Indisputable Proof (32 page)

CHAPTER 57

September 14. Friday – 8:09 a.m. Oviedo, Spain

51 minutes until the start of the Feast of the Cross

Archbishop Gustavo stood at the doorway of the Cathedral de San Salvador greeting people as they entered. As always, excitement built to a crescendo as the Feast of the Cross was about to commence. This service would be full, as would every service for the next seven days until Octave on September 21
st
. In all, hundreds of thousands would pass through these doors to behold the holy relic which once veiled Jesus’ face.

Knowing the Sudarium was gone, possibly forever, left a hollow feeling in the pit of the Archbishop’s stomach. If it were up to him, he would have forestalled the display at least 24 hours, but the Pope had been insistent. He declared it to be God’s will that the Feast of the Cross, and all associated activities, proceed according to tradition.

It would be hard to display a relic that is no longer here, the Archbishop thought dejectedly.

More and more people crowded into the church. Unlike other years, though, the hallowed sanctuary had an unusual hush about it. There was a collective nervous anticipation which he could feel drifting up from the mass of people. According to the American CIA, there were religious fanatics in the congregation today, who were there to observe and report to their brethren if the Sudarium was not removed from the Arca Santa and unveiled at the beginning of the ceremony. The consequences would be dire, with deadly strikes against untold thousands of innocent people.

Gustavo could feel his stomach wrapping into knots. He prayed to God for strength to get him through this.

****

Bar called Chief Inspector Nunez and told him of her intent to search the cemetery where Diaz had stopped on the way to the airport five days ago. Nunez offered to send an officer to assist, but Bar declined. An officer might not allow Bar the latitude she required.

The Asturias Province Cemetery was a ten-minute drive to the southwest. Nunez gave her instructions where to find the Diaz family mausoleum on the grounds. Bar raced through the Spanish countryside, knowing time was quickly running out.

The cemetery was in the middle of the woods, spaced between several small towns. It was much smaller than Bar had anticipated, and she had no difficulty finding the free-standing mausoleum toward the back as Nunez had described. There were no other cars in sight, and as far as she could tell, she was the only one on the grounds.

Bar drove into the cemetery on a dirt path, parked in the grass next to the mausoleum, and exited the rental car. It was overcast, and the air felt damp, as if rain was approaching. A light wind blew from the south, carrying the aroma of newly turned earth. She shivered for no particular reason as she approached the door to the mausoleum.

She looked up at the building. The structure was simple, with no overt architectural style as far as she could tell, and no extravagant features. Lichen was caked on the flat stone walls, checkering the pale surface in gray and green. The final resting place of the working-class, she thought, for those with enough family money to afford a mausoleum, minus all the frills.

Bar stood at the entrance and tested the door. It was unlocked, so she pushed it inward on creaking hinges and took a step through the threshold, pausing just inside. The air was stale with the undeniable smell of death and decay.

Again she shivered, but this time, she knew why. The place was the epitome of creepiness.

She learned from Nunez that Pascal Diaz’s father was Goyo Iago Diaz. Now, standing in the doorway, she saw twenty crypts before her in four tiers, each with five vaults across. The top row nearly touched the twelve-foot ceiling. Each vault was labeled with its occupant. Above, thick, interwoven spider webs erased the ceiling corners. More spider webs draped down along the walls.

“A four-story Days Inn for the dead,” she mumbled to herself. “I hope he’s near the bottom, or I’ll never reach it.”

Bar left the door open for the natural light. She made her way over to the stack of crypts, stirring dust with each step. She pulled a flashlight from her coat, as the farther in she went, the dimmer it became. The names were inscribed in the stone facing and had significantly aged, making them difficult to read. She was surprised to see the first marker indicated a Santos Diaz, 1712 - 1768. The Diaz family history in this area went way back.

Bar heard a creak and wheeled around. The wind had nudged the open door to its full extent, where it softly rolled back and forth before stopping.

“Just the wind, Tiff. Settle down,” she said to herself, flicking a long bang over one ear. She patted her pistol in the pocket of her coat. She had almost left it in the car, but Tolen advised keeping it on her at all times.

She turned back and knelt, examining the names on the bottom row of crypts before moving to the second row. It was immediately apparent the Diazes were interred in order by date of death, right to left, bottom to top. This did not bode well for Bar. By the time she reached the last crypt on the second row, she was only up to the late 1800s. To view the third row, she had to aim the flashlight over her head and crane her neck while standing on tiptoe. The first two dates were into the 1900s, and she prayed she got to Diaz’s father before the third row ended. She doubted she could read the fourth row of names, much less reach it.

Thankfully, she found Goyo Iago Diaz listed on the fourth crypt on the third row. She drifted back to the door and looked out over the cemetery grounds hoping to find something to stand on: a ladder left on the grounds perhaps. Seeing nothing of use, Bar stepped back inside, staring up at Goyo Iago Diaz’s tomb, thinking.

Her eyes wandered down to the crypt on the first row below Goyo Iago Diaz’s, then up again at the third row crypt. She bent down to the third crypt in the first row. She drew in a deep breath and wished she had not. She coughed it out as the dust entered her lungs. “Just do it, Tiff,” she urged herself. Bar grabbed the handle and pulled. The twenty-four-inch square stone door to the crypt resisted, then gave with a pop, swinging downward on a rusty hinge. There was a loud shrill, and a wad of fur bounced across her arm. Bar was so startled that she fell back with a yelp, backing all the way up to the side wall. The creature scampered out through the mausoleum door in a flash. She brushed frantically at her arm; her mind only now registering the animal as a large rat.

She began gasping for air.
Get a grip, Bar!

Her knees momentarily wobbled as she stood, and she took a moment to center herself and focus before walking over to the open crypt. The stench which rose from it was ghastly. She expected to see a coffin that she could drag partially out and use as a step up. Instead, she saw the top of a partially crumbled, aged human skeleton succumbing to time. She shined the flashlight inside and saw the rest of the remains lying prone in the long cavity.

So much for that plan.

With the clock ticking, she renewed her determination and grabbed the handle of the crypt on the second tier below Goyo Iago Diaz. In case there were more rats, she stood to the side and pulled, immediately yanking her hand away as the door fell open. This time nothing emerged from within. She cautiously moved before the opening, examining the insides with her flashlight.

Another gruesome skull appeared, this one more intact than the first, but still losing form as pieces had flecked off. Deeper inside the container, the bones of the ribs, arms, torso, hips, and legs lay still, colored brown with age. Another awful smell clouded around her, and she tried her best to ignore it.

Now came the hard part. Bar stepped up, using the inside of the second level crypt as a platform to stand upon. She cringed as she felt the tip of her shoe bump against the decaying skull. She tried not to think about it. Then, she raised her second foot up to the recess and reached over her head, grabbing the handle to Goyo Iago Diaz’s crypt to steady herself. There was no time to waste. She gripped the handle firmly and gave it a hearty tug, praying a rat would not drop onto her head.

The door released much more easily than the other two and swung downward. She heard tiny feet scurry away, and cringed. Nothing fell and silence returned.

She backed down to the floor, retreating to the door of the mausoleum. Bar shined her flashlight at an upward angle, trying to get a view inside the high open crypt. Archbishop Gustavo had advised her that the Sudarium was folded inside a silver-plated wooden box, twelve inches by six inches. Bar searched the opening. All she could see was the upper half of the skull of Goya Iago Diaz.

Immediately, Bar wondered if her instincts had been wrong. Why else would Pascal Diaz have stopped here on the way to the airport if not to hide the Sudarium before leaving for the States?

She moved from side to side, trying to better her vantage point. No matter where she went in the room, she could not see the base of the high crypt. She climbed back up, wedging her feet once again inside the second-tier crypt and grabbing the lip of the opening above. Blindly, she felt around, grimacing when her fingers touched the rough skull perched on the cusp, tipping it out of reach. She looked up and was mortified to see the skull falling toward her upturned face. She dodged her head to the side just in time as the skull barely missed her. It passed by her, plummeting to the stone floor where it landed with a morbid crunch.

Bar winced at the sound, but did not look down. She steadied herself, breathing heavily, yet trying to ignore what had just happened. While she kept one hand on the lip of the vault to support her awkward angle, the other continued to search around. In the right corner, she contacted something. At first she thought it was the stone wall, or worse, more of the skeleton, but then she tapped it with her fingernail and heard the faint click of metal. Excitedly, she strained to wrap her fingers around the edge of what felt like a small box lying flat. She gave it a tug, and it moved easily, scraping along the stone. She pulled it past the edge so that a portion was overhanging.

It had a silver casing. There was no doubt she had found the box containing the Sudarium of Oviedo, but she needed to determine if the contents were still inside.

Bar pulled the box from the ledge and found it remarkably light. She quickly climbed back down and placed the box on the stone floor of the crypt. She knelt beside it and opened the lid. It took a few seconds to pry loose.

“Yes!” she cried triumphantly, spying the venerable cloth.

She looked at her watch: 36 minutes before the Feast of the Cross began. That might give her just enough time to make it to the Cathedral de San Salvador and replace the Sudarium in the Arca Santa before it was retrieved for the opening ceremony.

She placed the lid securely back on the box and stood.

“First, the old gray-haired woman with the ridiculous accent on the Greek isle, now a little blonde-haired girl in Spain. Where does the CIA get their people from? The circus?” a man standing in the doorway chortled, holding a pistol pointed directly at Bar.

Bar started, her pulse racing. She spoke as calmly as she could in Spanish. “Who are you? What do you want?”

The terror of seeing a gun pointed at her was beyond anything she could have ever imagined. Her thoughts jumbled, and her brain froze. A few seconds skipped past, and slowly her mind thawed. She took the man in. He was of average build and height with dirty-blond hair. His accent was heavily German. He backed away from the door and into the corner, yet even in the dim light she recognized him from his picture: Nicklaus Kappel, Simon Anat’s private assistant.

“Discard your weapon.”

Bar began to reach into her right coat pocket.

“Stop!” Kappel yelled, adjusting the gun to her head. “Remove your coat instead.”

Bar did so, shifting the Sudarium from one hand to the other in order to shed the garment, which she placed on the ground. There was a muted
clink
as her pistol impacted the stone floor through the cloth.

“Kick your coat away.”

She complied, sending it against the wall, well out of reach.

“Put the Sudarium on the ground,” he ordered.

What he had first said to her finally sunk in. ‘…old gray haired woman with the ridiculous accent.’
This is the man who murdered Reba Zee!
Bar’s heart was pounding, and she tried to take a deep breath. She had to keep a clear head.

Kappel’s voice turned venomous. “Put it down now, and I will make your death quick like the pilot’s. Do anything stupid, and you will die slowly and painfully.”

Deep within Tiffany Bar, a seething hatred began to take over. She stared hard at his face and searched her memory for what she knew about the man. A German, the man’s only family was his sister, Cecily, with whom he had had an incestuous relationship. She was in jail. He also suffered from severe aphenphosmphobia—an acute fear of touching anyone. Slowly, a desperate plan formulated in her mind.

Bar bent down and placed the silver-plated box on the ground at her feet.

“Kick it to me,” he demanded.

She did.

Never taking his eyes off her, Kappel bent down and grabbed the box. He stood upright. “That’s a good little girl,” he smirked. “Now, let’s take a walk in the woods.”

The words chilled Bar, and her thoughts raced. “I spoke to Cecily. She’s enjoying jail.”

Kappel’s eyes turned menacing in an instant. “She would never say that!” he shouted.

Fighting her fear, Bar took a step toward the man. Kappel instinctively backed up a step. “Stop moving!”

“Cecily says it’s wrong what you two did.”

“You do not know Cecily!”

“Oh, but I do. Her boyfriend went to visit her just yesterday at Haufmer Langstrafenanstalt.”

“No, she no longer talks to him!” Kappel’s anger caused his hand to shake and his aim to veer. He acted as if he wanted to use his other hand to stabilize it, but holding the Sudarium prevented him from doing so.

Steeling her nerves, Bar stepped forward once again. “Cecily never wants to see you again.”

Kappel tried to back up, but he found himself pressed into the corner. His face had reddened, and his eyes were darting about wildly. The gun was waving up and down, and he was unable to stop it.