The venetian code, p.7
The Venetian Code, page 7
After nibbling a moment on his lower lip, Kimball said, “I wish I could say the same, Padre.”
“What? You don’t believe that God favors those who do His work?”
“That’s not it. Not at all. It’s not believing that I’ve done enough to atone for the sins of my past.”
Monsignor gave Kimball a quizzical look, the man having no idea of Kimball’s history.
“It’s a long story,” Isaiah intervened.
Though the Vatican Knights would have no problem hastening to the basilica, the monsignors were struggling to keep up and slowed the team down, the process losing precious time. What should have been a five-minute jaunt for the Vatican Knights easily turned into a seventeen-minute trek across the city of Venice.
Yet, despite the added weight of Monsignors Calidonna and Russo, Kimball intuited that their value in the hunt for the Templar treasure would turn out to be a priceless one. If the Vatican Knights were to survive this, then they would need the monsignors. And keeping them safe—though he didn’t know why—would be paramount to their cause.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
St. Marks Basilica
Pierfranco Romano had always been a dreamer when it came to reaching the unattainable. In his heart, he had always been close to God. And to serve at St. Mark’s Basilica as a sentry, although it gave him purpose, was a blessing that needed amending. Guarding St. Marks was a steppingstone to his actual goal of serving at the Vatican as a member of the Swiss Guard.
His co-worker, Alphonso Gerardo, a man in his late fifties who often slept through the hours in a hidden outlet inside the church, scoffed whenever Pierfranco spoke of his dreams to him. First of all, Alphonso would tell him, to be a member of the Swiss Guard, you have to be Swiss, not Italian. And secondly, you have to be a marksman. You’ve never fired a gun in your life. But having neither of these qualifications altered Pierfranco’s mindset. Through determination and perseverance, he believed he would find a way.
Moving through the basilica swinging his baton while his mind romanced the idea of becoming a Swiss Guard, he did not see the shapes that moved through the shadows. They were silent as the shadows quickly closed the gap between them and Pierfranco.
With Pierfranco’s gaze having a dreamlike quality to it as he saw something wonderful and deep within his mind’s eye, a hand wrapped around his mouth and pulled him close. As Pierfranco’s eyes flared with alarm, the point of a combat knife entered his back several times with quick jabs.
. . . chook . . . chook . . . chook . . . chook . . . chook . . . chook . . .
As Pierfranco’s eyes began to roll upward to show slivers of white, as the faraway land of the Vatican faded away, his vision began to close in from the sides; first purple, then absolute darkness.
Pierfranco’s dreams, along with his life, were instantly swept away.
* * *
Alphonso Gerardo was a jaded man who believed that serving as a guard inside the St. Mark’s Basilica was employment that provided no stress and an easy paycheck. He had served the church for twenty-four years, having gone from being slim to having a sizeable paunch over the years due to his penchant for being lazy and having no ambition.
Walking down the aisles he had walked thousands of times before, Alphonso was nearing the end of performing his rounds for the hour. Then he would have lunch and take a nap, he considered—his normal routine.
Checking the altars one final time, he began to make his way to the rear of the basilica. When he reached the Pala d’Oro, the Byzantine altarpiece, three shapes that were blacker than black suddenly materialized before him. It was as though they had risen directly from the floor, the shapes rising until they were an arm’s length away, Alphonso unable to see them until he was virtually on top of them. As his mouth moved in mute protest and his eyes took on the size and shape of communion wafers, an arm came across in a horizontal sweep. At first, Alphonso did not understand the meaning of the action until he felt a warming sensation across his throat, which turned into white-hot pain. Bringing his hand to his throat, he could feel the parting of his flesh and the tacky fluid as he was bleeding out. Going to his knees and gagging with a horrible wet sound, as the ruined nerves in his throat screamed out in a tabernacle of pain, he extended a bloodied hand to the shapes. He didn’t know why he would reach for his assassin; he just did. And when his vision started to fade, when darkness began to eclipse him, the heavyset man fell forward against the floor with the face-first approach.
* * *
That left two: Anthony Greco and Alonzo Esposito, the dual inseparable as they made their rounds.
Inside the basilica, as they walked and spoke with their voices echoing hollowly through the chambers, soccer was normally the topic of discussion, especially when it came to talking about the Venezia Football Club.
With their interests and concentration elsewhere, walking the corridors and galleries of the basilica was simply performed as a result of mandatory repetition. Walk the rounds. Take note. Observe the unobvious. All of which went to the wayside after the job’s tediousness sent them into complacency.
As they were nearing the 12th-century mosaics depicting the life of St. John in the Cappella di San Giovanni, two shadow men appeared before them. Both were featureless, the shapes one-dimensional silhouettes of pure darkness.
As Greco and Esposito stood with their mouths falling, neither knowing what to do since they had never encountered a breach before, remained riveted, the pair becoming perfect targets.
. . . Phfft . . . Phfft . . . Phfft . . . Phfft . . . Phfft . . . Phfft . . .
Six muted shots from suppressed weapons, all loud spits, as muted bursts of gunfire lit the area with muzzle flashes. Within the staccato flashes of light, Greco and Esposito, for a brief moment before they died, were able to see the blackface of their killers, both cold and merciless.
Within three minutes of entering the basilica, those who had served to protect it were quickly terminated.
The basilica now belonged to Ivan Novikov and his team of assassins.
* * *
The Tomb of Saint Mark
Once the basilica had been cleared and the bodies removed from sight, Novikov led his unit to the Tomb of Saint Mark and the marble wall plate.
X
Colossians 2:3
With the predetermined signal of Ivan Novikov’s finger-snapping, two mercenaries went to the wall, removed their combat knives, placed the points along the outer seam of the block, then pounded the hilts with the heels of their gloved hands to drive the points into the grout. Once they established depth, they began to pump the knives to loosen the block.
Novikov looked at his watch. They were two minutes behind.
“It’ll be fine,” Rabinovitch reminded him. “So far, everything’s moving as it should be. By this time tomorrow, you’ll have your cup and the rest of us will be rich men.”
“I would feel better if not for one thing which has always been a constant.”
“Yeah. And what’s that?”
“Plans always work best on paper and rarely pan out when the operation is actually in play.”
“Yeah, well, perhaps you need more faith in the team that you hired.”
“The team is not the problem,” Novikov told him. “I’m worried about the human element that can never be planned for.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that one can never prepare adequately for outside forces that are beyond our means to control.”
“We’re already here,” Rabinovitch said while pointing at the wall. “Behind that marble partition sits the Templar treasure. We’re in, we’re out. Just like that.”
After the mercenaries removed the block that was heavier than it seemed by the way the pair carried the stone and leaned it against the wall, they exposed a maw that was as black as pitch. From the opening came a dank and earthy smell, something that reminded Novikov of his grandmother’s root cellar.
With another snap of his fingers, the mercenary closest to the wall immediately handed over to Novikov his tactical flashlight. Getting onto bended knees as the earthy scent wafted heavily like a freshly dug grave, Novikov turned on the light and scanned the area.
After a long moment, Novikov dropped his hand and bowed his head in defeat.
“What?” Rabinovitch asked him.
“As I said, plans always work best on paper and rarely pan out when the operation is actually in play.” He looked at Rabinovitch. “It’s not a chamber at all, I’m afraid.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Rabinovitch asked as he grabbed his tactical light and made his way to the opening. “Get out of my way.”
Novikov, pulling back and getting to his feet, yielded space to Rabinovitch so that he could look inside. Panning his light from left to right, then from right to left, he saw a bored-out tunnel with a low ceiling that led to a drop approximately twenty feet away. There was no treasure, no gold, no valuable baubles or trinkets, just earthen walls.
“No,” he finally said. Falling back from the opening, he turned his ire against Novikov. “This is unacceptable. You interpreted the maps, the symbols—everything led to this point. And now you’re telling me that the treasure isn’t here.”
“I didn’t say that the treasure isn’t here,” Novikov replied in earnest. “I said the treasure isn’t here.”
“Stop talking in circles.”
“Obviously, this tunnel leads to somewhere; otherwise, why would it exist?”
Rabinovitch’s face softened. And then: “You think the chamber is at the end of this tunnel?”
“That’s obvious since this is not a chamber, and the treasure is not here in front of us. But who’s to say that the Templar treasure is not beyond this corridor?”
Rabinovitch returned his focus to the opening and flashed his light inside. There looks to be a drop of about twenty, twenty-five feet in. A pit of some kind?”
“Perhaps,” Novikov answered. “The only way to find out, Mr. Rabinovitch, is for someone, maybe you, to venture inside and take a look.”
Hesitating, the Russian finally entered the opening and, while on his hands and knees, began to make his way to the drop. When he reached the edge of the fall, he redirected his flashlight into the depths.
It wasn’t an abyss after all.
What he was looking at—though he didn’t know how he knew this—was the gateway to a labyrinth of horrors.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
St. Mark’s Basilica
Blood was everywhere, an obvious sign that Novikov’s team had handled the security aspect of the basilica with killing blows. While making a sweep of the premises and inside the Capella di San Pietro that was not too far from the High Altar, Isaiah and Job discovered the sentries who were stacked like a cord of wood, one on top of the other.
When Isaiah and Job returned to the High Altar and entered the Tomb of St. Mark after clearing the basilica, Kimball and the remaining team were waiting next to a small opening in the wall. The marble stone that once divided the Tomb from the hidden corridor was leaning against the wall.
Isaiah, looking at the engraving on the stone . . .
X
Colossians 2:3
. . . said, “Found the sentries. Four. All terminated.”
“Four? There should be five,” Kimball returned.
“He’s not in the basilica. Could be outside.”
“Where?”
“They were inside the Capella di San Pietro. Two had their throats cut, the other two took one to the head and two to center mass.”
“One to the head and two to center mass, the hallmark of professional assassins.” And then, “Novikov’s team, no doubt.”
Isaiah pointed to the opening. “Is that your handiwork?”
Kimball nodded. “Novikov beat us to the punch, I’m afraid.”
“He got the treasure?”
“Unlikely,” said Monsignor Calidonna, who stepped forward from the shadows of the Tomb. “This,” he pointed to the breach, “is not a chamber. It never was. It’s a corridor, perhaps the first of many, that might lead to the Templar Chamber.”
“That might lead us to the chamber?” said Isaiah.
“Mr. Isaiah—”
“Just Isaiah.”
“Isaiah, the Templars were careful in everything they did, especially when it came to hiding treasures across Europe. They communicated to one another using runes and cryptograms, symbols recognizable only to those within the Templar organization. It took years of effort for symbologists to unravel the code, though not in its entirety. Mysteries remain. And one such mystery is that.” He pointed to the opening to the tunnel.
“What about it?”
“It’s a tunnel that leads to . . . where? To the Templar Chamber that holds the treasure and the Cup of Miracles? Or to something more sinister?”
Now it was Kimball who spoke with a leading question. “More sinister?”
“That is more than a gateway, Kimball. That is a doorway to a labyrinth of horrors. The Templars weren’t simply crusaders, they were engineers who would mask their trails with designs that are as complex as they are deadly.”
“Designs?” Kimball took a step closer to the opening, which was midnight black. “When you say designs, you’re talking about snares and traps.”
“I am. Getting to this point with the aid of the manuscript and the maps was just the beginning. What lies beyond this tunnel will be the true tests of faith, courage, and wisdom.”
“More riddles, puzzles, and challenges to unravel. Is that what you’re saying?”
“If we choose wisely, then we will find the chamber. If we choose poorly . . . then we’ll all meet our Maker sooner rather than later.”
“Sounds promising,” Jeremiah stated sarcastically.
“Not only do we have to contend with Novikov’s group, but we also have to fight our way through deadly snares,” Kimball said.
“Look at this with optimism,” said Monsignor Russo. “The snares were engineered over seven hundred years ago. Most likely, they’ve become defunct over time due to rot and age.”
“Don’t get complacent,” Kimball told him.
“Complacent? I’m merely offering another viewpoint.”
“That type of viewpoint will get us killed. We go in believing that every trap is operational, and we move with caution. Remember, we’re not the only ones down there.”
Swinging the NVG unit from the top of his helmet to cover his eyes, Kimball enabled the system, which powered up with a high-pitch whirr that lasted for a second. When his field of vision through the lens turned from black to green, he was able to see inside the tunnel, which appeared earthen with wooden beams supporting the walls and ceiling. Twenty to twenty-five feet inside this small channel, there appeared to be a sudden drop-off.
Stepping back, Kimball said to Isaiah, “Check it out.” Then to Roman. “Back him. Maintain cover.”
Starting up their NVG units, Isaiah entered the opening with Roman following.
Twenty feet in, Isaiah disappeared with Roman gone moments after—nothing but the tightly packed dirt walls, the wooden beams, and the smell of damp earth.
Five minutes later, the Vatican Knights returned with their attire smudged as though they had labored at a dig site. Isaiah, lifting his NV goggles so that they sat on top of his helmet, said, “The drop-off is a stairwell that descends approximately thirty to thirty-five feet to a corridor that goes east, then makes a right-angle turn south.”
Kimball read Isaiah’s face and could see that there was an addendum to these findings. “And?” Kimball pressed him.
“Nine sets of footprints. All Russian military issue.”
Kimball nodded. “Novikov and his mercenaries,” he said. “They’re on the move, which means that we have to close the space between them and us as soon as possible.”
“We can’t rush into this,” Monsignor Calidonna reminded him.
“We’ll take every necessary precaution, Padre.”
“This isn’t going to be as simple as you might believe it to be. Trust me when I say that there will be serious hazards ahead.”
“I realize what’s ahead of us. The Cup of Miracles and Novikov’s kill squad. I understand the threats between here and there. But right now, our goal is to acquire the Cup, yes?”
“Yes,” the monsignors answered in perfect unison.
Kimball turned to Isaiah. “Take point.”
Isaiah, returning his NV goggles into the viewable position, headed back into the tunnel with Jeremiah and Job behind him, then the monsignors, Roman, with Kimball taking the rear.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The subterranean warrens taken by Ivan Novikov and his hired team of assassins appeared to meander without reason, even though the purpose was quite clear: to confuse trespassers. What frustrated Novikov the most was that the manuscript and the maps did not indicate a path to take beyond reaching the wall marked with Colossians 2:3. Not only was it the starting point, but it was also the endpoint.
As they moved through the corridors, they noticed that the wooden support beams were rotting and warping beneath the weight and dampness. Worse, they were ankle-deep in water, meaning that water from the canals above them was seeping into the tunnels.
As they trudged through from channel to channel, Novikov’s team, either by serendipity or by way of eventually coming to the only possible point where the tunnels were steering them to, came upon a cobblestone wall. Along the wall were four doors, also constructed of cobblestone, that were marked with the engraved Roman numerals I, II, III and IV. Above these doors was a Latin phrase, a riddle, a mystery to be solved before they could move on.
Novikov moved closer and read the Latin inscription through his NVG monocular.
Vos qui transitis problema lanua solvere debetis
Elige sapienter, tunc intrabis
“What? You don’t believe that God favors those who do His work?”
“That’s not it. Not at all. It’s not believing that I’ve done enough to atone for the sins of my past.”
Monsignor gave Kimball a quizzical look, the man having no idea of Kimball’s history.
“It’s a long story,” Isaiah intervened.
Though the Vatican Knights would have no problem hastening to the basilica, the monsignors were struggling to keep up and slowed the team down, the process losing precious time. What should have been a five-minute jaunt for the Vatican Knights easily turned into a seventeen-minute trek across the city of Venice.
Yet, despite the added weight of Monsignors Calidonna and Russo, Kimball intuited that their value in the hunt for the Templar treasure would turn out to be a priceless one. If the Vatican Knights were to survive this, then they would need the monsignors. And keeping them safe—though he didn’t know why—would be paramount to their cause.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
St. Marks Basilica
Pierfranco Romano had always been a dreamer when it came to reaching the unattainable. In his heart, he had always been close to God. And to serve at St. Mark’s Basilica as a sentry, although it gave him purpose, was a blessing that needed amending. Guarding St. Marks was a steppingstone to his actual goal of serving at the Vatican as a member of the Swiss Guard.
His co-worker, Alphonso Gerardo, a man in his late fifties who often slept through the hours in a hidden outlet inside the church, scoffed whenever Pierfranco spoke of his dreams to him. First of all, Alphonso would tell him, to be a member of the Swiss Guard, you have to be Swiss, not Italian. And secondly, you have to be a marksman. You’ve never fired a gun in your life. But having neither of these qualifications altered Pierfranco’s mindset. Through determination and perseverance, he believed he would find a way.
Moving through the basilica swinging his baton while his mind romanced the idea of becoming a Swiss Guard, he did not see the shapes that moved through the shadows. They were silent as the shadows quickly closed the gap between them and Pierfranco.
With Pierfranco’s gaze having a dreamlike quality to it as he saw something wonderful and deep within his mind’s eye, a hand wrapped around his mouth and pulled him close. As Pierfranco’s eyes flared with alarm, the point of a combat knife entered his back several times with quick jabs.
. . . chook . . . chook . . . chook . . . chook . . . chook . . . chook . . .
As Pierfranco’s eyes began to roll upward to show slivers of white, as the faraway land of the Vatican faded away, his vision began to close in from the sides; first purple, then absolute darkness.
Pierfranco’s dreams, along with his life, were instantly swept away.
* * *
Alphonso Gerardo was a jaded man who believed that serving as a guard inside the St. Mark’s Basilica was employment that provided no stress and an easy paycheck. He had served the church for twenty-four years, having gone from being slim to having a sizeable paunch over the years due to his penchant for being lazy and having no ambition.
Walking down the aisles he had walked thousands of times before, Alphonso was nearing the end of performing his rounds for the hour. Then he would have lunch and take a nap, he considered—his normal routine.
Checking the altars one final time, he began to make his way to the rear of the basilica. When he reached the Pala d’Oro, the Byzantine altarpiece, three shapes that were blacker than black suddenly materialized before him. It was as though they had risen directly from the floor, the shapes rising until they were an arm’s length away, Alphonso unable to see them until he was virtually on top of them. As his mouth moved in mute protest and his eyes took on the size and shape of communion wafers, an arm came across in a horizontal sweep. At first, Alphonso did not understand the meaning of the action until he felt a warming sensation across his throat, which turned into white-hot pain. Bringing his hand to his throat, he could feel the parting of his flesh and the tacky fluid as he was bleeding out. Going to his knees and gagging with a horrible wet sound, as the ruined nerves in his throat screamed out in a tabernacle of pain, he extended a bloodied hand to the shapes. He didn’t know why he would reach for his assassin; he just did. And when his vision started to fade, when darkness began to eclipse him, the heavyset man fell forward against the floor with the face-first approach.
* * *
That left two: Anthony Greco and Alonzo Esposito, the dual inseparable as they made their rounds.
Inside the basilica, as they walked and spoke with their voices echoing hollowly through the chambers, soccer was normally the topic of discussion, especially when it came to talking about the Venezia Football Club.
With their interests and concentration elsewhere, walking the corridors and galleries of the basilica was simply performed as a result of mandatory repetition. Walk the rounds. Take note. Observe the unobvious. All of which went to the wayside after the job’s tediousness sent them into complacency.
As they were nearing the 12th-century mosaics depicting the life of St. John in the Cappella di San Giovanni, two shadow men appeared before them. Both were featureless, the shapes one-dimensional silhouettes of pure darkness.
As Greco and Esposito stood with their mouths falling, neither knowing what to do since they had never encountered a breach before, remained riveted, the pair becoming perfect targets.
. . . Phfft . . . Phfft . . . Phfft . . . Phfft . . . Phfft . . . Phfft . . .
Six muted shots from suppressed weapons, all loud spits, as muted bursts of gunfire lit the area with muzzle flashes. Within the staccato flashes of light, Greco and Esposito, for a brief moment before they died, were able to see the blackface of their killers, both cold and merciless.
Within three minutes of entering the basilica, those who had served to protect it were quickly terminated.
The basilica now belonged to Ivan Novikov and his team of assassins.
* * *
The Tomb of Saint Mark
Once the basilica had been cleared and the bodies removed from sight, Novikov led his unit to the Tomb of Saint Mark and the marble wall plate.
X
Colossians 2:3
With the predetermined signal of Ivan Novikov’s finger-snapping, two mercenaries went to the wall, removed their combat knives, placed the points along the outer seam of the block, then pounded the hilts with the heels of their gloved hands to drive the points into the grout. Once they established depth, they began to pump the knives to loosen the block.
Novikov looked at his watch. They were two minutes behind.
“It’ll be fine,” Rabinovitch reminded him. “So far, everything’s moving as it should be. By this time tomorrow, you’ll have your cup and the rest of us will be rich men.”
“I would feel better if not for one thing which has always been a constant.”
“Yeah. And what’s that?”
“Plans always work best on paper and rarely pan out when the operation is actually in play.”
“Yeah, well, perhaps you need more faith in the team that you hired.”
“The team is not the problem,” Novikov told him. “I’m worried about the human element that can never be planned for.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that one can never prepare adequately for outside forces that are beyond our means to control.”
“We’re already here,” Rabinovitch said while pointing at the wall. “Behind that marble partition sits the Templar treasure. We’re in, we’re out. Just like that.”
After the mercenaries removed the block that was heavier than it seemed by the way the pair carried the stone and leaned it against the wall, they exposed a maw that was as black as pitch. From the opening came a dank and earthy smell, something that reminded Novikov of his grandmother’s root cellar.
With another snap of his fingers, the mercenary closest to the wall immediately handed over to Novikov his tactical flashlight. Getting onto bended knees as the earthy scent wafted heavily like a freshly dug grave, Novikov turned on the light and scanned the area.
After a long moment, Novikov dropped his hand and bowed his head in defeat.
“What?” Rabinovitch asked him.
“As I said, plans always work best on paper and rarely pan out when the operation is actually in play.” He looked at Rabinovitch. “It’s not a chamber at all, I’m afraid.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Rabinovitch asked as he grabbed his tactical light and made his way to the opening. “Get out of my way.”
Novikov, pulling back and getting to his feet, yielded space to Rabinovitch so that he could look inside. Panning his light from left to right, then from right to left, he saw a bored-out tunnel with a low ceiling that led to a drop approximately twenty feet away. There was no treasure, no gold, no valuable baubles or trinkets, just earthen walls.
“No,” he finally said. Falling back from the opening, he turned his ire against Novikov. “This is unacceptable. You interpreted the maps, the symbols—everything led to this point. And now you’re telling me that the treasure isn’t here.”
“I didn’t say that the treasure isn’t here,” Novikov replied in earnest. “I said the treasure isn’t here.”
“Stop talking in circles.”
“Obviously, this tunnel leads to somewhere; otherwise, why would it exist?”
Rabinovitch’s face softened. And then: “You think the chamber is at the end of this tunnel?”
“That’s obvious since this is not a chamber, and the treasure is not here in front of us. But who’s to say that the Templar treasure is not beyond this corridor?”
Rabinovitch returned his focus to the opening and flashed his light inside. There looks to be a drop of about twenty, twenty-five feet in. A pit of some kind?”
“Perhaps,” Novikov answered. “The only way to find out, Mr. Rabinovitch, is for someone, maybe you, to venture inside and take a look.”
Hesitating, the Russian finally entered the opening and, while on his hands and knees, began to make his way to the drop. When he reached the edge of the fall, he redirected his flashlight into the depths.
It wasn’t an abyss after all.
What he was looking at—though he didn’t know how he knew this—was the gateway to a labyrinth of horrors.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
St. Mark’s Basilica
Blood was everywhere, an obvious sign that Novikov’s team had handled the security aspect of the basilica with killing blows. While making a sweep of the premises and inside the Capella di San Pietro that was not too far from the High Altar, Isaiah and Job discovered the sentries who were stacked like a cord of wood, one on top of the other.
When Isaiah and Job returned to the High Altar and entered the Tomb of St. Mark after clearing the basilica, Kimball and the remaining team were waiting next to a small opening in the wall. The marble stone that once divided the Tomb from the hidden corridor was leaning against the wall.
Isaiah, looking at the engraving on the stone . . .
X
Colossians 2:3
. . . said, “Found the sentries. Four. All terminated.”
“Four? There should be five,” Kimball returned.
“He’s not in the basilica. Could be outside.”
“Where?”
“They were inside the Capella di San Pietro. Two had their throats cut, the other two took one to the head and two to center mass.”
“One to the head and two to center mass, the hallmark of professional assassins.” And then, “Novikov’s team, no doubt.”
Isaiah pointed to the opening. “Is that your handiwork?”
Kimball nodded. “Novikov beat us to the punch, I’m afraid.”
“He got the treasure?”
“Unlikely,” said Monsignor Calidonna, who stepped forward from the shadows of the Tomb. “This,” he pointed to the breach, “is not a chamber. It never was. It’s a corridor, perhaps the first of many, that might lead to the Templar Chamber.”
“That might lead us to the chamber?” said Isaiah.
“Mr. Isaiah—”
“Just Isaiah.”
“Isaiah, the Templars were careful in everything they did, especially when it came to hiding treasures across Europe. They communicated to one another using runes and cryptograms, symbols recognizable only to those within the Templar organization. It took years of effort for symbologists to unravel the code, though not in its entirety. Mysteries remain. And one such mystery is that.” He pointed to the opening to the tunnel.
“What about it?”
“It’s a tunnel that leads to . . . where? To the Templar Chamber that holds the treasure and the Cup of Miracles? Or to something more sinister?”
Now it was Kimball who spoke with a leading question. “More sinister?”
“That is more than a gateway, Kimball. That is a doorway to a labyrinth of horrors. The Templars weren’t simply crusaders, they were engineers who would mask their trails with designs that are as complex as they are deadly.”
“Designs?” Kimball took a step closer to the opening, which was midnight black. “When you say designs, you’re talking about snares and traps.”
“I am. Getting to this point with the aid of the manuscript and the maps was just the beginning. What lies beyond this tunnel will be the true tests of faith, courage, and wisdom.”
“More riddles, puzzles, and challenges to unravel. Is that what you’re saying?”
“If we choose wisely, then we will find the chamber. If we choose poorly . . . then we’ll all meet our Maker sooner rather than later.”
“Sounds promising,” Jeremiah stated sarcastically.
“Not only do we have to contend with Novikov’s group, but we also have to fight our way through deadly snares,” Kimball said.
“Look at this with optimism,” said Monsignor Russo. “The snares were engineered over seven hundred years ago. Most likely, they’ve become defunct over time due to rot and age.”
“Don’t get complacent,” Kimball told him.
“Complacent? I’m merely offering another viewpoint.”
“That type of viewpoint will get us killed. We go in believing that every trap is operational, and we move with caution. Remember, we’re not the only ones down there.”
Swinging the NVG unit from the top of his helmet to cover his eyes, Kimball enabled the system, which powered up with a high-pitch whirr that lasted for a second. When his field of vision through the lens turned from black to green, he was able to see inside the tunnel, which appeared earthen with wooden beams supporting the walls and ceiling. Twenty to twenty-five feet inside this small channel, there appeared to be a sudden drop-off.
Stepping back, Kimball said to Isaiah, “Check it out.” Then to Roman. “Back him. Maintain cover.”
Starting up their NVG units, Isaiah entered the opening with Roman following.
Twenty feet in, Isaiah disappeared with Roman gone moments after—nothing but the tightly packed dirt walls, the wooden beams, and the smell of damp earth.
Five minutes later, the Vatican Knights returned with their attire smudged as though they had labored at a dig site. Isaiah, lifting his NV goggles so that they sat on top of his helmet, said, “The drop-off is a stairwell that descends approximately thirty to thirty-five feet to a corridor that goes east, then makes a right-angle turn south.”
Kimball read Isaiah’s face and could see that there was an addendum to these findings. “And?” Kimball pressed him.
“Nine sets of footprints. All Russian military issue.”
Kimball nodded. “Novikov and his mercenaries,” he said. “They’re on the move, which means that we have to close the space between them and us as soon as possible.”
“We can’t rush into this,” Monsignor Calidonna reminded him.
“We’ll take every necessary precaution, Padre.”
“This isn’t going to be as simple as you might believe it to be. Trust me when I say that there will be serious hazards ahead.”
“I realize what’s ahead of us. The Cup of Miracles and Novikov’s kill squad. I understand the threats between here and there. But right now, our goal is to acquire the Cup, yes?”
“Yes,” the monsignors answered in perfect unison.
Kimball turned to Isaiah. “Take point.”
Isaiah, returning his NV goggles into the viewable position, headed back into the tunnel with Jeremiah and Job behind him, then the monsignors, Roman, with Kimball taking the rear.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The subterranean warrens taken by Ivan Novikov and his hired team of assassins appeared to meander without reason, even though the purpose was quite clear: to confuse trespassers. What frustrated Novikov the most was that the manuscript and the maps did not indicate a path to take beyond reaching the wall marked with Colossians 2:3. Not only was it the starting point, but it was also the endpoint.
As they moved through the corridors, they noticed that the wooden support beams were rotting and warping beneath the weight and dampness. Worse, they were ankle-deep in water, meaning that water from the canals above them was seeping into the tunnels.
As they trudged through from channel to channel, Novikov’s team, either by serendipity or by way of eventually coming to the only possible point where the tunnels were steering them to, came upon a cobblestone wall. Along the wall were four doors, also constructed of cobblestone, that were marked with the engraved Roman numerals I, II, III and IV. Above these doors was a Latin phrase, a riddle, a mystery to be solved before they could move on.
Novikov moved closer and read the Latin inscription through his NVG monocular.
Vos qui transitis problema lanua solvere debetis
Elige sapienter, tunc intrabis
