"The Venetian Betrayal" - читать интересную книгу автора (Berry Steve)

FORTY-SEVEN

ZOVASTINA STEPPED THROUGH THE ICONOSTASIS INTO THE PRESBYTERY and stared at the basilica’s magnificent baldachin. Four alabaster columns, each adorned with elaborate reliefs, supported a massive block of verde green marble carved into intersecting vaults. Behind, framed by the baldachin, glittered the famous Pala d’Oro, the screen rich with gold, precious stones, and enamel.

Beneath the altar, she studied the two distinct parts of the stone sarcophagus. The misshapen top was more a slab-the bottom carved smooth into a rectangle upon which was etched CORPVS DIVI MARCI EVANGELISTAE. Her Latin was enough for a rough translation. Body of the divine St. Mark. Two heavy iron rings protruded from the top, which apparently was how the massive stones had been initially lowered into place. Now, thick iron bars pierced the rings, bolted at each end to four hydraulic jacks.

“This is a real challenge,” Michener said. “Not much space beneath the altar. Of course, with heavy equipment we could easily get inside, but we don’t have the time or privacy for that.”

She noticed the men preparing the jacks. “Priests?”

He nodded. “Assigned here. We thought it best to keep this among us.”

“Do you know what’s inside?” she asked.

“What you’re really asking is whether the remains are mummified.” Michener shrugged. “It’s been over one hundred and seventy years since this tomb was opened. No one really knows what’s in there.”

She resented his smugness. Ptolemy had taken advantage of Eumenes’ switch, and used what the world believed to be Alexander’s corpse to its fullest political potential. She had no way of knowing if what she was about to see would provide any answers, but it was imperative she find out.

Michener motioned to one of the priests and the hydraulic jacks were cranked. The iron rings atop the tomb stretched vertically, then, ever so slowly, a millimeter at a time, the jacks lifted the weighty lid.

“Powerful mechanisms,” Michener said. “Small, but they can lift a house from underneath.”

The lid was now two centimeters skyward, but the interior of the sarcophagus remained in shadow. She stared high above the baldachin, into the apse’s brightly lit semidome, at a golden mosaic of Christ.

The four men stopped working the jacks.

The sarcophagus lid hung suspended about four centimeters above the bottom, the iron bars now flush with the underside of the altar top.

No more room to climb.

Michener gestured for them to retreat toward the iconostasis, away from the altar, where he whispered, “The Holy Father is trying to accommodate your request with the hope that you’ll reciprocate his. But let’s be real. You’re not going to honor your promise.”

“I’m not accustomed to being insulted.”

“And the Holy Father is not accustomed to being lied to.”

All pretense seemed to have left this diplomat. “You’ll be given access to the Federation, as I assured.”

“We want more.”

Now she realized. He’d waited until the lid was off. She hated herself, but because of Karyn, and Alexander the Great, and what may be out there, somewhere, to find, she had no choice.

“What do you want?”

He reached beneath his jacket and removed a folded sheaf of papers. “We’ve prepared a concordat between the Federation and the Church. Written assurances that we’ll be given access. Per your request of yesterday, we’ve reserved the right to the Federation on approval of any church construction.”

She unfolded the papers and saw the text had even been prepared in Kazakh.

“We thought it easier to have it in your language.”

“You thought it would be easier to disseminate in my language. My signature is your insurance. No way I could deny you then.”

She glanced through the concordat. The language detailed a cooperative effort between the Roman Church and the Central Asia Federation to “jointly promote and encourage the free exercise of religion through unrestricted allowance of missionary work.” The paragraphs went on to assure that violence against the Church would not be tolerated and offenders would be punished. More provisions guaranteed that visas would be liberally granted to Church personnel and no reprisals would be tolerated against any converts.

She stared back at the altar. The lower half of the sarcophagus remained in shadow. Even from ten meters away she could see nothing inside.

“You’d be a good one to have on my team,” she said.

“I like serving the Church.”

She glanced at her watch-12:50 A.M. Viktor should already be here. He was never late. So dependable. She stared out into the nave, back toward the upper portions of the west atrium where only the golden ceilings were illuminated. Lots of dark places to hide. She wondered, when one A.M. came and she was granted her thirty minutes, if she’d really be alone.

“If signing the concordat is a problem,” Michener said, “we could just forget the whole thing.”

Her words from yesterday when she’d challenged him.

She called his bluff.

“You have a pen?”