"Thieves " Jason mumbled. This was all an elaborate robbery.
The archbishop seemed to draw strength from the stubbornness of the glass,
standing taller. The leader of the monks held out his hand, speaking still in
Latin. The archbishop shook his head.
"Lassen Sie dann das Blut Ihrer Schafe Ihre Hände beflecke," the man said,
speaking German now.
Let your sheep's blood be upon your hands.
The leader waved another two monks to the front. They flanked the sealed
vault and lifted large metal disks to either side of the casement. The effect
The weakened bulletproof glass exploded outward as if shoved by from some
unseen wind. In the flickering candlelight, the sarcophagus shimmered. Jason
felt a sudden pressure, an internal popping of his ears, as if the walls of the
cathedral had suddenly pushed inward, squashing all. The pressure deafened his
ears; his vision squeezed.
He turned to Mandy.
Her hand was still clasped tightly to his, but her neck was arched back, her
mouth stretched open.
From the corner of his eye, he saw other parishioners fixed in the same
wracked poses. Mandy's hand began to tremble in his vibrating like a speaker's
tweeter. Tears ran down her face, turning bloody as he watched. She did not
breathe. Her body then jerked and stiffened, knocking his hand free, but not
before he felt the bite of an electrical shock arc from her fingertips to his.
He stood up, too horrified to sit.
A thin trail of smoke rose from Mandy's open mouth.
Her eyes were rolled back to white, but already they were smoldering black at
Jason, muted by terror, searched the cathedral. The same was happening
everywhere. Only a few were unscathed: a pair of young children, pinned between
their parents, cried and wailed. Jason recognized the unaffected. Those who had
not partaken of the communion bread.
He fell back into the shadows by the wall. His motion had gone momentarily
unnoticed. His back found a door, one unguarded by the monks. Not a true door.
Jason pulled it open enough to slip inside the confessional booth.
He fell to his knees, crouching down, hugging himself.
Prayers came to his lips.
Then just as suddenly, it ended. He felt it in his head. A pop. A release of
pressure. The walls of the cathedral sighing back.
He was crying. Tears ran cold over his cheeks.
He risked peeking out a hole in the confessional door.
Jason stared, finding a clear view of the nave and the altar. The air reeked
of burnt hair. Cries and wails still echoed, but now the chorus came from only a
handful of throats. Those still living. One figure, from his ragged garb
apparently a homeless man, stumbled out of the pew and ran down a side aisle.
Before taking ten steps, he was shot in the back of the head. One shot. His body
Oh, God oh, God
Biting back sobs, Jason kept his eyes focused toward the altar.
Four monks lifted the golden sarcophagus from its shattered case. The slain
priest's body was kicked from the altar and replaced by the reliquary. The
leader slipped a large cloth sack from beneath his cloak. The monks opened the
reliquary's lid and upended the contents into the bag. Once empty, the priceless
sarcophagus was toppled to the floor and abandoned with a crash.
The leader shouldered his burden and headed back down the central aisle with
the stolen relics.
The archbishop called to him. Again in Latin. It sounded like a curse.
The only response was a wave of the man's arm.
Another of the monks stepped behind the archbishop and raised a pistol to the
back of the bishop's head.
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...