he couldn’t help thinking that if it hadn’t been for Waller, all of this would be over. If only they had told him more about why they wanted Waller back, he might have foreseen Waller’s drastic behavior and been able to prevent it. The very fact that the old man had been willing to die rather than let himself become Rostov’s prisoner was highly suspicious. Then he tossed the thought aside. Maybe he had opted to die now rather than being tortured later for information he wasn’t willing to give.
Rostov sighed and closed his eyes. If he’d learned one thing from living through the disintegration of the Soviet Republic, it was that there was no need for rehashing the past.
He shifted nervously within his sleeping bag and considered making a fire, then discarded the thought. The last thing he needed was for someone to get curious about a camper’s fire and come snooping around.
Another series of yips told him that the coyotes were on the move now, running in the opposite direction to his camp. With a sigh of satisfaction, he crossed his hands across his chest, then patted the gun lying on his belly one last time before falling asleep.
Southern Italy—3:00 a.m.
Three men moved across the small town square, taking care to stay in the shadows. This wasn’t the first time they’d set out to steal, but it was the first time they had agreed to rob God. Although the night was cool, a small man called Paulo was sweating profusely. He imagined the Devil’s hand tightening around his throat with every step that took them closer to the small village church.
“We will die for this sin,” he murmured.
Antonio, who was the eldest and the leader of the group, turned quickly and shoved Paulo roughly against the wall.
“Silence,” he hissed.
Francesco, who was Paulo’s cousin, tended to agree with his kin, but he was afraid of Antonio and rarely argued.
Hoping to soothe his cousin’s fears, Francesco gave Paulo a wink.
“Think of the money we are going to make on this one job. It’s more than we made all last year.”
But Paulo would not be appeased.
“Dead men have no need for money,” he said.
Antonio glared at the pair. “Then get out! I will do this job myself. I have no need for cowards.”
Neither one of them had the gumption to anger a man who had killed his own father, and so Francesco smiled, trying to ease the tension.
“Paulo will be fine, my friend, have no fear.”
“I’m not the one who’s afraid,” Antonio said. “So do we go?”
Reluctantly, the other two nodded, then followed him into the church. The massive double doors squeaked on ancient hinges as Antonio pushed them inward. Paulo flinched, then stopped just inside the doorway, again overwhelmed by the impact of what they were about to do.
“Quickly, quickly,” Antonio muttered, and shoved them forward.
Paulo genuflected in the aisle and muttered a prayer for forgiveness before moving toward a faint glow of light above the altar at the front of the church.
“There it is,” Antonio said. “Francesco, you’ve got the glass cutter. Paulo, you help him. I’ll keep watch. And if you don’t want a dead priest on your conscience, too, then get busy.”
Paulo crossed himself one more time, muttering as he followed his cousin up a series of steps toward what appeared to be an oblong box made almost entirely of glass. The dimensions were about two feet wide, no more than four feet long and two feet deep. A niche had been chiseled out of the thick stone walls where the glass box now lay. Francesco leaned forward, peering intently at the brass plaque mounted beneath.
St. Bartholomew 1705–1735
A shiver of foreboding ran up Francesco’s spine, but he shook it off, blaming it on Paulo’s ridiculous predictions. They weren’t going to be cursed for stealing a few old bones any more than they would be cursed for the sins they’d already committed.
“Help me,” he ordered, and together they pulled the glass coffin from the niche, then set it on the floor.
“Hold this,” Francesco said, and handed him a flashlight.
Paulo’s hands were shaking as he took the light, but when it flashed on the ancient and yellowing skull within, his stomach lurched.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, forgive me for this sin.”
Seconds later, the faint sound of metal against glass could be heard as Francesco carefully cut out a panel on the backside of the coffin.
One minute passed, then another and another. Despite the coolness of the evening, sweat dripped from Francesco’s forehead onto the glass. Paulo’s hands were shaking so hard that he once almost dropped the flashlight. It had taken a sharp word from Antonio and a slap on the head before he had regained his equilibrium.
Suddenly Francesco rocked back on his heels, holding a long, slim panel of the old handmade glass.
“I’m in,” he whispered.
Antonio spun, his eyes glittering eagerly as he took the glass from Francesco’s hands and carefully laid it on the altar. Then he pulled a cloth sack from inside his jacket and thrust it in Francesco’s face.
“Here. You know what we came for. Take it now.”
Francesco stared down into the small casket, eyeing the fragile bones. He knew people who prayed to this saint for healing—and he knew people who had been healed. He couldn’t bring himself to actually desecrate something that holy—not even for a whole lot of money.
“I can’t,” he whispered, and handed the sack back to Antonio.
Antonio cursed and shoved both men aside as he dropped to his knees.
“The light,” he whispered. “Hold the light so that I may see.”
Paulo angled the beam of the flashlight down into the casket, highlighting all that was left of the small man of God.
Antonio thrust his hand through the opening that Francesco had cut, fingering the bones as if they were sticks of wood from which to choose. Finally he settled on two of them, one a small bone from the lower part of the arm and another that had a minute bit of leatherlike tissue still adhering to a joint.
He pulled them out and thrust them into the sack, then stood abruptly.
“Do you have the glue?” he asked.
Francesco nodded.
“Then replace the glass and put the box back in place. We’ve been here too long.”
Francesco’s expression was anxious as he went about the task of doing what he’d been told.
“This patch will show,” he said.
Antonio sneered. “But not easily, and by the time someone discovers what
