Lee Child: MatchUp

The Archer tumbled over backward, arms and legs flying.

He struck three or four times with his closed fist, driving the Archer back beneath the thickening carpet of snow. The Archer’s right arm arced upward and slammed a rock into Bravo’s temple.

He collapsed.

The Archer grabbed the front of his coat, jerked it hard to the left. Bravo tried to clear the fog the blow had caused. The Archer reversed their positions, now on top, trying to pound the back of Bravo’s skull against the ground.

But the snow acted like a cushion.

The Archer pressed one hand onto Bravo’s face, trying to force his head under the snow. But the chill only served to revive Bravo, and he emerged from his stupor with the alacrity of someone fleeing an ice bath.

Still, his breathing was being stifled.

Full understanding of his dire situation flooded him.

He forced his body to go limp.

The Archer, sensing that his prey was either unconscious or dead, heaved Bravo’s head upward to find out which. He intended to deliver a closed-fingered blow straight to the Archer’s windpipe.

But never had a chance.

He heard the dull thud of Leland Brooks’s weighted baton smash into the back of Anson Stone’s head.

The Archer landed dead weight on Bravo’s back, forcing what little breath he still had out of his lungs. Seconds later, the still body was rolled away and Leland helped Bravo to his feet.

The two men then raced into the cavern.

They could hear breathing in the pitch dark. Bravo had lost his Maglite during the struggle. Fortunately Leland still had his, which was switched on. In the beam’s glare they saw Ali leaning against the side of the cavern, gasping for breath, her opponent on the rocky floor, out cold.

Bravo dug into his backpack and came out with a fistful of tie wraps. “We need to secure them.” He looked at Ali. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “You?”

“I wouldn’t be if it weren’t for Leland.”

Who was busy fastening the prisoner’s arms behind her.

“He thumped Anson Stone a good one on the head with that baton of his. I don’t think Anson’s dead, but it’s going to be a while before he comes around.”

“Let’s get him tied up before that happens,” Leland said.

Bravo nodded. “And bring him inside.”

“Do you think there are any others?” Ali asked.

“I hope not.”

WHILE THE TWO MEN STEPPED back outside, Ali struggled to locate her phone. She found the unit and sent Sister Anselm a text created with trembling fingers.

THANKS FOR THE WARNING. IT WAS A TRAP. WE’RE ALL OKAY.

A few moments later a reply text came.

FATHER PRICE SAYS TO LOOK FOR A LOOSE BOULDER INSIDE THE CAVERN. IT’S THERE, SOMEWHERE. I THINK IT MAY BE ON THE RIGHT HAND SIDE.

Anson Stone was still unconscious when Leland and Bravo carried him inside the cave, then dropped him to the ground.

“I heard from Sister Anselm. Martin tried to warn us that it might be a trap. But he said to look for a boulder inside the cavern.”

“What exactly are we looking for?” Leland asked.

“A copper tube, probably green with verdigris,” Bravo said. “It contains the Veil of Saint Veronica.”

LELAND MANAGED TO BUILD A fire just outside the entrance to the cave, leaving their prisoners next to it for warmth while Bravo and Ali searched for the boulder. When they finally found it, they were surprised at how readily it moved, revealing the treasures hidden underneath—a dead, no-brand flip phone, a pile of loose beads, and the copper tube.

“The Veronica,” Bravo said in a reverential tone. “The cloth used to wipe Christ’s brow on his way to the Crucifixion. A holy relic from the earliest days of Christianity.”

“An ancient holy relic,” Ali agreed. “Along with a modern burner phone.”

“Kind of emblematic of how the world works nowadays.” Bravo rolled the tube, examining it closely. “Amazing craftsmanship. It had to be to ensure the veil’s survival over the centuries.”

“Are you going to open it here?” she asked.

“Absolutely not.”

He shoved the quiverlike tube into his backpack. “The veil is more than two thousand years old. It will need to be opened by a professional, under the most controlled of circumstances.”

“Inside the Vatican?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Not until we’ve established what it is.”

“And your prisoners?”

“They’ll be handled.”

“Murdered, you mean?”

“No. We’ll give them a chance to tell us what they know.”

“Tortured then?”

He smiled. “We’re the good guys, remember?”

“Sometimes it’s hard to tell. But still no cops?”

“Not our style.”

“What about the two men you lost?”

“If the Knights tells us where they are, we’ll arrange for a proper burial.”

“If not?”

He shrugged and said nothing.

He’d earlier sent a text to the men he’d brought to Flagstaff as backup, the ones last seen following the part of the extramuros team that had come to the hospital. With the backup agents on their way, and before Ali and Bravo had launched their search, Leland had offered to hike back down to the end of the road to guide the new arrivals back to the cavern. By the time Leland returned, the snow had stopped falling. Bravo and Ali were sitting outside the cave, huddled next to the fire, keeping it going.

His men dealt with the prisoners, who were starting to come around.

Leland deposited the picnic hamper in a spot near the fire and then settled down next to it. “Since I went to the trouble of preparing this food, we’re going to sit here and eat it before we hike back down the mountain. Now, would anyone care for a Cornish pasty?”

SIX WEEKS LATER, SISTER ANSELM Becker sat by the gas-burning log fire at the newly remodeled St. Bernadette’s Convent in Jerome while another fierce snowstorm, the third of the season, swirled outside.

It was almost Christmas.

She was glad to be home and warm on this cold and windy night.

When her phone rang with Bishop Gillespie’s distinctive ring, she was sure she was about to be summoned to some poor soul’s bedside.

“No,” the bishop said. “No call-out tonight. At least not so far, but I’ve just had a fascinating conversation with Bravo Shaw.”

Sister Anselm had never taken to the man she still insisted on referring to as Father Shaw. He claimed to be a Franciscan, and she was determined to have him live by those words.

“What did he have to say for himself?” she asked, not bothering to conceal the disapproval in her voice.

“They opened the sealed quiver earlier this afternoon. What they found inside wasn’t the Veil of Saint Veronica.”

“I knew it,” she declared. “The whole thing was a fake from beginning to end, just like all the others.”

“It’s not exactly a fake,” the bishop said. “It’s cloth all right—fragments of cloth—but it turns out the fragments are from something even more valuable than the veil. It contains seven tiny words written in Phoenician glyphs.”

“What difference does that make?”

“It means,” he said, “rather than coming from the time of Christ, it may be much older than that. In addition to the glyphs there appears to be the seal of King Solomon inconspicuously woven into one corner.”

She was nothing short of astonished.

“In this instance,” the bishop said, with a smile she could hear in his voice, “it seems we’ve encountered something that is both fake and real at the same time. I also believe that Bravo Shaw and his associates will see to it that those fragments end up where they belong.”