“What do you mean?” Gray asked.
Mara shared a glance with Carly, then continued: “The program was acting strange. Just before we were attacked. It seemed to be sensing something. I think it was picking up the GPS signal from the tracker planted on us. But now in hindsight, this detail worries me.”
Jason grabbed a slice of bread and cheese. “Why?”
“Eve—that’s the name of the AI—was fixed on that signal, looking scared, almost as if she recognized it. Which makes me wonder now if she might have remembered it from before.”
Jason crinkled his nose. “From when?”
“From the library, from the attack.” Mara cast Carly an apologetic look. “If Carly’s mother or one of the other women had been tracked to the library with the same bug, then Eve might have recognized it, somewhere deep in her quantum processor, some ghost memory from her first incarnation.”
“And associated it with bloodshed and murder,” Gray said.
Mara nodded. “And that’s what really has me scared. The current stage of Eve—what was stolen from the hotel—is both delicate and brittle. Such fragility, in the hands of someone inexperienced—”
The priest interrupted. “Or worse yet, with someone who intends to wreak great havoc.”
All eyes turned on the man.
Gray frowned. “What do you know about all of this, Father Bailey? How are you involved?”
“Ah, yes, Commander Pierce, I told you that I’d lay my cards on the table.” He nodded to the black metallic card. “Just like you did.”
From a pocket, the priest drew two black cards and placed them side by side on the table. They looked like twin pieces of obsidian, glassy rectangles broken from the stained-glass window of a church. This feeling was accentuated by the identical symbols found on each card: a set of crossed keys tied with a ribbon and surmounted by a crown.
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Carly didn’t understand. She recognized the papal seal on each card, the sigil of the pope, but such knowledge clarified nothing.
Across the table, Gray’s eyes had narrowed on the pair. He stood up abruptly, knocking back his chair, clearly finding significance in those cards.
“It’s the Twins . . .”
14
December 25, 5:55 P.M. WET
Lisbon, Portugal
From across the table, Gray stared at Father Bailey with dawning insight.
That’s why you seemed so familiar.
He studied the amused sparkle in Bailey’s eyes. It was the look of a father charmed by a child—half entertained by the na?veté on display, half envious of the innocence. Gray had only seen that particular sparkle in one other’s eye, a man much older, now gone, one who had helped Sigma in the past.
Bailey looked at the two cards on the table. “I see you’ve not forgotten the lessons of Monsignor Vigor Verona.”
Kowalski huffed out a trail of dark smoke. “Jesus . . .”
Gray gripped the table’s edge, momentarily overwhelmed by memories. He pictured his friend—along with the monsignor’s niece, who had stolen his heart. Both were gone, sacrificing themselves to save the world.
He finally waved to the twin symbols resting on the table. “Does this mean you’re a card-carrying member of the Thomas Church?”
Bailey shrugged. “Monsignor Verona recruited me. I was his student once upon a time, back when he taught as a professor at the Pontifical Institute of Christian Archaeology in Rome, before he became prefect of the Vatican Archives. I now follow in his footsteps, picking up where he left off.”
“Does that mean you’re also with the Vatican intelligenza?”
Bailey shrugged again, not denying it.
While alive, Monsignor Vigor Verona had borne more titles than just professor and prefect. He had also served as an operative for the Vatican intelligenza—their intelligence services.
Jason sat straighter with this revelation. “So, you’re a spy for the Vatican? For the pope?”
“For the church as a whole,” Bailey corrected.
“So that’s how you knew we were coming, landing in Lisbon.” Jason turned to Gray. “I’m guessing when Director Crowe sent feelers throughout the global intelligence communities—”
“It reached us, too,” Bailey finished.
Across the table, Dr. Carson’s daughter stood up, drawing their attention. “What the hell are you all talking about? Are you saying this priest is some sort of secret agent?”
Gray figured he’d better explain. “The Vatican is a sovereign country. For decades—if not centuries—it has secretly employed operatives who infiltrated hate groups, secret societies, hostile countries, wherever the concerns of the Vatican were threatened.”
Gray remembered Vigor sharing the case of Walter Ciszek, a priest operating under the alias Vladimir Lipinski. The priest played a cat-and-mouse game with the KGB for years, before being captured and spending more than two decades in a Soviet prison.
Carly glared at Father Bailey. “In other words, he’s James Bond in a clerical collar.”
“But we don’t come with a license to kill,” Bailey clarified, with a teasing smile. “We still have a higher set of commandments to adhere to. Still, like Mr. Bond, I’m not above indulging in a martini every now and then. Shaken, not stirred, of course.”
Mara remained seated but leaned closer. She pointed to the cards. “But what’s the significance of these symbols?” She eyed Gray. “You clearly know them.”
Gray pictured the gold rings worn by Vigor in the past, each bearing one of these seals. “They’re symbols of the Thomas Church.” He shifted the cards closer to her. “What do you see here?”
“Just the papal seal,” she answered correctly. “On both cards.”
“Look closer.”
Mara pinched her brows, but it was Carly who noted the difference.
“They’re not exactly the same.” She tapped one card, then the other. “Look, Mara, how one seal has the darker key on the left. The other has it on the right. They’re mirror images of one another.”
Mara glanced over to Gray. “So, like you said before . . . twins. But I still don’t understand.”
“In Hebrew,” Gray explained, “the word twin translates as Thomas. As in Saint Thomas.”
Mara glanced over her shoulder. “Or Doubting Thomas? Back there, I saw a painting of Saint Thomas, examining the wounds of Christ.”
Intrigued, Gray followed her gaze, wondering if the presence of such a painting might indicate the house was some secret gathering place for members of the Thomas Church.
As if summoned by this thought, the door behind him opened and a severe older woman entered. With gray hair tucked neatly under a crisp white bonnet, she looked to be in her sixties, maybe older. She wore a simple gray robe, belted with a knotted cord, and tapped across the room, leaning imperceptibly on an unpolished ebony cane. She ignored the group and headed toward Father Bailey. She did not rush, but moved with a steadfast purpose that spoke of hidden strength.
Conversation halted. As she crossed behind Gray, the tiny hairs on the back of his neck quivered. It felt like a dark storm front passing by.
She stepped to Father Bailey and whispered in his ear. Even the priest leaned toward her, rather than the other way around. Nothing of this woman hinted at subservience—but clearly there was someone she did serve.
Bailey nodded as she finished. “Thank you, Sister Beatrice.”
The nun—a bride of Christ—retreated a step, but she didn’t leave. She simply stood with the cane propped before her, both palms resting on its hooked silver handle, its only adornment. Her gaze swept the table and settled on Kowalski. Her lips thinned to a more severe line, plainly displeased.
Kowalski tried to meet that gaze but crumbled. Clearly sensing the intent behind that scolding look, he took out his cigar and stamped its glowing end into an ashtray, stubbing it out.
Only then did she look away.
Wow.
Bailey finally broke the silent tension. “Speak freely. Sister Beatrice also serves the Thomas Church.”
Mara frowned. “What is this Thomas Church you keep mentioning?”
“Right, you should know.” Gray nodded to the cards. “Those twin symbols represent individuals in the Catholic Church who secretly follow the teachings found in the Gospel of Thomas.”
He glanced over to Father Bailey and Sister Beatrice.
Carly shook her head. “What’s the Gospel of Thomas?”
“One of the gnostic texts of the early church,” Bailey explained. “Back in Roman times, when Christianity was outlawed, secrecy remained paramount, requiring groups to meet in caves, crypts, in the shadows. With such isolation, individual practices began to diverge, along with differing philosophies. Gospels were popping up everywhere. The ones we know from the Bible, of course. But also scores of others. The Secret Gospel of James, of Mary Magdalene, of Philip. Different sects began to develop around each one, threatening to splinter the young church. To stop this from happening, four books were chosen as canon—the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.”
“The New Testament,” Mara said.