do what?’

Rose sighed. ‘I’m not quite sure. Perhaps if I had some more time.’

‘I’ve heard of the
PBC
, but I’m clueless about them. What can you tell me?’

‘Where to start? Well, they’ve been around since the turn of the century. Make that
last
century. Somewhere around 1901 or 1902. It was founded by Pope Leo
XIII
and used to make crucial interpretations about the Bible.’

‘Such as?’

‘A few years ago they released a study that examined the correlation between the Hebrew Scriptures and the Christian Bible in hopes of bringing the two groups closer together.’

Dial stroked his chin. ‘Sounds controversial to me.’

‘You’re right about that. Then again, anytime the Vatican changes their interpretation of the Bible, it’s bound to cause a stir.’

‘So the
PBC
is like the American Supreme Court. They have the final say on things.’

Rose smiled at the comparison. ‘In a rudimentary way, I guess you’re right – only the
PBC
is much slower. Take the Hebrew study. It took them ten years to draft their position statement.’

‘Ten
years
? That’s a long time to wait for some answers.’

‘When you’re dealing with the Word of God, you don’t want to make mistakes.’

Dial shook his head as he wrote a few notes. ‘Any idea what they’re working on now?’

‘Sorry. That’s a closely guarded secret that only a select few would know.’

‘Would Jansen be one of those people?’

‘Most appointees are senior members of the Vatican, men who are even older than I am. I doubt they’d include such a young member of our community.’

‘Yet he still worked for them.’ Dial stared at his bulletin board and focused on a crime scene photo of Father Jansen. Even with a broken face, he appeared way too young to have a position on such a powerful committee. ‘Could he have been an intern or somebody’s assistant? I mean, you mentioned that he had experience with that type of stuff.’

Rose nodded. ‘That’d make more sense than a spiritual role.’

‘Could his nationality be a factor? Is anyone from Finland on the Commission?’

‘I can check.’

‘While you’re at it, see if there are any Danes. We still don’t know why Jansen was brought to Denmark. Maybe it was some kind of message to the
PBC
.’

‘You think that’s possible?’ Rose wondered.

‘The fact is Jansen worked for one of the most powerful committees at the Vatican. That’s reason enough to suspect his death was job-related. Throw in the fact that he was crucified and the killer left a note that quoted the Bible, and, well, you see where I’m going.’

‘Just a second! What do you
mean
the killer quoted the Bible?’

Dial smiled. Rose had taken the bait. The truth was he was trying to shield the Bible angle from all outsiders, fearing if the media reported it that every religious fanatic in the world would be asking him questions about the Bible that he didn’t know how to answer. But Dial also knew if he was going to get any top secret dirt from Rose, he was going to have to reveal some of his own. Nothing major, just enough to make it seem like give-and-take instead of take, take, take.

So he said, ‘Joe, I could get in big trouble for telling you this. However, if you promise to keep this quiet…’

‘You have my word, Nick. This is between us. I promise.’

Dial nodded, satisfied. ‘The killer left a note that said, “IN
THE
NAME
OF
THE
FATHER
.” Nailed it on the cross above the victim, just like the sign above Christ.’

‘But why?’ he gasped. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘We’re not sure, Joe, we’re really not. But that’s why I need to know everything about Father Jansen. His duties, his enemies, his secrets. It’s the only way to stop the killers from doing this again. It’s the only way to save lives.’

‘My Lord! You think they’re going to kill again!’

‘Yes, and I wouldn’t be shocked if they followed the same pattern.’

‘You mean more priests?’

‘No, Joe, I mean more crucifixions.’

Ratchadapisek Road,

Bangkok, Thailand

Raj Narayan had been spoiled his entire life. His father was a powerful man in Nepal, a fact that Narayan pointed out to anyone who got in his way.

Of course there were some drawbacks to his life – the major one being his inability to do anything without it becoming national news. So when Narayan felt the urge to be bad, he was forced to leave Nepal for the anonymity of a foreign country. And this was one of those times.

Ratchadapisek Road is lined with nightclubs and fancy hotels and some of the finest restaurants in all of Asia, yet none of that mattered to Narayan. He made the two-hour flight to Bangkok every month and did it for one reason only: the world-famous massage parlors. Within a span of five blocks, there were over twenty spas. Each of them catered to the needs of foreigners, men who were willing to spend more cash in a single night than the average Thai worker made in an entire year.

Narayan was a good-looking man in his early thirties. Jet-black hair, dark eyes, and more self-confidence than Muhammad Ali. He had visited Bangkok on several occasions and spent so much cash at Kate’s Club, a quiet club off the main drag, that the manager was willing to empty the lounge whenever Narayan was in town.

He sipped on a Bombay martini as the girls, wearing high heels and short negligees, took their seats in the
fishbowl
, a gallery that was tucked beyond a thick wall of glass. Most of the women were Oriental, an even mixture of Thai, Koreans, Chinese, and Japanese. Yet the most revered women in Bangkok were the Asian girls with porcelain skin, for it gave them an appearance of purity, even though that couldn’t be further from the truth.

But in this world, appearance was all that mattered.

Women were broken down into four categories: normal, super, sideline, and model – guidelines that determined how much they were paid for their services.

Normal
girls were the cheapest of the four and included ladies who were dark-skinned, over the age of twenty-five, or a few pounds overweight. But they were not ugly. Sometimes they possessed a flaw as small as a tiny scar that lowered their value and status.

Super
girls, on the other hand, didn’t have to be super models as long as they were trained in the art of the ‘super massage,’ a full-body soap technique done on large rubber mats that was considered an art form in Thailand, one that was taught in special classes by Thai women who were too old to work in a club. To many foreign men, the act was so erotic that they would fly to Bangkok just to be bathed.

The
sideline
girls were the wild cards of the group. They came and went as they pleased, sometimes working in several clubs per night. They usually sat at the bar, hoping to catch the eye of a stranger while trying to convince him to buy her a drink that would ultimately lead to more.

But never with Narayan. The truth was he wasn’t interested in normal, super, or sideline girls. In his mind they were undeserving of his attention or his family seed. To him the models were the only group that mattered. They were the cream of the crop. The best of the best. So stunning that many of them had been featured in American magazines like
Penthouse
or
Cheri
.

When it came to these women, Narayan couldn’t help himself. They were far too beautiful to ignore. The way they pranced and preened under the spotlight. The way they smiled at him through the glass and looked at him like he was the only man in the world. The way they caressed their skin with gentle touches, rubbing the contours and crevices of their bodies in a naughty fashion, silk nighties hanging off their shoulders like dew on a lotus blossom. There was something about the way they moved that affected him, something deep inside.