The Brotherhood Of The Holy Shroud (3 page)

Marco sensed that there would be no more concrete information forthcoming from the cardinal, so he gently tried to steer the discussion back to the information he needed.

"So, Your Eminence, will you get that list ready for me? It's just routine, but I have to follow up on it."

"Yes, certainly, I'll tell my secretary, the young priest who showed you in, to gather the material for you as soon as possible. Padre Yves is very efficient; he's been with me for seven months, since my previous aide passed away, and I must say that his presence is a boon. He's intelligent, discreet, pious, he speaks a number of languages……"

"He's French?"

"Yes, that's right, but his Italian, as you've seen, is perfect; he speaks English, German, Hebrew, Arabic, he reads Aramaic…"

"And who recommended him to you, Your Eminence?"

"My good friend, the aide to the acting Under-Secretary of State for the Vatican, Monsignor Aubry, a remarkable man."

It struck Marco that most of the men of the Church he'd known were remarkable, especially those who moved through the Vatican. But he remained silent as he gazed at the cardinal-a good man, he thought, wiser and more intelligent than he sometimes let people see and very skilled at diplomacy.

The cardinal picked up the telephone and asked Padre Yves to come in. Almost instantly the young priest appeared at the door.

"Come in, padre, come in. You've met my good friend Signor Valoni. He's asked that we prepare a list of all the scientific delegations and other important groups that have visited the shroud in the last twenty years and when they were here. Will you get to work on that, please? He'd like it right away."

Padre Yves looked at Marco a moment before asking, "Forgive me, Signor Valoni, but could you tell me what it is you're looking for?"

"Padre Yves, not even Signor Valoni knows what he's looking for, but he wants the name of anyone who's had any relationship with the shroud over the past twenty years, and we are going to provide him with that information."

"Of course, Your Eminence. I'll try to get it to him as soon as possible, although with all this commotion it won't be easy. I'll have to go through the files personally; we have a long way to go in computerizing them."

"Don't worry, padre," Valoni replied, "I can wait a few days, but the sooner you can get me that information the better."

"Your Eminence, may I ask what the shroud has to do with the fire?"

'Ah! Padre Yves, I have been asking Signor Valoni that same question for years. Every time something like this happens, he insists that the objective is the shroud."

"My God, the shroud!"

Marco studied Padre Yves. He didn't look like a priest, or at least most of the priests that Marco knew, and living in Rome meant he knew a lot of them. Padre Yves was tall, quite handsome, athletic; more than likely, he played some sport regularly. There was not a trace of that softness that resulted from mixing chastity and good food-a mixture indulged in widely by the priestly population. If Padre Yves weren't wearing his ecclesiastical collar, he'd look like one of those executives who work out in the gym every morning and play squash or tennis every weekend.

"Yes, padre," the cardinal was saying, "the shroud. But fortunately the Lord protects it. It has never been severely damaged."

"I'm just trying to follow up on anything that might shed some light on what's been happening," Marco assured them, "and to chase down any loose ends. There have been too many incidents connected with the cathedral. It's time for them to stop. Here's my card and my cell phone number, padre. Let me know when you have that list, and if you think of anything that might help us in the investigation, please call me, anytime."

"Yes, of course, Signor Valoni. I will," the young priest assured him.

Marco's cell phone rang as he left the cathedral offices. The coroner's verdict was short and sweet: The deceased was a male around thirty years old, average height, five foot eight, five foot nine, thin. And no, there was no tongue.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm as sure as I can be with a corpse turned to chacoal. The body had no tongue, and it wasn't the result of the fire-it was removed by surgery. Don't ask me when, because given the state of the body it's just too hard to tell."

'Anything else?"

"I'll send you the whole report. I called as soon as I finished the autopsy."

"I'll stop by and pick it up, if you don't mind."

"Come and get it. I'll be here all day."

Back at Turin's carabinieri headquarters, where the Art Crimes unit maintained a small office, Marco met with one of his senior men.

"Okay, Giuseppe, what do we have so far?"

"In the first place, nothing's missing. They didn't steal anything. Antonino and Sofia have done pretty much a whole inventory-paintings, candelabras, sculptures, everything. It's all there, although some things have varying degrees of smoke or water damage. The flames destroyed the pulpit on the right and the pews, and all that's left of the sixteenth-century statue of the Virgin is ashes. Pietro's been interviewing the guys who were working on the new wiring; the fire apparently started from a short circuit."

'Another short circuit."

"Yeah, like the one in '97. He's also talked to the company in charge of the renovation work, and he asked Minerva to get on her computer and find out everything she can about the owners of the business, and also about the workers. Some of them are immigrants, and it'll be tough to get any information on them, but she'll try."

Giuseppe paused and gazed at his boss. 'And I've asked her to find out whether there's some sect that cuts out its followers' tongues. I know it's probably a stretch-but we've gotta look everywhere, right? And Minerva's a genius with this stuff." When Marco nodded after a moment, Giuseppe went on.

"Between Pietro and me we've interviewed everybody on staff. There was nobody in the cathedral when the fire started. At three it's always closed, since that's when they all are at lunch."

"We have the body of one man. Was he working alone?"

"We aren't sure, but we don't think so. It would be tricky for someone working alone to prepare and carry out a major theft in the Turin Cathedral, unless maybe it was a job for hire, a thief somebody paid to come in and grab a specific piece of art."

"But if he wasn't alone, where are the others?"

Giuseppe didn't answer, and Marco fell silent. He had a bad feeling about this fire, and a hollow pit in his stomach to prove it. Paola had said he was obsessed with the shroud, and maybe she was right: He had always felt that there was much more to the periodic events in Turin than they had been able to uncover- something "underneath" that connected them all. The bizarre factor of the mutilated men was only the tip of it. He was sure he was missing something, that there was a thread to follow somewhere, and that if he could find it he'd find the solution. He decided to go to the Turin jail and pay a visit to the perp from the last incident. They had been unable to ferret out anything about him; they weren't even sure if the guy was Italian. Two years ago Marco had left him to the cara-binieri after weeks of futile interrogation. But the mute was the only lead they had, and like an idiot he'd dropped him.

As he lit another cigarette, he decided to get in touch with John Barry, the cultural attache to the United States embassy. John was actually CIA, like almost every cultural attache in foreign embassies around the world. Governments didn't have much imagination for working out covers for their agents. Even so, Barry was a nice guy. He wasn't a field operative; he worked for the CIA's Office of Intelligence Assessment, analyzing and interpreting the intelligence that came in from field agents before it was sent on to Washington. The two men had been friends for years- a friendship forged through work, since many of the pieces of art stolen by the art mafias wound up in the hands of wealthy Americans who-sometimes because they were in love with a particular work, other times out of vanity or to turn a quick buck-had no scruples about purchasing stolen art. It was a dark area of international commerce, where many interests often intersected.

Barry didn't fit the stereotypical image of the American or of the CIA agent. He was fifty-something, like Marco, and he had a doctorate in art history from Harvard. He loved Europe and had married an English archaeologist, Lisa, a charming and fascinating woman. Not beautiful, Marco had to say, but so full of life that she radiated enthusiasm and charisma. She'd hit it off wonderfully with Paola, so the four of them had dinner together once in a while, and they'd even spent weekends together in Capri.

Yes, he'd call John the minute he got back to Rome. But he'd also call Santiago Jimenez, the Europol representative in Italy, an efficient, very likable Spaniard with whom Marco also had an excellent working relationship. He'd buy them lunch. And maybe, he thought, they could help him in his search, even if he wasn't quite sure what he was looking for.

At last, Josar's eyes beheld the walls of
Jerusalem. The brightness of the sun at dawn and the light's reflection off the desert sand made the stones of the wall seem to shimmer in a golden haze.

Accompanied by four men, Josar made his way on horseback toward the Damascus Gate, where at this early hour men who lived nearby were beginning to enter the city, and caravans seeking salt made their way out into the desert.

A platoon of Roman soldiers, on foot, was patrolling the perimeter of the walls.

How Josar longed to see Jesus, whose extraordinary figure radiated strength, sweetness, firmness, and deep piety.

He believed in Jesus, believed that he was the Son of God, not simply because of the wonders he had seen him work but also because, when Jesus' eyes fell on him, he could feel something more than human in them. He knew that Jesus could see within him, that not even the smallest and most hidden thought could escape him.

But Jesus did not make Josar feel ashamed of what he was, because the Nazarene's eyes were filled with understanding and with forgiveness.

Josar loved Abgar, his king, who had always treated him like a brother. He owed the king his estate and fortune. Yet Josar had decided that if Jesus did not accept Abgar's invitation to come to Edessa, he would present himself before his king and ask leave to return to Jerusalem and follow the Nazarene. He was prepared to give up his house, his fortune, his earthly comforts and well-being. He would follow Jesus and try to live according to his teachings. Yes, he had reached that decision.

Josar went to the house of Samuel, a man who for a few coins would care for the horses and allow Josar and his companions to sleep. As soon as they were set-ded there, he would go out into the streets and try to find Jesus. He would go to the house of Mark, or Luke, for they would be able to tell him where to find him. It would be difficult to convince Jesus to travel to Edessa, but Josar would argue that the journey was short and that, once his king was cured, Jesus could return, should he decide not to remain.

As he left the house of Samuel to find Mark, Josar bought two apples from a poor cripple, and he asked the man about the latest news of the city.

"What would you know,.stranger? Every day the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. The Romans- you are not Roman, are you? No, you do not dress like a Roman or speak in their manner. The Romans have raised taxes, to the greater glory of the emperor, and Pilate the governor now fears a rebellion, so he is attempting to win over to his purposes the priests of the temple."

"What do you know of Jesus, the Nazarene?"

'Ah! You want to know about him as well! You are not a spy, then, are you?"

"No, good man, I am not a spy. I am simply a traveler who knows of the wonders that the Nazarene has worked."

"If you are sick, he can cure you. There are many who say they have been healed by the touch of the Nazarene's fingers."

"And you do not believe that?"

"I, sir, work from sun to sun, tending my orchard and selling my apples. I have a wife and two daughters to feed. I keep all the laws that a good Jew must keep, and I believe in God. Whether the Nazarene is the Messiah, as people say, I know not-I cannot say he is, and I cannot say he is not. But I will tell you, stranger, that the priests, and the Romans as well, are against him, for Jesus has no fear of their power and he defies them equally. A man cannot stand up against the Romans and the priests and expect any good to come of it. This Jesus will, I think, regret his pride."

Josar wandered through the city until he came to the house of Mark. There he was told that he could find Jesus beside the southern wall, preaching to a multitude.

Josar soon found him. The Nazarene, dressed in a simple linen robe, was speaking to his followers in a voice that was firm yet wonderfully sweet.

He felt Jesus' eyes upon him. He had seen Josar, he smiled upon him, and he beckoned him to come closer.

Jesus embraced him and bade him to sit there beside him. John, the youngest of the disciples, moved aside so that Josar might sit at the master's left hand.

There they all spent the morning, and when the sun had reached the highest point in the sky, Judas, one of the disciples, brought bread, figs, and water to the crowd. They ate in silence and in peace. Then Jesus stood to leave.

"My lord," Josar said softly, "I bring a letter for you from my king, Abgar of Edessa."

'And what does Abgar want of me, my good Josar?"

"He is ill, my lord, and asks that you help him. I, too, ask it of you, my lord, because he is a good man, truly, and a good king, and his subjects know that he is fair and kind. Edessa is a small city, but Abgar will share it with you."

Jesus laid his hand on Josar's arm as they walked. And Josar felt privileged to be near the man he truly believed to be the Son of God.