“The shroud is considered a most sacred relic,” James said.
“I would not assume anything less,” Ashley responded.
“The Holy Father himself has said off the record that he believes it to be the shroud of Jesus Christ.”
“I am glad to hear my mother’s beliefs being so confirmed,” Ashley said. “In full recognition of my mother’s pivotal role, I have been a minor student of the shroud all these years. I happen to know that a number of samples were taken from it, some used for testing and some not. I also happen to know that those samples not used were called back by the church after the results of the carbon dating. What I would like to have is a tiny”—Ashley pinched his thumb and forefinger together for emphasis—“tiny sample of blood-soaked fiber that had been called back.”
The cardinal leaned back in his chair. He briefly exchanged glances with Father Maloney. “This is a very unusual request,” he said. “However, the church has been very clear on this subject. There is to be no more scientific testing of the shroud, other than to insure its conservancy.”
“I have no interest in testing the shroud,” Ashley stated categorically.
“Then why do you want this tiny, tiny sample?”
“For my mama,” Ashley said simply. “I would sincerely like to place it within the urn that holds her ashes the next time I am back home, so her remains could mingle with the Heavenly Host. Her urn stands next to my daddy’s on the mantel in the old homestead.”
Carol had to suppress a scornful laugh at how easily and convincingly the senator could lie. On the same night the senator had told her the story of his poor mother, he said that his father would not allow her to be buried in his church’s cemetery, necessitating her burial in the town’s potter’s field.
“I believe,” Ashley added, “that if she could have one wish, this would be it, to help her immortal soul gain entrance into everlasting paradise.”
James looked up at Father Maloney. “I don’t know anything about these recalled samples. Do you?”
“No, Your Eminence,” Father Maloney said. “But I could find out. Archbishop Manfredi, whom you know well, has been installed in Turin. And Monsignor Garibaldi, who I know well, is there also.”
The cardinal looked back at Ashley. “You would be happy with just a few fibers?”
“That is all I ask,” Ashley said. “Although I should add that I would like them just as soon as possible, since I will be planning a trip home in the very near future.”
“If this tiny sample of fiber were to be made available, how would we get them to you?”
“I would immediately dispatch an agent to Turin,” Ashley said. “It is not the type of thing I would trust to the mail or any commercial carrier.”
“We’ll see what we can do,” James said, as he got to his feet. “And I assume you will introduce the suggested legislation soon.”
Ashley got to his feet as well. “Monday morning, Your Eminence, provided I hear from you by then.”
Stairs were a distinct effort for the cardinal, and he took them slowly, pausing frequently to catch his breath. The main problem with wearing his formal regalia was that he felt restricted with so many layers and frequently became overheated, especially when climbing the stairs to his private quarters. Father Maloney was right behind him, and when the cardinal stopped, he stopped as well.
Holding on to the banister with one hand, the cardinal leaned his other arm on his raised knee. He exhaled through pale, puffed-up cheeks and ran a hand across his brow. There was an elevator, but he avoided it as a kind of penance.
“Is there something I can get for you, Your Eminence?” Father Maloney questioned. “I could bring it down to spare your climbing these steep steps. It has been a strenuous afternoon.”
“Thank you, Michael,” James said. “But I must freshen up if I am to last through the dinner with the mayor and our visiting cardinal.”
“When do you want me to contact Turin?” Father Maloney asked, to take advantage of the moment.
“Tonight after midnight,” James said between breaths. “That will be six in the morning their time, and you should be able to catch them before Mass.”
“It is a surprising request if I may say so, Your Eminence.”
“Indeed! Surprising and curious! If the senator’s information about the samples is correct, which I would be surprised if it weren’t, knowing what I do of the man, it should be an easy request to fulfill since it obviates the need to touch the shroud itself. But in your conversations with Turin, be sure to emphasize that the affair is to be completely sub-rosa. There should be strict confidentiality and absolutely no documentation whatsoever. Am I clear?”
“Perfectly clear,” Michael said. “Are you questioning the senator’s purported use of the samples, Your Eminence?”
“That is my only concern,” James said, with a final deep breath. He recommenced slowly mounting the stairs. “The senator is a master of bargaining. I am certain he would not want the sample to do any unauthorized testing, but he may be exchanging favors with someone who is interested in testing. The Holy Father has decreed ex cathedra that the shroud should not be subjected to any more scientific indignity, and I am in full agreement. But beyond that, I believe it is a noble cause to exchange a few of the sacred fibers for a chance to ensure the economic viability of the church. Do you agree, Father?”
“Most assuredly.”
They reached the top of the stairs, and the cardinal paused again to catch his breath.
“Do you feel confident the senator will do what he proposes concerning the legislation, Your Eminence?”
“Absolutely,” James said without hesitation. “The senator always fulfills his side of a bargain. As an example, he has been instrumental in the school voucher program that is going to save our parochial schools. In exchange, I saw that he got the Catholic vote in his last reelection. It was, as they say, a clear win-win situation. But this current exchange is not quite so clear. Consequently, if it is to be arranged, as added insurance, I want you to go to Turin to see who takes possession of the sample and then follow the sample to see to whom it is delivered. In that way, we will be able to anticipate any potentially negative fallout.”
“Your Eminence! I cannot think of a more pleasant assignment.”
“Father Maloney!” the cardinal snapped. “This is a serious commission and not one meant for your enjoyment. I expect absolute discretion and commitment.”
“Of course, Your Eminence! I did not mean to imply anything less.”
eight
7:25 P.M., Friday, February 22, 2002
“Oh, jeez!” Stephanie mumbled out loud after glancing at her watch. It was almost seven-thirty! It was amazing to her how time could fly when she was absorbed, and she’d been absorbed all afternoon. First, she’d been captivated at the bookstore with the books about the Shroud of Turin, and for the last hour, she’d been mesmerized by what she was learning sitting in front of the computer.
She had returned to the office just before six to find it empty. Assuming Daniel had gone home, she had sat down at her makeshift desk in the lab, and with the help of the Internet and a few newspapers’ archives, she had involved herself in finding out what had happened to the Wingate Clinic a little less than a year previously. It had been engrossing if disturbing reading.
Stephanie slid her laptop into its soft case, grabbed the plastic bag from the bookstore, and pulled on her coat. At the lab door she killed the lights, which then required her blindly to make her way across the already darkened reception area. Once outside on the street, she turned toward Kendall Square. She walked with her head bent over against the biting wind. Typical of New England weather, there had been a marked change from earlier in the afternoon. With the wind now coming from the north instead of the west, the temperature had plummeted into the mid-twenties from the relatively balmy upper forties. Along with the north wind came snow flurries that had coated the city as if it had been dusted with confectioners??
? sugar.
At Kendall Square, Stephanie caught the Red Line subway out to Harvard Square, familiar territory from her university years. As usual and despite the weather, the square was alive with students and the rabble that gravitates to such an environment. Even a few street musicians had braved the harsh weather. With blue fingers, they serenaded the passersby. Stephanie felt sorry enough for them to leave a train of dollar bills in their upturned hats as she passed from Harvard Square through Eliot Square.
The lights and bustle of the honky-tonk quickly dropped behind as Stephanie trudged out Brattle Street. She passed through a section of Radcliffe College as well as the celebrated Longfellow House. But she was unmoved by her surroundings. Instead, she mused about what she had learned over the previous three and a half hours and was eager to share it with Daniel. She was also interested to hear what he had found out.
It was after eight by the time she mounted the front steps of Daniel’s condominium building. He occupied the top floor unit of a converted three-story late-Victorian house complete with all the trimmings, including elaborate bargeboard. He had bought the condo in 1985 when he had returned to academia at Harvard. It had been a big year for Daniel. Not only had he left his job at Merck pharmaceuticals; he had also left his wife of five years. He had explained to Stephanie that he had felt stifled by both. His wife had been a nurse whom he met while doing his combined medical residency and Ph.D., a feat Stephanie equated to running back-to-back marathons. He had told Stephanie that his ex-wife was a plodder and that being married to her had made him feel like Sisyphus, constantly rolling a rock up a hill. He had also said that she had been too nice and had expected him to be the same. Stephanie had not known what to make of either explanation, but she did not press the issue. She was thankful they had not had any children, which apparently the former wife had desperately wanted.
“I’m home!” Stephanie shouted, after pressing the apartment’s door closed with her rear end. Balancing her laptop bag and book bag on the tiny foyer table, Stephanie got out of her coat and opened the closet door to hang it up.
“Is anybody here?” she yelled, although her voice was muffled from being directed into the closet. When she was finished with her coat, she turned around. She started to yell again, but Daniel’s form filling the entrance to the hall startled her. He was no more than several feet away. The noise that issued from her lips was more of a peep than anything else.
“Where the hell have you been?” Daniel demanded. “Do you know what time it is?”
“It’s around eight,” Stephanie managed. She pressed a hand to her chest. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
“Why didn’t you phone? I was about to call the police.”
“Oh, come on! You know me and bookstores. I went to more than one and got caught up. In both places, I ended up sprawled out in the aisle, reading and trying to decide what to buy. Then, when I got back to the office, I wanted to take advantage of the broadband.”
“How come you didn’t have your cell phone on? I’ve tried to call you a dozen times.”
“Because I was in a bookstore and when I got to the office, it didn’t cross my mind. Hey! I’m sorry if you were concerned about me, okay? But now I’m home, safe and sound. What did you make for dinner?”
“Very funny,” Daniel growled.
“Ease up!” Stephanie said, giving Daniel’s sleeve a playful tug. “I appreciate your concern, really I do, but I’m starved and you must be too. How about we head back to the square for dinner. Why don’t you call the Rialto while I jump in the shower. It’s Friday night, but by the time we get there, we shouldn’t have a problem.”
“All right,” Daniel said reluctantly, as if he were agreeing to some major undertaking.
It wasn’t until nine-twenty that they walked into the Rialto restaurant, and just as Stephanie predicted, there was a table ready and waiting. Since they were both famished, they immediately studied the menu and quickly ordered. At their request, the waiter promptly brought out their wine and sparkling water to slake their thirst and bread to take the edge off their hunger.
“All right,” Stephanie said, sitting back in her chair. “Who wants to talk first?”
“It might as well be me,” Daniel said. “Because I don’t have a lot to report, but what I do have is encouraging. I telephoned the Wingate Clinic, which sounds to me to be well equipped for our needs, and they will let us use their facilities. In fact, I’ve already agreed on the price: forty thousand.”
“Whoa!” Stephanie remarked.
“Yeah, I know: It’s a bit high, but I was reluctant to bargain. Initially, after I informed them they would not be able to take advantage of our use of their facilities for promotional purposes, I was afraid all bets were off. Luckily, they came back around.”
“Well, it’s not our money, and we certainly have enough. What about the oocyte issue?”
“That’s the best part. I was told they can supply us with human oocytes without any problem whatsoever.”
“When?”
“They claim whenever we want.”
“My goodness,” Stephanie said. “That certainly begs one’s curiosity.”
“Let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“What about a neurosurgeon?”
“No problem there either. There are several on the island beating the bushes for work. The local hospital even has stereotaxic equipment.”
“That is encouraging.”
“I thought so.”
“My news is good and bad. What do you want to hear first?”
“How bad is bad?”
“Everything is relative. It’s not bad enough to preclude what we are planning, but it is bad enough for us to be wary.”
“Let’s hear the bad to get it over with.”
“The principals at the Wingate Clinic are worse than I remembered. By the way, with whom did you speak when you called the clinic?”
“Two of the principals: Spencer Wingate himself and his majordomo, Paul Saunders. And I must tell you, they are a couple of clowns. Imagine this: They publish their own supposed scientific journal, and the process of writing and editing only involves themselves!”
“You mean there’s no editorial review board?”
“That’s my impression.”
“That’s laughable, unless someone subscribes to the journal and takes whatever’s in the journal as gospel.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Well, they are a lot worse than clowns,” Stephanie said. “And worse than just perpetrators of unethical reproductive cloning experiments. I used newspaper archives, particularly The Boston Globe’s, to read up on what happened last May when the clinic was suddenly moved offshore to the Bahamas. Remember I mentioned last night in Washington that they had been implicated in the disappearance of a couple of Harvard coeds? Well, it was a lot more than mere implication, according to a couple of extremely credible whistle-blowers who happen to have been Harvard Ph.D. candidates. They had managed to get jobs at the clinic to find out the fate of eggs they had donated. During their sleuthing, they found out a lot more than they had bargained for. At a grand jury hearing, they claimed to have seen the missing women’s ovaries in what they called the clinic’s ‘egg recovery room.’ ”
“Good God!” Daniel said. “Why weren’t Wingate people indicted, with that kind of testimony?”
“Lack of evidence and a high-priced legal defense team! Apparently, the principals had a preplanned evacuation protocol that included the immediate destruction of the clinic and its contents, particularly its research facilities. Everything went up in a maelstrom of flames while the principals left in a helicopter. So an indictment wasn’t handed down. The final irony is that without an indictment, they were able to collect on their insurance for the fire.”
“So what is your take on all this?”
“Simply that these people are definitely not nice, and we should limit our interaction with them. And after what I read, I’d
like to know the origin of the eggs they will be supplying us with, just to be sure we’re not supporting something unconscionable.”
“I don’t think that is a good idea. We’ve already decided that taking the ethical high road is a luxury we can’t afford if we are going to save CURE and HTSR. Questioning them at this juncture might cause problems, and I don’t want to jeopardize using their facilities. As I mentioned, they were not overly enthusiastic after I nixed any use of our involvement for promotional purposes.”
Stephanie played with her napkin as she thought over what Daniel had said. She didn’t like dealing with the Wingate Clinic at all, but it was true that she and Daniel didn’t have a lot of choice with the time constraints they were under. It was also true that they were already violating ethics by agreeing to treat Butler.
“Well, what do you say?” Daniel asked. “Can you live with this?”
“I suppose,” Stephanie said without enthusiasm. “We’ll do the procedure and scram.”
“That’s the plan,” Daniel said. “Now let’s move on! What’s your good stuff?”
“The good stuff involves the Shroud of Turin.”
“I’m listening.”
“This afternoon, before I went to the bookstore, I told you that the shroud’s story was more interesting than I had imagined. Well, that was the understatement of the year.”
“How so?”
“My current thinking is that Butler might not be so crazy after all, because the shroud might very well be real. This is a surprising turnaround, since you know how skeptical I am.”
Daniel nodded. “Almost as much as I.”
Stephanie eyed her lover after his last comment in hopes that there would be some evidence of humor like a wry smile, but there wasn’t. She felt a twinge of irritation that Daniel had to be a little more, no matter what the issue. She took a sip of her wine to get her mind back to the subject at hand. “Anyway,” she continued, “I started reading the material at the bookstore, and I had trouble stopping. I mean, I can’t wait to get back to the book I bought. It was written by an Oxford scholar named Ian Wilson. Hopefully, tomorrow I’ll be getting more books, thanks to the Internet.”