The Virtual Messiah

By John Arthur Simpson

PROFESSING TO BE WISE, THEY BECAME FOOLS, AND EXCHANGED THE GLORY OF THE INCORRUPTIBLE GOD INTO AN IMAGE MADE LIKE CORRUPTIBLE MAN...

Under the auspices of a troubled papal hierarchy, Paul Lazarus, a former British Special Forces operative turned priest and Michelina Andrea Franceschi, a beautiful scholar of the Vatican Secret Archives, wage a battle for Rome in a race against time to unravel heresy deep within the heart of the Vatican.

They discover that a long-forgotten Brotherhood, a clandestine super-secret society regarding itself as more Catholic than the Pope himself, controls the Holy See through the hierarchy of the Pope.

Seeking to reform the church from within, the Brotherhood plots the restoration of a modern day Holy Roman Empire – to usher in the reign of a Papal Caesar as absolute Universal Monarch over a double hegemony of church and empire – ruling the world from the new Jewish Temple in Jerusalem.

A rule they believe is predestined by God in accordance with the infamous Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion, an international conspiracy on an epic scale to take control of the world’s governments and financial institutions and threatens to send the world hurtling towards the Apocalypse costing the lives of millions.

Together they unravel a mystery that will shake the foundations of a church complicit in deciphering the very DNA of God – from blood found on the burial sindon and headcloth of a man who was crucified and entombed in Jerusalem in the first century AD.

Can they prevent the greatest apostasy in the history of the church or is it simply the fulfilment of End-Times prophecies of truly biblical proportions?

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Arthur Simpson
• Release date: May 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463810675

John Arthur Simpson

John Arthur Simpson was born in Liverpool in 1967 and lives in deepest, darkest Cheshire, England with his youngest son. An IT professional for over 30 years he has worked extensively for Global Corporations and some of Silicon Valley’s biggest companies. The Virtual Messiah is his first novel, and he is currently working on his next thriller in The Tribulation series The Occident. To find out more about John Simpson and The Tribulation series visit: www.thevirtualmessiah.com.

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chapter 3

FORCE MAJEURE

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot shoot, the courage to shoot the things I can, and the wisdom to hide the bodies.

Unknown Source

Tora Bora

White Mountains (Spin Ghar)

Pachir Wa Agam District

Nangarhar Province

Eastern Afghanistan

In Pashto, one of the two official languages spoken in Afghanistan, Tora Bora quite simply meant black dust. It was an apt description befitting the terrain around the cave complex situated in the Spin Ghar Mountain Range on the Afghanistan-Pakistan border near the fabled Khyber Pass.

The lower slopes were barren, devastated of timber during the Afghan civil war and bereft of foliage. This was the suspected location of a large ammunition cache as well as being the site of bin Laden’s headquarters and the last stronghold of al-Qaeda fighters.

A natural network of caves and bunkers gave way to sophisticated hydroelectric systems harnessing power from mountain streams and sheltering over a thousand al-Qaeda that were still holding out in the mountains of the Tora Bora region.

Coalition Forces of combined U.S. and British Special Forces were poised to attack the cave complex, but first, there was the small issue of a sniper to deal with. A skilled Taliban sniper had already taken out three top sharpshooters of the American 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta better known as Delta Force.

The Coalition Special Forces commander in the region was Delta Force Major-General David H. Banks. Prematurely grey beyond his years he was about five feet eight and stocky, sporting a crew cut and tightly cropped moustache, his eyes were hidden behind ballistic sunglasses. The H stood for Henry after his Father, and what he lacked in height he made up for in stature, his troops had nicknamed him the Force Majeure because only an Act of God could prevent him from completing his objectives.

He had reluctantly ceded the task of taking the gunman out to British Special Forces, and the decision did not sit well with him. Allied commanders had already decided that the British SAS along with Australian and New Zealand SAS teams would provide the lead assault for the pending attack on Tora Bora where Osama bin Laden and his al-Qaeda fighters were expected to make their final stand.

The Delta Force coordinated operation would also be supported by Northern Alliance troops and about a dozen British Special Boat Service commandos, the Royal Navy’s elite Special Forces unit, as well as other supporting Army Special Forces troops, signals personnel, and intelligence support.

British snipers were arguably the best in Afghanistan and entering into the affray was Corporal Paul Lazarus of C squadron the Special Boat Service, a member of one of the SBS’s so-called green squadrons now redeployed to land operations in Afghanistan.

Mainly recruited from the elite Royal Marine Commandos, although the service recruited from all three branches of the British armed forces C Squadron had been broken down into 4-man and 2-man teams. While rivalries between the two units ran deep, even hardened veterans of the higher profile sister unit, the British Army’s 22nd Special Air Service regiment, gave a begrudging respect to the professional and humble SBS sniper who had recorded over 175 confirmed kills during a single six-month tour of Afghanistan, putting him ahead of the top US Navy SEAL sniper. With the majority of his kills recorded during deployment in Helmand province, Corporal Lazarus had been credited with one of the longest kills in Afghanistan after shooting a top Taliban leader from over a mile away. It was widely believed his actual total of kills could be far higher, reputedly hitting 95 rebel fighters in a single day making him arguably the deadliest sniper in the world.

Although specialised for amphibious operations the SBS were just as highly skilled on dry land and Lazarus was no stranger to the mountains of land-locked Afghanistan. It was often argued that top brass preferred the lower profile of the SBS as better suited for more covert black ops and that they were less maverick than their SAS counterparts. SAS operatives, in turn, accused them of being the poor cousins of the so-called Tier One UK Special Forces organisation citing that the SBS unit was both underfunded and unprofessional.

Those wishing to join either unit had to pass a joint selection process, the lines drawn between the two units were becoming blurred, and they were being sent on joint missions together with notable increasing frequency.

Lazarus was losing sight of why he was here at all, disillusioned with Coalition forces policies, notably the American high command insistence on using special operations for conventional warfare, operating in large numbers instead of the usual small teams. This was in addition to what he privately felt was an illegal occupation of Afghanistan, contrary to international law. The fact remained that the invasion had never been officially sanctioned by the United Nations.

In his mind, they were losing the war morally, and it was only a matter of time before they lost it militarily. The ‘hearts and minds’ campaign for winning the support of the indigenous peoples that had long been the raison d’être of British Special forces had morphed into covert operations against high-value targets – senior Taliban leaders and the Afghan drug lords.

This was bringing them into conflict more and more with the Afghan populace, many of whom were opium farmers whose only source of income came from the fields of poppies in Helmand province, supplying a flourishing drugs trade that also helped fund Taliban operations in the region.

The Taliban insurgent had been highly successful to date with his hit and run tactics, he was a crack shot, possibly a battle-hardened Chechen fighter, maybe a mercenary sniper employed by the Taliban insurgency. Often waiting days in hiding before opening fire on his quarry he killed two American marine corps soldiers with one single, devastating shot before simply disappearing again, blending back into the mountain terrain without a trace.

He had accounted for nine coalition soldiers to date, including the three American snipers who were on the lookout for the shooter himself, dispatching one top U.S. marksman with a single shot through the eye while he was spotting for a fellow sharpshooter in a scene reminiscent of the movie Saving Private Ryan.

Lazarus preferred to hunt as a lone wolf, but the Delta Force commander had insisted that he must be deployed in a two-man team comprised of both shooter and spotter and more importantly accompanied by a Delta Force counterpart.

Major-General Banks official stance had been that this provided the ability to alternate roles when one operative became tired as well as strengthening the bonds and providing cross-training opportunities with similar units from the other Coalition Special Forces.

Delta Force’s organisational structure was after all a reflection of the British 22nd Special Air Service Regiment, the unit which inspired Charles Beckworth or Chargin’ Charlie as Delta’s creator was better known.

The truth of the matter was that men in the regiments were dying like flies and the rising death toll was starting to have an alarming effect on the morale of The Unit – aka Delta Force, the United States’ most elite and secretive special-ops combat group. He needed to restore their elite Special Operations Force credibility by ensuring they had at least some hand in the retribution doled out to the Taliban sniper. There were even rumours in camp that the insurgent was an ageing ex-Mujahedeen fighter making his dispatches on a motorbike using an old British-made Lee Enfield rifle.

The SBS regimental motto by strength and guile epitomised Lazarus’ sharpshooter skills. His weapon of choice was manufactured by Accuracy International, a British made single shot bolt operated L115A1 Long Range sniper rifle fitted with muzzle brakes to reduce recoil and jump as well as hiding muzzle flash which would otherwise compromise his position.

Equipped with a Schmidt & Bender 3-12x50 PM II telescopic sight it was accurate up to 1,100 metres. Lazarus preferred the .300 Winchester Magnum round that offered a significant increase in wind resistance and supersonic range over the 7.62x51mm NATO cartridge. It was ideal for the harsh mountain terrain while providing a 5-round detachable box magazine and a muzzle velocity of 914 m/s.

His assigned spotter was Randy Scott of B Squadron, Sniper Troop. Recruited from the United States 75th Ranger Regiment he was a big, brash Texan with a penchant for expensive Cuban cigars. In keeping with the secretive nature of the unit and its activities, the appearance of Delta Force operatives was unlike other army units. Well beyond regulation length Randy Scott had unkempt shaggy hair and a thick heavy, native-style beard. He wore a non-regulation uniform devoid of any markings or insignia that signified his unit or rank.

He favoured the CheyTac Intervention M-200 Long Range Rifle System, an American manufactured bolt action sniper rifle with a 7 round detachable single stack magazine and a Nightforce NXS 5.5-22x56 variable magnification telescopic sight.

It had a light recoil attributed mainly to the muzzle brake and was fitted with a suppressor to reduce the amount of noise and flash generated by firing the weapon. As well as being equipped with state-of-the-art weaponry the on-board PDA provided the Star Wars, high tech gadgetry that just added to the razzamatazz of U.S. Special Forces in any modern theatre of war.

Delta Force members often carried highly-customised weapons and Scott was no exception packing two nickel-finished .45 Calibre single-action six-chambered Colt revolvers worn on a Western-style brown and blonde tooled double holster.

Lazarus firmly believed you never got a second chance to make a first impression, Randy Scott was an arrogant, cocksure and gung-ho cowboy.

Their Special Forces training had skilled them well in the art of concealment, and they quickly set up an observation post on the high ground that provided maximum fields of vision, digging an expertly camouflaged hide in the ground big enough to hold 4 men. This allowed them to disappear from view and afforded them protection from the weather while keeping an eye on the surrounding landscape.

Lazarus was puzzled how Allied Special Forces had not found the Taliban sniper’s lair, the SAS had made several forays into the area but found no evidence of killing holes or tunnels, there was no warren of bunkers or the like. How the insurgent got in and out of the area was a mystery.

Ironically the SAS had trained the Afghans in these exact shoot and scoot guerrilla tactics back in the 80’s to oppose the Soviet invasion.

The answer would come soon enough.

Days passed, and both Coalition and Taliban patrols came within metres of their hide unaware of the two snipers right under their noses.

Relations were tense, there was no special camaraderie here, and undercurrents ran deep between the two operatives, this was much more than any sibling rivalry and resentment of the other ‘special’ forces - these two guys really didn’t like each other. The snow was falling steadily, and temperatures were plummeting to well below zero at night so surviving in this subarctic climate was no mean feat.

Although Afghan summers were hot and dry, the winters were cold and snowy. The SBS had honed their arctic warfare skills in the harsh winter conditions of Norway, so Lazarus was highly-skilled in arctic survival techniques and well prepared for life in these snow-covered peaks.

It was on the sixth day of concealment in the early hours of the morning that Lazarus heard the cacophony of goats long before he saw them. He took a peek through one of the two hide loopholes that had been made, one for the observer and one for the sniper. These were apertures they had fashioned for the dual purpose of observation and firing while under concealment. Wide at the back and narrow in the front they provided an ample field of view and the ability to observe and shoot by simply moving around the inside of the hide, minimising frontal exposure that could possibly compromise their position to the trained eye.

A small silhouette was illuminated against the moonlight leading a parade of goats down the hilly terrain under cover of darkness before first light. The figure stooped and seemed to scramble for something amongst the rocks before alighting with a long bundle.

What was he doing?

In the stygian darkness, he could just make out the shape unwrapping something from the bundle then lying prostrate on the hard ground.

Was he praying?

Lazarus calculated the distance and wind-speed and adjusted his elevation as he observed the figure through his crosshairs, he began to slow his breathing in anticipation of making a shot.

Now it was a waiting game. Their mission was to take out the suspected Taliban sniper, but he had to be absolutely certain that this individual was actually a hostile insurgent and not an innocent civilian before he pulled the trigger. Too often he felt they were chasing ghosts by fighting an unseen enemy, it was virtually impossible to distinguish between innocent civilians and the Taliban combatants, and as a result, they were making enemies out of civilians in the process.

He was determined not to repeat that mistake.

The Afghans were renowned as a patient people and as the hours passed the shadowy figure remained as still as a statue while the falling snow covered any sign of recently made tracks.

Just as the first shards of light of dawn appeared a single shot rang out echoing around mountains. Suddenly and without warning, they had a highly-skilled Afghan sniper in their midst.

The British Corporal watched as the fleet-footed figure instantly began to scramble away between the rocks. He was in no doubt now that this was no simple goat herder. Slowly he squeezed the trigger at the exact moment that one of the mountain goats bounded into his crosshairs.

There was an ear-splitting boom from the .300 Magnum round which provided more blast and recoil than other rounds. The flat trajectory of the heavy bullet ensured excellent accuracy and maximum damage upon impact. It didn’t ricochet off the animal but instead went straight through, punching a devastating hole in its side, the high shocking effect of the Magnum cartridge killing it instantly while continuing on and hitting the intended target as it passed behind.

A single case spun through the air and into the ground beside him.

‘Damn you missed Boy!’ Scott exclaimed.

‘Look again.’ Lazarus replied impassively.

A dark figure lay motionless in the snow.

After a few minutes, the pair of them left their hide and slowly crept through the bitter Afghan wind towards the body.

Lazarus stood transfixed and surveyed the scene of his handiwork.

But this was no military-age male he was looking at.

Lying in a thick red slick of bloodied snow was the body of a goat herder, a young boy barely twelve years old if he was a day.

It was well known that the Taliban recruited children to carry out dangerous missions, often helping insurgents by planting improvised explosive devices by the roadsides. All coalition troops had been briefed to be vigilant of children with potential hostile intent.

But still, Lazarus was stunned. The boy had been carrying a World War II, vintage British .303 Enfield rifle fitted with a Mk.3 No. 32 3.5x telescopic sight. Despite the Afghan hunting tradition of precision, long-range shooting that had been practised for generations the level of marksmanship surprised him. Clearly a well-maintained weapon, it had proven to be powerful, accurate and absolutely lethal in the hands of such a young but formidable foe.

In that chilling moment, he realised that all the sniper kills had been in or around 500 metres, the effective killing range of a Lee Enfield.

Possibly the greatest bolt action combat rifle in the history of warfare it was capable of delivering over 30 rounds per minute and right up until 1982 had remained the favoured British Army’s sniper rifle.

He also realised something else, the boy was barely alive, his breathing was shallow in the thin mountain air, and he was slowly choking to death on his own blood, the bullet had shattered his jaw and badly lacerated his throat.

He was whimpering in Pashto, barely audible because of his horrific facial injuries. His turban had come undone at one end and was askew revealing concealed ammo clips that had been hidden there and had spilt out onto the blood-stained snow.

Lazarus had to shout to make himself heard above the harsh wind that swept across the mountain, ‘Shit! He hasn’t got much time. We need to perform an emergency field tracheotomy and quickly.’

Randy Scott stared back at him with a complete lack of comprehension or empathy.

Dumb Fuck!

‘We need to open a direct airway between his Adam’s apple and top of his breastbone!’ Lazarus barked.

‘Whaddya want me to do?’ The American yelled back and took his carbon steel Ka-Bar knife from its sheath. It was jet black, from the blade to the pommel it had been coated in matte black spray paint to ensure the knife was non-reflective and didn’t catch the light.

‘Got to make an incision through his neck, separate the tissues and cut between the rings of cartilage into his windpipe.’

Lazarus turned away momentarily and began hastily checking through his pockets, ‘I need to find something to insert into the opening to act as an airway. Something hollow and rigid, a tube of some sort,’ he produced a cheap BIC ballpoint pen and quickly discarded the internal chamber filled with blue ink, ‘perfect! Come and have a look at what you could have won!’

As he turned his attention to the boy, sightless eyes stared back at him, hot blood oozing from a huge ugly gaping wound in his neck and his body quickly growing numb and unresponsive, as his lifeblood drained away.

The boy’s throat had been cut from ear to ear.

The Texan was leaning over the lifeless body, he cast a cursory glance back over his shoulder at Lazarus and shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, ‘I slipped.’ He gave Lazarus a lecherous smile and turned away.

The SBS was an intelligence-led unit and the training instilled into Lazarus was to gather information, that and wherever possible attempt to ‘pacify’ the locals. He was furious. ‘You fucking idiot! What’s wrong with you? He can’t tell us where bin Laden is if he’s dead!’

‘Y’all don’t fret it! I martyred him. He sacrificed his life for his land, so he gets to go to paradise, it’s sand nigger heaven boy, humping seventy-two vestal virgins and sitting at the right hand of Allah!’

These were exactly the type of illegal tactics that Coalition troops were being accused of and he was disgusted by this, this war crime. Lazarus wanted to let loose his rage, right there, right then and shoot Randy Scott in the face.

A red mist descended over him.

The Texan was too preoccupied in slicing an ear from the boy’s head to adorn the leather drawstring around his neck to notice Lazarus picking up the Lee Enfield bolt action rifle with its ten round magazine lying on the ground behind him.

It was meticulously bound in the rare pelt of a snow leopard that had fallen victim to the shooting prowess of the young shepherd, still damp from the snow which he had used to hide the muzzle flash of the weapon.

Suddenly Scott saw the flash of stars as a rifle butt hit him hard in the back of his head. The first blow stunned the big American bringing him to his knees, the second knocked him spark out, and he fell face down, spread-eagled across the body of the boy he had just been butchering.

Randy Scott awoke in complete darkness. His head hurt like hell, he had a throbbing bump that felt like the size of a baseball on the back of his head and his senses were groggy. He was sat up his back leaning against the inside of the hide, his arms were tightly bound behind his back, and his legs were tied together in front of him.

His hands were secured with his own plastic yellow thongs brought to subdue insurgents or prisoners that may need to be restrained. His arms and legs had been additionally bound with what felt like cloths and a rag had been stuffed in his mouth.

He didn’t know it then, but he had been tied up with the goat herder’s own turban.

The inky blackness was suddenly illuminated by the striking sound of a match and the tobacco smell of a well-known Havana brand, Romeo y Juliet, so named after William Shakespeare’s famous lovers, permeated the hide as Lazarus proceeded to light up one of the Texans prized cigars.

Lazarus sucked and puffed a few times to ensure the flame took hold. He flicked his flashlight on which cast an eerie glow on his face in the gloom of the hole.

As Randy Scott’s eyes adjusted to the conditions, he slowly focused in on Lazarus holding one of his own six-shooters up to the light so he could see it.

Lazarus removed the rag from the Americans mouth.

‘Ever heard of Pascal’s Wager Randy?’ Lazarus inquired.

‘I wager I am going to kick your pussy ass, now untie me you chicken shit!’ Scott gasped.

‘Pascal’s Wager is about betting on God,’ Lazarus continued, ‘it’s about considering the question of the existence of God as a wager, it’s a bet on whether or not God exists. Do you believe in God Randy?’

‘God created man, I believe Samuel Colt made them equal.’ Randy Scott retorted glibly.

Lazarus ignored him, ‘The gist of the Wager according to Blaise Pascal, incidentally he was a seventeenth century French philosopher, mathematician and physicist…’ he interjected before carrying on with his monologue ‘…is that it is in your best interest to believe in the existence of the God of Christianity, the argument suggests if God doesn’t exist then it doesn’t matter how you wager because there is nothing to win after death and nothing to lose after death. But if God does exist, your only chance of eternal life is to believe in Him, and your only chance of losing it is to refuse to believe in Him.’

‘What are you babbling on about boy?’ Randy Scott was struggling to free himself.

‘However, if you choose to believe in God and you are right, then you will find your reward in Heaven when you die, while the alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.’’

Scott was trying to distract Lazarus as he struggled to free his bonds, ‘I don’t need to remind you, boy, that coalition troops are banned from proselytising any faith while serving in Islamic countries.’

Lazarus ignored him, ‘I believe this weapon is known as the Colt 45 Peacemaker,’ he paused then added, ‘right now Randy a belief in God is your best bet, in fact, it’s the only wager that makes sense. I hope you have made your peace with God because for one of us it might make all the difference when the time comes to meet our maker.’

Lazarus inserted a .45 calibre brass round into one of the six empty chambers. He shut the swing out cylinder and spun it.

He was tired of the unending war. He was just over 16 years old when he began basic training with the Royal Marine Commandos after the reluctant consent of his parents. Before deployment in Afghanistan, he had already served in the Congo Republic, Kosovo, and Sierra Leone and during this time he became a ‘badged’ sniper in the Royal Marines after passing the sniper course held twice a year at Commando Training Centre Royal Marines – CTCRM – at Lympstone in Devon.

His prowess as a natural marksman inevitably saw him volunteer for the gruelling Special Forces Selection and Training in the SBS that took mainly recruits from the Royal Marines. The SAS and the SBS shared the same initial selection process, and all candidates had to pass the three main fundamentals of the UKSF selection. Once Paul Lazarus successfully completed selection he was badged and sent off for specialist SBS canoeing and underwater demolitions training in addition to honing his underwater knife fighting skills.

Now here he was in Afghanistan, and he didn’t like the killing machine he had become. His was the art of killing, despite the advent of modern warfare with smart bombs and guided missiles the intimacy of death was most poignant through the sights of a sniper’s rifle.

He glanced momentarily at the insignia worn on the lower left sleeve of his uniform, a crossed rifles design and an ‘S’ between the barrels that denoted his status as a qualified British Army sniper.

The faces of many of those he had killed were indelibly etched in his mind, the expression of shock on a man’s face as the bullet hit, the whites of his enemy’s eyes as he ended their life. Most were men with families and children, and his only consolation was that they were as intent on killing him as he was on killing them and that had steeled him for the task of getting them first!

‘Blessed are those whose lawless deeds have been forgiven, and whose sins have been covered.’ The British Corporal said out loud then he closed his eyes and made a mental pact with the Almighty.

Show me a sign Oh Lord my God and the righteous shall live by faith!

He held the six-shooter to his own head, this would begin a deadly game of Russian roulette that would cost one of them their lives, and then he pulled the trigger.

Click.

An empty chamber.

Lazarus opened his eyes his eyes again, there was no sense of relief or fear just a calm serenity etched on his features.

He spun the cylinder again and then held the gun to the right side of Randy Scott’s head, the Texan was sweating profusely, Scott’s eyes widened in horror.

There was another loud click as the hammer hit an empty chamber.

‘What the Fuck are you doing?’ Randy screamed.

Lazarus spun the chamber again, and Scott watched dumbstruck as he pulled the trigger on the single-action revolver aimed at his own head for a second time, but the chamber was empty once more.

‘This is conclusive, and if men are capable of any truth, this is it.’ Lazarus said with some finality as he spun the chambers then put the barrel to the American’s temple before squeezing the trigger slowly.

The bizarre scene was illuminated by a bright flash and an ear-splitting bang. The smell of cordite peppered the air and brain matter, and fragments of bone tissue splattered the inside of the hide.

As with any gamble, there was a payoff one way or the other.

Lazarus had considered the odds of this happening. With two players each successive turn had an equal 1/6 probability of failure. The cylinder was spun after every shot. Each shot was 1/6. There were no used chambers for the next shot. He had reasoned that he had a greater chance of winning if he took the first shot.

Shoot last, and you won’t shoot most.

The odds had been good. This was a sign. A force majeure.

An Act of God.

* * * * *

Sergeant Geoff Smith at 38 years of age was one of the old and the bold as SAS veterans were known. He was part of two 60-strong, active duty 22nd SAS Regiment Sabre squadrons that had assaulted Tora Bora.

In the ensuing battle Smith’s team could have been no more than 20 minutes behind bin Laden and his bodyguards, but frustratingly his team was stood down to allow U.S. troops to go in for the kill. By the time the Americans arrived bin Laden was long gone.

Assigned to cover the narrow, mountain-side tracks at the north of the cave complex to prevent fleeing Taliban fighters from escaping, his 8-man Mountain Troop patrol found the frozen body of the young goat herder later that afternoon.

Muslims are supposed to bury their dead before sunset. As well as learning the local dialects, Sergeant Smith and his men respected the local customs and culture. It wasn’t easy to dig a hole in the frozen ground in the inhospitable Afghan weather. They laid the body of the young goat herder on his right side so that his face remained towards the Qibla, the direction that should be faced when a Muslim prayed and proceeded to bury him in yet another nameless grave on an obscure patch of Afghanistan hillside.

Shortly afterwards his team discovered the concealed hide nearby.

They found Randy Scott sat upright in the hole. His head was lolled on one side, the right side of his cranium had been blown away by a single .45 calibre round, and his frozen fingers were still clutching an empty Colt revolver in his right hand. In trying to prise the gun from the dead soldier’s hand, Smith almost broke the digits off the Americans hand which had become brittle in the severe cold.

Later that evening they picked up Corporal Lazarus, disorientated he had sustained head wounds resulting in a concussion, and he was also suffering from severe hypothermia. He had been caught in a mortar salvo that had pre-empted the start of the battle of Tora Bora and had been hit in the head during the barrage. He was unable to recollect any events before the battle.

Delta Force was notoriously super-secretive and their operations highly classified, reporting deaths was one of the few times the unit was even acknowledged by the U.S. authorities and even then, it was tacitly. Internally Randy Scott’s actions were attributed to suicide as a result of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder his own commanding officer had described him as unstable, unpopular and a donkey on the edge. It was collateral damage, he had killed that many people he simply checked out was about all anyone would say.

However, the details that became public knowledge painted a very different picture. Sergeant Randy Scott was awarded the Purple Heart in the name of the President to those who have been wounded or killed while serving. He was also the posthumous beneficiary of the Bronze Star Medal awarded for bravery, and meritorious service in Tora Bora, the fourth-highest combat award in the order of precedence of U.S. military decorations for the U.S. Armed Forces.

In Smith’s second-hand account regimental debrief he neglected to mention the chafing marks on Scott’s wrists that might have indicated that he had been restrained in some way.

The resulting minor facial injuries Paul Lazarus sustained in the mortar attack, most notably to his chin that was cut open by flying shrapnel, had actually incurred trauma to his internal carotid artery producing an intimal tear. Symptoms manifested days later in the form of a constricted pupil, clinically referred to as miosis, a decreased pupil size in his right eye with drooping of the upper eyelid otherwise known as Horner’s syndrome.

Even though Lazarus had an impeccable record, he half expected to be court-martialled. Instead, he was given an honourable medical discharge, and a glowing testimonial from his commanding officer ensured he was awarded the Military Cross for gallantry during active operations against the enemy. This was the third highest award on land for all ranks of the British Armed Forces and entitled him as a recipient to the post-nominal letters of MC.

His medical condition was deemed to be asymptomatic and while the transient vision loss was temporary the neurological damage to his optic nerve was not, his sniping days were over.

In fact, it ended his exemplary military career.

His next mission would come from God himself.

chapter 4

BLACK MASS

For our wrestling is not against flesh and blood; But against principalities and powers, against the rulers of the world of this darkness, against the spirits of wickedness in the high places.

Ephesians, Ch.6, v.12 King James Version

TIMELINE: Present day.

The Chapel of Saint Paul bore an abyss-like darkness to it as the macabre procession began its entry into the most intimate and private among the chapels of the Apostolic Palace, black pillar candles shedding some light in the otherwise gloomy chamber.

Holding black candles and chanting, the participants wore black ceremonial robes with open hoods revealing masks of various animal affinities. The psychic senses of animals were perceived as stronger than that of humans and therefore seen to enhance the participant’s abilities, but the masks really represented the conception of man as a creature suspended between God and beast.

Man, who presumes to be divine, to live as immortals do that strives to be godlike, the God-man.

This ceremony was not to be the Novus Ordo Mass, the revised rite of Mass promulgated by Pope Paul VI in 1969 from the Traditional Latin Mass.

No, this was to be the culmination of the Fallen Archangel’s rites, a rite of blasphemy, a Black Mass. An inversion of the Holy Sacrifice and the Traditional Latin Mass celebrated by the Roman Catholic Church, a rite in which the Christian deity and symbols were mocked and ridiculed in the act of desecration.

Where better than the Pauline Chapel, the place where the cardinal-electors would assemble at the beginning of a conclave before the procession and entry into the Sistine Chapel, to initiate the enthronement of the fallen Archangel Lucifer in the Vatican?

It had been relatively easy to guarantee privacy and seclusion, although the Cappella Paolina was within the apostolic Palace just behind the portico of St. Peter’s Basilica, it was not on any of the regular tourist itineraries. It was the private chapel of the Popes, outside the itinerary of the Museums and off–limits to the public.

It was close to the devil’s hour of 3 a.m. an inversion of the time widely believed to be when Christ was crucified around 3 p.m., also known as the most godly hour.

The procession filed into the small Pauline Chapel slowly filling the rows of wooden pews, the walls on either side adorned with Michelangelo’s two frescoes. The Conversion of Saul on the left wall and The Crucifixion of Saint Peter on the right depicting him crucified upside down because he didn’t feel worthy to be crucified the same way as Christ.

The martyrdom of St. Peter on an inverted cross, a so-called Christian symbol with Saint Peters gaze directed at the cardinals who would be gathered in conclave situated on the eastern wall of the Pauline Chapel.

This sinister congregation included surrogates of the court of Saint Peter in Rome, cardinals, archbishops, and bishops who secretly performed sacrilegious rites, acts of heresy and blasphemy at holy Altars by those who had been called to be priests and nuns who performed Luciferian black rites in secret.

But amongst their hooded numbers, hidden behind the veil of their Brotherhood and oblivious to those who did not believe in the existence of Lucifer and his agents, were the occult elite. The procession included financial overlords of big banking and members of political families, the immensely wealthy and international jet set, even royalty. All working His will among the masses, unseen, and unknown, unbelieved, as they sought to establish a New World Order.

Organ music began to play the gothic strains of Bach’s famous Toccata and Fugue in D minor, and a deathly silence fell on the assembled participants. They all wore black robes with closed hoods except a woman dressed as a nun wearing a black habit and wimple, all of them wore concealing facial masks in the likenesses of various animals.

A gong was sounded, and three striking and eerie figures entered the chapel each wearing a nazareno, a cloak, and hood with a pointed cap known as a capirote with their faces completely covered, apart from their eyes that had two holes to see through.

Moving slowly towards the altar in their ghostly attire, the costumes of the unidentifiable figures beneath the strange pointy hoods alarmingly resembled the coloured robes, sometimes called glory suits, of higher ranking Klansmen of the Ku Klux Klan.

Two figures, the deacon and the subdeacon attired in long black silk robes with the Sacred Heart symbol of the Hiéron du Val d’Or, a red cross above a red heart, embroidered on their capirote’s in crimson spun strands, and red cinctures around the waist preceded the third into the antechamber.

The third figure was garbed in blood red silk robes with the insignia of the Brotherhood, the demiurge, the creator god symbolised by the celestial fish, an Octopus embroidered on the capirote in fine gold.

He was the Grand Master of the Brotherhood, who would serve as the celebrant to perform the rite and he carried a heavy staff before him bearing the ancient Greek symbol of two serpents entwined and surmounted by wings.

The Caduceus staff also known as the herald’s wand was the staff of the messenger, carried by the Greek god Hermes messenger of the gods, the protector of liars, gamblers and thieves and the guide of the dead.

Biblically the two serpents on the staff represented the symbols of evil and deception.

All three figures stopped short of the altar, the deacon to the left of the celebrant and the subdeacon to his right, each making a profound bow before turning to face the participants.

A hush descended over the chamber as the throng waited to hear the address.

The Grand Master’s mind briefly returned to that ancient monastery in Paray-le-Monial, Eastern France where almost exactly to the day thirty years earlier, he had been initiated into the Hiéron du Val d’Or. Now the aspirant commanded the Brotherhood. It was time to fulfil the Hiéron mission, to orchestrate the internal Vatican coup that would reform the church from within and prepare these knights of the apocalypse for the restoration of the Holy Roman Empire under the universal primacy of a papal Caesar.

It was time to fulfil his destiny.

The celebrant pounded his staff on the ground three times and a dim shudder resonated through the floor, and his booming voice reverberated through the chamber as he spoke.

‘I need not remind this Brotherhood of the Permanent Instruction of the Alta Vendita, the blueprint for the subversion of the church, the secret instructions were written in 1815 in perfect accord with the Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion and intended only for the chosen few of this high cabal.’

The walls threw back the eerie echoes of his voice.

‘The Pope will never come to the Brotherhood. It is up to the Brotherhood to take the first step toward the church, with the aim of conquering both of them. The task that we have undertaken has not been the work of a day, or of a month, or of a year, it has been centuries in the making that has seen many soldiers die in our ranks for the struggle to go on.’

His voice had a throaty softness with the hint of an accent.

‘We do not intend to win the Popes to our cause, to make them neophytes of our principles, propagators of our ideas. That would be a ridiculous dream and if events turn out in some way, if cardinals or prelates, for example, of their own free will or by surprise, should enter into a part of our secrets, this is not at all an incentive for desiring their elevation to the See of Peter. That elevation would ruin us. Ambition alone would have led them to apostasy, the requirements of power would force them to sacrifice us.’

His tongue was like a magic instrument bewitching his audience as he spoke in a deep, clear voice.

‘We will form the sovereign’s council, we will be called to choose a Pontiff who should reign. And this Pontiff, like most of his contemporaries, will be imbued with the principles of the Brotherhood that we are going to begin to put into circulation - a new religion, a new dogma, a new ritual…’ he paused dramatically ‘... a new priesthood!’

A ripple of surprise moved through the audience.

‘What we must ask for, what we should look for and wait for, as the Jews wait for the Messiah, is a Pope according to our needs ...’

He spread his arms as if to embrace the crowd and continued.

‘The papacy will fall. It will die under the hallowed knife which the fathers of this last council will forge. The papal Caesar will be the host crowned for the sacrifice!’

The deep murmurs of the crowd rose like the responses in a satanic litany as the throng jostled in excitement like leaves in an autumn wind.

There was a gleam in the cold, expressionless eyes that bored through the holes of the crimson hood as the celebrant pounded his staff on the cold stone floor. The gathered audience in their macabre attire fell silent to the resulting booms echoing through the chamber.

‘Be silent, all who are gathered. Pay heed, for the Lightbearer, is upon his throne. May all fear and tremble at his might and sovereign majesty. There is another sacrifice in the offing which represents a solemn act of expiation…’

He lifted the staff and gestured to the solitary nun to step forward.

She bowed to the celebrant then ascended the two steps to the dais, the rough cloth of her habit could not conceal her shapely bouncing bottom, quivering and flexing with each step.

Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. She gazed at the dramatic inverted crucifix suspended behind the altar and stood transfixed by the large Sigil of Baphomet above it, a huge black goat with a human body but with the hooves and head of a goat on the wall. A symbol once used by the Knights Templar in the fourteenth century. The sweet and pungent odour of burning incense permeating her nostrils, lost in a fugue state unable to differentiate between hallucination and reality.

She turned to face the assembly, and she gently discarded her exquisitely embroidered and bejewelled full-face cat mask with iridescent black, blue and purple colouring before removing the wimple, the black cloth headdress covering her head and neck to reveal her impressively structured face.

Sister Agneta, shook her hair, the long blonde tresses tumbling over her shoulders, with her high cheekbones, large pale blue eyes and full lips it was hard to mistake her as anything but Scandinavian.

Her name was a Swedish variant of Agnes derived from Greek meaning chaste a name associated with the Latin word for lamb as used as a sacrifice.

The lush mounds of her generous breasts jiggled within her robes as she slowly and teasingly raised her habit until in one quick motion she removed the garment over her head and let it drop to the floor.

Now defrocked she was the very image of feminine perfection, her geometrical jutting cheekbones, pale-blue eyes and blonde mane, with titanic pendulous breasts, large areola and skin like a bowl of milk. Wide hipped and long-legged, she was positively statuesque with a glare like an icy Norse Valkyrie.

In Norse mythology the Valkyries were female virgins who would decide who would die in battle, they were the choosers of the slain who would bear the chosen to the afterlife hall of Valhalla, ruled by the Norse God Odin.

The naked female acolyte stood reverently in front of the altar awaiting further instruction.

The celebrant brought his hand down in a sort of drawn-out sweeping motion, the epiclesis, a calling down of the Lightbearer to transform the sacrifice.

‘Ecce Agnus Dei.’ He announced to the gathering.

Behold the Lamb of God

With this signal, the curvaceous blonde woman draped herself across the dais.

The altar was the focal point of the ritual, a nude fleshly altar resembling carnality served to stimulate sexual arousal, the catalyst to tap into the primaeval power within, such a fleshly altar should be sexually desirable to both sexes and all sexual orientations.

She was to be the altar, a living altar of flesh, an altar of carnal celebration. Her naked body was almost as white as snow, her long blonde hair and blue eyes seemed to shine, and the pout of her full red lips only served to make her all the more striking as she stretched out on the dais.

She was to be a sacrilegious parody of Jesus Christ as divine sacrificial lamb.

The heavy breasted woman lay naked on the black-draped altar, her body positioned at right angles to its length, her knees at its edge and widely parted with a black pillow supporting her head.

Words were forming in Sister Agneta’s head but paralysed by muscle-relaxing drugs she made no sound.

The celebrant stood between the woman’s knees and placed a chalice containing wine between her thighs upon which rested a paten holding a chunk of coarse black bread, before covering the chalice and paten with a square black veil.

A gong was sounded, and the celebrant began the ritual used to summon Lucifer, and the blasphemy continued.

‘In nomine Magni Dei Nostri Satanus introibo ad altare Domini Inferi.’

In the Name of our Great God Satan, I will go into the altar of the Infernal Lord

‘Before the mighty and ineffable Prince of Darkness, and in the presence of all the dread demons of the Pit, and this assembled company, I acknowledge and confess my past error. Renouncing all past allegiances, I proclaim that Lucifer rules the earth, and I ratify and renew my promise to recognise and honour Him in all things, without reservation, desiring in return His manifold assistance in the successful completion of my endeavours and the fulfilment of my desires. I call upon you, my Brothers, to bear witness and to do likewise.’

His deacons replied.

‘Ad eum qui laetificat meum.’

To Him Who gives joy unto me

Then in unison, they gave their response, ‘Before the mighty and ineffable Prince of Darkness, and in the presence of all the dread demons of the Pit, and this assembled company, we acknowledge and confess our past error. Renouncing all past allegiances, we proclaim that Lucifer rules the earth, and we ratify and renew our promise to recognise and honour Him in all things, without reservation, desiring in return His manifold assistance in the successful completion of our endeavours and the fulfilment of our desires. We call upon you, His liege-man and priest, to receive this pledge in His name.’

The celebrant prepared the offertory uncovering the chalice and paten on which rested the coarse black bread. Taking the paten in both hands and raising it to breast level in a gesture of offering, he recited the offertory words.

‘Suscipe, Domine Satanus, hanc hostiam, quam ego dignus famulus Tuus offero Tibi, Deo Meo Vivo et Vero, pro omnibus circumstantibus, sed ut pro omnibus fidelibus famulis Tuis ut mihi et illis proficiat ad felicitatem in hanc vitam. Amen.’

Lord Satan, receive this host which I, Thy worthy servant, offer to Thee, my True and Living God, for all here present, as also for all Thy faithful servants, that it may avail for my own and their rejoicing in this life. Amen.

Then replacing the paten and bread with the chalice in his hands, he raised it in a likewise manner, reciting the words, ‘Offerimus Tibi, Domine Satanus, calix carnis stimulos ut in conspectu majestatis Tuae, pro nostra utilitate et felicitate, paceat Tibi. Amen.’

Lord Satan, we offer to Thee the chalice of fleshly lust, that it may arise in the sight of Thy majesty for our use and gratification and be pleasing unto Thee. Amen.

He put down the chalice and with hands extended outwards and palms facing downwards he called upon his God.

‘Come, O Mighty Lord of Darkness, and look favourably on this sacrifice which we have prepared in thy name.’

The gong was struck thrice, and the celebrant bowed. ‘Therefore, O mighty and terrible Lord of Darkness, we entreat You that You receive and accept this sacrifice, which we offer to You on behalf of this assembled company, upon whom You have set Your mark. That You may make us prosper in fullness and length of life, under Thy protection, and may cause to go forth at our bidding Thy dreadful minions, for the fulfilment of our desires and the destruction of our enemies. In concert this night we ask Thy unfailing assistance in this particular need. Here is mentioned the special purpose for which the mass is offered. In the unity of unholy fellowship, we praise and honour Thee, Lucifer, Morning Star.’

The gong sounded.

The celebrant took the black bread in his hands and, bending low over it, whispered the words ‘Hoc est corpus esu Christi.’

Here is the body of Christ

He raised the bread in the air placing it between the exposed breasts of the living altar, before touching it to her vaginal area.

The gong was struck again. He replaced the coarse black bread on the paten then taking the chalice into his hands the celebrant bent low over it and whispered ‘Hic est caliz voluptatis carnis.’

Here is the chalice of voluptuous flesh

The gong struck, he returned the chalice to the dais as he began reciting the unholy prayer.

‘Prompted by the precepts of the earth and the inclinations of the flesh, we make bold to say

Our Father which art in Hell, hallowed be Thy name.

Thy kingdom is come, Thy will is done on earth as it is in Hell

We take this night our rightful due, and trespass not on paths of pain.

Lead us unto temptation, and deliver us from false piety, for

Thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever.’

The deacons chimed in, ‘And let reason rule the earth.’

The celebrant continued, ‘Call forth Thy legions that they may witness what we do in Thy name. Send forth thy messengers to proclaim this deed, and send the Christian minions staggering to their doom. Smite him anew, O Lord of Light, that his angels, cherubim, and seraphim may cower and tremble with fear, prostrating themselves before Thee in respect of Thy power. Send crashing down the gates of Heaven, that the murders of our ancestors may be avenged.’

He proceeded to insert the bread into the vagina of the living altar, then removed it holding it aloft to the image of Baphomet and proclaiming, ‘Vanish into nothingness, thou fool of fools, thou vile and abhorred pretender to the majesty of Lucifer. Vanish into the void of thy empty Heaven, for thou wert never, nor shalt thou ever be.’

He raised the bread in the air before throwing it to the floor where he and his deacons proceeded to trample on it while the gong was struck continually.

Taking the chalice in his hands he faced the altar, ‘Calicem voluptatis carnis accipiam, et nomen Domini Inferi invocabo.’

Accept the chalice of voluptuous flesh which gives joy to our life. Accept the chalice of voluptuous flesh in the Name of the Infernal Lord

He drank from the chalice then turned toward the assembly, the chalice extended before him he recited the words, ‘Ecce calix voluptatis carnis qui laetitiam vitae donat. Accipe calicem voluptatis carnis in nomine Domini Inferi.’

Behold the chalice of voluptuous flesh which gives joy to our life. Accept the chalice of voluptuous flesh in the Name of the Infernal Lord

Then he proceeded to offer the chalice to each member of the assembled Brotherhood, first to the deacon then the subdeacon, then to the other Brothers in order of rank and in administering the cup to each, he repeated each time, ‘Accipe calicem voluptatis carnis in nomine Domini Inferi.’

When all had taken their fill, the drained chalice was replaced on the dais, the paten placed on top of it, and the veil placed over both. The celebrant then extended his hands, palms downward yet again to summon the masked beasts within the chamber.

The beasts gradually gathered closer to him, the gait of each participant imitating the movements of the beast he represented.

‘All religions are of human invention, that God is man, and man is God, and the world is his kingdom. Are we not men?’ He addressed them earnestly.

The assembled beasts roared in unison.

We are men!

‘God is man.’ His voice boomed.

God is man!

‘Man is God.’ He cried.

We are Gods!

‘Remember our battle cry to overturn Throne and Altar. Down then with God and with Christ! Down with the despots of Heaven and earth. Death to the priests! Such is the motto of our grand crusade.’

He bowed before the nude altar before holding his left hand aloft to help the unsteady, and drugged young acolyte off the dais to stand naked before the Brotherhood.

‘Acolyte, you have served me well! Stand up and join these assembled here so that they may look upon you, and do with you as they desire…’

His deacons then ushered the beautiful young acolyte into the midst of the assemblage so that she may be submitted to the carnal desires of any member of the Brotherhood who so wanted her.

The celebrant then turned to give the blessing of the Lightbearer to the assemblage, extending his left hand in the Cornu Sign of the Horns, two fingers upward to affirm the duality of Nature with three middle fingers folded down in denial of the Holy Trinity.

‘Let us depart it is done.’ The celebrant announced.

‘So, it is done.’ Intoned his deacons.

The assembled company faced the altar and raised their arms in unison in the sign of the Cornu.

The celebrant and his deacons bowed toward the altar then turned and departed.

The candles were snuffed leaving the chamber in darkness and the throng slowly departed from the chapel.

The smoke of Satan had entered the temple of God.

And now Lucifer was enthroned in the church.

chapter 5

MODUS VIVENDI

Anything done for another is done for oneself.

Pope John Paul II (1920-2005) Bishop of Rome.

Order of the Friars Minor Capuchins

Convent of Frascati

Church of Santa Maria della Concezione

Via Veneto

Rome

Led by a group of Franciscan friars living in the convent, the church of Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini – Our Lady of the Conception of the Capuchins – had a modest and innocuous appearance on the outside compared to other churches of the period. The church was close to Piazza Barberini located in the heart of the Castelli Romani, famous for its Frascati wine this province of Rome was known as the Wine City.

Inside revealed a small nave and several chapels including the tomb of the Blessed Crispin of Viterbo and the body of St. Felix of Cantalice. Jean-Baptiste Cardinal Gurion stood alone in the first chapel, transfixed by the magnificent painting of St. Michael the Archangel which adorned the altarpiece.

It was a painting of typical baroque exuberance capturing all the tension and intensity of the scene, an eclectic mix of rich, vivid colours, the blue hues of St. Michael’s tunic and the subtle reds of his robe complimented the background myriad of greens fading into infinite space. Convincing skin textures portrayed a sense of realism while contrasts of light and shadow served to illuminate the winged archangel depicted with a drawn sword in his right hand, subduing a dragon-winged Satan.

A leading voice for French Catholics, Jean-Baptiste Cardinal Gurion was a gregarious and sometimes outspoken French prelate of the Roman Catholic Church. Elevated to the Cardinalate he had the distinction of being elected to the Académie Française, the pantheon of France’s intellectual elite in addition to being awarded the Sovereign Order of Malta.

A voice behind him broke the silent repose.

‘If I am not mistaken, there is a mosaic of this painting in St. Peter’s Basilica above the marble altar of St. Michael the Archangel.’

Cardinal Gurion recognised the harsh New York tones immediately but didn’t bother to turn around to acknowledge the speaker when he replied.

‘Bravo your Eminence! This is the work of Guido Reni, an Italian painter of some repute, notable for his Baroque style.’

Gurion continued his narrative in the style of a Roman tourist guide.

‘It was painted during the papacy of Pope Urban VIII and commissioned by the Pope’s twin brother Cardinal Antonio Barberini who was a Capuchin.’

He pointed to the image of Satan.

‘See how the archangel Michael is trampling Satan? Satan depicted as the source of heresy. Satan, whose features mirrored those of one Giovanni Battista Pamphili. At that time Pamphili was the greatest rival of Pope Urban VIII and was himself later elected as Pope Innocent X. Reni was making what you Americans would call a political statement.’

Jean-Baptiste gave a small sigh. This was a dramatic backdrop to the business at hand. The Holy Father’s health was failing at an alarming rate, in truth the Pope’s death was imminent. Pope John Paul II had been administered the Catholic sacrament for the sick and dying, and it was only a matter of hours before St. Peter opened the gates of heaven to this once vital Pontiff who had transformed the papacy.

Cardinal Gurion as the Vatican chamberlain would run the Holy See once John Paul II had passed from this earthly realm until a new Pope was chosen. Now it was time to begin the secret discussions in the run-up to the conclave to choose the next Pope and broker a secret deal that would be executed under Michelangelo’s frescoed ceiling with the strong American bloc.

‘Alas, I digress. I did not ask you here for a guided art tour. Let us retire to somewhere less conspicuous.’

He motioned the anonymous cardinal to follow him to the right where they located an entrance to the ossuary.

As they descended beneath the church into the Capuchin Crypt macabre scenes materialised in the low light of the hanging lanterns. The crypt totalled six rooms, home to the final resting place of over 4,000 Capuchin friars.

What was more disconcerting being the fact that with the exception of one room, the Mass Chapel an area which as the name suggested was used to celebrate Mass, the other five provided a bizarre display of human bones. The Mass Chapel itself was not completely devoid of cadavers, containing both the heart of the grandniece of Pope Sixtus V and the tomb of the Papal Zouaves.

Throughout the centuries when a brother friar died, he was interred in the church vault where the soil was reputedly brought from Jerusalem. After a period of time, no doubt to allow for decomposition to occur, the friars would retrieve the skulls and bones of their fellow brothers collecting and arranging them, fashioning intricate Rococo style displays, often in the form of Christian symbols from the thousands of bones.

Indeed, three of the crypts were named after the type of bones they contained, the Crypt of the Skulls, the Crypt of the Pelvises and the Crypt of the Leg Bones and Thigh Bones.

Closer inspection revealed that even the ceiling lights were made from the brother’s bones.

Cardinal Gurion smiled to himself as he detected an almost imperceptible shudder from the man behind him as they passed through the first room of the Crypt of the Resurrection, eventually arriving at their final destination, the corridor vault of the sixth room, the Crypt of the Three Skeletons. A multilingual notice provided a solemn reminder to the visitor What you are now we used to be; what we are now you will be.

The three