The Sacred Bones (25 page)

"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.

V
ATICAN
C
ITY

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.

J
ERUSALEM

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.