“So how do you explain that?”
“You know how, or have been about to discover it. You went to France, you were at Lirey.”
“How do you know that?”
“Ana, do you think there is anything you’ve done that we don’t know about? Any of you? We know it all, everything. You’re right—I am a descendant of the brother of Geoffroy de Charney, the last precept of the Temple in Normandy. Mine is a family that has given many of its sons to the order.”
Ana was fascinated. Yves de Charny was making a sensational confession—one that might well die with them in their stone tomb. But whether or not she would ever publish it, at that moment she felt a surge of pride, knowing that she had managed to disentangle the mystery.
“Go on.”
“No…No, I will not do that.”
Ana felt a rush of power and utter certainty as she clasped the priest’s hands, almost as though someone else was speaking to the Templar through her. “De Charny, you are about to stand before God. Do it with a clear conscience; confess your sins, bring the light to bear on the shadows you have lived behind, the mysteries that have cost so many lives.”
“Confess? To whom?”
“To me. I can help you unburden your conscience and give sense to my own death. If you believe in God, He will be listening.”
“God has no need to listen to know what is in the hearts of men. Do you believe in Him?”
“I’m not sure. I hope He exists.”
Padre Yves said nothing. Then, grimacing, he wiped the pearls of sweat off his forehead and squeezed Ana’s hand.
“François de Charney, spelled with an e at that time, as you’ve discovered, was a Templar knight who lived in the East for many years, since the time he was a young man. There is no need for me to tell you all the countless adventures of this ancestor of mine—just that a few days before the fall of Saint-Jean d’Acre in the Holy Land, the Grand Master of the Temple charged him with safeguarding the shroud, which was kept in the fortress along with the rest of the Templar treasures.
“My ancestor wrapped the shroud in a piece of cloth very similar to that of the shroud itself, and he returned with it to France as he had been ordered. To his amazement and the amazement of the master of the Marseilles Temple, when they unwrapped the original shroud, they found that the cloth it had been wrapped in also had the figure of Christ imprinted on it. Maybe there is a, shall we say, ‘chemical’ explanation for this, or we can believe that what happened was a miracle—whatever the case, from that moment on, there were two holy shrouds, with the true image of Christ on both of them.”
“My God!” breathed Ana. “That explains—”
“That explains that the scientists are right when they say that the cloth in the cathedral in Turin is from the thirteenth or fourteenth century—even if they can’t understand the appearance of those pollen grains or blood residue—but it also means that those who believe that the shroud contains the true image of Christ are correct as well. The shroud is sacred; it contains residues, ‘remains,’ if you will, of Jesus’ calvary and his image—that is what Christ looked like, Ana; that is His true image. And that is the miracle with which God honored the House of Charney, although later another branch of the family took our relic—history records this—and sold it to the House of Savoy. And now you know the secret of the Holy Shroud. Only a handful of the elect in the entire world know the truth. This is the explanation of the inexplicable, of the miracle, Ana, because it is a miracle.”
“But you say there are two shrouds: the authentic one, which was bought from Emperor Balduino, and the other one—this one, I mean the one that’s in the cathedral—which is something like a photographic negative of the authentic one. Where is that one? Tell me.”
“Where is what?” The Templar’s voice was growing weaker, much of his remaining strength expended in relating the remarkable story.
“The authentic shroud, the one the shroud in the cathedral is a copy of.”
“No, it’s authentic too.”
“Yes, but where’s the other one, the first?” cried Ana.
“Even I, a de Charny, do not know that. Jacques de Molay sent it off to be hidden. It is a secret known by only a very few. Only the Grand Master and the six masters know its location now.”
“Could it be in McCall’s castle in Scotland?”
“I don’t know. I swear it.”
“But you do know that McCall is the Grand Master, and that Umberto D’Alaqua, Paul Bolard, Armando de Quiroz, Geoffrey Mountbatten, Cardinal Visier—”
“Ana, quiet, please…the pain is terrible…I’m dying.”
But she wouldn’t—couldn’t—stop. “They’re the masters of the Temple, aren’t they, Yves? Which is why they never marry or engage in any of the other activities of men with as much money and power as they have. They stay out of the spotlight, avoid publicity. Elisabeth was right.”
“Lady McKenny is a very intelligent woman, like you, like Dottoréssa Galloni.”
“You people are a sect! A dangerous, deadly sect.”
“No, Ana, no. Strong measures are taken, yes…but only when absolutely necessary. Measures that we—I—sometimes question. But you should know the good of it too. The Temple survived because the accusations made against it were false. Philippe of France and Pope Clement knew that but they wanted our treasure for themselves. And along with the gold, the king wanted to own the shroud. He thought that if he could get it, he would become the most powerful sovereign in Europe. I swear to you, Ana, that down through the centuries, we Templars have been on the side of good. We have played a role in many fundamental events—the French Revolution, Napoleon’s empire, Greece’s independence, and the French resistance during the Second World War. We have helped move democratic processes forward around the world—”
Ana shook her head. “The Temple lives in the shadows, and there is no democracy in the shadows. Its leaders are extremely wealthy men, and no man gets wealthy without paying a moral price.”
“They are wealthy, but theirs is a fortune that does not belong to them—it belongs to the Temple. They administer it, manage it, although it’s also true that their own gifts have made them wealthy in their own right—but when they die, everything they own goes to the order.”
“To the order?”
“To a foundation…at the heart of the Temple’s finances, of everything we are and do. We are everywhere…we are everywhere,” Padre Yves repeated, his voice now little more than a whisper.
“Even in the Vatican.”
“May God forgive me.”
Those were the last words that Yves de Charny spoke. Ana cried out in terror when she realized he was dead, his eyes staring sightlessly into infinity. She closed them with the palm of her hand and began to sob, asking herself how long it would take her to die as well. Maybe days, and the worst thing would be not dying but knowing that she was buried alive. She brought the telephone to her lips.
“Sofia? Sofia, help me!”
The telephone was dead. There was no one there.
“Ana, Ana! Hang on! We’ll get you out!”
The connection had been broken just seconds earlier. The battery had probably run out on Ana’s phone. Sofia had heard the shoot-out in the tunnel over the walkie-talkies, then Marco and the carabinieri shouting that the tunnel was going to come down. She hadn’t hesitated a second—she ran for the street. But she hadn’t reached the downstairs door when her cell phone began to ring; she thought it was Marco. She froze when she heard the voices of Ana Jiménez and Padre Yves. With the telephone held tight to her ear so as not to miss a word, she stood stock-still, hardly aware of the men rushing past her, racing to save the others trapped in the tunnel.
Minerva found her sobbing, cell phone in hand. She put her arms around her and shook her gently. “Sofia, please! What’s happening? Calm down!”
Sofia was barely coherent, able to blurt out only a small part of what she had heard.
Minerva led her outs
ide. “Let’s go to the cemetery—we can’t do anything here.”
There were no official cars in sight. The two women waved down a passing taxi. Tears continued to stream down Sofia’s face as Ana’s cries rang in her mind.
The taxi stopped at a light. Just as it started up again, the driver shouted. They looked up to see a massive truck headed straight at them. The noise of the crash shattered the silence of the night.
ADDAIO WEPT IN SILENCE.
He had locked himself in his office and would allow no one—not even Guner—to enter.
He had been closeted for more than ten hours, sitting, pacing, staring into space, allowing himself to be swept along by a wave of contradictory emotions.
He had failed, and many men had died because of his obstinacy. There was nothing in the newspapers about what had happened, just that a collapse had occurred in the tunnels below Turin and that a number of workers had been killed, among them several Turks.
Mendib, Turgut, Ismet, and other brothers had been buried alive under the rubble—their bodies would never be recovered. He had borne the harsh gaze of Mendib’s and Ismet’s mothers. They did not forgive him; they would never forgive him. Neither would the mothers of the other young men he had asked to sacrifice themselves on the altar of an impossible mission.
God had turned against him. The community now had to resign itself to never recovering the grave cloth of Christ, for that was God’s will. Addaio could not believe that so many failures were simply tests that God put them to in order to confirm their strength.
Perhaps this, the simple acceptance of God’s will, was the true legacy of the shroud, a legacy that had always been theirs to embrace. Addaio had learned that too late. He wondered if his old adversaries, those who guarded the shroud so fiercely, might someday embrace it as well.
He finished writing his will. Overriding his previous orders, he was leaving precise instructions about the man to be his successor—a good man of clean heart, with no ambition, and who loved life as he, Addaio, had not. Guner would become their leader, their pastor. He folded the letter and sealed it. It was addressed to the community’s eight pastors; it would be they who would see that his last wishes were carried out. He would not be denied, he knew: The pastor of the flock selected the next leader. Thus it had been down through the centuries, and thus it would always be.
He took out a bottle of pills he kept in his desk drawer and took them all. Then he sat in the wingback chair and let himself be overcome by sleep.
Eternity awaited.
A.D. 1314
Beltrán de Santillana had carefully folded the Holy Shroud and placed it in a shoulder bag that was never out of his sight.
He was waiting for the tide to rise on a boat out in the river, so that he might reach the sea and the ship that was to bear him off to Scotland. Of all the nations of Christendom, Scotland was the only one where news of the order to dissolve the Temple had not yet reached—or would ever reach. The king of Scotland, Robert Bruce, had been excommunicated, and he paid no mind to the Church, nor the Church to Scotland.
Thus, the Knights Templar had naught to fear from Robert Bruce, and Scotland had become the only land in which the Temple might preserve its great power.
José Sa Beiro knew that in order to fulfill the final instructions of the last Grand Master, the great, murdered Jacques de Molay, he must send the sacred shroud to Scotland, to ensure its safety forever. He had made arrangements for Beltrán de Santillana to travel with the treasure to the Temple house in Arbroath, accompanied by João de Tomar, Wilfred de Payens, and other knights, all of whom were sworn to protect the shroud, to the death if need be.
The master of Castro Marim had given de Santillana a letter for the Scottish master and also the original letter sent by Jacques de Molay, which set forth the reasons for keeping the Temple’s possession of the shroud of Jesus a zealously guarded secret. The Scottish master would determine where to hide the relic. It would be his responsibility never to allow the shroud to pass into other than Templar hands, and to preserve the secret of its possession for all time.
The boat doubled the bend in the Guadiana on its way down to the sea, where a ship lay waiting. The knights did not look back; they did not wish to be overcome by emotion as they left Portugal forever.
The knights’ ship was about to founder, so great was the tempest that had come upon them in their voyage to Scotland. The wind and rain tossed the boat about like a nutshell, but thus far it had withstood the storm.
At last, the cliffs of the Scottish coast heralded the end of their voyage. They made their way through the wild hills to Arbroath and to sanctuary.
The brothers of the Scottish Temple had heard of and mourned the terror the pope and the king of France had sown among the Templars. Here they and their brothers would be safe, thanks to their good relations with Robert Bruce, alongside whom they fought to defend Scotland from its enemies.
After a time, the master called the entire company into the chapter meeting hall, together with the brothers who had voyaged from Portugal. There, before the astonished eyes of the assembled knights, he unfolded the full length of the sacred cloth. It bore a great resemblance to the painting they worshipped in the chapter’s private chapel—the true face and figure of Christ that had been copied from this holy relic so that the Templars might always have the image of their Savior before them.
The sun was rising over the sea when the knights went forth from the hall where, all through the night, they had prayed together before the singular visage of Christ, imprinted upon the shroud that had held his body within its folds.
Beltrán de Santillana remained behind with the master of the Scottish Templars. The two men talked for a time and then, carefully folding the sacred cloth, they put away the Temple’s most precious treasure—a treasure that, with the passing of the centuries and as commanded by the last Grand Master, only a few of the elect would now view.
Here it would lie in a consecrated sanctuary, safe forever from the machinations of those who would seek to corrupt its holy essence for their own ends, or use it to sow discord among the kingdoms of the earth. Those who attempted to disturb it would do so at their peril.
Jacques de Molay could at last rest in peace.
IT HAD BEEN ALMOST SEVEN MONTHS SINCE THE ACCIDENT. She limped. They had operated on her four times, and one leg had been left shorter than the other. Her face no longer glowed as it once had; it was crisscrossed with scars and wrinkles. She’d left the hospital just four days ago. The injuries to her body didn’t hurt her, but the grief, as tight about her chest as an iron band, was worse than the pain she’d felt in the accident and its aftermath all those months ago.
Sofia Galloni had just left a meeting in the Minister of the Interior’s office. Before that, she’d gone to the cemetery to leave flowers on the graves of Minerva and Pietro. Marco and she had been luckier; they’d survived. Of course Marco would never work again; he was in a wheelchair, and he suffered from periodic panic attacks. He cursed himself for living when so many of his men had died in the rubble of the tunnel, that tunnel he’d always known existed. Well, he’d finally found it.
The Minister of Culture had attended Sofia’s meeting with the Minister of the Interior; they continued to share oversight over the Art Crimes Department. They had both asked Sofia to take the director’s position, and she had politely refused. She knew she had planted the seed of doubt in the two politicians and that once again her life might be in danger, but she didn’t care.
She had sent them a report on the shroud case. It provided a detailed account of everything she knew, including the conversation between Ana Jiménez and Padre Yves. The case had been closed, classified as a state secret never to be disclosed to the public, and Ana was lying dead in a tunnel below Turin next to the last Templar of the House of de Charney.
The ministers told her, very amiably, that the story was unbelievable, that there were no witnesses, nothing—not a single document that corroborated he
r report. Naturally, they believed her, they said, but wasn’t it possible that she was mistaken? They had made inquiries in Paris, but neither Elisabeth McKenny nor her husband, Paul Bisol, were anywhere to be found. They could hardly accuse men like Lord McCall, Umberto D’Alaqua, Dr. Bolard of criminal association without incontrovertible evidence. These men were pillars of international finance, and their fortunes were essential to the development of their respective nations. How could the minister present himself in the Vatican and tell the pope that Cardinal Visier was a Templar? How could he accuse them of anything—they hadn’t done anything, even if everything Sofia told them was true. These men had not conspired against the state, against any state; they weren’t trying to subvert democratic governance; they weren’t connected to the Mafia or any other criminal organization; they’d done nothing even to be censured for, let alone accused of. And as for being Templars, well, that was no crime—assuming they were Templars.
They tried to convince Sofia to take the job Marco Valoni had left. If she didn’t, it would go to Antonino or Giuseppe. What did she think?
But she didn’t think—she knew that one of them, either the cop or the historian, was the traitor. One of them had been reporting to the Templars on everything that happened in the Art Crimes Department. Padre Yves had implied as much: They knew everything because they had informers everywhere.
She didn’t know what she was going to do with the rest of her life, but she did know she had to face one man, a man with whom she was in love, despite everything. In love with or obsessed by? She had tried to sort that out during her long convalescence and still wasn’t sure.
Her leg hurt when she stepped on the accelerator. She hadn’t driven in months, not since the crash. She knew it had been no accident, that they had tried to kill her, and that D’Alaqua was trying to save her when he called to beg her to go with him to Syria. Strong measures, Padre Yves had said,…only when necessary.