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  Chase Baker and the Spear of Destiny

  (A Chase Baker Thriller No. 11)

  Vincent Zandri

  “One of the soldiers pierced his side with a lance, and immediately there came out blood and water.”

  — John 19:34.

  Prologue

  Vatican City

  Present Day

  A seven-digit entry code is entered into the wall-mounted keypad, and the thick stainless-steel vault door automatically slides open, disappearing into the old stone and brick wall deep within the depths of the Vatican Archives. Two well-built young men dressed entirely in black accompany a short, late to middle-aged priest and his assistant, a fortysomething woman of medium height with long black hair pulled back tightly, if not efficiently, in a ponytail.

  “I must admit, I am not very comfortable with this arrangement, Andrea,” Aging Priest laments in his native Boston English as the two step inside a few feet ahead of the well-built men. “Longinus’ lance has been safely protected in the archives since the end of World War Two after nearly being lost to the world many times over. Now, we risk losing it again just because some people doubt its authenticity.”

  “Father O’Brien,” Andrea responds, also in English, but an English accented with her Argentinian roots, “times have changed. We now have safeguards in place that will almost guarantee the lance’s safe-keeping even while en route to the testing lab in Florence.” She smiles and places her hand tenderly on the shorter man’s stocky shoulder. “What can possibly go wrong, my sweet Father?”

  The priest reaches around with his right hand, pats her hand in kind.

  “I just don’t see the need to be testing the relic in the first place,” he says. “You see, Andrea, my dear. Such things don’t need to be proven. They are more a matter of faith and belief.”

  Andrea smiles once more.

  “Like I said, Father O’Brien,” she repeats, “Times are changing. People don’t rely on faith like they once did. They want solid, empirical evidence. They want proof. They want assurance.”

  He turns to her quick.

  “Are you sure that’s not the words of NATO talking?” he says. “Or the United States CIA? This business of resurrecting the world’s holy relics has me nervous. It’s like we’re preparing for an all-out holy war.”

  Andrea takes hold of the priest’s hand, squeezes it.

  “But that’s just it, Father,” she says, holding the hand tightly. “Don’t you understand? Thousands of Christians and people of Judeo/Christian faith are being slaughtered in the Middle East. We are already in the midst of a Holy War. A war we must win or else face a true hell on Earth.”

  The priest’s smooth face goes visibly pale in the dimly lit cave-like archives. Raising his hands, he pats his chest pockets.

  “Where the hell did I put my cigarettes?” he ponders.

  “You can’t smoke down here, Father,” Andrea scolds. “You know that. You helped create the rules for the Vatican Archives back when I was still in pigtails.” She sighs deeply. “Now, let’s do what we came all the way down here to do, and do it quickly.”

  “Very well,” Father O’Brien nods.

  Originally constructed in 1612 by Pope Paul V, the Vatican Archives, or Archivum Secretum, are located three hundred feet below the stone floor of Saint Peter’s Cathedral, and they comprise thousands of square feet. The space is hewn out of what was once the limestone Mithra's cave-temple which was seized by the Christians in 376 CE and gradually expanded over the course of two thousand years.

  Although the archives are home to some of the rarest and most priceless documents in the world, such as the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception—the 1854 handwritten parchment article that proves Mary was born without original sin and conceived Jesus Christ immaculately—another document from the 17th century accuses Florentine astronomer Galileo Galilei of heresy and sentences him to house arrest for the remainder of his days. There are even documents from Abraham Lincoln asking the Pope to give his blessings during the US Civil War that pitted North against South and all too often, brother against brother.

  But the archives are rumored to contain more than just documents, contracts, and rare books. They are also said to house physical proof of the existence of alien or extraterrestrial life. There’s even speculation that the underground facility contains irrefutable proof that Jesus did not die on the cross but, instead, lived to father a family with former prostitute turned disciple, Mary Magdalene.

  All rumors aside, one fact that cannot be disputed about the archives is the role it plays in housing some of the most revered ancient holy relics belonging to the Roman Catholic faith—segments of the true cross, the crown of thorns, St. Peter’s mortal remains among them. It also houses the lance that pierced Christ’s side during the crucifixion by the Roman Centurion, Longinus.

  Andrea and Father O’Brien follow the narrow corridor beneath the vaulted ceiling until they come to a metal shelf containing a sterling silver case resembling a miniature cathedral.

  “Giovani, Alberto,” Father O’Brien utters while locking his eyes on the trunk-sized case. “Please remove the case and set it onto the table.”

  The two muscle-bound men approach the shelf while O’Brien and Andrea take a couple of steps back to make way. Without saying a word, the men reach into their jacket pockets and each pull out a pair of white gloves. Slipping their meaty hands into the gloves, they work as a team, one man taking hold of one side of the chest, the other taking hold of the opposite side. Lifting the chest from the shelf, they carefully carry it to the long wood table situated in the center of the archive corridor and set it down.

  Father O’Brien stands before the big silver chest mesmerized, knowing that what it contains is not just
another relic, but the one instrument on God’s earth that pierced Christ’s side. The lance that punctured his heart and that produced the same blood and water which is recreated thousands of times each day even two thousand years later whenever a priest prepares for holy communion during mass. The dark red blood signifies Jesus Christ’s humanity. The crystal-clear water signifies his divinity.

  Father O’Brien reaches into the pocket on his black blazer, produces a four hundred-year-old skeleton key, and hands it to the white-gloved man standing closest to him.

  “Open it, Giovanni,” he says. “Carefully.”

  Giovanni steps forward, inserts the key into the centuries old padlock. Gripping it with his left hand, he turns the skeleton key in a clockwise motion with his right hand. The padlock clasp releases, the sound of metal on metal reverberates through the otherwise silent but cavernous corridor.

  Removing the padlock, Giovanni sets it onto the table. He then opens the clasp and prepares to open the chest lid.

  “Wait,” Father O’Brien interjects. He turns to Andrea, looks into her big brown eyes. “Perhaps it is appropriate that we should pray.”

  She bites down on her bottom lip, gives her wristwatch a cursory glance.

  “The truck is waiting, Father,” she says, her voice insistent. “We don’t have time.”

  The priest’s eyes go wide, his face taut like an over-extended rubber band.

  “But the spear contained in this box is coated with the blood of Christ,” he says. “Who are we to ignore His presence?”

  Knowing the old priest like she does, Andrea is aware there’s no talking him out of something once he gets it inside his head.

  “Very well, Father,” she acquiesces. “Let us pray.”

  O’Brien makes the sign of the cross. The two burly men also make the sign of the cross. As if on cue, all eyes turn to Andrea. That’s when she too, raises up her right hand and performs the sign of the cross. Inhaling a breath of the air-conditioned oxygen, Father O’Brien proceeds to recite the Lord’s Prayer. When he is finished, he once more makes the sign of the cross. The others follow suit.

  Then, “Okay Giovanni,” the priest says. “Open the lid.”

  Giovanni places both hands on the lid and opens it. Set inside the chest on a bed of red velvet, is an object that measures somewhere around fourteen inches long and that is wrapped in white linen.

  “Take it out,” O’Brien directs.

  Giovani slowly removes the object, holding it in both his white-gloved hands with all the gentility and tenderness of holding a newborn infant. That’s when O’Brien digs into his jacket pockets for his own white gloves, which he quickly slips on, despite his hands trembling and shaking.

  “I’m going to remove the linen,” he says.

  Reaching into the open end of the linen case, he takes hold of the lance’s base—the place where the wood shaft would have been inserted. Then, using his fingertips, he slowly removes the linen.

  “My God.” His eyes lock on the black lance.

  Andrea takes a step forward, points her extended index finger at the very tip of the lance, which is missing.

  “What happened to the tip?” she asks.

  “It was broken off centuries ago,” O’Brien comments.

  “Where is it now?” she presses.

  “In the care of the only man on God’s earth who can be trusted with it.”

  “The Papal Father,” Andrea correctly surmises.

  “Precisely,” O’Brien says. “Should anything happen to the true lance, and a forgery arrive back here to the Vatican in its place, we will know immediately. Because it is impossible for anything other than the true lance of Longinus to be matched with its missing tip.”

  “I see,” Andrea says. Then, glancing at her watch once more, “We really should get a move on, Father.”

  “Very well.” He steps back and removes his white gloves. “Prepare the lance for travel.”

  Giovanni and Alberto work together to place the lance back inside its linen, and then into a four-inch Zero Halliburton “Slimline” aluminum attaché case equipped with a special pocket lining constructed to the lance’s specific dimensions. The slide latch combination lock secured, Giovanni takes hold of the case. Alberto steps in front of his partner and draws his service-issued, 9mm Beretta.

  “Is that really necessary?” Father O’Brien says, his eyes uncomfortably locked on the firearm.

  “We’re taking every precaution, Father,” Andrea says. “These are troubling times, and although the Vatican is in possession of the lance, there are, of course, other interested parties. Some of whom would like nothing more than to see the lance destroyed, or worse.”

  “Or worse?” O’Brien questions.

  “Some forces would like to tap the lance’s power for their own evil purposes. Hitler was one of those evil forces back in the time of the Third Reich.”

  “What a comforting thought,” O’Brien says. Then, gesturing toward the archive exit. “Let’s get this over with. The sooner the relic is tested for authenticity, the sooner it will be returned to its proper home.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Andrea says, not without a smile.

  The team travels by elevator back up to the ground level of the Archivum Secretum. Quickly making their way outside they are greeted by a cargo van. The van displays an orange, blue, and white FedEx logo on its side panels.

  “Here’s an idea,” Father O’Brien says, pulling a pack of cigarettes from the interior pocket of his jacket. “Why not transport the relic to Florence by chopper? You must be joking with this FedEx van.”

  “Let me tell you a little story,” Andrea says. “When the lance was first transported from Emperor Napoleon’s war chest to the Nuremberg Cathedral where it resided until after the war, it was transported in a wood cart belonging to a common sheep herder.”

  “I don’t understand,” O’Brien says, lighting the cigarette with a silver Zippo lighter, inhaling a long, satisfying—if not greedy—drag.

  “The lance is so precious that to have transported it three hundred miles under the pomp and circumstance of a papal entourage would have only invited pirates and bandits.”

  The priest nods.

  “I see now,” he says. “It is safer to travel under the guise of nothing special.”

  “Exactly, Father. The less attention, the better. It’s only a three-hour drive to Florence. These men won’t even stop to piss.” Then, realizing what she just said and how she said it. “Errr, forgive me, Father.”

  Father O’Brien laughs.

  “No worries, Andrea,” he says. “In fact, I could use a restroom break myself. When you get to be my age, you never pass up a bathroom.”

  Standing at the doors are two soldiers of the Vatican—or what’s better known as the Swiss Guard—dressed in their yellow, blue, and red Renaissance era knickers, tunics, and stainless-steel helmets. They carry long lances for protection. But this is all for show and for public consumption. What the public doesn’t see is a highly trained force of commando-like soldiers who prepare with modern day weapons from automatic rifles to incendiary explosives to all varieties and lengths of fighting knives.

  The emotionless guards open the doors for Giovanni and Alberto as they exit the building. The case gripped in Giovanni’s hand is secured to his wrist by means of a metal wrist cuff, the key to which is not kept on his person, but instead on Alberto’s.

  Andrea and Father O’Brien exit the building behind the two men, while the FedEx uniformed man slips out from behind the wheel, goes around to the back of the van, opens it. The two men hop into the back of the van, take their seats on a narrow bench attached to the interior van wall. The FedEx driver closes the van doors and locks them from the outside. Exchanging a nod and a grin with Andrea and the priest, the FedEx driver gets back behind the wheel, fires up the van engine, and pulls away from the curb.

  A long beat passes before the van disappears around the stone wall that surrounds the perimeter of
the archive grounds.

  “Do you think I should have accompanied Giovanni and Alberto, Andrea?” Father O’Brien speaks softly. “I don’t like the idea of being separated from the lance.”

  Andrea presses her open hand against his back, gently rubs it up and down.

  “It will be perfectly fine, Father,” she says. “Besides, your services are required here at the archives. You would only get in other people’s way up in Florence.”

  O’Brien smokes the last of his cigarette, tosses it to the gravelly ground, stamps it out with the tip of his black shoe.

  “I suppose you’re right,” he says. “My workload is piled sky high with the Pope’s renewed interest in the most holy relics.”

  Andrea removes her hand from his back.

  “As soon as the lance arrives at the university in Florence,” she says, “I will be sure to contact you.”

  “Thank you, Andrea,” O’Brien says. “May God be with you.”

  “And you too,” she says, turning, and making her way toward the gates of the archive grounds.

  No less than a half dozen roads lead to Florence.

  Many of them scenic and bookended by lush countryside, vineyards, and farms. Some of the roads pass through small towns and villages where tourists can stop and feast on fresh pasta and drink homemade Vino Russo. But the FedEx van speeds along the quickest route possible. Although the point is to avoid attention and blend in with the daily traffic, it’s still important that the lance is transported as quickly as possible to the lab.

  Seated in the back of the van, Giovanni and Alberto don’t exchange so much as a single word. Their thoughts and senses are focused solely on the task at hand. The aluminum case situated on the floor between them, Alberto grips his semi-automatic in his shooting hand, while Giovanni feels the weight of an identical firearm pressed against his rib cage in its shoulder holster.