Free The Celtic Conspiracy by Thore D. Hansen Page A

the traces left behind by the pope himself. But he had long known deep inside of himself that there was only one chance for the survival of Christianity: the return to the true message of Jesus of Nazareth. It had been a long time since the Vatican had anything in common with that.
    “One more year, Victor, just one more year, and then you can stop,” he swore, the moon shining on his melancholy face.
    The ringing of his cell phone interrupted his thoughts.
    “Salvoni,” he answered.
    “It’s Cassidy. We’ve taken care of everything as we discussed, but I found something you should look at. We must have overlooked it more than once, but it proveswhat Padre Morati feared: MacClary has access to controversial documents.”
    “What did you find, exactly?”
    “I sent you a picture that will explain everything, I think. We also observed three friends of MacClary who had a long discussion with him before we could get inside.”
    “OK. But for God’s sake, be careful, and calm down. It can’t be that bad.”
    “I’ll talk to you later.”
    Salvoni went inside again and opened up his mailbox. What he saw made his blood run cold. The document looked as if it might have come from the cave that Sean MacClary had found so many decades earlier. If this artifact had indeed come from that trove, then they really did need to fear what Padre Morati had always warned about.
    Now, everything depended on finding out what else Sean MacClary’s son and his friends knew. Salvoni knew he could depend on Cassidy in the coming days. Until then there was only one thing to do: wait, and try not to go crazy in the meantime.

Let the flames of your smelting furnaces roast these gods! Make use of all the gifts of the temple and put them under your control. With the destruction of the temple, you will have taken one step closer to divine virtue.
    —Church Father Julius Firmicus Maternus
ARBOUR HILL, DUBLIN – MARCH 15, EVENING
    Standing in MacClary’s house at his dinner invitation, Shane was feeling much better than he had for the past several days. He felt fantastic, actually. After so many difficult years, here he was finally surrounded by people who shared his interests and his questions, whom he could trust implicitly and with whom he could share his thoughts without reservation. It was only now becoming clear to him how much he had kept bottled up inside. But even that difficult time had, apparently, had a purpose.Without all the brooding and questioning, without all the battles and despair, he probably wouldn’t be here.
    MacClary brought his guests into the dining room where the diminutive housekeeper, Ms. Copendale, had just finished setting out their meal. As she left, MacClary told the group how in 1945 after the death of her husband, MacClary’s mother, Lisa, had hired Ruth Copendale, then just fifteen years old, to watch her son when she had appointments outside the house or when visitors were there. When Lisa MacClary fell ill, far too young, with a then-unknown immune deficiency, Ruth took on responsibilities that went far above and beyond those of a housekeeper.
    The dining room was much too conservative for Shane’s taste, but it reflected a feeling of security. You could easily have seated twelve people around the table. The room was filled with tasteful pieces of teak furniture probably dating back to the previous century. The walls were paneled with precious wood, and small, ornamented wall sconces bathed the room in a yellowish light. Pictures decorated the walls, including the signed photograph of Ronald’s father in uniform.
    “I hope Ryan didn’t overwhelm you last night with his theories about early communist Druids,” remarked MacClary with a smile in Shane’s direction. Thomas glowered at the professor. Shane had had the feeling since the day before that there was a kind of love-hate relationship between Ryan and MacClary. Certainly they didn’t always share the same opinion, and their backgrounds