Gregg Loomis - The Julian secret

Before he had taken a half-dozen steps, excited shouts quickened-his pace into the cave. Inside, the inky dark was split by four flashlights concentrated on what might once have been a wooden chest, long since collapsed into a collection of splinters and rusted iron fittings. Also on the cave's floor was a clay vessel of some sort, a cylinder sealed at both ends. Pressed into the clay were a number of letters or symbols that none of the men recognized.

Another shout registered another find. Before long, a stack of earthenware jugs and plates was growing at the cave's mouth. A length of iron was so corroded with rust that it crumbled in one man's hand. Possibly the blade of a sword or the haft of a spear. The leader-warned the others to be more careful.

It was by accident that the writing was found, the most significant discovery of the day. One of the men stumbled over a rock, his light flying from his hand as he tried to break his fall The flashlight fell at an angle, illuminating previously undetected marks carved into the cave wall. The commander, standing in front of the inscription to give it scale, had several photographs taken with flash equipment.

An hour later, crates were being lowered by rope to four trucks waiting below. When the last was loaded, all but the leader rappelled down to the trucks, eager to stretch out among the big boxes and thankful they had nothing more to do today but ride. The leader remained behind for a minute or two, surveying the remains of the walls and the cave's opening, a gaping mouth in the shadows of the setting sun.

Then, as though he had made a decision, he, too, slipped into his harness and began to descend.

Beneath the Vatican

January 8, 1941

Monsignor Ludwig Kaas was the financial secretary to the Reverenda Fabbrica, the organization charged with the day-to-day administration of the Papal State. Today, instead of pen, paper, and adding machine, he held a kerosene lantern, casting flickering shadows across what, in another setting, could have been the crown frame of a Roman dwelling. Next to it, several more, somewhat less elegant, were visible above the clay.

"Mausoleums," the priest stated, careful in his movements lest he slip in loose soil. "Roman tombs along a street in a necropolis. If we dig, below there should be a road between the buildings."

The lantern's light reflected off Pope Pius XII's glasses, making it appear that the man had fire for eyes. "But that would require the desecration of Christian graves."

"I fear so, Holiness."

The monsignor knew better than to wait for an answer. The Pope carefully weighed even simple decisions. This was far from simple. Easy enough to keep the pontiff unaware that these events were being described daily to Kaas's friends in Rome's German Embassy, difficult to explain to them the delay, friends who were keeping very close track of the events in the Vatican grotto.

"I shall have to seek guidance," the Pope said, "God's advice."

The longer you wait, the monsignor thought, God will have less to do with it than Goebbels' Ministry of Propaganda. The thought of the club-footed cripple made Kaas's skin crawl as did most Nazis, a most un-Christian feeling. Unlikable as they were, though, Hitler and his henchmen knew the real enemies of the Church: the Communists and their Jewish allies.

As a mere functionary in the bureaucracy of the Holy See, Kaas kept his opinions to himself. It was not by advocating politics he had been transferred here from Germany nor would he achieve his purpose by speaking out.

Sometimes, though, silence was difficult.

Atlanta, Georgia

7:42 p.m. (the present)

Lang stepped out of the shower in a swirl of steam and walked into the bedroom. He was surprised to see that Gurt wasn't dressed. Unlike many women, she considered time an absolute, a deadline to be met. Like most Teutonic people, tardiness was a form of disorder, and disorder led to chaos.

And chaos was enjoyed only by Italians. She was sitting on the bed, reading a text message on her BlackBerry. Lang rummaged through his underwear drawer. "More spam?"

Gurt had naively given the number of her supposedly totally secure, Agency-issued, state-of-the-art wireless phone to a cosmetic mail-order house to obtain a products list. She had immediately been flooded with solicitations for everything from sex aids to discount baby products. The government's technology was no match for the ad world's. Lang wondered how much e-junk the President would have to go through to receive a message of an impending 9/11-style attack.

Gurt shook her head. "No, Jessica. The police have done nothing."

Lang pulled on a pair of boxer shorts before he responded. He had promised Jessica not to drop the matter, but once back in the States, the futility of trying to solve a murder an ocean away was very clear. "Have you tried that guy in Heidelberg?"

"Blucher? No-not since we got home from Spain two days ago."

Two days and Spain was already a dream, a memory shrinking around the edges, as was Lang's enthusiasm for further involvement. As things had worked out, Mr. Wiley had become anxious to resolve both the criminal and civil cases the day Lang had returned to the office. Sixteen months to serve and a promise of restitution had made both problems go away. Although it was certain Wiley would duly serve his time as a guest at one of the government's more posh Club Feds, giving back the money was dubious at best. Wiley had far too many bank accounts in places Lang had never heard of to voluntarily part with his hard-earned, if ill-gotten, fortune.

In any event, Lang had a lot more time on his hands than he had anticipated. "Should we go back to Spain?"

Gurt slipped a dress over her head, backing up to Lang to operate the zipper. How did women who lived alone get dressed?

"You are the one who wanted to go in the first place."

Hardly a helpful answer.

"Keep trying what's-his-name in Heidelberg. Let's see what he has to say." Gurt was inspecting her hemline in the mirror. "How can you 'see' what someone says? I will never completely master this language of yours."

You and several million Americans, Lang thought, but he said, ''You do just fine."

In fact, she was doing better than fine; she was prospering. The American lifestyle, Lang suspected, had done more than he had to convince her to extend a two week visit into a year's leave of absence from the Agency. She loved the American malls and supermarkets, both of which were just now emerging in Germany. And she had made friends, finding an inexplicable commonality with several of the single women in the building. Lang mentally referred to most of them as "The Wet Cat Society," on the theory that nothing is unhappier than a drenched feline. Divorced, these women's raison d'etre was not the job descriptions of residential real-estate salesperson or interior decorator. Instead, it was frantic man-hunting, a desperate seeking for a replacement for the husbands who had traded them in for newer models. They were intent on finding men who would relieve them of their pretense of work. As far as Lang knew, none had succeeded. Each had continued to observe as her personal Day of Infamy the day an unjust court system had upheld her prenup, leaving her only the uniformly insufficient alimony and the condominium that had been part of an unfair and unconscionable settlement.

Lang was as much at a loss to understand Gurt's relationships with such women as he was to understand why she could spend hours at a mall purchasing nothing. Both seemed pleasant, if pointless, activities but were part of why she was still here.

He hoped she never went back. She represented a fresh love, the first since the death of his wife, and a chance at having children of his own. But Gurt had changed the subject every time the question of a more permanent arrangement had come up.