Chris Kuzneski - Sign of the Cross

‘What did it say?’ she demanded. ‘If it’s that important, I have to know what it says.’

Boyd lowered his eyes. ‘I can’t tell you, my dear. I just can’t. It wouldn’t be right.’

‘ What? After all we’ve been through, you owe me that and more.’

‘Don’t put me in this position,’ he pleaded. ‘I’m not trying to be the bad guy. I’m trying to save you. I really am. I’m trying to distance you from further danger — ’

‘Something more dangerous than snipers and exploding buses? If you haven’t noticed, people are trying to kill us, and I have a strange feeling that they’re not going to stop until we do something about it. So stop stalling and let me know what we’re up against.’

Boyd paused, unsure of what to do. He’d spent his entire career trying to establish historical truths, yet he’d never had the chance to prove anything important until now. But this would be different. This discovery had the potential to shatter an entire belief system, to change the world. It was the type of artifact that archaeologists dream of. One that had modern significance.

‘Maria, I know this will sound melodramatic, but what I’m about to tell you is so shocking, so cancerous, it has the potential to destroy Christianity.’

‘You’re right,’ she scoffed. ‘That sounds ridiculous. How in the world is that possible?’

Boyd breathed deeply, trying to think of appropriate words of warning. ‘If knowledge is the enemy of faith, then the Orvieto scroll is poison.’

22

Arch of Marcus Aurelius,

Tripoli, Libya

Nick Dial knew there was going to be another crucifixion. His theory was confirmed with an early morning phone call. Another victim had been found. This time in Africa.

When Dial arrived in Tripoli, he didn’t know what kind of reception he was going to get. Libya was a member country with an active NCB office, yet one thing kept gnawing at him. He was an American walking into Mu’ammar al-Qaddafi’s backyard. And he was unarmed.

Not exactly a dream getaway.

Of course, this wasn’t a vacation. It was a business trip. He was greeted at the airport by a polite NCB agent named Ahmad, who showed no anti-American bias.

During their drive to the crime scene, Dial steered the conversation away from the case, choosing to talk about the city instead. The most interesting fact he learned was about the streets, which were laid out in a narrow, crisscross pattern and filled with dozens of blind alleyways that were built to confuse would-be attackers. A trick that was taught to them by the Romans.

Most remnants of ancient Rome were destroyed long ago, but not the Arco di Marco Aurelio a Tripoli. Chiseled out of white marble in 163 ad, the four-way arch soared to fifteen feet in height and was surmounted by an octagonal dome used to conceal the arch’s crown. Time had eroded the outer stones, slowly chipping away at the corners, yet somehow the deterioration only added to its presence. So did the palm trees that surrounded it like centurions on guard duty. They made the monument seem like a mirage, rising out of the marketplace like an oasis. A bloody oasis.

The victim was found just before dawn. An Asian male, early thirties. Very athletic. Very naked. He was strung beneath the monument like a sacrifice to the gods, stretched out on two wooden beams and held in place with three wrought-iron spikes. Two through his wrists and one through his feet. Blood had been smeared across the monument — which arched over his body like a red rainbow — and dripped onto the ground where it collected in puddles of crimson mud.

Ahmad drove his car into the marketplace, honking in hopes of clearing the road ahead. But people continued to haggle for vegetables and handbags and fish, ignoring his horn blasts like he wasn’t there. Dial sat fascinated, soaking in the local color from the passenger seat, listening to the Arabic chatter as they bickered back and forth for a better price.

‘We will get not further,’ Ahmad declared, pointing straight ahead. ‘Crowd too many.’

Dial nodded, slowly realizing that the people in front of them weren’t bartering for baked goods or a straw basket. They were there as spectators, hoping to see something at the far end of the plaza. Dial looked closer and noticed a slew of satellite trucks on the other side of the monument. Big trucks. The type that could beam TV broadcasts to the four corners of the world.

Dial tried to open his car door but couldn’t, due to all the people that engulfed them. A moving, swaying wave that surrounded his car like the ocean surrounds a boat. Undeterred, he stood on his seat and thrust himself through the sunroof, squeezing his body through the opening. Ahmad followed, and before long the two of them were forcing their way through the crowd, literally throwing people out of the way so they could get to the monument. An arch that had been there for nearly two thousand years. An ancient relic that was now a crime scene.

With a single glance, Dial could tell that the Libyan police were better prepared than their Danish counterparts. Armed soldiers carrying Russian assault rifles stood on the sandstone walls that separated the Roman plaza from the curious throng, each soldier ready to pull his trigger at the first sign of trouble. Ahmad got the attention of one of the guards, who let Dial climb over the four-foot barrier where his ID was scrutinized and he was patted down for weapons.

Yet none of this surprised Dial. He was an American in a hostile land. An outsider with a badge. No reason for them to welcome him. He was surprised, though, when he realized that Ahmad wasn’t allowed inside. That meant Dial would have to face the cops without a translator.

‘You will be good,’ Ahmad assured him.

Dial nodded but didn’t say a thing, quickly turning his focus to the interior of the garden. It was thirty feet by seventy-five feet and filled with a variety of flowers that added color to an otherwise bleak landscape. But in Dial’s mind, that was the reason that the arch was so striking. Its pure white surface looked like it had come from another world. Like an iceberg sitting in the middle of hell.

‘Pardon me, Mr Dial?’

Dial turned and saw an elderly man resting against one of the walls, just leaning there in the hot sun like a lizard on a rock. He wore an olive suit and vest, even though the temperature was in the mid-nineties. Oddly, he seemed to be recharging in the sunlight, for his eyes were closed, and his head was tilted back at a forty-five-degree angle. ‘I understand there was a similar scene in Denmark.’

Intrigued, Dial took a few steps forward. ‘That’s correct. And you are?’

‘Pardon my manners.’ The man opened his eyes and shook Dial’s hand. ‘My name is Omar Tamher, and I am in charge of this investigation. Normally I would’ve been reluctant to contact Interpol for a single murder, but due to the circumstances I felt it would be wise for both of us.’

‘Thank you for thinking of me.’

Tamher nodded, sizing up Dial before he revealed any details. Dial returned the favor by doing the same with Tamher. Both men were impressed by what they saw.

‘At five thirty this morning, a vendor noticed the stains and stopped for a closer look. He was expecting to find paint. He found blood instead.’ Tamher took out his pen and pointed to the bottom left-hand corner of the monument. ‘The killers started their painting here and finished over there. You can actually see the brush marks on the marble.’

Dial leaned in for a closer look. ‘What kind of brush?’

Tamher shrugged. ‘It had a wide tip. Wider than the one they used on the sign.’

‘Let’s talk about the sign later. If I get sidetracked, I tend to get confused.’