Skeleton 03 - The Constantine Codex (37 page)

“To Paul, apostle and martyr indeed. And while the earlier basilicas erected here were oriented to the west, this latest version looks to the east, yet all of them pivoted about this central shrine.”

“How come we haven’t heard a word about Paul’s tomb since then, Kev, not a word?
Why
haven’t they opened the sarcophagus to see if Paul’s remains are actually inside? I thought they would for sure in 2008–09—the so-called Year of St. Paul . . .”

“Well, the archpriest here is Cardinal Andrea Cordero Lanza di Montezemolo, and he’d have to give his permission first. But he hasn’t done so, at least not yet. I don’t know why. Maybe because many Italians would be horrified at any plan to examine the possible skeleton of St. Paul—
if
it’s inside. And yet this same wonderful breed of people can happily view the mummy of St. Francis encased in the glass altar at Assisi. Go figure!”

Now they had reached the end of the long colonnaded sanctuary, where the high altar dominated the basilica. Just below it were steps leading down to the crypt area. Along with a column of visitors, Jon and Kevin descended the stone staircase. There, behind a metal latticework screen, they saw the Vatican excavations under a slab of glass and one side of the actual sarcophagus exposed. Since photographs were permitted, Jon pulled out his small, slim Nikon and took a long series of shots—especially of the partially cleared lid above the exposed side of the sarcophagus. He had to wait his turn at times, since pilgrims were kneeling in front of the tomb and offering prayers.

Gathering in as much as possible, Jon spied a threshold at the opposite end of the excavation pit with a small access door. Made of simple crossed bars, the door seemed to have only a simple latch, not a lock. The passageway behind it was too dark to discern, but flash photography would take care of that. In fact, Jon’s camera was on a photography marathon, focusing on details large and small. All the while, Sullivan easily guessed what Jon might be up to but simply stood back and let him compound his own folly.

Jon thought that the passageway from the crypt must have led to a similar access door near the high altar, and his hunch was confirmed when he emerged from the crypt and found such a door directly in line with the access door inside the crypt. It also had just a latch, not a lock. More photographs.

Finally he said, “I have everything I need, Kevin. Let’s go check the visitor’s center.”

They walked over to the mini emporium at the south transept, where the faithful could purchase candles, rosaries, crucifixes and crosses of all kinds, imitation icons, plaster saints, and a multitude of guidebooks to Rome’s holy places. Like the tourist pilgrims around them, Jon purchased several color postcards as well as a booklet on the history of the basilica. On the wall over the cash register, there was a large plaster replica of the lid of Paul’s putative sarcophagus, complete with the holes through which pilgrims used to drop their written petitions and treasures centuries earlier—holes now mortared in.

The lid held a special fascination for Jon, and he photographed it from various angles. Later, he would compare the photos with his earlier shots of the real thing to determine if it were a faithful replica. Certainly the Latin phrase
PAULO APOSTOLO MARTYRO
seemed to shout that this was indeed St. Paul’s sarcophagus.

Just before they left the basilica, Jon remembered to pluck one of its flyers out of the tract rack. He wanted to know the basilica’s hours of admission.

The “hotel” where Jon was to stay for his three days in Rome was Kevin’s apartment on the Janiculum Hill with its great view of the Eternal City. That evening they indulged a bit at Kevin’s favorite restaurant on the Via Veneto in view of the dangers implied in the famed adage, “All work and no play . . .” But
la dolce vita
it was not, just a modest Italian dinner that began with pasta and minestrone and then proceeded through the next four courses, all nicely lubricated with Chianti.

After returning to Kevin’s apartment, their discussion turned to options other than the one Jon seemed to be pursuing.

“Why don’t you involve the Holy Father in this project?” Kevin wondered. “You know how much he admires you, Jon, and just a word of approval from Benedict would end Cardinal Andrea’s indecision in the matter. Your plan would then be lawful—even blessed by the church—and anything you found inside Paul’s tomb would be regarded as valid and aboveboard. But you know well enough how ugly things could turn out if you do it your way.”

Jon said nothing for some moments. He sat there, staring at the thousand pinpoints of light below that were Rome. Then he nodded. “You’re quite right, Kevin. If I were going to an alternate plan, that one would be the best option—far and away the best option. So why don’t I go that route? Several reasons. Benedict could, of course, say no—we really have no assurance that he’d say yes. And then our project—sorry,
my
project—fails. I’d never go against the pope’s decision on this. And is it really fair to Benedict to ask him to make such a decision? I think not. Furthermore, I could well come up with no results whatever—meaning that St. Paul is
not
inside that sarcophagus—and that could be embarrassing to the Vatican and disillusioning to pilgrims. Do I have the right to take away the object of their spiritual quest?”

“Nicely thought out, Jon. But what if you
do
discover St. Paul inside that sarcophagus? The clandestine nature of your discovery would certainly reduce its credibility, don’t you think?”

“Yes, it certainly could. And that’s why I would
never have done this
. You and I would visit Benedict, privately inform him of the great news, and then Vatican archaeologists could continue their work and make ‘the discovery.’ And think how nicely that would support the close of Second Acts.”

“Fair enough. But what if
you
—not St. Paul—were discovered ‘in the act of tomb desecration,’ as the tabloids might banner it? Then what?”

“I don’t really have a good answer there, Kevin. Possibly I’d have something of a ruined career after that. Or possibly not—once my motive was explained, namely, my desperation to find some material link to the close of Second Acts since the codex had been stolen. Besides, there’ll be no desecration or damage to the tomb whatever.”

Neither said anything for some time. Finally Jon spoke. “If all else fails, maybe I can get Benedict XVI to write me a letter of recommendation so I can get a new job somewhere.”

On that inanity, they laughed and called it a day.

The next morning, Kevin drove Jon to a builder’s supply store in western Rome so that he could, inexplicably, purchase overalls and—even more inexplicably—a dark green plastic tarpaulin. Then they returned for another visit to St. Paul Outside the Walls, where Jon spent several hours watching the tourists between 11 a.m. and 3 p.m., noting when they were crowding into the basilica or leaving it comparatively empty. He also looked for any surveillance cameras inside the sanctuary and, in particular, where and when guards who patrolled the premises passed by the crypt on their appointed rounds.

At Kevin’s place that evening, Jon unpacked the special objects he had shipped inside his checked luggage on the flight to Rome. He had thought of taking the items as carry-ons, but their very exotic nature might have provoked too many questions at the security lines. Mercifully, his baggage had arrived with him, which seemed to be quite unusual lately on the world’s airlines.

First, he unpacked something that looked like a small, silvery pistol. “No, it’s not a firearm,” he said in answer to Kevin’s raised eyebrows. “It’s a Stryker high-speed surgical drill.” He pulled its trigger, and at 4,000 rpm, it emitted only a soft high-frequency sound similar to a muffled dentist’s drill. “Batteries are fully charged, and they can keep it going for at least a half hour. It even has a vacuum on it to suck up debris.”

Kevin said nothing. He simply shook his head in continuing dismay.

Next, Jon opened a small plastic case that held a drill bit with a diamond-edged cutting head less than an inch in diameter. “This one loves to eat mortar,” he said.

Finally he hauled out a thin metal wand to which were affixed two tiny strobe lights and two miniature digital cameras, with battery power supply inside the wand and all controls in the handle at its top. “Are you getting the picture, Kev?”

He cupped his chin in hand and nodded slowly.

“I got the idea from the Italian archaeologists who explore the Etruscan tombs in Tuscany. There are so many up there that they excavate only those with interesting contents. And how can they tell which those might be? They bore a hole at the top of their circular ceilings and take flash photos by lowering something like this inside. Only our model here is smaller and much more sophisticated. We might even be able to produce three-dimensional images by using the two cameras.”

“Not to burst your bubble, Jon, but I doubt that your gadget will penetrate solid marble very quickly, unless you want to spend an hour or two drilling away.”

“I won’t penetrate the marble. I plan to use one of the holes already made in the lid but mortared over. This drill should cut it almost like butter. I already promised you that I’d destroy nothing at all in the process. It’s going to be quick, painless surgery.”

“I only hope you’re right. In fact, I only
pray
that you’re right. And please—because of my special relationship with the Holy Father—I never helped you at all in this escapade, right? And if you’re caught, I don’t even know you.” Sullivan stopped and they both chuckled. Since Kevin had originally introduced his friend to the pope, both knew how ridiculous that proposal was. “Okay, then,” he went on, “if you
are
caught, get me on your cell phone. I’ll have been ‘in the neighborhood’ and will ‘rush over to help my friend’ and maybe try to get his tail out of jail if it comes to that.”

“Fair enough, Kevin. I couldn’t ask for more.”

Shortly before noon the next day, they were driving back to the basilica of St. Paul. “You look just great in that Italian repairman’s getup, Jon,” Sullivan said. “Didn’t I see you and Mario on Nintendo?”

Jon merely smiled, trying to steel himself for the peril ahead.

“But why in the world you would want to choose the
busiest
time of the day for your escapade is quite beyond me.”

“Noon isn’t the busiest—tourists will be leaving for restaurants—and I couldn’t bring it off if the place were nearly empty.”

“Why not? That’s when I would have done it.”

“Wrong. Same number of guards then, but fewer things to distract them . . . greater chance of detection. Tourists are my protection.”

At the basilica, Sullivan parked his Fiat near a service door in the rear and extended his hand to Jon. “God go with you, you crazy fool! I’ll be waiting out here, praying for a miracle but with my cell phone handy.”

“See you here in fifteen to twenty minutes, Kev.”