The Brotherhood Of The Holy Shroud (42 page)

"Go, search no more, or upon you will fall the judgment of God."
Once more she bolted awake, terrified, drenched with sweat. She would die if she went on, she was sure of it.

For the rest of the night Ana couldn't sleep. In fact, she rarely got through a night now without being assailed by nightmares. She had tracked grisly stories before, plenty of them, but she had never experienced anything like this. It was as though some external force were dragging her step by step through bloody scenes from the past and making her-a tough twenty-first-century reporter-face true horror, and transcendence.

She knew she'd been there, somehow, that nineteenth of March, 1314, in the
parvis
before the Cathedral of Notre Dame, only feet from the pyre on which Jacques de Molay and his knights were executed, and that he had begged-ordered-her not to go on. Not to search for the truth behind the shroud.

But her fate, she told herself, was cast-she wouldn't stop no matter how much she feared Jacques de Molay, no matter that the truth was forbidden to her. She was not going to turn back. Not now that she saw the link so clearly.

BAKKALBASI, THE PASTOR TO ISMET, NEPHEW of Francesco Turgut, the cathedral porter, had traveled with the young man from Istanbul to Turin. Other men of the community would be arriving via different routes-from Germany, from other places in Italy, even from Urfa itself. Each man carried several cell phones, although Addaio's orders were that they not use them too much and that they try to communicate with one another over public phones, to remain as untraceable as possible.

Bakkalbasi suspected that Addaio would be arriving too. No one would know where he was, but he would be watching them, controlling their movements, directing the overall operation. Mendib had to die, and Turgut had to be brought under control or he, too, would die. There was no alternative.

The Turkish police had been hanging around their houses in Urfa, a sure sign that the Art Crimes Department already knew more than the community would have liked to admit. Bakkalbasi had been tipped to the surveillance by a cousin in the Urfa police headquarters, a good member of the community who had informed them of Interpol's sudden interest in any Turks who had emigrated from Urfa to Italy. Interpol hadn't told them what they were looking for, but it had asked for complete reports on certain families, all belonging to the community.

All the alarms had sounded then, and Addaio had named a successor, in case anything happened to him. Within the community was another small cell, which lived in even deeper secrecy. It would be they who continued the struggle if the main group were taken down-and they would be taken down; the hollow feeling in the pit of Bakkalbasi's stomach told him so.

As soon as they arrived in Turin, he took Ismet to Turgut's house. When the porter opened the door, he shouted in alarm.

"Calm down, man!" Bakkalbasi gripped the porter's arm and steered him inside. "Why are you shouting? Do you want to alert the entire cathedral?"

They sat down, and when Turgut recovered his composure, he filled them in on the latest events. He knew he was being watched; he had known it since the day of the fire. And the way Padre Yves looked at him… Oh, yes, he was very friendly toward him, but there was something in his eyes that told Turgut to be careful or he would die-yes, yes, that was exactly the way it felt.

They shared a few more minutes over coffee, and the pastor instructed Ismet not to leave his uncle's side.

Turgut would introduce him in the cardinal's offices and announce that his nephew would be living with him. The pastor also urged Turgut to show Ismet the secret door that led into the underground tunnels- some of the men who were coming from Urfa might need to hide there and if they did they would need sustenance that only he could provide.

Then Bakkalbasi left them. He had meetings to attend with other members of the community, in Turin and elsewhere. The time to act was almost upon them.

"What do we do?" Pietro asked. "Maybe we should follow him."

He and Giuseppe had rounded the corner of the cathedral, heading for the porter's apartment, just in time to see a man exit and move surreptitiously, it seemed, down the street. Something about him had looked off; he'd glanced back over his shoulder not once but twice.

"We don't know who he is," Giuseppe answered.

"He's Turkish, you can see that."

'All right, I'll follow him, then."

"I don't know-we'll probably get more here. Listen, let's just stick with the plan and talk to the porter; maybe we can get something out of him about his visitor."

Ismet opened the door, thinking that Bakkalbasi had forgotten something. He frowned when he saw the two men-cops for sure. The cops, he told himself, always look like the cops.

"Buon giorno,
we'd like to speak with Francesco Turgut," Pietro said.

The young man shrugged and shook his head as if he wasn't sure what they wanted, and then turned and called back into the room in Turkish. Turgut came to the door, unable to control his trembling.

"Buon giorno,
Signor Turgut," Pietro said. "We're still investigating the fire, and we wanted to see whether you might have remembered anything else, any little detail that was out of the ordinary."

Turgut broke into a stream of Turkish, waving his arms at them. He seemed to be on the verge of tears. Ismet put a protective arm over his shoulder and answered for him in pidgin Italian mixed with English.

"My uncle is old man, and he have suffered much since the fire. He is fearing that with his years they will think he not as good as before and kick him out, because was not watching enough. Can you not leave him alone now? He has told all what he remembers."

'And who are you?" Pietro asked.

"I Ismet Turgut, nephew of my uncle here. I arrive today. I come to Turin looking for job."

"Where have you come from?"

"Urfa… From Urfa."

"There's no work there?" Giuseppe asked.

"In oil fields, yes, but I, what I want do is get good job, save money, and go home to Urfa to have my own business. I have… not wife? Girlfriend?"

The kid seemed likable enough, thought Pietro, even innocent. Maybe he actually was.

'All right, that's fine. Does your uncle keep in touch with other people from Urfa? How about that other guy that just left? Is he from there?" Giuseppe asked.

Turgut felt a shiver. Now he was certain that the police knew everything. Ismet, once again taking charge of the situation, answered quickly, ignoring the question about Bakkalbasi.

"Yes, sure, he does, and I believe I try to be friends with the people from my town too. My uncle, you know, half Italian, but Turks never lose our roots-is it not so, uncle?"

The young man seemed determined not to let Francesco Turgut talk. Pietro asked, "Signor Turgut, do you know the Bajerai family?"

"Bajerai!" Ismet exclaimed excitedly. "I went to school with boy named Bajerai! I think here in Turin are cousins or something like that… not cousins of boy, you know, but cousins of boy's father."

"I'd like your uncle to answer my question," Pietro insisted.

Francesco Turgut swallowed hard and prepared himself to say what he had rehearsed so many times.

"Yes, yes, of course I know them. It is an honorable family that has had a terrible disgrace. Their sons… well, their sons made a mistake and they are paying for it. But they are good persons, the parents. Very good. You can ask anyone, they will tell you."

"Have you visited the Bajerai family recently?"

"No, my health is… not good. I do not go out much."

"Excuse me," Ismet interrupted with an innocent expression. "What have done the Bajerai?"

"Why do you think they've done something?" Giuseppe asked.

"Because if you, who are the police, come here and ask about the Bajerai, then they have done something, is it not? You would not ask if they had not, I think."

The young man smiled, apparently proud of his reasoning. Giuseppe and Pietro looked at him, unable to decide whether he was really as innocent as he looked or was a very good liar.

Giuseppe turned back to Turgut. "Let's go back to the day of the fire," he suggested.

"I have told you everything I remember. If I had remembered something more I would have called you," the old man answered, his voice unsteady.

Pietro pounced again. "Signor Turgut, who is the man who just left?" he pressed. "Is he from Urfa?"

The porter shook his head vehemently. "No, no! A friend, just a friend." He leaned on his nephew for support. "I feel unwell," he said shakily. "I must rest."

"I have just arrived," Ismet broke in pleadingly. "I have not had time even to ask my uncle where I sleep- can you not return another time?"

Pietro and Giuseppe looked at each other and seemed to reach a decision. "Give us a call when you're feeling better," Pietro said. "I think we have more to talk about." They said good-bye and left.

"What do you think of the nephew?" Pietro asked his partner as they walked away.

"I don't know, seems like a nice kid."

"They may have sent him to handle his uncle."

"Oh, come on!" Giuseppe protested. "Isn't that a little far-fetched? Listen, I think you're right-Sofia and Marco are blowing this case all out of proportion, although Marco doesn't make mistakes often… But this shroud, it's like an obsession."

"Well, thanks for leaving me out there swinging in the breeze yesterday when I said that. Why didn't you say something then?"

"What was the point? And what are we arguing about now? We've gotta do what Marco says to do. And that's fine by me. If he's right, great, we've got our case; if not, big deal, at least we tried to find an answer to those fucking fires. Either way, we do what we're told-but we don't have to knock ourselves out, know what I mean?"

"Stiff upper lip and all that, huh? You could be English instead of Italian, my man."

"It's just that you take everything so seriously, and you're so damn touchy. If I said the sky was blue you'd argue about it."

"It's that things aren't like they used to be. The team is going to hell."

"Of course the. team is going to hell. You and Sofia tense up like two spitting cats when you're together, and you'd think you get off fighting with each other. I swear, you both look like you're ready to go for the jugular any second. Marco's right: Work and screwing don't mix. I'm being straight with you, Pietro-it's your own fault things stink right now."

"Who asked you to be straight with me?"

"Yeah, well, I've been wanting to talk to you about it, so there you go."

"So let's say it's all Sofia's and my fault. What are we supposed to do?"

"Nothing. It'll pass-and anyway, she's leaving. When the case is over she's outta here, off to greener pastures. She wants to do more than chase down cat burglars."

"She's really something…" Pietro said, a faraway look in his eyes.

"What's weird is that she'd hook up with you in the first place."

"Thanks."

"Come on! People are what they are, and they might as well accept it. You and I are cops. Neither of us is in her league, or Marco's either. He's gotten himself an education, and you can tell it. I mean, I'm happy to be what I am and to have gotten where I've gotten. Working in Art Crimes is good duty, and other cops look up to you."

"Your dedication moves me."

"Okay, I'll shut up, but I thought you and I could always be up-front with each other-tell it straight out."

"Good. You've told me. Let's drop it and get back to headquarters. We'll get Interpol to ask the Turks to send us whatever they've got on this nephew who's landed in Turin."

ELIANNE MARCHAIS WAS A SMALL, ELEGANT woman with that unmistakable French flair. She greeted Ana Jimenez with a mixture of resignation and curiosity.

She didn't like reporters. They simplified everything one told them so much that in the end all they printed were distortions-which was why she didn't give interviews. When people asked her opinion about something, her. response was always the same: "Read my books. Don't ask me to tell you in three words what I've needed three hundred pages to explain."

But this young woman was a special case. Spain's ambassador to UNESCO had phoned on her behalf, as had two chancellors of prestigious Spanish universities and three colleagues at the Sorbonne. Either the girl was truly important or she was a bulldog who'd stop at nothing until she got what she wanted, in this case that Marchais devote a few minutes of her time to her-because a few minutes was all the professor had patience for.

Ana had decided that with a woman like Elianne Marchais there could be no room for subterfuge. She would tell her the truth straight out, and one of two things would happen: The professor would either throw her out or help her.

It took her no more than a few minutes to explain to Professor Marchais that she wanted to write a history of the Shroud of Turin and that she needed the professor's help in order to separate the fantasy from the truth in the history of the relic.

"And why are you interested in the shroud? Are you Catholic?"

"No… I mean… I guess I am, in some sense. I was baptized, although I don't go to Mass."

"You haven't answered my question. Why are you interested in the shroud?"

"Because it's a controversial object that also seems to attract a certain degree of violence-fires, robberies in the cathedral……"

Professor Marchais raised an eyebrow. "Mademoiselle Jimenez, I'm afraid I can't help you," she said disdainfully. "My specialty is not esoteric gobbledygook."

Ana didn't move from her chair. She looked fixedly at the professor and tried another tack, resolving to proceed carefully.

"I think I may have misspoken, Professor Marchais. I'm not interested in esotericism, and if I've given that impression I apologize. What I'm trying to do is write a documented history, the furthest thing imaginable from any magical, esoteric interpretations. I'm looking for facts, facts, just facts, not speculation. Which is why I've come to you, so that you can help distinguish what's true in the interpretations of certain more or less recognized authors. You know what happened in France in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries as though it were yesterday, and it's that knowledge that I need."