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As political conditions in the Middle East continue to deteriorate, Vatican officials urge archeologist John Christopher to accept the position as Ambassador-at-large to the upcoming negotiation efforts. As a former official at the American State Department, he is familiar with the problems in the region and is personally acquainted with many of its leaders. The sudden disappearance of one of Washington’s most powerful congressmen transforms what Christopher had expected to be a routine negotiation session into an intricate web of faith, murder, and deceit.

Abraham’s Bones
by Joe Prentis

Chapter One

As the Vatican limousine approached the service entrance of the Porta Sant’ Anna, John Christopher leaned forward in the soft comfort of the rear seat, examining the view spread out before him. He had attended mass here on several occasions, but like most of the other visitors, he had always arrived on foot. This magnificent enclave was even more impressive, he decided, when seen from the rear seat of this luxurious automobile. As he waited, expectantly, the driver swung the car across the busy thoroughfare and rolled to a stop in front of the wrought iron gateway. Two Swiss Guards emerged from their glassed enclosure and swung the gate, causing a crowd of tourists to scurry toward the safety of the pedestrian walkway. The powerful engine purred softly as the car moved down the length of the cobbled drive and drew to a halt in front of the Apostolic Palace. Christopher stood for a moment on the walk gazing upward at the magnificent structure, then followed his escort up the steps to the entranceway where he was greeted by a papal aid with a youthful, cherubic face.

“I’m Father Salviati,” he said, as Christopher shook the soft, animated hand. “If you will come with me, His Eminence is waiting.”

Christopher followed his escort down a wide corridor, their footsteps echoing loudly on the smooth marble floors. Climbing three flights of stairs and passing through a series of chambers, they stopped in front of an elaborately carved door. Just inside the entrance was a tall, stately official he had met almost five years before, Albert Louis Mason, the former Cardinal Archbishop of New York. It had been three years since their last meeting, and he saw that Mason had aged somewhat, although he still had the carriage and vigor of a much younger man. The warmth of Mason’s smile dispelled any hesitancy he had in coming here.

“I’m grateful you were able to come so promptly,” Mason said, indicating a chair with a wave of his hand.

Crossing in front of the oversized desk, Christopher sank gratefully into the softness of a rose damask settee. As he waited for the cardinal to explain his reason for summoning him here, he glanced through the tall windows overlooking the square. He decided he was somewhere to the right of the third floor balcony where the Pope made his Sunday appearances. A large crowd filled Saint Peter’s Square, and he would have liked nothing better than to stand in front of the windows and watch the ceremony that would be unfolding at a few minutes after eleven o’clock. This momentous event would start when an open-topped Fiat Jeep bearing the Pope would pass through the Acro delle Campane and move slowly through the waiting crowd. Most of the Vatican was off limits to visitors and few people outside the priesthood had seen a Papal Mass from this lofty perch.

Christopher turned away from the window as an attendant entered the chamber with a silver tray and coffee service. He presented a cup that looked as fragile as an eggshell with the thoughtful deliberation of a bishop at High Mass. Christopher raised it to his lips and felt the warmth spread through the cold numbness in his chest. Mason continued to search through the clutter on his desk until he found the file he was looking for underneath a neatly folded copy of the L’Osservatore Romano.

“I’m sorry to have pulled you away from your conference, Dr. Christopher. I would have waited until the afternoon session was over, but I have some important business I wish to discuss with you.”

“No problem, Your Eminence. I’m glad to be of service.”

Christopher had come to Rome to attend an archeological conference at the prestigious Gregorian University. As he thought about the tense atmosphere at the morning session, he could not help wondering if Mason’s problems had any connection with his own.

“Your conference is going well?” the cardinal inquired politely, bringing Christopher’s thoughts back to the present.

“We have experienced some of the same infighting you would expect at a political convention. I’ll be amazed if it continues past today.”

Mason’s shaggy eyebrows lifted, revealing a pair of eyes as blue as a leprechaun’s. “The representatives are concerned about what, specifically?”

“Some of them are objecting because the western nations are conducting most of the archeological work in the Middle East. Until recently, everyone has been content to leave archeology in the hands of the most qualified personnel.”

Mason opened a folder, examining a thick report for a moment, and then leaned forward and passed it across his desk. Attached to the top sheet was a photograph of a tall, skeletal figure peering into the lens of the camera. The vacant look in his eyes gave him the appearance of a corpse.

“His name is Father Sangallo,” Mason said. “He made an effort to enter the morning session at your conference yesterday but was detained by the Carabinieri.”

Christopher frowned at the scrawled message above the Papal seal. “I wasn’t aware of the incident. Do you happen to know what he wanted?”

“Actually, he wanted to see you.”

Christopher glanced up from the photograph to find Mason studying him intently. “Do you happen to know what he wanted? I’ve never heard of this man.”

“He’s evidently heard of you. He has also demanded an audience with the Holy Father.” When Christopher did not say anything in response, Mason sighed and looked uncomfortable. “These rural priests can sometimes be distressing. Dozens of them petition the Vatican each year expecting some unknown village personage to be elevated to sainthood.”

“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. If he returns to the conference, someone in security will deal with it.”

“Appearances can sometimes be deceiving. During the last world war, he was only a boy, but he was deeply involved with the resistance movement. For the last fifty years, he has been content to sit in his quaint little village and minister to his congregation. For no apparent reason, he has suddenly turned into a dangerous zealot.”

Christopher was now thoroughly confused. He had assumed Mason’s desire to see him had something to do with the conference, but the difficulty obviously involved something of a more serious nature.

“Has he made threats?”

Mason lifted his hands outward causing the light from the chandelier to glint brightly from the gold ring on his finger. “For the moment, let’s just say it has something to do with faith.”

“If this has anything to do with miracles, I might not be able to help you. My experience lies in the opposite direction. Every area of my profession requires scientific proof and careful documentation.”

“Am I to assume you’ve never seen a miracle?”

Christopher paused, not knowing where Mason was going with this. “I’ve seen things I couldn’t explain under the rules of scientific experimentation,” he answered carefully.

“But no burning bushes in the deserts you’ve wandered across?”

“Nothing dramatic, I’m afraid.”

Mason’s face crinkled but the smile did not reach his eyes. “I’m also assuming you no longer have any official connection with the State Department in Washington.”

Christopher wondered how much Mason already knew about his decision to leave government service and decided to keep his explanation simple. “I accepted the position in Washington with the understanding I would only serve until the crisis in the Middle East was over, or until suitable personnel could be recruited to fill my position. I resigned last year in order to return to archeology.”

Before Mason could reply, there was a knock on the outer door of the office. His forehead creased in annoyance as the door opened cautiously.

“Yes?” Mason inquired without turning all the way around. A papal aid entered the office and leaned toward Mason’s ear. He whispered rather urgently, looking mildly unhappy all the while, and then presented a folded sheet of paper before withdrawing from the chamber. Mason read the message in silence, and then ejected himself from his chair with a surprising amount of agility and crossed to a window overlooking the plaza. He stood for a moment in silence, and then lifted his head and gazed at the cross on top of the obelisk.

“God works in mysterious ways,” Mason mused in a distant voice. Then turning quickly around, he fixed him with a penetrating stare. “Are you acquainted with Congressman Nick Danville?

“I’ve never met Congressman Danville, although I know of his accomplishments.”

“Accomplishments,” Mason repeated with the faintest touch of humor. “No wonder you were such a good negotiator, Dr. Christopher. Some of his critics have characterized him in less flattering terms. He has been in Israel for the last week on what he has described as a fact-finding tour. A terrorist’s bomb killed him and his entire delegation.”

“Has anyone claimed credit for the incident?” Christopher asked.

“The only explanation is in reference to the political climate—as if that explains anything. The authorities accused him of trying to smuggle an artifact out of Israel that has a great deal of significance to the Muslims. Is there such a thing as a coffin case?” Mason moved away from the window, walking slowly and looking down at the floor like someone picking his way through a minefield.

“Coffin cases were Canaanite in origin, dating from around 2000 BC. The Egyptians used something similar to bury their dead, although the ones they used were a lot more elaborate. You may recall the one containing the body of King Tut.”

“What would be the significance of this relic to the Muslims?”

“No real connection except for it being a part of the area’s early history. The Shepherd Kings who ruled Egypt during Abraham’s era were probably Canaanites, and possibly from Ashkelon.”

“Do you know a reporter named Keith Maitland?” Cardinal Mason asked, abruptly changing the subject.

“We are acquainted,” he admitted reluctantly. “He worked for one of the major news services in Washington. There were some questions about his ethics. He was transferred to their European bureau as a result.”

“Maitland has flooded our Public Relations Office with inquiries on a number of subjects. Your own name has come up.”

Christopher nodded his appreciation for the information, but decided to keep his thoughts to himself.

Mason was toying with the note the messenger had given to him a few minutes before. He opened it and peered cautiously inside. “According to the information I have received, the Palestinians have rejected General Zecori’s appointment as the chief negotiator. Some of my friends in Washington suggested it might be useful to have you contact some of the leaders in the area. We won’t be able to make any progress until someone persuades the interested parties to return to the bargaining table. I’m prepared to offer you a position which would make this possible.”

“And this would involve what?” Christopher asked cautiously.

“The Vatican does not have diplomatic relations with Israel, so we cannot officially appoint you as our ambassador. I am prepared to offer you an appointment as ambassador-at-large to the Middle East. Your contacts with world leaders will give you unlimited opportunities to accomplish what formal diplomacy hasn’t been able to bring about. Tempers have been heating up again all over the region, and some of it has spilled over into the streets. I am especially interested in any suggestions you might have in reducing the level of tension. Suicide bombings and riots seem to be increasing by the hour.”

“I appreciate the seriousness of what you are saying, but you seem to be implying the reaction in the streets is a byproduct of the political situation, when it is really the other way around. There is nothing spontaneous about any of it.”

Mason sighed. “It is hard to realize we have a whole generation obsessed with conducting a holy war.”

“If the only tool you have is a hammer, every problem begins to look like a nail. Pounding on the problem produces a steady supply of victims and nothing else.”

Mason had become still in his chair. “Are you suggesting we have an irresolvable situation in the Middle East?”

“Let’s just say too many of our solutions have been shortsighted. While the Zionists had uncontested control of the government, there were fewer problems from a diplomatic standpoint. In recent years, the power of the ultra-Orthodox Jews has been steadily increasing. Many of them believe the present political state is not the one foretold by the prophets.”

“Which is precisely the reason I think you are the right man for the job. Your experience in Middle Eastern affairs will be invaluable.”

“If I were to decide to accept your appointment, what would be the extent of my responsibilities?” Christopher asked.

“Will your normal duties require you to travel to areas outside of Israel?”

“I will be visiting archeological sites in Egypt and Jordan in the next few weeks.”

“Will you be speaking with any of the government leaders while you are there?”

“Not directly, but you have to realize most of the mid-level positions are held by family members of the persons in authority. It would be relatively easy to convey any message to the proper individuals.”

Mason gave a relaxed smile as he leaned back in his chair. “This is a remarkable turn of events. I think our people will agree it was an opportunity created in heaven.”

Although he was hopeful, Christopher did not share Cardinal Mason’s bright optimism. “If the proposals are unacceptable, they might argue it was a plot hatched in hell.”

Mason looked sober for a moment, but did not comment, as if failure was not an option.

“Friendship, Dr. Christopher, can go a lot further than diplomacy. Our actions and our doctrine must show some coherence. We must not abandon the principals of the church for the prospect of a temporary peace. I am prepared to supply you with a small but competent staff to handle any contingency. The most difficult problems might come from another quarter,” he said, gesturing toward the report Christopher had returned to the corner of the desk.

“And this priest of yours is a part of the problem.”

“Let’s say he is a small manifestation of the problem. It is a lot broader than one priest.”

“Do you have any idea why he wanted to see me?” Christopher said.

“It has something to do with some artifacts in his possession. He seems to believe there is a spiritual significance attached to those objects. A number of persons in his village claim to have been healed.”

“Has anyone examined them?”

“Father Ricci is one of our leading experts on Middle Eastern antiquities. He has made a preliminary examination but has not reported his findings. I understand there is an inscription in an unknown language Father Ricci has been unable to decipher. He has suddenly taken ill. His doctor reports he slept better during the night, but he seems to have become delusional. He has reported voices speaking to him out of the darkness and he has seen a strange light. I hope it is a reaction to his medication rather than the onset of Alzheimer’s.”

Before Christopher could reply, Mason climbed abruptly to his feet.

“If you can spare the time, I would like to show you something remarkable. It’s the perfect example of what can happen when scientific method isn’t followed.”

Without waiting for Christopher’s reply, Mason came briskly around the corner of his desk and headed for the door. Christopher followed him down the corridor to a flight of stairs and descended to the ground floor. They passed through a courtyard and across an expanse of well-manicured lawn. He was surprised when they came around the corner of the building and discovered they were approaching the basilica from the north side.

Mason allowed him to stop inside the doorway and look up at the dome towering high above them. Sunlight spilling through the windows in the lantern tower was illuminating the richly decorated interior. Someone had once told him the walls of this huge building were 26 feet thick, which was necessary to support a dome over 400 feet high. Mason let him stand for a few seconds examining the soaring columns and then beckoned him on with a wave of his hand. They passed in front of the Papal Altar to the giant statue of St. Andrew, then through another door into a narrow passageway leading down into the grotto. Mason stopped with his hand on the door and started speaking in the monotone of a tour guide.

“In Roman times, the Trastevere region was a sparsely settled area outside of the city proper. At the time Constantine was preparing to build this church, the Circus Nero was unused. It would have been an easy matter to locate the building there. Instead, he leveled this spot which was an enormous engineering feat, requiring the removal of a million cubic feet of earth.”

They descended a flight of stairs and passed through a doorway into an area having the appearance of an alleyway in some ancient village. The walls of these small buildings abutted directly against the neighboring structures.

“We are standing underneath the dome of the basilica,” Mason said. “Before the area was leveled, this was a necropolis and these structures were above-ground tombs. Most of them can be dated from before the time of Christ.”

Christopher peered through one of the open doorways and saw a room about twelve feet square. There were several pots setting at the rear of the room. Mason shined his flashlight into the mouth of a jar.

“Most of these contain human remains,” he said as he reached inside. Something rattled as he stirred around in the contents.

They continued along the passageway until they came to an open area. The stones in this section were red and the walls were considerably higher. Mason gestured toward the ceiling.

“If you were to drop a plumb-bob through the floor from the top of the dome, it would pass through the altar and point directly at this spot. They found an inscription reading, Petros eni.”

Peter is within! Christopher turned sharply around. He had read of this but had never expected to see it firsthand.

Mason began pacing back and forth like a caged lion. Christopher knew he had brought him here to see the grave, but there was another reason compelling him to do so. Mason stopped in the shadows, moving his flashlight along the top of the foundation stones. There were probably electric lights here, but for some reason, Mason had not switched them on. He lowered the flashlight, illuminating a small circle around his feet. The pale glow reflected from the stones left his body shrouded in darkness, his face a dim apparition.

When Mason spoke, his voice was scarcely above a whisper. “Constantine believed this was the tomb of Simon Peter and located the church here to fulfill the prophecy. The bones were subjected to scientific tests and it was proven to be the body of a large male who died somewhere near the end of the first century.”

Christopher glanced around at the walls and saw several inscriptions he guessed to be the names of Simon Peter’s successors. Before he could ask his question, Mason interrupted.

“Have you seen the movie about the dropping of the atomic bomb on Japan?” Mason asked. “I’ve often wondered if the scene in the Oval Office really happened, or was it the invention of some Hollywood writer? President Truman was in the process of selecting a pilot to lead the squadron. He handed the soldier a button and asked if he could end the war by pushing it, would he do so. There was a dramatic pause while the camera panned forward showing only his hand and the button. His thumb remained motionless for what seemed like eternity and then plunged downward. It was one of Hollywood’s most suspenseful moments.”

“I’m not sure if I understand the question, Your Eminence. Was the soldier allowed to ask for clarification?”

The flashlight moved, tracing a jagged pattern along the ground. “There are some things in life you don’t question, my son. Before this is over, it might test the extent of your Christian commitment.”

Mason took a step closer and Christopher found himself staring directly into the cardinal’s eyes.

“Do you see the inscription on the stone where you’re standing?” Mason asked, directing the beam of light downward where it illuminated a small circle around his feet. Dirt covered most of the writing, but Christopher could make out an inscription on the polished stone. When he looked up, the piercing gaze had not shifted even a millimeter.

“After the crucifixion, a Christian friend placed a stone there to mark the grave. You are standing on Simon Peter’s tombstone.”

Christopher had a sudden, almost overpowering desire, to leave this place and get as far as he could from this soft-spoken cleric. As if he were sensing his uncertainty, Mason inched closer where there was no more than a hand’s breadth separating them.

“It’s imperative for us to arrange informal discussions no later than the end of this month. Will you accept the assignment, Dr. Christopher?”

He hesitated, and then after a moment of wondering if he was the worse kind of a fool, gave a brief nod of his head.

“Then raise your right hand,” Mason commanded. “I would like to administer your oath of office before God and these witnesses.”

Christopher glanced around at the shadows where the other Popes had joined the bones of Simon Peter throughout the ages. As he lifted his hand to take the oath of office, he could not help wondering where such a momentous decision might take him.