Sign Of The Cross (32 page)

‘Me? I’m the
CEO
of an American company named Payne Industries.’

Ulster beamed. ‘A businessman! How wonderfully wonderful! It
has
been a while since we’ve been visited by an American collector. Tell me, what’s your area of interest?’

‘Actually, Petr, I’m not a collector. I’d say I’m more like a financier.’

‘Marvelous! Simply marvelous!’ He put his hand on Payne’s knee and patted it a few times. ‘My grandfather would applaud your philanthropy. He really, truly would!’

Payne wasn’t sure how to handle Ulster’s enthusiasm or abundant use of adverbs, but he was tempted to recommend decaf. ‘It’s funny you should mention your grandfather, because from what I understand he came to Switzerland looking for the same thing that my team requires.’

‘Really? And what is that?’

‘Sanctuary.’ Payne leaned closer and whispered, ‘We’re at a critical point in our journey, and I’m afraid if word leaked out, a rival faction might be able to use it against us.’

‘A rival faction?’ Ulster rubbed his hands in anticipation. He wasn’t used to dealing with such excitement. ‘This information you seek, what is it?’

Payne nodded toward Boyd. ‘Chuck? Would you mind handling this one?’

‘We’re looking for any information you might have on Tiberius and his right-hand man, Paccius. Preferably data about their later years.’

‘Ah, the mysterious General Paccius. We’re blessed with several documents from the Empire that might help your cause. As luck should have it, my grandfather had a particular passion for the ancient Romans, since they once occupied his native Austria.’

‘Brilliant! Bloody brilliant!’

‘Regrettably your research might be difficult, for several pieces in his Roman collection have never been translated, and many others have never been logged.’

‘Not to worry,’ Payne assured him. ‘When we’re done, we’ll be more than happy to leave our translations behind. That is, the ones that won’t put us in harm’s way.’

Ulster chortled loudly. ‘Oh, Jonathon, you
are
mysterious. And I’m certainly glad I’ve made your acquaintance. Nevertheless, before I can let you upstairs, I’m afraid I must ask the one question that we pose to all visitors.’

‘And that is?’

‘What can you offer this institution as repayment for our services?’

‘I don’t know. We’re traveling kind of light, being in the field and all. What type of donation would be acceptable?’

‘I’d love to offer you a suggestion. Sadly, since I know very little about your journey, it’s tough for me to say. Perhaps if you threw me a hint or two, I could assist your selection.’

‘A hint or two?’

He nodded, sliding closer to Payne on the couch. ‘Or even a crumb. I can assure you whatever you tell me will remain in the strictest of confidence. The documents in this chalet would never have survived the war if it wasn’t for secrecy. My grandfather relied on it, and he taught me how precious it can be. So rest assured I would never dishonor his memory by breaking my word.’

Payne glanced around the room and noticed a large TV sitting in the corner. It would do nicely when the moment was right. ‘Petr, as I mentioned, I’m a businessman, not a scholar. And as a businessman, I
always
try to negotiate the best deal for myself before I agree to anything.’

Ulster leaned forward. ‘I’m listening.’

‘You see, my team requires more than just admittance to the Archives. While we’re in town we’d like round-the-clock access, a private room to conduct our studies,
plus
your services as an extra researcher. I figure no one knows your documents better than you.’

‘My services? Oh, Jonathon! You slay me, you really do! But I’m afraid it would take something staggering to consider such an agreement. Absolutely, completely staggering. But let’s be honest, what could you possibly be involved in that would make it worth my time?’

Petr Ulster started canceling his appointments before the video was half finished. He’d always believed in the existence of the Catacombs, and now that he’d seen visual proof, he could think of nothing he’d rather be working on. Payne didn’t even mention the scroll or the religious overtones of their mission, yet Ulster was bouncing around the room like a goat in heat.

‘Tell me,’ he begged. ‘What are you’re looking for? It must be something unbelievably important, or you wouldn’t be squelching this discovery.’

Boyd nodded. ‘There is some doubt in our minds why the Catacombs were built. We believe it was to celebrate a clandestine deal between Tiberius and Paccius, but we’re lacking proof.’

Ulster rose from his chair. ‘Then what are we waiting for? Let’s see what we can discover!’

The Roman Collection was stored in the largest room in the chalet, even though its basic design was similar to all the other document vaults. The floors were made out of fireproof wood – boards that had been coated with an aqueous-based resin – while the white walls and ceilings had been treated with a fire-retardant spray. The texts themselves were kept in massive fireproof safes, which were well-guarded behind bulletproof security doors.

Ulster invited them to find a seat before he accessed the control panel. Beeps filled the air as he entered his ten-digit security code, a sound replaced by the low rumble of the partitions as they inched across the floor in their motorized tracks. Once the glass had disappeared into the walls, the knobs on the individual vaults started to spin in unison, then popped open.

Ulster asked, ‘Have you figured out how you want to conduct this search? Like I mentioned before, much of this collection has not been logged or translated.’

‘And those that have been logged?’

‘Sorted by approximate date and/or subject matter, depending on my mood that day.’

Boyd took a deep breath. This was going to be far tougher than he had originally hoped.

Although far from home, Jones accessed the databank in his Pittsburgh-based office to retrieve background information on Boyd and Maria – specifically Boyd’s involvement with the
CIA
and Maria’s family history. If Payne and Jones were going to work side-by-side with them, they needed to know everything they could about their backgrounds.

Boyd’s real name was Charles Ian Holloway, and he graduated from Annapolis in the early sixties. After that, things got murky. He was loaned to the Pentagon for an ‘alternative tour of duty,’ at which time he dropped off the Academy radar. No more records. No forwarding address. Nothing. He was effectively wiped from their system, which, Jones assumed, was the moment that Charles Boyd was born and began his new career in the
CIA
.

To verify this fact, Jones downloaded a picture of Boyd from a local news agency and sent it to Randy Raskin at the Pentagon with a message that said: ‘Is Chuck safe to drink with?’

This was a coded way to find out if Boyd was viewed as a threat by the U.S. government. If Jones had wanted to know about Boyd’s access to top secret information, he would’ve asked if Boyd was ‘safe to dine with.’ If Raskin’s response mentioned a ‘one-course meal,’ then Boyd was cleared to discuss first-level documents. A ‘two-course meal’ meant second level, and so on. But Jones didn’t care about that. He wasn’t looking to share secrets with the guy. He simply wanted to know if Boyd was in good standing with the Agency.

Jones also wanted to know why Raskin didn’t warn them about Boyd’s duties with the
CIA
when Payne called him from Milan. That just didn’t make sense.

While he waited for Raskin’s response, Jones switched his focus to Maria Pelati and found everything he was looking for. She grew up in Rome, moved to an exclusive prep school in England before she reached her teens, and then enrolled in Dover, where she’d been studying for the past ten years. Interpol documents proved that she rarely left the U.K., even for the holidays, which suggested that her relationship with her father was, in fact, strained.

Her only extended visit to Italy in the past decade was the one she took recently, flying from London to Rome on the same flight as Dr Boyd two weeks ago. From there, Jones was able to track their whereabouts around Orvieto by following a string of credit card transactions. A hotel bill here, a store purchase there – always within their means – and absolutely nothing to suggest that they were treasure hunters on the verge of a big payday.

As Jones continued his research, his computer let him know that Raskin had replied to his e-mail. He opened the message with a click of his mouse. It said:

Drink away, my friend, but
not
in public. Foreign bouncers will be checking IDs.

At first Payne thought Dr Boyd was joking when he asked him to leave the Roman Collection room to give them more space. That is until he started talking about claustrophobia and claiming there wasn’t enough air to breathe with so many people around the table.

Needless to say, Payne was stunned. After giving it some thought, though, he realized Boyd was right: Payne was pretty useless in the research department. He couldn’t read Latin or log ancient scrolls. And he certainly didn’t have the computer skills that Jones possessed. In fact, when it came right down to it, there wasn’t anything that he could do except guard the door and fetch prosciutto sandwiches when they got hungry.

That’s right, he was their rent-a-cop sandwich bitch.

Anyway, Payne decided not to make a scene and asked Ulster if he could use his office to work on a project of his own. Ulster laughed and told him to help himself, which was probably a mistake on his part, because Payne was about to fingerprint two suspects who weren’t even there, using the specimens that he collected in Milan.

The process itself was rather straightforward. Press the specimen in ink, then roll it on paper. Just like finger painting in kindergarten. Only this time, Payne used someone else’s fingers.

When Payne was done, he put them in a brown paper bag that said
DON’T
EAT
ME and returned them to Ulster’s freezer. Then he faxed the prints to Randy Raskin, figuring if anyone could determine who Manzak and Buckner were, it would be him. Payne included a short note that told him to send the results to Jones’s computer as soon as possible.

After that, Payne had time to kill, so he decided to explore the Archives. He walked up and down the halls looking at everything: the paintings, the statues, and all the display cases. The thing he liked the most was a series of black-and-white photos that Ulster’s grandfather had shot in Vienna in the 1930s. Most of them featured landmarks Payne didn’t recognize, but the final one, a photograph of the Lipizzaner stallions, instantly warmed his heart.

When he was a boy, his parents tricked him into watching a TV performance of the majestic white horses by telling him that they were unicorns that had lost their horns. Payne believed them, too, because he had never witnessed a more magical display of showmanship in his entire life. The horses entered the Imperial Riding Hall of the Hofburg to the violins of Bizet’s ‘Arlésienne Suite,’ then proceeded to glide through a gravity-defying series of pirouettes, courbettes, and caprioles. Payne never knew animals could dance or spin until that moment.

He took the picture off the wall and ran his fingers over the faded image. All the horses in the photo had died decades before Payne was born, but because of their careful breeding – each Lipizzaner was branded with specific marks to signify their historic bloodlines – they looked eerily similar to the ones he’d seen as a boy. The same high necks and powerful limbs, muscular backs and well-formed joints, thick manes and remarkably limpid eyes.

‘Didja know you saved their lives?’ someone growled down the hall. ‘
Ja, ja,
it’s true!’

Bemused, Payne glanced at the old man trudging his way. His name was Franz, and he was Ulster’s most trusted employee. ‘What was that?’ Payne asked.

‘You American, no?
Ja
, you rescued those horses.’

‘I did? How the hell did I do that?’

A smile exploded on Franz’s wrinkled face. ‘Not you! But men from your country.
Ja, ja!
They risked their lives to save them.’

Payne had no idea what he was talking about, so he asked him to explain.

‘Back in 1945, Vienna was under heavy attack by Allied bombers. Colonel Podhajsky, the leader of the riding school, was afraid for his horses – not only from bombs, but from hungry refugees who were scouring the city for meat.’

‘Did you say
meat?
’

‘Ja,’
he answered, the smile no longer on his face. ‘With Vienna unsafe, the colonel smuggled the horses many miles north to Saint Martin’s. Now, as fate would dictate, he came across an old friend who could help protect the horses. Do you know who he was?’

Payne had never heard of Podhajsky, so he was clueless. ‘I give up. Who?’

‘American General George S. Patton.’

‘Really? How’d he know Patton?’

Franz chuckled with delight. ‘Would you believe they met at the 1912 Olympics?
Ja, ja,
it’s true! Both men competed in pentathlon in the Stockholm Games.’

‘Patton was an Olympian? I never knew that.’

‘That is nothing. Wait till I tell you what happened next. To convince Patton that the horses were worth saving, the colonel staged a Lipizzaner performance right there on the battlefield. Can you imagine the spectacle? Horses dancing in the middle of a war!’ Franz laughed so loud it hurt Payne’s ears. ‘The general was so impressed that he made the horses official wards of the U.S. Army until Vienna was safe enough for their return.’

Payne smiled at the photograph. ‘I guess my parents were right. They are magical.’

‘Hmm? What was that?’

‘Nothing,’ he fibbed, half embarrassed. ‘Out of curiosity, could I borrow this picture for a few minutes? I have a buddy upstairs who always tries to impress me with facts about everything, and I doubt he knows that story. Would it bother Petr if I carried this upstairs?’

‘Petr!’ Franz groaned. ‘I’m glad you said his name, because I almost forget to tell you. Petr sent me to find you. He wants you to go upstairs at once. Your friends would like to talk to you.’