The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (68 page)

“Where he was tortured until his death,” added the colonel.

“But why?” Sonia’s question was on York’s mind, too. Michael and the colonel, however, both knew the answer.

Michael replied, “Honey, there’s only one reason that men go to such lengths and trouble—money. The Vatican was nearly broke, and the master of the Order was responsible for a vast treasury. Such wealth meant control of power within the Holy Roman Empire. The Order was the empire’s banker: kings, dukes, wealthy merchants, and the Vatican were in debt to the Order; this was a constant reminder to the Vatican with respect to who truly held the power in the empire. Am I right, Colonel?”

Colonel Camini didn’t speak and only gestured slightly in the affirmative.

“Whatever the Vatican stole from Sebastian must be what the Order is now going to great lengths to try and reclaim,” said Michael.

The colonel glanced at each of them and then outlined, “The Order had the crown and the shroud stolen to find and establish a genetic link between them. If they find the body of Sebastian, they can complete the link. They would have physical proof.”

“Imagine the leverage that would give the Order over the Vatican, Colonel—proof that the shroud never touched the body of Christ, but that it covered the body of one of his descendants. And, to make it worse, it would be proof that the Vatican murdered one of Christ’s descendants, and the Order would have indisputable evidence if Sebastian’s body were to be found; it would force the Vatican to turn over whatever wealth they stole from Sebastian!”

“My God, Michael!” stammered Sonia. “Could you imagine how the world would react to that?”

“It would destroy a church that has been steadily losing its base of adherents and sources of income,” stated Michael.

“Something the Vatican would never allow,” blurted the colonel. “They would acquiesce to the Order and give them power within the sovereign nation—power over world affairs, rather than give up any assets.”

“And with Senator Faust holding the most powerful position in the world—the presidency of the United States—the Order would have the pawns they need to control the order of world matters.”

There was a stony silence in the voluminous room. Sonia suddenly felt a sliver of cold. Instinctively she wrapped her arms around her torso and tightened them.

Breaking the silence, York asked again, albeit this time with less immaturity, “So, what about the meridian and anemoscope—what are they?”

Michael answered, “The tower that Pope Gregory had built was named the Tower of Winds and had an anemoscope built into its ceiling. To answer your questions, kid, an anemoscope measures the direction of the winds, and a meridian is a straight line built into a floor that measures the altitude of the sun at noon each day. It’s a way to mark the passage of a year. The anemoscope in the Tower of Winds stopped working soon after it was built.”

The colonel repeated the words written on the parchment: “The line of the day loses ten; the wind no longer blows. The meridian line and the anemoscope.”

It was clear to all of them that the riddle pointed to the Tower of Winds.

“What about Revelation 14:9?” Sonia asked.

Michael was surrounded by paintings, but there was only one that was on his mind. “
The Angel Marks the Forehead of the Chosen
.”

Instantly, the colonel’s face contorted as he blurted, “How could I not have recognized this right away?”

The colonel jumped heavily to his feet, and with long strides, he quickly moved toward a door at the far end of the room; he shouted without looking back at the remaining three, “Follow me!”

On their feet, they all moved to catch up to an even faster-moving colonel.

Through three rooms they followed him; then the colonel stopped as abruptly as he had started. His eyes were latched onto a painting that hung on the wall. Without so much as looking at any of the three, he said, “This is a replica, of course, but still quite valuable. It was painted shortly after the original. I’ve never given it much thought until just a moment ago.”

Michael gazed at the painting; he, too, knew its significance.

“What is it?” asked Sonia.

The colonel answered Sonia’s question, “This piece of art was painted by Nicolò Circignani—the Pomarancio—and is a replica of a much larger fresco—a fresco that splits the west and south walls of the Tower of Winds.”

The painting was quite striking; in the background was a well-lit and bright, happy landscape. In the foreground was an angel who was surrounded by men; some were on their knees. The angel was reaching forward to touch one of the kneeling men on his forehead.

“Revelation 14:9—if anyone worships the beast and his image and receives his mark on the forehead,” uttered Michael.

Evenly and articulately, the colonel stated, “This painting is called
The Angel Marks the Forehead of the Chosen
.”

Quietly, Sonia whispered, “Revelation 14:9.”

“This must be where the body of Sebastian is interred,” suggested Michael.

“Or where the Order’s treasury is kept,” concluded the colonel.

“Or both,” stated York.

York’s interjection caught all by surprise. Michael and the colonel exchanged glances.

“What?” York asked uneasily. “You guys said that this Tower of Winds houses the pope’s archives, right? What if this is where Sebastian’s treasury has been kept?”

Michael and the colonel stared at one another; the two men thought the same thing:
or both.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

THE TOWER OF WINDS
THE VATICAN, ROME

“Y
ou know your way to Rome?” the colonel asked.

Michael nodded.

Colonel Camini threw a set of keys at Michael. “You drive then.” Once all were inside, Michael drove with a purpose through the Italian countryside. The colonel sat in the passenger seat in the front while York and Sonia shared the ample space of the back. They were in the colonel’s car, a truck really. Michael drove the old steel-bodied Range Rover with confidence and focus. Its engine rumbled deeply, which caused almost all of the truck’s four hundred and twelve horsepower to resonate into the cabin.

Michael pressed the pedal harder; without any palpable hesitation, the truck responded.

Blurs of green and gold spilled through the truck’s windows as they drove past working farms split by unending rows of well-kept vineyards. Where there weren’t farms or vineyards were thick compilations of wild forests or waist-high fields of bronzed, wind-swept grasses.

The colonel was on the phone, speaking fast Italian. His voice rose on a number of occasions, grabbing the attention of everyone else in the car. It was clear he was barking orders and not negotiating.

Slamming the phone shut, he dropped it into his shirt pocket and calmly said, “We will have a five-minute window to get into the Tower; once there, we will be on our own. It’s the best that I could arrange. My contact in the guard is risking quite a bit making this happen.”

The drive to Rome along the A90 went quickly, but once they were within the city limits, traffic sprung up around them like wild flowers growing thick in a meadow at springtime. Viale Vaticano was a frustrating molasses of slowmoving taxis, buses, and cars. It was taking some time to find a place to park the Range Rover, so when Michael saw his opportunity, he took it.

With a squeal of the twenty-inch tires, Michael swerved wildly toward a parking spot being vacated by a long-bodied Mercedes. With less finesse but more skill, Michael put the truck into the spot. All its occupants were thrown heavily to the right as the truck came to a halt, perfectly parked. Michael put it into gear and comically said, “We’re here. Anyone need to use the bathroom?”

“Michael!” blurted Sonia. “Was that necessary?”

As if by divine intervention—or retribution—a very angry Italian man that had patiently waited and wished for the same parking spot pulled his Peugeot alongside the Range Rover and shouted through his window what Michael could only assume were colloquial expletives, accompanied by pejorative hand gestures.

“Yes, dear, it was,” Michael retorted.

Sonia rolled her eyes, and all climbed out of the truck. The stone wall that surrounded the Vatican rose high next to where she stood, separating the tiny sovereign nation from the rest of Italy. She guessed it was at least twenty feet high. It made her think of Michael’s visit to the sovereign nation three years ago, but Sonia had never been. Michael sidled up next to her and draped his arm over her shoulder, saying, “Well, I finally took you on that trip to Rome like I promised. You know what the best part of this is?”

“I’m afraid to ask,” replied Sonia, while still gazing up the impressive wall.

“We don’t have to pay for it,” smiled Michael back at her.

Playfully she pushed her husband away, but she smiled at the moment of levity.

The four of them moved quickly down the street and through St. Anne’s Gate. Throngs of tourists surrounded them and, as far as any of the visitors to the Holy City knew, they were just like them.

The colonel stood in the line to buy tickets for one of the nation’s many tours. Michael eyed him oddly.

“Colonel, what are you doing?” asked Michael quietly.

“Visitors have to purchase tickets, Michael. Did you think I was going to let you pull that same, how do you Americans say it, ‘John Wayne with guns blazing’ tactic you used the last time you were here?”

With the tickets purchased, the four made their way with the rest of the tourists past a gurgling fountain and into the private courtyard behind the Apostolic Palace. Some of the tourists were snapping away photos while others looked left and right, backward, and then forward to take it all in.

Michael noticed a wall that showed carved scenes of differing stages of the creation of writing. Images of papyrus, manuscripts, and scrolls all depicted the linear progression over time of putting pen to paper and the recording of history, ideas, and thoughts.

We must be close to the Secret Archives,
thought Michael.

The archives were not necessarily a secret, but were truly a library, albeit limited with respect to whom could peruse its books. The library’s shelves, more than fifty miles worth when laid end to end, looked no different than what one would find in any modern library. They were stocked with leather-bound volumes of nearly all aspects of Roman and world history, legal documents, papal bulls, communications between the Vatican and other nations, and much more.

Officially, the Vatican states that the library begins with documents from the eighth century forward. This proclamation is far from true: documents from the destroyed library of Alexandria are housed in the archive’s innards; documents that date a millennia and more from the published date of the archive’s earliest documents.

They are documents that most will never see.

Michael nudged the colonel and nodded toward the carved frescos. The colonel nodded slightly his understanding.

They were close indeed.

The four followed a group of tourists as they walked through an entryway, which was adorned with a plaque boldly stating
VATICAVM TABVLARVM
—Vatican Records.

A conservator for the archives met the group. He was old and diminutive. A pronounced curvature of his upper back forced him to look at the group over the top of his bifocals while stooped. A wisp of silver hair hung loosely over his forehead, covering the left edge of his mildly thick glasses; the old man either didn’t notice or didn’t care. When he spoke, his voice carried the shake of a man near death and was in the octave reserved for the old.

But his English was impeccable as he spoke to the group, outlining some of the archives’ more notable works: an eighth-century codex (what the public believes is the archive’s oldest document) and an early twentieth-century letter from Pope Pius XI to Hitler; as well, there were family records of both average and more pronounced lineages and multitudes of legal documents that were derived during various centuries past.

The old man finished his well-rehearsed outline of the Vatican Secret Archives but spoke with the same genuine affection for its contents as he had the first time he had done so. He then closed his eyes for far too long; some in the group began to feel a bit uneasy. However, the old conservator finally opened his wrinkled eyes and gestured to another conservator, who beckoned the group to follow.

The group filed past the old man. As the colonel walked by, the old conservator reached out and lightly grazed his arm with a frail, bony finger.

Colonel Camini stopped in his tracks and faced the old conservator but said nothing to him.

Michael moved next to the colonel’s side.

The old man extended his other hand a few inches from his body; his hand was balled into a tiny fist. The colonel reached out with his palm facing skyward; the old man placed something into it and then squeezed closed the colonel’s hand with as much strength as his old body could muster. His voice was barely a whisper as he wheezed, “You will need this, Colonel. I wish you good luck.”