Boyd and Maria fanned out on the upper floors of the library, searching for information about the laughing man. This gave Jones the perfect opportunity to spend some alone time with Maria. He found her near the manuscript collection on the second floor. 'What are you looking for?'

She whispered, 'A needle in a haystack.'

Jones did a three sixty turn, soaking in all the books and artifacts that surrounded them. 'Big haystack... What's your needle look like? Maybe I can help.'

She shrugged. 'I have no idea... Absolutely none.'

'Great! That narrows it down for us.'

Maria moved toward him, gently rubbing her fingers over the spine of the books. 'You have to admit there's some irony to being here. I mean, of all the places in the world, we're at the Hofburg looking for proof of Christ's death. That seems so fitting because of the spear.'

'Spear? What spear?'

'The Spear of Destiny. The lance that pierced Christ's side. It's here at the Hofburg.'

'Oh. That That spear.' spear.'

She nodded. 'Did you know the first thing Hitler did when he claimed Austria in 1938 was to come here and get the spear? Historians say it was the thing that motivated him to rule the world. He saw it as a young student and had a vision that the spear would make him invincible.'

But Hitler wasn't the only one who believed in the weapon. According to legend, whoever possessed the lance was granted the power to conquer the world. But it was also said if the owner ever lost the spear, he would die a swift death a fact that played out when Hitler took his own life a mere eighty minutes after American troops seized the bunker where he was safeguarding the relic. Some attribute this to coincidence while others ascribe it to fate.

The history of the Holy Lance (aka the Spear of Destiny) can be tracked through the centuries, even though no one knows for sure if it was actually used by Longinus, the Roman centurion who supposedly pierced the side of Christ. Some historians believe that the twenty-inch blade was forged several centuries after the death of Christ and is nothing more than a hoax.

Some biblical historians are willing to go one step further. Not only do they feel that the Lance is fictional, but they also claim that Longinus is fictional as well, since no records or texts mentioned his name until the Gospel of Nicodemus appeared in 715. Furthermore, since 'Longinus' is a Latinized version of longche longche, the Greek word for 'spear,' they feel the name was created by the Church to attach a name to an otherwise faceless man.

Maria said, 'The Gospels say the spear proved that Christ had died. Now here we are, where that mythical spear is kept, and we're looking for proof that Christ didn't didn't die on the cross. The irony is staggering.' die on the cross. The irony is staggering.'

Jones paused, considering her statement. 'What if it isn't irony? What if there's a reason that the lance and the laughing man are both here? What if Longinus was was the laughing man?' the laughing man?'

Maria laughed. 'You're joking, right?'

'Not at all,' he stressed. 'Longinus was involved in the crucifixion, right? Yet no one can describe what he looked like, and he never appeared in the history books until after the fall of the Empire. That seems pretty strange, considering how anal the Romans were about record keeping. Well, maybe his identity was being protected by Tiberius. Maybe he had it removed from the history books.'

'What about the P P? The statue's ring had a P P on it. That has to stand for something.' on it. That has to stand for something.'

'Maybe it does. What if Longinus's name was was fictionalized by the Church like some people claim? His real name could've been Peter or Paul or whatever. I mean, Longinus was standing right next to the cross during the crucifixion, so he could've slipped Christ the mandrake. Plus he told the crowd that Jesus had died, then proved it by stabbing him in the side.' fictionalized by the Church like some people claim? His real name could've been Peter or Paul or whatever. I mean, Longinus was standing right next to the cross during the crucifixion, so he could've slipped Christ the mandrake. Plus he told the crowd that Jesus had died, then proved it by stabbing him in the side.'

Maria stood there, silent, comparing Jones's theory to the knowledge she possessed. Deep down inside she sensed something didn't fit, that something was missing from the big picture.

She would learn what that was a few hours later.

Nick Dial flipped through his atlas until he came across a map of Italy. He carefully drew two lines across the colorful surface while constantly glancing at the red pushpins on his bulletin board. He knew if he was off as little as a quarter inch, he could miss his target by fifty miles.

As expected, the two lines met in Umbria, a fertile region that was better known for its farmland than its tourist attractions. Intrigued, Dial adjusted his bifocals and focused on the intersection point, searching for the exact spot where the four crosses pointed.

'Orvieto,' he whispered. Something about it sounded so familiar. Something recent.

Dial checked the e-mail on his laptop computer. Several messages mentioned the recent bus explosion near Orvieto and the ongoing manhunt for Dr Charles Boyd.

Dial grabbed his cell phone, dialed the local NCB office, and was patched through to Henri Toulon's desk. He answered on the third ring. 'Nick, my friend, where are you today?'

'Boston, but that's about to change.'

'Oh? Have you decided to quit your job and leave me in charge? That is awfully sweet of '

'Boyd,' he interrupted. 'Dr Charles Boyd. What can you tell me about him?'

'He is a very popular man right now. All of Europe is looking for him. Why do you ask?'

'I have a feeling he might be connected to my case. What can you send me?'

'Whatever you want... But I'm confused. How can he '

'Just playing out a hunch. Can you send me that info ASAP? I need it before my flight.'

'A flight? But you aren't done in Boston. I got the info that you wanted on the fax.'

Shit, Dial thought. He had forgotten about the fax. The person who sent it to Interpol knew about Orlando Pope's death before it even happened. If Dial found him in Boston, he might blow the case wide open. 'OK, give it to me, quick. I still want to catch my plane.'

'But Nick, don't you think '

'Come on, Henri! Can't you hear the sound of my voice? I'm not in the mood for your bullshit, not today. Just send me what I need. Not later, not after your next cigarette break, but now now! Do you got me? Right fuckin' now!'

Toulon grinned. He loved pissing off his boss, especially since Dial had been promoted ahead of him for the job. 'Nick, relax! Check your in-box. The info should be waiting for you.'

Nick Dial knew the warning fax was important. He knew if he tracked down the sender that he'd be able to establish a direct link to the crime, possibly identifying the killer or one of his associates. Yet in this case he decided he had more important things to worry about, so he called Chang at the local NCB office and told him to look into it.

'Don't screw this up,' Dial said as he hustled through Logan Airport. 'And once you get the information, I want you to sit tight. Don't pursue any other leads. Don't tell anyone else. Just hold onto it. You got me? I'll give you a call in a few hours from the plane.'

'Not a problem. I'll go home and wait for your call... Anything else, sir?'

'Yeah. Find out as much about Beijing as possible. I'll want an update when we talk.'

'Yes, sir.'

Dial glanced at one of the departure monitors, trying to figure out where his gate was. 'You ever been to China?'

'No, sir.'

'What about your parents? Where are they from?'

'Noank.'

He grimaced. 'Noank? Never heard of it. Is that close to Beijing?'

'Not really, sir. It's in Connecticut.'

Dial felt like an idiot, so he did his best to change the topic. 'Get me that info, Chang. I'll give you a call before I hit the ground.'

'Sir? Out of curiosity, how long's your flight to China?'

'China? I'm not going to China. I'm going to Italy.' I'm not going to China. I'm going to Italy.'

'Wait,' Chang said, confused. 'I thought you were investigating today's murder?'

'Not at all. I'm flying to Italy to stop the next one.'

Dante Pelati walked into his father's office and saw him sitting behind his desk, cradling a family picture. His father was a private man, someone who preferred to keep most people at a distance. The biggest exception had been Dante's older brother. Roberto was Benito's firstborn son, which made him the crown prince in Benito's world. The two of them shared a bond that Dante never could. At least not while Roberto was alive.

'You got my message?' Benito asked. His eyes were bloodshot, and his cheeks were stained with tears, a scene that Dante had never seen before. It was a sight he actually enjoyed.

'I came at once,' he whispered. 'What can I do for you?'

Benito placed the picture on his desk and faced Dante. He realized he was the key to everything now, everything that the Pelati family had been hiding for centuries. And that forced Benito to do something that made him uncomfortable. He was about to have a personal conversation with his second son. 'I know I haven't always been there for you... like a father should have been... I realize that now, and... it is one of the biggest regrets of my life.'

Dante was stunned. He had waited a lifetime to hear those words, always wondering what would have to happen to hear those sentiments from his father's lips. Now he knew.

'I could sit here and make excuses... but that would be wrong... You deserve better than that... You deserve the truth.'

Benito sank into his chair, struggling to breathe. He had given this talk once before, a long time ago when Roberto had reached the right age. But this conversation would be different. No longer would Benito be talking about secrets hidden in Orvieto and what he hoped to do with them. Instead, he'd be outlining a plot that was already in motion. One that was near completion.

'Father,' Dante asked, 'the truth about what?'

'The truth about our family.'

65

A stack of newspapers wrapped in a bright yellow cord sat near the circulation desk. It had been a few days since Payne saw the news, and he wanted to read the latest on Orvieto. He flipped through the stack until he found one written in English. He took it upstairs and found a quiet spot where he could look out for guards and read about the most dangerous man in Europe.

Every story painted Dr Charles Boyd as a coldblooded killer, a man who'd do anything to get what he wanted, although the paper didn't have any theories on what that might be. In their view he was a dangerous fugitive on the run, leaving a trail of blood and bodies wherever he went. No word about the Catacombs or the helicopter that apparently tried to kill him. Nothing about his thirty years of teaching or all the awards that he won at Dover. Why? Because that kind of stuff would cloud the picture and make him seem human. And as everybody knows, human doesn't sell. Violence sells. That's what people want to read. That was the thing that sold papers.

Proving Payne's point was the article that ran next to Boyd's. The headline blared 'Crucifix Killer,' right above a close-up of someone who had been murdered in Denmark. Normally Payne would've ignored the story, just to make a point. Just because the photo and the headline were so sensationalized it drew attention from all the other articles in the paper that were more important than the death of one man, no matter how brutal and violent his death was. Still, there was something about the word crucifix crucifix that grabbed Payne's attention. He quickly skimmed the story, which explained everything that happened in Helsingr and all the events in Libya, too. The piece concluded with an editor's note that referenced breaking news in the sports section, simply saying: 'Pope is Third Victim.' that grabbed Payne's attention. He quickly skimmed the story, which explained everything that happened in Helsingr and all the events in Libya, too. The piece concluded with an editor's note that referenced breaking news in the sports section, simply saying: 'Pope is Third Victim.'

'Holy shit,' he muttered, knowing who had died before he even turned the page.

Orlando Pope was one of the most recognizable names in sports, right up there with Tiger Woods and Shaquille O'Neal. If he was dead, his story was going to dwarf every other headline in the world, making Dr Boyd a sudden afterthought. Payne flipped to the sports section but found nothing more than a brief paragraph stating that Pope had been found crucified at Fenway Park and nothing else could be confirmed because of the late hour. No pictures, quotes, or reaction from the team. The biggest sports story of the decade, and he knew nothing about it.

Frustrated, Payne grabbed the newspaper and went to tell Jones the news. Before he could, though, Jones and Maria started talking to Boyd, who had been skimming through a modern text that detailed the history of the Hofburg and the royalty who shaped it. Boyd hoped to learn which ruler built the portion of the building where the laughing man resided.

'Find anything?' Maria asked.

Boyd kept reading for several seconds before he turned their way. 'Hmm? What was that?'

She smiled. Same old Dr Boyd. 'Did you find anything?'

'Bits and pieces, my dear. Bits and pieces. If only I had a morsel to guide me, I am certain certain I could locate the smoking gun.' He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, indicating the rest of the library. 'I am confident the answer is in here somewhere.' I could locate the smoking gun.' He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, indicating the rest of the library. 'I am confident the answer is in here somewhere.'

'I agree,' she said, smiling. 'D.J. has a theory that I wanted you to hear.'

Boyd glanced at Maria, then back at Jones, trying to decide if they were serious. The look on their faces told him they were. 'Go on. I'm listening.'

Payne was listening, too. But before Jones could spit out a single word, Payne's attention was diverted to the commotion he heard on the far side of the library. First the opening of a door, then the muffled sound of footsteps. Multiple footsteps. Many people entering the facility at the exact same time. Maybe it was a cleaning crew or a team of armed guards, Payne couldn't tell from there. Either way, he knew they were in trouble.

'Hide them,' Payne told Jones. And just like that, he knew what to do. They had been together long enough to know each other's tactics.

Payne pulled the Luger from his belt and dashed quietly across the second floor, slipping between pillars and statues. Thousands of books lined the shelves behind him, protecting him from a rear attack, while a thick wooden railing encircled the balcony to his front. His position was elevated, at least fifteen feet above the first floor. He curled up underneath a rail-side table and glanced between the carved balusters where he was able to see most of the Great Hall.

Two men in dress clothes stood in the shadows of the main entrance while their partner fiddled with something behind a tapestry on the right wall. Payne doubted the library had a safe in a public space, leaving only two choices in his mind: a security system or an electrical panel. He got his answer a couple of clicks later when the roof exploded with light.

Payne kept his focus on the men as they converged near the middle of the floor. They were over a hundred feet away, which prevented Payne from seeing or hearing much. There was a mumble every once in a while, followed by a quick reply, but nothing he could comprehend. Partially because of the distance, partially because of a language barrier. Whatever the case, he had no idea who these men were or why they were here.

His gut told him they weren't looking for his crew. If they were, they wouldn't be standing in the middle of the library making so much noise. They'd be scurrying along the walls, pointing weapons in every corner and crevice until they figured out where they were hiding. Payne didn't see any of that, though, which led him to believe that they were fine, that they had no idea that they were there and they'd be safe as long as they stayed quiet.

Payne's theory changed an instant later when one of them yelled, 'Boyd, there's no sense in hiding. I know you're in here. Come out and face me like a man.'

Payne had seen a lot of messed-up things in his years of combat, but this was the first time that anyone ever dared one of his troops to show his face. Come-out-come-out-wherever-you-are doesn't factor into many military situations. Amazingly, the strangeness increased when Dr Boyd emerged from the stacks. With a look of defiance on his face, a look that said he was about to do something stupid like challenging this guy to a duel, Boyd shouted across the Great Hall. 'Come and get me, you big wanker!'

Well, Payne almost crapped himself right there. Of all the screwed-up, dim-witted things he'd ever seen in his life, why in the world would a CIA-trained operative, someone who was supposed to be a genius, be willing to give up his position and risk everything that they were trying to accomplish? The idiot! What the hell was he thinking?

Boyd was standing twenty feet away, completely unaware that Payne was under one of the tables. For an instant Payne was tempted to shut him up and protect the rest of them. A couple of slugs in his knee and he would've flipped over the railing like Damien's mom when he hit her with his tricycle in The Omen The Omen. That thought left his mind, though, when he saw Maria creep up behind Boyd. Just like that, Payne's whole world flipped upside down. Something was going on, but he didn't know what. Were there more guards than he could see? Were Boyd and Maria giving up? Or were he and Jones being double-crossed?

Payne received his answer the moment he saw who was down below. It was the grinning face of Petr Ulster, his red cheeks glowing in the lights of the Great Hall. He looked up at Payne and said, 'Jonathon, my boy! There you are. I hope you don't mind, but I thought we could use some reinforcements.'

Everyone met downstairs, where formal introductions were made, and Boyd was reunited with an old colleague. Dr Hermann Wanke was wearing a shirt and tie yet had slippers on his feet. He claimed it was to make less noise as he strolled through the Hofburg, but Payne could tell from the twinkle in his eye that he did it for his own amusement. Most people considered Wanke the world's top expert on Austrian history, so he figured it was his God-given right to be eccentric. Personally, Payne didn't care what he wore as long he could help their mission. He asked Wanke how he knew Dr Boyd, and he launched into a five-minute soliloquy about their days at Oxford where, according to Wanke, they got along brilliantly despite their diverse backgrounds.

The other man they met was Max Hochwalder, Wanke's soft-spoken assistant. He was closer to Boyd's age than Payne's, although it was tough to gauge since he was reluctant to speak, and his short blond hair concealed any traces of gray. He shook Payne's hand with a timid grip, then faded back into oblivion, virtually disappearing in the roomful of strong personalities.

Anyhow, after a few minutes of small talk, Payne knew it was time to get back to business. He started with the most obvious question. Why was Wanke at the Hofburg?

'Research, Herr Herr Payne, research.' His English was perfect, with little or no accent, although he dropped in a German term every once in a while for his own pleasure. 'I was arranging to view one of the royal collections when I saw my old pals, Petr and Franz. I could tell they were up to no good and decided to have some fun with them.' He showed them what he meant by shouting a number of Austrian terms that sounded like they belonged in a Payne, research.' His English was perfect, with little or no accent, although he dropped in a German term every once in a while for his own pleasure. 'I was arranging to view one of the royal collections when I saw my old pals, Petr and Franz. I could tell they were up to no good and decided to have some fun with them.' He showed them what he meant by shouting a number of Austrian terms that sounded like they belonged in a stalag stalag, not in a library. 'When they tossed their hands in the air, I knew they were doing something scandalous. Something that I I should be involved in.' should be involved in.'

Ulster rubbed his face in embarrassment, a reaction that told Payne his recruitment of Wanke was not so much planned as stumbled onto.

'From there it was easy,' Wanke said. 'I sent Franz outside to occupy the guard while Petr filled me in on the basics. The moment I heard Charles's name, I knew I had to help. Whether he wanted me to or not.'

'I hope that's all right,' Ulster apologized. 'I know I should've fibbed and kept Hermann out of this, but considering his background, I figured he might be useful. At least I hope so. I'd hate to think I messed this up.'