Sign Of The Cross (45 page)

Payne and Jones caught up with the others in a section of the library that was filled with thousands of copies of the same book. At least that’s how it looked to Payne. Every copy was bound in red, blue, and gold Moroccan leather and embossed with a coat of arms that belonged to Prince Eugene, a member of one of the elite families in Europe during the Middle Ages.

Even though he was born in Paris, Eugene was revered in Austria, where he made his name fighting the Turks for the Holy Roman Empire. In later years he added to his reputation by donating his private library – tens of thousands of books, including some of the rarest manuscripts that Italy and France had to offer – to the Hofburg, where they could be enjoyed by the people of Vienna. Centuries later they were still being used.

Anyhow, Dr Boyd was sitting next to Dr Wanke as he flipped through several books. As soon as he spotted Jones, Boyd called him over to the table.

Boyd said, ‘Maria told me about your theory on Longinus, and I applaud your effort. The group that had the most access to Christ during his ordeal would’ve been the centurions, thereby making one of them a legitimate candidate as a coconspirator… Regrettably, as I am sure you’re aware, many scholars believe that Longinus never existed, that he was simply the figment of a writer’s overactive imagination.’

‘Maybe not for long,’ Wanke claimed. ‘I think I found something.’

Boyd turned. ‘What do you mean by
something
?’

‘You want information on the statue, right? Well, I found him.’

Wanke held up one of Prince Eugene’s books, revealing a black-and-white sketch of the laughing man that had been drawn by a local artist in 1732. Next to it was a detailed account of the statue, written in Italian and German by a member of Eugene’s staff. Information that covered nearly 2,000 years.

‘According to this text, a man of great importance came to Vindobona in the early years, a man with no name who was guarded by several centurions as if he were royalty. Peacefully, he was given a spot of land on the outskirts of town near a marble quarry. He paid the townsfolk to build him a home, one that was protected by massive walls and the blades of his guards. He took residence there for the next three decades until he succumbed to disease.’

Wanke continued, ‘The nameless man did everything he could to be accepted in the community – giving jobs to the peasants, teaching religion to the children, donating his time and treasures to anyone he deemed worthy. In fact, he was so loved and cherished by the locals that they dubbed him the Saint of Vindobona.’

Boyd asked, ‘Are you familiar with him?’

Wanke nodded, putting the book aside. ‘I am, although the myths I have heard might not match the facts that you are looking for. According to history, the Saint of Vindobona was one of the first believers of Christ. He was an ardent preacher of Christianity.’

‘Christianity?’ everyone said in unison.

Wanke smiled. ‘I warned you it might not fit.’

Stunned, everyone debated this development until Boyd brought their attention back to Wanke. He said, ‘Tell us about the statue. Who built the statue?’

‘Good question, Charles. One that I was just getting to.’ Wanke flipped ahead in Eugene’s book. ‘A few years after the saint’s arrival, Vindobona was visited by a team of Roman artisans sent by Emperor Caligula to honor this man in a series of marble sculptures.’

‘Did you say Caligula? How bloody brilliant! That means we have a date! The sculptors arrived here within four years of Tiberius’s death, some time between 37 and 41 AD.’

Gaius Caesar, better known as Caligula, had a four-year reign that started after the death of his great-uncle, Tiberius, in 37 ad. One of Caligula’s first acts as emperor was to publicly honor Tiberius’s bequests – including the commissioning of several works of art – in order to win favor of the Roman citizenry. However, he did all this while nullifying Tiberius’s will and destroying most of his personal papers to protect the reputation of his family. He was forced to do so because Tiberius spent the last few years of his life acting like a madman.

Ironically, it was Caligula who did more damage to the family name than Tiberius. Caligula’s four years as emperor were stained by tales of insanity and sexual depravity that are still shocking to this day. They included flaunting the incestuous relationship he had with his sisters, torturing and killing prisoners as dinnertime entertainment, delivering political speeches while dressed in drag, seducing the wives of officers and politicians in front of their dismayed spouses, and honoring his favorite horse by making it a Roman senator.

Wanke continued his summary. ‘Following Tiberius’s final wishes, Emperor Caligula ordered several statues to be constructed from local marble. The face on each was to reflect joyful triumph, as if mocking the world with knowledge of an extraordinary secret. Then, upon completion, one was to adorn the saint’s home high atop the white hills of Vindobona. The others would be spread evenly across the lands of snow and sun.’

Maria gasped at the word choice. ‘Snow and sun’ had appeared in the Orvieto scroll as well.

‘In time the saint grew weary of looking at his own face. Citing humility, he had the statue removed and ordered it to be destroyed. But his centurions didn’t have the heart to demolish something so exquisite. Instead they placed the statue on the far edge of town, where it became a shrine for the townspeople, a place to honor the saint’s kindness and charity. And it stayed there for several centuries, until construction of the Hofburg began, at which time it was moved across town and placed in a position of honor on the outer shell.’

Silence filled the library. Time to ponder what they had just learned.

Eventually, Boyd spoke. ‘Is there anything else? Anything about the man’s name or deeds?’

‘No, nothing like that. Later there was mention of the centurions burying the saint’s secrets in the ground of the white hills, but that’s probably just a reference to his gravesite.’

‘Yes, probably.’

Wanke stared at Boyd for several seconds before he spoke again. ‘Charles, forgive me for being so bold, but what exactly are you looking for? It must be something extraordinarily important, or you wouldn’t be showing your face in public.’

Boyd stared right back, refusing to acknowledge anything. Partially to protect Wanke, partially because of greed. To Boyd, this was
his
discovery and the thought of anyone stealing his glory, especially this late in the chase, made him nauseous. ‘Hermann, do you trust me?’

‘Believe it or not, I don’t make it a habit to assist fugitives.’

‘Then believe me when I tell you this: You don’t want to know what we’re looking for. Dozens of people have died during the past week, innocent people, and all because of this secret.’ Boyd thought about all the victims on the bus and how they screamed in agony. He didn’t want that to happen to one of his friends. ‘Hermann, do yourself a favor and forget you even saw me today. Once this quiets down, I promise I’ll get in touch and explain everything. But until then
please
keep our meeting to yourself. Your personal welfare depends on it.’

They stayed at the Hofburg for a few more hours, until paranoia crept in and thoughts of armed guards bursting into the library fueled their desire to leave.

Besides, at that point most of them needed to use a phone. Petr Ulster needed to call Küsendorf to check on fire damage. Jones wanted to call the Pentagon to get an update on Orlando Pope’s crucifixion and anything else he could track down. And Payne promised to call Frankie with a fax number so he could send his information. The only call-free people were Boyd and Maria, who were so intrigued by the journal that they’d borrowed from Prince Eugene’s collection that they were content sitting in the back of Ulster’s truck discussing it.

The group settled on an Internet café in the middle of Vienna, smack-dab in the center of the Ringstrasse, a two-and-a-half-mile boulevard lined with monuments, parks, schools, and the world-famous State Opera. To the northeast they could see the top of Saint Stephen’s Cathedral, its 450-foot tower thrusting out of the building like a Gothic stalagmite. The café itself was large and bustling, filled with tourists who were getting food and caffeine while checking their e-mail.

Payne got in touch with Frankie at his office and told him to send the fax with all the information that he had discovered. Payne wasn’t willing to tell him the café’s fax number, just in case Frankie’s phone was tapped, but they figured a way around that. The only problem was, Payne had to wait until Frankie drove down the street and accessed a clean line.

Meanwhile, Jones reached Raskin at the Pentagon and learned that a fourth crucifixion had just occurred in Beijing, a case receiving serious airtime around the world. He told Payne to find a TV that was broadcasting
CNN
while Jones got background info on the other three murders. The television coverage was stunning. A man nailed to a crucifix was floating through the air while blood oozed, in slow motion, from wounds in his hands, feet, and side. An announcer droned on about the recent rash of tragedies, followed by an interview with an ‘expert’ who claimed he had no idea why any of these murders had taken place.

Payne watched for several minutes until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Not a threatening hand, just a tap. He turned and saw Ulster, his skin pale and his cheeks streaked with tears. He had just gotten off the phone with Küsendorf and was obviously shaken by the news. Payne helped him to one of the chairs and sat next to him, not pressing him for details until he was ready to talk. He had comforted enough grieving soldiers to know that was the best approach.

A few minutes passed before Ulster talked about the damage to the Archives. They were more severe than he had anticipated. All the vaults had held, protecting his most valuable collections from fire and water damage. Still, many of the building’s outer walls had been destroyed, making the Archives structurally unsafe. That meant even though his artifacts were fine for the moment, they would be destroyed if the building collapsed.

‘I’ve got to go back,’ he told Payne. ‘I don’t care if I’m risking my life; I have to go.’

Payne agreed with him, even though he knew that Ulster was walking into a death sentence. Soldiers were bound to be waiting there, men who were salivating at the thought of grabbing him and torturing him for information about Boyd, the Catacombs, and everything else. Normally, Payne would’ve offered to go back with him as his personal guard, but not today. Not with all that was going on. Payne’s services were needed in Vienna or wherever they were headed next.

But that didn’t mean he was going to abandon him.

‘Can you wait twelve hours?’ Payne asked.

Ulster blinked a few times then looked at him, confused. ‘Why?’

‘Twelve hours. Can you wait that long before going back?’

‘Jonathon,’ he said, ‘both of us know you can’t accompany -‘

‘You’re right, I can’t go with you. But that doesn’t mean I can’t help. You give me twelve hours, and I promise I can have team of armed guards waiting to protect you. Furthermore, I’ll get you the best engineers that money can buy to save your property. Trust me, they’ll do a better job than any of the local salvage companies.’

Ulster was about to turn Payne down; he could see it in his eyes. He was about to thank Payne for his offer, then politely decline because of the cost, his pride, or a hundred other reasons that he could’ve chosen. Payne knew all this because he would’ve done the exact same thing. That’s why Payne decided to beat him to the punch, reminding him of their earlier agreement.

Payne said, ‘When we met I promised if you gave me full access to the Archives and the use of your services that I would make it worth your time. Well, it’s time for me to pay up.’ He told Ulster to look at his watch. ‘Tell Franz to drive slowly on the way home, because twelve hours from now I’ll have men waiting for you at the Swiss border. You’ll know they’re with me because they’ll know our special password.’

‘Password?’ Ulster asked with tears in his eyes. ‘What password?’

Payne grabbed his hand and shook it. ‘The password is
friend
.’

Payne made a few calls to his colleagues back home, and they assured him that they knew what to do. From that moment on he knew Petr Ulster and his Archives would both survive.

The vibration on Payne’s cell phone forced his focus back to Vienna. Frankie was calling for the café’s fax number, so Payne answered by saying, ‘Did anyone follow you?’

‘No,’ he assured Payne. ‘I be very careful.’

‘Write this down.’ He gave him the number, then told him to burn it and the confirmation sheet when he was done. He also told him to delete the fax’s memory. ‘Where can I reach you?’

‘My office. I be at my office.’

Payne groaned. That’s the last place he wanted him to be. Why did Frankie think he had him using a public line? ‘Go somewhere else but not your house. That’s too easy to trace.’

‘I can get hotel.’

‘Perfect,’ Payne told him. ‘Pay in cash and use a fake name, something you won’t forget, like… James Bond.’

‘Si!’
he shrieked. Obviously he liked the choice.

Frankie named the closest hotel he could think of, and Payne memorized its name. ‘Go there when you’re done. Your room and room service are on me, OK?’

‘Si,’
he repeated.

‘And don’t use your credit card for
anything
.’

‘No card. I promise.’

‘Thanks, Frankie. I’ll talk to you soon.’

Thirty-four seconds. Not too bad. Especially if his fax helped Payne figure something out. But he had his doubts. What in the world could Frankie know that Payne didn’t?

A few minutes later he got his answer. That little bastard was a lifesaver.

Boyd and Maria brought Prince Eugene’s journal into the café and took a seat in front of one of the computers. Maria manned the keyboard while Boyd, still wearing that ridiculous suntan lotion on his nose, told her what to type. Curious, Payne wanted to know what they were searching for but couldn’t leave the machines until Frankie’s fax arrived.