Shroud of the Healer

  "You've played them?"

  "They wouldn't work on the office PC. Some sort of encryption. I took them to Mac the Hack at the cyber café in Queens Street. He cracked the code in a couple of hours. Oh, and you're paying for his time."

  "Just tell me what's on them."

  "I can't think why the hell you wanted to send them to me. You think I'm interested in religious art?"

  Matt turned to Sister Angela who was looking anxiously down the corridor. She tugged furiously at his arm. "Someone is coming, monsieur." She sounded like a guilty child.

  "Tell me the truth, Ken."

  "We must go now, monsieur."

  "What are they, Ken?"

  Sister Angela began to pull more strongly at Matt's arm as he tried to listen to Ken.

  "Does the name Smolensk mean anything to you? The Communists stripped a monastery in Smolensk of its icons in 1918. Mac did an Internet search. Priceless Russian icons going back to the twelfth century."

  "Priceless?"

  "Only they're not priceless anymore. Those CDs are an illustrated catalogue of the whole Smolensk collection. I don't know how he did it, but Mark says there are details and prices encrypted into each picture."

  "And he's cracked the encryption?"

  "All of it. Those prices are big money. hundreds of thousands of US dollars for each one. What the hell are you up to over there, kiddo?"

  Matt replaced the phone. The footsteps sounded closer. Stolen Russian icons worth millions. And Leanne Corbin had stumbled on the evidence in a large envelope. Now he knew why Dr. Kappa had killed her.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Clinic of the Little Sisters of Tourvillon

  ARCHBISHOP VALDIERI closed the door softly as he left the Holy Father's room and stood for a moment in the carpeted corridor. The GIGN man, submachine gun in his hands, watched him before turning discreetly to face the front. The security was excellent.

  He sniffed. The smell of that special antiseptic that was unique to hospitals hung in the air. It had spoiled his sleep last night. Even expensive carpets could do nothing to disguise the fact that people came here filled with torment, scared for the future. He could thank God that so many patients left with their full health restored.

  The Holy Father seemed so much more at rest, both physically and mentally. There had been an angry exchange of voices in the corridor leading to the executive offices, but the sedative had done its work. The Pontiff was asleep at last -- in France.

  So many investigations to be made concerning the operation of this clinic. He recalled the conversation with the diplomat in the New York confessional while he was still a priest. A penitent riddled with guilt, unable to surrender the treasure he had stolen from the Russian people, choosing worldly goods to absolution. And now the items were surfacing in the hands of private collectors. Evidence pointed here, but in spite of his impatience the search for the Smolensk icons would have to wait a few more days. His primary objective was the Holy Father's return to full health. A miracle was needed. Perhaps Tourvillon was the place where God would supply it.

  "Your Excellency."

  Nurse Mazie Meyran walked softly towards him from the large stairway. A pang of conscience nipped at his body. The pink medication had been exactly as prescribed.

  "Goodnight, nurse. And I'm sorry." Being in charge of the Holy Father's safety meant offending the innocent from time to time.

  She was not just passing by. "I have to talk, Your Excellency. What I said to you earlier is true. Nurse Leanne Corbin really did believe that one of the surgeons was doing something terribly wrong here at the clinic."

  "What exactly?" He deliberately made the question sound censorious. This was not the time for hearing gossip. He was about to make his way to his own room in the corridor below the Holy Father's quarters.

  "I have something important to tell you, Your Excellency. Can I walk with you to your room?"

  "It would not be fitting to ask you into my room." He coughed to hide his embarrassment. "Perhaps we could talk out here in the corridor."

  She looked around anxiously. "Your Excellency, Leanne Corbin was not the only nurse to feel uneasy about the work here. The successes are marvelous, of course, but there are times when the patient is..." She opened her hands in a display of anguish. "I told Leanne she was talking nonsense. But now she is dead and I find myself asking why. Why, Your Excellency, why did she die so suddenly?"

  "We must all be prepared for the imminence of death, my child."

  "She was not seriously ill. I know it."

  "But the inquest..."

  "There was no inquest. Dr. Kappa said it was unnecessary."

  Valdieri felt decidedly uncomfortable. "With all due respect, you are a nurse, and Dr. Kappa is a most brilliant surgeon. I think he might claim with good reason to be able to make a better assessment than you of the cause of someone's death."

  "You don't understand, Your Excellency." Nurse Meyran turned her head towards the far end of the corridor. "Dr. Bernetti is angry. He wants to do the operation on the Holy Father, but Dr. Kappa says he will do it himself. Something is not right."

  "Thank you, nurse, I think you should be going now." Enough foolish words had been exchanged this evening. "I will have a word with Dr. Bernetti and find out if he shares your worries." He smiled, an inadequate attempt to instill confidence. "I am a security supervisor, trained to look for suspicious actions, but I am sure I shall find nothing wrong here."

  The nurse tried to return the smile through her tears. "Thank you, Your Excellency. I expect I have said too much."

  Valdieri watched her run down the stairs, her white uniform clinging to her body. Yes, she had said far too much. Nevertheless, her words were an echo of his own misgivings. Something was not right at Tourvillon. He should have listened more closely to Sister Angela. The elderly nun knew something significant.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Clinic of the Little Sisters of Tourvillon

  THE NURSE was not even out of sight before the sound of heated voices finished with the slam of a door. Bernetti strode up the corridor, his walk indicating a man who had been affronted. When he saw Valdieri standing outside the Pope's room his voice burst into fluent Italian.

  "I know Jim Kappa is in charge of this clinic, Your Excellency, but he's mistaken regarding the preliminary diagnosis on the Holy Father. The tests are positive as far as I'm concerned. The central nervous system may well be showing the symptoms, but I know the part of the brain that is triggering the responses."

  "Slow down, Mario." Valdieri put an arm out to prevent Bernetti from pushing his way into where the Pope was asleep. The surgeon seemed to prefer speaking Italian, and he did the same. "We can talk in my room below, but I'm afraid your views aren't making much sense to a non-medical man."

  Bernetti again moved to the closed door to the Papal apartment, where the guard was keeping unauthorized staff away from the patient. "Let me in and I will show you. A simple reaction test will convince even a layman."

  Valdieri shook his head. "I will make us some coffee and we can have a talk. There is an ingenious espresso machine in my room." As they walked down the brown carpeted corridor, Valdieri noticed the pictures lining the walls; French and Italian nineteenth century pastoral scenes, a period of art he had once studied. He paused at four outstanding watercolors in a panel, removed his glasses and peered closely. One looked remarkably like a Corot. The idea of valuable originals being on show was unthinkable. He could see now that these were first class copies. They were, perhaps, an indication of everything here not being as genuine as it first appeared.

  "Jim Kappa is a fool, Your Excellency."

  Valdieri turned to Bernetti, replaced his glasses and continued to lead the way. "You can hardly expect me to adjudicate on a difference of medical opinion, Mario."

  "Jim Kappa's diagnosis is wrong."

  "Do I detect a professional animosity?"

  "Certainly not."

  "The world has given us r
anks, Mario: yours in medicine and mine in religious duties." He paused outside the door to his room, conscious again of that slight but repugnant smell of antiseptic in the air. "The Holy Father has agreed to put his life in the hands of the medical staff at Tourvillon. To that end I have looked at all staff. I have, you might say, been finding evidence of a nonmedical nature. Some of it has not been pleasant."

  Bernetti made a tutting noise. "Your Excellency, you must have discovered who is behind the running of this clinic."

  "I know where the money goes."

  "Then are you happy to put the life of the Holy Father into the hands of a secret society?"

  Valdieri went to his table and tore open a new pack of ground coffee. The water in the percolator was already heating up. "Surely Masonic Lodges are renowned for their good works."

  Bernetti came close. "The Holy Father is opposed to secret societies such as the Knights. Are you here on his behalf to destroy them?"

  "I cannot comment." Valdieri carefully measured four heaped spoonfuls of ground coffee into the machine from which steam was already hissing gently. "I am more concerned for the Holy Father's immediate future. I expect you know there is a young woman downstairs on a life support system."

  "Jim is treating her, Your Excellency." Bernetti shrugged as though it was of no importance.

  "Major Louviers found a telephone bug in her jacket. They picked up a man close to the security fence. The man says they were both out for an innocent walk."

  Bernetti shrugged again, a prolonged Latin action. "You think they were trying to get to the Holy Father?"

  "I don't know." Valdieri sighed. That was the problem, he knew so little. He pulled the handle on the side of the small machine and brown liquid rushed into the two cups. "It might be prudent if you were to keep an eye on the woman, Mario."

  "If Jim Kappa wants my help with the woman, he can ask." Bernetti stirred his coffee briskly. "My only concern is the correct treatment for the Holy Father."

  Valdieri put his coffee on the table and walked to the window. The glow from the bulbs outside the bar in the square at Tourvillon village looked inviting. "Maybe you should tell me what is on your mind."

  Bernetti seemed thoughtful for a moment. "The Holy Father's problem originates in the brain, regardless of the results from Jim's tests. I know it does, and Jim knows it does, but he won't admit it. The Holy Father cannot survive two surgical attempts at correct treatment. Only one of us can be right in this matter. Do I make myself clear?"

  Valdieri returned to his coffee. "I need time to think, Mario. By the time Professor Rossano and Dr. Bisenti recover, it will be too late for us to get the benefit of their experience."

  "But that is not why you have come here to Tourvillon," Bernetti said suddenly. "You say you have been finding evidence? Evidence of what?"

  There would never be a perfect time, but this looked like a good opportunity to discuss the investigation that had drawn him to Avignon.

  "Sit down, Mario."

  *

  "WHERE NOW, monsieur?" Sister Angela seemed to be enjoying her diversion from institutional life.

  Matt was conscious of the minutes ticking down to Zoé's operation. "Take me to the Archbishop."

  "But I do not know where Archbishop Valdieri is staying in the clinic, monsieur."

  Matt glanced at the elderly nun. The original surviving resident, and she hadn't a clue how to find anybody. Knowing where to find the phone must have been a minor miracle in itself. "Whatever happens, try not to look guilty." As he said it he realized it was an impertinent instruction to give a saintly nun. "If you see what I mean, Sister Angela."

  She just nodded, laughter in her small eyes.

  "Keep close to me and let me do the talking. Please," Matt added.

  "Yes, monsieur. We will go up to where the guests stay. I think perhaps I do know where Archbishop Valdieri will be."

  In the main building, Sister Angelo pointed to a door that had light coming from under it. Matt knocked. If they'd got it wrong, he and Zoé could end up in the operating room side by side.

  A tall, silver haired man opened the door. He had thick lips and a large nose, not at all like anyone she knew. But he looked important. Sister Angela bowed her head and almost did a curtsy. It wasn't the Pope, so this cleric with the lined face must be Archbishop Valdieri.

  Matt looked down the corridor each way, before pushing himself gently forward. He spoke to the man in French. "My name is Matt Rider. May we come in? It is most urgent."

  Taken aback by the rapid thrust into his room, the Archbishop stepped to one side. "I am afraid it is not convenient." Then he noticed the elderly nun. "Sister Angela." There was surprise in his voice. "What brings you here at this time of night?"

  She seemed confused. "This man, Your Excellency. He made me bring him over to see you."

  Valdieri looked surprised. "Made you?"

  Matt decided to save Sister Angela further embarrassment. "Dr. Kappa is going to kill my girlfriend."

  The Archbishop sounded bewildered. "Why would he do that?"

  "It's all to do with things a nurse found in an envelope. Leanne Corbin..."

  Matt broke off as he noticed the back of a man's head in the tall chair. Kappa was already here, listening to every word. The chair turned slowly to face the room. Matt sensed a flood of relief. It was Dr. Bernetti.

  Someone knocked at the door. Frantic knocking. Valdieri opened it to reveal a Convent Sister who Matt had not seen before; a tall figure in white.

  "Sister Colette," said the Archbishop, his voice betraying anxiety.

  "Do you have one of the Sisters here, Your Excellency?" asked the breathless Sister.

  Matt thought the question unnecessary. Sister Angela in her white habit and wimple was standing within touching distance.

  The elderly Sister blushed a deep red. "Sister Colette," she said meekly, "please tell Reverend Mother I am only trying to help the Holy Father. He is in great danger. I know it."

  Sister Colette stamped her foot in a display of pique. "Another of your visions, Sister Angela?"

  "Blame me, I asked Sister Angela to bring me over here," said Matt. Sister Colette was obviously the more senior of the two. "She is worried for the Pope's safety."

  "A foolish premonition, no doubt," chided Sister Colette. Then she lowered her voice. "Your Excellency, is it all right if I take this scatterbrained Sister back to her bed?"

  The Archbishop bowed, probably glad of the opportunity to be rid of the forbidding Sister Colette so effortlessly. "Tell Reverend Mother I'm sorry for the misunderstanding, but I'm sure no harm has been done."

  Both Sisters hurried out of the room. Valdieri turned to Matt, raising his eyebrows as though to convey relief. He spoke in English now, and sounded more American than Italian, but surely with a name like that, coming from the Vatican …

  "I must ask you to leave, Mr. Rider. I have something most urgent to discuss with Dr. Bernetti."

  The man in the chair spoke an imperfect English with a definite Italian accent. "We already meet, in the office of Signor Clarkson." He stood up. "You are English, yes, Signor Rider? I also worry about the safety of the Holy Father." He tipped his head on one side and made a tutting noise. "You think Jim Kappa want to harm the Pope?"

  "It's possible," said Matt warily. "Last weekend we met a nurse from this clinic. Leanne Corbin. She wanted me to investigate, because of some papers she found here."

  "Investigate?" Bernetti looked startled.

  "I'm a private detective in England. I used to be with the police in London."

  Bernetti seemed surprised. "You are here officially?"

  "No, not officially." Matt turned to the Archbishop. "Can we talk?"

  Valdieri nodded. "If there is danger here for the Holy Father, you must speak plainly. If you are a professional investigator, I would very much value your opinion."

  "Zoé -- that's my girlfriend -- she found something suspicious about Leanne Corbin's death on the hospital c
omputer. The hell of it is, she didn't tell me what. We sent six biopsy samples to England for analysis, and some papers and computer discs Leanne Corbin found. Perhaps I ought not to be speaking in front of Dr. Bernetti."

  The Archbishop had no reassuring words. "Trust no one, Monsieur Rider. No one at all."

  "I have to trust you."

  Valdieri ran his fingers through his silver hair and seemed to be losing his concentration. He looked remarkably pale. "Tell me about these biopsy samples."

  Matt glanced backwards and forwards between the two men. Bernetti seemed tense. "It really would be better if we spoke alone, Archbishop. Much better."

  There was a knock at the door and Dr. Kappa pushed his way in. "Mario Bernetti," he shouted, "what the hell are you doing here?"

  Bernetti reacted in panic. "What you say?"

  That was when Kappa noticed Matt. "This man's really starting to bug me. Why is he still walking around the clinic?"

  "He's my guest," said Valdieri, but there was no longer the firmness to his voice. He removed his glasses and wiped his forehead. "You must excuse me while I sit down. I feel terrible. So sick. I ... I may be unwell."

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Clinic of the Little Sisters of Tourvillon

  "THE ARCHBISHOP, he know all about you." Bernetti seized Kappa by the shoulders.

  Matt watched Kappa pull himself free and wave the folder in Bernetti's face. "Just look at your tests on the Pope. You're just an amateur, Bernetti!" He flung the folder across the table and the pages scattered onto the floor.

  The Archbishop sat down, looking pale and watching. He took in the dispute but said nothing.

  Bernetti bent down and shuffled through a few of the papers, then slammed one page onto the table. "There, what you say to that!"

  Kappa said very little. "You're just an amateur." he repeated.

  "Oh, an amateur, am I? A neurosurgeon with a little brain. The Holy Father, he going to die because of you." Bernetti turned his attention to the Archbishop. "Jim Kappa, he want to kill the Holy Father. Me, I have to operate to save him."

  Matt's felt uncomfortable. In another location, this bitter disagreement would have been compulsive viewing, but Zoé's life depended on precision surgery that called for a totally accurate diagnosis.

  Hell!

  The Archbishop got to his feet unsteadily, like a drunken man, and opened the door. "How can I possibly entrust the Holy Father's life into your hands when you are both in this emotional state?"