“Ana, this is an official investigation.”
“I know, I know….”
Sofia was struck by the urgency in the young woman’s expression. “Why is this so important to you?” she asked.
“I don’t know if I can explain. The truth is, I never cared about the shroud at all or paid any attention to any of the things that happened in the cathedral. But my brother took me to dinner at your boss’s house under the impression it was just another dinner—a few friends over, that sort of thing—and it turned out that Signor Valoni wanted Santiago and another man, John Barry, to give him their opinion of the fire. They talked all night, speculating, you know, and I was hooked. There’s so much there—layers and layers of history, intrigue—”
“What have you found out?” Sofia interrupted her.
“Shall we get some coffee?”
Sofia hesitated, then said, “Sure,” instantly regretting her decision when Ana beamed with relief.
She liked this young woman, even thought she could trust her, but Marco was right—why should they? What was the point?
“All right, tell me what you’ve found out so far,” Sofia said when they’d found a table.
“I’ve read several versions of the history of the shroud—it’s fascinating.”
“Yes, it is.”
“In my opinion, someone wants the shroud, just as Signor Valoni speculated that first night. The fires are a smoke screen, if you’ll excuse the expression, to throw the police off. Or maybe there’s some other factor linking the incursions with accidents. Either way, the objective is to steal the shroud. But we need to look in the past. It’s not just a question of stealing the shroud—someone wants to get it back,” Ana half whispered intensely. “Someone with some tie to the past, the shroud’s past.”
“And how have you reached that conclusion?”
The reporter shook her head and shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I have when I think about the long road it’s traveled, the hands it’s passed through, the passion it has always inspired. I have a hundred theories, each one crazier than the last, but—”
“Yes, I read your e-mail.”
“So what do you think?”
“I think you’ve got a great imagination, no doubt about that, and maybe you’re even right.”
Ana abruptly changed course. “I think Padre Yves knows more than he’s saying about the shroud.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he’s too perfect, too correct, too innocent, and too transparent—it makes me think he’s hiding something. And handsome—I mean, he’s really hot, you know? Don’t you think so?”
“He’s a very attractive man, he certainly is. How did you meet him?”
“I called the bishop’s office, explained that I was a journalist and wanted to write a story about the shroud. There’s an older lady there, a former reporter, who’s in charge of press relations. We met for two hours, and she basically repeated what the tourist brochures say about the shroud, although she also gave me a history lesson on the House of Savoy.
“I left knowing no more than I’d come with. She wasn’t exactly the right person to expect a lead from. So I called again and asked to speak to the cardinal; they asked me who I was and what I wanted, and I explained I was a journalist investigating the fires and other accidents that had happened in the cathedral. They sent me back to the nice press lady, who this time was a bit huffy with me. I pressed her to get me an appointment with the cardinal. No go. Finally I played my last card—I told her they were hiding something and that I was going to publish what I suspected, plus certain things I’d found out.
“So then Padre Yves called me. He told me he’s the cardinal’s secretary and that the cardinal couldn’t see me but that he’d asked Yves to ‘put himself at my disposal,’ which I took to be a good thing. So we met, and we talked for a long time. He seemed pretty straightforward when he told me what had happened this last time, and he went with me to visit the cathedral—then we went for coffee. We agreed to talk again. When I called for an appointment yesterday, he told me he was going to be busy all day but said if I didn’t mind we could have dinner. And that’s it.”
“He’s a very odd priest,” allowed Sofia, thinking out loud.
“I imagine when he says Mass the cathedral is full to the rafters, eh?” laughed Ana. “If he weren’t a priest, I’d…”
Sofia was surprised at how uninhibited Ana Jiménez was. She’d never have told a stranger that she found a young priest sexy. But younger women were that way. Ana couldn’t be more than twenty-five, and she belonged to a generation that was used to screwing when they felt like it, without hypocrisy or complications, although the fact that Padre Yves was a priest did seem to slow her down a bit, at least for the moment.
“You know, Ana, I find Padre Yves intriguing, too, but we’ve looked into him and there’s just nothing that would indicate there’s anything but what meets the eye. Sometimes people are like that—clean, transparent. So, what are you planning to do next?”
“If you could cut me some slack, we could share information….”
“No, I can’t.”
“No one would find out.”
“Don’t misread me, Ana. I don’t do anything behind anyone’s back, much less the people I trust, the people I work with. I like you, but I’ve got my work and you’ve got yours. If Marco should decide at some point that we should let you into the loop, then I’ll be delighted to share information with you, and if he doesn’t, then honestly, it’s all the same to me.”
“If someone wants to steal or destroy the shroud, the public has a right to know that.”
“I’m sure you’re right. But you’re the one making those claims. We’re investigating the cause or causes of the fires. When we’ve concluded our investigation we’ll send our report to our superiors, and they will make it public if they believe what we’ve found is of public interest.”
“I’m not asking you to betray your boss.”
“Ana, I understand what you’re asking me, and the answer is no. I’m sorry.”
Ana bit her lip in disappointment and got up from the table without finishing her cappuccino.
“Well, what’re you gonna do?” She shrugged, then smiled. “Anyway, if I discover something, is it all right if I call you?”
“Sure, call whenever you like.”
The young woman smiled again and strode purposefully from the hotel café. Sofia wondered where she was headed. Her cell phone rang, and when she heard the voice of Padre Yves she almost laughed out loud.
“We were just talking about you,” she said.
“Who?”
“Ana Jiménez and I.”
“Oh! The reporter. She’s charming, and very sharp, eh? She’s investigating the fires in the cathedral, just like you, it seems. She told me that your boss, Marco, is a friend of her brother, Spain’s representative to Europol in Italy.”
“That’s right. Santiago Jiménez is a friend of Marco and all of us. He’s a good person and a total professional.”
“Yes, yes, so it appears. But the reason for my call, Dottoréssa Galloni, is that the cardinal asked me to phone you. He’d like to invite you and Signor Valoni to a reception.”
“A reception?”
“Yes, for a committee of Catholic scientists that comes to Turin periodically to examine the shroud. They make sure it’s maintained in good condition. Dr. Bolard is their chairman. Whenever they come, the cardinal has a reception for them—not too many people, thirty or forty at the most—and he’d like you to come. Signor Valoni had mentioned that he’d like to meet these scientists, and now the opportunity has presented itself.”
“And I’m invited too?”
“Yes, of course, dottoréssa, His Eminence expressly asked that you be invited. Day after tomorrow, at the cardinal’s residence, at seven. We are also expecting a number of businessmen who work with us in maintaining the cathedral, the mayor, representatives of the regiona
l government, and perhaps Monsignor Aubry, aide to the interim Vatican Under-Secretary of State, and His Eminence Cardinal Visier, in charge of Vatican finance.”
“All right, padre. Thank you very much for the invitation.”
“Our pleasure, Dottoréssa Galloni.”
Marco was in a foul mood. He’d spent most of the day in the tunnels under Turin. The archaeological logs showed that some of them had been made in the first centuries A.D. Many of them dated back to the sixteenth century, others to the eighteenth, and there were even some that Mussolini had widened along certain stretches. Going through them was hard, treacherous work. There was a whole other Turin under the ground—in fact, several Turins: the old territory of the city-state conquered by Rome; the Turin besieged by Hannibal; the Turin invaded by the Lombards; and then finally the city that came under the rule of the House of Savoy. It was a place in which history and fantasy intermingled constantly, at every footstep.
Comandante Colombaria had been patient and helpful—to a point. That point came when Marco tried to persuade him to venture down a tunnel in bad condition or to tear down part of a wall to see whether there was a passage hidden behind it that led in some other direction.
“My orders are to guide you through the tunnels, Signor Valoni, and I won’t endanger your life or my men’s unnecessarily by going down tunnels that aren’t on the maps or that could collapse. And I’m not authorized to break through the walls. I’m sorry,” the comandante said stiffly.
But the one who was sorry was Marco, who by the end of the day had the feeling he’d made the trip through the underground tunnels of Turin for nothing.
Giuseppe tried to provide some perspective, without much success. “Oh, come on, get over it, Marco. Comandante Colombaria was right. He was just following orders. It would’ve been crazy to start hammering away at the walls like coal miners, for God’s sake.”
Sofia’s attempt didn’t fare much better. “Marco, what you want to do is only possible if the Ministry of Culture, working with the Turin Archaeological Council, puts a team of archaeologists and technicians at your disposal to excavate more tunnels. But you can’t expect to just walk in and hammer away wherever you have a hunch there might be a hidden tunnel. I mean, it’s not going to happen. You’re not being logical.”
“If we don’t try we’ll never know whether there’s something there or not,” he fumed.
“So talk to the minister and—”
“One of these days the minister is going to tell me where to stuff my hunches. He’s getting a little tired of me and the shroud case.”
“Well, I’ve got some news that might cheer you up,” Sofia ventured. “The cardinal has invited us to a reception day after tomorrow.”
“A reception? And who’s ‘us’?”
“Us is you and me. Padre Yves called me. That committee of scientists in charge of keeping the shroud in good shape is in Turin, and the cardinal always has a reception for them. Every important figure in the city associated with the cathedral will be there. Apparently you showed some interest in meeting these scientists, so he’s invited you.”
“I’m really not in the mood for parties. I’d rather talk to them under other circumstances—like, I don’t know, in the cathedral, while they’re examining the shroud. We never got anywhere running down the names and organizations on the lists the cardinal supplied. But this is what there is, eh? So we’ll go. I’ll send my suit out to be ironed. And you, Giuseppe, what’ve you got?”
“The chief here hasn’t got enough men—or any men, really—for the team we need. He said he’d do what he can when the time comes. I spoke to Europol like you told me, and they should be able to help us out with two or three men. So you’ll have to talk to Rome for the others.”
“I don’t want men from Rome. I’d rather keep it within the team. Which of ours can come?”
“The department is snowed under, boss,” Giuseppe said. “There’s just nobody available, unless somebody stops what they’re doing, if they can, and you bring them in when the operation gets going.”
“That’s what I’d rather do. I’d feel better with our own people on the tail. We’ll take what the carabinieri here can give us, and then the rest of us will play cop for a while.”
“I thought that’s what we were,” Giuseppe said sarcastically.
“You and I are, but Sofia’s not, or Antonino, or Minerva.”
“You mean they’re going to tail the guy?”
“We’re all going to do whatever it takes, is that clear?”
“Clear as a bell, chief, clear as a bell. So, if that’s it, I’m supposed to have dinner with a friend of mine in the carabinieri, a good guy who’s willing to help us out. He’ll be here in like half an hour. Maybe you guys could have a drink with us before we leave?”
“Sure, count me in,” said Sofia.
“All right,” said Marco, “I’ll go up and shower and be back down. What’re your plans, dottoréssa?”
“I don’t have any—if you want, you and I can have dinner around here.”
“Great. Maybe that’ll improve my mood.”
SOFIA HADN’T BROUGHT ANYTHING SUITABLE FOR A reception, so she looked in the shops on Via Roma until she came to Armani, where, in addition to a black silk dress for herself, she bought a tie for Marco.
“You’ll be the prettiest girl there,” Giuseppe told her, as she and Marco left for the cardinal’s residence.
“Definitely,” Marco seconded.
“I’m going to start a fan club with you two,” Sofia said, laughing.
Padre Yves greeted them at the door. His collar and priestly wardrobe were nowhere in evidence. Instead, he wore a midnight blue suit and an Armani tie exactly like the one Sofia had given Marco.
“Dottoréssa…Signor Valoni…come in, come in. His Eminence will be so glad to see you.”
Marco looked at Padre Yves’s tie out of the corner of his eye, and Padre Yves gave him a slight smile.
“You have excellent taste in ties, Signor Valoni.”
“The good taste is Dottoréssa Galloni’s. It was a gift from her.”
“That’s what I thought!” laughed the priest.
They made their way over to the cardinal, and he introduced them to Monsignor Aubry, a tall, lean Frenchman with an elegant bearing and a kindly manner. He was somewhere around fifty, and he looked like what he was—a seasoned and skillful diplomat. And he was keenly interested in the course of the investigation into the shroud, as he wasted no time in letting Marco and Sofia know.
They had been chatting for several minutes with the monsignor when they noticed that all eyes had turned to two new guests arriving.
His Eminence Cardinal Visier and Umberto D’Alaqua had just come in. The cardinal and Monsignor Aubry excused themselves and went over to greet them.
Sofia could feel her pulse beginning to race, despite herself. She had told herself that she wouldn’t be seeing D’Alaqua again. Would he be coolly courteous or ignore her entirely?
“Sofia, you’re red as a beet,” Marco whispered.
“Me? I’m just surprised.”
“There was every possibility that D’Alaqua would be here.”
“It hadn’t occurred to me. I just never thought.”
“He’s one of the Church’s benefactors, a ‘man of trust,’ as they call these people. Some of the Vatican’s finances pass discreetly through his hands. And remember that, according to Minerva’s report, he’s the one who pays for the scientific committee that’s here tonight. But take it easy, you look spectacular—if D’Alaqua likes women, there’s no way he won’t be falling at your feet.”
They were interrupted by Padre Yves, who had the mayor and two elderly gentlemen in tow.
“I want you to meet Sofia Galloni and Marco Valoni, who is the head of the Art Crimes Department,” he said to his charges. “The mayor, Dr. Bolard, and Dottóre Castiglia…”
They began an animated conversation on the shroud, although Sofia’s mind wa
s elsewhere and she heard only half of it.
She jumped when Umberto D’Alaqua stepped before her. He was accompanied by Cardinal Visier.
After the usual round of greetings, D’Alaqua took Sofia by the arm and, to everyone’s surprise, drew her away from the group.
“How is your investigation getting on?”
“I can’t say that we’ve made much progress, frankly. It’s a question of time.”
“I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“The cardinal invited us; he knew we wanted to meet the members of the committee, and I hope we can spend some time with them before they go.”
“So you’ve come to Turin for this reception….”
“No, not exactly.”
“In any case, I’m glad to see you. How long will you be here?”
“I’m not certain yet—”
“Sofia!” A shrill male voice interrupted the moment. Sofia smiled wanly when she saw an old professor of hers from the university approaching—her medieval art professor, a famous scholar with a number of books to his credit, a star in European academic circles.
“My best student! I’m so, so glad to see you! What are you doing these days?”
“Professóre Bonomi! I’m glad to see you.”
“Umberto, I didn’t know you knew Sofia. Although I’m not surprised: She’s one of the most outstanding specialists in art in Italy. It’s a shame she didn’t want to stay in academia. I offered to make her my assistant, but my pleas fell on deaf ears, I fear.”
“Please, professóre!”
“No, I tell you, I never had a student as intelligent and capable as you, Sofia.”
“Yes,” D’Alaqua interrupted, “I know that Dottoréssa Galloni is quite competent.”
“Competent, no—brilliant, Umberto, and with a wonderfully speculative mind. Forgive my indiscretion, but what are you doing here, Sofia?”
“I work for the Art Crimes Department,” Sofia said uncomfortably, “and I’m just in Turin for a few days.”
“Ah! The Art Crimes Department. I somehow hadn’t seen you working as an investigator.”