The Brotherhood of the Holy Shroud

  “I’ll be glad to give you a hand,” the Spaniard said warmly. “Plus, you know you’re welcome to take a look at the Europol files on the shroud anytime you want.”

  “Thanks, Santiago.”

  “Of course I’ll take a look, too, Marco, and give you my honest opinion. You know you can count on my help in anything you need, officially and unofficially,” promised John.

  “I’d like to read it, too, if I could,” Santiago’s sister interjected.

  “Ana, you’re not a cop, you don’t have anything to do with this. Marco can’t give you an official, confidential report.”

  “I’m sorry, Ana—” Marco began.

  “Your loss, chief,” Ana interrupted. “Let me give you a reporter’s tip, though. My intuition tells me that if there is something, you’ve got to go at whatever it is from the history angle, not the police angle. But it’s your case.”

  As they walked to his car, Ana gave Santiago a playful hug. “You know, big brother, I think I’ll stick around a few days longer.”

  “Ana, Marco is a friend of mine. Besides, I’d be in deep shit professionally if anybody found out that my sister was publishing stories on police cases that she could know about only through me. It would ruin my career—it’s that simple. I don’t care how great the story is.”

  “Oh, come on, don’t be so melodramatic. I won’t write a line, I promise.”

  “You won’t? You’ll keep this all totally off the record?”

  “I promise I will, take it easy. I respect my sources when they tell me something off the record—I wouldn’t last long if I didn’t.”

  “I don’t know why you decided to be a goddamn reporter!”

  “Yeah, right, being a cop is a real step up!”

  “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink at the new ‘in’ place, so you can tell your friends all about it when you get back to Barcelona.”

  “All right, but I’m not taking it as a bribe, and I hope you’ll let me in on what’s in that report. I honestly think I could help, and I promise I’d do it without saying anything to anybody or writing a word of it. It’s just that I love this kind of story. You know I do. There’s something fascinating here. I can feel it.”

  “Ana, I can’t let you mess around in an investigation that belongs to the Art Crimes Department, not to me—I’d be in deep trouble, I told you.”

  “But nobody would ever find out, I swear. Trust me. I’m sick of writing about politics, and sniffing out government scandals. I know I’ve been lucky and done well, but I still haven’t come across the big story, and this could be it.”

  “How can this be your big story if you’re not going to say or write a word?”

  “Look, I’ll make you a deal. You let me investigate on my own, without saying anything to anybody. I’ll tell you what I find out—if, that is, I find out anything. If in the end I come across a lead, or whatever, that helps Marco close the case, then I’ll expect permission to let me tell the story, or at least part of it. But nothing before the case is closed.”

  “No way.”

  “Why not?”

  “Which part don’t you get? This thing doesn’t belong to me, and I won’t—can’t—make deals, with you or anybody. Jesus, why did I ever take you to Marco’s house with me?”

  “Take it easy, Santiago. I love you and I’d never do anything to hurt you. I love what I do, but you come first. I never put my job before people, ever. Much less in your case.”

  “I want to trust you, Ana, I do. I don’t have a choice. But you’re leaving tomorrow, back to Spain. You’re out of here.”

  ZAFARIN LET HIS EYES WANDER OVER THE HEAVILY trafficked highway. The truck driver taking him to Urfa seemed to be as mute as he was—he’d hardly spoken a word to him since they left Istanbul.

  That morning at the house where he had been hidden overnight, Zafarin had recognized him as an Urfa man, one whom Addaio trusted.

  He wished for news of Addaio, of his family, of his town, but the man just drove, in stubborn silence. During their journey he spoke only two or three times, to ask Zafarin if he was hungry or needed to go to the bathroom.

  He looked tired after so many hours behind the wheel, so Zafarin made a gesture indicating that he could drive, but the truck driver refused.

  “It is not far now, and I do not want problems. Addaio would not forgive me if I failed him. We have had enough failure recently.”

  Zafarin clenched his teeth. A brother had died, he himself had risked his life, and this stupid man was rebuking him for having failed. What did he know of the danger he and his comrades had faced! Of the sacrifices they had made!

  There were more and more cars and trucks on the road as they went on. The E-24 was one of Turkey’s busiest highways, since it led into Iraq and the Iraqi oil fields. There were also many military trucks and cars patrolling the Syrian-Turkish border, watching especially for the Kurdish militias that operated in the area.

  In less than an hour he would be home, and that was the only thing that mattered.

  “Zafarin! Zafarin!”

  His mother’s voice, choked with emotion, was like the music of heaven. There she was, small and lean, her hair covered by a hijab, the ever-present head scarf worn by Near Eastern women. Despite her small stature, Zafarin’s mother ruled the family—his father, his brothers and sisters, him, and of course his wife, Ayat, and his daughter. None of them dared go against her wishes.

  Ayat’s eyes were filled with tears. She had begged him not to go, not to accept the mission. Not to allow himself to be mutilated forever. But how could he refuse an order by Addaio and the most sacred calling of their community, a calling his brother had answered before him? His family’s shame would have been unbearable.

  He got down out of the truck and in a second felt Ayat’s arms around his neck, while his mother also grappled to embrace him. His daughter, frightened, began to cry.

  His father looked on with emotion, waiting for the women to stop pulling and pushing him with their shows of affection. At last the two men could embrace, and Zafarin, feeling the strength of his peasant father’s arms around him, was overcome and began to weep, to weep as he had as a young boy in his father’s arms, bearing the marks of some fight he’d had on the street or at school. His father had always given him that sense of security, the security that he could count on him, that whatever happened, he would be there to protect him. Zafarin knew he would need all his father’s strength when they stood before Addaio.

  THE LAWN AND GARDEN OF THE GEORGIAN-STYLE MANSION were awash in light. A breeze off the bay cooled the exclusive Boston neighborhood, as local police and Secret Service agents competed to guarantee the security of the guests at the dinner party. The President of the United States and his wife were among those invited, as were the Secretaries of Treasury and Defense, a number of influential senators and representatives from across the political spectrum, the CEOs of various American and European multinationals, a dozen or so bankers, and a sprinkling of doctors, scientists, white-shoe lawyers, and stars from the academic world.

  The occasion for the gathering was Mary Stuart’s fiftieth birthday, which her husband, James, had wanted to celebrate with all their friends. The truth was, thought Mary, there were more acquaintances than friends present that evening. She would never hurt James by telling him that she would have preferred that he surprise her with a trip to Italy, with no fixed itinerary, no social engagements. Just the two of them, wandering through Tuscany, as they had done on their honeymoon thirty years ago. But that would never have occurred to James. They were, in fact, traveling to Rome the week after next, but that was primarily for business, with a few days of tightly scheduled social and cultural engagements shoehorned in.

  A tall man skillfully maneuvered his way toward her through the crowd. She smiled with genuine pleasure. “Umberto!”

  “Mary, my love, happy birthday.”

  “I’m so glad to see you and honored that you came!”

  “I’m the one w
ho’s honored to be invited. Here, something for you. I hope you like it.”

  He held out a small box wrapped in shiny white paper.

  “Oh, Umberto, you shouldn’t have…. May I open it?”

  “Of course. You must open it immediately,” he said, smiling.

  Mary was transfixed by the figure that nestled within the tissue paper inside the box.

  “It’s a figure from the second century B.C. A lady as beautiful and charming as you.”

  “Umberto, it’s beautiful. Thank you, thank you so much. I’m overwhelmed.” Mary felt an arm slip around her waist as her husband joined them, and she held up the box for him to see. The two men shook hands warmly.

  “What incredible surprise have you brought my wife this time, Umberto? Oh, how wonderful! But not fair—now my humble offering pales into insignificance!”

  “James, stop this second. You know I adore these. He gave me this ring and these earrings, Umberto. They’re the most perfect pearls I’ve ever seen.”

  “They’re the most perfect pearls there are, my dear. All right, go put this glorious lady somewhere safe while I get Umberto a drink.”

  Steel-fabricating plants, pharmaceutical laboratories, technology interests, and a vast range of other businesses made James Stuart, at sixty-two, one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the world. He and D’Alaqua continued to chat as they moved together back into the throng.

  Ten minutes later, James Stuart had left Umberto D’Alaqua with the President and other guests while he himself went from group to group, making sure conversations, drinks, and hors d’oeuvres all continued to flow smoothly.

  As the evening progressed and glittering groups drifted together and swirled apart, no one paid much attention to the seven men talking together off to one side, changing the subject whenever someone else approached, to the crisis in Iraq, the latest summit at Davos, any of the multitude of other issues that naturally would be of concern to such men. For the moment, though, they were undisturbed.

  “Marco Valoni has asked the Minister of Culture to let the prisoner in Turin out of jail,” said one of the men in impeccable English, despite the fact that his native language was Italian. “And the Minister of Culture has taken the matter to the Minister of the Interior, who has agreed to the idea. The idea came from one of Valoni’s colleagues, Dottoréssa Galloni, an art history expert, who finally came to the obvious conclusion that only he can lead them to anything worthwhile. She’s also convinced Valoni that they should investigate COCSA, from top to bottom.”

  “That’s unfortunate. Is there any way to have her removed from the case?” a tall, thin man, the oldest among them, asked.

  “We could always exert pressure. Or COCSA could protest to the Vatican and let the Church press the Italian government to keep hands off. Or we could act directly through the Minister of Finance, who is surely none too happy that one of the country’s most important corporations is being dragged into this and put under a microscope, all because of a fire that had no major consequences. We’ve arranged to replace the damaged artworks with pieces of equal or greater significance. But in my opinion we should hold off on doing anything about the dottoréssa just yet.”

  The older man’s eyes were fixed on the speaker. He had made his points impassively, but there was a subtle quality in his tone of voice that sharpened his senior’s attention. He decided to press harder, to see the reaction.

  “We could also make her simply disappear. We can’t afford a talented investigator on this case digging too deep.”

  Another in the group spoke up, his accent French-inflected.

  “No, that seems unnecessary. An overreaction. We shouldn’t do anything for the moment. Let her proceed. We can always head her off later or get rid of her one way or the other.”

  “I agree,” seconded the Italian. “It would be a mistake to move too fast or to interfere with her work—or her. That would just inflame Valoni and confirm that there is something more to be found, and that would mean that he and the rest of his team would never give up on the case, even if they were ordered to. Dottoréssa Galloni is somewhat of a risk; she’s intelligent, perhaps exceptionally so. But we have to run that risk. Let’s not forget that we have a major advantage—we know exactly what they’re doing and thinking.”

  “Our informer is safe? No suspicions?”

  “About one of the people that Valoni trusts the most? Certainly not.”

  “Very well. What else do we have?” the older man asked, scanning the group.

  A man who looked like an English aristocrat spoke next.

  “Zafarin arrived in Urfa two days ago. I don’t have any news yet about Addaio’s reaction. Another of the group, Rasit, has arrived in Istanbul, and the third one, Dermisat, is supposed to arrive today.”

  “Good, then they’re all safe. Now the problem is Addaio’s, not ours. We need to consider how to deal with the one in the Turin jail, though.”

  “Something could happen to him before he gets out of prison. That would be the safest thing,” the Englishman suggested. “If he gets out he’ll lead them to Addaio.”

  “It would be the most prudent thing, I agree,” said a second Frenchman.

  “Could we do it?” the older man asked.

  “Of course. We have connections inside the jail. But we’d have to arrange it carefully. If anything happens to his prize, Valoni will never accept the official report.”

  “He can rage and turn blue, but he’ll have to accept it. Without that angle, his case is finished, at least for the moment,” the older man retorted. “But let’s continue to observe. I don’t want to give them anything else to grab hold of just now.”

  “What about the shroud?” asked another of the men.

  “It’s still in the bank. When the repair work in the cathedral is completed, it will be returned to the chapel for exhibit. The cardinal wants to celebrate a thanksgiving Mass in honor of the shroud’s being saved once again.”

  “Gentlemen…hatching a deal over here, are we? Cornering the aluminum market?”

  “No, Mr. President, but that’s not a bad idea!”

  They all laughed as the President of the United States, accompanied by James Stuart, joined them. The remainder of their discussion would have to wait.

  “Mary, that man over there, who is he?” Lisa Barry had flown in for her sister’s birthday the night before, along with Mary and James’s daughter, Gina, who was staying with Lisa and John in Rome.

  “One of our best friends, Umberto D’Alaqua. Don’t you remember him?”

  “Oh, yes, now that you mention his name I do. He’s as impressive as ever, isn’t he? Nice-looking.”

  “Forget it. He’s a confirmed bachelor. It’s a shame, because he’s not just gorgeous, he’s an incredibly lovely man. Thoughtful and kind each time we see him.”

  “I heard something about him not long ago…what was it…” Lisa began.

  Then it came to her. The report on the fire in the Turin Cathedral that Marco had sent John talked about a corporation, COCSA, and its owner, D’Alaqua. Umberto D’Alaqua. She stopped in mid-sentence. She couldn’t say anything to Mary about that. John would never forgive her.

  “He gave me a ceramic figure from the second century B.C. It’s stunning—I’ll show you later,” Mary promised. She linked her arm in Lisa’s. “Let me take you over.”

  The two sisters approached D’Alaqua.

  “Umberto, you remember my sister, Lisa.”

  “Of course I do. So nice to see you.”

  “It was so long ago, when Mary last visited….”

  “Yes, Mary—you don’t come to Italy as often as you should. Lisa, I think I remember that you live in Rome. Is that right?”

  “Yes, it feels like home now. I’m not sure I could live anywhere else.”

  “Gina is in Rome with Lisa, Umberto, working on her doctorate at the university. And she’ll be joining Lisa’s group at the excavation in Herculaneum.”

  “Ah! Now
I remember—you’re an archaeologist!” D’Alaqua’s enthusiasm was obvious.

  Mary answered for her. “Yes, and Gina has inherited her aunt’s passion for digging in the sand.”

  “I can’t imagine a more exciting job than studying the past.” Lisa smiled. “And Umberto, I think I remember that you’re no stranger to archaeology.”

  “Absolutely. I try to escape to work a dig myself at least once or twice a year.”

  “Umberto’s foundation finances excavations,” Mary added.

  As they launched into an animated conversation about their mutual fascination with the past, James came up and, to Lisa’s dismay, took D’Alaqua off to another group. She could have talked to him all night. John wouldn’t believe her when she told him she’d been chatting with this man who’d turned up in Marco Valoni’s report. Even Marco would be surprised. She laughed to herself, thinking what a good idea it had been to accept James’s invitation to surprise her sister on her birthday. She’d have to put a dinner party together for the Stuarts when they came to Rome, she thought. She’d mention it to her niece; the two of them would make a list of people to invite. Lisa had several names in mind already.

  The young servant wept in fear and horror. Marcius’s face and chin were spattered with blood. The other servant had run to Josar’s house to tell him of the tragedy in the residence of the royal architect.

  “Then we heard a terrible cry, a shriek, and when we entered the chamber we saw Marcius with a sharp dagger in one hand, with which he had cut out his own tongue. He has fallen senseless to the ground, and we know not what to do. He had told us that something would take place tonight and ordered that we not be frightened, no matter what we might see. But my God, he has cut out his own tongue! Why? Why?!”