MADRID, SPAIN

The archbishop yawned as he slid the strap of his coveralls up over his shoulder, trying to do so without spilling his tea. It was still predawn, so he reached out and turned on the interior floodlights that had been arrayed around the church for the workmen to see by in the darkened cathedral. As his eyes adjusted to the bright light, he saw the ugly skeletal scaffolding that had been erected, and shook his head. His eyes traveled to the frescoed ceiling where art restorers had been working to repair the magnificent frescoes using the godawful-looking scaffolds to do so. He sipped his tea and then noticed something out of the morning norm. He lowered the cup and squinted through his thick glasses. A man was sitting in one of the front pews looking toward the dais. He had his arms outstretched, resting casually on the backrest of the long wooden pew.

“Santos?” the archbishop called out, thinking it was the renovations interior foreman.

The figure didn’t move.

Archbishop Santiago was about to call out again when a hand fell on his shoulder. He was startled enough to spill his tea. As he turned he saw a large man with a shadow of a goatee standing behind him.

“Please,” the man gestured toward the seated man at the front of the cathedral, “he has a few questions for Your Eminence.” The words were spoken in the New World Spanish accent that Santiago immediately placed as South American.

Hesitantly the archbishop followed the large man toward the front of the church. As he approached he could see that the figure in the peak was dressed in a black suit and sat with his right leg crossed over his left. The seated man was looking at the magnificent figure of the sculpted Christ the church had received as a gift from the Vatican Archives twenty years before. Santiago sensed danger in this man.

“This is a marvelous piece. Isn’t it by Fanuchi?” the man asked as he continued to look up at the Christ as depicted upon the cross.

“A modest work of Michelangelo’s,” Santiago said. He sat down, as his rather large escort had suggested with a gesture of his equally large hand.

“Amazing, a Michelangelo piece that has never been cataloged,” the man said as he turned to face the archbishop. He was smiling. “You must have friends in high places, Your Grace.”

“It’s but a modest piece,” Santiago responded. “Are you here to steal it?” he asked, placing his tea cup on the seat beside him.

The man laughed and removed his arms from the back of the wooden pew. “As magnificent as the work is, alas, no, I am here on an entirely different matter.”

The archbishop now saw three more men had stepped into the light from the surrounding blackness of the early morning.

“And that is?”

“Your visitor of a couple of months ago, a Professor Helen Zachary, she’s the reason I have come to visit you at this magnificent cathedral. I need for you to share with me the information you so readily imparted to her.”

Santiago could see that the man, if he were to stand, would be tall. His blond hair was well combed. He watched as the man absentmindedly brushed some lint from his pants.

“I am afraid I fail to see your interest in a private meeting I had with Ms. Zachary.”

The man smiled and leaned closer to the archbishop, once again placing his right arm on the back of the pew as he whispered, “The diary, Your Eminence, she copied two pages from the diary of Captain Padilla. Unfortunately, my former partner was also very accomplished at forgery and falsified the copies she gave to me. Now the woman has further betrayed me and gone off to adventureland without me.”

“I will tell you the same thing I told Ms. Zachary, Señor—?”

“Farbeaux, Henri Farbeaux. And please, do not bother saying you did not acquiesce to her request, that would be wasting valuable time, both mine, and by the look of your renovation, yours also. Time is a quantity neither my benefactor nor I have in abundance. So please, answer carefully and be precise. Are you willing to assist my men and myself in acquiring the diary of Captain Padilla? As I said, answer carefully,” he warned as his smile faded.

Santiago looked from Farbeaux toward the men, who calmly watched the proceedings. There was no doubt in his mind he was in trouble; his only hope was that he could stall them long enough until the workmen came in.

“I have seen that look a hundred times, Your Grace. You see, it’s in the way the jaw sets and the eyes don’t blink. You are thinking to delay in answering until help arrives. But I assure you this will have been all a memory by the time that happens. Either a memory or a news story, you choose.”

Santiago heard one of the large men knock something over. When he turned toward the sound he saw that a fifty-five-gallon drum of paint thinner now lay open on its side. The clear liquid was emptying onto the floor, which had been lined with white painter’s tarps.

“San Jerónimo el Real,” Farbeaux said as he looked the archbishop directly in the eyes. “A most famous and beautiful structure. It would be a shame to lose such a wonderful church to such a tragic accident as fire. But things like that happen during a major renovation. Careless and senseless things.” The blond man stood and buttoned his suit coat. “I personally would hate to see this tragic event come to pass, but if these walls do not contain the information I seek, that would be most upsetting, and I become rather accident prone when I’m upset. Now, the diary, if you please. That woman already has a month’s head start on me.”

Santiago was horrified at what was happening around him. The smell of the paint thinner had reached his nostrils. From the expression on the face leering over him, he knew beyond any doubt this man would carry out his threat. If it was just his old leathery life he would defy this man, but the church? He could not risk it.

“Your Eminence, time is a factor here, for both you and me. I truly hate threatening something as magnificent as this cathedral, but I will burn it to the ground without hesitation. I need that diary!”

“Please, I have the diary, you may take it, but do not harm the church.”

Farbeaux ordered his men to right the drum of paint thinner and recap it. He instructed them to clean up what had spilled. The archbishop would never know that Farbeaux would never have given the order to burn the five-hundred-year-old church. That would have been sacrilegious to him. Farbeaux wasn’t put in the world to destroy such beauty; he was born to own it. Fortunately, the archbishop would stay quiet about the theft of the Vatican secret because he loved his church so much; the mere threat of burning it to the ground would keep him silent. There would be no need for violence, even if Farbeaux’s benefactor had given him orders to the contrary. He regretted even the threat of violence as he assisted the old man to his feet, but knew that was the way of the world. And the prize he was seeking was far too valuable. He was willing to do anything to attain it.

He smiled at the old man and watched as the men he had been assigned did as they were told. He knew they had been given orders to assist in eliminating all who knew about the map, but he would make sure the archbishop avoided any accidents.

Farbeaux looked around the empty cathedral to make sure he was the last man to leave. He had assured the archbishop no harm would come to the exquisite building, and, after all, he was a man of his word.

He followed the other men to three vans and they made their way to the airport. As the last vehicle exited the gravel drive, a man in a rented sedan stepped from the driver’s side of his car and watched to make sure the team was not going to return. His pencil-thin mustache had small beads of sweat lined above and below it. The man removed the set of polarized sunglasses he was wearing. He adjusted his light green sport coat and walked past the now idle work trucks and equipment. He made his way easily to the rear of the mammoth church and found a back entrance that was covered only in a thick sheet of plastic. As the dark-skinned man eased the plastic away from the door frame, he placed his hand just inside the sport coat and then stepped into the cooling shadows of the small alcove that led into the back of the church. When he saw there was no one present, he stepped gracefully around several piles of books that had been removed from the shelves of the small alcove, and moved up to a door that read office. He leaned close and listened for movement. He heard only the soft hum of an air conditioner. He reached out and lightly turned the brass doorknob and eased it open. He saw movement and immediately brought out a nine-millimeter pistol with a long black silencer attached.

The rotund man dressed in work overalls didn’t hear the door open as he was busy picking up books from the floor around a large desk. The man at the door noticed that the big man seemed to be crying. The gunman turned away and looked behind him to make sure his entrance into the office area had gone unnoticed. When he turned back the man in the office had straightened up and was just standing there; he was looking right at the doorway where the gunman stood. The man opened the door all the way. Archbishop Santiago placed the books he was holding on the desk, then slowly crossed himself as he saw the object the man was holding.

The tall, thin assassin knew exactly who was standing before him and it angered him that this task had fallen to him, a man raised in the Catholic faith. The Frenchman had failed to carry out his explicit orders calling for a death that looked accidental. Now, because there was a severe shortage of time, that could no longer be accomplished.

“I was given the promise that nothing shall befall my cathedral,” Santiago said as he reached into his coverall and felt for the crucifix there.

“And nothing shall befall your church, Your Excellency,” the man said coldly in Spanish as he raised the silenced pistol.