The Betrayed Series: Ultimate Omnibus Collection Part 46

The sound of whispered prayer filled the small subterranean chamber. The Twelve's words soaking into the dirt walls. If Tok had not turned his implants to high before entering the room, he would not have been able to hear their hushed words. And so many of those words were new to the world. They were spoken from the bones just recovered.

Pain was not the only source of his stinging tears. He could feel the rebuke in each of their voices. To hear of James' regret after the crucifixion and his quest to redeem himself hurt in a way he never imagined. To know he would die before he knew the full truth of this great man's life. He would die before finding Him. It was more cruel than even the spikes through his flesh.

A stirring pa.s.sed through the room. Squinting against the bright light, Tok looked at the Twelve. They were of bent heads, consulting in tones low enough not even his amplifiers could overhear-then one stepped forward.

"It is time to end this," the masked member intoned through a voice modifier. No one was to know who stood in judgment.

Tok gulped. Suffering for days turned his stomach, but to face death now? He was not ready, but he kept his lips pursed. He would beg no more.

Let death come, then.

The executioner grabbed the mallet he had used to drive the stakes and swung it over his shoulder. The heavy hammer arced up, then swung toward Tok's left leg.

He braced for impact but someone charged into the room.

"Stop!"

Confused, the executioner changed trajectory and only grazed his knee. Tok blinked several times, for he could not believe who stood between him and death.

It was Petir.

But his presence was an unprecedented breach of ritual. A breach so great that it carried a penalty of death.

"Lower him immediately!" the older man demanded.

The executioner moved toward the cross until the hooded leader of the Quorum stepped between Petir and Tok. "How dare you violate the holy sanctum of this trial?"

As a shock to all, Petir backhanded the man, sending him sprawling. A collective gasp escaped the Quorum. The action reminded them that Petir was no ordinary member of the Knot.

Long ago, Tok's mentor had stopped being a man and had become a legend. He had been captured and tortured by three separate popes for his role in the Knot. Israeli n.a.z.i hunters held him for almost a year for his tangled relationship with the SS, and imams around the Middle East had issued enough fatwas against him to fill a library.

With every ounce of this earned reputation, Petir glared the Quorum down. "You have tainted our Lord with this black a.s.sembly. You are operating without the blessing of the Knot and laid upon this servant of G.o.d a death sentence to serve your own petulance."

"Do not think your intrusion will go unpunished!" the hooded man said shrilly. Not even his modulator could hide the tremble in his voice.

Petir took a step forward as the man shrunk back, raising an arm to protect himself from a strike that did not materialize. "Do you think I am naive to your game, Darve?" The room trembled as the others' robes rustled like leaves blown by a strong fall wind. "Yes, I know all who stand in opposition today. Klarmont. Fanco. Shallan."

Now there were too many voices to count as all raised shouts of alarm. The Quorum's ident.i.ties were sacrosanct. But now this strange, hurried ritual came into sharp focus. Each of those named was no friend of Tok's. Each resented his rapid ascent of position and power.

"Do you know the punishment for falsely convening a Quorum? Guards follow on my footsteps. If you wish not to be arrested, I suggest you flee now and do not look back."

Darve tried to stand strong before Petir's billowing rage, but his colleagues melted into the darkness. Soon he alone stood before Tok's mentor. "You overreach, Petir."

The words might have been meant as a threat, but they sounded hollow as they echoed off the nearly empty chamber.

The older man turned away from Darve and directed the executioner. "Take him down, or you shall answer under my knife, Jonathan."

As Darve slunk from the room, his tormentor pulled the spike from Tok's ankles, then his left hand. He tried to keep himself upright, but as the final spike was wretched from his flesh, he fell into Petir's embrace.

Slowly he lowered Tok to the floor. "There, there, be still."

"I thought you had abandoned me," he managed to whisper.

Petir hugged him to his chest. "Never, never, my friend. My only sorrow is that I did not arrive before this travesty." As he turned to Jonathan, his mentor's tone firmed. "Help me get him to the infirmary."

The thwarted executioner backed a step away, then turned on his heel and fled up the steps like a young girl.

Petir's stance changed. His shoulder fell, and the older man looked near tears. "Forgive me, Master, but we must hurry. Can you stand?"

Tok's eyes burned with bitterness that he could not fulfill his mentor's request. Petir's eyes frantically searched the room. He rose and pulled the crossbar from the beam. "Use this as a crutch. I will hold your other side."

But Tok's feet refused to respond to his mind's commands. "Petir, I fear the guards will have to see me crippled like this."

"There are no guards, Tok. Or if there are, it is to arrest the both of us."

"I do not..." He studied the older man's wrinkled face. The grooves were deeper than Tok had ever seen. "I do not understand."

Petir's words were rushed. "This sorry lot may have convened a false trial, but that does not mean a blessed Quorum will not reach the same conclusion. We must depart before they are alerted to my actions."

Tok's mind spun worse than it had on the cross. "You... You mean to act against the Knot?"

"Yes!" Petir said earnestly, then quieted. "In this, yes. We alone are destined to see this to the end. No other, Tok, no other."

Something in the pride that shone in his mentor's face made strength surge through his legs and the pain abated if but a bit. With Petir's help, Tok gingerly reached his feet, then with the help of the very piece of wood that bore his bloodstains. He took a tentative step toward his fate.

CHAPTER 31.

Rome, Italy Lopez burst into their suite at the Hotel Cicerone. "I love Rome!"

After pulling their collective a.s.ses out of the fire, Brandt didn't contradict the corporal as he spread out half a dozen tourist maps.

"You want some Vatican? I got some Vatican. Maybe in the mood for a little romance?" Brandt glared, which only seemed to amuse the corporal all the more. "Try La Terrazza. Voted the best restaurant to help you get her pants off, three years running."

Lopez tossed the pamphlet ent.i.tled "Romancing your way through Italy" onto the table next to Brandt.

"I think I liked you better crispy fried and drowned," Davidson said as he struggled to tie the rope around his monk's robe.

But the corporal just threw himself onto the couch. "You don't even want to know how close I came to going up in the fireball!"

Brandt glared again. "Maybe I do."

"Hold still," Rebecca complained as she fit Brandt's white collar.

It turned out stealing clergy clothing in Rome was as easy as taking candy away from a neonatal infant. Davidson hadn't been gone more than ten minutes before he came back with all their outfits and cover doc.u.ments. The kid could pretty much talk his way in and out of anything. He just had that innocent "I'm just off the farm" face.

Tsk-tsking, Rebecca grabbed Brandt's chin and pulled his face in her direction. Look forward." She took a step back a.s.sessing her handiwork. "Who knew those little things would be so hard to center?"

Instinctively, Brandt's hand went to rub the collar. Even his body didn't like the feel of it, but the doctor slapped his hand. "No more fussing." Quieter, she added, "I went to sleep, so now you have to wear the collar."

No matter her encouragement, Brandt still felt uncomfortable with his disguise. It was the only one that made sense, but still he chafed at the idea of dressing as a priest. Nothing else had ever bothered him. He'd played a doctor, casually giving medical advice or even the time he wore a gold lame dress as a drag queen hadn't given him pause. But this thin white collar felt like a noose.

Luckily Davidson finished hiding his sniper rifle in his robes. "Are we going to do this or what?"

Rebecca smoothed her linen dress. "I'm ready."

Rather than going for an in-your-face nun outfit, the private bought a more subdued gray tunic with a simple black veil, giving Rebecca a distinctly more American look than the traditional stiff habits. To complete the illusion that they had come from the same congregation, Davidson dressed Brandt in a gray leisure suit. The only concession to his supposed priesthood was the white collar. The private had also brought a finishing touch to Rebecca's outfit with a beautiful silver cross. Glancing at her now, seeming shy and preoccupied, the doctor almost looked devout.

If this whole Special Forces thing didn't work out, Davidson had a career as a stylist.

Lopez hopped off the couch, acting as if he'd gotten a full night's sleep. "Seriously, I can hardly wait until the next RPG strike."

Everyone looked at Brandt. There was nothing to stop them. In the past eight hours, any task standing between them and breaching the Vatican had been accomplished. Their entry and exit were covered. It was just up to Brandt to give the order.

Rebecca smiled like she meant to be encouraging, but the gesture just ended up just making him more apprehensive. But catering to nerves never got a soldier out of a foxhole, so he gave the nod.

Jostling for position, Davidson and Lopez banged into one another on their way out the door. Shaking her head, Rebecca handed Brandt his jacket, which he slipped on. She straightened his collar. "If it's any consolation, you make a really hot priest."

As he followed her out, Brandt realized it did help just a little.

Rebecca watched the private up ahead. A young friar weaved his way to the Vatican amongst the heavy foot traffic. In the hours it took to evade detection, book their suite, and get changed, Rome had transformed from a sleepy burg into a bustling metropolis. Even though they were outside, the noise level was akin to a kindergarten cla.s.s hopped up on sugar.

Between the drivers honking at pedestrians and the pedestrians yelling at the drivers, she could barely hear Brandt say, "Slow it down."

It took a deliberate effort to appear unhurried, since she just wanted this over with.

Get in. Get the bones. Make them public. Life back to normal.

But somehow after finding John, James, Magdalene, and the Virgin's bones and posing as a rock star and now a nun, Rebecca doubted if she would even recognize normal if she saw it.

"Act natural," Brandt whispered harshly. "Like you've never been here before."

The sergeant was right. Not only was her speed out of step, but her att.i.tude as well. She knew what lay on the other side of the Vatican's walls. How many times had she and Lochum surveyed the Relics Library or combed through the Secret Archives?

But most traveling this afternoon had not. Their eyes were wide with wonder, even if they tried to hide it. As they approached the first gate, most peered around the guards to catch an early glimpse of the Holy See. She knew its grandeur, but would do well to view the Vatican with new eyes. For in all her travels, she had never considered that Christ might be just a few meters beneath her feet.

The crowd clogged at the first gate as the Swiss Guard, dressed in their flamboyant blue, red, and orange uniforms, made each person pa.s.s through a metal detector. This was new. Her eyes darted to Brandt. Did they have to duck out of line? But the sergeant nonchalantly looked up at the stony ramparts, nodding to fellow clergy in a polite manner. Whatever misgivings Brandt had about putting on the collar had given way to a man who seemed completely comfortable as a priest.

Was it wrong that it made him all the s.e.xier?

Pa.s.sing through the detector without incident, Rebecca looked ahead. Where was Davidson? How in the world did he get his sniper rifle through the checkpoint? But the younger man was nowhere to be found. She looked anxiously at Brandt, but he simply pointed toward the Vatican's courtyard.

"When was the obelisk added to St. Peter's courtyard?"

"It was moved from Caligula's Circus to its current position in 1586 by Pope Sixtus the Fifth," she answered automatically.

"And the Basilica? When was it erected?"

Rebecca fought answering him. She wanted to know where Davidson was, but whenever she was asked a historical question it was like a switch was flipped, forcing her to answer. "Sixteen-twenty-six, but some form of the shrine had existed since sixty-four AD."

The sergeant nodded sagely as they finished the short walk down the enclosed road. Vatican walls rose to each side, herding the visitors toward the official entrance. At this smaller gate awaited yet another checkpoint. The Paris bombings and the boating accident this morning must have spooked security, for all bags were being searched. A Christian suicide bomber was every pope's worst nightmare.

Unlike Rebecca, Brandt didn't need to fake being overwhelmed by his first visit to the Holy See, because it was his first visit, and the scope of the grounds far exceeded his expectations. Now he could see how thousands of worshippers could attend ma.s.s in St. Peter's Square. he enormous courtyard curved into an oval with towering, curved colonnades embracing the s.p.a.ce. Like G.o.d's arms welcoming his children home.

The first object that drew his eye was the obelisk that stood in the center of the courtyard. The Egyptian monument climbed over forty meters into the sky, but it was the base that captured the sergeant's attention. Marble lions curved around the base, stalking, hunting.

Whereas St. Peter's life-size statue stood with his arms wide open, greeting visitors to his Basilica. Its gold and white dome glistened in the morning light. Other saints were perched on the roof of St. Peter's Basilica, a Renaissance-style building, overlooking all those who entered the Square.

Why couldn't they be headed inside the Basilica rather than breaching the pope's private quarters?

Brandt knew from pictures that St. Peter's interior vaulted high above, inspiring awe. Artwork covered every square inch of the walls and the enormous sculptures of Peter, the Crucifixion, and even Death were breathtaking.

But he wasn't going to see any of that nor the inside of the Sistine Chapel. Which was too bad since the Chapel's exterior was none too noteworthy. It gave no glimpse of the artistry contained within. The Chapel's exterior was a smooth beige with only a few, small b.u.t.tresses adorning the building. It seemed almost impossible that such a drab casing could house Michelangelo's masterpiece.

Why couldn't the d.a.m.n bones be under there? For one thing it would be a h.e.l.l of a lot easier to break into the Chapel, and secondly Brandt just wanted to witness the artist's manifestation of faith for himself. What great testament to G.o.d had been created since then?

But Brandt was reminded of his own duty as a squadron of Swiss Guard marched past. From their travels so far, he had counted twenty-seven guards, but who knew how many other guards were stationed within the tangle of buildings that lay outside of St. Peter's Square? There was an entire museum wing to the north, and rooftops continued for acres. All of those reinforcements were but a hundred yards away from the Palace.

But out of all of the other holy landmarks they had visited had been impressive, but the Vatican was its own country. You could put the Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque, and even St. Matthias Church onto the grounds and still have room to play a regulation-sized baseball game. Since the time he was an altar boy, he had dreamed of visiting the Holy See, and now here he was.

It wasn't until Rebecca cleared her throat that the sergeant realized that he had stopped walking and just stood in the center of the square, soaking up the experience.

"You ready?" she asked.

He nodded, and Rebecca walked toward the building between the Basilica and the Chapel, the Apostolic Palace, the pope's private residence, but Brandt found his feet reluctant to follow. It wasn't the exterior that put him off. The Palace was crafted in a similar style to the Basilica, but made of a redder brick. If it were not situated behind the white colonnade and sat in the center of Vatican City, you might mistake the Palace for an older Italian office building. Just like the Sistine Chapel, there was very little exterior adornment, but what it held was precious beyond belief.

The collar chafed his neck, reminding the sergeant of how far he had drifted from his faith. But some of his upbringing had clearly taken because Brandt realized there was a line he could not cross.

There were only two other parties in line in front of them when the sergeant tapped her shoulder. "We need to talk."

Rebecca glanced around. They weren't exactly alone. To their right, the post office bustled with tourists buying Vatican-issued stamps. On the left was the only ATM in the world that had instructions in Latin that brought flocks of travelers just so they could take home the unique receipt. Not far down the street were the Holy See's publishing offices. Sightseers and clergy alike swarmed the area.

"Can't it wait?"

Brandt shook his head sharply.