Vigor ignored him and reverently lifted away a fold of cloth from one end. "Silk," he whispered.
Dust wafted as he pulled it back.
The dome of a skull was revealed. Resting atop it shone a gold headpiece, rubies and sapphires reflected the light. Diamonds glistened.
"The princess's headpiece," Vigor said in a hushed voice.
Gray remembered Vigor's story, how Marco had the headpiece with him at his deathbed.
Vigor's hand trembled. "Marco must have willed that it be returned. Possibly even arranged to have her body removed and secured in secret, before she finally came to her final rest here."
Gray reached out and covered Vigor's hand with his own. "The third paitzu . . . the third key."
They were short on time.
Gray drew the silk shroud away from the rest of the bones.
Vigor gasped and fell back a step.
Even Gray froze, stunned.
It was not just one body beneath all the silk trapping.
Two skeletons lay within the tomb, entwined in each other's arms.
Gray recalled Vigor's story of the Church of San Lorenzo, how Marco Polo was interred there in 1324, but a later renovation revealed the body to be gone.
"We haven't just found Kokejin's tomb," Vigor said.
Gray nodded. "We found Marco Polo's tomb, too."
He stared down at the entwined pair.
What the two couldn't have in life, they had finally achieved in death.
To be together.
Forever.
Gray wondered if he'd ever find a love that great. It reminded him of his parents, together through so much hardship, struggling through trials of debilitation and now dementia .. . yet they never gave up on each other.
Someone had to save them.
11:01 a.m. Washington, D.C.
Painter wished he could be on-site, but it would only delay the response team. From Sigma's com-center, he watched the live video feed. It was broad cast from a helmet camera of one of the strike team.
Ten minutes ago they'd had their first real break.
All morning Painter had busted balls to trace the international phone logs from Monsignor Verona's cell phone back to U.S. shores. Gray had mentioned that Amen Nasser had called Vigor's phone. To trace that call, Painter had to rattle powers from the Vatican's curia to Homeland Security's director of operations. At least with Seichan in tow, he had been able to play the terrorist card. It had opened doors normally closed.
Still, it took longer than he'd liked, but Painter finally knew from where the call had originated. A strike team waited on his word to begin the assault.
He leaned to the microphone. "Go."
Van doors slid open. The camera feed jittered and jumped. The team closed in from multiple directions, front and rear, running low, assault rifles in hand.
The strike team hit the building like a storm.
A battering ram smashed the front door open in one swing.
The feed went dark as his cameraman followed the others into the building. The team fanned out.
Painter waited.
Unable to sit any longer, he stood up, leaning his fists on the communication array. Technicians crowded either side, viewing other monitors as satellite feed streamed in from Indonesia. A major storm with hurricane-strength winds blanketed most of their region, hampering the search for the hijacked Mistress of the Seas. The storm also grounded a good number of the search planes out of Australia and Indonesia.
The lack of progress had boiled up Painter's frustration. His fear for Lisa, for Monk, had grown close to crippling.
Then the hit on the phone trace.
He needed a win.
At least here.
Within his earpiece, he heard the chatter of the strike team, crisscrossing reports and call-outs. Finally, one clear voice rang through, coming from the cameraman. He had stopped inside what looked like a meat locker. Hooks hung from the roof.
"Director Crowe, we've completed the sweep of the butcher shop. We're negative on the targets. The place is deserted."
The video jittered as the cameraman bent down—then straightened, lifting his fingers into view.
They were damp.
"Sir, we've got blood."
Oh, no . . .
One of the technicians glanced in his direction, saw something he didn't like in Painter's expression, and quickly turned back around.
A voice cut through his despair, coming from the door.
"Director Crowe . .."
A woman stood in the doorway, dressed in navy blues. Her auburn hair was tied away from her face, shining with fear and worry. He understood the haunted look in her eyes.
"Kat.. ." he said, straightening. It was Monk's wife.
"My aunt is watching Penelope. I couldn't just sit at home any longer."
He understood and lifted an arm. "We could use your help."
She sighed and nodded.
It was all they could do.
Keep moving, keep fighting.
In any way they could.
6:04 P.M.
Vigor stared down at the entwined bodies.
Marco and Kokejin.
The discovery still kept him frozen in front of the slab. Others were not as moved. Seichan pushed between Gray and Vigor.
She pointed an arm. "The third gold passport."
Gray pulled the burial shroud fully aside. Nestled between the bodies, covered by the two skeletal hands, a glint of gold shone past the bones.
It was the third paitzu.
And resting beside it was a familiar length of bronze tube.
The third and final scroll.
With a reverential gentleness, Gray removed the items. He slipped the headpiece off the skull, too. "It might bear a clue," he justified.
Vigor didn't argue. With the burial chamber opened, it would be quickly stolen if left unattended.
They all climbed back up into the chapel.
Once there, they gathered in a corner of the room.
Gray turned over the golden passport to reveal a third angelic glyph.
"We have them all," Seichan said.
"But not the entire story," Gray said. He pulled out his notebook and nodded to Vigor. "Let's hear it."
Vigor needed no further prompting. He nicked open the bronze tube and extracted the scroll. "Silk again," he commented, and began unwrapping it with care.
The last piece of the story was longer, stretching a quarter of the way across the chapel floor. Vigor translated Marco's Italian dialect. The harrowing tale continued with the appearance of the glowing angelic figures, coming upon Marco's party trapped inside a tower room.
Vigor read the story aloud:
"These strange apparitions held forth the crude chalice; and in plain and vigorous method insisted we drink. In such a manner, we would be preserved against the dread pestilence that had turned the City of Death into a vision of Hell, as man consumed the flesh of his brother.