The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (71 page)

Michael patted Gerald on the fat part of his cheek and continued, “The church has done everything in its power to wipe clean the original methods of worship by the first Christians, methods that were nothing more than a syncretism of Mithras from the outlying Persian Empire and Horus from the Egyptians. In the fourth century, the church issued orders to their monks in Egypt to pick up arms and kill followers of the sun god Serapsis and to destroy the Serapeum, which eliminated thousands of years of recorded history; the church outlawed by order of death any religious worship other than Christianity. Hell, the Vatican sits atop a destroyed Mithraic temple! Over in St. Peter’s Basilica are a couple of mosaics that prove the link between sun-worship and the Christian cult: one has two Irish monks with hands raised paying homage to the sun, while the other is a second-century depiction of the sun-god Helios in a pagan tomb! They’ve preferred people like you as their followers: ignorant, gullible, uneducated, and unwilling to seek proof even if it’s right under your damned feet! No, it doesn’t surprise me that you don’t know what Gehenna is.”

Michael paused for a moment as he watched the poison continue to deprive Gerald of his strength, and then he said, “That’s what the room is meant to outline. One couldn’t simply eliminate the customs and beliefs embedded for millennia into an ever-changing empire’s citizens, beliefs that derived from the prevalent forms of worship that were still quite evident in the first century. The original Christians still considered the sun, the stars, the moon, and the planets as godly. When a man died, an old Christian teaching told of seven angels that stood by awaiting that man’s soul. Those seven angels represented the seven known planets of the time; it was a way for the new religion to absorb and recognize the cosmological teachings of older religions—to make the forced conversion to Christianity more palatable, the church turned the seven planets into seven angels. Hell, anyone with a library card or a night’s worth of clicks on Wikipedia could come across numerous examples of the blending of sun worship and early Christianity!”

Michael stood abruptly to his feet and ran to the brightly painted fresco of the angel. There, he slapped hard the glowing halo surrounding the angel’s head and yelled back at the fallen man, “This is one of the most blatant examples! You’re in a room that marks daily the solar cycle, surrounded from top to bottom and left to right by the seasons of the year, and standing upon a floor that outlines the days of the year! It’s the sun around his head, not a halo, you drooling, half-dead idiot!”

Michael walked over to Sonia and picked her up. Caressing her face, he gently asked, “You okay?”

Sonia nodded. “Interesting story, honey.”

“It’s no story; it’s history,” Michael replied and then kissed her on the forehead.

Pulling away from his wife, Michael smiled reassuringly at her and then looked to York; the kid’s eyes were closed, but his chest was expanding and contracting slightly. Michael sighed with relief and silently thanked no one in particular as he thought,
the kid’s alive.

Moving back to Gerald, Michael knelt again; his voice was calmer when he said, “Some of the seven angels were good; a few of them were not. The seven angels stood on either side of a line, waiting; the line divided that man’s soul from heaven or hell. This is that line. When the soul was sent to Gehenna, it had to pass through a gate. Your king’s body, the last master of the Order of Christ, is behind me; in the east wall and through one of the gates painted on that wall.”

Gerald struggled to look at the wall. His eyes shook and worked to focus as they looked past Michael and to the fresco that adorned the wall. Although a brilliant piece of work, it was more ornamental than allegorical. A nude man was painted so that only his backside was shown. His body was in the middle of the wall, splitting the fresco in half. The fresco was intended to be quite symmetrical, different than the rest in the room. What was painted on the left side of the man was nearly mirrored to his right.

It looked like two doorways—gates—were painted onto the wall. One door was to the man’s left, one to his right. There was nothing overly dramatic about the scene.

Michael went to the colonel’s body and felt for a pulse. Still half-hoping to find one, there was none. Michael closed his eyes and let out a defeated breath. Whispering, Michael said, “You were a good man, Colonel.”

Rising to his feet, Michael said to Sonia, “Help the kid get to his feet. The two of you need to get out of here. I’ll take care of this guy.”

Sonia was stunned. “I’m not leaving you, Michael!”

Michael responded almost robotically. “What comes next isn’t for you, Sonia,” and then Michael reached into his pocket, grabbing his phone. He put it into Sonia’s hands and cupped his warmly around hers.

She knew that what Michael had to do next would contradict her commitment to healing, to saving lives.

“Listen to me, Sonia; the kid’s hurt. You need to help him, and the two of you need to get as far away from here as possible. Take this phone; once outside, press the number eight key until you get a connection. Tell the person who answers who you are and what’s going on; he will get you to a safe house. Wait for me there.” Michael leaned in and kissed both of her cheeks and then her lips. It was good to feel their warmth and her reciprocation.

“Now go.”

Sonia smiled weakly, but said nothing. She ran to York and helped him to his feet. As they moved toward the door, Sonia looked back to her husband. She had wanted to tell him that she loved him, but, instead of words, a scream poured from her mouth.

Michael looked back; Gerald was on his feet.

A thick and long cylindrical device hung loosely from his leg. A needle was deeply embedded into the meat of his thigh.

He looked like a man who had been to hell and back. His skin was a mixture of pasty white and gray, doing little to blend in the bit of thick drool that clung to the corner of his mouth. His pistol was hanging uneasily at his side and in his hand. He started to raise it to take aim, but was having some difficulty.

Michael shoved Sonia and York through the door as he shouted, “Go! Goddamn it—go!”

Michael slammed the door behind them and turned to Gerald.

The gun was aimed directly, albeit unsteadily, at Michael’s head.

Sarcastically, Michael asked, “How was Gehenna?”

Gerald pulled back the slide, charging the weapon, and responded, “You tell me.”

His voice had returned, although with a pronounced scratchiness.

Gerald reached down and slowly pulled out the syringe; the thick muscle of his thigh provided some resistance against his effort. Once out of the muscle of his upper leg, he threw it to the floor, where it clanged loudly.

“Epi-pen?” Michael asked.

Gerald smiled. “A Green Beret is always prepared.”

The man had been in anaphylactic shock, but he had obviously thought of all possible outcomes in his mission, including being poisoned or gassed. The Epi-pen had delivered a single dose of epinephrine to counter the effects of the poison that had been delivered by the medallion’s sharp barb.

Injected through a spring-loaded autoinjector, the recipient needn’t have much strength to get the hormone and the heavy-gauged needle into his system. Once inside of the body, the intended results come quickly: the heart beats faster—much faster—and the blood vessels constrict. Adrenaline begins to be produced at an elevated rate. All of which assist the body in recovering from, in this case, an attack by means of poison.

On the other side of the door, Sonia tried to reenter the room, but, with some difficulty, York stopped her. “He’ll be okay, I promise,” said York as he pulled her away from the door. “Let’s do what he says and get out of here.”

She didn’t resist.

The two of them moved as fast as they could through the Vatican’s grounds.

Over her shoulder, Sonia glanced at the door. It took all of her will to not go back.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

THE AMERICAN HOSPITAL
OF FRANCE
NEUILLY-SUR-SEINE

T
he wealthy neighborhood of the Neuilly-sur-Seine is a bourgeois suburb of the 16th arrondissement. Tranquil, well kept, and reserved for the select few of society, the neighborhood’s residents do not accept with grace anything or anyone considered less than refined.

To the contrary, the residents of the Neuilly-sur-Seine fiercely guarded their enclave from the ill-bred and unfastidious.

Madame Jacqueline Bouquet had been enjoying the high sun of the unseasonably pleasant day. Her smaller-than-average size West Highland white terrier was doing his best to walk as had been trained. Near his owner’s right side, the well-groomed canine strutted with his tail pointing straight skyward as Madame Bouquet did the same with her nose.

It was fortunate that she had momentarily paused during her stroll to scoff at a piece of clearly untrimmed boulevard; she had every intention of pointing out the lack of attention to the neighborhood’s community board. Had she not paused, the speeding Porsche would have certainly needed to swerve to avoid colliding with the old woman.

However fortunate she was, her dog, Monsieur Mathieu Francois Bouquet, whose champion sire shared the same surname, was not.

The speeding auto turned abruptly into the long driveway of the American Hospital of Paris alongside which Madame Bouquet had been strolling. West Highland white terriers are known to be an anxious, if not downright nervous, breed. The nineteen-inch wheels of the sports car came close to the dog, but did nothing more than whisk its hair as it sped by.

However, to Madame Bouquet’s horror, and certainly to the shock of the dog, the tiny heart of the terrier beat nearly twice as fast in the span of a moment.

It was too much for the animal—its heart ceased.

The acrid smell of burnt rubber filled Madame Bouquet’s nostrils as the speeding Porsche screamed to a dead stop.

She watched as its passenger door opened, and a man dressed in a dark suit was pushed out. He rolled twice, and then as fast as everything had occurred, it was over.

The Porsche was gone.

Madame Bouquet’s mouth was as agape as could be.

The man lay prostrate on the asphalt.

A large hole could easily be seen in his hand.

Within moments, two white-suited orderlies ran to the man. They were confused, but picked him up, put him on a stretcher, and quickly wheeled the man into the hospital.

Madame Bouquet looked down at her champion Westie that lay limp on its side; she was too stunned to speak or move. The only energy she could muster was a light tug of the terrier’s leash, to which no response was returned.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

THE KING WILL POINT
THE WAY
THE TOWER OF WINDS

T
he beam of light was still pouring through the hole and into the Tower of Winds. Gerald stood where it met the floor.

Time was running out.

“Put the other half into the hole! And make sure it’s aimed the right way,” Gerald barked as he cocked his weapon.

Michael didn’t hesitate and did as he was told.

Pick only those battles you know you can win.

The other half of the medallion instantly shot a beam of light toward the east wall; it splashed across the top of the door that had been painted on the right side of the wall.

Gerald smiled and then threw a black zip-tie at Michael’s feet. “Put it on your wrists and tighten!”

Again, Michael complied and used his teeth to tighten casually the zip-tie. His wrists were now bound in front of him. He turned to face the armed man and said, “You might want to wipe that spit from your mouth; you look like shit.”

Gerald laughed at the boldness of his adversary, but he wiped the spit with the backside of his hand anyway. The moment he finished, and without warning, he swung the pistol at the right side of Michael’s face. Michael stumbled to his left a few steps but didn’t fall.

“I guess that’s payback, huh?” Michael asked rhetorically but painfully, as he rubbed his face with the backside of his bound hands.

Gerald hit him again; this time, Michael fell heavily to the tile floor with a grunt.

From where he fell, Michael first spit a bit of blood from his mouth and then interrogated, “Why does the Order want the body of Sebastian so badly?”

Gerald moved closer to Michael, but was careful to stay out of his reach. He had learned firsthand that Michael certainly lived up to his reputation. “Sebastian? You think all of this has been to just bring back the missing bones of our dead master? Let me guess—you think that the crown and the shroud were stolen just to link them with Sebastian, to prove that he was a descendent of Christ?”

Michael was confused, but he replied, “Isn’t that what you morons of the Order are always trying to do: to create some kind of leverage over the church by proving Christ lived as any other man would have, that he wasn’t the messiah?”

Gerald walked to the east wall and inspected the spot where the refracted light met with the wall. He said, “Dr. Sterling, I will admit, I thought the same thing at first: I thought my bosses were trying to prove that Christ had children, and the DNA on the crown and shroud would suggest as much.”