Razak's expression showed his confusion. "Who is this Joseph?"

The waiter returned with a steaming pot of tea and Razak covered the document with his hand while the young man poured out two cups.

Barton waited for him to leave. "Joseph is the man whose skeleton is in the ninth ossuary. You see, the Hebrew name 'Yosef' translates in English to 'Joseph.'" He gave Razak a moment to let that sink in and continued, "Have you ever heard of Joseph of Arimathea?"

Razak shook his head.

"I'm not surprised. He's an obscure first-century biblical figure who appears only briefly in the New Testament."

Sipping his tea, Razak suddenly looked uneasy. "And what does the book say about him?"

The Englishman spread his hands on the table. "Let me first say that most of what we hear about Joseph of Arimathea is purely legend. That's what's most interesting about this find." Barton was speaking quickly, but in a hushed tone to avoid being overheard. "Many say he was a wealthy tradesman who supplied metals to both the Jewish aristocracy and Rome's bureaucrats, both of whom needed steady supplies of bronze, tin, and copper to produce weaponry and mint coins."

"An important man."

"Yes." Tentative, Barton continued by saying, "In fact, the Gospels of Mark and Luke state that Joseph was a prominent member of the Sanhedrin-- the council of seventy-one Jewish sages who acted as the supreme court of ancient Judea. The Gospels also suggest that Joseph was a close confidant of a very famous, charismatic Jew named Joshua."

The name didn't register with Razak, but Barton was looking at him like it should. "Am I supposed to know this Joshua?"

"Oh you know him," Barton confidently replied. "Some Hebrew translations also refer to him as 'Yeshua.' The original Greek gospels referred to him as 'Iesous.'" He could tell Razak was growing impatient with the name game. "But surely you know his Arabic name,...'Isa.'"

Razak's eyes went wide. "Jesus?"

"And though Joshua-- or Jesus-- was the second most popular name here back in the first century, I don't think the Jesus I'm referring to needs any explanation."

Razak shifted in his chair.

"Following Jesus's death, Joseph was said to have gone to Gaul-- modern-day France. Accompanied by the disciples, Lazarus, Mary Magdalene, Philip, he preached Jesus's teachings. Supposedly around 63 CE, he even spent time in Glastonbury, England, where he acquired land and built England's first monastery."

Sipping more tea, Razak raised his eyebrows. "Go on."

"Fast-forward to the Middle Ages and Joseph becomes a cult hero with monarchs fabricating lineal ties to share his fame. And during this time another story surfaces, claiming that Joseph possessed Jesus's crown of thorns and the chalice he drank from at the Last Supper." Barton paused to let Razak absorb all the details. "Some believed that Joseph collected the blood of Jesus's crucified body in that cup." He noticed Razak's lips purse at the words "crucified body." "Better known as 'the Holy Grail,' the cup was believed to possess healing powers and granted its owner immortality."

"Those certainly are fantastic stories," Razak stated. "Surely you're not suggesting that the thieves thought the missing ossuary contained the Holy Grail?"

Pursing his lips, Barton made a dismissive motion with his hand. "There are some fanatics out there," he admitted, "but no. I'd certainly not push that idea." He continued tentatively. "I decided to do a bit more research on Joseph of Arimathea using the most convenient and relevant handbook available." He held up a book.

Razak's eyes bored into the copy of the New Testament he held. "More legend," he said cynically.

Knowing that the New Testament would be a touchy matter, Barton expected this reaction. Any discussion of Jesus had to recognize that Muslims revered him as one in a long series of human prophets that included Abraham, Moses, and Allah's final servant, Muhammad. Under no circumstances would Islam accept any man or prophet as an equal to God himself. It was this pillar of Islamic faith that to Muslims rendered the Christian concept of the Trinity absolute blasphemy, creating the most significant rift between the two faiths. And this book was considered by Muslims as a gross misinterpretation of Jesus's life.

Ignoring the jab, Barton forged on, "Of the twenty-seven books in the New Testament, four give detailed historical accounts of the prophet Jesus: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Each specifically mentions Joseph of Arimathea." Barton flipped open the Bible to a section marked by a Post-It note, trying his best to steady his now trembling fingers. What he was about to propose was amazing. He leaned closer across the table. "All four accounts essentially say the same thing, so I'll just read this first excerpt from Matthew twenty-seven, verse fifty-seven." Then he slowly read the passage:

Barton raised his eyes from the pages. "I'll read that one sentence again. 'Joseph took the body, wrapped it in a clean linen cloth, and placed it in his own new tomb that he had cut out of the rock.'"

Razak's mouth gaped open. "Surely you don't think-- "

The waiter suddenly appeared and Razak stopped mid-sentence, waiting for the young man to set down the plates and leave before continuing.

Razak took a deep breath. "I see where you're going with this, Graham. It is a very dangerous theory indeed." He took some bread and scooped hummus onto his plate. It smelled spectacular.

"Please hear me out," Barton continued softly. "We have to at least entertain the idea that the thieves may have truly believed that the missing ossuary contained the remains of Jesus. And this scroll we found in the ninth ossuary clearly references the messiah. It's far too precise to ignore."

As he explained this to Razak, Barton was beginning to feel the full weight of Father Demetrios's subtle warning. The words on this scroll could potentially undermine traditional commemoration of Christ's mysterious benefactor, because the loculi deep beneath the Church of the Holy Sepulchre were believed to have belonged to Joseph.

Razak stared at the archaeologist. "You should eat your bread while it's hot."

"Look. I'm not saying I believe all this." Barton tore off some bread and spooned some hummus onto his plate. "I'm simply suggesting a motive. If we're dealing with a fanatic who believed all this to be true, it would make that missing ossuary the ultimate relic."

Razak finished chewing, swallowed, and said, "I'm sure you'll understand that I can't possibly accept the idea that this missing ossuary contained Jesus's body. Remember Mr. Barton, unlike the misguided men who wrote that book," he pointed at the Bible, "the Qur'an speaks the literal words of Allah using the great prophet Muhammad-- peace be upon him-- as his messenger. As Muslims we've been told the truth. Jesus was spared the cross. Allah protected him from those who sought to bring him harm. He didn't die a mortal death but was reclaimed by Allah and ascended to Heaven." He raised his eyes skyward. "And remember, the men to whom I am accountable will react much worse than me. They won't hear of such ideas." He dipped his bread in hummus and popped it into his mouth. "Besides, don't the Christians claim Jesus rose from the dead and ascended into heaven? Isn't that what the Easter holiday is all about?"

"Absolutely," Barton said.

Chewing, Razak looked at him quizzically.

Barton grinned. "The Bible says a lot of things," he admitted. "But the gospels were drafted decades after Jesus's ministry, following a long period of oral tradition. I don't need to tell you how that can affect the integrity of what we read today. Since Jesus's disciples were themselves Jews, they incorporated a midrashic storytelling style, which, quite frankly, focuses more on meaning and understanding-- often at the expense of historical accuracy. I might also point out that ancient interpretations of resurrection had much more to do with a spiritual transformation than a physical one."

Razak shook his head. "I don't understand how anyone could believe those stories."

"Well," Barton carefully countered, "you need to keep in mind that the target audience for the gospels were pagan converts. Those people believed in divine gods who died tragically and resurrected gloriously. Life, death, then rebirth was a theme common to many pagan gods including Osiris, Adonis, and Mithras. Early Christian leaders, particularly Paul of Tarsus-- a Hellenistic, philosophical Jew-- knew Jesus needed to fit these criteria. He was selling this new religion in a very competitive environment. We can't discount the idea that he embellished the story. And of twenty-seven books in the New Testament, he alone is thought to have written fourteen of them. Quite influential, I think you'd agree. It's prudent, therefore, for us to put these accounts into their proper historical and human context."

Razak eyed him approvingly. "You're a very complex man Graham. Your wife must enjoy you very much," he said, half sarcastic. He pointed to the gold wedding band on the archaeologist's right hand.

"If you think I've got a lot to say, you should hear her. Jenny is a barrister."

"A lawyer?" Razak's eyebrows raised up. "A professional debater. I'd hate to see the two of you fight."

"Luckily that's an infrequent occurrence." The truth was, outside the courtroom she was anything but a contender. Lately, they'd been drifting apart across an ever-widening sea of silence.

"Do you have any children?"

"A son, John, twenty-one. Good-looking lad, with more brains than both his parents put together. Attends university at my alma mater in Cambridge. We also have a lovely daughter, Josephine, twenty-five years old. She lives in the States, in Boston. She's a lawyer, like her mum. And you? Wife and children?"

Razak smiled shyly and shook his head. "Unfortunately Allah has not granted me a suitable wife as of yet."

Barton thought he detected something in the Muslim's eyes. Pain? "Maybe it's not Allah's will, but because you're stubborn," Barton said.

Razak pretended to be offended, then burst out laughing. "Ah yes, perhaps you are right," he said.

Once they had finished eating, Razak turned his attention back to the transcription. "And what about the rest of this...what does it all mean?" He read the second part of the transcription: "'To reclaim God's testimony from beneath Abraham's altar, to restore the holy Tabernacle.'"

Barton was hoping to avoid this part of the discussion. "Ah." He paused. "Abraham's altar is most likely referring to Mount Moriah."

"Where the prophet Ibraham was told to sacrifice Ismaeel, son of Hagar," the Muslim stated flatly.

"Okay." Barton let the interpretation slide. Though the Torah clearly stated that Abraham was to sacrifice Issaac, the son of his wife Sarah, Muslims traced their lineage back to Ismaeel-- the son born to Sarah's hand servant, Hagar. It was yet another example of the two religions trying desperately to claim as its own the Old Testament's most revered patriarch-- the man credited with monotheistic faith and complete submission to the one true God. After all, that's what Islam literally meant, Barton thought: submission to the will of Allah.

"And this reference to 'God's testimony,'" Razak added. "Sounds as if it is a physical thing that is 'beneath Abraham's altar.' I don't understand."

A shiver ran down Barton's arm. "I'm still trying to determine what that means," he lied. "I'll need to do a bit more research."

Looking skeptical, Razak nodded. "I trust you'll let me know what you discover."

"Of course."

"So where do we go from here?"

Barton thought about it. Oddly, his thoughts kept drifting to Father Demetrios-- the visit to the Sepulchre's lower crypt that had supposedly belonged to Joseph of Arimathea. It got him thinking again about the chamber beneath Temple Mount, how it lacked some of the features typical in first-century crypts. "Actually, I think we'll need to go back to the crypt. There's something I may have overlooked. When do you think we can get back in there?"

"Let's hold off on that until tomorrow morning," he suggested. "I received a very interesting call late this morning from a good friend in Gaza who heard I was involved in this investigation. He says he has some information that might help us out."

"What kind of information?"

"I'm not sure, actually," Razak said. "He wouldn't say over the phone."

"Which means it's probably good stuff."

"That's what I'm hoping. Anyway, I was going to take a drive...to go and see him this afternoon. If you're not too busy, maybe you should come along."

"I'd like that. What time?"

"I just have something to attend to first. Won't take me long." Razak looked down at his watch. "Can you meet me in the parking lot outside the Jaffa Gate around two?"

"I'll be there."

Razak reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his wallet.

"Please, Razak," Barton insisted, motioning it away. "Let me get this. You run ahead and I'll see you at two."

"Thank you, Graham. That's very generous."

Opposite the cafe on El Wad, a forgettable young man was seated on a bench reading a newspaper and sipping coffee, enjoying the mild afternoon. Occasionally he inconspicuously glanced over to the archaeologist and Muslim delegate. The small headphones plugged into his ears, seemingly connected to an iPod, were transmitting the amazing conversation that was taking place to the IDF's Jerusalem outpost.

VATICAN CITY

Bringing up the skeletal scans in full-screen view, Giovanni Bersei scrolled down the grid of miniature images, pausing occasionally to enlarge and analyze a bone in more detail. "That's great, Charlotte. Looks like you got the ribs right too. Not easy. All we have to do now is ask the computer to assemble the skeleton," he clicked the menu options.

Charlotte Hennesey stood behind him as a small window popped up:

He turned to her. "No errors so far. Not bad for a first try."

Twenty seconds later, the screen flashed back a three-dimensional image of the skeleton. The program had scrutinized each bone's smallest detail to re-create the condition of joints and cartilage attachments, providing an accurate picture of the fully reassembled skeletal frame. It had even maintained the minute, awful detail resulting from crucifixion-- the gouges on the ribs and damage to the wrists, feet, and knees.

"Extraordinary." Bersei eyed the on-screen image-- an assembled version of what lay on the workstation behind them. For a moment, he was again awestruck by the amazing capabilities of computer technology. "That's probably just the way our man looked prior to interment into the ossuary."

"What about the flesh?"

He held his hands out as if trying to slow a speeding car. "One step at a time."

"Sorry. Too much coffee."

"We like to take things a bit slower over here," he joked. "Helps longevity."

Charlotte cringed.

Bersei worked the mouse again. "Next we'll ask the computer to assign muscle mass to the skeletal frame. The software will measure every bone to estimate its density and re-create its ligament attachment points."

She knew the basic concept. "Larger muscles place more stress on the bones they're attached to, requiring stronger ligaments and connecting points?"

"Quite so. Call it reverse engineering. Granted, the program can't account for every soft tissue abnormality. But it can detect a skeleton's structural anomalies. If that happens, the program will attempt to re-create it, or we'll get an error message. That said, let's get some muscle on this frame." He refocused on the screen.

The progress window reappeared:

PLEASE WAIT WHILE YOUR SAMPLE IS PROCESSED.

The screen refreshed.

This time the program had clothed a fibrous weave of lean musculature over the skeletal form. The image was gruesome but anatomically correct-- a de-skinned human, the muscles various shades of red, the ligaments a disturbing bluish-white. The man had been extremely well formed and perfectly proportioned.

Charlotte leaned in closer. "Looks very fit," she said matter-of-factly.

"No McDonald's back then," he said as he manipulated the mouse.

"Or osso bucco for that matter."

They both laughed.

Settling down, Giovanni looked back at the screen. "Okay, let's add some skin here." He clicked a command.

Almost instantly the screen refreshed again, the 3-D image looking like a Bernini marble sculpture with its smooth "flesh." The enhanced image omitted all hair, including eyebrows. The eyes were smooth, colorless orbs.

Charlotte was transfixed. Now the study had entered a new realm where an otherwise unnamed, faceless specimen seemed to take on an eerie, lifelike quality. They were bringing these ancient bones back from the dead.

"This is where your DNA analysis will help fill in the blanks," Bersei continued. "The program accepts genetic information-- it re-creates everything from eye and skin color to hair density, hairline, fingernails, body hair, and so on. We can also approximate body fat content within an accurate range. Thus far, I think his most impressive feature is this." He pointed to the lower right corner of the screen where basic statistics were reported, including one line reading:

"Extremely tall for his day," Bersei observed. "Odd. If this man died in the beginning of the first century, he would have really stood out."

"People were shorter back then, right?"

"It's a commonly held belief that their nutrition wasn't adequate. But I wouldn't give that much credit. Many would argue it was actually better. But even by modern standards this man would turn heads. Your genetic data may help shed light on this."

"Go in on the face."

He held the mouse button to drag a white-lined frame around the image and clicked to zoom.

A ghostly form filled the screen, its features well defined, yet soft, with a long sloping nose, full lips, and a strong chin. There was a pronounced jaw line with a firm brow and wide eyes.

Bersei seemed satisfied. "For now this is the program's best re-creation. He was a handsome devil."

Charlotte was mesmerized by the haunting features. "I wonder how accurate this is."

"I've used this same program to reconstruct identities on similar skeletons for homicide investigations," Bersei said in a confident tone, "and it's always proved very accurate when eventually matched with a victim's known profile."

The intercom suddenly came to life. Father Donovan apologized for the interruption, but was patching through a call from a Signore Ciardini.

"Probably our carbon dating results," Bersei said. "Why don't you take that call and I'll continue my work on the ossuary."

"Sounds good," she said as she made her way over to the phone.

Bersei returned to his workstation.

Once he had finished removing the powdery dust layer from the bottom of the ossuary, something there caught his eye.

A thin outline.

Grabbing a small brush, he bent closer, dusting the grooves until a rectangular form gradually emerged.

Trading the brush for a small blade, he inserted it along the rectangle's edge, carefully jimmying under what looked like a metal plate. With the plate removed, a hollowed-out compartment was revealed. Inside were the shadowy forms of three long, tapered objects.

He thought his eyes were playing tricks, and adjusted the overhead lighting. Reaching into the ossuary, he worked his fingers along the compartment. Giovanni sensed metal through the latex as he withdrew one of the objects. It was surprisingly heavy, easily eighteen centimeters long and black as coal with a knobby, blunted end that tapered into a shaft of wrought edges.

A nail.

Placing it on a tray, he stared at it, disbelief flooding back.

He pulled two remaining nails from the bottom of the ossuary, and aligned all three on the tray. Three more items that would substantiate the skeleton's identity. There had been many moments in Bersei's career that served as reminders of his passion for discovery. But these revelations transcended all rationality. "Oh my," he gasped, sinking back into his chair.

Across the lab Charlotte had just hung up the phone.

"You've got to see what I've just found," he called over to her. His eyes were locked on the tray.

Charlotte approached the workstation. By Bersei's blanched look she knew that the ossuary had offered up yet another of its secrets.

He pointed mutely to the tray.

She saw three metal objects lying on the tray's shiny steel surface. "Railroad spikes?" Staring down at the jagged points of the nails made the whole ghastly process of crucifixion even more real.

Bersei broke the silence. "I think it's safe to say that these would have been the nails used to crucify this man...whoever he was."

"Where did you find them?"

"Take a look." He pointed with his chin.

She positioned herself above the ossuary, scanning its exposed cavity-- a hollowed-out limestone shell.

"The dust was concealing it."

That's when her eyes caught the faint outline of something else hidden deep inside the ossuary. It looked like a second recess carved even deeper into the compartment. "Wait," she called sharply, swinging the retractable lighting arm over the ossuary, light flooding its interior. "Looks like you missed something. There. It looks like..." Under the harsh glare she could discern it better. "...a cylinder?"

JERUSALEM

Razak found Farouq in the small upstairs room in the Grammar College building the Waqf had converted into its temporary office. He'd just finished a phone call.

Before he could open his mouth, the Keeper cut across: "Topol says no recorded shipments over the past couple of days come close to matching the ossuary." He drummed his fingers on the desk. "This isn't going well."

Razak took a seat. Farouq looked as if he hadn't slept in days as he turned to face him at an angle that perfectly superimposed the Keeper over the window-framed backdrop of the Dome of the Rock Mosque.

"Hamas and the Palestinian Authority," Farouq continued, "both confirmed that the helicopter used to transport the thieves from the Haram esh-Sharif was definitely Israeli. When I confronted Teleksen about it, he claimed it had been hijacked from the Sde Dov air base near Tel Aviv. A Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk."

If Razak's memory served him correctly, Israel had purchased several of the assault helicopters from the Americans in the late 1990s.

"Seems that the Israeli Air Force shares the Sde Dov airfield with commercial carriers," Farouq added.

"No wonder it was so easy for someone to sneak onto the base."

"Let's not jump to conclusions." His tone was razor sharp. "There's always the possibility that the helicopter wasn't actually stolen."

Not liking the fact that Farouq's objectivity seemed to be waning, Razak shifted gears. "At least they've finally admitted to it. Quite an embarrassment for them."

"Assuming it was an accident, of course."

"Did you ask Teleksen why we weren't informed sooner?"

"Of course I did."

"And what was his response?"

Farouq folded his arms. "He was concerned the information would be leaked to the media."

Razak had to admit that if the tables had been turned, the Palestinians would also have done their best to conceal any information that could initiate hostile retaliation. It all just seemed like a never-ending game. "You don't actually think the Israelis arranged for the theft, do you?"

"It's too soon to tell. But obviously I'm suspicious."

"But what about all those Israeli soldiers murdered?" He shook his head. It just didn't gel with what Barton was presenting. Why would the Jews be interested in the supposed relics of a false messiah or some ridiculous legend about the Holy Grail? "What could their motive possibly be?"

"What has the Israeli motive ever been? These people are always looking to destroy peace."

The same response Razak would expect from Hamas. "So how will you proceed?"

"I'm not sure. For now, we'll await more information." Farouq laced his fingers together and pressed them against his lips. "Tell me, what is going on with the English archaeologist...this Barton character?"

Surely this was not the time to fuel the old man's growing frustrations with the other side. As it stood, the archaeologist's wild theories remained just that-- untamed. "He's asked to see the chamber again. He feels he may have missed something."

Trying to hide his concern, the Keeper seemed unfazed. "Like what?"

"I'll tell you as soon as I find out." Razak stood to leave. "By the way, I'll need to borrow your car. I'm meeting someone who may be able to give us some good information."

"Fine." Farouq opened his desk drawer and gave Razak a key to the Mercedes S500. "I just had it cleaned. Where will you be going?"

"Gaza City," Razak coolly replied.

"I see." Farouq's face went limp as he considered asking for the key back. "You know how things are over there right now."

"I'll be careful," Razak assured him. "I'm taking Barton with me. It will be fine."

Clearly unconvinced, Farouq nodded. "Just remember that we're trying to solve a crime here, Razak. An act of terrorism. We're not making a documentary. Make sure Barton stays on track."

"Yes, yes."

After Razak left, Farouq sat in silence for some time, staring emptily out the window at the gold-leafed cupola of the Dome of the Rock-- the structure that single-handedly defined Islam's claim to Palestine.

Even the name of the site was one neither side could agree on. To Jews, it was the Temple Mount. To Muslims-- the Haram esh-Sharif.

Everything in Jerusalem had at least two names, even the city itself-- Al Quds.

How could such a small country have redefined the Middle East and sparked the counter crusade-- jihad? Centuries of conflict. So many disputes. To Farouq, religion was no longer the cause he championed. It was far more than that now.

He thought back to his days on the front line. He'd been a soldier during the Six Days' War in 1967, when the Arab nations-- Egypt, Syria, and Jordan-- had formed a united front to cast the Israelis into the sea, once and for all. But Israel's lethal air force-- purchased from the United States-- had been underestimated, preemptively striking the Egyptian airfields before the offensive even began. The conflict had ended with terrible consequences for the Palestinians. Israel had managed to wrest control over the Golan Heights, the West Bank, and the Sinai Peninsula. But even after that disastrous conflict, the Temple Mount had remained under Islamic control. Even the heavily armed Israelis knew that an attack against this site would escalate conflict to entirely new levels.

In 1973 Farouq had once again fought for his people when Egypt and Syria joined forces to reclaim the occupied territories, launching a sneak attack in Sinai and the Golan Heights during the holiest of the Jewish holidays-- Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. For two weeks the Arab forces pushed deeper and deeper into the region, almost breaking the Israelis. But the tide soon turned, with the United Nations enforcing a ceasefire.

Farouq's hand migrated to his chest and massaged the scar beneath his tunic where an Israeli infantryman's bullet had almost taken his life.

Though a major conflict hadn't occurred in over three decades, Palestinian intifadas had been prolonged and frequent. Israel had strengthened its hold over the land, monopolizing the weaponry. It was a poorly kept secret that Israel had nuclear weapons, while Palestinians protesting on the streets had resorted to throwing stones.

But the emergence of extremist militant groups-- like Hamas and Islamic Jihad-- had transformed the conflict to a psychological offensive designed to starve the Israelis of peace and security. Highly visible suicide bombings had become the new voice of Palestinian freedom. Whether one called them terrorists or martyrs, the message was clear-- the Israelis were only visitors in this place.

There would never be peace in Israel and wise men like Farouq who had fought on the front line for independence knew why. To give up Palestine was to surrender to Western ideology. Just as Saladin had pushed the Crusaders out of the Holy Land in the twelfth century, the Palestinians would soon rise again to reclaim the region.

And no controversy resulted in more bloodshed than those resulting from Israeli meddling with the Temple Mount. The archaeological digs initiated by Israelis and Palestinians in 1996 had resulted in scores of deaths. In 2000 Ariel Sharon had tried to reassert Israeli control over the site by marching into the esplanade with hundreds of IDF soldiers. Once again the Palestinians interpreted these actions as a religious attack, and much bloodshed had ensued.

Though he no longer wielded a rifle, Farouq remained a soldier on this new battlefront. The Temple Mount-- the region's most valuable asset-- was an archaeological treasure, a time capsule of world faith and politics. And no matter how sophisticated Israeli weaponry became, they would never reclaim the site while he lived and breathed. With all Farouq had fought for in the past, he would rather die before that day passed.

Picking up the phone, he placed a call to the news department at Gaza City's Palestinian TV. Owned and operated by the Palestinian Authority, Palestinian TV underscored the extreme discontent at Israeli occupation. Its message had struck such a chord in right-wing Israeli circles that its director had been killed, shot at close range in the chest and head. The Mossad was suspected.

His call was routed to his inside contact-- a young, ambitious Muslim named Alfar. Farouq provided detailed information about the helicopter-- ammunition for what would prove to be the network's most contentious media bombshell ever.

Farouq hung up.

Emanating from the network of loudspeakers across the Haram esh-Sharif esplanade, he heard the call of the muezzin. It was time for midday prayer.

The Keeper eased himself onto his knees, faced south toward Mecca and began his recitation.

VATICAN CITY

Standing to get a better look at what Charlotte had found, Bersei could see that nestled in a carved niche at the very bottom of the ossuary was something that resembled a metal test tube.

Above the white fabric of their masks, the two scientists exchanged looks.

"I've just about had all I can take right now," Giovanni motioned to the cylinder. "You do the honors."

Charlotte reached down as if into a black hole. Her fingers closed around smooth metal. Slowly, and with infinite care, she withdrew it from the ossuary.

Turning her hand over, she rolled the tarnished tubular casing along her latex covered palm-- a stark contrast of old and new. Both ends were sealed by round metal caps. There were no distinguishing marks or inscriptions.

"A container of some kind?" She inspected each end in turn. Her eyes were on him, searching for an explanation, but Bersei could not speak. "Giovanni, I think you should open this."

He waved her away.

Charlotte rotated it. The metal looked similar to the coins. Was it bronze? "Okay. Here goes." She held the cylinder over an empty section of the tray. Clenching her teeth, she took hold of the cap sealing one end, applied equal pressure in the opposite direction and twisted. At first it didn't budge. But an instant later, a muffled cracking sound indicated the wax seal had broken.

The cap came free.

Fellow conspirators, the two scientists gazed at one another. Tilting the cylinder closer to the light, she glimpsed something rolled up inside.

"What do you see?" Bersei's voice was hoarse with tension.

"It looks like a scroll."

He balled his hand into a fist, pressing it against his chin. "Handle that extremely carefully." His voice was loud. "It's probably very brittle." First the coins, now this, he thought. It was getting to be overwhelming.

Gently tapping the unopened end of the cylinder, Charlotte coaxed the scroll from the tube. Sticking at first, it slid out suddenly, landing on the tray with a small thump. They both froze. "Shit! I didn't think that would happen so easily."

Bersei reached out and gingerly rolled it back and forth with his index finger, assessing the damage. "No harm done." He exhaled heavily. "Looks like it's in excellent condition."

"Is that parchment?"

Bersei studied it. "Most likely calfskin."

"Have you ever handled ancient documents?"

"Personally, no," he admitted.

"We can't just unfurl it, can we?"

"We'd have to research that. It looks remarkably well preserved, but of course it will be frail. There will be strict procedures. We can't risk any damage." He was trying to imagine what it might reveal. "Don't you think there's just too much evidence here?" His expression hardened.

"Perhaps. But I've got some really interesting news for you." Charlotte had his complete attention.

"The radiocarbon dating results?"

She nodded. "That bone sample I submitted to Ciardini."

He studied her face intently. "What did he find?"

"Ready for this? The sample was so good that it's 98.7% certain the bones date from between 5 and 71 AD."

Uncertainty was growing in Bersei's eyes again. That narrow time range was almost incredible. With his left hand, he massaged a cramp that was setting into the base of his neck. Stress. "This is compelling news."

"And the wood splinter-- which, by the way, is from a type of walnut tree indigenous to a region in Israel. There's an 89.6% degree of certainty it dates from between 18 and 34 AD."

Bersei's eyes jumped over to the skeleton as if it had suddenly come to life. "When do you think you'll have the results of the genetic analysis?"

"We might have it tomorrow."

He stared down at the rolled calfskin. "Good. Let's go ahead and document all this," he suggested.

Charlotte got the digital camera, turned it on and started snapping shots of the ossuary's interior.

Locked in thought, Bersei knew that something about all this felt very wrong. No wonder Father Donovan had wanted to call in leading scientific expertise. The priest had to know more than he was letting on. After Charlotte captured an image of the rolled scroll, Bersei carefully returned it to its metal housing, and sealed the cap.

EREZ CROSSING, ISRAEL

An hour southwest of Jerusalem, the lush farmlands of Israel's transformed desert began to fade back into arid landscape as Razak drove down Highway 4 toward the Gaza border.

"Have you ever been on that side of the fence?" Barton motioned with his eyes through the distant tall posts and steel wiring of the separation fence that ran along the Gaza Strip's fifty-one kilometer border, cutting away the tiny sliver of land from Israel's southern coast.

"Only once," Razak replied in a dreary tone. He did not elaborate.

A sour taste came into the back of Barton's throat. Seeing as he'd be only one of a handful of Europeans in the tiny place inhabited by almost 1.3 million Palestinians, he would have preferred a more reassuring response from Razak-- especially since Westerners were prime targets for abduction by Islamic militants, like the El-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade.

Up ahead, the roadway was snarled for almost three kilometers with idling vehicles-- taxis, cars, and vans awaiting clearance through the Erez Crossing. Pulled off to the side of the road, many had already overheated. With no cover in sight, the scorching sun beat down unforgivingly on the stranded motorists.

Even with the windows up, the sounds of crying children and the choking stench of exhaust fumes permeated the Mercedes's air-conditioned interior.

"Who exactly is this contact we're meeting?" Barton asked.

"An old school friend of mine. A man who shares many of my concerns for the future of the Middle East," Razak explained. "If you don't mind, I'd like to request that you let me do all the talking."

"Agreed."

It took almost two hours until they reached the expansive metal canopy resembling a doorless hangar that shielded the IDF border patrol guards from the sun. Cement barricades and barbed wire lined the road. Tanks and armored vehicles were positioned on both sides of the gate.

Razak turned to Barton. "Do you still have that letter the Israeli police gave you?"

"Certainly."

"Good. I have a feeling we may need it." Razak tried his best to disregard an Arab taxi driver who was being interrogated by a gang of IDF soldiers on the exiting side of the roadway. A pair of German shepherds sniffed the car for explosives. He remembered hearing that the Israelis were particularly suspicious of lone drivers coming out of the Gaza Strip, many of whom had been suicide bombers.

Finally the IDF soldiers, wearing full combat gear, waved Razak forward, making no effort to point their rifle muzzles down. Surveillance cameras were mounted high up on the steel beams that supported the shelter, glaring down. A scrawny young Israeli soldier stepped forward. "Open your rear compartment and let me see your papers," he stated in rough Arabic, taking a moment to admire the Mercedes's smooth lines.

Razak pushed the trunk release button and handed over their passports to the guard.

Two soldiers paced along either side of the car, running mirrors under the chassis, eyed the interior, and made their way to the rear to inspect the trunk.

The guard crouched slightly to get a look at Barton. He shook his head. "Not from here, I see." Grimacing, he shifted his gaze back to Razak and said, "You must be crazy going in there, especially now. This car. Him." He made a smug face as he eyed Barton. "What's your business?"

The trunk slammed shut, making the Englishman jump.

Presenting Barton's letter, Razak explained that the Israeli police had commissioned them to aid in the Temple Mount investigation. The guard seemed satisfied.

"Go, but be careful in there," he warned. "Past this gate, you're on your own."

Razak nodded seriously, then pulled ahead. Letting out a prolonged sigh of relief, he maneuvered the Mercedes through more cement barricades positioned below a concrete guard tower.

Fifteen minutes later, heading south down the region's main highway, Gaza City's unimpressive skyline came into view. The concentration of buildings tightened as Razak drove mindfully through the crowded downtown streets where the bombed-out facades of some structures still lay in ruin. Lasting reminders of Israel's frequent rocket attacks.

For a long while, both men remained quiet, each taking in the bleakness of it all.

"This is awful," Barton finally said.

"Over a million people packed into a tiny parcel of land." Razak's tone was grim. "Horrible sanitary conditions, political instability, a devastated economy..."

"The perfect recipe for discontent."

Parking along the curb, Razak paid a Palestinian boy with a round face forty Israeli shekels to watch the car. The streets were mobbed. The hot, lifeless air smelled of sewage.

Getting out of the car, Barton tried to avoid eye contact with the curious Palestinians who passed by.

"We'll be meeting him over there," Razak said, motioning subtly with his eyes to a tiny outdoor cafe situated on the busy street corner in the shadow of a formidable mosque whose minaret stabbed defiantly into the blue sky. "Let's go."

The contact-- a Palestinian with a sturdy frame and a bearded, smooth face-- was already seated at a table, sipping mint tea from a clear glass. He called over to Razak.

Smiling, Razak greeted the man with a blessing and a handshake, then introduced the man to Barton by his first name-- Taheem.

Barton smiled and extended a hand in greeting. He couldn't help but notice that the forty-something contact was well dressed in a neatly pressed linen suit-- a sharp contrast to the majority of Palestinians here who donned traditional Islamic dress. Many of the women even wore the burka that covered them from head to toe.

Taheem's grin noticeably faded as he looked around before reciprocating the gesture. "Please, sit."

"Will it be all right if we speak in English?" Razak asked.

Bouncing his stern gaze off Barton once again, Taheem hesitated. "Of course."

"So tell me, my friend. How are things here?"

Shaking his head, Taheem rolled his eyes. "You'd think the Israeli pullout would have helped matters. Far from it. The parliament is overrun by fundamentalists looking to formally wage war on Israel. Funding from the UN and the West has dried up. And now, with this incident in Jerusalem..." His eyes shifted somewhere off in the distance.

"I know it must be difficult."

"I'm just happy that I have no family here," Taheem added. "And you? How are things? As good as that fancy car you drive?" He motioned with his head down the street about thirty meters away where the young boy was urging some pedestrians away from the Mercedes.

Razak grinned. "Everything's fine."

"Glad to hear that." He called for the waiter to bring two more teas.

"As you might imagine," Razak said in a hushed tone, "I'm anxious to know what you've heard about the theft."

Taheem eyed Barton once again.

"It's okay," Razak reassured him. "Graham is not an Israeli. He's looking to help us."

Taheem paused while the waiter set down the two glasses for Razak and Barton, waiting until he was out of sight to continue. "You know about the helicopter, I presume?"

"Yes," Razak said. "The Israelis are still trying to find it."

He looked surprised. "Then you don't know."

Confused, Razak's face scrunched up.

"They've already found it," Taheem added.

"What?"

Sipping his tea, Barton listened in silent astonishment, trying to ignore a series of bullet holes that ran a neat line across the cafe's cinderblock facade.

"I heard that a Palestinian fisherman caught some things in his nets three days ago, a few kilometers off the coast. Pieces from a helicopter-- seat cushions, flotation vests...and the head of a dead pilot wearing an Israeli flight helmet."

Shocked, Razak was speechless. "How can it be that no one knows this?" At a minimum, he was sure that Al-Jazeera would have taken a shot at the story-- facts or no facts.

Taheem scanned the area before answering. "Rumor has it that the Shin Bet killed the fisherman before he spoke to the media. But not before he had told his brother-- a dear friend of mine who will remain nameless, for obvious reasons."

"But why was the helicopter in pieces?"

"The night of the theft, many heard it flying low over the rooftops and watched it go out over the sea. Minutes later, some even had a chance to see what looked like an explosion out over the horizon."

Suddenly feeling helpless, Razak knew that Taheem's story confirmed his lingering fear that both the ossuary and the helicopter were long gone. He exchanged an uneasy glance with Barton.

"There's more," Taheem said. "As you know, when the Israelis pulled out of Gaza, they had given the Palestinian Authority control over the southern border crossing into Egypt. Since then, many weapons and explosives have flooded into Gaza. Many have found their way over the fence."

Razak was confused. "I thought the fences were equipped with sensors and electrical charges that could detonate explosives?" Effective deterrents that had largely thwarted most suicide bombers from getting into Israel, he remembered.

"Let me explain."

Barton could see that Taheem was beginning to sweat more.

"Not long before the theft in Jerusalem took place, a helicopter was flying along the border fence." Pointing west, the Palestinian subtly traced the air with his finger, out over the city. "A routine occurrence," Taheem admitted. "However, some say that it hovered for a few minutes, just over the fence...into Gaza. A bold move for an Israeli helicopter, one might think, since such an easy target might attract a rocket-propelled grenade." His voice cracked and he took a sip of tea. Clearing his throat, he continued. "Anyway, I was told that some cargo was hoisted up from the ground and loaded onto the helicopter."

A look of alarm widened Razak's eyes. Of course! The only way to circumvent the checkpoints was to avoid them all together.

Taheem leaned in closer. "I was also told that someone inside Jerusalem coordinated the whole thing."

"But-- "

Before the words escaped Razak's mouth, Taheem's face suddenly exploded outward, spewing blood and fleshy chunks onto the wall, instantly followed by something ricocheting off the wall. Instinctively, Razak catapulted out of his chair and onto the ground, pulling Barton out of the chair and down beside him as Taheem's lifeless torso teetered forward and landed hard on the tabletop.

A few nearby pedestrians screamed and scurried away.

"Jesus!" Barton yelled, shaking in fear. "What on earth was that!"

The silent shot had been so precise, Razak knew instantly. "Sniper."

A second round hammered into the thick wooden tabletop, barely piercing through just above Razak's head. Both he and Barton flinched. A third snapped off the pavement in front of them, almost grazing Barton's arm.

"We've got to get out of here right now." Razak's head spun down the street toward the car. "We're going to have to make a run for it."

Barton's breathing was heavy, sweat dripping from his chin. He nodded. "Okay."

Scrambling to remove the car key from his pocket, Razak said, "We'll split up and meet at the car. Run fast and low through the crowd." He pointed along the sidewalk where most of the pedestrians had yet to figure out that shots had been fired. "I'm heading for the opposite side. It's our only chance. Go!"

Both men sprung out from beneath the table, racing off in opposite directions. Razak barely missed being run down by a dilapidated Ford hatchback as he darted across the street.

Barton did his best to avoid running into the pedestrians, feeling remorseful as he strategically kept them in the sniper's line of fire. Fully anticipating being taken down by the gunman, he was surprised when he came nearer to the Mercedes without registering another shot. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Razak cutting swiftly through the throngs across the street.

The Mercedes's lights blinked as Razak remotely disengaged the door locks.

Barton scrambled to open the car door. Diving inside the Mercedes and pulling the door shut, he glanced over to see the young Palestinian boy holding the driver's door open as if he were a valet. A split second later, Razak weaved deftly through the traffic and spilled into the car. He thrust the key into the ignition as the boy closed the door behind him. Razak waved the clueless kid away just as the sniper managed a clean shot through the boy's temple, toppling him onto the sidewalk.

Now the pedestrians had figured out what was happening and pandemonium broke out-- people running off in all directions.

Throwing the gearshift into drive, Razak slammed his foot on the accelerator.

No more shots came.

Breathless and pumped full of adrenaline, both men exchanged glances.

"What just happened?" Barton said, hands trembling.

Glancing over at him, Razak didn't have an answer. For the next few minutes, he focused on angling his way through the narrow streets, backtracking through the city toward the main highway.

Without warning, the Mercedes's rear lurched to the right amidst the deafening crunch of metal and glass as Razak and Barton were jerked sideways, almost out of their seats.

Somehow, Razak managed to regain control of the Mercedes, only after running up onto a curb and steering back onto the roadway. His head swiveled to glimpse the late model Fiat sedan with a mangled front end that had spun out in the intersection and was in the process of maneuvering to continue its pursuit. Razak could see the driver and a second man riding in the passenger seat. Both were wearing hooded masks. When he saw that the passenger leaned out the window, aiming at them with an AK-47, he yelled over at Barton, "Get down!"

The archaeologist sank below the seat and huddled below the dashboard just as a string of bullets took out the car's rear window and windshield, glass fragments showering down on him. Two of the bullets burrowed deep into the stereo console, spewing out a shower of electric sparks.

Moving his head lower, Razak sped through two more intersections before swinging a wide turn onto the highway, heading north. More shots loudly strafed the driver's side of the car in rapid succession and Razak felt one dig into the side of his seat, almost clipping him beneath the armpit.

The road opened up with no traffic. Adrenaline buzzing through him, Razak pressed the gas pedal all the way to the floor. The Mercedes's engine revved hard and pulled him back in his seat. Miraculously, the car's rear end had endured the collision, though the steering wheel was pulling hard to the left and was vibrating fiercely. He quickly glanced down at Barton who, understandably, looked completely shaken up. "You okay?"

"Are they still behind us?"

Razak eyed the rearview mirror. "Yes. But I don't think they'll be able to keep up."

More shots pinged off the rear of the car.

Racing past the cement barricades of abandoned checkpoints, Razak kept an eye on the pursuers. As he anticipated, the Fiat-- now spewing gray smoke out from its twisted grill-- was quickly losing ground.

Sighing in relief, Razak tried to settle his breathing. His thoughts drifted momentarily to Farouq who would clearly not be pleased with the condition of his cherished Mercedes.

A half-kilometer from the border crossing, Razak watched the rearview mirror as the pursuers came to an abrupt stop. Up ahead, there was no long queue of cars waiting to cross over to Israel-- probably what the gunmen were hoping for, Razak thought-- one last opportunity to have a clean shot. "You can come up now," he told Barton.

"I can understand why you haven't come back here until now," Barton said, settling back into his seat and carefully shaking glass fragments out of his hair.

Decelerating, Razak wound the car through the barricades below the watchtower. Stopping in front of the guard shelter, he waited until the soldiers signaled for him to pull forward. Alarmed by the condition of the Mercedes, they cautiously surrounded the car, rifles drawn, commanding the occupants to remain still.

Then the same young guard that had allowed them entry into Gaza stepped forward. Grimacing, he slung his rifle over his shoulder and put his hands on his hips, raking the Mercedes's marred exterior with his eyes. He crouched down beside Razak's blown-out window and smugly said, "That was fast. Hope you enjoyed your stay."

Just after five o'clock, Father Donovan entered the lab.

"Working late again, I see," he said, flashing a friendly smile.

"We want to make sure that the Vatican gets the best value for its money," Bersei replied.

"Is there anything that the two of you need? Anything I can help with?"

The scientists exchanged glances. "No," Charlotte replied. "The lab's very well equipped."

"Excellent." Donovan's curious eyes wandered over to the skeleton and the opened ossuary.

Bersei spread his hands. "Would you like a quick overview of what we've found so far?"

The priest visibly perked up. "Yes, indeed."

For the next fifteen minutes, the scientists gave Donovan a basic summary of the forensic study and carbon dating results, and showed him the additional relics hidden in the ossuary's secret compartment. Bersei maintained a clinical, objective demeanor and Charlotte followed his lead.

Judging from the priest's reaction to the preliminary findings-- ranging from genuine surprise and intrigue, to tempered concern over the nature of the skeleton's telling signs of crucifixion-- Charlotte sensed that maybe he had no advance knowledge of the ossuary's contents. She noted that the bronze cylinder seemed to capture his attention more than anything else, a lingering concern bleeding into his puzzled gaze. Trying to gauge Bersei's take on the matter, she felt that he too was catching the same vibe from Donovan.

"I'll tell you, Father Donovan," Bersei added, "this is one of the most remarkable archaeological discoveries I've ever laid eyes upon. I'm not sure what sum the Vatican has paid to acquire all this, but I'd say you have a priceless relic here."

Watching the priest closely, Charlotte saw that Donovan's expression showed that he was pleased, but even more so, relieved.

"I'm sure my superiors will be delighted to hear that," the priest said, his eyes wandering once more over to the skeleton. "I don't want to rush things, but do you think you might be able to formally present your findings on Friday?"

Bersei looked over to Charlotte to see if she concurred with the idea. She nodded agreeably. Turning his attention back to Donovan, he said, "It will take some preparation, but we can do it."

"Very good," Donovan said.

"If there's nothing else, Father," Bersei said, "I'll have to be on my way. Don't want to keep my wife waiting."

"Please, don't let me keep you," the priest said. "I very much appreciate both of you taking the time to update me."

Bersei disappeared into the break room to hang his lab coat.

"He's quite the family man," Charlotte whispered to Donovan. "His wife is very lucky."

"Oh yes," Donovan agreed. "Dr. Bersei is very kind...a gentle soul. He's been quite helpful to us over the years." The priest paused for a moment and added, "Tell me, Dr. Hennesey, have you ever visited Rome before?"

"No. And honestly, I haven't really had time to venture across the river yet."

"Can I suggest a tour for you?"

"I'd love that." She genuinely appreciated the priest's hospitality. Living the cloistered life of a cleric, he was quick to offer activities that were geared to a lone traveler.

"If you don't have plans this evening, I'd highly recommend the Night Walking Tour," he energetically offered. "It begins at Piazza Navona, just across the Ponte Sant' Angelo Bridge, at six-thirty. Takes about three hours. The tour guides are fantastic and you'll get a great overview of all the major sites in the old city." He peered down at his watch. "If you leave directly from here, you can make it on time."

"Sounds perfect."

"Normally you have to book these tours two days in advance," he explained, "especially this time of year. But if you're interested, let me make a call to reserve you a ticket."

"That's very kind of you," she replied.

Bersei was just emerging from the break room. "Dr. Hennesey, Father Donovan, I wish you both a good evening," he said eyeing them in turn and bowing slightly. Then he turned to Charlotte and said, "I'll see you tomorrow morning, same time. Make sure not to stay out too late."

ROME

Crossing the Ponte Sant' Angelo Bridge, Charlotte strolled down Via Zanardelli to its terminus and made a couple quick turns before entering the expansive Piazza Navona, laid out like an elongated oval racetrack. Striding toward the immense Italian baroque fountain that was its centerpiece-- Fontanna dei Quattro Fiumi-- she spotted the six-thirty tour group already assembling around a lanky Italian man with a laminated badge, presumably the tour guide. Reaching them, Charlotte waited patiently on the fringe, admiring the fountain's huge obelisk and four Bernini marble sculptures representing the great rivers-- the Ganges, the Danube, the Nile, and the Rio de la Plata-- as muscular male giants.

Moments later, the tall guide came over to her, looking down at a list of confirmed attendees. Glancing up, he smiled brightly, doing a double take when he saw Charlotte's amazing eyes. "You must be Dr. Charlotte Hennesey," he said cheerily in near-perfect English, placing a check next to a handwritten note at the bottom of his roster.

"That's right," she replied. With a perfect smile and soft eyes, his face was young and pleasant, topped with a thick quaff of long, yet well-groomed black hair.

"My name is Marco," he told her. "Father Donovan called ahead for you. It's a pleasure to have you join us this evening."

"Thank you for taking me on such short notice."

A strong voice, with a heavy trace of Italian, suddenly came at Marco from over her left shoulder.

"Perhaps you have room for one more?"

Both Charlotte and the tour guide turned at the same time. Her smile disintegrated when she saw Salvatore Conte standing behind her, grinning.

Marco looked insulted by the interruption. "Your name?"

"Doesn't matter," Conte retorted. "How much for the ticket?"

Sizing him up, the guide pointed to his list and said abruptly, "Sorry. We're already booked. If you'd like to leave me your name, I can see if we can get you onto Saturday's tour."

Agitated, Conte spread his hands and dramatically peered around the piazza, then back at the guide's name badge. "Come on...Marco, it's not exactly like you can't accommodate one more body. Plenty of room here, right Charlotte?" Raising an eyebrow, he stared at her expectantly.

Amazed at his crassness, Charlotte looked away and said nothing.

Conte made a move for his wallet. "How much?"

Shaking his head, Marco crossed his hands behind his back, still holding the clipboard. He could see that the man was making the Vatican guest uncomfortable. She wouldn't even make eye contact with the guy. "I don't make the rules, Signore," he calmly told Conte in Italian. "Please be kind enough to contact our main office to voice your concerns. This is not the place."

Pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek and making a smug face, Conte jabbed a finger at the guide's chest and said in Italian, "You should have a bit more respect for your fellow countrymen, tour guide. It's no wonder you make a living walking the streets and telling stories to tourists. Well, I've got a story for you." He pressed his face close. "Watch out, because at night, the streets in Rome can sometimes be dangerous. You never know who you might encounter in a dark alley." He savored the man's discomfort. "It's a ticket, not a fucking bar of gold."

Charlotte didn't understand what Conte was saying, but the guide's face revealed a growing concern.

Conte's eyes drifted over to her. "Just thought you'd like some company," he said, playing the martyr. "Have a good night, Dr. Hennesey."

With that, the mercenary paced back two steps, spun and strode across the piazza.

"Sorry about that," she said to the guide.

It took Marco a few nervous swallows to regain his voice. "Friend of yours?"

"Far from it," she replied quickly. "And thanks for not giving in. That would've ruined my night."

"Well then," Marco finger-combed his mane of hair as he composed himself, "I guess we'll be on our way."

As Marco formally introduced himself to the group and briefly ran down the tour's itinerary, Charlotte scanned the piazza for Conte, sighing in relief when she didn't spot him. Who exactly was this character? How could such a creepy guy be connected with the Vatican?

It took almost an hour for Charlotte to forget about the crazy encounter at Piazza Navona. But slowly, she had lost herself in Rome's extraordinary history, retold effortlessly by Marco. He had led the group on an amazing journey through the city's famous circular temple, the Pantheon, completed in 125 AD by Emperor Hadrian. There, Charlotte had marveled at its expansive inner dome that seemed to defy the rules of physics, as the sun melted through the wide oculus that hovered at its center.

Then it was off to the junction of three roads-- tre vie-- to admire Nicola Salvi's enormous baroque Trevi Fountain with its seahorse-riding tritons guiding Neptune's shell chariot. Nearby, they passed the Piazza di Spagna just below 138 steps that climbed up the steep slope to the twin bell towers that flanked the Trinita dei Monti church.

A few blocks further came the white Brescian marble Il Viattoriano, an eye-catching (most Romans wouldn't be as polite) monument that most compared to a colossal wedding cake plunked down in the center of Old Rome, inaugurated in 1925 to honor Victor Emmanuel II-- the first king of a unified Italy.

By the time the tour had made its way up Capitoline Hill-- the only prominent remainder of ancient Rome's famed Seven Hills-- and through the crumbled arches and columns of the Imperial Forums, the sun was starting to fade over the horizon and a new moon became visible in the clear night sky. Charlotte Hennesey had finally completely lost herself in the shadows of an ancient Empire.

By the time the tour group had traversed Old Rome to the Colosseum, the entire city had taken on a new persona, basking in glowing lights. Walking the outside of the forty-eight meter high, circular amphitheater with its three tiers of travertine porticos, Charlotte swore she could hear the clash of gladiators and roar of lions.

Then, imagination turned instantly to cold reality when she caught a fleeting glimpse of a modern-day gladiator disappearing into the shadows. Though she wanted to believe her eyes were tricking her, there was no doubt. Salvatore Conte.

TEMPLE MOUNT

Just after nine a.m., Barton negotiated his way past Akbar, and through the blast hole. Razak was already in the crypt standing with arms folded, wearing neatly pressed chinos and a white collared shirt. If Barton didn't know any better, he could have sworn that the Muslim was trying to make some kind of peace with this place. "It's getting bad out there."

"Yes."

Barton dusted off his trousers. "Tell me, how did Farouq react when he saw his car?"

Razak cringed. "Not well." That was an understatement. Last night, Farouq had berated him when he saw that his prized Mercedes was beyond repair. "I shouldn't have let you go! Completely irresponsible! You should have known better, Razak. And for what? What did you gain by going there?" It was like being a mischievous teenager again. "Luckily, he has insurance, which, believe me, isn't so easy to get if you're a Palestinian."

"Did you tell him what we discovered?"

Razak shook his head and held a finger to his lips, pointing toward Akbar. He drew Barton by the arm toward the rear of the chamber. "I don't think he's ready for that just yet," he whispered. Last night, Razak had barely slept, trying to figure out who'd sent the sniper. He could only guess that the Shin Bet was looking to tie up some loose ends. Now, there was a good chance that he and Barton might share Taheem's fate if they didn't move quickly to find answers. "Remember what we discussed-- you mustn't tell anyone what we heard or what happened yesterday. We don't know what the consequences could be."

Barton nodded.

Razak let go of his arm. "So what brings us back here?"

The archaeologist collected his thoughts. "As I mentioned yesterday, I've given the concept of a crypt considerable thought. There are certain facts that simply don't add up." Barton moved to the center of the room, his eyes roving the walls. "I have been thinking about Joseph of Arimathea-- his status, power, and money. I'm troubled that this crypt lacks many of the features I'd have expected to see in the tomb of a wealthy family."

"Such as?"

"Refinement, for one. There's nothing here to suggest position or wealth. It's just an ordinary stone chamber-- no ornate carvings, no pilasters, frescos, or mosaics. Nothing."

Razak inclined his head, trying to remain patient. To a Muslim it wasn't striking. "Perhaps this Joseph was a man of humility?"

"Maybe. But remember how I explained to you that the body was allowed to decompose for twelve months before being placed in the ossuary?"

Razak nodded. "Hard to forget. But I hope there's a point to all this."

"Believe me. In ancient Jewish crypts, you'd expect to see at least one small niche called a loculus-- a small tunnel about two meters deep." He envisioned the tomb Father Demetrios had indicated in the bedrock beneath the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. "Where the body would have been laid out."

Razak eyed the walls. "I don't see one."

"Precisely," Barton agreed, striking a finger into the air. "Which made me wonder about this crypt's design. With ten ossuaries, many trips in and out of here would have been required. At the very least there would have been one visit to place the body here after each family member's death, another to practice the sacred rituals of the tahara, and then a final trip to transfer the expiated bones to the ossuary. That's a minimum of three visits per body."

"Okay."

"And when I studied these remains the other day," Barton motioned to the ossuaries, "I had a feeling that this family all died at once."

Razak's brow furrowed. "How could you tell?"

"Granted, I'm not an expert when it comes to forensic anthropology. But these remaining skeletons seem like they came out of a family photo." He eyed the nine ossuaries. "The age gaps show a very normal progression with no apparent overlap-- an old father, a slightly younger mother, and none of the children making it past their late twenties. One would expect a large family to decease in a more random pattern where at least some of the children reach their later years."

"That is odd."

"Furthermore," Barton's eyes canvassed the space, "do you see any sign of an entrance?"

Razak scanned the solid earth surrounding him on all but one side. "Looks like the only way in and out was that opening covered by the brick wall." He pointed to the blast hole.

Barton nodded. "Exactly. And look at this." Moving toward the blast hole, he motioned for Razak to follow. "See?" Barton spread his hands, indicating the depth of the wall. "This wall's about half a meter thick. But look here. See how these bricks"-- he tapped the side facing them-- "are the same style as those bricks?" He tapped the other side of the wall facing into the mosque. Then he pointed out into the cavernous, arched room and Razak's eyes followed. "And it's the same brick that was used to construct this entire room. Coincidence? Perhaps not."

Razak was getting it. "Wait a second." He moved in closer, bending at the waist. His head circled all the way around the inner circumference of the blast hole. Sure enough, the walls had a purposeful design to them. "You're saying both sides of the wall were erected at the same time?"

"Absolutely. Sealed away from that room," he said, pointing out into the Marwani Mosque again, "during its initial construction. Look at the opening that led into this chamber before the wall was erected." Barton paced back and spread his hands to emphasize the width where carved bedrock transformed to brick.

Razak moved back to see what the Englishman was implying. Turning toward the blast hole again, he studied the space that the brick wall had filled. Certainly it was wide, but no larger than twice the width of an average doorway. "What do you think this means?"

"It strongly suggests that our thieves weren't the first intruders here. It seems clear to me that this room wasn't designed to be a crypt."

The Muslim stared at him blankly.

"This room is a vault specifically built for concealment and security," Barton explained. "Somehow it was built in conjunction with Solomon's Stables. And I think I know who was responsible." In his mind's eye, he saw the graffiti that hovered in the bedrock over Father Demetrios's stout form-- the image that helped him postulate this new theory.

Razak thought it through, mulling over the history that he knew about this place. One thing that clearly stuck out in his thoughts was the notion that the area now converted into the Marwani Mosque was supposedly used as a horse stable centuries earlier. And supposedly, it was built by...Suddenly his face slackened. "The Knights Templar?"

Barton smiled and shook his head knowingly. "Correct! It's a long shot, but most archaeologists credit them with constructing Solomon's Stables. How familiar are you with Templar history?"

Clearly not thrilled that the archaeologist was venturing into history again, Razak told him what he knew from his surprisingly extensive reading around the subject. After all, he thought, to understand the modern struggle between East and West, one must open a history book.

The Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon had been founded in 1118 CE, after the first Christian crusade. The Knights Templar were an order of militant, monastic mercenaries commissioned by the papacy to protect the reclaimed kingdom of Jerusalem from neighboring Muslim tribes, ensuring safe passage for European pilgrims. They were notorious, feared for their lethal tactics and their fanatical oath to never retreat from the battlefield and fight to the death in the name of Jesus Christ. The Templars had remained in control of the Temple Mount until slaughtered by a Muslim force led by Saladin at the Battle of Hattin in the twelfth century. They'd even used the Dome of the Rock Mosque as their headquarters, giving it the Latin name Templum Domini, or "Temple of the Lord."

Barton was impressed by Razak's knowledge and said so. Not many Jews, or even Christians for that matter, could readily display such command of the finer points of history. "These ossuaries were transferred here from another site where the proper rituals would have initially taken place. If we go with the theory that this is a vault," Barton continued, "it would suggest the Templar Knights might have constructed it to protect the ossuaries."

"Or treasure." Razak responded swiftly, spreading his hands. "Let's not forget that possibility." He wasn't thrilled about the archaeologist's determination to link the theft to a revered prophet's remains. "After all, weren't they very rich? Looting Muslim mosques and homes, bribing public officials..."

"True, the Templars amassed a fortune, mostly plundered from conquered enemies. The papacy even allowed them to levy taxes and collect tithes. Eventually, they became bankers. The Templars were the medieval equivalent of...say...American Express. You see, prior to embarking on their journey to the Holy Land, European pilgrims would deposit money with a local Templar lodge where they'd be given an encrypted depository note. Upon their arrival here in Jerusalem, they'd exchange the note for local currency."

"Then how can you be so sure this vault didn't contain their loot?"

"We'll never know for sure," Barton admitted. "But it seems highly unlikely they'd seal away assets so permanently knowing they'd need it for such frequent transactions."

"Not good for liquidity," Razak agreed, "But it would ensure safety for assets not needed in the short term."

"Touche," Barton admitted. "However, those etchings on the rear wall don't make reference to anything else. Just the names of those whose remains are in these boxes." He ambled over to the ossuaries again, scrutinizing them, searching for an explanation. "If these were transferred here to be locked away, then where were they originally found?" he muttered quietly, thinking aloud.

"I'm still confused." Razak spread his hands. "How could a secret vault have been excavated beneath such a public place?"

"I've given that a lot of thought and this is where it all gets interesting." Barton looked at him closely. "In the first century, the House of the Sanhedrin-- where the Jewish authorities congregated and held trials-- was located directly above Solomon's Stables. And back then the platform beneath it was rumored to be honeycombed with secret passageways." Many leading to the temple's inner sanctum, he thought. "As a member of the Council, Joseph would have had access to those areas and stairs leading directly to the vaulted chambers beneath the platform, allowing him to construct the vault in complete secrecy."

"This Joseph of Arimathea. I'm assuming he was from somewhere called Arimathea-- correct?"

Barton nodded. "That's what the scriptures imply."

"Then perhaps the original crypt was in Joseph's own land, where his family lived?"

"Perhaps," Barton replied unenthusiastically. But it made him think: could the real tomb really have been beneath the Church of the Holy Sepulchre? It didn't seem possible since the basilica had been there long before the Crusaders arrived. "The problem is that no one knows what place Arimathea really referred to. Some think it was a Judean hill town. But that's all conjecture."

"Assuming you're on the right track, how do you suppose the thieves found this place?" Visualizing Taheem's horrid, blown-out face, Razak felt an urgent sense of linking this to something the authorities would find useful-- something that could help to bring closure to their investigation.

Barton let out a long breath and ran his fingers through his hair. There was so much to consider. "The only thing I can think of is that the thief got hold of a document of some kind. This burial spot must have been accurately described in an ancient text. The entry was far too precise-- it had to have been measured."

"But who could possess something like that?"

"I'm not sure. Sometimes these ancient scrolls or books have been lying around in plain sight, untranslated, in museum rooms-- for decades. Maybe some fanatical Christian museum employee," he said halfheartedly. But then he wondered if it wasn't that far-fetched after all.

Razak looked skeptical.

"And you've seen nothing in the antiquities markets yet for the ossuary?"

Barton shook his head. "I checked again this morning for any new items. Nothing."

Without warning, the floor of the chamber shook beneath their feet, instantly followed by a distant, reverberating drone. Alarmed, both Barton and Razak instinctively reached out for something to steady themselves.

Then as quick as it came, it had disappeared. Though it might easily have been confused with a low-level earthquake, both men immediately grasped that it was something else all together.

VATICAN CITY

Shortly after nine a.m., Father Donovan buzzed the lab intercom, announcing a call for Charlotte from the United States.

"Well, go get it," Bersei urged.

She made her way to the phone, sliding the mask off her face. She pressed the speakerphone button. "Charlotte Hennesey speaking."

"It's me, Evan."

Hearing his voice come through the small speaker, her stomach fluttered. "Hi Evan. What time is it there?"

"Very early, or very late, depending on how you want to look at it. Anyway, I just finished running a scan on your sample."

Something in his voice didn't sound right. Hennesey heard Aldrich rustling some papers.

"Wait," she said. "I'm on speakerphone. Let me pick up." She snapped off her lab gloves and grabbed the receiver. "Okay," she said.

Aldrich jumped right in. "I began with a simple spectral karyotype to get a preliminary idea of the DNA's quality. You know what we'd be looking for...basic plot of chromosome pairs. That's when I noticed something very odd."

"What is it? Is something wrong?"

"Yes, Charlotte. The result was forty-eight XY."

In a spectral karyotype, dense DNA strands called chromosomes are marked with fluorescent die and color-sorted into pairs to detect genetic aberrations. Since every human inherits twenty-two chromosomes from each parent, an X sex chromosome from the mother, and an additional sex chromosome from the father, a typical result would be forty-six XX for females and forty-six XY for males.

Forty-eight X-Y? Hennesey twisted an earring between thumb and forefinger, trying to let that one sink in. The good news was that the gender was definitely male. That agreed with all the forensic evidence. But Aldrich was suggesting that an extra pair of non-sex chromosomes, or "autosomes," had appeared in the molecular structure of the sample. Such aberrations were typically linked to serious diseases like Down's syndrome where an extra chromosome twenty-one was present. "So it's aneuploidy?" Charlotte whispered.

"Right. We have a mutation here."

"What kind?" She kept her voice low so as not to draw Bersei's attention. Glancing over at him, she could see that he was paying her no mind, analyzing the skeletal scans.

"Not sure yet. Got to adjust the gene scanner to handle the additional strands. I wasn't expecting something like this the first go-round, but it shouldn't take me much longer. I was able to pull basic coding for the genetic profile. I've posted it to your e-mail account."

"Great. That'll give me a good head start."

"How much longer do you think you'll be in Rome?"

"I don't know. I think most of the major work is done. I'll have to make a presentation, of course. Maybe a few more days. I might want to take a couple more just to explore Rome. It's wonderful here."

"Has the Vatican briefed you fully about the work?"

"Yes, but we're being told everything here is in strictest confidence. I had to sign a letter of confidentiality. So I can't really say anything about it."

"That's okay Charlie-- I don't need to know. I figure if there's anyone we can trust it's the Vatican. I just don't want BMS involved in anything shady."

What had he discovered that made him so nervous? she wondered. "One more thing. Did you happen to run the genetic profile against our database to determine ethnicity?"

There was a brief silence. "Actually, I did."

"Oh." She was surprised he didn't mention that. "And what did you find?"

"That's the other weird thing about all this. I found nothing."

"What are you talking about?" What he was saying sounded almost ridiculous. Though ninety-five percent of all humans shared the same genetic coding, less than five percent of the genome accounted for differences relating to gender and ethnicity. It wasn't difficult to spot the variations.

"No matches."

"But that's impossible. Did you include Middle Eastern profiles?"

"Yeah."

The ossuary was part of Jewish burial customs. Perhaps she needed to be more specific. "How about Jewish profiles?"

"Already checked it. Nothing there."

How could that be? It wasn't at all consistent with their other findings. "Could it have something to do with the anomaly you found?"

"I'd say so. I'll let you know what I find. Anything else?"

She hesitated, huddling closer to the wall. "I miss you," she finally whispered. "And I'm really sorry that I didn't leave on a better note. I just...I'd like to talk to you when I get back. There's some stuff you really need to know."

At first, he didn't respond. "I'd like that."

"I'll see you soon. Don't forget me."

"Impossible," he said.

"Bye."

Bersei appeared beside her as she returned the phone to the cradle. "Everything all right?"

"Seems so," she said, flashing a smile. "I got the DNA profile from the lab."

"And?"

"We have the missing information we need."

Bersei watched over her shoulder as Charlotte brought up the web browser and accessed her e-mail account. Within seconds, she'd retrieved Aldrich's data file, and opened it for Bersei to inspect-- a dense spreadsheet of data.

"Okay. Here it is." She switched places with him.

He scrolled through the data. Three columns identified a universal code for each gene sequence, a layperson's interpretation of the coding, such as "hair color," and a numeric value specifying those attributes. In the case of hair color, a numeric value in the third column corresponded with a specific hue on a universal color chart.

"How does it look?"

"Incredibly specific. Looks like I can plug the data right into the program."

She smiled to herself. Thank you, Evan.

Bersei opened the imaging software and located the file containing the skeletal scans and tissue reconstruction-- the ghostly marble statue awaiting its final touches: the genetic "paint." "For now, I'm going to go with the basics. The computer will fill in hair color, but not hair style, of course," he explained as he formatted the data file for import.

Aldrich's discovery of a mutation had prompted Charlotte to start thinking through a long list of possible diseases. Since most attacked the body's soft tissues and didn't affect the bones themselves-- unlike the one raging inside her own bones that was determined to leave its mark-- she couldn't even begin to imagine what he could have detected. Her extraordinary desire to see the completed picture was now replaced by a sudden foreboding.

Bersei imported the genetic data and clicked to update the profile.

For a few agonizing seconds, it seemed like nothing was happening.

Then the enhanced reconstruction flashed back onto the monitor.

It wasn't what either scientist expected.

JERUSALEM

When Ari Teleksen's cell phone rang, he already knew the purpose of the call. In the IDF's downtown Jerusalem headquarters, he stood at the wide plate-glass window of his eighth-floor office with its panoramic view of the city. Just a few blocks away, his gray eyes were glued to the sickening plume of thick, black smoke that billowed up from street level like the devil's breath.

"I'll be there in five minutes," he said grimly.

Just last night, he had heard the first wave of news stories reporting that the Temple Mount thieves had stolen an Israeli helicopter. With a growing sense of foreboding, Teleksen knew that the Palestinian response had just begun.

Without setting foot in the area, he retained an uncanny ability to foresee the aftermath of a bombing and the reverberations he had felt rattle his chest only minutes ago told him that there would be many casualties.

He hastily made his way down to the parking garage and jumped into the driver's seat of his gold BMW. After turning on the ignition, he grabbed the magnetic blue police light from the floor and stuck it on the car's roof. Peeling out of the parking garage, he jammed his foot down on the accelerator and rocketed down Hillel Street.

As his BMW approached the Great Synagogue, the chaotic scenes on King George Street looked all too familiar-- the panicking crowds being held back by IDF soldiers and police, the site's perimeter already cordoned off by wooden barricades. A fleet of ambulances had arrived, with emergency crews racing to tend to survivors.

Teleksen threaded the BMW through the mob, a young IDF soldier waving him forward, and parked a comfortable distance away. When he opened the car door, the air smelled of burned flesh.

Even at fifty meters he could see tattered chunks of bloody tissue and bone stuck to the walls of buildings adjacent to the scene, looking like wet confetti. The blast had stripped tree limbs and cast shrapnel, pockmarking the vicinity. Almost every window had been shattered.

At first glance structural damage seemed minimal. Compared with many other scenes he'd witnessed, this one was fairly low-level. But deep down, he knew many more would follow if the rising discontent stemming from the Temple Mount theft was not soon remedied.

One of the investigators recognized him and introduced himself. The man was in his fifties, with a mop of silver hair.

"Detective Aaron Schomberg." He couldn't help looking at Teleksen's three-fingered left hand.

"What have you found out detective?" Teleksen lit up a Time Lite.

"Witnesses say a young Arab woman, dressed in plain clothes, ran into a crowd as they were leaving the synagogue and blew herself up."

With Schomberg at his side, Teleksen walked toward the epicenter. He eyed the medical workers bagging human limbs and remnants too small for stretchers-- the bomber's ripped-apart remains, most likely.

"How many dead?" Cigarette smoke spun out of nostrils.

"So far eleven with another fifty or so injured."

He took another heavy drag. "No one saw her coming?"

"The bombs were strapped beneath her clothes. It happened too quickly."

Ruing the time when terrorists had been easier to detect, Teleksen turned to Schomberg. "What did she say?"

The detective was confused. "Commander?"

"Sacrificial death is never without preamble." Pinching the cigarette between the remaining fingers of his left hand, he pointed the lit end at the detective to emphasize the point. "Martyrs don't give their lives in silence. Did anyone hear what she said before she detonated herself?"

Schomberg flipped through his notepad. "Something along the lines of 'Allah will punish all those who threaten him.'"

"In Arabic or English?"

"English."

They had reached the spot where witnesses told Schomberg the suicide bomber had positioned herself only a few meters from the synagogue's entrance. At first, it seemed like an odd place for the bomber to detonate since the explosives were typically designed to be most effective in closed spaces, like buses or cafes. Studying the close proximity to the building's ravaged cement facade that looked more like a bank than a place of worship, Teleksen quickly realized that it actually wasn't a bad choice. He could see that the victims strewn across the steps had been corralled in, and the looming cement wall behind them had actually amplified the blast wave. So if the bullet-like shrapnel hadn't killed them, the blast's crushing shock wave would have done the job by pulverizing their internal organs and bones.

Teleksen's cell phone rang, and he saw from the display it was Topol. He flicked the cigarette butt onto the sidewalk. "Yes?"

"How bad?" The policeman's voice was urgent.

"I've seen worse. But all the more reason why we need to resolve this issue quickly. When can you get here?"

"I'm only a few blocks away."

"Be quick." Hanging up, Teleksen wondered how much more of this would happen before they came up with real answers for Friday's theft.

The clutch of media vans momentarily distracted him. The Palestinian TV channel was particularly troublesome. Hatred and discontent required little stimulation. The pressure was really on.

Thirteen Israeli soldiers and two helicopter pilots killed. Now innocent Jewish civilians had died.

And for what? he wondered. The English archaeologist, supposedly the best in his field, insisted it was a relic. Teleksen knew ancient relics fetched huge prices-- particularly those from the Holy Land. There was no telling what some people would do to realize them. But hijack helicopters? Kill soldiers? How could an ossuary possibly be worth that much? He had seen dozens of them in Israel's museum galleries and they weren't nearly as well hidden or protected. What could make this one so special? It made no sense.

His best intelligence people kept insisting that only an insider could've been capable of such an elaborate heist. Teleksen knew what they meant. To secrete weapons into Jerusalem was like walking on water. One would need to be able to circumvent checkpoints, metal detectors, and myriad other logistical hurdles. Few could accomplish that.

Of course, the helicopter had proven to be a tremendous tactical weapon. Was its theft intended to mock Israel's security system? Luckily, his agents had managed to prevent the Palestinians and the media from discovering the true fate of the Black Hawk. But knowing that beyond these borders many were unwilling to cooperate with Israeli intelligence, Teleksen was deeply troubled by the fact that the thieves had so quickly reached international waters. Because if the relic had been taken out to sea...

Something rubbery beneath his left foot interrupted his thoughts and he looked down. Lifting his shoe, he realized he had been standing on a human ear. Scowling, he stepped sideways.

Was there any way out of this? Barton was supposed to be coming up with answers, but only seemed interested in peddling wacky theories about ancient history. The archaeologist was proving to be a real problem.

Then an idea suddenly came to Teleksen, and he was sure Topol would approve of it. Far from being a liability, Barton might actually be the solution.

VATICAN CITY

Both scientists stared in amazement at the screen.

The scanned skeletal frame had been calibrated to reconstruct muscle mass with a layer of colorless skin applied. Now this new data had transformed the statue-like image into a complete 3-D human apparition.

Astonished at the final result, Bersei's hand was covering his mouth. "What would you say is his ethnic origin?"

Charlotte shrugged. It looked like maybe Aldrich had been correct after all. "I'm not sure he has one." Her words sounded totally implausible.

Blending dark and light, the assigned skin pigmentation added an eerily lifelike quality, defining muscles and highlighting features.

Giovanni zoomed in on the face.

Though unmistakably masculine, the image exuded a subtle androgyny. With their hypnotic aquamarine irises, the eyes were wide, tapering slightly upwards in the corners beneath slender eyebrows. The long nose broadened slightly above full, mocha-colored lips. Blackish-brown wisps formed a thick hairline that pinched in hard corners at the temples. The facial hair was similarly colored and thick, mostly evident along the angular jaw line.

"Quite a handsome specimen," Bersei said in a very clinical tone.

"I'd say he's perfect," Charlotte replied. "I don't mean in a male model or movie star sort of way...but he's unlike anyone I've ever seen." Looking for anything anomalous, nothing about the image suggested a genetic defect, unless perfection was considered a flaw. Now she wondered what Aldrich's analysis had actually detected. Could the prototype scanner have malfunctioned? Had the imaging software misinterpreted the data?

Tilting his head sideways, Bersei said, "If you took all the typical ethnic characteristics of humanity and put them in a blender, this would probably be the end result." Face tight, he held his hand out at the computer, still overwhelmed by what he was seeing. "It's absolutely fascinating that any one human being could display such complexity."

"Now what?"

Bersei looked haunted, as if the image was almost torturing him. "I'm really not sure." Tearing his eyes from the monitor, he glanced up at her with tired eyes. "We've performed a full forensic examination"-- he began counting off with his fingers-- "carbon dating, a complete genetic profile. The only major item left is the symbol on the ossuary."

"Well, if you want to look into that," Charlotte suggested, "I can begin preparing our preliminary presentation for Father Donovan. I'll compile all the data, the photos, and start writing a report. Then maybe tomorrow we can tell him what we've found so far. See what he recommends."

"That sounds like a plan. Who knows, maybe that symbol has something to tell us about this guy."

Bersei returned to his workstation and turned on the digital camera. Humming softly to himself, he proceeded to snap several close-ups of the ossuary's single relief, uploading the images onto the computer terminal.

Marveling at the quality of the engraver's work, he ran his finger over the raised symbol carved onto the ossuary's side:

From the onset, this image had perplexed him. The ossuary was clearly used almost exclusively by Jews in ancient Judea. Yet he remembered both the dolphin and the trident as being primarily pagan symbols, adopted by many early Roman cults. It was clearly in contradiction to the relic's supposed origin.

Back at the computer, he brought up the web browser. He began with simple search criteria: trident. Almost instantly, a flood of hits came back at him. He began clicking through the most relevant ones.

The trident itself had many meanings. Hindus called it the trishul, or "the sacred three," symbolizing creation, preservation, and destruction. In the Middle East, it was associated with lightning. Its alter ego, the pitchfork, later found its way into Christian art to symbolize the devil-- an early attempt at discrediting pagan imagery.

Singularly, the dolphin was equally mysterious. In ancient times, the intelligent mammals were revered for their devotion to saving the lives of shipwrecked sailors. Romans also used dolphins to signify the journey souls would take far to the ends of the sea to their final resting place on the Blessed Isles. The dolphin was also strongly associated with the gods Eros, Aphrodite, and Apollo.

But certainly, the symbol engraved into the ossuary fused the two for a more purposeful meaning. But what could it be?

Bersei tried to find more references that could explain the dolphin twined around the trident.

The dolphin and trident seemed to first appear together in Greek mythology, both symbolizing the power of Neptune, the sea god. His trident was a gift from the one-eyed titans, the Cyclops. When the god was angered, he'd pound the ocean floor with it to stir the oceans, causing storms. Able to morph into other creatures, Neptune frequently chose to appear to humans in the form of a dolphin. The Romans later renamed the Greek sea god Poseidon.

Bersei was certain there had to be more that he was missing.

Another hit came back, linking to ancient coins minted by Pompey, a Roman general in the mid-first century BC. On the front of the silver coin was an effigy of the general's laurelled head flanked on both sides by a dolphin and a trident-- not blended together, but certainly depicted side by side. And Bersei recalled that early in Pompey's career, he had invaded Jerusalem.

He leaned forward.

Following his siege of Jerusalem in 64 BC, he had ordered the crucifixion of thousands of Jewish zealots-- all in a single day. It was said that so many crucifixes were needed, that the general had stripped away every tree from the city's surrounding mountains.

Crucifixion. Jerusalem.

Could this be the connection? Could the ossuary be linked to the notorious Roman general?

Considering this for a long moment, Bersei still wasn't satisfied. He still vaguely recalled seeing this exact depiction somewhere else. And somehow, he strongly believed it was linked to Rome.

The hunt continued.

Using various search phrases, like "dolphin around trident," he finally found a clear hit. Clicking the link, he was astounded when the exact image on the ossuary filled the screen.

A smile broke across the anthropologist's face. "Now we're getting somewhere," he muttered.

Scrolling down, he read the text that accompanied the image.

The words hit him like a stone. He read it again, dumbfounded, his entire world caught in the screen's contours. "Charlotte," he called out. "You have to see this." He slumped back into his chair, covering his mouth with his hand in disbelief.

Two seconds later, she was at his side. His face drained, the Italian pointed at the computer screen.

"What is it?"

"The meaning behind the relief on the ossuary." Bersei's voice was quiet as he pointed again to the monitor.

Seeing his bewildered expression, she scrunched her face and said, "Looks like it did have something to say after all."

"I'd say so," he muttered, rubbing his eyes.

Leaning closer, Charlotte read the text aloud: "Adopted by early Christians, the dolphin intertwined around the trident is a portrayal of..." she paused.

The low drone of the ventilation system became suddenly pronounced.

"...Christ's crucifixion." Her voice trembled as she uttered the words, which seemed to hang in the air like vapor.

It took Charlotte a moment until the full impact hit her. "Oh my God." A vice tightened in her stomach and she had to look away.

"I should have known." Bersei's strained voice sounded tormented, weak. "The dolphin shuttles spirits to the afterlife. The trident, the sacred three, representing the Trinity."

"No way. This isn't right." She looked down at him.

"I know the ossuary's patina is genuine," Bersei protested. "Every single part. Consistent throughout, including the residue covering this relief. Plus I've established that the mineral content could only have come from one place-- Israel. And the evidence we saw on the bones reinforces that message. Scourging. Crucifixion. We even have the nails and bits of wood," he emphasized, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Just how much more obvious could all this be?"

Her mind went momentarily blank, as if a cord powering her rational thought had been unplugged. "If this is really the body of...Jesus Christ"-- it almost hurt for her to say it-- "think about it-- how profound this is." Charlotte saw the crucifix hanging over her bed. "But it can't be. Everyone knows the crucifixion story. The Bible describes it in minute detail and it doesn't agree with this. There are too many inconsistencies." She strode briskly to the workstation.

"What are you doing?" Bersei was out of his chair.

"Here. See for yourself." She jabbed a shaking finger at the brow of the skeleton's skull. "Do you see any evidence of thorns?"

He looked up at her then straight back at the skull. Giovanni knew what she was implying. Scrutinizing it intently, he failed to detect even minute scratches. "But surely it's hardly likely that thorns would inflict damage on the bone itself?"

Moving around the side of the workstation, Charlotte was now down by the legs. "What about this? Broken knees?" She pointed at them. "I don't remember these being mentioned in the Bible. Wasn't it a spear in Jesus's side that finished him off?" Here she was trying to renew her lost faith at a time when she most needed to believe in something bigger than herself, and Bersei-- of all people-- was tearing it down again. Worst of all, he was using science to do it.

The anthropologist spread his hands. "Look, I understand where you're going with this. I'm just as confused as you are."

She studied him intently. "Giovanni, you don't really think these are the remains of Jesus Christ, do you?"

He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. "There's always the possibility that this symbol was only meant to honor Christ," he offered. "This man," he pointed to the skeleton, "could merely have been some early Christian, a martyr perhaps. This could all be a tribute to Christ." He shrugged. "It's not exactly a name on that box. But you saw the genetic profile. It's not like any man we've ever seen. I'd have to say that I'm pretty certain about this one."

"But it's only a symbol," she protested. "How can you be sure?"

Bersei was taken aback by the American's passionate denial. He wished he could feel as strongly. "Come with we." He motioned for her to follow.

"Where are we going?" she called after him, pacing behind him into the corridor.

Without stopping, he turned back to her. "I'll explain in a minute. You'll see."

PHOENIX

Evan Aldrich threaded his way past the workstations heaped with scientific gadgetry, making for the glass-paneled enclosure to the rear of BMS's main laboratory.

Once inside, he closed the door, reached into his lab coat and removed a sealed glass vial, which he set down next to a high-powered microscope. The prototype scanner sat on an adjacent desk, looking like a streamlined photocopier. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

There was a brief knock and the door opened.

"Morning, Evan. What's happening?"

Glancing over, he found Lydia Campbell, his managing technician for genetic research, poking her head around the door frame. Aldrich's hand reflexively moved to cover the vial. "Got some samples I need to look at."

"The ones you were working on yesterday?" She looked down at the vial beneath his hand. "Thought you'd finished with them."

"Yeah, I'm just having another look at something."

"Well, you know where I am if you need anything. Coffee?"

He shook his head with a smile and the door closed behind her.

An hour later, he slipped the vial-- now filled with a clear serum-- back into his pocket. Feeling an overwhelming urgency to tell Charlotte what he'd found, he reached for the phone...but pulled back. This was something that needed to be done in person. What he needed to tell her was far too sensitive-- far too astounding-- for an open phone line or an unencrypted e-mail. He remembered her saying that she might extend her stay a few extra days. But this couldn't wait until then.

Leaving the lab, Aldrich headed directly for his office and plunked himself down in front of his computer. Bringing up the web browser, he logged onto his Continental Airlines frequent-flier account page and booked a first-class ticket on the next flight to Rome.

JERUSALEM

Farouq had just hung up his phone, in utter disbelief, his hands shaking. It was no coincidence that the call came mere hours after the early morning bombing at the Great Synagogue.

The caller had been a voice from the distant past-- a dark past that still haunted him on many sleepless nights. The last time he'd heard that unmistakable baritone was just past six p.m. on November 11, 1995. That was the day the Shin Bet-- Israel's most secret and lethal intelligence branch-- abducted him on a side street in Gaza, pulling him into the back of a van. They had bound his limbs and slipped a black hood over his head.

As the van sped off, the interrogation began, carried out by the man who now held the second highest position in the IDF power structure. Back then the ambitious Israeli had been assigned the impossible task of hunting down the Engineer-- a Palestinian rebel named Yahya Ayyash who, assisted by militant groups, recruited suicide bombers to launch numerous attacks on Israeli civilians in the mid-nineties. The Israelis were closing in, thanks to information forcefully extracted from key informants. One of their prime suspects was Farouq, who had alleged ties to the Engineer's primary supporter-- Hamas.

By the time he'd been tossed from the van in a desolate location not far from the Israeli border, Farouq had suffered three broken ribs, four fractured fingers, cigarette burns to the chest, and seven missing teeth.

But he smiled, blood oozing through his broken mouth, knowing that he had not uttered one word about the whereabouts of the Engineer. No Israeli would ever break him.

He also took great pleasure in knowing that the blood on his face was not only his own. Even hooded and bound he had managed to bite Teleksen's hand, clamping his teeth into the despicable Israeli flesh, harder, harder, cranking his head sideways until nerves severed and bones cracked. The Israeli had whimpered like a dog.

Shortly after the Engineer was assassinated in his Gaza safe house by a rigged explosive cell phone, Ari Teleksen was promoted to Aluf-- Major General. Farouq had seen him a few times since then-- news reports mostly-- always identifiable by the hand the Keeper had disfigured that night long ago in Gaza.

Now Teleksen had the audacity to call with what initially seemed to be a request for a favor. But after a lengthy explanation, it had become clear that the request would benefit Farouq's cause equally well.

"Akbar," Farouq called out to the corridor, struggling to compose himself.

A moment later, the hulking bodyguard appeared in the doorway.

Farouq's eyes briefly sized him up. "You're a strong boy. I need you to do something for me."

VATICAN CITY

The two scientists rode the elevator up one level and the doors opened into the main gallery that stood above the lab-- the Vatican Museum's Pio Christian Gallery.

As they exited the elevator, Bersei quietly explained, "You see, Charlotte, for three centuries after Jesus's death, early Christians did not portray his image. However, these early Christians did use other familiar images to depict Jesus."

"How do you know that?"

"We have archaeological evidence. And much of it is here," he said, motioning with his eyes to the art collection that spread out before them. "Let me show you something."

As Charlotte strolled beside him, she eyed the Christian-themed marble reliefs that were mounted on the walls like massive stone canvases.

Bersei waved a hand at them. "Are you familiar with this collection?"

She shook her head.

"They're relics from the early fourth century," Bersei explained, "a time when Emperor Diocletian began his campaign of persecution-- burning churches and killing Christians who wouldn't denounce their faith. It's also a time when early Christians secretly convened in the catacombs outside Rome to pray among the dead martyrs and saints laid to rest there-- some in ornate stone coffins." He pointed to one mounted on a sturdy platform.

"A sarcophagus," observed Charlotte, admiring the craftsmanship.

"Yes. A sort of cousin to the Jewish ossuary we're studying. Many early Christians were converted Jews who undoubtedly developed what were to become Christian burial rituals."

They had stopped in front of a three-foot-high marble statue. "Here we are." Bersei turned to her. "Do you know what this image portrays?"

Looking at it, she saw a young man with long curled hair, dressed in a tunic. A lamb was slung over his shoulders and he was holding its legs with both hands. Hanging at his side was a pouch containing a lyre.

"Looks like a shepherd."

"Not bad. It's actually called 'The Good Shepherd.' It was found in the catacombs. This image is how early Christians depicted Jesus."

Charlotte gave the statue another once-over. "You're kidding me." The shepherd was boyish, with smooth features, its design Greco-Roman-- not biblical.

"No. Ironic isn't it? But keep in mind that this representation blended mythology with the Jesus story. This wasn't intended to resemble him. It was an attempt to embody the ideal he represented-- the protector, the shepherd. Orpheus, the pagan Greek god of art and song, was also blended into this image of Christ. Just as Orpheus's heavenly music could calm and soothe even the most wild of beasts"-- he pointed to the lyre hanging at the shepherd's side-- "Jesus's words could tame the souls of sinners."

"Just like the dolphin and the trident represent salvation and divinity." Now she knew why he had brought her up here.

"Exactly."

"Why though? Why didn't they worship icons or the crucifix?" They were everywhere, she thought. Especially in this place. It was hard to imagine Catholicism without its gruesome cross.

"First off, it would've sent a clear message to the Romans that they were indeed Christians. It wouldn't have been wise in an era of systematic persecution. And second, the early Christians didn't embrace the notion of iconography. In fact, Peter and Paul forbade such things. That's why images of the crucifix didn't exist back then. That didn't happen until Constantine came along."

"That guy again."

"Sure. He's the forefather of the modern faith. Constantine changed all the rules. Crucifixions and even the catacombs themselves were abandoned when he came to power in the fourth century. That's also when Christ was transformed into a true cult hero-- a divine being. Crucifixes sprouted up, grand cathedrals built, and the Bible formally compiled. Literally, the faith went from underground to national stage."

"It's amazing-- Constantine wasn't really covered in my history classes-- and I went to a Catholic high school! I really don't know anything about him."

Bersei took a deep breath, relaxing his shoulders. "In 312 AD, the Roman Empire was split between two factions of emperors-- Constantine in the west, and his ally Licinius in the east versus Maximinus and Maxentius. Constantine had decided that the sun god, Sol Invictus, had preordained him to be the sole ruler of the entire empire. So with an army made up of an obscure group known as Christians, he battled his way all the way through northern Italy to within a few kilometers of Rome to the only bridge that crossed over the Tiber River...Milvian Bridge. When rumors spread that Maxentius's army outnumbered Constantine's by ten to one, the Christians quickly became demoralized. The dawn before his final push into Rome, Constantine was paying tribute to Sol, when in the sky above, he saw a miraculous sign shaped like a cross-- the overlapping X and P, the Greek chi and rho, which were the first two letters of 'Christ.' He immediately roused his troops and proclaimed that their savior, Jesus Christ, had told him that 'with this sign you shall conquer.' Constantine ordered the blacksmiths to emblazon the symbol on all the shields, and the men had regained their courage. Later that day, the armies clashed in a bloody battle and miraculously Constantine emerged victorious."

"And his army attributed the victory to Christ's intervention?"

Bersei nodded. "Yes. And owing a debt to his soldiers, perhaps even inspired by the intoxicating power and persuasion of their passionate faith, Constantine later embraced their religion at the national level. Of course, one must also note that the 'one god' worshipped by Christians blended well with Constantine's self-concept as the sole Roman emperor. However, to honor Sol and to appease the pagan masses throughout the empire who had yet to assimilate into the new religion, Constantine craftily blended many pagan concepts into early Christianity."

"Such as?"

"Let's start with the simple things." Bersei laced his fingers together, eyes scanning the gallery. "The solar halo for instance. Just like our coins from Pontius Pilate, Constantine had minted coins in 315, while his alliance with Licinius was falling apart and about ten years before Constantine took over the entirety of the empire. But Constantine's coins depicted Sol on them-- a solar-haloed Sol in a flowing robe that looks remarkably similar to later Jesus iconography."

"Interesting."

"Constantine also cleverly coincided the celebration of Christ's birth with the December twenty-fifth pagan winter solstice celebration of Sol's birthday. Of course, I think you won't be surprised when you hear that the Christian day of worship, once celebrated on Saturday, the Jewish Sabbath, was also moved to a more special day of the week."

"Sunday."

He nodded. "Known in Constantine's time as dies Solis." Giovanni's expression darkened. "And then something even more profound emerges during Constantine's reign. The emphasis on Jesus's physical rather than spiritual resurrection."

"What do you mean?"

"The early Greek Gospels used wording that suggested Christ's body wasn't necessarily reanimated, but transformed."

"But in the Bible, Jesus walked out of the tomb and appeared to the disciples after his death, didn't he?" All those years of Catechism and Catholic school had drilled this stuff into her head.

"Sure. Jesus disappeared from the tomb," he readily agreed. Then a knowing grin swept across Giovanni Bersei's face. "Though none of the Gospels say how. In the gospel accounts that follow the empty tomb, Jesus also had the ability to walk through walls and materialize from out of nowhere. And if you recall from the Bible, many whom he appeared to hadn't even recognized him. Those aren't attributes associated with a reanimated physical body."

"Then why does the Church emphasize his physical death and physical resurrection?"

He smiled. "My guess goes something like this. Egypt, particularly Alexandria, was a very influential cultural center in the Roman Empire. There, cults worshipped Osiris, the god of the underworld who was horribly murdered by a rival god named Seth-- cut to pieces in fact. Osiris's wife, the female goddess of life named Isis, collected his body parts and returned them to the temple and performed rituals so that three days later, the god resurrected."

"Sounds a lot like Easter," she concurred. "Are you suggesting the Gospels were altered?"

An older couple was dawdling close by, intrigued by the two people in white lab coats. Bersei drew closer to Charlotte. "Largely untouched, but perhaps reinterpreted in key areas," he clarified. "I suppose some of this could all be coincidence," he said with a shrug. "Anyway, the point to be made here is that in the fourth century, Christianity was being practiced inconsistently throughout the empire. Hundreds of scriptures were circulating out there, some legitimate, many wildly embellished."

"Which meant scrapping all the inconsistent scriptures," she deduced.

"Right. You can't blame the guy," Bersei said in his defense. "Constantine was trying to unite the empire. The Church's infighting only undermined that vision."

"Makes sense," Charlotte admitted. It seemed like Giovanni actually admired Constantine, she thought.

"Anyway, that's where it all began. The Church became more intertwined with the empire, one symbiotically serving the other. Crucifixions had disappeared from the roadways, but one enormous crucifix was erected above the altar and Rome's fearmongering evolved from ruling by the sword, to ruling by fear of damnation for sinners. All thanks largely in part to one brilliant Roman emperor who reshaped the face of Western civilization."

She sighed and shook her head. "I thought you said you're a good Catholic boy?"

"I am," he assured her.

"Even though you know all this stuff?"

"Because I know all this stuff. You have to understand that if what we're looking at downstairs is the physical body of Christ, it doesn't contradict the original Gospels. But it certainly creates a big problem for a Church that's taken some liberties in its scriptural interpretations."

"I'd say," she readily agreed. "What do you think Christians would think if our findings were made public?"

"They'd think what they want to think. Just like you and me. The evidence is remarkable, but inconsistent. So the faithful would remain faithful, like they have through other controversies. Don't get me wrong, it would certainly be an enormous dilemma for Christianity. And a public relations nightmare once the press got hold of it."

"Any possibility this could be a fake?"

Bersei exhaled. "It would have to be one hell of a hoax, but you never know."

JERUSALEM

By the time Graham Barton returned to his second-floor rental unit in a luxury high-rise conveniently located on Jabotinsky Street in modern Jerusalem, it was already eight-thirty in the evening. After all that had happened today, he was looking forward to a full glass of cabernet sauvignon, a call to his wife to let her know that he was okay, and a long night's rest.

The bombing at the Great Synagogue had derailed the entire day's plans. After confirming what had happened, Razak had immediately left to consult with the Waqf on how to handle the incident. Mostly everyone else in Jerusalem had spent the day glued to a television, awaiting updates on the blast. So Barton spent the remainder of the afternoon at the Wohl, catching up on the work he had been neglecting. It took everything in his ethical arsenal to decline a six p.m. invite from Rachel to join her and a friend for drinks. The truth was that he would have loved the diversion.

All day, images of Templar crosses flitted through his thoughts like taunting furies, trying to convey a message and reconstruct a miraculous story that beckoned to be unlocked. Having touched the bones of Christ's benefactor, he was agonizing over the possibilities of what the missing ossuary might have contained and who could have possibly known how to find it.

Now, seeing the violence that was unraveling this city, he felt obligated to come up with real answers that might help the situation. But after the harrowing experience he and Razak had endured in Gaza, he was wondering if the Israelis knew more than they were letting on. He was also concerned that the gunmen might still be anxious to find him and Razak. Who were they working for? he wondered.

The truth was that so far, he had come up with nothing meaningful for the investigation-- at least as far as the authorities would be concerned. As promised, he had been making inquiries to his international contacts in the antiquities markets. But nothing suspicious had yet turned up.

Surely Topol and Teleksen would soon be reaching out to him to turn up the pressure.

As he inserted his key into the front door lock, he barely registered three figures coming up the stairwell. He leaned back to get a better view. That's when Topol and two burly, uniformed officers rounded the corner and came closer in rigid strides.

Topol gave him a cursory nod. "Good evening Mr. Barton."

A sense of foreboding swept over the Englishman. Sooner than anticipated, an evening visit from policemen-- and to his residence. Nothing good could come of that, he thought. He eyed their holstered handguns. Coming from the UK, the sight of so many weapons openly paraded around was unnerving. "Good evening to you, commander."

"I'm glad you're here." Topol's dark eyes were hard, unblinking. "It will make our visit more meaningful."

Heart drumming in his chest, Barton replied, "Why would that be?"

"Please, let's talk inside." The major general motioned to the door.

Hesitantly, Barton made his way into the apartment and switched on the lights, the policemen crowding in behind him.

The apartment that had been secured by the IAA as part of his generous retainer had a roomy reception area where he invited the guests to sit. Only Topol accepted while his two cronies stood at either side of the door like bookends.

Topol got right to the point. "I've been asked to search your residence and I'd like your cooperation."

Stupefied, Barton was unsure how to respond. "What? Why would you want to do that?"

"I'd rather not get into that just yet. I have secured proper authorization." He flashed an official looking document and handed it to Barton. "You can read this while we proceed." It was in Hebrew, of course. Topol nodded to the two bookends and they disappeared into the next room.

"Can I please have everything from your pockets?"

"What is this? Am I am being arrested?" Barton hadn't expected that the call to his wife would be a request for her legal representation. He didn't have a clue as to his civil rights in this country. Should he protest?

"For now, we're just talking," Topol explained. "If you'd feel more comfortable at the station, we can go there now."

Barton nodded compliantly.

"I received a very disturbing phone call from the Waqf."

"Oh?"

"Your pockets, please," Topol insisted, pointing to the table.

One way or another, the major would have his way, Barton realized. Trying not to look alarmed, he began emptying the contents of his pockets onto the table: a wallet, UK passport, keys to the Wohl, bus tickets.

"It seems some things have gone missing," Topol went on.

The sounds coming from the rear of the apartment were less than subtle-- drawers being opened, furniture being moved around. Signs that nothing was safe from Topol's rigorous inspection.

With enormous reservations, Barton dipped into his breast pocket and withdrew the bronze cylinder, certain it would ignite the policeman's curiosity. Lastly came the plastic sealed vellum and its accompanying folded transcription. Setting it down on the table, he tried to gauge Topol's expression.

Eyebrows raised, the major's head cocked slightly to one side-- like a curious dog-- as he eyed the vellum's strange text, but for now, he let it go. "Since the inception of this investigation, I've had suspicions that an insider could have helped organize this theft. The head of the Waqf expressed similar concerns. And after hearing what he had to say earlier today, I must admit I'm inclined to agree with his assertions." Topol recalled his late-night discussion with Teleksen the previous evening. A quick solution was essential to prevent more bloodshed.

Barton's shoulders sank. "I'm not sure I understand what you're implying."

"The theft required extremely sophisticated movements of weapons and explosives." The policemen sneered. "Not to mention skilled manpower. Only someone with high-level clearance could have handled such transactions. Someone with access to shipping. Someone extremely well-versed in Temple Mount's history. And someone who knew precisely what treasures lay buried in that vault. The Waqf suggests that person is you."

Barton felt suffocated. "You must be joking. I know this bombing has escalated the need for concise action, but this is-- "

Topol's hand cut the air. "An Israeli helicopter and two pilots are still missing..."

Barton saw the major's eyes shift down when he said this. Could he have known about the meeting in Gaza? Did he know about the fisherman and the recovered debris from the Black Hawk?

"Sources indicate these pilots may have been involved in the theft...helped make it all happen," Topol elaborated. "Perhaps someone on the inside approached them? Gave these people some incentive."

Barton remained steadfast. "You know there's no way I'm involved in this."

The major was stonefaced. "I've been told you've made quite a name for yourself procuring rare antiquities for European clients."

"Museums," the archaeologist clarified.

"Quite a lucrative service you provide. Isn't that right?"

Barton wasn't about to get into this discussion, not without a lawyer present.

"Given the nature of your work with the IAA, you've also been given high-level clearance in the Old City. You've been moving equipment in and out at will...many times without inspection."

"How could I have brought explosives into the city?" Graham Barton's tone was stronger now. "There are detectors all over the place."

"Apparently quite easily. Our chemists analyzed the residue of the plastic explosive. Seems it was missing the chemical marker that would allow it to be detected-- dimethyl dinitrobutane. You see, Mr. Barton...those explosives were military grade. Perhaps provided to you by our missing pilots."

One of the officers stormed into the room to momentarily break the tension. He was hauling something in a large plastic sheath.

Barton was confused as he warily eyed the package. What the hell was in the bag? It looked like something very substantial.

Still sitting, Topol removed the plastic and read aloud the model name on the black motor housing-- Flex BHI 822 VR. "A European manufacturer, I see." Topol ran his finger over the long hollow drum attached to its chuck. Its circular tip was razor sharp. "A coring drill. This part of your toolbox?"

Shortly following the theft, when Topol's forensic crime team initially had analyzed the blast area, they'd found the drill abandoned on the floor. No prints. That morning, Topol had ensured all documentation concerning it had been struck from records.

The archaeologist's complexion turned gray. "I've never seen that thing before in my life," he said weakly. Voices were starting to sound hazy, as if everything was happening in slow motion. Could this really be happening?

"And what do you have here?" Topol leaned over and snatched the vellum off the table, eyeing it curiously. "Seems to be an ancient document." He unfolded the sheet of paper containing the photocopy and accompanying transcription. "I'm no biblical scholar Mr. Barton, but this looks to me like something that implies a burial chamber hidden beneath Mount Moriah. And if I'm not mistaken, wasn't Joseph of Arimathea somehow connected to Jesus Christ? Isn't he the subject of legends about the Holy Grail-- a priceless relic for those who believe?"

There was a sarcastic tone to Topol's voice that only reaffirmed his suspicion that somehow, he already knew about the scroll. Perspiration started to bead on his forehead. The walls were closing in.

"You were given access to the crime scene and in return you tampered with key evidence-- scratching inscriptions from the wall, removing the remaining ossuaries."

"What?" Barton was aghast. "Are you completely out of your mind?"

"You heard me. The Waqf insists that the remaining nine ossuaries have mysteriously vanished. It seems that the thief is still among us."

That the ossuaries had suddenly vanished was truly disturbing, but something about the major's first accusation struck even harder. "Scratching inscriptions from the wall? What does that mean?"

Topol was prepared for this. From his jacket, he produced a picture and handed it to Barton. "See for yourself. That picture was taken by my forensic team a day before you arrived."

Stunned, Barton saw that the clearly framed image was the stone tablet affixed to the crypt wall. Nine names were listed...and one perfectly clear relief depicting a dolphin intertwined around a trident. He had seen this symbol before, and knew its origin well. Its implications shook him to the core. But he couldn't deal with that now; he needed to save himself first. "Being framed is not what I had in mind when I signed up for this project."

Topol dodged that comment. The second officer returned and he motioned them toward Barton.

PARIS, FRANCE

MARCH 18, 1314

Hands bound behind his back, Jacques DeMolay was escorted by guards up the steps of the wooden scaffold in front of Notre Dame Cathedral. Glancing up at what had once seemed a transcendentally grand work of architecture, DeMolay saw only the stone skeleton of a mammoth demon-- the flying buttresses were giant ribs, the twin spires horns, the fiery rose window an enormous evil eye. He heard the sound of the River Seine as it looped around Ile de la Cite, carving the tiny island away from the rest of Paris as if it were a cancer.

Gazing down to the cathedral's front steps, he scanned the assembled papal prelature seated there and tried to find Clement's ugly face. Having failed miserably in his appeal to King Philip to reinstate the Order, the damned traitor did not have the nerve or decency to make an appearance. Three cardinals sat center stage to officiate and act the role of executioners.

A large crowd had gathered to watch the impromptu trial, eager to lay eyes on a fallen hero about to meet a tragic end. DeMolay felt like an actor, alone on an ominous stage, until moments later, three other Templar dignitaries were pushed up the wooden stairs and herded beside him.

With pride, Jacques DeMolay glanced over to them: Geoffroy DeCharnay, Hugues DePairaud, and Geoffroy DeGonneville-- all honorable men who had served the Order nobly. Unfortunately, they too had been in France almost seven years earlier when King Philip had ordered his armies to secretly round up the Templars.

Minutes later, the farce began with fiery testimonies from sharp-tongued priests inciting the crowd with their farrago of accusations and false charges levied against the Knights Templar. Particular emphasis was paid to lurid accounts of homosexuality and devil worship, since those fabrications played well with the crowd's emotions. Then, as DeMolay listened in utter amazement, the priest read a document to the crowd that itemized DeMolay's signed confessions to the charges-- a document he had never seen before.

The lies seared DeMolay's ears like burning embers, but he remained defiant, occasionally glancing up at the stone gargoyles leering down from Notre Dame's facade.

Silence fell abruptly over the scene when one cardinal stood, pointed at the Grand Master, and yelled: "And you Jacques DeMolay, the very evil who leads this ungodly Order, what say you to the charges presented herewith? Do you once and for all profess your guilt by affirming that these confessions are your true testament so that you may reclaim your dignity in the presence of God?"

DeMolay eyed the cardinal curiously, amazed that he had once so loyally served men like this. So many Templars had died in the name of Christ in the Holy Land. He felt like shouting out the lies that these sanctimonious bastards had propagated through the centuries to undermine that sacrifice. But no one would ever believe the amazing things he had learned and the equally amazing relics still hidden beneath the site of Solomon's Temple in Jerusalem that attested to those truths. Without proof, he would merely tarnish his reputation further and play into the hands of his executioners. DeMolay took solace in knowing that some day the truth would be discovered...and woe to all who tried to deny it, he thought. He knew that these men were determined to destroy him. Whether it happened today, or after more years slowly rotting to death in some vile prison cell, he was doomed-- the target for the king's malicious scheme.

The Grand Master looked deep into the eyes of his three friends and saw a common resolve beneath a thin veil of fear. The brotherhood would endure until the very end.

Clearing his throat DeMolay stared back at the cardinal. "It is only right that when my life is to be taken by those I have so loyally served, that I should make known the deceptions here presented and that I tell the only truth from my own lips. Before God and all who witness this injustice"-- his eyes panned over the crowd-- "I admit I am guilty of a gross iniquity. But not one fabricated by my accusers." He swung his gaze back at the cardinal. "I am guilty only of the shame and dishonor I have endured through torture and threat of death to induce these disgusting charges laid against the Templar Order. I declare before you now that the noble men who have served this Church to protect Christianity have been unjustly demonized. Therefore, I disdain to disgrace my brothers by grafting yet another lie."

Astounded at the prisoner's brazen rebuttal, the cardinal stood mute for a long moment before declaring, "By denouncing this sworn confession, you leave me no choice but to invoke the decree of King Philip that you shall perish by fire."

DeMolay smiled thinly. Finally, the end would come.

Then the cardinal addressed the remaining three Templars, sentencing all to life imprisonment. DeMolay was shocked when Hugues DePairaud and Geoffroy DeGonneville confessed to the charges.

Then the cardinal asked the same of Geoffroy DeCharnay.

Suddenly possessed, DeCharnay bared his teeth and yelled: "I too renounce all charges brought against me! For God as my witness, these lies serve only a contemptuous pope and an equally villainous king. The only just man who stands here today is Jacques DeMolay. I have followed him into battle and I will follow him to God."

The cardinal was fuming. "You shall have your wish!"

Jacques DeMolay and Geoffroy DeCharnay were then taken to a boat for the short journey to the neighboring Ile des Javiaux, the site where dozens of Templars had already been burned alive.

The sun melted into the distance and darkness crept over Paris.

As the two prisoners were escorted to the two stakes, both already blackened by charred flesh, DeMolay turned to his Templar brother. The years of torture and imprisonment had rendered DeCharnay to a shadow of the robust warrior he had known in the Holy Land, but the man's expression was surprisingly resolute. "Remember what we leave behind in Jerusalem," DeMolay told him. "Your service and sacrifice will be justly rewarded by Him. And His day of justice is soon to come, Geoffroy. You have done the most noble deed a man can do. You have served God. Leave this broken body behind and don't look back. Tonight, your soul will be free."

"Bless you, Jacques." DeCharnay said. "It has been my honor to serve with you."

As the French soldiers forced DeMolay against the post, he turned to them. "I am no threat to you now," he insisted. "Unbind my hands so that I may pray in my final moments."

Reluctantly, the guards cut the ropes from the old man's wrists, but used heavy chains to bind his body to the stake. The wood heaped around DeMolay was still green. By express order of King Philip, his death was to be prolonged by slow fire.

Looking over his shoulder, DeMolay gave his last thanks to DeCharnay, shackled to the post behind him. As the pyre was ignited, Notre Dame's bells began to toll.

The heat crawled up the old man's feet and legs. Then the tongues of flame began to slowly broil his lower body. When the fire intensified, his flesh roasted into red blisters, blackening his feet. As the inferno grew, DeMolay screamed out in agony, the flames licking their way higher up his legs. He could barely register DeCharnay's screams. Weaving his hands together, he threw them to heaven and yelled: "May evil find those who have wrongly condemned us! May God avenge us and cast these men into Hell!"

As his body was consumed Jacques DeMolay felt his spirit lifting.

The Templar Grand Master was swallowed by the inferno, his mortal remains a brilliant torch against the night sky.

ROME

Opening the front door of his quaint townhouse overlooking Villa Borghese's manicured park, a robed and barefoot Giovanni Bersei retrieved the morning's delivery of Il Messaggero from the front step. The sun was barely glowing a deep blue over the neighboring rooftops, and the light posts lining the empty street were still casting a warm glow. This was his favorite time of the day.

Turning to go back inside, he paused to glance over at the iron railing that still hung loosely from its mount on his home's stucco facade. Carmela had been after him for three weeks to fix it. Today would be the day the job would get done, he vowed. Closing the door, he went directly to the kitchen.

The coffee pot, dutifully set on a timer, was already full. He poured himself a cup and sat for a long moment to enjoy the silence. Cupping the heavy porcelain mug in his hands, he sipped the black coffee slowly, savoring the deep, rich flavor. What was it about a great cup of coffee? He swore there was no better elixir.

Last night, he hadn't slept well at all, his mind endlessly churning over the ossuary, the skeleton, and the shocking symbol that accompanied the relics. The mere possibility that he had touched the physical remains of Jesus Christ had left him feeling ashamed and vulnerable, searching for an explanation. Bersei was a practicing Catholic-- a believer in the most powerful story ever told. He went to church each Sunday and prayed often. And later this morning, he was going to be asked by the Vatican to explain his findings. How could anyone explain what he had witnessed over the past days?

Scratching the gray stubble on his chin, he put on his reading glasses and began scanning the newspaper's front page. A headline on the bottom of the front page read: MUSLIMS AND JEWS ENRAGED OVER RUMORED THEFT AT TEMPLE MOUNT. He ignored it, flipping directly to the funnies. Then, almost as an afterthought, he turned back to the front page.

Though articles sensationalizing the tenuous political problems in the Holy Land were regular media fodder, these past few days he noticed that it had dominated the headlines even more than usual. Perhaps all the lab-talk concerning ancient Judea, Pontius Pilate, and crucifixion made him consider this one more closely. The piece's accompanying photo showed Israeli soldiers and police trying to hold back violent protestors just outside the famous Wailing Wall-- the Temple Mount's western wall.

He read the report.

"That's not good," he muttered.

"Religious artifacts?"

"What, love?" Carmela emerged from the doorway, donning a powder blue robe over her silk pajamas. She bent to kiss him on the head before making her way to the cupboard for a mug, her fuzzy pink slippers scuffing along the tile floor.

"Probably nothing. Just reading about all this turmoil in Israel."

"They'll never get along," she said, pouring coffee into her favorite mug, shaped like an animated elephant head with a curved snout as its handle. "They all just want to kill one another."

"Seems so," he agreed. Seeing her without makeup and her hair tousled, he smiled to himself. So many years together.

He directed his attention back to the newspaper. The article went on to say that efforts toward a more formal and lasting peace accord between Israelis and Palestinians had once again been tabled.

"Will you be home early tonight?"

"Should be," he said, preoccupied.

Carmela pushed down on the newspaper to get his attention. "I was hoping maybe you could take me out to that new bistro Claudio and Anna-Maria were talking about the other night."

"Of course, sweetheart. That would be wonderful. Would you make a reservation for eight o'clock?"

"Maybe you can find some time to fix that railing before we leave."

Grinning, Bersei said, "I'll see what I can do."

"I'm going up to take a shower." Sipping her coffee, she shuffled away.

Bersei turned to where the article continued. Immediately, he felt like he had been punched in the gut. Staring up at him was a photofit rendition of a man that looked all too familiar.

Reading the caption beneath, he mouthed the words aloud: "'The suspect is said to be a Caucasian male, approximately 180 centimeters tall and 88 kilos. Authorities state he is traveling under the assumed identity of Daniel Marrone, and are looking for any information concerning his whereabouts.'"

Suddenly, everything was moving in slow motion. He collapsed back into his chair.

The only possible explanation could be that the Vatican was somehow involved in what was happening in Israel. But that was impossible. Or was it?

Bersei tried to reconcile the timing of the events over the past few days. According to the news report, this theft in Jerusalem had occurred last Friday. A week ago. Both he and Charlotte had arrived in Vatican City shortly afterward. She'd flown into Rome on Sunday afternoon. He arrived on Monday morning, shortly before Father Donovan and Salvatore Conte returned with the mysterious crate.

Of course. Recalling the woven impressions left on the ossuary's patina, he no longer suspected a careless extraction. He suspected a rushed extraction. A theft?

He remembered Father Donovan's expression when he opened the crate-- anxiety...and something else playing in his eyes. The crate's Eurostar shipping label was still imprinted into his brain. Bari, the final resting place of Saint Nicholas. The vibrant tourist spot on Italy's east coast faced the Adriatic with direct sea routes to the Mediterranean...and Israel. Bari was 500 kilometers from Rome-- probably less than five hours by rail, he guessed. But it had to be at least 2000 kilometers from Israel.

You'd need an awfully fast boat for that, he thought. But cruising at twenty knots-- just over thirty-seven kilometers an hour-- it was manageable in perhaps two days. Conservatively allowing for two and a half days at sea and another half day traversing Italy, the shipment fitted comfortably into the time frame.

He went back to the news article. Thirteen Israeli soldiers killed. The thieves had been sophisticated and no meaningful clues had been found.

Was the Vatican really capable of pulling off an operation like that? But an Israeli helicopter employed in the theft? It didn't make sense. Certainly Father Donovan-- a cleric for Christ's sake!-- wasn't capable of such a thing.

But Salvatore Conte...He eyed the photofit again and felt nothing but fear.

Bersei considered a second theory. Maybe the Vatican had bought the ossuary from whoever stole it and had been unwittingly caught up in the incident? Even so, that could prove very problematic for the Vatican. They could be drawn into this mess as an accomplice. One thing was certain: somehow the relics sitting in the Vatican basement had a very questionable procurement.

He wrestled with how to deal with all this. Should he consult with Charlotte? Or should he go to the authorities.

You can't make wild claims without adequate proof, he told himself.

Setting the paper down, Giovanni went over to the phone and asked the operator to connect him to the local substation for the Carabiniere-- Italy's military police force that walked the streets of Rome with submachine guns as if the city was under a constant state of martial law. A young male voice picked up the call and Giovanni requested to speak with the resident detective. After a few brief questions, the young man informed Giovanni that he'd need to speak with Detective Armando Perardi who wasn't expected in the office until nine-thirty.

"Can I have his voice mail, please?" Giovanni requested in Italian.

The line clicked and went silent for a few seconds before Detective Perardi's glum greeting came on. Giovanni waited for the tone, then left a brief message, requesting a meeting later in the morning to discuss a possible Roman link to the theft in Jerusalem. He left his mobile phone number. For now, he didn't make any reference to the Vatican. That would only confuse the issue since the Vatican was its own country. Ending the call, Bersei hurried upstairs to put on his clothes. He would need to act quickly.

Parking his Vespa in the personnel parking lot outside the Vatican Museum, Giovanni quickly made his way through the Pio Christian gallery's rear service entrance.

As the elevator doors opened into the basement corridor, he experienced a wave of panic, hoping that no one else had decided to come in early this morning. He checked his watch-- 7:32.

What he needed to do had to be done alone. Charlotte Hennesey couldn't be dragged into this. After all, what if he was wrong?

As he moved out of the elevator, the corridor seemed to come alive, as if he were Jonah being swallowed by the whale. He lightly treaded his way to the lab and used his keycard to unlock the door. Looking over his shoulder to see that the corridor was still clear, he ducked inside and went directly to the workstation.

The spikes and coins sat on the tray. Beside them lay the last of the ossuary's mysteries-- the scroll cylinder. There was something about it that stirred him. If his foreboding about all of this were correct, there'd be no future opportunity to read it. And something prompted him that it contained critical clues about the relic's provenance.

Careful study of the ossuary and its relics had left him in little doubt that the ossuary originated from Israel. The stone and patina were both specific to the region. He eyed the skeleton laid out on the workstation-- the bones, too, supported the relic's provenance. Crucifixions had been commonplace in Judea during the first century. And studying the ossuary one last time, he ran his fingers over the early Christian symbol for Christ-- the very thing that had broken down his final wall of doubt.

All were damning facts, pointing to the Vatican. Bersei punished himself for not making the connection sooner. But it had all seemed too fantastic.

From the tray, he picked up the cylinder and removed the unsealed cap. Then he teased out the scroll. As he gently unfurled the calfskin his heart was pounding. Glancing quickly around the room, he swore he felt invisible eyes boring into him.

Lingering questions bothered him. How could such a profound discovery have remained secret for so long? If the bones were truly those of Jesus-- or even one of his contemporaries-- why hadn't it ever been documented? And no matter who this man had been, how was it that the Vatican had discovered the secret only now, two thousand years later?

Back to the matter at hand.

Delicately smoothing out the calfskin scroll, Bersei experienced a flurry of conflicting emotions. He was convinced that this ancient document might provide a final clue-- perhaps even confirm or deny the dead man's true identity.

Just like the bones and other relics, Bersei could immediately see that the calfskin scroll had been magnificently preserved. There were countless possibilities of what this document might contain. The last will and testament of the deceased? A final prayer sealed away by those who buried the body? Perhaps even a decree explaining why this man had been crucified.

His fingers were shaking uncontrollably as he held it up.

Neat text was written out in some kind of ink. Studying it more intently, he saw that it was Koine Greek, the dialect sometimes referred to as "New Testament Greek" and the unofficial lingua franca of the Roman Empire up until the fourth century.

The first implication was that the author had been well educated-- a Roman, perhaps.

Below the text was a very detailed drawing that looked remarkably familiar.

As he read the ancient message-- clear and brief-- his extreme tension began to subside and for a moment, he sat there in silence.

Refocusing his attention on the accompanying drawing, the anthropologist again felt as though he'd seen this imagery before. His brow tightened as he studied it intently. Think. Think.

That's when it hit him. Bersei's face blanched. Of course!

He had definitely seen this image before, and the place it was meant to depict was only a few kilometers away on the outskirts of Rome, deep beneath the city. Instantly he knew that he would need to go there as soon as his business here was complete.

Scrambling over to the photocopier that sat in the corner of the room, he flattened the scroll onto the glass, closed the lid and made a copy. Returning the scroll to the cylinder, he placed it beside the other relics. Then he folded the copy and stuck it in his pocket.

As he focused on gathering evidence to substantiate his claim against the Vatican, paranoia about his own safety quickly returned. But he needed information that could be used by the Carabiniere to investigate the case.

Nerves ablaze, Bersei linked his laptop to the main computer terminal and began copying files onto its hard drive-- the skeleton's complete profile, pictures of the ossuary and its accompanying relics, carbon dating results-- everything.

He eyed his watch again-- 7:46. Time was running out.

When the last file had finished copying, he folded the laptop and packed it into its carrying bag. Removing anything else would seem overly suspicious.

"Hey, Giovanni," a familiar voice called over to him.

He spun around. Charlotte. He hadn't even heard her come in.

Walking past him, she noticed that he looked awful. "Everything okay?"

He didn't know what say. "You're here early."

"I didn't sleep well. Are you going somewhere?" Looks awfully nervous, she thought.

"I have an appointment I need to go to."

"Oh." She looked at her watch. "You'll be back for the meeting, right?"

He stood and slung the bag over his shoulder. "I'm not sure, actually. Something important has come up."

"More important than our presentation?"

He avoided her eyes.

"Something's wrong, Giovanni. Tell me what it is."

His eyes combed the walls, as if he were hearing voices. "Not here," he said. "Walk out with me and I'll explain."

Bersei opened the main door and poked his head out into the corridor. Everything was clear. He motioned for her to follow.

Quietly, he slipped outside and Charlotte followed, easing the door closed behind her.

In the makeshift surveillance room, Salvatore Conte sat perfectly still until the footsteps in the corridor had faded away. Then he snatched the phone from its console.

Santelli answered on the second ring and Conte could tell by his groggy voice that he'd woken the old man.

"We have a real problem down here."

The cardinal knew what was coming. He cleared his throat. "Have they found out?"

"Just Bersei. And right now he's on his way out the door with copies of everything on his way to the Carabiniere."

"Very unfortunate." A slight pause and a sigh. "You know what you must do."

Bersei didn't say a word until they were safely outside the museum's confines. He headed straight for his parked Vespa as Charlotte paced quickly to keep up with him.

"I think the Vatican is involved in something bad," he said to her in a hushed tone. "Something to do with the ossuary."

"What are you talking about?"

"Too much to explain right now and I don't even know if I'm right about all this." Stowing the laptop bag in the scooter's rear compartment, he put on his helmet.

"Right about what?" He was starting to scare her.

"It's best that I not tell you. You need to trust me on this. You'll be safe here, don't worry."

"Giovanni, please."

Mounting the Vespa, he put a key in the ignition and turned the engine on.

She grabbed his arm tightly. "You're not going anywhere," she said over the noise of the puttering engine, "until you tell me what you're talking about."

Sighing heavily, Bersei looked at her, his gaze filled with concern. "I think that ossuary was stolen. It may be linked to a theft in Jerusalem that left many people dead. There's someone I need to speak with about what we've found."

For a moment, she said nothing. "Are you sure about this? That seems a bit extreme, don't you think?"

"No, I'm not sure. That's why I'm trying to leave you out of this. I know we've signed confidentiality agreements. If I'm wrong, this could turn out badly for me. I don't want you being dragged down too."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Bersei flinched when he thought he saw a face looking out from behind the shadowy glass of the museum door. "Just pretend we didn't have this conversation. Hopefully I'm wrong about everything." He looked down at her hand. "Please, let me go."

She loosened her grip. "Be careful."

"I will."

Charlotte watched as Bersei rode off around the corner of the building.

As the elevator doors slid apart, Charlotte hesitated before stepping out into the basement corridor. Folding her arms across her chest, she proceeded forward, fighting off a sudden chill.

Surely the Vatican couldn't be involved in a theft, she tried to convince herself. Then again, why would they consort with a goon like Salvatore Conte? It was quite evident that he was capable of violence and just about any other act of bad behavior. But what if Giovanni was right? Then what?

Halfway down the corridor, she noticed that one of the solid metal doors was slightly ajar. It hadn't been earlier-- she was sure of that. Until now, every door down here had been closed-- presumably locked. Was someone else down here with them?

Curious, she stepped up to the door and knocked. "Hello? Anyone in there?"

No answer.

She tried again. Nothing.

With her left hand, she reached out and pushed, swinging the door open smoothly on well-oiled hinges.

What she saw inside was puzzling.

Stepping into the tiny room lined with empty shelves, she stood in front of a very peculiar workstation-- a bank of monitors, a computer, a set of headphones. Her eyes followed a bundle of wires that led out from the computer, crept up the wall, and disappeared into a darkened opening in the ceiling where a panel had been removed.

The system was in sleep mode. The screensaver depicted a slide show of naked women in a variety of pornographic poses. Charming.

Sitting in a chair positioned in front of the equipment, she tried to imagine what purpose this all served. Obviously, it had all been done in haste, because this room looked like a closet-- not an office.

Finally, she couldn't help but reach down to press a key on the keyboard.

The monitors flickered and hummed as the screensaver disappeared and the computer woke up.

Seconds later, the software activated what appeared to be the last program that had been in use. It took Charlotte a moment to piece together the familiar collage of camera images that spread out before her. On one of the on-screen viewing panels, there was a chambermaid cleaning a small room. Charlotte's stomach sank when she saw her own luggage-- a red, rectangular carry-on and matching garment bag-- beside the bed. The maid moved into the bathroom, which projected real-time on a second panel. A familiar set of toiletries lined the vanity, complete with a hefty bottle of vitamins.

"Conte," she seethed horrified at what she was seeing. "That fucking pervert."

She studied a number of other hidden cameras transmitting from the lab and the break room-- live feeds, judging by the time and date counters on the bottom of each panel. He'd been watching and listening the whole time.

In that moment she knew that Giovanni had been right.

In the Secret Archive, Father Donovan placed the Ephemeris Conlusio codex next to the plastic-sealed document bearing reference number Archivum Arcis, Arm. D 217-- "The Chinon Parchment"-- and closed the door. There was a small hiss as a vacuum pump pulled all the air out from the compartment.

Secrets. Donovan was no stranger to them. Perhaps that was why he felt so connected to books and solitude. Maybe this archive somehow mirrored his soul, he thought.

Many who were drawn to the Catholic priesthood would attribute their decision to some kind of vocational calling-- a special closeness to God, possibly. Donovan had turned to the Church for a more sobering cause-- survival.

As a young boy, he'd grown up in Belfast during the tumultuous sixties and seventies when violence in Northern Ireland peaked between the Nationalist Catholics seeking independence from British rule, and Unionist Protestants who were loyal to the crown. In 1969 he watched his house, and dozens of others around it, burned to the ground by rioting loyalists. He could also vividly recall the IRA's retaliatory bombings, which were a regular occurrence-- 1,300 in 1972 alone-- and claimed hundreds of civilian lives.

At fifteen, he and his friends had been lured into a street gang that ran errands for the IRA and acted as the "eyes and ears" of the movement. On one memorable occasion, he'd been asked to drop a package outside a Protestant storefront. Unbeknownst to him at that time, the bag actually contained a bomb. Luckily, no one had been killed in the subsequent blast that leveled the building. Somehow, he'd even managed to avoid being arrested.

But it was a fateful evening on his seventeenth birthday when Donovan's life was changed forever. He was drinking at a local pub with his two best friends, Sean and Michael. They had gotten into a shouting match with a group of drunken Protestants. Donovan's crew left an hour later, but the Protestants-- five in all-- followed them outside and continued haranguing. It hadn't taken long for fists to start flying.

Though no stranger to street fighting, Donovan's wiry frame and swift hands had been no match for the two men that teamed up on him. While one of the Protestants had pinned him to the ground, the second landed body blows, seemingly intent on beating him to death.

It was hard to forget the suppressed rage that had flooded into him as he envisioned the glowing embers of his home. Donovan had reacted on instinct, fighting his way back onto his feet, flipping open a jackknife and plunging it deep into the stomach of the attacker who had held him down. The man had fallen to the pavement, horrified as he tried to hold back the gush of blood flooding out of his abdomen. Seeing the rage in Donovan's fiery eyes, the second man had backed away.

Dazed, Donovan turned to see Sean, blood-soaked and baring his teeth, had also taken a man down with his own knife. The remaining Protestants had stood frozen in disbelief as the Catholics fled.

He remembered the awful dread he had felt the next day when the newspapers and TV reported that a local Protestant man had been stabbed to death. Though there had been some doubt as to which of the two fallen Protestants suffered the fatal blow, Donovan quickly came to terms with the fact that he needed to leave Belfast behind before he became its next victim.

The seminary had given him a safe haven from the streets, providing hope of God's forgiveness for the horrible things he had done. Though not a day had gone by that he couldn't see the bloodstains on his hands.

Despite his past, he'd always been a good student and the solitude of priesthood had reignited his passion for reading. He found peace in history and scripture. Guidance. Seeing his remarkable dedication to learning, the Diocese of Dublin had sponsored his extensive university training. Perhaps, Donovan thought, it was his obsession with books that had helped to save him.

Now, it was a book that seemed to threaten everything he held sacred. The very institution that had protected him was under attack.

For a long moment he stared behind the glass panel at the Ephemeris Conlusio-- the lost scripture that had set in motion the momentous events leading to the theft in Jerusalem. It was hard to grasp that it was only two weeks earlier that he had presented this incredible discovery to the Vatican secretary of state. He saw the meeting with Santelli as clear as day, as if a movie played in his memory.

"It's not often I receive such urgent requests for an appointment from the Vatican Library." Cardinal Santelli's hands lay folded on his desk.

Seated opposite, Father Donovan clutched his leather satchel. "Apologies for the short notice, Eminence. But I hope you'll agree that the reason I've come here warrants your immediate attention...and will justify why I have chosen not to involve Cardinal Giancome."

Vincenzo Giancome, the Cardinale Archivista e Bibliotecario, was Donovan's superior and acted as the supreme overseer of the Vatican Secret Archive. He was also the man who'd tabled Donovan's fervent request to acquire the Judas Papers. So after much deliberation, Donovan had made the unorthodox decision of not including Giancome in on this matter-- a bold move that could potentially backfire and cost him his career. But he was certain that what he was about to divulge would directly involve matters of national security-- not reserve documents. Furthermore, the mystery caller had specifically chosen Donovan for this task and there was no time for delays or bureaucratic infighting.

"What is it?" Santelli looked bored.

Donovan was unsure exactly where to begin. "You recall a few years back when the Chinon Parchment was discovered in the Secret Archive?"

"Clement's secret dismissal of charges brought against the Knights Templar?"

"Correct. I came to you with further documents detailing the clandestine meeting between Clement V and Jacques DeMolay, the Templar Grand Master." Donovan swallowed hard. "The pope's account specifically mentioned a manuscript called the Ephemeris Conlusio, supposedly containing information about the Templars' hidden relics."

"An attempt to restore the Templar Order," Santelli interjected. "And a rather crude attempt at that."

"But I think you'll agree that DeMolay's negotiations had to be quite compelling for Clement to have exonerated the Templars after ordering their disbandment."

"A fabrication. No book was ever produced by Jacques DeMolay."

"Agreed." Donovan dug into his satchel and retrieved the book. "Because it wasn't in his possession."

Santelli shifted his chair. "What is that you have there?"

"This is the Ephemeris Conlusio."

Santelli was bewildered. This was one legend he had always hoped to be pure fantasy. None of the Vatican's darkest secrets began to compare. He clung to the hope that the librarian was wrong, but Donovan's confident gaze confirmed his worst fears. "You're not suggesting..."

"Yes," he confidently replied. "Let me explain."

Donovan recounted the history of Jacques DeMolay's imprisonment, his secret discussion with Clement, his trial in Paris in front of Notre Dame cathedral and final execution on the Ile des Javiaux. "Apparently his dying curse worked," Donovan explained. "Pope Clement V died one month later from what many accounts say was severe dysentery-- a hideous death. Seven months later, King Philip IV died mysteriously during a hunt. Witnesses attributed the accident to a lingering disease that caused him to bleed rapidly to death. Many speculated that the Knights Templar had exacted their revenge."

Santelli looked spooked. "Poisoned?"

"Perhaps." Donovan shrugged. "Meanwhile the Holy Land had been fully reclaimed by the Muslims. The European countries and the Church lacked proper funding to stage further crusades to retake it. Pope Clement's documents and the Chinon Parchment gathered dust in the Secret Archive as the papal conclave focused on its two-year struggle to restore the insolvent papacy. The Ephemeris Conlusio-- this book-- faded into history," Donovan explained. "Until I received a phone call this week." Donovan summarized his phone conversation with the mystery caller, then went on to describe the transaction with the caller's messenger in Caffe Greco. Santelli listened intently, hand covering his mouth. When Donovan finished, he waited for the cardinal's response.

"Have you read it?"

Donovan nodded. As the Archive's senior curator he was a polyglot-- proficient in ancient Aramaic, and completely fluent in Greek and Latin.

"What does it say?"

"Many disturbing things. Apparently this book isn't a Templar document per se. It's a journal written by Joseph of Arimathea."

"I don't understand, Patrick."

"The entries in these pages chronicle many events specific to Christ's ministry. Eyewitness accounts of miracles, like his healing the lame and lepers. His teachings, his travels with the disciples-- it's all referenced here. In fact, after reviewing the language, I'm convinced this book is 'Q.'"

Biblical historians had long theorized that a common source influenced the synoptic-- or "one eye"-- Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke since all three spoke of the historical Jesus in a common sequence and writing style. The synoptic Gospels, believed to be written between 60 CE and 100 CE, each bore the name of an actual disciple who inspired the work, though all three authors were actually unknown.

Santelli was temporarily encouraged by this, but acutely aware that Father Donovan remained troubled.

"There's much more here, however," Donovan warned. "The book describes events leading to Jesus's apprehension and crucifixion. Again, most of Joseph's account is in agreement with the synoptic Gospels...with some minor discrepancies. According to Joseph of Arimathea, he himself secretly negotiated with Pontius Pilate to remove Christ from the cross, in exchange for a hefty sum."

"A bribe?"

"Yes. Probably a supplement to Rome's meager pension." Donovan took a deep breath and gathered himself. "In the New Testament, Jesus's body was supposedly laid out for burial in Joseph's family crypt."

"Before you continue, I must ask. This Templar relic...the book. Is it authentic?"

"I had the parchment, leather, and ink dated. The origin is unquestionably first century. But this book isn't the relic Jacques DeMolay implied. It's merely a means of finding the real treasure he alluded to."

Santelli stared at him.

"Joseph of Arimathea describes Jesus's burial rituals in vivid detail. How the body was cleaned, wrapped in spices and linen, and then bound. Coins were placed over the eyes." Donovan's voice sank an octave. "It claims that the body was laid out in Joseph's tomb...for twelve months."

"A year?" Santelli was aghast. "Patrick, this isn't yet more Gnostic scripture?" In the past Donovan had routinely briefed him on the many pre-biblical writings that presented Jesus quite differently-- an attempt by early leaders to entice pagans to adopt the Christian faith. Many of those stories were wildly exaggerated, rife with philosophical interpretations of Jesus's teachings.

"According to Joseph-- the man entrusted with burying Jesus-- there never was a physical resurrection. You see..." There was no subtle way for him to say what needed to be said. He locked eyes with the cardinal. "Christ died a mortal death."

It wasn't the first time Santelli had heard this argument. "But we've been through all this before-- assertions about early Christians seeing resurrection as being spiritual not physical." He gestured at the book dismissively. "This Ephemeris Conlusio is a clear contradiction to scripture. I'm glad you found it. We'll need to ensure it doesn't fall into the wrong hands. We don't need some enemy of the Church rushing off to the media."

"I'm afraid there's more."

Santelli watched silently as Donovan reached into his satchel and removed a furled, yellow scroll. He laid it out on the desk.

The Cardinal leaned in. "What is this?"

"A technical illustration-- a kind of map, actually."

He made a face. "Certainly doesn't look technical to me. A child could have drawn this."

The one-dimensional style used to draft the image was simplistic, Donovan would agree. But three-dimensional illustrations weren't employed until the Renaissance period, and he wasn't about to belabor the point with Santelli.

"Despite its lack of detail, there are a few critical things you can see here," Donovan explained. He indicated the elongated rectangular base. "This is Temple Mount in Jerusalem." Then he pointed to the image drawn atop it. "This is the Jewish Temple that was built by Herod the Great, later destroyed by the Romans in 70 AD. As you know, the Dome of the Rock Mosque is there now."

Santelli looked up sharply. "Temple Mount?"

"Yes," Donovan confirmed. "This is Joseph of Arimathea's representation of how it appeared in 30 AD during the time of Christ."

Donovan explained that Joseph's writings described in great detail what the temple looked like-- its rectangular courtyards and sacred Tabernacle; its storage houses for oil and wood; the water basins used to consecrate sacrificial offerings and the wooden pyres to burn sacred animals during Passover. He said that Joseph had even noted the temple's sacred threshold beyond which gentiles were forbidden to cross-- a railed, outer perimeter called the "Chell." Then there was the account of the Roman garrison that adjoined Temple Mount-- the place where Jesus was taken before Pontius Pilate.

"But it's this spot here"-- Donovan pointed to the small darkened square that Joseph had drawn inside the gut of the platform-- "that's most important. It's meant to show the location of Jesus's crypt. In the text, Joseph includes specific measurements as to its proximity from the Temple Mount's outer walls."

Santelli's hand was over his mouth again. For a few seconds he remained perfectly still.

Beyond the window the looming black clouds finally made good on their threat.

"After obtaining the Ephemeris Conlusio," Donovan continued, "I researched the site in great detail. I'm absolutely certain that the secret crypt is still there. I believe that Crusaders-- the Knights Templar, in fact-- might have discovered the crypt and secured it."

"How can you be so sure?"

Donovan reached across the desk and carefully turned the ancient pages, stopping on a group of sketches. "This is why."

The cardinal had trouble comprehending what appeared to be a catalogued collection-- the drawing style equally crude.

"Those items," Donovan went on, "are the relics that Joseph of Arimathea buried in the crypt. The bones, coins, and nails. Plus the ossuary, of course. These are the things Jacques DeMolay was referring to."

Santelli was thunderstruck. Slowly his eyes settled on an image of a dolphin wrapped around a trident "That symbol there. What does it mean?"

"It's the reason I'm sure these items are still secure." He explained its significance.

Santelli crossed himself and set it down.

"If these relics had ever been discovered, without a doubt, it would certainly have been referenced somewhere. In fact, we probably wouldn't even be sitting here having this conversation if they had been." Donovan retrieved yet another document from his satchel. "Then there's this recent article from the Jerusalem Post which our mysterious benefactor included with the book."

Santelli snatched it away and repeated the Post's headline out loud. "'Jewish and Muslim Archaeologists Cleared to Excavate Beneath Temple Mount.'"

Donovan gave Santelli time to absorb the rest of the article, then spoke up. "Since Israeli peace accords don't permit digging on the site, the Templar Knights are Temple Mount's last known excavators. But in 1996 the Muslim trust that oversees the site was permitted to clear rubble from a vast chamber beneath the platform-- a space that was once used by the Templars as a stable, and completely blocked off since their twelfth-century occupation. The messenger who delivered this book was an Arab. Therefore, I'm fairly certain that the Ephemeris Conlusio must have been discovered by the Muslims during their excavations."

"But why have they waited until now to present it?"

"At first, I too was suspicious," Donovan confessed. "Though now I've got a good idea as to why." From the satchel he retrieved a modern drawing-- his own. The final exhibit of the presentation. "When the areas were cleared, the Muslims converted that space into what is now called the Marwani Mosque. Here's an aerial view of the Temple Mount as it stands today. Using Joseph's measurements, I've calculated the precise location of the crypt."

On the schematic, Donovan had converted the ancient Roman measuring units, gradii-- one gradus equal to almost three-quarters of a meter-- to their modern metric equivalent. "I've marked in red the area that is now the Marwani Mosque, situated about eleven meters below the esplanade's surface." The shape of the subterranean mosque looked like a stacked bar chart.

Santelli grasped what Donovan was implying. "My God, it's right next to the secret chamber."

"Directly abutting the mosque's rear wall. Muslim and Jewish archaeologists already suspect that chambers exist beneath Temple Mount and they'll be performing surface scans to detect them."

Santelli's face was drained. "Then they will find this place."

"It would be impossible to miss," Donovan grimly confirmed. "If the relics described in the Ephemeris Conlusio are real, there's a good chance that the physical remains of Christ may be unearthed in a few weeks. That is why I have come here today. To ask you...what can we do?"

"I think that's all too clear, Patrick," Santelli's voice was brisk. "We must retrieve those relics from beneath Temple Mount. Over two billion Christians depend on the Gospels of Jesus Christ. To disrupt their faith is to disrupt social order. We have a very real responsibility here. This isn't just a matter of theology."

"But there's no diplomatic way to obtain them," Donovan reminded the cardinal. "The political situation in Israel is far too complicated."

"Who said anything about diplomacy?" Santelli reached over to the intercom mounted on his desk. "Father Martin? In my phone list, you'll find the number for a 'Salvatore Conte.' Please summon him to my office immediately."

Veering off congested Via Nomentana through the Villa Torlonia park entrance, Giovanni Bersei slowed along a narrow bike path, the Vespa's engine purring softly.

Here, beneath the sprawling English gardens where a flurry of joggers and cyclists went about their exercise regimens, a labyrinth of Jewish crypts formed just over nine kilometers of what had recently proved to be Rome's oldest catacombs-- the burial grounds that ancient Rome insisted be well outside the city walls. And somewhere in this subterranean realm, he was certain, lay part of an ancient secret tied to Jesus Christ.

Glancing up at the weathered neoclassical edifice that made this place famous-- the palatial villa where Benito Mussolini had once resided-- he angled toward a set of low buildings adjacent to the building's rear courtyard. Here were the stables where excavations in 1918 had accidentally uncovered the first burial chambers.

Outside the Villa Torlonia catacomb gateway, Bersei killed the Vespa's engine, dismounted, and rocked the scooter onto its kickstand. Opening the rear cargo box, he removed his laptop bag and a sturdy flashlight, then stowed his helmet inside.

Though he'd been caught up in rush hour traffic for the past forty minutes, it was still only ten minutes to nine. Most likely, the place would still be locked up.

Bersei tried the door. It opened.

Inside the crude foyer an elderly docent sat behind a desk, reading a Clive Cussler novel. There was a large boat on the cover caught in a massive whirlpool's swirling vortex. The old man's deep-set, hazy eyes shifted up, squinting over thick bifocals. A smile broke across his face-- an exterior as aged and historically complex as Mussolini's villa.

"Ah, Signore Bersei," he placed his book down and spread his hands. "Come sta?"

"Bene grazi, Mario. E lei?"

"Better and better everyday," the old man boasted in thick Italian. "It's been a while."

"It has. Glad you're an early bird. I thought I'd be standing outside for awhile."

"They have me here at eight nowadays, just in case anyone feels motivated to get some work done. They've been trying to speed up the restoration."

The Soprintendenza Archeologica di Roma still denied tourists access to the Jewish catacombs due to the intensive conservation efforts that were still underway-- a project now spanning more than a decade. Noxious gases still present in the deep recesses of the subterranean labyrinth of crypts had only prolonged the delay.

Bersei pointed to the book. "I see you're keeping busy."

The docent shrugged. "Catching up on my reading. Still haven't gotten word that we'll be opening any time soon. I need to find action somewhere else."

Bersei laughed.

"What brings you back here?" The old man stood, stuffing frail hands into his pockets. Mario's frame was mostly bone, dramatically stooped by age.

It had been a while since Bersei's last visit. Two years, in fact. This was only one of over sixty Roman burial sites he had surveyed for the Pontifical Commission over the years. "The latest carbon dating results have me second-guessing some of my original assumptions. Just want to have a second look at some of the hypogea."

The story was a good one. Only a few months ago, a team of archaeologists had carbon dated charcoal and wood fragments embedded in some of the crypt's stucco. The remarkable results dated the site as far back as 50 BC-- over a century earlier than the city's youngest Christian catacombs. The implications of such a discovery were profound, strongly supporting prior theories about Jewish influence on Christian burial rituals. But what was most fascinating was that mingled with the Judaic motifs were symbols closely tied to the early Christian movement. And these vague recollections had brought Bersei back here.

"I see you've got your flashlight."

The anthropologist held it up proudly. "Always prepared. Do you need my card?" Bersei pulled out his wallet, flipping it open to a laminated identification card granting him full access to most of the city's historic sites. Few academics had earned this status.

Mario waved it away. "I'll log you in," he said, pointing to a clipboard at his side.

"No one else down there?"

"You've got it all to yourself."

Somehow, that wasn't sitting right with him. He smiled uneasily.

The docent passed him a piece of paper. "Here's an updated map for you."

Bersei eyed the revised plan of tunnels and galleries. Now it was even more evident that the passageways had evolved haphazardly over centuries of expansion. The complicated representation looked more like a pattern of cracks in a crazed piece of pottery. A web. "I won't be long. Would you mind if I left this with you for a little while?" He held up the laptop bag.

"No problem. I'll keep it behind the desk."

Handing the bag over, he made his way across the foyer and flicked on the flashlight, angling it low to illuminate the stone steps that plunged into pure blackness.

At the base of the steps, Bersei fought off a shiver and paused to adjust his breathing to the frigid, damp air-- the brutal conditions that challenged restoration. It was remarkable that so many frescoes and etchings had been preserved down here, in an unforgiving environment that had completely ravaged the corpses that once occupied its thousands of niches. Barely any bones had been uncovered during excavations in these tombs, most having been stolen centuries earlier by unscrupulous charlatans who had turned a profit by passing them off as the relics of martyrs and saints. Ironic, he thought, seeing as the place was constructed like a maze specifically to avoid looting. So much for protecting the bodies for eventual resurrection. Come Judgment Day, there would be plenty of disappointed souls.

He pointed the light down the narrow passageway-- barely a meter wide and less than three meters high-- where it dissolved into total darkness only a few meters ahead. Almost two thousand years ago, the Fassores, a guild of diggers, had hand-carved this labyrinth of tombs out of the soft volcanic rock or tufa that formed Rome's foundation. Burial slots called loculi layered the walls on both sides. In ancient times, bodies had been shrouded and laid out on these shelves to decompose for excarnation-- the ritual rotting of flesh that expiated earthly sin. All were now empty.

These subterranean galleries had been layered into the earth, with three levels of similar tunnels running beneath this one. Luckily, the chamber he was most interested in viewing was in the catacomb's upper gallery.

The necropolis, he thought. "City of the dead." He shielded his nose from the moldy smell and hoped that nobody was home. Swallowing hard, Giovanni Bersei pushed forward.