Chris Kuzneski - Sign of the Cross

‘The Council asked me to find the person responsible for Father Jansen’s death and for the blackmail scheme, and I have done so. Why shouldn’t I be happy?’

‘You know who’s responsible?’ asked the Brazilian. ‘Then tell us. Who?’

Benito stared him in the eyes. ‘It was me.’

‘You?’ shouted Vercelli. ‘What do you mean, you ?’

‘Just as I stated, I’m the man behind his death. In fact, I’m behind all the crucifixions.’

It took a moment for his words to penetrate the fog that clouded the Council’s thoughts. Once it happened, though, outrage filled the room. Unadulterated venom. And Benito reveled in it. He soaked it up like applause, enjoying every last insult that was fired in his direction. Somehow it made him feel better about what he was about to do. Then, when he reached the end of the table, the seat reserved for the Council leader, he leaned toward Vercelli’s ear and whispered softly, ‘You’re sitting in my chair.’

To punctuate his point, Benito put his hand on the cardinal’s head and slammed his face into the hard table. Blood gushed from Vercelli’s nose and mouth, dousing the bright red of his clerical robe with even more red — a color meant to signify that he was willing to die for his faith, if necessary. Yet Benito didn’t get that vibe from Vercelli. His point was proven when Vercelli abandoned the chair without further provocation. Meanwhile, none of the other cardinals dared to move, secretly wondering if Benito was armed and planning to kill them.

But that wasn’t the case at all. He simply planned on killing their religion.

He’d been recruited by the Council to catch a criminal, yet Benito was the mastermind behind everything. His men were killing innocents on the world’s stage to draw global attention. People from every continent. People of different religions. Letting the media debate the crucifixions in order to put more pressure on the Council. Benito needed them to know that he was ruthless and would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.

But that would come later. For now all he longed to see was the expression on Vercelli’s face when he explained the true meaning of the Catacombs. When he told him that underneath the Church’s burial plots there was a hidden chamber, accessed by a staircase that the Vatican never knew existed. And in that room, there was a deadly secret. One that would kill the Church.

Finally, after all these years, Benito and his family would get everything that they deserved.

61

Friday, July 14

Daxing, China

(twenty miles south of Beijing)

The cargo plane took off from a small airfield that few people knew about. Grass covered the only runway, which was more like a field than anything else. The only air traffic controller was the farmer who moved his livestock whenever he heard the rumble of a distant engine.

The plan came to Tank Harper while he was figuring how to hoist their massive cross over the walls of the Forbidden City. After giving it some thought, he decided it would be much easier to drop the cross from above instead of lifting it from below. Not only would it increase the ease of their escape, but the scene would generate the media attention that they were looking for.

Except Harper knew he’d have to break a number of Manzak’s rules in order to make it work and didn’t want to risk his share of the money. So he called him early in the week, looking for clearance. Manzak was so thrilled with the idea that he told Harper if his crew could pull it off that they would be awarded a bonus of $100,000 on top of their normal share. From that moment on, there was no turning back. They would use the air.

Or as Harper referred to it: Operation Jesus Drop.

Before they took off, Harper and his men were forced to do the same things that the other crews had done to their victims. Scourging him with a leather whip until the skin hung off his back. Nailing him to the cross one spike at a time. Hanging a sign above him. Then, on top of everything else, they made sure the modified cross — a reinforced base, steel hooks on top, etc. — was going to hold. Otherwise, things would get messy when it hit the ground.

‘Two minutes,’ said the pilot as he scanned the horizon. ‘We can go lower if you want.’

‘Just stick to the plan,’ Harper growled. In his mind this wasn’t the time to improvise. He’d made all the necessary calculations earlier in the week, double-checked his figures after some test runs, and scouted the interior of the Forbidden City for the best place to aim. All they had to do was follow his numbers, and everything would be fine. ‘Move into position.’

The other two crewmen jumped to their feet and slid Adams and the cross to the special hatch that allowed large crates to be dropped behind enemy lines. Above the door was a series of clasps that connected to the cross’s parachute, guaranteeing that the forty-foot canopy would open the moment it hit the air.

‘Thirty seconds,’ the pilot shouted.

Harper looked at his watch. They were right on schedule. All that was left was to administer the final blow before he pushed Adams from the plane. ‘Any final words?’

Adams tried to speak but wasn’t able to because of the gag in his mouth. The entire crew laughed as Harper put his hand behind his ear and leaned forward, pretending to listen.

‘Twenty seconds,’ the pilot warned.

Harper smiled as he positioned the iron-tipped spear. He’d been waiting for this moment all week. ‘Since you have nothing to say, I guess you’re ready to die.’

‘Fifteen seconds.’

The cargo door fell open as Harper rammed the spear into Adams’s side. The roar of the outside wind covered the snapping sound of Adams’s ribs and the wet sucking of his punctured lung. Blood poured from the wound like a cracked bottle of Chianti, its contents gushing down the victim’s skin. Harper wouldn’t risk being identified, so he pushed the spear in deeper until the metal tip actually burst through the other side. Only then was he willing to pull the spear out.

‘Five seconds.’

Harper cut the gag off Adams’s mouth while his crewmen cut the safety cords near the base of the wood. Suddenly the giant canopy sprang to life, pulling the cross from the plane with a mighty whoosh and sending Adams toward the grounds of the Forbidden City.

Catrina Collins had honed her skills at the Washington Post and the New York Times before taking a job at CNN. She was used to living out of her suitcase, flying wherever the news took her. In the past it had always been a week here or there, never three months in one place. Yet that’s what she had to look forward to: a summer in Beijing.

A summer of unbelievable boredom.

Her assignment was to monitor a series of economic summits that were scheduled in the Far East. Ambassadors from all over the world were in China to discuss capitalism and its long-term benefits for Asia. Not exactly earth-shattering news but important enough to cover.

Collins woke up early Friday, dreading the thought of going to work. If she had to listen to one more lecture on free trade, she was going to vomit. Thankfully, a phone call from CNN headquarters gave her a reprieve. Someone had called in an anonymous tip about a demonstration near the Forbidden City. The caller didn’t give many specifics, only that it was going to be violent. And violent was a magic word in the world of television.

Collins was disheartened when she realized several networks had beaten her to the scene. ABC, CBS, NBC, and Fox were already there; so were dozens of reporters from around the world. Yet no one really knew why, only that they had received the same tip as CNN.